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baldursgate3tempobsessed · 7 months

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Kidnapped Astarion

I have a very specific thing I can't stop thinking about. That involves Astarion getting kidnapped by Cazador for the ritual and him taunting him over the lie that Tav gave him away. Sold him even.

Tw: Lies, manipulation, mentions of torture, bad times had all around, it's long as fuck, betrayal (or at least the lie of it). Like Cazador is involved so all bad. Very bad. This also has VIOLENCE. Like canon game violence but it is BLOODY. You've been warned. Also happy ending :)

So now let's get to that angst:

It had all happened so fast.

One moment Astarion was laid back in the tent you share, reading a mediocre book as he impatiently waited for your return. He loathed when you went out without him, even if it was for good reason. He wasn't exactly welcome company when it came to solving Gale's problems, especially when it came to the bomb nestled in chest. You both knew his inability to keep his sarcastic quips to himself would not be an asset while exploring a sacred library. Besides, he didn't have much room to complain, not when he accompanied you on ninety-nine percent of your outings.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. Even if it was shaping up to be a nice, uneventful evening. He had set your tent a little farther away from the others, considering the complaints that some....well most had made about the volume of your nightly activities. It was quiet, peaceful even. The atmosphere tranquil enough for him to fully relax.

What a mistake that had been.

When the flap of the tent opened he didn't even look up, fully expecting it to be Shadowheart or Lae'zel coming round to dig about in his darling's things. It made sense, considering how it was one of the few times they wouldn't be risking walking in on something. You had such a bad habit with that "open door" policy of yours. One that had exposed nearly every party member to quite the show. Though in Astarion's view, they were just unreasonable. When you were both loud they complained. When you were quiet and they walked in on it they would whine even more. How could you win with people like that?

Perhaps a sign on the door would have done the trick, but Astarion would be lying if he didn't enjoy the others being fully aware of who could make you cry and moan. The risk was just more thrilling, if not the slightest bit annoying.

But the intruder was staying still at the opening, quiet as could be. It was odd enough to have Astarion glancing upward, his heart stopping in his chest at what he saw.

It was a man, frantically muttering something under his breath. A man that he recognized. The idiotic Petras, trying to cast some kind of incantation. It had Astarion scrambling upward, reaching for his dagger. But it was already too late. The spell was finished and Astarion could feel his senses start to fade away, one by one.

He had gotten sloppy, relying on the safety of camp that had never existed. And now he was paying the price, and what a price to pay. Even as he fell to the magic, one feeling managed to stay in place until the bitter end.

Terror.

And then, he felt nothing at all.

The next thing Astarion knew he was being awakened by a slap of cold water to his face, blinking up into horrifyingly familiar light. He immediately recognized where he was. The torture room, his arms hanging from the ceiling, his toes barely scraping the floor. It hurt to be suspended like this, a pain he was still so familiar with despite going months without. And in front of him was the cause of it all, sneering at him like the maniac he was.

Cazador.

"You're finally awake," He grinned, dropping the bucket that was in his hands, "You've been a very bad boy Astarion. Just what am I to do with you?"

Astarion wanted to answer, to curse at him, maybe even beg to just be left alone, but nothing came out. He was too stunned, too stupefied that he ended up here after everything he'd gone through. Everything you'd gone through. How could it end like this?

"I don't fully know what you were up to with all that time away from your family," Cazador continued, stepping close enough for Astarion to feel his disgusting breath on his skin, "But I think I may have the gist. Galivanting around with your merry-band of degenerates. Seems fitting."

Astarion gave a full-bodied flinch when Cazador started to graze along his collarbones with a gentle finger, his touch freezing and revolting. The gentleness wouldn't last, Astarion was surprised it was even there to begin with.

He should have realized there was a reason for it.

He trailed up his neck, stopping to trace a bruise you had left the night before. If only he had known that it was almost certainly the last time he would get to touch you. The realization was nearly enough to bring tears to Astarion's eyes, but he refused to cry in front of this creature, not if he could help it.

"Seems like you may have even found yourself a favorite amongst them. Tell me pet, who was it?"

"Fuck you." Astarion spat out, his fury managing to shine through his despair.

Astarion expected a hard slap for the insolence, but instead Cazador just laughed, loud and full-bellied, "You've gotten quite the temper since you've been away, haven't you? I wonder where that came about?"

It was a false question, Astarion could tell from the way his eyes were crinkled. Like a child excited to reveal a surprise. Cazador answered it for himself, "Is it that lovely little thing that you've been following around. Gods, what's their name again...Tav, is it?"

"Don't you dare say her name," Astarion growled, his righteous fury overcoming the ever-growing terror and dread, "They have nothing to do with this!"

"Oh but they do," Cazador grinned, stepping back to do one of his famous gloating sessions, "Just how do you think I found you? Luck? No my dear, you were given."

Astarion's answer was as immediate as it was hateful, "You're lying! You know nothing of them. Nothing of us."

He won't believe it, he has no reason to. You...you loved him. And you were probably looking for him as they spoke. You would never betray anyone like this, least of all him.

But Cazador remained unphased. If anything he was looking at him with pity, "Oh you poor thing. You think she cares? You think she loves you? I'm disappointed Astarion, it seems you've learned nothing from our time together. What is there to love, hm? Nothing that I can see. Though...they sure did seem to love the gold. You fetch quite the high price my dear. But it will be worth it."

Lies. It was all lies. It had to be. Astarion shoved his uncertainty back down, bellowing out, "Liar!"

It was forceful enough to even make Cazador falter for the briefest of moments, a split second that anyone else would have missed. But he pressed on, shaking his head, "Darling, don't you find it strange that you were all alone that day? That no one came to your aid? Where do you think you're love was, hm? Wait, don't tell me. I can remember...ah yes! With Gale, correct?"

Astarion swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. How...how did he know that?

"It was a fabulous excuse, was it not?" Cazador continued with a laugh, "We came up with that one together. After a little fun that is. I can see why you fell for their treachery Astarion, they are quite lovely, aren't they?"

