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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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WHATS LEFT BEHIND PT.2 | MV1

an: guys my time off is coming to an end, i move to france next week and start my job the week after rip me but in the mean time enjoy this badboy i've been sitting on

summary: when max verstappen left his childhood girlfriend behind to face her career ending injury alone to chase his dreams of being the best bull rider the country has ever seen, he thought it would be easy. except it wasn't, he was back in town and they hated him, for one reason. they hurt their star barrel racer.

wc: 6k

part one

Max pushed open the door to The Rusty Wheel, the familiar creak of its hinges greeting him like an old memory. The low hum of country music drifted from the jukebox in the corner, and the faint smell of spilled beer and worn leather hung in the air. Not much had changed since the last time he’d stepped foot in here, years ago—except, maybe, for the fact that now every pair of eyes in the place was on him.

He ran a hand through his hair and walked over to the bar, pausing only long enough to hang his cowboy hat on one of the hooks by the door. He used to come here every weekend, same as the rest of them. He hadn’t expected the town to change much—but somehow, it felt smaller now. Tighter. Like it didn’t quite fit him anymore.

Before he could take a seat, the owner, Earl, stepped out from behind the bar. Earl was a grizzled old cowboy, his flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a white beard flecked with grey. He stopped in his tracks, wiping his hands on a rag, and gave Max a once-over, his face creasing with disbelief.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Earl muttered, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t believe it when they told me.”

Max chuckled softly, not missing the edge in Earl’s voice. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You actually back for good?” Earl asked, still eyeing him like he was trying to decide if he was a mirage.

Max shrugged. “Looks that way.”

Earl grunted, leaning his hands on the bar. “Guess we’ll see how that works out.”

Before Max could reply, a figure appeared beside him, sliding a bottle of beer across the counter. Max glanced up and saw Daniel—his best friend from back in the day—giving him a smirk as he set the beer down. Daniel was leaner now, with a few more lines around his eyes, but he still had the same mischievous glint that had gotten them into trouble as kids.

Daniel raised an eyebrow as he wiped down the bar. “Bold move, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, really bold.”

Max took the beer, the cold glass sweating in his grip. “Figured it was time.”

Daniel leaned against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well, half the people in this town think you’ve got some nerve coming back after what you did to her.”

Max’s stomach clenched, but he kept his face neutral. He knew it wouldn’t take long for that topic to come up. “And the other half?” he asked, taking a swig from the bottle.

Daniel snorted. “They’re just in awe of what you’ve done with your career. Hell, I’ll admit it—I followed your rides. Man, some of those bulls you took on… I thought you were insane, but you sure made a name for yourself.”

Max nodded, setting the bottle back down on the bar. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Daniel tilted his head, studying him. “That right? Because last time I checked, you were in all the magazines, got sponsors throwing money at you, and about a million followers watching your every move. That doesn’t sound like a bad deal.”

Max sighed, leaning his elbows on the bar. “It was great for a while. But the thing is, they don’t see the rest of it. The part where you wake up and don’t know where you are half the time. Or when you’re trying to remember which interviews you’ve already done or whose hand you shook at some event you didn’t even want to go to.” He shook his head, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Everyone thinks they want that life until they get it.”

Daniel didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched him, the silence between them hanging heavy. Then, after a beat, he nodded. “So why’d you come back? You finally get sick of signing autographs?”

Max’s eyes drifted to the shelves of dusty bottles behind the bar, memories of a simpler life flooding back. The long nights in places like this, where the biggest problem he had was getting enough cash together to fill his tank. Where people knew him as Max, not Max Verstapppen, the famous bull rider plastered on posters across the country.

“Something like that,” he said quietly. “I was never cut out for that big city stuff. The lights, the cameras… all of it.” He paused, running a hand along the neck of the beer bottle, feeling the condensation slick against his skin. “I missed home. The quiet. The way things made sense out here.”

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. “Home, huh?” He let out a slow breath. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad to see you. Always hoped you’d come back. But you know it’s not going to be easy. People here… they don’t forget.”

Max’s jaw tightened, his grip on the bottle a little firmer. “Yeah, I know.”

Daniel stared at him for a long moment, and then his expression softened, some of the teasing edge fading from his voice. “She’s still hurt, you know. Even if she doesn’t show it. You coming back… it’s gonna stir up a lot of things.”

“I figured that,” Max replied, his voice low, almost resigned. “But I had to come back anyway.”

Daniel nodded, his eyes softening. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. You’ve got a lot of work to do, man.”

Max took another swig of beer, the cool liquid doing nothing to settle the unease that had been bubbling in his gut since the moment he’d driven into town. “Trust me,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “I know.”

The sound of the front door creaking open interrupted the conversation, and Max glanced over his shoulder to see a group of locals walking in, laughing and chatting as they made their way to a corner booth. He recognised some of them, faces he hadn’t seen in years, but he wasn’t ready for more conversations, more questions.

Turning back to Daniel, he nodded toward the bar. “Mind if I hang here for a while?”

Daniel smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. “Stay as long as you need. Just don’t expect the town to make it easy on you.”

Max nodded in appreciation, as he sipped his beer, letting the familiar hum of the bar settle around him. The chatter, the music, the faint clink of bottles—it all felt like a song from a time he thought he’d forgotten. But he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d been running from home for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to just stand still. And now that he was back, he wasn’t sure what hurt more—the memories of what he’d lost, or the fear of facing the woman he’d left behind.

______________________________________________________________

The next morning, Max stepped out of his truck, the early sun casting long shadows across the gravel driveway of High Ride Stables, Austin. The familiar scent of hay, leather, and horses filled the air, stirring memories he hadn’t thought of in years. It was a place he knew well—he’d worked here as a kid, mucking out stalls and helping with the horses. But today, the barn felt different, like the weight of his past was waiting for him inside.

He pushed open the large wooden door, the creak announcing his arrival. Inside, horses shuffled in their stalls, and the rhythmic thud of hooves echoed from deeper within. He glanced around, spotting the counter near the back where Leslie, the barn’s owner, was talking to one of the stable hands.

Leslie had been running this barn for as long as he could remember. She was tough as nails, with streaks of grey in her otherwise jet-black hair and a sharp gaze that could cut through any excuse. The stable hands called her “Les” when she wasn’t listening—if she caught them at it, they'd regret it.

When she saw him, her conversation trailed off, and her expression hardened. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter, eyeing him like he’d just tracked mud through her pristine barn.

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Leslie drawled, raising an eyebrow. “If it ain’t the hometown hero.”

Max tried to smile, but it fell flat. He took off his hat and held it in front of him. “Morning, Les.”

“Morning,” she replied, her tone flat. “What brings you here?”

“I’m lookin’ for work,” he said, stepping closer, but staying on the other side of the counter like it was a barrier between them. Which, in a way, it was.

Leslie’s eyes narrowed. “Work?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “After all that bull riding fame and fortune, you’re back here beggin’ for a job?”

“Not beggin’,” he muttered, his voice low. “Just askin’.”

She pushed herself off the counter, walking around it and standing toe-to-toe with him, hands on her hips. “Same difference.”

“Come on, Les,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “You know how it goes. The fame doesn’t last forever. Sponsors move on, injuries pile up… and the money—well, it dwindles. I can’t live off my bull riding winnings for the rest of my life.”

She crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Sounds like a ‘you’ problem, not a ‘me’ problem.”

Max sighed, glancing around the barn, trying to find the right words. “I grew up here, working in this barn. I know horses, I know the work. You know I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Leslie tilted her head, considering him for a moment. “You really expect me to just hand you a job, after everything?”

He frowned, confused. “After everything?”

She shot him a knowing look. “Don’t play dumb with me, Max. You know who works here.”

His stomach sank, realising where this conversation was heading. Of course, she worked here—why wouldn’t she? It was her world. She’d never left it, never had a reason to. But that didn’t make this any easier.

“I’m not lookin’ to cause any trouble, Les. I just need work,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll stay out of her way.”

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “Stay out of her way? You can’t just waltz back into this town, askin’ for a job, and think you can just avoid her. This is a small town, boy, not some city where you can hide from the people you’ve wronged.”

Max winced at the word “wronged.” It was blunt, but he couldn’t argue with it. He had wronged her. Maybe more than he even realised.

He took a deep breath, meeting Leslie’s gaze. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt her. But… I need this job, Les. Please.”

Leslie studied him for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then, she turned and walked back to the counter, rummaging through a drawer before pulling out a small notepad. She scribbled something down on it, then tore off the piece of paper and held it out to him.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, her voice cool and matter-of-fact. “I’ll give you a job if you go apologise to her. And not just any apology—she has to forgive you.”

Max stared at her, not taking the paper. His heart raced, a mixture of panic and disbelief. “Les, that’s impossible.”

Leslie crossed her arms again, looking at him with the same steel-eyed determination she always had. “Well, if you think it’s impossible, you don’t want this job bad enough.”

His eyes flicked to the paper in her hand, knowing exactly what was written on it. He didn’t need to look to know it was her address.

“You know she’s not gonna forgive me,” he said quietly, feeling the weight of the past like a stone in his gut.

Leslie gave him a half-smile, but there was no softness in it. “Well, you better get working, boy.”

Max finally took the paper from her hand, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should. He looked down at the address, familiar yet distant, as if it belonged to another lifetime.

“I’m serious,” Leslie said, her voice softening just a bit. “You want a job here? You’ve gotta make things right with her. I won’t have you causing more mess in this barn—or in this town. Either she forgives you, or you pack your bags and keep drivin’.”

Max swallowed hard, tucking the paper into his back pocket. He wanted to argue, to tell her that there was no way in hell she’d ever forgive him. But he knew Leslie well enough to know that there was no arguing with her.

He nodded once, stiffly. “Alright. I’ll… I’ll try.”

Leslie smirked, her eyes gleaming with something he couldn’t quite place. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

As he turned to leave, the barn door creaked open behind him, and for a split second, his heart froze. He half-expected to see her there, standing in the doorway, glaring at him like she had on that road. But it was just another worker, coming in to start the day.

Max let out a breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. It had been one thing to face her the first time, in the heat of the moment. But now… now he had to go, hat in hand, and ask her to forgive him. To admit he was wrong. To dig up all the things he’d been trying to bury for years.

He shoved his hat back on his head and walked out of the barn, the piece of paper burning a hole in his pocket. The road ahead of him felt longer than it had ever been.

The next day, Max stood at the front steps of the small house, nerves twisting in his stomach like a coiled rope. He stared at the chipped paint on the door, feeling the weight of years pressing down on him. This was the house he’d been avoiding ever since he set foot back in town. And now, here he was—about to knock.

He took a deep breath, raising his fist and rapping his knuckles on the door. The sound echoed in the still morning air, louder than it had any right to be. For a moment, he thought maybe she wouldn’t answer, maybe he could just turn around and—

The door swung open.

She stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowing the second she saw him. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she wore an old flannel shirt that he recognised—one she stole off of him when they were kids. She didn’t look surprised to see him. If anything, she looked like she’d been expecting him.

“Nope,” she said flatly, her hand already on the door, ready to slam it shut. “Not happening.”

“Wait,” Max said, holding up his hands. “Just… just hear me out for a minute.”

“I don’t think I need to,” she shot back, her voice cold. “I’ve already heard enough.”

“Darling, please—”

“Do not call me ‘darling,’” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. Her eyes flashed with anger, and Max felt the sting of it, like a whip cracking against his skin. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

Max took a step back, raising his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” she interrupted, her voice rising, filled with a raw, seething rage that had been simmering for eight long years. “What, Max? You didn’t mean to leave me in a hospital bed without a word? You didn’t mean to disappear without so much as a goddamn goodbye?”

He swallowed hard, the guilt gnawing at him like it always did when he thought about that day. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to face you.”

She let out a bitter laugh, crossing her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from him. “So, you just ran? That’s your excuse?”

“I wasn’t running,” Max muttered, but the words felt hollow even to him. He’d been running for years—he knew it, and so did she.

“Bullshit,” she spat, her eyes blazing. “You’ve been running your whole damn life. When things get hard, you don’t face them—you just pack your bags and leave. That’s what you did to me, and that’s what you’ve been doing ever since.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that wasn’t true, but the words died in his throat. She wasn’t wrong. He had run. He’d run the second things got complicated, the second he felt like he was losing control.

“I thought I was doing what was best,” he said finally, his voice quieter, less sure. “I thought you’d hate me if I stayed.”

Her jaw clenched, and she took a step forward, her fists balled at her sides. “You really think I could’ve hated you?” she said, her voice trembling with the weight of years of hurt. “You think I wanted you to just leave me behind like I didn’t matter?”

“I didn’t think I was enough for you!” Max burst out, the frustration and regret spilling out of him. “You were laid up in a hospital bed because of that fall, and I was getting calls about sponsors and competitions. I was torn in two, and I didn’t know what to do! I thought if I stayed, you’d see me as some reminder of what you’d lost, of the future we’d been planning and couldn’t have anymore.”

Her eyes widened, and for a second, the anger flickered, replaced by something else—something rawer, more vulnerable. “So, what? You thought I’d hate you? That I wouldn’t want you anymore? Out of pity?” She shook her head, stepping back from him as if the very thought disgusted her. “Is that what you really think of me?”

Max dragged a hand through his hair, hating how badly this conversation was going. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, his voice pleading now. “I didn’t want to be a burden. You’d just lost everything, and I didn’t want to remind you of the future you couldn’t have anymore. You deserved better than a guy who was barely hanging on.”

“Barely hanging on?” She seethed, her fists trembling. “You didn’t give me the chance to decide that! You didn’t even try to talk to me, to ask me what I wanted. You made that choice for me.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” Max shouted back, his frustration boiling over. “I thought if I walked away, you’d move on. You’d be better off without me, and I could… I could disappear before you realised I wasn’t enough.”

She stared at him, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. “You think leaving was easier for me? You think watching you drive off without a word made me better off?”

“I wasn’t strong enough to stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I thought I’d hurt you more by sticking around. I thought you’d hate me, that you’d look at me and see someone who was staying out of pity.”

“God, Max,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You don’t even get it, do you?”

He swallowed hard, the weight of her words crushing him. “Then tell me,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what I didn’t see.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, her breath shaky as she tried to compose herself. When she opened them again, there was no anger left—just hurt. “You were everything to me. Everything. And you took that away because you were scared. You left me in that hospital bed, and you didn’t even let me fight for us. You made that choice, and I had to live with it.”

Max felt his chest tighten, the guilt and regret almost suffocating. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so damn sorry.”

Her lip trembled, and for a moment, she looked like she might break. But then, just as quickly, she straightened up, hardening herself again. “Sorry doesn’t fix eight years, Max. Sorry doesn’t undo the fact that you abandoned me when I needed you most.”

He took a step closer, desperate to bridge the distance between them. “I’m here now. I want to make it right.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “It’s not that easy. You don’t get to just walk back into my life and pretend like nothing happened.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I can’t fix what I did. But I want to try. Please, just give me a chance.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she stepped back inside and slammed the door in his face.

Max stood there, staring at the closed door, the sound of it still ringing in his ears. The weight of her words, the pain he’d caused, hung heavy in the air around him.

He slipped his hat back on, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes. As he turned and walked back to his truck, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, he realised something: he’d always been running. But for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if he could ever stop.

That night, Max couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, the weight of her words pressing on his chest like a stone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—angry, hurt, and accusing. It had been easier when he thought he was protecting her by leaving. Now, after their argument, it was clear that all he’d done was rip open a wound neither of them had been able to heal.

With a frustrated groan, he threw off the blankets and sat up in bed. Sleep wasn’t coming—not tonight. He rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the clock. It was just after midnight, but it felt like the hours were crawling by, leaving him trapped with his thoughts.

His mind wandered to the only place that ever brought him a sense of calm: the rodeo. The old training grounds on the outskirts of town where he’d spent countless nights like this, working out his frustrations with the one thing he understood—bull riding. He hadn’t been back there in years, but tonight, it felt like the only place he could go to clear his head.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and his boots, Max grabbed his jacket and slipped out of the house, the cool night air hitting his face as he headed to his truck.

The rodeo grounds were quiet when he pulled up, the faint glow of the moon casting long shadows over the empty bleachers. The scent of dirt and leather filled his lungs, familiar and comforting in a way that nothing else had been since he’d come back to town. He walked toward the arena, the sounds of his boots crunching on gravel the only thing breaking the silence.

As he got closer, something caught his eye. Movement in the arena. At first, he thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but then he saw her.

She was on horseback, weaving through the barrels in the dim moonlight, her movements graceful and precise. It was like watching a memory come to life. She moved with a fluidity that made it look effortless, but Max knew better. He’d seen the hours she used to put in, the work that went into every sharp turn, every quick burst of speed. She hadn’t lost her touch.

He stopped at the edge of the arena, standing just out of sight, not wanting to disturb her. For a moment, he just watched, his chest tightening as he remembered how much she loved this—how much they had loved this world together.

Then, it happened. As she rounded the last barrel, something went wrong. Maybe her horse misstepped, maybe she pushed too hard, but in an instant, she was thrown off, hitting the ground hard. Her horse skittered to the side, startled by the fall.

Before he could stop himself, Max was moving. He vaulted over the fence and ran toward her, his heart pounding in his chest. She was sitting up by the time he reached her, dusting off her jeans with a wince.

“Who the fuck did I piss off in my past life for you to be the one to find me?” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she glanced up at him.

Max skidded to a halt, a little breathless, and held up his hands in surrender. “I was just passing by. You okay?”

She shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Like you care.”

He didn’t argue, just crouched down beside her, unsure of what else to do. “How can I help?”

“Help?” She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You really think you can help now, after everything?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, his voice softer than before. “But I’m trying.”

She rolled her eyes, but her usual fire seemed to be dimmed, just a little. “Doctor’s orders,” she said finally, wincing as she shifted her leg. “You wanna help? Raise my leg and keep it elevated for fifteen minutes.”

Max hesitated for a moment, unsure if she was messing with him or not. But the way she was holding her side, the tightness in her face, told him this was real.

