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roosterbruiser · 8 months

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𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐏𝐈��𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇-𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍-𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟏𝟑.𝟗𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄, 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐓. 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖

The gurney breaches doorways, breaks crowds of baby blue scrubs. The wheels scream, unoiled and abused. Everyone is talking--terms you usually can synthesize but cannot now. You stare at the ceiling tiles, desperately trying to keep your heavy lids open.

You’re not in immeasurable pain now, but you would be without the needle in your spine. Maybe you’re going to be on the table and the monster you’ve been incubating is going to break through your skin and then a fire is going to eat the both of you--unless, of course, you bleed out first.

Maybe this is the end. Maybe this is what your summer has been coming to all along.

This is it. What a silly thought that is. What gives?

With the world flying by you from up above in shades of white and crisp blue, you wonder what this was all for. All this pain, all this torture, all this fever. What good did it do anybody?

Flames over flesh.

It’s the last thing you think before your eyes close and you sink into a meperidine haze.

♀

The sun is warm on your cheeks and shoulders as you step out of the passenger side of Maverick’s Jeep, the worn straps of your duffle digging into the bare skin of your shoulder. Your flimsy sandals--you should’ve known better than to wear sandals--sink into the gravel and gray dust kicks up your shins.

Inhaling deeply, you’re almost startled at how clean the air smells. Nothing like the choking scent of leather and gasoline in Maverick’s Jeep--it was making your eyes damn near water on the ride up. But here it is fresh and purified by pine and oak and crabgrass.

“Got anything in the back?” Maverick asks you, already headed towards the trunk with his shades intact and his jet-black hair wind-kissed from your ride with the top down. You shake your head. “Just the duffel then, huh? Light packer! I like that in a woman! Would you so mind helping me grab some of the supplies from the back?”

“Sure thing,” you tell him, setting your bag on the gravel and following him to the back of the Jeep.

He’s grinning as the two of you begin unloading.

“I love it here,” he tells you with a content sigh. He glances around the property, notes where a screen needs to be repaired and a hinge reattached and paint touched up, and glances at you. You’re diligently unloading jugs of water and big boxes of raisins with your brow knit. There’s a faint smile tugging on your lips, a heat about your face and chest that gives you a sheen of excitement. “You’re going to love it here, you know. What do you think so far, nurse?”

Face warm from his nickname for you, which feels like a pretty high compliment for a prospective nursing student, you smile very politely.

“Well, it's sure…picturesque. If that isn’t too corny,” you tell him, quickly glancing at the trees scraping the endless blue sky. “Quiet, too.”

“Just wait until the rugrats get here. You won’t even remember what the word quiet means. It’s completely fantastic,” Maverick tells you, wiping his hands on his khaki-colored shorts. He slams the trunk of the Jeep shut. “I’ll give you the walking-talking tour if you carry that jug aaand those boxes for me.”

Trailing behind him, arms full of water and pantry goods, you’re only half-listening to him. Your heart is beating steadily in your throat, arms already aching.

“--officially opened the doors with Pen about two or three years ago--oh, that’s my wife, by the way. Penny, Pen, P. You’ll probably meet her sometime this summer, I’d guess! Anyway, it was the year our daughter, Mel, started school. Didn’t have anything to do, so we thought--why not?” Maverick says. He stops suddenly and props a heavy wooden box on his thigh so he can wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He glances at you and notes you taking it all in still. He smiles. “Pen used to go here as a little girl. Some of her favorite memories of her childhood are--well, right here. She’s always passing the camp folklore down to the masses. Don’t believe a word Jake says, alright? He’s gullible and he embellishes.”

You imagine writing it down on a sticky note and plastering it to the inside of your skull: don’t trust Jake--he’s a storyteller.

“Has it always been open to the public? Camp, I mean.” You ask. “Heck, I’d never heard of it until this summer.”

Maverick shakes his head.

“So much for advertising, right? Guess word-of-mouth isn’t the best way to spread the good news about camp,” he laughs. “It’s got kind of a funky history. Opened first in 1945 after the war and stayed open until--huh, I think about…’57 or ‘59? And then it was closed until Penny and I opened it up again in ‘80.”

“Wow,” you say softly. “Was it in rough shape?”

“Everything but the camp sign,” Maverick says, nodding towards the large arched sign at the mouth of camp. It is a heavy and thick thing made of wood--hand painted in clear, concise letters. “That's why we kept the name.”

“Camp Arcadia,” you say aloud. “It’s got a nice little ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It definitely could’ve been worse,” Maverick agrees, laughing. “Like Camp Crystal Lake.”

“Don’t remind me,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m trying to forget about that film’s existence.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Maverick says. “Do you know what Arcadia means?”

“Uh,” you say, thinking. Heat has sprouted in your chest from the exertion of carrying such heavy items. “I don’t think I do.”

“Get this,” Maverick starts, grinning. “A place of simple pleasure and quiet.”

“Well, then. It sure lives up to its name!”

“That’s what Penny says,” Maverick sighs. “But she usually stays away during the talent show.”

“There’s a talent show?” You ask, grinning. Maverick nods. “How sweet. Must get all the kiddos excited.”

“Oh, boy--does it ever.” Maverick glances at you, but then stops again. You’re both panting when you dig your heels into the gravel and halt. He nods to your strained arms. “That too heavy? You alright?”

Really, you’re struggling to carry all the items in your arms. But dammit if you’ll so much as let your bottom lip quiver.

“Nah, I’m good!” You say, panting. “I’m great, actually.”

Maverick has already decided he likes you. But he especially likes you when you’re lying to save face. It reminds him of himself.

“From your lips to God’s ear,” he says with a wink.

Maverick takes you through the courtyard and into the mess hall, where he tells you to just throw the items anywhere. And you quite literally hardly make it through the door before your knees are buckling and you’re setting everything down with complete haste.

“That’s quite a hike,” you pant to Maverick, slightly embarrassed as you fan yourself. “You didn’t give me a fair warning.”

“Would you have come?” He asks, all charm and charisma as he wipes his balmy hands on the thighs of his jeans.

“Touché,” you breathe.

“Thanks a million, by the way,” Maverick tells you, plucking his sunglasses off and hooking them to his linen button-down before he grins at you again. “How you feeling? Nervous? Scared? Excited?”

Maverick moves about a million miles a minute--he’s a fast talker and an even faster driver. As you catch your breath and chew on your answer, you begin to feel like you have a crick in your neck and a Hell of a summer ahead of you.

But you just smile at him.

“I’m feelin’ dandy,” you answer him. You glance around the cavernous mess hall, which has been freshly mopped--diluted bleach stings your nostrils, coats the roof of your mouth. “Where is everyone?”

He points at you, eyebrows coming together.

“Good question,” he sighs. “Let’s go find ‘em, huh?”

You don’t have to go far to find everyone. Just as soon as the two of you are out the door and in the heat again, you hear splashing and hollering. Turning your face towards the water--a beautiful, blue lake that stretches from one side of the tree-lined horizon to the other--you see them all.

“There they are,” Maverick grins, hands on his hips. “Guess they needed to cool off.”

“What were they doing before?” You ask, brow furrowed. You wring your hands together as you scan the water--a handful of men, all brawny and tan and long hair and sex, and one petite brunette--swallowing hard. “Like, you know. What got them so hot?”

“Orgies tend to get a tad steamy,” a voice says from behind you, a teasing lilt sinking into the notes. “But so does repainting the latrine.”

“Ah,” Maverick says, grinning at the man that has suddenly materialized behind you. Maverick throws an arm over his shoulders and doesn’t seem to mind how much he is dwarfed by this man. He slaps the man’s bare chest a few friendly times. “My favorite nephew.”

“Don’t worry,” the man says, eyes wide. He holds his hands up to you like you’re an upset animal he’s cornered and he’s trying to get back on your good side. “Not related biologically.”

“Why would she worry about that?” Maverick asks him, already fighting an eye roll.

“‘Cause I don’t want her thinking my genes are tainted or anything,” the man answers with a boyish grin. “In fact, I don’t want anyone thinking that!”

“Tainted? You mean blessed,” Maverick says, letting his eyes finally roll. He glances at you, still smiling. “Nurse--this is Rooster. Rooster, this is nurse.”

Rooster’s sopping wet, only wearing a small pair of swim trunks, and his curls are dripping lakewater down his back. His hair is dark gold, curly, and long enough to sit just below his shoulders. And his chest glistens in the sun, wide and hard from manual labor.

And you--you look way too young to be the new nurse here. The last nurse was closing in on her seventies and always had a butterscotch candy tucked inside her cheek. You aren’t in uniform--camp or otherwise--and he wonders if you’re the new counselor he heard about last week. A last-minute hire, someone Maverick was going to bring in personally.

“You’re the new camp nurse?” He asks, brows furrowed. He looks you up and down, sizes you up. He’s wondering how old you are to already be a nurse--you can practically see the question on his tongue.

You hold your hip with one hand and shade your eyes from the sun with the other.

“You’re named after a farm animal and you’re worried about him tainting your genes?”

Maverick laughs--a deep and proud belly laugh--before clapping Rooster on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” Rooster says, mocking offense. He can’t wipe the grin off his lips. “That cut deep, little mama.”

“Great. A regular Elvis Presley,” you say. “Just what I needed.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Rooster says as lake water rolls off his tanned shoulders and down his arms. You’re trying not to stare, nose twitching with concentration. “I’m much more of a Jerry Lee Lewis type! It’s undeniable!”

“Cry about it,” you say.

Smiling yourself, you bring your index finger to your eye and drag it down your face--mocking the rolling of a tear.

Rooster laughs--a laugh that you can feel in the soles of your feet like it’s coming from deep inside of the earth, like it was born there just to die in the foundation of your body.

“Only if you’re there to make it all better,” Rooster says.

It feels like a challenge.

You’re just about to lip something back when Maverick glances at his watch and cringes. Amelia has a ballet recital later and he doesn’t even want to think about what Penny will say if he’s more than five minutes late.

He claps to draw both of your gazes to him.

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you two get acquainted while I get some work done, huh? I’m in a crunch here. Give her a tour, Rooster! Introduce her to the flock! Finish that latrine!” Maverick lists as he starts for the Jeep again. He stops and turns quickly, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. You wonder, momentarily, if he’s made of plastic. “And play nice, kids!”

You and Rooster look at each other for a long moment, each of you biting smiles, taking each other in as Maverick jogs back towards the Jeep with all the haste and grace of a prancing deer.

“Who’re they?” You ask, nodding towards the water.

He crosses his arms, stepping closer to you.

“The others,” he says.

“The others?” You mock. “Ominous.”

“Coyote, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback, and Phoenix,” he answers.

“Which one’s the girl?” You inquire, brows pinched.

He grins at you. His lips are pink with enjoyment.

“Guess,” he simply says.

“I’ll go out on a limb here and say it isn’t Fanboy or Hangman,” you answer. He nods, amused. “Payback?” You ask.

“Other P,” he says, impressed and delighted.

“Damn,” you answer, tutting. “Phoenix, then.”

“Bingo,” he tells you.

“Nurse is a nickname,” you say finally, pressing your toe into the gravel.

“So is Rooster,” he says, nodding. “Thank God.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. Something between your leg twitches--you want to know what that bobbing would feel like below your open mouth.

Swallowing hard, you nod.

“I know,” you say. “I was only kidding before.”

“Yeah, me too,” Rooster says. “‘Cause no way you’re old enough to be a nurse.”

“I’m not,” you say, crossing your arms. “But I’m old enough to be a counselor.”

“Righteous,” Rooster says. He thinks for a moment and then slowly says your name, unraveling it from his memory like a fragile thread. “Right? Did I say it right?”

“Yeah,” you answer. Your name coming off his tongue sounds ultra-casual and cool, like it’s just been said on the radio or over the loudspeaker on a beach. “But I’m gonna go out on a limb here and deduce that everyone here gets a nickname.”

“Are you studious or just one of those people?” He asks, pushing his wet hair back.

You grin at him and warmth blossoms in his chest. You’ve got a pretty smile--especially this one that eats your whole face and scrunches your eyes. This one, the one he’s staring at, is harder to earn than the docile smile you wore on your way in.

“Just one of those people?” You ask, eyebrow cocked. “Do tell me what kind of people you’re talking about.”

“Well,” he says, stretching. “The kind of people that know everything.”

“Ah,” you say, nodding. “A know-it-all, in other words.”

“Hey, I never said that,” Rooster says, laughing. “You’re already putting words in my mouth!”

Shrugging, you sigh.

“Yeah, well--I already knew what you meant! Apparently.”

He licks his lips.

“So, you are one of those people then, huh?” He asks, his brow cocked identically. You blink at him, opening your mouth, when he suddenly stops you. “Wait a minute--don’t tell me. I wanna figure it out myself.”

You nod, pretending to zip your lips.

“Game on,” you tell him. “You’ll report your findings by Labor Day, right?”

“Right-o, captain!” He grins, saluting.

Cringing, you sigh through your clenched jaw.

“I’m hoping that one doesn’t stick,” you tell him.

You imagine everyone having to call you--the newest counselor--Captain. Yuck and a half.

Rooster imagines it, too, and laughs again. Hangman would get a real kick out of that.

“Consider it forgotten. Here, lemme get changed and I can finish the tour.”

He starts for his cabin, nodding for you to follow, and you do. You don’t even know that you’re doing it--your feet are just picking themselves up and dropping themselves down on the gravel a few inches further from where they started.

“Where’re you from?” You ask him, just to fill all the air around the two of you.

He grins down at you.

“Everywhere,” he says.

Smiling, warm from the sun, you nod.

“Military brat or on the lamb?” You ask. “Wait--don’t tell me. I wanna figure it out for myself!”

He’s laughing again--that booming laugh that is like your own private earthquake.

“The former,” Rooster says, laughing. “How about you?”

“Here,” you answer, pointing to the ground.

“Weird,” Rooster teases. “I’d think I’d have seen you before now since you’re local.”

He opens the door to his cabin--cool air rushes out, kisses your cheeks. The air smells thicker in there--like mint and pine and vetiver. It’s an undeniable boyish smell, one that you can’t seem to get yourself to mind inhaling.

Stepping over the threshold, you find yourself inside of his cabin for the first time. Everything is happening so fast--first you’re being whipped through the thick wilderness in a speedy Jeep, then you’re unloading non-perishable items with Maverick, and now you’re in Rooster’s cabin with him and he’s shirtless and flirting with you mercilessly.

“I’m from just outside of Portland,” you answer distantly, glancing around at the bottles of half-empty colognes and random nail clippers and bandanas strewn about. “So, pretty much here.”

“Ah,” Rooster answers. “A Maine native. What are y’all called again?”

“Mainers,” you answer. “You might be onto something with Maitive, though.”

He grabs a towel that’s been drying on the back of a chair and begins to pat himself dry of the fat water droplets. He’s watching you look around the cabin, all your features seeped in delicate curiosity and a quiet sort of pleasure. He’s suddenly hyper aware of his unmade bed and mustache trimmings and unpacked duffel bag and the scraps of posters he was cutting earlier to hang on the wall above his bed.

“So, you share with the kiddos?” You ask, nodding to the empty bunks. You know which bed is his--it’s the one in the corner that’s unmade, the one that is so heavy with his scent that you can practically see it wafting upwards in waves of amber and white. “What if they aren’t Deadheads?”

He looks at you and you’re looking at The Grateful Dead poster he puts up every summer, the one that is faded from the sun and water damaged and older than most of the kids at camp. His old man had it hung in the hanger way back when--when he was still alive and young and flying with Mav.

Rooster lets the towel drop to the ground as he holds his hips, shrugging.

“Then they’ve got a whole summer to become one,” he tells you. He looks you up and down again. “You a Deadhead?”

“Please,” you say, nose wrinkling. “You ask every lady that?”

“Just the ones trying to get in my bed,” he says. He glances at you and you’re indeed touching his sheets, freezing when you feel his gaze. “Go on--sit. Where are my hosting skills? Would you like anything? A water? Glass of wine?”

You sink into his bed and the mattress squeaks with your weight--Rooster tries hard not to look at the plush skin of your thighs expanding on his sheets.

“Got any Blue Nun?” You tease.

“It’s chilling,” he says. “Would a lukewarm water bottle do in the meantime?”

You nod.

He grabs one out from under the bed and presents it to you like a fine wine.

“It’s vintage,” he tells you.

“What year?”

“April of this one,” he says with a wink.

You twist the cap off and he grabs a t-shirt from his duffel and slips it on.

“Is it a bummer sharing with the kids?” You ask. You graze his pillow and then glance back up at the Polaroids on his walls. You can tell, even from where you’re sitting, that a few of them have been taken here. “You know, without privacy and everything.”

“What would I need privacy for?” He asks, slipping into a pair of denim shorts. He is watching you as you scan the room, your hair a touch messier than it was before. “Usually can’t get any of the outside folk to trek through the wilderness for a slumber party.”

“Outside folk?” You ask, brow perched. “You mean girls, right?”

“Do you want me to mean girls?” He asks.

Your face is hot.

“You have a radio,” you say when you suddenly spot it perched on the windowsill. “Can I turn it on?”

“Be my guest,” Rooster says, shrugging the towel around his shoulders.

While your back is turned, he takes a few seconds to sweep away his mustache hairs from the dresser and tucks his duffel beneath one of the other bunks.

You tune for a little while, listening with half a heart as you look out at the courtyard.

“It’s really beautiful here,” you tell Rooster. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.”

“Trust me--you will,” Rooster sighs good-naturedly, leaning against the bunk opposite his bed. “Especially when you’re wrangling a bunch of ankle-biters.”

You hum, shaking your head.

“So, is it hard work?” You ask him, still tuning. “I mean, I’ve babysat and all that. But never anything like this.”

He drinks you in--the sun is shining on you through the window, grainy from the film of dust on the glass. You’re smiling, peachy and warm, as you try and find a song to punctuate this moment the two of you are sharing.

“Yeah, I mean--there are moments. You know?” Rooster asks. You nod, not looking at him. “For the most part, it’s chill. Super chill.”

“Good,” you say. “I’m trying to save up, so it’s good to know I won’t wanna quit by July.”

Rooster smiles.

“What’re you saving up for?” He asks. “A radio of one’s own?”

You grin.

“Nursing school,” you say. “Made the mistake of telling Maverick that already.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rooster laughs.

You pause suddenly when Sugar Mountain by Neil Young begins.

Pleased with your choice, you turn back to Rooster and find him biting a grin.

“What?” You ask.

“You’re making fun of me for being a Deadhead and you’re a Rusty?”

Warm all over, you nod.

“Loud and proud,” you say.

“Bold,” he tells you. “Super bold.”

“Well, that’s me,” you tell him. “Bold.”

It's so noisy at the fair But all your friends are there And the candy floss you had And your mother and your dad

“I think you’re gonna fit in alright,” Rooster says decidedly.

You turn your head to the side, swallowing a face-eating grin.

“Oh, you do, do you?” You ask. He nods, eyebrows raised. “Hallelujah, the chicken thinks I’ll fit right in!”

He sits down beside you on the bed and you’re suddenly more aware than you’ve been since stepping into this cabin how beautiful he is. Curls still dripping onto his red t-shirt and tan skin smooth as it coats rippling muscles, you almost can’t breathe with him this close to you.

“You’re really saving our asses this summer,” Rooster says, leaning back on his palms. You try not to look at his hands--his fingers spread out and gripping the sheets that his skin touches every night. “We desperately need another lady.”

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon You're leaving there too soon

“It shows,” you tease. “How has Phoenix survived all this time? It’s a real…testosterone-ified place.”

“She’s survived by the skin of her teeth,” he tells you, smiling. “And by batting for the other team, if you’re picking up what I’m laying down.”

Oh. You nod. Okay. Cool.

He looks to the radio and at the sheets--you’ve touched both these things now. Later, when he’s sharing you with everyone and you’re in your own cabin and everyone is excited, he’ll have this private part of you. Pieces of you, particles, that will stay his.

You move to say something when you suddenly feel a sharp and distinct pain. Immediately, you draw your hand up from the bed, gasping. Your finger is bleeding--just a little bit, just a few drops.

“Shit,” Rooster tuts, grabbing the scissors off the bed. His ears are bright red. “I’m so sorry--I totally forgot to throw these back on the dresser earlier.”

“It’s alright,” you tell him hurriedly, cupping your hand. “Don’t let me bleed on your sheets!”

He chucks the scissors and the land somewhere opposite of the bunks. Then he turns towards you, puts his hand out.

“Let me see,” he insists.

You do--immediately.

He inspects the wound carefully. Just a little slice, a parting off your delicate skin and a few droplets of red coating it. He nods like he’s seen this all before.

“It’s not deep,” he says.

“I know,” you say with a soft smile.

“I probably won’t get away with just spitting on it, though,” Rooster sighs, brows raised.

Too flustered to say anything, you just shake your head. But you know, deep in your gut, he could get away with just about anything. Especially spitting on it.

Rooster takes your water bottle and opens it with one hand, keeping your injured hand in his own. You watch him with half-lidded eyes, your pulse racing in your throat and beneath your tongue.

There's a girl just down the aisle Oh to turn and see her smile

“This won’t hurt,” he says, brows raised. He has the cadence of someone who’s used to bandaging up tikes--his concerned voice not without a fun lilt. “Squeeze me if it does, huh?”

“I’m really getting the full treatment,” you say, tickled. “You must’ve run the other nurse outta town.”

He pours some water over your cut and it drips into your own lap like pink nectar.

