#I was told this could be a print in a gallery

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

Yes I’m posting this one again, it deserves its own solo post 😌😘😘💗💗

(And cheers to new bathroom mirrors for cute photos 🥂📸)

#mine #me #I was told this could be a print in a gallery #and for that reason alone I’m giving this photo its own post #👀👀👀 #mirror selfie

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 6

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 7,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort

Part 6: “Just Casual”

A few days after the house fire that claimed the life of Paul Richardson, father of two, Chief Bobby Singer was joined in his office by Detectives Winchester and Novak, along with his resident Squad Captain and Truck Lieutenant, Benny and Dean.

“The Richardson fire has officially been determined an arson,” Bobby revealed.

“They found a time-delay incendiary device hidden in the attic. No fingerprints. But that’s not even the odd thing,” he said. “The medical examiner found a brand mark on his wrist that was inconsistent with his other burns. Which is why you’re here, I reckon.”

Bobby directed his gaze at both John and Cas, who didn’t look surprised to hear this news.

Dean raised a brow. His gaze shifted to his father, but John only met his stare for a moment before he answered Bobby’s unspoken question.

“We’ve been investigating a series of murders in the area over the past six months,” John said. “Each victim died in their home, with the same brand somewhere on their body. Typically the wrist, or the back of the neck.”

“So we officially have a serial killer turned arsonist on our hands,” Bobby concluded. His attention shifted to Benny and Dean. “Keep this close to the vest, but keep your eyes open.”

“Arsonists are hard to catch,” Dean said, looking to the detectives. “What do you know about this guy?”

Cas glanced at John. The older man could feel his stare, but had to ignore it for now.

“Not much as of yet,” John said. “Right now he’s a coil of smoke, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Our psychologist says he’s most likely a white male, statistically speaking. College educated, or at the very least intelligent, efficient, and so far, he thinks every step through. Like he said, no prints. But the brand is a message.”

“To who, and why, is what we’ve been trying to figure out,” Cas added. “We think that’s the key to pinpointing a suspect.”

“Really,” Dean said. He raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Six months, and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Dean,” John started, but the Lieutenant shook his head.

“Come on, Dad. I know you. Who is this guy?”

“Dean, this is the best I can give you right now, but believe me, we’re working on it,” John said, that tone that boded no further argument.

Bullshit, Dean wanted to shoot back. But he held his tongue for now. He knew that John wouldn’t budge. Instinct still told Dean that his father was holding something back though.

As the men filtered out of Bobby’s office, Dean held Cas back for a moment.

“Watch the old man’s back, all right,” Dean said. “He’s got a penchant for being reckless.”

Cas gave him a wry, pointed look. “I’m doing my best. Winchesters are a stubborn lot.” 

Dean smirked and walked out with him. Meg was headed inside, having just come in from an ambulance call. She smiled when she saw her boyfriend.

“Hey, lover,” she greeted. And she smacked his ass in front of God and the entire Rescue Squad, who liked to sit outside the firehouse and play cards at their table.

Ramirez and the others smirked and called out their customary whoops and cat calls. Dean smirked at the actual blushing discomfort that tightened up Cas’s face and shoulders.

“Dinner tonight at Casablanca’s, right?” Meg asked, unfazed by the catcalling peanut gallery.

“Right,” Cas said stiffly. But he still brushed her cheek with his thumb in affection. “See you later.”

“Yep,” she nodded, though she shot Dean a wry brow. “What? I stole your boyfriend. Get over it.”

She continued on her path back inside the firehouse, leaving Dean and Cas to stare after her in annoyance and begrudging fondness, respectively.

Dean turned to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck and Godspeed, my friend. That woman’s fuckin’ terrifying.” 

Cas gave him a lazy salute as he walked away. He found that John had already started up their police car. He was in the driver’s seat, as always, with a hand resting casually on the steering wheel.

Dean typically sat in much the same way. Cas thought both men were more comfortable in a car than anywhere else in life. Except, maybe, the precinct and the firehouse.

Cas slid into the passenger seat and gave his partner a knowing look.

“I still think you should tell Sam and Dean what’s really happening here,” he said.

John looked over at him with an almost unreadable expression. But they had been partners for a few years now; long enough for Cas to get a read on the older veteran.

“I understand why you want to keep them out of this, but now this guy is starting fires. Here, in Dean’s district,” Cas pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer for him if he had clearer eyes walking into the next one?”

If, God forbid, something should go wrong on the next call Dean responded to, John would never forgive himself. Both he and Cas knew this, but John never answered his partner’s question. He didn’t want his sons getting their noses in this just yet, even if it meant the worry he saw in Dean’s eyes.

So he put the car in “drive” and peeled away from the firehouse.

Trying to match your schedule with Dean’s was a challenge you two were trying to figure out. Though you’d fallen into a pattern of talking on the phone to fill the void when you two couldn’t meet.

Even after almost two more weeks and a third date, you were pleasantly surprised that you and Dean still had plenty to talk about. You told him more about your childhood with your grandparents, while he told you funny stories about him and Sam growing up with their dad, though he was often gone while working on cases.

It was family friend and Fire Chief, Bobby Singer who looked after them whenever John couldn’t, or his old partner Jody Mills, or even Ellen Harvelle, owner of the Roadhouse.

The more you learned about Dean, the more invested you became. And he listened to you when you went on tangents about new recipes you wanted to try out (as long as he got to be your official Taste Tester).

You two argued, playfully and fervently, about music. And you’d been creating a list of old shows the other hadn’t seen, but absolutely needed to.

Dean had suggested Dukes of Hazzard, for example, while you suggested Smallville. You each only agreed to put up with this list if you two watched it together. (Needless to say, there would be some marathon binge watching in your future.)

You particularly took notice though, when Dean invited you to join him at the Roadhouse to meet Cas, one of his best friends, and his girlfriend Meg. You’d invited Andréa to come along, and even Dean’s friend Benny, who she’d also been seeing ever since that night at the Roadhouse.

Apparently, the couple had their own plans.

You tried not to feel some type of way about her brush-off, but your friend had been increasingly distant since she met Benny Lafitte. However, you supposed you couldn’t judge. You hadn’t been calling her as much either, ever since you met Dean.

You knew that if you kept dating him, some adjustments would have to come in your life. You also promised yourself that you’d never be someone who forgot your friends for a man…even for a man like Dean Winchester.

Tonight, however, you’d come directly from work to meet him at the bar. It made more sense than to make him come pick you up from your house, so you sat with a ginger ale while you waited. He’d promised you via text that he was on the way, just stuck in traffic.

Okay, drive safe. 😘 Don’t speed, please.

You knew how he liked floor the Impala with that damn lead foot of his.

No promises. 🏎️

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were smiling unconsciously as you read his reply.

You were soon knocked out of your thoughts when a smooth voice said your name. You looked up and to your right, and there stood a familiar face. The man greeted you with an easy smile as he sat down next to you.

“I thought that was you,” he said. He reached out his hand and re-introduced himself. “Gordon Walker. Not sure if you remember me.”

“Oh, yes! Of course I do, Gordon,” you smiled and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. His dark eyes subtly took you in from head to toe in your skirt, heels, and blouse. “Though I’ve gotta admit, I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Ah, right,” you said. “Well—”

Before you could explain, Gordon held up a finger as he noticed your drink of choice.

“Oh, wait a sec. Let me get you something stronger than soda,” he said. He started to flag down Jo, but you shook your head and made a cutting motion with your hand.

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” you said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“What?” Gordon asked.

It was getting busy in the bar, making it loud enough that you could understand why he hadn’t heard you. You leaned over towards his ear.

“I’m good for now, thanks,” you said, raising your voice a bit. Gordon leaned in even closer and chanced resting a hand above your knee.

“You sure?” he asked. He gave you a smile that was all smooth sex appeal and confidence, without being arrogant.

It was undoubtedly attractive, but you were more shocked than charmed in your blush. You instinctively leaned back when you felt his hand on your thigh. Your hand clenched on the counter.

While your brain scrambled to figure out a response that would successfully remove it (without snapping rudely like you were itching to), a hand slipped along your lower back.

You jolted a bit in your seat with a flare of unease, until you turned your head and found Dean.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, and dropped a kiss at your hairline. He also clapped a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder and squeezed. The other man graciously got the hint and leaned back, withdrawing his hand from your thigh.

“Hi,” you said, finally able to breathe a bit easier. You gave Dean a smile, and he returned it.

He looked over at his friend with a sharper smile. “Hey, Gord. How’s your night goin’?”

“Good.” Gordon nodded, now with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Though I’m sure your night’s gonna go better.”

You weren’t sure how to take that remark, considering the way Dean reacted with a tighter expression and pursed lips. Then, they flickered at a smile.

“Well, we’re meeting up with Meg and Cas in a minute. You should join us,” Dean said. Even though his tone wasn’t so very inviting. The two men seemed to have a wordless conversation between the lines that you couldn’t decipher.

Gordon shook his head, but raised his drink. “No worries, you guys hang. I’m leaving in a few.”

“All right. Let us know if you change your mind,” Dean said. He thumped Gordon once more on the back, more friendly this time.

Dean’s other hand slipped around your waist. He tapped you on the side.

“Come on, I’ve got us a table. It’s quieter,” he said.

You nodded and slid out of your seat. You offered Gordon a polite smile, even if you’d rather not.

“Have a good night,” you said.

The other man’s smile was less flirtatious and more polite this time as well.

“You too,” he said. 

Dean helped you onto your feet, like the gentleman he was, and he continued to lead you away from the bar with a hand on the small of your back. You instinctively pressed against his side to squeeze past the throng of patrons.

When you reached a high-top table in the corner, he pulled out your chair and held your hand as you climbed up in your skirt. You thanked him with a more genuine smile. Though once he was seated next to you, you leaned towards him and laid a hand on his arm, which rested on the table.

“I tried to tell him I was waiting for you. He took me by surprise,” you whispered.

Dean’s brows rose, but his face soon evened out with a smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry about it. He didn’t know about us,” he said. “He was shootin’ his shot…a bit aggressively. Sorry about that.”

“Oh…it’s okay. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” you replied. Though butterflies ran through your belly when you considered what us meant.

You noted his frown at what you’d said though, and so you aimed to change the subject.

“But Cas and Meg know, right?” you asked.

Dean nodded. His frown started to lift. “Yeah. Cas is one of my best friends. Meg is…well. She’s the little sister I wish I didn’t have.”

You shook your head in amusement. Then you let out a squeal as Dean hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and brought you closer. He stopped you from becoming too unbalanced by wrapping an arm around your waist. You clenched your hands into the open panels of his plaid shirt, and his charming smile greeted you.

“Hi,” he said.

You laughed. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”

“Well, I’m doing it right this time,” he said. And he dipped down for a lingering kiss.

Across the bar was Jo Harvelle, doing her job behind the counter. She poured five shots in succession and doled them out to a party of frat bros without even looking.

Her eyes were drawn to the back corner of the bar, where you and Dean sat closely together, exchanging whispers and the occasional steamy kiss.

“Mind your business,” came Ellen’s whisper in her ear.

Jo whipped her head to glare softly at her mother, but she saw Ellen’s point. It was both obvious and pathetic of her to stare.

Despite the unease making her feel a bit sick to her stomach, Jo went over to Gordon down at the end. His sympathetic smile bothered her; she knew then she hadn’t just been caught by her mother.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“What?” Jo said. She began wiping down his area of the counter. “Would it kill you to keep it in the glass?”

Gordon gave her an amused look as he sat back in his seat. His tumbler of whiskey was drained.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he said.

Both of them knew he wasn’t apologizing for the spill.

Jo’s brows knitted together, mostly in annoyance. “Again, for what?”

“I know it’s gotta be hard to see him actually moving on,” he replied.

Her lips pursed, and her eyes darted to the back of the room again. She stared for a moment at the side of your face.

“Knowing him, whatever it is won’t last,” she muttered.

Gordon hissed at the "burn," with a deep chuckle. She knew her words weren’t kind, but it was how she felt.

“That may be,” he allowed. “But he’s not just chasing tail anymore. That’s what scares you.” 

Gordon dropped a nice tip for her next to his glass. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left Jo with the churning in her gut.

Cas and Meg finally arrived a few minutes later.

Dean knew you’d been to the Roadhouse before, but this was different. You were meeting some of his friends, and he realized how much he wanted you to. He felt…comfortable around you. And he wanted his friends to know you, and to like you.

“As you know, Meg’s our Paramedic in Charge over at 25,” he began, gesturing at the woman as she got settled in her seat.

You admired her long brown hair, tall boots, and black leather jacket. She seemed to ooze confidence and dark charisma as she tossed you a smirk.

“Guilty,” she said.

You smiled back. Dean gestured at her boyfriend next, clad in a beige trench coat, slacks, and blazer.

“And Cas, who bravely suffers being my dad’s partner on the job.”

Cas nodded wryly at the introduction. His dark hair and blue eyes were striking, you could admit. His tie was loose and slightly rumpled. Along with the stubble coating his face, he was handsome, if a bit scruffy. It was hard for you to believe he’d earned the top scores his year in the Police Academy, but you supposed that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s that like?” you asked with a smirk. “From what I’ve heard about John Winchester, he sounds like he’s a bit of a hard-ass.”

Dean barked with a dry laugh. “An understatement.”

“He has a crab-like shell,” Cas agreed. “But he has a soft center where it counts, not unlike his sons.”

You turned to Dean with a more teasing smile. “Aww…”

He rolled his eyes, even though his arm, which had been draped across the back your chair, now dropped to curl around your waist.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Columbo,” he remarked at his blue-eyed friend.

Always had to get the last dig in, it seemed, but you couldn’t help but laugh a little along with Meg at Cas’s expense.

“You guys all seem really close,” you said. It was nice for you to see.

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal. Or rather, like it was commonplace.

“Well, maybe family ain’t just about blood,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Ugh. What a friggin’ sap.”

“You love it,” Dean grinned. She smiled, begrudgingly.

Family ain’t just about blood.

You liked that sentiment as well. It seemed to be true here. 

Even Ellen Harvelle treated Dean like a son when she came over to greet your table. She kissed his cheek and gave Meg and Cas’s shoulders a squeeze. Even you got a warm hand on your shoulder when she introduced herself.

“Welcome, hun. I understand it’s not your first time here, but if you got any questions on the menu, you let me know,” she said.

Dean shot you a conspiratorial smile, and it got you wondering what he was about to do.

“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t put the order in for chili fries the second you see me come through the door,” he teased. “Come on, Ellen. How long’ve I been coming here? Since before I had a license?”

Ellen narrowed her eyes and flicked the side of Dean’s head, regardless of his flinching protest.

“Don’t you go sayin’ that so damn loud,” she reproached. “You never drank underage at my bar.”

His eyes averted with a smile, in a way that told you Ellen was a damn liar. You bit your lip to try and hide your smile.

“Anyway, I’ll get your damn fries—”

“And a beer,” Dean interjected. She rolled her eyes.

“And a beer. Four?” she pointed at the rest of you, and you, Cas, and Meg nodded in agreement.

“All right, four beers. Anything else, darlin’?” She looked at you with a mother’s charm.

You looked up from the menu and unconsciously smiled.

“Um, sure. Can I get the chicken sandwich?”

She patted your shoulder. “You sure can.”

Ellen then took the rest of their orders without writing a thing down. You were impressed by her memory. At the end though, Dean didn’t let her go without a hand on her arm.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said with a more sincere smile.

“A-huh,” she replied, with all due sarcasm. But there was a fondness in her eyes that was hard to miss when she playfully grabbed the back of his neck. “Knucklehead.”

A giggle escaped you, and Ellen tossed you a wink before she went to put in the orders and get the drinks.

Conversation flowed easier when the alcohol came. One beer became two, and even three (four, for Meg). By then, you were sure it was one beer too many for yourself, but you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You were mostly listening to the three of them bounce back and forth between reminiscing with old stories and roasting one another mercilessly.

It was hilarious and entertaining, but you were trying not to get caught in the crosshairs of the volleying. Inevitably though, Meg’s attention turned to you with a certain sly smile.

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

You blinked in surprise.

“Meg,” Dean’s voice cut like a warning.

Your eyes widened as you took in the change, his deeper voice, his more serious gaze, versus Meg’s nonchalance. Even Cas gave her a chiding look.

“Not sure I want to know what that means,” you tried to joke.

But you could guess. It was fairly obvious.

You glanced over at Dean, whose lips pursed. Before either of you could say anything more, Meg chimed in.

“Oooh, is this gonna be your first fight?” she teased.

Dean’s brows furrowed with a glare. “That’s enough.”

“And that’s our cue,” Cas nodded. He’d already slipped out his wallet as soon as his girlfriend started talking. He left a generous few bills to cover their half of the night, plus tip, and got up out of his seat. He claimed his coat and then encouraged Meg off her chair.

“What? I’m not done with my beer,” she protested.

“I think you are,” Cas said.

Meg scoffed, but she allowed his manhandling as he wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.

“You’re not the boss of me, Clarence,” she snipped.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “But you’re a lightweight. Time to go home, before you insult the entire bar.”

“You’re no fucking fair,” she groused, hitting his chest over his jacket. Cas leveled you and Dean with a long-suffering look of apology.

Dean waved him off with a “no sweat it” look and a shake of his head. Meg annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, especially when she was drunk. He turned to you with a sigh.

“Again, sorry about that. I didn’t think I’d have to apologize for my friends more than once tonight,” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s...okay. Overall, they were really fun.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t think Cas has been called fun even once in his life.”

You smiled in amusement, but Meg’s words still swirled around in your head like heady wine.

“Dean,” you began, but your attempt to broach the issue was cut off by his cell phone ringing. He gave you an apologetic look and fished in his pocket for his phone. His brows rose when he saw the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I gotta take this,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay—” You’d barely nodded when Dean was up and out of his chair, heading out of the bar. You could still see him through one of the faded glass doors as he held the phone up to his ear.

It was late, and quieter now. A blonde server came to take your plates, and you actually remembered her.

“Oh, hi! Jo, right?” you asked. She hesitated when you spoke, but she bobbed her head.

“That’s me,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” you said with a smile. “I met your mom. She’s really nice.”

Jo uttered a wry laugh as she stacked the plates and silverware. You helped her collect the silverware and empty beer bottles.

“Yeah, when you get her good side,” she replied. 

You smirked at that, remembering how Ellen snapped back and forth with Dean. You had no doubt that woman could be a pistol if you pissed her off.

“Well, it's nice here,” you admitted, once again taking stock of the décor. The music, the warm lighting, the good food… “It’s cozy.”

Jo’s smile quirked to one side as she paused.

“Well, it’s been in my family for three generations of Harvelles,” she said. “This was my father’s favorite place in the world.”

You caught the note of melancholy in her words, in her eyes.

“Was?” you echoed. She met your gaze and nodded.

“He was a firefighter,” she said. “He died on the job.”

You dimmed considerably. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jo only nodded.

“How did he…” Your curiosity got the best of you, but you soon shook your head and backtracked. “Never mind, you don’t have to explain.”

“It was a fire that wasn’t properly vented,” Jo answered your half-spoken question. Her blue eyes were heavier. “He got caught in an updraft…but he actually worked at Firehouse 25. He was their brother. That’s why this’ll always be their place.”

You processed that with a slow nod of wonder.

“It’s good that you and your mom will always have that support,” you said eventually. “Even though…it might be hard too, to always be reminded.”

Jo’s lips quirked again. “It’s more the first one, but…sometimes the second one. A lot of these guys have known me since I had braces. It’s hard to shake that perpetual little sister thing.”

You smiled at that. “Yeah, I’d imagine that gets old real quick. A bunch of over-protective older brothers.”

“Overbearing, more like,” she scoffed. You laughed.

Unconsciously, you glanced over to the front of the bar, where you saw Dean still on the phone. You remembered the second date you were meant to have, when he was late due to a five-car pileup his team responded to.

You remembered that night he called you for the first time, after a long day he didn’t want to tell you about. He’d let you distract him instead. All the while, it had you wondering what he’d seen. What he’d responded to that day.

Had it been another car accident? A fire? What made someone as upbeat and funny and smooth as Dean seem to lose all the life in his voice?

Though while you were lost in your thoughts, Jo was watching you.

Jealousy roiled inside her, unbidden. She didn’t want to hate you, because unlike the girls Dean usually messed around with, you had some self-respect. Jo heard Meg’s snide clips at you earlier, and no one could fake the surprise in your eyes. Unless you were just that good a damn actor…

But no, she didn’t get that vibe from you.

It didn’t mean she had to like you though. 

“You’re right to think twice,” Jo said, earning your attention back with a swivel of your head. “What Meg said…she wasn’t wrong. Dean’s broken a few hearts, if you catch my drift.”

Just a few well-placed words, Jo thought. She realized then that she had the power to twist the wrench here, widening the gap between you and Dean. Feed your doubts.

She didn’t have to feel bad about it if it was the truth.

And yet…she saw the way your gaze fell. The disappointment setting in, the anxious clench of your hands on the table. You glanced over at Dean again out of the corner of your eye.

Jo realized then just what she was doing, not just to Dean, but to herself.

You’re not some petty bitch, she dully reminded herself.

“But,” she found herself adding. You raised your gaze back to her. Jo let out a subtle breath.

“It’s not always his fault,” she admitted. And maybe she was speaking a bit too much from experience. “The job demands a lot from him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You looked pensive, but not like you’d made up your mind.

Fine, Jo thought, as she collected the dishes and left your table.

She didn’t know if she wanted to sway you one way or the other on taking a chance on Dean Winchester.   

While you were talking to Jo, Dean was taking his father’s unexpected call.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” he said.

“Hey, son. How are ya?” John’s voice was gruff and tired. Dean frowned to hear it.

“I’m good. I’m out right now, but did you need something?”

“Have you responded to any fires lately?”

“You mean like the Richardson fire?” Dean asked pointedly. “No, haven’t had one since. And no cattle prod brandings either.”

“All right, good. Just checking in.”

Good? Dean thought. John would be chomping at the bit for a new arson. If he was “just checking in,” then he was worried about something. Is he worried about me?

“What’s going on? Is there something I need to know?” Dean asked in suspicion. This was why he had taken the call. “Seriously, you can tell me. I’m not even gonna bitch at you like Sam does.”

John chuckled. But then he hesitated. Dean knew he’d hit on something.

“Dad?” he pressed.

John’s sigh was a heavy one. “Okay. What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.”

Dean’s brows furrowed in trepidation. “Okay, fine. What the hell is it?”

“Richardson, the father of two?” John reminded. “He was a lawyer, linked to a money laundering scheme through a company called Stull Storage. It’s an old company, dates back to the seventies.”

“Okay…” 

As John continued to explain, the more confused Dean became… 

About 30 years ago, John Winchester had been a young, but promising officer in the Narcotics division. He’d married young, and by then was just barely clearing the five-year mark. Already he had the house he’d inherited from his wife’s parents, a four-year-old son, and a newborn.

Stull Storage’s units were used by a drug ring that John had been trying to infiltrate, undercover. Those units had stored cocaine, illegal weapons, and other flavors of contraband, mostly from South America (and back).

“We got close to breaking that case, once, but after the fire…I transferred out of Narcotics, as you know,” John said.

Dean knew the real story there. After his mom died, his father went into a spiral, trying to find whoever set that fire—even after the Fire Department found no evidence of arson. John had eventually been forced out of Narcotics. He requested Homicide.

As he’d told Dean once when he was extremely drunk: I seem to do better at my job when the bodies are already dead.

“Now I know that I was right about your mother’s death,” John said.

Dean released a shaky sigh. “Aw, man. Not this again, Dad. For Christ’s sake.”

“There was something wrong about that fire, Dean,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Dean’s objections. “I just didn’t find the connection…until now.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath. His gaze fell to the ground. Sam was usually the one who drew a hard line at hearing any more about their mom’s supposed murder, but now Dean had reached the end of his tether. It was too much.

He glanced back through the glass doors to make sure you were okay. He saw you talking to Jo, and he frowned at himself.

Here you were, waiting on him back in the bar, and his dad was calling him in the middle of the night, chasing ghosts again.

