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peachesofteal · 2 months

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Simple Math / Part Ten

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 5.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Masturbation, dirty (self) talk, brief daddy kink. This fic contains mature themes. Domestic violence. Grooming. Feelings of fear and anxiety. Nurse!reader. Kissing. Lots of dialogue. Bun considers making a friend. Penny is cute. Flirting. Touching. Comfort. Bun refers to herself as "heavy". Simon is Simon. POV switch. Dinner date.

“I’m Philip.”

The handsome brunette smiles, grabbing onto your hand. You blink, trying to understand, trying to make it make sense, when he prompts you with a teasing grin. “This is the part where you tell me your name, sweet thing.”

Oh. You stumble over it, tongue tied into a million knots, sweat from the Texas sun beating down your back, sweat slicking your shirt to your skin.

He’s still holding your hand, and you’re standing there with wide, doe eyes, shell shocked.

He’s… so handsome. And older. Older, and handsome. Polished type, with good teeth and good hair. He looks like he just stepped off the golf course.

Why is he talking to you?

He glances down at your drink.

“You even old enough to be drinkin’ that?”

“I-“ You’re terrible at lying, and like he can read it on your face, he chuckles.

“You live around here?”

“I go to Rice.”

“A bit young for college, aren’t you?”

“I just turned eighteen!” You’ve heard it a million times. You’re too young to understand something, or know something, or do something. You don’t get the way the world works yet. You��re not an adult.

He holds his hands up. “I’m sorry. I bet you’re one of the really smart girls that make all us men look like Neanderthals.” Your face heats.

“N-no. I just… I graduated early. I’m not a know it all.” You defend yourself, desperate to create distance from the usual stereotype, the way most people see you. The way boys see you.

Too smart. Face buried in a book. Awkward and stiff. Uncool.

He traces you from head to toe, appreciative gaze grazing over the swell of your hips, the generous curve of your ass. “I didn’t think you were. Too mature for that, I bet.” He croons, and your knees go weak.

“Y-yeah. A lot of people say I’m really mature.”

Two things compete for your attention when you open your eyes.

One: there is a soft, lovely song playing downstairs, something spring-like and sweet, vibrant without being too loud.

Two: the house smells like pancakes.

You check your phone, shocked to see you’ve slept for yet another 12 hours. There’s a text from Nia, and a text from your boss.

>You have a lot of time accrued. Take as much as you need.

That settles that, you guess.

There are also text messages in the group chat, one from Simon, and one from Johnny, coming in only a few minutes ago.

Simon: >Penny gets pancakes on Saturday mornings. They’ll be plenty, come down and eat when you’re ready.

Johnny: >I’m missing all the good stuff.

You stretch, cautiously, wiggling fingers and toes, spreading your limbs as far as you can without pushing it too much. You’re sore, uncomfortably so, and still exhausted, but if you stay in bed any longer, you’ll rot.

In the kitchen, Simon holds Penny and a mixing bowl, alternating hands to get a whisk through the batter while humming to his daughter on her hip.

You stop dead in your tracks.

He’s… he’s not wearing the mask.

You stare at his face, his whole, naked face for the first time, taking in the broad jaw, every shiny white scar, and his (twice, if you had to guess) healed broken nose. He’s handsome, differently from Johnny but no less striking, and you can’t look away, stunned by his raw, depthless and rugged beauty. Penny’s leg has kicked up the hem of his shirt, exposing his midsection, and the flash of skin there feels like a scandal, something you shouldn’t be seeing but cannot get enough of. He looks nothing like you expected and yet… everything you hoped for.

“Morning.” Pen tucks her face into his chest shyly, peeking out from the corner of her eye, curious and cute. “Can you say good morning to bunny?” He bounces her a little, and she giggles.

"Bunny." She says quietly, and Simon laughs.

“That’s right. Good job.” After a second of silence, you try to ask him about the missing mask, but the question gets confused on your tongue, and what comes out instead is clumsy and stunted.

“Your mask.” You cringe, immediately. It’s the first thing that slips loose, insensitive, and uncouth. “I uh, I’m sorry, I’m just… surprised?” you falter, and makes it worse. You think about trying to run back upstairs, hightailing it for the hills when he smiles, and points to the empty stool at the kitchen counter with a batter covered whisk.

“Sit.” There’s already a stack piled high, plain, and ones with big, juicy blueberries. Your favorite.

“So, pancakes every Saturday?”

“Mhmm.” He settles Penny in her highchair to your left, and pulls an already cooled pancake from the stack, cutting it up into little, tiny pieces with a child’s knife and fork. “Pen and her Da,” he pads some butter across the top of his handiwork, grabbing her sippy cup and filling it with milk. “Have pancakes every Saturday when he’s home. It’s their favorite. Right?” He points at her, “your favorite?” and taps his middle finger to his chin, others outward, straight up. “Your favorite?” Signing?

“Are you teaching her sign?”

“Trying to. Pen’s birth mum is deaf. It’s important to us, that she’s able to connect with her when the time comes. Plus, my hearing is shot. So is Johnny’s. It’s a great way for her to communicate with us.” He strokes some fingers through her curls, and she doesn’t even look up, too busy shoveling as much pancake into her mouth as she can. You have a million questions now, curiosities bubbling to the surface, about Pen’s mum, about her life, about how she came to be their child. All too rude, and too invasive to ask. “Or, to use when she’s feeling sassy and can’t find the words. That happens, too.”

“She’s what…sixteen months?” You watch her intently, unable to not smile when she cheeses at her dad with a mouthful of food, even though your tender skin stings with the movement.

“Yeah. Top percentiles in a lot of things for her age. Said her first word before she was one.” He’s rich with pride, a deep well of love shining in his eyes, and you force your own down to the plate, stifling the ache bleeding from your heart.

“Of course she is.” Penny holds pieces of sticky, syrupy pancake with both hands, attacking them with vigor, smearing her cheeks purple with the squished blueberries.

You need to eat something, but your brain is buzzing, unnatural discomfort stretching long in the back of your mind.

What’re you doing? Sitting here eating pancakes like everything is normal? Like everything’s okay?

Everything is not okay.

You drift, back to your apartment, back the venom of Phillip, the hands around your neck, the twist of your shoulder, back slamming into the wall. You can still feel him, still hear him, these memories like all the others, your body beaten on the floor, mind nearly broken. Trying to shift away from the hot end of a cigarette, screaming for help, running through a-

A hand covers yours.

He coaxes the fork from your fingers, metal vibrating within flesh.

“I think… I think I should go back to bed.” You whisper.

“Are you tired?”

“No… yeah. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to run away, you know.” He flips a pancake onto your plate from the stack. “Just because you were somewhere else for a little bit.” Your cheeks burn. “We’ve got a pretty nice couch in the living room though, if you want some time alone and don’t feel too keen on the stairs.” Saturday morning pancakes and curling up on the couch? It sounds so nice, so normal, and must show on your face, because he chuckles. “Help yourself. You might have to share the TV though, in a bit. We watch baby Einstein on Saturdays, and she’ll need some entertaining for a minute while I get ready.” Your lips twist, an entire hearth lighting up in the bottom of your heart.

“Alright.”

Baby Einstein is as enthralling as you thought it would be, though Penny disagrees. She stares at the screen, wide eyed, open mouthed, sippy cup long forgotten, and even Simon struggles to get her attention after returning from getting dressed.

You force your eyes away from the strain of his thighs in blue jeans.

“We’re goin’ down to the hospital.” He tells you, pulling her upward over the back of the couch and rubbing his nose through her curls. It’s still… weird, to see his whole face. To clearly watch his expressions, sublime bliss pushing his mouth upward whenever he looks at his daughter. “Want to come?”

“I can’t, not if I’m taking time off. It… looks bad to admin. I can probably go in at night but, during the day is just a recipe for disaster.”

“Of course.” He looks around, for what you don’t know, shoulders tensing, then relaxing. “Well, you’ve got the remote. And my number. Are you… going to be, okay? Alone?”

Say yes.

You can’t. All you can do… is nod.

“Okay well if you’re not. Just call.” You nod again, getting to your feet. Once you’re standing, you’re out of place, flailing in their living room, about to be here alone, with your memories, your poisoned mind.

What’re you doing? You’ve ruined everything. Broken all your rules.

“We can stay.” Simon steps close, hand grazing the middle of your back, and you shake your head.

“No, no- I… I’m sorry.”

“You don’t-“

“Yes, I do.” Your voice shakes, and you slam your eyes shut. You can’t do this. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m putting you in danger, and I… I’m putting myself in danger and I’m being so- so stupid, Simon.” His gaze is heavy, serious, and he steps around you, sliding Penny into her bounce seat, turning it to face baby Einstein.

“Listen to me.” As he returns, he reaches, carefully pulling you close, close enough you’re nearly in his chest, timing the rise and fall of his diaphragm. “We are safe, you are safe, sweetheart. ‘m not going to let anything happen to you, or Penny, or any of us. Alright?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Tell me.” You almost laugh, but something comes over you instead, something delirious and desperate. You lean into him, letting him hold you, hand smoothing over the back of your head. “You can tell me. You can trust us. We’ll take care of you.”

God, you want to. You want to so bad it aches, burns a ravenous fire in your heart. You want tell him, let them in. Tell them everything.

“Bun.” He murmurs, bringing you back, a finger under your chin.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s… it’s too much.”

“It’s alright.” He soothes, but doesn’t pull away, and you’re drawn in like a magnet, rising to the balls of your feet, stuck in a trance, luring you closer.

He meets your halfway.

And then-

He’s kissing you, plush lips on yours, pancakes and fresh laundry and stained-glass windows of sanctuary on his tongue.

You’re standing in the sun, in the trance of another spell.

It’s a mouthful of butterscotch and maple. Sweet, delicious breakfast in bed, lazy Saturday mornings and whispered, tender words. It’s life unlike your own, a home, the promise of a love not fractioned, chipped away, or strangled… but multiplied, magnified. His touch is painfully gentle, slow and easy, encouraging you to follow his lead, carefully constructing a tiny universe to disappear to, where shadow cannot touch. A fantasy, cocoon of stars, ambrosial and sacrosanct, an escape from the hell nipping at your heels, the hell chasing you through your dreaming and waking hours.

The anxious hum radiating through every cell in your body flatlines.

The girl in the mirror weeps.

Everything goes silent. Your breathing slows. Your hands fall to the side, listless and stunned.

Penny grunts. The moment shatters.

You can only stare with wide, terrified eyes.

“Johnny.” It’s the first word out of your mouth, the only thing you can conjure. “I’m sorry, I don’t know… I’m sorry.” Johnny. Johnny’s not here. How can he kiss you when his partner isn’t here? His heart will be broken, you’re destroying their family, you’re-

“I kissed you, bunny. Nothin’ to be sorry about.” Simon hums, still holding your face. “Johnny’s okay. He’ll be a bit jealous he didn’t get one too, but he won’t be upset.”

“How?” the question squeaks, and he takes your hand, tugging you towards the couch, settling you back into the cushions, easily guiding you with deft hands. He's so careful, so gentle, the touch of a man who raises a daughter, who loves his partner, adroit and nimble, anticipating movement before it happens.

“After Penny goes down tonight, let’s have a drink. Or some late dinner. We can talk, and I’ll answer as many of your questions as I can. How’s that sound?” He strokes a thumb across the apple of your cheek. Talking can’t hurt, can it?

“O-okay. Yeah.” You try to shrug, pain lancing through your shoulder, and you try to smother your wince. He frowns.

“I want you to get some rest today.” A small grin creeps across your face.

“You always tell people what to do?” He nods, solemn.

“It’s my job. Takin’ care of you lot is an added bonus.” He breezes by the grouping of you with his family, like it’s a normal thing, rubbing circles in your palm. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

“I can-“

“I’m here. Let me help.” You don’t say anything at first. Can’t say anything, can’t formulate a response that encompasses everything you’re thinking and feeling, stuck on the mile high wall that is your fear and denial, afraid to jump. Afraid to fall.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to respond, He just… settles you, cautiously arranging the pillows to support your injuries, lets you sit there atop the wall, staring down at the ground where they wait. Patiently. He rubs your back and your good shoulder until you’re drifting away in heady, hazy dream world, unable to stir when he slips free, tucking the blankets in around you, and pressing another long, lingering kiss to your brow.

You wake in a panic to the doorbell ringing. Your heart races, and you’re up off the couch, tucked around a corner of the hall, hiding, in a blink, even though your shoulder and neck scream at the sudden change of position.

Breathe. You’re losing it. Philip wouldn’t ring a doorbell.

The door clicks open.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice echoes to where you’re still curled around the hallway, back pressed flat, eyes closed. “Hello? Anyone home?” Who is that?

You peek, like a child. Peering around to see a familiar woman with grocery bags in her hands, depositing them on the kitchen counter.

She spots you immediately.

“Hi!” She’s grinning, pretty and bright, pulling a carton of milk from a brown paper bag and putting it in the fridge. “I’m Lou. Sorry, did I scare you? I tried to ‘announce’ myself.” She makes bunny ears with her fingers before and after the word announce, with half of an eye roll. “John’s always telling me I have to when I come over. Can’t be giving anyone surprises, and I knew you were here. Just wasn’t sure if you’d be up for visitors. Sorry if I gave you a fright.”

“No, I…” you trail off, readjusting, giving her your name. She nods and smiles again. “I remember you. In front of the elevator that day.”

“Yeah, that was me.” She’s earnest in her focus, beaming at you, almost like she’s excited.

“You look a little different out of your cute scrubs.” That gives you a small laugh, and you smile honestly at her, flattered.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“Oh no, you’re not. I was just… I’m fine.” She pulls a flat of eggs free and stacks them next to a colorful pile of produce.

“I do the store runs for Simon right now. It’s too much, with Johnny in hospital and taking care of Pen. We’ve been trying to lighten his load.” Guilt twists. And here you are, adding onto it.

“That’s very nice of you.” She waves it off.

“They’ve kept my husband alive a million times over. It’s the least I can do.”

“Right… they… work together?”

“Simon is semi-retired but yeah. They’re in a global task force. It’s the four of them. Have you met Kyle yet?”

“Oh, yeah. At the hospital one day.”

“Best guy, really.” Her clothes swish, warm and sweet aura practically glowing.

“Yeah, he was really nice.” She rests her hands on her hips and looks you over.

“You okay?” This woman is direct. She's got a no nonsense approach, and through intense, there's true ardor in her, passion and care.

“Yeah, I’m just… still recovering.” You don’t know what she knows, not sure what they’ve told her or John, so you’re not sure how much, or what even, to say.

“Simon told us, about you being mugged. I’m so sorry, it’s just awful.” She’s sincere in her sympathy, big brown eyes sad and considerate.

“It’s okay, thank you. I’m okay.”

“If you need anything, I’m always around. Or if you want to talk to another girl that isn’t a toddler.” It’s an olive branch of friendship, you realize, or the beginnings of, and you’re startled, considering it, wondering if it would be so bad… to have a friend.

“Thank you.” She gives you her number, and you tap it in, shooting her a text with your name.

“You should sit.”

“I can help with these.”

“No, no. No offense, but you look half asleep. I’ve got it.” You laugh even though it hurts, awkward half shrug with good shoulder, and agree.

“Yeah, I’m still recovering. It’s been slow.”

“I’m sure.” You sit at the counter, watching her organize the fridge with scary efficiency. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Just had to drop these off.”

“Oh, you’re fine.” It’s nice. You’re nice. She feels safe, the proximity to Simon and Johnny naturally leading you to feel comfortable, knowing she’s welcomed by them, she’s a part of their life. It makes you feel more at ease, and you try to convey it without getting tangled up in awkward words.

You don’t know how. Not really sure how to make genuine friends anymore, so you just sit there and watch, listening to her talk, enjoying how she rambles a little bit, laughing at herself.

When she says goodbye at the door, she promises to text you the next time she’s coming by, so you’re not surprised, and you linger there, watching her go, wondering if it’s real, surprisingly mourning the loss of companionship already.

“Johnny misses you.” The ice in Simon’s rocks glass clinks together as he sips his bourbon, corner of his mouth lifting in a partial smirk. “Not too fond of his new nurse, I’m afraid. Think he’s spoiled now.”

“How is he?” You’re on the edge of your seat for an update, but not wanting to pry too much. It’s a delicate line, one where you don’t know on which side to stand.

“Good. Wrist fracture is nearly healed, so he’ll be able to start on crutches soon. Once he does, he’ll be doing physical therapy for most of his day, and ready to come home. Should be soon.” He really smiles now, and you mirror it, unable to deny the infectious bloom of happiness spreading from him to you.

“And his liver?”

“No complications. Grafts for his burn are in great shape. Hip is the trickiest part.”

“Yeah, they take a lot longer to heal, but I’m sure he’ll do a great job of it, just like everything else.”

“Thanks to you.” You sip your wine, citrusy peach and passionfruit coating your tongue. It’s a nice bottle, and you were surprised when Simon brought it home, bag of takeaway in one arm, Penny in the other.

“No.” Your cheeks heat. “I was just there. You guys did the hard work.”

“Wouldn’t have made it without you though. Think I would’ve lost it. Him too.”

“You would’ve been fine.” You brush it off, and he shakes his head.

“You’re too modest.” He drains his pour, uncapping the bottle on the coffee table between you and refilling it halfway. Glass on glass chimes, and you sink deeper into the couch, relaxing, tucking your knees up until you’re half curled into a ball, wine glass cradled between your palms.

“So…”

“I told you; you can ask me whatever you like.” You knew this was the case, but hesitance is still brimming in your heart, uneasy feelings festering beneath your skin, burning question shoving to the surface.

“Did you tell Johnny we kissed?”

“I did.”

“Was he upset?”

“Only because he feels like he’s missing out. I told him we’d make it up to him.” Fire enflames your skin. We?

“And by we you mean… us. Together. Like… the three of us.”

“I do.” The girl in the mirror screams. She doesn’t understand, why you continue to act against her better judgement. Why you’re entertaining something so, so dangerous, something so stupid.

“Simon, I… I can’t.”