“Tape,” he says. He looks up at you. “Stat!”

“Watch it,” you warn, still smiling. You hand him the pale masking tape. “Not too tight.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, birdie,” he says.

It’s natural--the name that falls from his lips. Like this isn’t his first time saying it. Like he’s uttered it to you over many summers, here and there, back then and in days to come. The feeling sits warmly on your tongue, peculiar and comforting.

He wraps your finger and you watch with your heart in your throat.

“Good as new,” you say, inspecting the tape job. “Didn’t hurt a lick!”

“Good,” Rooster says. “You know, not to be a pig or anything, but I’m pretty good at this.”

“Taping girls?” You ask, tilting your head and biting your lip.

Rooster nearly chokes as he swallows, smiling and face freckled from the sunshine and so very warm. He brings his brows together dubiously, shrugging.

“Do you want me to be good at that?” He asks.

Now you’re the one narrowing your eyes and chewing your bottom lip as you stare at him, wondering already how you’re going to survive this summer when he looks at you like that.

“You’re pretty easy to like,” you tell him decidedly.

“You aren’t too bad yourself,” he quips instantly.

“Really?” You ask, slightly surprised. You’ve been accused, mostly from the peers in your clinicals, of being cold. Callous. But, really, you’re just focused. In the zone. Careful. Precise. You think that will count one day, will make you a good nurse. Rooster nods immediately, smiling with his brows knit. “Well. Thanks a million, then.”

“What? People call you frigid?” Rooster asks, teasing. But then you nod and he leans back, surprised. “No way. Get outta town! You’re bluffing.”

Silky laughter falls from your lips--easy. It’s so easy to laugh around him. Despite the humor in all of this, you’re still warm. But it’s a warmth you welcome, like lying back on hot concrete after a long swim. Looking at him, laughing with him, it makes your stagnant limbs feel sore like you’ve been cutting water for hours. You can finally sit still, though.

“They really do,” you say, only a little bit embarrassed. It feels a bit pathetic to argue this with him, like he knows you better than you know yourself. “What, like you even know me.”

Rooster stiffens, a smile still tugging on his lips, as he crosses his arms defiantly.

“Yeah, well, maybe I do know you,” he challenges. You’re wrestling a grin. “Try that on for size, Miss Know-It-All!”

“A-ha! Guess you do have me figured out,” you say with a shrug. “Didn’t even take half the summer!”

The two of you look at each other for a moment. And when the sun kisses his face, golden and warm, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is not your first time meeting him. No, it can’t be. You know those eyes and those flecks of gold that surround his pupils. You know the feeling of his hand on yours. You don’t know how you know these things, or why they’re tinged with pain like the delicate edges of antique paper rolling in on itself, but you just do. And you don’t even consider yourself a know-it-all.

Rooster holds onto your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin.

“Oh. You’re here,” Rooster says in realization, chills running up his legs and halting in the pit of his knee. “I was--well, shit, I was--I was…waiting for you. Hi, birdie.”

He doesn’t look away from you, gauging your reaction. You’re blinking back at him slowly, brows coming together in an innocent confusion. But he can see in your eyes that you know him. He can see in your eyes that you’re here with him now the way he’s always here.

“Hi,” you whisper. You glance around and everything is fuzzy and warm and pink. The radio is still playing in the corner. This is a memory, you realize. Memories are always tinted pink, which just happens with the passage of time. Like skin cells regenerating. Like cuts scabbing. “Are we…where are--?”

“Camp Arcadia,” Rooster answers. “Your memory of it, at least.”

“My very first memory of it,” you whisper to him, glancing around the cabin. And, yes, everything is exactly as you remembered. Even the discarded scissors in the corner. Even the tape around your finger and the heartbeat in your neck. “And my first memory of you.”

Cupping his cheek, you thumb at the damp stubble on his cheeks.

“I never dream about you,” you whisper to him, holding his cheeks in your hands.

“You dream about me all the time,” he tells you carefully. “You just don’t remember.”

It must be true if he’s telling it to you. You know this. Maybe the nightmares have been drowning out all the goodness that happens behind your eyelids.

“What makes this time different?” You whisper.

“Usually you aren’t sleeping under anesthesia,” he whispers back. “What’d you call it? The meperidine haze? That’s a good one, baby. Very psychedelic.”

Yes, he’s right. The meperidine haze. You’re not really here, at camp, baking in the sun and inhaling vetiver and mint and pine. No, you’re laid out on top of an operating table and the stranger is breaching and you’re artificially asleep. Really, you couldn’t be further from this moment you’re living right now. Why this faux one feels so much more grounded than reality stupifies you.

Looking down at your hand and they’re the hands of a twenty-year-old girl halfway through her bachelor’s degree. The rubber ring you will lose on your twenty-first birthday is sitting snug on your pinkie, safe for now. Your knuckles are free from scars and cracks acquired at the hospital. There are so few indentations on your hands, lines pressed there by age and work and life.

You suddenly feel so much older than you were in that moment--older than you really are. You quietly begin to cry.

Rooster leans into your touch, smiling fondly at you. He’s missed these palms, these fingers. He doesn’t mind looking at you, meeting you, teasing you over and over again. Sometimes you remember him and other times you don’t. Most of the time, you don’t. He doesn’t mind--he always plays along, never misses a line. Anything to just be near you again--to be held by you. Even if he knows he isn’t real, even if he knows he’s just a figment of your imagination.

“I don’t understand,” you tell him.

He knows he can’t say anything to make you understand something he only distantly understands himself. So, he just kisses your fingers.

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon You're leaving there too soon

“Is this where you are?” You ask him. “Here? Forever?”

“It’s where you want me to be,” he answers you. “But only on this day. The first day.”

“Rooster, I--!”

A sob rips from your throat. He holds tight to your legs, still smiling sadly up at you.

He knows that he is dead. He knows that you are dreaming. He knows what’s happening on the outside and the inside. He isn’t real. He knows that. But it all feels very real in this moment--he has the sudden and overwhelming urge to hold onto you tight, even if he knows it won’t stop you from going. He wants to dig his nails into your body until he meets bone. He wants to keep you here with him in this obscurity, when you’re both young and untouched by horror.

You don’t belong here, though. This--this he knows in the depths of his body, in the arches of his feet. You belong on the outside, in the real world, where your skin gets bruised and scarred and your chest rises and falls.

“Don’t spoil it,” he tells you, thumbing some tears from your cheeks. He swallows all the metal in his mouth and smiles at you sadly. “Just be here with me.”

Another sob wriggles out from your lips, but you nod. You’ll do whatever he wants.

“You’re so young,” you marvel, stroking his face. “I can’t believe it. Really, I--I hardly remember you looking so…boyish.”

“You’re pretty young yourself,” he whispers with a smile. “In the springtime of your life. Or whatever the poet’s say.”

If this was the springtime of your life, you wonder what season you’re in now. Surely winter hasn’t come so quickly, even if it feels that way. You’re not in the summer or the autumn, though.

You’re in-between.

A blizzard in April.

Another beat passes and you still drink him in, unable to tear your eyes away from his dripping curls or his sweet gaze. It has been a long, long time since you’ve thought about this day. It has been a long, long time since you’ve thought about this first meeting with Bradley. You cannot afford to linger in hurtful memories such as this one--not after everything.

“I miss you,” you whisper. Another sob sits pert in your throat. “I miss you more than…more than anything in the world. I miss you all the time. I have so much I wanna talk about.”

Bradley’s chest tightens. If he was being completely honest right now, he’d tell you the same. But he can see how hard you’re trying to stop crying, can see the tears beginning to breach your waterline.

“I’m always around,” he says and you know that he means here, as a figment of your imagination, in your dreams. “Just close your eyes and poof! There I am.”

“I think about you,” you tell him, nodding and sniffling and trying not to cry again. “When I can afford it. When I can stand it.”

He nods solemnly, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Oh, yeah? Like when?” He asks. He tries to sound not-so-severe, tries to sound teasing and sweet. But his voice is flat and his tone is serious.

Choking back another sob, one that makes your nose ache, you hold onto him tighter.

“Every time I hear The Police,” you say and a dry laugh crumbles from your lips and into your lap like peeling drywall. “Which is, like, all the time now.”

He laughs--his eyes are wet.

“Yeah, I bet,” he says.

“And whenever…whenever I feel them move,” you tell him and you mean the baby and he knows that. Cautiously, you move to hold your belly. And, yes, it’s empty--just like it really actually was when you were twenty. Rooster watches the movements, chews on his bottom lip. “Whenever they kick or-or elbow or…”

He can fill in the blanks. Whenever they roll, whenever they hiccup, whenever they flex, whenever they stretch, whenever they twitch. What you mean is that every time you feel the physical evidence of the life inside of you, you think of the man who put it there.

He nods, jaw clenched. He can’t say anything for a moment. He’s certain the dam will break. He’s certain he will hold onto your legs and never release you.

So, then it’s quiet for a moment. Neil Young is still crying quietly on the windowsill.

“I love this song. I forgot it was playing,” you whisper to him. The two of you look at the radio together. “Was it really playing?”

You’re wondering if Dr. Titus is playing the radio during your operation. Yes, operation. You’re being operated on. Right now, you’re not really sitting on Bradley’s bed at Camp Arcadia. You aren’t really breathing in clean, clean air. You’re breathing in oxygen from a mask and antiseptics.

“Yeah, it was,” Rooster answers. “And you really made fun of me for being a Deadhead.”

“Warranted,” you whisper, a few tears streaming down your face. “You kinda ruined me, though.”

“In what way?” Rooster asks, hoping the answer isn’t the obvious one.

“I remember that after this--after this moment, this conversation--I stopped changing the station when they came on the radio,” you say and it’s the honest truth. You’ve never told anyone this. “Ripple isn’t half bad, you know.”

That’s when a few tears slip down Bradley’s face. He’s still smiling--just barely--and he nods a few times.

“Will you show them?” He whispers.

You know what he means--will you show your child the music he so loved?

“Of course,” you tell him, sniffling. “But no promises they’ll be a Deadhead.”

“Their dad sure was,” he whispers. A few more tears slip down as his bottom lip quivers. “Just like my dad was.”

“Runs in the family,” you say quietly.

So does having your old man croak, I guess, Bradley thinks. Must be fate.

You hold his cheeks, thumb his tears away. You wonder, marvel almost, at how real this all feels. This is what his face felt like that day all those years ago, freshly-shaven and smooth and boyish. Untainted by time and its pinkness.

The feeling comes on suddenly--starting in your toes and shooting up your shins, your knees, your thighs.

“I’m cold,” you whisper to Bradley.

Rooster nods, flat palms grazing your goosed skin. He wipes a few of his tears away.

“It’s just a side effect,” he tells you. You nod. You know that shivering--that your temperature falling--is a commonplace issue during deep sedation and general anesthesia. “It’s almost over, you know.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Emergency cesareans are usually pretty speedy.”

He imagines what you really look like right now--laid out on the table, cut open, bleeding. It seems so utterly against your grain to take something so heinous lying on your back. He feels like you could be the first person to ever elect to be awake during a major surgery, blinking up at the ceiling and gritting your teeth and meditating through the pain.

“You’re having a baby right now,” he says and incredibility drips from his tone like honey. “Our baby. How trippy is that?”

Belly turning, fingers quivering, you nod.

Yes, you’re not really here. You’re not really here.

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud in almost ten months. Rooster looks up at you, listening and watching and waiting. “I’m so scared.”

He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s because he understands--or maybe it’s because he’s you and you’re him.

“I wish I was there with you. I wish I…I wish I could’ve stayed. For you. For the baby,” he tells you. “I wish I could hold them,” he admits.

It’s silly. You’ve wanted nothing more than to not hold them, than for them to be removed from your body. You’ve held them for nine months. You’re tired--anyone would be. But Rooster--Rooster will never get to hold his child. Not even in your dreams.

“I wish you could, too,” you whisper.

There is so much more he could say. He could say that he considers himself the luckiest man in his recent knowledge for having you as fleetingly as he did. He could say that his version of Hell is watching from far away, where he is now, and not being able to touch you. He could say that he hopes the baby looks a lot like you and a little like him so they don’t break your heart. He could say that he’s always thought of the name Ruth fondly and he’s never like the whole Junior thing for boys. He could tell you how much you meant to him, that he’s never felt alone, that he never did feel alone. He could tell you how sorry he is for dying, for leaving you behind pregnant with his child. He could tell you how much it hurts that his child will grow up without him.

He won’t break your heart today--the day your child is born. So, he just kisses your hands and feels the bones delicately pressing against your skin. He holds you tight.

“Do you think I can, like…do you think I have what it takes?” You whisper.

Rooster doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just nods very solemnly.

“Of course I do,” he answers. “I don’t really have a doubt.”

“Not a single one?” You whisper.

Now he solemnly shakes his head.

“Afraid not,” he whispers back.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” you utter to him. The seams on his wrists are pressed against the back of your eyelids for eternity--the jagged, loose slices that didn’t hold for more than a few minutes. “I wish I could--I would do it differently if I could do it again.”

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t have…”

Lived with himself. You both know it.

You kiss his fingers, try and remember the way they smell right now. Like lakewater and skin and wood.

“We would’ve been good together, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah. Maybe we would’ve.”

The song is almost over.

Now you say you're leaving' home 'Cause you want to be alone Ain't it funny how you feel When you're findin' out it's real?

“Is he good to you?” Rooster whispers.

He’s talking about Jake.

“The best,” you whisper back, nodding. “I love him. But not like I loved you.”

There is no way to measure these things--more or less, bigger or smaller, wilder or calmer. There is just love and different love. That’s all.

Rooster is choked up.

“Birdie?” He whispers.

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“Can I hold you?”

Without another moment of hesitation, you fall into his arms. You slip off the bed and into his lap and he wraps his arm around you and you wrap your arms around him. You’re overwhelmed by his heat, by his scent, by his breathing. There is salt and there is cloth as the two of you mold against each other.

Really, in these younger bodies, you didn’t hold each other like this. The first summer was chalk-full of merciless flirting and stolen glances and chaste touches. You never fell into his arms like this, a desperate heap, and cried into the red t-shirt that was still wrinkled from his duffel.

It is not in your nature to beg. It never has been. There are very few times in your life where you’ve resorted to it and Bradley was there for most of them, a figure looming or a warm body near you. The urge to beg right now--for him to hold you so tight that you can’t breathe, for him to keep you here with him forever, to stay--sits like a lump in your throat.

“I miss you,” you say instead of please, please, please. Your teeth chatter and you hold him tighter. “I miss you so much.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice strained. “I know.”

You look at him--really look at him. It feels like it is the last time you will ever see him. It feels like you’re on your knees in the mess hall and you’re about to pull a sheet over his face, like Joni Mitchell is dying on your tongue again. It feels like you’re standing in a morgue and you’re worried about him growing lonesome and cold. You’re crying too hard to memorize his nose or his sun kissed cheeks or the stubble on his chin. You just look at him and let your vision grow blurry with tears.

“Bird,” he whispers, brows drawn together in a happy sort of anguish.

Your entire body is cold now. The shivering is coming from deep within your connective tissue and marrow and nerves.

“Bradley,” you whisper. His name dies on your tongue.

“She’s waiting for you,” he tells you.

Something is tugging you backwards--like an invisible rope made of your own hair, a strong wind made of your own perfume.

“Who?” You ask.

He kisses your hands. His mouth lingers there--his breath is warm, his mustache is neatly trimmed. It is all so achingly familiar, so achingly real.

“Our daughter.”

♀

Two days blink by.

Well, really, they don’t blink by. They slink past Jake at an agonizing pace, like he is seeped in gelatinous animal fat. He used to like slow days--days that were dipped in honey, when the two of you were suspended in a quiet sort of sweetness--and the way they crawled forward.

But this diverges severely from that sweetness. It’s harder to move. He feels, for all intents and purposes, like he’s rotting. Decaying.

They brought you back into the room sometime between the afternoon and evening the next day. You’d spent a night in recovery, completely sedated, and been given two blood transfusions. The doctor explained something about injections, something about vitamins and narcotics, but Jake was having a hard time hearing because he was holding her.

Every time he held her--the baby girl you brought into this world with your eyes closed--his ears rang. It was like someone was firing a shotgun pressed against Jake’s cheek, like the kickback had sent him reeling and buckshot had deafened him.

He was still on the phone with his ma whenever the nurse wheeled an incubator in. It was only an hour after the flurry of white coats and scrubs that wheeled you out of the room, and he was still trying to catch his breath between broken sentences.

The nurse was whistling joyously like everything was hunky-dory, smiling down at the baby girl inside the glass. She glanced at Jake, smiling, and cleared her throat as she parked the incubator by the guest chair.

“Delivery!” The nurse sang.

Jake turned at once, eyes wide and wet and still crying.

“What--?”

He nearly fell out of the chair when the incubator registered. The phone slipped from his hands, hung on its cord and bounced like a plastic bungee jumper. His mama was still on the other line, southern drawl thick as she tried to get his attention.

“--Here she is! The lady of the hour!” She sing-songed, presenting the bulky machinery like a rare cut of steak at some snobby restaurant. He imagined the baby lying on a silver platter on a bed of inedible greens and the nurse pulling away the dome cover, wafting the scent of baby powder and milk towards him. “Your baby girl!”

Jake was frozen. There he sat, his hands empty and his face red and blotchy, and there the baby was only a few feet in front of him. The room changed--a small change, like being attuned to the frequency adjustment of a television--and he suddenly felt warm all over.

“My--my what?” He asked. “That’s--you mean it’s a girl? Mine?”

Quickly, glancing down, she read the label on the side of the incubator carefully.

Baby Girl Seresin.

“You’re Mr. Seresin, right?” She asked, suddenly feeling faint.

He nodded slowly, the lump in his throat impossibly large.

Her shoulders relaxed--she should’ve known better. She’s never mixed babies up before.

“All yours, daddy. Trust me, you’ll get proof of purchase at check-out,” she said jovially. She hummed, leaning down to tuck the white blanket beneath the baby’s chin. Already the nurse was touching her with such conviction, like they were old friends, like this little creature lying and crying wasn’t the reason Jake’s shoulders were stuck pinched by his ears. “And, yes--a girl. A blushing baby girl.”

He stared at the incubator. Yes, he could see her there. He could see that little nose and those big cheeks and those closed eyes. He could see her tiny face finally. He’d dreamed about her--about what she’d look like, about who she’d be. And she was finally there, right there.

But you weren’t.

“What’s going--is she okay? Is--is Gale okay--?”

The nurse’s cheeks flooded red, her smile dying slightly. She cleared her throat, looking down at the baby girl before her. She wished Jake would look down at the baby girl, too. Babies make everything better--they soften the blow with their ruddy cheeks and little lips and curled fingers.

“So, before the operation, she suffered what we call a placental abruption. Now, a--well, a placental abruption is when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall. In layman’s terms, it means that the baby couldn’t breathe--hence all the hullabaloo before the operation. But baby is okay--her levels are great and she gave us a good and loud cry when she was born,” the nurse explained softly, smiling at the thought of the baby’s first piercing cry. Even after all this time, all these years and these births and these babies, it still felt like a bell that called her home. “Passed all her tests with flying colors.”

Jake’s knees felt weak at the thought of the baby crying for the first time, suddenly in the air above your open abdomen and in a stranger’s hands and covered in your blood, and him not hearing it. He didn’t hear it. He was all the way in there, talking to his mama, and you were in there alone and asleep and bleeding.

The nurse sucked in a deep breath and met Jake’s gaze. She hated this part. Her palms were clammy as she slid them down the front of her nurse’s uniform, swallowing thickly and straightening her shoulders.

“Now, because of the sudden separation, mama’s uterine wall got knocked around quite a bit,” she explained. “Which, in layman’s layman terms, means that it poked a big ol’ hole. That can cause--well, it can cause a slew of issues, including internal bleeding, which we want to avoid at all costs. Obviously.”

Jake’s mind was racing--images and sounds and feelings and smells swirling around him, flitting past in milliseconds. Behind his eyes, his veins throbbed and pulsed.

“Okay. Okay--what does that mean? Like, you mean, she’s gonna be alright?”

The nurse sucked on the back of her teeth shortly, wishing there was something she could say or do to ease Jake's worries. But she couldn’t. She knew this.

“Her uterus experienced very severe trauma during delivery. It was already weakened from carrying to full-term and prior medical history. So, with all of that in mind, Dr. Titus went ahead and did a full-fledged hysterectomy. Well, he’s still--it’s still happening now. It was touch-and-go for a while there,” she said softly, nodding at Jake with soft, soft eyes. And what she meant by that was that your heart rate had dropped dangerously low after the baby was born. So low that it had been considered a Code Blue. “But she’s a tough cookie. Right? We’ll bring her back in after her time in recovery.”

Jake didn’t know what to say or do.

He was being turned inside out by grief. There you were, short corridors and white tiles and chrome door knobs and metal chairs separating your body from his, and you were being dissected. A part of you had been killed by the little baby in front of him, faultlessly, and was being cut out.

“No, you decided it. And never for a second have I second-guessed it,” Jake says. You’re watching him with big, soft eyes. “I’ve been game from day one. I…Gale, I love that baby already. I’m all in. But are you?”

“Ask me that tomorrow,” you whisper.

Something heavier than guilt and thicker than anguish slammed down on top of Jake’s head, grabbed him by the ears, and forced him back into the chair he was sitting in. The nurse watched him cautiously, just then noting the crutches beside him.

“When is she coming back?” He heard himself ask.

