#might do a part two if anything else gets leaked | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sanriovin · 4 months

Text

Home Alone, or so you thought.

@evacoule I PROMISE TO FINISH PART TWO TO THIS AS SOON AS I CAN 😻😻😻

CW: masturbation / solo sex, sex toys - dildo, vibrator, clit suction toy, vouyerism, pornography, Gojo getting off to the sight of us masturbating, Gojo beginning to get a little handsy, use of pet names / nicknames, might be a few more???

A quiet and relaxing day, or so it seemed. No tasks at hand, no missions, nothing. A break day, it could be considered to some, yet to you, it was boredom. Of course, you appreciated the break from work and errands, yet, the day seemed so dull and plain with nothing to do. Even things that normally entertained you, such as movies, books, or your phone, seemed so irrelevant and useless right now.

Slumped on the couch, head resting on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of frustration and boredom, you desperately wanted to find something to do. Anything. It felt as if you’ve read through every article online, seen every movie ever made, and read every single book you could physically get your hands on. What else could there be for you to do?

Your mind continued wandering, groans of annoyance slipping from your lips. Your eyes wandered the room, searching for something to entertain you; something to fill that empty and blank feeling in your mind.

Your boyfriend wasn’t home, so even talking to him wasn’t an option. Most likely being on a mission, meaning his phone would be off or on silent, making your calls go unheard. The lack of his presence at home these days made you feel lonely and bored. Missing him dearly, desperate to see those cerulean eyes again, which brought a feeling of intimidation and fear to others, yet to you, comfort and warmth. The way those eyes of his softened whenever he looked at you, or spoke with you, that smooth voice of his to you, it made your heart flutter.

And not only loneliness and boredom was caused by the lack of his presence at home.

You were a woman with a high sex drive.

It wasn’t your fault that you had been feeling sexually frustrated. You boyfriend wasn’t home to fuck you, so the feeling of neediness and desperation only grew. And of course, you could masturbate, but that was a last resort option, as it humiliated you deeply. And it seemed like you could never do it right yourself. It just never felt as good as having Satoru’s cock buried deep inside your pussy, prodding at your sweet spot, causing moans and whimpers to escape from your lips. The feeling of his long, slender fingers, rubbing against your clit, flicking at the little sensitive bud on your vulva, causing you to clench tightly around his dick, making groans leave his mouth as his pace sped up, oh how you missed that feeling.

The mere thought of Satoru pounding into you roughly sent tingles down to your pussy, a wetness that leaked out from you leaving a wet stain on your panties. Just how long would it take for Satoru to finally come back and fuck you?

The desperate feeling of needing to feel some sort of sweet release remained, only getting worse with every second that passed. You were getting tempted to masturbate, to ease the pressure, even if only by a little. You were so desperate and needy, that even going through the humiliation caused by masturbation was worth it if it meant getting rid of some of the sexual frustration that was felt within you. The real question was, would you do it though? Would you even manage to get off?

Satoru Gojo, your beloved boyfriend, was what some people would consider a ‘porn addict’ back in the day. Probably having watched every single video he could get his hands on, binning tissue after tissue until the box of them became empty. His knowledge on the topic of pornography and sex was impeccable. It should have concerned you, really, but instead, it made you feel slightly relieved in a way. At least one of you had prior experience with sex and such before the relationship.

You, however, had never watched porn in your life. No idea of how the videos looked, what the actors starring in the videos were like, nothing. Hell, you didn’t even know the names of porn websites, or how they looked. You were the more clueless one. That was one thing that Satoru loved about you; how he managed to be the one to corrupt your sweet innocence.

You had contemplated your decisions for a while, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in thought, only the faint sounds of your breathing being heard, as you pondered about what choice of action to take. Either remain sexually frustrated, or get off. It didn’t take long for you to decide. But you wondered, would you really be able to get off without any visual or audible aid?

But would you also stoop as low as to go watch porn to help you get off?

Wouldn’t that be considered immoral as someone’s girlfriend?

But would he really have to know? He’s done it before.

You sighed, conflicted in what to do, before shaking your head, standing up, wandering off to grab your phone, being put on charge previously, a plan forming in your mind. One that would leave you humiliated, yet also one that would most likely relieve some of the sexual tension you had been feeling lately.

Reaching your room, you opened the door with a firm push of the handle, your room being revealed to the naked eye. Slightly messy, but that was to be expected. You almost immediately spotted two things; your phone, which was plugged into your charger, and a box under your bed, a black box, medium sized, hiding secrets unknown to others except yourself and a few of your friends.

As a gift for your birthday a few years back, your friends thought it would be a smart idea to gift you sex toys. Yes, sex toys. What did they expect you to do with them? You weren’t some horny teenager, at least, you didn’t act like one at that time. These days, your sex drive was high and healthy. Yet, the amount of times you had used the toys they gifted you was…

Zero.

You never had the confidence to use them, your fingers being embarrassing enough for you. Satoru didn’t know you owned the toys, and it was probably for the best. Knowing him, if he knew, he would tease you for days on end, hell, maybe even months, years if he didn’t get bored. You definitely didn’t need that.

For those reasons, you kept the box stored away, beneath your bed, out of the sight of others, to prevent unnecessary awkwardness and embarrassment for both you, and other people. Yet today, you would finally bring the box out and open it, revealing its secrets to the outside world.

With much hesitation, you knelt down onto the ground, breath hitched in your throat as you slid your duvet up, which draped over the edges of your bed, exposing the space beneath your bed to the room. Hands trembling slightly as you reached for the box, sliding it out from under, a soft noise heard as the box swept across the carpeted floor, coming to a halt in front of you. Your cheeks burnt red with humiliation, almost regretting the idea. Key word, almost.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you kept in, trying to take a few more deep breaths to calm your nerves. This was a normal thing, no need to be so embarrassed, right? That’s what you tried telling yourself, yet, it did little to calm the nerves racing through you, making you more and more hesitant and unsure to continue with your plan.

After moments upon moments of deciding whether or not to open the box, you gave up, ripping off the bandaid, pulling off the lid of the black box. You laid your eyes upon a variety of sex toys, varying in size, shape, and colour. Your eyes widened in shock, left breathless, jaw agape, taking in the sight before you, trying to process it inside your mind. You didn’t even know what most of the toys were used for, hell, you didn’t even know their names. You were left speechless, voice disappearing as soon as your fingers slid across the matte box lid.

Your grip on the lid loosened, as it fell onto the carpeted floor, a soft ‘thud’ being heard as it landed, then it went silent. Too silent. Your sight never left the box full of toys, as you slowly, almost involuntarily, reached for the phone which lay on your bed, unplugging it from the charger, bringing it to yourself. You gulped nervously, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat, and turned the phone on, typing on the browser with shaky hands, your finger pads barely meeting the letters on the keyboard without misspelling words.

You never thought you would do this, but here you were, searching up porn websites, acting like a horny teenager. You were nervous, embarrassed, yet in spite of that, a small, yet noticeable, feeling of excitement pooled in your abdomen, your thighs clenching together subconsciously.

You stared at your screen, lost in thought, your eyes glazed over as you thought about whether or not you should enter the website. A death grip on your phone, cheeks flushed red, breathing heavy and laboured, heart pounding, and the arousal felt in between your legs only growing stronger and more unbearable, pleading, no, begging to be dealt with.

The sight that appeared before your eyes as you clicked on the link would be one that would never be forgotten by you, no matter how much you would try to forget it. But honestly, would you even try to forget it?

Video upon video of porn showed up on the website, some seeming more intense than other videos. It left you stunned. This is what people had spoken about? This is what Satoru had watched? Your heartbeat picked up, seeming to go at millions of miles per minute, your mind growing hazy, as you scrolled through the thousands of videos. You may have not been an expert in sex, yet you still knew what would get you off, and none of the results shown so far interested you enough to click on them.

Your eyes drifted back to the box of sex toys, your sex drunken mind remembering that you had absolutely no idea on how to use the toys, much less even identify them. So what did you do?

With almost numb hands, you decided to search up on the website videos that included sex toys, and in less than seconds, many more results than you could have expected popped up onto the screen, making your jaw go slack, tightening the clench of your thighs even more, your body subconsciously growing hotter, and your clothes grew uncomfortable, as if there was some tension, restricting you from comfort.

You clicked on the first video you saw, propping your phone against a chair leg, sat on the ground cross-legged, unsure of what you would see, and what to do. Obviously, you had basic masturbation knowledge, and you have had sex before with Satoru, but sex toys were a whole new concept to you; one you had no understanding nor experience of. But were you curious? Yes. And would you push through the nervousness and humiliation to try them out? Also yes.

The video started, a female porn actress appeared on the screen, sat on a plush bed, lined with white silk sheets, body clad in white lacy lingerie, the bed lined with an array of sex toys; some resembled dick’s, some metal, some more silicone or rubber. She sat in an open leg position, legs bent to meet her torso, a wet spot on her lace, almost transparent, panties, darkening the white colour into a more of a pale greyish shade.

Her pale and slender fingers found their way to her lips, her lips opening, almost as if from instinct. Slid inside, her tongue danced around them, coating them in her saliva, small whimpers and noises of pleasure left her mouth. Swirling her tongue around her fingers for a few moments more, before she popped them out of her mouth with an audible wet ‘pop’ sound, which met your ears almost immediately.

The arousal and wetness you felt in your pussy only grew more intense and more unbearable as the video continued, shifting in discomfort as you tried to get comfortable, eyes focused solely on the video presented before you. The actress slowly inched her hand closer and closer to one of the toys laid on her mattress, her fingers wrapping around a small toy, one which you had never seen before. A small pink device, a little blue light emitting from what seemed to be the button.

You slowly looked over to the box of toys placed on your right side, and there, amidst the other toys, a similar looking toy stood out to you. You swallowed down your anxiousness and with a gentle and timid grip, you took the toy into your hand and brought it up to your eye-level, examining it. It didn’t seem to be anything that would hurt you, but, what would this toy be used for?

As your eyes drifted back to your phone, you saw the woman turn the toy on, and begin to run it along her erect nipples in small circles, whines and gasps escaping from her as her head rested against her headboard, cheeks red with pleasure and arousal.

Your expression morphed into one of confusion, as you glanced down to your own nipples, peeking through your shirt, hard and sensitive. Would this really feel good? When Satoru does it, it does feel good, but if you do it yourself, will it feel the same? Without any other further thoughts, you trailed your left hand down to the hem of your shirt, tangling your fingers in the cotton, before in one swift movement, pulling the shirt off over your head. Now left in only a bra and panties, shirt tossed to the side, your arousal was painfully obvious; both the wet spot on your panties, and the hard nipples peeking through your bra.

Slowly, your fingers faintly touched your skin as they made their way to the clasp of the bra, the faint prods and skims of skinskip sending shivers down your spine, breaths turning into something more resembling pants, sweat beading up on your forehead.

The cold, curled metal met your soft fingertips, and expertly, you unclapsed the bra, the straps losing their tension, growing slack on your shoulders, as you worked on removing it completely, exposing your chest to the cold air, a sharp gasp be made by your mouth. A pleasant tingle felt by you as you pushed the straps down your arms, leaving your chest bare, a pile of clothes forming by your side.

Leaving your drenched panties on for the time being, you looked back over at your phone screen, the woman’s ministration on his nipples still continuing. With a deep breath, you pressed the button on the toy, an almost inaudible ‘click’ being heard, as soft vibrations began to emerge from the toy in your hand. You almost dropped the toy out of surprise and shock, eyes widened slightly as you eyed the toy, assessing it. At a slow pace, your hand began to lift, and move closer and closer to the ignored erect buds on your chest, deciding to try the toy out with your left nipple.

The cold silicone toy touched your right nipple almost immediately, a shiver sent down your body from the cold. A small whimper escaped from your lips as the vibrations from the toy were felt on your nipples. Gentle and slow, almost taunting, as your breathing picked up slightly, looking directly at the video.

Gently, you began to rub sensual and soft circles around your nipple, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body, your noises growing louder. You were so grateful that you were home alone, no one being there to hear your sounds.

Your body jerked and twitched as you clicked the button on the vibrator a couple more times, the vibrations growing quicker and stronger, sending you into a frenzy. Would you actually cum just from having your nipple teased?

Your other hand made its way up to your left nipple, squeezing it lightly between the soft tips of your index finger and thumb, twisting it and rubbing it, making you bite down on your lower lip, trying to muffle some of the pleasured sounds that you were making. Your neediness only grew worse as you saw the actress reach down for another toy, her fingers snaking around a toy resembling a cock, bringing it to her mouth. Breaking your sight from the video, your eyes went back to the box of toys, looking through them once again.

A certain toy caught your eye, your breath hitching in your throat the longer you looked at it. A toy that resembled the one on your phone; skin coloured, approximately six, maybe seven inches, with veins visible to the naked eye, seemingly bulging out of the stiff toy. You blinked a couple of times, trying to process the sight before you, the hand that was teasing your left nipple betraying your body, as subconsciously, you reached out for the toy, grasping it in your trembling hand, dragging it closer to yourself, out of the black box. The woman placed the tip of the toy into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip, currently not taking the toy any further into her mouth. Being inexperienced in this area, you decided to follow her actions, also moving the dildo up to your mouth, slowly pushing just the tip of it into your mouth, your tongue rubbing itself across the tip, almost as if in a dance, as it muffled some of the whimpers that came out of your mouth from the feeling of the vibrator teasing your oversensitive nipples.

At a taunting pace, the actress dragged the dildo down her body, leaving a trail of saliva in between her breasts, her stomach, and then finally, the toy reached her vagina. Slowly rubbing it up and down the vaginal opening, louder and more intense moans began to escape from her mouth, struggling to keep them in. Her lingerie was now dishevelled, seeming as if more had happened than was shown in the video itself. The whole scene seemed so erotic to you, the throbbing in between your legs only growing worse and worse.

You repeated after her, slowly, and faintly trailing the dildo down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, to your pantyclad pussy, rubbing it up and down where the vaginal opening was hidden, a sharper whimper escaping from your lips as you finally began giving your pussy the attention that it oh-so begged for for what felt like ages.

You looked down at your soaked panties, the tip of the dildo getting slightly moist from the wetness of your panties, causing you to place the dildo down, slowly hooking your fingertips under the waistband of your panties, pulling them away from your skin, before snapping them back in a taunting way, causing a small whimper to leave your lips. You quickly grew impatient, deciding to stop fucking around and just strip fully naked.

The fabric sliding down your legs from your pelvis, leaving your body fully bare and exposed, goosebumps all over from the rush of cold air that kept hitting your skin, unused to the sudden change in temperature. You tilted your head back as you grabbed the dildo once again, beginning to rub it over your soaked folds once again, this time, with more ease, and more friction, causing more satisfied and pleasured noises to leave your lips.

“Yes, yes, mmph just like that, shit…” You whimpered, as you slowly pushed the toy inside of you, your hips bucking slightly, body tensing, as it slipped further and further inside of you. At this stage, you would probably be able to figure out what to do next, with little to no visual aid. Starting off with a slow pace, you pushed the dildo inside of you, then back out, the veiny plastic dragging against your soft warm walls, a sticky wet residue left behind on the toy as it left your pussy, leaving it empty, clenching around nothing, yet wanting to feel something.

You inserted the toy back into yourself, another pathetic gasp escaping from your lips once again as you felt filled. The pleasure on your face was palpable, as you fucked the toy into yourself, your teasing on your nipples still continuing. It felt good. So good. Why have you never tried this before?

“Nngh, please, pleasepleaseple— Nngh–!” Such words with dirty implications left your mouth as the dildo continued entering your aching pussy, driving you crazy as you were being driven closer and closer to the edge. It felt amazing. Yet, you felt like something was missing. When Satoru fucked you, he would always pleasure you in each place; the pussy, the nipples, the clit— Of course, you forgot about the clit. You couldn’t just leave it neglected, right? But what could you use to pleasure your clit?

With your hand still pushing the dildo inside your pussy, your pussy opening swallowing the plastic toy, leaving only the base of it visible, you placed down the vibrator that was tormenting your nipples, turning your attention back to the box, searching for something to take care of your neglected red clit.

And then, you found a treasure. Something that would definitely help with the stimulation of your aching, desperate clit. A little pink toy, a mirror-like plastic on the end of the handle, the toy being no bigger than your palm, maybe even smaller. A small suction cup attached to the end of the toy, a button near the attachment, its use being to turn the toy on, and create the suction effect. You had found a suction toy.

Although you were inexperienced, you could easily figure out the use of the toy, as the suction attachment told you everything that you needed to know; it was meant to be attached to your clit. You took the toy into your hand after eyeing it for a while, teasingly dragging it down your now quivering body, making its way down to your cock filled pussy.

Stopping at your clit, you gently place the suction cup on top of your swollen and neglected clit, adjusting it accordingly, before your shaky thumb pressed down firmly on the button of the toy, another audible yet quiet ‘click’ being heard in the loud silence of the room, before a low hum of a vibration was heard, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body, resulting in a loud gasp and whine being torn out of your throat.

The pleasure was better than ever whenever you masturbated. One hand pumping the dildo deep inside of your dripping pussy, the other one rubbing the small bullet vibrator over your nipples teasingly, the suction toy latched onto your clit, creating both a vibrating and a sucking effect, slowly sending you further and further to the edge, hips bucking, back arched, as pathetic and feeble moans were strangled from your throat. You needed to cum. And badly. You didn’t know how much longer you could hold on for. The pleasure was becoming too much for you. Way too much.

Your thrusts sped up, increasing the pressure of the vibrator on your nipples, and grinding your hips up into the clitoral suction toy. The video on your phone long forgotten about, too lost in the pleasure you felt, mind hazy and blank, the only thing you could think about was how you needed to cum. How good it felt. “Shit, shit, fuckfuckfuck— Please, please, ‘needa cum, ‘m gonna cum, pleaseplease— Nngh—!”

You were so close. So so so close. The feeling was driving you insane. You were gonna cum, you just needed that small little push to send you over the edge. Just that little push to make you cum all over the dildo like a slut. Your mind still hazy, yet you tried to focus solely on the goodness of the feeling of a dildo brushing up against your sweet spot, creating a burning heat in the pit of your stomach, the vibrator which traced around your pelt nipples sending waves of pleasure through you, the clitoral stimulation driving you crazy, making tears pool in your eyes, your eyes losing focus on anything.

Just a little more, just a teeny bit more. That’s all it would take for you to cum. Pants and laboured gasps were heard in your feeble attempt to catch your breath, body trembling, lost within the pleasure. Suddenly, the thought of your boyfriend, Satoru, came into your mind. How it would feel if it was him fucking you. Fucking his cock deep inside of your warm walls, his fingers on your clit, rubbing it at a vigorous pace, whispering sweet nothings into your ears. That was what was needed for the building tension in your stomach to snap.

The loudest moan that you had released up to that point was released, the warm cum leaking out of you, all over the dildo inside of you, little droplets dripping onto the floor. Your body spasmed in pleasure, eyes glazed over and unfocused, rolled up to meet your ceiling, your hands shaking, barely managing to hold onto the toys. The orgasm you were having right now was one of the best ones you had ever had. Your cheeks red from both pleasure and physical exertion, little cries and whimpers leaving your throat as your thighs squeezed together and threatened to close at any moment.

Riding out your high, soft thrusts of the dildo meeting your pussy to help you through it, slowly meeting a stop as you turned off the vibrating toys. You were left verbally silent. Only gasps for air and spasms of aftershocks were left. You were speechless. You were shocked. That was one of the best orgasms you had ever had. You sat there, on the ground, processing what had just happened. You were still in disbelief.

Slowly, you slid the dildo out of yourself, a low whimper escaping from your lips as you felt empty once again. Your cum was dripping from both yourself, and the dildo, as you grabbed tissues from your nightstand to clean yourself and the toys quickly, before going to wash them off. Unlatching the clitorial toy from yourself, you were about to put it away, along with the small vibrator which was used for the stimulation of your nipples, before an all-too-familiar voice made you freeze in your tracks, your face growing pale.

“Who knew how naughty you could be, hm?”

Satoru Gojo.

When did he get home?! He was supposed to be coming back later! You were mortified to say the least, trying to cover up your nude body and hide the sex toys, turning to face him with an expression of dread and humiliation on your face.

“I-It’s not what it—” You tried to explain yourself, but you were quickly cut off mid sentence by Satoru.

“Ohh, but I think it’s exactly what it looks like.” He replied, that signature grin of his plastered upon face, making your face heat up even more, the wetness in between your thighs only growing more and more noticeable to you. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to get out of this situation. But you didn’t even have to reply to him for him to continue speaking.

“Seems like someone was all hot and bothered without me to fuck them, weren’t you? All needy and desperate, with that wet pussy of yours needing to be filled, hm?” He chuckled after he finished speaking, beginning to walk from the door frame closer to where you were sitting. You began to grow more and more embarrassed, trying to cover your body even more. But, instead of coming up to you, he took the chair which stood neatly near your desk, sliding it out into the open, sitting it right in front of you, before slumping down onto it, a smirk evident on his face.

“You gonna be a good girl and put on a show for me?” He asked, voice sultry and full of desire, his hand reaching down to brush stray hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear, the gentle touch enough to make a wave of wetness leave your pussy, shining in the reflection of the light. You were unsure of what to respond with. On one hand, you were desperate to cum again, but then again, could you really go through the humiliation of masturbating in front of Satoru just to cum?

“You gonna keep me waiting, huh? Guess you don’t want a reward then. Bad girls don’t get rewards, you know that, don’t you?” He questioned in a teasing voice, his hand slowly moving towards the obvious bulge in his trousers, struggling to contain itself in the barrier of the fabric covering over it. Even just seeing the bulge reminded you how big he was. Bigger than anything you had ever seen before. You felt compelled to follow his instructions.

Reluctantly, you reached towards the dildo laying by your side, when once again, Satoru’s voice stopped you. “Slowly. Listen to my words and follow my instructions, okay? If you don’t listen to my words, I’ll punish you instead. Is that what you want? Hm? To be punished like the dirty little slut that you are?” His words sounded teasing, yet you knew that they were true. If you ignored his instructions, he would punish you to an extent beyond words.

You nodded your head quickly in understanding and agreement, his words leaving your mind woozy once again, as your fingers slid against the dildo, inching it closer towards yourself, hands shaking slightly from the excitement and nervousness, aligning the tip of the toy with your drenched hole. “Spread your legs further.” He added, his large hand resting on top of his painful boner, gently beginning to palm himself through his trousers. You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat, complying, spreading your legs further, allowing Satoru easier access to see the glistening wetness that formed in your pussy, causing a low chuckle to escape his throat.

“My my, so wet already, all for me. It’s a shame that it’s not from my doing though.” He spoke, an erotic groan leaving his mouth as he pressed down slightly more firmly on his growing erection, his muscles tensing, acting as eye candy to your arousal. You wished he would just fuck you right there right now, but you knew him too well. He wouldn’t give into your pleas unless you satisfied him first. That’s the type of guy he was. A tease. You loved it yet hated it at the same time. You just wanted him.

You slowly pushed the tip of the dildo back inside you, earning a sharp inhale from you, as your head tilted back, looking up at Satoru through your lashes, eyes glazed over with pleasure, cheeks flushed, breaths shaky. At a slow pace, you slid more and more of the dildo inside yourself, before the base of it met with your aching pussy. Another whimper left your throat at the feeling, covering your mouth with your free hand, earning a ‘tch’ sound from Satoru, seeming displeased by your actions.

“Ah, ah, ah, good girls don’t cover their mouths. You wanna be a good girl f’me, right? Well, be a good girl and uncover your mouth, ‘kay?” He said, looking down at you, meeting your eyes with his icy ones, hand still resting on his trouser clad boner, pressing down, making small grunts and shaky breaths leave his lips.

His words left you wanting more. Much more. You very slowly peeled your hand off from your mouth, letting it fall to the side, allowing your noises to spill from your mouth freely. Still in the slow, taunting speed, you thrust the dildo inside of yourself, whimpering and breathing heavily, wanting to feel more. The way its plastic veins dragged along your soft wet wall, and the way the tip of the toy pushed against your needy g-spot, it made you want the real thing even more.

“Satoru, please, give it to me, please–! Fuck me, fuck me, pleaseplease, ‘lease..! I’ll be a good girl, ‘ll be a good girl for you–!” You cried out, tears beginning to pool in your eyes, threatening to spill out. The pleasure was there, yet it wasn’t enough for you. The way that the sound of Satoru’s groans and sharp breaths filled your ears, and the way that he had finally rid himself trousers off and palmed himself through his boxers with his half-lidded eyes was enough to send you crazy.