He nodded and carefully slid his arm under her leg, lifting it gently and resting it on his knee. She didn’t protest, but she also didn’t look at him. They sat there in silence, the tension between them as thick as the night air.

The minutes dragged by, and Max could feel every second of it. He kept his gaze focused on the ground, resisting the urge to say something—anything—to break the silence. But she was the one who spoke first.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” she said quietly, her voice lacking the venom it usually held.

Max swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I couldn’t.”

“You mean you didn’t want to. Big difference.” She still wasn’t looking at him, her focus trained on the darkened arena ahead of them.

He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle her leg. “I missed this place,” he said after a long pause. “Missed the people. Missed… you.”

She scoffed, but there was less bite to it. “You missed me? Is that why you didn’t call for eight years? ‘Cause you missed me?”

“I didn’t know how,” he admitted, his voice low. “I thought you’d moved on. I thought it was easier for you if I wasn’t in the picture.”

“Easier?” She let out a humourless laugh. “Do you even hear yourself, Max? You just disappeared. You didn’t even give me the chance to move on, to deal with any of it. You just left, and I had to pick up the pieces.”

He clenched his jaw, the guilt settling deep in his chest. “I thought I was doing what was best.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes were filled with anger, but underneath it was something else—something softer, more vulnerable. “You keep saying that like it was some noble thing you did, but all you did was make a decision for both of us. You never even asked me what I wanted.”

Max opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She was right. He hadn’t asked. He’d just assumed.

They fell into silence again, the weight of the unspoken things between them pressing down like a heavy fog.

After what felt like forever, she sighed, leaning back against the fence, her leg still resting on his knee. “You know,” she said quietly, “there was a time when I would’ve given anything to hear you say you missed me. But now… I don’t even know what to do with that.”

Max looked at her, his chest tightening at the sight of her so close, yet so far away. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “I know I messed up. I know I can’t fix what I did, but I’m here now. I want to make it right.”

She didn’t respond, just stared out at the empty arena, her face unreadable.

The silence stretched between them, and Max could feel the weight of it settling in his bones. He wanted to say more, to tell her everything that had been building inside him for years. But the words felt too small, too insignificant for the damage he’d caused.

After a long while, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if it’s enough.”

Max’s heart clenched, but he nodded. “I get that,” he said quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere this time.”

She didn’t say anything else, and the two of them sat there in the quiet of the rodeo grounds, with nothing but the stars and the distant sounds of the horses to keep them company.

For the first time in years, it wasn’t the silence that felt unbearable. It was the hope buried somewhere beneath it.

She shifted slightly, wincing a bit as she adjusted her leg on his knee. Max kept his hold steady, though every muscle in him was tense. He was waiting, unsure if she’d kick him out of her life again or keep him suspended in this strange limbo they found themselves in.

“What was it like?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft but cutting through the stillness. She didn’t look at him, just kept her eyes trained on the horizon, as if the answer was out there somewhere in the night sky. “To make it big? To live that life?”

Max glanced at her, surprised by the question. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. His instinct was to downplay it, to gloss over the highs and lows like he had so many times before when people asked. But this wasn’t just anyone asking—it was her.

He took a deep breath. “It was everything I thought it’d be,” he started, his voice low. “At first, anyway. The crowds, the money, the fame… it was wild. Everything moved so fast. One minute I was just this kid from nowhere, the next I was on posters, doing interviews, getting invited to places I’d never even dreamed of.”

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as the memories flooded back. “The adrenaline—it’s like nothing else. Every ride, every victory, it felt like I was on top of the world. But the crashes… they’re just as big. Bigger, even.”

She listened quietly, her face unreadable. He wasn’t sure if she cared or if she was just being polite, but he kept going, needing to get it out.

“There were nights when I’d lie awake in a hotel room, hundreds of miles from home, and wonder what the hell I was doing,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I was surrounded by people all the time, but I never felt more alone. It was like… like I was chasing something, and no matter how far I got, I couldn’t catch it. Every high came with a low, and after a while, the lows started outweighing everything else.”

She still didn’t say anything, her eyes fixed on the stars. He looked down at the ground, the dirt beneath his boots feeling more real than anything had in a long time.

“I got tired of it,” he confessed after a long pause. “Tired of the crowds, the noise, the pressure to be something I wasn’t sure I wanted to be anymore. I missed this place. I missed…” He trailed off, but she didn’t need him to finish the sentence. They both knew what he meant.

Finally, she turned her head slightly, her eyes finding his. “And you think you can just come back?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with something bitter, something hurt. “After all of that? Just walk back into this life like nothing happened?”

Max swallowed hard. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think that. I know I can’t just… fix things. I’m not here to pretend that the past didn’t happen.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze sharp, cutting through the quiet. “Why should I trust you?”

He didn’t flinch at the question. He’d been expecting it, waiting for it.

“You don’t have to,” he answered honestly, meeting her eyes. “I know I haven’t earned that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Her jaw clenched, and she turned her gaze back to the arena. “You hurt me, Max. You didn’t just leave—you disappeared. Like I meant nothing.”

“I know,” he whispered, the words heavy with regret. “And I’m so damn sorry. If I could take it all back, I would.”

“Sorry isn’t enough,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly. “You don’t get to come back after eight years and expect me to forget what that felt like.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I’m not asking you to forget. Or even to forgive me right away. I just want a chance to make things right. To prove that I’m not that guy anymore.”

She didn’t respond, just sat there in the silence, her leg still resting on his knee. It was a strange kind of intimacy—one built on years of unresolved hurt, but also on something deeper. Something neither of them wanted to name yet.

After a while, she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Nothing ever changed here, you know,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “While you were out there, living that big life, everything just… stayed the same. The same people, the same rodeos, the same barns. It was like I was stuck while you were off becoming someone else.”

Max’s chest tightened at her words. He couldn’t imagine what that must’ve felt like, to watch the world move on without her, to feel left behind. And worse, to know he was part of the reason she felt that way.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, the words feeling inadequate, but it was all he had. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to leave you stuck. I thought you’d move on. I thought you’d—”

“Stop thinking,” she cut in, her voice sharp again, though there was a weariness in her eyes. “You keep telling yourself you did what was best for me, but you never asked me what I wanted. You just decided for both of us.”

He nodded, taking the hit. She was right, and he wasn’t going to argue with that.

She shifted again, pulling her leg off his knee and standing up, brushing the dirt off her jeans. Max stood too, though he kept his distance, unsure of what to do next. The tension between them was still there, heavy and thick, but something had changed. There was a crack in the wall she’d built around herself, just a small one, but it was there.

“Look,” she said after a long pause, her voice softer now. “I don’t know what you expect to happen. I don’t know if I can ever trust you again. But… I don’t hate you. Not anymore. I thought I did, for a long time. But it’s just… it’s hard to hate someone you used to love that much.”

His heart stuttered in his chest at the word “love.” Even though it was in the past tense, it still felt like a lifeline.

“I don’t expect anything,” he said quietly. “I just want to be here. Whatever that looks like.”

She gave him a long look, her eyes searching his face as if she was trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. Finally, she nodded, just once. “We’ll see.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even close. But it was something.

She turned and started walking toward her truck, her steps slow, like she was still testing how much she could trust the ground beneath her.

Max watched her go, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the weight of the past still pressing on him. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

part three

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liillyliilly · 6 months ago

Text

I Need A Challenge

ushijima wakatoshi x reader words; 3804 synopsis; she writes a scathing review of ushijima's volleyball skills. how else should he respond if not by inviting her out to dinner?

She was tired of people like him. People who had no reason to be so stereotypically perfect. Everyone knows the type, comically good looking, is a prodigy in their one specific thing, acting so nonchalant that it ends up becoming their token personality trait. It was all so boring to her.

Which is why, as she was taking notes in the most recent Volleyball Nations League game, she wrote down some very harsh words for her analysis of star spiker Ushijima Wakatoshi. It was just the brutally honest truth of the world, she reasoned. Her editor, after reading the article she wrote at the game, almost dropped their jaw in shock at what she had written.

“This is really,” Editor Xhou sucked in some air through his teeth, “This is almost borderline libel material.”

She inspected her nails, shrugging as Xhou kept talking to her.

“I mean, you said that he is, and I quote from your own words, ‘Ushijima is the default setting for a volleyball player, there’s nothing too particularly unique’. You want me to let the paper publish this?” Xhou leans back into his office chair, pushing his glasses up and sighing.

“I write the truth, and the truth is that when Ushijima is on the court, you always know the exact plays he’ll make, the exact moves he’ll execute. The result is consistently the same. The games are too predictable when he plays.” She stands up from the seat opposite to Xhou.

Xhou sets the paper on his desk, checking that she really is okay with the article having her name attached to it.

A thumbs up is the only response she gives to her supervisor.

Xhou stamps the paper with his name, and faxes the documents to the coordinator putting together the sports magazine review for this issue. He wonders if the legal team is going to get involved again, he remembers the last player she reviewed, he was crushed and had to move to Alaska to play in a much smaller league. Xhou fully believes he’s going to get the magazine sued for letting her article fly.

Tendou finishes his squat set, hanging up the weights with a heave. Ushijima finishes his hundredth bicep curl, finally finishing his repetitions of this exercise.

Tendou pokes some fun, “I'm so sad for people without legs, they have to skip leg day.” He muses, trying to see what reaction or comment his best friend will make. Tendou twists and flexes in the full length mirrors lining the gym.

Ushijima only responds with a nod. He checks his phone, only to see that he’s received a little over four hundred notifications and counting. The beeping and noises start to pile up. Tendou peeks over Ushijima’s shoulder and gasps, he steals Ushijima’s phone away and immediately investigates what all the hustle and bustle could be related to.

“You should probably read this article, I think the writer has it out for your throat Wakatoshi.” Tendou grimaces while handing the phone back.

He skims the article, viewing the main talking points and major issues the author brings to light about his play style. His boring, everyday genius playstyle. He’s read criticisms of his volleyball skills before, but this one doesn’t seem too targeted solely about him, just using him as the mechanism to get a broader point across about the lack of challenges in volleyball recently. He chuckles at one of her comments, reading it aloud.

“Monster generation? I need a real challenge from these players, but all they’re giving me is platinum dreams without true passion and anger for the sport. I want them foaming at the mouth with new tricks, but I’m getting the same exact game over and over again.” Tendou cringes as Ushijima reads the words out loud. Ushijima stifles another chuckle.

Ushijima tucks his phone into his pocket, picking up his duffel bag. “I like her. She knows volleyball.”

It wasn’t just her comments, it was also the name of the author that Ushijima liked.

Tendou drops his water bottle in response to Ushijima’s behavior, stunned at the openness of amusement he has for the article and for the investment he has for this particular reporter.

Ushijima’s manager says that she’ll have a cease and desist letter issued to the paper for publishing such a slanderous piece. Ushijima proposes an entirely different solution.

She didn’t expect to be sitting at a restaurant, pencil and paper in hand, waiting for someone she just dragged through the mud to arrive so they could share a meal and an interview.

It was winter, and her reading glasses had fogged up slightly in the difference between the outdoors temperature and the warmth of the restaurant. The main features of the restaurant was the Western Style dining choices and decor, it reminded her almost of a hibachi place, but instead of Japanese food it was just a bunch of American and European dishes.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Ushijima pulls out his chair and settles into it, grabbing his glass of water so he can drink from it.

“High school seemed so long ago, but yes it is nice to see you again Wakatoshi. Sorry for the piece, your name just carries the right amount of importance to get my bigger points across.” She crosses her legs, setting her pencil behind her ear. The waiter comes around and takes their orders. He asks for the salmon, and she gets the house soup.

“No, I totally get it. But the statement about how people just continually eat up the single dish I serve? I thought you would’ve found a better analogy for my consistency on the court.” He just smiles at her, watching her move the pencil from behind her ear to her mouth so she could chew on it a little. One of her tells of when she was deeply thinking about how to respond to something.

Ushijima remembers all the stories she would write back in high school, ranging from sports analysis of Shiratorizawa clubs for her journalism extracurricular to getting paid to write love letters from person to person. She garnered enough money to pay for a new laptop and her entire wishlist of stationery items.

He remembers her lending him a pen once during class, it was a weightier metal pen. The ink was so black he was sure it was made of pure darkness. While he admired the pen she went into a rant talking about the pen itself, the quality of it and how it took forever to be delivered to her. They both got chastised by the teacher for having a side conversation and had to sit outside the classroom. But they ended up talking outside the classroom despite being told not to.

“Like you’d know what a good analogy looks like.” She hides her smirk behind a spoonful of soup. Ushijima appreciates her ability to be unapologetic, her honesty and bluntness matching his own linguistic traits.

They talk for three hours, about volleyball, life after high school, the article she wrote, about friends and the situations they found themselves in. Ushijima talks about Tendou and his chocolatier aspirations, she brings up Semi Eita’s new album that actually sounded truly alternative and unique.

He remembers her having a crush on Semi throughout high school. He didn’t really see why she would sit at their practices sometimes, just sighing wistfully, before freezing and turning flustered when Semi tried to make conversation like a normal person. But when Semi was seen to be a slight habitual complainer, she grew a distaste for him. Ushijima was sure that Semi was her longest crush, clocking in at around two months or so.

Ushijima did enjoy that she came to their practices sometimes, because then he could ask her about her pen collection and she would openly, loudly, and enthusiastically layer on every detail she could fit into her remarks. And she was someone who asked him about his favorite things, primarily volleyball but also about reading the advertisements in the Weekly Shonen Jump Magazine. Or about how good a runner’s high could feel sometimes.

Around her, he could share without fear of being misunderstood. She just accepted what she heard, and then analyzed it, taking her time and asking clarifying questions. He did his best to emulate her mannerisms and tact within their conversations, usually failing, but she didn’t mind.

She did openly declare an aversion for him throughout high school, that genius powerhouses should never be entertained with acknowledgement. What others considered harsh from her was almost like beaming encouragement for him. It was like she was telling him, if he didn’t continually improve and advance then the stagnation would leave him in the dust. A push in the right direction was more accurate of why she would say what she did about him.

He takes the bill from her, puts his gold debit card on the clipboard, and returns it to the waiter before she can even open her purse. Rolling her eyes, she sets some bills on the table and slides it over to him. Glaring at him until he accepts the cash and puts the bills into his wallet.

“Are you dating anyone right now?” Ushijima inquires while they walk down the street to get to the train station. The night air leaves a chill around the two of them. He had his hands tucked into his pockets, and she had her arms folded over her body.

Snow falls from the sky, catching the lights and making streaks of color burst in small flickers like fireflies. The piled up snow in the roads hadn’t yet been plowed thoroughly, and wasn’t sullied with pollution that made it yellow and black. The snow was much more like a blanket.

“Listen, I’m what people consider easy to love but hard to please. Most people say they felt like they were never enough for me when we were dating.” She bites on her bottom lip a little. It’s a confusing feeling to be unnerved by him, and she feels even more uneasy when she realizes that she’s speaking too openly. “I don’t intentionally degrade those I date, I just, I have high expectations. I don’t give many second chances.”

His breath comes out in puffs of white, winter nipping at his nose which makes him feel uncomfortable. He wonders if she’s as cold as him. He knew that she had high expectations, none of the boys at their high school got remotely close to being romantically involved with her. She wanted more than what most people could offer. She wanted someone who was as open as her.

She feels a little guilty about her article now. Maybe she pushed the words a little too much on his bad qualities. Ushijima really wasn’t that bad, he was just dependable and rational, which crafted his playstyle of being an ultimate pillar of strength for a team. Why shouldn’t a team go with the most reliable way of scoring points? Then she shooed the thought. If volleyball wanted to keep being popular, it needed to evolve.

“I liked your article a lot.” He offers, segwaying the conversation, knowing her thoughts better than she knew them. “Power goes far, but even then, there’s ceilings that need to be broken. There’s talents that need to be unearthed, planted, and then allowed to bloom.”

They sit on the bench under the covering for the train station. The screen shows that the train she needs to take will come in around ten minutes.

“Thanks. My editor was worried you were going to sue me for what I wrote.” She laughs a little, rubbing her hands against her thighs to build up some lingering heat in her hands and her body.

He passes her his gloves from his jacket pocket. Making a small hum he waves them in front of her. She accepts and embraces the black fleece covering her fingers.

“Oh, no, there’s no way I’d want you to be sued. But I do want you to add another part to the article.” He blows some air onto his hands, rubbing them together. She raises an eyebrow inquisitively, turning towards him on the bench.

Once he had finished reading her piece on Ushijima’s game, he went through and read all her other articles. He found out her favorite current player was actually Hinata Shouyou, the energetic innovator. She had written about his unique approach, due to natural athleticism. Also about his experience in Brazilian beach volleyball making his defense skills unique in the field of both Japanese volleyball and on a global scale. It was all about Hinata this, Hinata that. But could the ultimate decoy ever compare to the pillar of strength?

“What do you want me to change? I can’t make any promises.”

“Say I’m your number one, because I don’t do last place.” Ushijima lifted her chin up, looking right into her eyes. He inspects her face, the small miniscule motions her features display show that she’s listening, actively listening. “Did I ever mention that you’re the only one that has my attention?”

She really was. The only reporter he cared to give quotes to after big games, the only girl who he ever wondered if there was any possibility to develop a relationship with. He was hooked on every word she wrote, every interview she hosted online. She was in his world, but never overlapped her social circle with his for longer than an hour at best.

She swallows thickly, “I’m sorry to say this, but I really am unimpressed by your playstyle.”

He raises an eyebrow, sliding his hand from her chin to the side of her neck. He can feel the way her pulse is racing under her skin.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Her train arrived. She ducked under his hand and made her way onto the train. Before the sliding door closes, she motions him closer so she doesn't have to yell.

“Then show me your talents. I need a challenger for my first place.”