“No telling,” the nurse said. She wished she had a more concrete answer--she knew how awful it must be to be on the outside of it all, waiting and worrying and wringing your hands together. “We’ll keep you posted. Hell, between me and you, I’ll keep you posted. That’s a promise. Okay?”

Jake nodded flatly.

“In the meantime, I thought I’d bring this little angel in to keep you company,” she’d said, then. A weight was lifted from her chest as Jake looked down at the baby for the first time properly--that was usually the part they melted. And she watched him melt--watched his shoulders fall and his brows slope and his lips tremble. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

Jake’s jaw trembled.

“Is she…is she okay?” Jake asked, eyebrows furrowed. He suddenly couldn’t stand the prospect of something happening to your baby girl, too. Already he loved her so much--she only just got here. She couldn’t leave. “She’s not…she isn’t hurt or anything, right?”

The nurse smiled at him, prideful by proxy.

“Healthy as a ham,” she confirmed. “All seven pounds of her are perfect.”

“Seven even?” Jake mused, unable to stop himself from smiling.

The nurse nodded.

“It’ll be her lucky number,” the nurse offered.

Seven. Seven’s have followed him all his life.

He was born on the seventh of June, the fifth child, which rounded out his family unit to a party of seven.

On his seventh birthday, the song Crystal Blue Persuasion debuted on the radio and he thought, very concretely, that he was the luckiest kid on the planet. Who got to share a birthday with the song of the decade?

He graduated college on the seventh of December, a semester later than the rest of his friends.

And you--he saw you for the very first time on the seventh of May at Camp Arcadia.

You were standing just up the gravel hill, talking to Maverick with your hands on your hips. The sun was so blinding that he had to squint and hold his hand over his eyes. He could see from the water that your feet and calves were covered in gray gravel dust--kicked up your shins, coating your knees. He watched you for a long time, ignoring Coyote’s splashing and Phoenix’s diving and the beating sun, watching your lips curve around every word that fell from your mouth. His spine suddenly prickled when your calves flexed and your belly tightened with laughter, when you smiled and the sun kissed your cheeks and sweat dripped down the column of your spine. He didn’t even mind that Rooster was the one who’d made you laugh, standing across from you with his arms crossed over his damp chest.

Things just melted away. Things like long division and baseball scores and Pink Floyd lyrics and urban legends and the memory of his tenth birthday--they were all gone, dissolving, pooling out of his ears. Nothing else besides this one thought sitting fat and proud in the soft shell of his skull: I want to wash the dust off her.

He had never thought anything like that before. It made his jaw quiver.

“What’re you looking at?” Coyote had finally inquired, hooking a sopping arm over Jake’s warm shoulders. Coyote turned, noticed you, then smiled. “Hey! Fresh meat.”

Jake didn’t look away from you.

“Javy,” Jake said seriously, evenly. He sucked in a deep breath, brows knitting. “I’m gonna marry her.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Javy had said back, chortling. “Girl wore her flip-flops on a hike.”

“It’s my lucky number, too,” Jake said quietly to the nurse, unable to stop himself. His brows knit. “Seven.”

“Aw, are you trying to impress daddy?” The nurse sang jovially down to the baby, a grin splitting her features. “You planned this, huh? Didn’t you?”

Jake swallowed hard, reeling.

“She’s so quiet,” he whispered to the nurse. He was the youngest child--he wasn’t ever around fussy baby sisters or even cranky cousins.

She glanced up at him, nodding.

“Just wait ‘til it’s time to change her diaper--that’ll get her hollering,” she said. She kept watching Jake and his clenched jaw. “Would you like to hold her? I can bring her to you--I see you’re a bit disposed currently.”

She pointed to the crutches.

Jake swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly made of sandpaper.

“Okay,” he said, too scared to say anything else.

“Go ahead and take your shirt off,” the nurse instructed Jake, not taking her eyes off Baby Girl Seresin as she carefully cradled her head. Jake blinked at her, brows furrowed. “We call it skin-to-skin or Kangaroo Care if you’re a fun nurse like me--the hours after birth are crucial for bonding. Best to do that with her skin on your skin.”

Jake nodded, slowly moving to slip out of his sweatshirt.

The nurse turned, cradling your baby in her plush arms, and Jake had never felt so small in his entire life. He sat still, skin goosing from the cold air, and watched the nurse move towards him with the bundle of blanketed baby in her arms.

“Just hold her head now,” the nurse urged as she transferred the baby into his arms.

“Like--?” Jake said, red in the face and neck and chest. “Like that?”

The baby was against his body, her little cheek pressed up against his collarbone, her tiny body sinking into his chest and stomach. He didn’t hear the nurse’s answer--he didn’t need to. As soon as his body registered her heat, the heat of a tiny and most precious human life, he knew the answer.

Yes, he was holding her right. He knew how to hold his daughter. It came to him suddenly and naturally, which people said would happen. He cradled her head with all that soft hair, which was the color of yours, and carefully touched her plush cheek.

“Oh,” he whispered quietly. Two fat tears rolled down his face and onto his neck. “Well, you’re just a tiny thing, aren’t you? You’re just a…a little mite.”

She whined, shuddered against him, before her body relaxed into him.

The nurse softly situated the blanket so it covered the two of them, pink with joy, and watched on for a few moments as Jake craned to look down at his daughter’s face. She knew he was gonna be a crier from the moment she laid eyes on him. She’s always privately vindicated when she’s correct about these things--some sort of nonverbal reinforcement that she’s meant for this.

He wasn’t sure how long the nurse stayed after that--his ears were ringing too loud for him to hear anything outside of the baby girl’s breaths.

He held her close, back teeth still clenched, and overwhelmed by her scent. She smelled like you--like your skin, your body. He knew, just from holding her, that you had held her. Held her close, inside of your body, closer to you than anything or anyone ever had been.

Already he could see you in her face--your brow, your nose, your mouth.

“My, my,” Jake whispered. It was funny--he had never been the kind of guy who said my-my before. His dad was the kind of guy to say my-my. Or maybe, Jake thought, every dad is the kind of guy that says it. A sad smile tugged on his lips. “Aren’t you just--just pretty as a picture? You look just like your mama. And your mama is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Can you believe that? Huh? Well, I’m no liar. I really mean it.”

She whined shortly, brow furrowing. He moved her down so her cheek was resting between his pecs, her little lips puckered and parted.

“I would’ve shaved for you if I’d known,” he whispered weakly, stray tears rolling off his chin and onto her hospital blanket. He stroked her cheek as she continued to slumber. “I’m sorry, baby-lou.”

♀

People have been in and out of the hospital room since, filtering like transients.

A nurse comes every hour to check your vitals, fiddling with your IV stand, pressing buttons on the machines beside your bed, smiling apologetically when the baby cries.

Doctors do their rounds in the morning and at night, talking about you and your condition just outside the door, giving Jake a curt nod in greeting.

And in between all of the people, the masks and the gloves and the hand sanitizer, Jake sits at your bedside with the baby tucked close to him. Everything is sterile and white and your oxygen is a constant hum in the background.

It’s late at night now--so late at night that it’s really almost morning--and Jake is slumped in the chair beside your bed. The baby is asleep just beside him in the incubator, lying on her back and dreaming silently. She’s a good baby--quiet. Peaceful. But he still won’t be more than a few feet away from her at any time--Hell, he won’t be more than a few inches away from her at any time.

Here he is, then. Sitting between his girls, both of them sleeping, waiting for something to happen.

“She should gain consciousness at any time,” he heard the doctor say that morning during rounds. “The extended loss of consciousness is due to the trauma sustained during operation.”

Your face is placid. You hardly wrinkle your nose or crinkle your brow or frown or do much of anything at all. You just sleep, reclined, wrapped up in tubes and wires and cords.

Beneath his aching fingers, your hair is soft. He strokes it carefully away from your face so it falls over the pillow, wishing he could smell your shampoo from here. He wishes he could smell any of you right now. You smell like the hospital now--more than you do after a twelve-hour shift.

He wonders what’s going on beneath your eyelids--if you’re dreaming or if there’s nothing like you’re sitting in a pool of black water. He hopes that you’re dreaming. Sweet, sweet dreams about all the summers before last, about all the almost-good days you’ve had since May. And if you’re not having sweet dreams, he hopes you’re just resting. That you’re just catching up on all the sleep you’ve missed having to sleep on your side, curling around a belly you resented.

“I hope you’re havin’ good dreams in there,” Jake whispers to you. He sniffles, itches his nose. He keeps trying not to cry--not once with success. “Like when we drove all around town, grabbing furniture from the curb. I’m still shocked you could pick that table up by yourself. I shouldn’t be, though--I don’t know why I haven’t learned by now. You’re stronger than me. Like, way stronger. Stronger than I’ll ever be.”

Nothing. No response. Just sleep.

He glances at the baby girl beside him--she’s still sleeping peacefully. He’ll have to wake her up in an hour or so to feed her. She’s a pensive little thing when he gives her a bottle. She furrows her brow as she gazes up at him, somewhere between cranky and grateful, trying to figure him out the same way he’s trying to figure her out. He feels like he’s being sized up each time he feeds her--it reminds him of you. When you look at him, it isn’t just that you see him--you see right through him, too, as if he’s just a piece of thin membrane you cohabitate with. He’ll always be honest with you and her because he knows dishonesty wouldn’t even get as far as the front door.

Now he looks back at you. No change again.

He keeps hoping that one of these times he looks away, he’ll return his gaze to you and find that you’re already looking at him. He bides his time, measures the movements of his eyes, when he isn’t looking at you to give you enough time to come to. Hoping. Praying.

But no change.

“I want you to wake up,” Jake whispers, voice trembling. “I know that you’re tired and I know that you could probably sleep for the next--for the next millennium and still be exhausted, but I want you to wake up, honey. C’mon, girly--wake up now. Wake up for me--wake up for her. You’ve got--we’ve got a daughter and you haven’t even met her yet. Well, maybe you have--like somewhere in the cosmos--but I don’t feel like that counts. So c’mon now and open your eyes. I wanna…I wanna talk to you. I wanna tell you that I’m sorry for picking a fight, that I’m--!”

Jake thinks about the blue light in the bedroom and the way it goosed your skin, chilled the marrow in your bones. He wishes he could puncture that moment, like a needle sinking into a balloon, and let all the cold air out. He wishes he could wrangle the sun and pull it close to you, close enough to burn the tip of your nose and make the hair on your head hot to the touch. He wishes he could just stop thinking about the argument--everything he said, everything you didn’t say. He just wishes you would wake up.

“Just wake up. Please.”

Without stirring at all, face calm and still, you wake up. It happens suddenly, like someone’s just said your name.

It is still dark and blue and pink and quiet. The snow is still falling outside the window and you’re still numb from below your chest, so your breaths are heavy and unreal. It’s still night--or, at least, it looks like it is.

Jake is sitting just beside the bed--you can imagine him pulling it all the way out and plopping down in it with his hair askew and his breathing hard--tears slipping down his cheeks and his brow furrowed as he strokes the back of your hand.

“What?” You whisper. Your voice is ragged and crumpled--this is when you know that it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken. Probably days.

Jake’s head snaps up--his face is suddenly facing yours.

“Baby?” He asks, on the edge of his seat as he reaches forward to fuss with your hair and your cheeks. He cups your chin, carefully navigating around the nasal cannula. “You wakin’ up, girly? Are you confused?”

He doesn’t know what you’re saying what about.

The muscles beneath your skin unfold like pressed flowers, brittle and delicate, as you reach up and wipe a tear from his chin. It’s a small and stray one. You weakly present the finger to him, the pad wet and glistening with salt, then nod.

“Did they find cancer or something?”

And it seems like precisely the moment Jake finally lets go. You don’t know how you know, but you know suddenly that he has been the cracking wall that’s held everything together, standing up straight and tall against thousands of pounds of dirt and water to protect the pristine valley below.

But he lets go now--his sobs suddenly puncturing the stale air in the hospital room, rousing the hair on your arms and legs and the phantom searing burn in your underwear.

He stands--it isn’t an easy thing to Jake Seresin to do, especially after missing a physical therapy appointment yesterday. But he does it, does it for you, locking his knees and gripping the metal rails on your hospital bed.

“I’m so happy,” he tells you and his Southern accent sounds thick right now--you know he gets like this when he’s been talking to his mama.

Okay; you know you must’ve been out for a while and he must’ve been calling his mama. You can deduce this. Make an educated guess.

He’s rapidly stroking your hair, in utter disbelief that you’re here again with him. It has only been two days without you--which is only forty-eight hours--but that is enough to make Jake feel like you’ve been out for an entire lifetime. Even one hour without you is one hour too long.

“Baby, I’m so happy,” he mutters over and over again, kissing your face--your eyelids, your nose, your ears, your cheeks, your chin. “I’m so fuckin’ happy.”

Reality is beginning to dawn on you now. It’s been days. Days since they cut the baby from your womb. You’re doped up enough to not feel anything at all, and you know they only give the good stuff when it’s serious. This must be serious.

Looking down, beyond the flurry of blonde hair and salt and skin, you see the deflated pit of your belly. Yes, the little stranger is gone. All that remains is the excess skin and fat and fluid that kept them warm and safe and quiet.

“Are you okay?” You ask Jake.

Jake holds both of your cheeks, presses his forehead against yours. Your face is wet with his saliva, his tears. He kisses your dry lips a few times.

“I’m the happiest guy around,” he tells you. “You’re awake.”

“Has it been that long?” You ask, straining and willing yourself to just know how much time has passed.

“Two days since they took you,” he tells you. “We were just waiting for you to wake up. Me and the little lady.”

Something punctures you--it feels like an ax. Sharp blade digging into the skin of your chest, snapping your bones, stopping the precise beats of your heart. But then it makes you warm all over your body, warm from the tips of your ears to the soles of your feet.

You have a daughter. Just like Susie told you that you would. Just like Bradley told you that you did.

A daughter.

Jake realizes what he’s said to you and watches as your face falls--fuck. He meant to tell you slower than this, meant to break the ice. He didn’t mean to throw you into the middle of it.

Two tears roll down your cheeks and he thumbs them away, tutting.

“A girl?” You whisper. “We have…a girl?”

“Yeah,” Jake answers, unable to bite the grin on his lips. “We do. A little mite--seven pounds even, eighteen inches long. She’s…well, she’s a mite. Tiny. Tinier than anything ever in the world. We’re gonna have to bathe her in a spoon.”

That makes you cry harder--you don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you’re scared or maybe it’s because you’re in love or maybe you’re scared to be in love. You don’t know. But you clutch him.

“Is she…?”

“She’s healthy,” he answers even though that is not the question you’re asking.

All the same, you nod. Petrification sits coiled in your belly like a slick snake.

He doesn’t want to pop the pink bubble you’re in right now, overwhelmed with goodness and graciousness that you’re finally awake, so he doesn’t say anything about the complications. He knows you’ll ask--and when you do, he’ll tell you. But for now, he just wants to be close to you and watch your pupils dilate in the dark room.

“Can you believe it?” Jake asks, sniffling. “A baby girl. A girl!”

Unable to speak, you just shake your head.

But you can believe it. You don’t know what happened and you don’t know where you went or why you didn’t stay, but you know that Bradley told you the truth. Your daughter, the one he gave you, was waiting on you.

Carefully, you peer over his shoulder. And, yes, right beside the chair he was sitting in is the incubator. It’s a big and bulky piece of machinery, but inside there is a little tiny baby’s face peeking out from a white cotton blanket. Her eyes are closed. Your toes are numb.

Jake follows your gaze.

“Do you wanna hold her?” He asks softly.

“No,” you answer quickly. “I’m still numb.”

Your arms aren’t numb--you could hold her. But you’re too afraid that she’ll open her eyes, that she’ll look at you, that you’ll know. Then what will you do? You never got this far in any nightmare.

Jake nods, kissing your forehead again.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, baby. That’s fine. That’s all good.”

♀

Jake isn’t in the room. He left only a few minutes ago, crutches tucked beneath his arms and hands holding your empty dinner tray, pleased as ever before that you were awake with an appetite and sitting up in bed. He kissed your face one thousand times, grinning, before leaving his girls alone to make some calls in the hallway.

So, it’s just you and her now. She’s still sleeping in her incubator, all tucked in, which has been pulled up against the side of your bed so you can hold her when you’re ready. You know that Jake is eager for you to hold her--you know that it’s what he’s dreamed about for the past nine months.

But the potential horror of it all is sitting in your throat, making it hard to swallow. You won’t survive another summer like the one before. And if you take her in your arms, if you look into those eyes and know, then you’ll have to reckon with terror all over again. You can’t. You can’t do it.

You’re only alone for a few minutes whenever you decide to pull down your blankets--they’re thick and heavy, warm from trapping all your heat. A gust of you-perfumed air slips underneath your nose and onto your tongue. You smell like the hospital.

The gown you’re wearing is new--it’s not the one you wore before, when you first came to the hospital and they told you that you were already three centimeters dilated. You know because there is no jell-o stain on your chest, because there are hardly any wrinkles. It’s pristine. Placed on your body by a nurse while you were still under anesthesia.

“Weird,” you mutter to yourself because it is weird and you need to hear your own voice. How out of control you were just hours and hours ago, asleep while you were cut. “Strange. Odd.”

Pulling the hem of the gown, your tongue thick with saliva, you pull it up slowly. The fabric is warm as it pools beneath your breasts, already crinkling with the movement. Part of you was expecting to see red streaks, puss-filled burns, loose stitches--but that isn’t what is really there.

No, what’s there is everything that should be. Bandages. Yellow antibiotic. Gauze.

Gently, you reach down and press your fingers to the gauze. You can’t feel it on your belly, but you can feel it with the tips of your fingers--it’s smooth and warm. If you didn’t know better, you would rip it off and look at all the scars that make up your belly now.

A very quiet whine breaks your gaze from your belly.

Looking up, squinting in the dark room, you glance at the clock. It’s closing in on six in the morning, which you know you’re gonna regret later today. Shit. She needs to eat--Jake said he’d wake her up before he left but had forgotten to in all the excitement and relief of you waking up.

“Shh,” you whisper quietly, rolling your gown back down and letting your curled hands fall in your lap. With wide eyes, you watch as she begins to turn her head slowly from side to side, blinking herself awake. She whines again--louder, longer. “Hush now, it’s okay. It’s fine.”

That’s when she cries for the first time--it sounds like a baby’s cry, like all the other babies in the world. It’s not deep and guttural or strange and silent. It’s just a baby’s cry.

“It’s okay,” you try again, voice weak. You glance at the closed door, willing Jake to bust through. “Daddy’ll be back any--he’ll be back any minute now, alright? Can’t you just wait it out?”

It becomes shrill--finally, you move.

Ears ringing and pulse quickening, you scoot yourself closer to the edge and look down at her. She’s becoming more and more upset by the second, her fists balled and her mouth parted and wet.

“Here,” you whisper, grabbing the corner of the incubator and pushing it before pulling it. Makeshift rocking. “There, it’s okay. See. I’m here.”

You continue pushing and pulling, the wheels squeaking, and the baby does not stop crying. You glance at the door again--Jake is still not here.

It’s like something pops--all of the sudden, you can’t take it anymore. Fibers that make up your body and soul and heart suddenly vibrate like splitting atoms and move your body for you. Suddenly you can’t just sit on the edge of the bed and rock her with your teeth grit--you have to reach down and take her in your arms.

Blinking, sitting back against the bed, you look down at the baby stunned. She’s in your arms, wrapped in cotton, still crying herself into a cloudy face. But she’s pressed up against your body and you can feel her weight in your arms--all seven exact pounds of her--and you can’t help but marvel for a moment. She’s real. A real human being with frowning lips and a voice and hair sticking out from beneath the ridiculous hospital beanie.

“What’s got you so upset?” You whisper to her because you don’t know what else to say. “Huh? You just a feisty little thing or something? You’re…well, you’re like me, then. I guess.”

When you speak--the cries begin to quiet down. Like all she needed to know was that you were there with her, that you would speak to her. Her mouth slowly closes and her eyes begin to slowly blink themselves open.

Your heart nearly stops when her eyes meet yours for the first time. You’d imagined this before, thought about it on coffee breaks and while brushing your teeth or stirring a pot of soup in the kitchen. You’ve imagined them one thousand times since you looked into them for the first time at Camp Arcadia, when you saw all the light dissipated and flecks of gold washed away from Bradley’s eyes.

All this time, these long nine months since the Camp Arcadia Annihilation, you’ve imagined that this creature is the one that ushers in your demise. But now she’s here, blinking up at you with her father’s eyes--flecks of gold surround her brown velvet irises.

“Oh, my--!” You choke, bringing a quivering finger up to touch her cheek. It’s plush and warm and she keeps slowly blinking up at you. “Well--my, my, my, aren’t you so…you’re so pretty. You’re the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen.”

Parts of you are melting that have been frozen since July.

“Oh, my baby,” you whisper to her. She gazes up at you, eyes glazed over with sleep and love and antibiotics. “It’s so good to meet you.”

Jake comes back into the room ten later, having called Javy and Natasha and rattled off all of the baby’s statistics and updated them on your condition. When he opens the heavy door, he finds you on the bed and holding the baby in your arms as she nurses. There are tears falling off your nose and onto her blanket, a small smile tugging on your lips.

His heart swells in his chest. He thinks he might keel over for a minute.

But then you look up at him, awestruck and so in love that it’s practically written across your forehead in Magic Marker. And he can’t help but come to your side, can’t help but keep moving forward to be near you.

