#would be the One thing she would not be able to recover from

[painted-bees]

iii)

  When Margie opened the door to the Green Room, Raf’s life effectively ended.

  It came a lot quicker than he had expected. Whether in the venue or at home, he knew they’d corner him. His mother wouldn’t have risked it with the letter if she thought there was any chance that he’d be able to avoid her. Still, he thought he’d have more time. 

  The two reapers sat stiffly beside one another. His father’s sunken, heavily lined features of his face, and his fully gray, thinning, receding head of hair didn’t surprise him. Or, at least–not as much as it would have if he hadn’t previously seen the man featured on his little brother’s youtube channel. Despite this, something about the way he appeared now, right in front of him, struck Raf in a disquieting manner. His father’s typically immaculate posture was subtly oppressed by a slight, slumping curve of his shoulders that had never been present before. His well-tailored suit drew artful contours around his form, but could not obscure the diminishing mass–the lean frailty–of the proud man it dressed. As he lifted a hand to provide a small, polite wave, Raf could see the slight tremor of his narrow, wrinkled digits.

   A strange melancholy joined the feeling of suffocating dread in his chest.

  God, he looks old.

  “Good evening,” the sound of his mother’s voice jolted him with the same painfully shocking chill as a handful of ice cubes forced down the back of his shirt, “my dear Rafael.”

  She delivered her greeting in French, but language barely registered in his brain. Her stare held him down, while the sound of his name from her mouth locked shackles upon him.

  “How have things been?” Her question was delivered languidly. Now that she had him, she could take her time.

  “It’s–it’s been going.” There was no point in insisting they converse in English. He replied in French.

  Don’t argue, don’t talk back, don’t try to be smart with her.

  Whatever she wanted, she’d get. It was predetermined. His behavior only determined the difficulty. If he made it difficult for her, she would make it difficult for him.

  Judging from the near-imperceptible sigh and the slight wilting of her shoulders, Raf was already putting the wrong foot forward. But, before he could correct himself with a more amiable tone, Margie barreled forward into the room.

  “Wow, wild!” Margie opened her arms energetically to greet them. “Raf’s parents?” She threw finger guns at his father. “His dad. Right? I recognize you from Youtube! Which means–” She rolled to a stop in front of his mother to lean over her, “you gotta be mom,” The hand she extended forward nearly connected with his mother’s face. “Hi, I’m Margie!”

  Raf couldn’t have stepped forward to join her even if he wanted to. Terror rooted him in place as he watched his mother recoil at Margie’s audacity. She recovered with the warmest smile she could weaponise, but refused to dignify Margie with a proper handshake. Mère did not want to even touch her, and provided only the barest minimum contact with Margie’s hand that she could get away with.

   “Oh, yes? Hello, Margie.” Her words chimed swiftly. In English, this time. “My name is Evelyne. Or, if you prefer it, yes, Rafael’s ‘mom’.” She dismissed Margie with a close lipped hum.

  Margie, thankfully, took the cue and stepped nervously away from her. “N-nice to meet you.”

  The smile his mother bared at Margie barely hid the clenched-tooth sneer that would have betrayed her irritation for having her time wasted.

  “Rafael,” She cut straight back to her order of business, ensnaring him again with her oppressive gaze and returned to speaking French with him, “sweetheart, come sit next to me.”

  She shifted to make sure there was enough room between herself and the arm of the chair for only him to fit. With his father sitting next to her, she was ensuring that he’d be separated as much as possible from Margie or Tess. The other chair closest was an unwieldy loveseat that Margie likely wouldn’t have been able to drag closer, and Tess was unlikely to bother, either. They were not invited to accompany him. That they were even here at all was a great inconvenience to her.

  Because, of course, he was her Rafael. 

  Don’t be difficult.

  With a reluctant nod, he obliged her order.

  Tess’s continued presence at his heels despite his mother’s obvious desire to isolate him came as a surprising, if temporary, relief.

  As he arrived to take his seat, his mother tutted at him with a disappointed frown, and reached out to swipe away his last pathetic little barrier of protective comfort against her. Her fingernails raked back the forelocks that hung sparsely over his eyes and smoothed them over the top of his head.

  “Oh, my son,” she sighed. “you’re too old to sulk like this in front of our guests.”

  Tess caught her attention with a fingersnap before asserting, with a deft combination of hand gestures. “Actually, we’re his family.”

  Once again, his mother traded her French for English as she regarded Tess with bewilderment. “I’m sorry–?”

  Margie impulsively chimed in. “Oh! This is Tess! She wants you to know that we’re a family.”

  The expression that crossed his mother’s features as her gaze shot from Margie, back up to Tess, was indecipherable to him. It soon dissolved into a lush, derisive laughter.

  She pointed a discourteous finger at Tess, and turning to him, with laughter still warbling her voice, she asked, “And who is she to you, exactly?”

  French again. She most certainly knew that it was locking Margie out of the conversation. No doubt, that is why she insisted on it.

  Raf loathed playing this game with her but toothlessly provided his responses in French to oblige her. “My girlfriend.”

  His mother brought her palms together, mocking a pleased gesture. “Oh, Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned to Tess, brushing fingertips against her arm as she looked her over with an eye of genuine appraisal. “Wow, you certainly have good taste, at least.”

  Raf was unsure whether that remark was intended for him or for Tess. Tess didn’t wait to find out. While she still held his mother’s attention, she pointed down at the space between his two parents and instructed them to move with a sweep of her hand.

  His father, who had been silent thus far, obliged the request, and Tess took her seat. She squeezed in close, leaving no gap between her and his mother. Placing a casual hand on his mother’s knee, Tess leaned across her lap and signed at Raf with her free hand. 

  “Catch me lifting the mood by making moves on your mom.”

 Her jape came at the same time as his father offered Margie his seat, engaging her with a conversational air. It was lost on Raf entirely.

  In a series of distracted, automatic gestures, Raf replied to Tess.

  “Make them leave. Please just make them leave.”

  “Are we speaking in sign language?” If his mother was bothered by Tess’s invasion of her personal space, she gave absolutely no indication of it. Instead, she reclined against the back of the couch and rested the top of her knuckles idly against the side of her jaw.

  Raf forced a smile under the icey jab of an entirely new fear. “Do you understand it?”

  His mother mirrored his smile and measured him with her gaze for just a moment too long before saying, “No, but it’s a wonderful skill to have. Did you learn it just for her?”

  It was safest to assume she was lying and there was a very, very good chance she’d bring it up again at the worst time. “We learned it together, yeah.”

  “Oh, that warms me.” She turned her eyes to Tess. “My son has always been one of the most capable people I’ve known. The things he can do with just the right motivation are, well…I’m sure you’ve seen it for yourself, no?”

  “Mère,” His smile remained stiffly fixed on his face, “why are you here?”

  Her smile wilted. “To see you. Rafael, it’s been over ten years! A decade, and not even a phone call? Why?”

  His gaze flinched away from her to land on Tess–who’s large dark eyes only reflected a vague, misshapen image of himself back at him.

  “Rafael,” his mother vied for his attention, “look at me.” She reached out with her hand to touch his jaw to pull his focus back to her, but as soon as her red fingernails entered his field of view, he recoiled from them before they even registered in his consciousness. 

 And, just like that, he had lost.

 He had played his role just as she hoped he would, and now it was her turn to perform the part she had been waiting so long to play.

 After a moment of ‘stunned’ silence, she withdrew her hand and sank back into the couch with a wounded expression. Her upper teeth bit daintily into the red paint of her lower lip before she brought her glass of wine to her mouth and took a long sip.

  He watched her, unable to say anything–unwilling to assume he knew the angle she was about to take. She always came equipped with several scripts to pick from. If he predicted one, she’d make him appear unreasonable and cruel by asserting another.

  It was much better to stay silent–and wait for her to commit to one approach or the other. 

  Finally, she asked, very quietly. “What have I done to you?”

  “What have–what?” His heartbeat throbbed very loudly in his ears suddenly, and the corners of his vision grew splotchy.

  “What have I done for you to behave like this upon just seeing me? I’m only sitting here, Rafael, and you’re looking at me like I have a gun pointed at you.”

  Tell her.

  She’s banking on your shame.

  Just tell her.  Tell her.

 “No, I’m–” the sound of a weak, placating laugh filled his head, “I just don’t want to deal with the Label and” his placating laugh, “I’m not ready to go back to Monaco.” 

  Coward.

  “Is that what has you so frightened?”

  You fucking coward.

   “Yeah.”

   No.

   “Is that all?”

  No.

  “Pretty much.”

  The sound of his mother’s relieved laughter coaxed a similar sound from him. He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. He couldn’t feel it.

  A glint in his periphery drew his gaze, and for a split second, he recognized Margie’s smile. It felt miles away, and that distance bit through his fear and filled his chest with a burning melancholy.   He swallowed it down.

  “Rafael,” his mother’s voice filled the air around him again, “I am not your manager anymore. I can’t tell you what to do or where to be, you have to make your own decisions. Rafael.”

  The warmth of her hand as she touched his face jarred him–but he hadn’t even the capacity to flinch.

  “In truth, I was looking forward to seeing you, yes. But I would not have ventured to disrupt you like this if there wasn’t a need to contact you. And you are not an easy person to get in touch with.”

  She paused, but not long enough for him to form a response.

  “Your grand-mère was diagnosed with stomach cancer shortly after you left for school. She’s been in remission for several years since then, but very recently, it’s come back and we’re told that she’ll likely be gone within a year’s time. It could be longer, but more likely, she has a few months left with us.”

  This.

This was what she came armed with.

  “You and dad need to leave.”

  The words fell out of his mouth like blocks of lead.

  Her hand withdrew from him. “Your father and I were hoping that we might be able to have a din–”

  “No.”

  “...Will you be visiting–”

  He wasn’t aware of the look he cast upon her just then, but it was enough to end her questioning.

  The silence expanded across seconds that spread out like oceans between them. Until finally, she relented. “I’ll give you space to process the news.”

  There was no reason for her to waste anymore time here. She had gotten exactly what she came to get, and she knew it.

  Raf felt the weight of her focus lift away from him as she turned her attention to the other side of the couch. 

  She traded her French for English, apparently interjecting in on the conversation between Margie and his father. “On the subject of leaving, we should not take up so much time with our unexpected visitation. You must all be very eager to rest after such a busy night. I know  my husband would like to continue talking your ears off, Margie, but I hope you do not mind that I collect him from you.”

  Raf was numb to the parting conversation, and the dialogue washed over his ears as vague, indecipherable noise.

  “Rafael,” his father’s voice yanked his attention and Raf registered the gesture of his father’s curtly waved farewell just in time to respond with his own vapid imitation of it.

  There’s a chance she’s lying about grand-mère…but with something so easy to verify, it’s unlikely. 

  He would verify, but…

  She’s in late eighties now.

  His mother was right. If his grandmother had cancer, she was probably going to depart sooner, rather than later. Which meant that if Raf wanted to see her one last time before she passed, he couldn’t put it off for long.

  I can choose not to go. Grand-mère, of all people, would understand.

  …Would she?

  His grandmother had been the only person during his upbringing who had cared for his well being enough to stay with him and grant him glimpses of what childhood was supposed to look like. She had allowed him a space to indulge frivolous hobbies and behave rambunctiously. She took him to parks and parties where he had been able to meet kids his age and form fleeting little friendships. Children who didn’t know the difference between a recital and a concert, who were more preoccupied with organizing sleepovers than they were with practise and study. Children who didn’t worry about a career, but believed they could become anything they wanted. Real children with real childhoods.

  His grandmother let him eat fast food, and play games, and watch television. He had never taken full advantage of it. There were many times when his anxiety disallowed him from indulging in the child-like things that his grandmother encouraged.

  There were times when his mother had found out, and fell into hysterics over his apparent disinterest in the career path she had painstakingly set up for him. Times when she couldn’t even look at him without crying because she felt the future she envisioned was jeopardized by his “waning” interests… Because she could not stand to suffer the idea that her son could find joy in anything unrelated to music and performance. Times when he had to assure her again and again that he loved music and he loved performing, and he loved her. 

  Times when he was terrified that she’d take away all his opportunities to do the one thing that made her love him back. 

  Always, it was his grandmother who’d step in to end the hysterics and allow things to return to normal for a time. Even during the times when she had no hand in the events that led to it. His grandmother had worked so hard to give him something, anything, that resembled a childhood.

  She had stomached more for his sake than even his uncle had been willing to do.

  Would she really understand if he refused to see her one last time?

  Was it fair to do that to her?

  Margie’s voice cut through the cacophony of noise in his head. “How’d it go?”

  Suddenly, he was aware of just how quiet the space had become. His parents had left. He drew in an unsteady breath.

  “I have to go back to Monaco.”

  “What?” Margie stood up from her seat. “No you don’t!” She turned to Tess. “No he doesn’t!”

  Tess leaned back with an infuriating apathy, and when Raf didn’t immediately respond either, Margie threw her hands out at him.

  “Why?”

  “I have to see my grandmother before she passes. She’s uh…Not doing well.”

  Margie’s posture wilted. “Oh.”

  She soberly dropped herself back down onto the couch, electing to fill the vacant space between him and Cortes.Raf felt one of her hands slip under his arm, wrapping around to meet her other hand at his shoulder. “Okay, well. That…sucks. It’s just a visit, though. Right?”

  He didn’t want to explain this to her.

  “There’s no ‘visiting’ Monaco. As soon as I step foot there, it’ll be one thing after the other forcing me to stay.That’s just…how this kind of thing goes.” He thought to turn his eyes up and look at her, but his head was much too heavy and he…just...

  There was a lot in Monaco to tie him down with. Especially after his grandmother passed, matters surrounding the company, alone, would provide his parents with everything they needed to make sure he could never responsibly leave. It would grant his mother far more time than she needed to dig her hooks into him again. Maybe he’d be able to leave Monaco physically, but only on the shortest leash. Margie and Tess, and his life here would become a closed chapter. As he always knew it would be.

  “Take us with you!” 

  Margie’s suggestion smacked him with enough force to stun. “What?”

  “Let us come with!” She dropped her chin down atop the hand on his shoulder. “Tess and I will make sure you come back home. We’ll drag you kicking and screaming if we gotta!”

  Raf finally lifted his head to shoot an incredulous glance past Margie and at Tess.

  Tess didn’t even look at him as she signed. “I am so good at dragging.”

  “You’ll go to Monaco?” His falling tone laid bare the lack of faith he had in this matter.

  “Yeah, sure. The Mediterranean's okay.”

  “What passport are you flying with, Tess?”

  To that, Tess sat up and, if she had glasses, the downward tilt of her head might have been deep enough for her to stare over the rims. “I can swim.”

  That gave him pause.

  Tess wasn’t confined to the west coast of Canada, after all. She wasn’t even confined to the laws of human civilization. Somehow, he had forgotten this.

  “Tess…you could have made them leave. Hell, you could have sent me to Anxiety Beach, and none of this would have even happened.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wh–why didn’t you do something?”

  This whole night hardly felt real for how overwhelming it was in its constant stream of terror. And yet–no one, not even himself, made any motion to rescue him from the situation. They all just…let it happen.

  Tess’s hand reached out behind Margie to give him a light shove, making sure she had his full attention before she signed to him.   “Do you think I made a mistake?” 

  There was a choppy terseness to her gestures that made the question read more like an irritated dare to him. She dared him to believe that she was capable of error.

  “I–” Margie’s voice rose up meekly from his shoulder. “I wasn’t very helpful, either. I don’t know…I was expecting your parents to be like…cartoon villain levels of evil or something. I wanted to do all the talking for you so that you didn’t have to deal with it but then your mom just kinda…and your dad just wanted to talk about music…”

  “Yeah, that’s how they get you,” Raf sighed. He didn’t even have the energy to be angry. “They’ll make you feel crazy.” 

  There was a very stubborn corner of his brain that wanted to rile him up over the fact that neither Margie nor Tess had his back, that he couldn’t rely on them to protect him from the ghosts he had been warning them about for so long. That he couldn’t rely on them for being there for him when he needed them the most.

  That was the feeling. It didn’t even have words in his head, it was just the truth that he felt.

  But… 

  A small voice–not a feeling–made space for itself in his brain.

  They were there. They sat right beside you. One was pushed out of the conversation and expertly redirected, and the other…did what was best. They were there. They are still here. They will stay with you. Can that be enough? Do you want to imagine that things will be better if you begrudge them and push them away for doing too little?

  You actually can’t anymore, can you.

 He felt the warmth of Margie’s weight as she leaned bodily against him. “Take us with you. I promise, I promise, I promise–we’ll bring you back home and it will be okay. Okay? I promise with everything I’ve got. Through hell or highwater, remember?” She jostled against him lightly. “I’ve done the highwater part, so I guess it’s just time for hell.”

  She would have won a smile from him if all the other emotions didn’t feel so oppressive. Instead, he scooped her up into a hug and buried his eyes into the auburn curls of her hair.

  “We have time to talk about it more.” Margie spoke into the crook of his neck, her arms curled tightly around his back. “But for now, let's just get out of here. This show’s over.”

July 20th 2012 

i) 

 The Commodore Ballroom was a significant step up from the assorted bars and clubs that had hosted their performance over the past nine months. Their “band” consisted of Margie, Tess, and Raf, and had performed under a completely different name across nearly every establishment in Vancouver that would deign to let them grace their stage with their low-budget, no clout indie act. Raf enjoyed it. There was an amusing novelty to being regarded as an unknown, untested musician. Initially, the management of each establishment haggled, scoffed, and finagled with him in a manner he’d never been faced with before. They negotiated as though it was a tremendous burden to host musicians on their stage, but that they were doing a good, charitable turn, putting themselves out for the sake of promoting “local talent”. Apparently, this position helped them feel justified in extending the most dog-shit agreements he’d ever had the misfortune of navigating. Commonly, they were willing to grant him the privilege of covering venue costs in exchange for a pittance of ticket sale profits. 

 “Venue costs” usually only ensured that the stage would be vacant for them to use, with no additional services provided. Yet often, venue staff fees were included in the cost. Their agreements often took care in detailing that refunds on ticket sales would be available, but on a few occasions, Raf had to negotiate a no-refund policy when a venue tried shunting that burden entirely onto the band. It would have been fine if the math added up to something resembling a financial profit for them, provided they could secure a sizable attendance. But even the most rosy projections would only allow them to make even on their total costs. Some were better, others were much worse…in which case, discouragement was probably the intention. Each time, Raf accepted the offer with a smile and a warmly delivered, “Marvelous, I thank you. But under those conditions, this will be the last time we perform at your venue.” 

