Happy Valentines Day!
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ough....the laughingstock In My Head... im unwell....
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katara managed to break apart a huge ball of ice out of nowhere despite not being able to lift a cup of water five minutes before that...
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NoOoo, baby 😭💔
Full image of all the released plots: https://imgur.io/6q9kJwC?r
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No actually I'm going to talk about this I'm so angry.
You're actually going to tell me right in my funky little beady eyes, that Eddie LITERALLY got bat boogie burgered in a HELLSCAPE for a town that WANTED HIM DEAD while Max got revived by some friendship is magic abracadabridoo ???
Nah man fck that sht since when does El deals with the deathly realms? I thought 66 fcking 6 was the death number not 11
AND THEY DIDNT EVEN LAID DOWN HINTS OR NOTHING JUST STRAIGHT UP WANT teehee hand on her heart and boop she lives <3
That's lazy writing.
Like I KNOW Max is but a shell of herself yadda yadda and that sucks bUT WHY DID YOU LET HER LIVE?? OUT OF MISPLACED GUILT?? THIS ISNT ABOUT YOU GIRL
This mad lass got 3 out of 4 limbs snapped, got her sight snatched up by Voldy tentacly twin and felt so much pain that it did a whole 360 and went right back to the point where she didnt feel a n y t h i n g and you're telling me she couldn't have just?? Let her go??? Be at peace??
That was a perfectly reasonable death and you all know it you cowardly chocolat eclaired backbone buffoons.
Let your heroes dies for god sake, and when they do SEND THEM OFF PROPERLY
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Peach to my Mario
pairing — idolbf!leeknow x f!reader (From the Unveiling Love series!)
word count — 2.7k words
warnings — she/her reader, tiny bit of angst, stress, tooth-rotting fluff
summary — Minho always avoids showing affection to you in public which makes his friends and members worry about his relationship, thinking it might not be healthy. However, in private, Minho’s a completely different person. One day, he comes home early and takes the chance to invite you over. During a little gaming sesh, his members accidentally walk in on him being overly sweet with you.
It was just part of Minho's nature to avoid PDA. He never showed affection when you were out with friends, and he wasn't the type of guy to show you off or post you on social media, even on his private account. When you first started dating, you went out to dinner with Minho and some of his members and their partners. It was the first time you were out with him around other people. Whenever you tried to initiate any contact with him, he'd gently push you away and give you a look that said, "Not here," which, at first, bothered you.
This constant habit didn't go unnoticed by his members. They saw how he acted with you around them, which made them worry about your relationship. Some even talked to Minho, suggesting he show more affection, but he always replied with, "I know what I'm doing." This left them wondering, "Are they even a happy couple?" because that's all they knew. They were never shown the real side of Minho in a relationship.
You eventually got used to it over time, as he had a way of making up for it. When you two were alone, he was the sweetest. He showered you with love, and he wasn't afraid to show emotion. It was fascinating to see how different a person he could be depending on the setting, and as his girlfriend, you somewhat liked this duality. When he'd get home from an outing with you, he'd immediately pull you into a hug and smother you with kisses, becoming a completely different person than he was a minute ago.
You didn't complain about the lack of PDA anymore because you were grateful that Minho saw you as someone he could be vulnerable with. He wasn't afraid to share his struggles and ask for your help, and you appreciated the connection you had with him in this way. It was so rare for him to have such a bond with someone, which made it so precious.
One day, Minho arrived at his dorms earlier than usual, and it was a particularly stressful day. They were approaching a comeback, and the choreography needed to be finalized with a tight deadline. A professional choreographer was scheduled to review their dance, and they had to have it perfected by then. The pressure was especially heavy on Minho, as he was responsible for everything, being the main dancer in the group. Comeback season always brought a lot of stress for all of them. The producers had to handle the tracks, and they had to attend numerous meetings discussing potential concerts and promotions.
Usually, during this stressful and overworked period, he would be staying late at the company, leaving little time at home. So, it was rather unusual for him to arrive home early. When Minho reached the door of his dorm, he tossed his bag onto the couch and slumped into a seat. He unscrewed a plastic water bottle and downed it in a few gulps. Minho buried his face in his hands, threw his head back, and released an exasperated sigh.
He took his phone out of the front pocket of his backpack and texted your number.
"y/n, do you have a minute?"
right after he sent it out, it showed as "read," with an icon popping up indicating that you were typing.
"yea, of course. is everything alright?"
"i just wanna see you. and no one's home yet."
It shocked you that he was home already. You hadn't seen him for two weeks, given how busy he had been and how little time he had for himself. So, to you, it was surprising that he had texted you. You responded with a simple "kk" before getting up and preparing to leave. You were wearing gray sweatpants and one of Minho's shirts, but you decided not to bother changing, as it looked presentable enough. After all, it was just Minho.
You grabbed Minho's keys and phone, locking your own door as you left your apartment. Even though you had a car, navigating the busy downtown Seoul intersections often took longer than walking. Luckily, Minho's dorms were only a few blocks away, making it a short five to ten-minute walk. Upon reaching his building, you scanned your keycard at the lobby and opened the door after hearing the click. Minho had given you an extra keycard so you could visit him, although his roommates were unaware of this, as it wasn't something they would necessarily know.
You rode the elevator up to his floor, which was located quite high up, just one floor below the penthouses. Minho's apartment was notably larger compared to the others in the building, as he shared it with three of his group members. You went down the hallway and stopped when you saw his unit number.
You gently knocked on the door, not wanting to startle him. There was silence, so you decided to try the doorknob, and it turned out to be unlocked. You entered, taking your shoes off at the entrance before quietly making your way to the living room. As you entered the room, you found Minho sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the floor.
"Minho" You called out.
He jumped, snapping out of his thoughts and turned his head towards you. "You scared me"
"Did you not hear me come in?" You chuckled.
Minho shook his head, a small smile forming on his face. "I guess I was too lost in my own world."
You walked over and sat beside him, giving him a gentle smile. "Long day?" He nodded and leaned into your touch.
You wrapped your arm around him. "What can I do to help you relax?"
Minho sighed, looking at you with gratitude. "Just being here is enough. I missed you."
You smiled, feeling a warm flutter in your chest. "I missed you too, Minho. "
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"Anytime," you replied, snuggling closer to him. "Why are you back so early, hm? Where's everyone else."
"They're still at the company, working on their own stuff now. I needed a break from the choreo, I couldn't think straight anymore," Minho confessed, rubbing his temples.
It was rare for him to take breaks for himself so you were glad he reached out to you in this moment. You continued to comfort him, running your fingers through his hair soothingly.
"You know you don't have to carry all the weight on your own, right?" you reassured him.
Minho nodded, appreciating your support. "I know, it's just... sometimes I forget."
"Well, that's what I'm here for – to remind you," you said with a soft smile.
Minho leaned into your touch, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a deep breath. "I'm lucky to have you," he murmured.
The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the weight of the day slowly lift off Minho's shoulders. You could sense the exhaustion in him, not just physical but also the mental strain of the responsibilities he carried.
I gave a him a gentle squeeze. "Wanna play something?"
Minho looked at you, exhaustion still lingering in his eyes but a genuine smile playing on his lips. "That sounds good."
You made your way to the Nintendo Switch (Felix's, obviously) and powered up Mario Kart. As the game loaded, you handed Minho a controller, and soon, both of you were engrossed in the competition. The colorful characters on the screen and the playful banter between you and Minho helped to lighten the atmosphere in the room.
As you played, you couldn't help but notice the transformation in Minho. The stress lines on his face seemed to fade, replaced by genuine smiles and occasional laughter. It was moments like these that made you appreciate the private side of Minho that he rarely showed to the outside world.
"You're gonna lose so bad, Y/n, you don't know," he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Yea sure," you shot back, a smirk playing on your lips.
The races became more heated, with Minho throwing himself into the game, making exaggerated gestures as he maneuvered his virtual car. Every time you pulled ahead, he'd let out a theatrical groan, clutching his heart.
"I can't believe you'd do this to me!" he'd exclaim in horror, slumping dramatically in his seat.
You couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Come on, Minho, it's just a game!"
But for Minho, it was more than just a game. It was a battle, a challenge that he took very seriously. When the races got particularly close, he'd lean in closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing in concentration. And when you crossed the finish line first, Minho faked his death right on that couch. He'd plopped onto your lap and stick out his tongue.
As you and Minho continued playing, the atmosphere lightened, and the stress from earlier seemed to dissipate. The room echoed with laughter as the two of you engaged in a fierce Mario Kart competition.
However, little did you both know that the other boys had finished their work and were on their way back to the dorm. As two of them approached the door, they exchanged glances, wondering if Minho was still immersed in his work or if he had finally decided to take a break.
As the door creaked open, Minho was in the midst of a loud cheer, having won a close race. Your lips formed a fake pout, teasing Minho for his impressive gaming skills. Before you could utter a word, Minho grabbed your face and planted a sweet kiss on your lips. With a satisfied grin, he plopped back down onto your lap, his eyes shifting to the TV which displayed his victory.
His eyes were fixed on the screen, and he didn't notice the entrance of his fellow members. Seungmin and Felix stood frozen for a moment, taking in the unexpected scene before them.
Minho, still admiring his victory, suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere. His eyes flickered from the screen to your face, and then he followed your gaze to the open doorway. There, standing in various states of shock and amusement, were his friends.
Minho's cheerful expression faltered as he registered their presence. He quickly disentangled himself from your lap, clearing his throat awkwardly and avoiding eye contact.
"Hey," he mumbled, attempting to regain his composure.
Minho's sudden change in behaviour didn't go unnoticed by them. The two exchanged puzzled glances, silently communicating their surprise at witnessing a side of Minho they had never seen before.
Seungmin smirked. "Didn't know playing video games could be so... intimate."
Minho's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he tried to brush off the situation. "No, just taking a break from choreo. Y/n happened to drop by."
You offered a friendly wave to the members, trying to diffuse the tension. "Long time no see."
"Didn't know he had such a soft side for you." Felix looked in your direction.
Seungmin raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, Minho, you've been keeping this hidden from us."
Minho avoided making eye contact with anyone. "It's not a big deal. We're just hanging out."
Felix interjected, "Alright, alright, let the man breathe. Maybe he's just trying out a new gaming strategy."
Seungmin smirked, "Yeah, because everyone knows that cuddling enhances your Mario Kart skills."
Minho sighed, realizing he was caught in a situation he couldn't easily escape. The members, still amused, decided to join the gaming session, pulling up chairs and grabbing controllers. The atmosphere lightened up again as everyone got immersed in the races. Amidst the gaming chaos, you felt a subtle shift beside you. Glancing at Minho, you noticed a small smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. Seizing the opportunity, you casually leaned against him, and to your surprise, Minho didn't pull away. Instead, he subtly wrapped his arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer.
Felix, ever observant, caught the moment and exchanged a knowing look with Seungmin. A mischievous grin spread across Felix's face as he nudged Seungmin, who raised an eyebrow in response. It seemed like the members were enjoying this unexpected revelation of Minho's softer side. Minho's hesitancy towards PDA seemed to going away slightly. He didn't shy away when you rested your head on his shoulder, and he even tickled you a little during one of the races.
The night turned into a fun and lighthearted gathering, with laughter filling the air as everyone bonded over Mario Kart. The initial surprise at seeing Minho in a more vulnerable and relaxed state slowly faded, replaced by acceptance and genuine enjoyment of the moment. As the clock ticked away, the group decided to take a break from gaming and sat together in the living room, sharing stories and enjoying the dinner Jeongin had eventually brought. It was during these moments that you could see a different side of Minho showing the side that wasn't afraid to be affectionate in front of his friends.
The members of Stray Kids, who had initially been concerned about Minho's reserved nature in public, began to see the depth of his relationship with you. They witnessed the way he looked at you, the way he smiled, and the subtle gestures of affection that spoke volumes about the connection you shared.
After dinner, as the night wound down, the members bid their goodbyes, as you went over to the door to leave. Minho stood up, indicating that he would walk you home. The others exchanged knowing glances, teasing smiles playing on their lips.
As you and Minho stepped out of the dorm, the cool night air greeted you. The city lights illuminated the streets as you began the short walk to your apartment. The atmosphere was comfortable, a companionable silence settling between you and Minho.
"I appreciate you coming over," Minho said, his tone sincere. "It's been a hectic few weeks, and tonight was exactly what I needed."
"I'm glad I could be here for you," you replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You don't always have to carry everything on your own, Minho. It's okay to lean on others, especially those who care about you."
He nodded, a grateful smile on his face. "Thank you,"
"Anytime," you replied, giving him a soft smile. "It was nice spending time with everyone."
Minho nodded, his hand finding yours. "I guess they know now," he added with a hint of playfulness.
You chuckled. "Well, it's not a bad thing. They seem to like this side of you."
He smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I can't escape their teasing now. They're gonna tell the other dorm all about it"
You squeezed his hand. "You'll be alright. Besides, it's nice to see you letting your guard down a bit."
Minho leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I guess you have that effect on me."
As you reached your apartment building, you turned to face Minho. "Well, this is me. Thank you for tonight."
Minho smiled, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. "No, thank you. I needed this more than you know."
You both exchanged a loving gaze, the unspoken understanding between you deepening. With a final goodnight, you entered your building, watching as Minho waited until you were safely inside.
As you settled on your couch, you decided to check your social media accounts before getting ready for bed. As you scrolled through your feed, you noticed a notification on Minho's private Instagram account. It surprised you because Minho rarely posted anything on his private account, and he had never posted a picture of the two of you before.
Opening the post, your heart skipped a beat as you saw a candid shot one of his members must've taken from tonight. It perfectly captured the essence of the night – both of you smiling at each other, a shared blanket over your laps, and controllers in hand.
The caption read: "Peach to my Mario"
Feeling a mix of emotions, you couldn't help but smile at the post. It was a small but significant step for Minho to share a piece of your relationship with the world, even if it was just on his private account.
"Photo credits?" One of the comments read, from Seungmin.
As you liked and replied to a few comments, you couldn't shake the feeling that this marked a subtle shift in Minho's approach to PDA. Maybe, just maybe, the night had not only been a release for him but also a realization that sharing moments of vulnerability with you and his friends wasn't something to be afraid of.
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a lover's pinch | seven
joel miller x f!reader
pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader
rating: explicit, 18+ mdni
summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel.
warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute.
word count: 11.1k jesus
series masterlist | main masterlist
chapter moodboard
a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x
follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing
this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.
Tuesday.
It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.
It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.
You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.
There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.
Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.
It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.
Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.
You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.
He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.
You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.
Still nothing.
Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.
You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.
First from yesterday afternoon:
Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x
And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:
It’s raining and miserable here
Wish I was still in new york
With you
Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.
You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.
No. You don’t think about that at all.
When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.
The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.
It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.
He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.
“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”
You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.
“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”
A family matter?
Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.
Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.
Numb fingers type;
Are you okay? Where are you?
But no response comes.
No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.
The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.
Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.
A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.
Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.
Thursday.
Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.
This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.
The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.
The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.
Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.
So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.
And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.
He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.
He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.
Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.
He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.
Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.
Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.
Where were you today?
You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.
“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.
Wednesday.
A week goes by with no word from Joel.
No word from you either.
You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.
So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.
“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”
“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”
An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.
The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.
“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”
A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.
The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.
He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.
And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.
You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.
‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.
Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.
For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.
Joel says your name then.
Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.
And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.
Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.
Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.
“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.
“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.
“What?”
“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”
“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”
“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”
“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”
“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”
“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”
Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.
“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”
“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.
“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”
And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.
And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.
One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.
“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”
You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.
“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”
Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.
Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.
“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”
Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”
“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”
“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”
“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”
“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”
And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.
The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.
You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.
“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.
“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.
“Are you hungry?”
You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”
Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”
It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.
The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.
He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”
You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”
Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.
“Full?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
“Is this your house?”
“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”
A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.
Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.
“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”
When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”
You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.
“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”
“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.
“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”
He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.
And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.
“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”
Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.
“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”
“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”
“Do I?” you scoff.
“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that—”
“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”
You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.
“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”
“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”
And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.
“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”
“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”
You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.
“Then why do you keep letting me?”
“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”
“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”
You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.
“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”
He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"
“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”
He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.
You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”
Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”
You blink.
Daughter.
Daughter?
“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”
You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.
His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.
You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.
Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.
Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.
There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?
“Please say somethin’.”
There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.
Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.
“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”
“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.
“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”
“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”
“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.
“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.
“Is she okay?”
“Ellie?”
“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”
“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”
“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”
“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.
“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”
“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.
“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”
“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”
“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”
And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.
“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.
“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”
Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay then.”
You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.
“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.
Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.
It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.
And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.
He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.
He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.
“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”
The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.
“Said you were sick?”
“Mhm.”
“What kind?”
“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”
In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.
“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”
And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.
At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.
“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.
His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.
“So are you, Joel.”
“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.
“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.
“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”
“She just said it so well.”
“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”
“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him
“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.
And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.
He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.
The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.
Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.
It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.
“You should rest.”
But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.
“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.
“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”
His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.
His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.
And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.
Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.
Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.
The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.
He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.
Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.
Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.
It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.
His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.
He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”
Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.
“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.
“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”
“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.
“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.
“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.
He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.
“Hmm?”
“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”
“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.
Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.
It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.
In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.
Thursday.
Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.
Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.
A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.
There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.
An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.
A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.
You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.
Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.
You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.
“Good morning, cowboy.”
Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.
“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”
“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.
“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.
“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.
Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.
“I could get used to this.”
“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.
“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”
“And what exactly is the whole experience?”
“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”
Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.
“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.
He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.
“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”
“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.
As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”
Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.
“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.
“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”
“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”
“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”
Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.
“Is that right?”
“S’right.”
“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”
And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?
You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”
“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.
Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.
Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”
“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”
Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.
“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.
Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.
But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.
Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.
Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.
At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.
You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.
Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.
“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”
A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.
“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.
“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.
He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.
“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.
And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.
He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.
The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.
“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.
Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.
“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.
“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.
“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”
Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.
He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.
“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.
“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”
When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.
He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.
The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.
And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.
Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.
But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.
Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.
A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.
“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”
“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”
The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.
The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.
Our little secret.
a/n refs:
in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.
the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]
the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']
the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]
eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]
thank you for reading! x
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Beleaguer
"Failed escape attempt" yandere series - Diluc
WARNINGS: dark content, fem reader, noncon, captivity, belting/spanking, manhandling, humiliation, darling has a somewhat defined personality, hair pulling, implied forced impregnation at the end, forced fem/housewifization + thinly veiled if not wholly unveiled misogyny, swearing, there's a lot going on here and none of it is holy
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‘Fill cap to line. Causes intense drowsiness and loss of motor function within 5-10 minutes. Soluble. Do not operate heavy machinery if taken within the last 24 hours.’
You blinked a few times, focusing your vision. Your mind could be deceiving you, after all. But when you looked again, the vial in your hand read the same words as it did moments before.
You'd merely gone to set the oil back into the cabinet when the force of pushing one knocked over another further within, coming across the bottle in the very back in the process of fixing the mishap.
You grasped it firmly in your hand, merely blinking in disbelief as you read over the words again and again.
“Oh my God.”
You spoke aloud to yourself, standing alone in the spacious kitchen, the words slipping out on their own in a low whisper.
Daily life as you now lived it brought a sort of mind-numbing stillness to it. Life was repetitive and uneventful. You woke at the same time, performed the same mindless tasks, the same chores, the same interactions. You said hello and good morning to the same maids every morning (you'd lost the willpower to continue being cold to the staff a long time ago), you came down and went through the same routine, wore the same clothes, had the same conversations.
The only thing that ever changed was a few different foods on rotation from week to week and the names and faces of the strangers that came in and out of the lower rooms - although they were all one and the same to you, their attitudes and the way they treated you and looked at you was as though each was the same individual with merely a different face.
And consequently, you'd reached a state of numbness, you went through the tasks mechanically, without thinking, perhaps intentionally shutting down your mind to make acceptance easier. Disconnected, unreal, everything melted together and the days and the people were all one long continuous sequence of occurrences.
It was easier that way. Resisting brought anger, frustration, tears, misery. Allowing the numbness to take over allowed some escape from the reality itself.
Which was likely why reading the words themselves felt like a shockwave through your body, as if suddenly the world regained its colors, you could feel your heart beating and your lungs fill with air. Like a sharp and sudden awakening from an endless, empty, dreamless sleep.
You felt a sudden wave of shame immediately following the shock, chastising yourself for even allowing that numbness to take over, like you might have felt angry with yourself in the past for oversleeping or spacing out and missing something important.
You recognized the handwritten label stuck to the bottle, having gone to the same place for something or another in the past — the alchemist’s lab in the city. That essentially meant it had to be highly effective.
Not only that — the fact that the seal was broken and about a third of the liquid gone, would mean it was very likely the same substance used on you more than once. If so, “drowsiness” was an understatement — it would knock you out cold for hours at a time.
You heard yourself breathing in ragged, quick breaths, you stumbled and steadied yourself against the counter, looking up and around you, suddenly aware of the world around you, everything felt real. The emotions came flooding back — humiliation, resentment, fury.
This was a way out. A miracle.
In your sudden awakening, your mind, sprung back to function, as if the wheels were once again turning, took only a mere minute to formulate a plan. It wasn't really difficult at all — in fact, there was perhaps not a single moment more perfect for you to have stumbled across this opportunity. You were, after all, just about to fill glasses, the final step in your meal preparation.
You set the vial down and ran over to the other cabinet — wiping your hands on your apron to rid them of any residue from cooking — and opened it up, swiping a bottle of juice and returning to the center of the kitchen. The corners of your mouth pulled upwards beyond your control into a grin as you went about the process.
Have a taste of your own medicine, bastard.
You smirked even wider, practically beaming as you popped a tablet out of the packaging, dropping it into one of the glasses. It made a fizzing sound as it grew smaller and smaller, and you watched with wide eyes as it disappeared. Just to be certain, you bent your head down and gave it a sniff, but there was no distinguishable smell or color that would give it away.
And you were certain that, if this was in fact the same drug that you'd consumed, there was nothing about it that tasted unusual.
And once it was complete, for yet another moment you merely stood, staring, grinning and trembling, processing this sudden turn of events. It would be easy, right? The sun was already about to set, the staff were no longer in the fields except for a few security guards that patrolled here or there. It would be easy to spot and avoid them.
You just had to get Diluc to drink this, wait for him to pass out, and run, right? Sure, traversing the road barefoot might be difficult, but that would probably be the extent of your hardships, provided you could get out.
Get out, get on the road, make a straight shot for Mondstadt, go straight to the knights and tell them everything that had happened to you. Maybe you could steal one of the horses they kept for plowing to make your getaway. Your chest burned at the thought of getting your revenge — no, your justice. You deserved this, you deserved freedom — and he deserved whatever consequences would come his way.
…No. You realized, albeit with frustration, that getting revenge wasn't really an option. He had power and money, and you knew all too well how good such people were at evading consequences.