“You know that’s not how this works, don’t you? But, you can go slightly faster, since you’re being such a good, pretty girl for me, okay?” He replied to your pathetic cries and pleas. You were thankful that you were allowed to go faster, yet you knew deep down that it still wasn’t enough for you. At least not anymore.

Satoru sat there on the chair, the fingers on one hand teasing at his waistband, the other hand palming his hard dick, pressing and caressing it, making little whines and groans leave this mouth, only encouraging you to get closer and closer to your release. You began to pump the dildo into you at a faster pace, your noises increasing in both volume and pitch. By the end of this, your neighbours would hate you, surely. But that was if you actually had any neighbours that lived right next to you.

“Such a good girl, such a pretty girl. Following my orders. Such a pretty little thing for me.” Satoru spoke in between his own ministrations, looking at your pleasured face, tears of pleasure being the clear indicator of this. Oh how badly he wanted to pick you up, carry you to your shared bed, and fuck you so roughly that by the end, your face would be fucked out, your mind only thinking of his name and the feeling that his dick gave you, with the sheets being soaked through with both yours and his cum. How you wouldn’t be able to walk properly for a while, with your body littered with bites and bruises from his kisses and little nips on your skin. But he knew he had to hold back. At least for now.

He slowly slid off his boxers, an evident wet spot from his pre-cum on them, dropping them down to the ground, next to his trousers. His dick immediately sprang up, hitting against his bare abdomen, resting against the snow white happy trail which led to his v-line, which further led to, of course, his dick. The veins were clearly visible, his tip sensitive and swollen, begging for stimulation. His fingers laced around his cock, holding it in a firm grip, beginning to stroke and fist it as his eyes were solely focused on you, and you only.

You were beginning to feel the coil building up in your stomach again, your thrusts beginning to increase in pace, despite Satoru not saying anything. You were too lost in the pleasure, your mind clouded with lust. You needed to cum. You were so desperate to cum. You wanted, no, needed to feel Satoru inside on you, as quickly as you could. But you were quickly snapped out of your thoughts when Satoru spoke.

“Did I say you could, nngh, speed up?” He moaned as he spoke, his strokes being approximately the same speed as yours. He was clearly on the verge of losing self restraint. That’s what you wanted him to do. You wanted him to just fuck you. But he wouldn’t give in. He had some pride to upkeep. But by the way that his hips were bucking into his hand for extra friction, and the way his back began to arch itself off of the backrest of the seat told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to– Need to cum, needa cum–” You moaned out, your thrusts slowly slowing back down to the pace you had before, tears of frustration and pleasure forming in your eyes once again. You could feel the tension in your lower stomach building. You could feel your orgasm oncoming. You just wished it would come closer. You needed it to come quicker.

Satoru’s strokes on his dick grew more and more sloppy, giving the indication that he too was also growing closer and closer to his inevitable release. His noises of pleasure and satisfaction grew in frequency, being heard more and more often as he pleasured himself and jerked himself off. “You can cum. Go ahead and cum. Be a good little slut and cum f’me, okay?”

You eagerly nodded your head, desperate to cum, relieved you finally were given the ‘okay’ to cum and speed up your thrusts. Your hand began to push the dildo into you at a quicker and harder pace, making your head tilt back with pleasure, eyes half-closed, as yet another ring of arousal pooled at the base of the dildo. Your thrusts grew sloppier and messier as the feeling grew painfully sweet, telling you that you would soon end up cumming. The tension was building up, making sobs of overstimulation leave your mouth, tears of pleasure running down your face.

“I’m gonna cum, gonna cum, ‘onna cum, please, please, pleaseplease, please– Need to cum, please–!” You cried out, body jerking forwards as the pleasure became too much, the overstimulation taking over your body. It began to hurt slightly, but it felt so good. You so desperately wanted to cum. You needed to cum. “You can cum. Go ahead and cum all over that dildo for me.” Satoru spoke, also on the verge of his own orgasm as he was fisting himself sloppily and quickly. His words of reassurance was all it took for the tension in your stomach to snap for the second time that day, releasing all over the dildo, a high pitched moan leaving you as you felt your cum drip over the dildo and leak down your body. You softly thrust the dildo into yourself as you rid out your orgasm, breaths shaky and laboured, spontaneous jerks from aftershocks occurring for minutes as you came down from your orgasm.

At practically the same time as you, Satoru also felt his release wash over himself, pumping his cock as ropes of cum left his cock, landing on his chest and lower abdomen, with some dripping down his fingers and hand. A loud moan left his mouth as his head fell back, eyes glassy with bliss, his hips twitching forwards as he rutted them against his palm and wrapped fingers to ride out his orgasm. His mind was lost, the only thing in it the pleasure he felt during his orgasm.

The room was filled with heavy pants and breaths, the smell of sex beginning to fill the room. A thin sheen of sweat begins to cover the both of you. Satoru was the one who regained composure first, sucking in one more deep breath as he looked down at you, your body finally stopping with its spasms of aftershocks, now looking more limp, as the toy began to slide out of you. He got up from the chair, sliding it to the side, as he gently and carefully pulled the dildo out of you, earning a quiet whimper from you. He brushed stray hairs away from your eyes, tucking them behind your ears, planting a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did so well for me, so well for me. You want your reward now? You want me to fuck you? Fill you up with my cum?” He spoke in a whisper, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs, before moving his hands to your body, picking you up, supporting you with one hand under your ass, and the other on your back as he carried the both of you to your shared bed. You rested your head on his chest, eyes half-lidded.

“Can’t, too much, ‘s too much ‘Toru…” You whine, but were quickly shushed by a kiss on the lips that came from Satoru. It was a chaste kiss, a small peck on the lips, just enough to get you quiet, and to leave you wanting more. “Yes you can. You can take it. You can take it like a good girl.” He spoke in a subdued voice, softly placing you on the bed, straddling your hips as he lowered his head back to yours, capturing your lips in a kiss now much more intense and heated.

(PART TWO COMING 😻😻😻)

500 notes · View notes

soapisahimbo · 1 year

Text

NSFW ABC - Alejandro Vargas Edition

Ah yes, Alejandro! I asked you guys if you wanted to see Alejandro or Soap first, and while there weren't a whole lot of responses, the majority leaned towards our beloved Colonel Vaquero!

Contains heavy smut elements, so minors stay away!

Up next will be Soap MacTavish, but until then, I hope you enjoy this! Let me know what you think, and what else you would want to see!

warnings: senseless smut, alejandro may as well be gomez addams at this point, hinted at female reader, far too detailed for my own good, please help me

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):

He will spend an exorbitant amount of time just kissing you, slowly and deeply, as a way of bringing you both back to reality. If you want to take a shower after, you're the one who needs to bring it up, because he is utterly at peace with just laying there with you for the remainder of the day or night. If you mention it, he'll hum out a "of course, querida" against your lips and lift you up in his arms even if you insist that you can walk (careful now, he might take it as a personal challenge to make sure that you can't next time).

Will keep kissing you while in the shower, and it feels a bit like kissing in the rain. You try to wash him off as best you can, but he won't turn around to let you scrub his back, not wanting to part his lips from yours any more than he absolutely has to. He will be diligent with washing you off, though; maybe a bit too diligent. His hands tend to wander when he has you like this, and you might need to keep him in check if you don't want to go for another round. If given the chance, he'll be down on his knees with his face between your legs and insist that he just can't help himself - "the things you do to me, cariña."

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

If you were to actually ask him how he felt about your body, he might see it as a cause for concern - are you doubting yourself or his feelings towards you? - but he'd grin and say, "My sweet, there's no part of your body that doesn't drive me wild." He is by no means lying, but when push comes to shove, if he really took the time to think about it, he'd come to realize that he has a specific weakness for your neck and chest. Your neck is where he buries his face and leaves the sweetest, most simmering kisses, and your chest is where he rests his head and marks you up the most when he has the chance to. He likes to plant his lips at your neck whenever he greets you, and licks and bites all over these spots during sex.

As for himself, he takes great pride in knowing that he's strong and capable, and that you like what you see. He's rarely fully clothed when at home with you and likes that you watch him whenever he walks by. He's probably most proud of his shoulders, chest and abdomen; loves it when you run your hands over them, when you trail kisses on the way down and when you leave scratches in the heat of the moment. He'll absolutely melt if you place your hand, or a kiss, over his heart.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

Wants to be as deep in you as he can be when he cums, pushing his hips against yours as if the closest he can get still isn't close enough, and he wants to stay inside you like that for a while to savour the heat. He wants to fill you up, and he wants to do it properly. He sees it as something intimate, as something between true lovers, and will ask you if you feel it, deep inside you.

Especially when coming home to you from a mission, he'll make sure to cum in you as many times as he can, almost as if to make up for all the times he hasn't been able to, to remind both of you that this is where he belongs. Once he's pulled out, he'll almost want to cover your hole with something so that it won't leak out; he wants you to carry it in you for as long as possible.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

When the two of you started dating, you took it slow. Neither of you were in any rush, and he wanted to be sure that both of you really wanted this. He was flirtatious, but courteous; bold, but respectful. He'd give you a taste, then step back to let you think on it and see how you felt about it. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel pressured.

One night, you had invited him over for dinner and the two of you were simply chatting, sitting up close and cuddled in the couch with some drinks and dessert, soaking in the coziness of the moment. He told you he needed to excuse himself for a moment, planted a sweet kiss on your lips and headed to the bathroom. Nothing was out of the ordinary, until he turned to dry his hands on the towel and saw something hanging on the edge of your otherwise empty laundry basket. Before he realized what he was doing, he held a pair of black lace panties in his hand. He found himself running his thumb over the fabric that would rest against your most intimate part and his mouth watered.

For the rest of the evening, he felt like a child that knew he had done something bad and was waiting anxiously for his parents to find out, but you were none the wiser. Once it was time to call it a night, he gave you a loving goodbye, perhaps a bit more heated than usual, and left you flustered in the hall. It wasn't until he walked through his own front door that he nearly had a crisis, because in the back pocket of his jeans were the panties. That night, he sat in his bed with them tightly gripped in his hand, conflicted and unsure. He swallowed hard and ran his fingers over the fabric again, then held them to his face and gently inhaled the traces of your scent still left in it. He couldn't bring himself any further than that, and shoved them back into his pocket. He laid down, still fully dressed, and stared up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep that night while the scent of you still lingered in his nose, and his dick sat rock solid in his pants.

He secretly returned the panties to you the next time he visited you - a full week later (he had smelled them a couple of more times while he had them) - and that just so happened to be the first time you had sex with each other.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):

He's got quite a bit of experience - he's been a popular man nearly all his life. He hasn't been the type to mindlessly sleep around, but he has had few passionate nights with strangers, and a few relationships that he, at the time, had hoped would've been true love. None of them turned out that way, and after a particularly bad breakup, he sort of locked that thought away in the back of his mind. Stayed pretty much celibate up until he met you, and once he had you and knew for a fact that this was real, he sure took his sweet time finding out how to make you tick.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):

He's not at all picky; he just wants to see your face. Even if he's taking you from behind, he'll turn your head so that he can look into your eyes and kiss you. He likes being able to grind deep into you, and having your legs wrapped around him, so any position that can give him these things is highly favoured.

He will of course give you what you want - if you have some favourite positions of your own, he'll be sure to follow your lead to make sure that you're having just as good of a time as he's having (if not greater). He's not going to hold you back if you want to take control; if you want to go for a ride, he'll simply grin and lean back to watch.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):

He absolutely loves laughing with you, and more often than not he'll have you grinning like a love-struck fool (don't worry, he looks like one too 99% of the time). He loves it if he can get a proper raucous, full on belly-laugh from you, the kind that'll have tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

He flirts with you nonstop, as if he's still trying to seduce you even though you're already naked and in bed with him. He'll tell you all sorts of seductive and dirty pickup-lines, switching regularly between English and Spanish. He's the type to walk in through the front door, or into the room you're in, and rock up to you like he's just laid eyes on you at a bar for the first time and plans to take you home for the night. He's got a bit of a cheeky sense of humour with you and he'll keep the dirty talk up for as long as the two of you are coherent.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.):

Thick and black hair running down the center of his abdomen to his groin. He's a bit of a hairy man overall, and doesn't do much to fix it. Might give it a trim every now and then, just to make sure it doesn't turn into a jungle. He washes himself regularly and thoroughly. Other than that, he doesn't give it much thought unless you point it out.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):

Alejandro is nothing if not a passionate man; he wants to take everything that you can give him, and give everything he can in return to you.

But sometimes he just needs to love you, and be loved by you. Be it after a tough day, or having been away from you for an extended period of time, or just the burden of his line of work in general. There will be no flirting, no jokes, no teasing - any and all words he can muster up will be about how much he loves you and how he never wants to leave your side. He wants to be strong for you, to be your protector, but if you return those words and that same sentiment, if you tell him he's yours, that you love him and that he's safe with you, he might cry.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

Almost never. Not because he doesn't have urges; he has plenty of those. He thinks about you and he misses you when he's away, but he won't touch himself, for two reasons mainly.

First, focus. He has a will and determination of steel, and if he's on a mission, all of that goes into doing his job. Frankly, even though he thinks about you every day, he's too focused for any thought to cloud his mind - getting distracted doesn't belong in his line of work. It becomes a type of motivation for him in a way, because the sooner he gets through this, the sooner he can come back to you.

Second, conviction. He has an almost religious belief that that's to be shared with you, to be given to you. His pleasure is yours to have and yours to take.

The few times that he actually does touch himself will be the rare times he can get you on a phone or video call, and you can actually talk for more than ten minutes. But even then, those times are usually used for a more emotional reconnection and satisfaction rather than sexual.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):

Body worship to the highest degree. If you by any chance have any sort of insecurities about the size of your body, or the way you look, or the way you move, he will purge those thoughts out of your head. Funnily enough, that's not necessarily the reason he does it - he's just so in love with you and your body that any notion that it would be any less than divine practically doesn't exist to him. He'll sing your praises as if in a church, it's like you don't even get the chance to feel insecure about yourself. If you worship him in return, his mind will be fully occupied by you, and he won't be able to think of much else other than how lucky he is to have you and how honoured he is to have you treat him this way.

Loves leaving hickeys and bitemarks on you, and wants you to scratch him up, and if he's feeling extra spicy, he might blindfold you - "no distractions," he says. He would probably lose his mind if you dress up for him in pretty lingerie, and you might give him an actual heart attack if you give him a lap dance of any kind. Use that information wisely.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

You're pretty sure that you've christened practically every surface in every room in your home and he's no stranger to having you for dessert on the kitchen table, but he prefers the more cushioned areas, like the bed, the couch, and the lush carpet in your living room. The bed is definitely his favourite, because he feels like that's where the two of you can be the most at peace - it's where you can lock the rest of the world away and really just spend nothing but time with each other.

He doesn't really want to take any chances outside the safety of your home - just the idea of you getting caught and someone else seeing the two of you in such a vulnerable state (as well as your naked body) makes him uncomfortable.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):

You do this thing when he scratches your scalp or back, or gives you massages; you usually sigh out in a groan as you melt into his hands, but he swears up and down that you're purring, and for some reason it drives him wild. He'll fuck you extra gentle just to hear you make that specific sound. You think he's purring when you massage him, though, so you don't bother to counter him. If Spanish isn't your native tongue, but you use it to flirt with him, he'll get an intensely mischievous glint in his eyes and ask that you keep talking like that.

He wants to treat you with the utmost respect and care, but as mentioned before, by God, if you surprise him with lingerie or treat him to a lap dance, you will practically hear something snap in his mind.

He's a sucker for your touch, too; run your hands over his arms, trace your fingers along his skin just above the waistband of his pants or your hands over his abdomen under his shirt, play with his hair at the nape of his neck and you'll have him turned into absolute putty for you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs):

He won't ever cause you any sort of harm, or speak to you in a way that is anything but loving. If you tell him that you want him to slap you or choke you, he'll be horrified that you would even think he'd be capable of doing such a thing to you. A loving smack on the ass is as far as he'll take it.

He'll also never want to invite anyone else to join you in the bedroom; he wants that to be between you and him only.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):

You would think he's seen the face of his maker with the way he looks at you when you go down on him. He lets you set the pace, mumbling and groaning as you work him up. He'll stroke your hair out of your face, maybe hold it up in a ponytail if it's long enough, but he does very little to control you. He starts to slur when he gets closer and will try to warn you when you pick up speed, throws his head back then goes dead silent and stick stiff for a moment until he cums in your mouth with a loud groan. If you keep sucking on him, you'll give him full body shivers and he'll let out an almost startled moan as he starts swearing and telling you to slow down - "ah, calmate, c-calmate, baby, it's- mierda, baby, slow down!"

No matter what you tell him afterwards, he will return the favour. There doesn't even need to be a favour for him to return; it's practically a principle at this point to have you cum at least twice on his tongue before he actually fucks you. Wants you on his face and will hold on to you like a vice, leaving you very little room to wiggle and barely a chance to get away from him. This is probably the thing he's the absolute boldest with; he'll tell you straight up how badly he wants to use his mouth to make you cum and lick his lips, he'll do a 'V' with his fingers and mimic a lick between them from across the room when you make eye contact, he'll stick his tongue out and stare at you through his eyelashes as a drop of saliva drips down the length of it to the tip while you're out and about and no one is watching. Is it just you or is it getting hot in here?

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):

He wants to take his time with you, but that doesn't mean he's taking it slow. Racing hearts, heaving breaths, dripping sweat; regardless of if it's fast or slow, he wants it hot and heavy. It's just shy of overwhelming, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

He'll be slower and more sensual when he feels that the moment is more emotional - when the two of you have shed tears at his return home and you need to catch up on lost time.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

If it wasn't clear by now, Alejandro is no "one-and-done"-kind of guy. Quickies are very rare; they only really happen if you were already undressed and something happens, like he gets a phone call from Rodolfo, Laswell or 141 and he needs to get going, but he doesn't want to just leave you. Firmly believes that sex deserves time in order to be truly emotionally and physically fulfilling, especially between established lovers.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? Etc.):

He'll throw some daring pickup lines and wink your way and maybe tease a bit while you're out and about, but other than that he wants to keep it inside the walls of your home. He's not afraid of trying new things, as long as it's between the two of you and as long as no one will get hurt.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?):

Which one of you will tap out first? Because that's kind of what dictates how long you go on. Sometimes it's you, sometimes it's him, but all in all, you can expect to get at least 2-3 rounds out of him (or 1 really long one). How many times you cum during those rounds may or may not be irrelevant (which is often why you're the one to tap out first, and you're pretty sure he does it on purpose).

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):

Cariña, reinita, preciosa - toys? When he's right there? No, no, no. "Mi corazón, since when do you need those? Am I not enough?"

He's joking, of course. He's got a massive grin on his face when he says it. If you need or prefer using toys, then he's not one to turn it down, but other than that he wants to be the one to bring you to climax. If you have a toy or two that you use while he's away, he won't fault you, but prepare for an endless amount of teasing when he returns.

"Isn't this just so much better than some piece of silicone? Can your toys ever replace this, huh?"

He's going to need some convincing if you want to use a toy on him, though. Maybe if you disguise it as a sort of challenge, or tell him very sweetly that you just want to try something, he might give it a go. But it's not going to be something that he'll think about often.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

The two of you can tease each other endlessly while out in public or hanging out at social gatherings, sure, but once you're behind locked doors and within arms' reach of each other, you're done for. He doesn't have a whole lot of patience to drag it out anymore than he already has, and if you try to keep him at bay to keep teasing, he might actually have an aneurysm. Don't drag it out too much, it's not good for the blood pressure.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):

He's not necessarily loud, but he sure is vocal. He's always talking, breathy groans and moans into your neck and ears, he mumbles your name and numerous praises and sweet nothings. They vary in tone, from deep gruffs to some lighter and breathier sighs, but he never really goes higher than that. If you want him to shut up, you'll have to shut him up yourself. He likes hearing you, though, and if you're ever trying to stay quiet, he'll admonish you, tell you to let it out. If you stay stubborn, however, he might take it as a personal challenge.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):

He really isn't that much of a jealous person - he trusts you with his life and he knows that you would never do anything to betray him. But there sure is something that rears its' ugly head inside him when he sees other people look your way, or when he sees other men approach you when he's not there with you. He knows that they wouldn't dare get near you if you were standing next to him, so the cowards try to shoot their shot when they think he's not looking.

And this ugly thing with its' head whisper in his mind, "go over there and show everyone who they belong to," "rip those clothes off and let everyone see how well you take them." But he settles with simply sauntering up to you, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into a searing hot kiss, right in front of their dumb fucking faces, pushing his tongue into your mouth and all. Once he pulls back, he turns to glare at them. They usually don't stick around for long after that, and he'll lean in close to you and tell you that he wants to go home now, because he might not show everyone how he does it, but he sure is going to take you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes):

Solid 6-6.5 inches, damn near perfectly shaped and just the right thickness to hit all the sweetest spots inside you. A bit thicker in the middle, giving you a delicious stretch every time.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

Pretty high; he'll give in easily to you, but he needs just as much time with you not having sex. When he comes back home to you from longer missions and deployments, there will be about a week of you spending a whole lot of time in bed, but then it calms down a bit and leans more towards sweet cuddles and gentle kisses. You're still quite active and passionate, but the calmer moments in between are just as valuable and important.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

It might actually take him a while to fall asleep. He wants to check in on you first, and make sure that both of you are clean and comfortable. Once that's done, however, he'll wrap you up in his arms and hold you close as he closes his eyes and drifts off.

#alejandro vargas #cod mw2 #cod mw2 fic #alejandro x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #alejandro vargas smut #cod x reader

3K notes · View notes

rainba · 3 days

Text

Desperate Kairos ❤

I mentioned some of the kinks of my sillies in a previous ask, but I wanna write/expand on them just a little bit.~

For this one, I wanna focus on Kairos’ praise + worshiping kinks. ((Mostly praise.)) So... Same as always, Kairos being Kairos.

To be honest, this is kind of just me rambling lol

There are two versions here! First one is a fem darling, the second one has a male darling.

18+ NSFW, MDNI

Kairos would typically imagine himself being the one to do the worshipping, but he absolutely loves the idea of his love worshiping him, too. The thought of being praised for anything still sounds like such a foreign concept to him– so when you do it, he becomes instantly obsessed.

If you praise him once, he’ll beg you to do it some more, asking you to repeat yourself over and over just so the sentiment can settle in. And if you worship him during sex just once, he’ll do absolutely anything to have you do it again. He’ll get on his knees and plead with you, he’ll give you all of his money, draw you anything you’d like– whatever you want from him, he’ll give you it.

Just… Please, please, please, worship him again.

Let him sit on the edge of the bed with his cute cock out as you toy with him. He’ll wear whatever you want– thigh highs, cat ears, a bunny suit, literally anything. Kairos gently pets you as he begs you to praise him.

“I’m… I’m your good boy, right..? Y-you love me, right? Only me?”

Call him your master. Call him your owner. Call him an angel. Tell him he’s the only person in this world for you, and that nobody else can compare to him. Those words alone might be enough to make him cum on the spot.

“P-please, keep going,” he’ll pathetically whimper as he tries to guide your mouth to his throbbing cock, desperate for you to give it love and attention. If you tease him too much, he might grip the back of your head and force you to take his entire length at once. He’ll be apologizing while he does so, but the guilt doesn’t outweigh the carnal need to fuck your tight throat.

Part of him so badly desires for you to tell him just how much you love it. If you tell him something along the lines of, “your dick looks so tasty, so perfect,” he won’t be able to stop thinking about it for weeks after. And every time he thinks about it, he becomes incredibly hot and bothered.

Sucking on the tip and licking up and down his length will have him gripping the sheets and mewling. It just feels so, so good. He’ll beg you to kiss it as well, and he’ll also tell you to lick up the precum that’s leaking from his needy cock. Then he’d ask you if it tastes good.

And when you answer with a yes, his entire body will tense up as he stifles a high-pitched moan.

Kairos won’t make you do all the praising, though. He can’t help but praise and worship you as well.

“G-good girl, you’re… You’ll b-be a perfect wife! I… I love you s-so much!”

When he’s desperate to make you feel good, he’s always quick to use his mouth rather than his hands. He just loves to taste you– it feels so personal, so loving. He absolutely loves eating you out, but there’s also something else he loves: sucking on your breasts.