 Perhaps this was unfair. After all, musicians were a dime a dozen, and the amount of acts looking for a venue vastly outnumbered the amount of venues that existed to host them. Raf was able to bag gigs because he could afford to let these no-name pubs rob him and his bandmates out of a livable cut. He wasn’t doing it for the money, he was doing it because Margie really, really wanted to play at venues. She’d do it for free–but Raf knew better than to let her pursue that route. And so, he pitched their music to venues across the city and treated himself to the special challenge keeping his name out of the negotiations. The venues had no reason to assume that they were hosting a celebrity act. He wanted to see how an unagented indie band might get along–and found it an extremely humbling experience. The management of venues that’d even let him present his music to them regarded him with about as much respect as they’d regard a stray dog on the street. A little bit of pity, a tremendous amount of wariness, and the constant measuring of whether the interaction was worth their time at all. It didn’t matter if the music was good, what mattered was that Raf could promise to pay, up-front, the costs of hosting the show. That latter part was par for the course. But, in combination with the “take-it-or-leave-it” atrocious cut on the profits, Raf found it difficult to imagine how someone like Margie could have been able to afford taking the live venue route towards finding her audience.

 How many other Margies were out there?

 Nevertheless, they played the same gig under a new name at a new venue on a semi-consistent basis over the past months. In that time, a growing number of people had begun to recognise him. He woke up to that fact back in May, when a previous venue rang him up offering to book a weekend with “him and his band”--and under a much sweeter arrangement. There was a certain satisfaction in telling the man, “Appreciated, but our previous experience with your venue’s management has discouraged us from performing there again.” Tactless perhaps, but oh…it felt very good. 

 This small win, however, was overshadowed by the looming inevitability that had hung over him since the very start of his little charade: the jig was up. People had figured out who he was, and he was unlikely to meet any more petty squabbles from the uncharitable management of dingy venues. That being the case, Raf elected to, more or less, stop soliciting venues to host their performances.

  That was until Margie dismissed his assertion that the ambiance of a proper venue like, say, The Commodore Ballroom, would provide the legitimacy to their live performance that she felt they were lacking.

  “Hah! No, that’s not what I mean. Raf, our band doesn’t even have a name. It’s fine, we’re not like–an actual band. It’s a fun hobby thing, not a Commodore thing.”

 She hadn’t meant it as a challenge–but Raf took it as one. And, truth be told, he was fond of The Commodore as a venue. It was one worth throwing his weight against…just to see.

  Against his better judgement, he armed himself with Nels, whose strong business connections worked smooth as butter to put Raf in front of the people he needed to speak with. The rest was easy. Funnily, Raf had worried that he was, perhaps, overestimating his clout. By all definitions, he was a “has-been”. His name hadn’t held industry significance for over a decade. But he carried himself like a millionaire and oozed charisma with practised ease. Where industry relevance failed him, money and his implicit connection to the Ephrem brand did the lifting. Not only would he bag a favorable time slot with all the included amenities at the venue, he was able to negotiate an agreeable percentage on the profits as well. All he had to do was let them use his name and likeness in the advertising, and recklessly, he agreed to it under the condition that his name appeared alongside that of his bandmates, presented with the same level of emphasis.

  It wasn’t until after their agreement had been secured in writing that Raf’s anxiety caught up to his brashness. This was the first time he had put himself out there to such a capacity in…a long, long time. And there was a reason for that.

  There were predator eyes scouring for him from across the ocean. It was only just a year ago that he discovered he had narrowly missed encountering his father. The man had apparently arrived in Vancouver to take care of some business pertaining to his late Uncle Bill, and Raf had only avoided him by the good fortune of living on Cortes Island at the time. The terror of returning after a year away from the city and learning that his parents had not only encroached upon Hi-Note Studio, but also set foot inside the building that was to become his home felt violating in a way that made him want to claw his way into the earth’s molten core.

  According to Nels, it was only his father who arrived to manage business related to him and his deceased brother. Raf didn’t buy it. Where his father was, his mother was always very near. But if they had hoped to find him, they only wasted their time. Still, his therapist got a lot of money out of him for two months following his return home. It took even longer still for Raf to look at Nels and feel anything resembling fondness for the man who allowed his father to trample the sanctity of his turf. Truth be told, Raf forced himself to go out and solicit venues as a direct countermeasure against the overwhelming instinct to hide himself away. Away from Hi-Note, away from Nels, away from the home his Uncle left to him, away from Margie…

  He still might have if Tess hadn’t acquainted him with “Anxiety Beach”. 

  Between Tess smoothing the wrinkles in his brain and his own desire to feel anything but terror, Raf had gotten a little carried away in reclaiming some semblance of control over his environment. And apparently, that took the form of antagonizing random venue managers for fun over the course of three months and then landing a gig at The Commodore out of sheer spite. 

  Well, of all the potential ways he could have acted out, this was possibly the least damaging. 

  More than that, the consequence of his atypical outburst was a Margie thrilled to bits. Both he and Tess quietly basked in the excited vibrations emanating off her as they lounged idly inside The Commodore’s “Green Room”. 

Quite literally, she vibrated.

She sat comfortably sunken into the cushions of the sofa, but her legs both bounced, her left leg playing off-tempo quarter notes to the right leg’s tireless sixteenths. Independently from that, her upper body swayed side-to-side at a more leisurely pace while her right hand stirred a straw in the mai tai she held with her left. This much wiggling could only have been driven by nervousness in equal parts to eagerness.

  Without asking permission, Raf leaned over to put the straw in his mouth and steal a small sip of the sunset colored beverage before scrunching his nose at the uncanny sweetness that failed to mask the burn of alcohol.

  “Oof, that’s strong.”

  “Not strong enough!” Margie drew in her own much larger mouthful of candied liquid courage through the straw of her drink, “Raf, I’m so nervous. We’re like a garage band pretending to be Nirvana.”

  Raf recoiled with mock disdain, “We’re–what?” He held out a finger. “First of all, we don’t have a garage.” 

  “Raf-!”

  “Secondly,” he lifted another finger, “No one’s expecting Nirvana. That guy’s been dead for, like–”

  Margie threw a hand in his face to silence him, and giggles warbled her words. “You know what I mean!”

  Raf smirked against the palm of her hand before waving it out of his face. Leaning into her, he planted a firm kiss against her jaw before speaking with a quiet, certain tone into her ear, “We’re exactly what we need to be, right where we need to be.” He sat upright again before regarding her with an encouraging smile over an inquisitively lifted brow, “Trust me?”

  She pulled her knees up so that her feet perched on the edge of the couch and returned a sheepish smile to him from over the rim of her glass. She provided no obvious answer to his question–which was an answer in itself.

  He reached over to pick his half-empty bottle of water up off the coffee table, bringing it to his lips before uttering, “You’ve got more skill in your little finger than at least half the talent that has sat here in the past, I promise.”

  As he washed down the residual sweetness of the mai tai with a hearty gulp of water, he watched Tess nudge her shoulder and sign additional assurances to Margie.

  “The reality is that both you and Raf are riding on my success, and that’s ok. I’m happy to have you here.”

  He drained the last drop of water from the bottle before flinging it limply at Tess’s head. “You’re so humble. And kind.” He accented his delivery with a “mean girl” sharpness and a wrinkle-nosed sneer, but his smirk betrayed the jest.

  Tess only turned her palms up in a most demure and saintly shrug, while a quiet string of giggles bubbled steadily up from Margie.

  Outside, the din of the opening act fell quiet and then quickly picked back up again as one song transitioned into another.   Raf checked the time on his phone, “Another ten..fifteen minutes?”

  Margie threw her head back with a groan, “This is so painful. Head empty, on stage–that part’s easy! But this is the worst.”

  Standing up with a sharp, determined breath, Raf sauntered over to where Margie’s belongings had been tucked away into a small bundle in the far corner of the room. He fished her white, lensless hipster framed glasses out from within it and brought them to her. Without so much as a flinch, she let him slide the empty frames gently onto her face.

  He opened his palms as he withdrew, as if presenting a magic trick. “There. Now we can say we left Margie at home. What we have with us here today is Margie, trademarked. This is the Margie that everyone out there will meet, and none of those people will ever even know the Margie we left at home. The actions of Margie, trademarked, do not reflect the actions of Margie at home, including–but not limited to–any catastrophic failures performed on stage. I mean, it’s obvious they’re two completely different entities. After all, Margie at home doesn’t wear glasses. Everyone knows that.”

  He watched Margie place her drink down onto the coffee table before sinking back into the couch and curling her fingers around the glasses’ outer frames in a relishing gesture.

  “That actually helps.” Her self deprecating laugh carried itself on a sigh. “Thanks, Raf.” 

  He opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the door cut him off. He responded with a curt, “Yep?” before moving to answer the door properly.

  On the other side, a well dressed man met him with an amicable nod and held out a white sealed envelope. He wasn’t a member of Hi-Note’s sound crew, nor did his attire match that of the venue’s backstage staff. He certainly wasn’t a member of security. But if he was able to access this corner of the venue, it was because he was someone with the clearance to do so.

  If Raf’s bewilderment was legible on his face, the gentleman didn’t acknowledge it.

  “An esteemed guest has asked me to deliver this to you, Mr. Ephrem.”

  Raf couldn’t prevent his jaw from clenching under a pang of annoyance, but he put on his best showman’s smile. “Oh, cool, cool. Didn’t know this place offered fanmail service.” His amicable expression did a lot of heavy lifting to dull the sharp sarcasm in his tone. He had already begun tearing open the letter as he dismissed the man with a dull, “Thanks.”

  During their initial negotiations, the venue had requested to grant backstage “VIP” passes, and Raf had vehemently disallowed it. He loved his audience, but his relationship with them needed to begin when he took the stage and end the moment he stepped off it. This felt like a violation.

  The sound of the door closing obscured his bitter mumbling, “If our “esteemed guest” isn’t fuckin’ Beyoncé…”

  He pulled a folded letter out of the envelope, unfolded it, and instinctively bounced his gaze away from the note’s contents the very moment his eyes met the fine cursive lettering.

  No, what? That’s not what it is. Come on.

  Be real.

  Conscious thought requested his body to read the note, but against those desires, the hand holding the letter crushed it within a tightly clenched fist and dropped it into the bin as he passed by it.

  His mouth was dry–he was thirsty. That wasn’t good for his throat. The performance would suffer. He needed water. There was water in the mini fridge. He grabbed one of the small bottles, but as he attempted to open it, he found no strength in his fingers, and the sweat of his palms only complicated the task further. His throat was dry. He couldn’t swallow.

  His throat was dry.   The performance would suffer.

  “--You alright?”

  He turned to see Margie, her hand had been on his back but she withdrew it the moment he moved to face her. She had said something prior, but her voice struggled to be heard over the deep, warm whooshing noise that muffled his ears.

  “Yeah,” He replied, pointing to the unopened bottle of water, “I just–uh…the alcohol was strong.” 

  Margie’s brow wrinkled. “The…mai tai?”

  “It’s nothing bad, I just need, uh.” His mouth wasn’t dry anymore, and a sudden caustic ache in his jaw spurred him to abandon his efforts with the water bottle. “Gimme a sec, kay?”

  There was a skip in his vision, a blink and he found himself doubled over a sink, ejecting the contents of his stomach.

  A sink’s not the place to be doing this. 

  He was in a bathroom. The door was closed. There was a toilet. Why’d he pick the sink?

  Which bathroom was this? He felt hot. Sweaty, even. Did he pass out? No, I’m standing over a sink. I should turn the water on. He did.

 What am I doing? 

Performance.

Right.

  His throat burned.

  He needed to drink some water.

  His throat was dry.

 The performance would suffer.

[lowultima]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ..

ᴇʟʟᴀʙꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ

“Shut the fuck up, they're gonna hear us.”

“Well if you keep fucking talking- yeah, they are.”

Ellie felt herself being pulled along by the cuff of her jacket, and she tugged her wrist away slightly. “And stop touching me, Anderson.”

“Not my fault youre blind, williams” Abby muttered, stepping further and further into the trees. Ellie didn't know what time it was, but she could guess around three AM based on how long their friend group had been drinking.

An early September camping trip wasn't exactly what Ellie had in mind for fall break. She had wanted to bank up all the rest she could get before powering through the rest of her six classes this semester.

It was gonna be the best chance she had of getting her bachelors next spring by overloading her requirements…

But, Dina and Jesse had convinced her to come out to Olympia with ‘a few more people’ as they put it- and camp out for the week. Smoke some weed, drink- and eat whatever half-priced shit they could pack into their coolers- fuck around, have fun.

Ellie would have been able to survive it, at least partially enjoy the nature and pray her back will recover from sleeping in whatever Dina brought for her to sleep in, find at least a little relaxation in the situation.

That was, until the car pulled up to the trailhead- and there stood Abby Anderson with a legitimate backpackers bag, rolled up sleeping bag on top and all- standing with her arms crossed and ready for the five mile hike to their camping spot.

The thing is, they don't even hate each other. Quite the opposite, actually.

The amount of times they've ended up in each others’ beds was quite frankly attrocious for two people who ‘just wanna hook up’.

Each time, they say ‘never again.’ and wash their hands of each other until abbys pressing Ellie against her bedroom door, or Ellie is bending Abby over the sink in the bathroom of whatever frat party their friends dragged them to..

Their friend group was impeccably intertwined, and that wasn't stopping any time soon. they actually manage to get along, despite their bickering- even finding humor in each other at times.

It was more of…a feelings issue.

One that neither of them have enough balls to bring up. They're both horribly non-communicable-but only with each other. Its like all of their emotional maturity flies out the window when the question of ‘what are we?’ Comes up- though, who actually asks the question?

No one, which was kind of the point.

The tension was seeded the moment they started on that hike, leaving their cars at the trailhead and carrying everything they needed, all six of them basically shuffling- slowest in the front, fastest in the back. The two of them had been placed at opposite ends of the line, but everytime Ellie looked back to talk to Dina- the two caught each others eyes- and quickly looked away.

Setting up tents was also not anywhere near ellies expertise.

“Fuckin, poles arent- UGH!” ellie threw her metal tent poles on the ground. “Ellie stop whining- ill help you once I'm finished setting up our tent.” Dina called over as she adjusted her own metal tent poles from inside her tarp.

Abby walked up after completing her own. “Dont worry, I got it.” she said, kneeling down- and waving Ellie over. “If it falls apart, you gotta put it back together yourself.” she muttered. “See, they're labeled. A goes into B, B goes into C, and then when they make a triangle you connect D, E, and F…” she muttered, pulling the canvas over the poles. “Like…that.” she finished- turning to Ellie, who had come to kneel beside her. “you got it?” she asked, flipping her braid to her other shoulder. Ellie nodded, looking away as the sun basically radiated around her dirty blond hair.

“Uh yeah, thanks..” Ellie muttered, taking out her sleeping bag.

Don't even get Ellie started on when Abby started chopping wood for the fire. As everyone built up some rocks for a fire pit- Ellie dragged over a large stone to give at least some type of contribution, just in time to see abbys’ axe fly down to a tree stump and split a log in half- and she hated herself for how much it turned her on.

“This is so fucking stupid..” she muttered to herself as she went back to find another rock- only for her to continuously make eye contact with the woman as her arms swung down the heavy metal, muscles flexing under her pale skin- sweaty in the sunlight..

Abby wasnt spared from the torture either

smoking some pot at four pm to enjoy the afternoon with the group by the river seemed to be a relaxing pass time- while Abby typically enjoyed beer more, she wasn't afraid of watching Ellie use that expert tongue to finish off a blunt and hand it over.

Ellie had much more.. Urban talents, ones that not many respected- but Abby took a great deal in noticing. To her own suffering, Abby would watch Ellie dive into the rivers’ swimming hole in her sports’ bra and boxers- eyes trailing ellies ass from the water as she bent down to collect rocks to make info pendants later when they got home.

Abby felt like she’d witnessed some sort of gift as water rolled down ellies’ tattooed forearm, long- slender fingers flicking a flat rock to skip across the water.

Going on a hike, she watched Ellie stop on the trail multiple times to sketch plants, frogs, the occasional bird- but she also knew in that sketchbook were more than just drawings of nature, some that involved her body in poses only Ellie will ever see..

But the straw that broke the camels back?

Abby left for ten minutes to piss out in the woods. Ten minutes. If she had been at the fire, she would have stopped manny from placing a bunch of river rocks from the water into the blaze. “My boots are wet man, I saw this on life below zero once- you put hot rocks in your boots and they dry your boots out.” he chuckled. “Well hey, look at you Mr. Outdoors man..” Ellie chuckled as they sat around, drinking beer and laughing.

The logic was sound, except for the very important detail that the rocks are supposed to be from dry ground, because if they aren't when you put them in the fire, well..

Abby walked back from using the bathroom- rubbing hand sanitizer into her palms as she sat back down in her camping chair (coincidentally besides Ellie), taking a long sip of her beer as she began to talk with the others.

When she heard a high pitched squeal from the fire- she raised en eyebrow “who put wet wood on the fire? We have dry timber right here.”

“We haven't added any wood..” Nora said.

“Must be the rocks heating up, dry boots- here I come.” manny chuckled, kicking back in his camping hair.

“Wait- you didn't get the rocks from the river did you?”

“Yeah why-”

A loud pop sounded out as the river rocks began to explode. “GET DOWN!” Abby yelled as shards of hot rock flew- the stones popping and exploding one after the other.

“Agh! Fuck!” ellie yelled as a shard hit her arm, and Abby pushed her back out of her chair and down to the ground, laying on top of her as the group shielded themselves from the exploding rocks.

When the popping subsided, Abby lifted herself up “everyone okay??”, and then looked down at Ellie. “You okay? hold on- lemme see.” she said, taking her arm. “Shit- its just a burn Abs, I'm good- your back ok?” she asked, turning Abby slightly by her waist. “Yeah- just got my jacket a couple of times.” Abby muttered, fingers grazing the burn. “Put some hand sanitizer on it.” she said, the two looking into each others eyes “uh-yeah- got it.” Ellie muttered, before Abby was off tearing manny a new one.

“Manny! The fuck were you thinking?!?” Abby yelled, looking back as Ellie took the remaining rocks out of the fire and kicking the shards away, brushing her hair back in the firelight.

