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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

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Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…�� You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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schoopsahoy · 2 years ago

Text

i’ve been dying to get you dizzy

steve harrington x roller-rink!reader {5.8k} part 2 to whip it you and steve have been casually dating for a few weeks now, he’s trying to take things slow but then you invite him to stay the night. 18+ mdni steve still being a simp for reader. fluff/smut. no use of y/n. reader uses she/her pronouns.

cw: fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v sex

The sight of Steve leaning against his car in the parking lot of your work is still one that makes you a little giddy. The pink and gold of the sky cascading down on him in a soft light, reflecting off his skin and dousing him in a warm glow was something straight out of a movie, the boy lit up all golden and auric as he waits for you to finish your shift.

You practically skip over to him, holding onto the strap of your bag to keep it in place on your shoulder as you cross the warm concrete. “Hey, Stevie.” You beam, instantly throwing your arms around his neck when you reach him to pull him in for a hug.

Steve would never admit to anyone that he lets you call him Stevie, let alone that he likes it. The way you say it always coated in affection that warms his chest. “Hey, you. How was work?” His words are muffled into your hair as he hugs you tighter, arms around your waist.

“Looks pretty bad, sweetheart.” He frowns at the injury, hand instinctively moving to yours to run his thumb over the back of it.

“S’pretty sore, but makes me look tough, don’t ya think?” You shrug, a little grin on the corners of your mouth.

“Super tough.” He nods in agreement, mirroring your smile. Every time you two were together, Steve felt like it was a little too good to be true. Everything you said or did seemed so effortless but it still had his mind running crazy, his heart even more so. Ever since you started hanging out, away from your work or the prying eyes of his friends, he had to remind himself that it was all real and you genuinely wanted to see him. He’d made a mental note to take things slow, to not fuck this up or scare you off, but it was harder than it sounded when you were next to him all sugared up smiles and gentle touches.

“I know I said we should go for food tonight but I’m totally spent.” You chew on the inside of your cheek, twisting your body from side to side a little and making the hem of your skirt shift higher against your thighs. “D’you want to just get a take out? You can stay over too, if you want? Save you driving back in the dark.”

Steve feels like he’s been shocked, his entire body buzzing with something - excitement, maybe? Or nerves, or a mix of the two most likely. “Sure we can, whatever you want.” He hopes you don’t notice how hard he had to focus to force the words out, praying they came out casual and not in a croak of nerves.

“You’re the best, Stevie.” You go on your tip-toes to kiss him again, tasting like bubblegum and cherries and sweets and all the other sugary things you should have in moderation, something Steve doesn’t think he can manage with you. “And you’ll stay?” Your eyes are big and bright as you look up at him through your lashes, a hopeful smile on your face that he knows he has no chance of turning down.

“As long as you want me to.” He gives your hand a light squeeze.

“Of course I do, silly, S’why I offered.” You squeeze his hand back before letting go to finally make your way to the passenger side, Steve making sure he gets there first so he can open the door for you. It’s the sweet little gestures that have your heart beating faster, simple acts of devotion that seem so insignificant from the outside but are really unspoken words of so much more.

It’s not a long drive to your place from the rink, only about 15 minutes if you get lucky with traffic. Steve’s hand finds its place on your thigh for most of the journey, his touch barely there but still comforting. You occasionally trace along his fingers, or around its outline on your skin, just mindless touches whilst you listen to him talk about his day. You think you could just sit and watch him forever, have him talk about anything and you’d listen.

You direct Steve around the streets of your hometown, he’d picked you up from work a few times now but you usually spent your time together in Hawkin’s. Your apartment is along Main Street, a little one bed that sits above a flower shop. It’s not much, but you’d been determined to move out and be independent whilst you’re in college so you’re content with the small space you got to call your own.

“There’s a little lot around the back of the shops you can park in, just turn down here.” You lean forward in your seat to point to the small side road, Steve nodding and following your instructions to lead you both into the car park.

Steve pulls into the spot you point out, the one closest to the metal steps that lead up to your door. Now he’s here, in front of your place where he’s agreed to spend the night, his breathing gets a little quicker. He tries to keep it quiet, not wanting you to notice that he’s slightly freaking out.

“C’mon handsome, the takeout won’t order itself.” You grin at him, your house keys dangling on your pointer finger along with a collection of keyrings that all jangle together and glisten in the evening sun. You open the passenger door and step out the car, standing at the bottom of the staircase whilst Steve locks his car.

Steve takes a moment whilst locking up to try and chill himself out, a few deep breaths and words of encouragement muttered to himself. Though he’s not too sure “get it together” counts as encouragement, either way he needs to hear it.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bit messy, I would’ve tidied up more if I knew I’d have company.” You look back to Steve as you climb the stairs, the old metal clanking with each step til you reach the top.

“You don’t have to apologise.” Steve shakes his head at you, you could open the door to a bomb site and he wouldn’t mind as long as he’s with you.

You have to fiddle with the lock a little to get it open, the door’s pretty old and probably rusted so the key needs to be twisted and lifted at an angle to get it to work. You get it after a few tries though, and push the door open to let yourself and Steve in.

“Ta-da.” You sing as you hold the door open for Steve, letting him step into your living room before closing it behind him.

The flat is small, but you‘ve filled it with fresh flowers and cosy furnishings to brighten it up. Candles dotted around the room on whatever surface they can fit on, next to little ceramic and glass trinkets and photos of you and your friends. It feels like home, a space you’ve cultivated as your own that nobody can take away from you.

Steve thinks it’s perfect, really, because he can tell it’s yours. The flowers and vanilla candles mix together so the room smells sweet, and everything looks soft and inviting. Your college books strewn across the coffee table, plush blankets hung over the arm of the couch, it was all another insight into your world that he was so desperate to be a part of.

“I can’t believe you think this is messy.” He chuckles, looking around the room again to take in all the little details.

“Wait til you see my bedroom, then you’ll change your tune.” You shrug your bag off your shoulder and onto the floor near the door, toeing your shoes off so you’re just left with your knee high socks on your feet.

Steve can’t even bring himself to think about seeing your bedroom, that idea pushed so far back into the corner of his mind so he can remain functional. “I bet it’s fine, you’re just dramatic.” He teases, trying to play off the fact he’s still in awe about being in your home.

“That’s true, I am.” You smile at him, no offense taken from his words because you can see the soft smile on his lips and the doting tone that always seems to be there when he speaks. “So, what d’you want? Pizza? Or there’s a Chinese not far that’s pretty good?” You pad across the room to the kitchen, the open plan layout meaning you can still see Steve as you root through one of the cupboards for menus. You hold them up when you find them, waving them in the air before you move back and hand them to him.

“You don’t wanna pick? You’re the one who’s been working all day.” He strokes the back of your hair gently with his free hand, you instantly leaning back into his touch.

You shake your head at his offer. “You’re the guest, you pick.”

Steve sighs a little, all sweetness at your offer. “Pizza sounds good. You happy with that?”

“Mhm, pick what you want and I’ll call ‘em.” You tap your nails against the menu in his hand, the vibrations running up his arm and making his hairs stand up.

It takes you both a little while to settle on an order, going back and forth about what you both want and finding a middle ground. You keep trying to tell Steve to choose what he wants and you’ll work around that, but Steve was far more concerned about you getting what you wanted. It was a lot of talking in circles til you both eventually settled.

Steve insists on paying when it arrives, too, despite your best efforts to at least go halves.

“Just take the money, Steve.” You hold the dollars out to him, trying to tuck them into his pocket when he shakes his head at you.

“Stop, stop.” Steve laughs, trying to dodge your hands whilst holding onto the pizza box. “If this falls we’ll have to do that all over again.”

You furrow your brow a little, pouting up at the boy. “Fine, but I’m getting it next time.” You flop yourself down on the couch with a dramatic sigh, shuffling your college textbooks to one side on the coffee table so the pizza box can fit. “Oh, wait, d’you want plates?” You go to stand up again but Steve shakes his head at you.

“I’ll get ‘em, where are they?” He sets the food down and walks into the kitchen.

“Cupboard above the sink.” You call through, watching him pull a couple of plates out and bring them back to you. “You’d make a great housewife.” You grin, taking one of them off him.

“I know, thinking of changing careers.” Steve sits himself down next to you, his leg pressed against yours so you can feel the rough denim on your skin.

“You’d look great in a frilly apron.” You lean forward to open the box, pulling out a slice of pizza for yourself and putting it on your plate.

“Yeah, you think?” Steve grins at you and helps himself to a slice.

“Mhm, real handsome.” You kiss him on the cheek before taking a bite of your food. “And I could be the breadwinner.”

“Oh I’m gonna be your housewife?”

“Obviously, I get first dibs.”

Steve smiles at you, all fondness and it makes your chest feel a little tight with how much you like it. “Yeah, you do.”

You end up watching a movie after your food, letting Steve root through the small pile of tapes that sit next to your tv set. They’re pretty old, most picked up in flea markets or taken from your family home. Most of them are horror films which makes Steve laugh, you feel like the personification of sunshine but your taste in movies is the complete opposite of that.

“You got anything lighthearted?” He turns his head to look at you from where he’s sat on the floor, you still sat on your couch with a blanket thrown over your lap.

“I’ve got Grease.”

“So the options are scary movies or Grease?”

“Withhold your judgment, Harrington.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest in fake upset.

“Oh I’m sorry, don’t surname me.” He pouts back at you, which makes you giggle and ruins your facade.

“Pick a film.” You wiggle your finger at the pile of tapes, Steve turning back to them again and eventually settling on Salem’s Lot.

“You gotta hit the player a little, to get it to work.” You instruct Steve, who taps the player a few times before it springs to life and starts whirring.

He settles back down next to you, and you instantly lean your head on his shoulder. He can smell your fruity shampoo as soon as you lay it there, and leans his own head against yours. It’s comfortable, like your head was supposed to fit there in the crook of his neck.

He tries his best to focus on the screen, but whenever you’re close to him it’s like all his senses are in overdrive and his heart is beating a million miles a minute. He hopes you can’t feel it, a dead giveaway to how you make him feel, how much he really likes you.

It only gets worse when you start placing gentle kisses against his neck, your hand laced in his and he’s so aware of every minute movement you make. Every small inhale, the fan of your eyelashes as you blink. He thinks he might be losing it a little.

You kiss up his neck and up to his cheek, eventually nudging your nose against it so he turns his face to you. You both look at each other for a moment, eyes studying the others face and lips until he eventually leans in to kiss you.

It’s a little reserved, gentle and careful like there’s still some boundary yet to be crossed. Steve’s hand cups your face, fingers lacing into your hair as he holds you close to him.

You press against him a little harder, lips parting slightly so he can slip his tongue into your mouth and you let out a sweet sigh from the feeling. Your arms are around his shoulders so your fingers can run through the hair at the nape of his neck.

Steve can feel himself getting lost in it all, how soft you are and how sweet you taste, and when you shuffle so you’re sitting in his lap he’s certain he’s absolutely gone. His hands move to your waist, but he barely grips you, his touch soft and hovering over your body.

You pull away a little, keeping your face close to Steve’s so your lips still brush together when you speak. “Y’know you can touch me, Stevie? I’m not gonna break.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, all sweet and a little teasing.

Steve smiles at you, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know, I just, uh,” he lets out a small sigh, nose nudging against your own, “you make me kinda nervous.”

You sit back a little now, still close and your fingers still combing through his hair. “What, why?” Your brows furrow slightly as you look at him with gentle concern. “Y’know I really like you, right?”

“I know, but you’re so pretty and smart and like, so out of my league.” He chuckles to try and cover the fact he’s actually wearing his heart on his sleeve, the confession making him feel like he could pass out or combust at any second.

You just shake your head at him, lips curled up into a smile that makes him want to melt. “What’ve I gotta do to prove it to you? Put it on a big sign?” You place soft kisses up and along his throat, breaking them up with your words. “Or I could make a t-shirt?” You move your kisses up to his face so you can look at him again, eyes bright with tenderness for the boy in front of you.

“The t-shirt sounds good.” Steve can feel his skin heat up wherever you place your kisses, your sweet words and soft touches driving him a little crazy.

You giggle, moving one hand to cup his jaw. “Yeah? I can do that.” You press your lips against his, softly and just for a second. “I wanna be your girl, Steve Harrington. You gonna let me?”

Steve’s not sure he’ll ever get used to your confidence, not that he minds it. But he can’t deny it makes his heart flip whenever you say stuff like this, so assured in what you want, especially when it’s him. “Yeah, yeah, I am.” He exhales, finally bringing his lips back to yours.

He kisses you with more confidence now, like whatever line you’ve been toeing has been crossed and he’s finally letting himself relax into you. His hands hold your waist properly, pulling your body closer to his so you can feel his chest move with each breath.

You tilt your head so you can deepen the kiss, Steve’s tongue licking into your mouth as he squeezes your side and it’s enough for you to sigh out a small moan. The sound only makes Steve kiss you harder, his teeth tugging on your bottom lip and making your brain go sort of fuzzy.

When his lips make their way along your jaw, trailing down the column of your neck and onto that sensitive spot near your collarbone your breath hitches in your throat. You think Steve must feel it stuck there, because it’s almost like you can feel him smirk against your skin as he nips at the same spot before soothing over it with his tongue.

His hands roam to your thighs, skirt pulled up a little too high to be decent from you straddling him and you don’t even mind the pain that comes from when his hand passes over your bruise. “Jesus, Steve.” You almost whine, his lips still attached to that same spot and leaving a pretty purple mark there.

Steve groans against your skin when you say his name, the way you say it has his mind moving a hundred miles a minute. “Y’so pretty, y’know that?” His words are a bit muffled against your skin, though he briefly pulls away so he can look you in the eyes. “So perfect, drives me crazy.”

When one of his hands slips towards the inside of your thighs you have to blink a few times to try and keep yourself calm, the sensation so intense even with his gentle touch. It makes you rock your hips towards him, you don’t even mean to do it but the feeling of his denim dragging along your bare skin only sends you more into a haze. Your fingers press into his shoulders, little half moon indents pressing into the fabric of his shirt where you’re trying to ground yourself.

It feels like an eternity of his hands wandering, fingers ghosting closer to your core only to move away again before Steve finally asks if he can touch you, big brown eyes blinking down at you as you nod your head, forcing out a small “yes”, your voice a little raspy from trying to control your breathing.

Steve still feels like this might all be a dream, a fantasy taking place solely in his head, when he finally runs fingers along the hemline of your panties. You’re already warm, your soft skin radiating heat onto him and driving him wild. He moves his hand away for a second, just so he can shift your bodies around and lay you back on the couch. One hand next to your head, propping himself over you so he can see your face, and the other back to teasing you.

You know you’re already wet, can feel it there between your thighs as Steve trails a finger up and down over your panties eventually relenting and pulling them to the side. You don’t think the room is cold, but the air hitting your exposed cunt is enough to make you shiver a little.

He slides two of his fingers down into your slick, the light pressure on your already sensitive clit enough to make your body jolt and a small gasp falls from your lips.

“God, y’so wet already baby.” He muses, a smile curled onto the corners of his lips as he watches your face scrunch a little with each of his movements. His fingers rub circles around your clit, slow steady movements that have your eyes fluttering closed.

“Feels so good, Stevie.” Your voice is even sweeter than usual, all breathy and a little out of it and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

All your nerves feel like they’re on fire, every inch of your body charged with some sort of electricity as Steve keeps touching you. When he finally slips one finger inside of you, his thumb still pressing onto your clit, you’re pretty sure you can see stars. He’s gentle with you, moving in and out of you slowly and always keeping an eye on your face to make sure you’re alright, only adding a second finger once he can feel you’re ready.

His fingers curl up to hit that sweet spot inside of you, the slow drag of them in and out mixed with the lazy movements against your cliensending your head dizzy. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, nails dragging along the top of his back as your heartbeat quickens and the coil inside your stomach tightens.

“Steve.” You whine, incapable of getting any other words out, your brain turned to mush from his touch.

“Y’close?” He breathes, blown pupils staring down into your own with such intensity and desire that it only pushes you closer to the edge.

“Mhm.” You hum, all you can manage as he speeds up his movements. His fingers are pumping into you a little faster now, still careful and considerate and always hitting the right spot and you can feel your body temperature rising.

“Can feel it, feels so good.” He places a gentle kiss on your lips, then onto your cheek. “Y’gonna let go for me? Wanna feel you come so bad, sweetheart.” He knows he’s running his mouth, mind all fogged up from how good you feel and how much he wants you that he can’t help but let the words tumble out.