He kisses your temple long and hard, glances down at the baby as she suckles. Her hat is gone--you must’ve taken it off to look at all of her hair. He strokes her hair gently and watches her eyes slowly slip shut.

“She’s kind of perfect,” you whisper to him. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t expecting that.”

Jake glances at you. You’re looking at him with knit brows, with your lips held in a partial frown.

“Yeah?” He asks. “What were you expecting?”

“More of the same,” you whisper.

He knows what you mean: horror. For things to end the way they ended at camp--in flames.

He kisses your temple again.

You look at him, tear-stained and worn out and lovesick. This man, this man who threw himself in front of an ax for you and somehow lived through it just to live in a little house with you and share a carton of orange juice every week, looks back at you like he’s never loved you more than this very moment. Maybe he hasn’t before--maybe every moment beyond this one will be just like this, so chalk-full of love that it spills out of your ears.

And you have left him on the outside of everything. Everything bad and everything good, everything you’ve thought and felt and said to Dr. Messina. It’s on the outside of this bubble, waiting for you to come back. But you know, without a doubt, that he will love you through all the ugly.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you, Jake,” you whisper to him.

He’s choked up. So, he just nods. He kisses your forehead again.

Thank you, God, he thinks. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“We’ve got a lot to do,” he whispers to you.

You nod, laughing quietly. You don’t have a crib set up. You don’t have any clothes washed. But there’s a certain peace sitting in your chest, a certain calmness that you haven’t known in a very long time. Because it’s okay. It’s really, really okay. You will do all of these things in time, but for now, you’ll just hold the seven-pound baby girl against your breast and give her every single part of you. It’s all that matters to you.

Suddenly, the baby turns her cheek away from your breast. She doesn’t cry, but she whines, nuzzling against your gown and balling her fists.

“You’re okay, birdie,” Jake whispers, stroking the top of her head. Her hair feels like feathers. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Birdie,” you repeat yourself, looking down at her placid face as she finds your chest again and resumes eating. Your spine prickles. “Birdie.”

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” Jake says slowly. “I don’t know why I--it kinda just fell out of my mouth. Couldn’t help it.”

“Maybe it’s what she wants to be called,” you whisper. “Do you wanna be Birdie?”

Sunlight suddenly breaks through the gray clouds and punctures the cracked asphalt parking lot. It is not a lot of fun--but it is just enough to draw your gaze over to the window, where you watch as it gleams off windshields and piles of sludgy snow.

Oh, you think. It’s finally morning.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. WE COULD TALK ABOUT HOW THIS WAS ME AVOIDING THIS STORY ENDING BECAUSE I LOVE IT SO MUCH + I'M REALLY BAD AT GOODBYES. BUT WE COULD ALSO SAY THAT IT'S BECAUSE I WANTED IT TO BE PERFECT. EITHER WAY...

FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY LITTLE HEART, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERY SINGLE PERSON WHO READ THIS STORY. THE REACTION I'VE GOTTEN HAS BEEN SO UNEXPECTED AND MAGICAL AND FANTASTIC. I HAVE ENJOYED EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF SHARING THIS WITH EVERYONE. Y'ALL ARE SOME OF THE FUNNIEST PEOPLE ON THE INTERNET AND YOUR REACTIONS TO THIS STORY PROVED THAT.

THIS IS MY LOVE LETTER TO HORRO, BUT ALSO GRIEF. I'M PROUD OF IT. I'M PROUD OF ME. I'M PROUD OF YOU. THANK YOU FOR ALLOWING ME TO SHARE THIS. I'M HUMBLED AND GRATEFUL. STAY TUNED HERE ON ROOSTERBRUISER BECAUSE WE HAVE SOME REALLY FUN STUFF COMING UP. I'M NOT DONE YET!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒

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helena-thessaloniki · 3 months

Note

Just dropping in to say that Silent Night has me in a chokehold I will likely never recover from and that you are awe-spiringly talented!! (new chapter is *chef's kiss*) I believe I speak for the damirae fandom when I say the wait for your updates is sweet torture and reading is an absoLUTE delight 🩷

If you don't mind questions ofc, I am super curious as to how you found damirae and got inspired to write for it! The DCAMU community size has nothing on popular anime fandoms, so I'd love to hear how it started 🥰 Your grasp on their deep and compelling characters is so immaculate (+ the heartwrenchingly articulate writing style??🩷) 😍😍 ugh love it to the moon and back!!

ahhh hi !! Thank you so much. It's pretty much terrifying posting a new story in a new fandom, so I really appreciate this. 🖤

yes! Always open to questions. :] the various algothirms must have targeted me, because I've always seen such great art for damirae, I didn't realize it was a smaller fandom and something of a rare pair on Ao3. Silent Night definitely draws inspiration from gorgeous artwork by @kasieli.

Looking back, there's a chance that damirae was my first childhood OTP? I grew up watching the early 2000s Teen Titans and shipped Raven and Robin before my little kid brain could properly understand anything about romance. I have not rewatched the show as an adult, but this is such a fantastic edit by @unlikely-alliance. I mean, it's a cartoon but their chemistry and closeness is out of this world.

Then sometime last year I got hit hard with the Marvel fatigue. (DC too, but admittedly, I didn't give the Titans live-action show a chance, too afraid they botched Raven.) The comics, movies, and animated shows were such a quintessential part of my childhood, so it was kind of upsetting to realize I was so tired and uninspired by it all. Trying to reclaim some of that old joy, I guess, led me to start rewatching Justice League and working through the DC catalogue on HBO/Max. Instead of watching in order, though, I went straight for the Teen Titans movies, knowing ahead of time from tumblr that Robin/Raven would be canon this time. 😏

Probably my writing of them is more inspired by the old cartoon, but we only get the complexity of Robin-Damian Wayne because of the DCAMU and I am so grateful for it. The way it makes them make so much sense as the only two people who could properly understand and deeply care for the other creates such a dream pairing.

Thank you again 🥰🖤 this is the most absolutely self-indulgent fic I have ever written and posted, I'm so surprised and grateful for such a positive response.

#my asks #silent night fic #damirae #demonbirds

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tomuras · 9 months

Text

| You’re So Cold |

Pairing: Albedo x Afab!Reader

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Afab!Reader, Smut, Not Sfw, Pegging/Reader uses a strap on Albedo, Anal Sex (Albedo), Crying, Restraints (Rope), Albedo is tied to the bed, Dick riding, Squirting, 800 something words.

A/n: I horny wrote this so i apologize if it’s ass lmaoo

Tags: @suyacho @themovingcastlez @neuvillettes

“It’s.. It’s too big.” Albedo panted, nearly out of breath from how wide your strap was.

You shushed him, steadying your cock with his hole and readying yourself to push in more, but not before Albedo started to squirm and cry a little. Taking your hand you stroked the back of your palm against his damp cheek. “There there, I know you can take it, Bedo, honey. Just a little more, that’s it. That’s my good boy.”

Little by little you inched inside of him until finally you had bottomed out inside of his walls. Stilling yourself in your current position you released a shuddering breath, your mouth parted in an o shape as you let Albedo get adjusted to your size. Speaking of Albedo he was nearly in tears, the sheer size of your strap was one he was not so accustomed to, but especially considering this was your first time doing this with him. You took a few more moments stilled inside of him before asking him if he was ready to proceed, and once he nodded in acknowledgment you continued.

At first the pace was slow and gradual, then it evolved into something rough and fierce. You continued to watch him carefully as you fucked him good and well. You leaned in close to his face to lick up his tears with a troublesome grin, and then placed a sweet kiss to the place where his tears once were. Albedo looked absolutely precious like this, fucked out with tears in his eyes, looking at you with eyes pleading for some sort of mercy, but merciful isn’t what you are. So, instead you worsened the torture and upped the difficulty for him.

You leaned down and planted a wet kiss against his lips. “Be a good boy an’ I’ll let you cum, mkay?”

Albedo nodded with a whimper and braced himself.

Pulling out of Albedo you carefully blindfolded him and pulled rope out from under the bed which you’d been hiding, and then tied restraints to both his wrists, and connected them to the rods of the bed frame, and watched with a mischievous grin as Albedo became more nervous by every passing second. You tightened the rope and made sure everything was secure before bringing your attention back to a very squirmy Albedo. You then began to crawl on top of Albedo and proceeded to kiss him, again.

“Now, stay still. You can do that, right?” You teased.

He nodded once more and swallowed hard, preparing himself for whatever you had planned for him. You didn’t leave much room for suspicion, because before he knew it you had found your way back on top of him and had slid down his thick, hard cock. Oh, it was a heaven like none other. The pressure had already begun to build up inside the both of you. Albedo fisted the sheets and you fisted his hair as you rode him through slow and sensual movements. You could feel that orgasm of yours building up more and more, until you could hold it in no longer.

You lifted yourself up by the strength of your knees and began hopping up and down on his cock, your hands now placed firmly on his chest. At least, they were on his chest till you could wait no longer for your release and began to play with your bud roughly, and with little regard for how harsh you were being. This turned Albedo absolutely feral. He threw an arm over his eyes as he panted and moaned for more, while also begging for you to slow down. In truth the poor man couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted you to stop or keep going, but one thing’s for sure, it felt fucking fantastic.

You continued rubbing yourself, this time harder. Faster and faster until you started squirting all over his cock, still thrusting in ‘n out of him as you squirted everywhere. As you did you made strong eye contact with your Albedo, until he, too, succumbed to his own high, and shot ropes of cum inside of your wet cunt. The both of you continued to ride out your highs until you ultimately crashed and became exhausted. You sat on top of him with his dick still inside of you for a few moments until you gathered the energy to climb off of him.

A wet pop filled the room as you pulled off of him. Then, curling up into his hold you held him close and gave him a few tender kisses. Soon you removed his restraints and massaged the areas to reassure everything was okay before you laid back down beside him.

“Good?” You asked shyly.

He let out a great big sigh and said. “Fan- fucking- tastic.”

And with that the both of you fell asleep in each other’s arms, the two of you oh, so blissed the fuck out.

#albedo x reader #albedo x you #albedo x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin smut #albedo smut

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inevitably-johnlocked · 23 days

Text

Five Fics Friday: May 3/24

Happy Friday everyone! Hope you guys had a wonderful week and are looking forward to settling down with one of these fantastic fics to read! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

Hyperballad by PlantsAreNeat (G, 893 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, Feels, Drugs, POV Sherlock) – Sherlock has bought cocaine after his doubts and fears about his and John's new relationship prey on his mind. Not exactly a danger night, but not not one either.

Conductor of Light by rsong912 (E, 8,513 w., 1 Ch. || Developing Relationship, POV John, First Time, BAMF Irene, John is a Mess, Sherlock's Big Feelings, Hurt Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending) – After the incident with Moriarty at the pool, John is amazed at Sherlock's reaction to John being in danger. He never flirted with the detective again after that first night at Angelo's, but maybe it's time to try once more. He does, with spectacular results. But when Irene Adler enters their lives, it has a disastrous effect on their budding romance.

A Midnight Clear by khorazir (T, 13,120 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas-Carol Inspired || Post S3/Post-TLD / TFP Doesn't Exist, Christmas, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Magical Realism) – It’s Christmas Eve, and Sherlock is working. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t need Christmas, or holiday cheer, or even company. He’s fine on his own, thank you very much – until a series of strange encounters on his way back to Baker Street makes him reconsider.

Best Laid Plans by TheMadKatter13 (E, 57,366 w., 9 Ch. || Omegaverse AU || Post-TRF Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Violence, Angst, Marking, Scenting, Time Skips, John's Blog, Nesting, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Mounting, Biting, Breeding, Bonding, Knotting, Mpreg, Mating Cycles, Alpha Sherlock, Omega John, Omega Jim, Possessive Sherlock, Alpha Moran, Kidnapping) – After the detective's suicide, anyone with eyes could see that there was no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes. Only a rare few even realized there was a flipside to that coin: that there was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty is one of those rare few, and while kidnapping his blogger had drawn out out the genius so well the first time, new intel on the 'alpha' doctor has the omega criminal arranging a little bit of 'playtime' between his alpha and his bait while they wait for the not-quite-dead to arrive.

RECENTLY BOOKMARKED LOKIUS FICS

Are We Dating? by AindyGhosh (G, 2,288 w., 1 Ch. || LOKI SERIES || Lokius, S02E05 Rewrite, Flirty Mobius, Flustered Loki, Fluff) – Now that the thought had taken root in Don’s mind, it refused to let go, clinging on to him like a limpet. As it was, Don was infamous in his friends’ circles for his lack of a brain-to-mouth filter. Therefore, it didn’t come as a surprise to him when he just gave in, and verbalised the one doubt that had been making rounds in his head since the moment he had talked to Loki. “Are we dating?” It was only logical to deduce that. And Don couldn’t believe this God-like person had been interested in him enough to agree to date him.

#johnlock fic recs #lokius fic recs #my fic recs #five fics friday

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souonsu · 2 years

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A Rare Occasion.

Diluc is in a rutting mess and it’s just fantastic. It’s not often that he let’s you see this side of him, so indulge in it because who knows when you’ll ever see it again.

Warning: Definitely not for minors. Unprotected sex and overstimulation galore.

This was written in a gender neutral perspective. Please enjoy everyone.

His gloved hand was on your cheek. He was so close, closer than ever with those beautiful crimson eyes looking only at you and revealing his deepest sincerity.

You felt the warmth radiating from his body still wearing that regal coat. He asked you ever so softly that it was but a whisper, “can I kiss you?” The breath of his words leaving a tingling sensation against your lips that continued to permeate down your body.

Could you ever resist him? No, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know the amount of influence he has over you. The pressure he asserts without so much as to lean his weight on you. How you craved for a moment like this, but likewise you didn’t know how much he did too. He never showed it and perhaps he couldn’t have because he didn’t know it either.

Now would be a good time, sitting here alone with you on the couch in his office.

You gave him permission and he did not hesitate.

He leaned right in and pressed his lips against yours. Right then he felt an incredible wave of heat wash over him. It seemed like the sort that would continue to burn with no relief unless he relieved the sensation with more heat. He pressed further in the kiss, but the feel of your lips against his just wasn’t enough. He opened your mouth with his as you gasp for air. Instinctively, he desired to taste you. The palette inside of your mouth was soft and pleasingly wet. His tongue swished gently inside and toyed with your tongue in the most unfair fashion as though it knew exactly when to pull out when you are about to lunged towards his, but he didn’t mean to do that on purpose. He just preferred to meet yours when its lingering out and hungry for him.

He pulled you closer with an arm wrapped around your waist.

He would have more of you.

His body leaned against yours to feel you along the firmness of his chest, pushing you down until you were flat on your back, and breaking away only for one haste breath to look at you.

Your breathless state only tortured him more.

He was burning, yes, but what oh what can he do? He could feel his pants tightening around his crotch aching to be touched. He needed some release, but he wouldn’t rubbed it himself, no. He couldn’t afford to make a display out of himself to touch himself while kissing you. So, he decided that it was a matter best left to instinct instead.

Diluc began to rut his crotch against your lower half on the couch, his hips moving tenderly back and forth. It was intoxicating. He refused to undo his pants because he was so sensitive and the texture against his dick felt so good. He huffed and gasped as he grinded against you, squeezing his eyes shut whenever he felt a wave of pleasure come about. His lower half shuddering in response as he inhaled sharply, waiting to move against you again for that next big rush.

You could hear the metal on his buckles clink as he moved. His breath was hot against your neck.

You imagined that his hips must be a sight to behold, but no one could ever resist the look he had when he peered down with his mouth open, panting with a flushed face. It was irresistible. Pure devotion. Or was it the look of pure lust? Perhaps both, but he was practically begging you to let him have you.

Deep down he felt a little guilty as though he were merely using you for his own gratification, but when he looked down he could see you panting as well and even moving against him. So, he continued to rut against you just letting his pants get soiled in his cum because the thought of seeing how messy and sloppy it would be down there made him hornier.

He could feel the fabric cling to his skin, but he wouldn’t let it end. No, he repeatedly rutted against you while capturing those lovely lips of yours in his over and over again.

You would groan loudly into his mouth only to fuel him to want more, but alas even he had to fall back at some point!

So, when the time came for him to withdraw, a line of saliva drew between your lips that left a shockingly cold thread down the side of your mouth, a stark contrast to the heat you felt when he was just kissing you.

Diluc moved away to lay against the arm rest to catch his breath. The folds against his crotch were considerably darkened. Lazily he looked down as though he were acknowledging or confirming what it was as the fabric traced along the silhouette of his member. Despite the numerous times he must have come, he still had a sizeable bulge. When he pulled down his fly, he could observe that he had indeed made quite the mess as his member sprung out of the slop, still erected, and dripped in thick white cum.

He looked to you slightly puzzled by your peculiar expression and followed your gaze only to find you gawking over the spectacle of his crotch. He smiled to himself to see that you were so pleased with such a unsightly sight that he gave you a subtle smirk as he lazed against the couch and extended an invitation, “care to help clean up?” At this point, he was quite pleased that you desired him so and was happy to give you what you wanted.

Little did he know, he was a sight to behold basking in loving self-assurance with his legs spread open and one dangling off the side of the couch. Gosh, he was beautiful.

You took to the task immediately, sucking his dick and licking the base to make sure the deed was done right. As you bobbed your head up and down, you could hear him pant and even moan into the feeling of your mouth encasing his overstimulated dick. He knew he was being louder than usual, but it was such a liberating feeling that it got him off even more. It was one of the few times he has ever held his lover's head and tried to get them to go a lil deeper, but being the gentlemen he was, he was still restrained enough to only urge you because of his ever present self-control.

Still, he was being selfish for once and being a little needy. He gave his all in everything he did and never asked for anything in return, not from the people of Mondstadt nor from you. So, this was one of the rare moments where he allowed himself to be vulnerable and open. He had always insisted on doing the loving, but he never understood that he too need some loving as well. Deep down, he had desired it but only realized it until now. So, if there was ever time you wanted to love him back, this is the time. Please love him and watch him unravel in the most debauched manner.

His voice hitched when you got him to come with your mouth. You could feel his tense body convulse just briefly when he gasped at last.

You kissed his weary teary self as he curled around you, arms draped over your shoulders, legs still wide open, and knees raised beside you. He's been wanting this, gingerly kissing you back as you pumped him leisurely. It does not need to be reiterated that he was superhuman and did not require downtime between the times he has come over and over. However, his tired unwilting dick was now coated in a pale milky consistency instead of his unusually thick cum.

Locks of his red luscious hair rested on his face from the sweat and heat he's had from still being clothed head to toe, granted he was at least disheveled from lust.

However, you decided that this could not continue and you urged him to take off his coat. He did manage to shed it off with your help. His leather coat plopped on the ground as you loosened his tie.

Diluc was in a daze as he idly watched you struggle to undo the belts strung along his torso.

He smiled when you cursed under your breath over how difficult it was to undress him, so he stopped you by holding your hands briefly. He raised his index finger as to say, “wait,” and began to pull his tie down slowly with that same finger. He reveled in the fact that you were watching him so intently as he undid the belts on him easily with only a click to be heard. He unbuttoned his inner shirt to reveal his toned chest and then dropped his gloves and the rest of his accessories to the floor. There was no need for words when he looked at you again. He was ready for you and you moved to be on top of him with your knees beside his hips.

Oh, how the tables have turned, but he was enjoying every second in anticipation. It pleased him greatly to see you so enthusiastic to have him.

He supported you from your waist as you lowered yourself over his member. I only hope that you have prepared yourself enough for this because his dick was erect as it ever was with a proud curvature and an apt girth.

To be honest, he no longer had much stamina to go on and was feeling quite numb from all the previous sensation, but this was for you. He regretted that he wouldn’t be able to aid you or pump into you as he normally would to satisfy you more, but as long as he can see you panting away voicing your lust, he will be content for now.

You held on to his shoulders with all the strength still available to you and occasionally slipped your hand down to touch his broad chest. Ahh, but there was no saving you now as you slaved away on his dick trying to hit that spot every time, which wasn’t too difficult thanks to your partner being so blessed.

Just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to feel anything anymore, he felt like he was being turned on again as he watched you pleasure yourself against him. Your wanton display and slutty cries brought on a newfound rush of sensation back into his throbbing member. He could feel every stroke of you once more and it was pure ecstasy. It was so divine he uttered a silent prayer to Barbatos to thank him.

He panted with you and kissed you with the same fervor. He stuck his tongue back into your mouth and didn’t even care for the drool that slipped out, but you broke away to cry out his name and swung your head back. You were so close to your own orgasm as Diluc waited patiently -- captivated by your diligence.

You felt an intense jolt from within that then sent exhilarating waves throughout your body as you moaned loudly and then slumped over him.

Diluc held you in his arms smiling while planting a kiss to your forehead. He thanked you quietly as you rested against his chest drifting off to sleep.

At some point in the evening you woke up briefly to see his pretty self quietly snoring away with one arm holding you against him with his coat draped on top of you.

Diluc will always consider your well-being before his no matter how tired he was, it was only a little irritating that he was so good at it and made you love him even more.

If you're wondering how I came to the conclusion that Diluc might be into some mess it's because...his place is never spotlesssss. Like walk into Dawn Winery in-game and just look at the books just scattered everywhere on the floor. The place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned up despite having staff to clean up. You all know about that one commission where you have even help his maids clean *rolls eyes*. I’ve always joked that Diluc must be doing charity with how he's paying these people, but they don’t actually do their job. Also, look at his office:

Who puts books inside like that? And let’s them stay like that?