Tendou lies on his stomach on the floor, Ushijima is reviewing some plays written by his coach. He scans for any play that could show off his left hand spikes, or any play that he could try and improvise a receive if he wasn’t on the front row rotation. The plays are different from what he’s used to. But his coach said that they were all optional, and that Ushijima’s playstyle was perfectly fine as it was. But ‘fine as is’ doesn’t earn him any accolades in her book.

Tendou perks up, “I always felt like fighting had romantic undertones.” He references what Ushijima had told him about how the dinner with his reporter went last week.

“But I don’t want to fight her? I’d hardly call a slight disagreement a fight.” Ushijima sets aside the packet he had been studying.

He opens his phone and refreshes the webpage for the newspaper she worked for. When nothing pops up under her name, he goes to the calendar page to see if she’d be attending an upcoming game he’d be playing in. He sets his phone aside when he realizes she will in fact be in attendance.

“But you do want to fight for her ‘first place’ hottie player ranking.” Tendou kicks his feet in the air, crossing his feet and tapping the top of his head.

Ushijima stands up and goes to check his closet, seeing if he needs to get a tighter jersey for the upcoming game. “She never used the word ‘hottie’ when talking about her favorite player.”

“So you admit that you do want to be her favorite player?”

Ushijima finishes trying on the jersey over his long sleeve compression shirt, the jersey fitted better than he remembered. He tugs on the front of the uniform. Then what Tendou said clicks for him.

Ushijima blinks, “I do want to be her favorite player.” He doesn’t see why he would deny that observation. Being her favorite player would be the ideal situation for him.

Tendou rolls over onto his back and wiggles his pointer fingers in the air, “You want to be more than just her favorite player.” He sings the words in a teasing manner.

“Maybe I do.”

One time, near the end of high school, she was talking during lunch. Her friends were uninterested, wanting to discuss boys or homework instead of her critical worldview analysis. Her table was right next to the table that Ushijima and Tendou were sitting at, their volleyball friends already outside tossing around a ball.

Ushijima listened in, drinking his milk while Tendou ate chicken nuggets. When her voice got quieter, almost to the point of fading out entirely due to her slowly realizing her friends were not as interested in the conversation as she was, Ushijima leaned in subconsciously, trying to catch her words.

Tendou pinched Ushijima, telling him that if he wanted to listen to her, he should ask her to come sit with them. Ushijima froze. So Tendou invited her to come sit with them. Placing her lunch tray down, she ate a carrot, sensing Ushijima’s hesitance and Tendou’s eagerness.

It was Ushijima that spoke first, “Keep going. You remind me of someone. He said almost the same thing, about his worthless pride and not forgetting about it.”

She brightens. Continuing her dissection of the value of pride, she refers to Ushijima as a reference point for pride. Using him in her examples and demonstrations of her illustrative examples. Around the third time she says his family name, he makes another request.

“You can just call me Wakatoshi.”

Tendou drops his chicken nugget, but quickly regains his pace in eating the arms off the dinosaurs.

She says his name, once and then twice. Letting it settle onto her tongue and leave a trace of what a first name basis could mean. Pondering on that instead of her newest philosophy interest is quickly dropped. She only ever calls him by his name from then on.

Needless to say, the next game he plays at, she’s there, with her notepad and pen. Each receive, hit, serve, and toss is carefully recorded on her paper.

He doesn’t do anything too off the typical, but he does try new things his coach had mentioned. Pressuring an opponent’s highest scorer more, trying a few block kills when he’s in the right rotation, scoring some points off the tip of the blockers hands instead of cutting right through their attempts to defend. He’s more tired after this game than his last one. Yet, he had more fun this time around. His teammates seemed thrilled with the results of never having a gap less than five points.

After the game, before he goes to the locker room to debrief with the team and change into regular clothes, he stalks his way over to her. She’s talking to another reporter that had been sitting in the media section, but the other reporter just elbows her lightly when he notices Ushijima making an attempt to approach. The other man slowly walks away, bidding her a farewell.

She’s still sitting on the bench, cheekily covering her notes with her hand, and writing something down. When he takes a place next to her, he spreads his legs a little, expanding his presence and bumping their thighs into each other. She initially retracts from the touch, but relaxes into it.

He’s aware that his body is thinly sheened with sweat. It drips from the hair at his nape down his back and soaks into his player kit. She brings her notepad up to her face, looking at him over the spiral binding of the paper. Trying to hide her comments and analysis of the game, which had been overwhelmingly positive for Ushijima.

“What’s your professional opinion of the game?” He uses a finger to push down her notepad that was covering her nose. A streak of ink and pencil lead was across her cheek and nose. He brought his thumb up and wiped away the markings. At first swipe, nothing moved, so he slid his thumb over again with just a little more pressure.

“It was entertaining in a different sense. Rather than being solely athletic entertainment.” She licks her own thumb and finishes wiping away all the marks that she could feel him trying to get rid of. She misses a sliver on the apple of her cheek but he doesn’t say anything, enjoying the way that it makes her seem less intimidating and more adorable.

“Care to share with the class?”

“Well, when a certain player keeps trying to make eye contact during the game, when he should instead be invested in the game, it does pose some interesting investigative questions.”

At this point, Ushijima slid his hand to her thigh, asking her to explain further, “Such as?”

“When will he get up the nerve to ask her on a date? Will he take her for a ride in that brand new car he got? Does he need glasses from how frequently it seemed he scrutinized the audience in search of her?” She pauses, then continues, “And will he be mad if she writes something about how attentive the setter was during the game?”

“Soon, for the date. Most definitely a long car ride to the mountains. His vision is actually perfectly 20/20, he just wanted to make sure she was having a good time by observing her reactions. No comments for the setter, he’s a rookie, and much less attentive than an older, more experienced player.”

She hums a little in regards to his answers to her inquiries. Soon, she tugs on the back of his hand, the hand that was resting on her thigh. She bites the cap off her pen, waving the pen in the air, close enough to his skin for him to understand the point of what she was communicating.

The pen tickled the skin of his hand, but he liked the way she put one hand under his to make his hand rest flat so she could write her piece on his body. Capping the pen back up, she tucked it behind her ear.

Written on his hand was a series of numbers, along with a small doodle of a volleyball.

Getting up from her spot on the media bench, she leaves him with a short statement.

“I liked your response to my challenge. Keep making the Monster Generation bloom with each game Wakatoshi.” She halts for a moment, then turns back to him, “You can be my number one on those conditions. Blooming the Monsters and responding to my challenges.”

He’d return every challenge she gave him if it meant he could be hers.

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starlightsearches · 2 months ago

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ooooooooh can we eget a track 8 with edward nashton? maybve it's his first time but he doesnt want to tell the reader that?? love your writing 🖤

Moving Too Fast

Track 8: Start Me Up by The Rolling Stones - Give me a character and a NSFW prompt (or give me free rein) and I'll write a short blurb or headcanons about it.

Edward Nashton x F! Reader

AN: Thanks for the suggestion, friend! Here's a little love letter from me to pre-mature ejaculation uwu. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated mwah mwah

Warnings: 18+ only, some language, lots of self-loathing from Eddie, sexism, mentions of creepy behavior, making out, and pre-mature ejaculation. Let me know if I missed anything!

Eddie could have sworn it was three dates.

Isn't that what everybody said? Third date go great? Try these six tips to make him yours for sure.

Or maybe he just got that idea from some stupid magazine back when he was in college. The ones he'd shove inside his jacket before the guy ringing up all the ramen packets and dandruff shampoo would notice.

Magazines he'd read whenever his roommate was gone—when he'd stroke his cock nice and slow at the lurid words, still getting used to the idea of pleasure, guilt always sitting at the top of his stomach like an oil slick—reading about all the ways a woman could touch you. Too scared at the sight of tits to look at any real porn.

High school was where he learned what it meant if a girl let you touch her on the first date. Eddie had spent every hellish minute in those fucking locker rooms with his head ducked low, trying to avoid attention, curling in on himself to hide the body he was so ashamed of and didn't understand.

He still heard what the other boys said. Learned all the words—slut, whore, skank—practiced saying them under his breath whenever he was alone so they'd come out naturally if the occasion ever arose. (It never did.)

But this isn't a third date. It's not even a date. And Eddie's not sure what that's supposed to say about you.

He doesn't think you're a slut. There haven't been any other men here on the nights Eddie watched your doorway (before you'd ever said a word to him) from the nearby alley, standing guard, looking for glimpses of you through the windows.

No other men, and he's glad, because there's no way for him to know what he'd have done.

But you do seem eager for him—or for this, at least—with the little noises you're making against his lips, kissing him in the darkness of your bedroom, pulling him against you and all your warm skin.

A word like eager doesn't even belong in the same room as Eddie. Not directed at him, although it emanates from his body like a disease, keeping everybody at a distance.

Everybody but you.

His clumsy hands grip at the extra fabric of your baggy t-shirt where it hangs at your sides, his hold so tight it could rip at any moment.

"You can take it off," you whisper, the words slurring out in the quick pause before you're kissing him again. Eddie's lungs are getting smaller as he lifts the fabric, knuckles bumping against your waist, catching at the edge of your bra. He's lucky his grip doesn't falter, or he'd have to start over.

But maybe Eddie wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life like this—the Sisyphean task of taking of your clothes a riddle he'd love to spend all his time working out—baring your skin but going no farther.

Never needing to show the vulnerable parts of himself.

He has to pull back so you can get your shirt off the rest of the way, balling up the warm fabric in his hands. Eddie thinks about holding it to his nose and breathing deep, letting your scent wash over and through him.

But that will have to wait for another time. When you're not here. When the lock-picking kit he ordered finally shows up on his doorstep.

He rubs the fabric between his fingers instead, gripping hard enough his knuckles turn white. You drop down to the mattress, tits bouncing, and Eddie's vision blackens at the edges.

"Come on, Eds. What're you waiting for?"

To wake up. He can't think of a better answer, so he doesn't say anything, shins hitting the bed, looming over you with his too-warm body and heavy breaths. And none of that makes you push him away, pulling him closer, your body pressing and rubbing against his.

Tits pillowing against his chest as you cup your hands around his neck, tongue dipping deeper into his mouth when you raise your chin. One of your legs hooks around the back of his ankle, stroking at the leg of his jeans.

And worst of all, your palms—warm, and a little damp—slipping the bottom of his shirt out from under the waistband of his pants. Eddie feels the press of your hands against his skin like a brand, and he hopes your touch will stain him somehow because he'll never feel you like this again. Not after what comes next.

Eddie's already too close. You've hardly done anything and he's close, so hard it's painful, his tender dick pressed up against your thigh, warm from your body even through the layers he wears. He feels his heavy balls drawing tight against his skin, so desperate to spill somewhere besides his own hand.

Eddie literally begs his body to hold on, to wait, pleading silently with god, with whoever could be listening, with his own shame to stop the inevitable next step.

It's no use, as he knew it would be. Eddie cums with a moan that mortifies him down in his bones.

Your hands stop their movements, lingering questioningly at the space above his hips.

"Eddie?"

He feels your breath hit his face, lips no longer against his when you press your head further into the pillows, looking up at him as his cum seeps into the fabric of his jeans, hot and heavier than he's used to, probably soaking through and smearing over all your lovely skin.

"Eddie, did you—"

He shoots back with a cry before you can get the question out, unsure where to look, pressing his hands over the wet spot on his crotch, all his visible skin bright red and flushed.

"I'm—oh, god—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

He's crying, actually, steps away from full-blown, whiny sobs. The one chance he had to be close to someone, to be with someone, and he's ruined it.

The same way he ruins everything.

"I- this doesn't—this doesn't, uh, usually happen."

It's a lie, even without the implication that this has happened with other women. Eddie never lasts long when he's thinking about you, no matter what he tries.

It's a weak attempt, but he has to save face, has to kill the sickness inside of him.

Has to hope against hope that you won't laugh in his face.

Eddie thinks he's imagining it when he feels your hand at his wrist, insistent in its grip until your eyes meet his, not mocking, like he was certain they would be, but curious, and fervent.

"Really?"

There's this lilting appetite in your voice that Eddie could never imagine, that tells him just how dull all his daydreams had been.

"Eddie," you whisper, lips painted wet by your tongue, and you're on your knees, closing the distance he left open, "that's—"

Whatever it is, Eddie doesn't find out. You don't finish your sentence before you're kissing him again.

#edward nashton x reader #eddie nashton x reader #dano!riddler x reader #dano!riddler x you #eddie nashton x you #edward nashton x you #danocel #danonation #paul dano riddler #my writing #starlightsearchesmixtapemilestone

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something-tofightfor · 27 days ago

Text

Locked Down Part 22: The Decision

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Word Count: 10,921

Rating: There's nothing graphic, but we'll go with M because I mention a couple things briefly.

Summary: Being home for the holidays for the first time since the pandemic began is a definite change for you. While Dieter can't be there for Thanksgiving, the promise of his Christmas arrival means that it's time to begin publicly appearing together. It's definitely something that you want, but that doesn't mean it's easy.

Along with navigating an official relationship with Dieter, there's also plenty of other life - and career - choices to consider.

Author’s note:

Two full years later, here's another chapter. Is anyone still interested? Was anyone waiting to find out what happens next for these two? I hope so. This chapter has been halfway done for about a year, I just got super sidetracked... but not anymore.

I've missed writing for Dieter, so it was nice to get back to this story.

Catch up on the other parts here: Locked Down Masterlist

Settling into life in Georgia after getting back from Vancouver was more difficult than you thought it would be. Your flight was smooth, and your apartment was just as you’d left it, but from the moment you landed, you felt like you were on the go.

You scheduled your meeting with Carmen for the Monday after the holiday, which meant that you had plenty of time to prepare yourself for it. In the email confirmation, she included a single extra line of text - It seems like we have a lot more than the job offer to talk about - but didn’t elaborate, and even reading through it, you couldn’t stop smiling.

Whatever happened in the future with Dieter, she was partially responsible for it - and you knew that she wouldn’t ever let you forget it.

When your third COVID test came back negative the Tuesday after you got home, you sent a quick text to Dieter that morning letting him know that you’d be unavailable for part of the day. That done, you headed for your parents’ new place, grocery list in hand.

Your mother added to it, and without talking about anything in detail, you headed for the store, determined to get in and out as fast as possible so that you could start baking. There won’t be too many people this year, but we still need a ton of food.

You navigated the aisles with relative ease, thankful for the fact that the mask you wore hid your annoyed expression. But you froze when you got to the checkout line, your eyes locked on one of the tabloids displayed on the endcap.

Dieter Bravo’s Dating Dilemma was the headline.

Beneath it was a picture taken in Vancouver - and after you’d left, if his haircut was any indication - of him talking on the phone as he walked down the street.

It was a smaller blurb next to his picture that really caught your attention, though. Instagram posts say one thing, but past behavior says another! And below that was an inset picture of the two of you taken from a distance at the airport - along with two photos of Dieter and other women. Christen and Tina.

You knew that it was a bad idea. But you still reached for the magazine and tossed it into the cart, fighting back the urge to open it and flip to the article while you waited in line. But that would be weird.

So you forced yourself to wait until you’d paid for your groceries and were sitting in the parking lot, grabbing for the magazine and finding the correct pages.

As you read them, you couldn’t contain your laughter. The “article” was little more than a few paragraphs picking apart Dieter’s social media posts, as well as Tina’s, and then pictures next to brief mentions of multiple other women he’d been linked to in the past - including Jennifer Pearson, Carol Cobb and Mara. You - like Christen - were simply listed as a “mystery woman”, and by the time you finished reading, you were upset that you’d shelled out the money to buy it.

Then, you did the only thing you could think of and held the magazine up next to your face, grinning as you raised your phone and took a selfie. Attaching it to a text message, you sent it to Dieter, along with one sentence: Baby’s first tabloid cover!

Still laughing as you put the car into drive, you wondered if anything would come of the cover as it related to your social media or privacy. It’s not like some people don’t know who I am, I’ve been on TV for years.

Just as you pulled into your parents’ driveway, your phone rang, Dieter’s face on the screen. “Hey.” Answering it through your car’s Bluetooth, you put the car back into park, leaning against your seat. “You didn’t need to call.”

“Yeah, I did. I didn’t even know that issue was going to print those. I usually get a heads up.”

“Dieter, it’s fine.” Rubbing at your temple, you grinned. “I’m actually kind of annoyed that I’m listed as a mystery woman. These people must not watch Informal Eats, or know how to use Instagram, because -”

“You could start tagging yourself in pictures.” He laughed and then you did, too. “The one you sent me would be kind of funny.” You hadn’t even considered that, but if Dieter was suggesting it, it was at least worth a thought.

“Wouldn’t that be an official confirmation, though? I thought we weren’t doing that.” He sighed, and you heard the honking of a horn on his end of the call. Shit, I didn’t even think about where he might be. “Dieter? Are you busy? I don’t want to keep you.”

“I’m walking to get coffee.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve got a night shoot tonight and then we’re taking a couple days off for the holiday. They don’t celebrate it up here, but a lot of the cast and crew are American, so…”

“Who are you spending Thanksgiving with?” Chewing on your lower lip, you waited for his answer.

“Michael and Jenna. He came in on Monday, and they invited me over for dinner.” Good. “Maybe next year we can spend it together.” His voice was quiet but you heard it nonetheless - his apprehension clear, even over the phone. Does he think I wouldn’t want to?

“We should see how Christmas and New Year’s go, first.” Trying to decrease the tension, you nodded, eyes on the front door. “You might not like my family, and your friends might not like me.”

“I don’t have any real friends.” He laughed, saying your name again. “I made damn sure of that over the last couple years.” Oh, Dieter. You hadn’t really considered that - you’d seen pictures of him with people, heard stories of the time he spent hanging out with them while he was in LA between jobs. But are they really friends? Or is it just … “That’s the thing. When you’re not on the hard shit all the time, it gives you time to think.”

“Dieter, I -” He cut you off, though, his tone not unkind.