You would just have to run. Staying in Mondstadt certainly wasn't an option. You'd just go… somewhere. Specifics didn't matter as long as you got away from here.
And sure, you'd made a few attempts to get out before, quickly foiled and harshly punished. But you'd never had an advantage like this before. He couldn't chase you down if he was out cold.
You took deep breaths, trying to calm down. It would all be over soon.
You finally managed to wipe the mischievous grin off your face. You knew you couldn't afford risking him getting suspicious if you were too outwardly giddy. Instead, you tried to maintain only a small smile, the numb, dopey smile you'd trained yourself to wear. Nonetheless, you shook your head and settled the plates and glasses onto a tray, carrying them out to the little table that sat tucked away in an alcove in the hallway connecting the main hall to the kitchen. He preferred to eat here when it was just the two of you, with plain cups and plates, rather than the massive dining room with all its ornate tableware — that was only for formal occasions, you'd discovered, whereas this was out of sight from the constantly-bustling staff.
You set the food and drink out — careful to be mindful of which cup was which — then stood, returned the tray to the kitchen, then the vial to the cabinet and, with a spring in your step, turned and made your way down the hall.
You were careful to make sure everything was as it was supposed to be. Straightened your posture, ran your hands down the front of the dress to smooth it out.
You began the short journey from the kitchen to the study, footsteps light and soft, short steps that slowed your pace. No heavy steps that thumped against the hardwood, no letting your weight fall onto each foot all at once, and no slouching. Nor any other such improper, inappropriate behaviors.
It really was a beautiful building, though, so you thought to yourself as you glanced up at the ornate windows. You'd been here before, on your own volition, back long ago, of your own volition. You'd walked by it plenty of times, and once or twice had taken a moment to stroll around the vineyard, figuring it would do no harm, as you were never noticed.
Now, it was a sort of beautiful prison, such an elegant architecture for such a suffocating place.
Upon reaching one particular door, you raised a hand up and gave a gentle knock. A voice came from behind the door.
"Mm?"
You took another deep breath, calming yourself down, trying to mentally switch the ‘on’ button for your sweet obedient wife act you hoped you had mastered well enough by now, complete with an upward shift in octave and sing-song-y touch to your voice. "It's me."
You heard a chair scoot backwards, heavy footsteps, and the door opened. "...Hey." A hand rested on your head. "Food ready?"
"Yes sir." You gave a soft smile.
"That's good... thanks." He patted your head, and seemed to stifle a yawn. His voice was drained, nearly a mumble.
"Are you ok?" You tried your best to make your voice sound soft and concerned, furrowing your eyebrows in a way you hoped looked worried, pushing your lower lip out a bit.
"Just tired. Lots of work today. I'll just eat and then we'll go to sleep."
Oh yes, you will.
Fighting the urge to grin, you slowly made your way back together down the hall — remembering to keep your footsteps light, forcing a sort of soft, feminine gracefulness to your manner of walking, lest you be reminded to do so.
Every little second, every step, every word was practiced and poised. Now, having reawakened to your resentment and defiance, just acting it out made you feel sick.
There was, nonetheless, a residual sense of dread, a nagging pit in your stomach that went deeper than the surface-level nervousness.
There was a major disadvantage — this would not be the first time you tried something like this. Granted, not with this particular substance, but you had once managed to make him horribly sick for well over a day with rat poison, and once again with liquid pesticide meant for the vineyard. Both incidents were purely for the purpose of amusement and spite, which you’d reveled in despite the unfortunate consequences you’d suffered.
The first time, he'd been totally unsuspecting, and the second time he'd been too distracted and busy to notice anything even if you had let something slip. You could curse yourself now in hindsight — if you hadn't committed those first two offenses out of sheer spite, you'd be able to pull this off much more easily. But now, he’d learned you would do something like that, and if the slightest thing was wrong in the taste or appearance of it, he'd get suspicious immediately. You weren't even sure if a single sip was enough to do anything, considering how diluted the substance now was. You’d just have to hope he’d drink the whole thing.
You did your best to make idle conversation as you walked, talking about whatever you did that day, as if it was ever any different from any other day. Your nerves felt electrified, your body tense and stiff as you sat back down and took a bite of this and that, trying to contain your anticipation, trying to look at him out of the corner of your eye rather than directly. He didn't say much, but that wasn't abnormal, only slowly taking in bites of this and that. It felt like an eternity of waiting.
Come on, get thirsty, drink it...
Finally, his hand reached out to the juice. You felt your breath hitch.
Come on, come on!
You stopped moving, anxiously waiting for him to drink.
So caught up in your excitement that you didn't realize you were letting it show on your face, that you had ceased your own motions to stop and stare intently.
It took him stopping and looking up at you with confusion in his expression, for you to feel a spike of panic as you realized the mistake.
"...Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Hm?" You immediately tried to correct the behavior, going back to cutting at something on your plate with a smile, hoping the way you stiffened wasn't visible. "Sorry, I just… I spaced out a second, what did you say?"
He was silent for a moment.
"...Nothing."
Ok. Good save.
You popped a bite of food into your mouth. Besides, despite being an overall intelligent man, he had a tendency to be rather dense sometimes, surely he wouldn't pick up on something like that.
You were fine for now— what is he doing.
You noticed an odd look spread across his features, eyebrows furrowed a bit, as if thinking something through.
Then, he stood up, glass in one hand, and grabbed yours with the other. He swapped your drinks and sat back down, looking up at you with a neutral, cold stare.
Oh.
His gaze didn't falter. He set his elbows on the table, and rested his head on interlocked fingers. "Is there a problem?"
Oh no.
"N-no, I was just... why did you...?" You felt your body go cold, and try as you might not to, you knew panic must be showing on your face.
"It's the same thing, isn't it? So it's fine."
You couldn't miss the suspicious tone to his voice even if you'd tried to ignore it.
"...Right." You smiled, but you felt your lips tremble a bit. You could save this, for now, even if it didn't work out in your favor. You looked at the food, but you could still feel his gaze on you, so, hoping to pacify his suspicion, you brought the cup up to your mouth and tilted it as if you were drinking, closing your upper lip to the glass so that none of the juice actually got in your mouth. Then, after a moment, you pulled it away, swallowing to further the deceit.
He seemed satisfied by the action — right? It looked like he bought it, right? — and looked back down, resuming eating. There was a tense, awkward silence, so you attempted to fill in the empty space.
"D-did you, um, do anything fun today?"
"I wouldn't call anything I do 'fun,'" he muttered. "Just met with a bunch of people, one after the other... there's lots of business partnership contract renewals around this time of year, so they have to come here for that process."
"Mhm." You couldn't care less, but feigned interest. You knew Diluc well by this point, and knew how to appeal to the things that would soothe him the most. One of the most important factors in that was listening to whatever it was he had to say, no matter how boring (which, really, most things having to do with his work were). He liked to feel listened to, didn't have anyone else to go to, you supposed. Lots of stress, high expectations, and no solid support figure probably was the root of his psychological issues. — said issues were something you had spent a lot of time contemplating and trying to figure out in your spare time, given their now inherent effect on your own life.
But you presumed that most men without stress and some kind of serious issues generally did not go around abducting women they barely knew and forcing them to live in their homes. At least, not to your knowledge.
You had often wondered why someone like him wouldn't choose someone who was already that ideal, someone who already exemplified those traits… but as time went by you began to understand that that simply wasn't good enough.
That there was an allure to someone like you, to someone like him. That your very existence as you were on your own upset the man — you'd noticed that within the first few minutes of interacting with him, back when you first started coming to that damn bar you now wish you’d never set foot in. The displeased expression and dismissive tone at your vulgarity and defiance and aggression. You'd thought, back then, that the man disliked you —and he did, in a way.
But for someone who seemed to have such distaste for you, he sure did fail to ever leave you alone. There was some impulsive need to say something to you at some point in each encounter, as if he couldn't allow you to go about your night without at least one look of disdain or passive-aggressive comment. The only thing that seemed more irksome to him than your existence, was the fact that you always bit back, always said something in return, and thus your interactions had only fueled your and his disdain for each other further and further.
The mistake you'd made in your original assessment of him, that you’d slowly come to understand with time, was that he was not a person who simply avoided things he disliked, like most people — he was hellbent on fixing whatever irked him, remediating whatever was perceived as wrong.
You had not been an exception.
Now in the present, as you tried to focus on maintaining your calm act, he kept on talking about this or that. Some people who came by today, some guy who keeps trying to get him to sign some agreement he doesn't want to, this isn't a particularly good crop this season, but he's seen worse, blah blah, nothing you cared about.
You continued eating, which soon turned out to be a mistake — your throat was dry, food wasn't helping, and you desperately wanted something to drink, but you could do nothing but raise your glass up and pretend you were actually drinking your juice. You thought, for a moment, he seemed to look at the glass, and fear he realized the amount wasn't going down ran through your mind, but you tried to calm yourself. If you started imagining things in your paranoia, you'd only increase the chance of him noticing your panic.
There was obvious suspicion a few minutes ago, sure, but there had been plenty of times he had falsely suspected you of things in the past, and was generally willing to believe you once presented with contrary evidence, even once becoming, albeit reluctantly, apologetic when realizing you'd done nothing wrong.
Finally, although you were suppressing the urge to cough at the dry scratchiness of your throat, you finished eating, and, like you knew you were supposed to, stood with a forced little smile and grabbed your plate, extending a hand for him to give you his as well, and took them both back to the larger kitchen area through the open doorway, barely hearing his ‘thanks’ as you scurried off.
You set the plates down, immediately turning on a faucet and cupping water in your hand, before drinking it down to soothe your throat.
Alright, so things didn't turn out quite like you were hoping, but that was ok. There was plenty of the substance left. Just wait a few days, do it again, and control yourself better next time so as not to strike any suspicion. Easy.
The maids would take care of washing plates off, but you needed to dispose of the remainder of your drugging attempt just in case. There was only droplets of juice left in his, and, of course, yours was full. You washed his — well, originally yours — out first, running some water over it, thinking it would be odd if one was washed out and not the other, and you didn’t want to take any chances.
You heard him walk into the kitchen behind you, and unease creeped back up into your chest. But that wasn’t so bad, right? He’d think you were trying to help the staff out, and he’d think that was good, wouldn’t he?
You hummed a bit, and set his glass upside down in its proper place, reaching out to yours and preparing to pour it down the sink drain, when his hand latched around your wrist. You went stiff.
"You should finish it."
Any confidence that you had successfully eased his suspicions might as well have been poured down the drain as well.
"...Hm?" You forced a smile, albeit twitching. “O-oh, I just didn't... finish all of..." You were painfully aware that your voice trembled, and, in a last effort to appear like you weren't nervous, forced yourself to turn your head and look at him.
"You didn't drink it at all." His face was flat and cold, eyes ever so slightly narrowed, but his voice was dark, quiet, knowing. "It's good for you. Don't let it go to waste."
You couldn't argue that you didn't like it — it was the same thing you drank every single night. Nor could you confess why you didn't want to do so. Of course, drinking it was technically an option. You'd just pass out and be forced to deal with the consequences once you woke up — although the cynical part of your mind thought maybe passing out wouldn't be too bad right about now.
Now, the expression on his face grew darker, fully obvious as a look of accusation, and the tone that followed matched.
“Unless there's something wrong with it.”
Your mind scrambled, unable to think of a way out. Your smile widened and twitched, and your body shivered, trying and failing to force a look of happiness, but the crushing feeling of defeat was beginning to settle in. "I... ah, hah, I, um..."
His expression and voice didn't waver, in contrast to your cowering. Looking down on you with something like frustration, perhaps disappointment. There was the slightest edge of a quietness in it, as he continued, "If there is, then tell me."
The last two words came out firm. A command.
"I... I..." You swallowed, visibly shaking, no longer able to hide the fear on your features. You bit your lower lip, and, feeling your eyes burn, your resolve broke.
You hung your head, and replied in a quiet voice, wavering on the verge of tears.
"...I'm sorry."
He released your hand, but snatched the glass out from it, immediately dumping the mixture down the sink. You reached up, wiping away the watering in your eyes that were threatening to become tears.
"Where is it?"
You stiffened at the firmness in his voice. You tried your best to look up, questioning in a pathetic whimper. "...Hm?"
"The— I don't know, whatever you put in there. Where is it?" There was a rising frustration in his tone.
You hadn't thought about that part. Of course, how could you not realize he'd do that if he found out? There wouldn't be another opportunity to try again. That realization left a sting of despair in your chest, you chastised yourself for not saving a smaller portion hidden away. If you'd been smart, you would have prepared for this possible outcome, and saved some so that he would think he'd taken it all. Dammit.
For a moment, you were silent.
"Tell me."
You tensed up, biting your lip.
You were afraid, but it also made you angry. The commanding, authoritative tone, as if he owned you, as if he had any right to tell you what to do. There was a time where you would have responded to anyone who spoke in such a way to you with equal aggression, if not outright violence. Your pride swelled in your chest, digging its heels in at the thought of being obedient, sickened by the notion of giving in.
At your hesitation, he said your name.
It was a low tone, a clear warning in response to your defiant silence. You jolted, and scurried over to the other side of the kitchen, trying to bite your lip, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet and pulled out the container and turned around, hanging your head and standing stiff with fear and humiliation as he took it from your hand and read the front of the package.
He sighed, but as he did, some of the tension seemed to roll off his frame. "...Oh. That." He caught the confused expression you had at those words, and elaborated. "I thought it would be—” he cut off and took another heavy breath, whether out of exasperation or relief or both, you weren't sure. “I thought you were trying to poison me again… or kill me.”
"No," you shook your head rapidly. “I wouldn't… do that…” Granted, you may have very well have chosen take the chance if it was an option, but such honesty would be ill-advised when your current objective was to deescalate the situation you'd landed yourself in, and hopefully quell any further anger before it emerged.
Yes, this was practical, you told yourself — and more importantly, told your wounded sense of pride. You were just being practical, strategic.
Besides, the sedative was the only thing you had available, anyway… well, had had available, since it was now certainly going to be taken from you.
You stood perfectly still as he moved, pulling a key out of his pocket, mumbling something about how he had no idea how that even got there, as he unlocked what you had come to refer to in your mind as the "forbidden" cabinet — where all the various dangerous things lay, such as knives, skewers, rat poison (moved there after the previous incident), bleach even.
You were aware that he and all the staff members possessed a key, as you'd sometimes catch maids or other workers accessing it for various purposes, so you assumed it was there solely to keep those things out of your reach. It had started out as a few knives, but the collection had slowly built over time due to your creativity with what remained at your disposal.
“And here you were actually starting to improve,” he mumbled. The words were heavily laden with exhaustion, frustration.
You clenched your fists. The words crawled under your skin, bothered you viscerally, knowing there was truth to them. Thinking back, over the past few weeks, you'd become more complacent and behaved than you'd ever been prior — part of it had been an act, sure, but a creeping dense of paranoia made you wonder if you’d been settling into it, if it had been starting to become natural. You rejected the thought, insisting otherwise to both him and yourself.
“That's— that's only because I've been here so long… you're wrong…”
Even though the words were spoken weakly, the mere act of disagreement was not within the boundaries of complacency and acceptable behavior. It was not normal for your good wife act. The defiance was slowly bubbling up to the surface, and you could tell from the way you say you saw his jaw visibly clench, that he noticed that as much as you did.
He narrowed his eyes as he turned his head towards you, before shaking his head and returning to putting the offending substance away. He was moving some of the things around to make space for the new object, placing it inside before locking the doors shut again, back turned to you.
But then, there was only more silence as he reached up to rub at the side of his temple with one of his hands.
You hoped for the best, that perhaps the lack of murderous intent on your part would serve to significantly lessen his anger, or that due to contrast, he would view trying to sedate him as a petty offense. Trivial. Overlookable.
“But why would you even want to knock me out…?” He trailed off, looking to the ground in pensiveness. And then, the worst thing you feared happened — the exact intent seemed to click with him.
Your gaze cast to the floor, you could just see him move out of the corner of your eye, walking back towards you, but in fear, you couldn't bring yourself to look up. You saw his feet facing yours as you looked down, and a shadow cast over your hanging head. He was standing right in front of you, and, perhaps out of pride, or perhaps accepting it was inevitable anyway, you forced yourself to look up, eye-to-eye, his own narrowed with disdain.
“…You were going to put me to sleep so you could run off again.”
You stiffened. “No,” you immediately rushed to your own defense. “I just—”
“Yes, you were. Don't—” he huffed, finishing his sentence with gritted teeth, “don't lie to me.”
“I'm not!” Your words that time came out more angry than fearful, your own frustration with everything beginning to balance our your fear.
“I just said—” he cut his words short and took a deep breath, reaching up to rest his face in his hand in a gesture of exasperation. His next words were not as intensely angered, more of a tired frustration laden in them. “You really never learn, do you.”
The words, simple as they were, had a strong effect.
Your fear and anger dwelled in your heart in a state of coexistence — you’d been tamed enough that avoiding pain and consequence was your usual priority, with the anger, the inherent defiance in your spirit, taking a secondary place. But with the right choice of words, the right circumstances, that same defiant spirit that he so very much hated, that he worked so hard to erase, would come bouncing back. A routine you’d been through more than once by now.
That same spirit of defiance had slowly been rising, had been your whole reason for your attempt, but with that, the switch flipped. Your hands balled into fists at your side.
“Learn what?!” Your voice came out louder than before. “Goddammit, I—”
The irritation on his features grew. “Don't raise your voice. And for the millionth time, watch your mouth.”
“I'll do what I want!” You leaned your upper body forward in exertion. “You’re the one that never lets me go anywhere! I wouldn't have done it if you didn't keep me locked up like an animal!”
His head snapped up fully at your voice, eyes narrowing into a glare.
“Don't get an attitude with me.”
Your eye twitched. That was one of your many rules that you so despised, the one you were most frequently found guilty of violating. Commands you were held to for no other reason than the desires of someone else, a projection of an ideal you were so brutally forced to conform to. Don't raise your voice, don't get a bad attitude, don't walk so loud, don't slouch, don't curse, don't make that face, don't talk back. The “don't” commands were bad enough, but the expectation of the inverse, the image you had to conform to, was even worse. To be nice, to sit there and smile and do whatever was instructed without so much as a complaint. Those were the good traits that you were supposed to have, that you were to be instilled with — as if a wild animal to be caught and domesticated.
A dam holding back your emotions seemed to break. You finally raised you voice fully, nearly yelling.
“It's your fault for making me stay in here in the first place, you bastard!” You snarled. “You keep acting like this is normal and it's not! You kidnapped me, dammit! You're mad at me for breaking your stupid rules when you're the one committing a fucking crime!”
You were speaking with such forceful anger you leaned forward with the exertion, panting heavy breaths, hands curled into fists. Your fury reached a peak, throwing aside all regard for whatever line your next words may cross.
"And you know what? I don't belong to you, I'm not your — I'm not anyone's goddamn dainty little fucking housewife! I don’t have to listen to a damn word you say, you bastard, you—”
You hesitated to finish your sentence, about to deliver another onslaught of curses, but stopped short when you tilted your gaze up, and your eyes met.
His eyes narrowed, staring at you with something like abject disgust, irritation, exasperation, but the silence was what amplified your dread the most. A single second of heavy, tense quiet passed, and then you saw him reach down to his waist, grasping at the front of his belt and unfastening it before pulling the other end, rapidly pulling the whole thing out of the loops.
“Come here.”
A very firmly-spoken command. Your stomach felt as if it flipped over on itself, a sudden cold feeling across your flesh, a learned response. You took a step back, drawing your hands up to your chest in a defensive reflex.
You hesitated, feet spread apart as if to move, but in what direction you weren't certain. Your eyes darted to the left and right, and froze as your gaze settled on the arch leading to the hallway.
Which he must have noticed, given the look he shot you. His voice grew quieter, more foreboding. “Don’t you dare run. Come here. Now.”
You had not yet fucked up quite this badly before, not done something to this magnitude — poisoned him, yes, and had outbursts, yes, but never back-to-back, the offenses stacking on top of each other. That outburst just then was the most vicious one you'd had since you woke up here, and you would be given far less lenience now than then. The thoughts of past punishments for even mild transgressions crossed through your mind. The blood drained from your face, your heartrate picked up faster.
It was stupid, really. So, so stupid, so futile, and had you really thought about it, you would know how pointless it was. But in the moment, you weren't operating so much on reason, so much as the dread in your gut and instinct.
For that reason, you turned in the opposite direction, bolted through the door to the hall, and took off running.
"Wh—” You heard the sound in his throat cut off as you bolted, clearly taken aback by the choice of action, but soon followed by a throaty groan of frustration you could hear all too well.
You didn't even really know where you were going. Nor what you planned to accomplish. The building was large, there were plenty of hallways to run down and turns to take — you turned left at the end of the room, then took and immediate right, unable to remember the structure enough to coordinate any plan of action as to where to run, just following the need to run away.
The doors were always locked from the inside and out now, one set of locks to keep intruders out and the other to keep you in. Breaking glass windows was a risk you didn't want to take, and it would alert anyone nearby to your location immediately and would only serve to greatly increase any potential consequence. Thus, for the time being, perhaps you were looking more for a place to hide. Maybe if you could just do that, find a place to cower and wait out the brunt of his anger, he would calm down by the time you came out.
Well, really, you knew that probably wasn’t doable, but it was nice to at least think for a moment.
And a moment was all you got.
You hesitated as you reached a spot where the hall split into two different corridors, and that one moment of hesitation was enough to close the gap between you. You squealed and flailed as a hand forcefully grabbed at your hair, pulling you back.
“Ow!” You squirmed, the balls of your bare feet thumping on the hardwood as they stumbled to regain your balance. “Let—let me go! Ow, ow, that hurts—”
“Hold still.” The command was firm, a foreboding voice that made your heart race.
The fabric around your torso pulled taut against your skin as he took a fistful of the back side of it, other arm harshly wrapping around your waist before you felt your weight lift upward, feet leaving the ground.
You thrashed, but even doing so to the best of your ability had no effect. His grip didn’t budge.
You grunted as you were effectively slung over his shoulder. He started moving forward, footsteps heavy and frustrated. “Gh!” You squirmed, flailed, all to no avail.
Your resistance began to falter in realization of the futility of fighting the now-inevitable, groaning in miserable anger and weakly bringing your clenched fists down on his back as you were, with seemingly little effort, carried down the hall, taking a turn and ascending up the staircase. It was only a short distance from the top to the bedroom door, which opened in a swift, furious motion, likewise slamming shut behind you.
You grunted as you were thrown down onto the mattress. You put your hands down and pushed yourself upward, beginning to try and crawl away, but a hand caught you by the back of your shirt again, pushing your upper body down. You made a rough, irritated noise in the back of your throat as you squirmed, but soon your hands were pinned behind your back, leaving you face down with your hips in the air.
You inhaled a sharp gasp of air and stiffened when you felt the skirt end if the dress hike up, the waistband beneath pulled down, cool air on your bare flesh.