The first time you let him suck on your tits, it’s like he gets addicted. They’re so soft in his hands, and so soft in his mouth. Kairos gets all hot and shaky as he sits on your lap and loves on your tits… It’s one of his deepest fantasies coming to life.

Kairos closes his eyes in bliss as he warmly sucks and licks them, occasionally leaving tiny love bites. He moans sweetly the entire time, all while grinding his cock against your thigh. If you ever want him to stop, you basically have to force him off of you. When you push his head away from your tits, he’ll immediately dive back down and start sucking on them again while mumbling the words "n-no, please, more."

The only times he pauses is when he wants to praise you.

“Th-they’re so beautiful,” he’ll mumble as he softly flicks one of your nipples with his wet tongue. “A-and they’re mine… All mine.”

Right before he’s about to cum, he’ll ask you permission to do so.

When he genuinely wants to fuck you, though, he’ll become a reckless mess. Kairos will fervently push you into the bed and pin you down as he practically tears off your clothing. He loves all the foreplay, truly, he does– but sometimes he yearns for more. He can’t help but feel that he needs to be deep inside of your soaking wet pussy immediately.

Oh, and… Please, pretty please, praise him as he fucks you senselessly into the bed. When he’s desperate, his thrusts become messy, and his pace is inconsistent– he’s just doing what feels good at the moment- but he’s trying his best...!

All he craves is to feel your inner walls squeezing his cock and milking it dry. He desperately needs to fill your cunt to the brim with his seed.

“So warm.. So t-tight… Ah…” He harshly bites down on his bottom lip. “Please, tell me you love this… P-please.”

The more you praise him, the more erratic he becomes. His small hands will grip your shoulders as he ruts into you like crazy. He might wrap his hands around your neck and choke you instead– if you’ll let him.

“S-such… Such a perfect pussy… You’re so… So perfect.” Kairos leaves little kisses all over your chest as he keeps going.

His left hand will then reach down and lovingly rub sloppy circles around your clit. There’s nothing more he wants in the world than for you to both cum at the same time. It’d just be so romantic!

He’ll do anything to please you. He’ll do anything to be worthy of your praise.

Since he’s not that experienced, he might accidentally make you cum first– which makes him tear up, because he so badly wanted to cum in unison with you. So, if this happens, he might just end up overstimulating you until he climaxes himself.

But if he cums first..? God, he will be extremely embarrassed.

He mumbles a long line of apologies as he cums deep inside of you, panting heavily as he still tries to make you climax too.

If his hand isn’t enough, he’ll spread your legs apart and bury his face between your thighs, excitedly and sloppily eating you out. It doesn’t matter that his cum is dripping out of your pussy as he does so– in fact, he secretly likes it. He’ll try to push his cum back inside of you with his tongue as he looks up at you for encouragement.

And as a way to apologize, he’d make you cum twice, all while praising you. He’d also be thanking you for letting him fuck you.

But he’d also be begging you to forgive him.

“Y-you’re so kind to me… Y-you’re like an angel, I… I don’t deserve you,” he slowly runs his tongue over your slit as he pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them and gauging your reactions the entire time. He’s determined to memorize all of the things that make you come undone.

And Kairos also loves watching you orgasm on his fingers– the sight of it drives him crazy. Plus, it gives a tiny boost to his ego.

For weeks and weeks after that, he’ll constantly find himself replaying lewd scenes of you in his head, sometimes even drawing it on paper. Then he won’t stop thinking about how he’s gonna make you cum even harder the next time he fucks you.

(Male Darling)

Kairos would typically imagine himself being the one to do the worshipping, but he absolutely loves the idea of his love worshiping him, too! The thought of being praised for anything still sounds like such a foreign concept to him– so when you do it, he becomes instantly obsessed.

Just… Please, please, please, worship him again.

“I’m… I’m your good boy, right..? Y-you love me, right?”

And when you answer with a yes, his entire body will tense up as he stifles a high-pitched moan.

Kairos won’t make you do all the praising, though. He can’t help but praise and worship you as well.

“G-good boy, you’re… You'll be s-such a perfect husband! I… I love you s-so much!”

When he’s desperate to make you feel good, he’s always quick to use his mouth rather than his hands. He just loves to taste you– it feels so personal, so loving. He absolutely loves sucking you off. The feeling of your cock invading his small mouth is one of the best feelings ever to him. And when you choke him with it? It makes him so fucking hard. But there’s also something else he loves: sucking on your nipples and leaving marks all over your body.

The first time you let him suck on your chest, it’s like he gets addicted. Every time he leaves a small mark on your skin, it feels like he’s marking his territory. He’s letting the entire world know that you belong to him.

Kairos closes his eyes in bliss as he warmly sucks and licks your chest, occasionally leaving tiny love bites and large hickeys. He moans and whimpers the entire time, all while rubbing his cock against your thigh. If you ever want him to stop, you basically have to force him off of you. When you push his head away from your body, he’ll immediately dive back down and start sucking on your skin again while mumbling the words, “n-no, please, more. I… You look so p-perfect, covered in marks.”

The only times he pauses is when he wants to praise you.

“You’re so perfect,” he’ll mumble as he softly flicks one of your nipples with his tongue. “A-and you’re mine… All mine.”

Right before he’s about to cum, he’ll ask you permission to do so.

When he genuinely wants to fuck you, though, he’ll be a reckless mess. Kairos will fervently push you into the bed and pin you down as he practically tears off your clothing. He loves all the foreplay, truly, he does– but he craves more. He can’t help but feel that he needs to be deep inside of your tight ass immediately.

Oh, and… Please, pretty please, praise him as he fucks you senselessly into the bed. When he’s desperate, his thrusts become messy and his pace is inconsistent– he’s just doing what feels good at the moment. But he’s trying his best...!

All he yearns for is to feel your inner walls squeezing his cock. He desperately needs to fill your hole to the brim with his seed.

“So warm.. So t-tight… Ah…” He harshly bites down on his bottom lip. “Please, tell me you love this… P-please.”

“S-such… Such a perfect body… You’re so… So perfect.” Kairos leaves little kisses all over your sweaty skin as he keeps going.

His left hand will then reach down and sloppily stroke your cock, occasionally squeezing and giving extra attention to the tip. There’s nothing more he wants in the world than for you to both cum at the same time. It’d just be so romantic!

He’ll do anything to please you. He’ll do anything to be worthy of your praise.

But if he cums first...? God, he will be extremely embarrassed.

He mumbles a long line of apologies as he cums deep inside of you, panting heavily as he still tries to make you climax too.

If his hand isn’t enough, he’ll simply flip you onto your back and ease your cock into his ass, happily riding you until you cum. He tells you to just relax as he bounces up and down, a look of pure ecstasy plastered on his face.

And as a way to apologize, he’d make you cum twice, all while praising you. He’d also be thanking you for letting him fuck you.

But he’d also be begging you to forgive him.

“Y-you’re so kind to me… Y-you’re like an angel, I… I don’t deserve you,” he tightens around your cock as he tries to play with your nipples, pinching and rubbing them between his fingers. He’s determined to memorize all of the things that make you come undone.

One of his favorite things in the world is the feeling of your hot cum filling him up. It’s borderline addicting. So, please– use him all you like. He’ll worship you even more if you fuck him until he can’t move.

#kairos posting #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere x reader #kairos being kairos #he's so silly #reader inserts #yandere imagines #yandere oc x reader

123 notes · View notes

chuuyasheaven · 7 months

Text

“Goin’ feral !!” — Atsushi Nakajima

“—It's embarrassing to say the least, he's way to needy and with your scent he's getting even more desperate for you. But once you actually give him consent, he went feral.”

Tags: rough! Atsushi Nakajima / afab! Reader, rough sex, Atsu’s in heat, breeding kink (kinda?), praise kink, pet names, hickeys?, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, pussy drunk! Atsushi, slight dry humping, kinda? making out, squirting, slight scent kink?, might contain grammar errors, etc.

Notes: Enjoy, I put all my writer–ussy in this. (I didn't really)

This was weird, why was he experiencing this? For the last two days Atsushi has been way too desperate to be inside you for some reason, he didn't want to drag you into this though, so he tried to stay a bit distant which resulted only into making it even worse. Right now, he was just laying on your shared bed, waiting for it to just pass before you walked in, with an not so pleasant look on your face.

“Why are you ignoring me?”, you asked him, he sat up to look at you. “I’m not really–”, “Yes you are, you barely interacted with me in the last two days. Is something wrong? Is there anything I did wrong?”, Atsushi tried looking for a response, but your scent was distracting him. Taking a deep breath, he did respond to you. “N–no, you didn't do anything, it's me.”, you tilted your head to the side slightly with an confused look on your face. “What do you mean?”, he just let his head sink down a bit before filling you in about his situation.

After telling you everything, you just giggled before talking. “Really? You know, Atsu, you can ask me for help,”, you walked towards him, slowly getting onto the bed. “I’m more than glad to get rid of it.”, now you had an smirk on your lips. Atsushi gulped when you were inches away from his face, your scent strong enough to give him a boner. Before anything else could be said, you were already kissing him, he just gave in. While kissing him, you got onto his lap straddling him.

The kiss kept going until you felt Atsushi’s hips rolling against yours, it felt so good you did the same. After some time you parted with him to breathe, he was already looking flushed and breathing heavily. “More, please. .”, he begged, you undid his belt and pants and see a stain of precum already being formed, was he so affected of your presence? Taking off his boxers, his tip was slightly flushed too with some precum leaking out. “So desperate, hm?”, he just threw his head back after you stroked it a few times. He could've sworn that he would have cum already if you didn't stop. You pushed your panties to the side and got onto his cock, making Atsushi throw his head back in bliss.

You let out a moan because of this feeling, maybe you were a little touch starved too. Anyway, you almost immediately started to roll your hips. After some time you started to bounce a little bit harsher, which made Atsushi go crazy. Your magnificent scent already had him at a chokehold, but this was too much for him— “. . Did you just cum?”, you asked slightly surprised, suddenly you felt your hips moving again, which surprised you again. Atsushi was grabbing onto your hips to move you. “Just. . keep moving, please.”

Yes, you didn't cum but you were getting close, the way Atsushi let his head lay on your shoulder while kissing your collarbone. His groans against your skin did feel good too, just as much as the little hickeys he left. Soon you reached your first orgasm, moaning in bliss, you suddenly get tossed around by Atsushi, now him topping you. “Can I?”, he asked you, getting ready to enter your walls, you nod instantly. As he was inside you again, he thrusted into you quite roughly, since he denied himself for two days his desperation was justified. Atsushi felt way too good to stop now, his hips speeding up now. Your moans got louder as the speed got faster, you never saw him like this, but you found it attractive.

You grabbed his hair gently and pulled him down, until he was laying on your collarbone again. “F–feels so good. .”, you moaned out, which set something in him off. Atsushi felt his second orgasm near, and yours too. “Just keep takin’ me so well, darling, f–fuck.”, Atsushi rarely swore so this turned you on as well, he could tell by you tightening around him. “You’re close, hm?”, you nodded as he got even rougher with his pace, you kissed him while you both came at the same time. Atsushi pulled out, breathing heavily like you, you closed your eyes and sighed before feeling your legs get lifted. You opened your eyes to see Atsushi try another angle, before being able to say anything he was inside again. “I can't resist, you feel too good, baby– oh god. .”, he grunted while fucking you from a new angle.

With your legs around his hips his cock hit new spots which you didn't even know about, but you didn't care, he was making you feel good. But that wasn't even everything, Atsushi used his thumb to circle your clit. This was so overwhelming for you, the only thing you could think of was him, Atsushi. “Am I makin’ you fell good, princess? Are you gonna cum soon?”, he questioned you, to which you nodded again. “You want me to cum inside?”, “S–shit. . please!”, you whined, your eyes slightly getting teary. His thrusts got faster and his circles got rubbed out harsher, you could feel another orgasm cumming (haha), this one felt stronger than the last ones. As Atsushi kept on going, you suddenly squirted, which you actually never did before. Atsushi instantly came right inside you opon seeing that, which felt amazing, he could tell you were spent from this session, so he decided that this was enough. Though he was still inside of you, to not spill anything.

“—You were such a good girl, you deserve your break, darling.”

You can tell I'm a virgin, right?

SMALL TAGLIST: @miloofc , @medusalovessnakes, @crystalice09 ,@kk-oma !!

#Rei’s Kinktober 2023 !! ❤️#bsd smut #bungo stray dogs smut #bsd atsushi nakajima #bsd atsushi #atsushi smut

329 notes · View notes

yeyinde · 3 months

Text

fever in a shockwave

pt., iii | stagnant on my betterment

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

WARNINGS: angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; poor/unhealthy coping methods; codependency; reference to drug use (but it's just weed); reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series

WORD COUNT: 14,7k

[PREV] [NEXT] A03 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

an update; this isn't the final part lmao dangerous words coming from someone like me oops. there's probably going to be three more parts after this.

There is no sense of closure when you watch the jagged pieces of a broken man fall to the floor by your feet. The splintered edges offer no succour, no victory, when they come to rest along the scattered ruins of a delusional love affair: alcohol bottles—Kraken, Captain Morgan—and grease-stained boxes of takeaway, most unfinished in favour of satiating yourselves on flesh, sex.

(Booze, more often than not.)

Seeing him struggle to find meaning in what you say—watching that ethanol-soaked resignation filter through hazy, electric blue—brings a fresh pain instead, taking space in the hollow gaps where you expected vindication and self-worth to bleed through.

You're doing the right thing, after all. Aren't you?

Aren't you? (please, someone, anyone, say yes—)

Uncertainty is an uneasy, nauseating feeling inside your guts. Much like a broken bone, it emanates a visceral sense of perturbation through your body. Every synapse fires in protest; every nerve screaming out. They bellow one thing in unison: something is wrong and not quite right.

You feel their cries deep in your being. Each muscle twitch and frayed thought that passes carries the echo of it.

This pain, it seems, is cracking your ribs apart and exposing the rotting marrow to the open air. Slurping from the putrefying sludge, satiating itself on the sickness eroding you from within.

It's all wrong. It feels wrong.

Bear swallows. You watch the way his throat works around the bitterness that lashes across the cut of his brow; gyres darkening in his eyes. Storms on the horizon.

(You think you'd welcome the squall. Might embrace anything to get out of this place—)

“That's what you want?” He rasps, thick and gritty, and you think about the last time he sounded like that—all torn up, and broken. Words mangled in his throat. Husked out when he told you about Rip, about the boy, his daughter, and—

No. No.

None of this is what you want, and it pains you that he can't see that.

(Such a selfish, broken man.)

Inside the festering slurry of your marrow, an urge wells up. Bubbles in the putrid pools until it's frothing, raging against the walls keeping it trapped until it seeps through the cracks, leaking into your muscles, your tissue, your bloodstream.

This silly little body of yours carries it up to your heart where it sinks talons into your pericardium, subsumes the serous in this terrible essence, this idea, this whim—

(“what?” the scoff he lets out trails on the coattails of what might have been a laugh in another life. if he was another man, maybe. you, more honest with yourself. but you are just two broken people in a run-down bar. humour exists somewhere in the muzzle of a loaded pistol. “got a saviour complex or something?”

or something. or something—)

Because the thing is: you do.

You spend most weekends wandering around antique stores because you're convinced that everything deserves a home. A place of its own. You find the unwanted, the unsellable, and you let it take space in your lonely, cramped apartment.

And why not? No one else will buy it. You're, technically, helping the environment. It's a win-win.

(and more lies you tell yourself.)

These false promises are always made that one day, one of these days, you'll find something to do with it all—maybe you could learn how to make something out of it; stitch all the unuseable parts, the unwanted pieces, and create something that everyone will want—but so far, none of your rescues has ever been finished. Saved. They sit in a corner taking up space. Untouched. Unused. Collecting dust.

That insidious whim curls inside of your heart, and whispers:

it's never too late to try again. maybe this time, it'll work out for you—

It's the same one that lures you in, making you purchase a complete set of ugly-looking dolls because some ladies were recoiling at the sight of their lumpy, antediluvian faces, and you felt bad thinking that they were doomed to end up sitting on the shelf until they were unceremoniously tossed into the bin with all the other things that won't sell.

And the one, now, that stares at the terse set to Bear's shoulders, the lines rucked across his broad, the helplessness etched into ashlar, and considers that maybe all he needs is someone. A friend, maybe.

(And maybe, maybe, that it could be you—)

“Bear—” it would be so easy to swallow the words back down until you choke on them.

You breathe in. Taste nicotine in your throat; the phantom burn of a memory from long ago: one once buried under the rubble of your crumbling foundations, now rearing into this yawning abyss as you waver on the precipice. This vacuum that syphons you dry. Leaves you empty, gaping.

It’s your mum leaning over the railing of a mezzanine as she smokes a cigarette—the eighth in the last three hours, pack near gone—and tries (and fails; always, always, always) to find some temporal kinship with a higher power as you sit on the porch swing and drink in the scraps she tosses your way.

(Today, it’s the way the smoke curls in the periwinkle sky like a naked gospel; grand televangelist to a crowd of one.)

She scrambles within the ruins of her own making to seek answers to compensate for the lack of worth that slips from the cracks. Left behind again. Again, but it’s not her fault. It’s never her fault.

(You should know best, she tells you—you suckled from the shattered parts of herself before you broke away from the cradle of her arms. Genetics leaves you wrecked for company, for permanence.

It’s just not made for us, baby. We’re unloveable only because we love too much—)

An epiphany comes in the middle of her eighth cigarette, and she divines enough wisdom to come to the succinct conclusion that those broken pieces are not the cause of her misery.

(How could they be when they’re a part of her and she’s a part of everything?)

Can't fix a broken man, she murmurs into the midmorning fog, blood-red mouth splitting into a sneer. There was beauty, you thought, to be found in the pale yellow of her teeth against the pastel dusting of dawn. Rapturous, almost. You couldn't look away even as the words snaked through the underdeveloped fibres of your mind. They're like someone who's drowning, you know? They'll grab on to anyone that gets too close and try to pull them under, too. Maybe because they want to save themselves, or maybe because they don't want to die alone. Better to leave them behind.

Can't fix a broken man, (but maybe—)

Your dad tried to fix me, she adds, and it comes in the same cadence of an afterthought, blase; but the thinness in her voice, the reedy pitch of barely veiled urgency, all feigned indifference to the topic, all give her away. She's been waiting for this, you know. Gearing up in steady increments so that the blow lands harder when it's thrown.

Isn't that stupid? And he couldn't even bother to stick around. What a joke… But I guess some people are like that, huh? Couldn't be me, she scoffed, jabbing her finger in your direction. You could see the yellow of her nails beneath the pock marks in her chopped, blue nail polish. And don't let it be you, either. The best thing you could ever do for yourself and someone else is leave. Don't cheat. Don't be the other woman. Just fucking—

The bubble bursts, and in that breaking, a truth is revealed to you in some strange, hangover-induced epiphany brought on by dehydration, malnutrition, and the terrific idea of going home with a man who has never once talked to you while being completely sober. It screams—first and foremost—you are an idiot, but beyond that, you really are your father's child, aren't you?

Lost amid your memory, the emergence of a forgotten fallow, it’s Bear who shakes you awake when he reaches for you after the silence sat for too long. Fingers touching, too tender and too rough at the same time, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver as it ploughs disquiet into your being.

Tears pebble in your lash line, threatening to spill over. You haven't cried in a long time and yet, yet—

His hand folds over your wrist, tight and unrelenting. Shackles against your bones. Grinding them into soft, fine powder.

“C’mon,” he slurs, pleads; tugging you closer as if distance is what makes you say these things to him and not the heavy, overwhelming scent of alcohol wafting off of his numb tongue. “You don't know what you're saying right now—”

His fingers tighten. The midnight scabs on his knuckles tear from the strain, the stretch. Blood wells under the slit that lifts from his broken, battered skin. Pebbles like a tear-drop on the wrinkle of his bruised knuckle, and then sheds itself free. Running down the yellow mess of moulted flesh until it meets the cliff edge of where his palm rests against yours.

“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean that. Stay with me, stay—”

The alcohol makes him sway where he sits, eyes upturned but focused inward, lost to thoughts and feelings and places unreachable to you. Ephemeral lines in jaded, blue sands. It slips, too, from between his fingers. Uncatchable to anyone but the flush under his skin, the slur in his words.

Can’t fix a broken man.

The motion dislodges the droplet and it waterfalls over his palm until his blood kisses the clean, unmarred skin of your hand.

He doesn’t notice the way he bleeds on you (through you, in you; drowns you in it, in him—): outside of a thready determination built on drunk devotion, he doesn’t seem to see much at all. Clouded. Overcast. Those hazy eyes regard you with a thin, untouchable distance. Filmed over and too far gone for you to pull him back—

(and you can’t help but wonder if he even notices you or if, in those unending crevasses, an icy, broken bergschrunds, the misshapen silhouette of you strikes a different chord to him; if these slurred hymnals are just a hollow orison for someone else in your stead.)

—so you stop trying. Let it sit, let it rot. Smell the infection in the air as the wound splits apart. Gangrenous and beyond palliative help.

Something must flicker across your face sharp enough to cut through the fog he drowns himself inside because his eyes widen slightly, and his hand tenses around your wrist. Tight. Unyielding.

As his fingers dig in over your pisiform, deep enough to bruise—to mark you once more with his stain, his touch—you’re struck by the sudden thought of brittleness. It’s not something you’d ever considered yourself as—delicate, fragile—but with the way he holds you now, not at all dissimilar to the way he held on last night, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist as he used your joints as a stress ball to calm himself down, you feel vulnerable. Swallowed whole, caught.

What once felt like a comfort, a sense of security as you moulded yourself into an anchor point, a lighthouse on the sandy, dark shore, for him to find, to swim for amid the roaring waves dragging him down, now feels like dead weight.

For the first time since you've met him, you taste chlorine in the back of your throat. Feel the pull of the currents dragging you down.

You know all too well what it feels like to drown.

You pull away. He clings tighter.

“Bear, please—”

Please, you think. Please, please, please—

(If you keep stripping yourself bare, you'll be nothing but bones—)

He doesn't even notice. Nothing, it seems, will pull his fixed attention from every minuscule expression that flickers across your face as if the mere notion of weakness, of hesitancy, will give him reason to hold on just that much harder.

“Can't just give up on this—” the words are tangled in his throat, caught on the end of a snarl, and vicious. He tugs on you, pulling you closer. “On us.”

“There's no us, Bear.”

And it isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't.

There's an empty chasm between you both, void of any tangible substance. Whatever he thinks this is, it can't work. Won't. Not in the real world. Not outside of the bottom of a bottle.

You won't be his crutch. His bad habit. His midlife crisis amid a downward spiral.

You can't be.

Won't be.

(you will not be the other woman. you will not be your father's child.)

And it isn't remotely the same, you know. Bear's wife is—

Dead. Gone.

—and yet, this whole situation still makes you feel like a homewrecker even though the home you demand he returns to is empty.

Selfish, you think, but you can't even begin to know who you're referring to in this beautifully devastating moment. Bear, for chasing ghosts, drowning them in alcohol and bad choices and vices that end with bringing strange women back to his lonely hotel room just to feel more than the vicious bite of grief in his chest.

Or you, for pulling away from this drowning man because you're not strong enough to save him and yourself at the same time.

(or—something sneers—you just hate the idea of being like either of your parents, but what can you do when you've stolen all of their bad parts for your own?)

You think of the man in the bar. One hundred dollars to send him back home. Where he belongs.

(...he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend.

send him home, alright?)

“Go home,” you say, harsh and severe. All the things that your mother wished she said to him. Regurgitated words spat out by his feet because borrowed doctrines are you've ever known.

A fissure crackles across his expression, cutting through the fog. It's anger, bitterness, pain—some strange, fantastical amalgamation of the three—and it coalesces into broken defiance where it sits, clinging to the glossy grease around his brow, his nose.

It makes your fingers itch with the urge to soothe—to unfurl the wrinkles in his brow, to tuck this grown man close to your chest until the tension in the thick set of his shoulders liquifies in your hands, and he melts into malleable putty.

(Another trinket to collect dust on your mantle.)

You swallow it down—the salt and blood, and the pathetic pulse of your heart, and all. Hurt him, you think. Hurt him deeply. Deeper, still. Push him away and run. Run. Keep running until your legs give out, until your lungs collapse because if you don’t, if you don’t, you know you’ll stay with him until he throws you to wayside, until he wakes up one morning and decides that you are not enough compared to the big, wide world just outside his door; that your walls and your roof are not big enough for him—

“Please. Go home. Go home, Bear—”

Your words land like you knew they would, and he reels back for a moment, as if struck, but the anger, the twisted pain etched in the lines of his unkempt beard, his greasy brow, make stand firm. Unmoving.