“No, it’s alright.” The sound of a bell came through the speaker and you knew that the conversation was about to get cut short. “It’s the truth. I have people I can call friends, but it’s not … shit, I’m closer to Jenna and Michael than any of them, and I’ve gotta pay her to -”

“You do not.” Laughing, you sighed. “I mean, yeah you do pay her, but she’d still care about you even if you didn’t. These last few years have been weird for everyone, Dieter. Once you’re home for a while, you’ll see.” I hope I’m right. “I’m helping my mom cook for a while, and then I’m going home, so if you want to give me a call later, you can.”

“I won’t be done tonight until at least 3, so that would be what, 6 am your time? I’m not going you call you that early.” He scoffed. “Too fuckin’ early.”

“That’s one thing we can agree on.” Getting out of the car, you popped the trunk open, pausing next to it. “But seriously, call me whenever. I like hearing your voice.” He didn’t reply for a few seconds, and then Dieter said your name, waiting a couple breaths to continue.

“I’m really sorry that they printed that picture. It’s been a week, and I didn’t think they would.”

“Dieter, you kissed me for a solid two minutes out in the open.” Laughing, you tilted your head back, the memory of his lips on yours widening your smile. “I’m surprised they didn’t post a better one.” He snorted at that, but you didn’t give him a chance to reply. “I’m not going to tag anything or post anything. I’m sure some people have already done it for me, but I have everything on silent except for alerts from people I follow, so if it’s up, I haven’t seen it.”

“Alright.” He cleared his throat. “What are you making today?”

“Pies.” Pulling the trunk all the way open, you eyed the bags. “And we’re brining the turkey. And I’m sure I’ll have to prep at least one or two other sides, even though we’re only having a couple people over. There’s always way too much food.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be there to help eat any of it. Or to answer questions.” He meant it - you could tell. And I appreciate it. “I should be.”

“No, you’ll be here for Christmas, and there will be way more people there to explain things to.” Tilting your head to the side to trap your phone between it and your shoulder, you paused. “Sorry, Dieter.”

“I’m not.” You laughed again, fingers closing around the bag handles. “I’m looking forward to it.” So am I.

—

By Monday morning, you were exhausted, despite the fact that you hadn’t done anything all weekend aside from eat and shop.

You’d had to explain more than a few things to your relatives - a younger cousin in disbelief that you’d actually worked with Krystal Kris, and one of your aunts loudly questioning why, if you were seeing Dieter, he wasn’t there for the holidays. But aside from that, there hadn’t been much in the way of unexpected conversation, or prying from your family.

It’s just having so much to do around so many people after so long of … Groaning as you tightened your hold on the steering wheel, you shook your head. “Too much socialization.”

Once your family left after dinner and a few rounds of cards, you’d called Dieter, video chatting with the three of them for a few minutes and telling him to call you when he was back at his rented apartment. And when he’d done that, it had taken a while to rehash the conversations you’d had with your relatives - and the reactions you’d gotten. It would have been easier if you’d been together, but unexpectedly, just telling him about it had helped ease your stress level over how it had gone. And that’s a good thing.

After so much time spent secluded from the majority of the people around you, the holiday season getting started in full swing had been a shock. The stores were busy, the roadways were busy, and people - including some of your family members - were already unpleasant, even though it was still only November.

And now I’ve got this meeting with Carmen. Pulling into the parking lot, you searched it for her car and parked next to it. You were a few minutes early, but you wanted to get things over with - because you wanted to know whether or not you’d still have a job in the coming months. Or if I’ll be starting over from scratch.

As you walked toward the doors, your phone rang, the sound pulling you from your thoughts. There was a familiar picture on the screen, and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face as you answered. “Dieter, you’re calling early. Why are -”

“It is really fucking early, but I wanted to wish you good luck.” He sounded half asleep and you could picture him, stretched out on his side and still under the blankets - hair wild and lines marking his skin from pressing his face against his wrinkled pillowcase. “I’m going back to sleep as soon as we hang up, but -”

“Thank you.” Leaning back against the low wall, you nodded. “I’m happy to hear from you.”

“They’d be stupid not to agree to let you move somewhere and keep working.” He was mumbling, obviously still half asleep. “But even if they don’t, I’ll take care of you until you find something. Want to.” What? You froze at the words, unsure of whether or not Dieter even realized he’d said them, but when he continued, you knew that he had. “Won’t be able to afford you using Uber Copter every day, but…”

A loud burst of laughter broke the tension and moments later he joined in, the sound low and rumbling. I miss you so much, Dieter. “Go back to bed. You won’t need to take care of me. Promise.”

“I love you.” You didn’t say it every time you hung up, or at the end of every text conversation, so hearing the words from Dieter still hit just as hard as they had the first time. Who am I kidding? They always will.

“I love you too, Bravo. Now go back to sleep. Can’t have you looking like a raccoon on set today.”

You hung up moments later, and after giving yourself a few seconds to compose yourself - and to remind yourself to bring up Dieter’s offer to take care of you at a later date - you headed inside the building and straight for the elevator. One thing at a time, though.

Carmen was waiting for you in her office, her desktop covered with folders and a few stacks of paper. “It’s good to see you again.” She looked up at you, gesturing for you to sit. “Have a good weekend?”

“I did. This is the first real holiday I’ve spent at home since before the pandemic.” Sinking into the chair across from hers, you scooted it in, resting your elbows on the desk’s edge. “It’s weird to get things back to almost normal, though.” She agreed, her smile understanding. “How about yours?”

“It was great. Just the two of us.” She sighed. “I cooked and we just watched movies, and it was amazing to turn off my phone and laptop for a couple days.” She sighed, flipping through the papers directly in front of her. “Now I just have to get through everything for the next couple weeks, and then Nate and I are going to be in Rome for the holidays.” Oh, I didn’t know that.

“Well, then…” Licking your lips, you took a deep breath. “Let’s not waste any time.” The glint in her eyes told you that she’d been waiting for you to start speaking, and so you didn’t disappoint. “I’m…” Glancing down at your hands for a few seconds and then reaching up to touch the pendant you wore, you steeled yourself for what was coming next. “Carmen, Dieter and I are together. We pretty much have been since… well since Christmas last year, but we just made it official when I was in Texas.”

“Congratulations.” Her smile grew, the woman reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “That’s got to be the worst kept secret in the world, but…” Both of you laughed, Carmen pulling her hand back and picking up one of the folders before holding it out to you. “You seem happier.”

“I am.” Taking the folder, you flipped it open, eyeing the same contract that she’d already emailed to you. “But the reason that I wanted to meet with you in person was because I have a couple things that I’d like to talk with you about before I sign anything.” You tapped the papers. “There’s not really much in here about -”

“Are you quitting?” She leaned in, frowning. “Informal Eats wouldn’t be -”

“I don’t want to quit, no.” Head shaking back and forth, you blew out a breath. “I just … I guess the only way to say it is to say it.” Here goes nothing. “I’m thinking about moving out of Atlanta, Carmen. Either to New York City or to Los Angeles, and I … I guess I’m wondering if it would be possible for me to keep doing what I’ve been doing, but not live here.” You paused, trying to gauge her reaction, but the Carmen’s face was impassive. “You’re based in Atlanta, and I know that won’t change, but …”

She said your name, the look in her eyes changing to one of amusement. “Are you moving in with Dieter?” Well that was blunt.

“I’m thinking about it.” You covered your face with both hands, the folder dropping to the desktop. “He’s got a house in LA and an apartment in New York, and he offered me either of them if I could work something out with you. I know there’s offices in -”

“Congratulations.” Carmen leaned back, tilting her head to one side. “There wouldn’t be any relocation assistance or anything, but …” She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. “Just because I’m based out of Atlanta, that doesn’t mean that you need to be.” She gestured at the paperwork on her desk. “Why would you even think that it would be a problem?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” You frowned. “I guess because I’ve always lived here, and this is where I signed the first contract, and I started out … here, so…” So I just assumed I had to stay. “I will be honest with you, though, Carmen. At some point, I’m going to want to do something else, and I have been actively looking into more projects like the one I worked on in England.” You held up the folder again. “But according my agent, the way this is structured, it’d be easy for me to find something in the months that I’m not shooting the show, if I wanted to.”

She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. “We can amend the contract.” The woman took a deep breath, pressing her lips together. “I can have it rewritten, so it’s only one season at a time instead of two. The number of episodes per season will be the same, and we can make it so that you just have to electronically sign the -”

“No.” You made the decision almost immediately, leaning forward and resting your hand atop the document. “No, I’ll commit to two more seasons. Sixteen total episodes.” Flipping through the pages, you ran your finger down the outline. “Starting in February and running through until next January?” She nodded when you glanced up. “I can do that. I want to do that. I love the show and I love working with you and the crew, but I also… I love him, and being so far away all the time is…”

“I know.” She smiled, opening her desk drawer and reaching inside for a pen. “The one good thing this pandemic did was show us that we can do most of this shit remotely. Hell, you could move to Minnesota and you’d still be able to keep your job, as long as you could check in when we needed you to.” She grinned, holding out the pen. “Here.”

“It can’t be this easy.” You took the pen, though, drawing in a deep breath and holding it, meeting her eyes. “Carmen?”

“It is this easy. The only thing that would change is the airport you fly out of and back into at the end of your trips.” Her smile widened. “There is one thing, though.” Of course there is. “I want to meet him. I am the one that got you the job on Cliff Beasts, and I think I deserve to -”

Your laughter drowned out her speech, and as you leaned forward, putting the tip of the pen to the paper, she laughed, too. “Yeah, you do, Carmen.” Finishing your signature and adding the date, you dropped the pen and stood, waiting for Carmen to do the same. “He’s coming here for Christmas. I know you’re going to Rome, but if he’s here before you leave, you can meet him then.”

“Good.” She stepped around the desk and toward you, the woman holding her arms out. “Congratulations on your contract renewal.” Yeah. You were surprised at how much relief you felt at the realization that you were gainfully employed for another year - and that you hadn’t had to sacrifice either your job or the potential to be closer to Dieter to accept the position. “And congratulations on Dieter, too.”

When you hugged her, it was a tight one, the embrace similar to the ones you’d shared before - after meeting for the first time, after filming your pilot, after signing your other contracts - and you were thrilled that it felt just as good that time, too.

The two of you separated and when you met her eyes again, you were smiling - and so was Carmen. “I’d ask you to come out and grab a drink with me, but…” You glanced at the clock. “It’s barely 10 in the morning, so…”

“Yeah, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to get through today anyway.” She pushed you away gently, her gaze still focused on you. “Plus, from what it sounds like, you need to start figuring out where you’ll be living a couple months from now.” At that, you froze, both eyes going wide.

Yeah… I guess I do.

—

The closer it got to the holidays, the more nervous you were.

It wasn’t that you were worried about seeing Dieter again, because you knew that he was just as excited as you were. It wasn’t even that you were worried about him meeting your family and some of your friends, because he’d told you that he looked forward to it.

You were afraid that when Dieter saw how you lived, he’d change his mind about everything. You’d only known each other in temporary housing; rooms designed for short-term use, and the idea of Dieter in your space - using your bathroom and making coffee in your kitchen and sleeping in your bed - was overwhelming. Because we’re used to different things.

You decorated before he got there; stringing brightly colored lights around your windows and on the branches of your tree. Ornaments joined them, and so did a few garlands strategically placed throughout the main rooms of your place. And when you were done, everything felt homey, the soft glow of the tiny lights casting warmth throughout the space and making you feel better. I didn’t realize how much I missed decorating last year.

In the days leading up to Dieter’s arrival, you got some shopping done. Not only did you restock your fridge and cupboards, but you bought gifts, too, figuring that you wouldn’t want to go out to too many places with him there. It wasn’t because you wanted to hide Dieter. You wanted him to feel comfortable no matter where he was, and stores and malls would be busy so close to the holidays. And I don’t want to put him on the spot if anyone recognizes him.

You were checking things over in the few minutes before you had to leave to pick Dieter up from the airport when you heard someone knock. I’m not expecting anyone. Frowning, you made your way from your bedroom to the front door, peeking through the peephole before opening it.

All you saw were flowers - a large bouquet, from the looks of it, and so you sighed, pulling the door open. “Hello? Can I -”

“Special delivery.” You froze at the sound of the voice, eyes going wide as you watched the flowers move to one side to give you a glimpse at the man carrying them. “Thought I’d bring them to you myself instead of having ‘em delivered.” His smile widened but you couldn’t move, instead just staring. Dieter’s here. I was supposed to pick him up, and -

“You’re here. But I was just getting ready to … how? How are you …”

“Took an earlier flight.” He bit down on the inside of his lower lip, the look in his eyes shifting to one of disbelief. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” You finally moved, reaching out and taking the flowers from him before turning to put them on top of the table against the wall. “Dieter, this is the best fucking surprise ever.” Once both of your hands were free, you reached for him and twisted your fingers in the material of his jacket, pulling him into your apartment. “Come here, Bravo.”

Dieter reached behind him and grabbed the handle of his suitcase, dragging it after him and over the sill, only letting it go to pull on the knob to close the door behind him. Then he reached for you.

When his arms wound around you, you sighed deeply, turning your head so that you could press your cheek against the front of his shoulder. Closing your eyes, you just held him, focusing on the way that even though he’d just come from an airport - and a cross country flight - he still smelled like Dieter, and you knew that within a night or two, so would your bed and your blankets. He’s in my apartment. He’s here. “I’m happy to see you, too.” He murmured the words, one hand moving up the center of your back and coming to rest between your shoulders. “You scared me for a second there.”

“I did?” You stepped backwards without letting him go. “I didn’t mean to. I was just … shit. I guess I was in airport mode.”

“That’s one of the reasons I did what I did.” He moved his hands to your arms and slid them down, squeezing your hands before he let go. “Didn’t want you to have to go anywhere near that goddamn place so close to Christmas.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “No, seriously. I know it’s a fucking nightmare. I filmed a movie here a while ago, and it was bad, and that was on a regular day.”

He toed his shoes off, and you watched as he looked around, eyes narrowed and his tongue visible where it poked into his cheek. He hates it. It’s too small. “How was your flight?” You were nervous, and you knew that it was irrational. You and Dieter had been through plenty together, and had gone much longer between visits before. Do I really feel like this because of my apartment? “Did -”

“Can I tell you something?” He turned to face you, putting one hand on his hip. “I’ve seen pictures of this place, and I’ve seen it when we FaceTime and …” He wet his lips. “I knew what it looked like, but …” Dieter moved closer, both of his hands rising so that he could hold your jaw between his palms. “It’s even better than I thought.”

“What?” You were confused, even as his thumbs swept over your skin. “Better? It’s just an apartment.”

“Yeah, but it belongs to you.” He leaned closer, your foreheads touching. “And you invited me to see it and to meet your family, and …” He hummed, lips moving against yours. “And I still can’t fuckin’ believe it.” Believe it, Dieter. You wanted to laugh at that, but he didn’t let you, the gentle press of his mouth turning more insistent as he kissed you for the first time since Vancouver. “Love you.” He paused long enough to speak, nodding twice as he said it. “I’m so goddamn excited to be here with you.”

“Yeah.” You kissed him one last time and then pushed him away with one hand. “But we’re going to be busy, Dieter. We have a couple parties and the actual holiday, and -”

“We’re not busy tonight though, right?” No, we’re not. “Because I’m pretty sure that I saved us a couple hours by getting here early.” His smile widened, and Dieter’s gaze dropped from your face to your body and then rose, the look in his eyes changing to a heated one that you knew well. “And that means we have extra time now.”

“Do you have something in mind?” You had an idea where he was going, but giving him shit was something that you enjoyed. “Do you want a tour of my place? Or need to take a nap? Or want to - “

“Tour later.” He stepped forward and you backed up, heartbeat thumping. “And I’ll sleep tonight. But right now…” He sucked air through his teeth, hands moving down and to your hips. “I’ve been thinking about you since I dropped you off at that airport, and I wanna do something about it.” He slipped his fingertips beneath the top elastic of your leggings, the warmth of his skin making you gasp. “If that’s alright with you.”

“The bedroom is -” He shook his head, cutting you off. “Ok, the couch -”

“No.” Dieter chuckled, more of his fingers pushing between the material and your skin and then pushing downward. “No, you’ve got a counter right behind you, and if you sit on it, you’re the perfect height.” You gasped again and felt your stomach lurch, but instead of letting him continue to remove your pants, you grabbed for him, one hand making its way to the tangle of curls on his head and the fingers of the other curling around his arm and gripping him tightly. That was accompanied by a bruising kiss, Dieter meeting you in the middle with his lips already parted, his tongue peeking through.

It was shocking to you how much you’d missed him, and how much missing him was amplified by having him right in front of you - and in your arms again. The kiss went on, turning sloppier by the second, and you felt the elastic snap back into place when Dieter moved his hands up, sliding them along your sides and pushing your shirt up with them.

You didn’t want to let go of his hair, but you did, raising your arms above your head so that when he pulled away to breathe, breaking the kiss, he was able to remove it completely. He touched you greedily, fingers stroking over your bared skin, and when he ducked his head down so that his mouth could trek across your upper chest, you tilted your head back and sighed, one hand gripping the edge of the counter and the other once again tangled in his hair.

“Missed you,” he mumbled without backing off. “Missed you so goddamn much.” You agreed, looking down again, and when Dieter straightened up all the way, you saw that his eyes were shining. “Never missed anybody as much as I miss you.” Oh, Dieter.

It was a shocking admission - and entirely unexpected coming from Dieter, but it was genuine, his jaw clenching as you absorbed the words. “I love you too, Dieter. And I was going to wait to tell you until later, but …” Biting your lip, you took a deep breath. “But if it’s alright with you, when I come out for New Year’s, I think I might stay a while, so you won’t have to miss me.”

He hadn’t been expecting those words from you, either, but his reaction was immediate. Dieter encircled you with his arms, laughing as he pulled you against his chest. “Alright with me? Fuck, there’s nothing that would make me happier.” His voice was shaky, and even though you knew it was because he was just happy, it made you sniffle, too, as you closed your eyes and hugged him tightly. “Bring your whole fucking apartment if you want.”