“You keep saying that but look where you are, bun.” He motions to the table, takeaway cartons scattered across the top, half empty bottle of wine, his bourbon, and a baby monitor. It looks like a nice night in, a simple, sweet life, not even close to being your own.

Still, the girl in mirror combats. Still.

“This isn’t… this isn’t a thing it’s just… we’re hanging out. I’m not going to be here forever, I’m looking for a place and I-“ His face changes, flicker of shadow fading across his brow before being chased away by the sunlight in his eyes. You thought he'd be easier to read, without the mask, imagined you'd be able to place his expressions but you're just as confused and lost as ever.

“Slow down. There’s no need to look for a place to live.”

“W-what?” The wine has made you a little slow, a little sleepy, and you blink through the stupor.

“You’re still healing, sweetheart, and I know you're scared. I’ve known since the first day you stepped into Johnny’s room.”

“No.” You shake your head. Pain fizzles, numbed by alcohol, and your head swims.

“I know you weren’t mugged.” How? “I know you’re running from someone.” Oh god. The urge to get to your feet and bolt washes over you like a wave.

“I- I’m not.” The lie is bare-boned, pathetically unconvincing, and you know it. He knows it too; you can tell by the look on his face.

“You’re not ready to tell me, that’s fine. I’m patient. But you won’t be going anywhere if I don’t know you’re safe. And right now, to me, it doesn’t seem like you’re safe.” The pale yellow of your wine shines in the low lights of the living room, and you get lost in it, swirling around in his words, trying to put them together and pick them apart, desperate to understand what he means.

“Are you… are you saying you won’t let me leave?” You gulp. It’s a ridiculous conclusion, but the first one you jump to.

And in that, you know you’re giving too much away.

His face softens, and he reaches, pulling your free hand into his own, petting some sort of sequence into your skin.

“Of course not, sweetheart. I’d never, ever force you to do something you didn’t want to do. But I do want you to stay, here with us. Where we can keep you safe, take care of you.”

“I don’t need-“

“I know you don’t. I know you take care of yourself just fine.” The indignant roar in the back of your mind settles. “But I’d love an opportunity to do it instead.”

“Simon…”

“Did you know the cells in our body hold onto trauma? They carry imprints of traumatic events. It can change your biology, the way you function.” He squeezes your hand. “It’s hard to realize… that it’s not normal, the way you might be, the way you think, or do things, when you’re carrying the physical memory of terrible things.” He’s not talking about you. There’s a fleeting flash of sadness in his eyes, ghosts circling the drain around his irises, and your heart aches. “We can help you. I don’t know who you’re hiding from, but I can guess what they’ve done- look at me.” You force your eyes back to him, and he cups your cheek. “You do not have to be afraid here. You are safe with me, with us. I know you don’t believe it, and I’ll tell you as many times you need, but it will never not be true. We can help you.”

“You don’t know… you don’t know what you’re saying.” Your denial is steadfast. They cannot possibly understand.

A small seed of light blooms under darkness. It’s the sun, struggling to break free, trying to drag you into its warm, golden rays. It tugs and tugs, clawing towards you, illuminating the path forward.

The words come out before the girl in the mirror can stop them.

“You don’t know him. He’s sick and… powerful. He’s a monster but he’s smart, has connections, has ways of doing things that… I don’t even know. He’d kill you.” You clap your hand over your mouth in shock, surprised at yourself. It’s the most you’ve said about Philip in years.

You expect pushback. Expect Simon to flinch, or cower, or have good sense… a rational reaction to being told someone might try to hurt him.

He smiles instead, settling back on his side of the couch.

“I’d just have to get to him first, then.” Is he… is he? Simon watches you, reaches into your brains to peer inside, rooting around in your head. The way he looks at you, like he knows everything you’re feeling, can see what you're thinking, makes you shiver, makes you feel like you’re a tiny mouse in the shadow of a mountain. He sighs. “Give us a chance.”

“A chance?”

“A chance, to know you. Let us in, let us try. Stay here, with us, spend time with me and Johnny and Pen. No strings attached. If you decide it’s not for you… we’ll understand.”

No strings attached.

You could pick up and leave if you wanted. If you had to.

What’re you doing?

“How does it work? Would we all…” you trail off, confused.

“Date?” Simon finishes gently. “Yes.”

“So, you guys are… bi?” He chuckles.

“Yes, sweetheart. We’re bi.”

“Is this… a thing? Something you guys do?”

“We’ve never taken another partner before, no.” Your eyes widen. “You’re our first.” You don’t know why, but knowing is exhilarating and terrifying, all at the same time. You’re their first.

He’s talking about it like it’s already happened.

Fatigue settles in around you, thick fog of it draping over your shoulders and clouding your head.

“I… I don’t know.” You stifle a yawn. “I need to think.” He abandons his perch for one next to you, pulling your wine glass free and setting it on the table.

“Tired?” His fingers sweep over your cheek, skin warming under his touch.

“Mhmm.” You mumble, sleepily. Your head is very heavy, suddenly, hard to hold up.

“Alright.” He stands, bending to slide an arm under your knees, the other supporting your back in one fluid movement.

“What are you doing?” You squeak, grabbing onto him as he rises, lifting you into his chest at full height. Panic floods your nervous system, fevered tone pitching into a plea. “Put me down! I’m too heavy. Please, I’m too heavy, you can’t-“

“I’ve lifted a car off a teammate before.” He tells you, the thick of his body beneath your ear vibrating. “And I’ve dug Johnny out of a collapsed concrete wall. I’m made to pick things up, bunny. Heavy or not.” He holds you right there, all the way up the stairs, down the hall to the guest room, before settling you back on your feet, big hands around your waist for balance. Your back is to his chest now, and his nose drifts across the top of your head, slow path of his fingers stroking down your hip. “Alright?” He asks, and you nod, throat too dry to speak.

He squeezes. You stifle a gasp, resist the urge to press your thighs together.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched, since anyone has handled you with reverence, with affection. You almost don’t recognize it.

His hand drifts, slipping between your thigh and cheek. “This okay?” He murmurs, and you manage a rough yes, word sticky and thick in your throat. Yes. Yes, don’t stop. A fingertip strokes along the crease there, back and forth, before trailing upward. He takes as much of your flesh in his palm as he can, squeezing again, caressing, mouth skimming along your neck.

“Oh.” you breathe. The room is warm, barely lit by the bedside lamp, and you burn in the dark, sensations sparking alive that have long laid dormant.

The girl in the mirror curses you.

“Need help getting to bed?”

“N-no.” Yes! “I’m… fine.” His lips touch your cheek, then your ear, breath blowing over you, firm, solid warm mass at your back exhaling shakily.

“Get some sleep.” He steps away, but not before he swings, slowly, softly, into the pillow plush of your ass. It’s a gentle tap, but the fire between your legs roars. “Goodnight, bun.”

“G-goodnight.”

Simon's got his sweatpants and boxers off before he's even fully in the bathroom, running right into the shower, hand wrapped around his throbbing cock as the water flicks on. It's not hot enough, but he doesn't even notice, cock heavy in his grip, tip already smeared wet with pre-come.

"Fuck, bunny." He grits, trying to stay quiet but unable to hold his tongue.

He's awful, for this. Awful for doing this after you've had such an emotional night. Awful for touching you when you're still healing, awful for grabbing a handful of your ass and imagining sliding his dick through the space between those cheeks. He can't stop, strokes himself long, squeezing the base and pulling up and back as he imagines you on all fours, perfect globe perked up in the air for him, his cock sinking into your soaking wet pussy as you moan. He knows you would make the prettiest sounds for them, sweet gasps and cries, bouncing on Johnny's cock in his lap.

"Hop like a bunny." He'd coo, and you'd whine, riding Johnny as Simon coached you until you were so close, almost there on the edge. "Show daddy how bad you want to come, little bunny."

He jerks himself harder, eyes closed, imagining the ripple of your flesh, the way you'd bounce so perfectly, how Johnny would be gripping your hips with his head tipped back, throat exposed for Simon to nip and suck a mark into.

His bunny. His boy.

His toes curl. Water streams down his back, slicking his skin, forearm burning with each stroke, imagination running wild as he gets closer and closer, thinking about you and Johnny and him together, finally, your legs spread wide in front of their faces, perfect pussy on display. He can almost hear the way you'd whisper their names, and it blinds him, fills his head with white light. He knows you're beautiful when you come, as beautiful as you are when you let your guard down and give him a real smile, as beautiful as you are everyday, so pretty and perfect, kind, even as a ghost. He imagines it, pictures it, the sight of his and Johnny's come leaking out of your hole, fingers shoving it back inside, marking you as theirs.

He comes with your name on his lips, a strangled whisper, painting the tile with himself.

He falls asleep with a new addition in their bed, on top of Johny's t shirt and the baby monitor... there's now a long sleeved tee, plucked from your dirty laundry this morning as he was getting ready to leave. It smells like you, something he wishes he could bottle, and he holds it close, tied in tandem with Johnny's, curled in his arms on top of the pillow.

#simple math #peaches writes #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #john mactavish #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #ghost x soap #if you saw my technical difficulty earlier no you didn't!

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daizymax · 7 months

Text

a little pampering | lfl (m)

summary: your kind, attentive boyfriend helps you unwind after a long day with a massage and a little more.

pairing: felix x fem reader

genre: fluff, smut

word count: 5.6k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: established (but new) relationship; profanity; mentions of food; graphic sexual content; clit play & vaginal fingering; some breast & nipple play; a tiny bit of spit play & finger sucking; dirty talk; oral (m receiving); penetrative piv sex with condom use

author’s note: re-written, re-titled and re-uploaded from my old blog. hope you enjoy!

( click here to read on AO3 instead )

---

Technically he has good timing, but as you set your things down and kick off your shoes, you aren’t sure if you’re really in the mood to answer his call. Not after the day you’ve had. But it’s Felix, and the relationship is still new, so you answer anyway.

“Hey.”

“Uh oh, what’s wrong?”

Normally you don’t mind how observant he is; that’s one of the things you have come to admire about him. But you don’t want to unpack your hard day on him, so you feign ignorance.

“Hm? Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine,” you say, then promptly change the subject. “I just got home. How was your day?”

“It was alright,” Felix answers pleasantly. His smooth, deep voice is always soothing. Just a few words from him and you’re already feeling your mood lift a little. “I was just calling to see how your day was. When you didn’t answer my last text, I figured it turned into a rough one towards the end.”

You ignore his correct suspicion for the time being to quickly check your messages. There it is, the missed text from a few hours ago asking if the two of you could meet up for dinner tonight.

“Shit, I’m just now seeing it,” you say. “You’re right, work was rough and I was just crazy busy this afternoon, I’m sorry.”

“No worries! Does dinner sound alright, though? We can go anywhere you want.” When you make a noise somewhere between a ponderous hum and a non-committal grunt, Felix laughs knowingly. “Okay, that’s fine.”

His easy acceptance of your hesitation doesn’t make you feel better. If anything, it only makes you feel guilty.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just don’t really feel up to going out tonight. I’m tired and my neck is killing me. I kind of just want to stand under a hot shower for, like, half an hour, then pass out in bed.”

“Ah, poor thing. Can I at least bring you dinner, if I promise not to overstay my welcome? I’d still love to see you tonight, even for just a little while?”

His offer is sweet, but you don’t exactly like the way he’s pressing to see you tonight. Even when worded as questions, even with his assurance that he won’t stay too long, it comes off as kind of pushy to you. But to be fair, Felix has been nothing but respectful and understanding and kind to you in the couple months you’ve been dating him. Is a well-intentioned offer really something to refuse? Or something worth getting into an argument over?

You blame your sour thoughts on your terrible day and decide you probably would feel a little better if you let him dote on you with a simple meal and some company, so you accept his offer on the condition that he bring enough food for himself as well.

---

Felix arrives at your door with two bags of food and a smile.

Even after his own long day of work, he looks fresh and pretty. His blond hair is parted, freckles on full display against his honey skin. He smells good, too. Something clean and floral wafts into your nostrils, even through the smell of the food.

“Hey you,” you say. “Thanks again for bringing dinner, you really didn’t have to.”

“Hey you,” he echoes, stepping inside when you allow him by. “It’s my pleasure, really. Thanks for letting me come over. I hope you don’t mind, I brought dessert, too. Nothing special, just some ice cream. If we don’t eat it tonight, you can just keep it and save it for another time.”

You thank him again for the thoughtful gesture, and he wastes no time helping you put dessert into the freezer before dispensing the rest of the food onto some plates.

By the time the two of you settle across the table from each other, you feel silly for your negative thoughts earlier, even if they were brief. Maybe one day you will decline his company, but right now, this feels exactly like what you need: a nice meal and your boyfriend’s comforting presence.

“This is really great, Felix.”

He beams. “Dig in, babe.”

You expect him to ask for the details of your stressful day, but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he talks of his own day, and you learn a few new tidbits of information about him as he talks — the way he likes his coffee (extremely sweet), the time of day he showers (in the mornings, though he thinks nights would be better actually), the amount of time it takes for him to commute to and from work (about 20 minutes each way). It’s odd how mundane things like that are always fascinating at the start of a relationship.

Partway through the conversation, you stretch your stiff neck, and Felix notices your discomfort. He lumps his mouthful of food into one cheek and asks, “So what did you do to your neck?”

“I don’t even know,” you mutter. “It’s been a few days now. I don’t know if I slept on it wrong or what.”

“Poor thing,” he tuts again. “You’re probably ready for that shower. I’m just about done here, I can go ahead and show myself out and leave you to your rest.”

“No, stay,” you blurt. “I mean, I do really want to shower, but maybe we can watch a movie or a show or something when I’m done, if you want?”

He looks a little surprised at your suggestion. “Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, if you’re sure I won’t be overstaying my welcome? I really don’t mind if you want to kick me out now so you can get on with your evening. You don’t have to—”

You reach over the table to brush your fingertips over his knuckles, and he promptly shuts his mouth. “Felix, it’s okay. I want you to say, if you want to stay.”

He smiles and relaxes. “Alright, cool.”

After the table is cleared, you insist he make himself comfortable in the living room and find something for the two of you to watch when you return.

The pressure of the hot water and the encapsulating steam is everything you’ve been dreaming of all afternoon. And even though you have lovely company waiting, you decide to take your time and savor the water pelting your aching muscles until it turns lukewarm and you drag yourself back out to dry off and put on some comfortable clothes.

Felix certainly looks comfortable perched on your couch. He smiles brightly again when he sees you. “Feeling better, sweetheart?”

You stretch your neck experimentally. “Physically? Not really. Mentally? So much better.”

“Well that’s something, at least.” He fluffs open the blanket on his lap and says, “Come here.”

The scene is too tempting to resist. You cozy up beside him and wrap your arms around his middle as he does the same with you.

Felix sighs, then you hear him inhale softly. “You smell good.”

“So do you,” you say, sniffing his sleeve.

“Thanks.” He shifts one arm to reach for the remote on the table beside him. “Is Sci-Fi okay?”

You nod and lay your cheek against his shoulder. “Sounds good.”

“Cool.”

Half an hour into the show, your neck twinges in protest over your otherwise comfortable position, and you groan quietly as you pull yourself up to sit up straight. You’d been so content to cuddle with your warm, pretty boyfriend.

Felix pauses the show and looks over at you. “You okay?”

Before you can answer him, you bump your fingers into his hand when he reaches for the back of your neck first. His fingers are soft, and you can’t help but sigh at the tender pressure he puts on the sore tendons.

“You do feel tight. Tense,” he says, gazing at your skin in concern while he rubs gentle little circles into it with his thumb. “I might be able to help a little more than the shower did, if you want.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You do massages?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been told once or twice that I’m decent at it. Think it’s worth a shot?”

You shrug back. “Yeah, sure, why not. Thanks, baby.”

Once you’ve situated yourself so that your back is facing him, Felix places his hand at the junction between your neck and shoulder.

“Right here, isn’t it? Down into your shoulder, too,” he says, measuring the damage with delicate prods of his fingertips.

“Y-yeah,” you mutter, then clear your throat. “Yeah, like all along there.”

With that confirmation, he takes a firmer grasp of your knotted muscles to try and smooth them out. You hiss at the sensation, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

Felix hums knowingly. “Sorry. Try to relax, but tell me if it hurts too much.”

He takes hold of your opposite shoulder just to steady you as he works the pained one. He rolls his fingers along the column of your neck, pressing his thumb at the base of your skull with a calculated pressure, then pinches the muscle of your shoulder.

“Feel okay?” he checks when you let out an indecipherable sound.

“It does hurt a bit,” you admit, “but it feels good, too.”

“Good.”

He repeats his motions over and over until he’s built up a nice rhythm of gentle squeezes up and down your neck and firmer, longer squeezes along your shoulder. You start to feel weightless, boneless, and you lean into his chest at the lulling ministrations.

At one point he sweetly kisses the side of your head without pausing his work, and it occurs to you then that you haven’t kissed him in days.

To remedy that, you start by turning your head towards him. Felix smiles when he meets your eyes, and you lean closer to kiss his lips. He doesn’t have time to react outside of a tiny, surprised grunt before you’re pulling away with a pleased grin.

He grins back wider. “Another,” he says, puckering his plump lips into a cute, inviting pout.

You giggle and oblige, this time holding the position longer. He kisses you back with the smallest movement of his jaw. Greedily, you decide it isn’t enough, so you reach to hold the back of his head and part your lips further to coax him into doing the same.

A sigh through his nose breaks across your cheek at the same time the tip of his tongue dips between your lips. You meet it softly, deepening the motion by tilting your head even more so there can be no gap between you.

The quiet sounds of your lips breaking and reconnecting fills your ears soothingly. His fingers have stopped massaging you in favor of simply holding you close to him, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re already thinking of a better place for him to put them right now.

When you start to guide his hand down to your chest, Felix whispers your name against your lips. He doesn’t elaborate, and you’re not sure what he thinks he’s trying to say, but you don’t comment back.

Instead, you cup your hand over his and squeeze so he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t say anything more, just fondles your breast as requested by your body language. You arch into his touch and moan into his mouth, partly for sexy effect to keep him going, but mostly because it’s exciting to have him touch you like this for the first time.