You catch the acrid scent of gasoline on his skin when he leans forward, forcing himself back into your space with his chin dipped low, eyes blazing with a defiant inferno. His scarred, battle-battered hands drop to his splayed knees, gripping tight. Holding firm.

(Or holding himself back—)

His voice is a matchstick when he speaks. Smouldering embers sparking to life. Renewed with a sense of purpose you can't make sense of. What set him off? What made him flip—

(You're not worth it. You're not worth it—)

“M’not giving up on this.”

His jaw is slack. Laxed. The words slip out slow, languid. Curling with a touch of humid derision, mordant humour, at the idea that after all of this, everything (nothing, you think—nothing, nothing, nothing), you could just walk away unscathed.

If I burn, the crackle in his throat says, promises: then you're burning with me.

“Bear—”

“I'm not giving up on us.”

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him.

(You sever a part of yourself and leave it in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

The aftermath goes like this:

A tsunami of regret and indecision dredges up terrible, awful things—phantom memories and stains in the shape of fingerprints that pollute the inside of your psyche—ones that should have been left to rot at the bottom of your buried trenches. It makes leaving harder than it should have been considering the abrupt nature of this—whatever it is.

(Untitled. Unnameable. Unknowable.)

There's betting on losing dogs, and then there's this:

Pacing all your cards, all your coins, on one that wasn't even in the race.

One foot in, one foot out doesn't apply when Bear has never even stepped over the threshold. That notion roots itself in the scorched fibres of your chest, knotweed in your alveoli, as you scent liquor on his breath when he speaks. A cavernous distance grows between want and reality.

You thought you knew him. Learned and memorised all his hard lines, his soft valleys, the thick thatches of hair that dust his body like the dark depths of a riverbed; a nebula of loosely connected scar tissue—Orion's belt made of fine, silvery lines—and pock marks from blemishes and bumps born from the rich, enigmatic tapestry of his life beyond the mere sliver of you. Crows' feet in the corner of his eyes, but only when they're crested in pleasure, twisted in that tender sort of humour only comfort brings.

It takes you a weekend to map out the burly topography of a man, and only seconds to realise you know nothing about him outside of this rapacious intimacy.

And even though you want to feel like this was the right choice—because it is, it was—you can't seem to stem the sheer brutality in which regret tears through you as you stand alone in a desolate parking lot under the waning sun. A whimpering ending to a desolate beginning.

Was it loneliness that brought you here, or just the mundanity of fearing failure? It's these unanswerable questions, these skewed thoughts, that tumble over themselves, struggling to stay buoyant in the molasses of your sicky grey matter.

(Let them sink. Let them drown.)

These distant sentiments barely echo in the gaping vacuum of that is your mind. Untethered, whispering by as you stare, transfixed, at the broad strokes of pretty pastels in periwinkle, tangerine, and bluebonnet are rapidly consumed by the darkening sky that opens like a chasm above your head. The sight of it a little too close to the colours that danced in the aether when you both broke, finally, meeting somewhere in the middle, tangled webs. Broken people coming together in a cataclysm that was always, always, headed down a single path to devastation.

(The perfect conclusion to a story without a beginning.)

It's something you shouldn't think about. Let them sink. Let them drown—

This looping, knotted thread is a dangerous one to follow—the agony of watching Bear storm off (even after asking, demanding, that you let him drive you home; an offer you quickly refused) is still raw and gaping; a pulsating wound in the back of your throat—but you're brittle enough to want it to hurt, maybe. Chasing that unequivocal high only self-flagellation brings.

Masochism in failure. In heartbreak by your own design.

And it should hurt, right? This lonely climax (not with a bang, but a fizzle) should devastate you. Cut you to the core. Leave false starts on your bones. Scars on your ribcage. A meteor shower in milky white. Something tangible. Permanent.

But instead, it feels unfinished. More of a sudden paroxysm than a defining choice you've made. Concretely. Absolutely. It's a hollow win for your bruised ego. Your battered pride. It slinks, somewhere, in the depths of this renewed pain, and licks at the tender wound made when you pierced your chest and ripped your heart cleanout.

Threw it at the floor by his feet.

Quid pro quo, maybe. Or a desperate bid to rid yourself of the Bear-shaped hole now taking residence inside.

(It's fine, though. That pesky thing, all wrapped up tight in thick layers of duct tape, has never really felt like it belonged to you, anyway—)

It's all such a beautifully horrific panoply, you find. Paradoxical. Oxymoronic. Smothering and somehow claustrophobic at the same time. Being burnt alive and dying from hypothermia.

The cudgel of pain to your chest is white-hot and vicious, but there's a seismic polynya in the lavascape of sadness that drapes through the topography of your being like a sluice, and in that little island of ice sits the unrelenting sense of flat resignation.

You left Bear of your own free will, but in the jaded fibres of your being, you know it was all—

Inevitable.

And fuck—

(fuck, fuck, fuck—)

Was it? Was it all inexorable or are you just making up flimsy excuses for yourself?

Yes, you think. And then: no. Maybe. Maybe.

(you are your father's child—

and your mother's broken daughter.)

You want to cry, and scream, and break the pain against something willing to fight back, to cut you just as deeply as you hack at it, but all you have are fragmented memories swarming you in this vacant parking lot on the wrong side of Virginia Beach, and—

(don't let it in, don't—)

—you chase it, lure it all in as you compare the blue in the sleepy gloam to the colour of his eyes, and then—

Your back against a brick wall, his knuckles sticky with blood closing around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. Closer. The wide expanse of his palm swallowing your wrist as he led you to his truck; then, heavy on your thigh the entire—ill-advised—drive to the Motel 6 down the road where you stand now, fragile, raw, and all alone.

When this all started, when you finally had the cobbled remains of Bear’s lucidity in your arms, the flat press of his attention against your jugular, you considered it to be a victory—

(a victory in amber)

—but hindsight is a cruel, mocking laugh in the back of your head. Twisting the knife deeper, severing the fraying threads that anchor you to yourself. With a sadistic glee it tells you that while you might have won the battle over the bottle, you lost the war (—abysmally, and without even the haze of a fever in your veins to numb the hollowness of your loss).

You just can’t fix a broken man, and you certainly can’t keep him afloat all on your own when you’re too busy trying not to drown yourself.

It's just that the weight of your shared brokenness was incompatible and insurmountable to the grief in Bear’s heart, but really. You just wonder if it was inevitable that everything you offered would be passed over in favour of numbed indifference at the bottom of a bottle. For someone, something, else. And while you might have been the one to leave first, but somewhere in the misplaced hurt inside of your chest threatening to collapse in on itself, folding into a black hole that devours all of your messy, ugly parts, you know that Bear was never really there, anyway.

That thought stings more than it should because you know, you know—

It’s just not made for us, baby.

—and maybe it’s all your fault for forgetting that inevitability in the first place.

(shame on me—)

The thread you warned yourself not to chase gets tangled around your throat, choking you with the very same line you should have stayed far away from. It feels like hollow cyclicity—a gluttonous ouroboros gorging on itself—when it all, eventually, leads back to the beginning.

Your fault, again, for trusting broken guidelines in the dark. For betting on losing dogs. For picking up another stray who already had a home. Another trinket to gawk at that ended up being chock full of arsenic, killing you with every touch.

But He's gone, now, despite the fire that raged in his eyes, he still left you here to burn on your own.

(inevitable—)

You should learn when to let go, you suppose, and fight the urge to bite your nails down to the wick just to taste blood in your mouth that isn't his.

For the most part, though, you’re fine.

You’ve always been a good liar (“terrible, actually,” Bear snorts, and it’s the closest you’ve ever come to seeing him roll his eyes. “Jesus, never play poker if I'm not around—”), and especially to yourself, so after a moment of self-reflection in the form of a scalding bath and a purging cry in your car as you shoddily cut the Joe Graves-shaped cancer from your aching heart before it can metastasise and infect you further, you come out of it all standing, somehow.

It might be the pastiche of indifference you slip into; a facsimile of the one, jaded and so bone achingly tired, that fell over you when you stumbled out of the bathroom, ready for something more only to find a man half-gone already to a bottle in the span of a few moments alone with his thoughts.

Regardless of what it is, it works (—in shades, and only as long as you cling so tightly to anger that your fingers bleed and your joints ache—), and you let the familiarity of your unpractised trot to some gnarled finish line lead you forward.

A clean break, you think (—hope: plead, bargain; wishing so hard on every eyelash that falls, every eleven you come across so that something, someone, listening might cradle the delicate splinters in their arms and nurse this whim, this want, into fruition), and you'll be fine. Fine.

You have to be.

But the thing is this:

Despite your best efforts to put some sense of distance between you and the heartache that must be, at least a little bit, on par with being gutted, a clean break is never clean, is it?

Case in point—

Thinking about him makes you bleed, and you think about him constantly.

(Regret, then, is a wellspring in which the pain drinks and you didn't know a body could thirst this much.)

And it's made even worse when you realise just how bullish a man like Joe Graves can be.

Maybe it's the thought of everything that had built up between you shattering into pieces that awakens this sense of urgency within him. Clinging, perhaps, to the only form of comfort he knows. The only one who toughed it out—in part, due to your employment obligation; the rest? an unresolved saviour complex when it comes to the people even a contrarian wouldn't place a bet on. Maybe.

(Probably. Undoubtedly.

You stopped trying to find the reason why you kept picking up the strays who always bite you in the end.)

Whatever the reason, Bear is persistent. Relentless.

He makes it Wednesday (you'd left him behind Sunday evening—day of the Sabbath, you learn; how fucking ironic) before his campaign starts.

It's forty-six missed calls, half a dozen texts (because he doesn't like texting—he likes talking. Face to face. No fallacies, no bullshit), and thirty voicemails (twenty-seven of which are drunken ramblings you don't even bother to listen to, and the rest—

Pick up. We need to talk.

Listen, I—

I fucked up. I fucked everything up—

Delete. Delete. Delete.

What are you supposed to do with any of that, anyway?)

The crux of the issue that Bear seems to miss swims in ethanol and leaves behind a five-minute voicemail filled with slurred I miss you's amid a background chorus of a rowdy bar. Then, a woman's voice—a woman who isn’t you—urging him back for more shots.

You can imagine how the rest of that night unfolded.

(You wonder if the word meant for you—I miss you—was still on his tongue when he followed her back.)

It's your fault (again; always) in the end because while you don't answer him—neither text, nor call; all voicemails deleted—you can't bring yourself to block him, either.

You let it sit somewhere in the murky middle. Untouched but looked at. Longed for.

It would be so easy to just give in. To let Bear back into your life—properly this time, maybe—and to take him up on those slurred promises made at two in the morning about coffee shops on the boardwalk, and breakfast at the Gulfstream, and movies and dinner, and talking until three in the morning, fucking in the back seat of his pick-up truck—

But that's the thing about yearning, isn't it?

Everything seems sweeter when you want it bad enough.

So, you drown yourself in him. Stand as close to the fire as you can without burning alive.

Dousing yourself in the scent of ethanol cleaner. Clinging to broken pinky promises. Thinking about peanut butter and bacon staining your fingers. Prying information from rotting timber, and keeping the saprophyte that falls off the wood in your pocket for safekeeping. Filling space on a drumroll because you talk too much, anyone ever tell you that?

(ad infinitum.)

Taping the ugliest bible verses to the back of your eyelids just to get closer, to feel closer, only to come to the realisation that you have no stake in religion to care about the deeper meaning behind it all. Metaphors and imagery are hollow when they mean nothing at all.

There's no comfort, no succour, to be found in the thin pages.

(You roll them up and smoke them instead. Easier to digest that way, you find.

Bear would probably hate it, and that alone balms the hurt some. Marginally, infinitesimally, because nothing can cauterise this gaping hole in your chest so you might as well fill it up with paper mache instead. Origami cranes with how much you hate him miss him need him want him written on the inside.)

You ache. Moulder. But you let it all rot inside of you until it's a congealed mess of putrefying memories and the moulted remains of the yearning you kept locked in shackles; the one that keeps biting, gnawing at the limbs of its cage to free.

It's easier to let it all decay together in a controlled space so that you can bisect the necrosed mass in a single go. Sever the limb to save the body. It's a mantra you repeat as you call in sick to work over and over again.

The flu, you say, and if the sniffle you give is from crying, and the cough from the weed you've been smoking all morning (blue dream, the shaggy-haired kid tells you with a nod; adds: the good shit), well. No one—especially your shitty boss and his shitty work ethic—has to know. You balm the hurt in a way that makes you feel good, smoothing it all over with trashy reality television (though, the Japanese dating show you end up dozing off to is pretty good, admittedly), and junk food.

Moving on—even some sad, pathetic facsimile of it—helps. Routines forged in wilful avoidance take the edge off of the livewires inside of your body, nerves overstimulated and burning up with a fever much too hot, too vicious, for you to palliate with home remedies.

And so, you throw yourself into it. Become a human battering ram against the ghosts in your head.

Things quickly become more of a coping mechanism than a potential, but that's fine. It's all fine. It'll work in the long run until the bruises that line your flesh fade along with the want and the hope, and the terrible memories, too.

(Terrible, in the way only a desperate, all-consuming one-sided love can be.)

All of it up in flames, in smoke.

You burn through an ounce in retaliation while watching his name flicker across your screen, and then spend an hour googling whether or not weed is really addictive (it isn't, but the routine, the habit, can be), before deciding that this whole affair is stupid, anyway.

It's a carousel of self-pity, spite, and masochism that feels like it might never end. Your efforts to palliate the sickness amount to a week of paid sick time spent watching a slew of old romantic dramas on repeat, and ignoring the string of texts that pour through (talk to me, let me fix this, let me—). All voicemails are immediately deleted before you can even hear the hitch in his voice.

It's duct tape over a gaping wound. Drifting aimlessly along Lethe, careless and indifferent, but all the while, desperately reaching down and cupping water into your palm for a sip that never seems to quench the thirst in the back of your throat.

You think you could drink until you're just standing in a dry riverbed and still feel parched. Effloresced by your own hand.

(as usual. as always—)

But this wound is still raw, still tender, even beneath the tape.

Ignore it. Ignore it—

(—before the edges begin to tear. Cloved down the middle.)

Another buffer is born when you get a text message from your boss—u comin in tmrrw?—and realise you can't avoid it, work, forever.

The prospect of going back on Friday evening—tomorrow, you suppose (the days have been slipping like molasses through your spread fingers)—makes you nervous.

You're not ready to see Bear.

But more than that (deeper than it, too), you’re not ready to see Bear unaffected by all of this. Sitting in his usual spot, in their chair he barely fits in, ordering the same drink over and over and over again.

Moving on, too—in his own way. Meeting someone else.

(His horoscope holds no punches when it tells you a past relationship may re-enter your life, which may open your eyes to a world of new experiences—)

It isn't as if he usually pairs celibacy with his whisky, and with the plethora of ignored messages (read receipt turned off), unanswered phone calls, and deleted voicemails, you know it's inevitable for him to give up. To get the hint—whatever that might be. Move on, maybe?

(get your shit together and chase this properly, Bear, jesus christ—)

You consider calling in again, but without any paid sick days left at your disposal, you know you can't afford to. So, you swallow it.

(And if it takes a little longer than usual to get ready for work, then so be it.)

Even with all of the false bravado you can scrape together come Friday, your nerves are frayed. Raw. The anxiety rolls off of you in waves, noticeable enough that even the regulars loitering outside (the ones who usually try and bum smokes off of any passersby, yourself included) offer you a cigarette.

(Politely turned down, but fuck—fuck—you wish you took it.)

The first hour into your shift is spent trying to pretend you're not aware of the way your roaming eyes skirt to the door in thirty-second intervals. Traitors. Or the involuntary flinch each time the door opens.

It would be easier to get lost in the familiarity of this desolate dive bar on the fringes of town, and so, you do.

(Try to, anyway.)

Immersing yourself in the routine of it all—the motions of pouring drinks, sizing the newcomers up (profiling their personage down to a drink and a random idiosyncrasy); the astringent scent of alcohol, the mild barley and hops; the noise of hushed conversations lulling between the static rumble of the television (sports, per usual).

The clock ticks down the seconds, the minutes, hours. You pour drinks. Clock the local gossip. Listen to the patter of condensation dripping into the tin bucket beneath the hole in the roof. In between the threadbare stirrings of routine, you find yourself waiting with dread gnawing at your insides until they're shredded and raw, pulsing ligaments burning with the fever of infection.

But it's moot. All of it.

He doesn't come back to the bar.

Where you expect to see his broad shoulders slouched over the counter, head hanging low over his steady accumulation of shot glasses (a drinking challenge with only one participant; his demons the spectators), the seat he usually occupies remains empty.

And maybe you're idealistic and stupid and wet behind the ears, but a part of you expected him to. To wander up to the counter with roses and chocolate and sobriety etched into the Neptune blue glow of his eyes, and to pick you, to choose you, but—

A fairytale.

The box on the counter—complaints—$5—is picked up by some wayward frat boy, and the mocking laughter that follows makes you think of cobalt blue, and peanut butter and bacon burgers in the empty parking lot near the beach, watching the endless midnight black ocean rock against the sandy shore. Talking. Talking. Talking.

Everything. Nothing. All the things in between.

You told him about college—failed the first semester, and then my dad… well. Anyway, had to drop out for a bit. But. I went back. Stupid, I know, and it doesn't matter but—

His hand falls on your arm, fingers a little greasy from the sweet potato fries, the ones he kept sneaking from your pile when he thinks you aren't looking, and he says:

It matters to you.

And it did, but only because it was something your dad mentioned a long time ago—I'd be proud if you followed in my footsteps—and despite everything he'd ever done, his attention, his affection, was all you'd ever wanted.

Yeah, you'd said, and stared out at the vat of blue until your eyes burned. Yeah, I guess so.

Well, he had peanut butter staining the corner of his mouth when you blinked the sting from your eyes, and turned to him. What do you wanna do?

Nothing. Everything.

Your dad once picked you up from practice, hands tight around the steering wheel. He filled you in about his day (stupid fuckin' guy from upstate came down and bought all the houses we were fixing to sell), complained about your mother (god, you know, that woman didn't even tell me what school to pick you up from? Said I should know where my daughter goes to school, as if I'm not working all damn day to keep you fed, and—), and gave you the biggest piece of advice you'd ever get:

"Look, no job is better than real estate. All that crap you think you want to do? Not important. All you need is four walls and a roof, and that's it. The rest is secondary."

(If that was true, why weren't you enough for him? Why weren't your four walls and roof enough to keep him?)

A shrug. I don't know. I've never been good at anything. You think of bruised knees. Scraped skin. Chasing a car, a dream, that never once slowed down. Can't even run right, it seems.

I can teach you. He clears his throat when you look at him, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand twice but somehow misses the dollop of peanut butter tangled in his beard. M’used to training men, I'm sure I can whip you into shape. Teach you how to run. Put you through the wringer until you come out sprinting on the other side.

"Teach me how to swim instead."

The bark of laughter he let out was cut off when you held your pinky up.

His brows bounced, incredulous. "Really?"

"A Taurus always keeps their promise."

"Christ's sake," he shakes his head, and you count the lines on his forehead when he turns, and rubs his fingers against his temple so hard, you wonder if he's trying to chisel through his skull to get at where it hurts the most. "I might not even be a Taurus."

"When were you born?"

His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest when he huffs. You watch the way his shoulders shake, the flesh softening around his neck when he dips it low, and wonder if this is what it was like to yearn.

His eyes spark, Neptune blue, when he looks up. He says nothing, but holds his pinky up to yours, the digit swallowing yours whole.

It's a promise. He squeezes your hand in three pulses. One. Two. Three. You think you might get lost in the canyons that keep dividing inside of his eyes.

"Bet you were born in April."

"Not even close." He grins, all teeth, and drops your hand. Motions to the fries spilling over your console with his chin. "Finish up."

"Oh, did you even leave any for me? Thought you ate them all."

"Watch it."

Your stomach churns at thoughts, the memories. Plagued by him, it seems. So tantalisingly out of reach, and yet—your phone vibrates in your pocket; another voicemail left for you to listen to in your car and pretend that this whole thing is fine—so close.

He's everywhere, it seems. The scent of this place makes you think of him, and the stench of sickness—

Every square inch brings back some reminder of him.

When he got too trashed the first few visits and stumbled into the washroom. His bulk falls into the cheap door frame, and sends the ugly photo of what might have been the boardwalk crashing the floor. His call of: take it outta my tab when it shattered into pieces.

(You didn't. You hated that picture, anyway.)

When he knocked over his shot of tequila when you told him you thought he'd look really handsome in a beanie—a touch too bold, high off of the ethanol that leaked from his pores—and the rubescent smear over the bridge of his nose that followed. The ruddy stain on the counter—nail polish, you think, from that time a group of bridesmaids stumbled in after a wedding on the beach, and used the washroom to freshen up—matches the shade of his blush.

You spend an hour before closing scrubbing the counter down until your fingers are cracked and dry and burning from the chemicals you douse on the cheap, aged wood. It doesn't come out. Nothing you do will ever make the table unsticky. It's too far gone.

Like him. Like—

"Whisky," a man barks, slapping a dollar bill down on the stain. "Two shots."

Four walls and a roof, right? Right. Right. Right.

The walls here bleed condensation from the humidity outside, and the roof leaks when it rains. Always. It's patched up with duct tape and pipe dreams.

(Like you—)

The box on the counter catches his attention, rheumy eyes skimming the words. He scoffs. "Funny. Make me a drink worth a tip, and maybe I'll—"

"You know what?" You snap, throwing the wet cloth down with a splat that sends droplets pelting across his abdomen. There's a vindictiveness in seeing the splatter on his smooth, unwrinkled shirt.

Your eyes sting from the bleach, the lemon cleaner. Pebbled tears in your lash line threaten to spill over, but you swallow it all down. You won't cry. Not now. Not anymore.

Your hands twitch, an aborted motion to scour the wetness from your lashes, but you stop it in time. Curl your fingers into fists instead.

(And stupidly, nonsensically, you have the sudden, passing regret over washing your hands of the blood he'd spilled on your skin.)

"I don't work here."

"Since when?"

"Now. Get your own whisky, and take your shitty tip, and shove it up your ass—"

Quitting your only source of income certainly isn't the wisest decision you've ever made—but you've never been wont to make good ones, anyway, and so, you think it's all perfectly fine, considering.

Considering.

If anything, it's better than waiting around for the inevitable collapse of this shaky, patchwork foundation of paper-mache you cobbled together (reinforced with pipe dreams) to come crumbling down around you when Bear wandered in.

(If he ever would—

Fuck. You hope he does. Hope he doesn't.

Get better. Come back—)

You sit in your car at the end of your shift—the very last one after several odd years of growing roots down into the worn floorboards, and keeping more secrets about the occupants in this town than you care to admit—and just—

Breathe.

Sort of.

It's twisted in a way that makes you entirely too aware of what everyone would think if they knew about it. So, you cup this little secret between the palms of your hands, and cradle it to your chest, only exposing it to the outside world when things become too much. It's easier to say you count to ten—in, out, in, out—than to admit that your methods of self-soothing, of quelling the visceral sense of anxiety from pinballing around inside your guts like a marble, is to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that you're back in the deep end of the swimming at the local chapter of a YMCA.

Drowning, of course.

Or some fictive version of it.

It comes to life in smeared yellow against hazy blue. A cacophony of muted sounds in the background—exultant shrieks of children, splashes in the distance, the low chatter of garbled conversation—is all you can hear in your underwater sanctuary, but only just. Noise is distorted and strange. A warbled mimicry of noise.

Your world is pressed into a cerulean marble, untouchable and inescapable. You linger in the centre, floating aimlessly in stagnation.

Down here, nothing matters. Everything is dissolved in the heavy chlorine that saturates the cold waters, and whatever resilient pieces remain sink low to the pool floor, scattered around the yellow goggles just within arm's reach.

You sink with them. Your thoughts become liquid; mercury slinking around your head. Intangible. Nonsensical. And above all else—silent.

Or they're supposed to be.

But even down here where nothing can touch you, where no one noticed you haven't surfaced in ages, your thoughts are carried by the lulling currents. Saved from your murky grey matter, from the sap that traps them in the mouth of a pitcher plant, they buoy to the surface, unmoored now. Free to scream at you in whispers.