It doesn’t take much more for that coil in your stomach to snap, Steve’s words coaxing you through your high as you squeeze your eyes shut and moan out his name. Your nails dig harder into his shoulders, the blinding white of your orgasm leaving you out of it and the feel of him underneath your fingers the only thing helping to ground you.

You whine when Steve finally slides his fingers out of you, the sudden emptiness pulling the sound from your mouth. You bring your head up from where it was lay on the couch, lips meeting his where he’s still hovering over you.

“You alright?” Steve presses his forehead against yours, the breath of his words fanning against your lips.

“Yeah, Stevie.” You give him a sweet smile, mascara a little smudged under your eyes and still looking a little out of it. “C’mon.” You press a hand to his chest and give him a gentle push, just enough so you can sit yourself up. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Hearing the words come from your mouth makes Steve’s brain short circuit a little bit, just following your lead as you shuffle up and off the couch and offer him a hand to lead him to your bedroom. You turn to face him as you walk backwards into the room, knocking the light on with your other hand and coating the room in a buttery light. Your lips are little puffy from where he’d kissed, your hair mussed from the couch, and Steve thinks you’re the most perfect girl he’s ever seen.

Then you’re back on each other again, like some invisible rope is tied around you both and is being pulled tighter til you collide. The kiss is a little messy, too eager to touch each other that it’s all tongue and teeth as your hands both try to pry the others shirt off without having to pull away for too long.

Your clothes are strewn across the room, cascaded to the floor carelessly as your hands can finally roam skin on skin. Your palms on Steve’s chest guide him towards your bed, the back of his knees hitting the mattress.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hands splayed across your now bare waist and you stood between his legs, gazing down at him with big eyes full of something sticky sweet and sultry. He brings his mouth to your tits, kissing the skin and sucking softly to draw out more sweet sounds from you.

“S’my turn. To make you feel good.” You have to force the words out, your breath hitching in your chest each time Steve nibbles on your skin. Your hand reaches down to run over Steve’s crotch. You can feel how much he’s already straining against the denim jeans as you go to fiddle with the button, movements slow and teasing and already enough to make him groan against your soft skin.

“Baby.” Steve grips you a little tighter, pads of his fingers pressing into you. You just look at him, a picture of innocence as you continue your deliberate movements, zipper pulled down at an agonizing pace. “Babybabybaby.” He genuinely thinks his heart might stop with how hard it’s pounding against his ribs.

When you finally un-do the zipper and start palming at his cock through his boxers, Steve tips his head back with a low moan, the pleasure already overwhelming. You use your other hand to caress his cheek, your touch gentle and comforting to counteract how much you’re driving him absolutely crazy.

You dip your hand into his boxers, sufficient teasing done, and finally move his boxers down enough so you can pull his cock out. You try not to react when you realize just how big he is, though a small sound escapes your mouth as you start to pump your hand around the base of his shaft.

When you crouch down in the space between Steve’s legs and run your tongue up his shaft, tip already leaking from the way your hands pumping him, he thinks he might be done for. You look up at him through your lashes, doe eyed and mouth just barely touching him, placing gentle kisses on his member as one of his hands entangles itself in your hair.

“Fucking hell.” He moans, your eyes closing over as you take as much of him as you can in your mouth, hand continuing its motions at the base that you can’t quite fit.

You can feel the tip of him pressing against the back of your throat, and you have to focus on your breathing to try and stop yourself choking up around him. His fingers tighten their hold on your hair as you speed up your movements, tugging a little each time you hear him sigh or moan.

“I-I’m not gonna last.” He chokes out, trying to guide your head up so he can look at you properly. You move your mouth off him, lips slick with saliva and eyes blown as you look at him. “I wanna fuck you, don’t wanna cum yet.” His words are still breathy even now you’ve stopped touching him, his mind still catching up to everything that’s happening.

“Yeah?” You ask, voice a little teasing which only makes Steve want you more. You stand up so you can wiggle out of your skirt, letting it fall to the ground below you and leaving you only in your panties. Your fingers tug at the waistband of his jeans, a silent instruction for him to follow suit. He shuffles in his spot, tugging the trousers down his legs and onto the floor. “Sit back.” You nudge your head towards the headboard of your bed, and Steve doesn’t even try to argue as he moves himself to lean against your pillows.

You kneel over him, hands pulling at his boxers as you help to guide them off before doing the same with your panties. You straddle him again, cock pushing against your clit as you kiss him and rock your hips.

Your lips move down his neck, still a little wet and puffed up. Steve’s hands are resting on your thighs, head tilted to the side so you can continue your trail of kisses down towards his collarbone. “I, uh, don’t have a condom.” Steve murmurs, using probably the last bit of sanity he has to force the words out.

“I’m on the pill.” Your words are pressed into his skin, and you can feel him groan underneath you as you speak. “If you’re okay with that.”

“Yeah, fuck, I’m okay with it.”

Steve helps you line yourself up on top of him, a small hiss coming through your teeth as you lower down onto him and feel the stretch. You have to move slowly, each time you press yourself down a little further and feel him fill you up a little more. It takes you a couple minutes til you’re sat on him fully, breathing already a little heavy as you rest your head on his shoulder.

Steve presses kisses onto your forehead, hands steady on your hips as you sit for a moment. He can feel how tight you are around him, cock twitching inside you just from the thought of you moving. “You okay?” His voice is soothing, gentle and full of care as his thumb strokes circles into your skin.

“Yeah, m’okay.” Your voice is quiet, but you eventually start to rock your hips against him once you’ve adjusted to his size. You can feel his tip nudging that soft squidgy spot with each movement and it has you moaning into his neck as your forehead stays steady in the crook of his neck.

You get a little more confident with it, properly lifting yourself up now so you can feel the full length of his shaft moving in and out of you. You lift your head up so you can look at Steve, mouth hung open a little from being so blissed out.

“Feel s’good, so full.” Steve’s hands help guide you as you bounce on top of him, your clit bumping against the base of his shaft each time brings you down again and it has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“God. Wanted this so bad. Want you so bad. Want you to be my girl.” He starts pistoning his hips up into you now, following your rhythm and hitting even deeper inside you which has you whining.

“I am your girl, Stevie.” You bite your lip as Steve thrusts up into you, barely muffling the sound of your moans as you keen at his thrusts.

“Oh fuck.” He tips his head back, eyes closing as his thrusts start getting a little sloppy. You can tell he’s close, trying your best to hold onto the pace he’s set to bring him to the edge.

“Y’gonna cum for me, baby?” You muse, voice sugar coated despite the words and it has Steve’s head spinning. He brings a hand down between you, fingers finding your clit so he can rub circles in it as you both near the edge.

It’s a little messy, still learning each other's bodies and the way you move with each touch, but you can feel yourself tiptoeing along that ledge again. Steve must feel it too, the way you clench impossibly tighter around him, because he starts picking up the pace with his thrusts again.

It doesn’t take long for you to both tumble over the edge, Steve breathing out your name over and over as he brings his forehead to yours and helps you steady yourself as you come down from your high. You’re not quite ready to move yet, still too sensitive to deal with the feeling of him pulling out.

He’s peppering sweet kisses along your cheek through his deep breathing, both your chests rising and falling as you try to bring yourselves back to reality. When he finally pulls out you whine a little, the loss of him inside you has you feeling empty and the over stimulation is close to electric.

Steve lifts you off him, placing you gently on the bed so he can go to the bathroom to get something to clean the pair of you up with. He’s so soft with you, all affectionate and doting like you’re the most precious thing in the world, he thinks you might be.

“Steve?” You sit yourself up on the bed as he pulls his boxers on, your cheeks flushed pink and lip pulled between your bottom teeth.

“Yeah?”

“This mean I’m actually your girl now?” You grin at him, and you’re asking a question you already know the answer to really. But you want to hear him say it, purely for selfish reasons.

“Fuck, yeah, you’re my girl.” He leans over and kisses your forehead, and the way you look up at him has him thinking that you might always send his head a little dizzy. But he definitely doesn’t mind.

thank u so much for reading ! plz reblog if u enjoyed and message me if u have any requests/wanna gush over steve lol <333

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 8 months ago

Text

Cozened Indigo - Part Two

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: She gets her interview with Aemond, and Larys blows her cover. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @humanpurposes. I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond silently takes a seat, eyeing her carefully as she stands there, rooted to the spot. When she makes no move to do the same, he gives an impatient flick of his wrist, gesturing to the opposite side of the table. Startled out of her daze, she moves quickly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the hard, painted concrete as she pulls it out before sitting down.

His fingers drum slowly against the table top as he watches her place her notepad and pencil upon it.

“You haven’t brought a recording device,” he says.

It’s a statement, not a question, uttered by a voice that slices through the air like a hot knife through butter. Soft, yet possessing a sinister undertone that chills her to her core.

She wets her lips, glancing nervously at him before responding; “recording devices aren’t allowed.”

“They are on media visits.”

Sighing, she flips open her pad, tapping her pencil against the blank page. “The trial is in three weeks, there isn’t time to organise one, there’s too much red tape involved.”

“On a media visit, we would have privacy, our own visitation room. You could record our conversations instead of having to scribble to keep up with what I say.”

He sits back, his spine rigid against the plastic of the chair, and clasps his hands in front of him. She feels like she wants to scream in frustration, it doesn’t seem as though he’s even listening to her.

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet,” she tells him, attempting to change the topic in the hopes it will get him talking.

Aemond snorts derisively, though his eye does not reflect the upturn pull of his lips. “You know who I am, I know who you are. I don’t feel there’s any need, unless you’d like to exchange pleasantries? Shall we talk about the weather, perhaps?”

She chews her lip, considering her next words with caution. “You know my name, but you don’t know anything about me. Maybe you’d feel more at ease talking to me if I told you a little about myself?”

He leans forward and, reflexively, she pulls away, her back making a heavy impact with the hard backrest of the chair, as her pencil falls from her grasp onto the tabletop.

“I know you destroyed your career by publishing a story that glorified a criminal, without checking to see if your sources were credible. I’d say I know enough.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, bile rising in her throat as her breathing grows erratic. She hadn’t anticipated him knowing about that, let alone bringing it up.

He chuckles drily, his posture relaxing as he leans back once more. “You’ve looked into me, dug around in my past, did you not think I’d do a little research of my own? I know all about you.”

“We’re…we’re not here to talk about me,” she stammers, attempting to compose herself as she snatches her pencil back up and sits up straight.

“I’m still deciding if I want to speak to you,” he admits with a shrug.

Her brow furrows in confusion as she narrows her eyes at him. “But you agreed to meet me?”

He gives a slight nod. “I agreed to meet you, yes. I didn’t agree to an interview.”

“Then why agree to see me? You’ve wasted my time.”

“I could say the same of you, waltzing in here, without even the decency to follow the appropriate media procedure, expecting me to spill my guts in front of a room full of rapists and murderers.”

“So you won’t speak to me?”

He pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, appearing to think about her question, the silence feeling as though it could fill the vastness of an ocean.

“You seem…earnest,” he finally says, “get media visitation and you’ll have your interview.”

He slaps the flat of his hand against the top of the table, an indication that the conversation is at its end, and stands, walking slowly back over to the door he had entered through.

As the guard unlocks it, allowing him to leave, he casts one last look at her over his shoulder. It’s a pointed stare, one that lets her know that this isn’t up for debate. It’s no longer a question of if she can get a media visit, it’s when and how.

The moment she’s back on the ferry, she calls Larys, knowing that if anyone can acquire a media visit with any modicum of urgency it will be him. She is relieved when he picks up on the third ring, and she wastes no time in getting straight to the point.

“He won’t speak to me without a media visit.”

“Hello to you too,” he drawls.

She exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “The trial is in a few weeks, if I apply for it myself then it’ll take months. I need you to–”

Her phone beeps, the screen going black as her battery dies.

Fuck.

She had forgotten to switch it off before handing it to the guards, and the incoming emails and messages she’d received during her visit had drained it.

It’s evening by the time she gets home, the sun having set long ago on her journey from Dragonstone back to King’s Landing. Eagerly, she plugs her phone in to charge, restlessly tapping her foot as she waits for it to power back on.

Her heart skips, relief flooding her as the screen lights up and she is immediately met with a Whatsapp notification from Larys.

“Have been trying to reach you. Media visit is arranged for the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?”

With shaking fingers, she types back a reply, apologising, explaining her phone had died and confirming her availability. A few minutes later, he responds, telling her he will follow up with further information shortly.

It’s finally happening, she has her interview.

The following morning, her presence in the office feels like a mere farce to fill time, with no intention of starting the Flea Bottom piece, there is no real reason for her to be there, yet she has to keep up appearances until she has copy finalised for the story she actually intends to write. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission in this case.

She decides to fill her time with further background research and laying down the basic introduction for the piece, time is of the essence so it’s better to get a head start where she can. Less than ten minutes have passed when she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. Startled, she minimises her Word document and turns to see Royce looming over her.

“How’s the Flea Bottom piece coming along?” He asks, gesturing towards her computer monitor with his coffee mug.

“Oh…yeah,” she lies, with a tight smile, “making great progress with it, should have copy for you soon.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her incredulously, before taking a slow sip of coffee.

“Tell me then, if you are working on the Flea Bottom piece, what are you doing visiting Dragonstone Prison?”

Her face blanches as she stares up at him, her mouth running dry as she thinks of what to say. She has nothing.

“I–”

“My office. Now.”

He turns and strides back towards his small corner office, leaving the door ajar for her to follow.

It feels as though she is trudging through treacle as she makes her way across the newsroom, her heart pounding in her chest as she steps into the figurative lion’s den, expecting to be told her employment is terminated for openly defying a commission from not just her editor, but the editor of the Duskendale Gazette.

Sheepishly, she shuts the door behind her, pressing her back against the wood as her eyes raise to meet Royce’s, who sits behind his desk, visibly seething with annoyance. There’s no use in denying it, so she decides to get straight to the point.

“How did you find out?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“Larys Strong left a voicemail on the office’s answering machine yesterday evening, confirming your media visit to the prison tomorrow.”

Shit. He must have called the office when he couldn’t get through to her mobile.

He continues before she has a chance to respond. “I’ve told you already, to leave that story alone. Were I a less understanding employer, I’d fire you for insubordination, but I’m willing to be reasonable. You’re to drop whatever it is you’re pursuing and continue with the story you’ve been assigned. Is that clear?”

She sighs, bowing her head momentarily, before stepping towards his desk. Her tone is imploring, her stare pleading as she looks at him. “Royce, Larys Strong is Aemond Targaryen’s legal representation. They’ve chosen me, us, the Duskendale Gazette over all publications to run an exposé on him ahead of the upcoming trial! There is something there, I know there is, you have to let me pursue this. Please!”

Royce groans in frustration, carding his fingers through his dark curls. “You know I can’t allow you to do this, you could be accused of media bias, influencing the jury. That’s not a risk a publication as small as this one can afford to take.”

“The article isn’t going to mention the trial, or the allegations being made. I intend for it to be a profile piece. Aemond has never spoken to the media before, he is incredibly private. This would be an exclusive, we’d be doing something no other newspaper or magazine has done before. It takes months to get a media visit, Larys has gotten me one in two days. It would be stupid to waste this opportunity.”

She takes another step forward, now standing directly behind the chair that occupies the opposite side of Royce’s desk, silently hoping she has said enough to convince him.

He sighs, shoulders sagging slightly, as he regards her with a look of resignation. “I’ll let you do it, but I have conditions.”

Her heart soars, her eyes widening hopefully as she nods enthusiastically. “Anything.”

“You won’t be reporting on the trial itself once it starts. And I want copy in two weeks.”

She recoils at this, given how stony Aemond had been on their first meeting, she knows it will be virtually impossible to get him to say enough to fulfill that sort of deadline. She had been hoping to push right up to the day before the trial began.

“Two weeks?! Royce, that’s not even enough time to get the interviews I’ll need!”

“I’m not taking the risk of being accused of influencing the jury,” he retorts. “Two weeks, or I’m tanking this, got it?”

“Got it,” she replies quietly, her previous elation withering and dying as quickly as it had burst to life.

Two weeks to get Aemond to open up. Two weeks to save her career.

The moment she is out of Royce’s office, she calls Larys, overwhelmed by annoyance at the trouble he has gotten her into and eager to give him a piece of her mind.

“You left a voicemail at my office,” she says irritably, when he eventually picks up.

He hums affirmatively into the receiver. “Well, your mobile was switched off.”

“You’ve gotten me into so much trouble with my boss, he almost pulled the plug on all of this!”