Your moan encourages him, just as you suspected it might, and he adjusts his hold on your breast to run his thumb across the nipple starting to poke through your thin shirt. He doesn’t mention the lack of a bra, but you can tell he finds the easy access exciting by the way he hums again. He switches to your other breast to pay it some equal attention, rolling your stiff nipple between his thumb and forefinger gingerly, then pinching it just to hear you react with a light gasp.

“I’m really glad you let me come over tonight, Y/N,” Felix takes the time to mention, as though this makeout and groping session is the highlight of his whole day. The thought makes you want to take things even further.

“Me too.” You twist your torso to face him even more, and his hand slips from your breast to your lap. “Felix? I want you, baby.”

He licks his already wet lips, dark eyes shimmering as he glances between each of yours. “You mean… have sex? Right now?”

You nod silently, and there is a split second of hesitation on Felix’s part where you can almost see the gears turning in his head before he swears under his breath and surges forward into another kiss, feverish with new intent this time.

He returns his hand to your clothed chest without guidance this time, but you think of something even better, so you bring his hand up through the bottom of your shirt instead. You’re sure your own body temperature is rising with your desire, but his palm is nearly searing on your bare skin.

He starts to lose focus on kissing while he’s feeling you up, and so do you. Every roll and tweak and squeeze sends a pulse of arousal between your legs. It gets to the point that you start rubbing your thighs together needily, and Felix — being the kind, thoughtful, observant person he is — takes notice.

“Fuck, babe,” he swears. His hand smooths down your warm stomach to the band of your leggings and stops there. “Getting kind of horny?”

You giggle because he sounds kind of precious saying it aloud. It’s already been established that you want to have sex with him — of course you’re horny.

“More like a lot,” you say, nipping his bottom lip with your teeth.

Felix smirks deviously. “Hm. I see. Let me help you with that, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t push his fingers into your pants right away. Instead, he cups your pussy over your clothing with a confidence that both surprises and delights you. Then he starts to drag his fingers up and down, back and forth. Your toes curl and loosen depending on the pressure of his moving fingers and how often he brushes across your swelling clit. You’re barely kissing him at all at this point; more like hovering right against his lips, which are still smirking ever so slightly.

“Feel good?” he murmurs.

“Y-yeah.” You spread your legs a little wider, and Felix uses the extra space to grind the heel of his palm over your clit now. “Oh fuck,” you gasp over the new, rougher sensation.

Unlike with the massage he was giving you, he does not build up a steady, diligent rhythm of repetitive motions. He alternates without pattern between the grinding of his palm and the tickling of his fingers along your covered slit. It feels unbelievably, surprisingly good, but you’re getting frustrated by both the teasing and the barriers separating your burning skin from his.

“Felix,” you whimper. “I need more, please...”

“I know, I’ve got you.” He finally dives his hand into your pants, but he still only touches you over your underwear. “Mm, this does feel good, doesn’t it?” he says, alluding to how damp and sticky you’ve become. He traps your swollen clit between his index and middle finger and gives it a vibrating shake, and your thighs automatically clamp together on his hand, which makes him chuckle. “You still seem tense, Y/N. Relax for me. I’m taking care of you. Gonna make you come just like this.”

The whine you let out is pitiful even to your own ears. How easily he’s turned you to putty in his capable hands.

He wraps one arm across your stomach while the other flexes beneath the blanket at your crotch. You can’t see anything he’s doing down there, but you can sure as hell feel it all.

He keeps two fingers focused on your clit with tight, firm circles and increases his pace. Your soon-to-be-ruined panties not only add to the friction he is creating but also keep his fingers from slipping around too wildly. The concentrated pleasure races through your veins as fast as he can rub at the stiff, sensitive bundle of nerves.

The edge he’s been dragging you toward looms— “Right there! F-Felix… Please, j-just like that, please…”

“You don’t have to beg, sweetheart. Just let go,” he says. His voice is pitched lower than you’ve ever heard it, which very well could be what launches you straight into your body-tingling climax.

You gasp when it hits and clutch his forearm tightly — not to stop him, just to let him know, as if he couldn’t already tell you’re coming from the way you’re stuttering mindless expletives and desperately humping against his hand.

Felix almost moves his fingers away too soon, but you whimper and hold him in place for a little while longer to wring that last bit of ecstasy out. He coos something apologetic that you can’t quite make out through the static in your ears and continues drawing dwindling circles into your clit.

After a few more, he hooks his middle finger through the side of your panties and slowly glides it through your bare folds for the first time, from the bottom of your soaked opening, up between your puffy lips, all the way to your clit still pulsing at the top. You twitch weakly at the onset of sensitivity, but he doesn’t linger or torment you with overstimulation; his finger is gone almost as quickly as it came.

You slump against him, and Felix presses a sweet kiss to the first part of you he can reach, which is your sweaty temple.

“You’re amazing, Y/N. Feeling alright?”

In the midst of calming down and catching your breath, you have to laugh at his compliment when he was the one who did all the work.

“Yeah, I feel great. That was so good.”

“Good. There’s more orgasms where that came from, if you’re up for it.” He plants another quick peck on the crown of your head and gives your pussy one last pat through your panties with a flat, open palm before finally withdrawing from the cramped, humid space of your pants.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder again and give his lips a quick kiss. “I think it’s your turn for some pampering now.”

Felix doesn’t protest, only shifts with you as you transition from sitting between his legs on the couch to kneeling between his legs on the floor.

“Is this okay?” you ask, rubbing one of his knees.

Your pretty boyfriend nods. “Yeah, definitely.”

You start to run your hand up his thigh towards the enticing bulge between his legs, but he puts a hand over yours to stop you. You give him a concerned look because you thought he was good with this; he just said so.

“Listen, I’m not, like… impressive, okay?” he says.

Oh. That’s what he’s worried about? The size of his dick? The thought of him being self-conscious about it saddens you, honestly.

You give his thigh a squeeze. It feels firm and warm to your touch. “I’m not the kind of person to rate your dick based on size, baby. I promise you.”

Felix smiles shyly, face flushed pink. “I know, I know. I know it’s about how I use it. I guess I just wanted to, I don’t know, warn you? Not warn you but, like, prepare you, or something?”

He’s nervous, which in and of itself is completely understandable. This is the first time you’ll be seeing his dick. He wants to make a good first impression, and his size is one of the first things you’ll notice. You don’t want him to worry about it, though, so you go back to reaching for the zipper on his pants, and he lets go of your hand.

“Trust me, I’m more than prepared to suck you off, baby,” you say with a grin.

“What about your neck?” he asks.

“I’ll be alright.” A little soreness in your neck is not going to stop you from doing this. No way.

Felix lets out a breathy laugh at your determination and lifts his hips to help you get his pants down. His dick twitches beneath his boxers when you reach for them next.

As soon as you remove them, you think you can see what he was talking about. There are certainly longer and thicker cocks out there, and maybe he is slightly smaller than what could be considered ‘average,’ but by god, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen a prettier cock in your life. It’s rock solid, wrapped in a plump vein, and the tip is blushing a darker shade of pink than his face. You’re already more than pleased with it.

“Baby, your dick is perfect,” you say, reaching for it. He’ll probably think you’re exaggerating for the sake of his confidence, so you elaborate, “Perfect for me to swallow whole, and more than enough to fill me up. It’ll feel amazing to have you fuck me hard from behind, or with my legs on your shoulders in missionary, you know? You’d hit me just deep enough to hurt a little bit but not too much. You even fit perfectly in my hand. See?”

You swear you feel his cock pulse harder in your hold. The skin is so warm and smooth, silky yet stiff. You cannot wait to get your mouth on it, or have him stuff it in your pussy.

Felix breathes a short laugh; he sounds a little winded all of a sudden. “Fuck, I can’t wait to do all of that with you,” he says. His head falls back against the couch, and you’re glad to see him relaxing.

You nod. “Me either, baby. Can I start by swallowing you whole?”

Another twitch of his cock, which is clearly in agreement of its own, but you wait for his words.

“Yes, please,” he says, so politely.

You scoot a little closer on your knees, then bend forward to take his leaking tip into your mouth. Felix gasps as soon as you seal your lips around him, and he practically shivers when you lick at his slit. You love how sensitive and responsive he is. You can already see yourself worshiping his cock for hours. Maybe not tonight, but hopefully some time in the very near future.

It’s fun hearing his voice go from high-pitched and whiny to deep and almost tortured sounding, depending on whether you’re tracing the vein on his cock with your tongue or hollowing your cheeks around the flared mushroom head. He fits in your mouth so perfectly, just as you told him he would. His cock stretches your lips, but not enough to make your jaw sore; his length extends into your throat, but it’s not terribly troublesome to deep-throat him. It seems he especially loves breaching your throat and feeling the tight muscle flexing around his tip. Those sounds — the desperate little gasps — are quickly becoming your favorite.

Just when you’ve really gotten into a rhythm, however, he hisses “Wait wait wait,” and reaches out for your shoulder to gently ease your face away from his cock. It drops with a wet little plop against his lower stomach, glistening in your spit now.

“I’m gonna come if you keep going like that,” he says to your confused look, chuckling a little. “You’re actually about to suck my soul out.”

You laugh and rub his thighs. “I’m just taking care of you like you did for me.”

“I think I need to eat you out for ten minutes to even the score now.”

“There’s no score,” you say, still laughing, “but if you’d rather move on to something else, I have condoms in the bedroom.”

Felix sits up. “Lead the way.”

He leaves his pants and underwear behind on the living room floor, and you take his hand to bring him into your bedroom.

He’s been in here a couple times before already, but he’s never taken you by the hips and pulled you into a steamy kiss in here before. He’s never watched you strip your clothes for him in here before, or stripped his clothes for you in here before.

He’s never lowered you onto your mattress and followed on top of you before.

The feeling of his weight on yours is nice. His skin is so smooth and muscular; he’s been hiding those abs under his baggy clothes all this time. You kind of want to take more time to admire his body, but you’re not about to interrupt the feeling of his lips on your neck and throat; he’s found a sensitive spot, and it’s winding you up tighter to finally be fucked.

“Where’s the condoms, sweetheart?” Felix asks, as though he can hear your screaming thoughts. He scatters kisses along the tops of your breasts.

“In here,” you say, reaching for the drawer on your nightstand.

Felix reaches too, fingers bumping into yours as he finds one of the packets. He may have been nervous and self-conscious about his dick size, but he’s confident when he tears open the foil and tugs the latex over his erection. As soon as he’s ready to go, he asks, “So, did you want me to fuck you hard from behind, or missionary with your legs over my shoulders?”

God, he’s perfect.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” you say.

He smirks again. It looks extra devious on his angelic face. “Alright, well, at the risk of being cheesy, I think I want to see your face when you come this time, so legs up it is.”

You giggle. “So cheesy, baby. But that’s fine with me.”

Felix helps you into position, practically pulling your legs up for you to get the backs of your knees hooked over his shoulders. The tip of his covered cock bumps against your inner thigh, then the entrance of your pussy. You can feel how wet you still are — and how hard he still is — just from that minimal contact. He brings a hand down to better line himself up, and you can’t help but whimper when he presses a little harder on your hole. So close, but still not close enough.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” you say.

He pushes in, slowly but all in one go. The angle is perfect for him to hit just the right spot inside your walls, just like you knew he would.

Felix’s eyes roll back in his head in pure bliss, and he hugs your thighs to help balance you and to brace himself against all this pleasure.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. He leans a little more of his weight forward, unintentionally testing the flexibility in your legs. His core strength is impressive. “Is this okay, babe? You good?”

You bring your hands up to cup his face and purposely clench your walls tighter around him. “I’m fantastic. You can move whenever you want.”

He does just that, retracting the tip of his cock to the edge of your entrance before sliding in deep again, nice and slow. His movements are even and firm, tip to base, over and over again as he acquaints your pussy with his cock and vice versa.

“Oh f-fuck,” you breathe. “That’s so f-fucking good, Felix, so fucking deep.”

He groans and drops his hands from your thighs to plant his fists in the mattress instead. He fucks you faster, harder, battering that sweet spot inside you and driving you into the mattress. You can feel his balls slapping against your ass with every powerful push, and you can feel that your arousal has already leaked onto them, too. There’s going to be a hell of a wet spot on your sheets later, but you couldn’t care less.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Felix chants under his breath in time with his thrusts. His eyes have been closed since he started moving faster, but he opens them again now. You meet his gaze and bite your lip, and he leans in to kiss you, pulling your bottom lip between his own teeth. His lips graze across your cheek and down your neck.

“You feel amazing inside me,” you tell him, fingers twisting into his hair at the back of his head.

Felix brings his hands around to your backside to take your ass in his hands and hold you even closer to him. “Got me so fucking close already, Y/N,” he grunts into your mouth.

“Then come for me.”

He shakes his head; long, blond bangs sweeping the freckles on his cheeks. His thrusts stutter before evening out again. “Not before you. Will you touch yourself for me?”

You smile and nod, bringing two fingers up between your lips and accidentally bumping Felix’s lips in the process. He surprises you by catching them in his mouth immediately after you’ve wet them with your own.

“Jesus, baby,” you whisper, heavy gaze on the way he sucks your fingers so well, if only for a quick second or two.

His brown eyes are smoldering, burning into yours, and you nearly forget what he just asked you. He watches you bring your wet fingers down between your rocking bodies to finger your clit. Your walls instantly clench tighter around his cock, and he groans straight into your ear.

“So fucking t-tight, babe. Your pussy fits s-so perfectly around me, fuck.”

Felix takes your free hand and presses it into the mattress beside your head, leaning more of his weight into you again. Your legs are aching from maintaining this position, but it’s worth it to have him hitting your g-spot over and over again at this angle, and your orgasm is so fucking close now.

It’s clear Felix is close, too. His forehead and upper lip are dotted with sweat, his hips are getting more and more erratic, his breath is stuttering. He rakes his eyes from yours, down to your jiggling breasts, down to where your fingers are playing with your clit, and repeat.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers with a sweet peck to your lips. Far too sweet for the way he’s plowing you up the mattress, which somehow only pushes you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, gonna come,” you moan, squeezing his hand tighter.

Felix squeezes back and goes in even faster, determined in his thrusts. “Do it, sweetheart. Come on my cock.”

It doesn’t take much longer for you to do so. A few more perfect pushes against that sweet spot inside you and a few more flicks of your fingers and your orgasm quakes through you, hot and molten from your core all the way down — up — to your curled toes. You can’t help but tug Felix’s body even closer with your legs as you tremble through your high.

“God damn,” Felix swears as he watches you come; he couldn’t see it this well on the couch earlier. Your eyes are shut, mouth fallen open, body squirming under him from all the pleasure he’s helped bring you.

And your pussy, fuck. You can’t seem to stop clenching, and it draws out his own climax. He can barely get the words out to tell you. “Shit, c-coming, babe— ungh!”

He lodges his cock as deep as it can go and finally unloads his cum into the condom with a low grunt. You peek your eyes open in time to witness his own mouth dropped open in bliss. He gives a few more firm thrusts to finish off his orgasm, then gently eases your legs down. You wince a little as you become more aware of the muscles you’ve been straining, and Felix gently kneads your hips with his fingers.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Can’t feel my legs,” you pant, smiling up at him, “but in a good way. That was amazing. You okay?”

Felix is trying to catch his own breath, but he still giggles. “I’m great!” He runs his hands up your legs from ankles to hips, then gives the sides of your ass a couple pats. “Be right back.”

He hops off the bed with a surprising amount of energy and dashes into the bathroom to trash the condom. When he returns, he has a towel in hand.

“Is it okay to clean up with this?” he asks.

You give him a tired thumbs up, and he smiles as he helps clean up the lingering wetness between your legs. He tries to do something about the wet spot on the sheets, too, but you tell him not to worry about it; you’ll just change them in a bit.

For now, you reach out to bring him back into bed and into your arms, and he easily obliges.

“Just lie with me for a bit, please?” you murmur, halfway to sleep as you play with his hair.

Felix snuggles tighter against you and hums. “Of course.”

“Might pass out any second,” you warn him.

He kisses your throat. “That’s alright, sweetheart. Rest.”

You yawn. “Want you to stay with me.”

His body is so warm and solid. His voice is deep and honeyed. “I’m here. Right here.” A few beats of silence go by, then he adds, “I’m really glad you let me come over tonight, Y/N.”

You hum, “Me too,” just before drifting off.

---

if you enjoyed, please consider re-blogging and/or leaving me some feedback. take care! ♡

#felix smut #lee felix smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #felix x reader #lee felix x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #a little pampering #daizymax

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babsisbakery · 6 months

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Drowning to swimming

Since she left you, you don’t feel much when you are alone except for sadness. With friends it’s a different story, you are your old self again, no pretending, they are just the balsam to your soul. When you return home tho, doing absolutely nothing, nothing can stop your brain from activating your deepest and most depressing emotions. Thinking what you lost. That you haven’t been loved as you deserve. So, your tears fall. Letting them all out. It’s a literal waterfall, your dam broke and its drowning you. Your own despair is crushing you. Self-destruction from inside. When you stop crying and wipe your tears away you become numb. Until your brain starts to work. Reminiscing of the one who left you. She is the reason why you are now just a shallow version of your old self. All of this starts the cycle yet again. Cry. Numbness. Thinking. Repeat. After a while you manage to stop. Distracting yourself with re-watching matches, sadly you can’t bear to watch hers anymore, training and watching dumb series you know won’t bring you further or mental relief.

You would have done anything for her. Sadly, it seems like she didn’t appreciate and value that enough. Misunderstanding lead to an argument which you didn’t understand. But you can’t change that. At the end she saw you as the villain in the story. Her friends probably played into this but who are you to judge. They didn’t know you. They only assumed. You hoped they just wanted the best in their friend whom you loved but misjudged your character. You couldn’t see her as a villain though. She was your moon, the light to guide you through darkness. You still wished her the best, you still wanted her in your life, just as friends but more than getting nothing of her. The pain she caused seemed to decrease but every time you thought you were over her you still imagined yourself in her presence, in her life.

Your teammates tried to get you out of your self-installed prison but they can’t. They aren’t her. Only she could. Giving you the much-needed closure. No hurtful words exchanged moreover finally words from one former lover to another.