“Wait wait, no, I'm sorry—”
You instinctively jerked forward, squirming, heart beginning to pound in your chest. You had had enough experience to know that this was far more painful on bare skin, as if the humiliation ritual of it all wasn't bad enough.
You felt like a petulant child, begging and whimpering. You tried to move, but the hand pushing down and your knees being positioned right on the edge of the bed effectively forced you into holding the position, with no way to move.
“Then you should have thought about that before you decided to do what you did.” There was no trace of mercy or empathy in his voice. “This is entirely your fault.”
“But I—”
You cut off with a squeal, body lurching forward as sharp pain came down on the sensitive skin on your ass, the smacking sound echoing in your ears. Your jaw clenched, muscles tensing. He wasn't holding back either, one strike was enough to make your eyes begin to water.
“This wouldn't have to keep happening—”
Another strike on the enunciated word. You hissed a sharp breath through clenched teeth and groaned, hips reflexively jerking forward in an attempt to pull away, to no avail.
“—if you could just—”
Another strike. You winced and stiffened, groaning and straining your muscles pulling against the firm hold forcing you in place.
“—give it up—”
And yet another.
“—and learn to behave.”
Another and another and another, three in quick succession. You yelped and jolted at each, a miserable sound coming out of your throat. Unable to maintain enough pride to hold them back, tears streamed down your face.
“Stop, stop…” you whimpered. “It hurts…”
But the only reply you got was calloused and merciless.
“It’s supposed to.”
The next strike was harder than the previous ones. You squealed, taking deep, gasping breaths. Your legs trembled.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I won't do it again—”
“You said that last time.”
Your heart sank. You didn't have any reply other than to whimper in misery and anticipation, turning to a throaty cry of pain as you were struck again.
“It's for your own good. You would be happier if you just give in. But you insist—”
The leather came down hard. Your shoulders wracked with a sob, completely breaking the last of your resolve to hold back your reactions.
“—on being stubborn.”
The belt came down again, your body jolting and face contorting with the pain once more.
It was the final strike to drive you over the edge.
"I'm sorry!"
You couldn't speak further for a moment, having to take a few heaving gasps. Your shoulders jerked with a sob, sniffling, tears streaming down your face.
The only thing outweighing the stinging, striking pain itself was the tight feeling in your chest of humiliation and bitterness. It was intended as such, of course, to hurt not only your body, but your pride as well.
Your body trembled, heaving breaths and whimpers filling the following quiet. Perhaps your misery was finally deemed worthy of mercy, as despite your tensing in anticipation, no further sudden pain followed, only the lingering, hot sting on your bare flesh.
There was only a heavy sigh.
“Are you done being a brat?”
You sniffled, nodding your head against the sheets. “Mmhm…”
There was a momentary pause, perhaps giving you the opportunity to catch your mistake on your own. After you failed to do so within a few moments, the hand around your wrists tightened, a wordless threat. A brief panic surged through your mind, but you realized where you'd erred within a second.
Still, even though you opened your mouth, taking a breath to speak, some last little spark of stubborn pride flickered up, bitter and spiteful, and for a moment, you refused to give in to it, the one rule you so deeply resented more than any other.
And then he said your name — a foreboding, low tone, a warning.
Thus the brief moment of dignity was extinguished in a single word. You practically blubbered out the words, distorted by your sniffling and slurring.
“Y-yes sir…”
Finally, the grip on your wrists released.
“Good.”
You slumped forward, trembling hands reaching out to pull yourself further onto the bed before you went limp on your stomach and still, head spinning and exhaustion setting in as you came down from the high of the expense of so much energy and stress. As your head cleared, you became aware of the discomfort of wetness on your face, reaching up wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand. The sting was bad enough that you didn’t even bother pulling your clothes back into place to cover yourself, not wanting the fabric to brush against the now-sensitive skin.
There was a long moment of quiet. You weakly turned your head, seeing the pensive look on his face, eyebrows furrowed and looking at the ground. Something about it felt ominous, made your stomach shaft to churn.
“This keeps happening in a cycle,” he muttered, a low voice, almost as if speaking more to himself than you. “You start to improve, and then you regress again.”
Had you not been so utterly weary, not to mention bearing the lingering sting to your backside, you might have gotten defensive, snapped at him over referring to succumbing to the spiritual torment of your life as improvement. But now, spirit already broken as it could be for one day — at least, so you believed in that moment — you only closed your eyes, trying to ignore him. Maybe you could rest your body, at least a little, before the inevitable disturbance of a different form of exertion.
But when you squeezed your eyes shut, as always, the thoughts came rushing through your mind, emotions and recollections all at once, too intense for you to bear. Thinking through everything over again, your mistakes that led you to where you were now — not so much the events of the last hour, and more the grand scheme of things, how much you regretted ever making eye contact with him, or ever setting foot in that damn tavern.
Each and every day, you replayed the final conversation you two had had, sitting there in his own bar after everyone else had gone home, with you insisting on drinking more until you were content. After so much time — or perhaps due to the effect of the drugs, or the alcohol — you'd forgotten what the whole of the conversation was even about, only your response to one of those half-muttered comments about how this or that behavior of yours was unattractive, how you'd never get married if you kept it up, or any of the other things he said that irked you so.
You'd glared, snapping at him.
What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?
The only other thing you remembered — no, it was perfectly burned into your memory, crystal-clear despite your intoxication at the time — was the way he'd frozen, the look on his face when you'd said it, the glimpse you'd caught of it for a mere second. Slack-jawed, eyebrows furrowed, staring down at you with some amalgamation of disbelief, fury, and pure, unadulterated disgust.
Well, it wasn't the only thing you remembered — he'd walked away for a moment, you'd nearly drifted off in drunken haze, and something was shoved into your hands, you drank it without question (like an idiot, you often reprimanded yourself) and then, the next memory was waking up in his bed.
It played over, and over, and over, as you lay there shivering, cold and exhausted. As much as you resented him, you couldn’t help but feel enraged with yourself, each time you thought back to each interaction. That you didn’t recognize that something was wrong, that the degree of quiet malice he seemed to hold for you was unnatural, obsessive, dangerous. You’d just shrugged it off as just being his nature. Such an idiot, you thought to yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A heavy sigh pulled you out of your thoughts.
“…”
Whatever he was actually now thinking, though, he didn’t say aloud.
Instead, predictably, his hands grabbed at your thighs, pulling you back across the bed. The same familiar knot of dread began to twist in your chest again.
You groaned, a sound of combined exasperation, pain and exhaustion. Your voice came out weak. “N-no, don’t… it’ll hurt too much…” Despite your verbal protest, you couldn’t actually summon the will to do much more than a weak squirming with your body as the dress was pulled up. Your attempts to hold your arms down proved futile as they were easily grabbed and maneuvered to allow him to pull the clothing off entirely, throwing it onto the mattress.
“It’s not going to hurt you,” was his only reply, an assured and matter-of-fact tone, like it was an objective, predetermined truth that you were foolish to contest. His hands moved to your hips, pulling on them to pull you back into your prior positioning. “It only hurts because you don’t relax enough.”
You might have remarked that the two back-to-back statements were quite the contradiction, but in the moment you were too lost in a combination of daze and panic to be too sarcastic. The pull jolted your mind back into full clarity. You tried to push yourself up on your hands, but his hand pressed to your back again, holding you in place.
“Wait, wait—”
You cut off in a shrill wail, toes curling and legs kicking out reflexively as the sting of the stretch set in. Your back arched in a reactive attempt to get away from the sudden intrusion that felt like it was splitting you apart, cleaving your body in half.
"Just—just hold still," his grip on your wrists tightened as your hands attempted to jerk back. He moved one hand to the other, taking both your wrists in one hand so he could reach down to your hips with the other, grabbing at one with a bruising grip and holding you still in place before sliding out, then back in, a second time, then a third.
You gritted your teeth, tears forming in your eyes anew as your body tensed up. The friction burned, the stretch ached. "It hurts," you whimpered, speaking through your teeth gritted in pain. "You-you're tearing me apart..."
"Just relax. You’re too tense.”
“I can’t just—gh!”
His arm shifted from pressing you down to wrapping around your torso, pulling your upper body back up from behind, while also preventing you from pulling yourself forward, and instead pulling your body closer against his, bouncing you back and forth on his cock. Each movement brought your ass bouncing back against his hips, a harsh sting on still-sensitive flesh.
"A-ah, ah…” you clamped down on reflex, trembling hands reaching behind you to push him back, but you were so weak it did nothing. “Wait, wait…” Your words came out slurred and strained.
Suddenly, to your surprise, the movement actually stopped. There was a moment of pause, and for that moment, you actually believed maybe you were receiving whatever semblance of mercy the man was capable of.
You heard his heavy breathing in your ear, felt him let his head fall downward for a moment, as if in thought.
Then, his hands moved once more — this time, one grasping at your waist, forcing your back into an arch, the other reaching up, palm against your throat and his fingers curling to grasp your jaw.
“Fight me off.”
With that, he pulled back, and slammed forward again. You squealed, every muscle tensing and spasming at the ripples of sensation it sent through your nerves.
“What? I don't— what are you—”
Another harsh, slamming thrust cut you off.
“Remember what you said before? When you first came here?” His words were spoken in a low, dark tone, dripping with vengeful spite. His fingernails dug into the flesh of your face. “You told me you didn't need anyone.”
The hand on your hip tightened its grip as you pulled your hips forward, jerking you back as his own hips snapped forward, the motion ramming into you in full all the way down to the base, the flesh of your ass pressed up against his hip bones.
“You said you were strong, that you didn't need protection.” The grip tightened, painfully pressing down. “You said you could take care of yourself.” His fingers curled further into your skin. “Remember that?”
Even in such a flat tone, his voice felt utterly mocking. The defiance you'd thought he'd already drained from your spirit began to surge back up in full force, a burning rage filling your chest.
“If you're so strong,” he continued, words muddled with heavy panting breaths, bouncing you back and forth with increasing pace, “then you should have no problem—” he took another heavy breath, next words coming out as half-spoken, half-hissed through clenched teeth, “fighting me off.”
You stiffened, eye twitching, a rough throaty sound of fury coming from your mouth as you began to squirm, to no avail.
“Come on. Prove it.” His voice grew more intense, lower, harsher. “Push me off. Do it.”
You practically growled, an animalistic sound, savagely reaching up to claw at the hand gripping your jaw, pulling your body forward with all the strength you could muster.
But it was nothing by comparison. As if fueled by your resistance, he only slammed into you faster and harder. At that point, the fluids leaking from your body lubricated the movements, the pain ebbing away, replaced by a warm, tight sensation, pressing against the spots in your body that made you melt, the sheer stretch becoming pleasurable.
“Or maybe you're wrong.” He jerked your head back to the point that the side of your face touched his, his heavy panting warm against your ear. “Maybe you should accept that you're weak.”
The grip on your jaw caused his palm to dig into your throat, not enough to choke you fully, but enough to cause discomfort.
“You need someone to— you need me.” His head titled ever so slightly downward, his hair brushing against the back of your neck.
Trying to turn your head away proved futile, the iron grip keeping it just as firmly locked in place as your body.
“You're so naive. The weak are supposed to be self-aware.” He spoke through clenched teeth, intense anger seeping into his voice. “But you had to go and act so tough—”
A harsher thrust than any of the ones preceding it, so hard you gagged on air, unable to even scream.
“—and be so goddamn mouthy all the time.”
Your strained, animalistic noises continued, pulling your body forward with every single ounce of strength you were physically capable of.
You didn't move. It felt as if you were trying to pull yourself out of steel chains, pure futility. Your arms trembled with the strain, and yet you didn't budge.
“As if I couldn't just reach over and break you any time I felt like it.”
Your toes curled, muscles tensing in pleasure-pain, each movement ramming into a spot that sent sparks of pleasure up your spine, whilst also causing the flesh of your backside to slap against his hips, sending jolts of pain through your body all at once.
“As if any of those guys you were such a little bitch to couldn’t have done the same.”
Sweat coated your skin, running down your back. The bed creaked, violently slamming against the frame. He pulled you so close that your shoulder blades pressed to his chest.
“Do you have any idea how easy this is? I'm not even trying.”
The words felt like a knife to your chest. In the past, you'd been irritated by you inferior physical strength, but admittedly you hadn't stopped to really think more deeply about the matter of your inability to free yourself, in the bigger picture of things.
A heavy, cold feeling began to seep out of your heart, through your chest, into your blood. A dawning realization of your total powerlessness, of your weakness. It was harrowing, brutal, and unforgiving.
You took heavy, gasping breaths. The intensity of every sensation was too much, driving you to a brink of what felt like madness. The ache in your body, the chill in your blood, the pleasure and the sting and the despair.
Your resolve broke. You went limp, panting, eyes watering with bitterness and fury, hot tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, weak voice coming out as a blubbering whimper, broken up by the incessant thrusts jerking your body back and forth.
“I-I’m, I'm so, sorr-eee…”
The only reply you got was a single word.
“Good.”
You closed your watery, burning eyes. If you couldn't escape in reality, you could at least escape in your mind, desperately trying to block out the thoughts and the shame and the bitterness, trying to focus on sensation, feeling, the way you trembled at the pleasure. The way the sharp sting and the heat of the pleasure began to blur together, the pain itself only intensifying the rising tight, warm feeling inside.
You threw your head back to rest against his chest, whimpering like an animal. Your hands now only weakly reached behind you, grasping at his torso, neither pulling nor pushing. Each movement grew move intense, somehow even harder and harder still, inhumanly fast, flesh slapping against flesh, the sound amplified by the slick and sweat that coated the skin where your bodies conjoined. Your body began to quiver.
The climax that came over you was not the strongest you'd ever had — your body was far too exhausted and pained to even summon such a thing — but the high shot through your body nonetheless, waves of intensity rushing throughout. You let out a long, high-pitched sound as it peaked and ebbed away, mind slipping into a state of nothingness, a fog so thick you might as well have been unconscious.
You barely felt the motions stop, the way you were lowered down to rest on your stomach. Your attention was only briefly pulled to the surface of your consciousness with the sudden sensation of emptiness, the way your insides spasmed to clench on empty space, the chill that set in as the sweat began to cool over your body, and finally the shifting of the mattress as weight settled onto the other side, sitting beside your limp form.
And then, as your consciousness swayed, one faint little thought kept you from slipping away.
Something was different. You were limp and numb from the stupor, mind lost in a haze, but a faint sense of alarm slowly drug your consciousness back to alertness. Something was different, something was wrong.
You shifted, muscles reflexively clamping down on the now-empty space, and stiffened as you felt something fluid ooze out of your slit, drooling down your flesh and onto your thigh.
“Did… did you… cum… inside me…?”
You turned towards the figure blurred by the residual tears and dizziness. You could make out him sitting there, the bright red hair and the flesh tone of his unclothed upper body, see him running his hand over the top of his head, pushing sweat-drenched strands of hair back.
Your stupor had left your eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but they immediately snapped back fully open as the next words registered with your ears, spoken in a fully nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone.
“This will be good for you.”
You sat up — a movement that took effort, nearly falling back down on hands still trembling with aftershock, and looked up at him with panicked confusion plastered on your face. “…Huh… what?”
Now you could make out his eyes, looking into yours, continuing on in the same blunt voice, as if speaking of a trivial matter.
“…I was waiting. I thought it would be a bad idea to give you a kid before you showed some improvement.” After a moment of pause as he sat more upright, he continued, “But thinking about it, that could be part of the reason you're so badly behaved to begin with. You're… imbalanced or something.”
He held a hand out palm-up in a casual gesture.
“So, it will calm you down.”
You stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in disbelief and horror.
“That's—” you twitched. Your voice was hoarse, each word hurt, as if dragging broken glass down your throat. “You're insane. You can't— you can't do this to me. I can't do that!”
“You're being overdramatic.”
“Overdramatic?!” You pushed the heels of your hands into the mattress to propel yourself backwards, crawling away from him as if it would do any good. “No, you don't understand, I… I can't…!”
Your breathing began to speed up, right alongside your heart rate. Panic consumed your train of thought. The implications of the very notion were, for you, world-ending — it would change everything, it would debilitate you and any hopes you had of ever leaving. Even beyond that, just the mere thought, the mental image the idea created, made you shudder.
You looked down. Between your legs, some of the cum had begun to ooze out onto the sheets.
Right, you could extract it all, to the best of your ability, and hope for the best. Your legs were trembling so badly you weren't certain if you could support your own weight, but nonetheless, you tried to make your way to the edge of the bed.
“No, no, I… I need to go wash off—”
“No, you're not.” His hand latched onto your arm, roughly pulling you back. You fell onto your side with a grunt.
You stiffened and whimpered as you felt two of his fingers wipe the inside of your thigh, collecting the semen that had slipped out with gravity and your movement, and pressed the fingers back inside of you, not wanting any to go to waste.
“Don't move around so much.”
Panic turned into aggression, like a cornered animal. Your nose wrinkled up with the furious expression that crossed your face.
“There is no way in hell I'm—”
Your words cut off once more as his hand latched onto your jaw, eyes narrowing.
“…Do you want to do this over again?” He tilted your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Because I have no problem with that, if you keep mouthing off.”
You froze up again. The despair took hold. You didn't have any more fight left in you. It wasn't worth it, you couldn't handle another round with the belt.
You bit your lip, shaking your head. It wasn't until he sighed, and gave you an irritated look that you recognized your mistake once again.
“…No, sir…”
He closed his eyes, seemingly content with the rectification. “Good.” He pulled you down further, until you were lying on your side. “It's late enough to go to bed. You need sleep.”
You lay motionless, aside from the still-lingering shivering, watching as he shuffled off the remainder of his clothes and turned off the nearby lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness, before laying back down, turning back towards you, pulling you close.
His arm wrapped around your back, keeping your body pressed to his. Your face rested against his collarbones.
He shifted a bit, causing his hand to just barely brush over your backside — you stiffened, sucking a sharp breath in through your teeth.
“Mm, sorry.”
The half-hearted, sleepy mutter was all you got — an apology you knew was only for the momentary accidental touch and not the pain itself. That would be deemed deserved and justified, should you ever complain, and would probably earn you the same punishment again.
Your face scrunched up with misery, as if about to cry, but your body couldn't produce any more tears.
“Night.”
You felt the rumbling in his chest against yours. You swallowed the lump in your throat before you replied, voice barely more than a whisper.
“…Goodnight…”
There was still a little bit of light coming in through the window — it wasn't even really fully dark yet, the last few rays of purplish twilight visible in the sky.
You wondered if you'd ever see it from any other view than the estate ever again — but pushed the thought away, as you didn't like what you thought might be the answer, nor the way it made you think of the conversation that transpired moments prior.
You closed your eyes, shifted around a bit and — wincing at the fluid that drooled down your leg — tried your best to rest.
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Honey Girl. Chapter Seven.
chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. series masterlist. the playlist.
Chapter Synopsis - Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. At least, that’s what you and Bucky keep telling yourselves.
Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au
Warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol consumption.
Word Count - 4.8k
Author's Note - I can only apologise for the delay on this one angels!! january blues, a crazy work schedule, writers block.. they all came to play at the same time. but chapter seven is finally here!! I hope you enjoy it. thank you for the continued love on this - words can’t describe how incredible it is.
as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my writing, which generates more of it. feel free to send me a comment or an inbox, too!! thanks, my loves!! <3
Masterlist. Inbox.
“Why aren’t you more surprised?”
Stella simply shrugs, sipping her cappuccino as if she has all the time in the world.
“Babe, with all due respect… I’ve been waiting for you to initiate this conversation for like two months.”
You look at her incredulously, fiddling nervously with a chip in the handle of your coffee cup.
“…Why? How?”
She smiles softly, reaching for your hand across the table.
“You’re miserable.”
You take a deep breath, and then another. After the fifth one, you find the courage to meet her eyes.
“How did you know?”
“Because I know you. You’re a hell of an actress, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s not you-”
“I know. Hey, I know. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“I do.”
She waits for you, patient as ever. You’d be lying if you said the guilt wasn’t eating you up, slowly but surely from the inside out. You feel like you’ve let her down, disappointing the one person who’s given you your dream.
You realise, suddenly, that you haven't told anyone the full truth about everything. Not your Mom, not your Dad, not Lacie. Your Tethering, Bucky, the move to California - all your feelings and emotions over the past how ever many months have been bottled up and stowed away on a shelf, never to be opened. But you have the urge, now, to unscrew the cap and pour it out across the table, regardless of the mess.
So, you do.
"It's not you. You've given me everything I could have ever wanted, Stel, and I couldn't be more grateful. You know that, right?"
She nods, squeezing your hand.
"It's just been hard... emotionally. So, I, the thing is, I just..."
You inhale. You hold it for five seconds. You exhale.
"I'm Tethered. I have a soulmate, and he lives back home. We found out literally right before you called me and asked about the business. I couldn't turn you down, I knew that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I couldn't just let it pass me by. I knew we could do this, me and you, together. And I thought I’d be able to cope.”
You inhale. You hold it for five seconds. You exhale.
“Being away from Bucky has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. It’s like… I can’t breathe properly without him. Food isn’t as flavourful, colours aren’t as bright, the sun isn’t as warm. The separation is actually having physical effects that I’m not sure I can handle anymore.”
You inhale. You hold it for five seconds. You exhale.
“I’ve held out for as long as I possibly can. I was hoping that maybe it’d pass, that we’d get used to it and it’d all wear off. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s worse than ever. The separation is ruining us both.”
You inhale. You hold it for five seconds. You exhale.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re going to tell me not to apologise, but I am. I’m sorry. You’ve given me everything and I’m just… quitting on you. I love this job so much, Stella. I can’t even find the words to describe how much. But I think either me or Bucky will break soon. And I have to prevent that from happening.”
You inhale.
Stella looks at you with so much compassion, you fight the urge to burst into tears.
You exhale.
“Listen to me, okay? You are one of the best damn bakers I have ever met in my life. No one in culinary school even came close to you. I always knew that I wanted you on my team, by my side, in my corner - in the kitchen, and everywhere else. But-"
You chew your bottom lip, wincing when you taste copper.
“We don’t have to be in each other’s pockets. We can be business partners and not see each other everyday. These are the joys of modern technology, babe. We can call, text, video chat, and then schedule in person meetings when we can. If anyone can make a cross country partnership work, it’s us. I mean, come on.”
The weight lifts from your shoulders, slowly but surely. A glowing, molten warmth trickles through your veins, hopeful and real and alive.
“And this,” she picks up your business plan, all printed and pretty. “This is air fucking tight. I’m not saying you picked the wrong career, but… business could definitely be your Plan B.”
You laugh, ignoring the way your voice cracks slightly, still choked with emotion.
“Babe, I was going to franchise the business eventually anyway. Sure, this is a little earlier than I first thought, but why the hell not? We’re successful, we’ve done so well… what’s stopping us? We know we can do this. And I trust you. So much.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, easing your death grip on her hand ever so slightly. “I thought I was gonna ruin everything.”