They made eye contact.

…fuck.

…

So, here they were, walking out into the middle of the woods, far; far away from their friends because ‘neither of them could sleep’.

They walked in (near) silence, well, as much silence as you can get when you're with Ellie. “Where the hell are you taking us anyway? You better not get us lost.” Ellie muttered under her breath as they walked out. “I think I'm the last person that would get either of us lost- els.” Abby said, turning around at the edge of a clearing.

“Seriously… is your arm okay?” she asked, taking ellies appendage again- and Ellie let out a huff of a laugh. “Its just a burn, it'll scar up in a week..” she muttered, but abbys expression didn't change.

Abbys fingers trailed down ellies forearm, and Ellies voice softened “Abs..im good..” she said, feeling her fingers caress abbys in the dark, the only lamination being the bright moon above the clearing.

“Cant leave my friends alone for five minutes.” Abby joked softly, and Ellie chuckled. “Its manny, what are y’ gonna do?” “fair point...” Abby said, before their voices went quiet again..

Abby felt the familiar pull of ellies fingers hooked on her belt loops- pulling her in- and ellies breath hitched as abbys large palm smoothed against her cheek, holding her face as the two stumbled back against a pine..

“Fuck Els..”

Ellies lips were always chapped against Abbys’. She might have been the more outdoorsy, sportsy one- but Ellie would always be more rugged looking. Abby had a clean, almost minimalistic look, it was just her...

But Ellie was messy, disheveled- in a way that made Abby wanna dig into her and see how much of a mess Ellie could make out of her.

Abby gripped ellies’ waist as her lips pressed over and over against hers, passionate and wanting.

“Missed you..” Abby muttered against her lips, before pulling at ellies’ bottom lip.

Ellies lips curled upward, almost as if the dark could hide her expression “you're so cute Abs..” Ellie said teasingly, before her lips were caught in a hot kiss- abbys tongue intruding ellies lips.

“Mhn-” ellie moaned softly as abbys tumbs stroked ellies’ v-line up and down; wanting to get a taste of everything she hadn't been able to have for a couple of days.

Their kisses were always messy, primal- needy. It was something Abby had to get used to, when they first started hooking up..but now- its all Abby wanted. That desire, the mess- the feeling of sucking on her tongue and hips on hips.

Abby suddenly felt herself behind turned, her back now against the pine tree as Ellies lips trailed down her jaw, sucking slightly into her pale skin. Abbys voice trailed out In a shaky sigh as ellie sucked a hickey behind her ear “asshole- they're gonna see that-”

“I know.” Ellie said, pushing that oh-so sensitive line from being hidden from the world- to exposing what they were for everyone to see. It was maddening, and they both towed it. Because it was risky enough- because it was fun.

Ellie pressed her knee in between Abbys legs, and Abby shuddered softly, holding Ellie tight to her body as her teeth grazed her pulse point. “Fuck…” Ellie grunted as she pulled away, looking into Abbys eyes in the moonlight. “I missed you too..”

Their hands silently explored their bodies- fingers carefully unbuttoning jeans and breaths nearly matched in the uninterrupted silence of the clearing. Water rushed in the river nearby, crickets chirped in the field- a cool September breeze made their heated bodies shiver.

Warm fingertips grazed hotter skin- ellies calloused fingers trailing up under Abbys tank top and sports bra. “Fuck…youre so warm…” Ellie muttered, pulling the fabric up and over Abbys torso, tossing her clothes to the side. Ellies kisses grew iron hot on abbys skin- the cool air brushing across abbys perking buds as her fingers buried themselves in the brunettes hair.

Ellie was drunk on the way abbys chest rose and fell with each kiss- her heels resting back on the ground now that she didn't have to reach for abbys’ neck. Her lips barely grazed her nipple- and abbys breath choked. “Ellie..” she breathed out- and ellies pupils blew.

Her lips and tongue rushed, sucking and nipping at abbys perky little tits with every push and pull of her knee In between abbys legs. Ellie swore she lost all sense of rational thought when she was held against Abbys chest- she wanted Abby to feel her. Wanted her chest to feel sensitive when she had to pretend this never happened tomorrow- wanted Abby to press her thighs together everytime the fabric shifted across her swollen skin.

Abbys head was tipped back against the tree, panting softly as she shamelessly ground back against her knee. “Fuckin hell-” Abby muttered, her head tipping back down- eyes finding ellies- staring at her. Watching, observing. She looked away- but Abby slapped her cheek lightly as her teeth pulled at her breast.

God..abby could stare at those green eyes all fucking night.

“Keep looking at me Ellie.” she stated, hand tightening in her hair. Ellies eyes fluttered as they rolled back, before looking right back at Abby again with a pathetic little whine. “Thats a good girl..” she muttered, pulling ellies head back and pressing her mouth to her other tit- watching Ellie scramble to give it just as much attention, lapping as sucking like she was hungry.

Abby let her left hand trail down, down her pearl Jam T-shirt and just under the hem- letting the pads of her fingers graze her happy trail. Lower and lower.. Ellies head pulled away from her chest. “Fuck…y’ gonna keep teasing me? thought we were past that baby..” Ellie smirked softly, before she let out a soft sigh as abbys fingers slid between her wet folds, index dragging over her cunt painstakingly slow.

“From how wet you are, feels like I've been teasing you a lot longer than I thought..” Abby muttered, and Ellie let out a huff of a laugh as Abbys other hand left her hair, and unbuttoned her jeans.

“Well..we’ll see who's fairing worse when my fingers are..inside your..” Ellie started, but her words tapered as Abby slowly kneeled in front of her

“U-uh Abs?” Ellie started nersously- watching as Abby slid down her jeans and boxers- meeting her eyes as the fabric dropped to her ankles- leaving her puffy clit bare. Ellie covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “Abs-Abby-” Ellie whispered, before she gasped, hand grasping into abbys scalp.

Abbys tongue licked a long, hot stripe up ellies wet pussy- hands holding the outside of her thighs to keep her steady.

Abby couldn't care less if Ellie messed up her braid- let her hair down- left impressions in her skull from gripping it so hard-

all she could think was Ellie Ellie Ellie.

Nose buried in her brown curls as her tongue dug deeper to taste that slick that drove her fucking mad. The smell of her sacarine sweat and pinesmoke and Ellie just flooded her senses- took her over- made her loose her own head.

Abby, always cool and collected and knowledgable and knowing what to do.

Abby, that always led- constantly leading.

Abby, the responsible one.

Abby, that always had to think too hard.

But then she was like this, and she didn't have to think at all. Ellie didn't need Abby to think- didn't need Abby to lead. Ellie just wanted Abby, pure- unadulterated Abby.

“Oh god-” Ellie whispered softly, hips bucking against her mouth- legs already threatening to buckle. Abby nearly smiled, letting her thumb caress her thigh to comfort her. Abbys tongue circled her clit, lips pursing and sucking deeply into her cute little button. Her hand slowly trailed up, collecting ellies’ dripping juices on her fingers, before slowly pressing inside of her.

“Oh fuck..your-fuck!” Ellies hole fluttered around abbys fingers- tightening around the digits as Abby slowly started to thrust them in and out, curling right where Ellie needed them.

Abbys hair started unraveling from its braid as Ellie pulled her hair harder- eyes screwed shut in that cute way Abby knows is displaying her trouble with keeping it together. Abby curled her fingers hard as she sucked her clit firm. Ellie was breathing deeply- nearly gasping.

“Abby-i-i can't-” Ellie whimpered- and Abby pulled away, kissing her pubic area. “You can. A little longer, els..” Abby whispered, before sucking deep into her clit to hear Ellie cry out. Abby was practically holding her up now- trying her best to lap her tongue over and over just the way she learned Ellie liked- feeling her grip in her hair tighten and loosen everytime Abby pulled her fingers out, only to thrust them back in again.

“Abby, I'm close- I'm so fucking close-” Ellie said, voice begging, her husky voice cracking slightly as Abby picked up the pace.

ellies’ head tipped up, the moon casting a shadow on her face as her eyes rolled back. “Oh-oh my god- fuck..fuck! Abby!”

She gasped out, knees buckling and falling against Abby, who was already on one knee to catch her and hold her close as Ellie came; fingers thrusting lazily inside her until her cunt stopped pulsing.

“Okay-thats it..you did good els, so fucking good..” Abby whispered, kissing her temple as Ellie came down in her arms. Ellie let out a shaky sigh, and Abby laughed- gentle and sweet as she realized Ellie was still holding onto her. She leaned back against the pine, holding Ellie against her chest.

Unbothered, badass Ellie Williams..

Sometimes, Abby looked at Ellie in her element- in other environments- around other people, and sometimes she’d be confused. She'd wonder how this person- who knew how to pack a bowl, play bass in a garage band, and punch a neonazi during a pride parade could also be the same person that was in her lap, right now.

Ellie, That begged (albeit terribly) for her to sit on her face, to be in damn tears when she got to ahead of herself and slapped Abbys cheek during a rough hookup (Even though Abby really did like it- but Ellie didn’t need to know that)-

The Ellie Williams that whispered the best compliments and praises that abby had ever heard in those small periods of silence after sex, the ones that truly made both of their hearts beat the loudest..

Ellie was just..so layered, so complicated, so chaotic and so fucking imperfectly perfect.

Abby watched as Ellie’s breathing calmed, before her eyes opened again- her raspy, flirty tone returning. “You look pretty with your hair down..” she muttered, fingers brushing through it.

Abby smiled softly, leaning into her palm unintentionally. “Thanks…” she said, her eyes slowly trailing up as Ellie kicked her loose jeans and boxers off- converse still on despite her naked bottom half.

When Ellie turned back, her eyes met Abbys- watching blue suddenly look away. “Abs..” Ellie whispered, waiting for Abby’s eyes to look into hers again.

“I…” Abby started, but her eyes finally found green again. The both of them looked into each others eyes..before Ellie leaned in, and pressed a slow- soft kiss to her lips..

When she pulled away, Abby suddenly gripped onto Ellie’s shirt- and pulled her back in…but..her kisses continued to be tender, unhurried…

Ellie cupped her face, thumbs smoothing over Abby’s flushed cheeks as they sighed- breathing deep, touches loving..

They both knew that once this was over, it’d start all over again. They knew there wasn’t really any great risk- any horrible end if they both came out with their feelings. But neither of them could admit it, neither of them could admit the cold hard truth that neither of them were sleeping-nor wanting- of anyone else.

All Abby could think about during those late nights in her bed was how Ellie was the only one that could fit the space..make those days and nights warm..

and All Ellie could picture was how nice it would be- to have mid-morning coffee, lazily dancing to R&B in what Ellie could imagine was their shared kitchen. Maybe one day, a little cabin in Montana or Colorado- maybe a life after college. Maybe…

Just, maybe…

They so desperately loved and longed for each other- but neither of them could take the jump, make the push-

Because what if push came to shove?

What if it didn’t work out?

What Abby destroyed something good for asking too much?

And what if Ellie wasn’t what abby wanted, what if she left? Left her alone?

she couldn’t be left alone again..

“Ellie..” Abby whispered, leaning forward to meet her lips when Ellie pulled away for merely a second, only for the two of them to fall back into the grass.

“Abby-oof!” Ellie sounded out as her back hit the ground, looking up at her.. the night stars, the moonlight against her blue eyes- that look on her face as her hair fell past her shoulders.

“Fuck..you’re beautiful…” Ellie whispered, letting the words float in silence- because she simply couldn’t let this one go. She couldn’t possibly not say it- knowing how absolutely breathtaking she was right now.

Ellie could only think that she could never have this woman, not truly..but she had her tonight- and she could live with it, she could live with it if Abby kept looking at her like that.

Like Abby was Ellie’s…and Ellie was Abby’s.

Ellie flipped Abby over, looking over her as her hair spilled out like a halo onto the grass. Abby could hardly speak- no matter how much she didn’t want to admit it to herself.

“Can I..” Ellie asked softly, directing her eyes down to Abby’s hiking pants- and Abby nodded, watching as Ellie slowly tugged down her pants, biting her lip as she saw Abby’s sage green boy shorts.

“You..kept the ones I bought ya…”

“Yeah..they’re uh- soft.” Abby stated, glancing away - trying to pretend as if they weren’t her favorite pair.

Ellie smiled, not that usual cocky smile she always had though..it was soft, more genuinely happy.

Ellie slowly traced the bump in her panties- and abby shivered as Ellie’s other hand removed the pants over her hiking boots. She carefully spread her legs, fingers ghosting over the hem of that soft green fabric.

“Just- just take em off Ellie..” Abby whispered, her clit basically aching for stimulation. “You’re starting to sound desperate…I finally crack you?” Ellie asked, husky voice teasing. Abby rolled her eyes with a smile. “I think you’re forgetting who came first..” she said, and Ellie paused. “Damn..got me there.” She smiled, pulling down her panties and tossing them elsewhere.

Abby could swallow the tension between them, looking up at her. Abby always had such a neutral expression- almost an angry pout. Ellie used to call it her ‘resting bitch face’- which she very much so had- but she stopped using the term.

Ellie wasn’t always the most… socially aware person- but despite what people think, she has amazing attention to detail. When she notices Abby would simply look away instead of giving her usual quips right back, she looked away.

Ellie stopped using it immediately, and Abby could tell. Those gentle grazes past her- a firm but flighty grip on the hip was enough of a ‘sorry’ to make Abby smile. Because Ellie knew-Ellie always knew.

Ellie looked down, and slowly spread her legs a little firmer- her core aching as she looked down to her fully naked body..Ellie stripped off her Pearl Jam shirt, leaving her in her sports bra. “Take that off-“abby barely got out- and Ellie obeyed. Obeyed like a god damn dog..

…

So here they were, fully naked, out in the open- the cool wind blowing by as the two of them just looked between them. They shivered a little, Ellie letting out a shaky breath. Her clit was aching for her.

..Abby wasn’t much better.

She looked over Ellie’s body, eyes trailing over toned muscles- how her hands found place on her hips. Even Abby knew that Ellie was frozen like a deer in the headlights…and Abby truly wasn’t much better. She was soaked, cunt begging for some attention as Ellie’s was.

“Ellie…” Abby whispered, eyes glassy and lips swollen. It was like Ellie snapped right back to reality, and her eyes ran down her body, those pretty tits, toned abs- a little bit of fat on her stomach that Ellie could just drool over…and her large clit- literally pulsing.

She could stroke it with two fingers if she wanted..and she’s done it before- under a diner table after a heated argument about the way Ellie drove.

“It’s literally a switch, Williams- using a turn signal to go into a neighborhood is literally what the-the turn..the turn signal w-was meant..oh..sh-it..”Abby’s voice trembled off as Ellie stroked her clit slow and hard under the table.

“I use my turn signal..but there was so one coming at that moment…plus, I think incoming traffic isnt the main thing I’m focused on cumming right now..” she muttered, other hand carrying a fork of pancakes to Abby’s mouth.

Ellie bit her lip at the thought as her fingers slowly teased her clit. “Fuck- Ellie, please- I need…” abby whispered, large hands gripping into the fat of Ellie’s hips.. “want me against you abs..?” Ellie asked, to which abby nodded furiously. Abby never begged- but this tension, this need, this hold-off.

“If I don’t feel your fucking cunt against mine in five seconds I’m gonna pin you down and fuck you myself.” Abby grunted, to which Ellie threaded her legs over and under hers, and tipped her head forward- letting her saliva drip onto Abby’s waiting clit.

“Ellie-“

“Abby..” Ellie whispered gently, before sitting forward, and letting out a deep sigh as they pressed against each other, Abby bucking immediately into her wet warmth. “Hold on baby, lemme do this for you..” Ellie muttered, on hand on her hip, the other threading into Abby’s.

The roll of her hips was agonizing, the slick sounds of their combined bodies almost teasing in Ellie’s slow movements. Abby moaned out loudly for her- and Ellie’s eyes widdened, before she picked up the pace.

“Fuck you feel so damn good abs…” Ellie panted as their hips pulled back and rammed back into each other- panting hard, needing more. Abby gripped and moved Ellie’s hips with that stupid super-human strength that turned Ellie on so fucking much.

“You’re so wet..” Abby whispered- head tipping back against the grass. “Harder- harder.” Abby demanded breathily- feeling her clit graze Ellie’s entrance. “Fuck!” She choked- her eyes already welling with tears.

“I wanna be inside you so bad..” Abby whispered, nearly in tears as she bucked up- clit tribbing against Ellie’s with delicious friction. She haddnt even realized she said it, until Ellie moved her body upwards- and sat on her clit.

It was an awkward set up, but Abby practically lifted Ellie up with her hip thrusts- expertly practiced in the gym. “Holy shit-“ Ellie gasped, leg wrapping around hers as they continued to grind- Ellie found solace in Abby’s semi-smooth pubic area, rutting against it like a bitch in heat…cuz she kind of was.

“Fuck!” Abby groaned, her clit shallow in Ellie’s warm entrance, but the slight feeling of her cunt pulsing was taking her down mentally- pathetically rutting up into Ellie, grinding and fucking into her like she never would again.

“Fuck- you’re fucking perfect els- you’re fucking perfect-“ Abby gasped- and Ellie looked down at her expressions. “Come on abs, that’s fucking right- good fucking girl-“ Ellie grunted, feeling that familiar bloom in her stomach. “Fuck me like you mean it baby- fuck me- like- shit, oh-oh shit!” Ellie whispered.

Abby’s whines and moans grew louder with each passing second. Thank fuck they moved so far out. “Ellie..Ellie- I’m-“ Abby moaned, looking up at Ellie’s fucked out expression.

“Kiss me els, fucking kiss me-“ Abby didn’t have to wait a second, Ellie’s lips messily colliding with hers as their breathing quickened.

Abby held onto Ellie’s hand, fingernails gripping into her skin as her orgasm hit her- the blinding feeling of it making her back arch off the ground with a gutteral, almost primal moan as she squirted against Ellie’s body. An act that Ellie shamelessly got off to.

“That’s it, give it to me Abby- FUCK!” She screamed, cumming on her clit as she reached her peak, calling her name, and grinding on her a few more times as Abby’s wet release made their slowing grinds slicker.

Ellie rolled off of Abby, the both of them collapsing into the grass as their heavy pants practically echoed between them. Ellie looked up to the star-lit sky- and back to Abby…

Abby felt a touch against her pinky finger, Ellie’s finger beside hers. Touching…

Reaching out.