No. No, no, no.

"Stop it," Astarion hissed, "Shut your mouth. I-It's not true."

"Oh but it is. I'm not sure if you're aware but you're quite the headache darling, not many can handle it. Not including myself. She even told me of that hilarious speech you gave. About wanting something real. It was just as funny to her as it was to me."

Astarion stared at him, at a complete loss for words. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. But...how else would he know that? In a camp full of people why did no one come to his aid? But the cruelty of it all...it was exactly the type of thing Cazador was versed in.

Setting up the same type of trap that he'd trained Astarion for, that he had used on others countless times. And he fell for it, he lost the game he thought he'd mastered.

His faith was slipping, hard and fast when he asked the horrible question, "How do you know that?"

"Because I sent them to you," He said with that disgusting grin, "It was no coincidence that you met. You were kidnapped, I needed you back, so I hired some help. It's a pity that they were captured as well. The pause to our plans was quite inconvenient. Our Tav just can't help but get distracted, can she?"

"No..." The word slipped out of Astarion without his consent, his mind racing. That couldn't be true. It didn't make sense. T-There had to be another explanation. If he could just think he'd find it. But...what point was there? He was already captured, taken. If anything, all of this being a grand scheme from Cazador was more logical than someone loving him.

He had gone through many, many tortures during his time here. Unspeakable, horrible things that he would never wish on anyone, excluding the man in front of him. But this...this was the worst thing he'd ever done to him. He had tricked him, you had tricked him, and he whole-heartedly fell for it, like the fool he was. The fool he would die as.

He didn't know it was possible, but this would be the greatest pain he ever knew. He was sure of that. Cazador had managed to do it. He had broken him, finally.

His tears were falling on their own accord, plentiful and pathetic. Cazador cooed at him, tracing his cheek with his horrid hand, "It hurts, doesn't it? I missed that expression on you my boy. You were always at you're prettiest when you had given up."

He wiped Astarion's tears away, gently holding his face as he spoke, "If only this was enough. The things I want to do to you for running away... I want to make you scream, make you beg for death. Just like how things used to be. If only we had the time."

Cazador let go, stepping back with a sigh, "How I wish that they had gotten you to me earlier. Though it's too late to pout about it now, the preparations are almost complete. But don't fret my boy, your end will have the meaning that your life failed to posses. Come along now."

Astarion hung there, limp as Cazador unhooked him from above. This was it. He was going to die here, as nothing but a pawn. He didn't even try to fight it when he was led down, deep into the palace to a place he'd never known existed. He kept his eyes closed for most of the journey, simply for the fact that he didn't have the strength to keep them open.

It was...a horrendous feeling to be incased in that red energy, floating in the air with all of his brothers and sisters as Cazador finished his preparations. It forced his eyes open against his will, making him see the hell that had been hiding beneath his feet all these years. He had been wrong about the sacrifice it seemed, it wasn't just them. There were thousands of bodies, barely alive in hanging cages, strewn throughout the place.

It was horrible, but fitting. Where else would something like him die? All he wished was that Cazador would hurry, so he could be done with it all. He has to much time to think in these last moments, too much time to examine your betrayal.

He...hates you. For it all. He hates you more than anything, enough for that same fury to come bubbling back to the surface. How dare you do this to him, after everything you'd been through. He should have killed you while you slept, while you let him drink from your throat. He should have killed them all, the vile sacks of shit.

If his soul ever found it's way back from the hell it was about to be damned too, he'd find you. His revenge was no longer reserved for Cazador, but for the wretched bitch hat tortured him in ways he didn't even think were possible. He'd do worse to you than anyone could imagine.

You were the cruelest thing to ever exist, as heartless and horrid as the monster before him.

So why was he still crying over it?

It didn't matter anyway. Not now. Now, all he could do was wait for the bitter end.

But then...he felt something. A familiar presence tickling the back of his mind. A barely there whisper, no words that he could make out. But it was getting stronger. Clearer.

It...it was you. Calling out to him with your illithid connection, begging for an answer.

My love, where are you? Astarion please, please tell me your there. Help me find you.

He can scarcely believe it. But he wasn't going to wait for his emotions to catch up to what could be an escape. He was screaming in his brain, trying to send out any signal that he could.

I'm here. I'm here. Don't let him take me. Please.

He could hear you in his head, the sheer relief from your mind nearly overwhelming, I'm coming. Hold on, I'm coming.

Astarion didn't even have the time to doubt. Because the next moment you were bursting through the ornate doors, nearly your entire team in tow.

Astarion had never seen you look the way you did then. He was so used to your kindness, the warmth and light that you tried to spread everywhere you went. You were always smiling, always laughing, always trying to share the same with others.

But now you were breathing hard, near feral in your posture as your eyes darted around, landing straight to the shocked Cazador. You looked murderous, vicious enough to send a shiver down Astarion's spine. Your teeth were bared, your whole body trembling with rage as you started to advance, weapons already drawn.

And in that moment Astarion was sure that you were the most gorgeous, perfect thing he had ever seen. Or ever would.

It was brutal, bloody battle. One that ended with you slitting Cazador's throat as Astarion watched in awe. You let the body fall to the ground, blasé before you finally ran to him, releasing him from his prison.

Then he was being pulled into the most crushing hug of his entire life. One that he was helpless to return. He clung to you, uncaring for their rather large audience.

He was too busy burying his face into your hair, breathing you in as you whispered into his shoulder, "Thank the Gods that you're still here."

The pain in your voice was so raw, so real. Astarion needed no other evidence to be sure that every word from the dead man's lips had been a lie. He was also positive that he had never cried this much in his life, but now it was a different kind of sob he was trying to choke back. The flood of relief was crushing, the truth that your love was real was nearly enough to destroy him all over again. Not for cruelties sake, but to make something new. To kill every last doubt he had that he was nothing, worthless. How could he be when you were here? When you came for him?