“You haven’t ruined anything, I promise you. This is a good thing.”
She thinks for a moment, lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly, she grins at you, nosy and mischievous.
“So a soulmate, huh?”
You groan, burying your face in your hands - but you can’t fight the smile that spreads across your cheeks.
“Yeah. It’s been… complicated.”
“He’s that super hot guy that came to see you, right? The one that looks like he could be a model?”
Laughing, you nod, making mental note to relay this to Bucky on the phone later.
“How did it happen? Was it like, a stranger on the street moment?”
“Nope,” you recall fondly. “We knew each other already. He’s my Dad’s best friend.”
Her jaw drops open, eyes flickering across your face.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit, babe.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s amazing. Shit, no wonder you’ve been under so much stress. What did your Dad say?”
“He… doesn’t know.”
“What?”
“We need to tell him, I know we do, but it’s just so complicated. I’m worried that it’ll change everything, and not for the better.”
It’s been eating away at you, lately. The fact that your parents don’t know originally made perfect sense, but now? It’s been almost a year. You’ve never kept anything from them for that long. Now, you’re worried that you’ll never be able to undo the damage of lying and keeping secrets from the two people you always promised never to do that to.
"Look, I know I'm not exactly qualified to give out soulmate advice, but... you can't change this. It's literally been written in the stars. Your parents will understand, okay? But the longer you wait to tell them, the worse it'll be."
“Yeah. You’re right. It’s just - it’s tough. It’s gonna change everything, forever.”
“But isn’t that the beauty of it? It’s going to change everything, forever.”
You jump out of your seat and wrap your arms around Stella, holding onto her as tightly as you can. She hugs you back fiercely, speaking a thousand words without saying anything at all.
“Proud of you,” she murmurs into your hair.
“For what?” you laugh.
“Putting yourself first. Your health, your mental wellbeing, all of it. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Love you,” you whisper, fighting back tears of relief.
“Love you too, my baker extraordinaire.”
You sit back down and take a breath, deep and full. Relaxing into your chair, you allow yourself to finally think about the next steps.
“So, I was thinking about going home and scouting out locations. I have that list of places that you read over in the business plan, but I thought of a couple more last night a few miles further out. I’ve pre prepped a few days worth of our best sellers, so you should be good without me.”
“Of course, babe. I’ve circled a couple where I really liked the look of the listings you’ve printed, and written a couple of notes for you to look over - just logistical stuff. Go back home, see your family and your soulmate,” she smirks, raising her eyebrows suggestively, “and just relax. God knows the stress lately has taken a couple years off your life. Please, get those years back on the beach or with your man or something.”
You laugh, shaking your head. She’s right, though. The stress has been resting stagnant in your muscles, tight and wound, making everything harder. You can’t wait to sit on the sand in Bucky’s arms and feel the tension melt from your body.
“You’re the best, Stella. You know that right?”
“So I’ve been told. Many, many times.”
Hours later, Bucky watches you on video call, laptop propped up on the dresser as you pack your bags excitedly. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he picked up, anticipation of the future lighting up his bones.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
You show up at your parents house without warning.
You thought about calling first, but decided it’d be much more fun to surprise them. It’s a Friday evening, and you know they’ll both be sat out on the back deck, drinking wine and recapping their weeks. It’s getting warmer on the East Coast, the sounds of spring and summer slowly filtering through.
Your Mom throws open the door, her face lighting up with glee.
“Babygirl!”
She throws her arms around you, rocking you back and forth so forcefully you’re worried you might fall over.
“My baby,” she exclaims, beaming grin almost blinding you. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She grabs your face in her hands, forcing you to look her in the eyes.
“Are you okay?”
You nod, smiling as the setting sun warms your back.
“Yeah, Mama. I am.”
She believes you. For the first time in a long time, you believe you too.
“Come on. Your Dad is gonna be so excited to see you.”
You leave your bags in the car, prioritising seeing the man who’s currently shaking his hips to the soft salsa music that’s playing.
“Nice moves, Casanova.”
He whips his head around, laughing when he sees you stood against the doorframe watching.
“You like em? I need a partner, babygirl! Come on!”
He grabs your hands, pulling you further into the yard so you have more space. You take up a terrible ballroom dance posture with him, cackling as he dips you backwards and almost drops you.
“Don’t kill my baby, please Jack!” your Mom calls from the kitchen window.
She returns with a glass of pink wine in her hand, gesturing for you to come and get it. Your Dad spins you over to her, steadying your shoulders when you trip over his shoes.
“It’s like The Universe knew you were coming to us tonight, darling. We opened the strawberry wine and everything.”
“My favourite.”
You get comfy on the loveseat, sitting across from your parents who are pressed together on the outdoor sofa. The wine is sweet and sugary and exactly what you needed.
“So, what are you doing here, kiddo?”
“It’s a little… complicated. But the good kind of complicated, I think.”
You start at the beginning. Well, almost. You leave out the part about finding Bucky, waiting for him to be with you when you tell that part of the story. You agreed that you’d talk to your parents about your relationship together, and you’re not about to break that promise. You do, however, explain everything else to them.
They listen carefully, nodding and smiling to let you know they’re still with you. When you talk about the difficulties you’ve faced, they wear matching frowns as your Mom fights back tears. Eventually, you sit in silence, waiting for their reaction.
“I wish you’d said something sooner.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just… I thought I could do it on my own.”
“Honey, you never have to go through anything alone. That’s what we’re here for - we’re like, your built in therapists. Both me and your Dad would have happily listened if you’d called us, no matter the time or place.”
“Thank you. Both of you.”
“So this means you’re moving home?”
You nod, trying to contain the excitement bubbling up inside of you.
“Well it’s a good job we didn’t end up renting your apartment, huh?”
“You didn’t?”
“We thought about it, but it didn’t feel right. And we wanted to see you settle down in California first, just in case. I don’t either of us were ready to see someone else in that place. It’s yours.”
“You big softie,” you tease, nudging your Dad with your foot. He grabs it and squeezes, laughing when you squirm out of his grip.
“Well this is a cause for celebration, isn’t it?”
When you were younger, you used to get embarrassed that your Mom would throw parties for everything. Now, it’s one of your favourite things about her. She’s taught you to embrace the joy of the little things in life.
“What are you thinking, Mama?”
“Tomorrow night, a few friends. I’ll make a big paella, we can drink wine, play cards… what do you say?”
“Sounds perfect.”
And it does. The ease of being back home has calmed you down, untied the knots in your shoulders. You feel warmed by love, from the inside out.
You leave your parent’s house, promising to make a dessert of some kind for tomorrow. As you drive away, you suddenly realise that you’re headed in the wrong direction. You’re not going home. You’re going to the person that feels like home.
Bucky.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
He’s waiting for you on his front porch when you pull up.
“Hi, honey baby.”
“Hi, handsome.”
You launch yourself into his arms, savouring the warmth rolling off of him in waves. He smells like fresh linen and sea salt and all your future plans.
“You felt me coming, didn’t you?”
“From a mile off.”
He’s grinning, beaming in all directions.
“Good job it wasn’t a surprise visit, huh?”
“There’s no such thing anymore.”
“Good.”
He grabs your face in his work rough hands, gazing at you as if you’re the sun. You realise, suddenly, that you are. You are the one thing that his world revolves around. And he is yours. Forever.
“You gonna kiss me, Buck, or just stare at me, hmm?”
He chuckles before leaning in to press his lips to yours. You sigh in contentment and pull him closer by his shirt, tilting your head back to let him slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like scotch and spearmint, a perfect picture of his evening.
“Have you been drinking alone, cowboy?”
“Needed some liquid courage. Knew you’d come by.”
“I make you nervous, huh?”
The filthy smirk written across your face sends electricity crackling across his skin, the hairs on his arms standing up.
“Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
“You’re really blowing up my ego, you know. I make the Bucky Barnes nervous. Who’d have thought?”
He shuts you up by kissing you again, snaking his hands around your back to plaster your bodies together. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging on it slightly.
“You’re letting your hair grow.”
“You like it long.”
You stop for a moment, watching his face carefully.
“Yeah. I do. How’d you know?”
“You pull it more when it’s long. Can feel how much you like it.”
“You’re a menace,” you laugh. “How about you take me inside, and I’ll show you just how much I like it? Unless you wanna give your neighbours front row seats…”
He chuckles and shakes his head before throwing you over his shoulder, laughing harder when you start shrieking. He carries you over the threshold, a beautiful prediction of years to come.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
You and Bucky spend the evening in his kitchen with the windows open, watching the setting sun. The gentle ocean breeze flows through the room, tussling Bucky’s chocolate brown hair and glinting off the ice in his rocks glass.
“You want me to come with you tomorrow, when you scout locations? I’ll be your chauffeur, if you like.”
“What about work?”
“I’m the boss, baby.”
“So you keep reminding me.”
He kicks you lightly under the table, laughing when you stick your tongue out at him.
“Yeah, Buck. I’d love it if you came with. You can use your contractor knowledge and help me out.”
“It’s a date. You want me to bring my clipboard? Tape measure? Mechanical pencil?”
“You gonna bring your talking machinery too, Bob The Builder?”
Bucky stands from his chair and pulls yours out, wrapping his arms around your waist and picking you up. He spins you around before putting you down and dragging you up the stairs, kicking his bedroom door open.
He throws you onto the bed unceremoniously, chuckling when you almost bounce off. You toss your shirt at his face, before shucking off your jeans and doing the same thing. He catches them with ease, winking at you before undressing himself.
He crawls up your body, kissing any skin he can find as he goes. He starts at your ankle, before moving to your knee, your thigh, your hip, your stomach, your chest, your neck, and eventually your lips. You’re almost shaking, alive with the anticipation of having every inch of Bucky pressed against you.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” he rasps into your ear. “I’ll give it to you. Anything.”
“Just want you.”
“Need to get you ready first,” he murmurs, fingers trailing between your legs. His breath hitches when he feels how wet you are.
“Oh honey,” he groans. “You been like this all night? Hmm?”
“Since I first saw you waiting for me.”
He groans again, resting his head in the crook of your neck.
“Please, Buck. Just wanna feel you.”
Who is he to deny you when you ask so damn pretty?
“You’re killing me,” he mutters against your skin.
Bucky slides into you with one smooth thrust, biting down on your shoulder as he does it. You shudder at the feeling, and at the thought of having the imprint of his teeth on you later.
You both gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in to you. You loop your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to press him even closer.
“Fuck me,” you choke out. “Need it, Buck.”
“My needy girl,” he chuckles lowly. “Gonna give you everything.”
Bucky retracts his hips before thrusting back into you, deep and full. You whine, and he’s convinced the sound will never be matched. It’s like angel song, rose tinted and heavenly.
He fucks you into the mattress, long, slow thrusts that make you want to cry a little. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so connected to him - every single part of you touching his, bodies plastered together and souls intertwined.
He presses open mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck, right into your sweet spot. When he feels you getting close, he dances his fingers down your body and circles your clit, languid but precise. Your back arches as you find your release, clawing your nails down his back and locking your ankles around his hips.
“Oh fuck, honey - fuck.”
Bucky finishes with a shudder, sinking his teeth back into your shoulder. His raspy groans hit your ears just right, sweat dripping down onto your dewy skin.
“Love you, baby. Fuck, I love you.”
You’re both panting, trying to catch your breath as you come down from your highs.
“I love you too,” you giggle, pressing kisses to his damp forehead.
He collapses his weight onto you, chuckling when you groan. You push him off so he can lie next to you, strong arm thrown over your stomach as he pulls you in close.
You stay tangled for a while, letting the breeze from the window cool you both down. Bucky traces absentminded patterns across your back, rough fingertips sending goosebumps over your skin.
“I’m excited for tomorrow,” you murmur, keeping the volume low.
“Me too. Feels like a big step for our future, doesn’t it?”
“I just never imagined I’d have… this. You, the job I’ve always dreamed of… it doesn’t feel real. I mean, we’re going to look at places for a second location of my business. Who ever could have predicted I’d say that sentence?”
“Everything works out the way it’s supposed to. I told you that, that night on the beach. Before we knew. Remember?”
“I remember,” you smile, recalling that evening. You’d felt so inexplicably connected to Bucky that day. Little did you know what was to follow.
You fall asleep wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, warm and content.
You’ve never known happiness like it.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
The day flies by with Bucky by your side.
You’re a little out of your depth, admittedly. You don’t know much about real estate, or what makes a viable location for a bakery. But Bucky helps - explaining what to avoid, warning signs to look out for, checking out all of the boring stuff like gas mains and water pipes and backup generators. He never patronises you, even when you look at him like a deer in headlights. He clarifies himself when you become unsure, laying out explanations carefully and simply. He’s the perfect right hand man.
“You almost ready, honey?”
“Yeah Buck, give me one second!”
You walk into the kitchen where Bucky’s leaning against the counter, beer in hand. He’s in loose jeans and a linen button up, the white shirt beautifully showing off his tanned skin. He’s got several buttons undone, toned chest peeking through. He looks effortlessly perfect.
You stop in front of him, fixing the buckle on your sandals. You look up at Bucky to find him staring at you, open mouthed.
“You alright, handsome?”
“You look… you look - fuck, you look gorgeous.”
Heat rises up your skin, still so susceptible to his compliments.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” he chuckles into your mouth.
Bucky rests a hand against the base of your throat, pulling you into him. His other hand plays with the hem of your dress, your skin burning where his fingers brush. You kiss him back harder, groaning when he nips at your bottom lip. He sucks on your tongue, and your knees buckle.
You pull back suddenly, putting three feet of distance between you.
“We need to go.”
Your hair is tousled, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as you try to regain your composure. Bucky smirks at you, laughing when you flip him off.
“Come on. My parents and paella await us.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
Your Mom has done it again.
Golden lights adorn the beams of the deck, the table littered with flowers and wine glasses begging to be filled. There’s already a few people scattered around the yard, chatting and laughing in the warm evening air.
“Oh baby, you look so beautiful.”
Your Mom engulfs you in a hug, pulling back to look at you from a distance. You’re wearing a yellow sundress, form fitting in all the right places. The skirt blows in the gentle breeze, fanning around you like an angels halo.
“This place looks amazing, Mama. I made you a tropical tart - it’s pineapple and coconut, with a mango coulis.”
“Oh, it’s gorgeous. I’ll put it in the fridge and get you some wine, honey. Buck, you want wine or beer?”
“Wine, please Lori. You need a hand?”
“If you’re offering,” she winks, laughing when he pokes her in the side as they leave towards the kitchen.
“Your father says you’re moving back home.”
You turn around to see Cora looking at you expectantly. You haven’t seen her since the incident that evening months ago.
“Uh, yeah. I love California, but I think I outgrew it after culinary school.”
She nods at you in faux sympathy, overbearing and sickly sweet.
“Aw, sweetie. Sometimes, things just don’t work out the way we hoped, huh?”
“Mhmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Yeah, I guess.”
You look for an exit, but she rubs your arm in support, pulling you back.
“I saw you today, you know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes! Down on Maple, by the corner. You were with Bucky.”
You freeze suddenly, blood running cold. You and Bucky are always affectionate, whether you mean to be or not. It’s just the way it is, being alongside your soulmate. Of course, Cora doesn’t know this. All she’s seen is you, out in town with your Dad’s best friend, looking cosier than platonic.
Your ears are ringing. You wonder, for a second, if you’re experiencing deja vu.
“Yeah, he… he has contracting experience. Just needed a second opinion. I’m no builder, after all.”
You force a laugh, willing the ground to swallow you up.
“You two are friends? You seem pretty close.”
She’s watching you, waiting for a reaction. You don’t give it to her.
“I’ve known him for a while, I see him often. He’s a good friend to my Dad, so you can imagine we know each other pretty well by now.”
“Yeah. It sure looked like it.”
You’re wracking your brain, trying to understand what she saw. Then it hits you.
On the corner of Maple is a florist’s, alive with blooming flowers and plants of every colour. You’d been admiring the tulips when Bucky had wrapped his arms around you from behind, whispering in your ear about how you’re the prettiest flower of all, honey.
There’s no running away from this. She’s caught you, in broad daylight.
“We’re friends,” you reiterate, praying for mercy.
You shoot her a fake smile before turning on your heel, making a beeline for the kitchen to find your Mom. When you get there, you gulp down your entire glass of strawberry wine, begging the sugar to lift your mood and calm your nerves.
The rest of the night goes off fairly smoothly.
You eat paella and fruit tart, drink wine, laugh with your parents and their friends. Bucky occasionally slips a hand beneath the table, squeezing your thigh in silent reassurance. You tangle your fingers with his for a moment before letting go, praying everyone else is none the wiser.
Every time Cora opens her mouth, your chest constricts a little. But she seems to have learnt her lesson somewhat, only speaking to tell obnoxiously long and tangent filled stories and offer comments no one asked for. Eventually, you all disperse from the table, making conversation elsewhere.
“What’s on your mind?” a low voice rasps in your ear.
You’re sat on the swing in the corner of the garden, watching the world go by. Bucky snakes his arm over the back of it, fingertips brushing your shoulder.
“Cora saw us today. Think she knows.”
“She’s a fucking nuisance.”
You laugh, the sound vibrating through Bucky’s bones.
“Yeah, she is. She’s also a gossip. She won’t keep her mouth shut for long if she thinks she’s sitting on something newsworthy.”
He thinks for a moment, taking a deep breath.
“So we tell them.”
“So we tell them.”
You lean back into Bucky’s arm, inhaling the familiar scent of peace.
“We should do it as soon as possible.”
“How about tomorrow?”
You nod, biting your glossy lips.
“Yeah. We need to do it sometime, and we’ve delayed the inevitable for long enough. We’ll do it tomorrow.”
Bucky nudges closer to you, so your sides are pressed together.
“It’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to, honey girl.”
You smile gently.
“I know. I don’t think I believed you the first time you said that to me. But I do now.”
“You and me against the world, baby.”
“You and me against the world, Buck.”
It truly feels like it, at the moment. You and Bucky against the world.
tag list part one
@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk
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finding you again prologue
Azriel x f!Reader
summary: after he ended your relationship, you didn’t expect Azriel to pop into your life again - and you’re not happy about it
warnings: angst, drinking
a/n: here's the start to the mini series from this poll! if anyone wants to be added to a taglist, you can comment under here or send me an ask/message!
part one
“Why?” You ran a hand through your hair. “Can you at least give me a reason?”
“I told you. It’s not working.” Pity shone in Azriel’s eyes, and it made you want to break something. There was more he wasn’t saying, it was obvious to you, just as it was obvious he wouldn’t deign to share.
“Then get out,” your voice was colder than you’d ever heard it. Enough that he blinked, and it brought a sick sense of satisfaction to you. “Out,” you repeated, not sure how much longer you could keep the tears in.
He backed up slowly, one hand reaching behind to open the door, before slipping out. You missed the lingering look they shot your way, already having turned your back. With the click of the door, you grabbed the nearest glass and launched it across the room, a guttural scream leaving your chest.
-
He lingered in the hallway, listening to shattering glass, your scream of pure pain, and hated themselves for a brief moment. He hadn’t lied to you, it wasn’t working.
Whether you knew it or not wasn’t of any consequence to him. He did love you, genuinely, and part of him ached at the pain he was causing, but it was better than drawing out the inevitable. He’d loved you, but not enough to spend the rest of your lives together. It didn’t feel right to keep going when he knew you felt differently.
Still, he had to fight the desire to go back in and comfort you.
His footsteps were soft down the hall, the stairs, the street, to the night that left an uncomfortable itch on his skin.
-
Everything seemed fine. Not a damn indication something was wrong, but you should’ve known better - he was trained to hide his emotions, to keep secrets, but for a few years you’d let yourself believe you meant something to him. Let that pathetic hope fill you, that it might evolve into something more, that you could be his one.
His face flashed across your mind, unwelcomed. That pity, like you were some miserable creature that would be broken by this
Maybe you were broken, right now, but you decided to give yourself a day. 24 hours, and then you’d pull yourself together.
But for now … a perfectly good bottle of red wine sat on your counter, one wine glass left standing. It would do.
-
His shadows, half with a mind of their own, still followed you - still trailed to check you were fine. It was normal, expected, of course. You’d spent a few years together, although in secret, it was natural he’d still care for you.
But, after a year passed he started to … wonder. Had he made a mistake? Through whispers in his ear, he trailed your life. Healers training, like you always said you would, a few new friends, new lovers that came and went, and eventually your departure from Velaris - sent to an outlying island as a new healing post. There was pride, pride he didn’t have any claim to feel, but it persisted nonetheless.
-
Prythian shut down, and you were one of the few who knew of a safe haven - although you couldn’t speak of it, or recall how to access it. Velaris. Each time the word came to the tip of your tongue, each time it was prominent in your mind, your throat dried up - chest clenched hard enough you lost your breath. It happened frequently enough your friends worried there was some sort of medical issue, and you forced yourself not to think of it.
There’d been one last command from your High Lord - to lie low, and stay away, with one image flashing through your mind - the Holy Mountain for all of Prythian. Now cursed. Four simple words, one horrid curse, and you were cut off from all of your family and the friends you’d known for years.
After 45 years, you wondered if they would still remember you like you did them. If one day you’d hug your little sister again. Would she remember you? She’d only been 10 the last time you saw each other, a day before you left, your chest clenched, throat tightening. Before you’d left home.
You’d ached to leave the city and explore, and now all you wanted was to return.
-
He thought of you often. Stuck outside of Velaris, with no way back. Not for the first time, he resented the decision Rhys made to keep them away. He hoped you’d gotten some kind of warning, that you were still alive out there.
Azriel found himself checking on people he’d only heard of in passing. Everyone who’d been important to you in your life. Your younger sister growing, how your name was always met with worried looks and hushed tones, how over the years she stopped asking after you, how you seemed to disappear from everyone’s minds.
Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one who remembered you.
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The Rivalry || Arsenal Women x Reader
Summary: You've fallen back into old routine, but will your teammates notice in time to help you?-- based off of "Flora" by Hey, Nothing.
Warnings: Centered around drug abuse and addiction. If this is something which triggers you, please do not read this piece of fiction. Poor mental health, very brief mentions of self harm and disordered eating, a solid chunk of angst & comfort, please let me know if I have missed anything.
A/N: I was going to properly edit this but the wheel I rolled decided to just post it. I'm sad, so have this fic :)
Special thanks to @girlgenius1111, @greynatomy, & @ilovemeadema for all your help. I appreciate each of you!!!
Your life has always been a series of rivalries. You’d spent the majority of your formative years competing against your friends for starting positions on your youth football team, whilst competing for spots on your youth international team.
In college, you played for the North Carolina Tar Heels and competed often against your school’s known rival, Duke. You threw your everything into each match you ever played for the college, but there always seemed to be extra charge on the table when it came through your sworn rivals.
You signed for Arsenal just out of college, traveling abroad and leaving your family in the name of getting better and playing for a club that you’d secretly supported since childhood. Your rivalry then, of course, was Chelsea.