“Look…it’s been my whole damn life with this.” Dean held the phone to his ear with one hand, and rubbed at his forehead with the other. “I just can’t do this with you anymore.”    

“Dean, listen,” John urged. “You wanna know what I’m digging into, this is it. I got Mary’s file unsealed.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “What? Thought you couldn’t do that without new evidence and a court order.”

“Well, I’ve got the evidence…maybe I was a bit impatient with the court order.”

Dean rolled his eyes. His father liked to play a little fast and loose with the rules.

“At the time, the medical examiner dismissed it. She’d been burned…” John paused on a deeper breath. “But I saw it. Mary had a burn on her wrist. It was the same brand found on Richardson. On Jerry Stillwell, CPA. Amanda Waller, journalist. It’s all connected, Dean. How they’re connected to one another, I’m not sure yet. We’re still digging…but I do know this. Richardson was a message.”

Dean’s back hit the wall of the Roadhouse. His brows furrowed as he struggled to digest everything John was saying.

“A message?” he asked. “To who?”

“To me, I think. Those kids, and their mother…you got ‘em out alive, but they weren’t meant to,” John said, his voice sounding heavy. "The wife told me her husband was erratic when he got home, holding his wrist. He'd been burned before the fire. He wouldn't say what happened...then they smelled the goddamn smoke."

"Shit," Dean replied. He leaned heavily against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. There was an ache starting between his eyes.

“Yeah," John agreed. "The drug ring I was investigating, when I was in Narcotics. I was getting close. And I mean close. I was about to get the Big Kahuna. The kingpin of the whole operation…and then the house fire.”

Fuck. Dean wiped at his mouth anxiously as he realized what John was saying. Fuck.

“He burned me, Dean. He must have,” John said. Meaning, the drug lord he was trying to pin down somehow discovered his identity. “Your mom paid the price of that.”

“Who is this guy?” Dean asked. His hand holding the phone was starting to tremble.

“I still don’t know his real name. Workin’ on that one too,” John said. “But they called him Azazel.”

When Dean eventually hung up with his father and returned to you at the bar, he saw you brighten. But you soon dimmed with a tinge of worry. Something of his thoughts must’ve shown on his face.

Shit. He tried his best to school his features.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, grasping your shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

“I met you here, remember?” you asked.

Dean paused, then shook his head. Get it together, asshole.

“Right," he said. "Well, I’ll walk you to your car. Let me just pay real quick.”

After he sorted out the bill (he didn’t know that you’d slipped in an extra $30 in Cas’s stack for your part), he led you out, saying goodbye to Ellen and Jo while you went.

You hesitated when the two of you got to the car. Something wasn’t right with him. And both Jo and Meg’s words still rolled back and forth through your head.

“Dean, are you okay? Who was it on the phone?” you asked.

“I’m fine. It was just my dad, called to have me take a look at his car. We were just arguing about our schedules…I’m sure you can relate,” he replied, trying at a smile.

You weren’t sure if you believed him. Though he was nearly convincing, he was also shifting on his feet, hands in his pockets. His gaze roamed away from yours, above your head and over your shoulder.

“Um, I might’ve had a beer too many,” you said with a half-chuckle. “Could you walk with me for a bit? Just until my head clears enough to drive.”

“I could take you home,” Dean offered.

“And leave my car here?” you asked. In a public parking lot behind a bar?

You shook your head and pointed down the road.

“Just there and back…but if you need to go, I guess I could just sit in my car for a while.”

Dean shook his head with a frown. He couldn’t tell you that a damn serial killer was on the loose.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s a relatively safe neighborhood, but not so much at night. Not by yourself.”

He laid a hand on your back to start walking with you, but his hand soon fell back to his side. You glanced at him, but he looked straight ahead, unusually quiet and reserved.

It felt like he was checking out of this night with you. Like he just wanted to usher you into the car and leave. Did he just not want to deal with what Meg said?

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

Letting out a breath, you tried to see if you could broach the subject.

“It was nice to meet some more of your friends,” you said, and with a nervous laugh, “even if it did get awkward there at the end.”

Dean finally looked over at you.

“We never exactly talked about what each of us was looking for,” you said. “What we were really doing here.” 

You stood your ground, but you tried not to look censuring. Just open to whatever he might have to say. Even so, unease churned inside you.

Dean sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, she wasn’t exactly wrong about me.”

You considered that with a nod, biting the inside of your lip.

“When was the last time you were in a relationship?” you asked. Dean gave a humorless huff of a laugh. This really was the last thing he wanted to get into tonight, but he had a feeling he had no choice.

“A few months ago, for about a minute,” he said. “But uh, before then…never.”

Together, you began to cross the street while the cars on either side waited at the red light. Pedestrians had the right of way for the next 30 seconds. You looked over at him and steeled yourself.

“Dean, is this is something casual for you?”

“Define casual,” he attempted to joke (or to deflect). Though the bravado fell the moment he saw that look on your face: tight and disappointed…and hurt.  

He reached for your hand, but you weren’t having it. You slipped away from him and continued walking at a more brusque clip, even in those platform heels.  

“Okay, hold on.” He quickly followed after you and tugged you back by the hand. It had you both stopping in the middle of the crosswalk.  

Dean squeezed your hand and peered into your eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry. Don’t close up on me,” he implored. “…Please.”

Despite your better judgment, and your pursed lips, you waited. Something told you this man didn’t often say please.

“The truth is, I’m trying to do something different here with you. I don’t think we would’ve made it to date #4 if we were just casual,” he said. “I’m not playing games either.”

You wanted to trust that he was serious. Once again, your mind and your heart were at odds; the former told you to be wary, while the latter told you to trust the earnestness in his eyes.

Your heart won. “Okay, Dean.”

“Yeah?” he asked, with hopeful brows raised.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

You finally smiled. And you leaned up, resting a hand against his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His stubble was coarse, but familiar against your lips.

Dean turned his head and leaned in for a proper kiss. His hands found the curve of your waist and brought you closer against his chest. You both sunk deeper into it, your lips gliding as your head tilted into the kiss…

Until a horn honked loudly, making you both jolt at the sound.

The streetlight was green, and several cars were waiting for you to cross. You snorted in amusement, leading Dean to grin down at you. He tugged you back into step with him across the street.

Again, you hesitated at your car. Dean was more himself as he’d held your hand all the way back.

He now held your car door open while you threw in your purse. But when you turned back to him, you still saw something brooding behind his eyes.

You drew near and grasped the open edges of his shirt. This man wore a lot of plaid when he was out of uniform, always with an undershirt. Tonight it was green plaid on gray, complete with some faded jeans and a pair of boots. This was the only “casual” way in which you wanted Dean.  

“Hey,” you started.

“Hmm?” he replied, holding you by your arms.

“I get that we haven’t known each other all that long. So you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you said. “But did something happen when you stepped out? When you talked to your dad?”

Dean paused. His eyes, a pale green under the streetlamp, flicked to yours.

“I just want to know that you’re okay,” you said. “And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

After a moment to blink in surprise, your earnestness got to him. His grip moved down your arms, and he took one of your hands. His dad’s warning echoed through his mind.

What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.

Dean knew his dad didn’t make demands without a reason, even if he wasn’t typically so forthcoming with them. But Dean drew enough courage to be as honest as he could be. You deserved that much, after everything you'd put up with tonight.

“My mom died...when I was about four,” he said. “It was a house fire.”

Your eyes widened. All this time, you’d assumed his mother had passed away. You hadn’t expected that, though. You squeezed his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, and you meant it. Dean just shook his head.

“It was ruled an accident. Really they just didn’t have much evidence either way,” he continued. “But uh, my dad’s been obsessed with the idea that it wasn’t. That someone started the fire on purpose… Well, today, he might’ve found his proof.”

He held your gaze for as long as he could, but in the end, he just couldn’t. His chest was tight. Saying those words out loud made them real, and he wasn’t sure of how to handle it.  

“Oh, Dean,” you said, starting and stopping, as you struggled to formulate a response that wasn’t just “I’m sorry,” or “Are you okay?” 

He clearly wasn’t. You also didn’t want to give him platitudes like, “That’s crazy,” or the ever-inspired: “Wow.” 

Or some other variation of what you’re supposed to say. You wanted to give him something honest. Something real. 

So you curled your hands around his arms, earning his gaze.

“You must be reeling right now,” you said. “Do you think he’s onto something this time?”  

“I don’t know what to think,” said Dean. “I’ve been pressing him for answers, but…honestly? I wish he hadn’t told me a damn thing.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. You were surprised that he actually confided in you with this. But the only thing you could think to do was lean up on your toes and slip your arms around his neck. You hugged him, warm and tight. 

You couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling, but you just wanted him to know that someone was there for him. You were there for him. 

Dean eventually hugged you back. He held you, reassuring you as well as himself. He blew out a cathartic breath, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head. His lips tugged upwards.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” he said. 

A smile spread across your face. Your fingers soothed through his hair gently. You pressed your lips into his neck.

“I aim to please,” you said against his skin.

Dean smiled more fully at that. The new warmth in his chest warred against the roiling in his stomach. Despite his best efforts, his smile faded.

His mom’s killer was still out there.

The thought was haunting his mind, and he knew it probably would for many nights to come.

So for now, he’d just hold you a bit tighter.

AN: 🥲 I honestly didn't mean it to end so angsty, but Dean finally got some much-needed hurt/comfort there! What did you think of how Jo handled her jealous side? And Gordon "shooting his shot" lol.

Coming soon in Part 7, we finally get to a huge milestone between these two lovebirds, with a side helping of baking shenanigans. 😏❤️‍🔥

Next Time:

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

Keep Reading: PART 7

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb

@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @katherineann814 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

#Just Casual #Smoke Eater #Part 6 #dean winchester #Firefighter!Dean Winchester #dean winchester x reader #Dean Winchester x female reader #firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader #dean winchester x you #firefighter AU #dean winchester AU #spn #supernatural #zepskies writes

[memphisflash]

𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

Pairing: Elvis Presley x reader

Summary: It's been a year since you've seen Elvis - he hasn't called or reached out to you once, yet you still can't forget about him. Summer rolls around and you find yourself back in Vegas, picking right up where you left things with the singer that brings the heat to the desert every year, and you can't help but fall harder and deeper...

Word count: 6,7K

Warnings: basically a smut fest. reader losing her virginity, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), kissing after oral, somewhat uncomfortable first time for reader (that shit hurts, hello???), they fuck multiple times- woops.

A/N: I tried to keep it short and sweet, but anyone who knows me that's a damn joke, because I always get carried away HA. I kinda hate the ending but oh well, I had to stop somewhere. Hope y'all like it!

← part one | masterlist →

A whole year had passed since that night you shared such an intimate moment with Elvis.

He had asked for your number before the two of you said goodbye but you didn’t expect to hear from him. You didn’t, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

You didn’t want to become just another foolish girl that was completely head over heels for the singer, but you couldn’t help yourself, no matter how hard you tried.

He’d been on your mind every single day for that whole year.

You listened to his records, read everything the magazines printed about him and would even watch some of his movies to hear his voice. Your boss at the local art gallery you worked at in Tucson, your hometown, even caught you daydreaming a couple of times and snapped you out of it which was highly embarrassing.

The whole thing was embarrassing, to be quite honest.

You were in love with a man who was fawned over by thousands of girls across the globe and he most likely didn’t even remember you. After all, you hadn’t been the first girl he brought up to his suite in Vegas.

You hid those feelings well for your parents though, who thought you were just infatuated by the superstar and dealt with the amount of times you played his music through the house. Your father secretly liked it – you’d heard him sing along plenty of times when he thought no one could hear him.

But your best friend Emma knew better. She was the only one who you had told what happened between you and Elvis and like the supportive, and sometimes tad overly excited, best friend she was, she made it her own personal mission to save up for another trip to Vegas the coming summer.

You picked up a few extra shifts at your job and even babysat the children in the neighborhood and before you realised it, summer was there and you and Emma made the six hour drive to sin city.

Las Vegas was as exciting as ever. With Elvis’ residency being promoted like a summer festival, Elvis fans were everywhere – walking the strip to spot him or any of his entourage members, taking up hotel rooms in the numerous accomodations in town and shopping, dining out or seeing afternoon shows by other artists to kill time.

Vegas was thriving off of the tourists and if you could, you would want to stay here for the rest of your life. Despite your innocent nature, the sinful aspect of it all drew you in.

“What if he does recognize you…” Emma retorts to your worries as you lay side by side on a tanning bed by the pool of the International hotel. You two had booked so many months in advance that you were assured a nice room in the crowded hotel. “and asks you up to the room again. This is Vegas, baby, anything can happen!”

Emma grins widely as she looks at you over the rim of her sunglasses, wiggles her eyebrows and then laughs as she pushes them back up the bridge of her nose, reaching for her margarita. You laugh with her and sigh deeply as you watch some people in the pool splash around, chattering and hollering adding a nice atmosphere to the pool area. “Oh please, Em, I bet he won’t even recognize me. He’s been to other places for the past year and God knows what kind of girls he met.”

“You’re hotter,” Emma says matter-of-factly as she puts her drink down and lays back on the sunbed, soaking up the rays of the harsh Vegas sun.

“You haven’t even seen the other girls,” you snort softly, looking at her even though her eyes were closed behind her glasses.

“I don’t need to. I’m your best friend and I’m obligated to tell you, you’re hotter. And even if I wasn’t, I would still tell you the same thing.”

You couldn’t contain the smile on your face and let it spread across your features, playfully slapping Emma’s arm. She always knew just what to say.

Ofcourse you didn’t think you were ugly, but you would always compare yourself to other girls that seemed just a little more prettier. A little skinnier, their skin a little more flawless, their clothes a little more expensive.

Emma often talked you out of it though, because she was right when she’d tell you that wasn’t the way to live your life.

You did have to admit that your confidence had grown in the past year, even if it was just a smidge. Your boss gave you more responsibilities at work which had you come into contact with customers face to face more often, which included handsome business men and rough around the edges cowboys who came in to buy an art work.

They’d flirt with you more often than not and their blatant but sweet compliments even helped you with your blushing. In a way, you’d grown used to the men in Tucson, so hopefully you’d be the same around that one man from Memphis.

If you’d even meet him again.

“Okay, let’s say he knows who I am and he invites me up to his suite again,” you said, sounding a little more light hearted. “I think I wanna have sex with him.”

“You already did, Miss Foreplay.”

“That wasn’t.. sex!” you whisper loud enough for Emma to hear above her own laughter, gasping as you chuckled. You sat up and swung your legs over the edge of the sunbed, leaning in closer to your friend so nobody else was able to hear you. “I’m serious, Em. I want to.. I want him to.. you know.”

Emma pushed her sunglasses into her hair, turning her head to look at you. She laughed and rolled her eyes playfully. “You can say it, Y/N, it ain’t some kinda disease. You want him to pop your cherry,”

The way the word ‘cherry’ rolled off her tongue so sensually it had your cheeks heating up a little, but you quickly forced the heat back down, slapping your friend’s arm once more.

This time with a little more force, which made her pout and rub her arm.

“Don’t say it like that!”

“Fine. You want him to fuck you then.”

“Emma!”

The girl next to you laughed loudly and quickly avoided you before you could assault her poor arm again. You shook your head but laughed along with her – she was impossible at times, but you loved her like a sister.

You and Emma had tickets to several shows Elvis did at the hotel. You were staying for two whole weeks and would attend a few shows during the week, and every show during the weekend.

While getting ready for the dinner show that started at 7, the phone in your hotel room rang. The sound startled you a little, hoping it wasn’t the front desk with a noise complaint because you and Emma had been playing music while getting ready – and Emma was singing along in the shower, sounding like a dying cat.

You put your curling iron down after switching it off and ran into the room from the bathroom, picking up the phone. It was the desk clerk, telling you you had an incoming call from an individual named Jon Burrows.

You didn’t know anyone by that name, but thinking it could’ve been work related, you accepted the call.

But as soon as you heard that deep voice and that Southern drawl, you realised this wasn’t Jon Burrows.

“Hi Cherry,”

Your heartbeat started picking up, resembling something of a group of wild horses gallopping.

“Elvis?” You questioned, sounding breathless and in somewhat of disbelief.

He didn’t confirm, but you knew it was him. Especially when you heard his deep, rich sounding laugh which felt like a comfortable blanket being wrapped around you.

“Now why didn’t ya tell me you’re in Vegas, honey? I called your house and your Daddy told me you were already here, comin’ to see me..”

You looked at Emma as she wandered out of the bathroom, waving your hand like a maniac to the radio that was playing. She frowned but took the hint and switched it off, walking closer to you to silently ask who you were talking to.

“Well, I’m sorry, Elvis,” Emma immediately widened her eyes and sat down next to you, pressing her ear close to the phone. “I didn’t.. I didn’t know how to reach you..”

You mentally cursed yourself for such a lame answer, but it was the truth. You didn’t have his number, and in that whole year, he never called you.

At least, not to your knowledge.

“You comin’ to see the show? How long are ya staying?”

“Me and my friend will be here for two weeks, and yes, ofcourse we’re coming to the show. We wouldn’t want to miss it.” You made sure your voice sounded extra sweet and Emma nearly toppled over when Elvis said, “That’s my girl.”

“Don’t make any plans for after the late show tonight, honey. I want you and your friend to come to a little party, okay?”

Emma looks at you and immediately nodded yes. You agreed and after talking to Elvis for a few more minutes, he hung up to get ready for the show. You put the phone down and looked at Emma, who was staring at you with wide eyes before you two squealed like two teenagers.

“Oooh, that man wants you, believe me,” Emma smirks as she gets up and turns the radio on again, dancing happily through the room while getting ready.

As always, Elvis was amazing on stage – his moves making you feel things and his vocals were superb. He recognized you in the crowd and during the moment where he wandered through the crowd and kissed girls, he made sure to press an open mouthed kiss onto your mouth, his tongue playfully flicking against your lips.

You were already on cloud nine, fantasizing about what would happen during the rest of the night when you’d have him alone. You were praying that that party wouldn’t last very long.

It turned out the party was held in the dressing room and you nearly fainted at the sight of Cary Grant greeting Elvis when you stood next to him. They talked for a short while and you couldn’t even keep up with the conversation, so many things around you were happening.

Emma was standing across the room, talking to Charlie Hodge and by the way she was squeezing his arm and throwing her head back as she laughed, you could see they were hitting it off.

Good for her – Emma had horrible taste in men, often falling for the bad boys, but Charlie Hodge seemed like a nice man. And a funny one, because you could hear your best friend’s flirtatious laughter all across the dressing room.

Elvis and you didn’t talk much one on one, as there was always someone who came up to strike a conversation with him. But he kept his arm around your waist, because he liked knowing that you were still there, close to him.

To him, it wasn’t strange at all. He acted like you’d always been there, like you belonged to him and only him.

It sent your mind spinning, or maybe that was because of the two Cosmo’s you’d already had.

The party was nice – everyone was having fun, talking to each other, enjoying each other’s company and sipping drinks. But it was like Elvis could read your mind when he looked at you and leaned in closer.

“Let’s get outta here. I want to be alone with my sweet little cherry,”

The way he whispered in your ear nearly had your knees buckling, but instead you flashed him a smile and quickly nodded. Elvis slipped his hand into yours and as he signed to Red and Sonny he wanted to leave, the four of you moving out of the room. You exchanged one more look with Emma, who grinned widely at you and blew you a kiss, mouthing a “have fun!” to you before she disappeared out of your sight.

After walking through a few long hallways and a short ride on the service elevator, you arrived at the top floor of the International and you disappeared into the suite with Elvis.

“You know, I really missed ya, honey,” Elvis smiled at you as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close against his chest, making you stand on your tiptoes a little due to the height difference.

Again, you wanted to ask him why he hadn’t called if he missed you so much but you knew better than to ruin the moment.

You hugged him back, telling him you missed him too and in this moment, you felt like he truly cared about you.

Like you weren’t just a fan, or just another girl that would tend to his needs for the evening.

“Why don’t you go take a shower an’ we can relax, hmm?”

It could sound so innocent, but with what you had planned for tonight, you knew it was the beginning of something very sinful.

Elvis led you to the bathroom and handed you one of his silk pyjama button ups, this time in a shade of crimson red. Once again, he didn’t give you the bottom half of the set but you didn’t mind it, nor protest against it. As he left you alone to take a shower in the other bathroom in the suite, you locked the door behind you and turned on the shower. You washed your body, making sure to leave your hair and make-up untouched.

Thank God for Emma who hounded your ass for making sure you were trimmed nicely – your bikini line, legs and pits waxed, only a little bit of pubic hair left on your vulva.

You turned the shower off after a little bit and dried yourself off, making sure to spray some perfume in your neck that you carried in your purse and sneaked into the bathroom. You put on the button up, leaving your panties on top of your folded clothes on the sink. You quickly brushed your teeth with the spare toothbrush in the bathroom and took a deep breath before you walked back into the bedroom, smiling shyly at Elvis who was already sitting in his bed against the headboard.

His hair looked like he’d just dry-blowed it, soft and fluffy. He was wearing his own set of pyjamas in black and the tan skin that was visible due to half of his top being left unbottoned made arousal slowly creep its way to the surface.

Talking turned to cuddling, cuddling turned to kissing, and kissing turned to wandering hands creeping up your top.

You were nervous, God how nervous you were, but this time you didn’t stop him when he cupped your breasts.

A soft gasp left you when he caressed his thumbs across your perked nipples. He looked at your face to see if he was taking things too far, but as he saw the flush on your cheeks and the way you were looking at him with pleading eyes, he figured he could go on.

As long as you did not tell him to stop, he wasn’t going to.

Slowly he got on top of you, wiggling himself in between your legs which you eagerly opened and wrapped around his waist this time. He moved his hands out from underneath your top, fingertips working quick as he flicked the buttons open one by one.

“Cherry,” he spoke softly, his eyes finding yours. “Have you been touched in the past year?”

The question rolled off his tongue so casually as if you were just making conversation, but it caused goosebumps to tingle along your skin. You looked at him and shook your head slowly, unable to control the heat that was crawling up your neck, reddening your skin.

“N-No..” you whispered, feeling exposed as the fabric of your top fell open, your breasts on full display for him. “Only by myself,”

You didn’t know where you’d got the courage from to say such a thing, but it slipped out before you could stop it. Elvis smirked, his hands back to cupping your breasts, squeezing them a little firmer.

“Is that right?” he hummed lowly, keeping his eyes on your face as he leaned in closer to your chest, his soft lips connecting with the supple flesh of your right breast. “Did ya think ‘bout me when touchin’ yourself?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, his tongue poked out to swirl it around your nipple. A gasp and then a moan slipped past your lips and you gripped onto his shoulders, arching your back a little.

“Yes!” you moaned out, perhaps a little more desperate than you intended to. “Y-Yes.. Always.. thinking about.. you..”

Your words came out breathless as he sucked onto your nipple softly and he grinded against you a little. You could feel the outline of his cock pressing against your folds and you were pretty sure you were staining his silk bottoms with your arousal.

Neither he or you cared and you grinded back against him, trying to rub your clit against his length.

Elvis could see the difference between last year and now. With those flushed cheeks, he knew you were still the same girl but there was a flair of eagerness lingering about you now.

You wanted him and he sure as hell was going to enjoy taking you, stripping away your innocence completely.

Just as you were about to reach out to unbutton his shirt completely, he was already moving lower onto the bed. His lips dragged over the curve of your breasts and along your stomach, his hands sliding up the back of your thighs to spread your legs and give him the view he’s been so eager to see all night.

Your perfect exposed pussy… right there in front of his nose. So beautiful, so pink, so untouched.

He looked up at you through his dark lashes as he kissed your inner thighs, grinning against your skin when he felt your legs trembling with anticipation. He could practically smell your arousal and it had him groaning softly as he rubbed himself against the mattress slowly.

You wanted nothing more than to feel his mouth on the most intimate part of his body but he decided to take things slow. He knew you were eager but he wanted you to experience it all, and he wanted to be the one who could make you feel this good.

His fingertips caressed through your folds, spreading your slick all over your lips before he pressed his thumb against your clit, adding a little pressure. You were looking down at him the whole time, not wanting to miss a second of this sight, and he loved hearing you moan softly the way you did.

By the end of the evening, he intended to have you screaming for him.