He pulled back reluctantly, smiling down at you with tear tracks on his face. He kissed your forehead, covered in sweat and blood, and gods knows what else.

It was all finally over. You both turned to the rest of the group, your hands clasped together as you made your way to where Cazador lay dead. It was satisfying to see, but such a shame that Astation wasn't the one to do the deed. A regret he'd have for the rest of his days.

Or so he thought.

But then you were turning to Shadowheart, your sweet face curling back into the disgust from earlier when you ordered, "Revive him."

Astarion watched, wide-eyed as she did what she was told. Cazador came back into consciousness, in what looked to be an extremely unpleasant experience. He was coughing blood, the spell doing just enough to mend his mortal wounds, but not nearly powerful enough to give him a fraction of his strength back. He stared upwards, his eyes wide at the sight of you lording over him.

And for the first time in two hundred years, Astarion saw fear in the other man's eyes. Wonderfully delicious fear.

He felt you squeeze his hand as he stared at him, speaking quietly, "He's yours. To do with what you please. Do...do you want us here for this?"

He could hear the hidden meaning in your words. This wasn't just a choice of what to do with him. It was a choice of what to do with them all. He had taken notice that he was the only one that you had freed, his brethren still suspended in air.

He turned to you, his voice strong for the first time since he'd come back to this pit, "I want you here for this."

You nodded before looking back to the others to tell them to wait outside. They did so reluctantly, obviously without confidence in his decision making abilities. He ignored the especially worried look Karlach sent his way, too focused on the piece of vampiric trash in front of him.

Cazador was still coughing, his mouth forming more vile words, "Y-You don't have to do this. I can-"

"Silence," Astation seethed, partly surprised when it worked to shut him up. But then again, he had never been placed in a position to see his master be the one without an escape, "Your life is in my hands now. Tell me the truth. How did you find me?"

Astarion could see the fury behind his eyes, the humiliation of being ordered around by his own spawn. But his desire for life won out in the end.

"Luck," he spat out, "Sheer luck. Yomen saw you in the city, at Shar's Caress with this one. He followed you, found your camp and reported back. I sent Dalyria and Petras to fetch you, gave them a powerful sleeping scroll to knock out your allies. And then you were mine again."

Astarion shouldn't have been surprised that he had the audacity to glare at Tav, seething, "Or at least you would have been."

"And my memories?" Astarion pressed, "How did you know of us?"

"The tadpole squirming behind your eyes doesn't change the fact that I am your master," Cazador said, "Your mind is mine to shape, to understand. It was more difficult than before, yes. But I had enough to know what to say."

Of course. He should have known, "So that was your last torture then?"

"Yes," Cazador said simply, a sneer managing to appear on his bloodied face, "And you have to admit, it worked wonderfully."

"You can kill him now if you'd like," You piped up from his side, staring down at the vampire like the trash he was, "Or...you can take his place."

You hesitated for a brief moment before steeling yourself, looking Astarion in the eye, "Whatever you choose, I'll be here for you. I promise."

Astarion nodded, weighing his options. It was so very difficult to not just kill him where he laid, like the pathetic dog he was. But then again...the ritual would mean endless power. Power that he could use to protect himself, to protect you. So nothing like this could ever happen again.

Astarion looked up, his eyes searching every last one of his brothers and sisters faces. They looked scared, perhaps even resigned to their fate. Just at the hands of another. Astarion hadn't expected the image to make him feel ill, yet it did.

Could he do it? Sacrifice them all, along with everyone else trapped in the bowels of their personal hell? He could. He knows he could. Yet...

He looked back at you, the only thing he had ever loved. The one person to show him a different way to live, who was giving him the freedom to be his own person. But... he wanted that person to be someone worthy of you. Someone who would make you proud.

And there was only one way to do that. Astarion let go of your hand, reaching for the dagger you kept at your belt before striding over to Cazador. He stabbed him with little fanfare, no warning, no chances to beg. And then he did it again, and again, and again. Until he lost count, until the body of his former master was mutilated, his chest nothing but unrecognizable gore.

He wasn't quite sure when he started crying again. He only realized it when he could barely breath through his own screams, every bit of rage, hurt, and humiliation that had been beaten into him coming straight to the surface. He sunk to his knees as he sobbed, tossing the knife to the side.

The whirlwind inside of him was too much, so overwhelming that he was afraid he'd be lost to it. But then he could feel it, you wrapping your arms around him, kneeling next to him as he broke down.

He clung to you, burying his face into your neck as he cried, desperate for your comfort, your touch. You were crying too he realized, your voice breaking as you gently spoke to him, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have been there to protect you. I love you, you did the right thing. I'm sorry."

You had nothing to apologize for, but that didn't stop your words from acting like a soothing balm to all of his internal wounds. But he would get through this. Because for the first time Astarion knew, without a shadow of a doubt he wouldn't have to get through it alone. With you by his side, he would never be alone again.

He wasn't sure how long you both spent there, kneeling in a pool of his tormentors blood. But he knew he felt different when he pulled away, changed.

Free.

He cupped your face, wiping away your tears while only managing to smear the mess about. But it didn't matter that you were both covered in blood and viscera, not when he had you.

"I love you too," Astarion whispered, finally allowing himself to unload the burden of hiding away from you. No more of that. He was yours, fully and completely, "I love you so much. I-I thought that this was it. That I'd never see you again. That you betrayed me-"

"Never," You interrupted, your voice fierce despite how it was breaking, "I never will. You're all I want, all I need. I should have been there, I'm so sorry-"

"No more apologies," Astarion murmered, pressing a quick kiss to your bloody mouth, "No more. We're here. That's all that matters."

You nodded, kissing him again, so sweet despite everything that should have made it sour. Despite his own words, Astarion couldn't help the white hot shame that passed through him. How could he have doubted you, even for a moment? Doubted this, the most beautiful that ever happened to him. Never again would he question what you had together, to let his mind be poisoned by others.