See, all your life had always been a series of rivalries against other people and other teams. Never, in all your years, had you ever anticipated that your biggest rivalry would be against yourself.
You think it had probably stemmed from the first time you’d suffered a serious injury on the pitch in college. You’d suffered a blow to your ankle. They’d given you little white pills to help stave off your pain, and you knew that your family had a history of drug addiction, so you tried to wean yourself off of them as soon as you could tolerate it.
The remaining pills, however, had stayed in your dorm room drawer with all of your other medicines. It had taken you only a few months to open the pill bottle, driven by curiosity and overwhelming sadness. Your friends had been graduating, which meant that some of your favorite people were leaving you to move on with their adult lives. On top of that, you were struggling with a class and working through your grades which was causing you a lot of stress. The nail of the coffin had been that you’d found out that your mother was terminally ill, with cancer.
You remembered the numbness and floatiness you’d felt when you’d taken the pills whilst recovering from surgery. You hadn’t had to feel the pain and had lived in your own little world, peacefully separated from the things which plagued you. It was exactly what you needed.
You wondered if they’d do anything to numb you again. This time, however, you sought emotional numbness rather than pain relief.
You dipped your fingers into the orange bottle and took out a little white pill. You rolled the medication in between your fingers before slipping it between your lips, letting it rest on your tongue for only a moment. You hesitated, wondering if this was truly the right decision. However, the tears on your face stung against the skin of your cheeks and your heart throbbed to nearly an unbearable extent. You felt cornered, like you were left with no choice but to try to find a way to deal with what was happening, and so you dry swallowed the pill before you could think about it any further.
You’d spent the afternoon on a cloud, staring at the wall of your dorm room while the television played your comfort show. You weren’t happy, but you weren’t sad. You were just what you’d desired to be, numb. Your mind was quiet, thoughts stilled, and you convinced yourself that this allowed you to help deal with and comprehend what was going on in your life.
When the effects of the little white pill wore off, however, the pain came back… and so you took another.
Once you went through the entire bottle, you were forced to find other ways to deal with the things which plagued your mind and body. You found other ways to control your pain, by restricting the amount of food you ate, by working out more, by drowning yourself in alcohol. None of it worked as you desired, but you had no other option.
You managed to keep it a secret from your college teammates, as you only dipped into these harsh coping mechanisms every once in a while. Once, however, one of your teammates caught on to your struggles as you’d been losing a lot of weight. Alessia Russo, a senior, had confronted you and helped you to get some help.
Alessia and the girls were there for you, of course, but then they’d graduated and you were left alone again. The loneliness was near-crippling, but with the help of your therapist and regular calls with Alessia, you were able to retain your sobriety throughout the rest of your college years.
You’d moved to Arsenal out of college, and you’d been successful for the years that you’d been there. However, even as you continued to try harder and harder to better yourself, everything seemed to be failing and you couldn’t figure out why.
Perhaps it was in the early morning hours of a new day. You should have been in your bed, buried deep in the comfort of your duvet. You should have been resting for the training session that you were supposed to be getting up for in just a few hours.
Instead, here you were, sitting with some of your more recent “friends” in the alleyway between two abandoned buildings in North London. You were high as a kite, not entirely sure what you’d been given but more than happy to be on it. Sitting with your back slumped against a wall and your legs bent against your chest, you were able to ignore the pressures of being one of the younger Arsenal players.
You were able to ignore the fact that you hadn’t scored a goal in nearly two months. You were able to put aside the fact that you’d cost Arsenal an important game just the week prior, by carelessly getting a red card in the 42nd minute. You’d gotten into a shoving match with another player, leaving your teammates with ten players against a dominant Tottenham team.
You could stop thinking about how you’d been taken out of Arsenal’s starting XI, despite being a pivotal piece of the lineup since you’d signed for the team a couple of months back. You didn’t have to think about the number of people who were counting on you, and the mass amount of people who you were disappointing. You were trying your best, but your best was not and had never been enough.
When you felt all high and floaty, you felt like you were separated from the person who suffered from thousands of online hate. The media enjoyed hyper analyzing your poor performance from the last few weeks, and many fans were quick to pick up on it. You’d become the laughing stock of women’s soccer, something which you were entirely too aware of whenever you opened your phone. You were bombarded with hate, despite having disabled comments on your social media accounts.
Everywhere you went, you saw the image of you sliding against the ground after a failed attempt on goal. If not that image, then you saw the one where you were shoving the Tottenham player back against the torn up grass, an angry scowl upon your usually-serene features. Your Arsenal teammates were gathered around you, and fans were quick to make light of the fact that Katie McCard herself was holding you back from swinging a fist at the Spurs player.
Everywhere you looked, your mistakes and poor performances were highlighted, and you wanted to ignore it all, to block it all away, just for a moment. Soon, you were back to your habits, and the six years that you’d spent on the recovery were down the drain as you went back to those same white pills.
They were relatively easy to get, actually, especially when you had been given a bottle of them recently after an injury. Each time you opened your phone and you were bombarded with hate, you resorted back to those same pills to numb the pain in your heart and soul, a crushing pain which returned in full force each time the effects of your pills wore off.
You needed more, however, to numb the pain. It was getting harder to appear normal to your teammates, and you knew that they’d find out that something was wrong eventually. Yet, still, you couldn’t help it.
Everything seemed useless to you. Your career was failing, your beloved family was across an entire ocean, and you’d given up something you’d spent years working towards– sobriety. Nothing mattered but numbing the pain that these failures caused you, so much so that you began to give up anything else in favor of those pills.
Your teammates knew that something was the matter with you. It was something further than just simply playing badly, although they couldn’t quite figure out what it was. The signs were obvious, despite your ability to hide what was going on relatively well.
You showed up late to training, took your dressing downs for your tardiness and performance with tired eyes and slumped shoulders. You were skinnier, something which was obvious when anyone caught a glimpse of you changing in the locker room before or after training or matches. You were pale, and abnormally short-tempered.
Alessia, especially, was beginning to realize what was going on. She recognized the signs from playing college with you, as did Lotte. The way your eyes darkened and reddened, your sudden exhaustion and disinterest in the sport and people that you’d once loved with every ounce of your body. You no longer went out with your teammates, nor did you joke around as you once had. Still, neither girl were completely sure that that was what was wrong, and they didn’t want to immediately assume the worst, not wanting to excuse the six years of sobriety that you’d managed to get under your belt.
Even so, they couldn’t ignore the fact that each attempt of your teammates to talk to you was met with attitude and shouting. On the rare occasion, you’d leave your teammates in the dust, slamming a door behind yourself in order to punctuate the fact that you did not want to talk about what was going on with you.
Your teammates were becoming desperate, beginning to corner you in places other than the pitch or the dressing room. Just four nights ago, Leah and Lia had shown up outside your house, knocking on your door and calling for you to open up. You’d managed to convince the two older girls that you weren’t home, as the lights were off and everything was locked up.
The day after, Katie, Beth, and Viv had asked you to come out to lunch with them after training had finished up early. You’d brushed off their offer by saying that you had errands and house chores to complete. Something in their eyes told you that they didn’t believe your meager excuses, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to actually care.
-----
"You don't believe in curfew, so you're staying out past 12
You know you really done it this time, you're too into yourself,"
-----
Kim had called your phone just the night prior, although her calls had gone unanswered by you. You’d declined each one with a scoff and a shake of your head. Finally, you’d set your phone to the side and had gone to shut it off for the night. However, you got a text from your friends’ group chat about going out that night, something which your troubled mind couldn’t deny.
You appreciate your teammates, and love them like family. However, you couldn’t help but become quickly irritated by their attempts to get you to talk to them.
Nothing was going on. You were fine, there was nothing to worry about. If you admitted that there was an issue, then you were afraid that what little control you felt you had on your life would slip from your quaking fingers.
Before you left, you took a pill from your bottle, which was beginning to grow close to empty. You didn’t care at the moment, however, happy to ignore everything in favor of going out and pretending like you were someone that you weren’t. Worry free, happy.
It was four in the morning by the time you’d stumbled back into your apartment. You were high, mostly, buzzing and numb and floaty and free.
Everything came crashing down as soon as you managed to open the door to your apartment.
-----
"You've got pictures of your parents, they don't occupy your shelf
You don't know what you're doing, but you're puttin' them through hell,"
-----
It had taken a concerned phone call from your parents to Alessia just an hour before you left that had confirmed her worst fears. You’d shunned your parents, and had been ignoring their calls.
You’d taken their pictures off of your walls, because when you felt like you were disappointing them and you couldn’t bear to look at them, even if they were just framed pictures.
Your parents, after waiting a week, had called Alessia. They held the same fears that Alessia had had, afraid that you’d fallen back into your old patterns. Your parents had exchanged their notes with Alessia, and Alessia realized that she needed to step in, and fast.
She’d called Kim, who in turn had called you. When she hadn’t gotten an answer, she and Leah, as well as Alessia and Lotte, had gone to your house together to see if you were there.
You weren’t, and you continued to ignore their frantic calls. Alessia had half the mind to call the police, but Kim had decided that they would sit and wait in your apartment for you to come back before they jumped to conclusions or did anything drastic such as that.
-----
"That's the card you wanna throw, you really, ought to know
There are things in life that you can change, some you can control
Like an addiction to nicotine or an addiction to coke
Some of which are in your realm, the others have you in a choke,"
-----
And so they waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until, finally, they’d heard the click of your key scraping against your door. Alessia swore she could hear her heart pumping harshly in her own chest as they continued to wait.
The four women could hear the way you stumbled outside. You cursed, once and then twice, before you managed to get your key into the hole and properly turn it.
Alessia would never forget the haunted look on your face as you stepped into your apartment to see them. It, of course, took you a moment to react as your actions and reactions were slowed with whatever you had taken.
“To what… Do I owe the pleasure?” Your voice was slurred, and it was obvious that you were out of it. It took a moment for you to set down your things, and Kim was quick to help you set your things down before she was leading you over to the couch. The other girls sat around you, all in various states of mind.
The truth was– there were things which fell under your control, and things that didn’t. Those things had once been clear cut, but now you felt like everything was crumbling beneath you no matter how hard you tried to hold onto them.
You were sobering up, a glass of water in a shaking hand. As your mind cleared, dazed and arrogant and startled and frightened and so many other emotions which always accompanied the end of your high, you realized that your closely held secret had finally been figured out.
You wanted to scream and shout, to lock your teammates out again. You wanted to push them away, physically and mentally, and never allow them to see you like this again. You felt naked beneath their gazes, unable to look any of them in the eyes as your head hung down on your chest. Your breaths were staggered, unsettled, conveying your nerves and disappointment in a way that your words could not.
-----
"Hold (hold) on to me
Flora I (I) haven't felt you in weeks,"
-----
To everyone’s surprise, it was Alessia who spoke first.
“Hey Bug, are you…” Alessia hesitated, unable to figure out a way to phrase her words and soften them as not to startle you any further. Instead, she moved from her space on the floor and into the space next to you. You were cold, and so you allowed her to push her arm around you. “Are you using… again?”
Maybe it was Alessia’s words, or perhaps it was the feel of a soft touch against your skin. No matter, you seemed to shatter before their very eyes. Your shoulders seemed to crumple as you leaned further into Alessia and let out another sob, a tear sliding from the very corner of your left eye before slipping down your pale cheek and off your chin.
Then, the dam broke and you let out another sob, and another. Each one caused your shoulders to shake and your chest to shudder, your breaths uneven and shaky. You weren’t quite sure what to do, or what was going on, but Alessia’s hands around your shoulders pulled you further into her, comforting you with words uttered softly into your hair.
“It’ll be okay, Bug. We’ve got you, we’ve all got you. You’re okay.” Alessia murmured, like a mantra. Someone was moving behind you, and you weren’t sure who it was but they managed to wrap their arms around your other side as you were cushioned between their bodies.
You felt safer than you had in months, and with that came the feeling that you could finally, finally let go and just feel and fall and trust that someone would catch you.
And so you did.
-----
"Lost all motivation when old Danny moved away
You thought that you can never live up to standards that he made,"
-----
They let you cry, comforting you with their words and touches which allowed you to know that they were there.
“Please, please don’t let go.” You’d nearly begged, and Alessia had tugged you in harder, allowing you to bury your face into her chest and sob. She held on tightly, as if you’d disappear if she let go– perhaps you would, with how pale and sickly you appeared in her arms. She tried to forget that, just for the moment, as she tried to comfort you.
You didn’t know it, but Alessia had been in pain just as you had. She’d noticed, but had been too afraid to voice her worries in case she’d been wrong. She knew that that was foolish, now, and she was cursing herself over and over again in her head for allowing you to get this bad again.
She felt like, through her silence, she’d purchased a front row seat to your demise. Her grip tightened on your body impossibly further, so much so that she almost worried that she may be hurting you, but you simply clung to the other girl like she was your lifeline.
Finally, when you’d cried more tears than you had thought that you could give, you sat back against the cushions of your couch. The material felt scratchy against your skin and you shivered, which Leah seemed to mistake for you being cold as she got up and grabbed a blanket from the chair she sat on. She came over, draping it across your shoulders and patting you softly before sitting back down again.
Lotte was on your other side, one of her arms still around you and stroking at the skin of your shoulder. You knew what came next, and you were still mentally trying to wrap your head around the fact that your teammates knew.
The last time you’d struggled, you hadn’t even been aware that you’d had an addiction until someone had thrown the rock hard facts down in front of your face.
Now, however, you were more than aware of it– you knew you had a problem, but you felt powerless to stop it. You felt like, once you’d moved away from your parents, you’d lost the majority of the support you’d had with them.
Your awareness had somehow just made everything worse, the fact that you knew that you needed to stop but were unable to. You’d felt weak, useless, less than nothing in the face of something you’d long since beaten and returned to. You wanted, oh so badly, to stop using but you couldn’t– the numbness was too appetizing to your abused mind, and your strength and self control waned with every day that passed.
Sure, your teammates stepped in and made you feel like you were a part of a larger family. Still, it wasn’t the same.
-----
"Well, guess what? You'll never live unless, you learn to be okay
The fact that time is fleeting and legs aren't long enough to chase,"
-----
You explained everything that night to your four attentive teammates. By the end of it, you’d thought that they would shun you.
In fact, you’d half expected Kim to make a call to Jonas and tell him that he should kick you off the team.
You’d never expected all of them to embrace you together, like one big family group hug. Kim had told you that she would help you, that they would all be there for you. She’d explained that others who had come before you had struggled with mental health and addiction as well, and that they’d gotten the help that they’d needed through the Arsenal team and therapists.
You’d felt weak, and it was Leah who told you that you weren’t. She’d pressed a kiss against your forehead before explaining that they’d all struggled, and that they’d all needed help.
“The bravest people are the ones who seek help when they need it,” Leah had said, arms on your shoulders as her blue eyes bore into your own. “I needed help with my ACL, did that make me weak? Kim has needed help with her injuries, and she’s strong. Alessia needed therapy for her mental health, do you think she’s weak? We’ve all struggled. We’ve all needed help, and we’ve all supported each other and accepted that. You need help, and we’ll help you, but you need to accept that and accept that you need help, or all of this will be for nothing.”
“I need help, I think.” You’d whispered in response. Your voice was hoarse, bare before the women before you. You felt weak, but only because you were exhausted– physically, spiritually… emotionally. You wondered, briefly, if you’d ever be okay again.
The hands around you, the eyes on you, the people who cared so, so, so much about you knew that you would be.
Even still, your recovery was not without its hard moments.
However, your teammates were there for you every step of the way.
They were there when you were shaking and crying, with a headache rocking your world and making you feel as though your head would split open from your withdrawals.
They held you tight as you shattered, helping to piece you back together and listening to what you needed.
They were there when you were allowed back into practice, giggling and joking as you once had been. There was color to your skin and light in your eyes once more, and that was enough to set a fire in everyone’s bellies. You were going to be okay.
They were there, even still, when you finally, finally scored your first goal in over a year.
You slotted the ball into the left corner and watched the net shudder as the ball connected with it. You were spinning in place, eyes wide and mouth open as Alessia’s arms flew up as if she were an airplane.
Katie McCabe was sprinting at you from across the field, and Leah and Kim were patting you on the back and shouting in excitement as those on the field came to embrace you. Briefly, you were lifted up by a very, very passionate Irish woman before being set down.
You felt like your heart had been lifted, too, even more so as you scored a hattrick in that game.
Two years ago, you’d felt like everything was useless, and you’d become your biggest rival. Finally, you’d bested yourself.
Finally, you were free.
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There’s A Girl In My Tub [Part Two]
story summary: Your best friend lets you crash at her place over the spring break since you have nowhere else to go. Little did you know that it isn't actually her place. Instead, it belongs to a tall (grumpy) hot guy who finds you in his apartment–her brother.
chapter summary: Kento walks in on a woman he doesn't know neck-deep in his bath. What is he meant to do now?
pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader
warnings: reader described as having hair that can be put in a ponytail, SFW
Part One | Series Masterlist | Part Three
The mistake was clear from the second he lunged inside the bathroom. Where he had presumed to find his younger sister submerged in his tub, sat a woman he did not know splashing and spluttering from both the shock of being jump scared and the bubbles that shot up your nose.
Kento wasn’t sure what his predominant emotion was, whether it be complete mortification for interrupting someone bathing or indignant anger at the complete stranger using his apartment like some kind of luxury hotel.
“Who the fuck are you?” The stranger half yelled, half spluttered.
Realisation dawned on him like icy dread spider walking up his spine. What had meant to be a practical joke was no longer looking so funny.
“You’re not Karin…” He said matter-of-factly.
At this point, he was simply stating the obvious. What he found interesting was the comprehension that he could see illuminated in your eyes. You might not be Karin, but you knew who she was. The connection between the two of you was what he needed to establish next, or well… after he found out your name.
“I’m Nanami Kento, and you’re in my bath. Who are you?”
His eyebrow cocked in a mixture of continued annoyance and the first hint of curiosity. Given that you were familiar with his sister meant you weren’t some crazy intruder, not that he thought that in the first place given your luggage in his room and the fact that you couldn’t have gained access without a keycard and code.
You offered your name in no more than a timid squeak, and he didn’t recognise it. He huffed a tired exhale and turned towards the door to give you a modicum of privacy. His mouth opened to speak, but you beat him to the punch, silencing him effectively with your more confident tone.
“Look, can we not hash this out whilst I am naked in your bath? Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you in the living area,” you enthused, hands gesticulating wildly. It sent a flurry of bubbles into the air which Kento watched before giving a curt nod of agreement and stalking out without uttering another word.
He needed a drink in the worst possible way, even if it was only early afternoon. It was going to be entirely necessary to indulge in his top-shelf liquor to help with his current predicament.
Once more, he glanced at the haphazardly packed case open on his bed. This time studying the contents a little more closely. Perhaps he should have considered doing this earlier, as one glance was enough to confirm that even the style of clothing was so unlike his sister, not to mention the stuffed animal, which he guessed resembled a bunny rabbit despite its ragged appearance. Karin hadn’t been one for stuffed toys, preferring dolls and the pretty furniture to fill ornate dollhouses growing up.
Speaking of his dearly beloved sibling, Kento fished his phone from his pocket as he made his way back to the kitchen. He cradled it between his ear and shoulder whilst selecting a crystal tumbler and a bottle of scotch. The ringing went to voicemail. Of course, it did.
“Karin, call me. I don’t appreciate surprises, and you owe me an explanation.” He kept it short and sweet, his specialty. He pushed the phone across the kitchen island and turned to lean his back against the pantry door.
What the hell was going on? He mused silently, swirling the dark amber contents of his glass before bringing it to his lips and swallowing a healthy mouthful. The liquor coated his teeth and burned his throat as it slid into his mostly empty stomach.
Everything had happened in such a rush that he couldn’t even picture your face as he waited. He hadn’t thought to get a good look at you, not when the circumstances were so intimate–vulnerable even. Not for the first time today, his palm scrubbed down his face. What must you think of him? You were this–he floundered for a moment in thinking of how to accurately describe you–young woman, naked and trapped in a room with one exit. An exit that he had blocked with his body.
He groaned, pressing the cool crystal tumbler to his temple and rolling it across his forehead. This was exactly the type of situation you saw in horror movies, except he wasn’t some crazed killer on the hunt for young virgins or any young women for that matter, but he would understand if you were fearful of him. It would only be logical.
As if summoned by thought alone, the soft pad of your socks alerted Kento that you had finished with the bath. He glanced sideways, eyeing the simple black leggings and an oversized sweater emblazoned with the logo of Karin’s college, and some pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place.
Your hair was mostly dry except for the ends that had been splashed by the unexpected dunking they had received, the strands tied loosely into a ponytail that softened the stern expression plastered across your features.
Standing with the kitchen island between you as if it afforded you some semblance of protection, Kento tried not to smile when you folded your arms across your chest and tilted your chin in his direction. The sleeves of your sweater engulfed your arms so completely that only the tips of your fingers showed. He admired your courage in the face of a stranger, a male one at that, and one that could likely impose his height and weight against you if he so inclined. Sure, he admired it, but it was also incredibly dumb.
“Did you enjoy your soak?” He asked, taking another sip of scotch to hide the quirk of his lips.
Your eyes narrowed. Damn, he hadn’t felt amusement like this in the longest time. Some would claim that he didn’t have a funny bone in his body, but they were wrong. Kento simply didn’t entertain cheap humour, and this situation was far from bargain basement.
“I was. That is until this massive oaf leapt inside screaming like a maniac and scaring the life out of me.”
That was enough to wipe the smile from his face. Kento straightened and set his tumbler down. He ran a hand through his hair and endeavoured to end this charade right here and now. To hell with the fact that you amused him, he didn’t know you from Adam.
“How do you know Karin? And I am not an oaf, for the record,” he added with what sounded even to him as a touch of petulance.
You rolled your eyes. “She’s my friend, maybe even best friend, actually. We go to the same college, different majors though. How do you know her? Are you her dad or something?”
It was Kento’s turn to narrow his eyes. He could see it for what it was, a direct jab at him, but you didn’t truly believe he could possibly be her father, or at least he hoped not!
You picked at your nails whilst the silence lingered on. He debated whether to rise above your petty attempts at riling him, but something stopped him. Kento was the level-headed one, always reasonable, however, something about you crept beneath his skin.
“Can’t be that much of a best friend if you don’t even know that she has a brother… that would be me, by the way. Hi. I’m the brother, and this is my apartment. I do hope this is some kind of elaborate joke.”
Sure enough, his aim was true. Your face crumpled at the truth he laid out so cruelly. Instead of feeling some sense of triumph for gaining the upper hand, he resigned to the guilt settling heavily in his chest. He almost rubbed at his heart but stopped at the last second.
Why did he care? That’s what he really wanted to know. Yes, you were cute. He was a man after all, he could appreciate your soft feminine features, but he was hardly known as a man who sought out the company of the opposite sex often.