She hears him exhale slowly, pausing before responding. “But he hasn’t, so that’s a good thing.”

“I’m not allowed to report on the trial either, and I have to have the entire piece finished in two weeks.”

“Well, consider it a blessing. Minimal risk of media bias, you now have permission to write the story too. Wouldn’t it be a shame to go to all that effort to have it wasted at the eleventh hour, because your editor won’t approve it?”

Her eyes narrow, her voice lowering in an accusatory tone. “You did this deliberately, didn’t you?”

He lets out a quiet laugh that travels through the phone as a breathy sigh. “There is rarely anything I do that isn’t a calculated choice. I think you’ll find my actions have been mutually beneficial. Good luck with your visitation tomorrow.”

There is a click before the line goes dead. He’s hung up.

She wants to be angry, but she knows he’s right. Without the need for secrecy, this piece will be far easier to write, even with an impossible deadline.

There is a marked difference between this morning’s visit to Dragonstone Prison and the one previous. As soon as she checks in at the ferry terminal, she is ushered towards her own private boat and transported across the Gullet. There is no wait time once she arrives and, though she is searched, she is allowed to keep her electronic devices with her.

The room she is led to is small; plain white walls and a white floor, with only a table and two chairs, the same as the ones in the visitation room, at the centre of it. The blinking red light of a CCTV camera placed in the top corner by the door catches her eye, reminding her of the profundity of her location.

Over the last couple of days, she has been distracted by the stress of Royce finding out what she has secretly been working on, and preparing for the interview, so much so that she has quite forgotten just how foreboding the presence of Aemond Targaryen is.

She is delivered a stark reminder as he is led into the room, clad in the same grey prison scrubs he’d been wearing on her first visit, his wrists handcuffed in front of him. It feels as though all the air leaves the compact space as he enters it. His posture is immutable as always, his head held high, and his gaze immediately fixes upon her, an unmistakable glint in his eye as he stares at her. She stares back, hoping she appears more impassive than she feels, but there is an underlying fear that if he really wanted to hurt her then there is little the cuffs he wears could do to stop him.

“Bang on the door if you need anything,” the guard tells her, breaking her out of her reverie, “you’ve got one hour.”

The fact that there will be someone stationed outside of the door helps her to relax a little and she decides that this time she won’t allow for him to have the upper hand, moving to take her seat before Aemond does, as the guard leaves, locking them both in.

She keeps her attention on the table in front of her, placing her dictaphone in the middle, as Aemond slips into the chair on the opposite side of it.

“How are you today?” She asks, keeping her tone casual as she fiddles with the settings of the recording device.

“Incarcerated,” he answers simply, his voice conveying no emotion.

She sighs, glancing up at him. “I went to the effort to get a media visit, as you requested, I hope you’re feeling a little more talkative today.”

“The effort that Larys went to,” he corrects her. “You seem to forget that you stand to gain something from this too.”

Biting back the heated retort she wants to make, she ignores his comment. “This will be a profile piece, we’re not going to talk about the upcoming trial, we don’t even need to talk about your nephew if you’d prefer not to.”

“A little hard to avoid that,” he says, lips quirking slightly. His cuffs give a metallic clink as he lifts his hands towards his face, tapping at the ragged scar on the left side of his face. “Luke is the reason I have this.”

Her lips part slightly, eyes widening in shock as she stares at him. “Lucerys did that to you?”

Aemond nods, lowering his hands into his lap. “When we were children. It was a petty squabble at a birthday party. I threw the first punch, but he lashed out with a knife, and I’ve been left with a permanent reminder of the fact.

An overwhelming surge of pity courses through her, her face softening as she looks at him. She wants to say something to comfort him, but he stops her before she has the opportunity.

“I don’t need your pity. It’s been fifteen years. Let’s just get on with the interview, time is running out.”

She clears her throat, shifting in her seat as her thumb presses down on the record button of her dictaphone. “Right, let’s start with your childhood.”

The hour vanishes into nothing as she asks Aemond probing questions about what he was like as a child, how his relationship with his family was and what his upbringing was like. A tale of fatherly neglect, of children living in the shadow of their older half sister unfolds as he tells her of how he grew up teased by his older brother, Aegon, and bullied by his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys. The only members of his family that he ever received anything close to affection from were his mother and his sister, Helaena.

She pays rapt attention, her heart aches for him, though her sympathy comes in short lived bursts, as every time his knee accidentally grazes hers beneath the table, it chills her blood and causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh. At least she assumes it’s accidental.

They draw to a natural stopping point and she switches the recording device off. The one question she has never asked, that there has been a complete media black out in terms of details, is precisely how Aemond killed Lucerys. Her curiosity gets the better of her and the question passes her lips before she can stop herself.

“How did it happen?”

Aemond tenses, jaw clenching as he stares at her intently. He swallows thickly, then responds, “you mean how did I kill him? I trust that this is off the record?”

She nods, afraid that if she speaks she’ll scare him off of opening up to her.

“I lost control of my car, and I hit him. He died.”

There is no hint of remorse evident in his voice, he responds as though she has asked him for the time. She is struck by how matter of fact he is. Surely, if it was accidental then he’d show even a slither of emotion? Just as she’s about to question him further, the door swings open and the guard informs her that her time is up.

She has barely scratched the surface of Aemond Targaryen, she knows if she is to write a feature that is even half decent she’ll need more time with him. She is grateful that Larys informs her has managed to secure two further media visits, and over the following week she gets to know Aemond better - at least what he is willing to share with her.

He is intelligent, with a keen interest in history and philosophy. He does not share his brother’s love of socialite status, preferring to dedicate his time to reading and fitness. Unwavering in his loyalty to his family, he had taken up a position at his grandfather’s law firm up until the point of his arrest. Aemond Targaryen’s life is one that is shrouded in solitude and tragedy. Aemond embodies pieces of a broken antique vase; the idea of putting him back together is beautiful, but there is the inevitable risk of cutting yourself if you attempt to try.

She does not bring up the death of Lucerys again, telling herself it will be easier to get him to talk if they stick to subjects that don’t make him uncomfortable. However, deep down she knows that she hadn’t liked what she’d heard when she’d asked him the first time, she hadn’t enjoyed the way his response had made her feel. Better to avoid the fear than face it head on.

As their final interview comes to its end, she switches off the dictaphone, expecting a cordial and brief farewell, before the guard re-enters to take Aemond away once more. She is surprised when, after a moment of keeping his gaze fixed on his cuffed wrists that rest on the table in front of him, he looks up at her and asks; “will you be at the trial?”

She pauses momentarily, as she’s slipping her equipment back into her bag, taken aback by his question. “Oh…um…well, I’m not going to be covering it.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t sit in the public gallery.”

“Are you saying you want me to be there?”

Aemond gives a slight shrug. “You’ve come this far. May as well see it through to the end.”

He’s right, as he frustratingly always seems to be. She responds with a slight nod, moving to stand. She is unsure how exactly to bid him farewell, this is the last time she will ever be in such close proximity to him. Looking at how his wrists are shackled, she knows a hand shake would be inappropriate. She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, deciding eventually to keep things formal.

“Well, Larys will provide you with the article once it’s published. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

He grins wolfishly at this, staring up at her intently. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make me leap right off the page.”

His words stay with her, echoing in her mind long after she has left the prison. Though her time with Aemond is at its end, she knows his impact upon her is one that will last a lifetime. The intensity of his one eyed stare is forever burned into her mind, the lilt of his voice one that scratches at the recesses of her mind, and with the article still to write she knows she is far from free of him. While Aemond is quite literally imprisoned, he has her trapped in a cell of his own creation, one that she won’t be freed from until the words are on the page.

As she walks to the office, preparing to transcribe her interviews, her phone vibrates in her bag. Pulling it out she sees Larys’ name on her screen, and quickly presses to accept the call. She barely has time to greet him before he begins speaking, and she pushes a finger to her ear to better hear him over the sound of passing traffic.

“Have you got everything you need?” His tone is strained, an undercurrent of urgency in his voice that she’s never heard before.

“As far as my interviews with Aemond are concerned, yes. It would give a more well rounded piece if other members of the family were prepared to talk, but we’ve already established that that’s not an option.”

“Aegon and Helaena have agreed to speak with you,” he informs her quickly.

Her eyes widen in shock, and she ducks down a side street, shifting the phone to the other side of her head, wanting to give him her full attention. “Why the sudden change? What’s happened?”

“Rhaenyra has gotten wind of the fact that Aemond has spoken to the press, so now she’s doing an interview too – with White Knight Magazine.”

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featherandferns · 4 months ago

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daylight - eleven

jj maybank x fem!reader | part 11 of the daylight series | read part 10 here

content warnings: mentions of sex

word count: 1.8k.

blurb: reunited with your best friend from Canada, the two of you talk about Tyler and JJ, and you finally come to a decision.

“Mimsy?”

When your best friend smiles at you, you wonder if you’re hallucinating. It’s only when she’s flying off the bed, squealing as she tackles you in a hug, that you’re sure she’s here. Here, in Kildare County, North Carolina, instead of Vancouver. As the shock subsides, your arms coil around her before squeezing like a python around prey.

“Oh my God,” you mumble, nestling your face in her shoulder. She smells like home. Like childhood and make-believe. It makes your eyes water. “Mimsy.”

“Surprise, babes!” she sing-songs into your ear.

Pulling back, you take her in. “How…When…How?”

“Darren, of course,” Mimsy replies with a cheeky grin. She parts from you and laps your bedroom leisurely, as if she’s as familiar with it as you. “I told him about your wacked out voicemail and he offered to buy me a plane ticket. All I had to do was let him put it up my butt.”

“Mimsy!” you screech.

She turns to you, shrugging. “What? I wanted him to.”

Shaking your head, you begin to laugh. It’s easy to forget how much you miss someone until you have them back. Having Mimsy in your company again felt like how a child might when they rediscover their favourite teddy bear that had been missing for months. The Pogues had been great friends to you since moving to Kildare, but like a substituted cuddly toy, nobody had come close to matching Mimsy, let alone replacing her. Having her back felt like coming up for air after hours underwater.

“So is Darren here too?” you ask.

“Nah,” she says. “Left him in Vancouver.”

“Well, how long are you here for?”

“Just a week. I’m thinking that’ll be long enough to set you back on your path. Bestow some wisdom on you and all that,” Mimsy says. She makes her way back over to you. “I took your voicemail as an S.O.S type situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, ditching your bag. “I think I screwed things up pretty wonderfully.”

“Men are simple. He’ll come crawling back,” Mimsy assures, but you’re not so convinced.

Wandering over to your pinboard, your eyes land on JJ’s beaming face. “I don’t know,” you mumble. “I don’t think JJ’s like that.”

Mimsy hums thoughtfully. She joins you by your side, presumably following your gaze. “He’s cute.”

“I know,” you chuckle.

“He a good kisser?” Shoving her shoulder jokingly, Mimsy lets out a laugh. “What!? I’m just asking the important questions here.”

Shaking your head, you head to your bedroom door. “Wanna go check out the area? It feels wrong wasting a good day cooped up in here.”

“Sure thing,” Mimsy easily agrees.

She follows you down the stairs and into your car, and chatters the entire drive to the harbour about all the gossip and drama you’d missed in Vancouver. It felt like a series recap that came at the start of ‘a very special’ episode. It also worked well as a distraction from thoughts about JJ. That boy had crossed through your mind so much recently, you wondered whether your brainwaves might be permanently altered.

Your tour of Kildare starts with Heywards and the Wreck before venturing towards the stretches of beach. Once Mimsy has gawked at the surfer bros for about fifteen minutes, you manage to drag her to the marsh-land area. Point out some fishing spots that JJ had introduced you to. Provide vague directions to the Pogue’s houses. After a brief lap of Figure Eight, the two of you swing by a taco bell before pulling into a look over.

“So,” Mimsy says as she chews a churro. “What the fuck happened?”

“With JJ?” you check. She nods. Your eyes drift over to the view. Green-leaved trees form rivers, and concrete roads and housing estates become the stones of the estuary that was Kildare County. “We got in this dumb fight when I was at his to watch a movie. After that incident a while back, I still haven’t let him go down on me or anything, and he got all confrontational about it. Took it personal and stuff and…I bolted.”

“The incident being the thing about your hoo-ha?” Mimsy checks. You visibly cringe.

“Please, do not call it that,” you mumble.

“If you get to wear a shirt about fishing, I get to call your vaj whatever I so please,” Mimsy shrugs. She offers you a churro after as if she didn’t just say the most heinous thing you’ve ever had uttered in your car. You accept. “But is it?”

“Mhm. I’m just scared that it’ll happen again,” you say. “It was embarrassing.”

“For like a minute,” Mimsy says. “But didn’t you say JJ was really chill with it.”

“The first time, yeah. But what if it’s a recurring thing? He’s gonna start thinking it’s because of him,” you explain, calming your worry with a chocolate-drenched doughnut stick.

“And you’re sure it isn’t?”

“No!”

“Alright!”

Sighing, you shake your head. “Sorry. I’m just…I think it’s Tyler.”

“This again?” Mimsy's tone isn’t angry; it's more concerned. “Babes, when are you going to let that whole thing be in the past?”

“I think I’m starting to,” you assure. “Maybe I didn’t deal with it when it actually happened but I had this conversation the other day and sort of...ended up burning all of his old stuff.”

Mimsy quirks a brow, squinting with just the one eye. “Bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Shut up. It helped,” you reply, smiling smally. It fades away like the setting sun. “I think the whole thing has just made me nervous.”

“In what way, babes? Like you can’t trust another guy again?” Mimsy wonders.

You chew the inside of your cheek in thought, brows furrowing, and something dawns upon you.

“I don’t think it’s that I don’t trust others. I think it’s more that I don’t trust myself. I mean, I stayed around with Tyler for so long, even when I knew I shouldn’t. Even when everyone was telling me it was bad news. That it wasn’t normal to feel the way I was feeling in a relationship. I just let him bleed me dry, and went to all that effort to try and win his attention and his affection, just for it to all mean nothing. I don’t know,” you sigh, breaking away from your rant. “I guess I just don’t trust my judgement anymore. JJ’s fine now but so was Tyler, when I first met him.”

“Okay, not true,” Mimsy quickly disagrees. Your head darts up from your twiddling fingers. “Tyler was a prick from the start, you just didn’t want to see it.”

“As delicate as a sledgehammer, Mimsy,” you mutter.

“Second,” she continues. “From the things you’ve told me about JJ: he’s nothing like Tyler.”

That was true. With Tyler, you begged to receive compliments and even then, they were few and far between. But JJ was generous with them. Casually commented on your outfits, or your photos, or yourself. Tyler seemingly needed alcohol to remember that you existed whereas JJ came to you sober, drunk or high. Whilst your ex teased you for your fears and hopes, JJ listened and understood. Knew just how far to push the line of joking without becoming mean.

“Can I tell you a story?” Mimsy asks. It brings you from your mental comparison. Crossing your legs in your seat and pinching another churro, you nod.

“Sure.”

“Okay, well, it’s not exactly a story but I think it applies to this situation,” Mimsy self-corrects. “You know that show BoJack that I watch?”

“Yeah?” you wonder, unsure as to where she might be going.

“There’s this character, Wanda, who dates BoJack for a while. At first things are perfect. Sunshine, rainbows, that whole pile of crap. But after a while, his true colours show and she can’t keep moulding him into the guy she can see he could be. Eventually it all falls apart and she says something that I think encapsulates you with Tyler beautifully. She says, ‘it’s funny: when you look at someone through rose-coloured glasses, all the red flags, just look like flags’.”

The two of you sit in the quote for a moment, eyes locked. Mimsy starts to smile, sympathetic and sweet.

“I don’t think you’re gonna make the same mistake you did with Tyler ‘cause he ripped those glasses right off you. I think you’ve learnt your lesson once and once was enough.”

Pursing your lips, you try to keep the brimming emotions at bay. It feels like lately all it takes is a pin to prick you and you begin to cry.

“I think it’s hard 'cause I never got the closure that I wanted. Tyler never explained why or helped leave things amicable. Or apologise, even.: not properly”

Mimsy scoffs almost sadly. “Would you have even wanted him to, though? He was a fucking pro at saying sorry.”

“Mm, that’s true,” you muse. “Maybe it would have made me feel good for a minute, in the moment, but after…”

“Yeah,” Mimsy quietly agrees, somehow hearing your unspoken words. She picks out another churro whilst you pick yours apart. “I don’t think closure’s a real thing, though. Sometimes it is, sure, if you’re really lucky, but most things aren’t like the movies. You don’t get this picture-perfect coffee-date to clear the air and stuff. Most of the time, people just leave. Like my dad. I don’t even remember what the last thing I ever said to him was, and then he was gone for good. I guess not having closure at all is sometimes closure enough, if that makes sense.”