Now most days your thoughts were free from the ex. And you let yourself feel again. Trying to build a door into the high walls around your heart. So, it wasn’t too complicated for others to get to know you. You’ve never opened up fully to her, but it was the most you’ve ever had, in feat of hurting her by speaking of your own emotions. Because you once did it and making her cry was never something you wanted to repeat. Her puffy eyes, which filled your heart with sorrow. You once believed Alessia to be your person, your other half. The one that got away. But it all changed. When you met the girl of your dreams, Alessia didn’t stand a chance in your thoughts anymore.

She was more mature. She was the support system you needed after being everybody else’s. Leah Williamson is not the girl but the woman of your dreams. Not girlfriend material but a wifey. The person who wouldn’t back away, she stood by you. Your true saviour. You’ve found your personal hero. She is the one who treats you as if you’re her princesa, her world. She brought light back into your darkness. Without her you wouldn’t have two beautiful little twin girls running around in your shared home. Now you’d do anything to protect your precious little family, your three girls. That’s how you went from drowning to being able to swim again.

#leah williamson #alessia russo #leah williamson x reader #woso x reader #fem reader #alessia russo x reader #woso imagine

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wardenparker · 2 months

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Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 4

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 10.5k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle, reader is mentioned as turning 30 during the course of the story* Family dynamics that contain debating as a method of communication, heavy familial expectations, changing relationships, talk of pregnancy and childbirth. Summary: A family dinner at the White House, a meddling best friend, and the mysterious case of the missing Congressman. Notes: Shout out to Keri for making me unexpectedly bawl about three-quarters of the way into this chapter. Thanks for that, babe. As usual, sorry for an errors I might have missed and thanks for reading!

Ch1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3

It isn’t unusual for a family to sit down to dinner together during the week. If you’re a busy family, living scattered about in different places, even a once-a-week dinner is worth scheduling. But when you’re the First Family, it gets a little complicated. The food is always amazing. That isn’t up for debate. And it is nice to actually see your mother when she isn’t surrounded by a swarm of staff or on a television screen. Alex and June are great too, when they aren’t being absolute pains in the asses. The only thing you’re hoping is that no one asks you about Sam at dinner tonight.

Family dinners always occur in the residence, around the long wooden table that is a substitute for the one you had grown up sitting around. No press, no phones at the table and the only interruptions that are allowed during this time is a matter of national crisis. Everything else can wait. It's why your mother is a successful politician while balancing her family, she gives everything its proper time. "So a little birdy told me that your inn is booked solid for the next few weeks." She looks over at you with a proud smile, aware that you work incredibly hard to make your vision, your dream, a success.

“Through April.” You nod, finishing a bite of food. The White House chef takes his chicken Marsala very seriously and it’s so good that you can’t get enough of it. “It never fails. People are always excited to see the cherry blossoms.”

“Will you still be able to attend the State dinner?” Although it was more a mandatory invitation, she would understand if you couldn’t break away. After all, she has a very demanding job as well.

“Of course.” Not aware that you had had any choice in the matter, you get smirked half-glances from your siblings that tell you they would try to get out too, if they could. “Although…I do have a question about that.”

She looks up from cutting her chicken, your father looking up from his glass of wine curiously. “What is that?”

“I know that it’s only a week away, so I am not asking for anything besides clarification.” Something about your parents’ reaction makes you feel like you need to say that out loud. Otherwise you might be up for one of your family’s famously endless debates. “Has the seating arrangement already been done so that all of us,” you motion to yourself and your two younger siblings. “Have a plus one?”

“Of course.” Your father has been the one handling the details of the State dinner and has meticulously planned the family seating arrangement. “Why?”

“Just double-checking. It’s the first State dinner, after all. I just want to make sure it goes smoothly.” It doesn’t matter that you were desperately hoping he would say no, or instantly offer to rearrange the seating chart if needed, or literally anything else that would get you out of having to have an uncomfortable conversation with Sam after barely talking to him at all the last few days. Maybe you could ask Juan to…Nope. There’s a rehearsal dinner at the inn that night. Shit.

“Good.” He smiles and gives you a knowing look. “I did not place Sam and you near too many political adversaries.” He snorts. “He won’t spend the entire night in a debate.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, Dad. Thanks.” There is a solid chance Sam would prefer that over the stony silence between the two of you, but you can’t say that. Not with your mother at the table. It will turn into a full-blown debate over what has gone wrong in your relationship and how to fix it, and you don’t need your meddling siblings to have that kind of ammunition on you. “So,” you turn to them instead. “Alex? Junie? You guys have dates?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m bringing Dave, since he wants to go into law school.” He huffs. “He wants to intern with one of the senators.” Junie just shrugs. “Not yet.” She murmurs, bored by the idea of the dinner at all.

“Dave gets to come to a State dinner?” Your brother and his boyfriend generally keep things under wraps, and it works well since they’ve been best friends since they were kids. Like the gay male version of you and Sydney except they became a couple. “That’s sweet, Al. Maybe he’ll actually get you to behave yourself.”

“Never.” He flashes you a grin, making your mother huff in exasperation and amusement.

“No potential guest on the horizon for you, Junebug?” Your father asks, looking to his youngest child on the other end of the table.

“I’m either going to have someone want to go so they can rub elbows with politicians and brag they went to the State dinner, or be completely bored out of their minds.” She shrugs. “So I don’t know if I want to ask anyone.”

“Is that even an option?” You’re really trying not to make it sounds like you’re hoping for a yes, but you are. To be told you can go solo would solve every single one of your problems at the moment.

“We cannot have empty chairs.” Your father shakes his head. “Junie, if you don’t pick someone, we will have to find a filler.”

“Do you want me to ask Dave to bring his brother?” Alex offers, always only helpful to the baby of the family. “Noah can dance, doesn’t care about politics, and you can bitch about college the whole time of you want.”

“Please?” Her eyes turn hopeful and she knows that will be better than some filler guest.

“You got it.” Alex grins and flashes that thousand watt smile at your parents. “See? Problem solved.”

“Thank you.” Your father looks relieved and your mother gives him a smile before cutting into her chicken again. “Happy to have that settled.” She hums.

Settled. Ugh. If you weren’t about to turn thirty, you would be pouting at the table. Instead you let discussion float by, as your father double checks that all three of you have your White House approved outfits for the night and you’ve managed to memorize all the facts and statistics on the Spanish royal family that were handed out by your mother’s staff.

The dinner moves on to dinner dessert and the dinner plates are changed for wonderful pots of chocolate lava cake, a back up dessert for the State dinner for anyone with a gluten intolerance or nut allergy.

“This is amaaazing.” June groans, ever the chocolate fanatic.

“It is delicious.” Your mother agrees. “Rich.” She looks over at your father. “You said this was gluten free?”

“Hard to believe isn’t it?” He laughed like he’s got some trick up his sleeve but he’s really just pleased. “Apparently this is one of the easier cakes to do with alternative flours.”

“Perfect.” She might be President of the United States, but she and your father were a team. “You did wonderful finding an alternative, honey.”

“You like the orange sauce with it?” Everyone’s anxieties are high for this first occasion and your father wants everything to be perfect.

“Perhaps offer a raspberry or strawberry?” She suggests, looking around the table for everyone’s opinions. “What do you all think? In addition?”

“It’s a little sweet,” you admit, hating to ever disappoint your father. But there is a reason you all have so many round table discussions in your family. “Maybe blood orange would offset the sweetness a little? And be a little more luxurious?”

“Ohhhh blood orange would be amazing.” Alex chimes in, nodding in agreement. “Balance the sweetness of the chocolate.”

“Oh my god yes,” June groans, already having mostly inhaled her lava cake and furtively peaking to see if either you or Alex is going to be willing to give yours up.

Alex snorts when he sees that beseeching look on his younger sister’s face and slides his lava cake towards her.

“This is what you should have for your birthday.” Junie tells you emphatically, digging in to what’s left of your brother’s dessert. “No question.”

“Why? So you can eat all of it?” Your brother snorts. “But-“ he looks back over at you. “What are you having at your party?”

"I honestly haven't thought about it." There's still a month left until your birthday so it hadn't even crossed your mind yet. "Maybe I'll just go to a Nationals game if I can get away from work. Who knows?"

“Oh honey, you shouldn’t do that.” Your mother huffs slightly and shakes her head. “Go to a Nationals game, sure. But you need to have a party.”

"Why?" It sort of feels like whining this time, but you have to wonder what her logic is. "Because I'm one of the First Kids? Because I'm turning 30?"

“Because you deserve a party where others cater to your wants and is about you? Celebrating my oldest baby’s birthday.” She implores, expression soft and loving.

If there is one thing your mother is annoyingly good at it, it's showering love on her children despite being busy. No birthday ever went by without acknowledgement. No success uncelebrated. No set back unconquered. "So does that mean you and Dad are going to throw it and all I have to do is show up?" It's highly unlikely considering how busy they are, but you have to try, right?

“Absolutely.” Her grin is positively smug, like you have fallen into her trap, which - you have. “Of course, we are not going to have it at the White House.” She rolls her eyes slightly. “But you just pretend it will be a surprise. I’ll let Sam know where to bring you.”

"I can't know where to go myself?" Since there's a chance Sam won't even be in the picture in a few weeks, you would rather just have her tell you. "And please don't make it some big, formal thing? If I get told to wear an evening gown to my birthday, I'm not showing up."

“Nothing formal.” She promises. “No ballgown, but a nice dress.” She compromises, tilting her head. “For pictures? Not official ones, of course.”

Regular negotiations with the President should make you eligible for some kind of ambassador position even as her daughter, and you tilt your head at your mother before making a full agreement. "Cocktail attire maximum, the music cannot be described as orchestral anything, and the fancier the venue is, the lower class the food has to be. Those are my conditions."

“Finger foods inside of an upscale tavern?” She poses, smirking slightly at the way you negotiate with her. Out of all the children, you are the closest to her personality, even if you don’t see it. “With specially crafted cocktails to celebrate your birthday? And a playlist composed of your favorites songs from each year?”

"I'll build a core list for the music. Because I don't trust Alex not to sneak Cotton Eye Joe or something into the mix." Like any good wheeling-and-dealing adult child, you have to get just one more compromise in there before sealing the deal. "And I will provide you with a list of friends I'd like invited outside of the normal group. Obviously I know you'll give the information to Sydney, Anna Leigh, and Issy."

“Deal.” She nods and looks very pleased with the situation. “Honey, I will plan this.” She promises, reaching out and patting the back of your father’s hand. “I want to plan it.”

"Along with running the free world, she's also a party planner." Your brother snorts, always ready to tease. "You know you can just hire Juan to do it, Mom."

“No.” She snorts and blows a raspberry at your brother. “It’s my baby’s birthday. I want to plan the perfect party to ring in thirty.”

"And somehow Birdie still doesn't get that she's the favorite." June laughs, throwing you a smirk before she rolls her eyes playfully at Alex.

“Now you know that is not true.” Your mother protests, rolling her eyes. “I love all of you equally.”

"Yes, Mother." Alex and June chime in unison, making all of you break into laughter at the same time around the table.

“Managing you kids is almost harder than running the country.” She grumbles, even though she’s grinning.

"We just wanted you to have a lot of practice before you got to the White House." You assure her, still laughing with your siblings. "Because being Governor of Pennsylvania was definitely not enough. Your children are the real test."

“Yes they are.” She agrees, laughing with all of you and your father. The truth was, she has incredible children that she’s proud of beyond measure. Often she tells the world that her best accomplishment has been raising the three of you and it’s not line to appeal to her core voters, she truly believes that.

"So, I have a logistical question." Satisfied temporarily with the amount of chocolate consumed in one dinner, June sits back in her chair with her glass of iced tea and proves once more than kids take more corralling than countries. "If the State dinner is next Saturday, does that count as family dinner?

Your father rolls his eyes and sighs while your mom narrows her eyes in thought and looks towards her husband for his thoughts. “What do you think, honey?”

"The purpose of Friday night dinners is to have a chance to sit down together as a family and catch up. Enjoy each other's company. Celebrate the week's small wins." It's what they had agreed on years ago when this tradition had been born. "So by that logic, I would say no. Since we won't be sitting around enjoying each other's company while the king and queen of Spain are visiting." He narrows his eyes though, in a way that definitely speaks to how long your parents have been together. They have identical expressions right now. "Why, Junebug? Did you make other plans?"

“I—” she falters for a moment and then shrugs. “There’s a party I wanted to go to, but I don’t have to go if my presence is required.”

Your parents exchange a glance, that decades-long nonverbal communication at work for not the first time today. "Why don't we have dinner a little earlier?" You father offers. Compromise is always the name of the game in the First Family. "If we have dinner at six instead of seven that night, will that give you enough time, kiddo?"

A partial victory counts, so she nods. "That would work. It would give me plenty of time to be annoyed at my security detail."

"Sounds like a plan." Your mother smirks, relieved to see that none of her children have tried to give their agents the slip yet. She had expected it from June, if she's honest. She's definitely the most independent and the most rebellious.

"Wish we didn't have to have them." She pout slightly, even though she had known this was part of the deal. She hadn't expected it to chafe so much though, if she was honest. She have been very innocent in believing they would just a vague shadow.

"I'd rather have you annoyed by their presence and be safe, than let you go without them and have something happen to any of you." It's non-negotiable, you all know that, and your mother is frankly very glad that it comes with the office. Trying to make sure all three of you are safe without the Secret Service? No way.

"I know." She doesn't have to be happy about it though. "I just— wish the world didn't suck so badly sometimes." She murmurs quietly.

"Here here." Alex nods, knowing that all the different ways the world sucks have affected him in ways the rest of the family hasn't experienced on their own. Everyone may tout their belief in soulmates loudly, but he can't even go out and hold his soulmate's hand without risk. If anything, he's grateful for the Secret Service agents that have been assigned to make sure he stays safe.

"I know that you are disappointed that I haven't been able to push through the soulmate resolution yet." Your mother is addressing Alex, but she shoots him a reassuring look. "But I know that it is close." She looks towards you. "Sam has been a strong voice in the fight to approving the resolution." She praises. "You should be very proud of him."

Mom, you’ve only been in office a month. No one at this table expects you to work miracles.” You steadily ignore the remark about Sam, feeling like your blood pressure is rising a little every time he gets mentioned tonight. “The Resolution is a really good piece of legislation and it’s only a matter of time before it gets passed.” Looking to your brother, though, you offer him the proudest smile you can manage. “And then this pain in the ass can have the White House’s first ever gay wedding. One for the history books.”

Alex snorts and shakes his head. “Hell no.” He huffs. “I don’t want a stuffy White House wedding where I have to invite every dignitary I know. I’ll leave that to you.” He hums with a smirk.

“I’m not getting married anytime soon so what does it matter?” An awful lot of people have been very invested in your future lately and it’s grinding on you to the point where you shoot back a reply without even thinking of it.

Your father’s brow shoots up, surprised at the tone you had used and he glances at your mother, a silent look passing between them.

The silence at the table is ringing, and you put down your wine glass as delicately as you can manage. “What?” You ask, looking around the table but not willing to apologize for being cranky. “I’m not engaged, am I? It could be years before I settle down.”

"Nothing." Your mother shakes her head and smiles at you. "Things will happen in their own time." She councils softly. "You don't have to adhere to anyone's timeline but your own."

“Right.” The best you can do is sit back and have the decency to look a little sheepish, but you can feel the question marks in the eyes of your family members all watching you. It is massively uncomfortable at best.

"Okay." Alex senses something is wrong with you, that you want the subject to change so he claps his hands. "So, I have a question." He recaptures his parents attention. "Do we have to dance at the State dinner?" He asks seriously. "Because you know Dave has two left feet and I can't be embarrassed like that."

“You can dance with your sisters,” your father offers, sensing the same thing as his son. “Or with your mother, or the queen? Or any of the young men there, if you want to end up above the fold of the Washington Post.” It’s purely teasing, of course, since anyone who knows Alex knows he is only in the closet publicly.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Nahhhhhh." He waves away the idea. "I don't want to have to hire a PR manager this early in my life." He jokes. "It would drain my savings."

"I guess we'll all behave ourselves." June observes with a wry smile.

"That would be extremely appreciated." Your mother hums, smiling at all of you. "I know you all have busy schedules, but I am so glad we can still get together."

It's Sunday before the dress arrives at the inn for the State dinner, and you and Sydney were enjoying a rare afternoon off together when Malachi lead the worried-looking White House staffer around to the back porch of the inn to let them hand it over to you in person. Sending them off again with your thanks, you push out a sigh. "I haven't heard from Sam in almost a week," you admit when your best friend fixes you with an inquisitive expression.

"Have you reached out to him?" Sydney asks, frowning as she holds the passion fruit tea she has been obsessed with over the last few days. "He might be embarrassed and unsure of how he will be received?"

"I sent him a text yesterday asking if we were still on for our plans tonight, but...nothing so far." Making plans ahead of time had been a definite strength for the two of you before now. But since Valentine's Day? Communication has been non-existent.

"Have you tried his office?" It's not like Sam to just blow you off, so she wonders if he's been caught up in meetings.

"I—" You blow out another breath. One that feels like defeat. "I'm afraid of calling and having Vanessa pick up," you admit. It feels stupid but you can't help it. "The idea that she could be feeling chatty and say something about Marcus just...I know that's stupid."

"Have you tried to text Marcus?" That's the next question is the most obvious one to take the conversation. If you aren't in contact with Marcus or he hasn't responded to you, that could be why you are feeling like a duck out of water.

"No." That idea makes you shake your head sternly and reach for your drink. The covered porch and little space heater is nice for sitting in the sunniest hours of the day, but you still made yourself a cup of hot coffee to sip while you sat with Sydney. "No...I mean...he probably hates me by now."

"I don't think he would hate you." She's already making an note to have Juan reach out to Pike himself. Maybe take him out for a beer and feel him out on the situation. "You cancelled a causal invite to dinner, you didn't cancel taking him to the State dinner."

"I can't even think about the dinner." Your fingers drum on the box beside you, knowing the dress inside is beautiful but not wanting to face the reality of how uncomfortable the night will be. "If I don't have a date I have to tell my father as soon as possible and I'll get stuck with a million questions and a seat filler."