“My Cherry’s got such a pretty pussy,” he whispered as he grinned at you before looking down at your wetness glistening against your skin. He ran his middlefinger down your folds, slowly pushing it inside of your entrance. “All for me to play with,”

You gasped and gripped onto the sheets, your muscles immediately tensing up around his digit. He let out a soft laugh as he pulled his finger back before sinking it into you completely again. “Relax, baby. It’s jus’ a finger,”

Just a finger that already had you moaning louder, like a damn cat in heat. You moved your hands to your face to cover up your mouth and muffle your moans, and Elvis let you – for now. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, moving his finger in and out of you a little faster.

Then he added another finger and you were clenching around him so viciously, he was thinking you were going to push his fingers out of you at one point by just using your muscles.

The thought of feeling that feeling around his cock had him grinding against the bed a little more.

But Elvis wasn’t a quitter and he pushed the two digits deeper inside of you, fingertips curling inside of you and caressing that special spot. Your hands couldn’t contain your moans anymore and they once more found the sheets as you arched your back, spreading your legs wider.

He repeated the action a few more times, fingering you at a steady pace until he couldn’t take the sight of his fingers coming out so wet anymore. It was too tempting.

“Let’s see how sweet you taste, Cherry,” he smirked as he pulled his fingers out and grabbed the back of your thighs, pushing his fingertips into your skin a little to keep you still.

Without warning, he leaned in closer and dragged his tongue from your entrance to your clit. You gasped as your hips stuttered and he held onto you firmer, looking up at you as his tongue swirled slowly around your clit, before he gently sucked it in between his lips.

The sight was downright sinful.

But even though you couldn’t get enough of it, you couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling into the back of your head as his tongue slipped through your folds again.

He put your legs over his shoulders, his hands moving up your sides until they found your breasts again. He fondled them lightly, pinching your nipples in between his fingertips softly as his tongue worked wonders on your eager pussy.

“Mmm, Elvis!” you moaned out freely now, unable to contain yourself. The sounds leaving you, the way you were moaning out his name, made you feel so… slutty.

And yet, you were loving every second of it.

He groaned against your skin, his hands slipping down to your hips as his eyes shot open and stared up at you. He wanted to see your reactions to his actions and make a mental reminder of it – the way your teeth sunk into your lower lip, the way your eyebrows knitted together. And the added roll of your eyes as he sucked on your clit was very much appreciated.

You didn’t know what an orgasm felt like. Sure, you had touched yourself but when that pressure would start building in the pit of your stomach, you stopped.

Because truth be told, you were nervous about it – scared even. And now that Elvis was the one who was causing the muscles in your tummy to tense up like that, you felt as if you were about to crawl out of your own skin.

Tangling your fingers in his now messy hair, you tried to get him to stop, tried to get away from him, but the raven haired devil wouldn’t let you.

He’s been between enough girls’ legs to know that you were close to falling apart. Could feel it by the way your thighs were trembling on his shoulders, hear it in the way your moans turned a little more high pitched, a slight hint of panic hidden on the back of your tongue.

You could practically feel him smirking against your clit as he slipped in a finger, pumping it in and out of you in a steady pace. There was a slight sting, though it was barely noticeable due to the orgasm that had you on the verge of tears.

You clamped your hand over your mouth as you squeezed your eyes shut, your other hand still in his hair as he just wouldn’t stop while you were falling over the edge. If it wasn’t for Elvis holding onto your hips to keep you down, you were sure your hips would’ve lifted off of the bed with the way they were bucking upwards and you were writhing in the sheets.

You could barely recognize your own voice as you moaned out, Elvis’ name falling off your tongue like a mantra.

Elvis slowly loosened his grip on your hips and let you spread your legs, raising his head to look at you with a smug grin spread across his face. You pushed some of his hair out of his face and then let out a breathless laugh, running your hands through your own hair.

Elvis loved the way you were looking at him with those half-lidded eyes that held stars in them, cheeks flushed the way he likes.

“Jus’ like I thought, Cherry,” his whisper is low, his voice a little raspy as he kisses your lower abdomen. “Jus’ downright teeth rottin’ sweet,”

Your cheeks heated up even more as he crawled his way back up, kissing you, letting you taste yourself. It made you moan softly in his mouth, allowing him to take the pyjama shirt you were still wearing completely off.

In a matter of seconds, Elvis’ clothing pieces flung across the room as well, thanks to your greedy hands.

Foreheads pressed together, moans exchanged into each others’ mouths, Elvis thrusted his hips forward slowly as your small hand wrapped around his hard cock. You figured if you would do something wrong, you would know by his reaction, but now he seemed to enjoy it with the way his tongue was dipping into your mouth now and then, eyes closed as he grunted and his jaw clenched.

Elvis had planned to take his time tonight, but he couldn’t take one more second of foreplay. He wanted, needed, to be buried inside of you.

“Can I put it in now, honey?” He whispered as his eyes flutter open, looking at you with a small smirk as he remembered how a year ago you were nearly pleading for him not to put it in.

But tonight he could see how much you wanted it, there was no way in hell you’d put a stop to it now.

At least, he prayed you wouldn’t.

A sense of relief washed over him when you bit your lip and nodded, yet he still wanted to hear you say it. “Are you sure?”

“Y-Yes,” you inhaled a shaky breath, squeezing his cock softly in your hand as you loosely wrapped your legs around his waist. “I want you to be my first.”

You felt vulnerable speaking those words and Elvis smiled, fingertips caressing some hair out of your face and gently tugging it behind your ear. He pressed a kiss onto your lips and nodded. “I’ll be real gentle, okay?”

Slowly letting go of his length and having your hand replaced by his own, you put your hands on his upper arms. He didn’t rush it – didn’t push it inside of you at once, instead caressing the tip of his cock through your folds and rubbing it onto your clit for a little bit.

But it was going to have to happen eventually and even though you’d anticipated it, the feeling of his tip finding home at your entrance still made your muscles tense up and your nails digging into his skin a little.

“Relax,” he whispered, looking into your eyes before kissing the corner of your mouth. “Jus’ try an’ relax, or it won’t feel good, cherry,”

Truth was, it wasn’t going to feel good either way. Emma had already warned you about this, even going as far as to say she had bled when she lost her virginity.

God, how embarrassing would that be… although you doubted Elvis would mind it, because he seemed like an understanding man, but you still didn’t want it to happen.

You inhaled a deep breath and nodded, trying as hard as you could to relax, but it was barely working when he pushed himself inside of you at a snail’s pace. Inch by inch his cock disappeared inside of you, stretching you the way his fingers, or your own, never could.

He let out a deep groan that came straight from his gut as he finally bottomed out, having missed someone so incredibly tight engulfing him.

“E-Elvis… It h-hurts..” you looked at him with wide eyes, nails pressed into his arms so firm you were sure small crescent moons were created in his flesh but he didn’t stop you.

“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, leaning his elbows on the bed on either side of your head, slipping one arm underneath your head to keep you close to him. “But it’ll feel better in a little while, ‘lright? Jus’ relax..”

You trusted him and you really hoped he was right, because now you were so full you could barely speak. He could see the tears twinkling in your eyes and as he lovingly kissed your cheeks, his fingertips caressing your shoulder, you melted into his arms a little more.

He held still inside of you for quite a while, letting you get used to the feeling of being filled with something the size of his cock – which, for the record, was definitely not small.

Perhaps someone who’d been so blessed wasn’t the right person to lose your virginity to on a physical level, but then again… go big or go home.

Emma would be proud of you.

And all craziness aside, you were happy that you were losing your virginity to Elvis Presley. Not because he was famous, but because he was so gentle and sweet, taking his time with you and being patient. It was good to have someone older, someone with experience who knew how a woman’s body worked instead of taking what he wanted and calling it a day.

This was truly a special and intimate moment and you were losing yourself into it more and more.

As you felt you were relaxed enough, you whispered to Elvis that you were ready and boy, were you wrong. The second he slowly and softly started thrusting into you, those tears that had blurred your vision were starting to roll down your cheeks. You quickly wrapped your arms around his neck, pushing him closer into your embrace which made him hide his face in your neck – you didn’t want him to see your tears, nor did you want him to stop.

A million of girls have been through this for centuries.

If they could do it, so could you.

“Don’t cry, honey,” he whispered in your ear, kissing your neck. Damnit, why does he seem to know everything? “Jus’ relax… Give all of yourself to me..”

He kept whispering sweet nothings in your ear and they helped you relax and your muscles to lose that tension – must be witchcraft, you were positive of it.

Step by step, slowly but surely, Elvis picked up the pace as he heard your gasps and soft cries turn into soft moans. The sting was still very much present, but the burning sensation had subsided and you were sure that had everything to do with the grunts and deep moans leaving Elvis, and the sight of him on top of you. He had pulled his face out of your neck again, his eyes boring into yours and while you usually hated eye contact this intensely and for so long, now you couldn’t find it in you to look away.

You were lost in those oceanic blue orbs and when he smiled that sweet smile at you, you couldn’t deny the fact that you were sickly in love with Elvis Presley.

It wasn’t just idol infatuation.

You were totally, completely, irrevocably in love.

Sex was a tricky thing to human kind. Some people used it as a meaningless way to get what they want or to meet their needs, and other people view it as something sacred, something meant to be shared with only that person who you love more than anything in the world.

You had no idea it could be this good, never believing Emma when she said that once you’d done it, you would only want more and more. You’d turn greedy, goddamn near feral because it was such a raw and primal instinct… perhaps that was why it was considered a sin.

You’d never think you would turn into one of those girls that would crave sex and felt like they’d just die if they didn’t get it. But Elvis had that kind of effect on you.

The sun had long risen over Las Vegas but the suite was still dark due to Elvis’ dark curtains being drawn. It must’ve been around 6 or 7 in the morning, but neither of you had slept a wink.

When he’d popped your cherry a few hours earlier, it had hurt. The second time you did it, there was still a slight uncomfortable sting. But by the third time, you were a moaning mess as he turned you around and pressed your face in the pillow, the sound of his balls hitting your clit with every thrust filling the room.

If it wasn’t for the sex daze you were in, you’d be embarrassed by the way you were already crawling onto his lap again after the both of you had taken a shower. Your limbs felt weak and Elvis felt the same, but you couldn’t help yourself and Elvis couldn’t deny you.

“Goddamnit,” he groaned as you straddled him and sunk down onto his length, your hands on his chest, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I created a monster.”

You laughed softly at his words as your cheeks flushed crimson, although that could just as well be because you were so worked up. Elvis grabbed onto your hips and pulled you down a little more, gasping as you fept his tip grazing your g-spot.

“O-Oh… Elvis..” you moaned, biting your lower lip harshly. “S-So deep.. like this..”

He smirked, moving his hands to your ass to squeeze your cheeks in his palms before landing a soft slap on the left one. “That’s right, baby. Can’t get enough of bein’ filled, can ya?”

You giggled softly and started thrusting, slow at first but quickly working your way up to a faster and more steady pace. Didn’t take long for you two to become a bunch of moaning messes once more, going at it like damn rabbits.

It had felt like Elvis had taken a piece of your soul from the moment he’d entered you for the first time and you willingly gave it up for him to keep. You had blossomed into a new person tonight – broken out of your cocoon, going from girl to woman.

Elvis bent his knees a little, heels pressed into the mattress as he grabbed onto your hips and kept you from moving. Instead, he took over and thrusted up into you in such a pace that you had to grip onto his arms to keep steady.

“Oh, fuck!”

He was surprised by the profanity coming from you, but definitely not disappointed. He liked his ladies soft spoken in public, but inside these four walls it was a whole different story. Those rules didn’t apply and especially not to you, because he enjoyed this side of you.

Added more fuel to his fire.

“Shit, I fuckin’ love that pussy,” he growled as he clenched his jaw, his fingers most likely leaving marks on your skin. You threw your head back and Elvis took the opportunity to watch the softness of your skin, he could’ve sworn he could see your heartbeat pulsing underneath it, and the way your breasts bounced along with his thrusts.

He wasn’t going to last long and neither were you with the way he was pounding into you, hitting the right spot every time his hips came up. You were moaning so loud that you wouldn’t be surprised if the downstair neighbors could hear the whole thing.

Though before the two of you could reach climax, he wrapped one arm around your waist and switched positions so fast you barely noticed it until you were laying on your back and he was pounding into you like a mad man. The beads of sweat that formed on his forehead, the animalistic growl that left him when he pulled out of you after a few more thrusts to release strings of cum onto your breasts and stomach was a sight to behold. This man was extraordinary.

You’d fallen over the edge right before he’d pulled out and you were clenching pathetically around nothing, wrapping your arms around him to keep him somewhat close, careful not to mess up the masterpiece he’d created on your skin. His lips found yours, kissing you for a little bit until he hid his face in your neck.

“I think I’ll keep you… My personal little Cherry,” he grinned against your skin and you scoffed softly.

“What am I? A puppy?”

He pulled his head back to look at you and raise an eyebrow, playfully nudging your chin. “Oh, she’s been fucked a couple of times and immediately has an attitude, huh?”

You laughed softly at his words, cupping his face to playfully squeeze his cheeks together. He leans into your touch and softly bites down onto your thumb before kissing it.

“You ain’t a puppy,” he said as he smirked, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You’re jus’ a little baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” You exclaimed, pretending to be offended as you gasp.

He nodded his head and leaned his face closer to you, pecking your lips while he talked against your mouth. “Uh-huh, you are. A baby with pretty little feet and little red cherry cheeks,”

Instantly, you blushed and pouted against his lips, which made him laugh softly. “As long as I’m your baby, I’ll take it.”

You didn’t mean to say those words. They felt too bold for you to be saying and you half expected him to turn serious and tell you not to get things in your head, but instead he looked into your eyes and smiled.

“Ofcourse,” he said, patting your hair. “You’re my little cherry and I don’t like sharin’..” his fingertip caressed across the black star sapphire diamond engraved into the ring you were still wearing around your neck.

For the whole past year, you had not taken it off once.

“We should clean up and sleep,” you whispered, ignoring how his words had sent your heart aflame.

“I wanna get ya ‘nother present,”

He was already getting up and pulling you off the bed, letting you wander off into the bathroom to clean his cum off of you. This time, you left the door unlocked and seconds later, Elvis came in with his jewelry box.

“Elvis, no.. Put that away. Let’s sleep..”

“Honey,” he said sternly, although you could hear he was playful at the same time. Grabbing your wrist, he pulled you closer to him and grabbed a ring, slipping it into your finger, looking at it and when decided he didn’t like it, he took it off of you and rumbled through the box to find another piece. “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

You let out a laugh and shook your head at his antics. While he was putting jewelry on you, from rings to bracelets, your eyes were on him.

This magical, weird, funny, sweet man that had the world at the tip of his fingers and probably one of the richest people in the country, and yet he had no problem giving away his gold as if they were pieces of candy.

You didn’t care about the jewelry, though. Or about the money, or about any of the luxury. All you cared about was the man next to you, a child like smile of excitement rooted on his face.

You didn’t want to think about it all ending, so you forced yourself not to. Because all that mattered was right here and now, and this night (and morning) of two people’s souls connecting the way they’d done.

They say you never forget your first time and you wholeheartedly believed that statement. How in the world could you ever forget Elvis Presley?

Taglist: @peaceloveelvis @notstefaniepresley @jhoneybees

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #elvis x y/n #elvis presley x y/n #tamwrites

[cowgurrrl]

I Wish I Was

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: yay for creative energy coming back!!

Summary: Murphy’s Law dictates… [3.1k]

Warnings: art talk, discussions of a deceased parent, probably incorrect blueprint talk, a cliff hanger 😈

Temperatures rarely dip below the thirties in Central Texas. It's not impossible, as evidenced by the below-freezing temperatures ravaging much of the South in the final days before returning to school, but it's still rare. Nobody really knows what to do when there's the threat of the roads icing over, so they just decide to shut most things down, including your bar. You feigned disappointment when your manager called to tell you when, in reality, you were digging through your box of acrylic paints to find the one shade that's been calling your name. With the sudden free time, you get to work on your half-finished canvases and listen to the same record repeatedly in the hopes that your brain will zone out enough for you to make something good. 

It could be The Mamas and The Papas record spinning or the dark blue winter light shining through your blinds, but you actually like the piece of art unfolding on your canvas. It's undeniably different, a little more vibrant and a little more abstract, but it feels good— sustainable, at the very least. You feel less self-conscious about them and even snap pictures to show them off to Andie. You've finished three other canvases and sent in images of them to a local art collective that takes gallery submissions twice a year, and they've moved you on to the next part of the acceptance process. It's not a definite yes, but it's not an immediate no. You haven't told Joel about the submission or anything, really. You've just holed yourself up in your apartment to paint and sporadically respond to his texts with lots of apologies typed with yellow or purple fingertips.

He knows you're not ignoring him, and you know he's a busy guy. He has better things to do than sit around and wait for you to text him back, but you feel bad about not being as present as you were before. "It's all part of the process, I promise," you said. "Then, when I get my own gallery, you can hear all about it while you fix up my classroom." He reminded you that "pride goeth before the fall" but didn't doubt or pressure you to break your flow. The only thing he consistently texts you about is making sure you're drinking water, stretching your wrists, and, at least, looking at a vegetable during your long sessions. Otherwise, he leaves you alone to work. Everyone else, including the stack of looming emails in your inbox, gets deliberately ignored so you can live in your bubble for just a little longer before school drags you back into session. 

That's why you jumped and furrowed your eyebrows at your ringing phone when his contact photo appeared unexpectedly, breaking you out of your concentration. You wipe your hands on your old pair of too-big jeans (universally known as your work pants because they're covered in different colored hand prints) and swipe to answer him before the silly picture of him with one of your scarves on his head can go away. You hear him shuffling around when you put it on speaker and almost hang up, thinking it's a butt dial before you finally hear his voice.

"Hello?" He greets.

"Hey, what's up?" 

"Did I leave my jacket there?" He asks. You let out a relieved sigh that it's nothing too dramatic, but the lingering panic his phone call caused sits in the back of your head as you glance down at said jacket. You adjust the palette in your hand, suddenly hyper-aware of the wet paint and thanking whatever God is out there for not getting any on his clothes. You can't imagine things would go over well with the guys if he suddenly showed up to job sites with pink paint on the sleeve of his jacket.

"No..." you say, extending the vowel, and he chuckles. 

"Do me a favor. See if there's a ring of keys in the front pocket?" He says. You gently put the palette on your coffee table and wipe your hands again to ensure there's no wet paint on them before digging into both front pockets and feeling the keys in his left pocket. You pull them out and find the set of keys with a baseball keychain and a keychain with a picture of him and the girls on it. 

"I've got 'em," you say. "The Astros? Really?"

"D'you mind bringin' 'em to the office? I forgot I needed 'em." He ignores your jab, and you look down at your outfit. Clad in your work pants, a sports bra, Joel's Carhartt jacket, and your unwashed hair in a clip, you are not prepared to leave the house today, let alone go see Joel.

"Um..." 

"Somethin' wrong?" He asks, and you wince. What are you gonna say? Sorry, I know you have to do your job and all, but I look and feel like shit, so I can't bring your keys to you? He's already seen you in disarray from the school day, but that was a cuter, more socially acceptable version of disarray. This version gives credence to the messy, mentally ill artist stereotype Freud introduced however many years ago. 

"No, nothing's wrong. I just..." you sigh and rub your face. "I wasn't expecting to see you today. I kinda look crazy." 

"That's it?" He asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Baby, I don't care how you look. You could show up in a potato sack, and I wouldn't care." 

"Well, lucky for you, I don't own a potato sack, but I'm pretty sure that would look better than this."

"If it makes you feel better, the office is empty."

"Then, why are you in? It's fucking freezing."

"I needed to make sure the pipes didn't freeze over, and I left some blueprints here," he says. "I can grab 'em from you and just come back to the office."

"No, I don't want you driving more than you have to," you say, already stretching out your stiff legs. Your knees creak in protest, and fatigue seeps into your bones. God, how long have you been sitting here? "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

"I think it'll take a lot more than some messy clothes to scare me off, darlin'," he says, and you roll your eyes at his charm. With a quick goodbye, you throw on a clean enough sweater and leggings. You debate running a brush through your hair before remembering what he said about the empty office and decide you don't have the energy. If he really doesn't care what you look like, then you're not going to stress about it. 

You're a little worried about driving in the weather, even you aren't immune to Southern weather panic, but the roadways are mostly clear, and things aren't expected to get really bad until later on. Still, you drive slowly and white-knuckle the wheel against strong, frigid winds. By the time you get to Joel's office, the sky is more grey than blue, and radio announcers warn you that there might be flurries within the next forty-eight hours. You doubt they'll stick to the ground and amount to nothing more than some black ice, inconveniencing everyone in the state, but still. You leave the relative warmth of your car and walk as fast as you can into the building, clutching Joel's jacket close to your body and sending a wave of his smell over you. 

The office itself is small, with a couple of desks here and there, mostly for meeting with clients and explaining building plans. A coffee pot and water cooler sit in the corner next to the receptionist's desk, which is currently empty. It's eerily quiet in the space except for the sound of the heat rumbling somewhere in the walls, and you almost wonder if Joel left without telling you when you hear grumbling and the tell-tale sound of his boots against the tile. He doesn't notice you at first. Instead, he scowls at a paper like it owes him money and mutters under his breath. Whatever is annoying him is wiped away the second he sees you there. 

"Hey, baby," he lights up as he walks over to you and kisses you, abandoning the paper on one of the desks so he can hold you close. He tastes like coffee and the beeswax chapstick Ellie got him for Christmas. You didn't realize how much you missed him until now, and you smile against his lips. "You got my keys?" He asks as he turns to walk into his office, grabbing your hand and bringing you with him. He lets go of you to close the door behind him, and you dig the keys out of your pocket and toss them at him. He catches them in mid-air easily and walks over to the filing cabinet.

"You intentionally leave your keys with me, or is this just a happy accident?" You ask, and he smirks. 

"Maybe I just wanted to see you again."

"Sneaky," you say as you walk around his space while he searches for the correct blueprint. 

It's a relatively normal office with eggshell walls and bad fluorescent lighting, but once you step behind his desk, you get a good idea of the man who works here. His desk is old and made of some type of wood he probably knows more about than you do. It's filled with little knick-knacks and things that get him through the day: family pictures, a painted gecko from Terlingua, stress balls, and a desk calendar with his all-caps handwriting. There are even some drawings done by Ellie pinned on the corkboard behind his chair, her skill visibly improving as she gets older. 

One particular picture on his desk catches your eye. It's older than the rest, and it takes you a minute to recognize Joel's eyes in the greying man. Joel, Tommy, and their dad smile at the camera with identical grins. Tommy can't be older than ten while Joel towers over them both, his broad shoulders taking up lots of space. You pick it up to look at it closer and Joel doesn't stop you. Instead, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

"'S this your dad?" you ask, and he nods. "You guys look a lot alike." 

"You think?" He asks like he doesn't see it, and you look at him. You take a second or two to let your eyes trace his features and compare them to his dad's before nodding.

"Yeah. Same eyes," you say as you look back down. "And smile." He hums happily at that. Joel's face hasn't changed much now that he's a grown man. If anything, he looks more like his dad, with the grey at the temples and the beard framing his face. You see bits of their father in Tommy, too, but you assume he probably looks more like their mother. "How old were you in this?"

"Mm, fifteen? Maybe sixteen." Right before his dad died, you think. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing or reliving the day over again. Before the clutches of grief can sink you both, you smile to yourself and hold the picture a little closer.

"I would've been obsessed with you if we'd gone to high school together." 

"Really?" He asks incredulously, and you giggle at the thought. 

"Oh, for sure. Look at you!" You point to his little broody half-smile as if it's evidence. "Those eyes, that hair, the attitude. I mean, c'mon, Joel!" He laughs at your praise and takes the photo out of your hands.

"Alright, alright, that's enough objectification for teenage Joel." 

"I'm not objectifying you! I'm just stating the obvious." 

"Mhm," he hums, and you laugh. You continue walking around and looking at his things as he frowns at the blueprint he trekked through the cold to get. "Shit." He mumbles, reaches for a pencil, and scribbles something on the plans. 