“I mean, I won’t have time to pack it all with you here, but…” You laughed again, meeting his eyes and reaching up to swipe away a tear from one of them. “My lease is up in February, and I really don’t want to sign another one, so…”

“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes and turned his head so that he could kiss the heel of your hand. “I’m just saying.” The two of you stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, and then it was Dieter that spoke, brows knit together in thought. “You mean it? You want to come stay with me?”

“I do.” Twisting a curl near his temple around one finger, you nodded. “We’ve only been official for a little while, but it’s been … I’ve… we’ve …”

“We coulda been together before I left England.” He shrugged. “I was just following your lead.” You groaned when he winked, but Dieter went on. “I get it. I want you there, too.” He tilted his head to the side, not breaking eye contact. “But I’m not easy to live with.”

That made you laugh, and you waved him off, looking away briefly and then back at him. “I think if we made it through quarantine and not being allowed to leave each other’s presence for more than a few hours at a time, we can handle living in the same house and having options, Dieter. We’ll be fine. Besides,” you leaned closer, releasing your hold on his hair and gently tapping his cheek with your palm. “You’ve got a guesthouse, right?”

That got a bigger laugh out of him, and Dieter lowered his head as he agreed with you, his hold on your hips tightening just enough that you could feel it. “I do.” When he looked up, all signs of amusement were gone from his features and he instead looked serious, his attention focused. “Now how about you get up on that counter and let me show you exactly what one of the benefits of living with me will be.”

“Pants on or off?” Your desire for him grew again, warmth filling your belly and spreading. You’d never tire of Dieter looking at you the way he was that night, and part of you knew that he knew it, too. He needs to know it.

“Off.” He nodded, stepping backwards. “All the way off.” You did as he asked without question, which left you only in your bra. You were quiet while he grabbed for one of your chairs and dragged it closer to you, but you gasped in shock when he sat down backwards on it, leaning forward and pressing his chest against the tall back, both of his hands reaching out to settle on your calves. “Get comfortable, because you’re gonna be here a while.” He arched a brow, locking eyes with you before he dropped his gaze to your waist and then lower while pulling your legs apart. “Fuck.”

You pressed your lips together and then inched forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders and using both hands to brace yourself on the countertop. “That’s fine by me, Dieter.” The chair scooted forward a few more inches, which brought him closer, too, and when Dieter nodded, turning his head to the right and licking the inside of your thigh, you tensed, fingers curling against the laminate. Oh, that feels incredible… I missed him so much.

“Mmmmhmm.” He turned his head the other way, and repeated the motion on your other thigh, his hands sliding up your bare legs and to your hips, pulling you even closer. “Fucking perfect.”

—

You hadn’t wanted to go, but Dieter insisted that the two of you head out to a get together one of your friends was hosting a few days before Christmas.

It was at a local restaurant, and the text message you’d received explained that the entire upper floor was reserved for your group. The sentiment was nice, and you had gotten along well with her for a while, but you knew exactly why she’d reached out after so long.

“Meg wants to meet you, Dieter.” You were getting ready in the bathroom while he got dressed in your bedroom, both of you fresh out of the shower. “She wants to use it as an opportunity to network, and I’ll bet you $100 that she flirts with you right in front of me within the first fifteen minutes of being introduced.”

He poked his head in a few seconds later, and you caught his frown as a reflection in the mirror. “How does she know I’m here?”

“I don’t know, maybe because of the pictures you posted the other day from the Coke museum and the aquarium?” Arching a brow at him, you tilted your head to the side. “Or the caption that very specifically said ‘a much different world of Coke than I’m used to’ with the emoji that’s laughing so hard it’s -”

“Ok, yeah, that might have been what did it.” He fully entered the room, and you took a few seconds to watch as he wrinkled his nose, raising both hands to drag them through his hair and push it into even more disarray. “I still think we should go, though.”

“We’re going, Dieter. You said you wanted to, and that’s fine, I’m just telling you what to expect. This isn’t LA or New York, and the people I know here aren’t exactly drowning in celebrities, so … just be prepared for people to be a little overeager to impress you.”

It would be the first real test of your relationship, and the first time Dieter met anyone in your life. And the fact that we’ve known each other for so long at this point makes that feel… fuck. It’s strange. You’d existed in a bubble of sorts for almost the entirety of your relationship, and with him visiting you, that was coming to an end in a very final way.

“‘I’ll be fine.” He stepped up behind you, one hand on your shoulder and the other arm winding around your body to pull you back against his chest. “And so will you.” Dieter spoke into your ear, his voice quiet. “And if she flirts, I’ll shut that shit down right away, because -”

“No.” You bit your lip, turning toward him. “Don’t.” He was confused, but you didn’t let him stay that way. “I think it might be funny to watch her try to handle you.”

“Handle me?” He scoffed. “You can barely handle me and you’ve known me for over a year.” That made you laugh, and you used one hand to pat Dieter’s chest gently. “What?”

“I learned a long time ago that handling you is impossible.” You blinked slowly, trying to school your expression into nonchalance. “I tolerate you.” It took about three seconds for Dieter to respond, and when he did you caught the roll of his eyes before he leaned in, mouth meeting yours.

“That’s what you call it now?” He mumbled between kisses, his hands roaming over you. “Tolerating me?” You nodded, winding your arms around his neck and laughing against his lips. “Fucking unbelievable.”

Having Dieter in Atlanta was better than you could have ever hoped for, and it seemed like he was enjoying himself, too. You’d spent plenty of time alone together, but he’d also wanted to go out and explore, asking you to show him the parts of the city and suburbs you liked most. It was easy to blend into the larger than usual holiday crowds in public places, and when Dieter wore a hat pulled down low over his ears and slipped on a pair of glasses, it disguised him almost completely.

He wasn’t doing it on purpose, either, and that was what made it better.

You hoped that you were able to settle into LA just as easily, though you didn’t think it would happen quite so fast. We’ll see. You pulled back with a sigh, closing your eyes. “As much as I’d love to stand here and do this all night, if you want to go to this thing, I need to finish getting ready.” You looked down and then gestured to your robe and slippers. “I don’t think I pull off this look as well as you do.”

“No.” He backed away, arms dropping from you before he raised one ringed finger and pointed it at you. “You pull it off much better.” It was a joke, but at the same time, you understood that it meant that Dieter truly didn’t care what you wore or how you looked, and if you chose to actually go out in public wearing the robe, he wouldn’t have batted an eye. “But I should probably put on a shirt to go into a restaurant, so I’ll stop annoying you now and go do that.”

He winked and then turned away from you. As he made it to the doorway, you called out his name, waiting until he’d turned back in your direction to say anything else. “I never want you to stop annoying me.”

—

You’d barely taken a step into the room, and you were already ready to leave. But we’d have to wait for another Uber, and it’s surge pricing and … It wasn’t that it was loud in the room, because it wasn’t, or that it was overly crowded, because it was still early and people were filtering in - it was just that you knew exactly what you’d be dealing with for the following few hours.

Dieter was beside you when you headed over to the bar, and after you both ordered, you carried your drinks over to a small, raised table with a good vantage point. You spent a few minutes pointing people out to Dieter, but after the third “I met them in college,” you stopped, shaking your head. “Are you even going to remember any of these names if you talk to them? It’s pointless, you won’t ever see them again after tonight.”

“I will.” He sipped his drink, angling his body toward you and resting his elbow on the table. “It’s just like memorizing lines.” That made sense to you, and you were somewhat irritated that you hadn’t made the same connection.

“This feels kind of like that first Thanksgiving after high school where everyone’s home from college and pretending they didn’t just see each other a few weeks earlier.” He drank again, watching you from over the rim of his glass.

“Or like a fucking Hollywood circlejerk where everyone’s too fucking excited to tell everyone else that they know someone and can get them in touch with -” You snorted, reaching up to cover your mouth to hide your laugh.

“It’s so good to see you!” A cheerful voice interrupted Dieter, and when you looked toward the source, you saw Meg approaching the table, a necklace of blinking Christmas lights resting against her chest and highlighting the low-cut top she wore. “I’m glad you made it.” You caught the way her gaze moved from you to Dieter and barely stopped the roll of your eyes at how obvious it was. “And you, too. It -”

“Dieter Bravo.” He held his hand out, smiling. “Are you the one that organized this?” The smile stayed on his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you. Meg?” She took his hand and shook it, her giggle audible even over the music playing through the speakers.

“That’s me.” She bit her lip and tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I’ve met you before though. When you filmed here? We were eating dinner at the same restaurant, and I sent a drink over to your table.” She cleared her throat, leaning in, and for a few seconds, you were horrified at the thought that she was going to remind him of something happening between them. That would ruin everything, even though it was so long ago. “You came over and talked for a few minutes, and -”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember that.” He pulled his hand back, lifting his drink to sip from it. “That was a while ago, and I probably had a lot going on.” You watched her recoil slightly, Meg’s eyes dropping and then rising again to meet Dieter’s as he reached over to put his arm around you. “Thanks for the drink, though.”

It shocked you how dismissive he was being, because you’d never seen Dieter act that way before. Not even with David. “I… you’re welcome.” Meg took a long drink from her wine glass, and you could tell she was nervous - and a little surprised at his reaction. “How long are you in town for?” She looked at you then, wetting her lips. “Are you back for good? You’ve been busy; it feels like you haven’t been home since before the pandemic.” I didn’t know you kept tabs on my travels.

“I’m back for a little while.” You finally spoke, shifting your feet and shrugging your shoulders. “I just signed a new contract for the show, so I’ll be working on that starting next February.” But I won’t be doing it from here. “And Dieter’s just here for Christmas. He wanted to meet my family and couldn’t make it out last month.”

“I was filming.” He grinned again, wiggling his eyebrows. “TV show.” You knew what he was doing - trying to throw Meg off balance by flipping between being aloof and almost too friendly within the same conversation. I think it’s working. “But we’re going to LA for New Year’s, so I won’t be out here for too long.” He laughed, his fingers circling slowly against your lower back. “And between the three of us? I hope she likes LA enough to consider staying.”

His words surprised you almost as much as they surprised Meg, and you knew with certainty that that was exactly what Dieter had hoped for. Sneaky little shit. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” You turned your head and Dieter did the same, meeting your gaze. I see you, Bravo. “But we’ll see.”

He smirked for a second and then closed the distance between you, lips soft when they met yours. “We will.” He spoke so that only you could hear, and when you looked back at Meg a few moments later, you saw that her eyes were wide. That just confirmed everything even more than anything we’ve said here. “You married, Meg? Or dating anyone?”

It took all of your self control to keep from laughing at Dieter’s abrupt change in topic, but when she spluttered out a response and then pointed back over her shoulder, you followed the gesture, moving in your seat to see who she was pointing at. “I hope it’s not weird, but I’m here with Sam, and -”

You froze at her words, and suddenly it all made sense. Dieter stiffened beside you, and when you reached for your drink, your heart was pounding. Sam as in… fuck. It made sense - you’d all known each other for years, but no part of you had realized that Meg and Sam had kept in touch. Or that they liked each other enough to date. He told me last month that … what the fuck.

She excused herself to go and get him, and once she walked away, Dieter pivoted toward you, concern written all over his face. “You alright? That went from zero to fucking 60 in -”

“I’m fine.” You paused. “It’s going to be a little weird for you to meet the last guy I was with, but … it just took me by surprise.” Dieter’s other hand rose, fingers bent, and he trailed his knuckles against your cheek. “And she was flirting with you, just like I said she would.”

“She was, but do you blame her?” He fluttered his eyelashes, the genuine smile back on his face. “It’s me after all.” That made you laugh, some of the tension leaving your body. “And it won’t be weird. I promise.” He shrugged and then leaned in so that he could speak directly into your ear. “Think about how fucking weird it’s going to be for him to meet me, though.”

You hadn’t considered that - but he was right. It will so much weirder for Sam. Dieter kissed the space just in front of your ear before straightening up and scanning the room. You did the same, eyeing the buffet table set up a few feet away and frowning. I wish we’d stopped to grab snacks. “What was that, by the way? I’ve never seen you act that way with anyone, and I’m surprised you were so quick to pull the I’m not into this card.”

“She fucked herself over.” He sniffed and finished his drink, tossing the last swallow back before sucking an ice cube between his teeth. “Flirting is one thing but being fucking rude to you and bringing up sending over that drink? Fuck that. It’s a game to her, and that’s not what you are to me.”

His words hit hard. Dieter’s playfulness was one of the things that drew you to him, as was his sense of humor and his ability to read a situation and play off of it. But with you, from almost the beginning, he’d been honest with you, speaking his mind and giving things to you straight. He’d never led you on or made your friendship the butt of a joke, and while you hadn’t thought he would do it regarding your relationship, either, that night was proof. I needed that. I needed to know.

“Thank you, Dieter.” You reached out to take his hand, linking your fingers with his and rubbing your thumb over the ring you’d borrowed. “That means a lot.” He squeezed your hand and then lifted both of them, bringing the back of yours up so that he could kiss it. You were no stranger to Dieter’s tiny moments of intimacy, but after keeping yourselves hidden for so long, them happening in public took you by surprise.

Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention, and you sighed as you watched Sam and Meg heading toward you, their shoulders touching as they walked side by side. You wondered how long they’d been dating, or if they’d talk about it, and then you wondered if it was strange for you to ask. But she said she was here with him, not that they were dating. Maybe I jumped to conclusions.

Sam spoke first, saying hello to you and then sticking his hand out to Dieter as he made an introduction. Dieter moved smoothly, keeping your fingers linked as he reached out to shake Sam’s with his free one. “It’s nice to meet you, Dieter.” He retracted his hand and then leaned against the table, nodding before he looked over at you. “And it’s good to see you again, too. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to get ahold of you, the holidays are just…” He rolled his eyes. “You know.”

“I do.” You exhaled slowly, giving him a wary smile before you turned your attention to Meg. “We were supposed to meet for lunch, and we just … haven’t.” She seemed surprised, her lips parting as her eyes flicked to Dieter. He doesn’t care, but nice try. “I didn’t know the two of you were still in touch.” You arched a brow and sipped your drink as your attention returned to your ex. “You didn’t say anything about it when we last talked. How’d this happen?”

“We did a lot of Zoom game nights.” Sam reached up and ran his fingers through his hair. “We couldn’t do bar trivia because everything was closed, so…” He shrugged. “Kept in touch that way for a while, and then a couple weeks ago...” Sam trailed off, and even though he looked slightly uncomfortable, he didn’t try and overexplain anything.

“We had our first few conversations over a balcony wall.” Dieter rolled his eyes. “Well, after we met in the hotel lobby, anyway. We weren’t allowed to leave our rooms for two weeks before we started working on the movie, and she was in the room next door.”

“You make it sound like you settled for talking to me, Dieter.” Nudging him with your shoulder, you laughed. “Ouch.”

“You were quarantined with him?” Meg leaned in, her attention fully on you. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“It’s all going to be talked about in the documentary.” You scratched the side of your neck. “I can’t really go into it now, but yeah. I only got the job working for Cliff Beasts because I got sick filming my show, and got stuck in the hotel. So I actually ended my quarantine just as the cast got there to start theirs, and it all worked out.”

“I’d sit on my balcony and watch her walking around the hotel property.” Dieter let go of your hand and put both of his on the table. “She was the only one that wasn’t hotel staff that wasn’t stuck in their damn room. It was fucking depressing.”

“We got through it, though.” You finished your drink, too, and then pushed the empty glass to the center of the table. “And now we’re here.” Sam nodded, eyeing you and then looking over at Dieter. What are you thinking about?

“Is it weird for you, Dieter?” He smiled, nose wrinkling. “To be standing here, talking to -”

“No.” There was no gestation on Dieter’s part when he answered, the hand that had been holding yours moving to your back. “Not at all. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I figured we’d meet at some point.” That surprised Sam - and Meg, too, the woman sucking in a breath as she straightened up. “And since we’re out of here in a couple days, now’s as good a time as any.”

“She’s going to Los Angeles for New Year’s.” Meg reached over and touched Sam’s arm. “And maybe for longer.” Well shit. You hadn’t counted on her bringing it up again so quickly - or having to explain yourself to your ex. But I’m going to have to tell my family so fuck it, I guess.

But as silence hung between the four of you, you felt yourself sway, anxiety building in your chest. It’s too much. It’s happening too fast.

“Well, this whole thing is weird for me, to be perfectly honest.” You reached for your glass again, picking it up and then staring down into it, like your wish for a refill would make one appear. “But yes. Meg’s right. Christmas in Georgia. New Year’s and beyond in California.” You set the glass down and then backed up, lifting both hands. “Right now, though? I’m going to get another drink.”

You left the table without saying anything else, heart pounding in your chest while you headed for the bar. What the fuck was that? You’d gone from being totally at ease and joking around with Dieter to being overwhelmed in seconds, even though you had no real reason to be.

It wasn’t that telling Sam bothered you. It wasn’t even that the two men were face to face. So what is it then? Why do I feel this way? You ordered your drink and then waited patiently, fingertips tapping on the bartop.

“Are you Dieter Bravo?” A woman’s high-pitched voice reached your ears, and when you turned toward the sound, drink in hand, you saw that one of the other party guests was gaping at Dieter, who stood a few feet away, one hand in his pocket. “I loved you in -”

“Yes. I am. Thanks.” He flashed her a quick smile, and then pointed at you. “I’m just trying to get to my girlfriend, though.” It was the first time he’d referred to you in that way, and even though the crowd was loud, you heard him clearly. He called me his …

Your unease faded as Dieter approached you, concern in his eyes. “Dieter, I -”

“Come on.” He reached out, taking your hand and leading you away from the bar. “Come with me.” He opened a door that you hadn’t noticed that led out into a back hallway. Once the door shut behind you, he backed away and leaned against the wall, loosely crossing his arms. “I’m not going to ask if you’re alright, but I’m going to ask if this is better.”