"Then you need to call Sam." She huffs. "Even if he's fuming at you, I doubt he would miss the State dinner."

"I know, I know, I know you're right." But you don't really want to call him. If it's been almost a week and he's effectively ghosted you? That seems like a pretty clear signal to you.

"Babe....you need closure." The bags under your eyes aren't doing you any good, despite the sleepy time tea that she had been sending to you. "If you are ending things with him, you need to be an adult about it."

"Ugh." You groan, letting your head tip back so the sound drags out dramatically. "Stop making sense and giving good advice, it's interfering with my denial and the reconstruction of my emotional walls."

She laughs, although it's not really funny. She knows where you and it's a shitty place to be. Sighing softly, she picks up your phone and holds it out to you.

"I hate you." Even muttered good naturedly, you still snag your phone from her hand and clutch your coffee mug like a security blanket. Sam's office number is programed into your phone and you squeak with combined fear and frustration as the call connects and begins to ring.

"Congressman Chase's office." Vanessa's voice comes over the line cheerfully and professionally. "How may I be of assistance today?"

Don't be a coward, you remind yourself sternly, as soon as you hear her voice. "Hi Vanessa." Saying your name clearly eliminates any assumption that his staff might recognize your voice, even though you know a few people absolutely do. Some of his staffers like to chat to you while you wait for Sam to come to the phone when you call his office. "Is Sam available?"

Her use of your last name is merely one of respect, choosing to keep things professional with the Congressman's girlfriend. Slightly confused because you are calling for him at the office. "Did he not tell you?" She asks, her voice lower than the usual chipper tone.

"Apparently not." There is no way you're going to fess up that Sam hasn't spoken to you in days, or returned even so much as a text message. Now you're concerned something might be going on.

"The Congressman has been sick all week." She only knows how bad it is because he had spend the first few days trying to work through it. "He has pneumonia." She huffs quietly. "He's been barely reachable but I had though the would have at least let you know."

He's sick. You barely manage to swallow a sigh of relief at that news, and only because you know how inappropriate that would sound to his aide. "I hadn't heard the official diagnosis." It's as smooth a lie as you can muster at the moment, and you cling to your warm mug all the harder. He's sick. That's why he hasn't called. "Thank you, Vanessa."

"Of course." She's confused, but she also knows that the medication the doctor had prescribed him was to help him rest since he had been trying to push himself. "Anytime."

The groan of relief comes only after you disconnect the call, and you deflate into yourself in your chair. "He's sick," you tell Sydney with a groan. The heel of one hand digs into your closed eye like you're trying to banish a headache but it's really just that you feel the pressure releasing from your mind. "He has pneumonia. He's been out since the beginning of the week."

"Okaaaaay." Surprising, but honestly, it's not? Considering it's Sam and he's pretty direct about things. It's one of those traits that Sydney admires about him. "That's a very valid reason for not texting or calling." She admits. "That's a good thing, right?"

"I'm not thrilled that he's sick, but I'm very relieved that he didn't just ghost me. He sleeps like a rock around the clock when he's sick, so he's probably just passed out at home." The one other time you had seen him with a cold was several months ago, and it seemed like he had slept for three days straight before springing back up on his feet like nothing had happened.

"He didn't just ghost you." She grins at you, even though you are still conflicted about Sam, the fact that you are relieved by this means there's something there. "Do you want me to whip him up some chicken noodle soup to drop at his doorstep?"

"Do you want to go upstairs?" When the two of you actually get the chance to cook together it's always fun, and this sounds like the perfect opportunity. You didn't have a dinner plan anyway. Chicken noodle soup for two is easy enough. "I did my grocery shopping this morning so I know I have everything. And..." you pat the dress box beside you. "I should hang this up. I don't think velvet wrinkles but I still don't want to take a chance."

"Absolutely." She sends you a smile, happy that you look relieved and like a weight has been lifted off your chest. "We will have Congressman Chase cured with our famous chicken noodle soup in no time."

Juan had taken the afternoon to go for a ride around the Virginia backroads so it's just you girls right now and that sounds pretty perfect. You gather up your things and nab Agent Bailey, heading upstairs to get to work and try to ease your mind a little. "I do still have a problem," you point out, when the elevator hits the top floor.

"What's that?" Sydney frowns, looking at the screen that shows the floor you are on. She really hates elevators, but this helps her mitigate that fear that the damn thing would plunge into the basement like all those action movies she had watched as a kid.

The doors slide open and you let her out first, stepping up behind her to unlock the door and let the three of you inside. "Now I definitely need to find a new date for the State dinner."

"Oh shit." Sam can't attend the State dinner with pneumonia, it would be too great of a risk. "Well, I can have Juan escort you." She had plans to have dinner with her parents and reveal the name they had chosen, but this was important and she could reschedule.

"Honey, no." She's been excited about the dinner with her parents for a week already and it wouldn't be fair to take Juan away from that. "You guys have family plans and I'm not going to ruin that. I'll just...think of someone else."

"Malachi?" She offers. "He would look good in a tuxedo."

For a split second you get excited about the idea, but you sink again as you readjust the dress box on your hip. "I need him here that night." You tell her, groaning about it. "We have that six-person reservation that needs a translator. Malachi is the only one on staff who speaks Hindi fluently."

"Fuck." The fact is there aren't a lot of men that can just be called up last minute to look good in a suit and be cleared to be in a roomful of the world's top dignitaries. Unless... "I have an idea and you're going to hate it." She promises as you open the door to your apartment. "Give me your phone."

"I trust you with my life but I do not like that tone in your voice." Still, you hand over your phone with confusion on your face and start to unpack the burgundy velvet evening gown that was altered to fit you perfectly. "Please don't call any of my exes."

"I am not calling any of your exes." She promises you, opening the phone with a code and opening your phone book. It's easy to find the number that she is looking for, because you are a stickler for putting numbers in properly and hits call, changing the phone to speaker so you can hear it ring.

The call rings three times before it connects, and even if Sydney hadn't been angling the phone away from you so that you couldn't see the name, you're pulling the dress out of the box when you hear the unmistakable "Hello?" on the other end.

Suddenly you're standing straight up and glaring at your best friend – your former best friend – for this ultimate betrayal. "Marcus." Your voice cracks when you say his name and you just want the floor to open and swallow you up. "Hi. How— how are you?"

"Oh, hi." It's obvious that he's confused as to why you are calling him on a Sunday, but he doesn't hang up the phone. "I'm good, how are you?" He asks politely, actually sounding like he is interested in the answer.

"I..." You sink down on your bed, letting Sydney continue to hold your phone, and hug the dress to your chest. "I'm calling for a couple of reasons," you decide. Now that you've been confronted with this phone call, it all sort of comes tumbling out. "I wanted to apologize, first. For being vague on rescheduling our Indian dinner last weekend, and then taking off like the Wicked Witch was after me when I saw you the other morning. I've...it's been a weird week. And that was rude of me. So I apologize."

“I understand.” Marcus gives a rueful chuckle. “I’ve had a bit of a weird one myself. My phone has been broken three different times in the past week alone.” He snorts. “And half my contacts and messages have been unrecoverable according to the techs at the store.” He sighs. “So if you send me a message or something and I didn’t answer, I promise I wasn’t ignoring you.”

The I told you so look on Syd's face causes you to throw a pillow at her and you shake your head as though he was in the room with you instead of over the phone. "I texted you once about rescheduling dinner,' you admit. "But...I have a slightly different suggestion, if...if you want to hear it? And I would consider it an enormous favor."

It’s on the tip of his tongue to decline, but he is curious to hear what this favor is. “Hit me.” He tells you with a slight chuckle. “But not too hard. I have to work tomorrow.”

"I promise I'm not capable of punching through a cell phone." It's easy to talk to him. So easy. And it lulls you into a momentary false sense of security as you sit back on your bed. "But...I have a plus one to a State dinner for the Spanish royal family on Saturday night and I was wondering if you wanted to come to a party at the White House?" It's such an insane thing to ask a person that you almost feel like it's an out of body experience, but there it is. It's out in the open. There's no taking it back now.

“I-“ Of all the questions he tries to anticipate, that was not it. He frowns slightly, wondering about the congressman, until he remember that Vanessa had said he was sick with pneumonia. It’s likely him being sick has put you into a frenzy to find someone to go. Not the reason he would like to have dinner with you, but he wants to view you as a friend and this will be a friendly, public event. “Sounds like I need to get my tuxedo to the cleaners.”

"Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." The air whooshes out of you all at once and you fall back onto your bed with a gigantic sigh. "I will come and pick you up myself, the food is going to be amazing, and you can rag on me with my pain-in-the-ass siblings all night. I can't say how grateful I am, Marcus. Really. Thank you so much."

“It’s a honor that you even considered me to escort you” Marcus tells you truthfully. “I’ll be exited to go and I promise to keep the ragging to a minimum.”

"You've earned the right, I promise." You blow out another breath and manage to sit up but solidly ignore the smug look on your best friend's face. "I'll text you the details, if that's okay? Is your phone situation all worked out?"

He laughs quietly. “Hopefully so. All I know is that it is never a good idea to set your phone on the roof of the car when the rookie is driving.” Marcus snorts. “If I don’t get a message by tomorrow, I’ll call you. Sound good?”

"Sounds perfect." Quiet for a second, you take your phone out of Sydney's hand and smile, the smallest twitch of the thing in the corners of your mouth. "Thank you, Marcus. I owe you, but I promise we'll have fun."

“Don’t even worry about it.” He promises. “Well, I hope you have a great rest of your weekend, okay?” He asks. “And tell Sam to feel better.”

"I will." Passing that message along might be slightly strained, but it's the thought that counts. Thanking him again, you press the red button on your phone screen to end the call and groan so loudly that Agent Bailey sticks her head into the room just to make sure you didn't hurt yourself. "I can't believe you did that!" You squawk, throwing a second pillow at Sydney. This one hits her square in the shoulder where the first one missed.

“But tell me it wasn’t worth it?” She challenges, throwing the pillow back at you. “You have a date for the State dinner and you learned that he wasn’t ignoring you either.” She folds her arms over her chest and looks at you with a smug smile. “Come on, what other problems do we need to solve? World hunger?”

"Go to Friday night dinner in my place if you want to work on global issues." You snark playfully. The fact is, you know she's right. Annoyingly so, actually, and right now you're still processing.

“Maybe now you will get some sleep.” She huffs, still smug that everything was working out. “You’ve got a dress, a date and I’ll even have one of the wedding stylists that owes me a favor come do your hair and makeup.” She hums. “I made a special dinner for her and her boyfriend for Valentine’s.” She explains.

"What are you, the Romance Fairy?" Dragging yourself off the bed, you carry the dress over to your closet and carefully hang it up where nothing bad could ever touch it. The garment bag that it's in will help make sure of that. "Come on, we have soup to make."

She doesn’t mention that the State dinner isn’t supposed to be romantic. She just grins and follows you. “Yes ma’am, Hummingbird, ma’am.”

"Oh god, don't call me that around him." This, in particular, is an incredibly stern warning. At this point you're just grateful that the Secret Service use your callsign quietly enough that they're not overheard when they say it. "I'll die of embarrassment."

“I won’t.” She promises, aware that you aren’t quite ready to address that particular issue.

“I just don’t even want to think about that.” You don’t want to, but you have been. Rather constantly, which is a growing issue.

“Let’s just get you through the State dinner and your birthday.” Syd suggests. “Then you can let that big brain of yours work overtime on non-issues.”

Throwing Sydney a look of dismay over the last of your coffee, you pout animatedly. “I debated terms of my birthday with my mother at the last dinner.”

“And?” Sydney almost laughs at your look and turns away to start rummaging through your fridge for the ingredients for the soup. “What was negotiated?”

“Cocktail. High end pub, finger foods and a DJ.” You shake your head and huff a sigh. “I said I should just go to a ball game, but that was unacceptable.”

“It’s hard to run security for the president at a stadium.” She reminds you. “And your mom would want to be there.”

“I just…” Looking back at Sydney, you cross your arms and shrug. “I don’t think I have all that much to celebrate this year, I guess.”

“You have a lot to celebrate.” Your friend will always hype you up and she does so now. “You have your health, a successful business with your best friend.” She cheeses playfully at you. “Your mother is the president of the United States and….” She shrugs. “You’ve hit your dirty thirties. We have to celebrate.”

“I can’t exactly have dirty thirties when my mother is the president.” You throw your arms around her again and squeeze her shoulders, grateful for every second you have Sydney by your side. You’ve been each other’s ride or die since first grade and that will never change. “And you’re pregnant, so you already got dirty.”

“I did.” She snorts with a wicked grin. “And I enjoyed every second of it, too.”

“Perv.” You really can’t help but tease her, but it’s purely out of affection. “It’s just because you’ve got your super sexy soulmate. The Triple S is undeniable.”

“He is sexy.” She can’t deny that, grinning wickedly as she rubs her stomach. “And getting sexier. Did I tell you he’s starting to get sympathy cravings? Dad bod mode is close.”

“Your wildest dreams are all about to come true.” The two of you giggle together as you start to pull ingredients out of the fridge, getting started on cooking that batch of soup.

“So, do you feel better now?” Sydney asks, organizing the vegetables and opening the drawer for the carrot peeler. She had helped you set up the kitchen to her specifications so she could easily find what she wanted when she cooked here.

“A little.” It’s relief more than anything, as you start to peel fresh ginger. It’s the secret ingredient to your best ever chicken noodle soup. “And then I feel guilty for it, which is fucked up. Like I think Marcus might actually enjoy himself on Saturday just for the bragging rights and then I immediately feel bad for thinking that.”

“Why do you feel bad?” She cocks her head as she peels the outer layer off the crisp, orange carrots. “I think most people will enjoy themselves just for bragging rights, it’s brag worthy.”

“Promise you won’t judge me and promise you won’t tell anyone. Not even Juan.” Holding your pinky finger out to her is the most solemn promise you can possibly as of your friend, and neither one of you has ever refused it.

“Of course.” Juan knows everything you are comfortable with, but she would never betray your trust like that. She hooks her finger around yours and looks at you for an explanation.

“I…” Glancing around, you see that Agent Bailey has dutifully slipped out of earshot and is sitting on your couch with a crossword book firmly in hand. “I feel guilty because now that it’s set…I can’t help wishing it was a date,” you admit quietly, hanging your head turn.

“It kind of is a date.” Syd admits, looking at you with a sense of regret for teasing you. “A platonic on, but a date nonetheless.” She hums. “Just like you and I have dates. Friend dates.”

“That…regrettably…is not what I mean.” The best you can really do is shrug your shoulders in defeat. “Friend dates are awesome and I will take you on dates for the rest of our lives. But I—I wish this was different than that. And it sucks.”

“You can’t help attraction.” She argues softly, knowing that you will still feel guilty. You are very stern about cheating, and this is veering into emotional territory for you. “He might not- it should just be about the dinner.”

“I know.” Peel ginger. Grate ginger. Try not to think too hard about what Marcus will look like in a tux. “I know. You’re right.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs softly. “I shouldn’t have pushed.” She feels guilty, especially now that she knows how you are feeling about this.

“How could you have known? I’ve kept this as firmly to myself as I possibly could.” And keeping things from Sydney is the most impossible task in the world for you. “Besides. He was the right choice.”

“Still doesn’t make me any less sorry.” She huffs, washing the carrots and bringing them over to the chopping board. “I don’t want you to be stressed, I want you to be happy.”

“I’m going to be stressed until I make a decision about what to do.” Once the ginger is done you move on to washing and slicing celery. “And I don’t know how to make that decision.”

Sydney sighs heavily. “I hate that for you.” She admits softly. “If you need to talk, you let me know.”

“What does Juanito think I should do?” You know her well enough to know that she’s talked to her husband �� her own soulmate — about this at least a little.

“Juan thinks that you should be happy.” She hums softly. “Whatever that entails. As long as you are fair to everyone.”

"No groundbreaking advice?" If you're honest with yourself, you were kind of hoping for it. Instead, you're definitely floundering.

Sydney stops chopping and points the tip of the knife at you. “You know what he would say, Birdie.”

Ugh. That's true. You do. Juan is unfalteringly trustworthy like that. "That I have to talk to both of them..."

“Even if Marcus isn’t your soulmate, you are attracted to him, and it’s worth seeing if he might be the one you want to be with.” She shrugs, knowing that it’s easy to give advice when she’s found her soulmate and is blissfully happy. “Or it might just say that Sam isn’t the one.”

"Have you noticed a pattern?" Even as you're making the soup, going through effort and putting care into a dish to comfort and heal, a pattern is becoming as obvious as daybreak.

“I have.” She nods and looks back up at you. “Have you noticed that pattern? Or have you just been ignoring it?”

"I think..." A heavy sigh escapes you as you deposit the clean, diced celery in a bowl. "I might have been ignoring it."

“It’s okay to admit that a relationship has run its course.” She reminds you. “Sometimes, things just aren’t meant to be.”

"It's just...no version of this conversation we've had in the last few weeks has ended with the conclusion that I should stay with Sam. And that...that is not how I ever expected things to go. He's such a sweet guy and we've had such a good time." Just as unexpected as this conclusion is the tear that rolls down your cheek, and you brush it away immediately. "It's shitty to break up with someone while they're sick, right?"

“I think you owe him a face to face explanation.” She doesn’t tell you that it’s wrong, if that’s what you want to do. She’ll support whatever you want.

"Shit," you groan, reaching next for an onion. Sydney has trained you to be a dutiful sous chef for so long that now you just do her prep work without thinking. "This is going to suck, isn't it?"

“It doesn’t have to.” She counters. “You said Sam’s reaction was….surprisingly hostile. Maybe he’s had some doubts about the relationship too.”

"If he was hostile about the fact that I was standing my ground, he's either going to be hostile about being broken up with, or just completely silent." Sam doesn't take rejection well, you've seen it in a more professional setting but it will certainly apply here.

“Was he hostile?” She asks seriously. “Or were you both in unknown territory and stubbornly waiting for the other to give in?”