Kento pinched the bridge of the nose. It was upsetting to watch you fold in upon yourself like this, your shoulders hunched inward and your head bowed low. He cared, and that was surprising. He wished for that spark of confidence to ignite again, longing to kick himself for being the one to douse it in the first place.
“I’m… I’m sorry. That was cruel of me, but you did call me her dad!” He tried to rationalise his outburst, and he was glad when your head snapped up to scrutinise him. “We’ve started on the wrong foot. Can you blame me for acting a little irrational? I’ve never found an intruder in my home before, let alone a naked one in my bath. Why are you here?”
Without a word, you stretched out a hand for his near-empty glass, swallowing down the remnants in one gulp. You hissed through your teeth, dancing on the spot whilst the potent alcohol slid into your belly to warm you. Kento cocked his eyebrow but chose to remain silent.
He had so many questions. Why you were here in his home was curiously not at the top of the pile, but it seemed inappropriate to be querying your age and probing your interests at this point in the conversation. Not to mention, you were his sister’s friend, nothing more.
Nothing more, Kento.
“Well, your darling sister told me this was her place, and that it was empty right now. Clearly, neither part was true, and I will be taking that up with her as soon as she answers her damn phone!”
“Hm, so Karin is avoiding your calls too. Curious.”
You blew out a long breath, the strands of hair framing your face dancing around and… Kento glanced away, refusing to acknowledge the desire to fix them behind your ear.
“Aren’t you on spring break? Why aren’t you shacked up in some overly loud and raucous resort? I’m certain that’s where Karin will be right about now.” Kento rolled his eyes at even thinking about it. He well remembered his years in college and how he loathed this time of year. It was his idea of hell.
Scrunching your nose in distaste, you walked around the edge of the kitchen island and hopped up to sit yourself closer to him. Again, he cursed your trust. He could be lying to you. He could have nefarious intent. So why did it make him want to protect you all the more?
“No thanks. I’d rather catch up on some classes and prepare for the new semester, but…” You trailed off, eyes lowering to your fingers which continued to fidget incessantly–an annoying habit he noted.
“But what?” Kento got the sense that he wasn’t going to like your answer much. He braced for it, both palms flush on the marble countertop and coaxing you into maintaining his steady eye contact.
“I don’t have anywhere else I can go. My parents are renovating, and I can’t afford to rent a place for two weeks, at least not somewhere actually habitable.”
Kento froze as the weight of your words washed over him. There was a chance that Karin was truly being a good friend since she had been aware of the business trip he was meant to be on right now. It would be so like her to help out a friend in need.
Was he meant to toss you out on your ass? He was within his rights, of course, but could his conscience allow it? It was obvious you weren’t lying or exaggerating to gain his favour, you looked just as uncomfortable telling him the truth as he did hearing it. This whole situation was a mess, and he didn’t see a clear way out of it.
Well, shit…
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SOAKED | jake sully x reader [mini series pt. 4]
only warning for u alien fuckers: it’s a bit filthy. mentally prepare yourself ig. TWO HANDS ON THE PHONE PEOPLE
You're sharpening your knife as you sit in the designated spot for your next lesson. You're dreading it, if you're honest with yourself. You have so many emotions bottled up, just waiting to explode and Jake's probably going to be the victim of it. The weather is a bit on the cold side, giving you gentle shivers and making goosebumps rise on your arms. Your stomach is full with a weird feeling, anticipation almost.
Jake's husked voice startles you, "Looks alright."
You sigh quietly. Speak of the devil. You don't look at him when he walks over to you, sits down beside you with his big body as he bends a leg up, leaning his arm over his knee. "It's tricky because you really gotta flick it at the tip," he ghosts a finger along the edge of your knife. "So that it's real sharp."
You flick it hard as he says, but he shakes his head, moving behind you. "Real tight grip here," he closes his hand over yours on the handle, shaking it a bit for exaggeration. You can feel the warm air of his breath, dipping down your neck and it's taunting you. "And— give me your other hand."
You don't give it to him. There's a second of silence before he takes your hand for himself, enveloping it with his own hand before he's lining it up at the thick girth of the knife's base, and striking it up, a nice shing sound coming out of it. He does it a few more times before he's letting your hands go, watching you do it by yourself.
"That's good. Keep it tight." His words of praise shamefully give you a rise, a cool shrivel slivering down your chest. You swear he's doing it on purpose, you swear.
While you flick at your knife with the silver sharpening tool, you look to the side, not directly looking at him but it's enough to grab his attention to your face. "Remember that hexapede I killed?" He hums in a curious tone, and you take it as a response to speak further. "Well, I tried looking for it, but it wasn't there. Some other animal must've snatched it up."
"Nah, I carried it back to the village," he announces.
"Right. When you left me?" you ask, tugging a sharper strike to your knife than the other strikes. Jake notices it. His jaw tenses, blinking to you with his eyes boring holes into your form.
"When I left you." He swallows, "Listen, I wanna apologise—"
"Oh, you want to apologise, Jake?" you laugh sarcastically, venom dripping from your words.
His jaw tenses, "I didn't want to leave you."
You snap your head back, a glare stung into your eyes. "But you did."
"You're making it out like it's a bad thing that I did."
You laugh dryly, chucking your knife onto the ground as you stand up. He immediately stands up with you, glowering over you. "You know that it is."
"Don't tell me what I know and don't know, girl." Jake warns, nose twitching. "I helped you, and then left. That simple."
"You can't tell me that you weren't just fucking me to help me. That's not how it works and if you say otherwise, you're lying," you snarl.
He's quiet for a second, searching back and forth between your eyes with his chest rising with a long breath in, "I don't—"
You give him a harsh shove to the chest, hissing out a groan of anger. His eyes blow out wide, then they relax into a dangerous squint. Your eyes widen. He reaches for you and grabs firmly at your wrist, his fingers clutched tight around your bone and your arm twitches with the sudden spring of pain. You attempt to slip your wrist out of his grasp, and when it doesn't work and he doesn't budge, you claw at his jaw recklessly. It's successful and he lets go of your wrist with a grunt.
He grabs your hair, fisting his fingers through your scalp before yanking it back. You swing your leg and kick him in the stomach, sending him back as you zoom past him.
He acts quick and grabs your tail, tugging you back towards him and for the millionth time this week, presses you against him. You stamp on his foot, digging your nails into the skin of his arm and he cries out, a half-hiss and half-groan. He flips you, finds the tree right beside you and pushes you flat against it. He takes both of your wrists into his hands as he shakes them angrily. You scramble and squirm in his grip. "I'll tell you what I know, girl, and you'll fucking listen."
You whine out a hiss, heart beating against your rib cage like it's about to pop out and splatter across the ground. He hisses back, edged fangs spiking out from his mouth and it makes your skin crawl in either a bad or a good way, you're not entirely sure.
"I know that you're the most beautiful person I've ever fuckin’ seen," he pants. "You don't know what you do to me, huh? Just your giggle makes my stomach drop. It annoys the shit out of me how you've got me drawn to you, it's damn stupid. I don't know what to do with myself anymore."
You try to wiggle your wrists out from his grip, but it proves to be helpless, a smug look flickering in his eyes that makes you want to clock him straight in the face. Jake picks your joined wrists up off the tree and slams them back onto the wood for a hard warning. "You— you think you're confused?" you sneer between huffed breaths. "Mr. I'mfuckingyoutohelpyouconcentratenotbecauseIwantto. Like that doesn't fuck with my feelings! By the way— it didn't help me focus, just like the last time, what a surprise."
His lips split into a snarl, an annoyed flick of his tail as he glares you down, his chest grumbling with a deep growl. You return him with the same feverous eyes, chest strong and upheld with no sense of backing down.
Then you catch it. The weakness of only a man; the millisecond of a pair of eyes dropped down to your heaving lips. Your eyelashes flutter, a new tension rushing in like a thick cloud of smoke. Your heads jut forward at the same time, teeth clashing in a rushed, wanted motion morphed into a messy kiss.
But it's different this time. It feels different, different than the first kiss he gave you the first time you were pushed up against a tree. You can't pinpoint it, but it's just different.
He lets your wrists go, grip fading to a none until your arms are flopping around his shoulders. His tongue slips with ease into the cavern of your mouth, as he uses a hand to cup the part of your neck just below your ear, bring your face even closer to his. You let your head tilt, allowing him a wider opening to your mouth that he groans lowly in thanks to.
He skims past your loincloth, palming your hot cunt and grinding the hard edge of his palm directly onto your clit. "This give you déjà vu from last time?"
You groan, back arching towards his head. "Shut up and put your fingers in me," you whine.
"I remember leaving with the biggest fuckin' boner. Seein' you all whiney and shit and like putty in my hands," he claims, seeming like he can just feel the pain from remembrance. "Good thing you can fix it for me this time."
He says this as he leisurely slides two fingers into your cunt, and you suck in a tight breath, the thick girth of them lengthening you out. "And just like that, sucking me allll the way in," he whispers in astonishment, just like the last time.
"Will you just shut up?" you groan, wheezing out a groan when his fingers curl into your walls. He strokes them in and out of you, slowly and steadily. He presses loosely at your clit, gentle circles on the sensitive bud.
Then he suddenly pulls his two fingers out, staring at the thin strings of your juices that stick to his finger pads, "Wet enough."
He kneels to the ground in a rush, taking you with him as he fumbles to untie your top. You drag your hands along his skin, touching every patch of hard bone and toned muscle you can manage. You're both kneeling in front of each other, grabbing at any clothing that gets in the way of each other's fingers. He pushes you back with a hand, laying you out in the grass as he scoops his hand down to your pussy, runs a thumb over your clit. Jake leans down, grabbing at the bone of your hips and jutting you closer to him.
Jake cooly wraps a hand around his cock, sighs as he starts to stroke the length in slow movements. He reaches out from behind him, and your stomach drops. He presents his tsaheylu to you with a sense of shyness, his head tilted down. You look between him and the glowy, spiky end of his platt.
Your silence speaks volumes to him, and just before he's going to say something to rub it off as a joke, you're reaching from behind you as well, body squirming in anticipation as you air your tsaheylu next to his. They twitch and fizzle, swaying so close and it's just that tiny bit of space that needs to be filled.
He looks to you, eyes softening in one last ask and you give him a reassuring, hasty nod. He readjusts his grip on his platt, leaning his tsaheylu just a little closer and they connect. A surge of electricity bolts through your body, biting in a gasp as your skin jitters. You feel it, you feel him, understand him. Understand everything.
Jake's blinking rapidly, as he leans over you just to nuzzle his face into your neck, his hot pants of breath pressing into your skin. He slurs over his words, "Oh my... fffuck, s' good, you're so good."
"Jake," you warn, voice wavering as you tremble underneath his warm body. "Need you ins— inside me. Right now, Jake, please."
He teases his cock at your entrance, letting out a shaky breath at your warm wetness trickling down his tip. You gasp when he slips it in with one thrust, bottoming out perfectly as he sits in snug. He breathes out a quiet laugh, "You're so... fuck, girl. So warm and— and ni—hice."
You dig your nails into his back, tail curling around his thigh. You feel everything he feels, connecting with him at such a level that all you can do is hold onto him, just needing to feel him, to hold him and kiss him and fuck him and do everything as long as it's him. You can only rasp one word out. "Jake."
He snaps his hips into you, starts at a pace that's brutal and uncalculated. His cock pushes into your tightness with ease, like it was made for him. You pull him in with each thrust he gives you, welcoming him in to the warmth of your femininity, your body that he's claimed as his.
Your pussy flutters around his girth with every single groan he lets slip from his throat, voice cracked and husky from the euphoria he's coated with. He lands a kiss to your neck, suckling at the skin before biting down, a sting that zips through your body all the way down to your cunt. You squeal, back snapping into an arch and he scoops an arm around it, giving him a better grip on your body to deepen his thrusts, to strive further up into your pussy.
He desperately grabs at your thighs, swings them up and over his shoulders as your feet dangle in the air. It opens up a whole new angle, and you scream out, his dick hitting steeper and stronger inside of you. Your hair is tangled from the ground, the skin of your back grinding against the dirt of it.
At the new found angle, he groans, head leaning up a little as his eyelids close halfway, his eyes bruised in a haze. He's completely lost in the way you squeeze around him, the way his cock feels sliding into your tight body. It's like a drug. A new found addiction.
"Shut up, hah— jus' fuck me," you babble, a moan ripping out of your chest when his hips thrust a sudden jolt into your pussy, brushing over your cervix.
"How funny," he pants out, smirking like a goddamn idiot and you frown.
"What?" you question, a quick moan breaking from you when a random wave of heat splashes through your stomach.
"Bet Selkath wishes he was wearing this necklace." He rasps, letting a harsh laugh fall from his mouth as he reaches up a hand and tugs on your ankles wrapped right around neck.
You make a weak hiss, turning into a groan when he lifts his body higher, angles his cock deeper up into your cunt. "If you don't shut up, maybe I'll let him."
Jake growls, eyes flicking wild, turning a dark and dangerous hue that you can tell is whipped with a color of jealousy, even betrayal. "You won't even be able to feel him graze your pussy once I'm done with you."
You feel a purr erupt from your chest, your inner woman squealing in delight because yes, she screams, he must breed you until all you can feel his body and only his and nothing else.
He brushes a hand over your cheek, face distorted in complete bliss and he stares deep into your face, tail swishing at the way your mouth agapes. His hands slip to your waist, thumbs digging into your stomach and he uses it as a leverage to bring you back harder onto his dick, lifting you up until you're practically leaning on his body to stay off the ground. He bends you to his will like you're a rubber band, like a toy.
"So warm," he coos, and you whine, digging your head into the grass laying beneath it. You don't want him saying that, don't want him climbing his stupid fingers into your heart and taking it any more than he already has. The feminine instinct fixed in the depths of you screams mate, mate, mate. Big, protective mate that needs to pound you into oblivion or you'll lose your mind. That along with the anger that burns inside you, like a match that's been lit way too many times and is about to snap underneath the pressure of his hands.
"Jake, just shut up," you snap, sentence ending on a hasty push when he smashes his lips onto yours, exploring your mouth with the thick flat of his tongue. He kisses you with a fever, an aching want with a grunt falling from his lips and straight onto the slick of your tongue. Jake crawls a hand up your body and to your head, fingers threading through your hair and he turns your head forcefully, allowing him to deepen the kiss and wrap his tongue tighter along yours.
"God, you're just fucking beautiful," he grunts, slapping your hips. "With this pretty fucking pussy, s' good for me and your little noises and— ssshhit, my girl. S' made for me, you're made for me."
My girl. It makes your stomach spin, makes you clench around his cock driving in and out of you and he groans, "You liked that, huh? My girl?"
You feel his pace inch a slower, and you're confused. His hand scrapes to one of your hands, slipping through the gaps of your fingers and he conjoins them together, pressing deep against the ground. His mouth breaks from yours, deep, panting breaths shaking out from his chest as he leans down to ravage your neck, licking and sucking at your skin like it's a ripe fruit.
You recognise the speed of his thrusts. Slow but strong, like he's trying to memorise each drag of his cock squeezing into your pussy, each squelch and pull of your walls gushing around his length. The rock of his hips is sweet, an act of something you can only describe as passion. You scratch out a whine. You squirm from underneath him, attempting to buck yourself up into him to speed it up, make him nail so hard into you that you see stars. But it doesn't work. He stays the same warm speed, slow rocks into your pussy as he lowly sighs with every calming push.
"No," you whimper, voice lower than a whisper, so quiet it could count as another breath. You huff out an angered patch of air out through your nose. You use both hands and push him, and he doesn't expect it because he tumbles back, flipping onto his back and hitting the trunk of the tree with a big thump. You ignore the cold air pushing on your wet cunt, the sudden loss of his cock deep inside of you making you shudder.
You crawl onto him, eyes wide with hunger and from what he can see, anger. Your tail flicks as you palm his shoulders, knees on each side of his legs as you air just above his dick. You grip at his tsaheylo and conjoin it to yours again, a flush rushing through you both. You catch the way his eyes flatten against his head for a second at your determined, heated gaze, now realising the rage you held. A woman who's not satisfied with her mate's fucking, there's nothing scarier. Especially after everything he's teased her for, everything he's done to her for the past week.
"Baby, you ain't gonna last two rocks with those little hips." Jake mutters, emphasising the words two rocks as he places his hands comfortable on your hips. You don't reply, instead lowering your body and inch by inch, sinking down onto his cock. He lengthens you up, and you feel so full and nice that you let out a sigh that screams finally, all the while hearing Jake take the biggest breath you've ever heard him take.
You're not wasting time as you start grinding against him, ears twitching, head falling back in utter bliss. Jake slips out a quiet laugh, and it sounds nervous. He watches as your breasts shift with each sway of your hips, and his cock twitches inside of you at the obscure scene. It's perfect, so, so perfect with the way his cock drags through you. But you need more.
You begin lifting yourself up, rocking right back down onto him, the motion of riding coming into play little by little. Jake's breath hitches, his hands twitching at your hips. Your cunt pulses around him, puffy folds tugging his dick so perfectly. He lets his head slump against the tree, the rise of his chest speeding up.
You lean forward, a sudden desperation taking over you, the anger flickering in your abdomen crackling to a fire. You grab at his hair, press your cheek against the top of his head as your hips move in an up and down circular motion. Jake chokes out a grunt, springing forward to kiss at your chest, shoving his face into your breasts as his tongue lolls out along your bare skin.
He pants, messy kisses along your chest as his mouth fans out hot breaths. "My g—"
"Shut. Up." You pull on his hair, forcing his head further back and moaning as you stride your body, moving his cock in so deep, then moving it just about out before you rock it back in. You shift a hand to grip at the tree for better stability, rising up before gravity whips you back down onto his dick. A whine leaves his lips, a literal whine. It's so, so quiet, but you hear it, and he knows it. He can tell by the way your ears flutter at his head. You puff out a laugh that's hilted with breath.
He leaves deep kisses along your chest, kissing at the plush fat of your tits and decorating the map of your torso with dark marks and tiny red hickeys. His tongue finds your nipple, swirling it around the hard bud and you move your hips faster, huffing out a moan as sweat beads neat at your forehead. The blunt of his nails dig deep into the skin of your hips, and starts to move your hips with his grip, sharpening your strokes into his dick and you hum an appreciated sigh.
You've left him stunned for words, mouth hung open as you grind your cunt deep along his cock, riding him like he's a goddamn stallion. You wrap your fingers around his leathered choker, leaning your head back and pulling him rough into an even rougher kiss. You can feel him pant into the kiss, his silent groans pressing on your tongue. His lips are wet and messed with saliva from previous times, all the while making them softer and easier to run your tongue over.
A broken moan escapes his mouth, muffled by your lips engulfed in his but it only whips the fire tangled inside your tummy, makes your body swing harder along his. You give him a sloppy kiss on the corner of his lips, before nibbling at the bottom centre of it, "Who's whining now?"
His hips jerk up into yours, a stutter of a motion and you can feel the vibration, the angry rumble of his chest and it only encourages you further to drive your hips harder. "Still you," he bites, but his pinched expression melts into a blissful one when you raise your waist higher, slamming back down onto him in one quick motion.
Anger fuels through your bones, all the way down your body to your toes that dig into the ground, dirt blotched on them from the constant movement and curl of them. Jake snaps his hips up into your sopping sex, gaining a low groan through his chest as he digs his messy head of hair into the tree against him.
Your body burns and shakes with every stride of your hips, sliding his cock into you with reckless rhythm. You're shivering with hot emotion, a blurred mixture of adore and vexation, and Jake can feel every single drop of it. You feel him shift underneath you, eyes squinting and his tail whacking the tree accidentally with a swift brush. He mumbles your name, the hoarse gruff of his voice sending a shivered bolt down your spine.
You already know he's preparing some rushed apology, some kind of reason as to why he's been throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes lately but you don't want to hear it. All your body and your being screams at you is to ride his cock and make him spill into you. Mark him as yours.
You want the release, can feel it burning up inside you and splintering at your fingertips, ready to explode into flames. Except this time it isn't him giving it to you, you're giving it to yourself, circling your hips around his cock like it's the last thing you're going to do.
And by Eywa, does Jake fucking love it. He's too focused in the way your perfect little cunt drives him, slipping his cock into your body like it's a piece of cake. He's entranced by the way your hips dance, the perky little bone of them sticking out against your skin each time you lean forward into his stomach. He's getting fucked dumb, and he can't even bring himself to give a shit. Never in his life has he ever met a girl that could ride like you. No, never in his life has a ever met a girl like you. And he doesn't think he ever will, not that he wants or needs to now. Your body is just too sickly sweet, and everything in his body screams at him to just keep his cock glued into you, fill you with his cum until all you can feel is it.
You feel it coming, feel the same mountain morphing as it soars above you. You use your hand to lean at his head, using it as your advantage to ride him rougher, dragging his cock firmer into your cunt. He lets you, now fucking up into you with matched energy and you're bouncing from the capacity. Sweat is slick on your skin, mending with his own and you just need to feel him, touch the soft skin he owns as you bounce on his length. Apparently Jake feels the same, as he pinches and grabs at any part of your body he can reach, mouth touching where his hands can't.
He drags out your name, desperation covering the word and filling in the air after with throaty groans. “Let me come in you, sweetheart. Come on, please. Need to, darlin’ please, need—“
“Yes,” you squeal, scratching at his skin while jutting your hips against him violently. “Pleasepleaseplease,” you beg, crave covering your voice in a high-pitched whine.
Then it hits you, like a bomb setting off, the fire in your belly exploding into millions of little red embers. The mountain erupts like a volcano, and you can feel every little piece cracking down into the ground and out your body. Jake yells out, croaking out a loud grunt as he spills into you, coating your walls with his sticky load. Your head’s spinning, eyes seeing a splash of colors and all you can do is rock in his arms, as you attempt to catch your running breath.
You’re trembling, quaking even as you lay still, Jake’s cock sitting limp in your body. The only thing you can focus on is your conjoined breaths, everything else seeming to hard to even look at. You don’t even realise you’re crying until the tears sink to your neck, and the sound of your quiet sniffles.
You don’t know how long it’s been until Jake begins to shift, and you pull enough strength to lean back. He looks to you, his face set into a hue of content, a small smug smile pulling at his lips. He reaches out to your face, wipes the tears on your face with his thumb lazily. “Holy shit,” he chuckles.
You let out a needed, soft laugh, and his smile widens at the noise of it, tail whisking up at your reaction. He pulls in a breath, chest rising up as he takes both his arms and cups your face. You lean into his warm touch, slumping your forehead against his.
“I see you,” he whispers gently, curling a few fingers around your neck.