You think of Bear.

Or rather, you think about not thinking about Bear.

About other things. And nothing—forced white noise. Static. What you're going to do now that you don't have a job. The scabs on his bloodied knuckles. No. Work, maybe. Finishing up that degree you promised yourself you'd get, if only to fill some absent void in your chest—or a futile obligation to a man who forgot your birthdays. Who spelled your name wrong on holiday cards—on the rare occasions he ever bothered to send them.

Other things. Other things—your faucet is leaking. You'll need to call the property manager to fix it. You need to get gas, too. Groceries.

Faintly, you catch the musk of his cologne still clinging to your passenger seat when you breathe in. Hold it, count to ten. It makes you remember the warmth of his humid breath on your cheek when he leaned in close, tapping your console as he pointed out your CHECK ENGINE light was on. Had been, you confessed sheepishly, for a few weeks up to that point.

Stupid pothole, you grumbled around the electricity running down your spine when his arm brushed yours as he leaned back with a derisive snort.

You caught the headiness of white oak, musk, when he turned his face to you, decidedly unamused by your answer, and flatly told you that you were driving around in a death trap.

Things not even on its last leg—it's in the damn grave.

Whatever, you shrugged. I'll just hit another pothole on the way home and it'll turn off.

Jesus Christ—

He didn't smell terrible. Faded cologne from a few days ago. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. Leather, smoke, pine. Sweat from the unrelenting humidity. Loam clinging to his skin. Spiced rum around his collar when he spilled his drink down his chin (you, eagerly, hungrily watching the amber droplet roll down the length of his neck—). He always seems to smell like he had been working in a thick, taiga forest in the dead of winter. Cindersap. Evergreen. Sweat-soaked leather. Chopped wood.

It congeals in your senses. Glueing to soft tissue, embedding itself in your skin. Permanent, unshakeable.

Unwashed sheets shouldn't be appealing. Motel shampoo. Cheap soap. The muted smell of old, stale cigarettes.

And yet, in this marbleised world, you think of it.

Of his skin, and the way it feels against yours. The slight sheen of grease along his nose when it nudges the soft slope of your neck. The rough drag of his beard over your pulse. Wry curls that end up on your tongue after he'd kiss you.

Any plans on shaving?

He dragged his cheek over your collarbones, eyes lidded, heavy. None at all. That a deal breaker?

You hold your breath until your lungs start to quiver, to ache; until you're dangling precariously on the verge of hypoxia with ink blots splashing across your vision in a garish Rorschach (they're all butterflies. with knives. what does that say about me, doc?). Phosphenes scatter in a nebula of colour. Your throat constricts around nothing, empty. Empty. The urge to swallow follows on the coattails of a pitifully fleeting euphoria. Temporal and untouchable, but you still reach out, grabbing and grasping with straining fingers because you'll hate yourself forever if you don't try. Scrambling, desperately, to catch cosmic dust on the tips of your fingers. To imbue your disjointed cracks with the chemical makeup of a Magellanic cloud until your broken parts burn incandescent. Kintsugi in cuts, scraps, of Andromeda.

But for as much as you want to shatter your lungs into infinitesimal pieces, and scatter them across the universe, your body has a failsafe against stupidity.

It forces you to gasp, gulping down thin, crisp air until you feel the burn in your chest from overexertion.

You open your eyes, and wish the world around you was still draped in teal and hazy yellow. That you could taste chlorine in the back of your throat. It's a brutal awakening to find a gossamer of silken midnight draped over the parking lot in the back of the dive bar. Empty, barren, save for yourself and the chef. A man you guess you'll never see again.

Soft, crushed ochre smears a hazy ring in the east. The dawning sun of a new day.

Leaning against the old leather of your car, your eyes cut to the console briefly. The CHECK ENGINE light is off. You made Bear groan, out loud, when you hit a pothole on the freeway and it flicked off, like you knew it was. Problem solved. More duct tape over what is probably something wrong with your engine (probably dented the filter in your catalytic converter, Bear grumbled, and you nodded along, pretending like you knew what that meant).

A light catches your eye. Your phone buzzes on the dashboard, screen illuminated in the reflective surface of your window.

You could pretend you were getting a call from RAEB if you tried hard enough. Answered it, maybe, and feigned ignorance while you chatted away to him like nothing happened. Like you sometimes don't try to drown yourself on land.

You reach for it, fingers tingling at the last vibrations before the screen cuts out, and bring it close.

It takes a second, but the voicemail icon pops up in the notification bar beside a text from your friend sent hours earlier begging you to come out next weekend (haven't seen you in forever okay?? come out w us!!).

You don't know why he keeps trying. Why he's so persistent over something that is, quite decidedly, nothing.

The icon taunts you. You hate seeing it—always have. It can't be swiped away. Can't be hidden. It irks you somewhat, seeing this little symbol.

Make it go away—

You shouldn't. Not when your insides are this raw, this fractured. Broken. But you turn your phone over in your hands for a moment, mood mulish and itching for something. A fight, maybe. Something to be angry about, justifiably. To vent your frustrations.

You tap it before you really think things through, watching as it dials VOICEMAIL and the automated message pops up after a ring.

Please enter your password—

You have one new message. To play your messages, press one—

It starts shaky—like he's moving. You can hear the shuffle of his body, the rasp of his shirt. A door slams. He huffs.

Look, uh. I'm not… I'm not good at this kind of thing. I was hoping—hoping we could talk… but. I guess I, uh. Anyway—

It goes quiet. You reach up to hit SEVEN on the keypad, delete the message like all the others, but a noise stops you. The screen hums under your finger.

I've been thinking lately. About a lot of things. The team, myself. You. I made—some bad calls. Got some good men…uh, into some trouble. The kind of trouble you… don't walk away from.

It made me think about Rip. I told you about him, right? In the—the motel. Rip is—Rip was… important to me. To us. Saved my life. In Iraq. Mosul. Bullet nearly hit me but somehow, he pulled me back just in time, took the bullet instead. Right in his stomach. And you know, he, uh—he huffs. It sounds like a laugh, but one he's choking on. He got right back up and took the bastard out. Just—wasted him. I owe him my life. Always have. It's muffled, as if he has his hand pressed to his mouth, keeping the words in. Should have saved him, but I couldn't. Couldn't do a damn thing to help him. I let him get that bad and I knew. I fucking—I knew. I saw it. Watched him spiral. And now—shit. Now I'm—uh, talking to your voicemail at four in the morning—

You think you catch what am I doing before the line cuts out.

Fog settles in the midmorning dawn. You lean against the headrest, clutching your phone, and try not to think at all.

(wash, rinse, repeat)

The hole in your chest, filled in with clay and papier-mache, crumbles under the seaspray.

What am I doing. It stays with you.

These flimsy excuses become a house of cards.

It doesn't surprise you much at all when they wobble, falling on top of you.

It's his name flashing across your screen—just Bear—as you lay in bed days later, pretending not to think about him that starts it all.

(again, again, again)

This is all a cruel sort of timing, you think, and feel the harsh thud of your heart so strongly against your rib cage that you wonder if the silly thing might break through them yet.

You shouldn't answer. Know, without any hint of uncertainty, that Bear has the potential to pull you back in—fish to a pretty, glimmering lure—and that the moment you acquiesce to one thing, others will immediately follow in rapid succession, much too quick for you to keep up with.

There will be no stopping the deluge once it breaks.

And yet—

What did you expect?

The words thrown back into your face echo in the small of your flat as the walls around you wobble, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Like most things when it comes to him.

After the second buzz, one that sends a thrill through your spine that you refuse to give attention to, you hesitantly press your finger against the green answer key and slowly bring the phone up to your face, inches away from your nose, before stopping. Abruptly.

You can handle Bear at a distance, you think, and so, deciding better than to have him murmur directly into your ear, you quickly tap the speaker button, and stammer out a muzzy greeting.

“...Bear?”

There's a sharp inhale that threads through the speaker, and you know, all at once, that he hadn't expected you to pick up. Was, instead, ready to meet and reluctantly embrace the cool, blithe distance of your voicemail.

“You answered,” he hedges, and you wonder if the wariness in his tone means anything deeper. “I didn't think you would.”

Despite his honesty, there are shades of derision tainting the gruff timbre.

“I wasn't going to,” you volley back, matching the fickleness of his misplaced scorn with your own.

“Then why did you?”

“You know why,” you admit quietly.

No one is around to see your boundaries crumble. To watch as the cards you kept so close to your chest dip once, quick enough for him to glimpse them, to see what is tucked in the palm of your hand.

In that loneliness, you find a sense of freedom that you had been missing. One tinged in the bitter coat of nostalgia.

It feels too much like those nights spent arguing about the meaning behind the perfect pour (and why yours would always be trash), and showing him abysmal creations on Instagram in a thinly veiled attempt to make him see that you weren't, objectively, the worst at it.

Back when you held the patchwork remains of your bruised, duct tape heart out over the countertop that never seemed to ever be clean as an offering to a man who bluntly looked down into the nozzle of his bottle instead.

He huffs a little, then. Put-off, maybe, by the distance you pitch when giving in is always just within reach. “I don't see the problem.”

“Well, yeah…” you mutter, shuffling in bed to get comfortable. You drag your knee to your chest, as the other stretches out in the sheets, and lazily wrap your arm around your shin, fingers digging into your flesh. Bruising, biting. It centres you, this fleeting pain. “You wouldn't, but I'll have you know—”

It's comfortable. The thought is a battering ram, one that hits hard, vicious, and dredges up the realisation of just how much you missed this. And just how easy this all is with him, even know when your heart is in tatters and you can hear the slur in his words (though, that might be his usual mumble—the man is hard to understand on a sober day, what with his penchant to grit words out between his teeth, as if he needs to tear them to shreds, to chew on them, before forcing them out), the normalcy in all of this, or as normal as this abnormal situation can get, is a bludgeon to your resolve.

“...what, huh? What'll you have me know?”

You'll get suckered back in again, but this time, all the way to the event horizon. Inescapable.

“You know, Bear.”

It's flimsy when he huffs, and sounds too much like relief when he growls: “Then why fight it?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

The line goes still, but you catch the hitch in his throat all the same. “We should. I can fix this. We can fix this. You can't just decide—”

You can, you think, and drop your forehead to your knee, letting the phone slide down the valley of thigh and stomach where it comes to rest on the clothed crease of your hip bone. A prison. Your body is the cage.

Not being able to see him gives you some sense of power back, and you reach for it. Needing to wield something decisive and distant before the rough timbre of his voice, his desperation, scoured your resolve into thin powder.

“ Just give up, Bear. It's over. There's nothing to fix because there was nothing there to begin with.”

“Nothing there, huh? Is that what you think?”

Overtaking the bitter resignation is anger. A bone-deep fury that simmers to the surface, dredged up from the bottom of the bottle you thought you lost him to. You can hear it in the sharp breath he takes, the little growl he lets out.

“Fuck that,” his viciousness stabs into your defences like a battering ram. Unrelenting, dizzying. You make to step back, but he fights you on it. Keeping you close. Blazing anger so hot, it nearly burns you. “You waltz into my life, chasin’ after me and then, what? You just decide it's too much for you? I warned you. I fucking warned you, didn't I ?”

“I—I know. I just—”

What, you wonder. What? Because was it ever as simple as wanting a hurting man to be a little less lonely in an empty pub?

It's moments like this that make you contend with your self-sabotage, the unmaking of yourself (morality, compassion, kindness) by your own hands. Your complicity in all of this is staggering, and suddenly the idea of a clean break feels vile.

How could you drop a man you spent months pursuing, expecting him to change overnight?

Your faults, and flaws, soften the part of you that wants to run, fleeting into the dark to avoid the consequences of your actions.

It takes two to tango, and the idiom bludgeons through the headache like a battering ram.

“I guess I just wanted to help, at first. To be your friend. You seemed so—” lonely. Sad. One bad day away from slipping too deep into the bottle that he couldn't climb out again.

His laugh is ugly, biting. “What? Pathetic? A sorry fucking drunk—”

“Alone.”

It quiets him, this soft confession.

“Can't save everyone,” is what he says after an agonising beat, and you think of the priest he tore into viciously for uttering the same sentiment. Bruising with his words, his tone, instead of his fists. Creating walls from the craters it left behind.

“Doesn't mean you can't try.”

“Wasted your time, don't you think?”

“No.” The word is immediate. Forceful. “With you? For you? No. But Bear. The thing you don't get, what you don't understand, is that you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And maybe it's selfish, and honestly, I know it is, but you always risk your own life whenever you try to save someone from drowning, and I know I'm not enough to help you.”

He's quiet. “Reading up on being a lifeguard?”

“In my spare time.”

A huff. It's barely a ghost of laughter. “Yeah. Yeah. Well. Hope it all works out for you.”

You can imagine the grim twist of mouth as he says it. The downward pitch to his chin, dipping in his misery.

“I hope the same for you.” You whisper, and it feels like finality.

Moments ago, the thought might have brought a sense of bitter relief to you, but now it just feels sickeningly like loss all over again.

“Shit,” Bear grouses suddenly, and then draws a sharp breath once more. “I miss you,” he rasps on the exhale.

You don't know why he would, but you understand, maybe, because you do, too.

(So much, so much, so much—)

“I miss you, too, Bear.”

The tentative words seem to shake him, and all at once, he's commandeering again. Authoritative, in that way only he can be.

“I'm getting better,” he rumbles. “I gotta. For the—for the team—”

It's the wrong thing to say, though, and he seems to realise it midway through. A quick course correction comes with a rushed, and for me, too, that reminds you too much of all the times you heard this same thing from behind the counter as you topped up their third, fourth, fifth glass.

You know better than to believe in this hollow gospel, this midnight epiphany, and for the most part, you don't. It's all empty words. False promises from a prophet, spoken as a defence mechanism against the ugly reality of what happens when people catch on to their bad habits.

But it's Bear.

Out of everyone who murmured the same phrase in that exact tone, you believe in him just a little bit more than the rest.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

It's his intense tenacity. That gritty determination seems ingrained within his very being. Inseparable.

You wonder when you started divining truths from its scripture.

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

“Bear—” It's late, and your thoughts are just running themselves aground. Turning into a tangled, indecipherable mess. “I need to get some sleep. Can we—can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Will you answer?”

It's deserved, of course, but you know that particular knife twist hurts him just as much as it does yourself, and whatever little vindication he finds from it is swallowed, quickly, by regret.

“I just…want to talk to you.”

You imagine that somewhere between the lines, the things unsaid, sits the glaring truth of his sudden devotion, his obsession:

there's no one else.

(never anyone's first choice—)

“Sure. Okay, yeah, we can. We can talk. You're—” you need distance. You need space. A minute, maybe, to sort through the ugly thoughts making webs in the back of your head. “You're my friend, Joe. We're… we can be friends, again.”

“Friends?”

It's not what he wants. That much is clear by the threadiness in his tone, but at two in the morning and with your thoughts liquifying into syrup, it's all you can offer him, all you're willing to give.

Friends. It makes you remember the limbo you sat in before, the murk and heartache of watching him ply himself with overpriced liquor and then stumble out the door, sometimes with company but most often, all alone and with just ten minutes to spare before closing. The yearning. The pining. The want that made you feel sick to your stomach with guilt for some unseen, unknown woman back home.

(“Dead. She's dead—”)

It sickens you even more to think about that. The ring he kept, the sadness that draped over his shoulders in a swath of agony. The one he didn't take off, not even for you. The warning signs were there.

You just ignored them all.

Friends, you murmur again, and wonder where, in all this, you went wrong. The beginning, maybe, when you looked at him and couldn't bring yourself to look away. Friends. We can be friends, Bear.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Best friends,” you echo back, hollow and thin. “With matching bracelets and everything—”

“Thought it was a tattoo?”

“That, too.”

“Okay,” he acquiesces quietly, but you can hear the threads of obstinacy in his voice when he says it. The combativeness, the steadfast refusal to fully submit, rears in the things he doesn't say, pitching bivouacs in his tone. This isn't over, it says. You're not over. “Friends.”

It's scornful, and you hate the way it blisters under your skin. Burning hot, the same feverish delirium that turned you incandescent with just his touch.

Everything about Bear tells you to relent. Submit.

It would be so easy to just give in.

And the thing is:

You want to. Desperately, achingly.

His certainty, his acuity in all of this, has a way of dismantling your sense of reason. Or, at the very least, your rationale for why you're keeping him at a distance. It's not just being diametrically opposed, though; this is the unerring knowledge that your complicity needs to be curbed. That you are, in small parts, responsible for this barren husk of a man. For aiding and abetting in his spiral, sure, but mostly for expecting him to greet you with sobriety when he woke up, as if spending an entire weekend between your thighs was enough to negate all the demons clawing at the walls of his skull. Scarring bone. Chiselling into marrow.

Simply put: you're not enough. You knew this, and yet—

Pursued, persisted. Laughably, even echoed the same words you repeat now to a man on the verge of going nuclear under the pressure of his rage, his grief.

It's impossible to make a levee out of skin and bones, and no matter how much Bear might want to try—maybe has tried with his late wife, with a bottle, with vice, with bloodied, bruised knuckles and a chip on his shoulder deeper than a canyon—it's just not feasible.

Too bad, you think, that this bone-weary epiphany didn't come sooner. That you didn't kick him out when you realised those beautiful valleys in his eyes were really just trenches.

Hindsight, of course.

(How were you supposed to know that the rough growl in his timber wasn't a security blanket against the world but just the aftereffects of inhaling too much artillery fire?)

You should have, though. Your mum was a how-to manual on the things to avoid. She could channel wisdom directly from a man's marrow, and you—made in her spitting (vitriolic) image—seem to have learned nothing at all about divination.

And you—forgotten ilk—can barely tell the difference between a portend and good fortune when you sift through clumps of barley tea at the bottom of your cup.

For all of her stolen wisdom, you make a promise to yourself that you won't tear yourself into pieces just to make a safety net for him out of your flesh. Or set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

(Not anymore, anyway—)

But then, cruelly, viciously, you wonder if you ever really helped him at all, or if this is just a manifestation to assuage your own guilt. Doubtless, you find. What have you done for him that wasn't, in some part, mutually beneficial? All this time, you've been gambling equivalence with a broken man, and then ran the moment those jagged pieces cut you.

And maybe a little bit of this hesitancy is rooted in fear as well. A fickle thing you try to ignore in favour of something that makes you seem more altruistic than you really are, but still lurks in the shadows, in the words you, too, won't say.

Things like:

He's never met you sober. Not completely. And certainly not in a way that counts.

Each interaction is marred with some form of a buffer between you both. Distance shaped in sips of his (fourth, fifth) beer; a shot of whisky.

What if he doesn't like what he finds sober?

You heard enough jokes at the bar about falling in love drunk and then waking up sober. If this is that, you don't know how you'd regain any sense of ground back.

The precipice you clawed your way up to is endlessly steep, treacherous, and yet: you still let yourself fall. Still took the risk in opening your hand just to show him your still-beating heart.

Return to the sender, you think a touch hysterically, deliriously.

In the suffocating silence, his voice rings out. Quiet, rough, as if his vocal cords were made of charred wood, smouldering embers, and not warm, wet tissue. It's just your name, but the sound of it seems to drag you down to yourself, if only in increments.

“You good?” He asks when you hum noncommittally in response.

With your forehead braced against the slope of your knee, it feels like bowing your head in a confessional when you whisper, paper soft, “I'm tired, Bear.”

It sounds like he is chewing on glass when he sighs. Throat torn, raw. The ghost of it whispers across your chin; fingerprints tapping over a tender bruise.

“Haven’t been sleeping much these last few days. Been thinkin’ of us. Of you. And the team. All the people I let down—”

“Bear…”

“And I—I want to see you soon. When you're ready. I'm not going to rush things this time. Not gonna mess it up again—”

He speaks like this is settled. Over. As if you've already climbed into the palm of his hand, and all he has to do is just close you up tight in his fist. A little flower he can carry around in his pocket. Kept safe. Kept close.

It's—

A lot. Overwhelming. He sounds sober enough, and you know that he's not wholly dependent on drinking—it’s palliative; a coping mechanism to numb himself from the reality of everything else that happened to him—but there's a real crutch there that can't be erased by determination alone. But thinking about that—the future—makes your chest feel like it's going to cave in on itself; collapse and become another black hole in the Milky Way, swallowing everything down.

You need to breathe. You need to think—

“You should get some sleep, Bear. And—”

Don't drink. Stop. Get help. Talk to someone.

But the words are empty. Hollow vessels to placate your sense of responsibility. Your own guilt.

Coward. You've always been so good at running—

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. The hushed timbre makes you tremble. “You too. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

And so, this delicate dance made of putting duct tape over fractured promises and palliating the sickness in patchwork hope begins again, working in pieces.

There's a distance that lingers between the folds of you both, unspoken hurt and distrust—a lingering symptom of letting yourself get swept away by the idea of a man rather than the flesh and bone cut of one—but despite it all, each misgiving that passes your mind when you see Bear’s name flash across the cracked screen of your phone, it works.

Somehow, somehow.

It isn't as deep as missing puzzle pieces, because as much as you and Bear seem to connect on a level beyond sex, and booze, and fleeting highs to numb a phantom ache in the pit of your chest, the idea of soulmates seems to be frangible for your fractured selves; with all of your jagged, sharp edges, something so soft would break into pieces, shatter apart. But it is something.

And that might just be enough. So, you let it root. Let it grow limbs, and leaves, and curl around you like gentle, strangling wisteria until it reaches up to your chest.

This delicate, fragile thing makes a home, again, inside the empty landscape of your heart.

(shame on me, you think, but still pick up his call as this tender, soft thing you're nurturing snakes across your jugular where it's the warmest, leeching heat from the fever that thrums under your skin.)

Despite his bold declaration, though, he seems to waver on a full pursuit. Content, almost, to maintain this idea of closeness without shattering the bubble you've reconstructed.

It's odd, though.

Bear is a man who seeks logic out but always ends up relying on his hunches. Emotional in the sense that he places all confidence in himself beyond the scope of what he might be able to deliver. If his determination can't bring him across the finish line—well, then it was unwinnable from the start.

For a man so tenacious, so driven, his hesitation in all of this surprises you.

But something has to give eventually.

It always does.

Bear isn't terrible at texting, but he prefers phone calls. Something he admits has less to do with his occupation (no, I won't have to kill you for telling you this, you need to stop believing what you see on tv), and is more just a way of gleaning nuances he can't with written word.

Though, not always.

There's a softness when he speaks tonight, a quality you're unfamiliar with, as he confesses on a hushed memory, half musing aloud when the world is dead asleep and the sun is a distant idea in the back of your head, that he used to write letters to his wife whenever they weren't on the phone talking. Or Skyping each other.

“Deployment with a group of guys doesn't leave much room for privacy,” he says, as if he hasn't just unravelled this hidden part of himself at three fifteen on what was meant to be a rather mundane ending to your Thursday. “They're not really, uh, sensitive to that. We're on top of each other for most of it, anyway. Asking a whole room to clear out just so I can talk isn't happening. So, uh, we—uh, me and Lena, we wrote letters.”

There's a stutter in his voice when he relays this to you, and you're struck numb by it all. Lena, you think, putting a name to a concept.

“Oh,” you say, and you're not sure what to think about it. So, you don't. You tuck it aside, where all the other things you've learned about Bear go. The ones revealed to you in shambles. “That sounds— romantic. ”

It makes him scoff, and it's this terrible, broken thing. “Romantic, huh? Is that what you think?”

You hum, taking it in. The grand reveal of his ex-wife (she… we, he corrects and clears his throat like it burns: we decided to separate. See, uh… see other people), and his marital problems, you connect the dots lingering in the foreground.

You're not completely ignorant of his intentions.

It's the first move on a fresh chessboard: a show of his commitment to this—whatever it might be—and how serious he's taking it all. Where you'd been the only one to dare pry open the rusted nails keeping your secrets at bay before, he's taking the initiative to do so now, to meet you somewhere in the middle where the olive branch still grows. Placing his bets before the race. Offering himself, and his secrets, up as collateral in this strange game you found yourself in.

But does he know that you can still hear the slight slur in his voice when he speaks, or notice the way he seems to skirt around the conversation of his drinking habits on the days when it must be hitting him harder? Surely, he must.

And yet, he still calls. Still decides to gamble with your devotion in maintaining a strange facsimile of friendship with whisky on his breath, slurring his words, and gives out the pretence of playing for keeps under the table.