Her words make you take pause. Half-amused, half-smiling, you take in your wonderful best friend. “When the fuck did you get so wise?”

“Oh, after you left,” Mimsy jokingly replies. “I had to read some self-help books to get me through it.”

Snorting, you toss a piece of churro at her. Her advice melts into that of Barry’s, and the cathartic bonfire from the other night serves as a catalyst for your decision making. Maybe everybody’s right. Maybe it’s time for you to remember that all people are different people, and one man’s careless actions don’t emulate anothers. JJ can’t read your mind. He can’t understand the layers of emotion and history behind one small action, and he can’t decipher what you want through your wordless actions. You need to talk to him. You’ve kept your cards close to your chest for long enough.

“Alright, enough about me,” you say, popping a piece of churro into your mouth. Your grin brightens up the car, lightening the mood. “Tell me about Darren.”

“Oh, baby, I thought you’d never ask,” Mimsy giggles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “So it all started at this house party…”

And just like that, you listen happily to Mimsy's rambling and allow yourself to enjoy life that tiny bit more once again, with a bookmarked thought to talk to JJ sooner rather than later.

read part twelve here!

taglist:

#jj #jj x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #outer banks #outerbanks #obx #outer banks fic #outerbanks fic #obx fic #jj x fem!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj fic #jj maybank fic

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mysicklove-main · 2 years ago

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𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐋𝐘

Pairing: Father! Hawks x Mother! Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: Fluff! Little bits of threatening, anxiety, Protective! Reader

Summary: Keigo has the bright idea to convince his son to jump off a balcony. You dont react too well.

“Alright, kid, on the count to three, jump. Are you ready?” The trainee looks down and gulps. He nods his head hesitantly. “One…Two..”

“KEIGO!” You scream as you burst open the door to see your four-year-old standing atop the balcony rail, hundreds of feet from the concrete ground.

The child, startled by the interaction, stumbles forward, and your heart drops. Time seems to slow down as you watch his still chubby face contort from shock to fear. Your eyes widen, and you try to race forward and grab him, but nevertheless, you are too late.

The horrific moment was over in less than three seconds because the young boy is being pulled back immediately with ten red feathers. Keigo gently places the boy in your arms (knowing if he grabbed his son, you would immediately take the small boy from him), and the smaller carbon copy of Keigo begins to sob into your chest.

Your heart thumps as you clutch the child closer to you. Keigo uses one of his feathers to brush a tear away from your face that you didn’t know had formed. When the red feather leaves your skin, your panic turns to anger as you glare at your husband. He lets out a sheepish smile. “I was teaching him how to fly?”

“By allowing him to jump off the top of our apartment building? Are you out of your mind? He is four!” You scold, and the child in your arms continues to sob. You run your fingers through his blonde hair, hoping to provide some sort of comfort from that traumatic event.

Keigo scratches the back of his neck. “Well, that’s how I learned. And look at me. I turned out alright! C’mon you know this, birds must push their children out of the nest in order to fly!” Your son's sobs turn into quiet whimpers as he calms down.

He began to step closer toward you, the recognizable “forgive me” smile plastered on his face. You glare at your husband. “Yeah, and birds also chew their food up and feed it from their mouth to their children, you wanna do that too?”

The two males make the exact same disgusted face, except, of course, one is way cuter than the other. “Mama, that’s gross!” He whines and begins to squirm in your arms. You sigh and set him down, and the young boy races over to his father, who grins at him.

“I want to fly! Like Dada!” His tiny red wings begin to twitch, a sign that he finally has control over them, and his father nods in agreement. Although being so high up from the ground made the young boy nervous, he only cried because he wasn’t ready to jump. He truly wants to fly!

Keigo scoops the boy up, and the two turn to you and use their favorite puppy dog eyes, and you sigh. Unlike usual, the boys won this battle. “Fine.” Two golden eyes light up. “But.” They cringe. “No jumping off balconies. Let’s go to the park and find a tree or something. And we are gearing you up little bird.” The two make eye contact with one another, before coming to a consensus. They nod.

The poor baby bird looks ridiculous. Under your command, he was forced to wear a helmet, goggles, knee pads, and elbow pads. Keigo was right there, too; if anything happened, he would be able to catch your son without a second thought. But he was trying not to piss you off, so he let his son look a little ridiculous. He did have to hold back his laughs to not embarrass the young boy, though.

The little blonde was on the top of the tree, this time way more confident than on the balcony. His mother and father were there, he can see the ground, and if he falls, it won’t hurt too bad with all the gear. He was determined to fly. He clutches onto the branch as he waits for his father's instructions.

You sway uncomfortably as you stare at your near toddler on top of that 50-foot tree that Keigo carefully placed him on. It didn’t feel right instinctually, but for some reason or another, your husband decided to put your son on the tallest tree he could find. “Relax, Mama Bird. He is going to be fine. I mean, with all the gear you got him in, he could fall 100 feet, and he will still be alright.”

You look over at your son, who is fixing his dinosaur helmet, and sigh. Sure, it may be a little extreme, but if your son is jumping off a tree, you are willing to go the extreme. Besides, he looks adorable. “Your dramatics are going to be the end of me,” You tease but giggle for the first time being out here. Only he knows how to make you feel better.

He smiles at your laugh and wraps his arm around your waist, knowing you are beginning to cool off from your initial anger. He presses a kiss to your temple. “You love it,” He murmurs, and you don’t disagree.

The four-year-old upset that the attention has left him, frowns from above. “Can I fly now, Dada?”

“You ready kid?” He calls in return.

“Yes!” He moves his goggles from his forehead and onto his golden eyes—small red wings flap in excitement.

“Alright, you know the drill. Don’t be nervous. We are down here if anything happens, yeah?" The boy nods. "Good. On the count of three.” You grip onto Keigo and gulp, probably more nervous than your son. He rubs your arm in comfort, but even he is meticulously placing his feathers around the tree, ready to cling to the boy at any moment. It was more than his father did for him. “One…Two…Three!”

The young blonde runs to the side of the branch and jumps, successfully missing the other branches from hitting him on his way down. His wings begin to flap, but not hard enough to keep him up. He is still falling fast.

Your heartbeat picks up, and the two of you tense as you watch your son come closer and closer to the grass. After a second of no progress, you begin to freak out. “G-Grab him!” You push at your husband, who is watching with a stone face.

“Keigo!”

“Wait.” He whispers, and you stare at him in horror. Your son’s eyes widen when he sees the ground getting closer and closer.

As a survival instinct, about 10 feet from the ground, the small bird opens his wings as wide as they can go and beats as hard as he can. He does this twice, and suddenly he isn’t falling anymore. It takes some effort to get used to flapping his wings hard enough to carry his body weight, but after a couple of seconds of staying in place, he is able to fly upward.

You’re still trying to process the situation when Keigo starts laughing. “That's my boy!” He yells as the young bird begins to fly clumsily in circles.

Then, your husband beats his wings and begins to fly up after him. You are stuck staring at the two birds flying like lunatics. The boy, much lower to the ground, looks toward you for your approval. “Look Mama! Look!”

“I see! You’re flying just like Dada!” He smiles that child-like smile that causes your heart to throb and nods at you from above. While focusing on you, the little boy fails to look ahead of him at the large tree he is flying rapidly toward. You gasp and begin to shout, but your husband, quick as ever, quickly cuts in front of the boy and leads him away, back to open air. You sigh in relief, but still, you can tell the next period of your life with the new skill development, your hair is going to gray.

Suddenly, familiar red feathers are scoping you up and are sending you flying toward the older blonde. He stands straight in the air as he monitors his son and plops you into his arms bridal style. He leans forward and nuzzles your cheek. “See, told ya he will be alright.”

“You got lucky, Bird; I swear if anything happened to him, I would–”

“Kill me. Yeah yeah, I know, I know. I wish you were that protective over me. Kids making me jealous,” He fake whines, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t whine. You know I’m just as protective over you too. You have heard me threaten Endeavor about keeping an eye on you.” This time he rolls his eyes and laughs, remembering that event.

Your son does a circle around a tree and continues to giggle like he is having the time of his life. With him distracted, you lean upward toward your lover, and he, in turn, leans down. Just when he is about to press his lips to yours, you pause. Keigo frowns. “If I ever see my son jumping off a balcony again, I will do much worse than kill you. Do you understand?” You purr venomously into his mouth.

He lets out a sheepish, almost afraid laugh and nods immediately. You smile innocently and press your lips to his.

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bamboozledbird · 1 month ago

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IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter.

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway.

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality.

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing.

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely.

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true.

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet.

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale. You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier.

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake.

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry.

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor.

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?”

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times.

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.”

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed.

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag.

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera.

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything.

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence.

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page.

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world.

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale.

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs.

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe.

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written.

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith.

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable.

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason.

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.”

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good.

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale.

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.”

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?”

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.”

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all.

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better.

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children.

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice.

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit.

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.��

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.”

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot.

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists.

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door.

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?”

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.”

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered.

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.”

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull.

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?”

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips.

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans.

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing.

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.”

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?”

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.”

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it.

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire.

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.”

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.”

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer.

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now.

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

#stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien imagine #teen wolf #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf fanfiction #stiles stilinski imagines

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siriusleee · 1 year ago

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For @glitterypirateduck Call of Duty Christmas Special. Author's Note: For the holiday season, I wanted to write some things for some of my mutuals I've met the past year I've had my blog. This is for @gazs-blue-hat, who is one of the most supportive people I've ever met. Christmas Song: Last Christmas Premise: You need a date for your family's Christmas dinner. Johnny is willing to be it.

This is stupid. The dumbest idea you’d had in ages, but the thought of going home this Christmas to see your sister snuggled up on the couch with her long-term boyfriend while your mother regulated you to helping in the kitchen was enough to make you do something stupid.

It had started with a Facebook post someone else made as a joke. “$100 bucks and I’ll go to your family Christmas and pretend to be your boyfriend. $150 and I’ll kiss you in front of everyone and compliment your mom.” You’d sent a screenshot to Johnny, something quick, hoping he’d send a joke to make you feel better about the upcoming shit show.

Christmas exploded around town - lights dripping from each tree, fake Santa’s climbing up trellises. And with it, your mood turned blacker each day. It seemed like every minute someone was messaging you for something new: don’t forget to dress up for the family Christmas photo, bring rolls, are you bringing anyone?, are you bringing anyone?, are you bringing anyone?.

The lowest moment was a phone call from your sister’s boyfriend. You answered the call at your desk, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and ear.

“What’s up?”

“Hey, I was wondering what your ring size is.”

Your fingers slow on your keyboard; through the speaker, you can hear the hustle and bustle of some shop.

“I wear a size 8. Why?”

Silence. And then -

“I’m going to ask your sister to marry me at Christmas this year, and I know you guys are the same size. Don’t tell anyone?”

You had always liked your sister’s boyfriend, but at that moment you could have strangled him. Annoyed, you’d shoved yourself back from your desk, muttering something about taking a break. You slammed your phone down so hard, you were relatively sure that there was going to be a crack in the screen, but you were too bummed out to worry about it.

Johnny found you at your post outside, an unlit cigarette held loosely in your fingers.

“I thought you quit smoking, bird.”

His breath clouds around him, and he sits close enough to you that his knee rubs against yours.

“I did. That’s why I’m just holding it.”

He winces at the tone in your voice, hand coming up to rest itself above his heart in mock hurt.

“Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

“Bug off Johnny.”

He knocks his knee into yours, hands tucked beneath his armpits to keep warm.

“Christmas dinner?”

Your shoes tap a maniacal pattern onto the concrete as you try to figure out how to say it all, without sounding so horrible.

“My sister’s boyfriend is going to ask her to marry her on Christmas.”

Johnny ‘hmms’, chewing on his chapped lips.

“You can always pay me like you said the other day.”

“Shut up Johnny.”

Three days later, after all the non-essentials had been sent home for Christmas dinner your phone buzzed; you glanced down at the screen from your perch on the couch, half expecting it to be another annoying family member.

Your fingers tapped against the screen, trying to figure out a way to tell Johnny to knock it off, the joke’s not funny anymore. Instead, you find yourself tapping out the time and your address.

Smoothing the wrinkles from your skirt, you start to think that maybe Johnny was just screwing with you - that this is all some elaborate joke and you’ll have to do this all by yourself. Maybe Johnny’ll laugh about it when the two of you return to work in a few days, maybe-

A tentative knock on your front door breaks you from your near spiral. Before you can talk yourself out of the entire thing, you fling the door open. Johnny stands grinning at you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. His mohawk is freshly touched up, and whatever cologne he put on rolls off of him in hypnotic waves.

“You look nice,” you say, words falling flat and lame between the two of you. But Johnny doesn’t seem to mind as he holds his arm out to you.

“You look nice too, birdie. You ready?”

Johnny opens the car door for you. You take the moment it takes for him to walk around to his door to peer at the inside of the car - fresh vacuum lines cover the floorboard, and a new Wintergreen scented tree hangs from the review mirror.

“So,” Johnny says, climbing into the driver's seat, “tell me everything I need to know.”

You describe everyone on the drive there: your Aunt Mary, your Uncle Gary, your cousin with the glass eye who gets upset if you stare too long; your sister and her boyfriend. You point out each turn for Johnny, and with each turn of the wheel, your mood grows brighter.

Until Johnny pulls into your parent’s driveway, right behind your sister’s car.

“Alright, Bonnie?”

“Yeah, let’s just do this.”

You don’t get to open your door before Johnny hops out, pulling your door open and holding out his hand for you.

The front door opens to an explosion of people and Christmas music. Johnny is immediately taken in by your aunts, and he suffers through the pinched cheeks, and he doesn’t mind when your grandma kisses him on the cheek. By the time he makes it back around to you, there’s lipstick smudged on his cheek.

“They love you, Johnny,” you say, reaching up to wipe the red smudge away. “I’ll have to pay you extra I think.”

“You think they’ll let me take an extra plate home as a tip?”

“Of course they will.”

The two of you hide out in the corner, watching the little kids run around with their new toys; one of the boys shoves a Nerf gun into Johnny’s hand, and you see a flash of fear cross all the kid's face when Johnny racks it with extreme precision, but Johnny still lets all of them tackle him.

Your sister and her boyfriend stand on the opposite side of the room, refusing to take their hands off of each other. You do your best to ignore them, but there’s a clock inside you, ticking down the minutes until you know he’s going to drop down on one knee.

After Johnny fights off all the kids and returns to you, red from laughter, you don’t stop him when he grabs you around the hips, pulling you into the dining room with him. You hear the titter of your mom and aunt as they fawn over Johnny behind the two of you.

You almost pull away from him, until he stops you in the hallway, pointing upwards to where your mom tacked mistletoe on the ceiling. You feel the blush creep up your neck, and try to send him a message that this is way out of the agreement for the night. When he kisses you chastely on the lips, you don’t say anything, but you can feel the huge grin on your face.

He rests his hand on your knee throughout dinner and listens intently when your grandfather talks about his days in the War.

It’s more than you could have asked for. And after dinner, when all the adults start handing presents over to each other, you know it’s about to happen. You see your sister’s boyfriend fidget with something in his pocket, and your stomach twists. You try to focus on the music pouring in a little too loud from the speakers, the Wham! version of Last Christmas, but you can’t take your eyes off the two of them.

Johnny’s hand taps against your elbow, pulling your attention away from what’s going to be the end game of the night. He’s holding out a little box towards you, wrapped haphazardly.

“Oh Johnny, you shouldn’t. I didn’t get you anything.”

His grin is crooked as he shoves it into your hands.

“I didn’t ask you to get me anything, birdie. Anyway, it’s part of the pretending, isn’t it? Besides you can get me on my birthday.”

You unwrap the box, fingers sliding beneath the too much tape, to rip the paper away until it falls to the floor and all you’re left with is a black velvet box.

“Johnny this is not funny, you jerk.”

His grin is infectious as you open it up, a little silver pendant sits nestled in the velvet, an ‘S’ charm attached the the chain.

“Can I?” Johnny asks, and you nod, holding the box out so that he can take the necklace out.

He puts it around your neck, calloused fingers soft against your skin as he does the clasp.

The room explodes in cheers around you; out of the corner of your eye you can see your now future-brother-in-law on his knee in front of your sister, but you stare at Johnny instead.