“Yes.” You closed your eyes and nodded. It is. “Yeah, Dieter, I don’t … I don’t know what happened in there. It -”

“I know exactly what happened.” He said your name, waiting until you opened your eyes to say anything more. “You got ambushed. And you had to answer questions you weren’t expecting because you shouldn’t have expected ‘em five minutes after you walked into a Christmas party.” He moved closer to you, reaching for the drink you held and taking it from you. “It wasn’t what you answered that fucked you up, it was that you felt like you had to tell them anything in the first place.” He took a drink and then handed it back to you, waiting.

“I didn’t have to answer. I could have changed the subject. I should have. But when she said she was here with Sam, it threw me off, and I felt like I should say something back.” You couldn’t even pinpoint why, exactly, but it was the truth. “Dieter, what if this happens in California? These are just people I know. Out there, it’ll be people you’ve worked with or might work with in the -”

“I don’t care.” He reached for you, putting one hand on each shoulder and squeezing. “I won’t care. Say whatever the fuck you want. That’s what I’ve done for my entire career.”

“But I’m not you.” You felt tears welling up in your eyes. “And if this is what happens to me at a party like this with people I know, LA is going to … fuck, Dieter. What if I fuck it all up? I’m going to embarrass you.” That’s it. This… this makes it real, and when it’s real, it might fail, and I don’t want that failure to be my fault.

“It takes a hell of a lot to embarrass me.” Leaning in, he pressed his forehead to yours and shook his head slowly. “I almost fucking died in front of you, and you’re worried about saying too much or the wrong thing to someone you may never see again? Fuck that. And fuck anyone that makes you feel like that.” Dieter’s hands slid from your shoulders to your biceps, the motion soothing. “Sam congratulated us, by the way. And I think it surprised Meg that he’s cool with it, but they still walked away together, so… who knows.”

That made you laugh, and after you took a deep breath to steady yourself, you cleared your throat. “Maybe she thought that I’d get jealous seeing them together, and it would leave you free.” He widened his eyes and then made a face. What, is she not your type? “I heard what you called me by the bar, Dieter. I … I didn’t realize how much I’d like hearing that.”

“After telling you I love you, calling you my girlfriend seems pretty damn inadequate, but…” He lifted and then dropped his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “For now, it’s the truth.” For now? What does that mean? “It’s going to be fine. All of it. I don’t care if every single one of those people out there fucking hates me. I’m here for you and for your family. They’re the important ones.”

Dieter wet his lips and then pulled the lower one back between his teeth, frowning as he eyed you. “What?” You took a small drink, swallowing and then taking a deep breath. “What’s that look for, Dieter?”

“I knew what coming out here meant.” He gestured at the door behind you with one hand, his rings catching the light, silver flashing as his hand moved. “I knew that being here unannounced and ‘unplanned’ was going to get people talking. I can handle it, because I’m used to it, but I didn’t… fuck, I didn’t think about you not being used to it or the attention or the questions. I’m fucking sorry. I should have. I’ve been deflecting bullshit for years, and it’s like breathing for me, but you … shit.”

“Dieter, no, it’s fine. I’m… I’m going to have to get used to it, right?” You rubbed at the bridge of your nose with two fingers, sighing. “There’s a public aspect that comes along with being with you, and even though some people are familiar with me, if I go places or to premieres or events with you, I’m going to get asked questions, and -”

“If?” He scoffed, his smile returning as he stepped closer. “You’re not gonna be able to get rid of me that easy. As far as I’m concerned, you’re coming to everything with me.” What? Is he serious? “So get ready for it.”

That made you laugh, and as the sound escaped your lips, you realized that you actually felt better. You were calmer and more collected, your heartbeat almost back to normal. “I love you, Dieter. I didn’t mean to … I don’t know. It’s just a lot.”

“It is.” He slid one arm around your waist, the other going around your shoulders as he pulled you in for a hug. “And I’ve got a secret to tell you.” He kissed your cheek before turning his head, his stubbled cheek rubbing against yours as his lips moved to hover just over your ear. “I’ve never cared so much about whether or not something goes well in my entire life.” He paused, and despite the muffled noise of the party just beyond the hallway, you heard that his inhale was shaky. “So you’re not gonna fuck this up. That’s not even an option.”

“If you say so.” His words stunned you, but you believed them, and could feel the sincerity pouring off of Dieter as he held you close. “Thank you. I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend tonight, so…” You nuzzled against his cheek, tightening your arms and being careful not to spill your drink down his back. “I appreciate it.”

When you separated a few seconds later, the two of you took deep breaths, but it was Dieter who spoke first. “Do you want to leave?” He shrugged. “We can stop on the way home for food, or just go back and order something.” He paused, cocking his head to the side and then grinning at you. “Or, do you want to stay and spend the next couple hours listening to me come up with new bullshit stories about making movies and filming TV shows and being friends with half of Hollywood?”

He was giving you an out - two of them, if you were truthful. Because if you left, you’d both have a relaxing night in your apartment doing what you were already so comfortable with. And if you stayed, he’d volunteered to do the heavy lifting for you with the party crowd, turning on the charm and keeping them occupied. It took a lot out of him - and you both knew it - but you also knew that Dieter wouldn’t have made the offer if he hadn’t wanted to. He’d do that for me.

“How about this.” You flattened one hand on his chest, and then used two fingers to undo another button on his shirt. “We go back out there and get something to eat and mingle for a little while.” He nodded slowly, eyes locked with yours. “And then, when you’re ready to leave, you tell me it’s time, and I’ll walk out of here with no questions asked.”

“You sure?”

“I am.” Sliding your fingertips under his shirt, you rested them over his heart. “I just needed a minute, Dieter. It got real all of a sudden, and I wasn’t expecting it to.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. “I know.” He nodded twice. “I’ve been there.” When he backed up, you let your hand drop from his body. But Dieter didn’t let it fall all the way, catching it and linking your fingers together. “But the difference is that I didn’t have someone like me to step in.”

He didn’t say anything more, but he did turn and head for the door without letting go. His words hit you hard; it was always the little things that he added as almost an afterthought that impacted you the most. He revealed the most about himself in small doses - Dieter’s admissions giving you a more thorough picture of exactly what his younger years had been like. And he trusts me enough to tell me the truth.

You’d need his help navigating the new - and much more public - lifestyle that being with him would bring, and you both knew it. Nights like that one and other firsts would be difficult for you, but as you re-entered the party, the music and sounds of people talking growing louder, you understood that it wouldn’t always be that way.

The two of you joined the small crowd around the buffet table, and Dieter finally let go of your hand to reach for a plate, handing it over to you before taking one of his own. You watched him fill it with finger foods and dips, turning his head and making an offhand comment to the man next to him, both of them laughing as they reached for pretzels.

He fits in here. It was the final thing you needed to calm yourself entirely, and when he looked over at you, his smile wide, and winked, you laughed too. He can do this, and so can I. It would take time and effort to make your relationship work, but it was worth it. No question there.

And the more comfortable you became with things, the more both of you would be able to relax and just enjoy being together - as you had in the months you’d spent getting to know each other. Once all of the formalities - and introductions - were done, it would be easier to focus on the future, whatever that entailed.

And you might not have had anyone before, Dieter … but now you do.

—

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jasmines-library · 11 months ago

Note

Hi there! I absolutely adore the way you write and how you approach heavier topics. If it doesn’t bother you, could I request a Batfamily fic with reader who has an ED? I know a lot of people struggle with it and I feel like we all need a little affirmation sometimes. <3

Just The Way You Are

Warnings: Eating Disorders - please read with caution.

Word Count: 1.1k

Note: This one hit home hard. As someone who has struggled with and ED, I think it is important to raise awareness about them. Please note that this is based off off my personal experiences and from research. EDs present themselves in many different ways that vary for everyone. Please remember to be kind to yourself and others and if you are struggling and are able to, to reach out. I have linked some helplines below for those who are in need. Please remember that you are loved and you are perfect just the way you are. You are special. You are loved. You are unique. never let anyone take that away from you.

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

You hadn’t touched most of your food. It sat there getting cold as you pushed it around the porcelain listening to the way your fork scraped gratingly against the shiny surface. You had taken a few bites, longing to savour the taste of Alfred’s cooking as it melted on your tongue, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to bring anymore of the food to your lips. Even the smell began to make your stomach churn. And you felt so stupid as you sat there staring at the plate as everyone else delved in. In some ways that made you feel worse. But eating had begun to feel like a crime.

When it first started, you never thought it would go this far. You just wanted to lose a little weight, to tone your stomach and your muscles just a little bit more. You weren’t even entirely sure why. Perhaps a cruel comment made in passing? It didn’t matter. But what did was the way that your mind seemed to wrack with cruel thoughts every time you looked in the mirror. Pointing out everything that seemed to be wrong. Or didn’t look like the models in the photos in Jason's magazines.

So, you started cutting back. Just a little at first. Snacks in between meals. And you started working out more, trying to burn off calories faster. But when you checked the scales it felt like it wasn’t enough. When you looked in the mirror, your mind still screamed at you, replaying comments and thoughts in your mind like a broken record. They scratched away at you until soon you began to cut back on meals. Breakfast. Smaller portions at lunch and just a few bites here or there at dinner, so that your family wouldn’t suspect a thing. And still even that didn’t seem to be enough. You still felt wrong every time you glanced in the mirror. You still felt like your body wasn’t good enough.

Soon they noticed. You were becoming more withdrawn, often slipping away into the bathrooms after meals. Often not at meals at all. You were sluggish too and seemed to lack the spark that you used to hold. They would ask you tenderly if you were okay, but most days you would scatter or pretend not to have heard them. And other days you would just tell them that you had already had something to eat. That you weren’t hungry.

And somehow lying to them made the situation feel so much worse. Like you were harming them as well as yourself. Your mind was a blur. Days seemed to pass by in some strange mess of time and the only thing that consumed thoughts were the lingering, cruel jests of your inner monologue. Sometimes, you begged for it to stop. You wanted to stop. But you couldn’t. Because you felt as though if you did you would feel disgusting. You would feel as though everything you had done had been for nothing.

“Not hungry?” Tim asked from across beside you. You had zoned out, not sparing the rest of them aside as your mind wandered off on a tangent.

“Hmm?” You frowned. “No. I had a big lunch not too long ago. It was stupid of me really, I should know better than to eat too close to dinner.”

Jason frowned. “You’ve been doing that a lot. Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” You hummed, keeping your eyes plastered on the table cloth, not daring to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast either today Y/N.” Damian added. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing down the anxiety that rose within you quickly. “I’ve already said I’m just not hungry.”

“You’re looking a little pale kiddo.” Dick said “I don’t want you getting sick. Why don’t you try and take a few more bites. It’ll help.”

And soon it all became too much. Everything seemed too much. Too bright, too loud, too hot. And a tear that had been threatening to spill from your eyes for weeks now finally slipped free of its cage.

“I can’t.”

It was a simple phrase, but your voice trembled.

“Why not, kid? What’s the matter kiddo?” Jason asked calmly.

“I just… I just can’t.” you sobbed. “Because if I eat then I feel like my body isn’t good enough! I don’t look like a model. Everytime I look in the mirror I see a body staring back at me that is mine, but it doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t look like how I want it too. How it’s supposed to.”

They fell silent for a moment. But then Damian spoke up.

“Oh Y/N/N… your body is beautiful.”

“Is that why you haven’t been eating?” Dick tilted his head.

You nodded meekly.

“Oh kid…you’re so perfect. You don’t need to change for anyone ever. Who cares what you look like?”

“Me! Everyone! I don’t know!”

“We don’t care. We think you are beautiful just the way you are. You are perfect y/n, and we wouldn’t want you any different.” Tim told you gently, placing his hand atop of yours.

“We love every inch of you. You are beautiful.”

You sniffled, wiping away your tears.

“We’re sorry you couldn’t tell us how you feel. But we are here for you. Always.” Damian told you.

“We’re always going to be here kiddo. We’re here to help you. Here to love you.” Jason added.

“We don’t know what we would do without you. It’s so important that you take care of yourself, beautiful.” Dick said. “And it will take time, as recovery does, but we’re going to be here to help you every step of the way.”

And they were true to their words. The four of them began to help you on your recovery journey. Often they would sit with you, taking small bites of food with you or offering you your favourite treats, reassuring you that it was okay.

If you ever felt overwhelmed, they would wait with you, allowing you to take your time.

Everyday they reminded you of how proud they were of you, even if you felt your progress had gone backward that day. Because they truly were.

Often they would slip you notes. Sometimes they came under your door or were left by your bathroom mirror. You had quite the collection. Each one was different. A different reason why they loved you, or a reminder of how proud they were of you. Reminders that you are loved and you are beautiful just the way you are.

HELPLINES

BATFAM TAGLIST:

@aestheticdaisies

@hell-o-kittys

@xxrougefangxx

@mamapucket

@hearts4robs

@harleycao

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fluentmoviequoter · 10 months ago

Text

Popstar Protection Program

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x singer!fem!reader

Summary: As a young popstar performing in LA for the first time, you don't expect to need police protection. A very reluctant and grumpy sergeant keeps you safe and gives you inspiration.

Warnings: brief angst, fluff, vague mention of heavier topics (nothing specific)

Word Count: 2.8k+ words

Picture from Pinterest (from such a good episode, too)

Los Angeles can be scary. The aerial shots in movies and TV shows make it look inviting, and the focus on the glamorous aspects tends to hide the dangerous underbelly of the City of Angels. Even scarier, you think, is walking through Los Angeles when a large percentage of the population knows your name.

When you started singing, you never expected to become a “star” or be on the covers of magazines, and you absolutely never thought you’d be playing a sold-out show in Staples Center. While you should be focused on practicing and ensuring the show goes well, you can’t think of anything else except the incident in the airport when you landed.

✯✯ 2 Hours Ago ✯✯

Getting off the plane in LAX, you first notice the lack of fresh air. After playing on the East Coast and opening in smaller venues in towns on the other side of the country, you expected this to be similar. Los Angeles is nothing like Charlotte, Boston, or even Nashville. Taking a deep breath, you grow excited to see Staples Center and all the other sights of Los Angeles.

But you don’t even exit the airport before your hopes and plans are shattered. A large crowd of paparazzi are blocking the area outside your gate. You try to navigate through them with your head down, but one of them knocks his camera into your arm, tilting you off balance and making pain radiate down to your wrist.

“Alright, back up! LAPD, move back!” somebody yells on the other side of the crowd.

Slowly, you notice that no one is pressing up against you now, and when you see a man in a police uniform, you release a shaky sigh.

“Thank you,” you say.

He says your name, glancing over your shoulder. “Where’s your protection detail?”

“My what?”

“Oh boy. I think you should probably come with me; there’s some people that can keep this from happening again.”

“Why- why did it happen?”

“Paparazzi are practically vultures. They get paid by the picture to take advantage of people, invade their personal lives, and the closer the better. My guess would be one of the smaller papers or magazines heard you were coming and wanted to get a feature out before your show.”

“So, where are we going?”

“LAPD. Mid-Wilshire station is your best bet to get good cops and stay far enough from the center to avoid the cameras that seem to live there.”

“And then what?”

✯✯ Present ✯✯

“Absolutely not!”

Sitting outside an office with glass walls, you try not to look over as you eavesdrop. Your arm has been iced and wrapped, but the pain is now the least of your concerns. Three groups of officers entered the room after the cop who saved you explained the situation to the watch commander. At least one of them seems opposed to being your protection detail for a few days.

“We’re cops, not bodyguards! There are dozens of places in this city that cater to people like her!”

“Um, excuse me,” you interject, knocking on the open door. “I’m sorry to have caused all the upset, but I will find another way. Thanks for your time.”

Sergeant Grey says your name, gesturing for you to stay. “We’re going to take care of you. It’s your first time performing here and after your less-than-ideal welcome, you deserve someone to show you that LA isn’t all bad.”

“It’s not all good either though,” one of the officers adds.

“I don’t…” you begin.

“Why does this require three teams?” Bradford asks. You recognize his voice as the one that was wholly against the idea a moment ago.

“Bradford, this is your assignment. If you have a problem with it, take it up with IA,” Grey answers.

Bradford’s jaw clenches harshly, and his eyes flit to you before shaking his head and looking away.

“This is your protection team until after your show,” Grey explains, “Harper and Thorsen, Nolan and Juarez, Chen, and Bradford works with Metro so he knows this city inside and out.”

You nod along with the names, and a few of them offer their first names as well. After introducing yourself to the five officers who seem to care, you’re directed to an unmarked SUV.

“Aaron and I will be your mobile detail. You don’t go anywhere unless we take you there. Nolan and Juarez are more peripheral, unseen, protection. Lucy will stay with you as close to 24/7 as possible, and Bradford- well, Bradford’s here,” Nyla explains.

Chuckling, you thank her for the clear explanation and climb into the passenger seat after Aaron opens the door for you.

“I love your music, by the way,” he whispers.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that, and all that you’re doing for me,” you reply.

Aaron nods, closing the door and climbing into the backseat behind you. Your hotel reservation has been changed, booked under someone else’s name, and located farther from Staples Center. Watching the streets of Los Angeles from a police car window is, at the least, safer than the alternative, but it’s certainly nothing special.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Any idea as to why Bradford hates me without meeting me?” you ask Lucy.

“Tim is grumpy. He’s protective and loyal but he’s- he’s like a dog that wasn’t socialized enough as a puppy. Vicious until he gets to know you and then he’s the best friend you could ever ask for,” she answers, holding up one of your dresses.

“You’d look great in that color,” you muse. “Unfortunately, I don’t think Bradford wants to get to know me.”

“You think so? About the color? Because I need a new dress,” she replies.

“Take that one. Get it altered or just use the fabric, whatever you want.”

“Thank you!” As she hugs you, she lowers her voice to add, “You’re also young and beautiful and famous… Tim doesn’t always deal well with people who are different than him.”

You nod, but you don’t believe her. You’ll only be with Tim Bradford for a few days anyway. It shouldn’t bother you… but it does.

✯✯✯✯✯

“We’re changing things around,” Nyla announces as she enters your room. “Lobby’s swarming with paps, but there’s also a crowd of men screaming your name.”