Maybe he knows you'll still give him the chance to keep playing no matter how many times his luck runs dry. It makes sense, considering.

You'd always had a weakness for men like him.

(Stupid—)

Outside of the tipsy phone calls, you've yet to hear him completely gone. A testament to his dedication, maybe, but you know the first week is always the easiest. When the high of the epiphany roars through their bloodstream, and the weight of the world doesn't feel as crushing as it once had, it's easy to make deals you don't have the means of keeping up with. But the debt is insurmountable to those who aren't fully invested, and the collectors are vicious.

Still. Still.

This is as close to sobriety as he's ever been, and you soak up his unbridled attention like you're starving for it.

And in all honesty, you are.

Bear is a strange, complex web of a man. Full of grit, anger. Misery curls in the corners of his eyes, hidden there amongst the powder keg of obsessive devotion just waiting to go off. You scented kerosene on his skin—napalm drenching his pores—when he'd lifted two fingers up and nearly snarled his order from across stained cedar wood.

Having the brunt of his fire listing your way is a character study in restraint, in penance. It taps against the delicate binds holding everything back, and loosens the ties with every piece of him you're given.

It's hard, you think, to stay so far away from someone when you're wobbling on the brink of devotion. Love, in shades of obsession. The taste of which settles in the back of your throat like a sickness, aching each time you swallow.

You're not sure what it is about Bear, about this particular brand of miserable, angry man, but his very existence feels like it was constructed, handspun, to make you hunger for a taste.

And then, you know. It's just that, isn't it? Miserable, angry man.

(saviour complex, maybe. maybe, maybe, maybe—)

It feels deeper than that, though. It might have been the cause for this unravelling, this unmaking between you both, but the rest—the helplessness and the anger and the worry; answering his call even when you swore you wouldn't, leaving him in the motel room like a bad dream smeared across your pillow only to pick him up again, another bad habit in a sea of others—is than just a simple desire to fix problems that are not your own.

(especially when they aren't your own.)

“Never really been the romance type,” he rumbles, shattering this strange, introspective reverie you've fallen into.

“You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though,” you volley back, a touch too cautious compared to how it all was before. When you'd read him his horoscope, and pester him about trying your audacious food combinations he'd complain about, but eat, anyway.

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know.”

You expect him to pick up your jab, turning it on you instead. Something caustic, something severe. Something equally mean and mordant in the way only Bear could be. But he doesn't. He lets it fall to the wayside instead, humming under his breath in something that might be acquiescence, or maybe avoidance of the topic entirely, and shifts back into neutral territory.

How was your day? He asks, as if that wasn't one of the first things he'd said to you when you answered the call.

“Fine,” you hedge, breezing the word out between your teeth. “It was okay. Bear—”

“I, uh, have a meeting tomorrow,” he steamrolls through your concern like it's made of paper instead of the broken remnants of your heartache. “Another eval., to see if I'm fit to return to training. Make my way back to being an Officer.”

More secrets are revealed to you in the slow dawn of his unfurling fist. Held out like a beacon, a piece of candy. Good job, it says when you reach for it like the good, obedient dog you are.

Pavlov's finest.

“That sounds…” You're not really sure what it means, in all honesty. Words coming together to form a sentence. The meaning is absent from between the lines. You could infer, but you've never been good at guessing. So, you stagnate. “Good. Um, really good, Bear.”

He huffs, and you take it as a laugh—or as close to one you'll get from him. “Gotta pass the eval first.”

“Should be easy for you.”

“Should be,” he mumbles, and you catch the faint end of a muffled groan. “But I've been slacking. Put on extra weight. Need to burn it all off before I can really get into the old routine. Gonna fall behind worse than a newbie.”

Newbie being growled out in his flat intonation makes you snort.

“You find something funny? ”

“Ha, no—” his words turn over in your head—put on extra weight—and, damningly, you remember what all that extra weight felt like, stretched out beneath you; arched over your body, heavy and suffocating, and—

Fuck.

Bear catches the hitch in your breath, and makes a questioning noise in response. You can't let him ask. Can't let him know that you keep painting a picture of his hairy belly brushing against yours in the forefront of your mind. His biceps. Burly is what you'd thought of him before. Thick. Husky. A heavy man, in more ways than one.

The softness around his waist belied the hard muscles below. You could feel it pressing firm against your palm when he rolled under you, bracing your hands over his chest as he let you ride him.

That's it, sweetheart. Just like that—

“No,” you swallow around the desire welling up inside of your throat. “Nothing.”

He hums, and it's tainted in disbelief. Like he knows, somehow, what you were thinking of. What you keep thinking of—especially after these phone calls, his voicemails, when you're lying in bed with your fingers whispering between your thighs—and you almost expect him to call you out on it. To demand an answer.

Instead, he offers a tender truth that nudges against the soft pulse in your throat.

“...Not drinking as much helps.”

You almost want to call him out on the as much he tacts on to the end of his confession, to question the logistics behind those two words. To quantify it in a number, in tangible data. Something concrete you can plinth your hope on. But the answer scares you.

Too much and you'll fall all over again. Too little and you'll have no choice but to run.

So, you retreat in the face of his truth. A coward.

“That's—It's good. That's good, Bear—” and it is. Of course, it is. Great, even. He isn't even yours and this silly notion of pride staples itself to the front of your chest for the world to see. “I'm, um. I'm proud of you.”

It sounds hollow, pyrrhic, coming from you—repentant enabler—but the airiness in his voice strikes something deep inside. Pulses against a dormant place that comes alive, fecund with the bittersweet stirrings of hope germinating in the fibres.

Skingraft over the wound.

“Proud, huh?”

And the sound of his voice cuts that thread as soon as it forms.

His voice is pitched low, throaty. He draws the syllables out as he says, at length, “I, uh, keep thinking about you.”

You should warn him away. Tap the impish fingers sneaking to the cookie jar—a thorough chastisement to keep wandering hands in check. Bad dog, is the passing thought, and you try to swallow down the hysterical giggle that bubbles in the back of your throat.

You should.

But you don't.

It comes out breathier than you intended when you say his name, and it sounds much too malleable in the face of this tactile man.

“Been thinkin’ about you a lot.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Too much. Too much. “Same. Uh, me too.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going out with some friends. Probably going to get dinner. Watch that new movie that just came out. And, um, have a few drinks after.”

“How're you getting home?”

“Taxi, most likely.”

He hums low, throaty. The sound seems to reverberate through the phone and tremble deliciously down the length of your spine. “That so?”

“I'm not going to be drinking much.” You weigh the ethics of discussing your intentions to drink, to get completely wasted, and maybe go home with someone who isn't Bear, who doesn't even so much as look like him, before waving the thought away before it can take shape. “It's just—social. Getting caught up. Haven't seen them in a while because of school and stuff.”

And because you've invested so much of your free time spinning in circles around a man who didn't even really seem to look at you (who insisted on calling you kid to force distance and indifference between you) until a few months ago, letting your social life dawdle on the wayside.

Not that there was ever much one. It's easier, sometimes, to push people away than to explain the inner workings of your borrowed scar tissue.

He hums again—and he really needs to fucking stop doing that before you do something stupid, something reckless, like remember the way he sounded when he lifted his head up after coming deep inside of you, panting in your ear from exertion, and groaned just like that when he shifted forward, inching his softening cock further you, seemingly content to stay like that as you melted into the mattress that reeked of stale sweat and sex.

“I'll drive you.”

Your breath catches. “You don't have to.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it's decidedly noncommittal and comes completely undone when you catch the crackle of iron in his mulish tone as he adds: “but I want to.”

And he will, is the underlying promise that brims to the surface, wrapped up neatly in a way that brokers no real room for a counterargument. Not that he'll give you the chance to make one.

Still. You try, if only to snatch at some modicum of control that slips, gossamer thin, between your fingers.

“It's fine. Making you go out all that way is kinda…”

“Don't worry about it. Beats paying for a cab, anyway.”

“Bear…”

It's firm when he says: “let me drive you home. Make sure you get there safely.” Final. But to soften the blow, he adds, voice tender like a bruise: “Just let me do this for you.”

And how are you supposed to stay no to that?

“Okay, Bear.”

(Answer: you don't.)

#joe graves x reader #joe graves x you #bear graves x reader #joe bear graves x reader #joe bear graves #barry sloane #joe graves #six (2017)#seal team six #history six #bear x reader #bear graves x you

159 notes · View notes

atinylittlepain · 22 days

Text

Part Two

no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc

series playlist

joel miller masterlist

series masterlist

She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.

word count | 5.1k

chapter content info | 18+ little angst, couples counseling, just two tired people trying to figure out the tangle of their relationship together

a/n | part two is here, and i'd just like to say thank you to everyone being so kind about the first part - i know this isnt the usual peepaw fare, so thanks for giving her a chance - and also big thank you to @wannab-urs for beta-ing this bad boy <3

............................................

This is not a failure. She is not failing. They are not failing. Every Thursday at four o’clock she shuts her laptop and locks her office and stops in the bathroom at work, silently repeats these things to herself in her mind while she rubs her fingers at smudged mascara in the bathroom mirror. Like a mantra, though she’s not sure she’s fully bought into it yet. Because the truth is, she has had plenty of conversations with plenty of girlfriends that, really, they shouldn’t have been having about other girlfriends, not in the room with us girlfriends who, did you hear, started going to therapy and, did you hear, started going to therapy with their, oh no, husbands. Yes, she has been the bitch who has made jokes about death knells and a marriage’s last gasp for breath, jokes about the husband having the emotional range of a goldfish, and the wife being so up the husband’s ass she should give him a colonoscopy while she’s at it. She’s not really making jokes like those anymore.

She’s not supposed to be doing what she’s doing this Thursday at four o’clock. When they first went to Vicky (LMFT, for the record) her fundamental decree had been a period of full separation. Sixteen years, she had asked, and they had nodded, and she had said whoa boy, yeah, y’all need to back off each other before we do anything else. If Paula Dean had a penchant for self-help instead of butter, she’d be something like Vicky. And so, with all the care of a drill sergeant delivering commands, or a mechanic running a diagnostic on a fucked-up car, Vicky had told them how this is going to go. An apartment, she said, don’t care which one of you lives in it. Minimal contact between sessions, right, keep it civil, right, this isn’t for forever, right. So Joel got an apartment, and Tommy helped him move all the furniture in the basement with admittedly minimal, but still present, wariness, and for the last four weeks they’ve been doing everything their beloved herr-therapist tells them. She supposes it’s working, although you can’t really do much fighting when you only see the other person for ninety minutes every Thursday so, the results might be confounded, actually.

“Hey there.” Hey there? What the fuck, what the actual fuck. He doesn’t think he’s ever said those words to her, ever, maybe not to anyone actually. He feels a little insane, a little itchy under the skin, mouth full of cotton, brain too, because they’re not supposed to be doing this, not really. The first time she’s seen the apartment, or, well, the doorway of the apartment, doesn’t really seem interested in stepping further inside, running her curled palm up and down the strap of her purse and right, not here for that. He shuts the door behind him and then they’re on their way to therapy because it’s four o’clock on Thursday and this is what they do now at four o’clock on Thursday.

“Thanks again. I didn’t think my car would still be in the shop today.”

“Oh of course, you said it’s a transmission leak?”

“Yeah, the bad, expensive kind that’s above my paygrade. Guy said they’re still waiting on a part for it.”

“Well I’m off work tomorrow if you need a ride anywhere.”

“Vicky’ll get pissed.”

“If she finds out. Are you gonna tell on me to Vicky?” It’s a joke, they can joke, right? She laughs a little on the end of her words to make it clear, hey, it’s a joke, awkward and out of touch and unsure of what the rules are. But he offers a breath of a laugh, at least, fine, it’s fine, they’re fine, and now they’re silent driving to Vicky’s office.

Should he ask her how her week has been? If the kitchen sink is still leaking? He’s not sure. Not sure about any of it, really. Every week, Vicky asks them how they think they’re doing and Cass doesn’t even hesitate. Good, she says. Not fine, not okay, but good, usually with a sure, terse nod. It takes him a little longer to find the right word to describe how he’s doing. Not sure about that either, but it’s definitely not good. Some things are better, sure, easier not to argue when under foot, easier not to remember all the ghosts they’ve built up around themselves. But at the most basic level, he misses her, even misses arguing with her, in a perpetual state of missing something, walking around and wondering if he left his wallet at home, or if he remembered to call a client about a new build, wondering if he’s missing something essential, a limb or an organ he didn’t know about. No, none of that. Missing something else.

“You’re not wearing your ring.” She flexes her left hand over the steering wheel in response, her very bare ring finger making him feel a quick pinch of something he’ll call anger, though it’s probably something else entirely.

“No, Vicky advised I try not wearing it during the separation.”

“Why the fuck would she tell you to do that?”

“Joel.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You’re swearing.”

“Well, why didn’t she say the same thing to me?”

“Maybe because I told her this is how you would react.”

“I think I’m having a pretty normal reaction to it, actually.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just for now.”

“Right.”

“It is.”

“Seems like a strange thing to advise someone to do when they’ve been married for nearly two decades.” She parks outside of the office complex that Vicky works in, lets out a long sigh through her nose and doesn’t spare him a glance as she reaches around to the backseat and pulls her purse up front, producing her ring from somewhere deep inside of it and sliding it back on her finger.

“There, are you happy now?”

“Why the hell were you keeping it in your purse?”

“Oh my god, really?”

“That’s a real easy way to lose it is all I’m saying.” The truth is, she’s been keeping it in her purse in order to have easy access to it. Like a pulsepoint, sometimes she just needs to know it’s there, reaching into her purse underneath her desk and yep, still there, still okay. Sometimes she doesn’t get through a whole day without putting it back on. Like reflex, like ghost limb aching. But she’s not about to tell him that.

“Do not bring this up with Vicky.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll know we drove here together.”

“You’re that worried about what Vicky thinks?”

“She’s our therapist, I’m a healthy and appropriate amount worried about what Vicky thinks.”

“You know she’s not the arbiter of marriage just because she has a couple of degrees, right?”

“Really, the arbiter of marriage?”

“Are you doing that thing you do, is that what this is?”

“What thing?”

“Cass.”

“What thing?”

“Are you trying to win therapy?” Fuck him. No, really, fuck him. He’s doing that thing, his thing to her thing, half a smile in the passenger’s seat like he’s got her. Awful, of course he’s got her, smug and sure in his getting her. She doesn’t answer his question, knowing that her silence is an answer in and of itself and not really caring because they have therapy, damn it, and it’s going to be his fault if they’re late to therapy, damn it.

“You know, I’m starting to see why Vicky told us no carpooling to sessions.” Slammed shut, he sighs when she gets out of the car, thinking idly to himself that yes, he doesn’t necessarily disagree with that commandment of their therapist either. At the very least, Cass’ ring is still on her finger. He tried a few times in the past to get her something new, something nicer than the gold band he had given her when they were still young and still not able to afford much of anything, but sure enough in each other to want to keep doing it, all of it, together. No, she would tell him, doesn’t want anything other than the gold band. What she doesn’t know is that he pawned his grandfather’s watch and an electric saw for the ring the shop owner kept in a padlocked display case. Twenty-six years old, and looking back, he thinks he would have sold a whole lot more just to get it for her.

He used to call her pearl. Something about grit that would make her roll her eyes and ask him what late night National Geographic TV special he got that line from, all the while inwardly swooning because sure, she had been baby before, babe, an errant sweetheart even, but pearl was new, and tooth-decayingly sweet. And when he proposed, Sarah bouncing around them like a manic cupid, Cassandra made an ugly sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, little black velvet box and a ring that was more signet than wedding, simple and gold and a single pearl set in the center of it. Her hands clasped, she runs the pad of her finger over her ring, wordless and worrying it on the elevator ride up to Vicky’s office.

Vicky has a thing for lamps and art prints of naked women. Her waiting room is a little dim, no windows, green velveteen loveseat and two high-backed wooden chairs that they always take when they get here, his eyes scanning over the coffee table laden with back-ordered Psychology Today magazines, headlines about overcoming anxiety and exercising your way out of depression. There had been one about postpartum depression somewhere in the pile the last time they came, but he had made a point of hanging back after Cass left, some excuse about checking an insurance thing with Vicky, though what he really did was pluck out that magazine and throw it away in the men’s restroom down the hall. One less thing to worry about, at the least.

“Hi, you two, come on back.” The sessions always start the same. Vicky asks them how they think the week went, and they both offer up some iteration of fine. Vicky asks them if they’ve been upholding their phase of separation, and she answers before Joel can, pointedly not looking at him, yes, no contact between sessions. But apparently, this week is going to be different.

“We are nearing the end of the total separation phase. After this initial period of cooling off for both of you, the real work can begin.” Right, phases, because Vicky works in phases like this is some sort of military siege. He tries not to roll his eyes at the real work beginning.

“Can either of you remember the last date you went on together?”

“It would’ve been in August, right before the separation.” Cass scoffs at his answer, tilt of her head like, really?

“Tommy and Maria’s baby shower hardly counts as a date. But we did go to dinner at the end of July.”

“I don’t think your work banquet counts either.” Vicky hits them with that look, that yeah, that’s what I thought look, all raised brow and scrunched nose and nodding. Not that she is, but if she, hypothetically, were trying to win therapy, Cassandra thinks she wouldn’t be doing a great job of it right now.

“Right, well, you’ve made my point for me. It’s not unusual for people who have been together for as long as you two have to let things like this fall to the wayside. However, it can be very helpful to reestablish some of these routines. Think of it as marriage maintenance.”

“So you want us to start going on dates again?”

“Yes, but not with each other.” Did she? Did he? Hear that right? Cass is nodding like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, like, yes, of course, this is just the solution they’ve been looking for. This time, he doesn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?” Both of them look at him like, yes, keep up, please, let us explain this to you very slowly so you can keep up, please. Something about seeing what life is like outside of their marriage, testing the waters, seeing if they still like the same things without their extra marital limb, something about making a decision about their marriage, though he tunes most of that part out because, no, thanks, no new decision has been needed since he got down on one knee during that trip to Galveston, sunscreen and sticky sweet and he’s not sure if he or Sarah was more excited, but he was definitely more nervous. And Cass said yes, and then he wasn’t nervous anymore, not scared anymore, and that’s all there was to it, is to it, right? Right.

“This is the closing exercise of the total separation phase. It’s really important that you both have this opportunity to see what it’s like to be back in the dating pool. Think of it as a trial run of if you decide to make this separation–”

“No, no thanks. That’s not– we’re not those people, so, you know, we can just move onto the next phase.”

“Joel.” The mom voice of all things, and he knows for certain now that Cass is trying to win therapy, nudging her shoe into the side of his, and, come on, really? She’s really bought that hard into what Vicky’s selling? Now that, that isn’t like her, at all.

“What feelings are coming up for you right now, Joel?” She fucking hates that question, and she imagines that he does too, fingers drumming on his knee, long sigh, and she knows that look, that’s his getting ready to bolt look. Big man, big, skittish man who has accidentally nailed his fingers to house frames and hardly shed a tear. But feelings? Yeah, forget it.

“Uh, I guess I’m confused as to why that is so important for us to do. We came here to help our– to help us, not to create more problems.”

“And you think that if you and Cassandra went on dates, one date, with other people, that it would create more problems in your marriage?” Well, it’s hardly rocket science, Vicky, though judging by the way she’s speaking to him, he’s pretty sure he failed some kind of test of hers. He doesn’t particularly care.

“I imagine it’d do that to anyone’s marriage.”

“It’s just one date, it’s a part of the process.” She’s starting to get pissed, and trying very hard not to show it in front of Vicky should she get the what feelings are coming up for you treatment. When they agreed to start going to therapy, like a pair of dogs gagging down a pill, they had both agreed to put their full effort into it, and if Vicky wasn’t in the room with them currently, Cassandra would sharply remind him of that agreement.

“Maybe I should clarify the expectations around this exercise. It’s one date, preferably with people outside of your shared social circle, and it would be best if the focus is just on the date, no sexual relations.”

“Oh really, you think that’d be best?”

“Joel.” He gives her a slack and slanted look, speaking two different languages, apparently. And really, she doesn’t see what the big deal is. One date versus sixteen years is pretty obvious math for her to square up, though it doesn’t seem to be for him. But, watching him engage in psychological tennis with Vicky, some new jab dripping in sarcasm for every reassurance she tries to offer him, the realization comes to Cassandra slowly, simply. Joel is scared.

By the time they leave Vicky’s office, he feels deflated, defeated, because yes, they are, apparently, going to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them, scheduled in three weeks instead of one to give them time to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them.

“Can’t we just, you know, say we did it but not actually do it?”

“Are you serious right now?” Judging by the look she gives him, a quick, sharp flicker of her eyes before she focuses back on the road, he thinks he probably shouldn’t say anything else. He shouldn’t, but, well.

“Is this about pleasing Vicky, or are you just that interested in dating someone else?”

“Don’t be a child about this, Joel. It’s a therapeutic–”

“It’s bullshit is what it is. I don’t– I already know what I want, and I don’t need to go testing the waters to be sure of it. What I’m not so sure about is if you can say the same.” She can’t put her finger on anything specific, probably just a slow-building amalgamation of things. Stressful week at work, and the leaking sink getting worse, and her doctor increasing a medication dosage that’s made her body feel like something other than her body, and this fucking therapy and this fucking trying and she’s trying so hard and she feels like she’s failing and when she glances at him he looks hurt, really hurt, a close crumple in his face, deep frown, and it frustrates her because all she’s trying to do is do it right, and all she gets is this constant rhythm of resistance, this push and pull and yes, it’s all of that, all of that creeping up her throat tight and hot and curling behind her eyes sending salt pinpricks and sharp pangs. When the first sob breaks, it does so as a gasp, like a small and stunned thing in her chest. And, well, it’s never uphill from there, is it?

“Do you– do we need to pull over?”

“No, I don’t need to fucking pull over. I’m not an invalid, I can cry and drive at the same time.” Except it doesn’t come out quite like that, not smooth like that. The words get stop-started with each new shudder, new stutter, hiccuping on fucking and invalid. The world has gone to slanted stained-glass through all her tears.

Unsure what to do, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t say anything else, watches her through the wary side of his eye, sobs turning into something more subdued, little wounded sounds high in her throat, a choice fuck you with a little more bite behind it when someone cuts her off merging onto the highway. He feels useless, feels like, maybe, this is what Vicky should be talking with them about instead of her siege on marriage plan. All he knows is that he seems to get it wrong every time, so this time, he doesn’t interject or intervene, doesn’t say any more than he already has. He lets her cry, and he lets her drive.

He doesn’t know when it happened. When he decided he was going to fix things for her, or just fix her, really. His lady in pieces and he was going to put her back together, and it seemed like every time he tried to, she just shattered a little more. That April is the obvious answer, the most shattered he had ever seen her. But the fighting had started before then, and so had the fixing that wasn’t really fixing. Like a relief, like a release, the slow realization that no, it never worked, and no, it was never going to work. The sobs turn into shivers turn into something even smaller. By the time they pull up in front of his apartment complex, it has passed.

“I just– I want to do this right, this therapy thing, and I want it to work, and I want it to work so we can be okay again. That’s what I want.” The words hang between them. He makes no move to get out of the car, and she counts her inhales in the silence, waiting for him to say something, anything. It feels like a child’s logic, or maybe a hail Mary, and she knows it, feels a little insane saying it, the words fitting strangely in her mouth. The brief wondering comes to her, what would she have said about where they are now to her girlfriends, what snark, what sharp jokes at their expense? Him in an apartment and a fifteen minute drive separating them and a woman named Vicky unraveling (and in theory, putting back together) their marriage in phases, fucking phases, and fucking Vicky. She doesn’t want to go on a date with someone else, and she doesn’t know why she’s taking Vicky’s instructions as gospel. But she does know, doesn’t she? It’s not about Vicky, not about Vicky and her fucking phases. Fixing, being fixed, that’s what she wants.

“So, you’re saying you want us to date other people in order to fix our marriage.” Grateful that she takes it for the joke he meant it as, it’s just enough to slough off some of the tension, roll of her eyes, please. They both let out a sigh, too tired for much else. But maybe, he thinks, this counts as progress, sitting here with her in the car and the sun washing everything down burnt and orange. He watches her eyes drop shut for a moment, fine lines like porcelain fissures and he loves those lines, liked catching her in the bathroom with her face pressed up close to the mirror and her fingers pulling those lines taut around her eyes, her mouth. He’d pull her hands away from her face, ask her if she was planning her halloween costume for next year, earning a scoff and a roll of her eyes and her trying to pull away from him, and he wouldn’t let her. Making it better with kisses to those lines, and eventually, her pressing her fingers as light as prayers over his, an implicit wondering, where did the time go?