The last lines of Last Christmas fade from the speakers, Johnny’s hand interlaces with your own and he tugs you closer.

“I think I want to do this next year.”

#my fics #codholiday2023 #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny 'soap' mactavish #johnny 'soap' mactavish x reader #call of duty #call of duty imagines #call of duty reader insert

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helloalycia · 10 months ago

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𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 [𝐎𝐍𝐄] — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐎𝐑

summary: when you stumble across Jackie after she's just broken up with her boyfriend, you feel a moral obligation to make sure she's okay. Naturally, that turns into something more.

warning/s: none.

author's note: it physically pained me to write soccer instead of football for this lol, a few 'football's might have slipped in out of habit. But yeah, hope you like this! it's a three parter and jackie taylor deserved better oops

also y/bf/n = your best friend's name

two / three / masterlist / wattpad

My fingers fumbled for the catch at the back of my camera, opening it up and revealing the freshly wound up film. As I grabbed it, I barely had chance to think about my next move before the door behind me slammed into my back, knocking me forward and making the roll fly in the air momentarily.

"No!" I yelped, reaching out to catch it before it could hit the concrete stairs and roll away into oblivion.

"Shit, sorry," someone said with realisation as I caught the roll and sighed with relief.

Gripping the roll tighter than ever, I closed the camera and let it hang from my neck as I turned to see who it was. "It's fine, maybe I should stand somewhere other than the entrance to unload my– shit, are you okay?"

My brows furrowed with concern at the sight of Jackie Taylor, the captain of the girl's soccer team. Her presence wasn't what concerned me, but rather the obvious tears on her face that she awkwardly tried to wipe away when our eyes briefly met.

"Yeah, I'm–" she started, but was interrupted by her own sniffling, and she completely turned away in an attempt to collect herself.

This was the opposite of the Jackie Taylor I'd come to know over the years. Having witnessed her rise into captain as I photographed the team's success – the Yellowjackets – for the school paper had given me enough time with her to know she was usually a happy, confident girl. I'd never seen her cry like this before, especially not at school.

"What happened?" I asked gently.

She shook her head, forcing a smile. "Nothing, I just– I broke up with Jeff."

I wasn't sure what to say at first, familiar with her boyfriend but knowing they were known for having their breaks here and there. Still, this looked worse than usual.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I finally spoke, chewing on my lip. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head, straightening up suddenly. "No. But do you know when the next bus arrives? I was supposed to get a ride home with him, but–"

"No, er, I don't really get–" I started, but amended, "I mean, I can check, but–"

"Forget it," she said with a sigh. "I'll figure it out. Thanks."

Without another word, she walked past me and down the steps. I watched her, debating whether or not to offer her a ride since I knew for certain I'd never seen her catch a bus in my life, and it was well after school hours so they might not even be running now. There was also the fact that she was clearly upset, and my conscious wouldn't rest easy knowing I'd left her alone.

"Jackie, wait," I called out to her, pocketing my film canister and jogging to catch up to her. She stopped, turning around, and I pulled out my car keys. "I can give you a ride."

A little surprised, her hazel eyes widened slightly. "Oh. Are you sure?"

I nodded. "Yeah. C'mon."

She silently followed me to my car, getting into the passenger's seat as I did the driver's. It was never awkward between us before, but our exchanges were always limited to greetings, soccer talk or photo ops. Now however, there was a slight tension in the air, mainly because of her situation. She didn't speak except for when she told me where she lived, and after that, I didn't speak up either, not wanting to pressure her into sharing if she didn't want to.

"Thank you," she muttered halfway through the drive, and I glanced over at her to see her watching me apologetically. "Is your camera thingy okay? Whatever I knocked?"

"The film, yeah," I assured her. "No worries. It was just the roll from the baseball game yesterday. So pretty low value considering they always lose."

It was a poor attempt to make her laugh, since it was universally known that the school baseball team were below average, especially compared to the Yellowjackets, but it seemed to work as she let out a quiet chuckle. I smiled, glad she was cheered up a little.

"Well, sorry anyway," she added politely.

I shrugged. "No harm done."

Another silence fell upon us the remainder of the drive to hers, but it wasn't awkward any longer. Once I pulled up outside her house, I tried not to let my amazement at how huge her place was show. I'd always known she was rich, but this was another level.

"Thanks for the ride," she spoke, pulling me from my stupor.

I met her gaze, expression softening slightly. "You gonna be okay?"

She nodded, and I had no choice but to believe her.

"Okay then. Well, see you tomorrow, Jackie."

She smiled a little before getting out the car and heading inside. Despite her feigned confidence, it was obvious she wasn't happy, and I only hoped she would feel better tomorrow. Whatever had happened between her and Jeff hadn't been like the usual, not judging by the state of her.

The next day after school was when I had chance to properly check on Jackie. I was at the Yellowjackets' practice, shooting for the yearbook, and she was there too.

"You gonna make us look good, right, Y/L/N?" Nat, one of the players, asked when she saw me heading on the field.

"Always," I returned with a smile, and she grinned as she jogged away to get started.

My eyes scanned the field before I spotted Jackie by the goal, using the post to stretch. I subtly approached her, not wanting to draw too much attention in case she hadn't told anyone about the breakup.

"Hey, Jackie," I greeted her, making her pause from her stretching. "How are you doing? Y'know, about the yesterday thing?"

She smiled gratefully, nodding. "I'm good, Y/N, thanks."

I wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, but I also didn't expect her to confide in me, so I simply nodded.

"Good, well... if you ever wanna talk about it, I'm here."

"Thanks," she said quietly, smile fading a little. "I appreciate it."

I gave her a genuine smile. "Anytime."

And with that, I left her to it, feeling a lot better knowing I'd at least offered up my help.

The Yellowjackets' soccer game was after school at the end of that same week, and I was paying them a visit beforehand to wish them luck and also gift them some candid portraits they'd asked for a few weeks ago.

When I let myself in their locker room, they were pretty much dressed in their uniforms, some helping each other out with braiding their hair back or engaging in some pre-game superstitions. It always made me smile because they never failed to hype themselves up and it showed.

"Heeeeeyyyyy! Y/N's here with our close ups!" someone shouted, and everybody cheered as I rolled my eyes playfully.

First on the pile of photos in my hand was Van, who I found searching in her locker whilst singing along to a song that was blasting from the stereo in the corner.

"There's my favourite goalie," I greeted, and she laughed as I handed her the photograph in a plastic wallet. "For you. The one you liked in the paper, right?"

She straightened up when she saw it, smile brightening on her face. "Oh, hell yeah, this is so badass! Thanks, Y/N!"

"No worries," I said dismissively, before moving around the room to hand out the rest of the photos.

Everybody seemed pleased with what they got, which was always reassuring to hear since it was supposed to be my best skill.

"Last but not least, Jackie," I said, finding the team captain by her locker, fixing her hair in the mirror that hung inside.

She flashed me a smile as I handed her the photograph. In it, she was mid-kicking a ball into the net, scoring a goal for the team.

"Y/N, I love it," she said with gratitude, eyes taking the whole image in before looking up to me. "Thank you."

I held out another photograph, earning a confused look from her. "It's a little bonus photo. Thought it might cheer you up after everything."

She raised her eyebrows slightly, before accepting the photo and studying it. This one was a photo I'd taken at the Yellowjackets' last game, moments after they'd won. Jackie was cheering with her teammates and I'd managed to take the perfect picture of her as she was surrounded by them, a grin on her face, eyes bursting with excitement. It was probably my favourite of the two.

"You didn't need to..." she started, but stopped herself. And then she surprised me with a hug, wrapping her one free hand around my neck. "I really appreciate it."

Before I could even think to hug her back, she pulled away to give me a heartwarming smile.

"Anytime," I told her, acutely aware of the mild butterflies in my stomach from her gaze, but that was merely because I wasn't stupid and Jackie Taylor was very pretty. "If you're ever thinking about you-know-what, just remember. At the end of the day, he's just some guy."

Her smile widened and then she let out a laugh. "Very true. I won't forget."

I smiled, nodding and taking a step back. "I'll leave you to finish getting ready. Good luck tonight. Not that you'll need it."

"Be sure to get my best side," she joked, turning her head to the left.

I laughed. "Jackie Taylor doesn't have a bad side."

She winked playfully, and I left her to it as I headed out to the field to get ready to photograph tonight's game.

As expected, the Yellowjackets won and I got a lot of good shots in of their winning goals. Even though a lot of the photos were similar to others I'd taken, I didn't mind it as it challenged me to try out different things with my camera, like messing with the shutter speed or even using a double exposure to create cool effects.

After snapping some final shots of the team celebrating on the pitch, I moved out the way of the friends and family who were there with them and focused on changing the roll of film in my camera. Just after rewinding the current roll and opening the back of my camera, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder unexpectedly. Startled yet again, my hands twitched and the roll flew up and out the camera. I managed to catch it before it could fall into the grass, and turned around to find Jackie failing to stifle her laughter.

"I'm sorry, Y/N, I didn't mean to scare you again," she said apologetically.

"Oh, it's fine," I said sarcastically, stuffing the roll into the canister in my pocket. "It's only the winning goals on film."

She sighed through her nose, her lips pursed into an amused smile. "Sorry. I came because the girls wanted a team photo."

I gave her a knowing look. "On it."

After gathering the team together and replacing my film, I took a few photos of them with their medals and trophy before my job was officially done for the afternoon.

"They come out good?" Jackie asked afterwards, as I put my camera away.

"I'd like to think so," I said sarcastically, making her roll her eyes lightheartedly.

"So, the party tonight," she started, piquing my interest. "You're coming, right?"

I quirked a brow. "Huh?"

"It's at the usual spot," she added.

I pursed my lips, unsure how to tell her that though I knew what she was talking about and I'd always been invited, the post-soccer game party wasn't my thing.

"You don't usually come, do you?" she caught on, crossing her arms with amusement.

"It's not really my scene," I admitted.

"Well, d'you wanna perhaps make a change tonight?" she asked, pleading with her eyes. "I'd love to see you there."

I wasn't sure why she suddenly wanted me there – maybe because I'd been extra nice to her recently and she felt she owed me? And I also wasn't sure if she knew the effect she had on people when she gave them her whole 'innocent doe-eyed' look, but maybe she did since it seemed to work.

"Fine," I gave in reluctantly, making her grin. I nodded to my best friend, Y/BF/N, who was sat in the stands as she made notes on tonight's game – she was a journalist for the paper. "Can I bring Y/BF/N?"

"Duh," she said like it was a dumb question. "You're both always welcome."

I nodded. "Okay, I guess I'll see you tonight."

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with her usual Jackie mischief. "See you tonight."

"I'm so glad Jackie convinced you," Y/BF/N was saying with excitement as I drove us to the deserted clearing where the party was being held. "I've always wanted to go to one of these things, but you always say no."

"I've literally never stopped you," I said, giving her a sideways glance.

"I couldn't just go without you," she said, in a somewhat sweet way which made me feel guilty for never going to one of these things with her.

"Well, feel free to go crazy tonight," I said with a slight smile. "I'm driving."

"Oh, you bet I will," she said eagerly, making me laugh.

When we got there, the party was in full swing. A bonfire was set up in the middle, with a lot of people from our grade hanging about. Some were dancing, drinking and chatting away, celebrating the Yellowjackets' win. As Y/BF/N and I passed a few of our classmates to reach Jackie and the team, I was reminded why parties weren't my scene, but sucked it up for Y/BF/N.

"And there she is!" Nat shouted, spotting me first and pulling me in for a side hug. "When Jackie told us you were coming, I could swear she was bullshitting."

"It's good to see you too, Nat," I laughed.

"And Y/BF/N is out tonight too," Lottie noticed with a smile. "It's nice to have you both here."

"Anything to support the team," Y/BF/N played along, making everyone laugh. "Now, what's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?"

As Nat tugged her away to find her a drink, Jackie approached my side and nudged me gently.

"I'm glad you made it," she said, eyes doing a once over of me which admittedly made me nervous. "You look pretty. And it's the first time I've seen you without a camera, who knew it was possible?"

I rolled my eyes, though a smile ghosted my lips. Judging from her stifled grin, she was impressed at her own joke.

"You want a drink?" she offered, already about to leave and grab me one, but I shook my head politely.

"Thanks, but I'm designated driver tonight."

"Me and you both," Shauna said, raising her cup of water.

I cracked a smile as Jackie looked back to me hopefully.

"Okay, well how about a dance?"

I tried to hide my surprise, unsure if I could handle dancing with the Jackie Taylor without freaking out. No, I wasn't insanely head over heels for the girl, but yes, I had eyes and knew I'd get nervous dancing with a flirt like her.

"Maybe when a good song comes on," I settled on the safe response.

She studied me curiously. "Hmm. And what's a good song?"

I listened to the music that was on now, definitely not my style, and truthfully answered, "Definitely not this. Maybe some [your favourite artist]?"

She sighed defeatedly. "Your lucky day. I don't think anybody brought that tape."

I shrugged playfully. "Shame."

It was her turn to roll her eyes, feigning annoyance, but she got me a cup of water nonetheless and I stayed to chat with her, Shauna and a few others in her team. Y/BF/N returned with Nat not long later, and conversation soon changed from the soccer game to the paper. I didn't mind, enjoying talking to them about it all, as did Y/BF/N, but then a few of them were after some more fun 'party' stuff, and headed over to get a little more drunk.

Shauna and I, designated drivers as we'd established, stuck together for most of the evening. She watched as Jackie danced the night away with the others, and I watched as Y/BF/N had the time of her life, flirting with some of the jocks. By the time an hour and a half passed and my social battery had completely drained, Y/BF/N was pretty drunk and I knew we had to leave.

I said my goodbyes to Shauna before finding Jackie to the do the same. She wasn't as drunk as Y/BF/N, but definitely tipsy. As soon as she spun around, a massive grin fell on her lips and she hugged me.

"Okay," I said with surprise, receiving a lot more hugs from Jackie Taylor this past week than I had in my life. "I've gotta get Y/BF/N home now, Jackie. Just wanted to say goodnight."

"Thank you for coming," she said, pulling back with a drunken smile, but alert eyes. "And for the photos you gave me. And in general, for being a really great friend."

Yep, definitely bordering drunk.

"Thanks for inviting me tonight," I said, patting her arm before letting go. "I... liked it."

Okay, maybe not, but she was trying to be nice and I had to return the favour.

Jackie Taylor wasn't stupid though, even in this state, and a quiet chuckle from her told me all I need to know. "You owe me a dance."

"One day, maybe," I breathed out, glancing at her.

She smirked. "I'll take it."

Jackie had always been friendly with me around school, but since that week, it was as if she made more of an effort to be. Whether it was saying hi to me in the hallways, smiling at me between classes or chatting to me more whenever I was taking photos, she was more involved in my life. I didn't hate it of course, but it was something new.

One weekend, I was running some errands around town when I decided to finish up at one of my favourite coffee shops and treat myself. Armed with my purse and current read, I headed in and ordered myself a mocha with the intention of settling in the corner of the store and having some 'me' time. Of course, when I collected my drink from the counter, a familiar voice called my name and I spun around with furrowed brows.

To my surprise, it was Jackie waving at me from her table by the window, seated opposite Shauna. It felt a little rude to ignore her, so I headed over and smiled at them both.

"Fancy seeing you here," Jackie said with a grin, before motioning next to Shauna. "Join us?"

I glanced at Shauna, who had a welcoming smile on her face, so I replied, "Oh, er, thanks. Good to see you guys!"

As I took my seat, I left my bag next to me, expecting my reading time to become nonexistent now that I'd joined the two soccer players.

"We're not bothering you, are we?" Shauna asked considerately, making me smile with amusement because she was so different to an oblivious Jackie.

"Nah, you're good," I assured her, before looking between them. "What are you two up to then?"

"Oh, just having a girls day," Jackie answered, leaning back in her seat and flashing me her signature smile. "How about you?"

"Just running some errands," I said with a shrug. "Picking up some more film, getting some stuff for my mum, not much."

"So, I take it you finished the English assignment due tomorrow?" Shauna asked.

"Oh, yeah, got that done weeks ago," I said like it was a silly question, and then I saw the look Shauna shot Jackie and realised. "Wait, you haven't finished it?"

Jackie scoffed playfully. "Oh, come on, of course I have!" When Shauna kept staring at her, she continued, "I just need to write the conclusion."

"And the introduction," Shauna mumbled.

"Okay, yes, fine," Jackie gave in. "But it'll be done!"

I quirked a brow at her. "You not even worried? Mr. C isn't known for his leniency."