Personally.....I don’t think he would be this complacent in real life, meaning he would definitely make sure the house is spotless and be a drill sergeant almost if necessary to make sure the place is up to his standards....but....you know that’s what the canon is by the developers, so I will take their word for it.....

So yeah, funnily enough...he doesn't seem to mind mess....take that for what you will.

Thank you for reading another one of my Diluc imagines. Honestly, this came out of left field one morning and I was like.....”hmmm, yeah need to jot this down” and began to furiously tap on my phone and then the idea just stayed on my mind for 2 days straight, so I pushed off my studies to edit and clean up this post (though I’ll probably still end up editing this post periodically as I find errors or....just to squish tidbits in, haha.)

Apologies that it turned out the way the way it did....I feel that it had not reached it full potential as I had intended OTL (chalk it up to needing to practice more smut writing), but I still hope that you all enjoy this. I must admit that this drabble came from imagining Diluc with a male partner, but I made it gender neutral anyways because it works either way. If you guys don’t know this about me, I mostly write gender neutral and I don’t see that trend changing any time soon. :3

Gotta spread the loveee (and bring everyone to their knees).

Also, I didn’t get to mention using protection in the post itself (I did think about it....and I will strive to write it in next time), but I will always advocate to people, DON’T FORGET TO USE CONDOMS AND PRACTICE SAFE SEX!!

Be on the lookout for more Diluc smut because I have a draft in the works! In the meantime if you didn’t check out my other Diluc posts, please head on to the directory to read more!

Thank you all again for reading this! Also, if you’re comfortable, you can leave comments in your tags or in the replies section or even feel free to message me! I always love to see how others react!

-Su.

Omake:

Me: Hm, Master Diluc, why the long face? Diluc: *in chibi emoji form* .....Mm. Me: ...... Diluc: ...... Me: No need to be so reserved, there’s no one here but me and you. Diluc: Mn.....I don’t think I have satisfied them enough. Me: Hah?!?!? What?! Diluc: You know, towards the end there I just.... Me: No no no no no! Master Diluc, I am sure that they are beyond the moon in this entire interaction! Diluc: I’m not so sure, I just feel that I should have held back in the beginning instead of taking advantage of them. I should have -- Me: MASTER DILUC! Stop being so pretentious! Diluc: (Pretentious?!???) *shocked pikachu face* Me: Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’m sure they felt they were being served an all-you-can-eat-buffet! *puffs chest out haughtily* Diluc: An....all...you-can-eat...buffet? Me: Yes, absolutely. Diluc: Is that some kind of feast? Me: Yes.....basically. Diluc: .....I’m not sure how I ought to respond to that. Me: You don’t have to, just know that you did very well! *big thumbs up* Diluc: If you say so.....*still has much doubt*

You enter chat: ...... Diluc: ??!??!....*shocked and quaking from the thought of his performance* You: *simply glowing* Me: See, Master Diluc. That is the look of a satisfied partner. Diluc: Are you sure??? *has an extremely worried expression* Me: Of course of course! Just ask them! Diluc: *looks at you with his eyes darting away occasionally* Um....I hope that was....I hope you were....um.....did you....were you....? You: *walk over to Diluc and start dragging him away* Diluc: Huh??? Me: Oh? You: *glances back at me and gives a nod before flashing a smile* Me: Hmm, I see. Well, I’ll do my best to write a round 2! Diluc: Round 2?!??! You: I thought you wanted to please me? Diluc: *recomposes himself* Yes, well, that is true. You: Perfect. *continues to drag him away* Me: MAIDOO~~~~!

Note: I don’t think I can write a round 2.....*sweats* This is all a chat probably to stroke my own ego than anyone else’s *criesss*

#diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact imagine #diluc x gender neutral reader #diluc x gn reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc x you #diluc ragnivindr smut #diluc ragnivindr x you #diluc imagine #diluc ragnivindr imagine #genshin smut #diluc smut #genshin impact smut #diluc

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real-jane · 2 years

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everything, everything

[steve rogers x female reader]

summary: steve and his partner are undercover on assignment, hiding out as husband and wife. the line between reality and fiction is too thin, and steve can't take much more.

warnings: steve is v dumb, pining/longing/etc, smut, canon level violence, smut, and also some smut is in it.

a/n: thank you to @sanguineterrain for the original prompt: "How about a Steve x reader who have to go undercover as a married couple and oh NO, they're pining for each other and don't know it! Whatever shall they do?! 😳😏"

enjoy!

He’s too stunned to move when the doorbell rings, so she slips between Steve and the counter with pink-stung lips and hastens to answer it. All the air in the room rushes out with her.

She’s not supposed to kiss me when nobody is around to see her do it.

Three weeks. It’s only been three agonizing weeks. When did the fiction bleed into reality? When did his hands start aching to reach for her?

‘You get along so well already,’ Bucky had said, ‘it will be nice to be undercover with someone who doesn’t get on your nerves.’ Except… Steve has never had less clarity in his entire life, especially not now, after she kissed the daylights out of him.

The smoke detector is his only saving grace. The pancakes he got up early to make for breakfast are charred beyond recognition, and he throws open the window to let out the smoke… and whatever hot air is keeping his brain from actually processing.

“Everything okay, baby?” she calls from the front room. Steve clenches his jaw.

“Wouldn’t you know it–I burned breakfast,” he replies, in as chipper a tone as he can manage.

“That’s why my husband doesn’t go anywhere near the kitchen. I’m surprised you let him try, Betsy.” Ugh. Sharon. Her husband is on a permanent business trip to live with his other family, a fact that SHIELD had uncovered in the process of vetting the neighborhood. Wayne Carter is also a very good cook. Sharon Carter puts on a haughty face for a woman who hasn’t seen her husband in nine months. Betsy… the alias his partner wears like the Southern Belle she most certainly isn't… she hates Sharon, but she’s a good actress.

“Oh, Steve’s a wonderful cook! But I was distracting him.”

His ‘wife’s’ little giggle is enough to make Steve snap the spatula in half. He stares at the bisected plastic in shock.

“Bex, what do you say I take you out for breakfast?” Steve rubs his jaw and gives up on the pan, which is entirely unsalvageable. “Mimosas and crepes, yeah?”

“Steven Rogers, you’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

“Impossible.”

Steve can’t stop the panic rising in his chest. It isn’t supposed to be like this. She’s a fantastic agent, and that’s all. God–he wants to kiss her until she can’t pretend anymore. He needs to have the upper hand, to retain just one ounce of professionalism as Captain fucking America. People know who he is. He’s on assignment. They aren’t married for real.

And yet.

Realization washes over him and he leans against the counter in despair.

Every evening, when she bids him ‘goodnight’, he hopes that she skips past the first bedroom and finds her way to his. Cooking for her? His favorite part of every day. He’s googled so many recipes that the app suggests fancy breakfast food. He wears that one blue shirt as often as he can because she smiled the first time he did.

Coming ‘home’ is his only source of comfort, because she is always standing on the porch… waiting. Sometimes a neighbor is talking with her; she’s so kind that it has been easy ingratiating themselves into the neighborhood. Nine times out of ten, she’s got a glass of lemonade in hand, slick with condensation, waiting for him. It’s the weekends that are most torturous, when he has no reason to be out of her presence. Like this particular Saturday morning.

It’s very easy to forget why they’re there. They’re so close to uncovering the ring–she fills him in on the dirt she’s dug up while playing cards, or gardening, or just gossiping with the ladies each day. The women on this street tell her things that he’s struggled to weasel out of hardened criminals. Steve is fairly certain he’s going to burst into flames before they succeed in this assignment. He’s ashamed of himself. She doesn’t deserve some sicko fixating on her, especially not her partner. He’s a public figure, for Christ’s sake! He’s better than this.

Her hand presses against the small of his back. Steve starts and wheels on her. She bites back a smile at the sight of him, and raises a hand to his cheek.

“You look like you’ve been sweeping the chimney,” she laughs.

He steps away, out of her grasp. “I’ll just get cleaned up, if you wanna go.”

“Oh. You really wanna go out for breakfast?” The surprise in her voice stabs him square in the chest.

“Why not?” he shrugs. “I destroyed the good pan anyway.”

“Are you okay?”

No. Absolutely not, under no circumstances. “What did Sharon want?” He still hasn’t looked her in the eye.

“She went through Zemo’s garbage,” she says, as if she’s impressed by Sharon’s gall. “She found like twenty packs of cold medicine.”

His head snaps up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. She’s got the bags in her garage, she texted me a picture, too. Look.” She holds up her cell phone and sure enough, a black trash bag filled with boxes of off-brand medicine fills the screen. “This is what we’ve been waiting for, Steve.”

“Oh my god…” he can’t help but laugh in astonishment. “This is reason enough for a warrant.”

“I already sent Fury the photo. Can you believe it?”

He wants so badly to pull her into his arms and hold on for dear life. Because if they’ve truly uncovered the lynch pin of the whole organization, then their days playing house are numbered. Worse than loving her is the thought of no longer getting to pretend, and hang all his hopes on precious public displays of affection. You two look so in love, one of the neighbors had said during their welcome block party. Steve had his arm wrapped around her shoulders then, because being the facsimile of a married couple was still too new to know how to comfortably interact in a way that seemed real. She lets herself be kissed by him with a sweet smile on her face, now. Her fingers always entwine with his, especially when they’re over at someone else’s house.

For one brief second, Steve considers how easy it would be to steal the bags from Sharon’s garage and destroy the evidence… but what would his partner think of him if she found out what he had done? Maybe that was the best way to push away these embarrassing feelings–push her away. Make them strangers, again.

“Steve–hey!” She snaps in front of his face. “What’s wrong with you?”

He shakes his head, but the heat which floods his cheeks is mortifying. “I slept weird. Not fully awake yet.”

She frowns. “Why don’t you go lay down? I’ll order breakfast in, and we can wait for Fury’s directive.”

“I don’t need to lay down,” he says quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You keep zoning out–”

“I said I’m fine, so I’m fine.”

“...why are you being like this?” She crosses her arms, leaning against the counter. “You’re pissy.”

“Can you just leave it alone?” he sighs.

“We’re in deep cover and you want me to ignore it? I’m gonna nag you until you communicate, Rogers–”

“You’re not entitled to every little thought in my head, alright?” Steve throws his hands up in the air. “This is a sham marriage, remember? Stop pushing me and accept that I don’t want to talk, I’m fine.”

She opens her mouth to press the matter, but thinks better of it. She looks away and nods, but she breathes in raggedly. “Well fuck me, I guess. Fuck my feelings. Crepes?”

Steve’s heart plummets through the tile floor as she turns away to leave the kitchen. He lunges before he can stop himself and grasps her wrist, staying her exit. Words clog his throat. She waits with one eyebrow raised, but when he can’t make the apology come, she rips her hand from his. Steve is left with the horrible feeling that he has ruined everything good between them… the real rapport they’ve built sharing an assignment, and the fake one which allows her to touch him freely where anyone can see.

And kiss him where they can’t.

He waits for her on the front porch in blue, having scrubbed the pancake ash from his face. She emerges from the house in a sundress. The light pink one which always robs him of sanity. For a moment her face is stony, but then her expression lightens to exuberance and she waves–beyond Steve, to the passing neighbor on the sidewalk.

“Hi Joe!”

“Hiya, Rogerses! Where ya off to on this fine morning?” The old man braces himself on their little gate.

Five soft fingers curl around Steve’s elbow and he remembers that he’s supposed to be helplessly in love with this woman. Well… no acting required, he thinks with a wince. He covers her hand with his.

“Somebody destroyed breakfast,” Steve says, pointing his thumb at himself, “so he’s gonna treat his wife to some French cuisine.”

“Good on you, boy. Betsy deserves the best.”

“That she does,” Steve says, a hair too earnestly.

“Talking about me like I’m not even here!” She giggles. “Joe, do you still need Steve’s help moving that dresser?”

Steve tightens his hand over hers. They’ve talked time and again about how Joe is capable of stealing one’s entire day, and how frustrating it is when he’s trying to keep tabs on Joe’s neighbor to have a two-hour conversation about hydrangeas–

“If he’s offering!” Joe smiles expectantly at Steve, who bobs his head.

“I could do that for ya. How’s this afternoon?”

“You know where to find me!” Joe salutes and totters back down the street towards his small bungalow.

Once they are seated inside Steve’s car, shielded by darkly tinted windows, he dares to study her. She ignores him, typing away on her phone. “What was that?” he asks lowly.

“You’ve been trying to find a reason to case his house,” she says, not looking up. “I got you an in.”

He clears his throat. “Right. Good idea.”

“You’re not the only influential Rogers in the neighborhood.”

Steve sighs. “‘M sorry–”

“It’s forgotten.” Her phone rings in her hand and she answers immediately. “Hello? No, unsubstantiated for now but Steve is going into Joe O’Leary’s later today while I pop over to Sharon’s. No, he’s just the only house we haven’t found a reason to go inside. It was Steve’s idea, actually.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. It absolutely was not, and if he’s honest with himself, he can’t quite figure out which part of this assignment he’s actually contributed to. She has all of the good ideas, she thinks of things he never would’ve dreamt of.

“--Yeah. Zemo is hunting this weekend, apparently. We won’t. Nick–that was one time!” she huffs. “I have the scar. We won’t go to his house until you’ve got the warrant. Why does every man around me insist on being so damn stubborn? No–god, I forget you have us triangulated at all times. We’re headed out for breakfast. I burned the pancakes, so…” She glances at Steve and shakes her head. “No, I copy. We’ll stay put. I’ll tell him.”

She hangs up and her head falls back against the seat. “He wants us to stay in place, and wait until he gives the okay to check out Joe and Sharon’s.”

“We already told both of them we’re going out… won’t that look suspicious?”

“I dunno… drive to the gas station. I’ll buy you some shitty coffee. At least our car will have left the driveway.”

“I’m buyin’,” Steve says, starting the car. “Last time I checked, you’re not the one who charred the pancakes.”

“It was still my fault.”

“You can buy me a moon pie, for my trouble.”

“I’ll buy you a whole box.” He can’t help the way his mouth turns up at one side, and when he looks at her, she’s smiling sadly. “I don’t like it when we’re at odds.”

Steve shakes his head. “No.”

“Partners?” She holds out her hand, but before he takes it…

“Why’d you do it?” His voice is soft, pleading. She shrugs.

“I wanted to. Don’t you ever do things, just because you want to?”

“Um. No, I don’t have that luxury.”

“I forgot who I’m talking to.” Her chin dips bashfully. “Just forget it happened, okay? We kiss in front of other people all the time, it’s a habit.”

“...which you wanted to do.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t overanalyzed it. Like you are doing right now.” She wiggles her fingers and Steve laces his in. “Partners. Do you wanna tell me what was going on with you?”

“Well… I suppose I was thinking about all this being done. It’s, uh. Hard to tell sometimes what’s part of the cover, and–”

“What’s real,” she finishes. “Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle. We don’t have to answer that today.”

“I like holding your hand,” he admits. “I–shit, sweetheart, I-I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah. But I don’t have enough caffeine in me for that conversation,” he says, squeezing her hand.

“You can do it back, if you want. You keep looking at my lips. It’s okay if you want to, Steve.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” he murmurs.

“Only way to do that is to shut me out.”

He studies her neatly manicured nails. “I want to. So bad.”

“But?”

“I don’t know. Can’t think straight as it is. What’s it gonna do to me–”

“Hush.” She holds their clasped hands to her lips. “It’s okay.”

“No–it isn’t.” He squeezes. “It’s unprofessional.”

“If you think I haven’t spent the last three weeks relishing the fact that I get to spend every evening watching trash tv with you, staring at your ass, and listening to you laugh… fuck professional, Steve. I didn’t mean for it to happen, okay? You caught me off guard with your sweetness. I knew I was in trouble the first time you kissed me.”

“But this is gonna end…”

“It doesn’t have to. I–” She stops to cup his cheek and brush her thumb over his jaw in reassurance. “I don’t wanna go a single day without kissing you. I don’t care if it started because we’re pretending.”

“It’s never been pretend for me,” he breathes.

She moves first, because she knows that he can’t do it without real permission, where there’s no question why it’s happening. He moans against her mouth; it’s always felt like his lips were meant for hers, but with nobody watching… It's a gift. She is precious to him. He cradles her face to say as much, without putting voice to it. Kissing her this way strips him of all ceremony. He’s just a city boy with a crush on a beautiful girl, who kisses like a dream. It’s freeing. If anyone saw them making out in the driveway, what would it give away? Nothing which doesn’t show on his face every time he looks at her. Because Steve can’t pretend like she isn’t the center of his world. Not when he has permission to kiss her in private.

His tenuous control snaps.

She keens as his lips traverse her jaw to nip at the tender skin below her ear. “Been holding out on me, Rogers.” He sucks a mark, blooming a ruddy bruise on her throat. Then, he lavs that spot, pulling more heavenly sounds from her lips. “Fuck.”

“I think about that, too,” he whispers against her skin. “But I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“We wouldn’t be the first partners to do it.”

“Remember when we caught Bucky and Nat after Bulgaria?” Steve eases the strap of her dress off the curve of her shoulder.

“God,” she sighs, tugging on his hair so he’ll find her mouth again. She catches his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t look at me.”

He blinks at her through heavy eyelids. “I was thinking about you.”

“You wanna fuck me in a bunk on the quinjet?” she scoffs. Her fingers card through his hair.

“Anywhere. Have forever. Buck knows. ‘S why he suggested you for this.”

She smiles against his mouth. “Remind me to send him a thank you card.”

“Can I touch you?”

“In the driveway?” she gasps, even as she guides his hand towards the hem of her dress.

“Windows are too dark to see in.”

“You’re kinker than I thought–fuck.”

He traces the pads of his fingers over her soft skin. Steve bites his lip, watching her eyes flutter as his hand gets closer to touching her where he wants to, most. “Think I’m vanilla, agent?”

“That is your favorite ice cream flavor.”

Steve stops for a second and squeezes her thigh in affection. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. She chases her lips after his, and pauses just a breath from his face. They smile at each other, drunk on uncorked arousal.

“Vanilla,” he whispers, tracing the hem of her panties, “is a complex flavor. Goes with everything. Chocolate. Cherries…” Steve dips his fingers beneath the silky fabric. She cants her hips to give him better access. He finds the little bud at her apex, worrying the bundle of nerves enough to make her moan.

“Exhibitionism,” she pants.

“In small quantities,” he chuckles. “Gimme your lips, sweets.”

She does so like a woman starved, but her head falls back as he sinks one finger into her heat. “Steven.”

“‘M here.”

“So good.” She rolls her hips to meet his hand. He thumbs her clit with every stroke. “Had a dream–mmph. You fingered me at a barbeque.”

“I’d do it. Under the table?”

“Mm. No. In the pool.”

“Our pool, sweetheart?” Steve works a second finger with the first easily. She’s drenched, she’s gorgeous.

She nods. “Yeah. But I couldn’t make a face because everybody was around.”

“What, then?” Steve feels her squeezing him tight. She’s close. He’s never wanted anything more in his life than to make her come. He doesn’t care how much work it takes to clean the seat afterwards. He’ll do it with a smile, as long as she comes.

“You made me orgasm in front of the whole neighborhood. Then you got in the hot tub and you made me sit on your dick.”

“Were you keeping me hard?” He tugs the cups of her dress down with his free hand and bears her breasts. “Christ. You’re so beautiful.”

“Nobody knew, and the bubbles covered us,” she sighs. “Right there, right–oh fuck. What about you?”

Steve groans as her hand finds his straining dick over the top of his jeans. “I’m gonna bust my zipper the second you come.”

“Wanna feel you. Please.”

He nods his consent, but not before flickering his tongue against her nipple. She stays his hand by turning her nails into the skin at his wrist, and forces him to lean his seat back so she can unbutton his pants, but she doesn’t get very far–

The back window of the vehicle shatters. Steve throws himself over her, peering above her headrest. She groans.

“I was so close,” she wheezes.

“Stay down, sweetheart.” Steve kisses her cheek and then throws the car into reverse, turning the wheel like a madman to dodge their attacker… Sharon. Standing on her front porch with a rifle. She raises the gun to take another shot, now that she has her sights on him.

“Roll down your window, baby!”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. His partner yanks the top of her dress up, lays half-way across his lap, and fires her own weapon (pulled from god-knows-where), catching their attacker in the shoulder. Sharon drops her rifle, but the gun discharges, destroying one of Steve’s tires with an explosive POP! The car drops heavily towards the front wheel well. Sharon staggers to retrieve her gun. After one more precise shot, she falls. Steve takes the gun from his partner when it is offered. She retrieves his pistol from the glove compartment, and they each get out of the car warily.

“Do you wanna trade?” Steve calls.

“You think I can’t shoot with your gun?” Her voice is sweet and teasing.

“I said no such thing. Is she dead?” They flank the unconscious woman… sure enough, she’s down for good, with one bullet right between the eyes. Steve exchanges a look of shock with his partner.

“Yes. Must’ve been desperate to risk taking us out like this. I’d say we found the rat,” she says.

“I guess so.”

“She has the shittiest timing.” She grins at him, which makes Steve’s ears turn red. She retrieves her phone from the car and makes a call.

Steve keeps his weapon at the ready. Several of the neighbors peer out their front windows in concern, but none are stupid enough to come out and investigate the ruckus. He attempts to stand between the body and the street, at least to obscure the pooling blood below Sharon’s head.