But there would be more time for the two of you later. The rest of your lives if he had anything to say about it. But for now...you freed him. And it was his turn to do the same.

Astarion pulled back, sighing as he looked around the room at his brethren. They were still hanging in the air, all privy to quite the show. He freed them, forgave them even, despite every horrid thing they'd done to eachother over the years.

But that didn't stop him from clocking Petras squarely in the face the second his feet touched the floor. The other man took it well enough, fully knowing that Astarion was capable of much, much worse. Though he was well aware that Petras had been compelled to kidnap him, it didn't change the fact that the punch was very satisfying.

As for the rest of the spawn, the thousands trapped here, he let them go as well. Down to the Underdark, where they could at least have a chance of controlling their feral nature before associating with mortals again.

Then it was time to leave this wretched place, forever. He would never be hurt here again, never controlled. He was free, finally. And with you by his side, what else could he ever ask for?

#astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 cazador #hes such a piece of shit #but I feel like this is something he would totally do #happy ending #but god damn that was rough #angst #a lot of angst #its there #front and center #long fic #you'll pry my long posts out of my cold dead hands #im feeling spawn astarion man #i started this side blog for the ascended version but...#spawn is bae #female tav

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deus-lapidis · 2 years

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Imagine

After hundreds of years, since you've died, Zhongli's wedding ring breaks.

He has taken great care of it, but time thinned it out, for he has worn it every day since you two have pledged yourself to each other. He's heartbroken, his voice wavering, every time he looks at the imprint it left on his ring finger. The band was well worn, worn with pride and solemn, but now nothing more than a mark and reminder of your wedding.

And once again, he's lost a small bit of you, that he misses so dearly.

#I FOUND IT #I FOUND ONE OF MY MOST FAVOURITE THINGS IVE WRITTEN #so I’ve been scavenging my mutuals blogs to copy/paste/repost my writing here again #i don’t want to gatekeep a concept but just for this one please don’t make works without asking and crediting me #this one is rather special to me and I also think it does well enough on its own #zhongli fluff #zhongli angst #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin x reader #genshin angst #illunis’ scribbles

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alwaysmoncheri · 2 months

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summary: you’re starting to feel a little insecure among the other women in the bau, but spencer notices and silences your worries

cw: female!reader, kissing, fluff, cheesy writing, like one sexual innuendo from derek ( what’s new ? ), mutual pinning, insecurities, anxiety, comparisons of looks to others, 925, spencer reid x reader

you sit at your desk in the bustling bau office, surrounded by the brilliant minds and gorgeous faces that make up the team. as you sift through case files and organize data, you can't help but feel a subtle twinge of insecurity. the women in the bau are a formidable force – confident, competent, and effortlessly balancing the demands of the job with their own personal charm.

emily prentiss exudes authority, her presence commanding respect. jj effortlessly juggles motherhood and her role in the unit, displaying a poise you can't help but admire. penelope garcia's vibrant personality seems to light up the room, and you wonder if your more reserved nature fits into this dynamic team.

amidst the collective intelligence and strength, you find yourself questioning your place. your eyes wander to the mirror on your desk, and for a moment, you scrutinize your reflection. the nagging thought that you don't quite measure up to the elegance and confidence of your female colleagues lingers in the back of your mind.

as the day progresses, you try to focus on the tasks at hand, pushing aside the self-doubt that threatens to overshadow your abilities. spencer reid, the brilliant and socially awkward genius, that you love, is engrossed in his work on the other side of your adject desks. you've always admired his intellect, the way his mind operates on a different plane, and you’ve shamelessly loved him ever since you’d first met.

the team engages in discussions, exchanging ideas and theories. spencer, as usual, offers his insights with a level of eloquence that captivates everyone in the room. yet, in the midst of the professional banter, you can't shake the feeling that you fall short in comparison. you not only feel as though your mind can’t contribute the same thoughts and helpful comments as the rest of the team but you feel a tinge of insecurity toward your appearance. the way you look is far from beauty standards, you try to put on make-up but it never turns out to look like emily, jj, or penelope’s.

in a rare moment of respite, you find yourself alone near the coffee machine where you pull out your compact and check your reflection in the mirror. the longer you look at yourself, the more flaws you seem to find, and the more you think about the group’s discussions, the more judgment you feel toward yourself.

spencer notices you from the doorway and he frowns before proceeding any closer. when you finally notice him grabbing himself a fresh cup of coffee, you snap your compact closed as if you’ve been caught. spencer glances at you, his expression kind but perceptive. "everything okay?" he asks, his tone gentle.

you hesitate for a moment, then decide to be honest. "I don't know, spencer. I can't help but feel a bit out of place sometimes. I mean, look at the other women in the bau. they're all so... confident and put together. I don't know if I fit in."

spencer furrows his brow, considering your words carefully. "you know, I used to feel the same way when I first joined the bau. I was the youngest, and everyone seemed so sure of themselves. but confidence isn't always about how put together someone is. it's about knowing your worth and embracing your differences."

his words resonate with you, and for a moment, the weight on your shoulders seems to lift. "but look at them," you gesture towards your female colleagues and spencer follows your gaze, "they are all so... stunning. I can't help but feel like I don't quite measure up." you admit sheepishly and spencer immediately understands your insecurity.

spencer's eyes soften, and he offers a small, understanding smile. "beauty is subjective, and everyone has their own unique qualities. it's not just about appearances; it's about the way you carry yourself, your intelligence, your kindness. you have your own charm, and you're more than enough just the way you are." spencer explains, hesitantly touching your shoulder and softly rubbing up and down. his reassurance is like a soothing balm, calming the storm of self-doubt that rages within you. the way he sees beyond the surface, acknowledging your strengths, makes you feel valued in a way you hadn't anticipated.

“thank you, spence.” you whisper, turning to face him with a hint of a smile.