“Look, if it really makes you that uncomfortable, let’s just lie to Vicky. We could still get like, an A-minus in therapy if we leave just one thing out.”

“I didn’t realize therapy came with a grade.” He smiles, all soft, and she can’t help the sheepish bloom in her chest, rolling her lips back into her mouth to hide her own grin, eventually, reluctantly, admitting in a quiet, skewed to the side voice, okay, so maybe, maybe I was doing that thing, that winning thing. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s a mercy. Just nods, of course, and of course, he knew, maybe even before she did, and is that knowing not a mercy too? She thinks it is.

“I want to do this right too, Cass. And, I mean, we’re paying Vicky enough money that we should do what she tells us to.”

“Are you saying you want to do it then?”

“Want is a strong word.”

“Okay, are you saying you’re willing to do it?”

“It’s just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“Alright, fuck it, let’s do it. We better get a goddamn A-plus at the end of this.”

“Mmm, gold stars too.” Another sigh, another settling. How nice, another sigh, another settling. It’s a strange equation, but she thinks it still adds up. Neither of them want to do this, not really, but they’re willing to, and they’re willing to because of each other. Willing to try and get it right for each other. Just, well, ignore the finer details of what getting it right entails.

“You hear from Sarah lately?”

“On Monday, yeah. Called to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Well, only off by four days, not too bad.”

“Oh no, she called on Monday because she was, and I quote, too busy the rest of the week to call.”

“Wow.”

“Right?”

“Is it bad that sometimes I kinda hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“That she’s like, a fully-formed person now. I miss the days when she was a little blob who liked holding onto me by one of my belt loops.” He has to smile, nod, because he knows exactly what she means. And the truth of it is that Sarah was so good, maybe the best, if he’s allowed to give his completely biased opinion. And the other truth, Cass is, was, one of those people simply meant to be a parent, a mother. He remembers when they first started dating, and all the exhausting maneuvering he did, getting his parents or Tommy to watch Sarah, a string of canceled dinner plans when his kid couldn’t seem to stop catching things at daycare. He was sure that Cass would lose interest every time another piece of his reality was revealed to her. After all, he was not unfamiliar with being left behind. But that never happened, she stayed every time.

It was Cass who first suggested it. Didn't want to impose, but what if, maybe we could, would it be okay if, why don’t we. They went to the zoo that weekend, if he remembers correctly, Sarah in tow, shy at first around the woman she barely knew, though she bloomed over the course of the day. Yes, he thinks, it was the zoo, because he remembers how by the end of the day, Cass had her on her hip, as easy as anything, so she could get a better view of the rhinos. He knows now that, even in those earliest days, she loved his kid just as much as she loved him. He knows now what a gift that was, and continues to be.

“She’s gonna be alright, Cass. We did good with her.” She sighs, yeah, we did. She had been worried about telling her about the whole lieutenant-LMFT thing, the whole quasi-separation thing, but that was a direct command from Vicky, letting the family know what was going on. Sarah had taken it surprisingly well when she called, could be good, mom, like a reset. Of course, they kept the worst of it away from her, and of course, she still knew something had changed, something not right between them. No one was left unscathed after that April.

From the start, loving him included loving Sarah. It was never difficult for her to do both. Sweet girl, bright like the sun girl, rounded cheeks and bouncing curls, and Cassandra found that her love for her had a particular effect on her heart. Whenever small hand reached for one of hers, whenever small face tucked into her neck, whether tear-damp or milk-tired, and eventually, whenever she was given the name mom, like a stop and restart of her heart, like something turning back on inside her and finally working right. An everything kind of love, to not only be chosen by him, but to be chosen by her too.

“Well, anyways, Vicky didn’t make any stipulations about birthdays, so I have something for you.” Just a small thing, she says, leaning over the console and into the back seat, and he knows better than to say no, shouldn’t have, because there’s already a perfect package being placed in his hands, navy blue wrapping paper and a white bow, and her hand cups underneath his for just a moment, there and gone.

The truth is she had already picked out this gift two months ago, what feels like a lifetime before this separation. Now, watching him open it, she’s a little worried it had been presumptuous of her, if not completely narcissistic. But if he thinks that, he makes no show of it, lets out a quiet laugh as he takes the watch out of the box and holds it up in the fading light to look at it.

“It’s a little sappy, maybe. But, well, we have something that kinda matches now.” Something is unfurling in his chest, heat loosening something he didn’t even realize he had been tightening up around. It’s a beautiful watch, rich leather strap and polished silver. And the face of it catches and shimmers a little in the light. He knows right away that it’s mother of pearl.

Here, she says, let me, and he does, feeling a little indulgent watching her fasten the watch around his wrist, and definitely breaking one of fucking Vicky’s fucking rules when he ducks his head down and steals a kiss, another one, letting the third deepen just a little, both of them humming because missed this, missed this, didn’t realize how much, but missed this.

“Thank you, pearly.” It feels good to be so close to him, noses brushing and smiles curling around each other. Feels like a relief.

“Happy birthday, one day ahead. We could, you know, do something tomorrow? Get dinner maybe?” Before he can answer, say yes, she’s already caught herself, sheepish smile and pulling a little further away and oh, right. She says sorry, wasn’t thinking, and they do an awkward dance around the whole thing, right, yeah, probably shouldn’t, right, yeah. He is not a hateful man, and it would be too strong to say he’d wish Vicky harm. But if something were to happen, in theory, that’d make Vicky go the fuck away, in theory, he wouldn’t be too torn up about it.

“See you next Thursday then?”

“Well, next next Thursday, because we have to do the– yeah.”

“Right, yeah.” Right, yeah, this is the part where he gets out of the car. The part where he goes up to his apartment and she drives home and they don’t eat dinner together and they don’t brush their teeth together and they don’t go to sleep together. Right, yeah. They say goodnight. He’d like to say love, but he doesn’t. She’d like to say love, but she doesn’t. And they part ways.

She hates being in this house alone. Leaves all the lights on all hours of the day and checks all the locks three times before going upstairs to bed. Passes by the closed door that remains closed with her breath held. She knows it makes no sense, but she’s been sleeping in the guestroom, makes the whole thing a little easier. Always had a tendency toward insomnia, tossing and turning brain and body.

When they were just starting to get more serious, and she was just starting to stay over at his more often, she got worried that eventually it'd drive him mad enough for the whole thing to not be worth it, neither of them getting much sleep as they learned how to share a bed together. And she doesn't remember how it started exactly, maybe out of a moment of pure exasperation, him draping just enough of his weight over her to press slower breath into her lungs and still her body. It became a routine, she'd ask could you? And he'd already know what she was asking for without her having to say any more than that. What she also doesn't remember, when that stopped working, when she stopped asking, and he stopped answering. She supposes it all happened slowly, just like the rest of it.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller au

101 notes · View notes

starcrossedxwriter · 14 days

Text

Wicked Fantasies Part 11.1 (MBJ x OC)

A/N: Ummm so welcome backkk! This is 11.1 because there's a second part to this chapter (I know... my self control keeps getting worse lolol) But I hope you enjoy!

TW: grief

“I’m never fucking drinking again,” Raven moaned to herself as she stumbled out of the comforts of bed. She felt like hell, if hell had a truck run over its head a few dozen times.

Raven generally considered herself an early riser but nothing could pull her out of bed that morning after what was, objectively, the dumbest night of her life. Part of her wished she had had one or two more drinks so she could have officially transitioned into the ‘blackout drunk’ phase. So that she would, at least, be spared the embarrassing memories. But no, every horrible moment of the night from dancing wildly at the bar to Michael saving her was etched into the crevices of her brain with shocking clarity.

Now, it was after noon and Raven still found herself wanting to be curled under her blanket asleep so she could escape her embarrassment.

A knock at the door pulled her out of her wallowing self pity. She did not make an attempt to move, expecting Tiffany to answer. However, when the voice of their landlord rang out and her knocking persisted, she quickly slid on her robe to open the door. She decided Mrs. Winters would have to get over the fact that she looked like death reincarnated.

“Rough night, dear?”

Raven grimaced for a moment, she did indeed look as terrible as she felt.

“Something like that,” Raven offered a tight smile, her body slumping against the door. “W-what can I do for you, Mrs. Winters?”

“Oh I’m just letting everyone know that we had a pipe burst on the floor above. We’ll have folks in and out and you might hear some noise and stuff. But if you see any leaking into your unit, give me a ring?”

“Of course. Will do. Thanks, have a good one,” Raven tried her best to politely shoo the woman away. However, she lingered.

“Oh I meant to tell you, that boyfriend of yours is just such a good egg. So kind and polite. Admittedly I haven’t met many famous people,” she laughed. “But you just don’t expect them to have such good manners, you know?”

Raven stopped. “My boyfriend?? Sorry… When was he here?”

“He stopped by this morning. Gave me a check for your rent for the rest of your lease. Oh and asked where your mailbox was, said he wanted to drop something in it.”

Raven was worried her jaw might come completely unhinged as the woman spoke.

He did what??

“Are you alright, dear??”

“Y-Yea, yea. Just… a bit of a surprise. Thank you.”

And with that, Raven immediately closed the door, not listening to the elderly woman’s reply.

“This nigga… I hate him,” she muttered to herself as she slumped against her door.

Every cell in her body knew that was not true. But she also knew that everything she had told him last night was still accurate. She was too tired to forgive him and not just him… anyone ever again. The world has used up all of her second chances and she did not have it in her heart to be disappointed by him again. The narrative in her brain was so set in stone, she did not think anything he could say or do would make her believe anything else. She could not even make herself go retrieve the note that was apparently waiting for her in her mailbox.

“Such a coward,” she grumbled as she flopped back into bed.

She stared at her phone for several minutes, her text thread with Michael open. She wondered what she could even say? Thank you?

She knew any conversations demanding she pay him back or he rescind the money would be moot. Even if she had the mental fortitude to argue with him right now, she would still lose. But she could not just accept it without trying to push back.

She typed and erased and typed and erased before lamely landing on:

Raven: You can’t pay my entire rent. I can’t accept that.

Raven: I don’t want that.

Michael: Yea you can. Told you… gonna show up every day tryin’ to fix us. You just gotta let me.

Raven: Money isn’t gonna fix this, Michael.

Michael: I know. But it can fix the tangible things I fucked up for you

Michael: So let me fix that for you.

Raven paused, as a warm sensation filled her, a warmth she had not felt in over a month now. The warmth of being cared for. She had never had someone take care of her without wanting something in return, except Michael. Even when their relationship was built on transactions, he still took care of her without needing or asking for something from her. The book deal, her rent were just the tangible examples of how he had stepped up to right the wrongs he could and she could not deny that those actions meant something, softened something inside her.

He was doing exactly what he promised he would do the night before. He was fixing what could be, he was showing with his actions that she meant something to him. And yet, that blockade that stopped that belief from taking root was still there, still prohibiting her from believing these actions were anything more than a skilled manipulation.

He would draw her back in, he would not change, and when he got ready, he would hurt her again. That’s what everyone in her life did.

Raven: It doesn’t change anything

Michael: I know… didn’t expect it to.

She tossed her phone to the side and grabbed her pillow, screaming into it as her frustration got the better of her. The complex web of conflicting feelings with Michael B. Jordan trapped at its center only continued to grow. She wanted him to let her go, to stop caring and trying and going out of his way for her because that fit into the narrative nailed to the cross of her brain, it would confirm her beliefs and fears.

But instead he continued to do the things that made her fall in love with him the first time, things that only reignited the dimmed but still existent flame that was her love for him. And she knew she would never get over him if she kept letting that happen, kept letting him in.

So she did not even respond. Instead, she just closed the thread and tossed her phone to the side.

“Let him go, Rae,” she demanded to herself. “You don’t deserve him and he doesn’t love you.” She repeated that a few times before it felt real again, before all that had started to soften was once again as solid as a block of ice.

***

“You look like shit,” Alex moaned as she watched Michael’s makeup artist, Shanta, struggle to make him look less like a living zombie ahead of his Oprah interview.

They were tucked away in a suite in Oprah's sprawling LA estate. It was difficult to make Michael feel poor but Oprah was certainly one of the few people in the world who could do so.

“Thanks, appreciate that.”

“You know I don’t believe in lying to you. Make sure you get those bags under his eyes,” she instructed. “Alright, this is it. Final stretch. Movie’s out and every review is stellar so far. Do this interview, it’ll air this week, Oscars on Sunday and then you can sleep. Though I bet it’s not the schedule keeping you up? Talked to her since the premiere?”

Michael forced his body not to sag at the mention of Raven as to not disturb the hard work of the woman trying to make him look alive after days of no sleep.

“She texted me about the rent thing the next morning. But it’s been radio silence ever since.”

It had only been a few days since the fiasco after the premiere but Michael’s concern for Raven had not diminished one bit. He could not let her go as she requested but he tried his hardest to respect her desire for space. His heart was stuck in the quicksand that was Raven and he had no desire to pull himself out. He wanted to be right there. He knew eventually he would have to accept defeat, accept that she had moved on. But he could not do it while she still questioned her own deservedness. She could hate him for the rest of his life, it would be her right. But his soul could not allow her to live thinking so lowly of herself. So if he had to pay 30 years of rent or call in favors to make her life easier and make her see that she deserved care and someone to sacrifice for her, he would do it. It was high time someone in her life put her above themselves.

“Well, at least she talked to you. That’s something. You’re doing what she asked. Sis has lived a life, she needs time and space. Keep doing what you're doing. Except for the no sleep. For the love of God, by the Oscars, please get a good night’s rest. That’s your night.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Alex…”

She scoffed. “You’ve won the big four, Mike. It’s not just because I believe you deserve it… Statistically, Best Actor is yours. The Oscars is your night. Have a little faith in yourself.”

“I hear you. I just don’t wann-”

“Excuse me?” A young man poked his head in the door. “Apologies for interrupting. I’m a PA. Just wanted to let you know that we’re almost ready? I can take you out to the garden when you’re ready.”

“Be right out. Thank you,” Alex called.

Shanta did her last quick finishing touches before Alex gave him her customary once over.

“Shanta, my girl, you’re a miracle worker per usual.”

They both offered Shanta their thanks, Michael rolling his shoulders before heading out the door to walk out to the gardens.

He had met and interviewed with Oprah once before so he was not particularly nervous. But despite having done millions of interviews, there was always a kernel of nerves right beforehand that he could just never shake.

He was dressed in slacks and a light black sweater, thankful for a cooler day as he walked out into her expansive gardens where the Oprah Winfrey waited for him. The cameras were already rolling, capturing footage that may or may not make into the hour-long special.

“The man of the hour!” she called, her arms stretched wide to wrap Michael in a hug. “Actually I think man of the year is more appropriate. Welcome. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you here.”

“Thank you, thank you. It’s so good to be here.”

“Have a seat,” she gestured at the very comfy chair across from hers. “And we can jump right in.”

***

Raven’s head was propped against her fist as she stared at her computer. A sentence. That was the grand total of her hard work for that Wednesday afternoon. But it was something, she supposed. Weeks of hard work had amounted to maybe two or three pages of her book. She had been offering Angelina vague answers on her progress, ducking and dodging her to avoid admitting that there was no way in hell she could have a draft by March 15 like they talked about.

“Rae? You busy?”

She turned in her chair toward the door to find Tiffany’s head poking in.

“Nope… I’ll never be busy again at this rate,” she grumbled. “What’s up?”

“I just turned on the interview… if you want to watch?”

Raven scratched her head, unsure if she could even watch him? See him happy and thriving without her? Despite everything happening between them though, she could not pretend there was not a part of her that still wanted to celebrate this moment in his career. Interviewing with Oprah the week he was poised to win his first Oscar? How could she ever forgive herself if she did not watch this? Even if it hurts?

“I’ll… be there in a sec. Thanks, Tiff.”

Raven let out a deep sigh before she grabbed the blanket off her bed and dragged herself to the living room. The interview had already started and he looked gorgeous. Tired, she could tell, in the way he constantly had to readjust his posture, in the bags under his eyes that the makeup artist could not quite fully cover. But even at his worst, he looked captivatingly good.

Raven found herself studying him so intently that she did not even comprehend the words he and Oprah were sharing. She just watched him and his mannerisms, she focused on the glimmer in his eyes that sparked every so often. She missed looking into his eyes, missed how expressive they were.

This moment only amplified how much she missed him, missed hearing the deep baritone in his voice and the spark in his eyes when he spoke about his passions. She missed his bright and uninhibited laughter, how his hands were always on her in some way. She just missed him. But she had pushed him away, had told him to let her go. And even if he had not fully let go of her yet, she felt too scared to open that door again, even if her soul ached for her to. Particularly when he continued to try to show up for her in small ways.

And despite how angry she still wanted to be at him, she had never had anyone show up for her quite like this… try for her like he did. And everyday, her brain took up far more mental space than it should have, debating whether she should follow her foolish heart and forgive him or listen to her logical brain and cast him aside. Days passed and she still did not know the answer.

“So I’ll admit,” Raven’s ears finally started to pick up the conversation between Oprah and Michael, “I watched Waves more times than appropriate. But Gayle and I saw it at Sundance and we both thought it was just the most heartbreaking and poignant look at loss and grief that we had ever seen. While still being engaging and funny and so relatable. The journey your character goes through is just… I mean I think grief is one of the few universal experiences that we all will have at some point. And you really brought that to life through this character and his struggles with addiction. And the fact that you filmed this while engaged in completely different projects with complex characters like Killmonger in Black Panther and Adonis in Creed 3… I’m curious what you pulled from to give that performance?”

Michael shifted in his seat as he chuckled, Raven had missed how passionate he got about this project, even though he had been talking about it and doing press for it since they first started dating. She knew he had not truly expected the role to blow up in the ways it did but she could tell he was grateful for it, nonetheless.

“Well first, thank you. Yea aside from Oscar Grant, Andre was the hardest character I’ve ever played and he stretched me as an actor in ways, you know, I didn’t really expect? And I learned so much from him in his sort of journey through grief. You know, when I read the first script, the line ‘grief is the final stage in love’s evolution,’ really stuck out to me. When you lose someone, grief, this enduring pain you feel, is that love shifting and changing because it has nowhere to go, there’s no outlet for it anymore. And so, Andre really reframed my own thoughts on grief and loss and how I process that and allowed me to pull from personal experiences with loss to pour into that character.”

“Yea I will say, that line was one of my favorites. I sat with that long after the credits rolled.”

“Yea same. I remember sitting a-and thinking about that one for a while after reading it. And I loved that even in the more comedic moments of this movie, we still had those lines that made you wanna stop and really sit with what the characters were going through.”

“Definitely, I was dissecting this movie for weeks after. It’s just amazing. So I do want to shift gears to talk about this moment you're experiencing because of this movie. This really is the biggest moment of your career. You’re nominated for your first Oscar and a favorite to win, so far in 2023, you’ve won a SAG Award, Golden Globe, and BAFTA. And you, as of two days ago, just had your directorial debut in Creed 3. First question, how are you still awake?” Both of them shared a laugh. “But serious question, how has this moment felt? How does it feel to be having this moment at this stage of your career?”

“Oh wow, when you list it like that, I don’t know how I’m awake either,” he chuckled. “But seriously, you know… it’s been a ride. I know you’ve felt this too but you know, you don’t often take a moment to just pause and soak it in. You finish one interview or award show and your mind automatically just jumps to the next one. And I think what I’ve been trying to force myself to do in the later weeks of this insane time is just to slow down and enjoy it. Not rush through it and really enjoy the fruits of… really years of hard work and sacrifice. But that also means sitting with… you know, the challenges of this time too, which isn’t as rewarding,” he admitted with a sad smile. “But I’m growing and learning alot so it’s worth it.”

Oprah nodded. “You know I always appreciate when people don’t let the 24 hour news cycle and gossip sort of steal their thunder and moment from them. And I applaud you for sort of moving through the more gossipy side of the last few months with grace and maturity. But you haven’t really talked much publicly about those stories and the effect they have had on you. And you don’t have to get into it if you don’t want but I am curious on how you navigated that and really came out on the other side, from what I can see, stronger for it?”

Michael bowed his head and chuckled. “Um… you know a good friend of mine told me that she thought this was the most vulnerable and most genuine I had ever been publicly on this press tour and I think it’s because I’ve had to navigate some really personal stuff during this great but hectic public moment? And that’s new territory for me.”

“And I think that friend is right. I don’t think we have seen or learned this much about you ever.”

“Yea and I wish I could take some credit for it but… it was all one person: Raven Turner. And the way we met, now as the world knows, was extremely unconventional and I can admit that our relationship started as a complete lie. A lie I thought would help me be seen as this serious, mature man my team was worried I wasn’t. And I wasn’t,” he admitted. “I was cold and guarded and not at all the best version of myself. And while I regret how we started and trying to fool the world into thinking I’m something I’m not, there isn’t a bone in my body that regrets falling in love with her.”

He leaned forward a bit as he spoke. “Because all those walls and barriers we build around ourselves to survive in this world of Hollywood? To endure the criticisms and insanity we deal with? She's the first woman to see me. Not the actor and the money and the fame but just me. And in that, she saved me… without trying or intending to. She just loved me and loving her, choosing her is the single greatest decision I ever made. And I hate how this moment has fallen on her, how my terrible decisions led to these pretty disgusting misogynistic attacks on her. And I think my biggest regret is putting someone as pure as her in the line of fire like that and not doing enough to protect her. And you know, I have to live with that, which is tough.”

“You know I’ve interviewed thousands of people in my career and while I believe you have to change for yourself and on your own, I also have found that the ones who love us, really love us, are often the most powerful catalysts for change in our lives. I’ve certainly seen and experienced that in my own life and it’s important to spotlight those who were that catalyst.”

“Oh 100%. Especially when, I think this version of me was always there? I was just too hurt to trust anyone with it, so no one saw it. I buried me under this facade I thought was better? But I fell in love with a woman who taught me that you can’t be guarded, you can’t shut down just because you’re hurt. Life is about getting up every day, being authentically you, and reaching out and loving and risking your heart every time. And sometimes you’ll get swatted away and sometimes you’ll get an embrace. But you just deny yourself love when you don’t show up at all. So I’ve been trying to live by that more lately. Because she showed me what real strength and courage looks like. And I want to have that, I want to lead with that.”

“Wow… you know people are going to watch this and I think, applaud that vulnerability. It’s refreshing to me because I don’t think our world incentivizes or encourages people to admit when they aren’t being their best selves. So I think for you to do that, at a moment when you’re at the top of your game, is commendable.”

“She deserves to know the positive effect she’s had on my life. To be celebrated for how she supported me. And you know it’s not just me? When we first started dating, I remember her one stipulation was that we couldn’t go out on Wednesday evenings because she hosted a book club for kids at the library she worked at. And that was the most important thing to her, being there for them. The day of our first date, she spent an hour delivering books and SAT prep books to those same kids she worked just because. There’s just a selflessness to her that is truly admirable. And I think while people are attacking her and calling her these vile names because she made a certain choice during a hard time, they should know who she really is. A woman that would drop everything to help you even when you don’t really deserve it. A woman who I’ve seen give others all she had because they needed it more even when she did not have a backup plan for herself. I could honestly talk about her for the rest of this interview because she deserves celebration far more than I ever could. Genuinely good people don’t always get the shine they deserve, they don’t always get the love and care they deserve because we can often take them for granted. But no one deserves to be celebrated more than her, to be celebrated loudly more than she does.”

“I love that… she seems like quite the woman.”

“She is… and I hope she knows that.”

“So tell me about…”

The words faded away as his words tumbled through Raven’s head. They clashed jarringly against every belief she had internalized about herself, like metal against metal. But she found herself wanting to believe him. Believe the words a section of the world just heard. She wanted to believe that what he saw in her, even over the course of six months, was who she truly was. Not this broken, damaged scapegoat life had fashioned her into.

There has to be more than this, right?

Tiffany nudged her with a box of tissues in her hand. Raven had not even realized she was crying but she accepted them gratefully.

“Don’t know how I still have tears over this man left,” she whispered as she wiped her eyes.

“I don’t think those tears are because of him, sis.”

Raven sniffled and grabbed another tissue. “You m-might be onto something. I can’t watch anymore. Night, Tiffany.”

However, before she reached her bedroom, she heard Tiffany call her name.