Groaning animatedly, you bump Sydney with your hip at the counter and shake your head. "Sometimes I truly dislike how well you know me. I'm just saying that out loud for the record."

“You know you love me.” She snorted and blows a raspberry at you playfully.

"I do love you." But it garners another groan from you all the same. "This was so much easier when we were kids and our life plan was to live in a castle until we were old enough for a nursing home, and then to be the super weird old ladies on the front porch of the home cursing at people as they walked by."

“We are still on for that.” She jokes, motioning to the apartment. ��We are in our castle right now.”

"Technically we can go to an American castle any time we want," you point out. "It comes with the price of visiting my family, but the White House does count as a castle."

“Yes it does.” She agrees, proud to know the first family so well. “But I like our castle better.”

"I love this place." From the first day you set foot inside the inn, you have absolutely adored both working here and even running the place. Living in the caretaker's apartment has been comforting. Like a warm hug on a cold day. "And I love that we get to share it."

“There is no one I would rather do this with.” She tells you honestly, so excited to be able to live out the vague dreams of college now as adults.

"You're gonna make me teary again," you complain, fully teasing her but definitely feeling a little emotional about the whole situation.

“I thought it was my job to be the emotional mess.” Sydney sniffles and moves to wrap her arms around you and squeeze tight.

“Sympathy mood swings.” That makes both of you laugh, there at the counter. “Is that a thing?”

“Why not?” She asks, laughing herself at her husband and best friend having sympathy symptoms of her pregnancy.

“It is now, I guess.” You keep working through the soup prep side by side, getting everything ready in unison. “The thing is…” you hum after you’ve both stopped laughing. “I do care about Sam. And I want him to be happy. I just…don’t think I’m going to be the one to give him the future he wants. Which sucks to realize.”

“It’s better that you realize it now.” She rationalizes. “Less heartache and it’s not like you’re married with kids.”

“And we haven’t started moving in.” That’s an unexpected relief, and the realization that it was moving in together that kicked at your doubt is something you’ll have to grapple with later. “I probably only have a couple of things at his place and the only thing I’ve got of his here is a book I borrowed.”

“And….” She sighs. “Let’s face it, Sam wasn’t happy with you spending all your time at the inn.” She voices. “He rarely wanted to come here, even though he’s the one that can more easily travel.”

“Have you been holding back on me, Badillo?” You raise an eyebrow at her as she works on the chicken. “Hiding the things about Sam that have been bothering you?”

“No.” You don’t seem very surprised. “Just observations that I have made, but I wasn’t sure how you would take them.” She explains. “You were very proud of your relationship with Sam and I didn’t want to influence you unduly.”

"I was." And you can acknowledge that firmly, knowing that the relationship you forged with Sam was based on respect and mutual affection. It does feel like failure to see it ending, but at least you tried. Failure is just a means for new growth, as your mother has always told you.

“I know you look at this as a failure.” She’s known you way too long to think otherwise. “But this was a year long relationship that at the end of the day- you weren’t on the same page.”

“I think it would feel very different if I wasn’t sure it was going to end up talked about in every gossip column from sea to shining sea.” You can’t help but roll your eyes, knowing — and hating — how true it is. Junie isn’t dating and Alex isn’t dating publicly, so all eyes are on you. Especially if you break up with a Congressman.

“Don’t let it bother you.” She urges you. “It’s not like they can say anything bad.”

“Tell that to Princess Diana.” You huff, shaking your head and rolling your shoulders to try to straighten out your head a little. “Okay. New topic. Baby name? I’m dying to know what you guys picked.”

She smiles, rubbing her stomach in that universally happy way all expectant mothers do. “Constance Maria Badillo.” She lights up as she tells you the name they had finally decided on last night.

“Oh, honey.” There’s a measure of delight in your giggle when you light up, finding out those two essential pieces of information all at once. Sydney and Juan had been keeping both under wraps. “It’s a girl? Really?”

“We just found out.” She admits, grinning like a maniac. “Of course, baby Badillo could have just been shy but they are pretty positive she’s a girl.”

"You must be thrilled." Of course Sydney would be happy no matter what the gender as long as the baby is healthy, but you know she's always dreamed about having her little girl.

“Over the moon.” Agreeing happily, she turns back to the chicken. “And Juan and I have talked about it.” It’s a casual beginning. “We want you to be her Godmother, as well as Auntie Birdie.”

"Syd." Your knife gets put down immediately and you turn to her with a look of complete awe on your face. "Are you sure? You don't want to ask your sister? I mean I am honored and one thousand percent here for it."

“No.” She shakes her head and her own tools are set down so she can address this properly. “There is no one that we want more than you.” She explains. “You will always be my choice for godparent.”

"I know I've said it before in our lives, but I am here for anything you need." It's not just for Syd, and you lean down and hum a happy hello to your goddaughter that's growing like crazy. "That goes for you too, kiddo. Hear me? Auntie Birdie's got your back. And your front. And all the other bits of you forever."

“You are going to be her favorite.” Sydney sniffles, her hormones making her cry happy tears. “The one she confides in when she can’t bear to tell me or Juan and I love you for that.”

“I hope so.” Wrapping your best friend up in a hug is exactly what this moment needs, and the sound of two women sniffling takes over your kitchen for just long enough to make both of you break out into giggles. “She’s going to get the best of me and I’m going to tell her about all the stupid bullshit we got into as teenagers.”

“Oh god, you better not.” Sydney groans, rolling her eyes. “Nothing she can throw back in my face when she’s angsty and argumentative.”

“Nothing that will put you in Mom Jail,” you tease with a wink. “Promise.”

“Thank goodness.” She snorts. “This one is already gonna have her daddy wrapped around her finger, so I’m gonna have to be the bad cop.”

“It will go back and forth. One day she’ll do something that makes Juan crazy and you’ll be the arms that she runs to.” It happened in your own house more than once, there’s no reason it won’t happen in hers, too. “It will all turn out. She’s going to have the best parents in the world.”

“I hope so.” She shrugs slightly, aware that they will make mistakes, but hopefully it won’t be too bad to make their daughter hate them.

“You have love,” you remind her with a gentle smile. “Have a little faith, too. If nothing else, we all believe in you. All your friends and your family know you’re going to be great.”

“We will have our little village for Constance.” She agrees. “So when we mess up, we can learn.”

“For Baby Badillo number two,” you tease, beaming at her.

“Juan is already asking how many more I want.” Sydney snort, huffing slightly even if she’s grinning. “Told him that he needed to let me birth this one first before we decided that.”

“One at a time is probably best. For your body and your sanity.” Although, you do raise an eyebrow at her. “Twins don’t run in your family, right?”

“Not that I know of, but Juan thinks some cousins might have twins.” She winces and shakes her head with a laugh. “I’ll kill him.”

"Fingers crossed that you only have to grow one baby at a time." With everything prepped, you move to the sink to wash your knives and fetch your best stock pot from the cabinets. "But I will spoil the hell out of all of them, no matter what."

“I know you will.” She knows what despite your already busy schedule, you will always make time for those that matter most to you. Which is why it’s so telling her that you and Sam have been spending less and less time together over the last few months.

“So…” Flashing Sydney a grin as she starts to cook, you move back to the refrigerator to put things away and to get fresh drinks for both of you. “Two questions, then. First: Have you picked a godfather? And two, if I’m her go mother does that mean I get to throw your baby shower?”

"I'm letting Juan pick out the godfather." She admits, shrugging slightly. "I don't- he's got some ideas, but he hasn't made a final decision yet."

“Most of his friends are fathers already, aren’t they?” The Guy friends that Juan had made in the DC area since moving east after meeting Sydney are all responsible men around his age and most of them have families of their own. It’s a small group, it they’re tight knit.

"Yeah....except that, now, Juan has started thinking that he wants someone that is...." She rolls her eyes, "trained." She huffs and moves over to wash her hands again. "You know how involved he was with beefing up security here, he wants a protector for our little girl in case something happens to us."

“Well…that’s not unreasonable, right?” Spying a can of croissant dough — a cheat you’re very fond of — in your fridge, you grab it and decide to fill them with Nutella and berries for a little dessert pastry. “I mean he’s got friends who are trained. Be able to pick someone.”

"I know." She sighs and turns back to you. "I just hate that he's so practical about it." She admits, biting her lip again. "I don't want to think about us not being here to protect her."

“Then try to think of it like he’s choosing someone who can help her learn to protect herself,” you offer instead. As she grows up and faces new things — whatever those things are — her godfather will have been there to teach her self-confidence and safety in equal measure.”

There's a moment where Sydney thinks about what you said and how it applies to the situation before she huffs out a slightly annoyed, mostly amused laugh. "How do you do that?" She grumbles. "I was ready to be in a tearful pout about that you have to go make it perfectly acceptable." There's no heat to her words and she flashes you a grateful smile. "Thanks."

“We’ve been friends for twenty-five years, Sydney Rose.” The grin you flash back at her in unapologetic. “If I don’t know how to talk you out of a panic by now, I’m more clueless than I thought.”

Pursing her lips at you, she doesn't try to deny it. Instead, she turns to rummage in your spice cabinet. "Do you have that turmeric I left up here last time?"

“It’s behind the huge mason jar of chili seasoning.” You tell her without looking up from your dough-chocolate-and-berry project. “Indian spices are in the back because I fucked up the last time I tried to make curry from scratch and they were taunting me.”

“Poor thing.” Sydney sympathizes and shrugs. “We just need to realize they put something extra in their recipes they won’t tell us.” She hums, talking about your favorite curry from your favorite restaurant that you had cancelled on Marcus going to.

"Some kind of magic that I can't wrap my brain around." There were strawberries in your fridge that you're now set on cleaning and trimming. A crescent roll filled with a dollop of Nutella and a whole strawberry is a thing of beauty. "I should just eat their take out every week for the rest of my life instead of trying to make it."

She smirks at you but doesn’t remind you that you would have had some the other day. It would be too cruel. “How about we order some Sunday?” She suggests. “Decompress from the State dinner?”

“That sounds amazing.” The gratitude you have and have always had for her friendship truly is never ending. “You can tell me all about dinner with your folks and we can get chaotic with each other over curry and Scrabble?”

“Sounds like we are party-ing.”She teases, although she loves it. Low key nights are her favorite.

“And all the sparkling apple cider we can stand.” If she’s going to tease you, you’re going to tease her right back. “By the way, I asked Mom to make sure my birthday has a mocktail so you don’t miss out on the fun.”

“You’re the best, you know that?” She beams at being included and tilts her head. “So how was the family dinner, besides the avoidance of Sam talk?”

“Alex is bringing David to the State dinner. Under wraps, of course.” Syd has known your family so long that she knows every inch of your siblings’ lives as well, just like you know hers. “Junie is learning to negotiate to be able to go to parties, so I know I’ve done my job as her big sister right.

“Your brother should be able to take any fucking body he wants to the State dinner.” She rolls her eyes and huffs, offended on behalf of your younger brother. “If foreign dignitaries don’t like it, fuck ‘em.”

"He can. It's not like the Spanish royals have a 'no gays' policy or something, and gay marriage obviously isn't the issue. It's that he doesn't want to become the center of an unnecessary debate. He is who he is, and I'm so proud of him for making his choices." Glancing over at her, you shrug slightly. "That being said? I get not wanting to be thrown into the spotlight for who you love."

“Of course you do.” It’s kind of a double-edged sword in her opinion, the political spotlight. You could be a darling of the media one day and the scapegoat the next, just depending on how the mercurial whim of the people shifted.

"It's one thing that Sam didn't seem to mind, and I was grateful for that." In no way are you going to start bad mouthing the man just because you've reached the finish line of your relationship. That's not the kind of person you are.

“I know, but I also know that dating a presidential candidate’s daughter during an election isn’t exactly bad press for a politician.” She holds up a hand. “I’m not saying that’s why he dated you, I’m not speaking ill, I’m just stating facts.”

"If he actually wants to be President, he needs to get used to having the Secret Service being around real fast." You snort, shaking your head and knowing that it really has been one thing bothering him pretty constantly. "He hates feeling like his privacy is being invaded."

“It might be because he’s not in control of the detail.” She guesses. “You have the final say on the detail and where they are.”

"Either way, I don't think he'll miss having an agent in his living room." There are plenty of strawberries, so you offer one to Syd and pop a small one in your mouth to savor. "Maybe I just won’t date during my mom’s administration. Maybe that’s the solution.”

“You like having a partner though.” She argues. “And you shouldn’t give up dating because of who your mother is.”

"It might just be less complicated." It's not what you want but it would certainly save you some heartache. "What's the worst that happens? I'm single for the next eight years?"

“Already counting on that re-election?” She teases, bumping your hip playfully.

You huff, swallowing a half-laugh, and bump her back. "More like pondering my worst case scenario."

“Whatever happens, we will be with you.” She promises with a grin.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers @missladym1981 @babeincolor @storiesofthefandomlovers

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #The Mentalist #soulmate au #First Daughter reader #Juan Badillo #Graceland #Juan Badillo x f!OC #Juan Badillo x OC #love triangle

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interstellarflare · 15 days

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Don’t Blame Me || Homelander

-PART ONE-

Warnings: Gore, violence, course language, angst, mature themes, 18+.

Summary: After several long and uneventful months since John’s abrupt departure, Vought’s plan to present the Cerberus project to the public as a superhuman taskforce roughly forces you back into working with The Boys. This time, things will be more difficult as new threats arise, and former friends turn against each other. And all for what? Love makes people crazy, and John will stop at nothing to protect you.

Authors Note: SEQUEL SERIES TO BEND AND BREAK. Here it is! The long awaited sequel to Bend and Break. I am so excited to be writing this, I have so many surprises in store that you guys simply aren’t ready for. If time permits with university starting back up again, I plan for this series to be a little longer than its predecessor. Unfortunately the update schedule will remain the same as I will be very busy, but any spare minute I have will be dedicated to getting this series out there. So please enjoy Don’t Blame Me. A tag list is currently open for anyone wishing to be notified for future parts. Gif by @linusbenjamin

John was staring down at you with an expression you couldn’t read. No one had ever looked at you like that before, with such emotion, with such -

Pain...there was so much pain.

The air was taken from your lungs as John flinched. Blood splattered the front of his uniform, tiny horrifying droplets coating his skin. A strange warmth suddenly spread over your chest, a deep rumbling cough caused the pain in your chest to increase. Blood dribbled from your mouth. Your blood.

The ringing in your ears became louder and louder, drowning out the terror-filled shouts from downstairs, and John’s frantic cries.

The last thing you saw was his furious expression. His blue eyes glowing a bright red in rage, hatred, and pure madness.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as you sat upright in bed, awaking in a cold sweat and panting heavily.

Your eyes darted around the room as your hands clutched at your chest, your fingertips grazing the scarred tissue of the bullet wound below your collar bone. As the ringing in your ears began to subside, and the echo of the gunshot stopped bouncing off the walls, you released a long and shaky sigh. You buried your head in your hands, trying to dispell the sick feeling forming in your stomach as you sat there motionless, breathing deeply through the nausea.

Over the last month, this had become a regular occurance. The nighmares of your accident had begun to haunt your dreams, and it was something that you couldn’t seem to escape. You didn’t understand why this was happening now. It had been several quiet months since you had been shot, and it was now that your trauma from that moment had decided to come back and bite you in the ass.

Great. Just what you needed.

The nausea had somewhat eased, enough for you to now lift your head from your hands and turn your gaze towards your bedroom window. A single beam of light flowed through the curtains, creating a bright line along the carpeted floor. You sighed heavily, rubbing your eyes with small yawn. The sound of a gentle knock coming from your apartment door caused an annoyed groan to escape your lips. You were tempted to just lie back down and bury your head under the covers, had it not been for the knock getting louder and harsher.

“Y/n? Are you awake? I made some breakfast and wanted to know if you were interested. Max is already inside and he’s about to eat everything if you don’t hurry up”.

You chuckled lightly as Ben’s voice travelled through your apartment, rolling your eyes as you forced yourself out of your bed. Throwing on an old sweater over your pyjamas, you trudged through the hallway into your living room and over to the door, opening it with a half-sleepy smile. You were met with those soft piercing green hues, peering down at you with a gentle grin. “Good morning...” You spoke roughly, clearing your throat with an awkward huff “was Max out here when you came over to ask me?”

“Oh no, he had been knocking on your door for about ten minutes before I let him in” Ben replied, chuckling loudly as you buried your head in your hands out of embarressment. You peeked up at him through your fingers, giggling softly as you shook your head. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear him at all-”

“Don’t worry about it, honestly...” Ben interrupted, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned against your doorframe “the kid is adorable. I’ve got a soft spot for him.”

“Doesn’t everyone” You replied saracstically, giving him a teasing glare as Ben rolled his eyes. Stepping away from your doorframe, he motioned his head towards his open apartment door across the hall “Get inside”.

You laughed, moving past him with a small smile as you entered his apartment. It was nowhere as neat as yours, but it had its own, slightly messy charm that you didn’t seem to mind. It more disorganised than messy, with a few things out of place, and a random jacket or shirt tossed somewhere obsurely in the room. As you lifted your gaze towards the kitchen, you shook your head with a laugh as you spotted your nephew, mouth full of pancakes with cheeks full like a chipmunk. He grinned up at you through his food, speaking a muffed “Good moring!” as he continued to shovel in more.

“Okay, why don’t you slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick” you scolded, making your way over to your nephew’s side and peering over his shouler to give his temple a quick kiss in greeting. Max swallowed, spinning to face you as you made your way over towards the kettle “Hey! I was standing outside your apartment for hours! I’m starving-”

“It wasn’t hours...” Ben interrupted, walking over and placing his hand atop Max’s head, ruffling his hair “don’t lie to your aunt”. You laughed, rolling your eyes as you disappeared into the kitchen, deciding to prepare some toast for yourself. You decided that something simple was best, since your stomach was still feeling a litte uneasy. You could feel Ben’s presence behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he placed his head on your shoulder.

“You had another nightmare again, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, pressing a featherlight kiss to the sensetive spot behind your ear. You shivered and sighed, shaking your head with a small groan. “How did you know?”