"you're an incredible person," spencer states, his voice sincere as he nods his head at your thanks. "and I'm grateful to have you as a colleague and a friend."

you can’t help but smile, feeling a warmth in your chest. spencer's acknowledgment goes beyond professional; it speaks of the genuine connection between the two of you. a connection that often brought constant teasing from other members of the bau team. you know you aren’t really just friends, but you enjoy spencer’s statement nonetheless.

“let’s go loverbirds, you’ve been on break for long enough,” derek calls from just outside the doorway, “plenty of time to do whatever you were doing.” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows at the two of us.

spencer’s face turns beat red while you roll your eyes with a smile tugging at your lips. you then lean up to give spencer a quick kiss on his jaw and whisper another quick thank you. you turn on your heel and walk out the door, turning one last time to see spencer’s mouth slightly agape and cheeks even rosier than before. you smile to yourself, now knowing that you have no reason to be insecure, and spencer helped you realize that.

masterlist . spencer reid masterlist . taglist

thank you for reading, my darling! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily! send requests to my inbox!

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theatre-apocalypse · 5 months

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The millionth end was vanity, I thought I saw you smile at me.

Some self-aware timeloop Emma!

#starkid #hatchetfield #tgwdlm #emma perkins #paul matthews #paulkins #haven’t posted much bc art block is a bitch and im self conscious bc its all sketches #but fuck it. my blog #have some angst

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grimesgirll · 1 month

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“not happening.”

“what if i told you that you’d be helping to save the world?”

“by fucking him?”

you scoff, turning your attention back to the braid you’d begun down your back. “i’m not helping you with your passion project, okafor. i have actual shit to do.”

okafor grins at you. “bullshit.”

“no, i still have weekly duties and assignments. i can’t just drop all of that trying to seduce your ticking time bomb.”

“i see the way he looks at you,” he states with a breath of your name. “if he’s gonna be open to anyone, it’s you.”

“he doesn’t need to be open to anyone.” you counter.

“i don’t think you know what he needs yet.”

“and you do?”

“he needs you.”

“no.” you reply flatly, fists clenched. “you need him to enact your little plan that i have nothing to do with.”

the lieutenant colonel gives you a haughty smile. “well then, at the very least he needs stress relief and you owe me a favor.”

you glare at him. “that was a one time thing.”

“you got what you wanted didn’t you?”

“being perpetually indebted to you with favors isn’t what i signed up for,” you complain as you plait your hair.

“you get to sit around and make your little maps and fuck around all day.” your superior reminds you.

you do your best not to scowl too much, unlike the man who your former benefactor wanted you to de-stress fuck. he constantly had a sour look on his face. he was the consignee who cut off his fucking hand trying to escape. how would you convince someone like that to just lay back and let you fuck them until they didn’t miss whatever life they had before again?

“this is kind of a far ask, okafor.” you note and tie off the end of your braid. you finally turn around from the mirror in front of you to face the dark green fatigue clad man behind you. “it’s never gone as far as touching someone like that and actually fucking them. i don’t think i’m up for that.”

okafor crosses his arms. “are you sure about that? last time i checked, you eye fuck him almost as much as he eye fucks you.”

“you’re an asshole.” you spit, venom dripping from your words. “i’m not letting you coerce me into this.” your eyes meet his brown irises. “let this be the last straw for you, lock me up, dishonorably discharge me, whatever, but i’m not just gonna hop on your lackey’s dick because you say so.”

he takes a deep breath and clasps his hands together, smirking for whatever reason. “i think you’ll want to.” he suddenly stands and you’re paranoid for a split second that he’s about to summon backup or attempt to disarm you right here and now. “because i’m not serving up any threats, just desserts. you’ve been good to me and i’ve been good to you. i want you to continue to reward you. maybe with what you’ve wanted all along.”

your eyebrow lifts. “and what would that be?”

okafor doesn’t say anything when you begin breaking the dress code with your workout gear. you make sure to plan time around your community mapping projects to run past the officers' meeting hall in the tighest pair of shorts you owned.

you never forgot to smile and wave to okafor and rick as you pass by. it takes a few days but rick returns your wave.

content adorns your face when you catch him surveying your form from afar, getting closer and closer to that sweet reward okafor had promised you.

soon enough rick is running into you everywhere. you're crossing paths in helicopter hangers, on benches outside of the barracks, during your runs around the reservoir, at the gym, in the administrative office in your most yielding sweater, in the hallway, and at his front door on okafor’s orders.

“okafor wanted me to make sure this got to you.”

“thank you,” rick grunts gruffly, accepting the folder with his latest field assignment from your grasp.

“anytime, rick,” you crow.

before he can bid you good night, you ask if he’d been briefed by okafor yet. he shakes his head.

you smile sweetly. “well, he really wanted you to sit down and talk about the park with someone who’s been there before, knows the layout.”

the cowboy type raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been to olympia national park before.”

“mhmm,” you confirm. “a long time ago but i know more about it than okafor.” you let out a breath, eyes boring into his icy blue gaze. “got a minute?”

the dark wainscoting of officer’s quarters enters your field of vision as rick leads you through the skinny hallway, pointing out a bathroom before bringing you into what you assume is the downstairs living room.

“you can help yourself to the kitchen,” he offers graciously, gesturing towards the kitchen of the open floor plan living space.

“thanks!” you chirp and weave towards the kitchen, finding two short glasses and flinging a cabinet open.

“oh, you have whiskey!”

“it was a gift from okafor.”

you can barely keep a guffaw from tumbling out of your mouth. “that’s very on brand for him,” you comment, turning the handcrafted decanter over in your hands. “well, lucky for you, okafor has fantastic taste.”

rick observes from the leather sofa as you pour two short glasses of whiskey - not even asking if you could. the orange light of the kitchen does nothing to hide how great you look for nine o’clock at night. your gauzy long hair glints, looking sleek beneath the lights as it falls inches above the curve of your ass.

the same bottom that had seemingly been following rick around base. it was like everywhere he turned: you were there. whatever inspired this house call felt suspiciously related.

kneeling on the floor next to the coffee table, you place the tray with your drinks down and empty the folder of its documents in order to splay them across the table. you reach up to rick to pass him one of the twin glasses.

reluctantly, he accepts. however, he doesn’t take a sip from his glass until after you do.

he doesn’t miss the way your throat tenses at the burn of the liquor when it makes its way down. you throw another swig back like a young woman who’s grown accustomed to drinking with her fellow soldiers, but in the quarters of one of her superiors?