"What's wrong?" You ask, perching yourself on the edge of his desk and leaning over to look at the intricate design. It looks like a big house with lots of elaborate details written on the margins. It's a big build. No wonder he needed to get this copy.  

"This client decided they wanted a bigger kitchen, but I don't know how to do that without eatin' into another room and changin' the whole plan," he sighs. "We're supposed to be back on the site once this storm blows over, and I gotta have an idea of how we're gonna do this by then." 

"Can't you just tell them no?" You ask, and he chuckles.

"Can’t you just tell your principal no?

"Point taken," you say. "What about pushing it into the backyard a little? Then you could use this area over here to make a sunroom or something," you suggest, gesturing to the weird leftover space that would make the house look wonky. His eyebrows knit together as he thinks.

"Then what should I do here?" He asks. Together, you go back and forth, discussing dimensions, perspectives, and measurements. You never realized how similar these designs are to art. They have to have more of a purpose and fit specific parameters, but other than that, they have the same idea: create something out of nothing. It's cool to see Joel in his own element, doing mental math and estimates that would take you ages to do and writing down his findings as you figure them out together. He's not just good at math, he's good at sketching the new designs. 

Almost seamlessly, he flips through the floor plans and layouts, adding a window there or changing the flow of a room with a singular erasure. He adds the perfect depth to see the idea clearly without crowding the space and making it seem too busy, allowing the clients to picture their furniture in the home. When you bring up an idea, he's quick to rotate the plans upside down to imagine how it would look and if it would impact the building process, his brain running through every possible solution and flipping it without even thinking. Ellie does the same thing when she gets stuck on a drawing. You see where she gets her skill from, even if he'll never admit it. 

For someone who has always struggled with math, you enjoy the balance between math, engineering, and art in the plans, but you like working with Joel the most. It's nice to feel like you're helping instead of distracting him. You're not sure how long you worked together, reconfiguring things this way and that, before you finally reached a viable solution, but you know that Joel has the biggest smile on his face when he looks away from the blueprints. 

"You mighta missed a callin', my dear." He says, and you laugh, shaking your head.

"My college algebra professor might disagree, but I do think this is interesting." 

"Well, if you ever want a job..." he trails off as he rolls the blueprints back up and secures it with a rubber band. You smirk and tug at his belt loops to bring him closer to where you're sitting on his desk. 

"You just want me to get more tattoos." You accuse, and he chuckles as he tosses the prints somewhere behind you, his hands coming up to frame your face. 

"I'm just sayin', Miller Contracting don't have a policy against it like the school district does."

"Mm, what about dating? That might get a little dicey." 

"Is sleepin' with your boss better or worse than sleepin' with a student's parent?" He asks, and you laugh. 

"They're probably in the same realm of bad."

"Then, we've got nothin' to lose." He says as he leans down to kiss you. You open your legs just enough for him to step in between your knees and get as close as he can. He's trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him, but the stubble still scratches deliciously against your skin, making you sigh. He breaks away enough to tip you back onto his desk, narrowly missing his clutter, and you giggle when he kisses your neck.

"How long have you been plannin' this one?" you ask, your years in Texas showing through in your breathless voice. He smiles as he meets your eyes. 

"I dunno what you're talkin' bout."

"Oh, so getting me alone and on top of your desk was just a coincidence?"

"Happy accident." He muses, sliding his hands up your shirt as he gets lower and lower. Your hands play with his hair, occasionally tugging on the strands just to hear the sound he makes. You would've been happy to do that all day if your phone ringing through the suddenly too-warm air of his office didn't interrupt. Joel groans and drops his head to your sternum, his hands pausing their journey up your body as you wiggle your phone out of your back pocket. Your heart drops the second you recognize the phone number.

"Who is it?" Joel asks like he's reading your mind. You sit up slowly, and he takes his hands off you without malice or frustration. You're stuck staring at the number until it disappears off your screen and goes to voicemail. 

"Um... someone from work. I should probably call them back." You say, unsure of yourself as the words fall from your mouth. Joel looks confused but doesn't push. 

"Oh. Right, yeah. School starts back up on Monday, right?" 

"Yeah, she probably just wants to talk about lesson plans or something," you say, standing from your spot on the desk. The air has changed between you, and suddenly, things feel clunky and awkward. This is the worst possible timing. "Can I call you later?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll walk you out." He says sheepishly. You don't say anything as he opens the doors for you and gives you a quick kiss and a reminder to text him when you get home. You just nod and immediately speed walk to your car even though you're not that cold. Joel watches you pull out from your parking spot and leave the strip mall, waving before you can turn out of sight. 

You wait until you're five minutes down the road before you dial the number back as if Joel would be able to hear the crackly voice through your speaker if you were any closer. Your heart beats fast in your chest, and your palms are sweaty on the wheel as the phone rings. When the dial tone finally ends, and your call is answered, the anxiety is replaced with frustration.

"What’s up?" You ask through gritted teeth, and you hear her take a breath.

"We need to talk about Ellie’s dad."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @maried01 @acupofhollie

#the last of us au #tlou au #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #joel miller fluff #joel miller comfort #joel miller series #dad!joel miller #joel the last of us #the last of us #tlou #joel tlou #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #joel miller angst

[theauthorunicorn]

Imagine | Nanami Kento

a painful rundown of your life with Nanami

notes: jjk shibuya arc is so painful to watch. I have read this arc but damn, it being animated hurts so much. anyway enjoy this heartbreak. reblogs, comment and likes are appreciated!

based on ariana grande's imagine.

Nanami Kento x Reader

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Nobody knew how you knew each other. Kento always gives off this stoic vibe while you're the life of the party. All of your friends, especially Satoru, tease how both of you are like polar opposites but still attract each other. Maybe he was the one made for you after all, and Nanami Kento is your other half.

You spend most of your time together, either cooking or lounging in his kitchen, telling him stories that he has probably heard before. You and your theatric movements are trying to describe what happened, and he is just humming and listening to everything.

"And that's it, Ken; that's what happened to the book that I was just reading, but," you pouted, "I really wish you could read it so that we can talk about it."

"I don't need to read it now; you've told me the whole plot anyway."

You sighed, "Oh, I saw a good book at the bookstore earlier; we could buy two of it so you can read it together with me."

He hums in agreement.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Kento was everything for you. When both of you first kissed, you knew that he was perfect for you. He doesn't need to tell you that it was perfect for him as well, because the way he kissed back was the answer you're looking for. You always loved how you two were in sync; he's either in the bathtub bathing his worries away or you, with no make-up, casually applying some skin care. It's like a routine.

"I love how my face fits so well in your neck, darling," he mumbled as he hugged you after he took his bath. "Hmm, me too, Ken; I love it."

Many nights were spent sleeping on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. Nobody knows this side of Nanami Kento, only you. He puts his guard down and acts like a regular man with no worries about tomorrow.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

"Hey Kento," you say, walking backwards to face him through the halls of Jujutsu High, "can you tell me all your secrets?"

His eyebrows knitted with your question, "What secrets, love?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, "that's why I'm asking."

He held your hands somehow, asking without a word to walk with him, "Sure. If you tell me yours as well."

You laughed as you gripped his hand tighter. "And all of the creep shit too, okay?"

"What creep shit?"

"The creep shits! So, I know it's true, Ken."

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Kento will always treasure his moments with you; with one click of his phone camera, a moment with you is forever captured. He planned to print all the photos and make an album out of them. He thought about letting your future lineage know what kind of woman you are today. Young, vibrant, beautiful, and perfect. He wants to keep you forever until the end.

"Eh?! Why do you have these nasty pictures and videos of me?" Pouting as you scroll in his phone gallery, "I'm deleting this."

He snatched his phone. "No, you can't."

"What are you that obsessed with me?"

"Probably."

"Are you making a movie about me?"

"Maybe."

"Then, just make sure that you will name me in the credits as the lead actress." You smiled.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

You reminisce about all of the days you spent with Kento. Every day of your life with him is played in your head like the lyrics of your favorite song.

You waved him goodbye, a kiss was planted on his lips, and a mumbled I love you was exchanged on the street of Shibuya on October 31, 2018.

"Be careful, Y/N. I'll see you later. I love you always and forever." He smiled.

"You too, my love." You answered, "I'll see you later." You didn't finish your sentence as a gore, painful premonition flashed in your eyes. If you were to ask someone to describe your cursed technique, you'd never be proud of it. You can see flashes of the future—an oracle of a definite future with no power to reverse it.

"I'll see you later or in another lifetime, Kento. I will scour the whole world to be with you," you promised him.

Again.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk imagine #jjk fanfic #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento angst #nanami kento imagine #nanami kento fanfic #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami angst #jjk kento #kento x reader #kento x y/n #kento x you #kento angst #jjk angst

[laurolive]

Paul and Linda, a collection of PDAs: Part 1 - Kisses

In our walk down the memory lane of Paul and Linda’s love story, which still captivates the romantics and the expressive artists out there, we start with an excerpt of an interview.

Rolling Stone cover June 17, 1976: “Yesterday, Today, and Paul.” In this interview, Paul says something interesting:

I mean, I kissed Linda onstage the other night, and for me, that’s kind of, ‘Wow, I must be getting real relaxed,’ ’cause I can’t do that in public, normally. I’m a bit kinda shy.

Paul McCartney shy about showing affection? Well, artists are certainly a different breed. He can sing a heartfelt love song in a venue full of people, but has to work up the courage to give his wife a little kiss? As photos will tell, he soon got over that quirk.

And even before this RS interview, he could certainly be demonstrative when a photographer or videographer was around, whereas the average person would be more guarded knowing that their tender moment would soon be out there as a picture in a magazine or a video clip on TV (we’re talking pre-internet days here).

RS Interview from The Paul McCartney Project

The 1970s: Not Exactly in Public, but There Must Be Someone Holding The Camera

1970 or 1971. Aww, so sweet.

June 1971 The video for the song “Heart of The Country” was made in Scotland. Is that a kiss? We might have to examine the still pic below. 

June 1971 A still image from the “Heart of The Country” video. I’ll count this as a kiss.

1974 In the garden of their house with baby Stella between them. It’s a published pic, so I’m counting it as a public kiss. (An “almost-kiss” but close enough.)

1974 Photoshoot for the Apr. 7, 1974, issue of New York News magazine. The cover story was "Just an Old Fashioned Beatle: An Exclusive Visit with Linda and Paul McCartney." Aww, lips softly touching the cheek is something I’m going to classify as a kiss.

Magazine article: @johnflyons.beatles on instagram

Post-1970s: Now We’re Really in Public

Sept. 21, 1982, at Linda's first photography exhibition in London. Photo © Robert Rosen. Rosen talks about the snap in this excerpt from an interview with I-D magazine:

What's one photo you're really proud of? Robert Rosen: I love the shot of Paul and Linda McCartney kissing. As soon as I had it developed I just thought, wow, I did that. I sent them a print but didn't hear anything more until a few months later, when, Paul and Linda turned up to a gallery event I happened to be at. At one point, Linda tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Are you ignoring us?' She gave me a big hug and told me they loved the photo. That obviously meant a great deal to me.

From The Guardian archive, 21 September 1982: First London exhibition for Linda McCartney

I-D Interview with Robert Rosen Sept. 20, 2017

November 26, 1982, in Paris, France during photography month. An exhibition of Linda’s photographs was part of the event. Okay, his lips are just grazing her hair, so I’m going to call this a “hair kiss.”

Feb. 8, 1983 The 1983 British Record Industry Awards. Paul gets a congratulatory kiss from Linda after winning the 1982 British Male Solo Artist award and the Sony Trophy Award For Technical Excellence. The Beatles won the Outstanding Contribution to Music award.

More pics: The Paul McCartney Project

The same 1983 British Record Industry Awards. Two kisses in one night! Paul can’t hide his surprise.

Nov. 28, 1984 Another congratulatory kiss from Linda as Paul is presented with the Roll of Honorary Freedom of the City of Liverpool.

October 16, 1986 British Video Awards at Grosvenor House Hotel, London.

Rupert and The Frog Song awarded the Best Selling Video of 1985

April 4, 1989 Ivor Novello Awards at The Grosvenor House Hotel. Paul wins, Linda gets a kiss (so they both win 😊).

July 29, 1990 Backstage during the Paul McCartney World Tour 89/90 at Soldier Field Chicago. Linda is bidding farewell to Paul as she heads for the dressing room and he to the press tent.

From I Saw Him Standing There, Jorie B. Gracen, 2000. @thebeatlesofoz2 on Instagram

April 27, 1994 Press Conference for Linda's Home Style Cooking at Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills, California. Paul comes out to endorse Linda’s book, and greets her with a kiss.

Video clip of Paul’s entrance from CelebrityFootage.com

1997 from the video for the song “The World Tonight”

1997 A kiss in the studio, from the documentary In The World Tonight.

Let’s see the whole sequence of that kiss, right from the beginning:

Bonus: Wedding Kisses March 12, 1969

You go Linda! Give your groom a kiss like the cameras aren’t around.

Everyone’s relationship dream: Get someone to look at you the way Linda looks at Paul here.

#Youtube #paul mccartney #linda mccartney #linda and paul #paul and linda romantic #paul and linda mccartney #paul and linda forever #linda louise mccartney #linda mccartney and wings #linda eastman mccartney #paul and linda #lovely linda

[edyer-art]

“The world unwraps itself, again and again, as soon as you are ready to see it anew”, acrylic on wood panel, 9 x 12 “, 2024.

-

A gift for my bestie Alexandria Redmon. We met in high school Art 1 class by chance, something happened to my schedule and I had to switch to a different period after the first week, to the block she was in. I was a sophomore and she was a junior. We quickly became inseparable friends. She got me into photography, and I took Art 2 just so we could hang out more. Without her, I’m not sure if I would have ever gotten into art as much as I am today. After she graduated, my art teacher Ms. Foster encouraged me to continue to an AP art class. Sometime my Junior year of high school, my mom and I went to visit my uncle Karl who was working in Washington D.C. (at NASA), and so we got to go see a LOT of art. I was obsessed with MC Escher and REALLY wanted to see his work at the National Gallery of Art, so we went! I walked up to the desk and asked where his work was hanging, and they told me it wasn’t up currently. My lil face was devastated; they could clearly tell how much I wanted to see Escher’s work, and so they did something that still blows me away to this day—they let me into their library, pulled up two carts full of his lithos, and let me look through them with white gloves. I remember my hands and arms shaking with excitement as I got to go through these delicate prints, and it was at that moment I knew I wanted to be an artist. What did I document this with? A 35 mm Minolta Alex had let me take to DC. I still have the blurry photos.

This piece would also not be possible without her; she unknowingly chose the colors, which were taken from a website she made: https://save.page/ which is a cool bookmarking website (like if you remember del.icio.us). I grabbed the hex codes from her site, put them into Golden paints online color mixer, and tubed up my colors! They are: Alexandria Purple, Redmon Orange, Perfect Blue, Powerful Pink, Gorgeous Green, and Hover State Slate.

Thank your for believing in me

- E

#art #artists on tumblr #e dyer #san francisco #painting #victorian #architecture #illustration

[hereticpriest]

Sriracha

Relationship: Dirk Brûlée x Reader

Warnings: Loss of parents, single mom reader raising her younger brother, rough sex, sex toys, sybian, vaginal fingering, oral sex, barely-there handjob, bad flirting, bad puns.

Once upon a time, if someone told you you would be going to a taping of Everything At Once, you would have laughed at them. A variety-talk show hybrid aimed at children wasn't something you ever thought you would be interested in. Once upon a time, you had your whole life together and spread out in front of you, ripe for the taking. You were enrolled in university, living in a decent apartment, with a stable boyfriend and a steady side job to support you. You spoke with your parents every few days, and had just attended your mother's wedding to your stepfather, with whom you had a decent relationship. She had you as a teenager, and the split with your father broke her heart, but your stepfather was a nice guy who brought some stability to her life. She gave birth to your new little brother shortly into your first year at university, and you loved to visit him whenever you could.

Now, you were a single mother to your younger brother, struggling to balance your responsibilities as a mother, father and sister with duties at work. Thankfully, you had a decent job as a PA for an art gallery owner who was also letting you intern with his art curator whenever you finished your work. Having an educated PA was a bonus that he wasn't about to let go of, and he paid well because you were loyal, and reliable, and probably at least a little bit because he pitied you. But you weren't above pity money - you needed it to take care of your little monster.

Your boss was also the only reason you managed to get these tickets and secure your place as 'best mom ever'. Being called mom wasn’t what you expected from the birth of your little brother, however, your parents passed away in a tragic accident when your brother was only four, and he barely remembered them. You were Mom more than you were his sister, and you’d learned to accept that over the last three years. Sean was a rambunctious seven year old, and like many kids his age, he was absolutely obsessed with Everything At Once. Your boss had connections with some of the crew of the show, and he was able to secure you tickets as a birthday gift.

"Not a good birthday gift for you, I suppose, but I know Sean is your world so hopefully it will suit." He’d said as he handed the tickets to you.

He knew you so well.

Which led you here, standing in the back of the studio with the other parents while Sean was led up into the audience by a friendly-looking young PA. Your baby was vibrating out of his light-up sneakers, and you couldn't stop smiling, happy to see him so excited. He'd insisted on dressing up like his idol, so he was wearing his most colourful clothes - a highlighter pink shirt and lavender pants, paired with his trusty light-up shoes. He had his Dirk Brûlée shirt stuffed into your purse so that he could see if he could get it signed after the taping, and a rather stunning photograph of the talk show host that you’d printed on expensive photo paper protected within a manila envelope. You had to promise to frame it in order for Sean to let you hold onto it during the taping.

Unlike your brother, you chose to wear a baby blue midi sundress with corset boning in the bodice, puffy sleeves, a tulle skirt, and a lovely neckline that enhanced your chest. It’s all very appropriate despite the attractive bodice, and paired with cute wedge sandals, it gives you a youthful and charming look. Despite not being on TV, you put on makeup and styled your hair to make sure you would look good since you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of anyone. You wanted to dress your age, while still looking like an adult, and you never got to wear this kind of clothing at work since they had a strict business casual-adjacent dress code at the gallery. This dress would never fly without a blazer, and a blazer would be uncomfortable with the sleeves.

"God, she's young isn't she?"

"Gotta be a teen mom. She looks like she's barely out of high school. If she even graduated.”

You frown. You'd think by now you would be used to how catty other parents could be, but somehow, you still let it get to you. The judgement. As if they knew anything about you. A deep, centering breath brings you back to the present - Sean is happy, and their words don't matter. Instead, you focus on your sweet little brother, the most important (and only) man in your life. The hype guy is riling up the kids, bouncing around with an excitement you wish you could muster but have been struggling to manage with the extra hours you've been taking on. By the time you go to bed every night, you’re exhausted, passing out in bed the minute your head hits the pillow.

Thank god for your friends, all of whom act as amazing aunts and uncles for Sean. Your oldest friend, Nadia, has a son only a year younger than Sean, and they're thicker than thieves so they hang out often. Nadia picks the boys up from school every night, and watches Sean until you get home from work just after 5. After work, you make dinner nearly every night, then take a shower while Sean finishes his homework that he started at Nadia’s. Together, you watch the newest episode of Everything At Once on the PVR since Nadia doesn’t believe in letting the kiddos watch TV, and it’s a nice little hour of cuddle time that forces you to relax on the couch. Once that’s done, you both clean up - Sean cleans the living room and his bedroom while you clean the kitchen and whatever else needs to be tidied. Cleaning up throughout the week gives you the chance to spend weekends with Sean, with only very rare Saturday evenings reserved for gallery events.

You’ve committed to driving him to school every day on your way to work, and you’ve never missed a day except when you’re sick as a dog. You give Sean every moment of your time that you can, leaving very little for yourself, and you’re starting to feel the burn out. You haven’t had a real break since the death of your parents, and at this point, you couldn’t afford one any time soon either. Your friends would take Sean if you needed them to, but you feel guilty not spending time with him when you have it. Perhaps sometime soon, it wouldn’t feel like a failure to take more than a night or two to yourself. Even tonight, you have your friend Garrett and his wife Kimmie picking Sean up from the studio to go to their house for the weekend for their son’s birthday celebration, giving you a weekend to yourself for the first time in ages, and you feel guilty.

A PA informs the parents that Dirk is about to come out, and you snap out of the deep well of your thoughts, brightening up at the sight of Sean’s excited little foot taps. The theme music kicks in, and Dirk Brûlée swings out through the glitzy, colourful streamers to the raucous applause of the kids. You smile fondly as he passes out high-fives and fist bumps, and you can see the brilliant smile that spreads across Sean’s face as he gets one of his own. Your heart melts, and everything you’ve ever missed out on for him is worth it just to see him this happy.

Dirk greets a couple more kids, then ruffles Sean’s hair as he passes him towards his chair, and the show begins. The first guests are always there for an experimental, goofy skit-like interview - today being the stars of a popular children’s show that you vaguely recognize as something Sean watched when he was younger. The interview plays into the stars’ characters, with humorous nods towards the adults in the crowd with vague jokes that would go over a child’s head. This is followed by Dirk’s typical dance break, in which he introduces the musical guest, then hypes the kids up and dances with them to the musical guest’s set. You laugh as Sean gets his turn, and spins Dirk the way he normally would spin you when you two dance together, and you can’t help but feel some warm bubblies towards Dirk for the way he goes along with it seamlessly. It’s sweet that he seems to genuinely enjoy the children - there’s a sparkle in his eye that you recognize as sincerity. It’s such a rare thing to see, and despite hearing rumours that Dirk is a giant diva, you decide that you like him just for the way he interacts with the kids.

Once the dance break is over, Dirk welcomes the musical guest on stage for an interview, and you’re impressed that he was able to get a popular up-and-coming boyband. His accent is softer after years spent away from his home country, but you can hear it in his ‘r’s and the way he pronounces words with ‘th’ sounds. You don’t know much about Dirk, but you know his mother is a famous French actress and his father was a Hollywood director. Maybe growing up in the industry is what made him such a natural interviewer. The conversation flows easily, with Dirk asking surprisingly poignant questions for a show with a primarily child audience. He strikes an easy balance between fun and serious, keeping the kids engaged while also managing to keep his guests entertained as well. After the musical guest, the last guest is introduced with a scene from an upcoming kids’ movie, and you smile as Dirk begins a rambunctious interview with an actor you think you know, but can’t quite place from where. The show ends with another little dance party, after which Dirk promises to meet all the kids and answer questions after a quick break.

Sean nearly knocks you off your feet when he runs to you, and you lift him up into your arms as you watch Dirk walk backstage over his shoulder. The moms who were talking shit earlier greet their kids - a blond little girl with a very cute bow and seemingly endless pout, and a dark-haired boy who looks like he fell out of a bland ‘aesthetic’ home magazine photo. The poor kid looks uncomfortable in his khakis and polo shirt - Sean would scream if you tried to put him in an outfit like that. The judgemental stares don’t bother you too much now that you’ve got Sean to distract you. So long as he doesn’t notice, you couldn’t care less what they think of you. You pause to chat with a couple while Sean shows their daughter his robot book (which he refuses to leave home without), then spend the last couple minutes of the break fending off a (hopefully?) single dad who doesn’t seem to understand that you’re not interested. Finally, Dirk emerges from the back area looking refreshed, and an assistant corrals the kids and their parents into a line for the meet and greet. You end up at the back of the line due to Sean having one of his shoes untied which you make him fix, but you remind the pouting kiddo that Dirk promised he would meet every kid, so it doesn’t matter where in the line he is.

Sean has never been quite good at being patient, but he dutifully tries his best, clinging to your hand while you wait. You smile as one of the dads seems to flirt with Dirk, indiscreetly giving him his phone number, his daughter oblivious as she clings to her father’s pant leg. Dirk handles it pretty smoothly, waiting until the man is out of view before giving the phone number to a PA to get rid of it. Another PA leads those who’ve finished their meet-and-greet towards the door to leave, and you watch absently as the room slowly empties as you get closer to the end of the line.