“I see you.” You whisper back, mouth cracking into a giddy smile. And when you look into his eyes, you recognise the emotion behind them within a second; love.
wow. biggest chapter out of all of them and i can’t decide whether i like it or not
BIG SHOUTOUT TO @slxttedjakesullyenthusiast who helped me make this filthy fucking piece of whatever it is and if u don’t go follow her im kicking you in the pussy don’t test me
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Seeking Forgiveness [Part Eight]
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6.4k
[Summary and Series Masterlist]
Warnings/tags: 18+ contains angst, emotional hurt, delayed comfort, pregnant Reader, mentions/fear of miscarriage
a/n: It's been awhile since this fic finally had an update, but here y'all go! Make sure you heed the added warning for this chapter--mentions/fear of miscarriage will be found in this update. Feedback is always appreciated!
Holding the soft cotton baby pajamas up in front of yourself, a faint smile ghosted over your lips. Unconsciously your left hand dropped down, landing on the swell of your growing bump as your eyes traced the cute pattern of white bunnies prancing around the yellow fabric.
As you stood there staring at the pajamas in your hand, you could see a picture beginning to clearly form in your mind. A little baby with a dusting of dark hair like Matt’s was cradled in your arms, wearing this onesie. A clearly exhausted Matt shuffled his way into the bedroom, heading over towards you with a prepared bottle in his hand, his eyes half-lidded. His tee-shirt was wrinkled and stained with a bit of old spit up near the collar, but he clearly hadn't bothered to change. The only thing he seemed concerned about was his daughter in your arms.
When he reached the pair of you, he extended his arms out to take her from you, eager to feed her. You passed her gently off to him, watching as he held her so carefully in his arms, pulling her in towards his chest like she was the most fragile thing on Earth. And then he'd lean down towards where she was cradled in the crook of his arm, talking in hushed tones with a broad smile on his face as tiny fingers reached up, brushing along the stubble of his jaw while he spoke.
An expression full of warmth and love broke out across Matt's face, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he gazed down at the little baby in his arms hungrily drinking down the formula from the bottle with happy, soft little squeaks and grunts. That glimmer of love in his eyes only grew more as he glanced back up at you, a smile full of joy and pride stretched wide across his mouth despite the fact that it was three in the morning.
“I cannot believe you're having a girl!”
The sound of Marci’s excited voice had the mental image quickly fading from your mind. Tongue feeling suddenly thick in your mouth, you blinked back the tears threatening to spill forth as that smile on Matt's face vanished from your mind completely.
It had been a beautiful image while you'd imagined it, at least.
Clearing your throat, you set the pajamas back onto the display table. Your gaze lowered to your bump, your hand affectionately running across it.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Finding out I'm having a girl definitely made this feel even more real than it already had been.”
“Are you going to tell Matt?” Karen asked from behind the display table, her blonde brows high on her forehead. “That you found out you're having a girl?”
You nodded, your attention returning to the little yellow onesie you'd set back down. Running your fingers across the fabric, an ache hit you hard in the chest. You did your best to ignore it.
“I am, yeah,” you replied, glancing back up at her. “But I just found out this morning and I…don't exactly know how to tell him, you know? We've exchanged a few texts since he stopped by the other week and dropped off that pregnancy pillow and weighted blanket, but things are still a little odd between us. And I feel like this is news you share with the father in person, not in a text.”
“So you've been talking?” Marci asked curiously.
You watched as she pulled a tiny hanger from the rack she was looking at, lifting up a small green dress and showing it to Karen. The pair audibly cooed at the little outfit.
“A little,” you admitted to her. “It's hard for me to talk on the phone with him because hearing his voice is just…hard. It makes me wish things were like they were before.” The smile on your face faltered as you stepped away from the table, glancing at the vastly overpriced baby outfits on another nearby rack. “I admitted to him that phone calls are still a bit much for me, so he's been texting instead. Even though I know how irritating the speech to text feature on his phone is to him. So I get it. He is trying.”
“Certainly hasn't bailed yet,” Marci muttered, hanging the dress back on the rack. “Which I'm honestly proud of him for.”
You caught the pointed look Karen sent you and you sighed, aware of what that look meant.
“Yeah, I've noticed,” you confessed. “I see he's trying to be present. I see how emotional he gets at the thought of not actually actively raising this child. But here's the thing,” you continued, both women now focused on you. “I'm bringing a baby into this world, right? I'm not adopting a puppy. We're talking about a little human. Someone who's going to be shaped by their parents and how they're brought up and raised. Someone who is completely dependent on us to take care of them for years . And meanwhile, Matt does…well–” you waved a hand in front of yourself, “– that in the evenings. I think it's only realistic that I'm concerned about how serious he is when it comes to actually being there for the both of us after how he wasn't there for me the one time I needed him. I need to know I can actually count on him, especially when things get difficult. Or exhausting. Or if there's an emergency. The city can’t always come first, even if I admire him for what he does.”
“But he is trying to show you that,” Karen pointed out gently. “He messed up and he knows that. Believe me, he does. And while I completely understand your side, it's not like Matt isn't trying to earn your forgiveness and prove all of that to you, too. But it's sort of dependent on you giving him a chance to show you that.”
Running a hand across your forehead, you nodded. “I know,” you told her softly. “I know. Which is why I've been trying to give him that chance. It's probably better that I do before the baby comes when emotions will be even higher and things will be more complicated.”
Eyes dropping down to your feet, you nervously chewed your lip. You’d been leaning towards giving him that chance he’d so desperately and repeatedly been begging you for ever since he’d last stopped by, especially after seeing how much the thought of not being an active parent to his child really upset him. But that didn’t mean you weren’t still scared to give him that chance. To open up and let him back in knowing he could hurt more than just you this time.
“It’s just hard to willingly let him back in after what happened. After how he'd hurt me. Because I’m honestly afraid of getting hurt again,” you confessed. “And not just me, but I’m scared of his daughter getting hurt. Of him not being there for her like she’s going to need him to be.”
“You know, I’m surprising myself by saying this,” Marci chimed in, “but I agree with Karen. At first, after hearing the news that you were pregnant, I absolutely could not picture Matt wanting to be a present father with how much he does, well, you-know-what at night. But with how much he’s been over at our place talking to Foggy and I the past few weeks?” She shook her head, tsk’ing lightly. “Let’s just say I fear for the man, woman, or child that dares to say a single mean word to his daughter. I mean that man is fiercely protective over the both of you. I don’t think you have to worry about him not being there when either of you need him.”
Something warm slowly filled you at Marci’s words. Something like a tiny spark of hope. You hadn’t known he’d been going over to their place and saying these things, worrying about the pair of you so much. Granted, you hadn’t spoken to him much in months now so you didn't really know what he'd been up to lately.
“Really?” you asked her, the threat of tears returning for a different reason.
Both Karen and Marci nodded their heads firmly, your eyes jumping between the two. That spark of hope burned a little hotter in your chest.
“He’s still in love with you,” Karen told you before pointing a finger at your belly. “And I can assure you, he loves that baby just as much as he loves you already.”
Crouched on the corner of a six-story apartment building’s roof, Matt’s head dipped and turned as he tried to remain focused on a conversation occurring in a nearby warehouse. He was doing his best to block out all the other distractions around him–like the sounds of car horns and the traffic below, sirens screeching in the distance as an ambulance made its way to the hospital, or the various arguments coming from inside the building he was perched atop.
Something was happening tonight in his city. He could feel it.
But as he tried to follow the conversation occurring half a block over, another noise abruptly broke through his carefully crafted concentration. Matt's gloved hands gripped the edge of the roof at the sound of it, his head instantly darting over his shoulder as the noise quickly overtook the sound of everything else.
Truthfully, he’d been attempting not to eavesdrop on you lately, trying to respect your wishes when he was out at night. Honestly he had been, too, especially since you’d actually been talking to him again, letting him in a little more even if it was only through texts here and there over this past week. He hadn't wanted to risk ruining the progress he'd suddenly made with you by trying to push your boundaries any further.
But he absolutely couldn’t ignore the sound of distress coming from you in your apartment just a block behind him.
You were crying. But not just crying in the usual way someone would if they were sad–something mournful and soft. No, it was a heart wrenching sound. Despairing. Painful. A noise that felt like an ice cold hand had gripped his own heart in his chest and squeezed .
Something was wrong.
A pained noise came from Matt as he rose to his feet, instinctively turning in the direction of your apartment. One booted foot took a step in your direction before he immediately halted in place. Gritting his teeth, his mind raced with a myriad of thoughts.
There was definitely a shipment of drugs being moved around in Hell’s Kitchen tonight, he’d absolutely learned that much from the conversation he’d been eavesdropping on. He had been on the cusp of uncovering where it was currently being held. All he needed was a location and he could alert the authorities to handle the rest. The streets of his city would once again be marginally safer because of him if he did.
And you had already repeatedly asked him to stop appearing at your apartment as Daredevil and invading your privacy. If he showed up now, that would surely appear to you like he wasn’t respecting your clear boundaries. Which he knew wasn’t remotely true, but would you understand if he explained that he was just too in tune with you to not subconsciously pick up on a sound of distress like that coming from you ? That he couldn't exactly control his senses picking up on it?
Matt’s gloved hand ran across his mouth in frustration, his eyes snapping shut behind his mask. He was torn.
Did he force himself to ignore your cries in order to not possibly upset you further? To keep respecting your boundaries and to leave you alone like you’d repeatedly asked him to? Which would in turn allow him to attempt to focus on finding that drug shipment tonight instead, something he'd been determined to do. Or did he go to you?
Teeth still grinding back and forth, Matt fought to decide on the right course of action. But at the sound of a particularly heart-wrenching wail coming from your apartment combined with something like the noise of you falling down, his eyes snapped back open and he made up his mind. He didn't care if you threw things at him and yelled him off your fire escape when he showed up. There was absolutely no way in hell he was going to ignore whatever was happening in your apartment. Even if it meant he’d have to show up at your front door and beg you to forgive him on his goddamn knees for the next several months. He needed to make sure you and the baby were alright.
Taking off at a sprint, Matt darted across the roof he was on and headed straight in the direction of your distress. He barely registered much else in the city as he flung himself over rooftop after rooftop, the sound of his own panicked heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. He was focused solely on you and the continued sobbing in your apartment, trying his best to keep his mind from racing to a number of terrible reasons as to why you might’ve been this upset.
By the time he’d made it onto your building’s rooftop, he quickly dropped down two floors until he landed with a solid thud on your fire escape. He heard your terrified intake of breath from inside your apartment, the sound of your head swiftly turning in the direction of where he was outside your window. He felt bad for startling you as he reached a hand out, knocking on the glass.
He expected you to start shouting. To tell him to go away. To tell him that he was an asshole who couldn’t respect your privacy. That you didn’t want to speak to him anymore because of it. Maybe to throw something at the window even.
What he did not expect was the way you softly sobbed out his name in a way that sounded almost like relief. Or the way your hands had clawed at the couch cushion beside you as you pulled yourself up to your feet, rushing over to the window as more fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.
When you opened the window, the sharp, heavy scent of fear met his nose. The acrid tang was strong in your apartment, almost overpowering the salty taste of your tears in the air. And the sound of your racing and erratic heartbeat was roaring loud in his ears, mingling with the still frantic beating of his own heart. He could barely focus on much else as his own fear levels began to rapidly rise.
And then you surprised him yet again.
Your hands reached out through your window, grabbing desperately onto his shoulders and practically pulling him inside of your apartment. Speechless and concerned, he allowed you to drag him through the opening, moving as fast as he could to get to you. Though the way you whispered his name again as he climbed inside your apartment had his heart constricting in his chest.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he whispered. “What happened?”
He'd barely had a chance to stand upright before your hands on his shoulders yanked him towards yourself. Your arms snaked around his neck, drawing him into a tight embrace as you buried your face right into the armor of his suit as more tears began falling down your cheeks. A strangled sob left your mouth, the heartbreaking sound partially muffled against his body.
Matt didn't hesitate. He wrapped his own arms around your waist and wrenched you in tight to the front of himself. His eyes closed as he buried his face into your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of you. Desperately he wished you were holding him like this under different circumstances because he'd missed you these past few months.
But something was wrong and he needed to focus on that right now.
“Sweetheart, you're scaring me,” he whispered, tears burning at his own eyes behind the mask. “What's got you so upset? Did something happen?”
You murmured something unintelligible against his chest, the words too muffled and disjointed for him to understand.
“What?” he asked.
You pulled away from him, sounding as if you'd turned your head to look up at him as he reluctantly unburied his face from your hair. A large sniffle came from you before you answered him, this time more clearly despite the tremor in your voice.
“There was blood.”
It took Matt a moment to register what you'd said and what you meant. But when he did, he felt something ice cold flood his veins.
“I woke up a bit ago and needed to go to the bathroom. Like usual,” you explained softly. “And then I noticed that I–I was bleeding.” You sniffled again, your voice quivering more noticeably as you continued. “And it scared me. Because I'm terrified that–that something is wrong. With the baby.”
Matt's stomach dropped as you buried your face back against him. His gloved hands gripped your back tighter as he tried to remain calm and process what you'd said.
“Was it a lot of blood?” he asked nervously.
You shook your head against him. “No. Not a lot. Just enough to notice it.”
“Okay, well that's good at least,” he said, running a soothing hand along your back as he tried to keep himself calm. “You're around twelve weeks now, right? It's not entirely abnormal for some bleeding to occur. I don't hear any cramping occurring and–” his head turned, his eyes narrowing as he focused hard to hear the baby's heartbeat over the panicked noises of your own body, “–the baby still seems to have a steady heartbeat in there. Which is–is good. From what I remember reading, that's a good sign that nothing is wrong. It's the first thing a doctor would check for to make sure the baby isn't in any danger. But if you continue bleeding we can certainly get you to a hospital, sweetheart.”
You drew your face partially out his chest, sniffling loudly yet again as Matt continued to stroke your back. It sounded like you had looked up at him, your tears gradually slowing. He focused back down on you, one hand leaving your back to gently brush some hair away from your damp cheeks.
“How do you know all that?” you whispered.
He shrugged a shoulder lightly, his hand still gingerly removing the damp strands of hair from your face that were stuck by tears. “I spend my free time reading up on pregnancy-related things,” he admitted softly. “So that I can maybe help if you need me. In situations like this.”
He heard the faint surprised intake of breath you'd taken at his answer, so quiet you probably hadn't even realized you'd made the sound. He felt your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, holding him close as you buried your face back against his chest. Despite how good it felt to have you back in his arms, Matt focused his senses back onto your body, doing his best to concentrate on the baby for a minute in the silence that filled your apartment.
“I'm not a doctor,” he murmured, still listening, “but nothing sounds different than what I've usually heard. I don't notice any more bleeding, and the lack of cramping is a good sign. Baby's heartbeat seems to be really strong.”
Matt cleared his throat, turning his attention back on you. Your body had calmed in his presence–something that made him feel good but he was afraid to overthink about the why . Though your body still sounded panicked and stressed, something that concerned him.
“Maybe it's best if you take a seat and try to relax,” he suggested gently. “The stress probably isn't good for you or the baby. Let's just focus on calming down now, okay?”
“Right,” you said, the air shifting around you as you nodded against him. “You're right. It was just a little blood so I'm–I’m probably overreacting.”
“You're not overreacting,” he told you, guiding you carefully back to the couch and settling the pair of you down into the cushions. “You were scared. It's understandable.”
Matt sat down on the couch beside you, surprised once more when you scooted closer to him. He reached a hand up, removing the cowl from his head with one hand while running his other through his unkempt hair.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered.
Matt's hand froze in his hair, his attention swiftly focusing on you. “Sorry for what, sweetheart?” he asked.
“For probably scaring the shit out of you tonight,” you replied. “I'm guessing that's why you showed up, right? You heard me freaking out?”
Matt smiled sheepishly back at you, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I wasn't trying to listen in to your apartment, but you sounded so upset that I couldn't help but overhear you when I was out. I was afraid you'd be upset with me showing up though, because I know you’ve wanted me to stay away, but I couldn't just ignore you like this. I had to make sure everything was alright.”
He heard you sniffling again, your hands wiping at your eyes. Carefully he slid his arm around your shoulders, moving slowly in case he was crossing a boundary and you wanted to tell him to stop. But instead you moved even closer to him, eliminating the space between both of your bodies as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. A small smile slipped onto Matt's face, his own head carefully lowering to rest atop yours.
“Thank you for coming to check up on me,” you whispered. “I feel better with you here.”
Matt's heart thudded hard in his chest, that cold feeling of dread finally melting straight out of him as he held you against his side. You actually wanted him here. You were comforted by his presence, not upset by it. After the months apart from you which had felt like torture, hearing that had felt far too good.
“I'll always be here when you need me,” he assured you quietly. He hesitated a moment before softly adding, “Though I certainly wish I could be here the times you don't necessarily need me, too.”
He felt your head turn along his shoulder as you settled even more comfortably into the side of him. Your body was relaxing further now that the pair of you had sat down. But Matt could hear just how tired you really were from the sounds of your body and he figured the scare you’d just had hadn’t helped.
“I know,” you replied softly. “Maybe we should have a talk about that. About things between us.”
Hope fluttered in his chest at your words, excitement flooding through him at what that talk might mean. He absolutely wanted to be back in your life far more than he currently was, but he knew right now wasn't the time for that discussion, not after what had just happened and considering how exhausted you sounded to his ears.
“Maybe I can take you for coffee this weekend and we can discuss things,” he said, hoping he didn't sound as over-eager as he felt. “Tonight let's just focus on making sure you and baby are both okay.”
Your head shifted along his shoulder and Matt could feel the way your eyes were on him now. Then he felt the sudden nervous energy that washed over you just before you'd opened and closed your mouth a couple of times. Clearly you wanted to say something but didn't seem to know how. He sat there quiet and patient beside you, wondering what you were struggling to get out.
“This is probably not fair of me to ask considering our…situation,” you eventually began, your nerves apparent to him in your tone, “but could you maybe please stay here with me tonight? In case something does happen?”
That hope in Matt's chest grew further at your question, his body feeling like it could float up through the ceiling right now if he wasn’t more focused on the feel of you at his side. He made you feel safe. Even after how awful he'd been to you and how that had led to the break up, you still wanted him here. To protect both of you. Maybe he hadn't messed things up entirely beyond repair like he’d been worried about for weeks. Maybe he could fix things.
Maybe you could actually want him in both of your lives again.
“I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't ask,” you began in a rush when he hadn’t answered. “If it's too much to ask, I completely understand. I just don’t really want to be alone and–”
“I'll stay,” he assured you, his hand reassuringly squeezing your shoulder. “I told you, I'll always be here when you need me. I want to stay and make sure you're both safe.”
He heard you release the quietest sigh of relief, your body once again relaxing into his side. In the silence that followed, he also swore he heard a smile draw itself across your lips with how close he was listening to you, the muscles ever so minutely shifting along your face.
“You know how I mentioned that blood test?” you asked, breaking the silence a minute later. “The one where I could find out baby's sex and whether we're having a boy or a girl?”
Of course he knew exactly which blood test you were talking about. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it all week. He figured with what you’d told him about how long it took to hear back from your OB that you already had the results by now. It had been a struggle for him not to text or call you all week to ask you what you’d found out instead of focusing on his work that week. He’d been so eager for the news.
“Yes,” he answered. “I remember you telling me about it.”
“Well, I got the results yesterday morning,” you said slowly. “Did you…want to know what they were?”
It took everything inside of Matt to not blurt the ‘yes’ he gave you too fast. Though he’d grabbed your shoulder tighter in his grip, struggling to contain his excitement in anticipation of the news.
“We’re having a girl,” you told him.
Matt’s eyes snapped shut, a large smile spreading wide across his face. A girl. You were both having a little girl. A little version of you running around. Maybe she’d grow to have the same laugh as you, the same laugh he missed hearing in his apartment ever since you’d left.
“I can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m sure she’ll be just as perfect as you.”
You curled up further against Matt's side, something like an embarrassed scoff leaving you. But as you sat there cozied up to his side, another thought crossed Matt's mind. One he'd thought about often lately.
Nervously he chewed his lip as he focused on the sound of his daughter’s thankfully continuously steady heartbeat. Turning his head, he glanced down in your direction. He could feel the way you’d once again shifted against his shoulder, looking up to meet his eyes no doubt. There was something he’d been dying to do for weeks now, but he wasn’t sure if now was an appropriate time to ask, or if it would somehow make you uncomfortable. But he figured he’d try anyway.
“You can certainly say no,” Matt began cautiously, “and I would respect your answer completely. But…would it be alright if I could see if I could feel her moving yet? Is that too much to ask?”
You didn't answer him outright; instead he felt you reach your hands over towards him and pick up his right one. With ease you undid the straps of his glove, gently sliding it off of his hand before tossing it over onto your coffee table. Afterwards you slipped his hand up beneath your shirt, just over the slight bump his hands weren't used to feeling on you. His eyes closed again as he tried to concentrate his senses on your body in a way he'd never done before. A smile returned to his face as he felt you rest both of your hands over the top of his while he focused. He missed the simple feel of your touch.
It took Matt a few moments of concentrating before he noticed something ever so faintly shifting beneath your skin, something he’d never have been able to pick up on if it wasn’t for his senses. A soft, surprised chuckle fell out of him when he felt the faint shift again of what must’ve been a limb moving. There was no way for him to know whether it was an arm or a leg, but it was his daughter alive and well inside of you. The knowledge of that had tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
“What?” he heard you ask.
“She's moving,” he whispered in awe. “I can feel her. It's faint, probably because she's still so small, but I can–can feel her.”
Your hands tightened over the top of his, the sound of your heart fluttering catching Matt's attention as he continued to focus on the baby growing inside of you. He wasn’t sure if your reaction was from the tear that had suddenly slipped down his cheek or something else, but it didn’t matter. Because this moment was easily one of the happiest he’d ever experienced.
With a huff you readjusted your head along your pillow, eyes opening once again in the darkness of your bedroom. You'd been having trouble falling and staying asleep tonight, too stressed about the bit of blood you'd found that had upset you earlier. Thankfully there hadn't been anymore tonight, but despite Matt's repeated reassurance, you'd felt embarrassed about getting distressed so quickly.
You'd just been so terrified waking up, still partially drowsy, to find that bit of bright red on the toilet paper when you'd gone to the bathroom. The fear that you'd somehow lost the pregnancy at the sight of it had immediately panicked you, because in these past few months you'd grown so completely attached to your little Devil. The thought of losing her–especially now knowing they in fact were a her–was too much.
Knowing Matt was out there sleeping on your couch in the living room hadn't been helping you to fall asleep, either. Not because you didn't feel safe with him here, but because it just felt wrong that he was asleep on the couch. He'd never slept anywhere else but in bed with you in the past, and honestly you couldn't imagine your couch was all that comfortable. Especially to him of all people.
And truthfully, if you were being honest with yourself, it was because you wanted him in bed next to you. Not down the hall, but right here where you could feel that he was actually with you. Where you could feel his comforting presence. Because you really did miss him.
Chewing the inside of your cheek, you tried to listen to the sounds in your apartment. For a moment you laid in bed, trying to hold your breath to see if you could tell whether Matt was asleep or not out in your living room. But as you sharply expelled the breath seconds later, the only noise you'd been able to pick up on was that of the city outside.