“so, here’s where you’ll be landing.” your glass is already on the coffee table and you’re pointing out green meandering lines. “whitehorse mountain is right here. just be careful of atmospheric rivers in the area. did okafor tell you about what happened to the apache team?”

the dark haired man shook his head, worry lines becoming more pronounced.

you shake your head. “forget i said anything.” you take another quick drink from your glass and rick looks alarmed - you’re not like your oxen brothers in arm who could drink themselves silly. he doesn’t have time to dwell on it though because you’re skipping right to the next print out to detail his planned trek along the sauk river.

“it’s a pretty ridge. you should stop and take a picture.” you suggest, thumbing through laminated landmark shots of valleys and vistas, making a verbal note of one which is a convenient stop on his trip.

he bites his pink lip. “i don’t think getting a photo of the view is gonna be on my mind, sweetheart.”

“why not?” you question with a glimmer in your eye. “someone like you should take time to relax when you can.”

he chides your name. “what’re you doin’?”

“your job is important, and we all have jobs to do, right?”

there’s a far awayness in his eyes that you can’t place when you lean in closer. feet tucked under your knees, you’re trailing your hand up rick’s thigh towards the tent in his pants.

“you wanna fuck my mouth?”

“why’re you doin’ this?”

when he iterates your name, you consider backing down but then you remember okafor’s promise and how truly repressed this man seemed.

“it’s been a while hasn’t it.”

rick squirms. he doesn’t mean to but it’s a question not many people have the balls to ask him and he didn’t expect it from you of all people. he tries to block whatever memories are bubbling in response and busies himself with taking in the view of your parted lips.

“you don’t have to say anything, just relax,” you coo, shoving him back slightly.

looking down at you, rick doesn’t know what he has to gain from saying no at this point. rick huffs as you approach his erection but he doesn’t object.

his waistband falls with your fingers and you’re faced with the massive length you’d been worrying about. ever since you first saw rick’s bulge, you were brainstorming how you’d even fit him inside your taut walls, much less inside of your mouth.

starting slow, you begin at the base and kitten lick up to the top. rick’s groans give him away immediately. how can he hide how repressed he is with a cock as hard as rocks?

at the top of him, you’re laving his cockhead in your mouth. “i’ve never been with anyone this big,” you admit for the potential ego boost - even though it’s one hundred percent true. rick has a fucking horse cock if you’ve ever seen one.

your hand is working overtime with everything you can’t fit into your mouth at first. rick exhales hoarsely at the wet heat of your mouth devouring him. he hasn’t had a mouth on him in so long. your tight, warm lips wrap around his dick and you swallow around him.

his self control is rusty so he curses when he bucks into your face, stalling his hips only for you to pick up your pace. he wants to pull you off when he feels like he’s about to cum down your tight airway which is crammed full of his cock.

at the first feeling of that telltale twitch against your tongue, you prepare to do your part to keep rick’s nice leather couch clean and swallow everything he’s been holding back.

popping off of him, you look back up at him and grant a toothy smile. his eyes are lurid and clouded with what you only assume is lust. you’re not prepared for his rough grip to drag you onto the surface and into his lap.

the green cargo mini skirt you were wearing falls down your legs and lands somewhere on the wood paneled floor. the moment after you wipe your mouth with a tight fitting sleeve, rick captures your mouth. slightly taken aback, you moan into the man, squirming borderline uncontrollably on top of him as he pulls your top over your head.

his sturdy fingertips ghost across up your waist to your breast. with one robust squeeze as a warning, he assaults your heaving chest with his flesh hand and bruises your collarbone with something between a kiss and a mini-puncture wound. the proesthetic invades your panties and teases your labia, eliciting a needy hum from you.

his horse cock makes itself known again against the front of your pale pink panties.

fuck, how will he fit?

“god, you’re already soakin’ me.”

you get past the feel of his embrace for a moment to glance down only to be greeted with the sight of your swampy lap. how did i do that? you ponder.

“i wanna feel you on my cock, sweetheart. is that something you can do to help me relax?”

you grin. “i’m glad you asked.” you feel a renewed tingle downstairs. “why don’t you see how i take your fingers first?”

a smirk forms on his face. “probably should.” and then he’s reaching between the two of you to prod a finger at your dripping mound.

a deft finger drives into you. you’re expecting another one but as you lazily rest your head on his clothed shoulder, you just whine. the finger inside of you curls and unfurls, stretching you out without the addition of another digit. just the way his fingers drags along your walls has you twisting on top of him.

“you’re really wet for a girl who came over to talk about maps.”

you don’t comment, just cant your hips and beg for another finger. he obliges.

the calculated sensation has you forgetting what he’s talking about, forgetting about your plan. that rhythm he’s adopted speeds up once you make eye contact with rick.

“one more?” he questions.

you nod furiously. “another!”

rick doesn’t delay and the floor drops out from under once you feel a tongue on your quiveting lower lips.

“rick!” you gasp as his fingers and tongue work in unison to squeeze every naughty little noise out of you.

the soldier doesn’t speak; he just laps up your pussy like it was an order.

you come all over his face.

“sorr-,” you’re shut up by a wet finger in your mouth.

“that’s it.”

the no longer meek man trains his eyes on you as you suck his finger clean. through half lidded eyes, you watch his pupils dilate into fully lust blown orbs. devoid of the bright blue you’d seen before, rick’s stare only shifts when he’s shifting you on top of him.