"Oh, Mr. C does not scare me," she said with assuredness. "Besides, I reckon I can talk him into giving me a two day extension."

I exhaled, trying not to laugh. "Of course you can."

I was convinced that there wasn't something Jackie Taylor couldn't do, and judging by the satisfied smile on her lips, I think she knew it too.

The three of us stayed there as I finished my coffee, and continued to sit there chatting about all sorts. I'd never really hung out with them properly outside of school, so I was oddly surprised with how well we got along.

Eventually, Shauna checked her watch and was sorry to interrupt our fruitless conversation about the rumours regarding our Chemistry teacher and IT teacher hooking up.

"I'm sorry, guys, but I gotta shoot off," she said with a slight frown.

"Oh, no worries," I said, straightening up, ready to leave the booth so she could leave.

"Aw no, really, Shauna?" Jackie said with a pout. "It's not even been an hour!"

"Hey, I'm not stopping you from staying, but you'll have to catch the bus home," Shauna replied with a chuckle, making Jackie scrunch her nose with disgust.

As I got up, letting Shauna stand, I realised what the problem was and looked to Jackie. "I don't mind giving you a ride."

And just like that, her smile returned. "Really?"

I shrugged. "No biggie."

"Awesome, thanks, Y/N," Shauna said gratefully, squeezing my shoulder. "Can't have Princess Jackie stranded without a carriage."

I laughed as Jackie rolled her eyes at the insult, and Shauna tried to hide her smile as she said her goodbyes.

"It's not that funny," Jackie stated, when she saw the smile still on my lips.

"It kind of is," I said with a breathy chuckle.

She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at me lightheartedly. Now that we were alone, I figured now was a better time than any to properly check in on her.

"So, how have you been doing?" I asked carefully. "Since the whole you-know-what?"

Unlike the last time I asked her a few weeks ago, she actually seemed to be doing a lot better, no hint of sadness in her eyes. "Pretty good. Think I might be over it now. You know how boys can be."

I hummed, awkward smile forming on my lips as I suddenly distracted myself with whatever was going on outside the window. I failed to remember how observant Jackie was though.

"Wait, have you never had a boyfriend?" she asked with surprise, leaning forward slightly.

I settled with shaking my head, and she tried to make me feel better by shrugging and sipping her milkshake from the straw.

"You're not missing out on much," she assured me.

I couldn't help but snicker, shaking my head, though grateful for her attempt at putting me at ease. "That's what people who've had boyfriends usually say."

She smiled, cheeks dusting pink when I caught her out, and now it was my turn to assure her.

"It's fine," I said nonchalantly. "Boys are gross anyway."

She snorted with amusement. "Amen. It would just be easier to date girls, wouldn't it?"

I was surprised she'd said that, staying quiet for a second too long, and her eyes widened with realisation.

Suddenly embarrassed, she stuttered, "Oh, you like– I mean, you're– you're a–"

"Lesbian?" I finished with an entertained smile. She nodded awkwardly, and I confirmed, "Yeah, but I don't exactly go around shouting it out. People don't tend to react well when they find out."

She exhaled softly, eyes flittering around the table nervously. "Oh. Well, I won't tell anyone if that's what you're worried about."

I shrugged, soaking in a flustered Jackie for a little longer, holding in my laughter. Truthfully, it was very amusing watching her figure out the best reaction because I knew she was harmless. It would have been easy to embarrass her a little more for fun, but she was clearly going through it with her deep pink cheeks, now matching the colour of her lips.

After a moment of collecting herself, her hazel eyes met mine in an attempt to return to normal. "So, are there any girls you're interested in?"

It was impossible not to laugh now as I gave her a questioning look. "Really, Jackie?"

She nodded quickly, eyes returning to the table. "Right. Sorry."

I giggled at her expression before changing the subject, knowing it would definitely make her feel better. Despite my confidence in my sexuality, a small part of me hoped she wouldn't treat me any different after finding out, and thankfully, she didn't. We still chatted like usual, enjoying each other's company, until she finished her milkshake and it was time to head off.

It might have been the sugar from her milkshake, or just her plain inability to sit still, but when I was driving home, she wouldn't stop messing around with the radio stations, trying to find a good song.

"Oh my god, you're driving me insane," I finally said, making her stop.

"Not my fault the radio is garbage," she said in a knowing tone.

I rolled my eyes playfully before nodding to the centre console. "I have some cassettes. Find something you like and please stop breaking my radio."

She smiled cheekily before doing just that, flicking through the tapes I had. Finally, she decided on some Mariah Carey and managed to keep quiet the rest of the way. Occasionally she'd hum along, but I much preferred that over her touching the radio a million times.

When we reached her house, I pulled up outside and offered her a smile. "Was cool hanging out with you and Shauna today."

"It was," she agreed, before grabbing her purse and resting her hand on the door handle. "We should do it again sometime."

I shrugged, not minding, and her smile widened before she got out.

Leaning her head down to look at me through the open window, she added, "Thanks for the ride. Again."

I cleared my throat, a smile ghosting my lips as I said, "In the wise words of Shauna Shipman, we can't have Princess Jackie stranded without a–"

"Ass," she mumbled, leaving before I could finish, but a smile crossed her expression as I laughed to myself.

I suppose hanging out with Jackie Taylor wasn't so bad.

#jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor imagine #ella purnell #yellowjackets #yellowjackets imagine #jackie taylor x you

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weirdgenetic-fuckup · 3 months ago

Note

Buddy i’ll cuff you to a piped radiator if i don’t get a part two to the no nut November thing. i’m knawing on my cage i need james so bad 🤤

A/n: This is technically part four but you asked for James so I figured I'd use this for James

Warnings: Smut, spanking, semipublic sex, mentions of voyeurism, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Intro

James had heard Kirk was out, it bugged him he wasn't the first with you but he was also in it for the money. Then he heard Lars was out, and he couldn't believe he let that rat touch you before he got to.

He practically stormed the house looking for you only to find you outside sun tanning by the pool.

He quickly came out and sat near you, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. He was in his jeans and a band tee, not something to wear out in the sun by the pool.

You smiled at him as he sat down, thinking up some sort of plan.

You rolled onto your stomach and reached for the bottle of lotion, holding it up towards him. "Jamie, do you mind putting lotion on my back?" You asked innocently enough.

James heart fluttered at the nickname alone and he nodded as he got up. He sat on the edge of your chair and squeezed a dollop onto his palm, rubbing it on his hands before bringing his hands to your back.

The lotion was cold, causing you to gasp softly. He did his best to not be creepy or anything, but you kept making noises and it was driving him crazy.

"Jamie, what are you doing?" You asked in a teasing tone. James had been lost in thought, your voice drew him back and he realized he'd just straight up grabbed your chest.

He opened his mouth and pulled his hands away, immediately going to apologize before he decided against it. "Not my fault you're so fucking hot" He said, smacking your ass. Not too harsh, yet.

You lifted your head to look through the large glass panels leading into the house. "What if someone sees?"

James scoffed. "Like you really give a shit." You chewed your cheek, you didn't care, honestly you wanted it to happen. "Besides, no one else is home." There went your hopes.

You sucked your bottom lip as you thought about it, but you didn't get to say anything more before James was taking his clothes off behind you.

You watched him undress, watched his hard cock slap his abdomen, watched as he moved between your legs and gripped your hips in a tight hold, sure to leave bruises the next morning, just to pull your ass back to him.

He pushed your bikini bottoms to the side and pushed in, a deep groan leaving him as he did so. "Fuck, I should've just taken you for myself, never let Kirk or Lars touch you in the first place." He grumbled. You wanted to question him more on that but he started moving his hips, setting a fast pace already.

He was big and hit deep in you, rubbing against your walls so perfectly. He held your hips in place as he rammed into you, shoving your face into the thin pillow you'd been resting on.

"Fuck, Jamie! Slow-slow down." James had been desperate for you to be around him and now that he had it it was driving him crazy.

The chair creaked and James barely reacted in time to catch you before you faceplanted into the concrete below as the chair leg gave out, snapping off.

James couldn't bring himself to care about that right now. He had one arm around your waist, hand in your bikini and rubbing your clit, his other arm around your chest, groping your tits, all while he kissed up your neck, licking and biting you.

The only real privacy you had were the bushes surrounding the yard, you were certain the neighbours could and would hear with how loud you were being.

"I wanted this since the minute you walked through that door." He grunted in your ear. "Took every part of me not to run out here and fuck you right then and there." You weren't really listening, too busy getting fucked dumb to pay attention.

"Want to feel you cumming on my dick, sweetheart," he grunted, licking a spot on your neck, "can you do that for me?" You nodded, already feeling that knot building inside you. "Good." James bit down on you, making you squeal.

Your breath hitched and your eyes rolled back, knees buckling and legs going weak.

James, having been so, so fucking needy for you, came as soon as he felt your walls clenching around him, deep moans falling right into your ears, his big hands holding you flush against him.

"Dude..." A voice came. Cliff had come home early for whatever reason and was blowing smoke out his mouth as he stared at the both of you.

#metallica smut #metallica imagines #metallica rp #metallica fanfiction #metallica #metallica x reader #james hetfield #james hetfield x reader #james hetfield smut #james hetfield fanfiction #james hetfield x you

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pure-oddity · 1 year ago

Text

Gifts and Well Wishes

Content: very fluffy!! brief hint at nsfw, so MDNI(this is an 18+ blog anyway yall shouldn't be here regardless), Simon's Pov

He feels a weight settle on his chest and awareness hits him quickly. He keeps his breathing level while he listens to the weight mutter under her breath , something about him being built like a slab of concrete. He slits his eyes open to see her sat on his chest, a brownie in hand - little waxy candle in the middle.

Almost laughs as he watches her struggle to light the damn thing. Snorts when she swears at it. Her eyes flick up and she grins at him, "don't fuckin laugh at me! This thing won't light!"

Watches like a lazy cat as she flicks the lighter on over and over, moves a hand to take over when she finally gets it. She's humming a tune at him as he caresses the soft skin of her leg. He realizes it's happy birthday.

"Okay big guy, blow this thing out and make a wish - preferably before I drop it and burn down our home." And the candle lit brownie is lowered towards his face.

He pinches his tongue between his thumb and pointer finger, and snuffs the light out between spit slick fingers.

"You-! Ah whatever, I'm sure whoevers in charge of granting birthday wishes won't mind that you didn't blow it out." She waves a hand passively and removes the still smoking candle.

"Thought we celebrated already?" He watches as she places it in her cup of water on her side of the bed. Makes a mental note to replace it for her.

"Nope! Yoooouu said you didn't want a party or a surprise, so we didn't have one." She reminded.

"Hung out with the boys at the pub." He countered.

"That was just something fun to do, not a party. If it were a party we would have had cake and they woulda brought you gifts - maybe asked the staff to sing!" She insisted, tone musing as if she could picture it.

"Thank fuck that wasn't a party then." He snorts. He can imagine it too. The idea ends with himself getting up and walking out mid song.

"And because it's just me and I got you a brownie instead of cake - it's still not a party" she's clearly anticipated his responses. If it were anyone else he'd be more agitated at feeling predictable.

Her leg shits, subtlety for her, not so much for him. He sees a shape now partially hidden behind the same leg.

"Love." Making his dissaproval known with a single word is a skill he's honed.

"Shhhhhhh! Just eat your brownie, I made it myself!" She's undeterred by his dissaproval.

"Told you I didn't need anything" he grumbles, in hindsight he should have seen this coming.

"Less talking more eating!" She shoves the treat closer and with a deep exhale he sits up, one hand on the brownie the other to help stabilize her as she's sent off his chest into his lap.

It's a good mix of bitter and sweet, slightly more bitter. Still warm and gooey in the way he likes. Made with his preferences in mind he chews with an appreciative hum, places a peck on her forhead - "get chocolate on my face and ill bite your boob!"

His chest shakes in mirth as he spares a glance to make sure he hadn't gotten chocolate on her - knows she'll follow through on her threat, he's got the marks to prove it.

He eyes the shape - present- warily, as though it might bite them.

"Oh stop! You're gonna love it, just two things and they're small." She sounds hopeful, and excited. He supposes even if it were dog shit in a box he'd atleast TRY to sound happy, or at the very least sound not as angry as he could be to recieve dog shit.

He swallows the last bite of brownie, she plucks a crumb from his face and licks it off her finger. He contemplates asking for another kind of present for his birthday.

She seems to know where his mind has wandered and gives him an impish grin and a swat to his chest

"Down boy! We'll get to that later- open this first!"

She leans in his lap towards the gift and plucks it up with egar hands, practically shoving it into his own. Her fingers slide against his own rough and calloused palms and he shudders out a sigh. Her hands so much smaller but no less sure of what they're doing.

He takes a pause to settle his nerves, and pulls on the string holding the wrapping together. He's careful as he plucks open the paper, going slower at her insistence that 'you don't need to save the paper, just rip it!'.

Paper and ribbon no longer keeping the box closed he pops the lid open. Inside he finds what he recognizes as a sheathed knife, and a - bracelet?

He moves to pick it up but he's guided towards the knife."That one needs an explanation, focus on the knife first" she speaks softly, a hint of nerves.

Ever the dutiful soldier he follows her command. Grabbing the blade and carefully removing it from its case. It's got a good weight, balanced. It glistens in the lamplight. He recognizes the brand immediately

"how'd you get your hands on this? They only deal with custom shit - and only if you can prove you're armed services. Which you, love - unless you have something to tell me - are not" he says it like it's a joke. He hopes his eyes convey how deathly serious he is.

The idea of it - her in the field hurt or worse, lost and -

"I'm not in the military no. Buuutt your captain is!"

Ah, that. That makes more sense. But-

"He gave me his number the night you introduced us, in case I ever needed him or you"

Ah, so the old mans sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. He gives her an unimpressed look before sighing "alright fine. 'S a good gift. Thank you love, I'll keep it close."

"You're welcome! Now the other one."

She reaches for it before he's even set the blade on the bedside table. It is indeed a bracelet, it's something woven. Three strands, black, gold and blue.

She prods at his hands and taps each wrist, he gives her his preferred hand as she ties it on.

"So it's. It's uh. Hm. So okay, I was thinking about jewelry recently and I ended up remembering a conversation with my nana - you haven't met- but it was something like uh. " He watches her flounder, and if he wasn't already giving her his undivided attention his is now.

"Jewelry can be kind of a shield between the wearer and bad things. That if a piece of your jewelry breaks it means that it stopped something bad from happening to you. Like it sucked up all the bad and broke itself so you wouldn't break."

She's finished tying it, and now runs her hand along the lines in his palm. There's a sadness in her eyes now. He despises it, especially because this is likely something he can't just kill.

"And we'll. I cant...I can't protect you when you leave. I'm, I'd be no good at what you do. And sometimes that really bothers me. But I can do this. I can make this so that - so that even if I can't protect you, this can."

She rolls her eyes, and he sees that they're shiny now.

"And yes, I KNOW this little thing can't stop a bullet or whatever and it's not exactly jewelry like my nana was saying but. You know, I feel like it counts. And I made it. I...I kinda wished on it? Sorta. I just - thought every good thought I could and poured all my hopes that you come home safe and that you know I lo- well you know. " she flaps her hands dismissively and his free hand cups her warm cheek. She leans into it instinctively but her eyes brighten a smidge.

"And I know its silly but...can't hurt? And, and! It has your two favorite colors , black and blue"

"And the gold?" He encourages. Has a feeling his assumption is correct.

She meets his eyes, she knows he knows the answer - he just wants to hear it from her.

"....it's me. You say I light up your life and well , golds like sunlight so...... it was either that or piss yellow."

He barks out a laugh "gold. Gold's fine..." a comment rests on his tongue. The one where he tells her that he isn't superstitious and that he doesn't believe in things like luck. But he remembers that neither does she and instead trails off.

She can't control what happens out there or what he does. She understands it, she struggles with it. It's the fear, loving a man made for war is hard. She won't leave him, won't let herself be chased off. Willingly haunted by a man mostly dead. But he knows she's scared.

So if wearing her little trinket will sooth her soul, even a little, even if it doesn't make logical sense. He'll wear it.

"Thank you love. I'll keep it with me yeah? I'll be bullet proof."

"Okay - now you're making fun of me!...you don't HAVE to-"

"Might have to ask you to make some for the boys..specially Johnny. Fucker keeps adding holes faster than the medics can patch em up."

She pauses and a teeny grin lights up her face. That's better he thinks.

"Yeah! I have some yarn left over fro-"

"Fuck no. These are my colors, give him piss yellow."