“I know what he did… sucks. And hurts. But that’s a man who loves you, Rae. More than anything. After that? The only person in the world who still won’t believe it is you.”

She turned around to face her, the back of her hand wiping away a few more stray tears. “You know he said the same thing?”

“Well, I generally don’t think actors are that smart,” Tiffany admitted with a laugh. “But he’s right about that. You deserve to believe good things about yourself, we all do.”

“Nothing good has ever lasted… I always ruin it somehow. I tried to believe I deserved him and life proved that I didn’t,” she answered, her voice small. “D-Don’t have it in me to try again.”

“Raven… I know we aren’t best friends or anything. But how many times have I watched you forgiven your dad and sister? Let them back in, try to make things right with them? Try to build the family you want?”

“Too many…”

“Right… So why does Michael only get one shot when you found the strength to give them 100? When he’s the one actually showing up for you? He’s the one who actually is trying to earn another chance?”

“It’s not that simple and you know it.”

“I know that the only person denying you happiness right now… is you. You push away the good people and things in your life because you feel like you don’t deserve it but no one would be here if you didn’t. Michael, the kids in your book club… me. I don’t keep signing leases with you because you’re a terrible person who ruins everything, no one has a gun to our heads, Rae. We’re here because you do deserve it.”

“Tiff…”

“Nope, shut up. This pity party is getting old and tired. It doesn’t matter what I think of you… or what Michael thinks or anyone out there.” She gestured toward the window. “All that matters is the narrative you’ve created and until you decide to believe something else, all you’re going to do is push people away and fuck up and self sabotage because it’s all you think you deserve. You gotta wake up and do some fucking work, girl. Cause until you figure out how to erase this narrative from your brain, you’ll never be happy. And you’ll never fall in love with anyone except for someone who treats you like crap. You’ll never build your own family. You’ll never finish your book or have another fulfilling career. You’ll just be stuck in this broken version of yourself alone… forever. And I’ve seen a few different versions of you over the last two years but this is by far the most pitiful.”

Raven had never heard Tiffany be so blunt. The words were biting but she could not deny that some of them rang true in her ears. And that was always the hardest information to hear.

“Damn… tell me how you really feel.”

“The soft gentle love wasn’t resonating clearly so had to go with a different tactic…. Just think about it. And once you fix all this shit and move to a mansion in the hills, don’t forget about me.” She winked at her, causing Raven’s jaw to drop slightly.

“How do you even know that’s gonna happen?”

She shrugged and grabbed the remote to press play, Raven not even noticing that she paused it.

“Just got a good feeling about the two of you. Now go so I can lust after him in peace while he's still single. Kidding! Kinda..."

Raven let out a small laugh as she shook her head. "I know you're not kidding. Night, Tiff.”

She slid into her bed, her only refuge of late, and stared at the ceiling. She was surprised she was not tired of looking at it by now. Michael and Tiffany’s words wrestled with her own thoughts for hours

What was her problem, really? It was not that what Michael did was unforgivable because it wasn’t. Some distant part of her, too quiet to break through the noise of her anger, always wondered if there was more to the story, believed that he had to have had some reason. But she was too angry to allow him to explain. It just became vicious ammunition that no one could ever love her or care about her… that she was the problem.

Well, that’s true… no one’s ever loved you. And everyone who does leaves.

She supposed her mother must have loved her, but she would never know. She would never feel it. And her grandmother’s love was so distant, so long ago, that it no longer felt tangible, was no longer a tether to anchor her self worth to something positive.

Instead, the only thing that tethered her sense of self worth to anything was her family’s disdain. Disdain that made her question what Michael could’ve seen in her, how he could ever love someone like her? That disdain which made it far easier to believe that what he did was proof that he did not love her than that he possibly did do it to protect her in some weird way. No other thought could live long enough in her brain to take hold.

And she did not know if doing what Tiffany suggested would fix that. There was not enough time in the world for her muster the courage to interrogate and confront the source of these feelings. She had hoped she would never have to see her family again. Some days, never felt like too soon.

But she knew she could not avoid it. They were the root cause, the narrative in her head was fueled and sustained by them. And screaming at them across the Thanksgiving table and never speaking to them again was not the closure she needed. She thought she had dropped the weight that was her family when she cut them off. But she was still dragging all the luggage they gave her around and it was time to give it back.

She knew her family did not want to see her either, knew it would be difficult to get them to even speak to her after everything. But she knew she had to try… because she knew there had to be more to life than this. That she had not been born to only suffer through life instead of live it. So she needed to confront her demons for herself, even if her relationship with them did not change one bit.

She grabbed her computer and her wallet. It was time to go home.

***

Raven’s eyes remained trained on her dad’s house across the street as she sat in her rental car. She was almost shocked that none of her family’s nosy neighbors had not called the police yet as she sat there for nearly an hour, summoning the courage to actually go inside.

She had felt so sure this was what she needed when she bought her plane ticket. And that confidence did not waver when she stepped onto the plane or during the long journey from LAX to Charlotte, NC. However, once she was in her rental car, she found herself waffling, aimlessly driving around for hours. Her brain seemed unable to direct her to the place she knew she needed to go. Home.

She just could not make herself do it… not yet anyway. So she did not. Instead, she finally went to her hotel to try to get some rest and her night’s rest turned into the entire Friday holed up in her hotel. She had not booked a return ticket, prayerful and hopeful that there would be a reason to stick around for a few days. But that also meant she did not have the incentive of time to make her move faster.

But she could not even make herself do this. Because she did not know how to be brave like this. Her life had been nothing but running from pain and confrontation. This was so contrary to that. She did not know how to do any of this. She tossed and turned all night, unable to get any sleep particularly when there was only one person who she wanted to talk to, wanted to seek courage and strength from. Because when she felt scared, when she did not feel strong, he was the only person she wanted to reach for. But she was not sure he would even answer. She had pushed him away, told him she needed space.

But she had not felt like she could do this alone. So last night, she called him.

“Rae! Everything ok?” he asked immediately, his question met with silence.

Raven did not know what to say and regret filled her like ice water in her veins. But she knew it was too late to hang up, she had to see it through. She paid for that moment of weakness when she hit the call button as her throat closed at the sound of her voice. She found it impossible to speak, even if she knew what words to say.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready, Rae. Got all night for you.”

And she knew he was not just talking about waiting for her to speak.

“Why?” she whispered, the simple word coming out in a strangled sound as she tried to push past the tightness in her throat.

“Why what?”

“Why even answer after everything I said to you? W-why do you keep trying?”

“Because I love you,” he answered simply. “And you’re worth it. I’ll keep reaching out, baby girl. Even when you swat me away.”

“You might be the only person who thinks that,” she whispered back as a tear fell.

“I don’t think that’s true. But even if it was, knowing one person is in your corner is all you need sometimes.”

She laughed lightly. “That press tour got you only speaking in motivational boxing terms or something?”

His deep laughter filled her ears and filled her soul with such joy that she had forgotten. She had forgotten what these moments felt like, the two of them on the phone or curled up together in bed, just talking. She missed it… she missed him. But she could not say it, could not bring herself to pull her body out of the water to make that long trek back up the cliff to where he waited for her. Everything in her brain screamed at her that she couldn’t do it, that she did not have it in her. And she hated herself for it. Hated how she clung to the ice barriers around her heart, even though they were utterly fractured and ready to fall. She just was not ready yet.

She let out a shuddering breath as she hastily wiped away her falling tears. “I… don’t know why I called. I s-shouldn’t have called.”

“Call me anytime, Rae. I’ll always answer. I’ll always show up for you. I hope you know that… at least.”

“Y-Yea… I think I do… or at least, it’s getting harder to deny it,” she revealed. “Your interview with Oprah… it was really good,” she offered lamely.

“You watched??” she could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Yea… I almost didn’t,” she admitted. “But I caught most of it. Did you mean it? Everything you said?”

“Every single word.” There was no arguing with the definitive tone in his voice. “I get that you don’t trust me anymore. I lied and kept secrets. But one thing I never lied about is how much I love you.”

Her eyes clenched shut for a moment. That was one thing he had always been consistent about, her ears had just been perpetually shut to it.

“I… um… I gotta go. Early day tomorrow,” she lied as she sniffled. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Bye, Michael.”

She was not sure what she had expected to get from that call and, at first, it felt as if she only got a firm kick in the heart for it. But for the first time since she landed, Raven had enough strength to finally drive to her family’s house. She had rolled her eyes at his boxing motivational quotes but hearing someone say they were in her corner, that had given her courage. To just feel like someone was behind her, even if she was alone, that meant something to her.

She took a deep breath and got out of her car, forcing her legs to carry her to the front door.

Her rounds of knocks went unanswered, Raven getting slightly frustrated but determined not to leave the porch. If she turned around and walked away, she’d never come back.

After an extremely brief internal debate, she decided to simply let herself in, deciding that since she contributed to the mortgage, she had a right to come in as she pleased. And her father still, foolishly, kept a spare key underneath the welcome mat.

Though she had not been to her family’s home in two years or so, it still looked the same. Her father’s favorite work boots were thrown haphazardly at the door, several pairs of her sister’s shoes lined up next to them. She was an utter mess but she was, at least, somewhat neat. And it still felt… cold. And it had nothing to do with the cold winter east coast weather. The house had always felt like that, void of warmth and love that made a home a home.

“Kiara?” she called out. “Dad?” However, she was met with utter silence.

Part of her supposed she was thankful they were not home and that they had not just ignored her or something. She stood in the living room, staring around the room at the pictures that lined the walls and shelves. So many of her mom, her dad, and Kiara but there were none of her. That was not a surprise, it had always been that way. But that did not make it sting any less. All they had ever wanted was to erase her from their lives and if a stranger walked into this house, it would be as if she never existed.

She started up the stairs, her eyes refusing to linger long on any of the photos there. They were all lies anyway, a picture perfect family that did not exist because she had been born. She decided to ascend to the attic once she made it upstairs. Because that was where all her grandmother’s and some of her own things now lived. She had never really gone through her grandmother’s things after she passed, no one aside from her dad to pack them up. But she knew there was so much of their lives, so many memories she had forgotten of the one person who loved her, forgotten in those boxes that she now desperately needed to remember.

She ignored how narrow the opening to the attic was, realizing that it had been easier to maneuver up here when she was a young teenager. Everything was still neatly packed away as if her grandmother would be back one day to pick it up.

She started to open each box, pulling out and examining her grandmother’s things, so many beautiful things forgotten in this attic no one went into. For the first time in nearly two decades, she felt close to the only maternal figure she had ever had, felt like her grandmother’s hand was on her shoulder as she reminisced on their short but well-lived time together.

She found the old costume jewelry her grandmother used to let her play with, laughing to herself as she thought back to dressing up in front of her vanity mirror pretending to be a model or whatever silly idea the pair had thought up. She almost cried as she found a very crumpled piece of paper with the last story she gave her grandmother to read before she died, a random short story that she had written for class. She had not realized, as she found a folder, just how many of her stories her grandmother had kept.

A gold glint caught her attention, Raven reaching into a giant box to find a shoe box. Raven had seen that box 100 times but her grandmother had never let her touch it, claiming that it held priceless family heirlooms that she did not want Raven or Kiara to mess up. Raven rolled her eyes that something her grandmother had valued so much had been discarded and forgotten haphazardly at the bottom of this box.

Finally giving into her childhood curiosity, she opened it. It was still filled with things, part of her thankful that Kiara had never found it. The jewelry and pieces in it were gorgeous and indeed priceless. She took her time as she examined each one, wondering if they had belonged to her mother or her grandmother or some other relative she never met. However, it was what existed underneath the jewelry that caught her eye: piles of tied up envelopes, one with her name on it and one with Kiara’s.

The handwriting was not her grandmother’s, which made Raven even more curious.

She pulled out the stack with her name on it and undid the thin ribbon that tied them together. There were ten letters there in total, each one with a different note scribbled on the envelope.

To Raven on your 18th birthday

To Raven on high school graduation

To Raven after your first love

To Raven after your first heartbreak

To Raven on college graduation

To Raven on your wedding day

She only had to flip through a few of them to realize who they were from. Her mom.

“You’re killing me,” she muttered to the sky, unsure if she was speaking to God, her grandmother, her mother or all three.

Her hands trembled slightly as she ripped open the one on top, addressed to her on her 18th birthday. These were some of the only words her mother would get to say to her, she did not care how long ago she should have read it. She would savor each one.

To my sweet darling girl,

If you are reading this, it means that I am not physically there with you on your birthday. It means that I’ve missed 18 birthdays and too many milestones to write a letter for and for that, I am sorry. You might be wondering why there is not a letter for all those milestones and birthdays that have taken place but this felt like the best place to start and the appropriate age for reading the musings of a dying woman. If there’s even such a thing.

We learned your gender today. Another sweet girl. If the doctor somehow got it wrong, these letters will be incredibly awkward. But I know they are right. Because you, my darling girl, are the manifestation of my wildest dreams. I dreamed of you almost a year ago, this beautiful girl with half my face but all of my spirit and personality. And every night since then, I prayed, begged God to make that dream a reality… no matter the cost. And he did.

I know my body is not strong enough to be your mother, to be around to be the mother someone as brilliant as you will deserve. But I hope you know that deciding to have you and keep you, regardless of the risks, is the single greatest decision I ever made. You were not an accident or a misfortune given to me. You are my dreams. And if my last moments on this earth are spent looking at you, it will have been worth it.

I waited until 18 to start these letters because I worried a child could never understand the choice I made. And you may still not. And if you resent me for leaving you before you could know me, I understand that too. But I hope that through these letters, you will get to know me. And you will feel some semblance of the immense love I have for you.

I don’t have much advice because you’ve likely heard it all at this point. But the two most important things I can tell you, that I wish someone had told 18 year old me, is to know that failure is part of the journey. Your grandmother used to always tell me to keep reaching out your hand even if it doesn’t work. I didn’t really understand it soon enough but I hope you do. Life is about risks and if you don’t reach out your hand out of fear, you’ll protect yourself from pain but you will also miss out on the gifts God is trying to hand you. As a daughter, I hated to admit it, but mama was right about that… and so many other things.

And finally, more importantly than anything else I could offer you in these letters, please remember every day that you are so, so loved.

Know that regardless of what happened to me, I loved you with every fiber of my being until my last breath. Know that you were a gift from God. And every day you venture out into this world, know that you are worthy of so much because you were so loved from the moment you were dreamed up. Do not let anyone or whatever will happen to you in what I pray is a long, rich, happy life diminish that light, diminish your worth. I know how special you are and I don’t even know your name yet. And while I hope that your father and grandmother will affirm you daily, you don’t need other people to tell you that you are special. You have to know it for yourself. That’s the most important advice I can give you. Know who you are and your worth and take up as much space in this world as you want. And as long as you never forget how special you are… how deserving you are, you’ll move through this world shining bright. And the world will be forced to know it too and move to give you what you deserve. It’s not much and a bit cliche perhaps but I’ve been torn down enough to know that sometimes we all need the reminder. But those are stories for another letter.

By the time I write my next letter, I promise I will have picked out a name for you. I read a book the other day where the main character was named Raven… I had not thought of it before but I like it.

Happy Birthday.

Love,

Mom

The river of tears streaming down Raven’s face splashed against the slanted handwriting on the page, Raven quickly whisking them away so the words would remain legible. Raven did not even know how long she sat there staring at the words on the page, her heart bursting with the knowledge that her mother’s hand had touched this very paper, that she had poured her heart and soul into every word etched into it.

It was like proof she had been real and not this entity Raven had conjured up in her head. Raven could not stop herself from ripping open all the ones that she should have gotten along the way. The one for her first love and the separate one on heartbreak were four pages each, and Raven did not pay attention to the clock as she absorbed each and every word.

Everything she had learned about her mother had been through her grandmother and she had always wondered if her grandmother told her things just to make her feel better. But she realized that her grandmother had been telling the truth, she and her mother were so much alike. She found herself nodding and laughing along to her mother’s stories and wisdom embedded in all those pages. She was a prolific storyteller too and an amazing writer, another trait Raven realized she must have inherited from her.

For the first time in 30 years, Raven did not feel weighed down by this unbearable guilt. She felt lighter than she had ever been in her entire life. Perhaps this was what God wanted her to find here, not a confrontation with her family, but these words. This tangible proof that her mother had chosen her, wanted her… loved her and that she had not ruined anything at all.

Her mother would not have wanted her to carry such guilt around for so long because there was nothing to be guilty about.

The letters were scattered across the attic floor when she heard the faint sound of their garage opening. She quickly folded up all of her letters and stuffed them back into the box, tucking it under her arm as she climbed out of the attic. She did not make much noise as she closed up the attic, just as she heard her father and sister close the garage door and enter the kitchen.

Their voices drifted up to her ears as she started to climb down the stairs, deciding that she might as well get the pure unpleasantness of this moment over with.

“Wait… you hear that? Is someone in the house??” she heard her sister ask, knowing that they both could hear her footsteps against the old floorboards.

“Don’t get your gun,” she called out as she started down the stairs. “It’s just me.”

She was greeted with less-than-welcoming expressions from her family, such disdain that it made her want to scurry away. But she did not. She had done enough of that in her life.

“Adding breaking and entering to your criminal activity, now?”

Raven scoffed as she placed the box on the kitchen counter that stood between her and her family.

“Don’t think you can break into a house you helped pay for?” she answered coolly. “And I’m not the one with a mug shot here if I remember correctly.”

“No you’re just the one who sold her cheap ass for a quick buck.”

Raven shook her head, opening and closing her mouth for a few moments as she tried to find the words.

“Yea I did… And I’m not proud of it,” Raven admitted. “But I won’t let you or anyone shame me for doing what I needed to do to survive. What helped the two of you survive too.” Raven scratched her head, realizing that trying to get closure from her family was unnecessary. Her mother’s words had given her all the closure she had ever needed. That’s what she had come home for.

“You know, I got a plane ready to rip you both a new one for 30 years of abuse and torture. To try to force you to admit that I’m not the villain you made me to be. But… I don’t need that anymore. Because the cross of guilt and shame you two forced onto my back for all these years isn’t one I should have to carry. But I did because I thought it was the only way to keep you two around. And even without you two in my life, I still drag that cross around because I thought I deserved it. But I realized today, way too late, that I don’t need a damn thing from either of you to put it down.”

“So you came here to what? To chastise us and steal?” her father asked, gesturing toward the box on the counter.

“You can’t steal things that belong to you. These are letters mom wrote to me,” she lifted the open letters out before sliding the unopened pile to her sister. “And to you.”

“Your mother wrote these?” he asked, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the stack.

“Yeah, she did. You’ll enjoy yours… she was a really good storyteller,” she glanced at Kiara. “These letters just told me something I should’ve realized long before Thanksgiving. That cross? That guilt? It isn’t mine. And I am done wasting my life trying to rectify the mistake of being born. Because it wasn’t a mistake. She chose me… prayed for a second daughter knowing the cost and she decided it was worth it. And hearing her say that? That’s all I need to know that I deserve so much more than this… so much more than you.” She took a deep breath. “Being a grieving husband isn’t an excuse to be a terrible father and I’ll just be grateful I found some way to survive you and this. And jealousy doesn’t give you the right to be a shitty sister.”

“What the fuck do I have to be jealous of??”

“I always wondered that. But reading those letters… I finally got it. Because even as a failed author and prostitute, I’m everything she was. Grandma used to always say I had her personality… her talent. I always thought she was lying to make me feel better. But you knew she wasn’t and you could never stand it. Couldn’t stand that I was more like her than you.” For the first time, her sister was speechless. A good look on her in Raven’s opinion. “Mom wanted so much better for me than this and I’m gonna go and find it. Because I’ve wasted too much energy trying to earn the love of people who don’t deserve it. So if you want to go to your graves hating me, making me the scapegoat for every problem in your miserable lives, have at it. But know that I don’t hate you even after all this. I won’t be weighed down anymore by any feelings toward either of you ever again. You aren’t worth it.”

Raven pulled herself to full height and rolled her shoulder back as she scooped up the box and folder she had taken from her grandmother’s stuff.

“Now I’m gonna go and have that long… rich and happy life mom wanted for me. And I hope you two do the same.”

She did not look behind her as she walked away, a soft smile on her face as she walked out of her family’s house for the last time.

She let out a long laugh as she sat in her car, so much of the weight she had been carrying around gone. It did not feel sad like when she cut off her family at Thanksgiving. She finally felt as if she had cut the anchor away and she could float away, she could move forward and heal all the broken pieces of herself that they had gleefully chipped away at.

When she got back to her hotel room, she just kept rereading her mom’s words. She would memorize each letter at this point. A part of her desperately wanted to open the other ones but she had not reached those milestones just yet so she left them where they were. For some reason, she worried her mother would disapprove of her breaking into them early.

One line of five letters she read and reread stuck to her bones above all else. And of course, as if her mother had known, it was embedded in the letter for her first love. Love… the thing that had cracked her wide open and brought her to this moment in the first place.

You’d be surprised to know that this was the hardest of the letters to write. Because everyone has some prolific idea of what love is and feels like. And I realized I don’t… because I don’t think I’ve ever experienced the love I pray you are as you read this. That’s not to say I don’t love your father, I do. But I want something different than convenience for you. I hope that the love you feel is safe, allows you to feel the full spectrum of what it means to be human - strong and vulnerable, insecure and confident, boisterous and timid. I hope it feels like stepping out of the cold air and into a warm embrace. I hope it is loud and unapologetic because you deserve nothing less. And I hope it makes you feel so enraptured that everything else in the world goes quiet. And lastly, I hope, more than anything, that it feels like home. That when you’re in this person’s embrace, you feel as if your soul finally landed right where it is supposed to be.

Her eyes scanned that passage over and over again, realizing that she had found the exact love her mother described. She had come back here thinking she was coming home. But this wasn’t home at all. Home was where he was. And he was back in LA, about to prepare for the biggest night of his life in 24 hours. And regardless of whatever trust needed to be rebuilt and conversations needed to be had, she could not allow herself to miss it. She could not allow herself to not show up for him.

Raven scrambled to find her phone as it was hidden beneath sheets of paper. She scrolled through, praying she had not deleted a long forgotten group thread that housed one number she had once thought she would never need but now was the most important phone number in the world.

She almost shouted praises to God when she found it, clicking the call button on the unsaved number. She paced up and down beside her bed as every agonizing ring dragged on.

“Didn’t think I’d see your name pop up on my phone ever again.”

Raven let out a sigh of relief as her voice filled her ears. “I know… me either. But I need a favor.”

“Does it involve a certain award show tomorrow night?”

“Yes. Is it too late?”

“Yea it is.” she knew Alex could hear the tiny sigh of sadness she let out. “For anyone but me. I’ve earned enough favors around here to create a miracle or two.”

“Really?? Cause I need like more than one or two miracles… a dress, hair, makeup… hell a flight from Charlotte to make it back in time. Without him knowing?”

“Consider all of it done. Hope you don’t mind getting up at the ass crack of dawn though.” Alex asked, Raven hearing the smile in her tone.

“For him… I’ll get up anytime.”

“Good. Then I'll take care of everything... I'll have to tell his mom but she'll love this. And probably be happy as hell that she doesn't have to go anymore. I'll text you details in an hour."

"An hour?? That's all you need??"

"You're new here so I'm gonna choose to not be offended by that."

"Noted." She was about to hang up when she stopped herself. “Hey… Alex? Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Just make sure your ass is on that plane and in LAX tomorrow when Allen picks you up, got it?”

Raven chuckled. “Yea I got it. See you tomorrow.”

Tag List: @readinghere2023 @blackerthings @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @physicxal @purplehairgawdess @miyuhpapayuh @rueruesclues @geemamii @certifiedlesbianbaddie @pipsqueak-98 @nyifly22 @destinio1 @twocentaur @gopaperless @musicisme333 @roguekiki @majesticbrownjawn @taurusqueen83 @mysteryuz @miamormilan @itsknor-thedeep @naj-ay444 @mads-grace4 @nayaesworld @kholdkill @msniaimani @nccu-rnc @apenasumlug4r @dezzy154

***

A/N: So now will y'all stop yelling at me LOLOL our good sis is going back to her man! We love to see it! How surprised do we think Michael's going to be? Part 11.2 will be the Oscars! Drop a comment and let me know what you thought! And as always, thanks for reading!

#black writers #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x oc #mbjordanedit #black panther #michael b jordan fanfic #michael b jordan x reader #creed 3 #adonis creed #creed iii

117 notes · View notes