“is it going to fit?” you don’t even realize that your thoughts are materializing out loud.

the officer snorts. “never had a problem before.”

the initial stretch is challenging. your breath is caught in your throat and you’re almost asking the man beneath you to slow down but he’s already inching in at an excruciatingly stable rate.

fuck, you’re reconsidering this. you curse your lieutenant colonel for acting like this whole song and dance was easy. figures. okafor isn’t the one getting stretched out on an eight inch cock.

at the sound of your whines, rick places a kiss on the top of your forehead. “doin’ so good for me,” rick praises. “so tight.”

i know, i feel you tearing me open you want to rasp but you just try to settle into the feeling. you adjust your position, tilting enough for rick to take a renewed interest in your ass. a firm hand plants itself on your flesh in an attempt to leverage you closer.

“almost there,” he grunts and continues pushing through your clinging canal, through the thick rings of muscle that grip his cock so tightly.

momentarily, you slump against the soldier. yeah, you’d been running around the base in hopes of attracting rick’s attention but your exercise routine was no match for the man with a brick between his legs.

once he’s sheathed inside of you, rick reaches down to toy with your clit. you mutter a soft curse. the sensation picks up and you’re faced with not just feeling full but fully stimulated as well. each drag against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you whimpering into rick.

drives into you become harsher. the impact feels less like a truck and more like a commanding officer. an arm is wrapped around you to keep your position steady on top of okafor’s new favorite soldier. the same one who seems to be hitting the right spot every time he moves you up and down his length.

your hands reach for his graying chestnut hair. they find purchase while rick rocks into you. the urge to complain that his shirt is on exits once a familiar pressure mounts inside of you.

“fuck, you’re squeezin’ me.”

“mhmm,” you expire into his neck, nuzzling into him when he presses fingernails into your sides and lifts and lowers you like his own personal stress relief toy.

you can’t be bothered to care. you’re getting what you want out of this: a reward and a release.

pleasure is just radiating throughout your core again. whatever pain had you speechless earlier has evolved into an ecstasy that has you babbling. rick just keeps a hand on the small of your back and carries on pouring himself into you - into your tight little canal, back and forth, in and out.

“rick,” you’re mewling.

the man can’t be bothered to plant a hand pleasurably on your pussy or respond to your cries, so you complain a little louder.

“want you to cum in me.” you stutter into the pillowcase.

“don’t think you want that,” rick demurely admits.

“no,” you argue between pants. “i’m on the shot they have here. i want you to fill me up.”

rick utters a curse into your neck, pouring himself into you so swiftly you’re surprised. just like you asked, he pumps his hips leisurely into your soaked cunt. you wince at the sound of a squelch. hopefully rick doesn’t care too much about having to clean his sofa.

neither of you are expecting the noise you make when rick untangles himself from you. you’re too tired to have shame and simply sink back into the ductile pillows. your head swivels over slowly to find rick watching your chest fall up and down unevenly.

laying beside the man, you can’t help but feel accomplished. for once, the soldier is sporting a blissed out look on his face instead of a scowl or thousand yard stare. but as he slings an arm around you and tugs you closer to his sweltering, sweaty body, you can’t help but feel guilty - manipulative even.

mission accomplished, but at what cost?

pt. 2

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suyacho · 9 months

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“why is everything smut” because you guys seem to not give a single shit for anything unless it’s smut, leave the sfw fluff & angst creators in the dust and only come on here to complain about what we write in out free time instead of supporting the people on here.

edit: this post is not meant to shame any smut writers, i’m one of you guys LMAO, it was about one of the stupidest catches i’ve seen circling around & me being annoyed over it.

#snow; sighs #im late to the party /lh #i wouldve reblogged the post going around saying i agree with all the tags my mutals have said #but i think its an ageless blog #its jusr so stupid #like me personally i love writing fluff & angst but it fucking flops #i dont try to get the notes to me but it still happens #especially when you know people only care for your smut and nothing else #not your content #not you #just your smut #and in the end will still have the audacity to complain #goodmorning btw Lmaaooa

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ladythornofrivia · 7 days

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🍒 The Devil’s Tongue 🍒

Michael Gavey x Reader (PART ONE)

summary: you transferred into Oxford after moving out from your country for a better change, and unexpectedly meeting Michael Gavey in a quiet library, leads to something more.

warnings: creepy vibes from michael gavey, reader being oblivious, stalking, michael being horny, p in v sex, loss of virginity, jealousy, misunderstandings, obsession, belt kink, panty kink, scent kink, voice kink, breeding kink, michael gavey being a smartass, michael gavey is horny for math, michael gavey is a smartass, clueless reader, nerdy yet hot michael, lust at first sight, sex in the library, sex on the table, kitchen sex, oral sex, cam girl, fingering, sex during tutoring session, reader teasing, reader being a dominatrix in bed, food porn.

a/n: i forgot to review the movie saltburn last year, so I’ll give it a short review. Saltburn is a weird movie, but i watched it because of Ewan Mitchell. While ewan mitchell is 10/10, saltburn is 7/10, because of the bathtub scene and the grave scene. the only thing that’s good is the cinematography, music and ewan mitchell. i wish there’s more scenes from him. yes, i keep saying his name! he’s so fucking hot as a nerd. this one shot will be long.

You like cherries.

There’s something mysterious and tempting about the roundish and reddish fruits. Cherries are sweet, and it’s dark-reddish color brought an appeal to your appetite and. Appeal that also changes your view in fashion.

And as hot as the Devil’s tongue.

Red symbolized lust.

Sinful, they proclaimed.

So does your pussy, when you splayed across the bed, waiting for Michael to enter and see the reaction of his when you splayed naked in bed with thick whip cream smothered on your tits, waist, and your pussy decorated in whip cream swirled with cherry on top.

***

A Year Ago…

Your parents and your attention seeking relatives are no good. Red is as sin as lust—the devil’s skin, the devil’s horn.

Other than black and pink, you like the dark-cherry color. All your aesthetics are cherry red—well, the undertones to match your little room at your small house belongs to your parents.