“I can hear your heartbeat, it’s beating like crazy. Although that could be because of me-”

“It’s not because of you...” You replied shortly, slyly slipping out of his grasp and turning to face him with an annoyed expression, “You can stop pretending you’re interested in me, I know Butcher had you move in here to protect me.”

“You don’t know that” Ben chuckled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the countertop, “you’re a very attractive wom-”

“You’re also the father of my ex-boyfriend...” You spoke blatantly, choking back laughter at the shocked expression that formed on Ben’s face. His eyes widened, a deer in headlights as his lips parted as he struggled to find a retort. Grinning victoriously, your eyes narrowed into a playful glare as you turned to face the kitchen dooray, looking back at him over your shoulder.

“Watch yourself, Soldier Boy. You lay a hand on me that way, and Butcher will have your head.”

From the corner of your eye, you watched as Ben held his hands up defensively, before his form disappeared from your view as you made your way back over to your nephew. With his eyes wide and beaming, his cheeks stained with syrup and cream, you laughed with a small shake of your head. “Come on you, let’s get you to school...” You sighed, ushering him out of his chair and towards the door, “just give me a minute to go change, and then we’ll get going, okay? Go sit in my living room.”

With a loud enthusiastic ‘goodbye!’, Max raced out of Ben’s apartment and into yours, grabbing his bag on the way. As you walked across the hall and into your apartment, you paused in the doorway and turned back towards’s Ben’s. He was standing in the living room, his eyes meeting yours as he gave you a small but respectful smile. “When did you figure it out?” He asked quietly, his head tilting slightly in confusion as he waited for your reply.

You rolled your eyes with a knowing smile, “Which part? That Butcher put you here, or that you’re my ex-boyfriend’s dad?”

“Both...” He replied awkwardly, “the second part isn’t exactly public knowledge.”

You hummed in thought, before replying honestly. “I had my suspicions, but truthfully...I just asked Hughie.”

“Jesus woman-”

“Aw, you thought I was smart.”

“I know you are, that’s what scares me.”

You stuck out your tongue in reply, stepping into your apartment and closing the door harshly. Now in the privacy of your own home, a huge weight began to settle in your chest. That sick feeling in your stomach began to come back as you moved to rest your forehead against the door. You knew that Butcher meant well, by placing Ben in the apartment across from yours. But it still felt strange, especially knowing what you knew now.

With a long and heavy sigh, you pushed away that aching feeling in your chest and turned around to be met with Max’s questioning expression, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he examined your form. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking you over completely for any signes of distress. Nodding your head, you shrugged your shoulders.

“I’m alright buddy, I’ll get changed and we’ll go okay” you replied, giving your nephew a small assuring wink before disappearing into your bedroom. Changing into a pair of worn shorts, an old t-shirt and an old black sweater you blieved belonged to an old supe friend, you emerged from your bedroom and grabbed your car keys from the kitchen counter. “You ready bud?”

“Fuck yeah, let’s go!” Max cheered, jumping up from the couch whilst slinging his backpack over his shoulders. Your eyes widened and a shocked gasp escaped your lips. “MAX! No swearing!” You scolded, glaring down at the young boy with your mouth open in disbelief. Your nephew folded his arms over his chest, pouting as he moved to follow you back out into the hall. “Billy let’s me swear-”

“Billy is not a role model!” You shrieked, shoving your nephew through the door and laughing loudly whilst Max giggled evilly.

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#homelander x reader #homelander #homelander imagine #the boys x reader #the boys #the boys imagine #anthony starr

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arabellasleopardcoat · 9 months

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MAD (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Caught in the crossfire of your familiy's ploys, you never expected to catch the eye of the enemy.

Warnings: Mature language.

A/N: Did you know there are nine meanings for mad in the dictionary? Credits to Wikipedia for the one in the banner. As always, this is already written, broken up for easier reading and editing.

Next part

“I don’t understand.” Your father lifts the letter to the light, as if he is about to uncover some secret in the parchment. His expression is absolutely puzzled. “Are they really trying to sell an insult as a compliment?”

“That’s Otto Hightower for you.” Your grandfather answers. You stop kicking your legs from your place near the fireplace, suddenly interested. Unsure what Otto Hightower has to do with you, you try listening closely. No one has told you yet why you have been summoned, but you would love to know. “But the order comes bearing his brother’s seal. We cannot refuse him.”

“We can’t? It’s worded as a question.”

“A question with King’s Viserys’s seal? Oh, don’t be naive.” Your grandfather scoffs.

Sensing an argument, you decide to tune it out. Like most families, yours can go at it for hours. You kick a bit more, then get up to look through the window. You wish you could be outside, soaking up the sun. The day is too pretty to miss on, and The Reach is always so nice during the spring.

They are still bickering, and taking no notice of your change in position when something catches your ear.

“The girl has to go to court.”

A trip to the capital. You at court? But why? You are a lady from a minor house, and not even an important one. Your family can’t raise many men, nor do they have countless funds. Your greatest ambition in life has been to marry into another family from The Reach and not having to leave your family behind.

“To teach Princess Helaena about bees?” Your father glares at your grandfather. “They aren’t even trying to disguise it, father.”

Teaching a royal girl about bees? It was strange, for sure. You had heard about Princess Helaena’s oddities, but you doubted they extended to wanting to learn how to produce her own honey. You doubted her family would approve, either.

From your limited knowledge of mothers, they disliked daughters crawling in the mud or chasing bugs. They thought it was not ladylike. You had no doubts Queen Alicent was the same.

Chasing of bees aside, you have been nothing but a dutiful daughter. All your life you have kept up to date with your studies and readings, assisted the Sept weekly and learned the finest arts. Thanks to it, you know enough of the world to recognize your lack of importance. Princesses don’t befriend unimportant farm girls, much less ask to have them as their companions. They befriend girls of similar status, girls who will inherit extensive lands and riches.

You are neither. You will get, of course, when your Lord Father dies, a small plot of land for yourself. Not exactly the Red Keep or Winterfell, but not a hut either. The family business is profitable, as always. Producing honey for the Seven Kingdoms means you are not living in poverty. But its nowhere near the level of these people.

So what could they want with you? There is only one possible answer. A political move. One worth befriending someone so unimportant. And what better than silencing your grandfather? You know his opposition to your Liege Lord’s brother has been making waves. His constant backing of Princess Rhaenyra has angered Ser Otto. The fact that the proposal, signed by King Viserys, also wears the seal of Lord Hightower means you can’t say no.

“It’s a show of strength. I have no doubt he could order her to marry one of his family members if he wanted to. He is warning me.” The confirmation of your suspicions makes you feel strangely empty. Your grandfather sounds scared, which is not a common occurrence. Despite his old age, the man is still a menace. A bright politician, and an even more fearsome Lord.

“And are you going to listen, grandfather?” Your pulse beats loudly in your ears. You don’t want to leave your home. Never had you thought it would be like, this, you thought you had time. And whatever these people want to do to you, it can’t be good.

You are scared. House Targaryen is nasty, and you doubt you will find any sort of solace in the ladies at court. You are soon to become an upjumped noble. A girl, who with gods knows what trickery, has ensnared a Princess to do her bidding and secured herself one of the most prestigious positions in the realm.

You will be entering a nest of vipers in less than a week. Any mistake might mean the ruin of your grandfather and yours. You should be scared. Yet, fear is not the only thing in your mind. White, hot, blinding rage builds up in your throat and fills you with the urge to scream.

“My dear girl, I have no choice.”

“I don’t understand why I have to court her.” Aemond leans in, placing both of his hands on the table. He can already hear the smug comment Aegon is about to make. “House Beesbury brings nothing to the table. They are not prestigious, nor are they rich, and they are already sworn to us.”

It makes no sense. When you are a Prince, you marry to secure alliances. You don’t marry your vassals, not when they are already loyal to you.

“And haven’t you thought you deserve her, brother? With that stick up your ass and…”

Why is Aegon even here? Aemond does not mind his presence, but more his lack of gravitas. He seems to have a chronic inability to take anything seriously. It’s not that that bothers him, really. Too often, Aemond has found himself hiding a smile at his brother’s antics. But this is really not the time.

In his eyes, nothing is more serious than getting married. Even if he can’t understand yet why this girl in particular.

There must be some reason he is not seeing. You might be pretty, or his grandsire and mother might think you are a good match. You will be inheriting lands, which is always nice. It means having a place to retire to when life in court gets too stifling. But many other ladies will, too. So why does his grandsire insist on you?

“Aegon!” His mother pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. Then, towards Aemond. “Do not listen to your brother. That is certainly not the reason. Your grandsire…”

“It’s not that I oppose the match, mother. Or that I refuse to court her.” Aemond does not want her or his grandsire to get the wrong impression. He intends to fulfill his duty. If he has to marry the girl, he marries her, no matter his opinion. “I’m just puzzled about the reasoning.”

“I think this will be a valuable lesson for you both.” His grandsire takes out a list of names and a quill. “That’s why we called Aegon in here, too.”

“Are we really going to talk politics? How dull.” Aegon complains, but no one pays attention to him.

“This is an account of the Small Council voting tendencies in the last month.” His grandsire explains, now in full lecture mode. The parchment, now that Aemond is paying more attention to it, doesn’t have only a list of names, but a tally. “As you can see, the backing of my proposals changes, but there is one constant. Can you tell what it is?”

Aemond grabs the parchment and takes a look. It takes him a while, but he notices a pattern. At first, he doesn’t dare mention it. He is not sure of having the right answer and hates being wrong about it.

Some people say that mistakes aid learning. To Aemond, mistakes are painful, and often embarrassing. It’s why he puts the parchment down in front of Aegon and stays quiet, despite knowing he is right.

A few minutes pass. Aegon stares at the parchment. He squints at it, but since he is most probably drunk, he can’t make sense of it.

His grandsire clears his throat.

“Lord Beesbury never backs you.” Aemond finally says. Now, he understands why you. To control your family. “How can that be? House Hightower is his overlord.”

“Perhaps at The Reach, he can’t refuse a Hightower. But as the Master of Coin, he can always excuse himself on a lack of funds.”

“So the man is a cunt. And you reward him by having his granddaughter marry Aemond?” Aegon frowns, showing he is more invested in the explanation than he appears to be. Aemond will never understand why he feels the need to downplay his intelligence. “I’m lost, I think.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, if you will.” Otto circles Beesbury’s name on the list. “He could give us a lot of trouble, not only here, but at Oldtown. It will neutralize him.” Of course. House Hightower would look weak, if they can't get a handle on the Beesburys. But marriage? Is that the solution?

“How?” Aemond frowns. He can understand keeping a close eye on the man, but it feels like much more of a reward than neutralizing him. All their other vassals might think it weakness. Act out, and your daughter will marry up. If it were up to Aemond, he would just kick him out of the Small Council and be done with it. He doesn’t believe in people’s good nature, after all. “By keeping him happy for a while? Gratefulness never lasts, grandsire.”

“No.” His mother speaks for the first time. Her lips are tense, as if tasting a particularly sour drink. It’s clear Alicent doesn’t agree and finds the whole matter distasteful. If Aemond were a woman, he might, too. But he, thanks to the Seven, was spared from that weakness of character. “By giving us a permanent hostage.”

“And teaching him a lesson.” Otto adds, giving him a pointed look. His brown eyes meet Aemond’s, as if silently conveying a message. No more words are needed then. Aemond understands what he is trying to say without having to speak the words aloud. He has grown used to sparing his mother’s sensibilities. She would be horrified and disappointed, if she knew exactly what they were planning.

It’s expected he leads you into some sort of scandal. Something that would mean your ruin, perhaps taking your maidenhead in a chamber close enough for others to hear. Or perhaps, that he times a servant to enter just right. Even leaving you with child before wedlock.

Lord Beesbury doesn’t know, and probably won’t know until it’s too late, that Aemond intends to marry you. The scandal alone will be enough to frighten him into compliance. And once you are ruined enough, Aemond will sweep in to save your reputation, cementing Beesbury’s loyalties. The man will not dare refuse them, after it.

Still, his mother’s words rattle him. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse, that she thinks that’s what’s about to happen. But her experiences with marriage have not been the best, either.

“Hostage? Mother, surely you know I would never treat her unkindly.” He means it. Marriage vows instruct on the most sacred duty. A man must protect his wife, not hurt her. The Seven Pointed Star says that he will have a duty to discipline her, of course, but for her own good. Never Aemond would raise a hand to his wife in cruelty.

He might be willing to ruin your reputation, but he draws the line at hurting you. It’s just not who he is. Aemond has heard enough tales of knighthood to know that’s simply not how an honorable man behaves.

Honorable men weren’t supposed to trick young maidens, either. But that was fine. He would marry you after it, so it didn’t count. It was just taking what was his a little earlier.

“We know, Aemond. But her grandfather does not.” Alicent leans in, to squeeze his hand. It’s that when the doubt assaults him. What if he does ruin you and your family still refuses to hand you to him? What if Lord Beesbury thinks Aemond will hurt you and decides to say no to the marriage? In that case, Aemond would be a despicable person. He would ruin your future, your purity, the most sacred thing a maiden has, for nothing.

“And if he refuses?” Because Aemond would not hand his granddaughter to a man like him. And if Lord Beesbury had any sense, he wouldn’t, either.

“She will come here as a companion for Helaena.” His grandsire smiles. Aemond looks at him, trying to show him he is still not reassured. Otto’s smile widens. Instead of a casual announcement, the words he says next are exclusively for Aemond. “My brother will force his hand if he has to.”

Aemond grins back. It’s not that he would have to just send you to court. If your grandfather doesn’t consent to the marriage later on, he will find himself having to fulfill an impossible condition or perhaps threatened to lose all he has. You will marry Aemond, even if your overlord has to order you to.

It must be done carefully. One of the rules of being a great house is never humiliating their vassals, or abusing them. Asking a man to hand over his granddaughter would be in bad taste, of course. It has to be avoided if possible. So it will be up to Aemond to see that the little lamb delivers herself for the slaughter. He has to tangle you enough that no one suspects the Hightowers’s involvement.

“When does she get here?”

How hard can it be, really? Aegon certainly is more than capable of getting women in his bed, after all. If he can do it, why couldn't Aemond? He has seen enough Lords court Ladies, has read all the books on courtly love and even some romances his mother likes. He has also seen how women swoon around Cole. And you are a farm girl. Easy to impress. Besides, half the women of the realm dream of marrying a Prince.

Aemond will plan accordingly and sweep you off your feet. He can do it. He just needs time.

“If everything goes according to plan.” Which it would because it was his grandfather who had made it. “In a fortnight.”

The dismay must have shown on his face because Aegon snickers.

“Think of the bright side, Aemond. Your little bee has to have the sweetest cunt in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Aegon!”

“What, don't they claim to be descended from Ellyn Ever Sweet?”

You needed to be coaxed out of your sulk. Nothing excited you, after hearing the terrible news. Not even getting two new dresses made, and some aprons.

Well. Perhaps the new dresses. Your father had allowed you to order them in your favorite colors, in a rare respite from the black and yellow from your house. Still, you were angry. You didn’t want to leave the safety of Honeyholt.

“You should think of it as an adventure.” Your father had advised you, on your last night before departing. “Not many girls get to see Westeros before the day they are sent off to marry. And you get to see King’s Landing, too.”

Fuming as you were, you didn’t think it was valuable advice. Your father was, more often than not, a fool. Or so your mother said.

But as the carriage slowly started to leave behind the roads you knew, you discovered there was more to see in The Reach than just Oldtown. Your anger slowly started to fade, replaced by wonder and newly discovered freedom. Your grandfather, travelling with you, had never been the type to keep a close eye on you.

Lord Beesbury had grandchildren for one reason, and one reason only. To spoil them rotten. Unlike your mother, he didn’t believe in chastising you for your behavior or getting you to behave in a ladylike manner. He just wanted you to be happy.

That fact was what made you listen to him when he decided to try to teach you how to survive in court.

“It's no use being angry, little bee.” Your grandfather had said, as you gazed through the window in anger. “We need to think of ways of turning this to our favor.”

And so, the two of you had come up with three rules of behavior. One, never being alone with any man who was not part of your family. Two, never being alone with any Targaryen. And three, being on your most charming behavior. This was a good opportunity to show your beauty and grace to other houses, and perhaps get a better marriage. One that benefited your house and kept you out of the Hightower’s clutches. Now that was an objective you could get behind.

King’s Landing was not what you expected. You had thought the capital would be something like Oldtown, or other cities of The Reach. Carefully planned, either be in a Cyvasse board design or concentric circles. But to get to the center of the city, you had to go through dirty roads, slums and strange settlements.

It was clear the growth of the city had not had any thought behind it. The population was not educated, either, because you had seen some emptying their chamber pots on the streets. The stench alone spoke of a place that didn’t know the wonders of aqueducts.

And all was so gray. So dull. There was hardly any vegetation. Were it not for the fact the city had a port, you would have wondered where they got all their food.

Your grandfather aids your descent from the carriage, a hand firmly on yours to make sure you don’t trip. It would be a disgrace if you were to fall here. The path looks like it has not been cleaned during its whole existence. You do your best to smile and not show how unimpressed you are.

It’s then when you get your first look at Otto Hightower. He stands tall and proud at the gates of the Red Keep, as if he owned the place. Perhaps he thinks he does. You have heard that he disagrees with the succession order King Viserys has set.

He must feel King, already, thinking it will be Prince Aegon who will inherit the throne. The disloyalty and the greed of the man truly know no bounds. He would rather betray the King he has sworn to serve and place a drunk on the throne than have a Queen.

Otto Hightower is serious and slender, marked apart by the brooch he wears. Behind him, in a shock of silver hair, stand three more people.

The only woman, sweet faced, has to be Princess Helaena. It’s easy to recognize her, from your grandfather’s briefing. The two of you have decided her to be the most innocuous. According to your grandfather, there is not a single mean bone in her body. Besides, you doubt she is in any plot. Her family mocks her for not being all there, you doubt they would include her.

Next to her, judging by the lecherous expression and lack of eye patch, stands her brother husband. Prince Aegon is the one you have to watch out for, your grandfather has warned you. He has a taste for young maidens. You don’t get the appeal. He looks like a deviant cherub.