Sean rocks on his heels as you get closer to the end of the line, and you feel a little bad for Dirk as one of the moms from earlier tries to flirt with him while he does his best to distance himself while still being kind about it. It reminds you of all the men who flirt with you at the gallery, as if your job requiring you to be nice to them means that you’ll somehow be more inclined to let them take you out. You wonder for a moment how often this happens to him, and if he ever takes anyone up on it. He’s a handsome man - you don’t blame anyone for being interested in him. Even his obnoxious moustache doesn’t take away from his gorgeous face. He’s probably nearly double your age, but you wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, as they say. Not that you needed the complication of a relationship on top of your seemingly endless pile of responsibilities.

Dirk’s in it for the kids, you realise as you watch him interact with them. He’s polite enough to the adults, but he lights up when he speaks with the children, genuinely interested in what they have to say. It isn’t in a creepy way either - it reminds you more of that feeling of meeting someone who you instantly connect and have something in common with. You wonder if perhaps the honesty of children resonates with him like it does for you. They hold nothing back, and when you treat them with respect and listen to what they have to say, they really blossom into something special. You can’t believe the amount of personality Sean has, and he’s only seven.

The line dwindles, and you begin to worry as you notice how long it’s taking. Perhaps, by the time it gets to Sean, Dirk might be tired of meet-and-greets and might rush things. Maybe you should’ve let him tie his shoes in line? You end up panicking for nothing - as the family before you departs, Dirk offers Sean a wide smile that makes his eyes crinkle charmingly.

“Hey! Nice to meet you. What’s your name?” Dirk asks, and Sean introduces himself eagerly.

“I’m Sean, and this is my mom- uh, sister. You can call her Mom - I do.” He informs Dirk with a blinding grin. Your cheeks get hot, and you pet Sean’s hair back out of his face.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” You murmur, giving him your name and letting him know that he very much does not need to call you Mom. You direct it at Sean just as much as Dirk, and the older man grins, taking your offered hand to kiss your knuckles instead of shake it. You swear his gaze runs quickly up and down your body, but the second you notice it, he looks away. He immediately directs his attention back to Sean, and you listen happily as your brother yaks the poor man’s ear off, telling him all about his robot book, how he picked his outfit especially to look like Dirk, and how he watched the show every day with you. The talk show host compliments his outfit and light-up sneakers, flipping through his book and commenting on a couple things, and you can see the way Sean thrives under the attention of the older man. Part of you laments the fact that you can’t give that same energy to him that he clearly craves.

Dirk offers to sign autographs and take photos, and you take several pictures of the two together before Dirk asks his PA to take a photo of the three of you. “Since you’re a fan too.” he claims, winking at you over Sean’s head as you approach. Your cheeks burn as he slides an arm around your waist even though it remains entirely appropriate. As you step away from him, you can still feel his heat against your side, and you wonder how he isn’t sweating his ass off in that leather jacket. Sean hands over his photo and shirt for Dirk to sign, which he does with a wide smile, his signature big and dramatic for the kids, and in a cherry red marker. You’re impressed with how quick he is while still keeping it legible.

“Vic, can you take Sean here to the prize room? Let him pick something special out, since he’s my last kiddo of the day.” Dirk instructs his PA, who seems surprised but happy enough to comply. Sean practically bounces out of his shoes as he grabs the young PA’s hand and follows her out of the room.

“Thank you for that. He… he really looks up to you.” You say as you’re left alone with the talk show host since security waits outside the room for the kids’ comfort. You don’t feel nervous being alone with him, even though normally you don’t particularly enjoy being alone with men.

“He looked like he needed it. So do you.” Dirk replies simply, shrugging and offering you a wry smile, “He’s a good kid.”

“He is. I never expected him, but he’s my entire world.”

“Unplanned pregnancy?” Dirk asks, but you can see from the look on his face that he’s only asking to coax the truth out of you - he doesn’t think Sean is yours. He didn’t miss the slip in your introduction. From the expression on his face, he’s not even trying to be subtle about it really.

“No, no, he’s my little half-brother. Our mom and his dad passed away in an accident when he was four. I was just out of uni, so I got custody of him. He doesn’t really remember them, so he calls me mom.” You reply, giving him the truth since he obviously wanted it, and not feeling guilty for putting that stricken look of sympathy on his face.

“I’m sorry.” Dirk murmurs earnestly, and you shrug your shoulders, managing a gentle smile.

“It’s okay. We’re doing okay. But this - today - really helps. He adores you. You give him a lot of confidence in his self-expression, and… I mean, I’m not naive, I know people talk about us. I know he knows, and I know he hears it sometimes. But you give him the confidence to brush it off most of the time, you know? I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Dirk takes a breath, shocked and touched, and you nearly jump out of your skin as he puts a hand on your arm.

“I think you’re discounting your own role in that.” He says gently, “it must be hard, becoming a mom right out of university. You’re only, what, 25 or 26?”

“Twenty-five.” You agree, and he nods. You watch his gaze trail over you again quickly, and you raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as he did with the other parents, though you’ve no idea why. You have no idea why he’s still talking to you. You expected him to maybe say hi and then go off to his dressing room or trailer. He was here for the kids, not the parents. He wasn’t here for you.

“Hey, gimme your phone for a sec.” Dirk instructs without room for negotiation, and you do it without thinking. He holds it up to you for Face ID to unlock it, then taps away while you try to scoot closer and peer at it.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending myself the photos we took today.” Dirk replies airily, smiling in a way that almost looks like he’s posing, then going back to typing.

“Oh… I can delete your number afterwards, don’t worry.” You reassure him.

“I’m not worried. Text me. I’d like to see you again.”

That makes you freeze, and you tilt your head, surprised.

“Sean, you mean?”

“No, you. It’s unfortunate that you’ve got the kid right now. I would’ve loved to make you my weekend plans.” Dirk muses with a hint of a pout, shameless as can be, while you stare at him in shock. He raises an eyebrow at your expression, a smug smile spreading across his lips as you do your best to catch up. Do you want to sleep with Dirk Brûlée? That’s what he’s asking for, right? He wants to fuck you, and he gave you his number (and took yours in return) to get a chance at something in the future. Are you really going to sleep with a talk show host who is likely nearly double your age and has a reputation as a diva? Then again, he doesn’t have a reputation for fucking around - not since he went to rehab some five or so years ago after a string of ill-advised flings and bad publicity.

“Sean is getting picked up from the studio to go to his friend’s house for their birthday sleepover.” You reply in a rush of breath, then blink in astonishment as if you hadn’t realised what you were saying. Dirk steps closer to you, skimming his hand up over your arm, his eyes darkening as he cups your cheek with his other hand.

“Come over to my place tonight. Stay the night. I’ll make you breakfast.” he demands, tipping your head back a little, his thumb stroking over your lips and down your throat. You choke on your own spit, eyes wide with shock at the way he’s touching you.

“I don’t have any clothes with me except what I’m wearing.”

“I’ll loan you something, pretty girl. How long has it been since you’ve had a break?” Dirk asks, and that makes you pause. He’s a high profile - it’s not like he’s going to kill you, probably. People saw you here, and you’ve got your location shared with Nadia at all times just in case. And honestly, you’ve got pretty good danger sense by now and you don’t get any bad vibes from the talk show host currently rubbing your hands in a tease of a massage, his thumbs skillfully digging into the meat of your palm in a way that makes you shiver. There’s a sincerity in his eyes. A desire that makes you think he might need this nearly as badly as you do.

“I drove here.” You inform him, and he hums, unworried.

“I assumed. Drive to my place. There’s plenty of room to park, and you’ll have the freedom to leave whenever you want. Have you eaten anything today? I can make dinner.” Dirk ends his stream of consciousness with an almost shy smile, and you feel your cheeks get hot at the intensity of his stare.

“Okay.” You finally reply, hesitantly lifting your hands to cup his cheeks, a twinge of heat licking up your spine when he leans into it, “Kiss me first.”

Surprisingly strong hands pull you in close, and you let yourself be drawn in, sliding your hands back in his hair and down over his shoulders as he leans in to press his lips against yours. He does not lure you into it - he doesn’t start sweet and gentle, or chaste and dry. Instead, he devours you, biting your lip and using your gasp to lick his way into your mouth. You thought his moustache would be ticklish, or at least feel unpleasant, but it doesn’t. He clearly grooms it well, and it isn’t scratchy against your skin. He moans into the kiss, adjusting to nip at you gently, sucking your lower lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it before kissing you properly again.

You hear footsteps approaching, gentle clicks of heels that make you gasp and pull away from Dirk with wide eyes. He grins as you hurry to wipe away the remnants of your lipstick from his face, then fix his hair to look less like you’ve been combing your fingers through it while he kisses you good enough to forget your own name. He rubs away a spot of smeared lipstick from your chin, then steps away a comfortable distance to flick through his phone as the PA from earlier, Vic, opens the door with Sean at her side blabbering away. He beams at the sight of you, holding a poster and a copy of the children’s book that Dirk wrote earlier this year. The man in question dutifully signs both for Sean, ruffling his hair while you try to collect yourself and thank Vic for taking care of your little monster.

Your phone buzzes, and you let out a soft sigh of relief, “Garrett and Kimmie are here, buddy, c’mon.”

Sean cheers, then shyly asks Dirk for a hug before he goes. You can’t help but melt a little as Dirk gives Sean a squeeze, then tells him to be good at the party. He catches your eyes, winking, then pats Sean on the shoulder as he says goodbye and departs for his dressing room. Vic leads you both out of the building, and you ask Sean if he wants to keep his merch to show his friend, or for you to take it home. The mental debate takes a while, but eventually, he gives it all to you to put in your car, just in case.

“You promised to frame stuff.” He reminds you, and you laugh.

“I did. I’ll get it done soon, I promise.”

Garrett and Kimmie meet you out front, and you help Sean into the car, putting his backpack at his feet so you can give him a couple of kisses and hugs. CJ, the birthday boy, complains until you walk around the car precariously close to the busy street to give him a hug as well, and then they’re off, leaving you alone. Once upon a time, you were very used to being alone, but now? Now, it felt empty. Maybe it was a good thing you’ve been picked up by the wild tv show host. You’re sure you’d go mad on your own all weekend.

You head to your car in the small parking area for audience members, putting Sean’s things into the back seat. As you settle into the driver’s seat and examine yourself in the mirror, you realise that your lipstick is basically gone, and you hope Sean was too excited about the day to notice. Your phone buzzes, and you find Dirk’s face looking back at you in his contact photo.

Address attached. Txt me when u get here n I’ll open the gate.

A pause, and then another message comes through.

The pool n hot tub r nice today. I’ll give u sumthin to swim in. If u want? Can u swim? R u allergic 2 anything? Do u like Thai food?

Well, he texts pretty much exactly how you figured he would. Somehow, it isn’t the turn off you thought it might be.

I can swim. It might be nice since it’s hot out today. Maybe I should go home first and get clothes? Are you even going to be there if I leave right away? I don’t have any allergies, and I like pretty much everything.

Already omw home. Driver. Up to u but I wanna see u in my clothes.

Okay, see you soon.

The drive to Dirk’s house isn’t too terrible, even with a bit of traffic. You start to get excited on the drive, as nervous as you are, to finally relax a little and do something for yourself. It’s been a long time since you’ve had the chance to let loose. You haven’t been on a date since your parents passed away, and you’ve only had a single one night stand since then. The most romantic relationship you’ve had has been with your vibrator. Based on the kisses he gave you earlier, you’re fairly sure Dirk will be able to give you a good night. If he doesn’t, at least you’ll get to lounge in his hot tub, sleep in what you imagine is a lavish bed, and maybe he’ll even feed you. Worst case scenario, you’re plenty good at getting yourself off.

Dirk Brûlée’s house is stunning. You’re not necessarily surprised - his vibrant aesthetic wasn’t necessarily what was popular these days, but it was something you saw often in the art community, and it worked for him. The house is an off-white brick with flowers and vines painted across it. The door is a large, old wooden thing that reminds you of a castle, as do the stained glass windows. The path up to the door is made of painted stones, and vibrant flowers line the flowerbeds along the sides of the path and the side of the house. You can’t wait to see the inside.

Your house is beautiful. I’m outside.

You pop a stick of gum into your mouth just to make sure your breath is fresh despite the fact that you’ve already made out with Dirk less than an hour ago. You grin when the gate begins to open, and you pull into the driveway to park. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at it as you turn your car off, your cheeks getting hot as you see the message.

Can’t wait 2 c u. I wanna take care of u n make u feel good, mon chou.

As you’re getting out of the car, you hear the front door open and nearly trip over your own feet when you see Dirk. He’s changed since he got home. He’s replaced his vibrant outfit with a pair of jeans that look painted on and a colourful apron with ‘Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo Mike Echo’ on the front. You snicker despite how cheesy it is, though you’re distracted when you realise he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. As soon as you’re close enough, he pulls you into a kiss that has you clinging to the straps of his apron and trying to tuck your gum into your cheek. He leads you inside despite your distracted state, relieving you of your purse and setting it on the table in the front entrance. Your arms slip around his neck, trusting him to hold your weight while you carefully toe off your heels and tuck them out of the way. You only break the kiss when you smell what he’s cooking, and he mouths along your jaw and neck as you breathe in.

“God, what is that?”

“Mm, I’m making Thai lettuce wraps and fish tacos. Shouldn’t be long before it’s done.” He replies against your throat, the depth of his voice vibrating through you.

“God, that sounds delicious.” You murmur, tangling your fingers in his hair and hissing as Dirk sinks his teeth into the meat of your breast, “Ow! If you’re that hungry, I have something else you can eat, baby.”

Dirk laughs at your cheesy come-on and playfully sultry tone, nipping your chin, then kissing you properly while he backs you through the house towards the kitchen. You’d love to get a good view of Dirk's gorgeous home, but you’re far too distracted by the way this stupidly hot older man is licking his way into your pliant mouth while his hands smooth down your back to grab handfuls of your ass. When you part for breath, Dirk grins as he starts to chew, and that's when you realise that he stole your gum. With any other guy, it would probably be not just weird, but gross. You know it’s gross. And yet, something about it makes your cunt throb, and you tug on his hair as punishment for his thievery.

“Sugar, if you wanted gum, you could’ve asked.” You croon at him, and he laughs then blows a bubble. You bite it to pop it, taking the gum from him and dropping it in the garbage can at the end of the island in Dirk’s stupidly pretty kitchen. You finally get a good look at the interior of the house, and you’re not surprised to find it colourful, but you’re impressed by how cohesive it is. The blend of complementary colours in the open concept kitchen, dining room and living room make each room’s most impressive features pop. In the kitchen, vintage appliances in mint green and hand-painted tiles. In the living room, a mismatch of comfortable furniture including a royal purple chaise lounge and a phthalo green cabriole sofa. Last but certainly not least, in the dining room, a china cabinet full of what looks like uranium glass pieces that you definitely want to get a closer look at.

“Ma déesse.” Dirk murmurs against your ear, and you hum inquisitively, not understanding him but recognizing at least that ‘ma’ is a possessive and that means he’s probably talking to or about you. He nibbles at your ear, then finally breaks away from you, “Je dois finir de cuisiner.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, honey, but you can keep talking all you like.” You reply simply, drawing another chuckle from Dirk as he finally gets back to cooking. You leave him to it, venturing into the dining room to peer at his uranium glass collection. It’s all well-maintained and unscratched, so you think it’s probably safe to be around, especially behind the thick glass of the china cabinet. It truly doesn’t take much longer for dinner to be ready, and you hum with excitement when Dirk calls for you, practically prancing up behind him and putting your arms around his waist. He sighs blissfully as you nuzzle your cheek against his back, stopping in place to enjoy the feeling, and you feel a twinge in your heart as you realise that despite being a tv show host and a relatively high profile person, he doesn’t have a lot of contact that he wants. You think back to today when that one mom kept touching his arm, and how you’d sympathised with him due to your own experiences with being harassed by overeager buyers at the gallery. Breathing in the scent of his cologne, you nip at the bare curve of his shoulder blade, sliding your hands under the apron to stroke his stomach.

“Mmm, thanks for cooking, handsome. How can I possibly repay you?” You coo teasingly, playing with his treasure trail, and he practically purrs as he leans into your touch.

“Plus-tard, tu peux sucer ma bite. Nous devons d'abord manger.” He murmurs, twisting in your arms and gripping the back of your neck, tilting your head back for a proper kiss.

“Mmm, uh huh, whatever you say.” You reply against his lips between kisses, draping your arms around his neck and laughing as he blows a raspberry against your mouth. You slap at his chest in an attempt at getting away from the strong grasp he has on you. He turns you around and slaps you on the ass, then turns back to keep plating your meal.

“Go sit down. Island or dining room, whatever tickles your fancy. What do you want to drink? I have pomegranate juice, orange juice, Sprite, Dr. Pepper and… I think I have Coke? Somewhere?” Dirk bends to peer into his fridge, and you watch with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile, examining the plentiful curve of his ass.

“Oh, you should definitely keep looking for that Coke.” You reply playfully, and Dirk snorts, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Should I? Is that what you want to drink?”

“Mhmm, yeah, haven’t had a Coke in like six years but it is DEFINITELY what I want to drink today if it keeps you bent over.”

That earns you a genuine laugh, the pleasantly baffled sort that says he’s not quite sure how he got you to himself. You giggle as he bends over a little further, back arched dramatically just for the laughs it earns him. He gives a loud ‘Aha!’ as he straightens up with a bottle of Coke in hand, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

“Now you’ve gotta drink it.”

“Ohh, woe is me.”

“Find a seat, ma chérie, or you’ll never get what you’re so clearly gagging for.” Dirk retorts, and you feel your cheeks get hot even as you pull one of the low-backed stools at the island out. He sets a plate in front of you, followed by the bottle of Coke, then pecks your cheek as he rounds the island to take his own seat.

“God, this looks so good. If you want me to make you breakfast in return, I definitely can.” You offer, but Dirk shrugs, reaching across to squeeze your thigh under the skirt of your dress. You moan around a bite of a Thai lettuce wrap, eyes rolling back in your head at the savoury bite of the peanut sauce.

“I like taking care of you.” He replies simply, then folds the little soft shell tortilla of his fish taco and takes a massive bite. You snicker, reaching across to wipe sauce off of the corner of his mouth and laughing as he licks it off your fingertips. Dinner is a relaxing affair, with you both mostly just devouring your food and occasionally feeding each other. Which generally ends in giggling and having to clean each other up when you accidentally smush sauce on each other’s faces, but you don’t mind. The food is delicious, and you’re fairly sure that even if he sucks in bed, you’d probably stick around for a round 2 just to get more food and the chance to keep giggling with him. You haven’t had this good of a time in years.

Once you’re done with eating, you collect your plates and bring them over to put them in the dishwasher as instructed. You yelp as Dirk steps up behind you, slipping his arms around you to cup just under your breasts, lifting them so he can cup them in his palms. He bites gently along the curve of your neck, pressing his hips into your butt so you can feel his growing erection. A grin stretches across your lips, and you bend at the waist so you can put the dishes into the dishwasher, laughing at the soft groan Dirk lets out as he strokes his hands up and down the curve of your back.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Dirk mutters, and you give a little wiggle of your hips, then straighten up and lean back into his chest.

“You’re so fucking easy.” You retort, and he snorts, sliding his hands around to squeeze your tits again.

“For you? Hell yeah, baby.” He retorts, kissing along your shoulder as he gently squeezes and massages your chest. A breathy moan escapes your lips, and you lean back into his chest firmly, letting him hold your weight as he rolls his thumbs over your nipples through the fabric of your dress and bra. Dirk whispers in french against your ear, but you can barely pick up the words, far too keyed up to focus on anything but the feeling of his big hands squeezing your chest. You reach behind you to clutch at his hair and Dirk groans softly against your ear, peppering kisses across your cheek. He spins you in his arms, laughing as you instantly pull the neck of the apron over his head, tossing it to the side so you can get your hands on his bare skin.

"Have you stretched today?" Dirk asks while stroking your sides, grabbing handfuls of your hips and squeezing. You moan quietly, running your open hands over his chest so you can feel the tickle of his chest hair against your palms.

"Uh..." Your cheeks grow hot, and you feel stupid, but can't help yourself but ask, "Do you mean my-"

Dirk interrupts you with a laugh, kissing you softly as he nuzzles his nose against yours in a surprisingly affectionate manner, "No, mon trésor, your pretty body. These incredible legs."

You gasp as he pulls one of your legs up to his hip, squeezing your thigh hard enough to almost hurt in a delicious way that sends sparks up your spine. You're already wet and he's barely even touched you.

"Uhm, I did yoga during my lunch break." You mumble, "for like, fifteen minutes."

Another laugh, and Dirk kisses you again, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you up onto his hips. You cling to his back as he carries you further into his house. You pass a simple bathroom that seems to have mosaics in tile across the floors and walls in the brief glance you get, then a series of photographs and accolades in the stairwell up to the second floor. Dirk pauses by a dark room that seems to be relatively empty, before humming to himself in a way that you read as ‘maybe later’ before he continues on past another bathroom and what looks like two guest bedrooms. An office is next, and then he’s kicking open the door to the master bedroom. This room seems to be the most normal in the house, though it is no less artistic. There’s a huge stained glass window and door that leads to a balcony with gold leafing on the metal. The California king-sized bed is pushed into an arch-shaped alcove in the wall, piled high with blankets, and resting on a plush carpet that you’re sure would feel like silk under your toes. The walls are aegean blue and covered with large, extremely intricate gold mandalas that you can’t help but stare at even as Dirk works a lovebite into the delicate skin of your throat.

“Your bedroom is beautiful.” You mumble, and he hums what may have been a thank you as you stroke his hair. There’s a large walnut vanity against the opposite wall of the bed, though the spot across from the end of the bed is taken up by what absolutely must be a custom mirror considering the size of it and the intricacy of the gold-leafed frame. There’s a door next to the vanity that leads to what looks like a massive bathroom, and the closet has double doors, so you assume it’s a walk-in. Dirk carries you over to the bed and lays you back on his navy sheets, crawling over you as he kisses down the centre of your chest.

“Can I take your dress off?” He asks, and you groan softly, trying to remember what underwear you wore today. A lick to the top of your breast wipes that thought from your mind, and you nod quickly, breath stuttering in your throat. Dirk loosens the corset bodice with clever fingers, nuzzling his nose and tickly moustache against the skin between your breasts. You lift your hips as he pulls the dress up to your waist, then let him support the arch of your back as he tugs it over your head, and your cheeks get hot as you realise what you’re wearing underneath. Dirk freezes, licking his lips, and you groan softly with embarrassment.

Large hands skillfully unclip your cow-print bra, and you let out a ragged gasp as Dirk bites the curve of your breast as he removes it. You almost think he’s going to let you get away with it until he rolls his tongue over your nipple, gives it a quick suck, then pouts up at you as he rests his chin against your chest.

“Aww, I thought I’d get a little milk for my efforts.” he teases, and you bat at him.

“It’s my laundry day! You try having a fucking seven year old!” You complain, cheeks on fire.

“Non, non, ne vous méprenez pas. J'aime votre lingerie.” Dirk insists, and you scowl at him until he realises his use of his native tongue, “Don’t misunderstand me. I love your underwear, my sweet girl. Especially these.”

You gasp as he tugs on the front of the novelty thong you’re wearing, a white strip of a thing with ‘I love cock sauce’ written on the front. His grin makes you want to slap him, but you refrain, just barely. You’re tempted to make excuses and tell him that it was novelty underwear that came in a box of extra hot hot sauce, but you decide against it.

“And here I thought you’d be more interested in what’s beneath it.” You purr, pushing him back a little so he can watch as you pull your thong aside, rub your fingers through the wet mess of your cunt, then slide one finger inside of yourself. Dirk groans lowly, stroking your thighs as he watches, his pupils blown with desire. You smirk at him as you add a second finger on your next thrust, and finally, Dirk snaps out of his awed surveillance. He leans down to kiss along your stomach, using his knees to spread your legs wider while slapping your hand away, then cupping your cunt in his palm.

“How much do you care for that thong?” Dirk asks quietly, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t.”

“Fantastique.” He replies, gripping the fabric in one hand and ripping it off of you, “I’ll give you some of mine instead.”

You stare at him with an open mouth, not your most attractive look, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He cups you again, leaning down to trail his lips across your chest, swirling his tongue around your nipples as he sucks first one, and then the other into his mouth.