“So, what are you doing?” you ask.

“Bradford is taking point. He’s got some big plan that, and I quote, ‘no will catch on to.’ I won’t repeat the rest of it for your sake, though.”

“Grey is making him do it?” you guess.

Nyla hums, neither a yes nor no, but you know the answer. When he barges in a moment later, you stop talking, preferring not to give him another reason to hate you.

“Get your stuff, we’re leaving,” he demands.

You nod, walking into the suite's bedroom to gather your things. Part of you wants to know what Nyla and Bradford will say behind your back, but you’re also terrified that Nyla is just better about hiding her true feelings.

✯✯✯✯✯

“What is your problem?” Aaron demands. “She’s in danger and you’re not helping any!”

“This isn’t the job I signed up for. I am a Metro Sergeant but I’m stuck on- on princess protection duty! She’s just a kid who sings,” Tim answers.

“It’s about her age then,” Nyla repeats.

“No! Well, yes, but she- what makes her special enough for a team like this? Why does she get a real protection detail?”

“Tim,” Lucy says quietly. “Have you listened to her music?”

“Why would I?”

“Her specific genre, what she sings about has made a lot of people angry,” Aaron explains. “Those paparazzi weren’t there for a ‘Taylor Swift is in LA’; they were looking for a much bigger story.”

“Spit it out, Thorsen.”

“Plenty of people have reason to try to kill her.”

Tim falls silent, looking at Nyla. She tilts her head in a ‘we can’t prove it but it’s probably true’ gesture. He looks back toward the bedroom.

“Look, I’m doing my job. I’ll be civil and that is it,” Tim concedes.

“That’s all we’re asking,” Lucy replies. “We’ll be in the neighborhood. Nothing can happen to her with our protection, right?”

“Right,” Aaron and Nyla answer, looking at Tim.

“Right. Because it is our job, nothing more.”

You come out with your single suitcase, waiting until Tim takes it from you to speak. Thanking him softly, you listen to his quick explanation that you’ll be staying with him rather than Lucy, and the rest of the team will be patrolling nearby in case of an emergency.

“You’ll be fine,” Lucy promises. “And thank you again for the dress. I can’t imagine how much that cost and I can’t thank you enough.”

Tim’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t ask any questions. Wondering why someone in your position would be willing to give away an expensive dress days before a concert confuses him. Tim reminds himself that he can’t start caring.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim’s house is incredibly comfortable. You can tell that he doesn’t want you here, and when he disappears into a back room with his phone and earbuds, you assume it’s his way of getting as much space as he can. Pulling your songwriting journal from your bag, you start writing, disappearing into the emotions and the story you want to share. Time falls away when you’re writing, and you don’t hear Tim reemerge or walk to the doorway before you.

Tim clears his throat, and you look up from your place on the floor. You look small and as young as you are, sitting on the carpet and leaning against the bed with a journal in your lap. Tim has something to say but nearly forgets what it is when you look up at him through your lashes.

“I will admit that I judged you prematurely, and I’m sorry,” he begins.

“It’s okay,” you offer.

“No, just, let me finish. Please?” You nod, and Tim continues, “I thought you were just an entitled kid who found a way to convince the cop from the airport that you needed special attention. Craved it, whatever. And you’re just, you’re young and famous and that confuses me. I don’t know what life is like for you, I can’t relate to any part of that fame.”

“I can’t relate to your life either, but I didn’t shut you out because of that,” you whisper.

Tim licks his lips before speaking again. “I’m sorry. Aaron told me that you sing about- that you- uh-“

“Write songs for people who will never relate to the love songs or the ‘thank God for my parents’… who will never relate to a song on the Billboard 100 or feel protected by a song? Yeah.”

“And I diminished that. I listened to your last album-“

“That’s what you were doing back there?”

“Don’t- don’t laugh at me,” Tim replies, finally smiling. “It was really good. And I truly am sorry.”

“Consider it forgotten.”

You raise your hand, and Tim chuckles as he shakes it. He sees the nearly full page of your notebook and leans down. You slam it closed, and he shakes his head at your sudden movement.

“They’re private until they’re available on iTunes and all major streaming platforms.”

“Got it,” he replies, mock-saluting. “And, just so you know, I needed songs like this as a kid. Still do, so thank you.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Throughout the next 48 hours, Tim ebbs and flows. One moment, he’ll talk to you for an hour straight, but by that afternoon, he won’t even look in your direction. It’s dizzying, and you don’t realize how much you’re thinking about it, about him, until you reach the last page of your notebook.

“Ready for the show?” Lucy asks, dressed in an event security uniform.

Shrugging, you run your finger over the edge of your journal.

“Songs?”

Lucy sits beside you, offering a hand. You lay your hand over hers, taking a deep breath.

“I thought I was making progress with Tim. He apologized and he was being nice to me and then it all stopped. Like we backslid. And, for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Sounds like you don’t want to,” Lucy says softly. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

“I can’t.”

“Then maybe you should sing to him.”

Laughing, you argue, “That would be even worse.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim is humming while he and Aaron stand outside your dressing room door.

“You listened to her music,” Aaron accuses, placing the song.

“Yeah. Even apologized,” Tim answers.

“You haven’t talked to her at all today. Did something- oh my- did you kiss her?”

“What? No, I didn’t kiss her, and keep your voice down! I had to pull back.”

“Why?”

Tim doesn’t answer but glances over his shoulder to your door.

“You like her.”

“No- maybe.”

“You need to tell her. We don’t know when or if she’s leaving.”

“That’s why I can’t tell her. If she’s leaving tomorrow there is no point, and if she doesn’t know, telling her could influence her decision.”

“What about the effects of not telling her?”

✯✯✯✯✯

You open the door suddenly, and Tim and Aaron turn toward you quickly.

“Whoa!” Aaron exclaims.

“You look beautiful,” Tim says, sending you a small smile.

“Thank you. All of you, for everything these last few days.”

“Break a leg,” Lucy says, waving as you walk toward the stage entrance.

“Everybody in position? This job isn’t over yet,” Tim radios.

✯✯✯✯✯

You notice Tim standing in the wings during your second song. As if your energy has been zapped from you, you fight not to collapse. Tim’s eyes narrow as he watches you.

“Instrumental,” you tell your bassist, who communicates it to the rest of the band.

Rushing toward Tim, his eyes search your face. His hands raise to your sides as he waits for you to speak.

“I-“ you stop, turning off your microphone. “I thought something was happening.”

“When?”

“No. Between us. I thought maybe there could be something there but then you stopped talking to me. What happened?”

“You’re supposed to be singing right now.”

“I have a journal full of songs about you, Tim!” you exclaim. “I can’t come out here and sing without knowing if those ideas have a chance of coming to life!”

“You wrote songs about me?”

“Tim,” you beg. “Just answer the question.”

“Nothing happened. We’re too different and I didn’t want to push too hard.”

“Who gets to decide if we’re too different? Because I disagree.”

“Don’t tell me you have a song about it, I’ve heard that one.”

You sigh, beginning to accept that Tim is skirting around a rejection.

“You can do better,” Tim says quietly. “No point in me showing you how I feel when you could have any man you wanted.”

“I don’t want any other man!” you yell over the music.

Tim’s eyes widen, and his hand leaps to your waist to your mic pack, turning it off and tugging your microphone down.

“Thorsen, your badge is mine,” he grumbles.

Tossing the microphone onto a nearby chair, Tim raises his hands to cup your face.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure since you said you didn’t want to deal with me.”

“That’s- I don’t think I put it like that.”

“No, you said you were a cop not a bodyguard. But I think you’re a pretty good bodyguard too.”

“I tried not to,” Tim admits. “Tried not to feel this way, I mean. But every time I see you, it’s like I see another part of you. You’re beautiful, and your music is beautiful, and I’m sorry for pushing you away and being-“

“Worthy of a breakup song?”

Tim sighs, leaning toward you. “You need to finish your concert.”

“Promise to be here when I’m done?”

“I promise.”

You grab your microphone, hooking it on quickly before waving at Tim and returning to the stage.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Aaron,” Tim radios, “Did you turn her mic back on?”

“Those things are tricky,” Aaron replies.

“Then maybe you should go talk to the tech department and stay out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir.”

✯✯✯✯✯

The lights dim, and as the crowd applauds, you run to Tim, crashing into him as you hug him tightly. His arms wrap around your waist, smiling as he congratulates you for your first sold-out show.

“You’ll come to the next one?” you ask.

“Only if you sing one of those songs you wrote about me.”

“I’ll sing them all. Even if you’re the only one in the audience.”

Tim cups your cheek, pressing his palm against your cheek as he pulls you in. His kiss is the opposite of earlier; a look that sucked the energy from you has become a kiss that breathes life and love into your very being. You pull back before leaning against Tim and can’t hear anything except your shared heartbeat.

“I think they’re calling for you,” Tim whispers.

The muddled yells of “Encore! Encore!” greet you, but you’re warm and happy in Tim’s arms.

“I don’t want you in my audience,” you correct. “I want you at my side.”

“Then I should be easy to find. Knock ‘em dead. Again.”

Tim kisses you again, and you credit that as the reason your encore was better than your performance (LA Times’ words, not yours).

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie #requests #fem!reader #singer!reader

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oliversrarebooks · 8 months ago

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 48: Fitz's Charms

Prev > Masterlist > Next

June 1905

TW: mind control, blood drinking

Fitz once again had a plan.

It wasn't much of one. But the past few days in the auction house, he'd had little to do but sleep, eat, play solitaire, read the books and magazines Alexander brought him, and think about how he could escape his seemingly inevitable fate.

It certainly didn't help that Alexander would fix him with a look of intense longing every time he returned to the room, catching Fitz in his gaze and invoking the intense, unnatural urge for fangs in his neck. The horror of the night of the auction hadn't washed that compulsion from his mind at all, and his dreams as he drifted off to sleep were full of Alexander pulling him close, whispering his mesmeric song in Fitz's ear, humming softly as he bit into Fitz's tender flesh...

And yet, despite Alexander's very obvious desire, and the fact that he now owned Fitz (give or take his terrifying sire, who Fitz wished to put far from his mind), he never so much as laid a hand on him, explaining that he'd rather feed at home.

Fitz didn't accept this. They had complete privacy in the auction house room and Alexander had originally intended to buy Fitz for exactly this purpose. He'd barely been able to hold himself back in the showroom, and he was obviously struggling to hold himself back now. No, there was something else at play. After giving it a great deal of thought, Fitz concluded that the most likely explanation was that Alexander did not want to grow too attached to him. Despite his grand promises, it was clearly difficult for Alexander to defy his sire in any way. If Alexander's plans to kill the Maestro failed, it would be much easier for Alexander if he didn't care, if he could simply hand over Fitz without a second thought.

Well, that wouldn't do.

Endearing himself to Alexander would be the key to his safety and eventually his escape, Fitz reckoned, particularly if Fitz could avoid getting entangled in inconvenient affection himself. It would possibly afford him more freedom and privilege, and the more Alexander valued him, the more he'd be spurred on to save Fitz from his cruel sire.

And there was one obvious way to start that process: enticing Alexander to feed.

The fact that this plan happened to dovetail with his own enthralled desires was just a happy accident, nothing more.

Fitz had been scheming the entire carriage ride to Alexander's manor, trying to look as enticing as possible in the shapeless frock the auction house had provided for him. Alexander spent most of the ride very interested in the bland scenery of the country road, looking anywhere but at Fitz, his aura betraying where his interests truly lay and sending Fitz's head spinning.

"Well, here we are. Please make yourself at home." said Alexander, removing his coat and shoes at the doorway as Fitz looked around. The manor looked considerably smaller than his childhood home, certainly older, and infused with the musty smell of old books.

A dusty intellectual, then, just as Fitz had suspected. He could work with that. Lord knows he'd charmed his way into the homes of many such an intellectual just by feigning interest in rare plants or mystery stories or whatever bee they had in their bonnet.

"I should show you around," saidAlexander. "This will be your home, now, and I want you to be comfortable. You're free to go where you please in the manor, and use what you will, as long as you don't harm the books or the instruments, or enter my private chambers uninvited. Is that clear?"

"Clear as crystal, sir," said Fitz, deliberately stepping much too close to Alexander, enjoying how he squirmed. It gave Fitz the welcome illusion that he had the upper hand, despite being locked into the manor of the vampire who owned him.

Alexander first took Fitz into an old-fashioned kitchen that was spotlessly clean. "I'll provide you with whatever food you request, but I'll expect you to cook it yourself. Can you cook?"

No, no he could not. Fitz's family had had a chef, and since running away, Fitz had only rented out rooms without access to a kitchen. He'd subsisted mainly on sandwiches, the cheapest diner food he could find, and, when he'd worked as a waiter, as much food from back of house as he could snatch. But Alexander didn't need to know that. How hard could basic cooking be? "I'll try not to burn the place down, sir."

"Burn the place down? You wouldn't --"

"That was a joke, sir."

"...Oh, yes." Alexander took a deep breath, apparently having taken that entirely seriously.

"Are there any other thralls living here, sir?" Fitz already suspected the answer, given Alexander's air of desperation and how clean the kitchen was.

"No, it's only you."

"Very good, sir." That would certainly work to his advantage.

As Alexander left the kitchen and Fitz followed at his heels, he couldn't help but think of the food that awaited him. He believed that Alexander would keep him fed -- after all, he was apparently depending on Fitz alone for blood, and even the auction house had kept its prisoners fed well. His mouth was watering thinking of the steak and chicken he could be eating.

He'd just need to learn how to use a stove first. A minor detail.

"I hope you'll enjoy this. It's my music room," said Alexander, leading Fitz into an ornate room with a grand piano at its center. It was covered in a mess of sheet music and the bench was worn, indicating that it wasn't just a piano for show as many rich families had, but very well-used. An impressive collection of other instruments sat on the floor or hung from racks on the walls - a beautiful guitar that Fitz immediately coveted, several fine-looking violins, a brightly-painted harpsichord, a polished oboe.

"Yes, I do enjoy it, sir," said Fitz, lighting up. This was ideal -- music would be a way to pass the time and endear himself to his new master all at the same time. He gestured toward that gorgeous piano. "Do you mind, sir?"

"Not at all. You did mention you play, didn't you?"

"I do, sir," said Fitz with a cheeky grin. "Just listen." He sat down at the bench, making a dramatic show of stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles, pleased to see Alexander giving him full attention. With a deft hand, he launched into a familiar ragtime tune, keeping time by tapping his foot on the floor. He was out of practice, having not played a music gig in several months, but despite a wrong note here and there he could still produce a pleasant enough tune. He looked up to see Alexander absolutely enraptured, a better response than expected considering his rusty piano skills.

"That was wonderful," he said. "What song was that? I've never heard it."

"You've never heard the Maple Leaf Rag, sir?"

"I tend to be rather sheltered when it comes to newer music."

"Is that so, sir?" With a smile and a flourish, Fitz stood up and gestured to the piano bench. "In that case, I would like to hear some of your older music, if you don't mind playing, sir."

Alexander looked surprised and pleased at Fitz's request. "If you don't mind listening, I don't mind playing. It's far from perfect, though, I should warn you."

As Fitz leaned gently against the piano, Alexander took a small breath before starting in on the most complicated and arresting piano music Fitz had heard in his life. Nimble hands flew across the keys in patterns that were nearly impossible to follow with the naked eye, and despite Alexander claiming his performance was far from perfect, Fitz couldn't have identified one wrong note or missed beat if he tried. It was the sort of song and performance that demanded full attention, driving all other considerations out of the listener's head.

Despite the intense skill required to play the piece, Alexander's expression was not one of concentration. Instead, he seemed far away, as though his mind had departed his body.

"I'm a bit rusty. Apologies," said Alexander in all seriousness as he finished, as though he hadn't just given a virtuoso performance as casually as Fitz could plunk out a children's tune.

"That was... astounding, sir," said Fitz, caught off guard enough by the music that he didn't have a calculated answer. "I've never heard anything like it. What was the song?"

"It's a piano concerto written by a vampire composer, so not one you would have likely heard of. His works take advantage of the greater nimbleness afforded our kind." Alexander seemed oddly melancholy about having had the chance to show off a truly impressive skill. "Anyway, why don't we move on?"

He stood up abruptly from the piano bench, leaving Fitz to follow again, wondering what his next move should be. He'd thought the piano would be a winner, but it had only seemed to increase the distance between him and Alexander.

"Allow me to show you my pride and joy, the library," said Alexander.

Fitz inwardly scoffed. How could a library possibly be more interesting than the music room? He'd seen plenty of personal libraries in his time, and had never been all that impressed by a rich person's ability to gather a bunch of dusty books they never actually read. Still, he'd have to pretend to be impressed.

It turned out that there was no need to pretend. This wasn't some small parlor with a few bookshelves. No, this so-called library actually took up what looked to be an entire wing of the manor. It was two stories high with bookshelves stretching straight to the ceiling, punctuated by rickety wooden ladders. And like the piano, it was very clearly in use, with books scattered all around the chairs and tables and lying in big stacks on a large wooden desk.

"Well, what do you think?" said Alexander, clearly looking for approval in a way he hadn't with his piano playing.

"It's an astonishing amount of books, sir," said Fitz. "Have you actually read every one of these?"

"Most of them, yes, but there are some I haven't read cover to cover. Some of them are astoundingly dull histories that mostly have a place in cross-referencing other works."

Fitz leaned in close once more. "Astoundingly dull histories, sir? You certainly do know how to charm a man."

Alexander didn't move away. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've attempting to charm me."

"And is it working, sir?" Fitz stepped closer, pleased when Alexander found himself nearly pressed against one of his bookshelves.

"Perhaps." Alexander seemed to be trying to compose himself. "Although I confess I don't see what the purpose is. At the auction house, you were trying to convince me to buy you. You did succeed, even if the ultimate outcome wasn't what either of us hoped. What are you trying to accomplish here?"

"Isn't it enough to want to please you, sir? Must you assume I have an ulterior motive?"