She laughs loud, he'd worry about bothering his neighbors if he gave a fuck. But the woman in his lap makes it hard to be worried about much else besides keeping her laughing.

------------

"New gear Lt.?"

He flicks his gaze towards Johnny at the question, and he almost tells him no - he doesn't have any new gear. Until he remembers.

He took it out subconsciously, her knife. Just to keep his hands idle on the flight over to the middle of danger again. He also spies the tricolor cord peeking out from under his sleeve, knows the Scotsman has seen both.

"Something like that yea."

"Hmmmm wager a guess its from the missus?"

He stares at Johnny and the man snorts.

"Sorry yea, shouldn't have asked when I know the answer - ain't that right cap?"

Ghost eyes the captain next to him, catching his whiskerd grin tells him all he needs to know. Meddling old man.

"Never took you for a jewelery kinda guy Lt. ,not gonna lie" it's Gaz this time, he looks at the braclet with warmth in his eyes - a pinch of longing. A good lad Gaz, if he doesn't already have someone to come home to - he'll find them easy enough.

"Man of mutitudes Sgt. What can i say?"

The knife is returned to its proper place and his sleeve is adjusted to hide the woven band from any more eyes as the helicopter makes its descent.

And when there's a moment of peace after the fighting, he checks to make sure both are still there - keeping him safe.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x reader #female reader #listen yall it was my bday recently so im gonna gove him bday gifts as a gift to me #i just wanna be sweet to him #ALSO this is very much simon in an established relationship #also sunshine grump trope #odd stories #sunshine series

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bunskiper · 28 days ago

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Oneshot with Satan? Like- Coffee place au but make it a cat cafe?

Hello! sorry for the super long wait on the reply, I hope you are still interesting in this oneshot because it is ready!!

Cat Cafe! Satan x GN reader!! (2132 words)

Four empty Ramen cups were sprawled out on my side table. I was sitting, bed against my back, with a makeshift seat under my ass made up of the two huge pink pillows that came with my room. I was wrapped burrito style in blankets and was finishing off my fifth ramen cup. My eyes were focused on the 13th season of Shark Tank.

“You know what, I’m out.” My mouth drops. No matter how many seasons I watch I never get used to Sharks pulling out after already putting on a good deal.

I have been in this position since twelve when I woke up only moving to microwave more ramen or use the restroom. I was not bored but, I still could have been doing more productive things like working on my Devildom History homework due Monday in class. It was Sunday. As if he could read my mind, and to be honest sometimes I think he can, Satan buzzed my phone.

What are you doing right now?

I stared at the text. I really didn’t want to tell him for three hours I have run through five cups of ramen and countless episodes of Shark Tank. So I replied

Pretty riveting stuff, why what’s up?

A Cat Cafe just opened up in Devildom. They have used books for sale, some desserts, delicious tea, super cute kittens but sadly no good looking people from the human realm. I’d like to change that.

I giggled. I love it when Satan flirts with me. Makes me all giddy. My phone buzzed again.

I’ll help you with your history as well. I know you haven’t finished it yet.

I chewed on my lip and smiled. He’s so sweet to me. Another buzz.

I’ll pay.

Deal, I’ll be ready In 10! Meet you in your room or mine?

Yours. See you in ten.

I would have gone with him even if he didn’t pay. My contempt left the moment I looked down at myself. I have to move. I have to get dressed. Brush my hair and teeth. Ugh I audibly let out. I unwrapped my arms from my closure and brushed crumbs and noodles off me. When I stood, I narrowed my eyes at the pile of Ramen. I’ll save it for later. I walked to my closet and picked out a normal pair of dark blue jeans and a sweater. Despite living in Hell, it does get cold. Today is a little chilly purrfect day for Cafe!

After my normal everyday getting ready routine I stood patiently at my door. Sack bag strapped to my shoulder and a pep in my step. A knock rang and I opened it immediately.

“Hello Satan!” I had such a bright smile on my face.

“Someone’s excited.” He smirked as he linked his arm with mine, complimented my outfit, and led me to the door.

The outside building was made out of a white concrete. It had a brown trim. A black closed door next to two huge windows. There were some dark wood chairs outside and they looked a little uncomfortable. Next to them were two stools.

“We won’t be sitting out here,” He said cheerfully, peeking into the window pointing out all the cats that were sleeping on tables and laps.

“That one right there. Rubbing against the display case. That’s an American shorthair! They date back to the 1600’s and were originally bred to be worker cats keeping mice off ships.”

He wrapped his arm around the lower half of my back. Lightly gliding me forward to check out the window with him. My face went red but I ignored it by pressing my face into the cold glass.

“The one eating the spider plant over on the table there; that’s an Exotic shorthair. They are a cross between a Persion cat and an American short hair. They’re known for being calm and loyal.”

I nodded my head. I always thought it was cute when people were passionate about something. I will always love Satan’s rambles on books, cats, and plans to take down Lucifer. He’s very intelligent and filled with minnie facts and solutions.

He led me into the cafe, arm still wrapped on my waist. He wanted a spot with the most cats. We settled on a corner couch with a large round coffee table that came up to my knees. I took off my satchel bag and removed my text book. Placing it on the table and picking up the menu for drinks.

Cold day.. Hot Chai? Maybe with some cinnamon and a brownie? Or a cookie. Life or death situation right here. WAIT there’s Macaroons.

Satan broke my thoughts by clearing his throat.

“There’s a test Monday, did you know about that?” His light green sweater was covered in fur already. The cats were flocking to him and he was not complaining. As of right now he holds a Calico dormant in his lap. He’s petting it much like a villain.

“What do you mean?” Of course there's a test.

“There’s no clearer way to say. I’m going to assume you haven’t studied yet? That’s alright, we can work on it now.” my face flatlined. I can’t do another history test. I swear it’s every three days we have another. I’m still stuck on last week's 54% even though I studied each night.

“Let’s take it slow from pages 49 to 67.”

“That’s slow to you?”

“Yes. It’s only two chapters. We need six for the quiz. How much have you already read?”

I blinked at him as my answer. Today is when I would read all six chapters, but I’m sure he can assume they aren’t read without me telling him.

“Oh Diavolo,” He placed his head in his cupped hands and sighed loud.

“Okay I’ll go over key points in each chapter starting with chapter 17 to 23. Listen closely because once I explain I will be quizzing you. Ask if you have questions, okay? Now give me a minute and I'll get us drinks. Chai right? I know it’s your favorite. Would you like a desert?” He gently picked the kitty from his lap, gave it a quick kiss on the head, and then placed it to the side. Standing, he stared at me patiently with his eyebrows raised awaiting my answer, brushing the leftover fur off his chest.

“Yes a Chai, and may I also get some macaroons? I don’t care what flavor. Surprise me!”

“Ok, Y/N, One Chai and some macaroons. Start reading while I’m gone.” He smiled, pushed the book closer to me, and headed to the counter to order. I looked to my left and saw the calico he was just petting staring right at me.

“Hey there,” I put out my hand for it to sniff, and it did. It rubbed against my hand and I could hear the purr start. Satan shouldn’t mind if I don’t read to pet a cat. So, I lightly picked it up and placed it on my lap. It meowed on contact, not annoyed, just surprised. I continued to pet it, purposefully not looking at the book, when another cat walked up to my right. A normal black cat started meowing and pawing at me. I took my other hand and started to pet him. A third cat walked up to my legs and started going around and around them in figure eights rubbing his head on me. This cat was white. I stopped petting the calico to pet the white one. The calico started to meow in protest. So, I began to pet the calico again, but then the white one would meow in protest. Just as I was about to give up, a brown cat hopped on the top of the couch and started to meow in my ear. Holy shit I am surrounded. I started to rotate. One pet for the Calico, one for the black cat, one for the white, and one for the brown. It was a nice rhythm and each cat seemed satisfied with it. That was, until a tabby cat came up to my left, meowing and pawing. I sighed but added the cat to the petting cycle.

My arms were getting tired, it was a real workout, and I was secretly praying that another cat wouldn’t waltz up and start meowing. Lucky for me, but still unlucky, Satan came walking back. Carrying a Russian blue.

“I see you’re getting busy,” He said, sitting down and placing the blue in his lap.

“Please help me.” My eyes were begging for him to take just one cat.

“Maybe, if you read instead of distracting yourself, you wouldn’t be in this situation.” He was smirking. Yeah he was right, but he knew he was right, and in his own words was telling me I told you so. This guy I swear.

“I am in an immense amount of pain, Satan. Please just one cat is all I am asking.” I tried to twist my face in a painful way so he could see my sorrow and feel bad for me.

“Dear, just stop petting the cats. They will move on to another person.”

“Oh,” I can not believe I didn’t just stop petting the cats. So I stopped. They meowed a little but eventually just strolled off to the next victim. All but the calico. It stayed on my lap, purring and contempt.

“Oh, Diavolo. That was stressful.” I sighed while I rested my arms to my sides. It felt so good to not move them.

“Let’s bring that stress back.” Satan said, opening the history book.

“No…” I whined.

“Due to your cat parade, I’m sure you did not check out chapter 17. So I will start with that.” He flipped the pages to chapter 17 and I sunk further into the couch.

“Chapter 17 and 18 speaks on the inhabitants of devildom. Some notable inhabitants are Banshees, Aqua Guardians, and Deathjokuls. Banshees are death spirits. When someone is close to death they appear as a shadow crying and screaming. If someone dying sees a Banchee it is too late to save them. Do you have any questions about Banshees?”

“No, I think I understand the concept. What are Aqua Guardians?”

“I was just about to get to that. Aqua Guardians,” Satan was interrupted by a worker

“I’m sorry to barge in on your study date, but we are closing in 10 minutes. The boss is having issues finding cover for the late shift and we are short staffed. In no means am I kicking you guys out, please take your time, but I will ask you to leave soon!” The worker smiled and walked off to tell another group they needed to leave.

I looked over at Satan to see he was already staring at me.

“That’s alright we can finish in your room. Do you mind? We can take the drinks and desserts to go. Maybe you can fit that calico in your sack bag?” I laughed at his joke however deep down I think he was serious.

“That’s fine with me!” We both carefully lifted our lap cats, waking them both up from their slumber.

“I’d take you if I could,” Satan said, placing the Russian Blue down with a sorrowful face. He linked his arm with mine after I put my sachell on with the book in it and we headed back to the house.

When I got to my room door we were both laughing as I explained my cat conundrum.

“And right when I got the rhythm down, another cat joined! So,” I pushed open my door and it hit me. It was still a mess there.

“Um, just a second,” I said, trying to get in without Satan seeing. He scoffed, placed his hand above my head and pressed the door open wider to see in.

“Woah, Y/N. Is this the riveting stuff you were doing?”

I was embarrassed. The room was messy. There was a lot of empty ramen. Blankets everywhere.

“I forgot the position I left it in. I’m so sorry, just give me a moment.”

“No dear, it’s alright. Do not stress. Save that for the homework we’re about to do. Go sit on your bed and I’ll pick your room up.” Satan was too kind to me, but I can’t allow him to do everything for me.

“No, that’s not fair. How about you sit on the bed while I clean up?”

“How about we work together on it?”

“Fine. But! Tomorrow after school we go back to the Cat Cafe but I will pay this time.”

“Deal. Come on now, hun, let’s get started.” He smiled at me and led me into my own room.

Thank you so much again for the suggestion! let me know if you liked it!! Or if you'd like me to add or rewrite :D

#obey me #fanfics #obey me satan #obey me satan x reader #obey me gn!mc #obey me gn!reader #obey me x reader #obey me x you #obey me x y/n #obey me x mc #obey me fluff #obey me satan x you #obey me satan x mc #obey me oneshot

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cressthebest · 2 months ago

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Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 46

chapter 70:

1. “And now the furniture is covered in dust, the books haven't been touched, the flowers are dead, the food has spoiled, and all the little pieces of himself from before feel foreign to him, like they're from a complete stranger.”

why did i blindly hope that crimson rivers couldn’t get more sad??

2. “Regulus couldn't have imagined it, then. Barty dying. Being dead. He was safe, aged out from reapings, and he would have made it if the war hadn't taken him.”

i want to gnaw on something. this is driving me crazy. i need to go eat dirt oh my god

3. every time i briefly forget about evan in this fic, his name is name dropped like a fucking bomb from the sky and i literally want to break a window

4. “And then there's Sirius, who barely knows what to do with his own pain, struggling to balance it, like he's not allowed to have it, feeling like an imposter for simply daring to grieve a man who wasn't his father as a father, as if that man didn't love him as a son.” the monty and sirius bond are still making me cry, actually

5. “I know I will be dead long before you read this,”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

once again, had to voice memo my freind

6. welcome back to another round of lily vs the fridge

7. mary: you love dorcas

lily: NOOO!!! only you babes 😘

mary: fucking dumbass

8. idk how to explain it, but i’m glad that mary and lily (and dorcas and marlene) had such complex relationships. they weren’t just the badass lesbians who had it all together and had a perfect relationship that scoffed at the silly boys. they love just as hard and fumble just as hard. their relationships are far from perfect and are very messy. i love it

9. “His dad watched these flowers bloom.

His dad never saw them die.”

*eye twitch*

10. maybe i shouldn’t blame dorcas, but i’m kinda pissed at her for not showing up to marlene’s funeral

11. “Barty got a funeral, too. Regulus planned that one, and you could tell, because it was done so delicately.”

screaming crying throwing up

what if i never spoke again? as like some sort of stupid protest? as like a statement to show how upset i am over bartys death? huh?? what would you do then bizzarestars????? huh?????????

12. “Vanity got honored as a war hero in the Hallow, a statue raised in her honor on the castle grounds, replacing Riddle's legacy.” i’m actually losing my mind. i want to shovel grass in my mouth and chew stained glass. idk or drink a latte or something

13. bro i’m so mad that sirius was 100% right about how james wouldn’t grieve around him, always wanting to take care of sirius, which is why he has to leave. i’m so mad. i’m so mad. this is gonna hurt

14. “”Fucking hell, James, we're still in love, so calm down. It's—it's not an actual breakup, you know."” -sirius

😭😭😭 they’re such soulmates omg

15. oh god it hurt more than i thought. james thought sirius was about to break the news about remus leaving. not sirius leaving. james never once considered that sirius would leave

16. SNSKDNJSNSMSKSM THEYRE KISSING YAY OMG JEGULUS KISSS OMGGG AFTER LITERALLY TWO MONTHS THEYRE KISSING AGAIN

chapter 71:

1. “[Regulus] is such a sweet boy, and yes, yes, [Effie] has seen him murder, but that matters very little to her, overall” me talking about my favorite characters 🥰

2. wolfstar

currently wanting to gnaw through concrete and plywood over them

3. “Remus also calls Lily every day. They're more discreet about it, not practically confessing their love and trying to make out through the screen the way James and Sirius do”

remus: this is my boyfreind sirius, and that’s my boyfreind’s boyfreind, james ♥️

4. remus thinking of sirius as a helicopter parent towards regulus has me in fucking tears omg that’s so funny

5. “That's the first time they have sex after the war, when Remus tells Sirius how he made Riddle pay for all that he'd done.”

idk, but that’s not the sentence i was expecting

6. 😭😭😭 remus realizing that lyall never liked any of his ex boyfreinds, and the fact that he approves of sirius, the murderer, is laughable

7. jealous sirius kissing remus within an inch of his life 😭😭😭

8. “It's no secret that Sirius likes the hickies, but it's not just him; the truth is, the only thing Remus likes more than getting to put them there is getting to see them there.”

uhhh um uhhhhh hot

9. 👀 they getting nasty

10. james being a teacher >>>>>>>>>>>

11. what are sirius and regulus gonna get up to?

12. it’s heartbreaking that lily and mary have to raise bingley. on one hand, it’s domestic and it’s their little family. on the other hand, they never should have had to do this. lily cooks and tucks him into bed and raises him. but she’s not his mom. and mary raises bingley. but she’s not his mom. and it’s so scary to navigate this

13. THE BAGELS

14. james’ knife kink >>>>>>>>>

15. omg i’m a blubbering mess. they have a home together!!!

16. hello!???? they’re dancing together????? in their home?????? what if i burst into tears?????

17. AWWWWW JAMES PROPOSED AGAIN

18. please please please please tell me we get a marriage chapter

#marauders #regulus black #james potter #jegulus #sirius black #crimson rivers #remus lupin #lily evans #mary macdonald #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #wolfstar

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igglemouse · 7 months ago

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The start of a new day brings me a fresh wave of optimism and that's all because of the success of my stand. It started as a random dream, a stray hope that maybe, just maybe, I could move forward into a new life and have it be fueled by a career driven by my passion and ambition.