It doesn't take ten minutes for a dozen black SUV’s to come squealing down the sleepy street. By the time they take over the block, Steve and his partner are leaning against his car, glancing at each other with small smiles. They’ve collected themselves somewhat; he made sure there was no visible sign that she’d been just moments from an orgasm when they were shot at (other than the hickey, which he hopes nobody notices), and they attempt to look concerned that their attacker wasn’t someone they expected. But it’s especially hard for Steve to be stoic, because he knows how it feels to touch her. He settles for looking smug. He is, but who’s to say why?

Bucky accompanies the agents who emerge from the trucks, as does Fury. “Cap. Agent.”

“Director,” she acknowledges. “Sergeant.” Bucky wrinkles his nose at her.

“Walk me through what happened.” She steps forward with Fury and walks him towards the body, while Bucky hangs back with Steve. Barnes leans over and whispers.

“Your fly’s undone.”

Steve sighs. “Shit. Why are you staring at my crotch, huh?” He fixes the aforementioned zipper as discreetly as possible.

“Old habits die hard.” Bucky folds his arms and leans against the car.

“What would Natasha say to that?”

“...you think she doesn’t stare at your crotch, punk?”

“You two are nightmares.” Steve can’t help but chuckle, despite himself. “Carter annoyed the hell outta me, but I didn’t think she was involved.”

“You trying to change the subject?”

“Not succeeding, apparently.”

Just then, his partner looks up at him, gesturing towards him and then down the street, which is swarming with agents in black suits.

“Cool it with the puppy dog eyes,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve glares at him. “Shut up. That’s just how my face looks.”

“Not when you look at me,” Bucky says, elbowing him in the side. “Did you tell her?”

Steve’s eyes dart away, and he can’t help but smile. He twists his mouth to keep from breaking out into a full smile.

“Thank God,” Bucky says.

“Rogers!” Fury waves him over. Steve strides towards the director with his hands in his pockets. “I think your partner is a little shell shocked. Why don’t you take her to the house? I’ll catch up with you in a bit. I think it’s going to take a few hours for us to do a preliminary search of Carter’s.”

Steve glances at his partner, who has her hands clasped at her waist, twisting her fingers. She indeed looks quite shocked, eyes wide and unblinking as she stares up at him. “Yes sir.”

“I’m glad you two didn’t do anything hasty and stayed put. This could’ve gone a whole lot worse.”

Steve nods. He manages the world’s most convincing performance of concern, wrapping his arm around his partner’s shoulders. She leans into his side, letting him guide her across the street to the house with ‘Rogers’ painted on the mailbox. He doesn’t dare look at Bucky, nor does he want to risk saying anything until they’re safely concealed from the rest of the world. But the moment they’re inside, he presses her back against the front door. She smiles softly.

“Did that get your blood going?” she asks. “Getting shot at with your fingers inside me.”

He huffs. “Your mouth, I swear.”

“What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Do you want this?” He asks, working his knee between hers until she has to stand on her tip-toes. She nods breathlessly. “Out loud, or I stop.”

“I’ve heard you come,” she laughs. “In the shower. When you think you’re being quiet. I talk myself out of joining you every time, but I wanna see your face when you have an orgasm. I think you’ll be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Steve shivers. “Pretty, huh?” He lowers his mouth slowly to hers, but stops as she gasps. His hands find the globes of her ass, inching under the panties he’s going to destroy. He watches her eyes dilate with arousal. She smirks.

“You’re a pretty man, Rogers. ‘S why I married you.”

Steve gapes at her for just a minute. He shakes his head in disbelief, shrugging off the euphoria which rises in him at the thought of this woman truly being everything. Her fingers creep to his jaw.

“What?”

He sighs. “That’s all I want. To have this. All the time.”

“A wife, baby?”

“And babies, sweetheart.”

“You told Joe you wanted three… you were being serious.”

“I was.” His eyes flick back and forth to study her irises. They’re glassy.

“You’d want that with… me?”

“How long have you known me?” He asks, kissing her forehead.

Her hands wrap behind his head, stroking his nape. “That’s a big step. We’re not even together–”

“I’ve been telling anyone in a ten mile radius that you’re my wife for three straight weeks, and nothing has ever felt more right.” Steve levels his eyes with hers. “I want as much as you’re willing to give me.”

Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “God. You take a girl’s breath away. I… I don’t know if I want kids, Steve–”

“But you want me.”

“Yes,” she sighs.

“Then I don’t care. You can think about it.”

“What if the answer is ‘no’? Could you be content with only me?”

“Only–sweetheart. You are everything.” Steve kisses her eyelids as they shut in relief. “We could always have dogs.”

She laughs in surprise, and it’s his favorite sound in the whole world. “Why don’t we start from the beginning, and see where we end up?”

“Where’s that?” He noses her cheek.

“Give each other orgasms for the first time. I mean, if I’m gonna think about having babies, don’t you think I should know how your dick feels?”

“You make a very good point,” he says with mock seriousness, tapping his chin. “In the spirit of investigation.”

“To make a truly informed decision.”

“Right… if we do this, we’re gonna have to tell Fury.”

She looks at him guiltily. “He… knows. I sorta forgot that the car is bugged.”

Steve freezes with wide eyes. “Shit.”

“...Yeah.”

“Well…”

“We have no reason to hide it, now.” She finds the hem of the shirt she likes so much and tickles her nails across his abdomen. “Besides, I gotta admit that I kinda found it, I dunno… hot? That people heard us.”

Steve locks the front door over her shoulder and walks backwards, tugging her towards the stairs. He spins her so her heels catch on the step, forcing her to sit down abruptly. Steve follows, latching his lips over hers hungrily. He probably should feel embarrassed, but how can he when this beautiful woman wants him? No man in his right mind would be ashamed of her.

He rends the gusset of her panties. For such a talkative person, she sure has nothing to say when his fingers find her clit again. Just incoherent moans. Steve has three fingers inside her by the time she comes, walls fluttering around his thrusting hand. Her head falls back in ecstasy as she soaks his fingers. He wastes no time working his pants down enough to free his dick; her hands urge his shirt off so she can run the tips of her nails down his chest, flicking against his nipples and making him buck. She’s bringing kinks out in him he didn’t even know he had.

She wraps one hand around him, making his head fall forward against her collar. He nips at her tendon in retaliation. She guides him until his dick is tucked between her folds, and rolls her hips to take him in. Steve obliges. He sinks into her fully, and groans.

“Fucking hell,” she breathes.

“You’re tight, sweets.” He teases the seam of her lips with his tongue, inviting her to lose herself completely. She’s still sensitive from her first orgasm, shivering when he brushes her clit, so Steve stays still. Buried deep in the woman of his dreams.

“Was it like this, in your dream?” he asks, stroking her cheek softly. She smiles blissfully.

“No. This is better than anything my brain made up. You gotta move.”

“What if I didn’t? And I made you sit with my dick inside you all day long.” Steve shimmies her dress up her torso until she arches her back enough to let him pull it over her head. But he fists the fabric at her wrists, capturing her hands so she can’t touch him. She whines.

“Jesus. Who knew you were so controlling?” Her inner muscles contract and he huffs.

“If I thought I could control you for one second, you’d know it by now,” he says, rolling his hips. “But you’re the one who’s got me wrapped around your finger.”

“Yeah?” she gasps. “You’ve got me tied up.”

“You don’t need your hands to have me right where you want me, sweetheart, and you know it.”

She kisses him hard. “Fuck me. So I have bruises from these stairs.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He snaps his hips forward to do just that, and he’s in heaven. He’s got little experience compared to some of the agents he hears bragging about their trysts in the gym, but by god, he’s never fucked a woman like this. Especially not someone he loves. His knees burn from the carpet, and his boots attempt to slide off his bracing step–hell, his pants aren’t even to his knees, but he fucks her like a desperate man, because that’s what he is. He wants her to come again, more than anything. Hard. Who cares if he doesn’t, as long as she finds pleasure?

Her hands slip free of their restraints easily, and she grasps his back for dear life. He’ll feel the marks from her nails in the shower, he’s sure of it. Steve doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until she gasps. His eyes snap open–she’s arching up, chasing her release. He reaches between their bodies to find her clit and rolls it as he thrusts. It’s enough to send her over the edge. She cries out, and it’s all he can do not to come at the sight of her. But he thrusts through her orgasm until she’s whining with sensitivity. She grips his ass.

“Baby–please. It hurts.”

Steve braces himself on his elbows and freezes, kissing her in apology. “Mmm. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You okay?” She nods, kissing him back slowly.

“You need to come.”

“I’m okay.”

“No!” She protests. “I want you to. I have to see it. Please–pull out, I’ll help you.”

The moment he rises up, she’s reaching for him… he can’t think with the way her fingers wrap around him, tugging him ever closer towards his own orgasm. He’s kneeling beside her on the stairs, watching her in rapt awe. She worships him, but she’s too gentle. He tightens her fingers with his to show her that she doesn’t need to be so careful with him. She’s a fast learner. She pumps him with as much care as he showed her, her eyes fixed to his face to catch every little expression of pleasure. When he’s close, he falls down onto his elbow, right at her side. She smiles, and he can’t help but smile back because god, he loves her. She’s everything. He’s never felt so good. He’s soaring. She coaxes him through his orgasm, painting her belly with his come. He turns his teeth into her shoulder to keep from bellowing, which makes her wince and laugh all at once. Then, he lets himself fall fully onto the stairs beside her, so they’re both staring up at the ceiling in awe.

He laughs.

“Yeah… you’re pretty, alright,” she breathes.

“I should’ve gotten you to bed.” He looks over at her. A faint sheen of sweat makes her glow like a goddess, and she shakes her head.

“I think this was as far as we were gonna make it.” She raises her hand to stroke his cheek but she’s shaking a little. Steve takes her hand and kisses it.

“What’s the verdict?” he whispers.

She giggles. “More research required.”

“Do you think the house is bugged?”

“...Not anymore.”

He can’t help but laugh at the innocent smile on her face. “Shit, sweets. You made me hungry. I could really go for those moon pies right about now.”

She beckons him to meet her in a kiss. “After that, baby? I’ll give you the whole moon.”

thanks for reading!

my masterlist - my marvel masterlist

#this is just filth honestly #steve rogers #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers oneshot

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chierafied · 1 year

Text

An Hour of Eternity

Written for @jilychallenge2023 / @jilychallenge, January 2023.

Prompt: First Order mission apart / "I promise I will always come back to you."

Partnered with the fantastic @mppmaraudergirl, her fic is here.

Also on AO3.

James paces the confines of the kitchen, one hand tugging at his hair, the other holding his wand in a white-knuckled grip. His jaw is clenched, his steps quick and curt. In the cramped space between the kitchen counters and the small dining table, he keeps turning sharply around like a razor-edged spinning top.

The drawing room would be better for pacing. James knows that from experience, just as he knows the route along the long drawing room wall by heart. He ambled alongside it countless times just moments ago. Since then, his pace has picked up several notches and he’s retreated to the kitchen. He feels closest to her there.

Before he started to wear down the drawing room carpet with his endless walking, he tried to do other things.

He picked up one of Lily’s books but in the end, it just lay in his lap, forgotten, because the pages kept blurring into a senseless jumble that couldn’t penetrate the anxious haze of his mind. He started to make a cup of tea for himself, but the abandoned mug still lies on the kitchen counter while the water has long since cooled in the kettle. He sat down at the small desk in their tiny study and tried to continue a letter to his mother but his head was too full of darkness for the words to come out right.

He wandered back into the kitchen and stared at the supper laid aside for him. Lily had prepared it for him just that afternoon. He could almost hear the echo of her happy humming in the air. But now she was gone and James’ stomach was churning too ferociously to even consider eating. He wouldn’t be able to swallow a single bite past the jagged shards of dread lodged in his throat. And he couldn’t make himself sit down at the dining table alone, couldn’t face the empty chair from across the table. The absence in the room a palpable manifestation of his greatest fear.

So he began to pace. And though he has been moving for what feels like hours, he hasn’t yet managed to outrun the treacherous what-ifs gnawing at the back of his brain. He hasn’t banished the gruesome images of Lily’s broken body that play on the black canvas of his mind, a hellish nightmare conjured of his own well of worry.

No, running has not helped, but he can’t sit still, either.

The weight of waiting wraps around his feet until his furious steps start to drag. The torture of not knowing is a demon sitting on his shoulder, weaving its forked tail around his throat in a stranglehold while whispering wraiths of terror into his ear.

Time stretches ahead of him, an endless eternity that has lost all its meaning. He can’t even tell how long Lily has been gone. He’s been stuck in this pitch-black purgatory since she kissed him goodbye. She is brave and brilliant and fierce; she can take care of herself and hold her own in a duel. James has first-hand experience with her quick wand arm and inventive curse-work. He knows, better than anyone, how much of a fighter lurks behind her gentle smiles.

He keeps repeating all of this to himself. Reminds himself that the mission Lily’s on is a covert one, anyway, and she’s there as backup. The risk of actual combat is low.

But the fear living inside him is a hungry monster that swallows up all these reassurances. In uncertain times like these, the what-ifs are a deafening roar James can’t ignore.

It will only take a split second. A single curse. A moment of carelessness. A betrayal. An ambush. A trap. Wrong information. One mistake. And Lily’s light might be forever dimmed.

James stops. He braces himself against the kitchen counter and fights to regain the air that’s just squeezed out of his lungs. Battles to keep away the vertigo of loss.

There’s a knock at the door.

James runs out of the kitchen, and through the hall, his heart in his throat. His fingertips brush against the doorknob and he stops. Wand at the ready, pointed at the closed door.

“Who’s there?” James calls out, his voice unsteady.

“It’s me.”

His knees are threatening to buckle at the sweet familiarity of Lily’s warm voice. But the fear still worries his bones until everything inside him only has sharp edges.

“What did I tell you after the first time we kissed?” he asked, staring at the closed door as if he could see through it.

“Well, the first thing you said was ‘wow’. Then you said you could keep kissing me forever so we did that for a while. And later, when you rested your forehead against mine, you told me you’d always prided yourself on your imagination but it must be very poor because none of your daydreams had felt like this.”

The wand drops from James’ nerveless fingers as he yanks the door open. In a second, he takes in the sight of her — the slightly crooked smile, the laughing green eyes and the strands of red hair escaping their braid and haloing Lily’s beautiful face. Then he crushes her to him, buries his face in that hair and breathes her in as his trembling fingers dig into her back.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the silky dark red waves. The relief staggers him and if he wasn’t holding onto her he’d crumple to the ground. Tears sting in his eyes because the fear that has been rampaging in his heart was wrong, the demon on his shoulder had only been spewing lies. Lily’s here, she’s back and she’s safe.

“Thank you for coming back to me.”

She pushes against his shoulders and his grip eases a fraction. She looks up at him, suddenly solemn, and raises her hands to cradle his cheeks.

“I will always come back to you,” Lily promises, and pulls James into a kiss.

#jily #jily fanfic #jily fanfiction #jilychallenge #chie writes #fic: jl

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eldritch-spouse · 2 years

Note

Okay okay okay okay! So, after you made that post about Santi offering a “fun time” up for the other members of the Clergy, I have to request of you at least a drabble (or maybe more?) of us having a threesome with Santi and Patches. I need to know how that would go down. Please and thank you!

-surgery anon

[*cracks knuckles* Finally, time to harass this bitch. Fem reader.]

TW: Scummy behavior, Patches is taken advantage of. (Though he doesn't regret it.)

" That's your plan? Really? " You look at the incubus, who is very clearly thinking with his smaller head, instead of the big one- As usual.

" But of course, Admin. " Santi grins, pacing back and forth inside the break room, which is currently empty save for you and the demon. " Patches won't deny an opportunity to have a drink with you, and if you down a Twister, he definitely will too! He's a lightweight on top of that, we'll have him in our hands in the blink of an eye. "

You hum, watching the large monster clearly excite himself just picturing it all going down. Santi has a point, alcohol makes Patches crumble in moments, he's perhaps the most whorish drunk you've ever seen in your life. And the dullahan knows this, which might make him hesitate to drink, but getting a personal invitation from you would trap him into it immediately. Plus, you're a lot more resistant to alcohol's effects than any monster here, due to Krulu's presence in your body. It's just a matter of waiting, guiding him somewhere adequate and having your way. Easy. Fun even.

You have decided to torture the dullahan again?

Yep. It'll be entertaining this time, you promise.

Well then, do not keep your higher waiting...

Absolutely.

" So- " You begin, interrupting Santi's fevered ranting about how much he's going to enjoy this and how well fucked the two of you will be by the end. " Tell me again, why are we doing this? " The question is nothing more than a tease and you both know it.

The incubus' tail wags and his eyes lid as he crowds you to the wall. " Because I'm going to make you two see stars, love. " He slurs, head dipping to lick the shell of your ear. " Mmm and I think it would be a fantastic bonding experience. "

Yes, that's about as much logic you'd expect from Santi. Still doesn't change the fact that some very base part of you is looking forward to this. And judging by the way the demon laps at his yellow chops, you know he can tell. You lean in, though instead of offering the kiss your coworker was looking forward to, you bite his lower lip and smack a heavy hand upon his ass.

" Oh! Admin-! " He moans out, ever the theatrical whore. " Little minx... I'll put you in your place. "

Your eyes roll on their own accord. You've tamed harder at the behest of your lord, the only challenge here is keeping up. Tsk. " Yes yes, get busy now, find us a room. " And with that, you head out to the ground floor.

[...]

Gallon is pleased to see you, perhaps because this is a relatively slow hour, and he can only rearrange his glasses so many times until boredom starts chewing through his nerves. " Admin, come to visit lonely old me? " The slime mocks, tendrils curling in delight.

" Nope. " A random stool is occupied.

" Heartless. Absolutely heartless. Frigid. I'm desolate- "

" And I'm thirsty. " You interrupt. " Get me two Willows barman. "

The Willow Twister. Quite like a number of other Clergy exclusive drinks, these special cocktails, served in a sort of "coupe" glass and featuring a gentle, pinkish hue, are a very popular product. Why? Well, put simply, they're nothing more than pretty-looking aphrodisiacs, tasty, elegant, expensive- The perfect gift that sends a very particular message, I wanna fuck you silly. Excuse the French.

Nonetheless, it's that pretty thing you're going to get for yourself and the lab rat. Because subtlety is not necessary for someone as desperate as the dullahan.

" Adventurous today, are we? " The bartender muses, already fetching the appropriate utensils. " I'm not sure whether to commend or pity the lost soul that has caught your eye. "

" You're supposed to be nosy with the clients, not your superiors. " You chastise. " Besides, I only have eyes for one, you know that. This is... A playdate. "

" Ah... I see. So, would it be right to assume- "

You clear your throat. " Keep asking questions and I'll throw Fank-e's glitter containers at you. "

Gallon flinches. " ...Noted. "

A little after that exchange, the Twisters are ready, gently placed in front of your stool. You shoo the bartender away, a little insistently, and fetch your phone, sliding into the direct messages of none other than the pumpkin munchkin himself. A single text is sent. "Head up to the bar," it says, "I miss when we talked. <3"

Too on the nose? Yeah, definitely. Will he still show up? Yeah. Definitely.

Such is confirmed when you hear the nearest elevator ding. That was fast. Oh, you can picture it now, Patches getting the message, throwing his papers away, making a mad dash out the lab with those goofy boots he's always wearing. Hilarious. Poor guy, he's been going through some weird phases lately.

We are partly at fault for such.

Well, yes. Is that bad? Should this be stopped?

Are you blind, lamb? He enjoys the game more than we do.

Fair. Plausible. True, probably.

That conversation will have to wait for later, because the subject of your mild pity is currently in front of you.

" A-Admin, miss! " He... He's standing by your side like some soldier. Is he going to sit on his own? You let a couple of silent seconds pass. Doesn't look like it. Hm, maybe you and your worship really have been taking it a little harshly on him.

" Have a seat, dear. " You begin, tapping the stool. A cheshire grins spreads on your cheeks. " I got us some drinks while I waited. "

It's in that exact moment that you get to bask in the dullahan's facial expression, that vegetable head that should never be able to emote yet manages to be more expressive than real flesh at times. He goes through a myriad of emotions in an amusingly quick span of time. Shock. Disbelief. Confusion. Doubt. Vulnerability. Acceptance and embarrassment. You're not a wraith, but maybe you're starting to understand why Nebul thinks certain emotions are so delicious. Patches does sit down, after gazing at the fancy drinks like a lost mule in a desert.

" You uh- Didn't have to... " He muses quietly, dragging the offer towards himself regardless. There's a faint glimmer of infatuated hope in those pinprick "pupils", something that almost tugs at your heartstrings, considering what you're about to do to him.

But then, you think, you do love him. You love all of them. Perhaps not in the same deep, overwhelming way you covet and desperately need your lord, but there is definitely a mildly possessive affection within you for every staff member, Patches included. It's a different form of love, perhaps not the one he wants, yet love nonetheless.

"Oh knock it off, tell me about your day already. "

Conversation unfurls, and while you had to metaphorically tug at the pumpkin man to get him to speak more rather than just make goo-goo eyes at you, it flows steadily, Patches easily drinking alongside you. Truth be told, you do get along with the dullahan, him you and Ludwig have history together, many are the situations that can be looked back upon fondly. The relaxing effects of the Willow Twister certainly help, causing you both to slump slightly, leaning into the other, tossing chaste flirts here and there. His face is colored a seaweed green so dark that you'd think he's getting ripe or something. You have a nice buzz going, though the bulk of the effects are lost on your very resistant metabolism.