Them and their sinless views of the world has sickened to your stomach. You don’t want to be like your hypocritical, martyr parents for the rest of your life, so you applied for the university at Oxford and Northamptonshire. You got accepted to the university. Despite being a young woman, you managed to prove them wrong.

And sever ties with them to go at the University of Oxford, where you encounter numerous people. You’ve done research to get things right—not to be frigid or superficially pretentious; you didn’t want to embarrass yourself on the spot if you chose to be ignorant.

One thing that no one else knows of you, is that you moonlight as a dominatrix on a live stream. Every night, you broadcast online to pleasure yourself—that’s how you got money to bail from a strict and hypocritical religious household.

Few of the students looked at your direction, giving a side-eye. You overheard them calling you a prostitute, but you couldn’t care less. Dress to impress for yourself. You mostly wore bike leather jacket, a tank top, mini skirt and a chunky dark-cherry red boots with light make up, but the lipstick is glossy dark red—and not the irritable, sticky kind.

Your long locks tossed at the side, already at your assigned room, but you shut the windows completely. You don’t want to reveal the private side of your internet sensation. After closing the curtains, you’re off to the hall, where people gathered and talk, mainly about drama and parties.

You hadn’t known one. But you had party to yourself of gaining source of income from self-pleasure.

There you sat down, and overheard someone at your left. Afar, you saw a young man named Oliver Quick and another guy with nerdy glasses.

Michael Gavey.

“Fuckin’ ask me a sum then!” The chatter dimmed when a young man shouted about math.

No one really likes as the guy with the nerdy glasses does. But he does look cute when he’s fuming.

Maybe he’s sexually frustrated. All it needs is I need to work on a poor guy. Poor guy is so frustrated—a no man island himself, like Oliver Quick.

You could tell. So you chimed in.

“What’s the square root of 69”

Both boys turned to look at you.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Oliver inquired, perplexed.

“Oh, just a curious person asking him a question,” you said, jerking your head towards the blond and cutely frustrated boy.

“8.30662386292,” is all the blond uttered.

Your lips tugged into a smirk, and left.

Interesting, now I have a new kink to look forward to for my next kinky session.

***

It’s quite luxurious for a library—grand yet old like wines in the cellar. You studied Political Science and Art, and while you studied and sometimes drawing, but a certain snack bar caught your eye; it was placed above your drawing.

“I got you a crunchie,” a voice said. You turned and saw Michael Gavey.

“Oh, um, thanks?”

“I have never seen you before,” he noted.

“Really? So do I.”

“As a matter of fact, you have disrupted us during our friendly conversation.”

Oliver Quick was anything but friendly and comfortable.

“Okay and?”

He quirked a brow. “Your attitude is unusual.”

“Well, where I came from, it’s not really an issue. I’m a straight forward kind of gal,” you explained.

Michael hummed, staring at you.

“Pardon my rudeness. I’m Michael Gavey.” His hand stretched out. “I never get your name.

“I’m (Y/N) (L/N).” You offered a handshake in return.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from America.”

“Ah, yes. The land of freedom,” he commented, trying to make you laugh.

You laughed awkwardly. You have never smiled or laughed before—in a non-superficial way. You laughed and smiled during as a cam girl, but other than that, you never smile genuinely.

Somehow it caught his eye. His glasses beamed that you could see the color of his hues.

“An awkward foreign girl.”

“Yeah, so? I’m not really a people-person.”

“Why did you come here, then? For a good fuck?”

Ghastly, you turned around to see if anyone catches his words, but nobody pays attention.

“Are you going to the party?”

“What party?”

“The party Felix and his friends are heading tonight.”

“Who the hell is Felix?”

Michael darted his eyes behind you, and followed the sign; Felix and Farleigh sat at the back between the shelves.

“Apparently, he’s hosting a party tonight. NFI, me and you. Not Fucking Invited.”

“Well, I don’t a fuck about parties that much.”

Michael tsked. “That’s a very strong language.”

“Says the guy who says NFI. Besides, I don’t like parties,” you said, and it wasn’t a half lie. You have an upcoming camgirl session tonight.

“A shame,” Michael said, then reaching for the crunchie.

You have never tried snacks from another culture.

“Is it good?” you asked him.

He ripped the snack bar open, and gave you a piece. “Try it and see for yourself.”

And you did.

It was worth it.

Nevermind how Michael watched you in fascination.

***

The roofs and walls of University has been but a sham; it was real quiet.

Too quiet.

You hated quiet rooms.

In your next session, your fingers swirled your swollen clit, thinking of Michael Gavey’s rosy lips and tongue licking and nibbling your wet cunt and a tight hole.

You never fucked anybody, but you wanted your first time to be special. You rode on a dildo, trying not to moan so loud, but you come down high. The faster you moved, the more erotic images of a nerdy Michael seeping into you.

This is my kind of party.

***

Somewhere, in a darkened room, Michael Gavey’s hand filled with cum, and his other hand pressed the send button on his computer screen.

It was sensational to see.

You.

Who would’ve thought he met you—a famous camgirl.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how your eyes twinkled when you ate crunchie for the first time—far from the horniness and snobbish act you put up in public. It was a delight to see . With your outstanding getup and attitude, he knew that he’s in a right place.

Taglist: @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @halsteadstyles @lothiriel9 @liannafae @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @kimsubin05 @blackgaladriel @valeskafics @theboleyngirlx @elaratyrell @mylosz0

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formulaforza · 9 months

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—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it.

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired.

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel.

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing.

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t.

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly.

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything.

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you.

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately.

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be.

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page.

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months.

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus.

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive.

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception.

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches.

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years.

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust.

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks, a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit.

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property.

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with.

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile.

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses.

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way.

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy.

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you.

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be.

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty.

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks. “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly.

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest.

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special.

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you.

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail.

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard.

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine.

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender.

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in.

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary.

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest.

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you.

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster.

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken.

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small.

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to.

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines.

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it.

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side.

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by.

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day.

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands.

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan.

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support.

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be.

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

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