Abby clasped their hands together, and her head turned towards Ellie’s

The two silently looked between each other, almost searching for the answers on their faces- hoping they’d find it without the trouble and torture of words.

Ellie’s heart beat even faster, eyes hopeful- body and mind wanting.

Abbys other hand reached out as her body turned to her side, and she cupped Ellies’ cheek.

“No one…makes me feel the way you do…you know that, right?” She whispered, a seamless confession- towing on the line- the line they so horribly drew themselves.

Ellie leaned into it, and she let out a soft huff of a laugh as a tear gathered in the corner of her eye. “If only you’d let me..” she said..

horrifically vague as always.

[rocicrew]

There was a smart thing to do. She knew it. A wiser woman would have cried, begged forgiveness. That it would be insincere was the point. It was a mistake to give Marco anything real. Better to be thought weak. Better to be underestimated and misunderstood. She knew that, but she couldn't do it. When she tried, something deep within her pushed back. Maybe if she pretended to be weak, it was too possible that it would become true. Maybe she was pretending to be strong.

[writingonesdreams]

I can see lots of Badger traits in her, yes, but maybe it could be more of a case for a Badger model?

Her arc doesn't seem to be loyalty vs betrayal (like a Badger would have) but truth vs lies. Her thematic arc, her big final moments, is revealing her patterns for everyone to see and accepting them, proudly, not belonging to a group (though they do reconnect because of it).

I'm basing this a lot on the lyrics of the "This is what it sounds like" song. It's very lion centered song about the truth, showing your jagged edges, accepting scars, showing what you voice sounds like - not about community or tradition or doing the best for someone else. It's about accepting your true flawed self and even connecting with others because of it.

Plus Authoritarian badger knows whats best for everyone/the other people. Rumi says "I can still fix this" she isn't telling them to fix it or do what she says.

Reading this I was thinking that Rumi might very well be modelling badger. Do it for the community, it's us vs them, don't show scars, don't put yourself first, be the strong one. But what she suffers from is not being able to tell the truth - she wants to, she asks Celine she wants to tell Zoey and Mira. She suffers for the hiding, not the fear of not being accepted (though of course she wants their acceptance, but that strikes me as universal human desire more than something specific to a type).

She says her voice healed because Jinu could see her and she could be herself. Jinu also wants acceptance - but he is convinced he doesn't deserve it, that he won't be accepted, that he lies to Rumi to gain her sympathy and only reveals the truth to prove to her there is no winning.

Another reason for me is that yes, she suffers when she things she lost the girls and Jinu - but she isn't completely destroyed. A Badger rejected by their community/people would break down and turn to the darkness. For me it read like Rumi was able to recover from that darkest lowest moment, because in reality she always wanted to be able to reveal her patterns to everyone. Truth was more important to her than the community and keeping it intact. That’s Lion morality: the inner compass overrides social cohesion.

Like a Badger, invisible or immature or even authorian, would be more concerned with the community? If keeping the peace and everyone happy and doing her role would be enough for Rumi, she wouldn't suffer from not being able to reveal the truth. She wouldn't suffer from losing herself to the role of perfect, fearless hunter with no flaws. Her voice wouldn't be failing for doing the best for everyone else, but not for herself (singing lies in the Golden, feelings that she wished for but weren't actually true like "Now I'm shining like I'm born to be").

She "couldn't hit the notes" because she was hiding her real self and she was healing, because Jinu saw her dark side and that was enough, even though it made her feel better and not the community. Her "My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like" isn't a Badger returning to the group. That’s a Lion burning off the shame and choosing truth over safety.

So maybe lion primary modelling badger primary with the community rules and roles, but suffers under it and discards it in crisis?

Kpop Demon Hunters - Sortinghatchats

Based in @sortinghatchats system and on posts from @wisteria-lodge. Haven't done this in a while, so feel free to correct or argue for other sortings. Spoilers ahead!

Rumi is the leader. Although each of the girls has a strong suit, Mira with the choreography and Zoey with the lyrics, Rumi guides them with her drive, her voice, her willpower. Very leaderly. She is the one who decides to publish the new single, she is so hard-working and obsessed about the mission to make the Honmoon gold she cuts their break short and hurts her voice.

At her most desperate and ashamed, when her patterns grow on stage, she keeps talking about the mission and how to fix it and do her duty. Not for the world, not for the fans, not for Zoey and Mira (though she loves them). Rumi years to tell the truth about her half-demon heritage and her patterns - if she was a loyalist, wouldn't she yearn for their acceptance? But Rumi believes she will get it, she just wants to be able to be real. Lion primary.

Rumi also snaps out from the demon fog by reciting the demon hunter oath ("we kill demons with our song") and shines the brightest against the demons when she reveals her patterns ("my voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like").

Mira and Zoey first turn away from her because she lied to them, not because of the patterns she lied about (once Rumi sings about getting rid of the lies, what it cost her and how she regrets not believing her friends, they immediately snap out of the demon trance and connect with her song). Zoey says they don't know how to trust her, when they both point their weapons at them. This reads very loyalist from both girls, not like a decision based on principle of hating demons.

Rumi also jumps at problems. Attacks demons, threats and Jinu head on. He wants to talk. She wants to fight. How to get closer to solving the apocalypse? Put out the song, make concernts, hurl in like a hurricane. Lion secondary.

Mira is a very clear lion secondary too. She is blunt, aggressive, straightforward, voices her doubts. Likes to be scary, even when she gets self-conscious about it afterwards. Love her verse in Golden of "called a problem child, caused I got too wild, now that's how I'm getting paid". She isn't ashamed of who she is, but she fears people won't love or accept her.

Her worst shame and fear is not having a family - Zoey and Rumi as her family after being rejected by her parents - so when it turns out Rumi lied, Mira's world falls apart. Mira is also very protective of Rumi and quick to anger, when the fans are threatened (though all three are). This actually reads very loyalist to me. She wants to connect, to belong, to have her unit and safe place. Snake or badger primary.

Zoey is very badgery. She wants to please, she overcorrects, she is too much and not enough. Her arc in the Golden song is about being torn between two places, US and Korea. Badger primary loyalty conflict. Zoey also has 6 notebooks on possible new songs about hating demons, is quick to adjust the lyrics.

When Rumi rejects the Takedown song as being too hateful (and too personal to her, when her idea about demons not being all bad is challenged by Jinu), Rumi and Zoey don't understand, but Zoey agrees, cause the song isn't connecting the three of them, so how could it connect to the fans?

This hard work and the effort to please and take care and avoid conflict (Mira and Rumi are both more confrontative) reads badger secondary to me.

Jinu is a smooth-talker. A charming manipulator driven by guilt and self-loathing. He comes up with the sneaky plan to manipulate the crowd. Gwima himself says Jinu has always done things only for his own personal gain for 400 years. Jinu betrayed his family for a luxury life and became a demon, though he was hunted by leaving them to die without it.

Jinu reads like a snake primary to me, who has betrayed his people and hates himself since. He is willing to do anything now to stop the memory of hurting them replaying in his head, to stop Gwima's voice. His whole arc hinges on betrayal, guilt, protecting his own skin vs. trying to atone — all classic Burnt Snake themes.

And yet, while hating his old betrayal and seducing to survive, he still craves connection and longs to trust Rumi and take her offer to fight against Gwima together.

Jinu is too ashamed to tell Rumi the full truth until the very end. Though he longs for her understanding, he doesn't believe he deserves it — or her help. Deep down, he has never forgiven himself for what he did, and he doesn’t believe he can be saved. So he hides behind half-truths and carefully edited stories, reaching for connection while keeping the ugliest parts of himself buried.

When Rumi finally opens up to him — sharing her most painful fears and confessions — Jinu uses them. Not out of malice, but because he’s desperate and lost. He weaponizes their connection to trigger her transformation on stage, exposing her patterns to the world. And even as he does it, he’s crying. Rumi screams, “What we had was real!” — and it was. But he betrays her anyway, because he’s too burnt and bitter to believe in anything anymore, especially not himself.

And yet, it’s Rumi’s strength — her refusal to give in, her insistence on truth and light — that breaks through to him. When she stands tall in her truth, unafraid, it unburns something in him. For the first time in centuries, he sees a way out. And in the end, it’s that spark — that belief — that allows Jinu to join the fight with her.

Tbh I love this arc. This is how you do romance with a lion protagonist. While Jinu gave Rumi a glimpse of what she yearned for most — how it might feel to be fully herself with someone else — it wasn’t their connection that saved her. Rumi saved herself. With nothing but her willpower, her voice, and her belief in the truth, she broke free. And in saving herself, she saved them both. Her strength reached him when nothing else could.

Rumi changes the desperate reality, "frees his soul", unburning him in the end enough for him to find redemption and freedom.

Jinu's methods is to charm. He charms Rumi, the crowds, he dances, he sings, he has the right words and the right lyrics, knows how to use his looks and the looks of the demons. His voice is his weapon, his insight and manipulation so strong he turns the tides for the demons against the hunters. And he enjoys it. Rumi hunting him down with her sword is just fun evading for him.

Double snake.

We don't get to see that much about Celine as the previous huntress, but we know she talked Rumi out of telling Mira and Zoey the truth. She installed the shame in her, even if she raised Rumi after her mother died. When Rumi confronts her ("Why couldn't you love me? All of me?")

Celine can't look her in the eye and says raising and loving Rumi went against everything she was taught to believe as a hunter. Seems like a bird with a set system of demons=bad, having to integrate with the system promise to a friend=have to raise Rumi even though I hate it. And she failed. She couldn't figure out in herself, she just kept lying and lying, making Rumi lie and hide her patterns and fight for a dishonest Hanmoon. Until Rumi realizes this Hanmoon has to fall for a healthier and stronger one to be built.

Celine's failure is moral rigidity — choosing the rules over her love for Rumi.

All in all, a beautiful story about fandom, fame, and the power of art — how it connects us and exposes the best and the worst in us. About the price of truth, the weight of shame, and the healing that comes from being seen — not despite who you are, but because of it.

Rumi - lion/lion

Mira - badger/lion

Zoey - badger/badger

Jinu - snake/snake

Celine - bird/bird

[littlestpersimmon]

Hello everyone, I am making another one of these posts in case anyone would like to buy a print from me, or subscribe to my patreon, or just send in a tip. My whole life has recently been thrown in a loop. The kind of situation where it's like. "it only takes one medical emergency."

I spent my birthday at the hospital. Some of the darkest days of my life. Ti-rads 4 giant goiter that needed to be removed, awake intubation. Blessedly, my biopsy was benign, and I don't remember anything from the surgery. anesthesiologists said my airways almost collapsed. In some medical debt. But I am so happy I am alive. On a battalion of meds. I only just now started being able to move around as normal. I need all the help I can get from community. I had no income the two months I was sick. My mother is unable to move independently. My father has kidney failure, and my sister is pretty much my kid. She is autistic with a very low frustration threshold. I am the only person in my family who works, and I have three jobs, but all of which are unstable. I need to take thyroid h*rm*ne replacement for the rest of my life as maintenance medicine; as all of the funds I received from my gofundme was poured into surgeon fees. I'm penniless with a calcium deficiency, legit nothing to eat with a family of four to take care of ): please help me recover, help me buy calcium supplements and my thyroid maintenance medicine as I am essentially someone with hypothyroidism, and meds to treat my diabetes (sitaglipin and metformin). I only have around 6 days left of medicine before I run out. I am so grateful to still be alive, and I owe it all to you guys, and I am hoping everyone can still be generous to help me rebuild what is my new life as someone disabled with no support system irl. Thank you so so much.

I have around *412*!! Exclusive drawings on patreon, it's only a dollar a month.

I have plenty of goodies on my inprnt as well, it's 10% off rn

Inprnt takes 15 days to process payment and 15 days to release money, and I get paid by patreon at the end of the month. If you'd like to directly send me tips, If you've ever liked my thoughts, book recs or art, everything you send here either goes to my teet repair which is now emptied because of my thyroid surgery, or my maintenance meds. Thank you so so much;

Direct tipping jar:

[ssahotchnerr]

Begging and pleading for reader hosting a dinner for the team since they just finished a rough case. No one knows her and Hotch are together, but start getting suspicious when he just?? Knows where everything is in the apartment?? Like he’s been there before??

right at home

i loveee a classic the-team-is-finding-out 🤭 cw; fem bau!reader, established relationship, mentions of food and drinking, fluff <3 wc; 1k

Sometimes, a little team bonding was the only thing needed to recover from a tough week.

After a brutal case that left everyone with a bad taste in their mouth, you jumped at the opportunity to host a gathering at your apartment. It was clear no one wanted to go home just yet; the darkness of the case hung over your heads and made the idea of being alone so soon unbearably daunting.

It wasn't anything extravagant, coming straight from the jet; ordering delivery from a local cafe - a slight, healthier alternative to  the usual takeout consumed on cases. Forgoing formal seating at your kitchen table and instead crowding on the carpet around your coffee table, a movie playing in the background, offered a casual and comfy atmosphere.

Sitting next to Aaron, you wished you could lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe out some of the weight clinging to your ribs. You were glad the team was comforted by being together, but all you needed was Aaron. Only him and then you would be able to put this case in the past.

Plus, it's been a few days since you’d been physically affectionate. Long days in the precinct and out in the field made finding a private moment impossible, and with the team unaware of your relationship, it was impractical to do so much as hold his hand without being behind a closed door.

Little did they know, his overnight bag lay discreetly in your bedroom.

As if he could hear your thoughts, his eyes found yours, a gentleness to them as he silently checked in. Your own eyes briefly softened, relaying that you were fine.

"I'm so happy you all made it home to me unharmed and all in one piece." Penelope commented, her eyes flashing with relief. "Thank good gracious that's over."

"You and us both baby girl," Derek answered, dipping a veggie in some dressing. But as condiments with a thin consistency often did, it dripped off his piece of celery and onto the carpet before he could bring it to his mouth.

He grimaced, an apology in his eyes as they shot to yours. "Shit, I'm sorry mamas."

You waved it off, bringing your knees up to your chest and hugging them. "No worries. Nothing a bit of carpet cleaner can't fix."

"I got it." Aaron didn't hesitate, scrambling up and heading to your hall closet.

The quiet hum of conversation continued on. But after a moment, JJ’s expression shifted; a flash of confusion appearing so abruptly, it was impossible to miss.

How did Hotch know where you kept your cleaning supplies?

"JJ?" Emily asked, her wine glass pausing at her lips. "Something wrong?"

"No." She tentatively shook her head, but her eyes stayed on you, searching your face as if trying to read the things you weren’t saying.

And you weren't saying much. Oblivious to JJ's stare, you weren't acting out of the ordinary at all - taking a sip of your drink, eyes flickering back and forth amongst the conversation. But as Aaron re-entered the room, your face lit up the smallest amount. He handed the carpet scrubber to Morgan, and reclaimed his spot next to you.

You looked relaxed, happy.

Aaron did as well. Too relaxed and too happy, as if he felt at home.

JJ did, however, nudge Emily with an elbow. One that read: start paying attention.

"Morgan, make sure you-"

"I know how to clean a carpet, Hotch." Derek bantered quickly, causing a smile to tug on the ends of Aaron's lips, cheekily looking in your direction as a laugh escaped you. Satisfaction pulled onto his face.

Emily's eyebrows rose. Oh.

The next instance that brought questioning, you all had congregated to the kitchen - another round of drinks for some. As Emily distributed the wine, Aaron took it upon himself to help you rinse off dishes and put them away. Handling it in advance, and saving the two of you time later.

As far as the rest of the team was aware, this was the first time you’d had any of them over. Usually, everybody would meet at Dave's house (mansion, he would correct) or eat out at one of the many establishments populating DC.

But Aaron acted with practiced ease. He didn't ask you where something belonged, no lost expressions filled his face as he tried to determine where something maybe belonged. He just knew.

Spencer's eyes followed him, weighing all the variables. Sure, your dishes were in the closest cupboard to your sink; logically that made sense. Rather convenient, a quick and easy unload, especially given at your height. Was it common sense, or prior knowledge?

But what did he know? Genius or not, he’d never been good at reading subtle cues like those.

Aaron's hand even brushed the small of your back as he passed - something that could've easily been dismissed as a casual, friendly gesture - the kind people make when squeezing by. But there was a quiet familiarity to it, a natural ease, as if he'd done it countless times before.

-

"Are you heading out too?" Dave asked Aaron, his eyes narrowing at him in suspicion. It had gotten late, and everyone had begun streaming out - grabbing coats and tossing goodbyes left and right.

Meanwhile, Aaron lingered quietly in the background, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wall with his arms loosely folded. There was no urgency in his posture - just a calm stillness, as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere in particular to be.

"Why wouldn't I?" Aaron feigned confusion, suddenly debating putting his shoes on to make it more believable.

But he was soon distracted by you - giggling wildly as Penelope refused to release you from her tipsy embrace. Your laughter echoed through the room, unbothered and bright, as JJ - her ride home - attempted to unlatch her from you. Aaron's lips lifted in an almost-there smile.

"Mhm." That answered that. Dave smirked, a wise and knowing glint in his eyes. "Hope you two have a good night."

[ohhowjooniewept]

friendship group jungkook x y/n

fluff, angst, filthy smut

10k<

——

having a big friendship group was something that most people couldn’t understand. the dynamics between each and every person were important, like a well oiled machine that churned out a mixture of jokes and joy.

you had been friends with namjoon and yoongi for years, meeting taehyung, yejin and jin in your first year of university. yoongi introduced hoseok, who in turn introduced jimin, who of course, introduced jungkook.

you were incredibly close to them all, with the exception of the bambi eyed boy, who for some reason, you just couldn’t crack. it wasn’t that you didn’t get along, on the contrary - you were the most alike and he was always extremely kind towards you. it had been years and years since you first met, and you were able to have small conversations but there was an air of tension that followed you both that neither of you understood. well, you pretended not to anyway.

it was a secret to no one, except jungkook, that you were head over heels in love with him. yoongi would groan every time he’d see the starry look in your eyes once the conversation shifted towards the younger man, with yejin and jimin giggling like their lives depended on it.

“you should just get married and leave the rest of us to finally recover from your rambles.” he grumbled, once, laid out on your sofa with biscuit crumbs on his chest.

you rolled your eyes at him, frowning. “shut up yoongi, that would require him to actually like me back.”

he groaned so loudly that you found yourself grabbing the nearest pillow and plowing it into his face. “god, you’re both such idiots.” he muttered with a shake of his head.