“Your moustache tickles.” You mumble and he laughs quietly against your skin, “S’kinda nice.”

“I’m glad you like it, chérie. Let me know how it feels on your pretty cunt, oui?” He coos playfully, kissing his way down your stomach. He leans up for a moment to say ‘Alexa, play red playlist’ before dipping back down to swirl his tongue in your belly button in a way that makes you yelp and laugh. Music fills the room at just the right volume, and you run your fingers through Dirk’s caramel hair as the low instrumentals fill the room. You’re surprised to find the vibes just right - not too serious, not the bassy kind of shit that acts more as a pace-guide than anything else, and nothing loud enough to take you out of the moment. It takes Dirk a second to get settled between your legs, and you feel your cunt throb as you just barely hear him mumbling to himself over the music.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m introducing myself to your pretty little pussy, ma déesse. Telling her how pretty she is. How much I’m going to love on her.” Dirk replies, “I’ll make you feel so good, princesse. Tu me rends fou - fuck, so fucking stunning.”

You cover your face, whining softly as he finally leans in to kiss your clit, gentle as can be. His moustache tickles, and you start to close your legs, but he gives your thigh a sharp slap.

“Open, baby. Let me lick your pretty little pussy. She’s so lonely.” Dirk coos, pouting sympathetically up at you, then running the flat of his tongue across the length of your cunt. You arch off the bed, and he puts an arm over your stomach to hold you still as he laps up the honey dripping from you.

“God, Dirk, Jesus!” You gasp, and he snickers.

“Calling out to all of your deities, princesse?” he teases, closing his lips around your labia and sucking gently to love on all of you. He’s sloppy at first, intentionally so, warming you up with wide laps of the flat of his tongue, then fucking his tongue into your clenching heat while you gasp and yank on his hair. He doesn’t seem bothered at all by how rough you are with him, humming happily as he closes his lips around your clit and you nearly yank his hair out at the roots.

“Fuck, fuck, why’re you so good?” You moan, and Dirk practically purrs, delving in a little more eagerly. He rolls his tongue over your clit, trapping the sensitive bud in his mouth while he presses two thick fingers into your cunt. You nearly kick him in the ribs, gasping for breath at the sudden fullness, since his digits are far thicker than yours and it’s been a while since you’ve had a play time with your vibrator.

“Relax, mon trésor, I’ll take care of you. Je vais te faire sentir si bien. Vous ne voudrez jamais partir.” He coos, and noticing the way you yank on his hair, he glances up to meet your eyes and translate for you, “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby. You’re never going to want to leave.”

Your moans are probably deafening - you can’t tell if you’re being too loud, you’re too lost in sensation as Dirk’s fingers press into the spot inside of you that makes you clench around him tight enough that he chuckles. He strokes that spot as he rolls your clit in his mouth, and you feel your spine stiffen as you get closer to the edge.

“You’re going to strangle my cock.” He teases, and you groan in response, pushing his face back down against your cunt needily.

“Keep your mouth busy, m’so close.”

“Demanding.” he coos, and it sounds like praise as he gets back to work on your dripping pussy.

“Shut the fuck up, oh my god, please, make me cum.” You beg, and Dirk laughs against you, thrusting his fingers faster into you as he sucks your clit with a bit more determination, finally taking your pleasure a little bit more seriously. He moans around you, spreading his fingers a little to stretch you open a bit more. The pressure builds and builds, and you yank on his hair as a hard suck to your clit sends you reeling over the edge of the cliff into oblivion. Your vision goes white, your legs shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and Dirk strokes them soothingly as he laps up the evidence of your release. He pulls away just as you start to get overly sensitive, and he kisses a trail up your belly as he settles between your legs.

“Fuck.” You pant, staring up at the ceiling as your vision is returned to you, and you blink a couple of times.

“Such a foul mouth.” Dirk teases playfully, kissing you so softly you barely even feel it. His moustache is wet with your essence as he drops his lips to kiss along your neck, letting you catch your breath. He seems so unhurried, but you can feel the throb of his cock through his too-tight jeans. When you look down, you find them undone, likely to give himself some breathing room, and you smile at the sight of the pink head of his cock sticking out from the waistband of his boxers.

“Take those stupid jeans off. You’re gonna cut circulation off to your balls with pants that tight.” You mutter, and he laughs but obediently shuffles out of his trousers, shedding his boxers along with them.

“You okay for more, or do you need a break?” Dirk asks, and you roll your eyes at him.

“I’m fine. Don’t get cocky.” You retort, and he shows you his teeth with how wide he grins.

“Okay, Miss ‘Why are you so good?’. I’m just being polite.”

Your cheeks are on fire as you spit in your hand and wrap it around him, stroking him from base to tip. You’re just a little bit mean with the way you squeeze the head, then reach down to cup and roll his balls in your palm. He chokes, then laughs breathily as he arches into your hand, a rumbly groan rising in his chest.

“Okay, okay, point taken. C’mon, chérie, hands and knees.” Dirk ‘helps’ you roll over onto your belly, though it’s more of a hindrance than anything since he keeps grabbing and squeezing your ass. You situate yourself, getting as comfortable as you can, knowing this is going to be a lot but unwilling to stop. Dirk strokes your lower back, adjusting the angle as he rubs the head of his cock against you. You try to relax, but you’re admittedly nervous - he’s the biggest you’ve ever taken, and you know his girth is going to be a bit overwhelming at first.

“Deep breath, baby. Biiiig stretch.” Dirk coos, and you would kick him if he wasn’t pressing the thick head of his cock into you, wiping every thought you’ve ever had from your mind. You grip his sheets tightly, going from your hands to bracing on your forearms with one single thrust. You feel uprooted. Unmoored and awash in riptide by the stretch of too much too fast. It feels like it goes on forever, but eventually, Dirk’s pelvis presses up against your ass, and he pets your lower back adoringly. You can feel his groan vibrating through you despite the fact that he isn’t leaning over your body yet, and you’re surprised to find it as loud as your own cry of his name. He stays still for the moment, letting you catch your breath while you deal with the fact that you can feel him in your lungs - can barely breathe for how deep he is.

“Not compensating.” You mumble under your breath, dizzy with fullness, and Dirk hums inquisitively, but you shake your head.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you reach back one arm to smack him as if he’s doing something wrong by checking in. Luckily, he seems to find it amusing, as he chuckles at you and catches your hand. You shiver as he slides his hand up your forearm.

“Wait, Dirk-” You protest, but you’re not quick enough. He pulls you up by your arm, grabbing the other with his free hand, and you cry out at the change in angle. The pressure inside of you eases as he slowly pulls out, but the relief is short-lived, and you whine as he thrusts back in rather sharply. He sets a measured pace, not too slow, but not quick enough that you don’t take every single inch of him with every rock of his hips. Strong hands hold you by the arms, keeping you somewhat upright as he makes a solid effort at breaking you. Your breasts bounce every time he ruts into you, and if you were capable of conscious thought at the moment, you’d realise how sore you’re going to be later from this position. Eventually, Dirk seems to have pity, releasing his grip on your arms and pushing you down into the mattress instead, panting fervent French as he rocks your world.

You’re drooling. You can feel it under your face, and you’re fairly sure you’re cross-eyed, lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. You can feel yourself rocking back into his thrusts, taking as eagerly as he gives it to you, forcing him to be just a little rougher. If you’re going to ache later, you want it to be a bone-deep ache that’s worth the monumental effort. His hand slides up your spine to cup the back of your neck, both of you slick with sweat, and you have no idea how long it is before his other hand slips between your legs and starts to play with your aching clit.

“Come for me, love, come on. Fuck, you’re so fucking gorgeous, how the fuck did I get you to come home with me? C’mon baby, lemme make you feel good. Let go for me.” Dirk groans behind you, and you feel dizzy and cockdumb as he finds the right angle to send you screaming over the edge again. A ragged groan rips from your lover’s lips as you clench around him, and his hips stutter, the pace of his thrusts ruined. You cling to the sheets as you feel heat flood your cunt, the last couple of pumps of Dirk’s hips fucking it deeper into you. He doesn’t collapse atop you, instead carefully manuevering the both of you until you’re laying against his bare chest, face nuzzled into his fuzzy pec.

“You okay?” Dirk asks after a few minutes of panting for breath and snuggling. You groan against his skin.

“I think you broke my hips.” You retort, and he laughs, giving you a gentle squeeze on the butt.

“I promise I didn’t, chérie. Relax a little longer, then I’ll clean us up. Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Dirk asks, and you melt at his gentle tone, pouting a little as you consider your options.

“Maybe. Is more off the table?”

“Never, ma déesse.” Dirk replies, and you hum, leaning up to kiss him softly. He pets your hair back out of your face, lips pressing to your eyelids, and then your nose before returning to your wanting mouth.

“Don’t commit to something you can’t keep up with. I know you’re older than me.” You remind him, and he gives a diva-like gasp, though he’s still grinning.

“I’m only forty.” He protests, “Still plenty young enough to rock your world. Clearly.”

You giggle, using every ounce of willpower you have to pull yourself up from your position snuggled up against his side, throwing a leg over his hips so you can sit on top of him.

“So, you’re ready to fuck me again?” You ask, brow raised skeptically. He snorts, holding your hips to keep you steady and pushing his thumbs into the softer skin in the curve of your pelvis.

“Find me a guy older than 20 who can manage that, ma petite femme. But, I can take care of your pretty little cunt until I’m ready.” Dirk promises, sweeping his hands up over your sides, “Wanna meet Crème Brûlée?”

You can’t help but laugh, leaning down to kiss him again, “Didn’t I already?”

He laughs, rolling you both over so he can get up, then helping you to your feet. Your legs are a little unsteady, so he pointedly raises an eyebrow at you, but helps you from the room.

“I am not juvenile enough to have named my dick.” he insists, and you snort, following him towards the dark room he’d mused over earlier that night.

“Liar. I don’t believe that for a second!”

“Well, I’m certainly not telling you when you’re just going to make fun of me. Calling me old and cocky. Very rude.” He teases as he opens the door fully and flicks on the light. The room is a deep, royal purple, with one wall entirely taken up by mirrors. There’s a large vanity by the window, and racks of outfits that look like they each might’ve cost a thousand dollars minimum. There’s also a massage table tucked into a corner, likely only pulled out when it’s to be used.

“This is where I keep my nicer stuff. Including Crème Brûlée.” Dirk gestures to the centre of the room, where a dark waterproof mat is set out, and upon which rests what you vaguely recognise as a sybian from a little too much time on the Hub. Your eyes go wide as saucers, and Dirk strokes your lower back soothingly, nipping the tip of your ear.

“Is that…?”

“Mhm. No pressure, baby. If you aren’t into it-”

“I am very into it. Very. Gimme a second to take this in.” You cut him off, and he laughs quietly as he slips up behind you instead. His lips trail a path across your shoulder, hands stroking over your bare stomach before one slips between your legs to collect the cum leaking from you and push it back inside, “These are like, several grand.”

Dirk hums his agreement, stroking wet fingers over your clit, “With the attachments? Certainly. Do you wanna try him out?”

You whimper, grabbing and squeezing his forearm gently as you consider it.

“Yeah. But I don’t want you to stop touching me.” You admit, and he sighs dreamily, rewarding you with slow strokes to your clit.

“I won’t. I can sit behind you, play with your pretty body while you ride it. Once I’m ready, I can even fuck you on it. We can see how many times I can make you come before me.” Dirk’s offer is salacious, and you wet your lips, excitement sending heat burning up your spine.

“Yeah… yeah, ruin me.” You request, and you feel Dirk’s groan as much as you hear it. He guides you over to the toy, wiping it down with a body-safe sex toy cleaner just to be extra safe before he guides you to sit atop the grinder pad. He lets you get settled, fetching a bottle of lube that he sets on the corner of the mat within reach, then sits behind you on the machine. You sigh as he warms up some lube in his hand before he generously rubs it into your cunt, coating you in it to protect you from any possible irritation since the grinder pad is big enough to cover most of you. Once you’re settled and comfortable, he rubs the excess over his cock and balls just in case, then reaches for the remote.

“Ready, baby?”

“Ready. I want you to fuck me again as soon as you’re ready. Need to feel you stretch me open again.” You murmur, breathless with excitement, and it’s the last coherent thought you have for quite some time. The vibration starts relatively gentle, but still overwhelming in your post-orgasmic state. You tremble, attempting to lift your hips, but Dirk grabs you and holds you down.

“Ah, ah, ah. Be a good girl.” Dirk commands, and your spine turns to jelly. It’s too easy to make you come this quickly after the last one. As soon as Dirk turns the sybian up a notch, and then two, you’re crying out for mercy as you lean back into his sturdy chest, your hands reaching back to blindly tangle in his hair. One orgasm turns into two as he turns it up even higher, and you can hear yourself sobbing, distantly, almost like it’s someone else. Dirk gently pushes you to lean forwards, and you gasp for air as the blunt head of his cock presses into you mercilessly. He pulls you back to sit on him, positioning you so that your clit is still rubbing against the grinder pad, and you see stars. Lightning flashes behind your eyes as two turns to three.

“Gripping me like a vice.” Dirk growls against your shoulder, and you sob his name, clinging to him like he’ll save you from the torment he’s putting you through, “I’m not going to last if you keep this up.”

Like it’s your fault.

You scream as your fourth orgasm on the sybian rips through you like a bullet, and you’re shaking as Dirk finally pulls you up off of the machine, laying you down beside it with a fresh load of his cum stuffed deep inside you. He turns off the machine, collapsing beside you on the mat and pulling you into his arms, panting for breath. You blink to try and clear the fog from your brain, glancing at his watch to find you’ve been on the sybian for quite a while, even if it’s felt like both five seconds and five hours.

“You okay?” Dirk asks again, and this time, you curl into his arms and nod sleepily.

“So, so beyond okay.”

~

You wake in the morning curled up in Dirk’s lavish bed, naked but clean, your face buried in his chest. His arm is looped around your shoulders, your legs tangled together, and the sound of his heartbeat is so soothing you almost go back to sleep. Instead, you sit up, straddling Dirk’s leg simply because of the position you’d been in when you awoke. He blinks blearily up at you, rubbing one large hand over his face, then yawning.

“Bonjour.” He mumbles, and you smile, leaning down to kiss him closed-mouth to avoid morning breath. He smiles up at you in that dreamy way that makes you melt like warm butter, “There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. I’ll use the other one. Steal whatever you need, and I’ll get some clothes for you.”

You thank him, slipping out of bed and stretching, bare as the day you were born. It takes you a second to walk properly, but you manage, heading into the bathroom to wash up. By the time you leave, the bedroom is empty save for a shirt and a pair of boxers on the vanity. The shirt is a Dirk Brûlée shirt which makes you snicker, while the boxers have little Sriracha bottles on them and ‘Flaming Hot’ on the ass.

When you enter the kitchen, you find Dirk cooking breakfast in a pair of obnoxious silk boxers while listening to 80s pop music. He smiles at you as you come into view and sit at the island, a hint of something in his eyes that makes your tummy do somersaults. You grab a knife from the block, and an apple from the fruit bowl on his counter, cutting it into slices while you watch him shimmy around the kitchen cooking what looks like far too much food for two. You’re far too fond of him to protest. Instead, you pop a slice of apple into your mouth and stare at the little dimples in his lower back.

“How do you want your eggs, ma petite femme?” Dirk asks, and you gaze dreamily at his stupidly pretty face, chin propped up on your fist.

“Fertilised.” You reply mindlessly, then slip another slice of apple into your mouth. Dirk’s laugh is loud and disbelievingly happy, and he leans across the island to kiss you.

“I can make that happen.”

“Should I throw out my birth control?” You ask playfully, and he snickers.

“Who says I haven’t already?” 

“Usually you don’t tell someone when you’re gonna baby trap them, honey.”

“Is it a trap if you know about it?” Dirk queries, flipping a pancake and grinning at you. You can’t help yourself. You get up from your stool, circling the island to wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his back.

“You can baby trap me any day, sugar.”

~

The weekend passes in a whirlwind of laughter and fun and ridiculously good sex. You try out Dirk’s hot tub, then laze around catching sun in his pool. Overheated, you both lay on the couch to watch a movie with cold juice, cuddling even though you’re both too hot for it to be totally comfortable. Dirk translates his pet names for you, though he refuses to translate ‘ma petite femme’ even though that one seems the most obvious to you. He tells you his future plans for the show, and listens while you tell him all about your job at the gallery.

You both take a good hundred pictures throughout the weekend, though neither of you post any of them. You make lunch, and Dirk orders out for dinner as a little treat. He doesn’t like going out too often since most restaurants have the allure of alcohol, and he’s still recovering. He shows you his five year coin, which he keeps on him at all times. He tells you about his parents, and you tell him about yours, and Sean, and he strokes your hair as you vent a little bit about how hard it’s been raising him on your own.

By Sunday afternoon, you dread the thought of leaving. You’ve always been quite independent, but you don’t want to be away from Dirk. He promises to call you, offers several times to let you stay over with Sean, though you both agree that might be a little weird for the poor kid and decide against it. He kisses you about a thousand times before letting you leave, and you see him watching you from the window as you drive off.

Your home feels cold and lifeless when you get home, and you lament the lack of colour. You’ve never been bold enough to go wild with decorating your condo, knowing you’ll have to pay an arm and a leg to repaint it should you ever want to sell. You’ve been home for twenty minutes and you’re already sick of it. As you sit at your computer, still wearing Dirk’s shirt, boxers and a pair of gym shorts, you google ‘ma petite femme’ on a whim.

The direct translation is ‘my little woman’, but you note that it is used instead to mean ‘my little wife’ in practice.

You change into your own clothes, then head out to get groceries for the week. As you’re on your way home, you stop in at a nearby store where you pretend you’ve never been before as a very upstanding single mother. You walk out with a discreet bag, and head home to put away your groceries. Finally, once you’re done and you’ve sufficiently adulted for the day, you unwrap your purchase. Three hours after you left Dirk’s house, he receives a photo of a vibrant pink cock ring in a ring box, and a simple text message.

You need to rename your sybian. I wanna be Crèmed Brûlée.

#Dirk Brûlée x reader #everything at once #Dirk Brûlée #what the hell is this #i do not apologize #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl

[foundtherightwords]

Love in a Storm - Chapter 8

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)

Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.

Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warnings: non-explicit sex

A/N: This was my first attempt to write a courtroom scene! I learned a lot during my research for it (such as the fact that British judges don't use a gavel). Also, the Old Bailey transcripts of the actual Cato Street Conspiracy trials are a Godsend, as I took a lot of Robert Adams' testimonies from them.

Chapter word count: 3.9k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The Old Bailey was so packed with spectators that the cab had to drop Christine and Owens a long way off from the main building, and Owens had to elbow his way through the crowd to get Christine inside. The pavement was swamped with boys selling broadsides printed with every detail of the conspiracy and the trials of the previous days. One of them ran up to Christine and offered her a pamphlet, and was met with such a withering glance from Owens that he ducked his head and quickly ran off.

The courtroom was a hive of activity, as clerks hurried back and forth on the floor below and spectators squeezed into their seats in the gallery above. A brief hush fell over the gallery as Christine sat down and removed her hood, revealing a velvet turban decorated with bright blue feathers. It was actually her mother's, left behind when she moved to Naples. Christine herself never wore something so flamboyant; she only wanted Edward to be able to pick her out amongst the crowd. A woman behind Christine huffed loudly, "With the money one paid for this seat, one would expect to see something!" Christine's cheeks burned, but she reminded herself she wasn't here to cater to the morbidly curious, who watched the trials as avidly as they did the latest drama in a West End playhouse. She was here for Edward. So she squared her shoulder and fixed her eyes on the floor below, ignoring the irritated murmurs around her.

The presiding judge was Lord Chief Justice Abbot, an old man with a stony, humorless face. Even from this distance, Christine could see the disapproval on the judge's face as he glanced at Murray, who looked more like an owl than ever in his crooked wig and gown. Before she could feel concerned about what this might mean for the trial, the murmuring rose again, and her attention was drawn to a door in a corner, where Edward was being led into the courtroom.

Christine leaned forward, hands gripping the banister in front of her, trying to take in everything about him, to fill that void he'd left in her during all those weeks they were apart. He was no longer in chains, thank God. And it looked like he had been shaved, washed, and changed into the clothes she'd sent. His hair was still too long, reaching his shoulders now, and he was thin, oh so thin! It wrenched her heart to see his features standing out sharply on his face and the dark smudges under his eyes. But at least he looked respectable, a gentleman. Hopefully, it would count for something in the eye of the jury. Even as she thought this, however, she was well aware that the other prisoners could not afford such privileges, and felt a jab at her conscience.

Edward was put to the dock. He turned toward the gallery and locked eyes with her. His mouth quirked up in that familiar smile that went straight through her heart. That smile told her everything that he couldn't say in his letters, everything that he couldn't speak in words. That smile said to her I'm here, sweetheart. Be brave. Be strong. I shall always be here. It was only for a brief moment, and then he turned to face the judge again, and Christine knew that look and that smile would have to sustain her for the rest of the trial.

The jury was sworn in, and the trial began. Christine hardly registered what was being said, so intent she was on watching Edward. He remained composed and expressionless while the Attorney General, a middle-aged man with a thin mouth and fussy manners, stated the case to the jury. He didn't look guilty or indignant. If Christine hadn't known him so well, she would've missed a slight hardening of his face, a tightening of his jaws, as the charges were read. He must be boiling with anger inside, and she was proud of him for maintaining a calm, dignified exterior.

The same could not be said for Murray. He moved about in front of the witness's box, waving his arms like a windmill and punctuating his questions with wild gestures. At first, Christine was exasperated by his theatrical performance, but as the witnesses stammered under his scrutiny, she started to understand his tactics. It was just as Edward had said; Murray sought to confuse the witnesses so he could catch them unawares and point out the holes in their testimonies. And he was witty, Christine had to give him that. More than once he set the crowd chuckling and had to be sternly reminded to stick to the procedures by the Lord Chief Justice.

After several witnesses had testified about the shooting of the police spy, Benson, and the fact that Benson had indeed been assigned to watch the Cato Street party, the star witness, Robert Adams, was called to the box. Despite knowing he was going to speak out against her husband, Christine couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He was a stooped, pitiful little man, with thinning, graying hair plastered to his head, a timid face, made all the more timid by the prominence of his ears, and the same vacant eyes as his wife's. In a small voice, he told of how the conspirators had found money to buy arms for their coup.

"Thistlewood said I might buy a pistol for 4 or 5 shillings; I said I had no money to buy pistols with, he said he would see what could be done. Later, he told me that there was a gentleman's servant who had supplied some of the party with money, and he said if they would act upon the subject he would give a great deal more. He repeated it more than once or twice." He said all this quickly, without emotion, as if by rote, confirming Murray's theory that he had been coached.

"Did you ever go with Thistlewood to get this money?" the Attorney General asked.

"No, but Thistlewood once came back from Hanover Square with the money, which he gave to Bradburn to purchase ferrules to put on the staves."

"Hanover Square, Lord Hurstfield's place of residence?"

A moment's hesitance, then Adams said, with a nod, "Yes."

"And did Thistlewood ever tell you the name of this servant or this gentleman?"

Adams shifted in his seat, saying, "I don't... I don't recall."

"Think, Mr. Adams. Such a generous gentleman, and you or any of the other men never thought to ask who he is, or why he would give you money to harm his own peer?"

Christine could hear displeased muttering amongst the crowd around her. Such a question, in any other case, could be seen as a clear example of leading the witness and the lawyer would be condemned for it, yet here the judge was turning a deaf ear.

Adams licked his lips. His eyes, like those of a frightened animal, flicked toward Edward, before he said, "Thistlewood might have said the name... Edward."

Christine shut her eyes briefly so she didn't have to look at the smug expression on the face of the Attorney General as he settled down, apparently satisfied with Adams's testimony. Now it was Murray's turn to cross-examine the witness.

"Are you sure it was Edward?" the barrister asked. "Not Munson, or Hurstfield, but Edward?"

"It might have been Edwards," Adams replied, looking a little more confident now that he no longer had to face the Attorney General.