So yes, I will start the day off with left over pizza because I simply deserve it!

There are a few things I must do before I can really get the day started. The usual chores of course. I cook so there's always dishes to be done and counters to be cleaned and of course there's always flowers to attend to as well. It's the dying days of spring with the coming of summer so I have plenty of gardening left ahead of me it looks like and that is work I look forward to.

Just when I think things are going well the day hiccups, putting before me a challenge, a problem to be solved in the form of a broken toilet. Yeah, I'm not going to worry about it and so I call the now usual repair service, my voice familiar to them by now, and let them know that something else in my house is broken.

I thought about trying to fix it myself but I do have things to do today and I do have somewhere to be as well.

And that somewhere? Pascal's.

I'm not going to dwell on what Simón and I shared earlier this week. I'll think of it as a book completed and closed. I've come to Oasis Springs to start a new life and that means starting new relationships which also includes those of the romantic variety.

So here I am before Pascal's place, large, big enough to house multiple people to be sure but its less than what I would have expected. He's an athletic prodigy, right? The next big thing? I'd think he'd at least live in a mini-mansion of sorts.

It's more than I have so who am I to judge?

Pascal is there to open the door for me and lead me deeper inside. Holding my hand on the way there, perhaps ready to direct me into this next part of my life or maybe he's just grabby? Either way, his presence is welcoming and his smile is inviting.

"You look amazing," he breathes out, bringing his lips to my fingers for a well placed kiss. Playing the role of gentleman, I suppose? The subtle action brings some warmth to my cheeks that is difficult to hide.

Pascal pushes every button for me. Physically, he's everything I could ever want. Mentally? Well, that is up for debate, isn't it? Mental faults are something you have to dig up to discover. Honestly, I feel fortunate that he finds me attractive at all.

"Love day is tomorrow," I remind him, already picturing another date with him, wondering if I should imagine a future with him at all.

"I know! It's just too bad I have a game that day," he says, sincerely disappointed, I think. "It is only a day, we have more than one day to spend together, don't we?"

"We do," I agree, two words fumbling from my lips and realizing that the language we are using right now assumes there is an 'us'. It's vague and really, too vague for my tastes. I want something more, something concrete, something I can rely on. Especially from a man like him. I chew on my lower lip, hesitating to ask the question I know must be asked. "When you say we..."

The laughter that comes from him is welcoming and the sound itself pushes relief through me. It's warm and jovial and comes before a confident nod of his head. "Yes, we! There should be a we, shouldn't there?" It was my turn to give a nod, I feel a little fluttery to be honest, thinking this relationship is advancing rapidly but feeling like there is no sense in getting in front of a speeding train. "Frida?"

"Y-yes, yes, 'we' sounds good!" Does that make it official? I suppose so. For a moment I think of Simon and then remind myself that he's a man from my past and not my future.

In the wake of our mutual agreement I can see that Pascal seems a little lighter, the smile on his face brighter with a vibrant look to his eyes. It's the look I imagine he has on his face after scoring a goal or making a crucial play while playing futbol.

Speaking of that, I find myself a little more curious about his world. I don't know much about it, if I'm being honest, next to nothing other than a bunch of people kick a ball around and try to get it into a goal, but the questions I ask him, about the basics and such, creates a shared energy between us. His passion for kicking balls around on a field is very infectious. "I should come! See you play-"

"It's an away game," he says, crushing that idea the moment I thought of it. "Of course you could travel. There's a wives club or something, they keep together sometimes but-"

"Yeah, pass," I reply a little harshly. I'm not a wife and I sure don't want to spend time with a gaggle of what I presume are stuck up and spoiled women who will certainly judge me for being just a girlfriend. "I can't any ways, my food stand is really picking up and I don't want to slow down that momentum."

"Your stand is so cute," he says, bringing energy back into the conversation. "And those waffles were amazing. I keep meaning to come back but my diet is pretty strict sometimes."

That I can understand. He's an athlete, after all. "I thought about becoming a full time chef. You know, work at a restaurant so that I can earn even more simoleons."

At this he frowns for just a moment. Quick enough for me to notice. He's also quick to explain himself. "If you're going to be with me you won't have to worry about simoleons."

"You can never have too many! Besides, I'd like some simoleons that I earn for myself. You know?"

"Yeah," he utters, but the word comes out flat, a tone that doesn't quite fit well into my ears. It's a disagreement then, one he's not ready to get into but what could be the issue? If we were to become official official, you know, living together and everything, what would be wrong with having more simoleons between us? "Give it a year, Frida, and I'll be one of the best players in the world. Simoleons will never be an issue for us."

He says it with such conviction and confidence that all I can do is nod my head. There is a clear determination in his voice and and a look in his eyes that tell me this is a future he's already seen. One promised to him or at least he believes it has been promised to him. This part of him is a little intimidating, the drive of a man that will not be stopped and will let nothing get in the way of his goals but that part of him is also exciting and admirable. Maybe it's because its a contrast to what Simón offered, a man who was happy to get what he could out of life, nothing more. Pascal, I can tell, is a man that settles for nothing.

I make it back home with more of a direction. I'm not single anymore. I'm not single! I don't know if this is a good or bad thing (because you know ladies sometimes its better to be single than miserably coupled) but it is definitely a thing!

I'm back in my kitchen, making waffles and baking cookies and decided to do something a little new. Fried chicken! It's one of those foods universally loved, who hates fried chicken? Other than vegetarians and vegans I suppose but I hope it will be a welcomed surprise for my customers!

The waffles and cookies disappear from my counter, dishes that are familiar to my customers by now, and the chicken is not far behind. Overall, a pretty breezy 700 or so simoleons are earned and that's enough alone for rent. I might outgrow my little place before I can even get settled into it!

The sun starts to fall, casting long shadows over the day and slowly but beautifully giving way to night. I don't like having my stand open at night because...duh, why would I? So I'm just about ready to close up shop until one more person lingers over to my stand.

"Hola!" I call out, catching his attention. One more sale won't hurt.

"Fryda?" He asks, his pronunciation all wrong. I nod my head any ways, impatiently wanting to make my sale and call it a night. "Closing up?"

"Yes, loong day but...one more," I keep it simple, Simlish still being new to me meant short sentences are better than longer ones and despite what others say I do not like my accent.

"Anything you would suggest?"

"Ummmm..." that's a question I don't get a lot so it makes me think for a moment. I look over the counter, most of the dishes are cleaned, my best offerings long gone leaving nothing I'd really suggest. "Pizza?" I wave a hand over it. It's not my best creation but he smiles, hands me his simoleons, and takes a slice.

"Can't go wrong with pizza! Thanks, Fryda!"

But little does Friday know that her last lingering customer was none other than Ray Booker. Infamous local food critic and one who was looking for any reason to leave a scathing review.

He happily made his way to a nearby bench in a neighborhood park, cleared of children thankfully, and signaled for his cameraman to pop out and start the show.

Once the lens fell on him he went into his usual motions. Playing up his chewing, making the same 'oooh' and 'ahhh' sounds as if his palate was so distinct that he could suss out every bit of flavor.

After finishing it, he gave his audience a knowing smirk, an expression they knew all too well as the precursor for a bad review.

"I've never had a slice of pizza so bad that it might make me consider having pizza ever again. Who makes a cream corn pizza, any way..."

Episode List - Next

#The Sims #The Sims 4 #ts4 #Sims #Sims 4 #sims legacy #my sims #generation 1 #soot #sims of our time #frida varela #ray booker #pascal alcocer #simon barrera

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dandylovesturtles · 1 year ago

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The separated AU poll (@tmntseparatedaucompetition) featuring my AU "100 Feet and a World Away" along with "New Phone Who Dis" by @callmehere-iwillappear is TOMORROW. We're up against Life Mission: Empyrean Bloodbath so I fully expect us to lose lol BUT I did say last time if we tied with NPWD I'd give us the next part of the "April takes the boys' pictures" saga AND SO! here! is April taking Leo and Mikey's pictures!

Vote for us tomorrow (if you want to)! All of these AUs are absolutely incredible so whoever wins is fully deserving~ Regardless, I will try to finish the saga with Raph's picture + Splinter getting to see them as soon as I have time (though it may take a bit because I have... bitten off a bit more than I can chew lol, and I need to get some other things accomplished).

Anyway enough rambling HERE'S THE FIC:

~~~

"April!" calls Mikey the moment she walks in. He scurries across the plywood bridge from his rock to the edge of the pool and hops off the concrete separating wall, and hurries over, buzzing around her excitedly. "I'm so glad you're back!"

"Well I said I would be, didn't I?" April grins, fishing in her bag for the strawberries she's brought them. She gives two of them to Mikey, and watches as he shoves one in his mouth, smiling as he chews.

There's a splash and when she looks back, Leo is sitting on the containing wall, watching her like a hawk. She wishes she could hug Mikey, but she knows if she tried to so much as touch him, Leo would be on her in a second.

Something to work on, but not today.

"Let's get this over with," he says. "I got the info Donnie wanted."

"That's great! Good job, Leo!" she says. All she gets is a scowl in return, but she tries not to let it get to her. "But before we talk about that, there's something else I want to do." She pulls out her phone and waves it. "I'm gonna take your picture!"

"Whoa, really!?" asks Mikey, clearly excited, but before she can reply, Leo is inserting himself between them.

"No."

April has to take a breath to steady herself; she knows he doesn't want to hurt her, and she knows he's just a kid. But when he moves like that, stands over her and tenses his muscles and looks down over the top of his snout at her, she can sense how easy it would be for him to kill her, and her instincts tell her to run.

But April O'Neil doesn't run.

She exhales and speaks, voice steady. "Leo. I understand why you're concerned-"

"Do you?"

"-but I promise you, I'm not going to do anything bad with them. I just want to show them to your dad."

"Still saying you know our dad, huh?" he says, the suspicion clear.

"I do know your dad, Leo." She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly. He has every right to be cautious, she reminds herself, even if this is eating into their time tonight. "Look, Donnie already let me take his picture. He trusts me not to do anything with it."

"Yeah, well Donnie-" Leo starts, but then he seems to remember Mikey is there, and drops it mid-sentence. Which is good, because April can handle Leo being a jerk to her, but if he started badmouthing his brother they would be having words. "I just... worry he hasn't thought it through," he fixes it to.

"But Dee's a genius, right?" says Mikey. "I bet he has. He probably has some way to make sure she can't do anything bad with the pictures!"

That's not true, or at least, April is pretty sure that's not true (she did give him the phone, though, so maybe...) but if believing that will help them be comfortable with this she won't correct them.

Leo hesitates again, and she can tell he's struggling with his doubt over Donnie's intentions and his self-held rule of trying to keep Mikey's opinion of his brothers positive. Apparently, the latter wins, because he sighs and folds his arms and says, "Fine. But you're only taking a picture of me."

"Awww, Leo, come on," whines Mikey, but Leo ignores him, staring April down.

April wants to argue, too, but she knows if she pushes, Leo will just refuse to have his own picture taken too, and they won't get anywhere. Furthermore, he has info Donnie needs - if he becomes completely uncooperative then she won't get that either.

Deciding to cut her losses, April sighs and nods. "Deal."

Mikey looks thoroughly unhappy, but Leo seems to untense just slightly at the agreement. "Okay. Let's get it over with, then."

He walks over to the wall where their scale and measuring devices are stationed and raises both of his arms the same way Donnie had. April bites back her second round of nausea tonight and shakes her head.

"Nope, not like that. We're gonna do something more natural."

It's easier in here without the fence to deal with. She considers for a moment, then nods at the pool and says, "Sit on the steps. I'll take your picture there."

"Ugh, fine." He moves to do what she says, flopping on the steps with an annoyed grunt. It's such a teenager thing of him to do that she almost laughs, but she quickly swallows it before he gets more annoyed with her.

"Great! Now... sit however you want to... yeah, that's fine," she says after he pulls up one knee and leans back on his arms. She pulls her phone up with the camera on, adjusts the framing, then says, "Fair warning, it's going to flash." He shrugs. "Now... do you want to smile?"

He thinks a second, and then he smiles - closed lips, no teeth, more of a wry smirk than a full smile. But the way he tilts his head as he does it is so natural.

She takes the photo. Then she gets in closer and takes another. Then she pulls them up to look them over.

Like with Donnie the lighting is dim, but Leo is still plenty visible, and April can't help but smile.

"Dang, Leo... I have to say, the camera loves you."

"Ooo, lemme see!" says Mikey, and April turns the phone so he can look. Immediately his eyes are sparkling as he leans in to see more clearly. "She's right. You look great, Leo!"

Leo is trying to look uninterested, but she sees through him in the way he approaches. She doesn't make him ask, just flips the phone screen his way so he can look, too.

He leans in, and she something appears in Leo's face that she hasn't seen since she's come to visit him. Something soft and vulnerable and wondering - something she's sure he'd never intentionally show her, but something in the photo has brought it out of him anyway.

"That's... me?" he says finally, like he doesn't believe it.

"That's you!" she says cheerfully, even as she's trying not to think about how sad that question is. Come to think of it, there are no mirrors in here, and any reflective surfaces would likely show them a distorted image - this might be the clearest way Leo's had to see himself in years. "Pretty handsome, right?"

Leo's eyes flicker up at her just a moment, then they go back to the picture. "Handsome..." he repeats, reaching up and running his finger over the markings on his face. Mikey is watching him, with an understanding in his eyes that seems way, way too old for a thirteen-year-old, and, not for the first time, April realizes he isn't as naïve as he acts.

Even though her time for the night is dwindling, April doesn't pull the phone back until Leo finally looks away. Almost immediately his expression is back to being as annoyed as ever, but she knows that's just a mask. One day she hopes he can take it off, but for now she lets him keep it.

"You said you took Donnie's picture, too," said Mikey. "Can we see?"

"Of course!" she says, and pulls up Donnie's selfies, picking her favorite to show them. "Here we go; I had to let him take these himself 'cause of the fence."

Mikey looks, his eyes going wide, and Leo comes to join him, something less open and more complicated in his expression.

"Look, Leo, he has the same color eyes as you!" says Mikey, pointing. "And a matching scar!"

Leo's fingertips brush over the scar on his face, but he doesn't comment on it. "We all have the same color eyes, Mikey."

"We do? Oh, oh, and look," he continues, barreling on without waiting for an answer, "he has purple markings on his arms! I think his snout's longer than ours, too."

"Yeah, guess so."

"And what's up with his shell? Why's it look like that?"

"He's a soft shell." Leo frowns. "You didn't remember that?"

Mikey blinks once, twice. "Uh, I think I did, actually. Uh, maybe." He's still staring at the photo, but April can see his eyes starting to get glassy. "I... maybe I knew that, but I never really thought about what it meant? I... I forgot what he looks like."

He sniffs, harsh, and then the tears start rolling. "Oh, baby," says April softly, while Leo just tucks Mikey under his arm.

"I forgot what my own brothers look like," Mikey says, his voice thick and wet. "I forgot... and if I forgot... I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for," says April. She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, glancing at Leo, but he doesn't do anything to stop her this time. Mikey hiccups at the touch but doesn't pull away. "What is it?"

"I just... did they forget what we look like, too?" He glances up at Leo, then sniffs again. "Will they even recognize us?"

April decides this isn't the time to bring up how it'd be hard to confuse them for anyone else, because, while true, it's not really the point. What she goes for instead is a different but still practical answer: she waves the phone at him.

"I'll show them the pictures, okay? So now they'll remember, too." She looks up at Leo again. "That okay with you, Leo?"

He jerks his head as he looks away from Mikey, and she can practically see the gears working while he comes to a decision. Much as April hates making Mikey cry, it seems it's worked in her favor.

Because Leo sighs, and says, "I guess if you're doing that you need to take a picture of Mikey, too."

Mikey's eyes go wide in surprise, before he sniffles loudly and then turns and jumps onto his brother, who holds onto him with a good-natured chuckle. "Thanks, Leo!" he says, his tears still trickling down his face, and Leo just sighs and pats his shell until he eventually stops.

April takes Mikey's picture, and he and Leo ooh and aah over it just as much as they had Leo's. She gets the information she needs, and gives a promise that she'll show the pictures to Donnie and Raph as soon as she can.

Raph... well, she's pretty sure he won't actually know what he's looking at. Honestly, April still isn't even sure if he can see.

But she knows Donnie is going to be ecstatic. She can't wait to show him.

#100 feet and a world away #my fanfic #rise leonardo #rise michelangelo #rise april #not proofreading because it's almost 1AM lol byeee

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