———

jungkook had an aura around him that most described as electrifying. he knew he could walk into any room and make a friend, or have eyes stay on him for the duration of the night - he knew he had presence and it was something he enjoyed.

one thing he didn’t know, however, was how to tell the girl he had been in love with for multiple years, his feelings. add the fact that she was also in his friendship group, he knew he was utterly hopeless.

years of knowing and seeing one another weekly, but he still struggled to hold a 10 minute conversation between you both. between stuttering words and clenched jaws - he could speak to everyone else in the room as though it was a god given talent, but you? for you, he was hopeless.

every girlfriend, every fling and every message in his inbox was a way to rid himself of you, but you plagued his thoughts and every inch of his desires.

———

“right, why are you saying this to me again?” jin questioned as he cooked.

the entire group were at namjoon’s house to celebrate his new promotion, with bottles of wine sitting in the fridge and laughter heartily coming from the living room.

“jin, please.” jungkook groaned, leaning on the counter beside him. “yoongi won’t listen to me anymore. says i talk too much.

jin looked straight at him. “you do.”

“what? this is the first time i’m opening up about this to you.”

jin looked over again, more pointed. “first time this week.”

jungkook groaned once more, overgrown pout on his face as he rubbed over his eyes.

“listen.” jin began. “you can walk, or in your case run, in circles all you want. why can’t you just be honest with her, tell her how you feel?”

“i can’t even have a conversation with her without feeling like i’m going to pass out.”

yejin walked into the kitchen, hair messy and lipstick smudged from the wine she had been drinking. her eyes fell on the pout on jungkook’s face before giggling.

“let me guess, yoongi won’t let you confess to him anymore, now you’re terrorising jin?”

“bingo.” the older man grinned.

jungkook frowned. “is this just a running gag, now?”

“hard to feel sorry for you when you’re the reason for your own problems, kook.” yejin slid next to jin, moaning over the scent of multiple little dishes. “i mean, have you tried asking her out? even platonically? have you guys ever purposefully been alone with each other?”

jungkook’s frown deepened, he hated being friends with intellectuals. stupid yejin, stupid namjoon, jin and yoongi. the rest weren’t to be trusted with this knowledge; they’d blab to you in a heartbeat. little did you know, you had taken them for yourself. they were yours informants, sworn to secrecy.

“well, i guess not but…i don’t think she’d be entirely comfortable with just me.” he confessed. “she gets shy and quiet when i speak to her. she doesn’t laugh or joke the same as when she’s with all of us.”

the two looked over at the tall boy, eyes brows furrowed. they then turned to look at one another, both shaking their head. “god, why did you curse us with idiots for friends.” yejin grumbled, allowing jin to feed her ahead of everyone.

“you guys are mean.” jungkook grumbled. “at least yoongi pretends to be nice at first.”

with a roll of jin’s eyes, he handed him a few plates before shoo’ing him away, yejin following with her hands full. in the living room, you were stood by the tv, glass in hand, giggling away as you watched yoongi and taehyung battle it out on mario cart. the former was grunting and yelling, uncharacteristically, whilst the latter grinned wide as he won another round.

“you’re getting old.” tae smirked.

yoongi gave him a glare, before standing up to help yejin put her plates down. “you don’t get hit enough for my liking.”

the wine was beginning to make your brain hazy, and you felt slightly tipsy. it was no secret that you were the lightweight of the group, which was why you were on a strict one glass policy whenever you were with your group.

the living room table was set, adorned with finger food and a bowl of larger dishes, everyone tucking in. jungkook took a seat on the coach on the left, leaving a space beside him before his eyes flickered up to you, hovering over the table behind hobi, waiting to be given a plate. his eyes stayed trained to your face, a reddish flush evident on your cheeks that made his heart beat painfully. fuck, you were so pretty.

“okay. this weekend, what are we doing?” yejin clapped, as you began filling your plate. “you know i love pigging out with you guys, but we should celebrate joonie properly. you’ve really been waiting for this for so long.”

the dimpled boy grinned, blushing slightly. “i’m happy to do whatever, this is enough for me.”

“boring.” jimin groaned, shaking his head. “we need to go out.”

your eyes brushed over the seating arrangement, noticing the only free spot was between yejin and jungkook, the latter already staring up at you with too large eyes and parted lips. you wanted to scream, the little girl in you clawing her way through your body at the thought of sitting next to your crush.

with a tinge in your cheeks, you made your way over, wobbling slightly as you began to sit down. jungkook’s reflexes were fast, one hand on your thigh and the other taking control of your wine, letting you sit down comfortably.

his touch didn’t register with your brain immediately, but once you sat down and looked, noticing his hand remaining on your thigh whilst he looked up to join in on the conversation with the others, your brain began to short circuit. he was touching you. his hand. on your thigh. touching.

you had never noticed how big his hands were until now, your eyes flickering over every inch and knuckle, core clenching and mouth watering. you wanted him in a way that was neither healthy nor acceptable, but right now, who could blame you?

jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. his heart was beating so loudly, he swore he could feel it in his throat. he hadn’t even thought before touching you, it felt like second nature and once his hand found home on your thigh, he simply couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

you both sat, tense and head swirling, his hand firmly where it belonged.

“what do you think y/n, you down?” yejin murmured next to her, bumping her shoulder.

“down..” you cleared your throat, fixing your position. “down for what, sorry?”

her eyes flickered down, before meeting your gaze with an all knowing smirk. “the new club downtown on saturday.”

“isn’t it kinda expensive? i hear the drinks are pricey.” you cringed.

jimin scoffed. “with a face like yours, you won’t be spending a penny, don’t you worry.”

you exchanged giggles, the group going back to exchanging conversations as you all drank. the wine was getting to you, so much so, you hardly noticed jungkook’s hand flexing on your thigh, gripping tighter and higher.

——

saturday had finally come and you went all out. everyone was dressed nicely, excited to go christen a new club, the electricity palpable and running through you. you knew you looked good tonight, you had gone the extra mile - sleek hair and dress both tight and perhaps too short. your heels made your legs look longer than usual and your makeup sultry - you had one single goal tonight. jungkook.

you were sick of this cat and mouse game. you liked him. maybe a lot more than like, but regardless, you were going to get a few shots in you, tell him how you feel whilst you felt confident, and then get black out drunk so you wouldn’t remember it tomorrow. solid plan.

unfortunately, said plan meant nothing once your eyes fell on him.

broad shoulders and piercings catching the light of the club, drink in hand as his t shirt stretched across his chest. every plan, thought and idea fluttered away from your head, leaving a hollow echo chamber in which all you could hear was a repeat of his name.

he turned to look around, noticing you walking towards the group with hugs and greetings. he blinked once or twice, before turning around and openly groaning. fuck.

“yeah, yeah. pack it up lover boy.” yoongi scoffed, before you walked over to give him a hug too.

jungkook spun again, meeting your gaze as you shyly reached over to hug him as per usual. he never let you get far, always closing the distance himself and wrapping his arms around you as he held you tightly.

“hm. you smell good.” he murmured next to your ear, leaving a shiver down your spine.

“is that it?” you cheekily asked, eyebrow raised.

he smirked wide and broad. “you look good. better than good.”

you grinned up at him before letting him go. he, however, let his arm rest loosely around your waist as you turned to the group, gushing with yejin about how good she looked. you tried to ignore how badly your heart was thumping, he was never this bold - sure he could be touchy but that was jungkook, he practically resided on namjoon’s lap. this felt different, but you couldn’t bare yourself to get your hopes up.

his eyes flickered downwards, observing you and wracking over your body. you looked better than ever, and it both excited and angered him. he knew he’d have to have his wits about him tonight, if a man even approached you, he was sure he’d combust.

“okay, drinks!” taehyung exclaimed over the music, clapping his hands.

you and yejin took a seat at the table whilst the boys filtered down to the bar, the loss of jungkook’s arm both palpable and healing to your racing brain.

your eyes travelled to across the club, where your boys stood, jungkook ignoring evident glances and women sauntering over to him. you couldn’t help the grimace.

“you’re too pretty to frown.” yejin cooed, moving your chin so you were facing her. “especially over a boy.”

you blushed. “wish he wasn’t so handsome, can’t believe everyone sees what i see.”

“ah,” she grinned wickedly. “funny. you’ve had guys trailing you and watching you from the second you walked in, and believe me, he’s not happy.”

your eyes widened at her comment, eyes flickering to jungkook again, who’s gaze was already on you. you broke the contact, embarrassed before turning to her properly.

“enough jungkook talk, what’s on the agenda tonight? what is yeji doing?” you asked, hands in hers.

“i’m not leaving empty handed.” she wiggled her eyebrows, causing a fit of laughter that remained as the boys came back, looking at you both inquisitively.

yoongi reached over to hand you your drink, to which you thanked him gently, sipping slowly.

you felt the seat beside you dip, focused on your conversation with the boy and girl beside you, until you felt a warm hand press against your bare thigh. yejin and yoongi continued, unaware, as your head turned to face the tatted boy beside you, who drank his drink as though this was the most casual thing he had ever done. the thump in his chest argued otherwise.

you were sure your cheeks were flaming red, and your thigh began to tremble beneath his touch. you wanted him to go higher whilst also let go, you were sure your brain would wither away soon with how hazy you felt.

“like your drink?” he asked, suddenly getting closer to you so you could hear him over the music.

“mm, fruity.” you nodded, eyes never leaving his.

he grinned. “hm.” his hand flexed on your thigh. “have i told you how good you look, tonight?”

“only once.” you guys were flirting. the little girl inside your body was screaming so loudly.

he tutted, shaking his head as his grip tightened. “my bad, baby. you look stunning.” he whispered intimately into your ear. “love this little dress, new hm? would have remembered if you’d worn it before.”

all you could do is nod, as he pulled away slightly from your ear, your faces much too close to be deemed appropriate. just a little closer, he thought, eyes flickering down to your lips. just a little curve to your head and he’d take care of your tiny pout, he was sure.

before you could continue, however. “y/nnie, come on.” jimin shouted, from across the booth as he got up, forcing you to yank away from jungkook with wide eyes and parted lips. your eyes looked up to the blonde haired boy, a smirk on his face. “time to dance.”

“jimin i’m not tipsy enough.” you groaned.

“take this shot.” namjoon pushed the drink over to you, yejin giggling beside you.

you picked it up, hands still shaky, and tipped it back, grimacing deeply whilst everyone laughed and whooped around you. you shook your head quickly, as to rid yourself of the taste, before he grabbed your arm, pulling you up from your seat and guiding you down. you grabbed yejin on the way, who waved excitedly at the rest of the boys, shouting something about actually having fun.

it wasn’t long until you guys were dancing away, giggling loudly and twirling with one another. jimin was the life of your group, whilst yejin was the soul - if you ever wanted to have fun, it had to involve the pair who only ever seeked out joy.

the alcohol was already rushing to your head, leaving you a tipsy mess. being the worlds biggest lightweight never helped when you wanted to get drunk because you knew in two drinks, you were completely finished, but it was always nice to get a buzz whilst you were out.

hobi and jin soon joined, with the former’s arms around you as you danced and sang together, fits of giggles being shared.

“i don’t think i’m going to survive tomorrow, my heads already so gone.” you shouted over at him, music thumping.

“yeah, me neither - your little boyfriend is about to kill me with his stare.” he giggled louder, throwing his head back.

your eyebrows furrowed before turning your head to the side, catching jungkook’s heavy gaze.

eyebrows furrowed and a dark expression on his face, you could see the clench of his jaw and it made your core whine. he was so pretty despite being evidently bothered. the thought, the idea, that he would be this way over hobi dancing with you sent a million electricity volts through your body, your eyes never leaving his.

“we spoil him too much, now we can’t even dance with you without him planning our murder.”

you broke eye contact, looking at hobi with an excited thrill. “i want him so bad.” you groaned quietly, head falling to his shoulder.

“believe me. you could have him.”

——

the night was going strong, and you had slowed down with the drinks and paced yourself appropriately to match your friends. taehyung wanted to smoke outside, so you accompanied him.

you and jungkook had been playing a fine line all night, dancing around the tension, eye contact and fleeting touches but never anything more. it was driving you insane, you knew that maybe he wanted you in some way but if it wasn’t the way you wanted, then you couldn’t have him. you wouldn’t be able to move on and it wasn’t fair.

you both stood outside, taehyung taking out a cigarette whilst the wind nipped at your too warm skin, offering some calm to the night.

“fuck. forgot my lighter, i’ll be two seconds alright?” he groaned with a tip of his head making you nod, resting your head against the wall of the smoking shelter.

you watched him retreat, closing your eyes for a few moments before you heard a shuffling of feet behind you. your eyebrows furrowed, thinking nothing of it until a large hand gripped your hip, twirling you around to face them.

your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. why was he here? how could he be here? touching you so casually and without thought; hand bruising your hip with every passing second as he approached you with nothing but clear disrespect.

“missed me?” jaehyun, your ex, grinned down at you, lowering his head to meet your height.

your ex of two years, who had terrorised you to an inch of your life stood before you, hands on your body as though it was his every right. your relationship with him had been turbulent to say the least.

it had started once you decided you couldn’t see jungkook kissing another girl at a random party, you felt sick and you’d had enough, you were finally moving on from the schoolgirl crush you had on him. you met jaehyun and he was seemingly perfect at ridding you of jungkook’s lasting touch on your heart, until he suddenly wasn’t.

he’d get angry whenever you went out with your friends, despite knowing them and understanding the years long dynamic you all shared. the mere mention of namjoon, hoseok and jimin were enough to drive him into a rage that left you shaking all night, only for him to appear the next morning with flowers and empty promises that it would never happen again.

you’d once mentioned jungkook in a passing, harmless comment and had to nurse your face for the next two weeks as payment. he was violent regarding any man, but it was the bright eyed boy that set him off the most.

it only escalated, but by that point, you felt entirely trapped. it wasn’t until yejin had come over after months of silence on your part, and broke down at the sight of you. you’d never forget the way she wailed whilst examining the bruises on your arms and chest, holding you like a baby before packing your bags and taking you from your shared apartment with him.

you don’t remember what happened after that, it was traumatic and it had taken a year of therapy to even consider unpacking it properly. you remembered being sat with the boys, yejin holding you tight whilst they all promised to keep you safe. you’d spend a night at each of their homes in rotation for months and months, at the fear of night terrors and something worse.

the nights you’d stay with jungkook were the calmest, the scent of him imbedded deep into his home enough to lull you to sleep as he snored in the living room. your friends had supported you to an inch of your life, built up your confidence and protected you. you were no longer the meek girl jaehyun had forced you to be, you stood straight and you spoke clearly - but the sight of him; the feel of him, broke you out of it immediately.

“get off of me.” you shakily whispered, hand grabbing the hand on your hip and pushing it away with all your might, forcing yourself to step away. “you don’t get to touch me.”

his eyes darkened, the patronising grin falling from his face immediately. “you know, i thought i taught you better than that. made sure not to let you talk back, remember?”

his words made you flinch, clearly referring to the times he would plow a fist into you if you ever spoke up even remotely. you began inching backwards, throat bobbing and hands shaking.

“and that dress? so short, it’s like you’re begging for my attention. two years later and still acting like a slut, y/n?” his face contorted, as though even looking at you made him angry. “used to be such a good girl. used to fucking listen.”

“don’t speak to me. you’re..you’re not allowed to come near me.” you wheezed out as your hands shook and your stomach twisted, the horrible feeling of anxiety and fear beginning to take over you. yejin had helped you file a restraining order. he wasn’t allowed to do this to you.

“yeah? and who’s going to fucking stop me.” he growled, hand grabbing your arm tightly making you welp whilst his other pulled you forward to his chest. “fucking bitch. i’ll take you home, hm? teach you a lesson, teach you what you should have remembered.”

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. eyes closing and body shaking. his hand began gripping your face tightly, spouting abuse at you as your brain completely slipped away, shutting yourself down as trauma gripped the edges like a vice.

suddenly, you felt his touch completely leave you, forcing you to open them up again to find jaehyun on the floor, jungkook pounding his fists into his face. you could see taehyung shouting something, namjoon pulling you away and hobi running back inside where the others remained, no doubt to bring them to you.

you couldn’t think, your brain disassociating as your body trembled, prints of jaehyun’s hands all over your body. were you crying? tears were streaming down your face and you weren’t even aware, trembling as namjoon took you to a quiet corner, worried beyond belief.

taehyung had rushed back to their table to get a lighter, when namjoon, hobi and himself agreed to step out too, needing a smoke and fresh air. within moments of being outside, his eyes had widened at the sight of your abusive ex attacking you. he’d never get used to the look of fear in your face that felt so constant years ago, but seeing it back was enough to make him see red.

he wasn’t thinking, grabbing the man and plowing his fists into his face, watching him fall back. he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, only doing so once both yoongi and jimin had managed to get him off, watching as jaehyun scurried away as fast as he could, despite bleeding heavily from his face.

turning around, seeing you sat with your eyes unmoving and tears streaming, he wanted to chase the fucker and do it again. his baby, his girl - how could he do this to you? how could he look at you and not see anything other than stars and moon?

“y/nnie, can you hear me?” he cooed as yejin sobbed beside you, holding you tightly. the boys were all a nervous wreck, yoongi shaking angrily and the others trying to regain your attention.

after a few moments, your eyes began to focus. you met jungkook’s gaze first, your gaze flickering over him in a momentary lapse of confusion. “he’s gone, y/n. jungkook took care of it.” taehyung sniffled, crouched beside you.

a moment of silence was shared between you, the sounds of both yejin and tae filtering the air as the others ran their hands through their hair nervously.