"Are you not confusing him with George Edwards, a member of your party, who is now known to be a government spy placed amongst you to instigate—"

The Attorney General quickly stood up. "It has been confirmed that Mr. Edwards was nowhere near Cato Street on the night of the 23rd of February, and is not the subject of this cross-examination."

Murray spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Very well. Mr. Adams, could you confirm if it was Edward or Edwards?"

Adams's eyes darted to the prosecutors, as if seeking for a cue from them. "... It was Edward," eventually he said.

"Not Hurstfield or Munson?"

"I suppose he wouldn't be using his real name," Adams said.

"No, of course not!" Murray threw up his arms. "When coming up with a nom de guerre, one must always use one's Christian name!"

Christine couldn't stifle a grin. A snickering went round the courtroom. Adams looked abashed, knowing he'd stumbled, but unsure where or how.

"You mentioned seeing several pistols in the house of one of the prisoners, John Brunt, on the day of the 23rd," Murray continued. "Did you see this pistol amongst them?" He gestured to one of the clerks to show Adams the pistol bearing the Munson coat of arms.

Adams seemed even more confused. "I... I cannot say. They were all lying in a drawer. I cannot even say what their exact number was."

"Has Thistlewood ever mentioned the possibility of a police spy watching your movements?"

"He... he did tell us to watch out for the police," Adams said.

"And yet he missed the fact that George Edwards, his right-hand man, was a spy?"

"I must ask you again, sir, to focus on the subject of this questioning!" the judge shouted.

"Have you ever heard the name Frederick Benson?" Murray asked.

"... No," Adams said, sounding defeated.

Up in the gallery, Christine nodded with satisfaction. Murray was not only throwing doubt on Edward's involvement in the conspiracy, he was also pointing out that the shooting of Benson might have nothing with the conspiracy itself, killing two birds with one stone.

After that, Edward's character witnesses were called - Mr. Clarke, the Misses Hargrove, and some officials from parishes where Edward had done his reform work. It heartened Christine to see and hear them speaking so warmly of him. She could feel the mood of the crowd change as well, becoming more sympathetic, and for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to hope.

At last, it was Edward's turn to deliver his defense. Usually, this would be done by the barrister on behalf of the prisoner, but Edward had elected to speak for himself. Christine's heart swelled with pride as he stood up and address the jury.

"My Lords and Gentlemen of the Jury," he began. "I cannot, nor do I want to deny that I am for reform." Christine cursed inwardly. Why in God's name would Edward open with that?! Such a statement wouldn't exactly be helpful to his case. Around her, the audience reacted with surprise as well, as heads bent toward each other in curious whispers. "I suppose you were expecting me to denounce it and proclaim my loyalty to the Crown. But I must be honest." Here, he glanced at the gallery, and his eyes caught Christine's for a moment. "I want changes. I don't want to live in a world where men can be hanged for trying to feed their families, mothers have no rights over their children, and orphans can be sold like cattle. But I also do not condone violence. I would like to believe that we can bring about changes by discovering our own sympathy for our fellow man, as well as by appealing to it in others, not by killing and inciting riots. Doing so would be to harm the very people I wish to protect. Whatever Mr. Thistlewood and his men were planning, I had no part in it."

Christine's initial irritation faded away as she looked upon her husband, who stood facing those who scorned him, who wished him harm, all because he dared to tell the truth, because he refused to conform to their rules. Her Edward, brave and true. In the past two years, between her grief and her loneliness and her frustration, she had allowed herself to forget what she loved most about him, his courage, his honesty, his passion for everything in life. It had taken all this trouble for her to remember it again.

But was it too late? For Christine had barely felt the elation when it was stamped out again, as cruelly as a bucket of water on a fire, by the Lord Chief Justice, who fixed his cold, colorless eyes on Edward, and intoned:

"As much as I would like to commend your compassion for the less fortunate, sir, the truth of the matter is that a man was killed. He was killed by your pistol, and you cannot account for your movements at the time of his death. Where was your compassion then?"

With that, he signaled for the court to adjourn. The grim faces of the judge and prosecutors brought back in Christine's mind what Murray had said. They have already decided... The trials are just for show... They will try to make an example out of him... Her heart plummeted as she realized it had all been for naught. Edward was a dead man even before he walked into the courtroom.

***

The Lord Chief Justice's foreboding words were still ringing in Christine's ears as she and Owens made their way out of the building. The trial was going to recommence the next day, but Christine wasn't sure if she could endure it, despite Murray's ever-present optimism, despite Mr. Clarke and the Hargrove sisters' encouragement.

"Don't mollycoddle me, Mr. Murray," she said, when she managed to snatch a moment with the barrister outside Old Bailey. "Tell me, truly, do you think his lordship has any chance of an acquittal at all?"

The barrister's usual sardonic smile disappeared. "Unless we can provide clear, irrefutable evidence of his innocence, I believe the best we could hope for is a reduced sentence."

"Transportation?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Murray nodded. The hollow feeling in Christine's chest grew. She didn't know what was worse, Edward dead or thousands of miles away in Australia. Perhaps she could accompany him. She had heard stories about prisoners successfully building new lives for themselves in the penal colonies... provided that they survived the hellish voyage there, of course.

Suddenly she felt a burning desire to see Edward, stronger than she had ever felt in the previous days. She had only had a glimpse of him in the courtroom as he looked back at her, before he was taken away again, back to prison, and now she longed for him, longed to put her head on his chest, longed to cry in his arms and hear him telling her that everything was going to be all right.

"Owens, please find us a cab to Coldbath Fields Prison," she said. When both men opened their mouths to protest, she held up a hand. "Gentlemen, I don't want to hear another word from you. This may be my last chance to see my husband before he is—" Her voice caught. She cleared her throat and stood up straighter. "My mind is made up. That cab, please, Owens."

"Yes, my lady." The butler tilted his head and went to the row of cabs parked down the road.

"He's still out there, you know," Murray said gravely. "And I can't pay my informants enough to have them accompany you to a prison."

"I'm taking Owens along," Christine said, her tone inviting no further debate. "I shall be perfectly safe."

***

Once the cab rolled to a stop outside the bleak walls of Coldbath Fields Prison, Christine instructed Owens to wait for her and went directly into the governor's office, as Murray had once taken her.

"This is most irregular, my lady," the governor protested, when she laid down her request.

"Sir, please. I simply wish for some time with my husband. He is... as good as a dead man." It took all of her courage to say those words out loud. She still didn't want to believe it. Somewhere in her heart, there was still a tiny flicker of hope, an irrational belief that some miracle would happen to save Edward. "Surely you wouldn't deny a grieving wife a chance to see her husband before he was executed?" And she put down a pouch full of coins on his desk.

The jingling of the coins did a lot more to soften the governor's expression than her entreating words. He picked up the pouch and undid the opening to peer inside, not even bothering to be discreet. The crease between his eyebrows immediately relaxed as if someone had taken an iron to it.

"Very well, my lady," he said. "The guards will take you to his lordship."

Christine followed the two guards down a long, narrow hallway, lined on both sides with heavily enforced doors, each containing only a tiny grated window that could be opened for food and other delivery. Her eyes burned from the smoke of the oil lamps swinging from the ceiling, and she shivered, partly from the cold dampness that seeped through the stone walls, partly from the eerie silence that hung over the place like a thick veil, muffling even the heavy treads of the guards' jackboots.

They finally came to a stop at one of the doors. "I would be very grateful if you could give us some privacy," she said, pressing a coin each into the guards' palms. "You can lock the door behind me. I shall let you know once I'm ready to leave."

The guards raised their eyebrows and glanced at each other, but Christine knew the coins would be too tempting for them to resist. "Much obliged, my lady," one of them said and unlocked the door.

Edward was sitting on the bed, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door opening.

"Christine? What are you doing here?"

Christine waited until the keys rattled behind her. She had no intention of breaking down in Edward's arms with these men listening outside. Only when the sound of the guards' footsteps faded away then she went to her husband and buried her face in his chest.

"I'm sorry. Don't scold. I had to see you before..." Before the last day of the trial. Before he could be found guilty and taken away from her forever, and the only time they were allowed to meet would be before his execution or departure for the penal colonies. Just for once, for this night, she'd like to see him without the shadow of the noose hanging over them.

"I won't scold. I'm glad you're here." He enfolded her in his arms, and for a moment, Christine allowed herself to not think of anything else but his safe, warm embrace, the feel of his broad, sturdy chest under her cheek, and the soft beating of his heart, while time stretched endlessly around them.

"Thank you for wearing this monstrosity, by the way," he said, removing her turban and tossing it on the table, so he could kiss her hair.

"I never thought it would come in handy," she said, smiling up at him.

"You weren't too worried today, were you, sweetheart?" he said. "I told you Murray would be magnificent."

Christine's heart melted. Edward must have known how the Lord Chief Justice's words affected her, but he was trying to ease her mind. Always thinking of her, always protecting her...

"I think you were magnificent," she whispered, nestling into him again.

"Was I? And here I thought you were going to scold me for giving another one of my reform speeches, when I should have been groveling to the judge instead."

"No. I expect nothing less from you. Truth conquers all, remember?"

She lifted her face to look at him, and he bent down to meet her with a kiss. She had expected it to be a quick, soft kiss, but the moment their lips met, all the longing she'd felt in the last two months erupted into a physical ache, a fire that refused to be quenched unless she had him in her arms. So she pressed her hands to his cheeks, drew him to her, and drank him in. Edward tightened his hold around her, and she writhed in his arms so she could feel all of him with all of her, his hands cradling her waist and the back of her head, his chest crushing her breasts, his lips a scorching heat between hers. Still, the fire burned. His mouth moved down her throat, and his hands impatiently opened her coat and tore away the lace fichu covering the low neckline of her bodice, until his trembling lips found their way to the upper swells of her breasts. The ache concentrated into a pounding in her heart and between her legs, echoed by a throbbing pulse she could feel from him, even through all the layers of their clothes.

With difficulty, she peeled herself away from him and threw her coat over the door of the cell, covering the small opening.

"What are you doing?" Edward asked, puzzled.

"Giving us some privacy," she said. "I've paid those guards well, but who knows when they may return."

She returned to him. As he realized her intention, Edward resumed his kisses with a frenzy. His lovemaking had always been gentle, shy, and unhurried, but there was none of that gentleness now in the way his mouth ravished hers, in the way he tugged at the buttons on the back of her bodice and stripped it down over her breasts. It was feral, frantic, driven by the fire she knew they both felt. They had so little time.

Her back hit the cold, hard wood of the bed, and she shivered, not because of the cold, but because his mouth had closed over her breast, inflaming, tormenting. She arched her back and twisted her fingers into his hair, pressing him closer to her, urging, begging for more. He pushed her skirts up around her waist, and the next thing she knew, he was inside her, the fabric of his trousers rubbing against her thighs, driving her mad with want. Still the fire burned, but she no longer wished to quench it. She wished for it to go on forever, until her very blood felt like it was built from crackling flames, until it obliterated everything so there was nothing else but the two of them, here, now. She wrapped her limbs around him, clinging to him with all her might, while her hips lifted rhythmically, matching his thrusts. The fire was close to burning out, but not yet, not yet, she didn't want to lose him just yet...

"Look at me, Edward," she whispered, wishing to draw out the moment just a little longer. "Please, look at me." And he did, his eyes filling her veins with warmth, with desire, with love. The fire reached its zenith. She bit into his shoulder to muffle a cry, half in ecstasy, half in despair, while he pressed his sweat-drenched forehead against her neck with a moan and poured himself into her, and finally, they became one, body and soul, as the fire burned itself out, sated at last.

Chapter 9

#hellcheer #eddissy #hellcheersource #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #regency au #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn smut #hellcheer smut

[consolecadet]

I was really not prepared to participate in an art show! I didn't have a bad time, I just had no idea what to expect, and also should have worn much more comfortable shoes.

I got there right on time for the members-only hour, earlier than almost anyone else. They gave me a name tag with a photo of my painting printed in the background. While it was still quiet, multiple members of the art org's staff pulled me aside to introduce themselves and...tell me what they thought of my painting, basically? Got some comments like "A lot of us really liked it" (great), "It might make some people uncomfortable, but it's memorable and intense and that's what makes art valuable" (thanks), "I know it's trite to say this but it is very visceral" (yeah!), and "the teens were in here the other day to judge the youth committee prize and you got a lot of sticky notes next to yours" (cool). I was mostly kind of uncomfortable, but I can see how this sort of thing could quickly become a person's personal cocaine.

An upbeat local media producer with deep mauve eye bags interviewed me and the artist whose painting was next to mine (she had painted a beautiful, slightly abstracted forest landscape of Falmouth, Maine). This was the part I was really unprepared for! Fortunately I've had to explain the painting to people a few times, since I worked on it during Open Hacks around other people...but this was a much artier crowd, and despite technically knowing how, I really don't want to talk about it like "I'm juxtaposing familiar objects with a transgressive concept to blah blah blah etc". He was like "man, my insurance won't approve shit, we gotta nationalize healthcare" which, so right.

The gallery quickly got extremely crowded and, because the sun was blasting in through the enormous picture windows, extremely hot. I wandered around looking at everything. My favorite works were "All Bagged Up", a 3d wall piece of pink expanding foam with bags of candy and toys tacked to it, "Self-Discipline #23", a pair of charcoal self-portraits of the artist wearing a bondage mask, and "Resilience", an mixed media painting with mesmerizing swirls of green and blue iridescent paint.

I had to take some daily meds at 6 and -- I swear this was not on purpose -- spilled all the fucking pills from my pill-shaped pill case onto the floor. On brand, I guess?

KC came partway through and brought me a big bundle of sweet-smelling lilacs from his workplace's backyard. <3

I met someone who recognized me from a FB group I'm in for fat people in the Boston area. She'd painted a self-portrait of her squeezing her waist extremely tightly with a leather belt. She asked to hang out (!) and followed me on Instagram. I followed her back. She has 25k followers and I'm a little intimidated.

Several people found me to say they found my painting relatable, which was nice. One woman told me about her chronic pain and told me, sounding a bit constricted in her throat, that she wished more people would talk about and make art about this stuff. I am really used to people oversharing about very personal topics in the tags on my posts, but it's another thing entirely to experience someone's response to your thoughts or art IRL. Unlike Tumblr, though, nobody said anything unkind to my face!

My feet got so sore. I was so sweaty. I got an honorable mention from the Youth Committee of tweens and teens. Fat positive belt lady got the Youth Committee prize. We...hugged about it?

I felt somewhat out of my depth -- some of the artists priced a lot higher than I would be comfortable charging, some of the art was much more technically advanced than mine, and some of the artists' statements were much more, uh, Art School. I feel I did not schmooze very effectively. But I would try doing this again!

#boring text posts

[theheckle01]

Some Thoughts About the BIONICLE.com Galleries

Recently, I tried to see if the old BIONICLE.com galleries were archived. For those unfamiliar, on the old BIONICLE website there used to be a gallery where folks could submit their own MOCs (My Own Creation). I vividly remember spending many hours browsing it when I was young, and even submitting some MOCs of my own.

Anyway, I checked the Wayback Machine to see if I could find anything, and didn't have much luck. I went to the TTV Message Boards and asked about it, and basically was told that the old galleries were barely archived.

Weirdly enough, this both saddens and fascinates me. Let me explain the latter emotion first. The thing about the BIONICLE fanbase is that it's one of the most archive-heavy fandoms I've ever been a part of. Pretty much every piece of BIONICLE media, from the obvious to the ridiculously obscure, has been found and archived, mainly on BioMediaProject. You remember an old BIONICLE game you used to play online? You can very easily find and play it. You want to see a video going over Lego's thoughts on BIONICLE's audience (which includes the assumption that BIONICLE fans had a 15 minute attention span)? You can find that pretty easily. Want to play lost or unreleased BIONICLE games? The fandom has dug them up and you can now play them on an emulator. The archives of obscure BIONICLE media are extensive, which makes the fact that the galleries are lost rather bizarre. Fans can dig up an early appearance of BIONICLE on some random Russian TV show but not something that was a pretty big facet of the BIONICLE fandom and fan experience while it was around, and that's just weird to me.

It's also sad to me, because in a weird way it represents a loss of history. This may sound overdramatic, but it feels like the best way to describe it. People today still make and post MOCs, which is cool as hell. I love seeing all the wacky and downright impressive things people make. However, here's the thing about the modern MOC scene: most of the folks making and posting them are hardcore BIONICLE fans who have been making MOCs since they were kids. They're mostly adults, and as such are able to make more complex and breathtaking creations. Modern MOCists are hobbyists with disposable income to buy the pieces they want and have the benefit of the modern day. This benefit includes the benefit of new technology, like 3D printing, and just the fact that BIONICLE is over and we have all the types of pieces that came out during its run. There's more around for folks to build with than just a Mata torso, y'know?

Let's compare this to those who would use the old BIONICLE.com galleries. The biggest difference is that the gallery community was mainly made up of children who were fans of BIONICLE as it was being released. The MOCs were less refined, and were mainly made with whatever the kids had around/could convince their parents to buy for them. Since the line was still producing new sets, kids of this era didn't have access to all the pieces modern MOCists do now since many did not exist at the time. All of these factors affect the flavor and vibe of what would've been made. They aren't going to be incredibly dense and large sets that blow you away with their complexity. They're just gonna be something some kid made for fun. That's not to say that incredibly complex and meticulously designed MOCs didn't exist at the time; it's just that to see them you had to wade through a lot of kids simpler MOCs. You don't quite have that anymore, since the community now is made up mainly of dedicated hobbyists and not 10 year olds who just got Gadunka for Christmas.

That old vibe of kids making whatever isn't quite around anymore in the modern fanspace, and I'm a bit sad that even the archives of that aren't around anymore.

I know this was a long ramble, but I just had to get it off my chest.

#bionicle #moc #ramble #bionicle.com

[kim-poce]

Full House 26 - Weird Master

Previous | Next

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, caretaker new master, eating disorder mention.

=-=

“Everyone chose one,” Eri said, quickly adding “You don’t need to! of course, only if you want,” he glanced at the bedroom’s window, “The sunlight here is good.”

Little One didn’t touch the paper where Eri had printed the plants pictures —he had figured out that showing the gallery on the laptop would exige more closeness than the boy would be okay with— but at least he was looking at it, even if just not to look up to Eri.

"Pink choose the bunny-like ones," Eri said, filling the crushing silence, "And Day choose-"

"Go." Little One said, it was a single, low-whispered word. And to be honest Eri didn't want to leave, he had barely got there!

Before the tube Little One would allow him to stay longer, even if only to sit on the other side of the room, but now? Now he is scared  of his name, angry at his shadow; all the little progress Eri had earned gone.

Almost all. He told himself, getting up. The boy had told him to go so, on some level, he knows his word has value, and he knows that he can choose to be alone, “Okay, I’ll leave,” he gestured to the pictures of the plants, “If you want any of these you can tell Beige, and he can tell me. For now, excuse-me.”

- - -

Master is weird, really really weird.

The others think he is weird because he is more kind, that’s not all that weird. Former Mistress had her friends over often, they all had pets treated well better than any pet in that house.

Night said this Master can’t be trusted because he is lenient in punishments, which could only mean one thing: trap.

Little One disagrees, people don’t expect much from pets, they know they are just dumb animals, so they don’t take their mistake as seriously as the trainers make the pets believe. As long as the pet had no intention of disobeying, the punishment is brand to none. Again, in houses other than this one.

What makes this master weird isn’t his kindness, it isn’t even the fact that he doesn’t force him into touches —some of Former Mistress’s friends also didn’t force it—, his habit of making the pets pick also wasn’t weird, they were never asked to pick anything important, there is no difference between the plants in this list and which shoes matches better with Mistress’s dress.

What made Master Eri weird was his way of talking, he didn’t try to say something to a dumb animal, he tried to actually talk, he wanted full conversations, he wanted opinions, and he seemed not to bear being around a pet and stay silent. This was weird.

Part of being a pet meant that you would often stay quiet and do nothing, like furniture in the living room. Little One can’t do this, can’t be quiet, can’t be silent, can’t do anything. But good pets can.

Little One listened to him a little bit, he rather not pay attention to any word; they hurt way too much. But he never yelled, and his gestures were so little that Little One had trouble pinpoint what exactly he was talking about —He would like it if Master could gesture more instead of talking, but of course humans never care what a pet wants.

Master only talks nonsense, and not the nonsense the pets should agree and move on (“Don’t you think Gil is such a bitch?” “Am I pretty in this dress?” “Do you want to dance with me?”) No, he talks about the weather and plants, he talks about the color of the curtains he wants to buy, and then —rather than asking for a meaningless comment about the subject— he asks about Little One’s day and plans, and thoughts and many other things Pet shouldn’t have.

Little One can’t even answer the questions he was trained to, much less this. A new form of talking is too… rule-free, too hard to understand, so he doesn't try. Why try anything anyway? Try never meant nothing, trying didn’t made the touches less torturing, the beating less painful, trying never made the world make sense, it didn’t even allowed food to stay down. Trying is useless, and hurtful and bad and he doesn’t want it anymore!

"Go." the word left his mouth before he could think. Would it get him punished? Maybe, probably. Can he do anything about it? No, never. So no trying is worth it, he just kept staring at the green pictures. Little One was barely aware that he was muttering, he always was, he wondered if he was saying something bad or if he was begging. Begging never worked but he can't really control his body any longer, in truth he never could.

Master said something about Beige and left, leaving the paper behind, a thing Little One is too dirty to touch, so he blew on it and watched as the paper fell on the floor, which was impossibly cleaner than his hands.

Little One glanced at the paper for a while, then at the tube being used to feed him. He wanted to take it off, he didn't like the feeling, nor the meaning of that thing. But he had promised Beige, he didn’t quite know what a promise meant, but he felt that he should leave the tube there for a while longer.

When he curled up in himself under the blanket, partially blocking the sunlight with it, he was barely aware that he was sobbing, although he didn’t quite know the reason.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @extemporary-username, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @endlesscyclezz, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth

#whump #pet whump #caretaker new master #eating disorder mention #caretaker new whumper #institutionalized slavery tw #institutionalized slavery #Full House #Eri #Little One #my writing

[brooklynmuseum]

“If I could do a show that confused people so much, that was so ambiguous that they didn’t know what to think, but they felt sort of sickened by it and also entertained,” Jimmy DeSana told Laurie Simmons shortly before he passed away from AIDS-related illness in 1990, “then for me that would capture the moment that we’re going through right now.”

For his last major artistic project, DeSana collected his contradictory feelings and images in a book to be titled Salvation. Although he would not complete the volume before his death, he created this maquette. It comprises photomontages of flowers and fragments of male bodies, many recycled from older photographs of DeSana and his partner Darell Bagley. The photographs are black-and-white, but DeSana intended them to be printed with lurid color through the cibachrome process.

Ambiguity and opacity became increasingly important to DeSana, especially in reaction to the media’s and other artists’ objectification of queer people living with HIV/AIDS. He also pushed against the expectation that gay artists should somehow counter government inaction and misinformation around the epidemic.

📷 Jimmy DeSana (American, 1949-1990). Salvation (maquette),1987-88. Courtesy of the Jimmy DeSana Trust and P·P·O·W Gallery, New York. © Estate of Jimmy DeSana

#Brooklyn Museum #brooklyn #museum #Jimmy DeSana #JimmyDeSanaBkM #WorldAIDSDay #world aids day #artist #lgbtq+ #photography #photographer #New York City #nyc #aids epidemic #hiv/aids

[bunmurdock]

WAIT BUILDING ON ARTIST!READER, you should know turpentine (paint thinner, medium, accelerates oils’ notoriously long drying times) is INCREDIBLY pungent even for regular people - I had to paint in an open air stairwell in high school because my art teacher had such a sensitivity that smelling it for too long would make her feel faint and possibly pass out - Could Matt handle it? Yeah cuz he’s a slut for pain, but I like thinking of the possible shenanigans.

Maybe reader straight up doesn’t use turpentine because of that, and sometimes Matt touches the painting and it’s like “well shit that wasn’t completely dry” (which happens even if you use turpentine LMAO rip) and they both have a little laugh as reader helps clean it off.