Alexander seemed amused. "Oh, I know you have an ulterior motive. I'm only asking what it is."

"I was just thinking that you bought me for a reason, sir." Fitz had him practically backed up against the bookshelf by now. "And that reason so happens to coincide with the spell that our mutual acquaintance placed on me. So it's less of an ulterior motive, and more that our interests conveniently align."

Alexander's eyes darted to Fitz's neck, his composure rapidly waning, and Fitz felt a thrill of power. For the first time since that fateful night when Miss Lily had volunteered to be his assistant, he felt like he had control over the situation, that he could skillfully manipulate things to go his way.

"Lily did condition you very well," said Alexander, his voice wavering. "But I did intend for you to get settled in first before I sated my appetite."

"I'm pretty well settled, sir. I think I'm going to be able to make myself very comfortable here. But I don't want you holding back on what you really want to do. That never works out for anyone."

"Is that so?"

"You wanted me to offer my blood to you, didn't you, sir? That's what you told me when we first met. Well, here I am. Offering." Fitz shamelessly pulled aside the collar of his frock, exposing his neck, enjoying the way Alexander's desire was settling around his mind, the way he had the vampire eating out of the palm of his hand.

It happened so fast.

Fitz was being pushed onto the couch, cold hands gripping his shoulders, a mesmerizing song ringing in his ears. Unlike Alexander's measured song at the auction house, this was desperate, needy, wrapping around Fitz's mind and pulling it beneath the waves before he could even comprehend what was happening. His plans and manipulation no longer mattered, dashed to pieces in the whirlpool of Alexander's irresistible voice.

The only thing that mattered now was listening.

"You will obey, won't you?" whispered Alexander in his ear.

"Yes, Master." The instinctive reply tumbled from his lips, and he wasn't remotely prepared for how right it felt. How good he felt falling back into the magic.

No, the vampire was never eating out of the palm of his hand. That was an illusion, smoke and mirrors he set up to trick himself. Alexander was absolutely in control, and there was nothing he could do about it. But unlike the absolute control Alexander's sire had used on his body, this was like rest and calm and bliss all at once, quieting his busy mind, soothing it in a way he was rarely soothed, forcing a sweet surrender.

"You'll feel no pain. Only pleasure when I drink from you."

"Only pleasure, Master." That's it, that's all there was. Only pleasure from being buried in a tidal wave of his master's desire.

And then the fangs were in his neck, finally fulfilling the promise that was made to him the moment he'd been enthralled, and the remainder of his mind crumbled in an instant. His master drank hungrily from the twin wounds, lapping at the precious drops of blood, as Fitz slumped onto his shoulder, sinking into a euphoric daze. Fitz could somehow feel every drop of his master's intense desire for him, and it felt like Narcissus looking into his pool, like a starving man served a lavish banquet, like he would never be satiated.

He was wanted, oh, he was wanted and wanted and wanted --

The feeding was over too soon, too soon for Fitz to fully savor the dizziness in his head and the heaviness in his limbs from his master's feast, the proof of his quality. The proof that Fitz was worth something to someone.

"Such a good thrall," Alexander murmured as he cradled Fitz's head against his chest. "You're perfect, Fitz. You're absolutely perfect. And I'm not going to let anyone else touch you, not my sire, not anyone. You're mine."

"Yours, sir," said Fitz, and he had promised that very thing to so many people, but he'd never actually meant it until now.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next time, Alexander gets drunk.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

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@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump

#whump #whump writing #vampire whump #vampire whumper #mind control #blood drinking #rare bookseller #alexander #fitz

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buglass · 19 days ago

Text

Love a Man in Uniform

Summary: You really like seeing Elvis in his Army uniform and even more so without it, but the hat stays on.

Chapters: 1/1

WC: 3.3K

Rating/Warnings: Explicit; Smut aka minors DNI, late 50s

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Black!OFC, Elvis Presley x Black!Reader

A/N: I saw someone’s comment somewhere on here that they wanted Elvis to keep the hat on when they you know and I was already itchin’ to write Army Elvis. God bless the troops.

Being the daughter of an Army sergeant was far less exciting than one would think. When your father wasn’t off working long hours and days, he left your mother with you in a single-parent household. You didn’t know whether to be happy or cry when he got orders to Germany in nineteen fifty-six when you were seventeen. The only thing you knew about Germany was the war that just passed when you were a child.

You had come to like Germany after all. Your mother and father reassured you it would be less like how it was back home feeling his absence. As the years went on, you finished high school on base and worked the local shoppette near the barracks. Usually it was a mixed bag of interactions from people since Jim Crow was ongoing back home, but most people were nice and conversational.

You were restocking the shelves, knelt down as someone hovered nearby and you spared them half a glance. The man cleared his throat and you could hear some shuffling further down the aisle. You still didn’t look up fully at the man whose pant legs and hat in hand were all you saw of him and a posse of people hanging further back by the other end.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am, can you tell me where I might find ointment for a cut?” The voice said.

You heard about Elvis arriving the year before to Germany but you never so much as ran into him or met him. Your father moved your family off base once you graduated from school which completely lowered your chances. Now that you worked near the barracks, the odds had gone up and you had time to forget about him. When you did look up, he was towering over you and you had never felt smaller. You were taken aback by how beautiful he was in person compared to the magazine and newspaper photos that lined the stand in the store. You fumbled with the goods you were restocking on the shelf as you tried to stand, sweeping your hair from your face.

“I, um--it’s a few aisles over. Next to the cough medicine and Band-Aids.” You stammered, shyly meeting his eyes while he smiled.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Elvis said.

You suddenly became unconvinced that he had no idea where to find ointment and when you looked at his hands you couldn’t necessarily see a cut either. You knelt back down to pick up what you were placing on the shelf, giving him a look as he lingered still.

“Is there somethin’ else I can help you with?” You ask nervously.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” He asks, all of his attention on you.

“Y/n,” you say.

“And how old are you, y/n?” He continues his line of questioning.

“Nineteen, almost twenty here soon,” you squint at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Go to Bad Nauheim ever?” Elvis humors, beginning to peruse the items on the shelf.

Other customers are starting to notice now and it makes you nervous that he’s seemingly procrastinating to have a conversation with you.

“Not really. I hear there’s nothin’ to do but see where Elvis Presley lives,” you joke, placing your dropped item back into the box stacked beside you. “I can show you to your ointment, Mr. Presley.” You say, beginning to walk two aisles over. Elvis follows in his amusement.

“Where are you from?” He asks another question.

“Tennessee originally, but my Daddy was stationed in Missouri for a while before we moved here.” You say easily.

“I thought I heard that familiar accent. Listen, honey, I obviously don’t really need a Band-Aid, but I would like you to stop by this house I’m rentin’. I don’t care for the barracks too much. We happened to stop in and I saw ya. Thought I might pique your interest. So do I?” Elvis said, moving to stand in front of you.

“Do you what?” You ask.

“Do I pique your interest?” Elvis repeated.

You wanted to laugh because while you had never dreamed of Elvis Presley before, it was too good to be true so you must have been dreaming. You lick your lips as you reach around Elvis, grabbing the bandages first then the ointment.

“People will talk,” you say.

“You think I’m not used ta people talking about me? It does no good worryin’ about that sorta stuff. You’re pretty, very pretty. I would like your company. My buddy Charlie back there can give you a ride if you need one.” Elvis offered, dropping his chin to his chest to catch your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you say. “You’re sure it won’t cause too much fuss?” You ask warily.

“I’m perfectly sure. If it makes you feel any better, my grandmother and father also live with me. The people we have over are either battle buddies or strangers. We’ll listen to music and talk. What do you say?” Elvis looked at you expectantly.

His eyes were unrealistically blue and you could feel his charm radiating off of him. If you were honest with yourself, you were ready to say yes ages ago. Elvis Presley was asking you to his home which you were sure nobody back home would exactly believe. Missouri not so much, but in Tennessee your friends or families could attest to Elvis’s kind and accepting nature.

“Tonight?” You ask.

“Tonight,” he breaks into a half smile.

You were still in shock by the time evening came. Instead of taking up Elvis’s offer to be given a ride, you borrowed your parents’ car for the night. You informed them generally of where you were going but didn’t want to worry them with who you were seeing. Wearing your best dress, you did up your makeup but kept it simple. You added a spritz of perfume in the car and the next few minutes were a blur after you bypassed the waiting girls outside to knock on the front door. Informed of what you would look like and your name, you were allowed in without issue.

Elvis was playing on the piano when you arrived so most people’s attention was on him. His eyes drifted to you while he played, dressed down in his button up shirt, tie, dress pants, and dress shoes of his uniform. You would have thought he would have changed by now but most of the men there still wore their uniforms. He finished the song he was playing and half sang in order to greet you. There was a half-hearted hug on your part as he bent down to kiss your cheek. That made you more nervous that he was so carefree about his affection. You were a little more reserved and private about who or what you did in your spare time.

“Anyone give you trouble gettin’ in here?” Elvis rumbled low. He had yet to completely release you, an arm around your waist as he peered down at you.

“No, no problems.” You say.

“Good to hear. Did you want something to drink or eat before goin’ upstairs?” He asked calmly.

While his tone wasn’t suggestive, you knew why you had come there. You were no better than any other young woman that was just as virile as some of the young men present. When Elvis invited you to come by his place, you knew what you wanted and how you wanted it. You shake your head to his question and he scans your face again. As if it clicks in his head, his lips part in response.

“Go upstairs without me. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” Elvis rasps, starting to pull away. “My room is hard to miss.”

You follow his instructions though you feel it’s awkward to remove yourself. It’s not that you stand out but most of the people there have never met you before. But you knew being honest with yourself that it was probably something the regulars had seen before. When you get to Elvis’s bedroom, it is apparent between the sack of mail and his uniform jacket hanging on a nearby door. His hat hangs from the mirror and you grab it, thumbing slightly at the fabric. You didn't know what it was about seeing Elvis in uniform. Anything else you had seen him in just didn’t do it for you and he looked perfectly slender and taller somehow when he was dressed that way.

“Somethin’ catch your eye?” Elvis says from the doorway, making you jump. You turn around with his hat in your hand as he moves to shut his bedroom door behind him.

“No. Well, yes. I think you look damn good wearin’ this,” you admit, shy as your eyes meet his again.

Now that you’re alone with him, reality sets in again that you’re alone with the Elvis Presley and he was unashamed to have been interested in a woman such as yourself. Elvis nods and slowly makes his way in front of you, gentle as he holds onto a part of the hat.

“It feels like just another monkey suit. Y’know what I mean, honey?” Elvis scoffed, moving past you to put on a record as promised.

You go to sit on the end of his bed as he flips through an assortment of records, kneeling down. He would stop occasionally only to then continue flipping through the covered vinyls. When Elvis did settle on one, he stood up again to play the record and you quickly recognized the surly and crooning voice of Ray Charles.

“You were playin’ this downstairs,” you say. “I couldn’t recognize it at first.”

“I’m a big fan of Ray Charles. His music does somethin’ to me. I want to record more of his songs someday, but hell, I don’t think I can sing it as well as him.” He said.

Elvis turns back to you, moving to sit on the bed at your side. When he sits, the bed dips, and his eyes drift back to his hat. You try to find the right way to express that you want him and think it might be too forward. Elvis takes the hat from you to place it on his head, further displacing his already strewn strands of hair that managed to fall out of place. He places a hand on your thigh through your dress and you feel that same tingling sensation you felt in your pelvis in the shoppette again.

“Can I kiss you? Your lips are perfect, baby.” Elvis said, making his point by looking at your full lips.

You just nod because you’re nervous again and fully aware of the experience at hand. There was a steady tinkering sound outside of pebbles from people below trying to get Elvis’s attention. But they were too late because you had it in full and he was leaning in, soon kissing you. He was gentle, his hat tipped back far enough that you didn’t have to worry about bumping into it. Your boldness amped up as you take the hand he left on your thigh to direct it between your legs beneath your dress.

You hiss as he takes the permission, running with it as he presses his hand into you right where you need him. You moan into his mouth as the kiss deepens, clasping a hand at the nape of his neck. Elvis presses forward so your back is on the bed and he massages at your clit through your already wet underwear. You feel his fingers working your underwear aside, gliding over your lips and using the wetness there to tease at your hole. You suck in a sharp breath, at some point kicking off your heels to hook a leg over one of his. Elvis draws back, a ruddy color covering his cheeks and nose as his arousal came to the forefront.

“One second, baby,” he groaned. Elvis sat back and stood up, licking his fingers clean. You felt heat coming to your cheeks seeing a man taste you so freely. He started undressing starting with his shirt and pants. Both went onto a single hanger and he smiled to himself. “Can’t risk having to get these dry cleaned.” He explained.

“Can… Can you keep the hat on?” You ask hesitantly.

“You want me to keep it on while we…? Sure, why not. Does it turn you on?” Elvis grinned, keeping the hat in place as he closes in on you.

“It’s something about when you wear it. I grew up around the military all my life… I don’t know what it is, Elvis.” You admit, eyes scanning him from head to toe. Your eyes linger a little longer on the bulge within his underwear.

“Everyone has their thing, don’t they? Don’t be shy about it, baby. It turns me on knowing I can make you feel good. Do you want me to make you feel good?” He asks, his voice deeper than before.

“Yes, Elvis,” you whisper.

He crawls over top of you again then reaches beneath your dress to peel your underwear from your body. He tosses the fabric aside, returning his hand back to your slit. Elvis moves up, settling on a forearm as he watches your face for every change in expression and moan from your lips. He drops his head to steal another kiss, his tongue bolder than before and curling around yours. This time he groans, soon working a finger inside of you and making you shudder. You were past the foreplay already as much as you wanted to believe and trust Elvis would take his time, you wanted him now.

To get your point across, you reach down and grab a hold of him through his underwear. You don’t treat him like this fragile thing. Squeezing at his cock, you massage him before helping to get rid of his underwear too. Elvis obliges and works out of them to kick them off to the floor. He groans again as you shift, hooking your legs around his waist to draw him forward.

“Baby,” Elvis breaks the kiss as he moans, his resolve quickly weakening as the head of his length brushes at your pussy from top to bottom. “I should grab a rubber.”

“Just pull out, okay?” You whisper, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

“Y’sure?” Elvis grunts, holding onto the base of himself as he purposely rubbed his head into you forcefully.

“Yes, please, Elvis. I need it. I need you,” you beg.

The music beyond the door was finally turned up a bit louder which was a relief to you. You worried someone might be listening out for you both since the star of the household left to come upstairs. Elvis kisses you again and bears his hips forward, sliding his way into you and making you gasp against his mouth. He hikes your dress up to grab purchase onto your hips, resting right at the bones there to push you down to the hilt of him. You hook your legs behind his thighs, lifting your hips encouragingly as you adjust around him. It had been long enough since the last boy you slept with that stretch took some getting used to but then again, you think, Elvis was bigger than you estimated.

“Goddamn, baby. You’re tight,” Elvis whispers and drops his head into your neck which pushes his hat back, kissing and nipping at the skin there.

He draws his hips back carefully, testing what you can or can’t take and thrusts forward. Your legs are trembling as he speeds up not long after when he realizes how vocal you are. He parts his lips, grunting as he holds his mouth right where your voice vibrates from your throat. Your hands and arms intertwine around his neck because if you don’t hold onto something it will drive you crazy.

Elvis sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back and you loosen your arms to give him the room to move. He sits up on his knees and pushes his cap back down into place just over his brows, then guides your legs back toward your chest and watches as he fucks in and out of you. You forced your eyes open to watch him, amazed at how focused his looks. His lips purse as he spits down onto his cock and your cunt, his hips picking up in speed again. The head of him brushes that sensitive spot and you angle your hips down as your first orgasm of the evening builds, drawing tight like a spool that needs to be unwound. Elvis drops a hand down to your clit, his thumb working expertly as he reads into your body’s response to him.

“Oh, Elvis--you’re gonna make me--” you stammer, becoming breathless with every passing second.

Elvis bucks into you that much harsher, your toes curling in response and your legs shake as he remained dead-set on bringing you to completion. Your eyes shut then, tossing your head back into the bed as you came on him and he hums in response to show his approval.

“Mhm, baby. That’s a good, little girl,” Elvis praises.

He pulls out and drops down to close his mouth on you, lapping up the mess he created freely. He moans then directs you up onto your knees. “Don’t worry. You’ll still be able to watch me. That’s what you like, hm, baby? You like seein’ how I fuck you?”

“Yes, Elvis,” you whimper.

Your face is pressed into the bed after he angles you downward with your ass in the air. He balls a hand up in your dress and uses the other to line his cock back up with your steadily dripping hole.

“You’re a good, little girl. You take me so well, baby. I’m so close,” Elvis breathes as he sinks into you again, mesmerized by the sounds he causes you to make. “Tell me you love it, baby. Say how good I make you feel.”

“I love it, I love it…” You gasp, pressing your hips back into him.

The sound of skin slapping fills the room as Elvis no longer tries to stave off his own climax. You watch him, realizing a secondary orgasm was approaching seeing him like this. His dark lashes had become heavy as he watched your hips meet and then looked at your face. The way his hat framed his features, you had the perfect view and wished there was a camera on hand to remember the way he looked for the rest of your days.

“Oh, y/n, you are a naughty girl.” Elvis playfully scolded and tossed his head back for a brief second.

His hips moved with less consistency and you knew he was about to cum. He pulled out at the very last second with every bit of restraint he could manage, squeezing at the head with his free hand and pulling your dress down your back. Elvis gasped as he came, leaving streaks across your ass and along your spine.

“Fuck…” He moaned, dragging the head along your pussy again. Elvis’s cock jumped as he did so. He blinked slowly as he sat back and held your dress in place to keep it from being stained or dirtied by his cum.

“You can take the hat off now, if you want.” You joke, pushing up onto your hands to be on all fours again.

“I think I just might,” Elvis said, smiling.

#elvis presley fandom #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley #50s elvis #elvis film #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fic #Elvis Presley x black reader #Elvis Presley x black!ofc

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