“promise?” you asked, voice breaking making the tatted boy almost whine in sadness. “promise you, he won’t bother you again.”

you simply nodded. you hadn’t noticed how hard you were crying, with tears ruining your perfectly applied makeup and your chest heaving in what could only be fear. “i’m sorry joonie, was supposed to be your night.” you choked out.

the taller boy tutted over at you, pressing a kiss to your head. “don’t be silly, y/nnie.” he shook his head. “jungkook, why don’t you take her home? stay with her, yeah? think she’ll feel the best with you there.”

you hardly registered what was happening, feeling jungkook’s hands taking hold of yours as he helped you up. everyone took turns holding you for a second or two, ensuring personally that you were okay. yejin pressed kisses to your cheek through her own tears, promising you that you were safe and that nothing else would happen before crying further into jin’s chest. jungkook watched, almost helplessly as he waited for the uber to arrive, yoongi patting him on the back. it wasn’t long until he received the notification on his phone.

he looked at you now, as you sniffled and walked back over to him, his arms wrapping around you protectively as you all bid your goodbyes. you slid into the uber first, his arms cradling you as you shuffled into his shoulder, breathing in the same familiar scent that would soothe you.

after a while of silence, your eyebrows furrowed, taking in your surroundings. “this isn’t the way to my house.”

he looked down at you, your little hand on his. he pondered before holding it up to his mouth, pressing a little kiss to your fingers. “i know baby. taking you to mine.”

your heart was thumping again, watching him as he caressed your hands, kissing each fingertip so gently you wondered if he was kissing them at all. an act so intimate you wondered what it meant.

it wasn’t long until you arrived, mourning the loss of warmth jungkook’s body provided as he pulled you out gently, taking you inside.

you’d been here a million times before but you never tired of how warm it felt, how much it resembled each bit of him. you pulled off your heels, your height dropping significantly before shuffling to the bathroom, intent on taking your makeup off immediately.

the joys of having two skincare obsessed women in the group meant yejin and yourself kept these boys stocked, considering sleepovers were a norm. jungkook let you take your time, no words exchanged as he grabbed you a t shirt from his wardrobe, knowing how much you liked sleeping in them.

“kookie, can i shower?” you asked, quietly as you peeked your head out the bathroom.

“course you can, i got you the rose body wash that you like the other day too.” he grinned over at you, hands roaming his hair. he handed over the oversized tee you loved so much, heart skipping a beat as you gave him a soft smile. “you’re the best.” you muttered back, hearing a little chuckle from him.

you watched as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets before closing the door, your eyes screwed shut for a moment. so much had happened tonight, from feeling utterly helpless one second to so safe and warm in jungkook’s presence.

you showered relatively quickly, wanting no more than to sink into the plush mattress of his bed. “you hungry?” he asked once you came out, having showered himself in his other bathroom, dressed in a similar t shirt and plaid bottoms. he looked so cute.

“no, i’m okay.” he looked over with a small double take, drinking you in, soft skin and barely hidden legs. god, you drove him insane.

he nodded. “okay, wanna head to bed? it’s been a long night for you.” you shuffled in your spot before nodding.

he’d usually sleep on his couch whenever you were round, considering it was quite large and comfortable - of course, he didn’t want to intrude either. he had too much respect for you to ever think about imposing.

“will you..will you stay with me? tonight?” you whispered quietly, looking down as you asked.

he didn’t reply, simply began walking over to you and gently taking your hands in his, littering your smaller fingers with kisses like he did in the uber. your breath hitched as you met his gaze, watching as he nodded before leading you over to his bedroom, hand clasped over yours.

you let yourself be pulled by him, watching as he rounded the bed, knowing you preferred the side closest to the window, before getting in; watching you do the same. you both snuggled into the warmth of his covers, a groan leaving your lips.

he turned to look at you, as you did the same. he couldn’t handle how cute you looked, fresh faced and cuddled into his pillow. he wanted to protect you forever, have you sheltered from anything that didn’t wish even a semblance of joy.

“i’m sorry you got hurt, kookie.” you whispered, the little pout he loved so much forming. “i had no idea he was there and i just froze..i don’t know.”

he cooed at you, inching closer before slowly pulling you in by your waist so the space between you had disappeared. your hands moved to his chest without thinking, the urge coming naturally.

“don’t apologise, y/n. should have killed him for how he was speaking to you, i’m so sorry he did that.” his eyes shut tightly for a second, as though the memory pained him. “he’ll get what’s coming to him, i’ll make sure of it.”

you looked away, eyes falling to his neck and the rise and fall of his chest. “how do you feel?” he asked.

his hands moved to cup your face. you were both inching closer and closer without even realising it. “scared, honestly. i’ve been doing so good and now he’s reappeared.” you all but whimpered. “just wanna forget.”

“yeah?” he whispered, lifting your chin again to look at him, his forehead gently pressing against yours. “want me to help you forget, pretty girl?”

“please.” you nodded slowly, your eyes flickering to his lips whilst he did the same, the two of you dancing around the tension but tonight was enough.

he looked between your lips and eyes once more, before brushing his nose against yours. you tilted upwards before you felt a faint brush of his lips.

he pulled away, only slightly, looking at the way your eyes fluttered close, all resolve fluttering away from him before he properly pressed his lips to yours again.

kissing jungkook felt like coming home. consisting of passion and years of yearning, feeling like it had finally come to an end. all compiled into this single moment.

you pulled him closer, mouths interlocking as you shared a sweet embrace, his arms wrapping around your entire body before you began pulling away. the kiss was only brief, but its impact left you reeling.

“fuck.” he whispered. your eyes remained shut for a moment longer, opening them up to find a look of hope pulling at his fingers. “i’m going to kiss you again, okay y/n? but before i do that, we need to talk.”

you nodded, eyes focused on his lips before meeting his gaze. “okay. you go first.”

he nervously laughed, sitting up slightly and giving him a moment to get his bearings. he opened his mouth a few times, before closing it, unsure of where to start. “sorry, just hard you know? telling the girl you’re in love with that..you’re in love with her.” he rambled, scratching the back of his neck.

you could have sworn that the earth stopped spinning. you looked up at him, sitting up a little too fast, causing him to stop his rambled muttering before raising his eyebrows.

“what did you just say?” you all but whispered, eyes wide.

his mouth was gaping now, confusion littered on his face as though to question what had he actually said. once it dawned on him, his eyes matched the size of yours.

“oh…i mean i guess i said it. i..i get it if you don’t feel the same, i don’t want you to feel like you have to return the same feelings, you know?” he began again, this time much faster, the two of you completely sat up in bed. “but like can you blame me? loved you second i met you, y’know? always wanted to tell you but just get so shy around you, and you’re so pretty makes my brain shut down..”

whatever you had done in a past life, god bless. you were sure you would thank every god and every goddess for this very moment, your hands shaking as you grabbed his face, yanking it towards you and pressing your lips to his.

jungkook’s breath faltered for a second before realising what was happening. he wrapped his hands over your hips, careful not to touch the bruised skin your ex had caused, pulling you onto his lap immediately.

this kiss was unlike the other. though it shared the same passion and tension, this felt like a promise and declaration of love - a certainty that had waited to be confirmed for what felt like eons.

your mouths moved in unison, your fingers gripping into his hair as he brought you closer. he groaned into your mouth, your tongues moving together whilst you both pushed and pulled, yearning for more whilst every emotion ran through you. the feel of his piercing against your mouth felt cool; an odd feeling at first touch but quickly becoming something your brain felt addicted to.

he pulled away slowly for breath, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenching as he looked directly at you, nudging his nose with yours. “is that your way of telling me you like me?”

“i love you, you idiot.” you whispered back at him, the both of you resorting to pecks. “loved you for so long, can’t believe you haven’t told me until day.” he grinned at this, nudging your nose once more.

“yeah, you didn’t either.”

you rolled your eyes, playing with his hair from behind. “does this mean we can kiss all the time?” you asked, pecking him whilst excitedly bouncing in his lap.

he groaned loudly, hands flying to grab your waist carefully as you smothered his faces in excited kisses. “yeah, won’t ever keep my hands off of you again.”

jungkook, although elated, was fighting the demons that were currently erupting through his chest. you, in no more than his shirt and your underwear, bouncing in his lap, conveniently over his crotch where he was already fighting his growing hard on.

“fuck, y/n.” he groaned again, holding you down a little firmer, unaware that the action was now directly pushing your own core directly to his crotch. you let out a little noise, half moan half whimper; eyes connecting.

neither of you dared to move. the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable, especially after the night you had which is shy he began to pull you up, to rest you on your side of the bed again.

only, you placed your hands on his shoulders, pressing your core against his bulge firmly before rolling your hips experimentally. you couldn’t help the moan that left you, a noise leaving his lips that rivalled it.

“still…still wanna forget kookie, you’ll do that for me?” you asked, unable to stop your hips from moving in circles, not when it felt so good.

he nodded, as though in a trance, guiding your hips as he shuddered against you. “don’t want you to feel like i’m taking advantage, baby, you’ve had such a long night.” he whispered, though your actions never faltered.

sweet, sweet boy. you couldn’t believe this was happening, the man of your dreams, both your heart and brain no longer at odds but instead connected finally in matrimony. “wanted you for so long.” you breathed out with a shake of your head.

this was beyond anything he could imagine. with direct confirmation from you, he captured your lips once more, hands planted firmly on your waist as he dragged you up and down his clothed cock. you shared moans, quiet and unsure at first before you found yourself matching his movement, the two of you closer than ever in a way you had Both only dreamt of.

“fuck. we have to stop, or i’ll cum.” jungkook whined as he pulled away from your lips, arms entirely wrapping around your body as if to stop you, closing his eyes tightly. “and i plan to impress you, so..”

you panted, with both a slight nod and slight giggle before whimpering at the loss of pleasure. this only lasted a few more seconds before suddenly, you found yourself flipped, a squeal leaving you. jungkook hovered over you, peeling his shirt from his body before swooping down to catch your lips again.

you couldn’t help your wandering hands, fingers twitching over his naked chest. you had seen him shirtless before, notably when you had all gone to the beach, but the memory was seared into the crevice of your mind. feeling his skin so intimately was completely different.

your lips moved in unison before he broke away, whining at his own action as he pulled his t-shirt you wore. he looked at you for approval, to which you nodded before he pulled it up over your head.

jungkook groaned, loudly. the sight of your bare breasts were enough for him to go clinically insane, but the way you were looking up at him, eyes big and lips bruised. you would be the end of him.

“fuck, look at you. so pretty.” he reached for one of your breasts, listening to the quickening of your breath as he wrapped his mouth around one. biting, teasing and licking, he proceeded to leave honeyed marks on your skin, whilst your moans and squeaks egged him on.

he moved to your other, making sure to physically leave his claim over them with hickeys adorning your body. “need you, kook.” you whined, impatient.

the side of his mouth flickered up at the sound of your impatience, and as much as he wanted to ruin you immediately, he had waited too long for this to just end up rushing.

“need to prep you first, hm? gonna be patient for me?” he cooed as his hands continued cupping your breasts. you nodded, eagerly, hands locking into his hair as he gave them one last kiss before easing down your body, trailing kisses from your stomach to your hips. he kissed over the bruised skin jaehyun had caused, making your heart clench for a moment.

the boy you loved, with wild eyes and bruised lips, searing love into every crevice of skin he could reach, ridding you of the pain that disgusting man had placed on you. he was freeing you with every touch, with every promise hidden behind passionate touches, you felt so safe.

he parted your legs, eyes flickering up to meet yours. he grabbed the hem of your underwear, sliding it down so that he was met with your core, a noise of pure defeat leaving him at the sight of you. wet and clenching for him, yearning for his touch just as much as he yearned to taste you. “all for me, baby?”

you nodded, as he parted your legs further despite how suddenly shy you felt. he dipped his head, planting a chaste kiss to your clit, watching as your body jolted. with a smirk, he dove in.

he couldn’t help the noises that were leaving him as he sucked and licked, intoxicated by your taste. “taste so good, y/n.” he’d moan in between your legs. “could die here.” he’d add. “addicted to you.” he’d all but growl.

you couldn’t help the moans, you’d never felt like this before. sure you’d been eaten out before, but never by a man who acted like this was his last starving meal. jungkook hoisted your legs wider, as your hips lifted, your hands tight against his scalp.

“need to stretch you, fuck. need to make sure i fit, hm?” he teased, eyes connecting with yours as one of his tatted fingers teased your entrance whilst sucking on your clit. you hated the thought of any woman before you in his life, but you thanked every higher power above that he knew what he was doing, feeling your high in your stomach already.

he instered a finger, pumping at a pace that had your toes curling. the whines that were leaving you made him dizzy, he wanted more. it wasn’t long before he inserted another, beginning to thrust them in unison whilst you chanted his name.

he groaned at the sight of you lifting your hips, desperate to reach your high. he had no idea he was grinding into the bed, chasing a high of his own as he watched you quiver and moan. “so tight, y/n, can’t wait to feel you on my cock. hm? won’t be able to think once you’re being fucked right, baby.”

you nodded, head empty and hands shaking. “w-want it, kookie, want it so bad.”

his fingers quickened, getting rougher and going harder as he sucked on your clit. he could feel you getting restless, knew you were on the edge from the way you were pushing his head closer without even realising. he could feel his sick obsession in his brain growing rapidly knowing you wanted him just as much, it felt like nothing else mattered than making you good.

“jungkook.” you let out a high pitched squeal, feeling your high rapidly approaching before your legs began to shake, and hips began to raise. your high ran through you like a shot of electricity, as your moans grew higher, his fingers pumped faster and his hand pressed down onto your stomach, forcing you to feel every inch of your orgasm.

he parted from you after you began quivering from overstimulation, plopping his fingers into his mouth to memorise your addicting taste. he hovered over you once more, the tent in his bottoms too large for you to ignore.

“i hate that you’re so good at that.” you panted, unable to meet his eyes as your focused on his bulge. he smirked, watching you, placing your smaller hand onto it so you could feel him fully. “i’m all yours now baby. gonna eat you out every chance you give me.”

your eyes met, a shared grin forming between you both before you pulled him in sharply for a kiss. hot and heavy, you could taste yourself on him which drove you insane - you reached for his pyjama bottoms, pushing them down almost desperately.

parting from him, with hooded eyes, you looked down at his cock. so big and thick, prettier than any you’d ever seen before you let out the cutest moan. he swore he could die happy. “how are you this perfect, and you have a pretty dick?”

“are you trying to inflate my ego? it’s working. i’ll get that tatted on my chest, don’t play.”

you giggled up at him before pumping him, both hands moving up and down as you sighed. “want you inside me, kookie.” you peered up. “don’t make me wait anymore.”

he pressed one last kiss to you, groaning at the feel of your hands around his already sensitive member. he parted your legs, one peek at your messy core enough to drive him insane before he began rubbing the head over you.

“don’t think you’ll fit.” you whimpered, the feel of him all encompassing.

“i’ll make it fit, was born for you baby.” jungkook promised, as he began pushing his cock in, your core instantly clenching around him. he began slowly, until he was fully inside, pelvis to pelvis, eyes fluttering shut.

you’d never felt so full in your life, the stretch both delicious and overwhelming. your fingers clawed at his large biceps, whimpers and quivers filling in the air as he held you tightly, whispering sweet nothings about how good you were for him, how incredible you felt. once you gave him the green light, he began thrusting.

he couldn’t believe this is what he was missing out on. he couldn’t believe how tightly and warmly you felt around him, felt like he was finally coming home.

his hips snapped against yours slowly, letting you feel every inch as your moans got louder and louder. “faster, kook.” you begged, though you knew you never had to, he’d give you the world.

“fuck, fuck, fuck.” he chanted, his pace changing as he began to thrust faster per your request, pressing his head against yours. “feel so good, my y/n, my girl.”

you clenched around him over his words making him airily chuckle, thrusting harder at that. “yeah, like that? like me calling you my girl?”

“yeah, wanna be yours jungkook.” you whimpered back, legs reaching up to wrap around his waist as he began to thrust deeper.

the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air and he knew his neighbours would be furious tomorrow, but could hardly begin to care. “you are, hm? was always my girl, you’re all mine and i’m all yours.” he promised, biceps flexing beside your face. “won’t ever let you go.”

you mewled loudly, hands finding home in his hair as you pulled against the strands. “feel so full.”

“yeah? pussy loves it baby, loves taking it.” he growled back, head hiding in your neck, leaving hickeys.

you could already feel your high approaching, but you couldn’t bare for this to end yet, lightly pushing his chest. he immediately pulled himself up and stopped thrusting, looking down at you with furrowed eyes. “wanna ride you.” you whimpered to which he threw his head back in what could only be a pathetic groan.

“you’re going to kill me, y/n.”

soon, your positions had changed and you were slipping him back inside, the two of you moaning loudly at the feel of one another in such a deeply intimate way. he felt so much bigger like this, and the feeling of fullness for you and your heat for him were enough to drive you mad.

he watched as you began to bounce, body contorting at the feeling of pleasure running through you. this was the hottest sight he had ever seen, your hands pressed against his chest to stabilise yourself.

“fuck yourself on my cock, that’s it.” he cooed, hands grabbing onto your ass before landing a harsh spank, to which you mewled and rode faster. you had no idea to what extent you were driving him crazy.

he watched as you rose, hands now held behind yourself as you practically used him to get off. the sight was severed into his brain forever, with his fingers rubbing your clit to bring you closer to your high. “already so close, feels too good.” you moaned.

music to his ears, jungkook thought. you were getting tighter and tighter, no doubt nearing your second high but he couldn’t bring himself to lay back anymore. he grabbed your ass again, before bouncing you up and down himself, your moans getting expeditiously louder.

“jungkook!” you squealed, feeling his cock fuck you in a way no one had ever managed to. you were addicted, you had no idea how you were ever suppose to live again after this, after experiencing heaven.

“fuck baby, can feel you getting close hm? wanna cum with me, wanna cum on my cock?” he cooed at you, switching your positions again. you were now on your side, one leg on his shoulder whilst he hovered over you, pounding roughly whilst rubbing your clit.

you chanted yes over and over, his free hand holding your own as he could feel his own high approaching. with the final rub to your clit, your breath stitched as your orgasm rushed through every inch of you, shaking your body beneath him.

the sight alone was enough to bring him to his own high, giving you one last sloppy thrust before cumming, his fingers on your clit not letting up as he chased you through your high, your moans twisting into one another.

his fingers fell, alongside your leg on his shoulder leaving you both a shuddering mess. he immediately found home, his forehead touching yours whilst your breaths mingled, panting at one another.

you spent a few minutes just like that, getting your bearings before he slowly pulled out, groaning at the sight of his cum trailing out of you.

“you okay, did i go too hard?” he cooed at you, his hands reaching for your face as he planted sweet kisses over your cheeks.