Maybe reader does use turpentine but doesnt paint at his place just to be considerate, and Matt can never quite decide which evil to choose: breathing in the turpentine constantly, or mouth breathing and tasting it later. And though he’s told them they don’t HAVE to paint away from him for his sake, he can’t help but smile when he can smell faint traces of turpentine under their soap, which tells him that they tried to wash thoroughly before before seeing him, because even if he can deal with it, it’s a sweet gesture.

Maybe reader experiments with acrylics - faster drying and less notoriously pungent? And grumbles about how different they are to work with in comparison to oil. “It dries TOO fast, Matt! I slap it down and I swear it dries up faster than my pussy whenever I have to hear people talk about Picasso!” (Yeah, I’m projecting bwehehe Picasso is somehow not given enough credit by the wider population but also his shittiness as a human being is overlooked). And when Matt tells them that they don’t have to change their preferred medium for the sake of him, they refuse because it’s now a point of PRIDE. He can hear how they grimace when they realise one of their paintbrushes has been ruined from the paint and it’s just. Kind of funny-

Matt ALSO finding it funny when they miss the specks of paint in hard to find areas like near the elbow or neck, and them trying to scrub it out of clothes (“how did it get there!! What the fuck!!”) before a date.

If we branch out a little, I’ve seen combinations of 3D/2D in galleries like Ohata Shintaro? Plus there’s stuff such as sculpture painting, but I don’t know as much about that. And if we veer into SUPER self indulgent territory, I’m a 2D game artist, and I would absolutely simp so hard for Matt that I clean up my rusty 3D skills and do something in there for his benefit and try to get that shit 3D printed, damn the complications that I know are many. Watch me go “NO DONT COME IN YET!! WEAR A MASK” because there’s micro plastics in the air as I desperately sand down the piece I printed 😭

But also like. Imagine artist reader describing things with their artist knowledge, trying to paint Matt a little picture that isn’t just world on fire - using moods and textures to even describe colour sometimes, like Vanessa did at the art gallery. Or even describe how people look. EEK

NONNI— I. FUCKIN. LOVE YOU. I SEE YOU'RE INTO THIS AU AS DEEP AS I AM

so full disclosure, i am an artist, i’ve had a similar experience with oil paints and turpentine at art school and had to wear a face mask because that shit is toxic AND I WAS THINKING ABOUT HOW BADLY IT'D IRRITATE MATT'S NOSE TOO. imagine him coming home from his dd duties and promptly fainting in the kitchen from the fumes. new daredevil villain unlocked: it's you

(fun fact: turpenoid is a wonderful substitute, it’s odorless! or linseed oil, but that has a smell. both are more bearable than turpentine!)

but either way—you're 100% right—oil paints take forever to dry, and matt being the handsy impatient person he is, he'd prob end up being your accidental co-artist........ but wait that would actually be so cute???? an accidental lil fingerprint here, a swipe there, maybe you find a strand of his hair on the paint one day and it makes you smile because you know he's been poking around your workspace while you weren't around, probably curious as to what you were painting this time. you keep every mark he makes, you never cover them up, or you find a way to incorporate them into the painting because you cherish everything matt gives you and there are no such thing as mistakes in art, only happy accidents ;) and that's something both foreign and reassuring to matt, who we all know is so hard on himself and struggles not to see in black and white sometimes.

yes exactly 🥺 for the parts that matt can’t make out—the colors, moods, the gestalt or the meaning of the piece, you describe it to him in detail so he can see through your eyes. and when foggy or karen come over he can hear it from their perspective. maybe it’s what he comes to love about art despite not being able to see it: that it’s a personal experience for each person and the meaning changes with the interpreter.

re: the picasso comment, hold on i’m screaming

re: you being a 2d game artist, wow i WORSHIP you, that is such a cool profession! i can empathize with the difficulties of 3d programs/printing, but you bet i'd be learning maya or blender for matt murdock. RIP.

anyways this is kinda what i was imagining originally with textured paintings! but there are so many artistic mediums and installation types that matt could engage with. i just want him to be happy and cared for and his disability respected so bad 😔

OOP i really got carried away with this ask! thank you for this message—you brought the BIGGEST smile to my face. i'm super passionate about art and matt murdock, and this ask was chefs kiss. ily nonni, and if you ever feel inclined, i’d love to see your work! 💕

tagging @saintmurd0ck since i know she might b working on something hehe

#inbox #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x artist!reader

[silverfoxstole]

I’d intended to write something completely different this afternoon, but the Hornblower/Night at the Museum AU has apparently taken over my brain and I ended up with nearly 3500 words of that instead.

Thank you so much to @lacnunga for coming up with this wonderful idea in the first place, and to @amalthea9 for the fantastic additions I’ve used as well. I will just point out that I’ve never actually seen any of the NATM films, though I am of course vaguely aware of the set up. This is me riffing on the concept.

The gallery seemed subdued when Styles started his patrol.

It was strange; unlike most nights there was little apparent activity in the display cases, and it wasn’t until he’d made two rounds of the room that he realised there had been no small voice barking at him and demanding to know why he had turned up thirty seconds late for his shift again, chastising him for his terrible time-keeping. Frowning, he passed his torch over the Hotspur’s home only to find that the diorama was curiously low on figures; the ship was drastically undermanned, though he could see Matthews chivvying some of the hands that were milling about on deck. Prowse was there, too, waddling back and forth, but there was no sign of Bush or Hornblower and the whole model had an air of despondency that Styles had never seen before, as though something momentous had happened in his absence. When Matthews caught sight of him the bos’n just shook his grey head before Styles could ask and pointed towards another case, one that Styles had never really paid much attention to before because it didn’t really contain much of any interest.

It still didn’t, though this time not because its miniature landscape was devoid of ships and therefore much in the way of excitement. Styles shone a light into the case and blinked in astonishment: in place of village buildings that usually clustered around the mouth of a serpentine river, tiny people bustling back and forth on the quay, there was what could only be described as devastation. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that some kind of fire or explosion had taken place; the houses and offices had been flattened, what remained burnt-out husks of wood and paper, and the mirrored water was cracked, its surface peeling away and curling at the corners. Here and there a battered figure lay, though most of them had apparently already been removed. Belatedly Styles realised that the case itself was taped off, and a hastily-printed sign stuck to the glass that declared it was awaiting redisplay.

For a moment he thought of returning to Hotspur and asking Matthews what had happened, but then he spotted movement in Lady Barbara’s frame, illuminated by a spot lamp above, and heard a very distinct hiss from that direction; as he approached he could see that she was waving to him, and looking quite distressed, which was most unusual when she normally radiated an aura of serenity no matter what chaos erupted around her. When he got close his torch beam revealed the small figure sitting on the edge of the frame: Hornblower was hunched over, hat on his knees, and even in the horrible white light from the LED bulb Styles could see the strain on his face; he didn’t appear to be paying Lady Barbara much attention, an odd development when he only normally climbed all the way up there to moon over her.

“What’s going on?” Styles asked. “Where’s Mr Bush? He’s never been fighting those Frenchies in that wrecked case; looks like there’s been a right old battle.”

“It was only meant to be a quick sortie,” Hornblower said, though the words didn’t appear to be addressed to Styles; he was staring at his hat, apparently unaware of Styles’s presence, and Lady Barbara sighed.

“Something of a disaster has happened,” she explained sadly. “Mr Bush is - ”

“He’s dead.” Hornblower’s voice as he cut her off was flat. “I sent him. Sent him to his death.”

“No, you didn’t, Horatio,” Lady Barbara told him, glancing helplessly at Styles. “He wanted to go; you couldn’t have stopped him.”

“I should have refused permission. I’m his senior officer; I should have said no.”

Styles wasn’t sure what happened to models that were classed as dead; whatever had occurred some considerable damage had been afflicted, but there hadn’t been many obvious casualties, no remains, just the lack of hands aboard Hotspur. “Are you absolutely sure he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Hornblower replied, just as Lady Barbara answered in the negative.

“We don’t know that,” she said firmly.

“He hasn’t come back; he must be.” With an effort Hornblower sat up, squaring his shoulders. His face closed as though a shutter had come down on it and he set his hat back on his head. “I’ll have to inform the admiral, though he must have heard by now.”

“D’you want some help gettin’ there, sir?” Styles put out a hand with the intention of letting Hornblower step onto it but as usual the little captain just straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and fixed him with a hard stare.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I need no assistance; I can manage perfectly well.”

“He can’t,” Lady Barbara remarked as she watched him slide awkwardly off the frame. “He’ll go to pieces without William to keep an eye on him, fret himself to ribbons.”

“Did you see what happened to the crew, ma’am?” Styles asked hopefully, but she shook her head.

“There were too many people about when they found the mess; Sawyer was down here, hopping mad. I didn’t dare move. “

“But you saw the explosion?” Though Styles couldn’t be sure that was what had caused the devastation in case thirty-three, it certainly looked as though some such accident had occurred.

Lady Barbara’s painted eyes met his. “I saw the fire,” she replied.

~

With no more information forthcoming Styles decided to use his rounds to make a few enquiries.

The figureheads at the other end of the hall could usually be relied upon to know the comings and goings of the museum, day or night, but on this occasion it seemed they’d taken their collective eyes off the ball. Even Hammond and Foster, the most vocal of the bunch, denied all knowledge of any action between the British and French contingents last night, though when Styles was about to leave Foster told him that if Hammond hadn’t been snoring he would have seen what happened as thirty-three was directly in his line of sight, a charge immediately refuted by the carved Irishman in the strongest terms. Inevitably the bickering soon escalated into a full-blown argument that had the rest of the heads calling for quiet, a request that of course was ignored and Styles slipped away, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour. He could still hear them as he made his way along to the uniform displays, throwing increasingly creative insults at each other.

He had half-thought that Cotard might have played one of his habitual pranks on Bush and stuffed him into a pocket or stuck a glass over him but incredibly the mannequin appeared to be genuinely insulted by such a suggestion, running off into a tide of incomprehensible French accompanied by some vociferous arm-waving when Styles dared to broach the subject. Orrock stepped in and explained gravely that they’d heard what had happened, adding in a low voice that Cotard had been quite despondent at the thought that his little adversary might be gone for good.

By the time he’d patrolled the rest of the building and returned to the first floor, unable to find any trace of Bush whatsoever, Styles was feeling much the same way. He’d even checked the rubbish bin where he’d discovered the broken remains of Kennedy, but it was empty, no sign of even a single battered deck hand or Imperial soldier.

He was still wondering whether he’d somehow missed something when morning rolled around and his shift came to an end; it was only when he was getting ready to go home that his eye was caught by the door leading to the offices occupied by the curatorial staff, and in particular the sign that pointed towards the display department. He’d sneaked into the model shop to pilfer a few bits and bobs with which to put Archie back together, and then it had been full of half-built dioramas and pieces that were no longer in use; if damaged miniatures were going to end up anywhere, it would have to be there. Deciding that breakfast and sleep could wait, Styles pushed through the door and headed down the corridor.

Annoyingly Wallis, the one in charge of fixing broken displays and building new ones, had a habit of starting early and was already there when Styles stuck his head in; Styles had been hoping to have a poke about without interference, something that was going to be impossible with glue, wood and paint spread all over the place and instructions not to touch shouted as soon as he went near anything.

Wallis glanced at him over his John Lennon specs for a second before returning to whatever it was he was intent on, paintbrush in hand. “Shouldn’t you be heading home, mate? It’s gone half past eight.”

“I’m on my way.  Saw the mess in thirty-three,” Styles added before it could be pointed out that the exit was in the opposite direction. “Have you got the survivors?”

For a moment the other man looked puzzled but then the question seemed to register and he nodded towards a plastic crate on the table. “In there. It’s a bit of a mess; not sure how much I’ll be able to fix.”

“D’you know what happened?” Styles sidled slowly towards the box, stopping to peer at a newly-rigged model of HMS Pickle on the way. “Looked like a fire, but that’s not possible, is it?”

“You’d think so, but sadly it’s true. Derek was covering for you last night and he thought he’d have a crafty fag.” Wallis’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Dropped the bloody thing, didn’t he? Right when the lid was off the case, too; Tim removed it so I could put these guys back this morning.” He gestured to the couple of French sailors and a rowboat that he’d been putting the finishing touches to. “Before he managed to put it out half the scenery was wrecked, and the rest copped it when the sprinklers kicked in. It’s going to take forever to put right; might have to start from scratch.”

Styles stared. “Bloody hell.”

“Quite. Of course, he’s out on his ear; Sawyer went barmy when he saw what’d happened. Practically turned purple; I really thought he was going to explode this time.”

Styles knew he wouldn’t have liked to be on the receiving end of that. James Sawyer in a temper was truly a sight to behold, especially if he’d forgotten to take his medication. “Have you...”  - he glanced around the room, trying to sound casual - “...have you seen a little lieutenant anywhere? About three inches high, dark hair, blue eyes? He’s usually with the Hotspur but I couldn’t find him anywhere last night.”

Wallis frowned. “Not to my knowledge, but you’re welcome to take a look. Though why he’d be in with that lot if he’s part of Hotspur’s crew I’ve no idea; the models don’t just get up and move around.”

That’s what you think, Styles retorted inwardly. Given permission now, he lifted the lid off the crate; inside was a jumble of twisted miniature figures, some melted, some snapped in half, almost all with their paint chipped and flaking. Trying to be gentle, he sifted carefully through, wondering if any of them could be properly repaired; most were missing limbs, even heads in some cases, and it was hard to tell which were meant to be French and which British.

“Why such an interest?” Wallis enquired, sounding amused as he watched Styles’s attempts to handle the remains without damaging them any further. “Are all these nights on your own starting to get to you, mate? You’re making friends with the displays?”

Styles muttered something appropriately filthy and the other man just chuckled, turning back to his work. Frustratingly, it seemed that the contents of the box was just what was left of the French peasants and possibly a couple of sailors, and eventually Styles had to admit defeat. Just as he was about to replace the lid, however, he spotted a splash of navy blue right at the bottom and his heart ridiculously skipped a beat. Wincing inwardly as he shifted a couple of dismembered townspeople out of the way, he slid a hand underneath the tiny figure and lifted it out. It appeared to have taken a considerable battering, as half the paint on the face had gone and the left leg was broken away below the knee, but what remained was recognisable: Bush’s face looked pained and in this light the one eye that was visible seemed to be closed, but it was definitely him and Styles nearly trembled with relief.

Without preamble he turned and presented what remained of Bush to Wallis. “Can you fix him?” he asked.

The conservator blinked in surprise, but he took Bush from Styles; Styles tried not to wince again when he was less than gentle. “He’s from one of the older scenes,” Wallis said, putting Bush down on the table and pulling over a magnifying glass on a stand to take a closer look. “Don’t think I’ve seen him before; must have been made well before my time.”

Styles huffed impatiently as the broken lieutenant was examined in minute detail. “Can you fix him?” he asked again.

Wallis sat back. “Possibly.” He jerked a thumb towards the bookshelves behind him. “There should be schematics and plans somewhere in amongst that lot. Might take me a while to find ‘em, though, and I’ve got a load of other work on. Thirty-three’s going to be a bugger to put right.”

“How about overtime?”

Wallis laughed. “I don’t get paid for that, mate.”

Styles had a sudden vision of the broken Bush being thrown into a box and shoved on a shelf to be forgotten until the next clear-out of the model store, when someone was likely to decide he was past saving, just like Kennedy. “What if I said I’d pay you?”

“What? Why the hell would you do that?” Wallis demanded in astonishment.

With a shrug that he hoped was appropriately nonchalant, Styles just replied, “Don’t want to see him chucked away, that’s all. The ship doesn’t look right without him.”

For a long moment Wallis stared at him as though he thought he’d run completely mad, but then he looked back at the little figure on the table and a gleam came into his eye. “OK,” he said. “Leave it with me. No promises, though.”

Styles grinned. “Brilliant.”

~

The next few weeks were filled with the usual kind of madness Styles had come to expect of his magical charges, but though he relished rugby-tackling Cotard to the floor when the mannequin made his next break for freedom in the direction of the Channel Tunnel he didn’t really derive the satisfaction he’d experienced in the past without Bush to congratulate him, no doubt smirking at Cotard’s voluble disgust as he was led back to his case for the umpteenth time.

He hadn’t dared sneak back to the model shop in case he discovered the worst: that Wallis wasn’t able to fix the lieutenant as he had hoped. Though he checked the bins periodically and found nothing that didn’t mean that Bush wasn’t already languishing somewhere on a top shelf along with all the other bits and pieces of miniatures that Wallis couldn’t be bothered to dispose of just yet. No more action had taken place in the gallery; both sides appeared to have agreed upon a ceasefire for now, given what had happened to the inhabitants of case thirty-three, and for that Styles was grateful. He had quite enough to do without ducking tiny cannonballs and having to rescue sailors that had become entangled in their own rigging.

It was a Friday evening and he had just come on shift (actually a minute early for once) when he finally saw Wallis again. The conservator was waiting for him in the Napoleonic gallery with a small box and a big smile. “Surprise!” he announced, adding when Styles just looked baffled, “Finished him this afternoon. Thought you might like to do the honours and return him to his ship.”

“You were really able to put him back together?” Styles asked as he took the box, making sure he wasn’t going to drop it.

Wallis shrugged. “Well, he’s so old I couldn’t find any appropriate replacement material so I had to give him a wooden leg, but I daresay he’ll cope. Not unusual for sailors, is it?”

Styles almost didn’t like to lift the lid, but when he did there was Bush, looking as good as new if not better, the eyes that glared up at him an even brighter blue than before thanks to their fresh coat of paint. It was hardly possible to see that he’d been damaged at all, but for the slightly different shape of that substitute leg. “Blimey,” he said, relieved and glad to see his tiny nemesis again. “You’ve done a great job.”

“Well, it turned into a bit of a side project; I’ve never looked through all that old stuff before. It was fascinating; found design drawings for him, so I was able to replicate the face pretty much as it was.” Wallis dug into his pocket and produced a ring of keys. “Want to put him back where he belongs? His shipmates are probably missing him.”

Reflecting that there was many a true word spoken in jest, Styles nodded, and Wallis unlocked Hotspur’s case. As the door swung open from the corner of his eye Styles saw Hornblower glance up in surprise, turning away from the quarterdeck rail, but when he looked properly all was still: the captain stood by the wheel, head high and hands behind his back, while Prowse consulted with the helmsman and in the waist below Matthews supervised the hands at work. With deliberate care Styles grasped Bush between finger and thumb and lifted him from the box, leaning into the case and setting him down on the deck beside Hornblower, who naturally didn’t react. He tried not to smile at the sight of them both there together once more as he stepped back and let Wallis secure the door; it was still a complete mystery to him how they managed to get out of a locked display cabinet but somehow they did, along with all the others who so enlivened his working hours.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Wallis said, checking his watch. “I think I’m the last one; d’you want to lock up after me?”

When Styles returned to the gallery it was nearly ten minutes later and he wasn’t even remotely surprised to see that things had changed aboard Hotspur in his absence. As he approached Hornblower and Bush came to the rail to meet him, the captain doing his best to look stern and in control despite the smile that was apparently trying to break onto his face and Bush now with a slight limp thanks to his mismatched legs that thankfully didn’t seem to be hindering him too much.

“Well done, Styles,” Hornblower said after some considerable awkward throat-clearing, nodding in approval. “Thank you, for your efforts and for bringing Mr Bush back to us.”

Amazingly, Styles found himself blushing at the compliment; such things weren’t exactly a regular occurrence. “Weren’t nothing, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I’m grateful to you.” Hornblower exchanged a glance with his first lieutenant. “We both are. Aren’t we, William?”

“Indeed we are, sir,” Bush agreed. He looked up at Styles and his eyebrow lifted a fraction. “Late on duty again, eh?”

“Actually, sir - ” Styles began, but then he realised that newly-repaired face was smiling at him, ever so slightly.

“Carry on, Mr Styles,” Bush said, touching his hat in salute, and Styles just laughed, knuckling his forehead in reply.

“Aye aye, sir!”

#i've no idea who wallis is #he just popped into my head #and i don't know where archie's got to in all this #hornblower #hornblower fic #my fic #hornblower/night at the museum au #styles #horatio hornblower #william bush #lady barbara wellesley #andre cotard #charles orrock #dreadnaught foster #captain hammond #captain sawyer #matthews

[bcacstuff]

Update on filming S7 dates and location October 2022

I did explore some more about filming locations and dates for this month by taking a peek at what the extras are scheduled for.

This week there seems not much going on including extras. Only some studio costume fitting today and covid tests next Friday. Which doesn't mean they're not filming of course, but could indicate only the main cast is involved filming. We learned from last weekend, as S told he needed to go back to Scotland for shooting OL, filming will be ongoing this week. Just not including extras for as far as I've found out.

Next week is more interesting though. At least filming on Monday and Tuesday (17&18) for some extras on 2 locations. One being Cambusmore (usually used for Frasers Ridge), the ones there include the 2 extras I posted about before being Jamie and Roger doubles, though they have as role 'Redcoats' for these days listed.

The other location on the same dates is Dalmeny. The extras have roles as 'Philadelphia travelers', both women and men. They film there on October 17&18 as well on October 31 and November 1st.

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨 SPOILER ALERT AHEAD 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

Concerning Philadelphia there are parts in the books "An Echo in the Bone" and "Written in my own Hearts blood"

Beneath a summary from outlander.fandom.com

An Echo in the Bone

In July 1777, Lord John Grey arrives in Philadelphia, in order to find his son and have Henry, his nephew, paroled. By November 1777, he has begun renting Number 17 Chestnut Street.

Marsali and Fergus also relocate to Philadelphia in the summer of 1777, and Fergus runs his printing business near Spruce Street. When Claire returns from Scotland, she lives at Fergus's printshop for a time, then, believing Jamie dead, marries Lord John Grey and lives in his house in Chestnut Street.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood

After Jamie and Jenny arrive from Scotland, they and Claire begin living at Fergus's printshop.

The Frasers leave Philadelphia in the fall of 1778, after Henri-Christian's death.

So scenes with JLG, and perhaps we'll even see Fersali back (?) finally? As far as we've seen they haven't been on set so far for the season they're filming... keeping an eye on where they will be this month or end of the month and beginning November...

******************************************************************

While a number of them will be tested on Covid at the studio again on October 20, the next day again extras are scheduled for 2 different things. October 21st at Midhope as 'continentals' and the other listing is for Redcoats Starz Gallery. I'm not sure what this last one means 🤷‍♀️ More continentals are listed for 26, 27 & 28 October but now in Stirling.

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨 The next Part contains SPOILERS 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

Additional I come back to a previous date a listing I didn't mention before, as I was puzzled about what it could mean. It contained a woman extra listed as 'house keeper of Brian Fraser'. I had some discussions about it, speculating are they already shooting something for the prequel. But I think it contains another story line. As we already learned that Chris Fulton joins this season playing Rob Cameron, it makes sense that the storyline of Jemmy being kidnapped is involved and Roger going back through the stones searching for his son. I always thought he'd go back to the time of Jamie and Claire, but as it turns out he's going back to 1739!

From outlander.fandom.com

An Echo in the Bone

Jemmy becomes friends with Rob Cameron's nephew, which Cameron uses to kidnap Jem. Roger and Brianna believe that Cameron took Jemmy back to the past through the stones at Craigh na Dun. Rob arranges a playdate and sleepover between his nephew Bobby and Jemmy for October 30. However, he takes Jemmy to the stones at Craigh na Dun. Jemmy's sister Amanda senses that and alarms her parents, who phone Rob's sister Martina and learn that she wasn't expecting Jemmy this night. While Roger goes through the stones to look for Jemmy in the past, Rob Cameron locks Jemmy in the tunnel under Loch Errochty. He then visits Brianna and wants her to tell Jemmy to disclose the gold's location.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood

In October 1739, Brian and his daughter Jenny welcome Roger MacKenzie to their home. After learning from Roger than he and his kinsman are searching for his son Jeremiah MacKenzie, who has been kidnapped, Brian offers what help he can and checks with his tenants to see if anyone has seen the boy, or a strange man.

While Roger is away to check on his kinsman who had taken ill, Brian continues to keep his eyes and ears out for any word about Jeremiah.

*Note, locations and dates are found on schedules of extras, not the main cast