Another few minutes passed where you laid there contemplating whether you should just try to close your eyes and fall back asleep, or actually get out of bed and ask Matt to come join you. But you weren't sure you should even ask anymore from him tonight, considering he'd clearly been interrupted from Daredevil-ing because of you. And then he had offered to sleep on your couch afterwards when you'd asked him to stay. Asking him to then come join you in bed–while you both were still broken up–seemed like such a gray area.
But at the same time, you were carrying his child. And you'd been afraid that something serious had almost happened tonight, and clearly he'd been just as concerned. It was obvious with the panic written on his face even behind the mask when he'd initially shown up. And he'd stayed . He could have left when he realized things seemed to be okay, but he didn't. And while it was only one situation that the pair of you'd encountered, it had meant a lot to you that he hadn't just left you.
The pair of you were planning to get coffee together and talk this weekend too, so was it really all that bad to go out there and ask him to stay with you in your bed?
For a while you just continued to lay there, your mind racing back and forth trying to land on an answer. Ultimately it was the memory of Matt shedding a couple of tears from earlier tonight when he'd felt your little Devil move–something you hadn't yet even managed to experience because you were not far enough along–that had you tossing the sheets off of yourself and climbing out of bed.
Barefoot, you shuffled out of your bedroom before padding down the short hallway. When you reached the living room, you came to a stop just at the edge of the hallway, your eyes drawn to Matt. He was laying on your couch, his body curled in what looked like an uncomfortable position on the small piece of furniture. He had squashed a couch pillow up underneath his head, his eyes closed as he lay there. The plush blanket you always had on the back of your couch was draped over his lower half, but it was clearly too small to cover him fully as he lay there, his bare upper torso partially exposed.
He looked like he was asleep, probably worn out from a long day at work and a night out as Daredevil before you'd gone and interrupted it. You'd almost turned around and gone back to your room, not wanting to disturb him, but then his eyelids flew open. Almost immediately his head rose from the pillow, his gaze landing on you across the room as a look of worry crossed his face, his brows drawing together.
“Sweetheart?” he asked. “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”
Awkwardly you leant up against the wall beside you, your hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You shook your head, suddenly feeling a little nervous.
“No,” you whispered. “Nothing is wrong. I just can't really sleep. My mind is too loud.”
The worried crease between Matt's brows slowly disappeared as he pushed himself upright on the couch. The blanket that had been draped across him slid down, revealing more of his bare chest in the dark room. He'd clearly been trying to sleep in his boxers since the suit would have been too uncomfortable, and for some reason that only made you long for the comfort of his warm skin cuddled against yours in bed.
“Is there something I can do to help?” he asked.
Running a hand nervously through your hair, you tried to ignore your increasing nerves. You figured it was best to get to the point and just ask for what you wanted, leaving the decision up to Matt after that.
“Would it be too much if I asked you to stay with me?” you whispered. “Not on the couch, but actually with me? Just for tonight?”
“If that's what you want,” Matt replied. “I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I assumed you'd prefer me to stay out here, especially because I don't exactly have anything to sleep in.”
You shrugged a shoulder, glancing down at your bare feet. “That doesn't exactly bother me,” you told him, aware he could hear the truth in your answer. “I just don't want to be alone after earlier. And I'd feel a little better if you were with me.”
Matt removed the blanket from his lower half, his own bare feet landing on the floor. Rising wordlessly from the couch, you watched as he maneuvered around the coffee table like he'd done so many times in the past before he made his way to you in nothing but his boxers.
Hesitantly you reached a hand out, entwining your fingers with his when he neared. Turning in the hall, you guided him down the length of it and back to your bedroom. Matt easily followed your lead, his soft footsteps echoing yours as you led him into your room and towards the bed.
You released his hand when the pair of you reached the foot of the bed, making your way over to the side that was always yours. Matt continued on his way to the side that had always been his, his fingertips lightly dragging over the comforter as he moved.
Climbing back into your bed, you felt the mattress dip under the weight of Matt settling onto the other side. You smiled a little to yourself as you tried to get comfortable on your side, wrapping your legs around the pregnancy pillow Matt had gotten you the other week.
“Would you prefer me to stay on this side, or…?”
Matt's question hung in the bedroom, his meaning clear despite him not finishing it. Tongue darting out to wet your lips, your head turned just over your shoulder towards him as you answered.
“You don't have to tonight.”
Without waiting for further invitation, you felt Matt shift along the bed closer to you. His warm hand carefully landed on your hip, halting there for a moment as if testing your boundaries. Then very gradually his palm slid downwards until it was gently cradling your bump over your shirt. His warm body slowly sidled up to the back of yours and your eyelids lowered, your body relaxing at the safety and familiarity of him.
“Thank you for being here,” you whispered into the dark.
Matt's fingers traced a light pattern over your stomach, the gentle touch causing a warmth to linger in their wake.
“I'll always be here when you need me,” he whispered back. “From now on, I promise you that.”
The smile on your lips grew a little wider as your own hand sought out his. Your fingers entwined with his over the growing swell of your bump, like a protective barrier that the pair of you were making between the world outside and the little life growing within you. Then gradually you finally fell asleep.
Tag List: @mattmurdocksstarlight @just-going-through-the-motions @paracosmic-murdock @yeonalie @auroraslibrary @1988-fiend @will-delete-this-later-probably @two-unbeatable-beaters @danzer8705 @ragamuffin285 @callmebrooklynbabes @spookyboogyuniverse @peachy-aisha @stevenknightmarc @nerdytreeflower @fucktthisworld @remuslupinwifee @kmc1989 @thychuvaluswife @mywellspringoflife @thornbushrose @yarrystyleeza @shiorimakibawrites @marvelcinematiquniverse @vallovesthedilfs @scoliobean @this-is-music @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @swissy23 @babygorewhore @that-girl-named-alex @warsaur @lareinaisabelle @pazii @senjoritanana @mischiefmanaged71511-blog @xxdrixx @jess-rye @hannahbohen @theclassicvinyldragon @karolamurdock @theoraekenslover @mr-underhills-things @jennifer0305 @capswife @amazexng @blackhawkfanatic @ladywholikesreading @powellssaturn @sunflower-tia @indestructeible
[I have no idea why some of these tags aren't working 😭 If I misspelled something please let me know!]
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With Sweet Comes Sour
Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader
Warnings: charles just wanted a peaceful valentines, so much drama and so many emotions, lots of tears, assumption of cheating (no actual cheating), weird ass exes, all the kids are in here, a few insulting terms, alcohol and the consumption of, being drunk, slight explicit content, bar brawls, blood and bruises, google translated french.
Word Count: 3.6k
Author’s Note: okay here's another piece to the series, sorry it took me forever to get this out but I didn't have any ideas until now lol. happy early valentines!
Daddy & Me + Three Masterlist
--
The rollers stacked on her vanity as you undo the curls in her hair. Eloise was doing the final touches on her makeup as it was her first Valentines with her boyfriend, Anthony. They're going for the full cliché; movie and dinner and a stroll by the pier when they are done.
This is the first Valentine in 17 years that you and your husband have the house to yourselves. You were going to make the most of it, spending some quality alone time without your children pestering you.
You leave her to finish getting ready before going down to check on your husband. You hear the doorbell ring, and you figure it was Anthony here to pick her up so you let the boy in. Eloise comes downstairs in the meantime and you could hear her speaking to her father.
"How do I look?" She asks him; her baby pink dress sat above her knees.
The man smiles, twirling a curl that sat on her shoulder. "Très belle, ma chérie." (very beautiful, my darling.) You smiled as you watched the interaction, Anthony steps past you towards his girlfriend. He had brought her chocolates and flowers.
She kisses his cheek; young love.
He had another bouquet of flowers, Eloise sets her gifts down in the kitchen as Anthony walks to you. "For you," he hands you the roses, you smile at him.
"Thank you, sweetheart. That's very thoughtful of you," you toss a glance at your husband who definitely forgot to get you flowers.
Eloise returns a moment later, linking arms with her boyfriend. "You two be safe," Charles tells them. Anthony nods, "I'll have her back before midnight."
"Just come home safe, you're both old enough to be responsible." You say, walking them to the front door and sending them off with a wave. Your husband comes up behind you the moment the door shuts, hugging you from behind before he carries you to the couch.
"So pretty lady, what are we going to do with our empty house?" He asks, you could practically hear the mischief in his voice.
"I'm gonna order takeout and drink a whole bottle of wine," you nudged him off of you, making him groan.
Charles was hoping he'd 'get some' so to speak, seeing that the house was in fact empty and would be for hours. Eloise and Anthony wouldn't be back until after midnight, Sofia and Christopher had gone up to Marseille for the night to spend time together and Gabriel and Oliver were at some club with Georgina and Adrian for the night, so you weren't expecting anyone back anytime soon.
"This is our first valentines together, alone, in a long time," Charles tells you, watching as you sit next to him with two glasses of wine.
"I know," you tapped your glass to his gently before taking a sip.
"It's odd," he whispers into your shoulder, kissing your skin softly. You nod, "but nice. Now hurry up and pick a place, I'm starving."
"Always so charming, my love." He rolls his eyes, earning a playful nudge as he reaches for his phone. You two settled on the Italian place that Charles liked.
He put on some random movie that the two of you had started watching a few days ago and never finished. You find yourself cuddled in your husband's side, his arm wrapped around you as you two tried to figure out what was happening where you left off. Eventually, Charles gives up on the movie and focuses his attention elsewhere.
Your husband pulls you onto his lap, his hands on your hips. "What do you want?" You asked him, your own hands on his shoulders, one sliding up to the nape of his neck; his hair had been growing out, all fuzzy and tickling his skin.
"I can't give my wife some love?" He whispers into your skin, lips peppering kissing along your neck as he pulls you into him. He reached your lips, you mumbled a no before kissing him.
His hands slip under your shirt, yours tangled in his hair; you make a mental note to call your mother in law to book him a haircut.
It's like you're teenagers again, all over each other with no room to breathe.
Hands make quick work of Charles's shirt, tossing it behind you somewhere as he goes to flip the two of you over, pinning you under him just as the doorbell rings.
You can't help the giggle when your husband groans, getting up to get the door as he assumed it was the delivery man with the food.
Except he's met with an annoyed Christopher, who just rolled his eyes when he saw his father shirtless and his mother on the couch. He pushes past Charles and goes to the kitchen.
"Chris?" You called after him, seeing Sofia walk in moments later on the verge of tears and you get up, tossing Charles's shirt to him.
The brunette follows her boyfriend, not saying anything until she reaches the kitchen. There's a screaming match, the two of them switching from English to Italian and then a mix of both. Something about a restaurant and a guy or something along those lines. Sofia's holding onto Christopher's arm and he gently pulled away, walking out the front door and slamming the door shut. Charles follows behind him, probably talking him down from doing something stupid.
These damn Leclerc's and their drama.
Getting up, you walk over to Sofia and sit with her in the kitchen. "Is everything okay? We weren't expecting you two back tonight, actually, we weren't expecting you back for the entire weekend."
The girl sniffles, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "I hate him."
"Me too," you nodded, rubbing her back. "What did he do this time?"
"It wasn't even him, well I mean, it was but it was me. Actually, well.. it's complicated." She says and you raise an eyebrow, unsure as to what she meant. She speaks, explaining herself. "I bumped into an old friend, and when I say old friend, I mean an old friend. I haven't seen him in like, maybe, six years because he moved from Madrid to London. He just happened to be in Marseille with his girlfriend for Valentine's Day as well."
"Okay... I'm still waiting for what was so bad about that."
"I was waiting for Christopher to get out of the bathroom when my friend noticed me and tapped me on the shoulder. We exchanged hello and exchanged pleasantries, then he kissed my cheek on the way out. Christopher being Christopher, automatically assumes the worst."
You made a face, "so Chris got mad because.. he kissed you on the cheek? Is he dumb?"
"Exactly," she grumbled and you handed her a tissue to clean up her face. "Honestly, that's how Spanish men are, though. They're always affectionate, your father is the same way. I'm certain your friend didn't mean it in the way Christopher took it."
"Even if he did, I didn't take it that way. He has a girlfriend, and regardless, I love Christopher and I would never do that to him."
"I know you wouldn't." You gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Why don't you get something to drink? I'll go see what's going on with them outside hm?" You leave her be for the moment, letting her settle her emotions.
Charles is listening to Christopher ramble, the younger Leclerc spiralling and getting himself caught up in some nonsense lie that his brain made up.
"Christopher," you call for him, stopping him from speaking. He looks at you. "What?"
"You need to apologize to her."
He makes a face, confused as to why you're telling him to apologize when he clearly did nothing wrong, or so he thinks.
"Sofia is a sweet girl, who has no control over the actions of others, and who loves you very much despite your nonsense and your dramatic flare. So you get your ass inside and apologize to your girlfriend for ruining Valentine's day. Either you drive back to Marseille or you figure out something here, because you aren't gonna ruin today for her."
"He kissed her!" He says, flinging his arms in the air. Charles's eyes widened, "what?"
It seems Christopher had left out that detail.
"On the cheek," you clarify, "and so what if he did? You kiss Georgina on the cheek all the time and Sofia doesn't get upset. This guy was just some friend of hers, you need to get over your shit and put your ego to the side because if you don't, you'll lose her."
Christopher huffed, taking in his mother's words before turning and heading inside. You and Charles followed a moment later, hearing bits and pieces of their conversation in the kitchen but eventually, they came into the living room, holding hands.
"Dad," Christopher calls for his father, the man looks over at his son. "Can you get us a hotel room? I tried to get one but everyone says they're booked."
"I can try but why would it be different for me?" He asks, clearly confused and as clueless as the day you met him. "Because you're the prince of Monaco, Charles. Now start calling." You tell your husband, getting up to answer the door - the takeout had finally arrived.
Charles tried his best to get a hotel room for the kids, and even pulled his prince of Monaco card but despite it all, it was Valentine's Day and everywhere was booked.
Sofia decided that she wanted ice cream and Christopher, doing anything to make it up to her, agreed - ignoring the fact that he hated ice cream just for tonight. You sent them off with a wave before returning to your husband on the couch. Charles was refilling your wine glass as you took the food out of the bag.
You two had barely gotten 5 minutes into eating when the door opened and in comes Eloise with her mascara running down her face. She ran straight to her father's arms, collapsing into him.
Anthony follows behind her, the front door slamming shut as he rambles out something in French. "Ce n'est pas à quoi ça ressemblait! Ellie, tu paniques pour rien!" (This is not what it looked like! Ellie, you're freaking out for nothing!)
Eloise had returned home on Valentine's, in tears and was now holding onto her father as if he was going to disappear. The look you saw in Charles' eyes was one you thought was only held for Ferrari and all their torment but it was now directed to his best friend's son, - his baby girl's - his daughter's boyfriend.
"What's going on?" You handed Eloise a tissue, moving to sit on the arm rest of the couch, making yourself the middleman between Charles and Anthony.
The anger on your husband's face made you giggle internally, you could never take him seriously when he was upset - but you understood it. He didn't like to see his kids hurt, especially not his baby girl.
Anthony sighed, passing a hand through his dirty blonde hair; fluffy and flat, much like his father's. "My stupid ex girlfriend saw us while we were at the pier. She came to say hello and she was way too friendly with me - all over me, kissing my cheek, her hand on my chest, all in my face." He groaned, clearly disgusted by this girl.
"Why would you let her do that when you know you have a girlfriend?" Charles asks him, you could hear the roughness in his tone. Your hand gently moves to his shoulder, rubbing it softly.
You spoke next; "did she know you had a girlfriend?"
He nods, "Eloise was taking a picture of something so she was a few feet away and I guess she took it the wrong way when she saw her all over me. I was trying to get her to leave me alone but god, she's like a fucking pest - sorry," he makes a face when he realizes he swore. You wave him off before he continues. "Ellie took it the wrong way, which I understand but she won't hear me out, she thinks I'm cheating on her."
"Are you cheating on her?" Charles asks him.
"No!" You and Anthony answer at the same time; the boy trying to defend himself and you couldn't believe your husband would even ask that.
Eloise finally sits up, her father wiping her cheeks clean. Her blue eyes rimmed with red and slightly puffy from the tears and she turns to Anthony. "Va-t'en, je ne veux pas de toi ici." (go away, I don't want you here.) She tells him, voice trembling.
"Je ne pars pas, Éloïse." (I'm not leaving, Eloise.)
"Ok, je le ferai alors." (okay, i will then.) The girl gets up, walking the other way around the living room and heads up the stairs to what you could only assume was her room. Charles was just as wrapped around her finger as he was when she was born, and followed her to make sure she was alright.
These damn Leclerc's and their drama.
You rolled your eyes at your daughter's dramatics.
Yes, she was upset but Anthony had explained the whole situation in front of you, her and her father. While Anthony might look exactly like his man whore of a father, he was everything like his mother; a sweet, kind and fiercely loyal woman.
It broke your heart to see her upset but it also hurt you to see Anthony in the same state. You get up, hugging the boy as he sniffles, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand.
"She just needs some time to cool off, she's dramatic like her father." You tell him, trying to lighten the mood. You walk him to the kitchen, getting him some water.
He sat in the breakfast nook. "I swear I didn't even see her until she walked over, otherwise I would have walked the other way."
"I know babe, is this the same girl that stalked you after you broke up?"
"Yeah!" He groans, sipping his water. "She's so - ugh." He says, making you laugh. You kiss the top of his head, leaving him there for the time being as you put away what was supposed to be dinner. The food sat on the coffee table, cold and unattended.
The door opens again and you groan, praying it's not another issue but it wasn't; Sofia and Chris come stumbling in, clearly having consumed something other than ice cream.
"Mama!!" Chris grins, untangling his fingers from Sofia's as he walks over to you, kissing your cheek multiple times like he did when he was little - slobbering on your cheek as he did then too.
You laughed, smelling the booze on him. Steadying him, you held his waist. "Hi baby, you okay?"
"Soooo good," he tells you, wobbling over to Sofia, who was also drunk but more steady than your son. You watch as they go upstairs, the sound of the door opening and closing before you walk back to the kitchen.
Anthony still sat in the breakfast nook. "You want something to eat? Something else to drink?" You asked him, wiping your wet cheek off with a tissue.
It takes him a moment to respond. "You know when we were little and you'd cut the apples and make the little peanut butter sandwiches with the slices?" He asks and you nod.
"Want some?" You were already grabbing the apple, peanut butter and honey. Anthony smiles, nodding like he was a kid again.
You washed and cut the apples, spreading the peanut butter and honey on them, sandwiching them together and handing the plate to him. "Thank you," he says, sinking into his seat as he takes a bite of the familiar taste from his childhood.
"Mhm hm," you smiled, hearing the footsteps from behind you. Charles was coming down, kissing your temple as he picked up an extra piece of apple you had on the cutting board.
"Ellie just needs some time." He says, staring daggers at Anthony; if looks could kill.
You huffed, smacking the back of your husband's head. "Stop it, he feels bad enough as it is."
Another set of footsteps come from the hallway and you assume it's Christopher looking for something but then the sound of the front door slamming shut caught your attention. This house was like a free for all, everyone coming and going as they pleased - you made sure to make a mental note to see who had keys to this place.
In came Gabriel who was being held by his boyfriend, Oliver. The two of them were covered in blood and Gabriel had cuts and bruises all over his face.
"What the fuck? What happened?" You say, Charles rushing over to help Oliver sit Gabriel down on a chair.
"He's so fricking hot headed," Oliver says, holding his boyfriend up straight.
It was clear that Gabriel was beyond pissing drunk, the boy swaying unless someone was holding him. Anthony takes over for Oliver, holding Gabriel up as Oliver goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.
"What happened?" Charles asks, passing you the cloth as you wiped the blood off your son's face. "I have no clue," you tell him, being extra careful not to hurt him; not like Gabriel would feel it anyways.
Oliver comes back a moment later, setting the kit on the counter and taking back his spot next to Gabriel.
"Ellie's asking for you, man." He tells Anthony, who glances at Charles before quietly making his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Before you could even ask, Oliver starts explaining the events of the night. "We met up with Georgina and Adrian at the club. We were all a little tipsy, and Georgina was trying to get a drink at the bar. Some guy came up behind her and he was getting all handsy, trying to touch her and Adrian was in the bathroom so he didn't see it happen, but Gabriel did and he stepped in." Oliver sighs, brushing his boyfriend's hair from his face.
"Basically, Gabriel told the guy to fuck off and said if he touched Georgina again that he would break his face. The guy took that as a sign to leave and once Adrian came back, the two of them decided that they were going to go get something to eat and just spend the rest of the night at home. But Gabriel being Gabriel, our night couldn't just end there of course."
You carefully patched up Gabriel, wiping his cuts clean and putting antibacterial ointment on what needed it , making sure he didn't need stitches or anything.
"The guy came back again a few minutes later. He was super drunk, as was Gabriel and you know how Gabe can be. They started fighting and next thing you know, they're beating the shit out of each other in the middle of the fucking club."
Oliver tells you the story, causing you to roll your eyes at your son's behaviour. You're proud of him for standing up for his friend but must he always get into a fight for stupid reasons?
"I tried to stop him but I forget how strong Gabriel is sometimes." He huffed and you looked at him, seeing the blood on him. "Are you okay?" You asked, moving over to check him.
"I'm fine," Oliver smiles. "It's Gabe's." He says, gesturing to the blood on his shirt.
Charles was making up the guest room downstairs while you patched Gabriel up. In his drunken state, you all knew he wouldn't be making it up the stairs. Your husband comes back to help Oliver get Gabriel into bed and you threw out the bloody mess that had developed on the counter.
You put the plates in the sink, tossing the garbage out and headed up to check on your oldest and youngest.
There were noises coming from Christoper's room and you figured it best not to investigate further. Eloise's door was open, you knock softly and peek in when you don't get an answer. Her head resting on Anthony's chest, the two of them cuddled up and fast asleep. Switching off the light, you pulled the door shut quietly and made your way back downstairs.
As you reach the bottom step, Charles appears from around the corner. He hugs you, squeezing you tightly.
"What?" you asked him, cupping his jaw.
"Our kids are insane," he tells you, sighing. You can't help the laugh, leaning down to kiss your husband. "Those are your genes."
Charles rolls his eyes and takes your hand, pulling you behind him.
"Where are we going?" You asked, following him. He leads you to the car, opening the door for you to get in before getting in himself. It was a short drive and you two ended up on the pier, Charles parks the car and looks over at you.
"What?" You asked him again.
"Just wanted some alone time with my wife," he whispers, leaning over to kiss you. "I can't have that?"
"No," you shook your head, leaning in your seat to reach him. Charles smiles against your lips, as you melted into each other, lost in the moment.
With a soft smile and a lingering touch, you reluctantly pulled away with your cheeks as red as the first night he kissed you. "What was that for?"
"Nothing," he says, smiling. "Happy Valentine's Day babe."
"Happy Valentine's Day, my love."
--
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