“felt so good, kookie. felt perfect.” you whispered back, wrapping your arms around his neck immediately, pulling him down to properly meet you beside him.

he could hardly believe it. the love of his life, cuddling into him after a session of pure passion and lust. he was addicted to you; sure that no other drug would be as potent as you. completely ruined from the inside out.

you both stayed silent for a while, simply caressing and kissing each other. it felt so pure, so right that you felt ashamed knowing you hadn’t told him your feelings earlier. you had long forgotten everything that happened that night, your brain totally encompassed by the thought of him.

“i’m never going to live down the fact i should have confessed to you earlier.” he frowned at you. “we wasted so much time.”

to this, you giggled, holding him close. “we were idiots, but i guess this means we have to make up for it, right?”

jungkook grinned widely at your words, taking your hand in his and lightly kissing your fingertips. “firstly,” he began, sitting up slightly so that you could look at him properly. “i love you, love you so much i can’t breathe when i look at you.”

you took him in, a bashful smile forming. “secondly, know i didn’t properly ask but this makes you my girlfriend, right?” he asked, smiling wider as he watched you nod excitedly with a squeak. “not for long though, i’ll put a pretty ring on that finger in no time.”

your mouth fell open at his words, eyes widening. “jungkook, you can’t say that!” you giggled, evidently very giddy at his words. say more, your heart screamed.

“please, i’ve learnt my lesson y/n. not wasting any more time.” he teased back, the two of you embracing and sharing a sweet kiss.

this was everything you both had wanted and more, spending the rest of the night talking, embracing and perhaps dabbling in other pleasurable activities. soon, you both fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. home, at last.

——

“you owe me like 50.” namjoon grinned widely at jimin.

the group had walked into jungkook’s apartment, each bringing breakfast assortments and flowers for you to make sure you were alright. they had been so worried last night that they’d gone straight home, each of them unsure of what to do but all understanding that the safest place for you to be was with jungkook.

when jin had seen yoongi and examined the redness of his knuckles, he couldn’t help but grin, knowing full well the boy had probably paid jaehyun a little visit sometime in the night. neither party said anything, but an understanding was shared. you were the youngest of the group, and of course, they were incredibly protective.

what they didn’t, expect, however was to see you cuddled up in jungkook’s arms, the two of you snoring away, evidently naked considering the duvet was hardly doing anything for modesty. upon sight of this, they all silently cheered, filtering out into the living room.

“no way, you ALL owe me 80, i said they’d fuck, you guys just said they’d confess.” yejin chimed in with a grumble, prodding a figure into the taller man’s chest.

hobi couldn’t help his giggles as he began unpacking breakfast. “whatever, can we all just be glad that this ordeal is finally over?”

taehyung nodded. “no more y/n pining.”

“no more jungkook whining.” jin added.

“no more will they, won’t they.” namjoon grinned, grabbing a seat at jungkook’s kitchen table.

“no more does she lo-“ yejin began, before shutting her mouth immediately. all eyes furrowed, including hers, straining their ears to hear the sudden noises forming in the bedroom as their heads snapped, looking over.

a moan filtered out into the air to which everyone groaned, realising what had instead replaced it. “pack it up, lovebirds.” jin shouted loudly. “breakfast on the table in 5, i expect you out and showered.”

[badjokesbyjeff]

I never told my wife I had an ex-fiancee 

One thing I never told my wife is that I had a fiancee before her. It’s a long story, so buckle up.

It was the year after I graduated college. I was dating my girlfriend, Stephanie, for a couple years and things were getting serious. At the time, I had my roommate, Joey, but he was a Craigslist roommate. We didn’t know each other very well. If you asked me how I knew him aside from Craigslist, the answer is I didn’t. He wouldn’t even tell me where he grew up.

Now, no shit, on the day I was going to propose, tragedy struck. I adorned our apartment with candles and even set up a nice glass display with framed pictures of me and Steph on top. Before Steph came in, Joey walked in and tripped. He actually shattered the glass display and got some in his face. Steph came in a few minutes later as I was on the phone with 911. Fortunately, Steph is a nurse, so she was able to patch him up as the three of us went to the hospital together.

Joey would recover, but he had some issues with glass on his face. He needed some cotton gauze inside his eye, which fortunately the doctors were able to save.

Clearly, I put off my proposal for the time being, but Steph and I agreed to get married. Our engagement was hush hush. Steph’s hours were wonky so she took care of Joey when I wasn’t around. And I should’ve seen the red flags, but I ignored them. They’d hang out together with and without me. They’d be in Joey’s room and lock the door.

One day, I came home and all of Joey’s stuff was gone. He moved out. Steph wrote a note. The note said, “We fell in love and we’re leaving together. Don’t try to find us.”

I didn’t listen and I searched, but true to the note, I couldn’t find them. I’ll never know what happened.

Suffice to say,

if it hadn’t been for Cotton-Eye Joe

I’d have been married a long time ago.

Where did you come from, where did you go?

Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

[fayes-fics]

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace. 

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own. 

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly. 

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.” 

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident. 

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it. 

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours. 

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air.  “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room. 

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.” 

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast. 

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks. 

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…” 

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.” 

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand. 

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.” 

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly. 

Benedict has no response to that. 

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.  

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence. 

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.” 

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly. 

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in. 

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing. 

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid. 

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly. 

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?”  The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all. 

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on. 

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such. 

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him;  his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat. 

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive. 

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…” 

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.” 

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance. 

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary. 

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!” 

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not. 

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that. 

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor. 

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event. 

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.” 

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face. 

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.  

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton. 

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside. 

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.” 

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner. 

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply. 

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man. 

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking. 

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless. 

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!”  He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly. 

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does. 

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge. 

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it. 

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips. 

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”  

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?” 

Even he can read between those lines. 

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks. 

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked. 

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice. 

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest. 

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless. 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.” 

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more. 

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud. 

 The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation. 

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart.  “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[meganegatari]

THE WAY YOU WRITE IS JUST SO YUMMM so yeah🧍🏻‍♀️can you write something about streamer ellie <33

☆: IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. definitelyyyy hasn't been...months...anyway. positive this is one of the worse things i've written, but didn't wanna leave you hanging forever! ngl it's pretty filthy..heh.

◇: 18+ pretend those twitch guideline things don't exist. remote control vibrator use, orgasm denial, sub-ish!ellie?? plot twist at the end bc i think im so funny. 1.6k wc. don't mind the layout of this idk what else to do...

You watch your girlfriend stream her game from your fluffy and comfortable spot on your shared bed—you observe how focused she was on her screen, how her skilled fingers were flying across the keyboard and mouse. It would certainly be a shame to disturb her in such a high tension moment but you think it over, running your finger over the small buttons of the sleek little remote in your hand.

"Yeah, yeah, got 'em! Look at that guys, I fuckin’ aced that!" Ellie rejoices in her victory, and gleefully boasts to her viewers, adjusting her microphone closer and leaning back in her chair.

You're glad you were far off camera, her fans didn't even know she was in a relationship—Ellie made it clear she wanted you to be separate from her hobbies, not because she wanted to keep you a secret, but because she wanted to keep you safe. And you enjoyed watching her stream from the sidelines like this, you saw how her personality captivated viewers and how much fun she really was. But you also enjoyed messing with her on the occasion. Like today.

"Can I watch tonight's stream again?" You asked her eagerly. "Yeah, why not? I'll be doing some tournaments and stuff though, so no distractions." Oops. You bit back a laugh. Ellie immediately sussed out the mischievous look on your face and she sighed, expecting the worst.

Then you showed her the box you've been hiding, "Please let's try, I won't click it too much, I promise." She stared at you for a whole minute, maybe more, before sighing and reluctantly agreeing, rubbing her hands all over her face. "God, fine. Just 'cause I love you. Damn you're evil."

Fast forward to now—the device was snugly inserted inside her pretty pussy, tested out to prove it does in fact work, and works well at that.

So off Ellie went to play her game, getting so caught up in everything she seemingly forgot about the device entirely. In between games she was talking to the viewers, reading the chat and joking back and forth. You decided it was a good enough time to click it so you pressed the button, only for a miniscule zap.

She jerked in her seat, gasping, but quickly recovered with a strategic cough. "Phew sorry guys, something got caught in my throat." You saw a bright berry blush spread across her face, and the way she fought to turn and throw a glare at you. This was going to be fun.

"Alright, the next round’s gonna start, we gotta lock in! Hopefully nothing pops up and this goes smoothly. I can taste the win already.” She put a certain warning tone to her voice in the last part of her sentence, you knew it was meant for you, but were you going to listen? Absolutely not. "Oh yeah chat fun fact, this old area of the map was inspired by ancient ruins just of—ah!" As if her body had a mind of its own, she squirmed in her seat and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a moan when you hit it again, but this time you didn't turn it off right away. You kept it going for a few more seconds, to prolong the terribly delicious sensation.

She screwed her eyes shut tightly and held her breath until you turned it off, mumbling to her viewers about "having hiccups". "The game is starting now, so we really gotta get serious." Her voice had an unsteadiness to it only you could hear, she was keeping her composure rather well so far. But likely wouldn't be able to keep up the act for much longer. Even she has her limits.

As her match went on, she got quiet when she was focused, mashing the keys with a speed fast as sound. Of course, you hit it again, just a short one, causing a choked "guh" to escape from her lips and she twitched when you did so, her facade starting to crack. The effort to keep her voice stable was showing, she was huffing and struggling to get her words out clearly, they were laced with obvious irritation.

"Fuck missed the shot, dammit. Yeah I don't know, somethings up today, sorry guys...off my game." You decided to be nice to her until the game ended, not pressing it further or adjusting the intensity. She played for a little while longer before losing the match, leaning forward on the desk with her face in her hands. This was the perfect moment, so you cranked it up, increased the intensity to maximum, and held the button for the longest time yet, making her whine—a low, drawn out sound she couldn't stifle this time.

You could hear lots of messages being sent, pings in rapid succession, they were probably clipping that moment. Perverts, you thought. 

Her chest was noticeably heaving up and down, her legs spread as she rocks her front against the chair, and she kept her head lowered until you decreased the intensity but didn't turn it all the way off. Her hands were shaking, and her face was a vibrant cherry red, the screen even reflected the sparkle of a couple tears in her eyes.

“What? Oh, I'm just so sad about the loss guys, we were so close—hnn- so…so closeahh—I mean, we should've gotten that…” She trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip and tapping her fingers on the desk’s wooden surface. “Y’know what, I'll be right back.” She paused the stream, made triple sure her camera and microphone were turned off, then whipped around in her chair to face you, glaring silver daggers your way.

You just giggled innocently and turned the device off again. “What the fuck is wrong with you, this shit is not- not light on you at all.” Her voice was breaking, her pretty features contorted in a beautifully needy expression, eyebrows furrowed and eyes all watery. Nearly as wet as the mess in her pants. You feigned innocence and shrugged at her, “Well I didn't know it was that strong.” “You knew damn well.” She's fed up with your antics, but you have fun playing with her. She covers her face and leans back in the chair, the embarrassment in her voice the only thing you could hear, “Fuck you...turn it up again, wanna cum.”

You couldn't contain the laugh that burst forth from your chest, then said, “Only if you stream it.” The shock that flickered across her face was priceless, you wish you could have snapped a photo.

“What the fuck do you mean by that, nah forget it.”

“Hey, you gotta finish your stream either way, they're waiting. Would you wanna be so awful and deprive those darlings of your presence?”

You flash her a sugary smile, and she shoots you a murderous look again, before wordlessly scooting back to her setup, fanning herself briefly and readjusting her coppery hair.

Then she turns the stream back on. “Sorry guys, I had to get up for a second. Anyway, let's play one more game. I'm getting kinda tired today. Let's make this one count, lock in like never before.” She takes a deep breath, cracks her knuckles, and begins smacking away at the keyboard buttons. You're able to see the way she looks tense, on edge, anticipating your devilish interruption.

You debate whether you should torture her, but the answer quickly becomes clear. Click.

“Ah—fuck!” She sputters, and roughly slams her fist on the desk. The pleasure was hitting her with full force, she was in her own, lewd, world now. Her head is thrown back, back arched and hips stuttering, the release was about to sneak up on her.

You watch the scenario unfold, licking your lips and pressing your thighs together to deal with the pressure between them. Her unapologetic moans get louder, but for a second she snaps out of the trance to sit back upright, turn the stream off, before the peak hits her like a truck.

“Holy, fu—hah!!” With a squeal she cums, not caring about how fucking loud she was being, wanting to be selfishly absorbed in ecstasy.

She started to jolt around in her seat, the throes of overstimulation making her whimper like an animal in heat, it truly was a sight to behold. You wish you were in between her legs, lapping up her sweetness straight from the source, but in a way, just watching from the sidelines was satisfying enough. You'll clean her up afterward.

Finally you turned it off once and for all, and gazed at her, she was panting heavily, the post-orgasm glow making her rosy skin shimmer in the low light.

“Hmmm, thanks babe, that was so good…” She tried to talk, her head was in the clouds, but she looked at peace.

“You're a whore.” You chortled, and you two shared a laugh.

Although, a flurry of shrill sounds brought you both out of the fantasy. Ping, ping, ping.

Unfortunately she wasn't able to enjoy the aftermath of a mind-numbing session, because her eyes shot open and she began scrambling to find the source of the sound. Your stomach dropped as you watched her panic, her neuroticism infectious.

She looked at you, her eyes wider than saucers, nothing but fear in her voice, “I wasn't able to turn my mic off…”

What was she going to do now?

if you'd like to be tagged in my fics, click here! thank you for reading. asks, reblogs, and comments are appreciated more than you know. ♡

tags: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @r3starttt @littlefallenangel111 @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ine @anniee333 @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @ashaynep @mascdom @xysbree @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @bunnitewsilly @mimasroom2 @deliriousrn @infiniteinquiries @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @elliesapple

[katiekatdragon27]

Guys you don't understand how much I love these two. (Oh yeah, and Finn's there too)

Glisten: Awww~ Shrimpo, you remembered Shrimpo: B*tch I'm in LOVE with you, of course I REMEMBERED! Glisten: What!? Wait really?? This is very sudden wow! (You said you were straight?) Shrimpo: AAAAAAAAAA

Finn: (yapping) Shrimpo and Glisten: SHUT THE F*CK UP, FINN!! Shrimpo and Glisten: ... Shrimpo and Glisten: (kissing)

The first comic takes place before the two started dating. Shrimpo is really really really bad at expressing emotions other than anger and frustration, so anytime he tries to express anything, he just blurts out his feelings without thinking. Then he gets second-hand embarrassment lol. Glisten was pretty aware that Shrimpo liked him before, but he's pretending to be surprised to make Shrimpo "feel better" (also to mildly embarrass him lol).

Also, I think that Shrimpo and Glisten bonding over hating Finn is very based and true. They need that autistic man to SHUT UP/silly

I think Shrimpo and Finn are very cousin coded. Not close enough to be siblings but definitely got some familial genes going on imo (plz don't shoot me Shrimpbowl shippers🙏🙏🙏) Doesn't stop Shrimpo from being violent towards Finn tho, and Finn does nothing to deter it lol (he finds it funny). Also, Glisten throws no punches bc he doesn't want to get his hands dirty.

Finn: Sooooo?? How was the daaaate~ Finn: No need to be such a clam about it! Shrimpo: I'M SO KILLING YOU!

The second image takes place the day after this post lol. Shrimpo is recovering from a hangover covered in lipstick kisses and super conflicting emotions and Finn is NOT helping.

On the other end, I've been thinking about Shimmer a lot lol. So here is a doodle of her with her "sister aunt" Toodles, and Pebbles.

They all get along super well. In this pic, Toodles is like 12ish and Shimmer is 4 (but her weird biology made her age up to like 7 here). Pebble is pebble, that's all you need to know.

Also, I was in a horror-ish mood earlier so here are some Twisteds <33 (below cut cuz kinda scary):

I love you angst comfort. My sib pointed out while playing one day that Shrimpo looked traumatized as a Twisted, which like, fair, but it make me think.

Glisten: "They say you are not here anymore. But I think you are."

I had this silly idea that Twisted Shrimpo was infected by Dandy personally, and that whole conflict got Shrimpo's lower jaw ripped off. He is very violent and volatile, and very hard to calm down. But, when he runs into a twisting Glisten alone and scared, he comforts him (to the best of his ability).

Since Glisten is still able to be somewhat conscious, he realizes that the Twisteds are actually not completely gone like he originally thought, and it helps him keep his sanity longer, hoping for a way out for everyone.

Willpower is a crazy thing.

On the complete opposite note, I love you horrifying freak of ichor child.

Since Shimmer was made from the ichor itself with no sort of skeleton or solid foundation, her condition is very unstable. And the problem is that her body is affected by her emotions. On a bad day, she can suffer from lots of pain and her body literally melting away. That's when she hides out and waits for her body to stabilize again.

When she completely twists, her body completely falls apart, becoming a puddle of ichor on the ground. If she was an encounterable twisted, she would work like Sprout's puddle root things, but easier to maneuver around and avoid. Also, her antenna glow.

Mini yap session aside, I think I cooked on the art lol.

Anyways, the og images lol:

Have a good one pookies!

[lvnleah]

could you do a secret relatioship reunion where reader and leah williamson have been dating for a couple month, some in person and some long distance and then they reunite at camp and they like run to each other legs round the waist kinda hug and then they kiss infront of everyone which reveals their relationship, only if youre comfortable with it ofcourse, sorry its kind of specific!

worth the distance | leah williamson.

You hated being away from Leah. You always swore to yourself that you would never get into a long distance relationship but when you started dating Leah six months ago that changed. 

The pair of you had been friends for years, you had known each other since you were sixteen and deep down you had always had feelings for her. You wanted something to happen between you two for ages but nothing ever felt like the right timing. 

You were either in a relationship while she was single or she was in a relationship when you were single and your paths never quite aligned. You started to become closer during England camps, each camp you always looked forward to seeing Leah but not anyone else. 

Just Leah. 

One camp, things changed and shifted between you both. It was right before the end of the season when you and Leah first hooked up one night on camp. After that, the pair of you agreed to give things ago. 

You spent that summer together but the start of the season quickly came round. Your relationship went from cuddles in bed, dinners spent together, all day being in each other's company to FaceTime calls and dinners over a screen. 

You were playing over in Spain for Barcelona while Leah was in London playing for Arsenal, so it wasn’t easy to fit time in to see each other. Your schedules never seemed to align, and when they did, one of you was recovering from a match, traveling, or just too emotionally drained to make the trip feel worthwhile.