" ... And we were thrown out the party because I let Ludwig use my head as a sangria fountain. Again. "

" Holy shit dude- " You wheeze. " Isn't that... Didn't that feel weird for you? " Patches opens his mouth, flushes darker, and closes it wordlessly. You look down, perhaps on reflex, spotting the way his legs cross on the stool. Ah, so he's cracking already. " Guess you've always been a hardcore slut, huh? This really is your place after all. "

Patches shudders visibly, lowering his hat and flashing you an unsubtle leer. " ... I think my place is beneath your heels. "

Heh. So he can dish them out too, what a pleasant surprise.

In the dead air of what essentially amounts to The Clergy's pre-rush hours, no one really notices you sliding a leg between Patches' own, nudging them apart. He lets you, making no effort to hide the twitching length pushing at his purple garbs. The monster man pants, expectantly, his empty glass indicating he's more than ready to get fucked out. And you, well, you've never been too good at keeping your hands off your sluts. So, without shame or hesitation, you cozy up to his stool and lower a hand to the monster's lap, petting his conundrum as if rewarding him for an appropriate reaction.

" I think you're right. "

Patches makes a weak, stifled moan. Though someone picks up on it, the bartender, which has been glancing at you two for a while now. You give the slime a side-glance that reads "mind your business", and he grins, turning away. " A-Ahn, Admin- I- " A very stressed, pleading look is tossed your way, and you know exactly what the dullahan is getting at.

See, a Twister heightens one's sensitivity, naturally. Which makes it really hard to stay quiet. And while you know that the one beside you wouldn't protest much if you chose to debase him in front of a (rather small as of now) crowd, this mock-hesitation is great for your end-goal. " Do you want help, Patches? "

" Mhm, y-yes. " Your hand lifts. " Yes please! " He finally corrects himself.

Time for the killing blow. " And what would you do for that help? " You make it a point to not let him think about the question too much, stroking his length with a lot more pressure, enough to make his hips roll subtly.

" Uhn- Anything! " He whispers.

Hah.

Idiot.

" Get up then. "

" H-Huh? " Cute. You hop off the stool, straightening your clothes and offering him a blatantly predatory grin that makes the dullahan probably second-guess his wording.

" Get up, I got us a place. "

[...]

Santi didn't warn you which room you'd be staying at, so you're going to assume it's the one he usually rents out at The Clergy. It's practically his anyway. Such is confirmed when you exit the elevator, hand wrapped around Patches' own gloved one, and the incubus' door swings open slowly. The thin monster is staring at you wordlessly, like you're a goddess amidst peasants, hard as a fucking rock. Maybe you should get him drunk on Twisters more, he looks downright adorable like this. Dumb little dork.

So intoxicated and infatuated is the pumpkin monster, that he doesn't notice you leading him directly inside the lust demon's room. It's a luxurious looking place, admittedly. All heavy tones of reds, blacks and golds. Laces and silks find their home here, along with an expensive, comparatively massive bed. It's just a tiny bit barebones aside from that, though it hardly matters for the activities that take place within it. Everything about this location evokes eroticism and taboo-ness, as if this were a little rabbit hole safe from all outside elements, an intimate safe space. Or is it just the incubus hormones all over it?

It's the sex demon hormones...

A couple of moments inside, and it seems the dullahan's brain is still sputtering in an attempt to function. " A-Admin, why are we- "

Whatever he's about to say is cut off abruptly by two burly black arms wrapping around not only the dullahan, but yourself as well. You're suddenly encased in a bear hug with the demon who owns said room, yelping in shock.

" Why there you two lovebirds are! I was getting so lonely in here... " The incubus purrs, dropping to place a kiss on both your heads. Patches' hat is quickly flicked off. You and the green monster are glued to the demon enough to feel a hard, barbed length poking at both your backs.

You toss your head back to get a better look at Santi, whose face is clearly flushed a nice red hue. More than he'd usually be in sexual circumstances. Guess he wasn't kidding when he said he was really looking forward to bedding you two. Fucking his coworkers has been in his bucket list for a while, you haven't forgotten his many hints. The demon winks down at you, causing the crux between your legs to pulse. Holy shit.

" S-Santi? But- But we're in the wrong room, what- "

Both you and the demon laugh loudly. " No love, this is the room. " Santi clarifies, moving to the dullahan's side, picking and prodding at his frankly impractical clothes. You can see the flicker of distaste on the demon's eyes as he struggles to find some sort of zipper on the other man's garbs. Dumbass.

You take the moment to soothe Patches, or rather, jab him into letting this happen. " Relax, we just want to help you, dummy. And maybe, you can help us out too, yeah? " It's easier to undo someone's clothes when your brain isn't microwaved into fucking constantly like Santi's, so you get the bulk of the dullahan's clothes off while he makes flustered vocalizations and squirms between the two of you.

" H-Help you? "

" Well, I haven't had dinner yet, Patchy... " The demon starts, groping the other through his tight pants now that the purple work covering is gone. Big fat lie, the incubus never skips a meal. But it works nonetheless.

" You don't want Santi to starve, do you? " There's a grin growing on your face when the dullahan just shakes his head bashfully, legs trembling at the other's firm pawing. You reward him with a kiss, the incubus quickly stealing one from you as well.

Then, you get to see something most curious, when Santi twists the other male's head towards him and allows a long tongue to not only trace at the rim of the green one's left socket, but also shoves it inside none too gently. Gross, invasive. Hot. Patches shudders and tenses, moaning. You're content to watch, until the demon looks at you through long lashes and makes an authoritative nod towards your clothed state. Right.

You've never taken your clothes off faster. Well, perhaps you have, when your higher needed urgent care- But fact of the matter is you're still undressing shamelessly fast right now. No bra today, just the laciest pair of black panties you had lying around, because you recall the demon enjoys those. And Patches, well as long as they belong to you, he'll enjoy them.

There's an approving grunt from the bigger monster, who easily tosses the dullahan onto your grasp after thoroughly drooling into his "eye socket". Patches pants, letting bare hands skim the curves of your body while Santi pulls the rest of his clothes off. It's your turn to be pawed at, tits rolled between heavy hands while a tail barren of its golden rings drags between your legs. You wish it were something else. Patches watches avidly, eyes trained on you, gulping, fingers twitching as if he wants to reach for himself but felt shy about it. You take the moment to make an exaggerated face of delight at him, leaning back into Santi's bulk.

Out of nowhere, a sharp sting of pain to your ass makes you spring upwards with a shriek. Ah, payback... Lord, that's a strong palm.

" Get on my bed. " It wasn't a suggestion.

You tug Patches along, throwing him onto the fluffed mattress first before pouncing on top, kissing at the flustered monster here and there while he throbs beneath you, squirming like the needy thing he is. Thin fingers rise to play with the dough of your rump, trying ever so subtly to make you grind on his length, but you deny him.

A horned shadow is cast over you two, there's no doubt that's Santi. And as soon as you toss your head back, he's there, leering down the same way Morell looks at the piglets in his warehouse, lapping at sharp yellow teeth. You can see it in those bright eyes, he's planning, tail swaying pensively. One can only wonder what type of obscenities must be going through that mind to make him bite his lip and drool precum like a faucet.

Funnily enough, he seems stumped. Like the demon didn't plan this far ahead, and getting you two in the same bed is already more than he expected out of the whole endeavor.

Why do you keep assuming he puts real thought into anything to begin with?

Great point.

You shift then, emboldened, kneeling on the demon's bed, taking his weeping length in hand and sparing him a look nothing short of mischievous. Santi purrs loudly while you pump him generously, appreciating the girth of him and the fluttering barbs on his underside. " What's the matter, big boy, cat got your tongue? "

The other chuffs, a claw rubbing beneath your chin teasingly. " Mmm, hard to speak with your hands on my cock, princess. "

You resist the urge to snort, slipping your index into the demon's slit, catching the way his eyes roll for a second. Hah. " Luckily for you, I can do the thinking for all of us. Get on. "

What you have in mind is nothing wildly out of bounds, something relatively normal to start the night off with. Your panties are tossed aside while Santi settles expectantly on the bed, making a show of dragging the dullahan closer to him so the two can grind at each other like the perverts they are. You cannot get any wetter. Nonetheless, distance is put between them as you weasel to be the center of attention, Santi blanketing your back and the magic caster in front of you.

" I can't... Fuck, I- I can't believe we're doing this. " Patches murmurs, trying to cover his flaming face.

The demon watches curiously while you ghost hands around the green monster's head, giving Patches a lewd and forceful kiss before popping his head off altogether. You can think of many ways to humiliate Patches like this if you wanted, letting Santi fuck his sockets, making him finger his own head-holes while he's getting fucked, there's endless possibilities! But for now, you settle that pumpkin head below you, strategically.

" Enjoy the view, pervert. " You jab, coaxing him to kneel so you can get a better look at his vine-adorned cock. Patches appears to understand what exactly he'll be viewing, as does the incubus, who makes an elated sound behind you.

" Ooh! Clever, we're birds of a feather, Admin. " Santi growls, spreading your cuntlips for the dullahan's eyes. You don't know what to make of that statement, though your capacity to pass judgement is greatly diminished as soon as two fingers are stretching you out. You groan in frustration, as does Krulu in the back of your mind.

" Get inside and fuck me already. "

Worrying about his size is pointless. You've welcomed siadar cock numberless times, Krulu has made sure that your guts can handle a good stuffing, stretching harmlessly.

The demon grins and moans, ecstatic. " Yes ma'am! " You're about to drop your lips around the green monster's shaft before the other interrupts. " One second, love... " A saturated pink curl manifests around Patches' cock, squeezing the base tightly before looping beneath the glans and apparently piercing into his urethra painlessly.

Still makes him keen beneath you though. " A-Ahn-! What- "

" Well sweetheart, can't have you blowing your load as soon as our lovely boss lady gets to work now, can we? " The demon purrs.

" Agreed. "

Watching the magic caster squirm is funny. Even funnier is hearing his gasp-turned-whimper the moment you kiss his cock, taking half of him into you without hesitation. Perhaps, if you weren't so horny, you'd take the time to tease Patches more.

Speaking of Patches, he's getting a great show, Santi's tip parked at your soaked folds, gently pressing in while you spread yourself further and mewl around the other. The moment Santi sinks in is marked by a disgustingly wet sound that rises color to your cheeks.

There's a hiss. " Fffuck me- Tighter than a first! "

Now that you just can't resist commenting on, lifting off Patches' dick with a lurid pop, playing with his balls as compensation when he predictably whines. " Do you say that to everyone you fuck? "

Santi coos, giving you a light piston forward. " Yes. Do I mean it? Sometimes. " You suppose it's not a baseless compliment, considering the incubus' size, most people must be tight for him. The demon bends to speak right into your ear. " Krulu gave you such a hot fucking pussy, I'd die happy buried in you, sweetheart. "

Oh? So your worship altered more than just your ability to stretch.

I only made you as irresistible as you deserve to be.

That alone makes you pulse hard around the bigger monster. It was such a visceral reaction that you're sure even Patches might have been able to see your clit throb from his position. Santi reacts by hilting inside you and drooling with his tongue out, a bestial sort of whore moan echoing from the two of you.

Aroused beyond measure, you resume taking care of the dullahan, forcing your throat to accommodate his entire length- Without much effort, though still a lot of gusto. One hand taps his thigh, encouraging him to move, while the other holds his own. Sappy handholding while you blow your coworker and get railed by a horndog demon... Such is your life. And you love it.

The drag of Santi's barbs across your walls is delicious in a way you fail to describe, making you flutter and buck for more. Each frantic little motion earning you a rumble of pleasure from above. " And they say you need more than one cock these days... " The demon snickers, proud of himself, his next thrust purposely deep and slow to make you feel every bump.

Lord fuck, you're gonna cum.

Several times, in fact. Make this worth my time, chosen.

Why, you'd never disappoint.

Apparently, your near-rhythmic moaning is driving someone wild. Patches, who has gone well past the point of orgasm and is keening desperately to the sight of you getting plowed, has lost all inhibition.

" Fffuck- Please! Ah- I c-can't take it! " He cries. You're willing to bet he's actually crying.

" Aww, really? Not even just a tiny bit longer? " Santi mocks, fucking into you hard enough to make your eyes roll back. You can hardly keep up on Patches.

" N-No! Just let me- Mmff- Let me cum! I'll f-fucking die. "

Dramatic whore.

No shit, he likes humiliating himself.

The incubus apparently cannot resist torturing him further. And honestly, who can? " That bad, love? "

" I ah- I need it! " The sounds he's making are pathetic enough that you almost feel bad. " I need it- Admin gh- Fuck! "

Through the growing pleasure, you buck particularly hard against Santi, telling him to let the poor loser blow his load already. He might actually lose his mind. Santi does not care, flicking your clit instead.

" Hmm, it does sound frustrating... " The demon grins, making it a point to take his time and showing Patches how much fun he's having buried inside you while the other has to watch, unable to so much as orgasm.

" S-Santi PLEASE- "

Those seem to be the magic words, because the incubus glues himself onto your body and grabs the back of your head, pushing it even harder against the dullahan, your nose mushed to his pelvis. Your eyes water, thoroughly stuffed from both ends, feeling the magic growth around Patches' length dissipate.

" Cum then, needy slut, we have a long night ahead of us. "

The green monster moans his relief, repositioning so he can fuck your face, Santi helping him along by bobbing you on the other's cock. It only takes a couple of frenzied bucks for Patches to howl loudly and cram himself as deep down your throat as he physically can, pulsing globs of seed into you. His pathetic look, the shameless noises, and the goosebump-inducing sensation of Santi licking the back of your neck in silent praise trigger your own climax.

Finally...

Shivering and tearing up, your sight falters for a moment as you rise to cry out, hearing your own worship groan in the back of your mind. It's a powerful orgasm, leaving you glazed and disoriented, only able to register Santi's cock still drilling into you, and the several ropes of cum Patches has unknowingly marked your face with.

Good job so far, lesser.

Krulu praises. Perfect, perfect, you're being good, you're being so good-

Suddenly, you're yanked up, hitting the incubus' back while he uses both arms to secure you, pistoning fast enough to bounce you. You only register shards of broken praise and obscene compliments, muddled brain focused on the feel of the demon's tongue cleaning the jizz off your face. His pace falters, and with a strained snarl, he hilts, caging you further. Santi moans and pants freely on the back of your head as a generous jet of lust demon cum fills you up.

Perhaps, if you had never slept with a big monster before, you would have been worried by the way your lower abdomen distends a bit.

As is, you can only giggle drunkenly, observing it squelch out of you whenever the rumbling demon rolls his hips. Patches' head stares up at you two, mesmerized in desire, though quickly stained by your mixed fluids. Hah, karma.

You're gently lowered onto the sheets, sprawling out in satisfaction and getting to see the incubus offer the same cleaning treatment to the dullahan before screwing his head back on. The sensation of thick, pearly cum oozing out of you is marvelous, and given it comes from a lustful demon, it'll only be a matter of minutes until the fluid revs you up again.

" C'mere... " You lazily invite the dullahan over for a cuddle.

Santi gets in the middle, holding you two to his chest, a very self-satisfied and smug grin on his admittedly handsome features. Huh, his tits do make for great pillows.

After a couple of blissful seconds, the demon hums. " So, on a scale of 'wow you're so hot' to 'I'll never fuck better', how would you two rate this experien- "

Immediate groaning.

" Santi no- " " Just shut up- "

#Patches oc #Santi oc #pinnie's art #Krulu oc #monster x reader #yandere teratophilia #yandere monster #minors dni

196 notes · View notes

anjumstar · 11 months

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anjum’s bkdk recs 19

Ten more (complete) sfw bkdk fic recs. If you read any of these and enjoy them, lmk! And, more importantly, let the authors know with a comment! Plus, send me your recs, and maybe they’ll make the next list!

Legend

hyperlinked title by author | word count

Genre warning(s): where relevant Summary/review

💚🧡 = fave

Recs are under the cut, organized by word count, low to high.

51. Sheets by baku_bean | 2.1k

general A cute little pre-relationship fic with our boys. It’s short, sweet, and simple, but it suits them well.

52. X Marks the Spot by sobashouto (snowandfire) | 3.3k

fluff This feels like the fic that takes place just after the happy ending. And things are still happy! Bkdk have just started dating and Deku gives Baku the gift of some homemade Dynamight merch. The boys are silly and bad at this and them.

53. be loved by bonnia | 5.4k

fluff, hurt/comfort Baku has ptsd after Dabi kidnapped him in the forest training, and Deku helps him work through those struggles with physical touch. Not very angsty, yes very cute.

54. song on a policeman’s radio by ohwickedsoul | 6.6k

angst, drama warning: MCD This was an interesting mixed media fic! It’s an amalgam of article intros, tweets, and court reports. It’s a toughie, don’t miss that MCD tag (like I did, lol), but its unique style captures lots of relationships in a succinct way, and it feels very professional in terms of the court-speak, although, I’m certainly no expert!

55. What Was Missing by Randstad | 8.2k

general, fluff Bakugou gets hit with an honesty quirk, but he has some things he’s not quite ready to be honest about. Yet, being honest feels a bit better than he thought? Lovely prose and a good balance of Baku’s character. Definitely focused on him, but good moments from Deku too.

56. Not All Heroes Wear Capes by vulcanhighblood | 11k

pining, fluff Fake dating…kind of? Deku is suddenly a great subject of interest to the paparazzi and Baku intervenes in many ways and they start spending more time together. Baku is appropriately immature and selfish and selfless and Deku pushes back on and off against Baku’s behavior. It’s fluff that doesn’t just rot your teeth—there’s proper balance.

57. close but not quite by blossomshed | 13.9k

action/adventure, romance Okay, this one had extra special bonus good characterization. It had details from Katsuki that absolutely have canon basis, but that I so rarely see drawn on in fic, and I was floored. This is a classic “Deku gives Baku OFA via kissing” fic, featuring acespec!Katsuki trying to figure out what the heck kissing is about. So much explored in so little. Fantastic.

58. invincible by supercrunch | 20k

action/adventure warning: non-graphic human trafficking An interesting canon-divergence, here! The sludge villain never goes after Katsuki, so Izuku never goes to UA. And he falls into a pit of depression. With only a bit of parental nudging, Katsuki goes to help, and his idea? To start being vigilante partners together. I found it to be a compelling alternate view for them!

59. we will wait and wait in that space by roadtripwithlucifer | 22k 💚🧡

angst warning: MCD, manga spoilers ch367 Okay, only read this one if you’re ready for the real real hurt. Because know that it has an uplifting ending, it is not needless pain, but I, the robot of the bkdk fandom, cried real tears with this one. It twists the most beautiful knife and has some of the best Deku characterization to date. And such gorgeous love. It is worth the pain, but do not read in public!

60. Sink to Swim by cinnabee | 35.7k

angst warning: big torture, constant suffering for our boys. Remember what I said about the real real hurt? Yeah, that one was the big cry one, this one is the big tension, big whump one. As the warning says, this fic has very explicit, repeated torture in it, the game is basically that the boys have been teleported from UA into a torture maze that they’re trying to find their way out of. I, personally, loved the tension and the pacing, but it’s def not for everyone!

✨ Bonus! ✨

perfect by eggstasy | 2.7k

fluff No bkdk in this one, just Bakugou x 3. It’s Bakugou and his parents from when he’s born to when he develops his quirk and them just loving on him as a little baby, despite him still having some of those, hrm, lesser traits that he has as a teenager. So cute.

more recs can be found here 💚🧡

#anjum recs #bkdk #bakudeku #dkbk #dekubaku #katsudeku #ktdk #bkdkbk #bakudekubaku #dkbkdk #dekubakudeku

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mischief-lies-and-stories · 8 months

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Loki Episode 1 Reactions (Less Coherent Edition)

It's been two and a half years, y'all, and what a start to the new season it was. (I've seen mixed reviews in the tag, but personally the initial reaction is I loved it.) What I apparently forgot in those two years, however, is that my in-the-moment reactions notes are not very coherent. So I apologize in advance if you aren't sure what part the note refers to. I'm going to make another post tomorrow with some more coherent thoughts around the episode and some predictions about the season in general (I'm also going to be rewatching the episode later so that might lend more clarity to the next post as well). I also cut out a chunk of my reactions that were just me screaming a character's name when they showed up, unless it makes sense for the next note to leave it in (and there were a lot of these, since it's been two and a half years since I've seen my friends).

Obligatory spoiler warning if you weren't already expecting them. Prepare for some wildness. I've bracketed [ ] some brief clarifying post-ep notes (not everywhere though).

I'm obnoxious, I'm watching the entire recap.

The editing of this recap is interesting.

The bleak theme is worrying. I don't like it. But I do love the color scheme of the logo.

SYLVIE???!!!

CASEY!!!

Okay hopefully that wasn't Sylvie.

Someone give this boi [Loki] a nap. He's had a very very very long day and it's only getting longer.

What the fuck is happening.

X-5 you've got the haircut of a cop, I've decided I don't like you.

Man, I hope we fix this time-slipping in this episode, it's stressing me out too fucking much.

Oh motherfuck. This is driving me insane. This is Sisyphean torture. [I don't remember what specifically I was referring to, so I don't remember if this is an accurate description.]

OH MY GOD I LOVE LIZ CARR I HOPE SHE STICKS AROUND [Man, Liz Carr is just hopping from franchise to franchise this summer. She's in Loki, Good Omens, The Witcher)

OH SHIT. Renslayer and Kang. If they kiss on tape I'm marking it on the Bingo.

I DESPERATELY want to know what B-15's backstory is. She's a fantastic character and I want to know how she used this personality on the timeline.

Keep that Hitler youth-looking fuck away from my girl!

Oh my god, I'm going to be watching this conversation in the hall between Loki and Mobius over and over, because I love every part of it. The panicking, the teasing, the touching, the making each other feel better. Just the entire debriefing, reuniting conversation is EVERYTHING to me right now.

"In order to do that I need a Loki Who Remains." I love this

"I have no memory of having my memory wiped." Mobius. This is Catherine Tate on Nevermind the Buzzcocks telling David Tennant "I don't know songs I've never heard of" solidarity [I understand I'm making obscure 13+ year old references but this quote lives in my head rent free]

Ugh I HATE time travel. But it makes sense why his name is OB now. Also his door is a circle.

OB IF YOU KILL LOKI I WILL END YOUR CUTE BESPECTACLED FACE FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY "No...wait."

OB IF YOU KILL MOBIUS I WILL PERSONALLY FLAY THE SKIN FROM YOUR OWN BONES

Mobius writing "skin" into the dust on the computer lololololol

WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING JUST LET LOKI CONFESS

OB I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS IF ONE OF THESE BOYS EVEN SEEMS TO DIE AT THE END OF THIS EP

HOW IS HE GONNA HOOF IT BACK IF HE CAN BARELY CRAWL [I started getting really stressed at this point. It's pretty much caps lock from here on out.]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WE'RE GONNA END THIS EPISODE WITH MO BITING IT AND THEN LOKI FIXES IT IN EP TWO AND BRINGS HIM BACK

OR LOKI BITES IT AND THE OTHER WAY HAPPENS

THERE'S ELEVEN MINUTES LEFT BUT I DON'T TRUST MARVEL NOT TO MAKE ELEVEN MINUTES OF CREDITS

MARVEL DON'T MAKE ME CHECK OFF THE CRYING BOX [on the Bingo Card] ON EPISODE ONE

MARVEL

I WON'T BE ABLE TO SLEEP

MARVEL

LOKI

MOBIUS

LOKI

MOBIUS

SYLVIE MY DARLING MY PERFECT LOVE THANK YOU OH MY GOD

How wild is it that Loki comes flying back from the jaws of death itself and saves Mobius from getting his skin ripped off and they land on the floor of the TVA in each other's arms, and the first thing Loki does is bring up his ex-girlfriend [I wouldn't classify Sylvie as this, but I'm being tongue-in-cheek, and Mobius did accuse Loki of falling for himself in season 1, so]

OKAY BUT I WAS RIGHT THAT WAS SYLVIE AT THE BEGINNING [Before you reply, remember I can't respond to those, and also I forgot that was the past and at the end Loki's in the future. HOWEVER, I do still think that was Sylvie at the beginning.]

SHE IS IN BROXTON HELL YEAH WHOEVER FIGURED THAT OUT (I don't remember who that was) FOUR FOR YOU HOLY SHIT

Oh Sylvie :(((

#i'm sorry for how long and incoherent this is but i'm stubborn and i'm posting it anyway #loki #loki tv show #loki season 2 #sylvie laufeydottir #mobius m mobius #loki season 2 spoilers #loki tv show reactions

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deadcactuswalking · 22 days

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REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 04/05/2024 (Taylor Swift, Tommy Richman, Kendrick Lamar's "euphoria")

Just a week after her album’s impact, Taylor’s been dethroned by… Sabrina Carpenter! She grabs her first #1 on the UK Singles Chart with the smash hit “Espresso” and welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS!

content warning: language, Yeat praise

Rundown

As always, let’s start with the notable dropouts, which are songs exiting the UK Top 75 - that’s what I cover - after five weeks in the region or a peak in the top 40. Now this week, we bid adieu to: “The Tortured Poets Department” by Taylor Swift (it got three-song-ruled and dropped out from #3, more on that later), “act II: date @ 8” by 4batz featuring a remix by Drake (not his best week, more on that later), “Von dutch” by Charli XCX, “Kitchen Stove” by Pozer, “Whatever” by Kygo and Ava Max, “Murder on the Dancefloor” by Sophie Ellis-Bextor and FINALLY, “Lovin’ on Me” by Jack Harlow.

As for our gains, we see healthy boosts for “Pedro” by Jaxomy, Agatino Romero and the late Raffaella Carrá at #60, “Outside of Love” by Becky Hill at #54, “Evergreen” by Richy Mitch & the Coal Miners at #46, “The Sound of Silence” by Disturbed at #42 (yeesh), “These Words” by Badger and Natasha Bedingfield at #22, “I Don’t Wanna Wait” by David Guetta and OneRepublic at #20 - I guess obvious covers and remixes have a good week - then finally, a song hitting the top 10 I’m personally very happy with: “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” by Shaboozey at #6. #1 incoming? Please?

We also continue to see the rise or, rather, resurgence of Amy Winehouse’s catalogue due to the biopic, with “Valerie” with Mark Ronson at #38, “Back to Black” at #39, and a re-entry for “Tears Dry on Their Own” at #49, which peaked at #16 when Ye’s “Stronger” was #1 in 2007. On that same album, he says he hates Nazis, look how far we’ve come. Anyways, “Tears Dry” contains a sample of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”, made famous by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, which didn’t chart in its original form for the longest time here. It peaked at #6 in 1970 but only in the form of a cover by Diana Ross, whose version charted whilst Freda Payne’s “Band of Gold” was #1 - just shows that we don’t really remember the bigger hits of the time. The Boys Town Gang reached #46 with their cover in 1981, Whitehouse and Jocelyn Brown both charted with covers coincidentally in August of 1998 - they peaked at #60 and #35 respectively - and finally, the original first charted at #80 in 2013, amazingly still its peak, and briefly re-entered earlier this year. “Tears Dry” itself was sampled the last time Amy made the top 40 in 2023, with Skepta’s #28-peaking tribute “Can’t Play Myself”.

As for our top five this week, we start in the dregs with “i like the way you kiss me” by Artemas at #5, “Beautiful Things” by Benedict Cumberbatch at #4, “Too Sweet” by Hozier at #3, then of course Taylor Swift’s “Fortnight” featuring Post Malone at #2 and “Espresso” at #1. It’s an interesting one today, folks, with a lot of unique and frankly, fantastic stuff to cover, so let’s start with… Kygo?

New Entries

#75 - “For Life” - Kygo and Zak Abel featuring Nile Rodgers

Produced by Kygo, Nile Rodgers, Ollie Green and Franklin

I’m honestly a bit surprised Kygo is still notching chart hits, especially without a big name attached this time. Sure, Nile Rodgers is a legend, but he’s doing so much dance-pop garbage in his later years that I don’t think many people check specifically for his collaborations, so there’s got to be something in this that’s unique, right? Aaaaaaand it’s a sample. It’s a nostalgia bait sample of a 2000s EDM track because of course it is. French house act Modjo debuted with “Lady - Hear Me Tonight”, which spent two weeks at #1 in 2000 and is an absolute classic I still return to today, even if Modjo were basically a one-hit wonder. “Lady” of course is built on a sample of “Soup for One” by Rodgers’ own band CHIC, which comes from a 1982 soundtrack album, never charted and kind of been eclipsed by “Lady”, largely because the original is honestly pretty bad, uninteresting and surprisingly stiff for an 80s funk track, with some of the weakest and most slap-dash implementation of synths. “Lady” really took the best parts of that song - its undeniable guitar melody, that isn’t even put to great use in the original - and constructed an entirely new, incredible song out of it. So I can’t tell if it’s pathetic and desperate for Rodgers to try and reclaim it, or something that speaks to the power of musical transformation. Oh, what am I kidding? It’s Kygo, it’s just kind of boring. It’s a rote piano house track that goes for the same tropical atmosphere Kygo has been doing for years - a lot of the same festival synths are there, it’s all full of bubbly swooshing that actively sound like pastel colours. The only real hook of the song is taken from Modjo and re-sang by Zak Abel, with slight lyric modifications taken from the “I’m Good (Blue)” department of refusing to allow for fun in your dance songs, and even that just feels desperate. What did Nile Rodgers even do here, man? Sign a legal document saying you can use the hook? It’s not even his Goddamn hook.

#69 - “Solo” - Myles Smith

Produced by Peter Fenn

Myles Smith is a singer-songwriter I hadn’t heard of until today but has been active since at least last year and is making at least some consistent buzz so I was interested to see what his first slow-burning chart hit here has to offer and… are we just, IN, 2012, 2013 now? We had festival house with the last song, the next song is heavily Yeezus-inspired, and this is a full-on Aloe Blacc stomp-rock song. It isn’t bad either - I actually had to get used to hearing his richer voice on this kind of scattered clap-stomp-holler folk track, and whilst this is nothing unique given the solemn pianos, spattering of strings and of course, that jingling indie folk rolick, that doesn’t feel particularly organic on this one, it still is far from bad. The lyrics are somewhat generic but not in an awful way, and the “so low”/”solo” double meaning is somewhat clever or at least, would be if in the context of the song, they actually meant separate things. It’s a bit annoying that it’s the main conceit because both have negative connotations for Mr. Smith here, so it just feels like he’s repeating himself rather than elaborating on his feelings or presenting a dichotomy. I imagine it’ll be a lost on a few people due to botched execution, which bothers me because it was an active attempt at clever songwriting that gets kind of lost in sonic translation. This sounds like I’m picking apart the song’s flaws but it is really just a fine little woodlands jams with a great singer, infectious hook and by the end, a damn fine melodramatic string section. I can see it growing on me, especially due to its gorgeous outro, but for right now, I’m somewhat lukewarm, not going to raise a fuss if it ends up smashing though and in a Noah Kahan world, I suppose it’s quite likely.

#64 - “If We Being Real” - Yeat

Produced by Synthetic, Radiate, Fendii, LRBG, Perdu and Dreamr

So terrible news: I like Yeat now. I’m still not granting him his silly little umaluts, and I won’t go too in-depth here, mostly because there’s another song worthy of in-depth analysis, and every piece Yeat’s put out fits into the jigsaw of the album’s narrative as a whole… it would require a lot more time and space, and frankly words, that I’m willing to give #64. No track feels unnecessary on 2093, the atmosphere is consistent across all 24 tracks, and lyrically, it’s a concept album, which I would have never expected from Yeat and he pulls it off brilliantly both sonically and thematically without straining himself to areas he probably couldn’t reach like trying to be super lyrical or stepping away from rage pads. Given the album’s experimentation and length, I wasn’t surprised by the lukewarm commercial reception, but I did at least expect maybe the songs with Future, Wayne or Drake on the deluxe, to have charted by now, when this hasn’t even happened in the US. So when the penultimate track on an album that’s over an hour in its standard issue becomes his first solo hit in the top 75, I have to assume TikTok virality is involved.

Regardless, I’m glad it’s here because it’s brilliant. Sonically as a separate track, it’s one extended verse over a corrupted industrial beat that cracks in right after a mystical intro full of textured but meandering strings, that get swooshed out of existence by a cinematic, malfunctioning clunker incorporating Yeat’s inhuman ad-libs, manipulated behind vocal recognition, into infectious loops within the beat. This is one of few songs - another’s coming later - where I can understand the sheer amount of producers. Lyrically, the title refers to Yeat or more accurately, his psychopathic billionaire character, attempting to shed some of his CEO veneer and ultimately failing, adopting a lot of the violent, power-hungry rhetoric the rest of the album relies on, making it a pretty ironic and depressing title, especially when considering its place in the rest of the album, coming right before the… actually honest and heartbreaking closer, “1093”. In the backhalf of this album, Yeat’s bragging sounds increasingly monotone and routine, and him rapping in and out of distorted filters or going up and down from his traditional murmur to a choking yell, exemplifies how sick and tired he is of the lyfestyle he curated for himself. This song in particular ends with him barely on beat for a beat that doesn’t even really have a beat, becoming a factorial ambiance more so than anything coherently rhythmic. I have no idea why this song in particular is going viral - it doesn’t have a chorus or even really some of the catchier, more potent lyrics on the album, and its beat barely functions as such for the vast majority of the song - Hell, it’s not even one of the album’s integral moments like the opener, “Bought the Earth”, “ILUV”, “Shade”, “Riot & Set it off”, or really countless others, but I’m not complaining because the sound design, the care placed into thematic and narrative consistency, it’s all still here. This is a 10/10 album, and if this song gets more people to check it out, I really can’t be upset with that.

#58 - “Love Me JeJe” - Tems

Produced by Guilty Beatz and Spax

So what’s “Love Me JeJe” actually mean? Well, in Nigerian Pidgin, it means “gentle” or “tender”, and the use of a more regional term rather than the English actually contributes greatly to why I think this song works: Tems’ buttery voice has always been able to display both coldness and a sensual warmth, often at the same time, but on some of the bubbliest guitars I’ve heard over an Afrobeats rhythm since the genre started charting consistently, she’s fully in that second category. Hell, most of the lyrics are pretty basic here, especially the practically meaningless chorus, but that’s to its benefit because thinking too much about this song defeats its purpose: to be gentle. It’s a frankly adorable expression of love and care at its most optimistic extent possible. Despite the clean, tropical percussion, it still feels cute and homegrown. Hell, the second verse, after a nice back-and-forth choir vocal, even references the Nigerian electricity provider that’s apparently nationally infamous for its power outages, with the lyric comparing the love she feels with her partner to the feeling when electricity comes back on in the village and all her neighbours inform the locals. Combine that with how breezy this is, the easy-flowing bridge into an outro full of murmuring, chatter and reverb-drenched laughing, it just makes for a really cute, likeable song. Not necessarily what I expected out of a lead single from Tems, but a delightful surprise. Now to balance that with pure hatred.

#50 - “euphoria” - Kendrick Lamar

Produced by Cardo, Kyuro, Sounwave, Johnny Juliano, Yung Exclusive and Matthew “MTech” Bernard

There’s part of me that finds it quite funny that Drake gets into serious beef with an incredibly analytical and perfectionist rapper like Kendrick right after putting out his own exposé of himself. For All the Dogs is as much of a dissection of Aubrey Drake Graham, albeit perhaps unintentionally, as Kendrick or really anyone could perform, as long as you’re paying attention. It’s been like that (no pun intended) for a while, but his latest is the most obvious and desperate attempt at clinging to status and image that it places his insecurities fully on display. You could recite lyrics from that album on a jazz beat and call it a diss track, so the fact that Kendrick went back to back with damn near dissections of Drake’s paranoia - especially on the Instagram follow-up track he made that is chilling - as well as a myriad of different issues he has with Drake, simply because… well, he doesn’t fuck with Drake. One could argue that this feud is complex and storied, with so many different beligerents… but the motives behind it are genuinely a lot simpler than most rap feuds, and the diss tracks that are made from it are way more straightforward. They just outline the reasons they dislike each other, almost systematically, it’s genuinely refreshing, or at least a lot more than what’s going on with Quavo and Chris Brown, yeesh.

This track in particular is as calculated as can be, acting as a dissertation on why K-Dot doesn’t really like Drake too much. It’s condescending, damn near academic, with its smooth jazz intro and categorical shoot down of each possible avenue you could hit Drake from. We have sextuple entendres on this thing, a total of three beats, two of which are cheap-sounding but absolutely murderous drill bangers, and Genius annotations that rival War and Peace when combined. I’m not a lyrical expert, and there’s so much in here that I didn’t get until I was pointed towards that direction by Genius annotations, Reddit, X, or, embarrassingly, YouTube Shorts. You don’t need to research or analyse for this to hit hard though, there are plenty of lines that aren’t going over anyone’s heads… until you look into the exact way the bars are constructed and suddenly they have 20 double meanings and hidden easter eggs. This is really sheer venom, filled with so many layers that I wouldn’t be surprised if he genuinely wins a GRAMMY for it - and it would be in character considering Drake doesn’t even nominate his songs anymore. It’s already having an effect too, that 4batz album came out today, and he’s not signed to OVO as rumoured. Ye’s on the record… but not the already existing and heavily-streamed Drake remix. Already, he may be losing some of that prestige.

As far as it is sonically, it’s six minutes of murder, and Kendrick’s delivery is energised, violent, damn near deranged at times, to perfectly balance how, somewhat subtly through his meta commentary about his own bars and albums, the lyrics are basically an essay. It has an introduction, a conclusion, a hypothesis, written examples, he even presents counter-arguments and weaves them into his own analysis. By the time he was going extremely in-depth about his experiences as a father, and just repeating that Drake knows nothing about that, it almost felt like overkill. My personal favourite lines and ideas presented here are the concise slow dagger of the intro verse, the “Demun”/”throwaway” scheme, the voice and character he puts on between “Cutthroat business” and “I’ll explain that phrase” - he’s like a disappointed teaching assistant, obviously the YNW Melly line and its set-up, the incredible Daft Punk line that got a cackle out of me on first listen, then followed up by a mocking interpolation of one of Drake’s most revered songs, the straightforward rant about everything he hates that references an iconic moment of DMX’s trademark honesty (rest in peace), the “record” scheme in verse three, and when he started the fake Canadian accent, I just lost it. Drake’s biggest weakness here is that when he’s funny, I’m laughing at him, but when Kendrick’s funny, I’m laughing with him, and much louder. If he does respond, unless the man tells us that Kendrick’s whole life and career has been a farce, or he brings, like, the actual former President Obama on the track or something, I can’t see how it tops this. This is one of the best diss tracks ever in terms of sheer detail, and might honestly be one of the greatest throwaway rap singles period. It’ll be tough to beat.

#31 - “MILLION DOLLAR BABY” - Tommy Richman

Produced by Max Vossberg, Jonah Roy, Mannyvelli, Sparkheem and Kavi

This is the sudden breakout hit for Virginia rapper-turned-singer Tommy Richman, which actually comes in two versions on Spotify, the original and a more distorted “VHS” version. Also, this is brilliant. Sure, Richman just sounds like Brent Faiyaz, but a trend I haven’t been able to talk about on here necessarily but has been very exciting for me is the return of grittier, groovier synth funk and hyphy beats into underground hip hop and R&B, with this representing the more melodic end of that sound, which is typically restricted to Midwest and Dirty South rappers. The sound design on this one is actually even unique to that sound, starting with a bizarrely British-sounding Memphis rap vocal loop which I think isn’t a sample and is just him doing a bad impression, filtered below an infectious beat that actually took me by surprise. It even has cowbells and the type of punchy jabbing drums that I love from classic southern rap, but instead of the smooth-talking rappers you usually expect over this, we get a Brent Faiyaz impression that didn’t click with me until hearing this song. I never really got his appeal until I hear it over this and I start to realise the very distinct new jack swing element to his vocals, as he pretty seamlessly transitions from soulful double-tracked harmonies to much more rhythmic, half-rap flows. Now this ISN’T Brent Faiyaz… and I still don’t really like Brent Faiyaz, but hearing his wannabes I think helped me gather what was distinct about him, and the literal Richman North of Richmond here pitting his filtered splatter of vocal ideas and riffs over the beat in a very Devil-may-care fashion exemplifies the elements I do like about him, just with an instrumental that I personally like a lot more. Also, the VHS version is labelled as such but is really just like a bass-boosted version of the song that sounds like it was done in 10 seconds in Audacity, though the vocal mixing sounds a bit different too. I would love for someone to explain why that was the version I ended up adding to my playlist, because I couldn’t tell you.

#8 - “I Can Do It with a Broken Heart” - Taylor Swift

Produced by Jack Antonoff and Taylor Swift

I know I wrote my whole Taylor spiel last week, but I’m not bothered about this one at all, and I really did expect it to be a fan favourite, mostly because, as the one track I actually enjoy on the standard version, she’s having fun! The lyrics are actively vapid, which doesn’t feel like the intention when she’s singing over soppy adult contemporary but very much feeds into the almost childish character she plays here over synthpop with an actual pulse. The synths here sound like a theme park she’s taking the boy to, especially with the backing vocals and chatter samples implemented into the ambiance and classic Antonoff wonky synths - though some of this doesn’t even sound like it’s in his ballpark. Like were Marian Hill or Sofi Tukker ghost-producing this? Some of these loop choices and flashy sound effects are frankly ridiculous, in the best way of course because the song is camp and fun. Sure, some of Taylor’s lyrics still come off a bit awkward, mostly because of her choice of slower melodies sometimes clashing with the fast-paced patter of the synthscape, but that’s a nitpick. I do love this song, I think it’s fun, Hell, I think it’s funny which is something Taylor has always kind of failed to translate to me in the past, so that is something. I just don’t think we have the same sense of humour. Does she like Norm Macdonald? I don’t feel like she does. Correct me if I’m wrong, Swifties.

Conclusion

It should be incredibly obvious who gets Best of the Week, it’s Kenny, easily, with “euphoria”, and I’m sorry, Swifties, but Yeat better. “If We Being Real” takes away with the Honourable Mention pretty easily as well, though really, strong competition and strong week all around - Tems was close too. There can’t be a Dishonourable Mention in this climate so, Worst of the Week goes to Kygo and Zak Abel for “For Life” that “features” Nile Rodgers, it genuinely just is a lazy template of a song. As for what’s on the horizon, I’m not sure. Dua’ll have some impact, but outside of that, time may have to tell. For now, thank you for reading, long live Cola Boyy, and I’ll see you next week!

#uk singles chart #song review #pop music #kendrick lamar #drake #taylor swift #kygo #zak abel #nile rodgers #yeat #tommy richman #tems #myles smith

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