At first, the adrenaline of a new relationship carried you through the distance. 

FaceTime calls became sacred, slotted in between training, recovery, and media duties. You’d prop your phone up while cooking just to hear her voice in the background, and she’d fall asleep on the call after a long day.

But after a couple of months, the novelty wore thin.

You started to crave the quiet moments more than anything. Small things like brushing your teeth together in the morning, flopping onto the sofa with takeaway after training and hearing her keys turn in the door at the end of the day was all you wanted. 

Those little things hurt the most when they weren’t there.

Leah was always understanding. That was just who she was. She never got frustrated with your bad days or your silences when you were too tired to talk. She gave you space when you needed it and reassured you when the distance felt too loud.

But some nights, when she told you she missed you and you could hear the scratch in her voice, the shakiness she tried to hide. They were the nights you felt like the worst person in the world.

Camp couldn’t come soon enough.

You were called up for the upcoming England friendlies, and when you got the call, your first instinct wasn’t joy, it was relief. You were going to see Leah. In person. Not through a screen, not over the phone but actually be able to touch her, hug her, hold her hand.

Your hands shook a bit when you packed. You weren’t nervous, just… overwhelmed. It had been over six weeks since you’d seen her. That felt too long, especially for two people trying to make something real in the chaos of football.

You texted her the second you got to St. George’s Park: “Just got here. You?”

Leah’s reply came almost instantly: “Ten mins out. Don’t you dare run off and do media before I get there.”

You laughed quietly, your heart kicking a bit harder.

You lingered in the reception area, chatting casually with Keira and Georgia who had arrived just before you. They didn’t know about you and Leah. Not properly. They had their suspicions, of course.  Keira wasn’t oblivious, and Georgia loved a bit of gossip. Somehow you and Leah had kept things mostly quiet. Not secret, but private. It was easier that way.

“Someone’s excited,” Georgia smirked, watching you pace toward the window again.

“Shut up,” you muttered, unable to help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Just… happy to be back.”

Keira exchanged a look with Georgia, lifting an eyebrow. “Excited to see a certain someone maybe?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, you spotted the black SUV pulling up outside. Your chest tightened. You didn’t even hear what Georgia said next, your body just moved on instinct.

You pushed past the glass doors and into the cold breeze. The second Leah stepped out of the car and caught sight of you, it was like gravity shifted.

She didn’t walk. She ran.

And so did you.

It was like something out of a cringey film. You met halfway across the car park, her bag falling off her shoulder as she launched herself into your arms. Her hands caught you just in time, you held tight around her waist as you wrapped her legs around you.

You buried your face into her shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, her hair, her breathless laughter in your ear. She held you like she never wanted to let go.

And then you kissed her.

Not a soft, subtle kiss. Not one hidden behind corners or stolen during a private moment. It was raw and full of everything you’d been holding in. The frustration, the longing, the relief. You kissed her like you needed to remind your body that she was real and she was here.

When you finally broke apart, you realised what you’d done. That you’d just kissed Leah in the middle of St. George’s Park with the entire Lionesses squad as witness.

There was a pause before things erupted. 

“Oh my god!” Georgia’s shriek pierced the silence. “I knew it, I bloody knew it!”

Keira looked smug. “God, about time.”

You groaned softly, burying your face in Leah’s neck as her shoulders shook with laughter.

“Well,” she whispered, her arms still tight around you, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”

“Was never in the bag,” Georgia called. “You two are bloody terrible at being subtle.”

You glanced over Leah’s shoulder and saw a mix of stunned faces and teasing grins. Mary was smirking as her and Millie gossiped. Ella was nudging Alessia repeatedly in the ribs like she’d won some sort of bet.

You felt Leah’s lips press against your cheek. “Do you mind?” she murmured.

“No,” you said, smiling. “I’m tired of hiding.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training prep, meetings, and dinner  but everything felt different. Lighter. Freer. Like a weight had lifted.

Later that night, you sat curled up in Leah’s room, legs tangled beneath a blanket, scrolling through photos together and laughing at Georgia’s constant teasing in the group chat.

“You were right,” you said softly, brushing your thumb across Leah’s hand.

“About what?”

“That we’d be okay. Even with the distance.”

She smiled, her eyes warm. “We’re more than okay.”

[harryspet]

ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science. 

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed. 

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review. 

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations. 

They’d learned nothing from the past. 

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated. 

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3. 

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant. 

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further. 

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact. 

Will only accept food from [REDACTED] 

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included. 

Double dose required for sedation. 

Rejection of mating partner 103-M. 

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M. 

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open. 

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass. 

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing. 

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones. 

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot. 

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving. 

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him. 

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone. 

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey. 

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long. 

He remembered your file. 

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED] 

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS. 

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you. 

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him. 

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed. 

Until you did move. 

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now. 

He caught you. 

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall. 

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious. 

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted. 

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think. 

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.” 

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you. 

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled. 

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger. 

So he bleeds. What was he? 

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun. 

“You don’t get it,”  He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late. 

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control. 

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home. 

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers. 

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft. 

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it. 

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore.  Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused. 

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes. 

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs. 

You were so soft. 

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand. 

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart. 

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time. 

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one. 

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky. 

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter. 

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you. 

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you. 

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room. 

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet. 

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him. 

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own. 

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap. 

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head. 

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.” 

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient. 

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you. 

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new. 

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore. 

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor. 

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails. 

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled. 

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing. 

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.” 

“Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.” 

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.” 

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear. 

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,” He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you. 

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently. 

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar. 

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes.  She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed. 

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that. 

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips. 

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you. 

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display. 

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day. 

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to. 

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules. 

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”. 

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as. 

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel. 

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

[blade-liger-4ever]

Why I think Miko Nakadai is arguably the best human character in TFP

Don't misunderstand, I know Miko was handled haphazardly throughout the series' run. That said, aside from her skipping off into the battlefield, she was actually a great character - and, in my personal opinion, the actual audience surrogate character in TFP.

Now, let me explain.

Although Miko's backstory is told and not shown - a rich daughter who had everything she could ever want, up to and including two pure-breed cats and piano lessons from age three onwards (which, coincidentally, tells us she's brainy despite her antics) - much can be inferred from what snippets of her past we get, along with her interactions with the Autobots. For one, she obviously can't stand most adult supervision, which is likely because of a few things. For one, back home in Japan, Miko would have had to be proper and polite, always restrained, and had to do what she was told. While this is normal (to an extent) in the West, in the East this is etiquette that needs to be obeyed, especially if you're as well off as she is; her actions, specifically in Japan, will reflect on her parents, but to a far lesser extent in America. Thus, when presented with the freedoms of the USA, Miko not only jumps at the chance for an exchange program that will give her the mobility she craves, she also chooses the place that has the least amount of glamor. By extension of choosing to settle in Jasper, Miko's also displaying two other traits: she's not afraid of going to a place vastly different from her home, and she isn't disgusted by a small town with very little monetary value to it.

Secondly, Miko's disregard for authority from adults but deference to the 'Bots teases us with an insecurity - namely, an insecurity that no adult ever gives her a chance to make her own decisions.

Just think about it: All the times Miko's blown off the human adults, it's when they've tried to decide her life for her. Miko has, from what we can see, had her whole life dictated, up to and including those piano lessons. She may be a prodigy at almost everything, but her preferred instrument is the guitar - and yet, she wasn't given lessons in that from the time she was a toddler. Therefore, she feels confined and controlled by the authority of her elders. And so, while Miko may be able to sway Bulkhead into getting her out of detention and consistently slip past the watchful eyes of the 'Bots, it's out of a desperate motivation to control her own life. Now, she does hold too much interest in the battles and getting to watch them, but wouldn't you have that same eagerness if Gundams or Jaegers came to life before your eyes? Yes, she knows their lives are in danger, that they couldn't come home, but there's still a fantastical element to all of this about the Autobots. And it remains so because while she loves them all, Bulkhead is the only one who, while giving her life advice and trying to keep her in check/alive, lets her make her own decisions and take control of her life and her actions.

And that's why she keeps going to the field. That's why she only listens to the reprimands with half an ear and why she recovers so fast from Optimus' near death experiences, as well as Raf's close call with death.

And that's why Miko's world shatters when Bulkhead is left in a half-dead coma from his fight with Hardshell. Because the one person in the universe who gave her freedom and care without deciding her life for her was not just seriously injured, but possibly on death's door.

That's why Miko runs around without a care until the S2 episode "Hurt": because she wants autonomy to decide her life, even if it's stupid choices that could get her killed.

And after "Hurt", we see a new Miko. Yes, she remains gung-ho and fierce, but she stops running onto the battlefield. She takes less enjoyment from the War. Because now, with the reality of war fresh in her mind, she knows the risks and the stakes involved, and she will never take that or her friends for granted anymore. This is further proved when Miko 'sneaks' along for "Chain of Command", but with a twist: she asks Wheeljack if she can come along - and if memory serves, this is the first mission Bulkhead's been on with herself present since the events before "Hurt". Clearly, Miko is still worried about losing Bulkhead - only, this time, she values the words of the 'Bots, and now seeks permission to join a mission, though she wisely asks Wheeljack for this blessing.

This is the beautiful part of her arc, crowned by her battle with Starscream and his Seekers (which is also just straight up awesome.) When she's kicked the afts of everyone, and Starscream tries to intimidate her with his usual "I killed Cliffjumper" speech, Miko's response is this calm, slightly rough, retort:

"Big whoop. I snuffed Hardshell."

In this moment, Miko Nakadai is shown to have grown from an excitable child into an unyielding, but mature, adult warrior. She no longer treats the War and the 'Bots like a game, or a release. She treats them as her friends who she will gladly risk her own life for.

And that, in my opinion, makes her the best human protagonist in all of Transformers: Prime, and Transformers media in general.

As for what I said earlier about her being the true audience surrogate, be honest with yourselves: If any of us were given the chance to meet the Autobots, wouldn't you be just as irrepressible as Miko, as eager to help as she was, and tempted to go to the battlefield to see the action/make sure your 'Bot wasn't going to die? That's what I mean when I say she's the audience surrogate - Miko acts like we would, and learns as we would about the War and the 'Bots if we suddenly came across them.

That's my two cents on Miko, and why she's the human character I respect the most in Transformers...probably of all time. If you liked it, I'm glad; Miko deserves better, and I hope I explained why well.

Til next time, folks!

"Autobots, transform!"

[goddamnitmahtin]

Real Robins Can Fly

( a dc x dp prompt)

As a part of a charity event, Bruce holds a cosplay contest where contestants show off their cosplays, explain their processes and even show off a little if they have a talent of some sort that kind of fits the theme of the character.

Problem? Everyone he invited to be judges at the event are league members and they all had a case suddenly interfere so Bruce and his colleagues can’t show up. So he asks Dick to round up as many of his siblings as he can to be judges for this event. The lineup ends up being Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie and Damian. Duke was almost able to make it but he got caught up with work.

Dick was surprised that Damian even wanted to come considering he was drowning himself in studying for his finals. He was about to graduate high school and wanted to make sure his gpa was flawless. Nevertheless, he found a way to drag his youngest brother out of the library and into the judges panel.

The contest was fine. Most people dressed as local vigilantes or villains that were easy to recognize. There were some really good ones. There were a few that none of them recognized. A few only Tim recognized. Apparently they were from animes or something.

The day dragged on and on, all of them having to stop for breaks at different points. Dick needed to get up and walk around because sitting in one place for too long made his joints hurt. Jason had to leave to do breathing exercises when a really accurate second Robin cosplayer came through holding a crowbar of all things. Tim had to leave a few times to make phone calls as co CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Steph called the babysitter (Cass) a few times about her now 2 year old daughter. And Damian used every single one of those breaks to cram in more studying.

What nothing that day could have prepared them for was the last contestant. The 13 year old boy walked onto the stage with a huge smile in a perfect replica of Dick’s very first Robin suit. Down to the last detail everything was correct. Except that… it had been torn up and damaged in places and there were painted on bruises and wounds in the places missing fabric. Part of the mask was ripped off and being held in the boy’s hand. And the face underneath that broken mask looked just like Tim.

Tim: *after recovering faster than everyone else* Wow. What a suit! What’s your name and tell the process of creating your cosplay.

Danny: *smiles* I’m Danny! I’m 13 years old and I wanted to be Robin! Robin is my favorite vigilante because he’s an inspirational figure for younger people. I decided to design my outfit based on the very first Robin in his first ever suit that he was spotted in but I wanted to pay homage to all of the Robins so I changed it up a little bit. I studied the Robins from the past in photos and was able to come up with at least one thing from each.

Steph: I see. Could you show us these homages?

Danny: YES! *his eyes glowed green in excitement, catching Jason and Damian off guard* I designed the suit itself to look like the first Robin as he was the pioneer of the Robin title but I made the entire outfit from materials only used on the current Robin. As you can see the color scheme for the suit is more muted than the original as the current Robin uses shadows and corners more for attacks than the others did.

Damian: *smiles slightly*

Danny: I chose my wounds and distresses in the costume based on photos of the second and third Robins. They took more physical blows than the rest did. *pointing to each wound, pointing to one in the abdomen* This one is just a theory of mine but I think the third Robin might of at one point had a surgery around here from his fighting style. He would protect his abdomen from attack more.

Tim: …… I see.

Danny: And the fourth Robin was a deviation from the pattern because she was a girl that didn’t have the dark hair that all the others had. She wasn’t Robin for very long but her style and decision making were more unpredictable than the rest so if you just give me a second… *fidgets with his gloves for a moment* Whole watching her footage I noticed how her hair was accounted for in her fighting style without it ever getting into her way. *slides off his glove* So on my wrist I have a replica of the headband she used in her suit but smaller so it’s more of a bracelet.

Steph: *noticing how accurate it is* Oh- wow-

Jason: That’s really impressive Danny. Tell us a little bit more about how you actually created the suit. Your process.

Danny: Well the entire thing is made of an armored flex material that I made in my sister’s basement. I studied pictures of all of the Robin suits and noticed parts of the fabric that stood out and made my prototype from there. *smiles* I have a small sample for you guys to pass around! *hands Jason said sample*

Jason: Oh that’s really impressive-

Tim: You said you made it in your sister’s basement? How did your parents feel about it?

Danny: My parents are gone. It’s just me and Jazz. I spent all of my money on the materials to make this. I’m hoping to win because the prize money will be enough for her to buy a car so she can find a new job. And maybe with the rest I’ll finally be able to go to space camp this summer. I’ve always wanted to go! But we could never afford it.

Steph: *covers her gasp softly* Oh-

Damian: Did you have a talent you wanted to show off for us today?

Danny: YES! *pumps his fist excitedly*

Damian: Could you demonstrate that for us please?

Danny: Okay! *climbs up the light tower next to the stage and hangs from the metal bars like a proper gymnast before jumping off, flipping and grabbing frames and pieces of rigging to swing from, replicating old tricks Dick used to do as Robin that he learned in the circus before flipping down and landing nimbly in the center of the stage* Tadah!

Dick: *absolutely shook* Why did you- choose that as your talent?

Danny: Real robins can fly. So why can’t I?

After Danny leaves the stage, it takes a few minutes for them all to collect themselves from that. Especially Dick.

Steph: So that Danny kid is gonna win.

Tim: 100 percent. He was able to recreate the fabric we make our suits out of through pictures!

Jason: We better not tell Bruce or-

Damian: Too late. I already texted father. He’s drafting adoption papers as we speak.

Dick: *who was planning on doing that himself* Dammit!

Damian: I for one, am thrilled at the prospect that this Danny child will take up the Robin mantle when I leave for college.

Steph: Well real robins can fly so why shouldn’t he? *smiles*

Dick: Stephanie I’m literally going to cry.

[strwberri-milk]

Could you do a drabble with Rafayel and Sylus individually where MC Reader has an accident during a mission and forgot everyone and everything BUT them

To explain better, she's forgotten everyone in her life and doesn't remember her coworkers, where she is, who she is, what happened during that mission. But when she sees them, she immediately recognizes them.

Like imagine the worry they'd feel getting the call that their beloved is in the hospital and doesn't remember anything and perhaps worry that she has forgotten them again but this time, they're the only thing she remembers. Sorry if this sounds odd or weird!

Rafayel is relieved, honestly. The second he hears that you've got amnesia he's freaking out and trying to figure out if he can somehow convince you to fall in love with him one more time. His heart is torn and he can't think of anything but what sort of state he'll find you in.

He sees how afraid you look, the nerves as you try to comprehend what all the medical staff are telling you. He practically rushes into the hospital room much to the chagrin of all the staff. They try to stop him, worried that a strange man coming into your room would make you panic but when you call out his name he's by your side, holding you tightly as he soothes you.

The staff see how settled you are with him and decide that it's better to keep Rafayel by your side, even if he's crying a bit, totally emotional over the fact that you somehow still remember him despite losing memory of everything else. He'll take you back home with him the second you're discharged and not a moment sooner, wanting to make sure you feel safe.

He'll pamper you and do everything he can to try and help you while you recover. He gently tries to help you remember things about your own life, knowing that to see you thrive is another way to feel the love that you have. He does sort of love the fact that you know nothing but him right now which makes you almost depend on him, but he also wants you to be able to have a sense of independence from him, which is why he'll work with you at your own pace to help rebuild a life that's also your own.

Sylus is almost afraid to see you again. He stands outside your room, waiting for the staff to let him in as he tries to figure out what he'll do if it turns out that you've forgotten him once again. He already had a hard time dealing with it when he first saw you after so long but now he thinks he might be crushed if he sees that lack of recognition mixed in with a slight fear.

The staff introduce him to you when he's finally allowed in and he's a little taken aback by how distraught you look when you see him. His heart clenches and he's prepared to leave to avoid worsening your condition but he sees you reach out to him, saying his name in such a broken voice he knows that you recognise him.

He's right by your side, speaking to you softly as he reassures you he's right there with you. He takes your hand in both of his, dwarfing your bedside as he leans over and kisses your knuckles reverentially. He watches you as you rest, refusing to leave your bedside until you can come home with him.

He doesn't want to remold your life but he wants to make you comfortable. He'll ask you what you want, and assist either way. If you decide just knowing him is enough then the two of you will take the approach of remembering your previous life slower as you build a new one together - that's, if you even want to remember before him at all. If you want to remember everything before him as well then he's there all the way, making sure you don't over do it while supporting you in every way.