On Princess Helaena’s other side, stands Prince Aemond. Tall, serious and easily recognizable by the injury to his face, he looms above his siblings like a bat. While Helaena and Aegon are dressed lightly, in clothes appropriate for the climate, Aemond is dressed head to toe in black leather. You aren’t sure about him. If anyone out of the three of them is trusted with Otto’s secrets, it is him. But you doubt he could do much to you beyond insult you. He doesn’t seem interested in women, in tourneys or in drinking. In fact, he doesn’t seem interested in anything.

You school your face into a polite mask, as your grandfather is greeted by the Lord Hand himself.

“Lord Lyman Beesbury. I trust the journey was pleasant?” Otto sounds anything but interested in the answer.

“Delightful.” Your grandfather deadpans. “This is my granddaughter.”

“Little Lady Beesbury.” Otto nodded.

“My Lord.” You dropped into a small, but practiced curtsy. Not too low because he was not a royal, but low enough to acknowledge him as someone who was part of the family of your overlord.

His eyes examined you, coldly. From your loud yellow travel cloak to your sturdy black shoes. You pushed your shoulders back, giving him a smile. Ser Otto didn’t seem too impressed by it.

After a beat of silence, he turned towards your grandfather again.

“I have some matters I wish to discuss with you. There have been some concerns raised about…”

Despite being prepared for the possibility of being separated, you hadn’t expected it this soon. You hadn’t even stepped inside the Red Keep, for the Seven’s sake. Your grandfather gives you a reassuring glance.

“I was hoping I could help my granddaughter settle in.” He argues, keeping an eye on the Lord Hand.

The man laughs. It’s not a nice sound, or a joyful one. In fact, it sounds threatening.

“Oh, nonsense. Aemond?”

“Yes, grandfather?” The Prince steps forward, at the same time your grandfather places an encouraging hand on your back.

You step back despite yourself. Up close, he is much more intimidating. He is tall, and sports a menacing look. Your grandfather urges you forward, and Prince Aemond’s lips twitch. He is definitely enjoying your fear.

“You and your sister should help the lady settle in.” Ser Otto smiles. It’s clear who holds the reins here, once more. He has outmaneuvered you two in less than a minute. You squeeze your grandfather’s hand, trying to show him that you intend to be careful.

Ser Otto was a smart man. But you were sure he was not all seeing. You would find a way. This was a small fluke. You had been caught off guard in a disorienting moment. It wouldn’t happen again.

Prince Aemond, on the other hand, was terrifying. But he lacked his grandfather’s experience, he was untested. It would be his downfall, you were sure of it.

The Lord Hand threw an arm over your grandfather’s shoulder and led him away. The gesture made even Prince Aegon raise his eyebrows. Did they think you two were dumb? Because they were laying it a bit thick.

“Come, Lord Beesbury. We should let the youngsters get to…” His voice faded in the distance, as you stood there, feeling as lost as you looked.

Prince Aegon looked you over. Princess Helaena waved. And Prince Aemond, ever helpful, appeared at your elbow.

“Allow me.” He said, offering you his arm.

You looked around. Prince Aegon was on the edge of laughter, it seemed because he was making strange sounds. Princess Helaena seemed oblivious. Prince Aemond was still looming over you.

It was a long walk to the Hall. You would certainly encounter guards, servants and even the odd noble. Not only would it give the wrong impression, that you were here for him and not his sister, but it would be awkward. But rejecting him would be, too.

Not knowing of a better way to get out of it, you decided to play dumb. You took off your travel cloak and placed it on his extended arm.

“Thank you.” And with a bright smile, you took Princess Helaena’s arm.

Prince Aegon gave a poorly disguised snicker. Prince Aemond stared at the bright yellow cloak on his arm, coolly. It made for a great statement, considering he was in all black.

“Of course, my Lady.” But it came out strangled. Good. The sooner he realized you were not easy prey, the better.

“It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Princess Helaena.” As you spoke, you noticed she looked very tense. She had not looked like that before you touched her. You decided to let go of her arm.

The Princess brightened immediately.

“Likewise, Lady Beesbury. When grandsire told me he was getting me a teacher, I never thought you were this young.” Her voice was soft and light. Kind. You wanted desperately to befriend her. You were starting to get the feeling that here, kindness was a scarce thing.

“Is it a bad thing?”

“Oh, not at all.” Helaena answered, lightly tugging at your sleeve. You beamed.

Behind you, Prince Aemond and Aegon trailed dutifully. None of them seemed keen on conversing with you, but Helaena hadn’t left you an opening, either. There was something about her demeanor that seemed off to you. The Princess was very aloof, but not impolite. It was as if she wasn’t intending to dismiss you. Like she was uncomfortable with social niceties. As if she was awkward, like you.

It made you like her more.

“Why do you like insects?” You tried, figuring it was a safe topic. One of the Princes made a derisive sound. You ignored him, choosing to pay all your attention to Helaena.

“Oh, they are a fascinating bunch. They remain even when we do not.” Helaena had a dreamy tone. Again, someone snorted. This time you turned to glare and found yourself staring down Prince Aegon.

You keep your eyes on him as you replied.

“That’s true. They will probably inherit the earth when we are gone.”

Helaena nodded. Oblivious to what was quickly turning into a stare down between you and her husband, she kept talking passionately.

“And I have spent a lot of time watching ants, too. They build small societies. They even carry their dead back home. Surely, that speaks of a superior level of intelligence.”

Prince Aegon looked about to make some sort of joke. Prince Aemond grabbed his wrists, stopping him. He made eye contact with you, mouth quirking up in interest.

It was not good. Not good at all. Your stomach turned. Was he going to humiliate you? Perhaps make a joke at your expense?

His lips twitched. You braced yourself for having to mumble some polite recognition and playing dumb again.

“Hm.” Prince Aemond gave a court tilt of his head.

You blinked. What a strange interaction. You cleared your throat and turned towards Princess Helaena once more.

“Bees do something similar. Do you wish to hear more?"

The Princess nodded. You started your explanation then, still rattled by the siblings' behavior. Whatever your presence had been required for, you were certain it was not going to be boring.

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ohtobeleah · 6 months

Text

Before You & After You // Mickey Garcia

-> A Jekyll & Hyde Official Prologue

Summary: Fanboys got a crush on the knew Hard Deck Barkeep. But when he’s still getting over the traumatic loss of his wife, crushes and new beginnings aren’t always so ease.

Warnings: Car Accident resulting in death. Family tragedy. Mickey Garcia x F!reader. Mickey Garcia x Original Character.

Word Count: 3.6k

Author Note: Day Twenty Two of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Greif. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

We cover up injuries with tape and gauze to protect the injury and prevent infection, to save ourselves from further suffering. The hard part though, that comes when you have to rip the bandage off.

Because that? Well—that can hurt like hell.

“So the word on the street is that Hyde has a crush on you.” People say that there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. For Mickey Garcia? He sat somewhere between anger and depression any given day of the week. “That’s gotta feel good.” But somewhere between the depression and acceptance, sat you. Hyde.

Jake Seresin had known you for the better half of his life. He was the boy next door, the slightly older but far less mature brother who’d walk you home from the bus stop just to trip you over to see you face plant into the dirt at the same time. So when you had reached out to see if there was any work going in his corner of the world, he jumped at the opportunity to get you behind the bar of the Hard Deck.

Penny had been looking for a new barkeep, and hell, you fit right in.

“Hyde’s pretty—“ Was all Mickey replied with as he fed Logan, his eight month old, a bottle. “And nice, Hyde’s nice.” Was all Jake got out of the clearly distracted Weapons System Officer.

“That’s all? Pretty and nice?” Jake stared down at the little boy who was clearly getting milk drunk faster than Jake was getting real drunk. “Dude—don’t you think—“

“Don’t start.” Mickey snapped harshly, it had been a day and a half and the last thing he needed was Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin pestering him about when he was gonna get back on the horse. “I said she’s nice, now drop it, Hangman.”

Before Jake could say another word, he caught the sight of you sauntering over with a pep in your step and a smile plastered on your face. You brought the sun into any dreary situation, you lit up rooms with your smile and that infectious laugh that sounded like the gates of heaven had opened up truly brightened any person's mood that was blessed enough to hear it.

“Can I get you flyboys anything else to drink while I collect empties?” You asked politely as you stood holding the empty round collection tray. “Another bottle for Logan Mick?”

“Oh he should be good, thanks Hyde.” Mickey changed up his attitude real quick while you were around and Jake wasn’t one to not take notice. “But if you don’t mind I’ll grab another beer for Hangman and just a ginger beer for me thanks.”

“Sure thing.” You hadn’t been in North Island for very long, but in the time you had been you’d come to develop a pretty sincere crush on the back seater with the black curls and the cute kid. “I’ll be right back.”

Jake wasn’t gonna say anything as you walked away but Mickey beat him to it regardless.

“She’s got nice eyes too.” He mumbled as he rocked Logan in his lap. “They’re beautiful, just like her smile.” Jake hadn’t ever heard Fanboy say anything along those lines about anyone ever. “She’s a good person—“ He added before he pressed his lips together in a fine line. “But I’m not ready to move on.”

“I get it.” Jake sighed, he sympathised, truly he did. But Jake Seresin was always in favour of playing the devil’s advocate. “But if there’s anyone who’s going to understand it’s Hyde, she’s good people man, start slow and maybe you’ll surprise yourself.”

“Slow for me is just saying that another woman is beautiful out loud.” Mickey mumbled as he looked down at a now sleeping Logan, every bit the image of the mother he’d never truly know.

“Who’s beautiful?” You asked as he came back with Jake's beer and Mickey's ginger beer. “You got your eyes on someone, hey Fanboy?” It was an innocent dig but deep down you hoped that maybe, just maybe, he was talking about you.

“Oh—no I was just—“ Mickey didn’t know what to say or how to play it off. All Jake could do was watch, he could have thrown a lifeline out to the poor man but the sight of Mickey Garcia fumbling the bag was just too perfect. “I was just saying that I uh—you’re—” He couldn’t get himself to say it, and all you could do was simply try to hide the smirk that wanted to creep itself across your face. “I think that someone’s waiting for you to take their order.”

“Oh.” You tried to hide your disappointment but ultimately Jake could see right through your faked smile. “My bad, I'll get back to it then.” As you placed your hands in the back pockets of your jeans, Mickey watched with a painful twinge in his heart as you turned around and headed back towards the bar.

“Smooth romeo, hella smooth.” He teased as Jake took a sip from his beer. He wasn’t trying to push anything, he just thought you’d be good for Fanboy. He needed someone to be friendly with, someone who wasn’t navy to hang out with. Someone to help him heal from the trauma he’d been through.

Mickey though, he just took the opportunity to throw a single peanut Jake's way. He wasn’t ready to move on, he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. But as he watched you work and laugh with patrons who crowded the bar—he felt his heart flutter.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“I’m driving!” Sophie Garcia was the light of Mickey's life and for the last nine months, she’d been pregnant with their first born. “God please let me drive, I’ve been doing nothing but feeding our son for the past two weeks and I need to feel like something more than a dairy cow.” The college sweethearts couldn’t have been any more in love.

“So a chauffeur is what you go for?” Mickey chuckled as he strapped little newborn Logan Reece Garcia into his car seat. “Honestly Soph, I don’t mind driving, but feel free if you wanna.”

He should have driven.

Mickey hadn’t even finished strapping their fresh out of the womb son in before Sophie was clipping her seatbelt in and turning on the engine of the BT-50 the pair had both gone in for earlier on in their marriage. Five years and going strong. “Alright, well that answers that, doesn’t it buddy.” Mickey cooed to his sleeping son before he made his way to the passenger seat, a seat he hadn’t been in since before Logan was born. “You remember how to drive?”

He should have driven.

“I gave birth, I didn't have brain surgery—“ Sophie laughed as she put the truck into gear and pulled out of the driveway, the two of them were going on their first family outing—to home depot for bubble wrap and boxes for the big move. “Yes I remember how to drive.”

“Okay good, I was just checking.” Mickey strapped himself in and checked his phone, the Garcia family were set to move from Maine to San Diego in just under a week and still not a single person in Mickey's new squad knew he was a new dad. Not Bob or Payback, Coyote or Hangman, Rooster or Phoenix. No one. Not a single one knew about his wife or kid and not a single one knew he was married to the love of his life. His best friend. The human embodiment of true beauty.

“When should we head around to your mums for dinner?” Mickey asked as Sophie drove the open road boarded by paddocks and empty fields. They lived right on the outskirts which meant farms and the quarry where local contractors got their materials from. Sophie never did like the quarry, it gave her the heebie jeebies every time she drove past, like it was calling to her. An unknown force pleading with her to come closer, to look over the edge.

“Maybe just after six when Logan goes down for a—shit!” In the blink of an eye Sophie was overcorrecting the steering wheel, Mickey only caught a glimpse of the stray horse that had shot out onto the road right in front of their truck as his wife swerved but managed soon thereafter to regain control. It was unlike any horses Mickey had seen around the farms that boarded his little slice of paradise. After having grown up in an apartment in Brooklyn he wanted his family to know fresh air and grass.

This horse was different though, it was gone in the blink of an eye.

“Holy shit—“ Sophie sighed as she kept both hands on the steering wheel and felt her heart hammer into her chest. “That was close.”

“Too close.” Mickey added as he turned around to check on little baby Logan. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“No no I’m okay.” Sophie was adamant about it, she wanted to contribute to the team. “It was just a freak occurrence, Amor.” As soon as Mickey turned around to face the road, Sophie’s eyes trailed from the road to her husband’s for five seconds, no more no less. “I love you.” She had control, she was totally in control of the car her family were driving in. Everything was totally fine.

He should have driven.

“I love you too—“ Mickey managed as he drank in the sight of his glowingly beautiful wife, the mother of his child. As his eyes trailed back to the road he saw it, the massive pothole that was just completely unavoidable. “Sophie!” Mickey gasped as she hit the hole head on and overturned on the steering as they ran off the road. The plastic water bottle that had been sitting stagnant in the centre console cup holders became dislodged when they slammed through the quarry fencing and rolled right under the breaks as Sophie tried to hit them. “Hit the breaks!” Mickey shouted as he held on for dear life as the quarry edge approached. Holy shit they were gonna go over.

He should have driven.

“I’m trying, I can't!” Sophie tried repeatedly as the truck approached the cliff face of the quarry ditch. “Oh my god oh my god!” As soon as Sophie was able to pull the handbrake in a last stitch effort to stop the truck her little family were in from careening over the edge of the quarry—the two front tires went over the edge as dirty scrapped along the bottom of the cab—stilling the vehicle on a near vertical tilt.

Airbags designed to protect the occupants deployed and in the process, broke Mickey's nose. He wasn’t prepared for the sheer force of the deployment before it smacked him right in the face.

“Oh god!” He groaned as he pushed the sea of deflated airbag down into his lap as the view before him came into clear sight. All he saw was the quarry as they teetered on the edge of the embankment. If the truck slid any further forward? They’d fall to their deaths.

“Holy shit, we’re okay.” Logan had never cried so hard before in his two weeks earthside, the tiny little human in the backseat was just sleeping soundly before all this. Now he was up and hungry and crying out for his mum. “We’re okay—“

“Mickey.” Sophie could barely speak as her hands clutched the steering wheel, her own airbag sat deflated in her lap as fear all but consumed her very soul. “Oh my god.” The car rocked slightly as the wind rushed past and Sophie let out a whimper in fear. “Help—“

“Okay, alright—we’re okay.” Mickey was trying to think about how to get out of this mess without making the car move. They couldn’t stay like this, not trapped on the edge of a ledge that would surely give way. “Can you open your door?” Mickey asked through a shaking voice as he unclipped his seatbelt and opened his car door very, very carefully. He needed to check on Logan, needed to get him out of harm's way. But as he popped the door handle the car slid slightly forward. “Fuck.” He could taste blood but that didn’t matter, what mattered was his family.

“Uh—“ Sophie shook her head as she tried to open her door. But it didn’t budge—the fencing post had jammed the aluminum framing in as they ran through the fence. “No, no I can’t open my door.” Logan wasn’t settling as his cries got louder and louder. “Mick, please you have to get Logan out of this truck, please—“

“Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise—just try and stay still alright.” Mickey was moving as carefully and as slowly as he could to get out of the truck. Once he was out, Sophie really began to cry as she covered her mouth with her hand and moved the deflated airbag to see her knees and thighs were cut up and jammed right up under the steering wheel column.

She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“Hey—“ Mickey cooed as he slowly but surely opened the back door of the truck to unclip his son from his car seat. He was being as careful as he could be to not rock the truck. “Hey little guy you’re alright aren’t you buddy.” Logan was a mess, his little cheeks were red as red could be as his little lungs ignited with oxygen to fuel his cries. “I’ve got you, daddies got you, I’m here, you're alright.”

“Is he okay?” Sophie cried as she tried to remain perfectly still, only moving her hand to slowly press the window button. “Miguel is Logan alright?”

“He’s fine.” Mickey replied once he had the two week old out of his car seat and crying on his chest. “He’s fine, I’m gonna put him down by the tree and I’ll be right back okay.” Before Sophie could protest, Mickey was racing over towards the tree that wasn’t far away—he knew there was a rope in the back of the truck he could tie to tow bar off to if he couldn’t get Sophie out, that was plan B. Plan now was to get her out.

“Shhhh I’ve got you.” Mickey tried to soothe his son as he placed him down on the ground as gently as he could. He took the jumper off he’d been wearing to make a little makeshift bed before he placed Logan in the comfort of his father’s scent. “You’re okay, I’ll be right back.”

When Mickey returned he saw the full extent of his wife’s predicament and knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but they had to try.

“I’m never driving again.” Sophie tried to crack a joke but all Mickey did was try to open the door. It wouldn’t budge for love nor money. This was bad, very bad.

“Okay, I need you to try and move your legs.” He could see how jammed up in the column they truly were but it was one of the only hopes left. Maybe if Sophie could get herself unstuck Mickey could pull her through the window or help her out the passenger side. “Come on Amor, you have to try.”

“I can’t move them.” She sighed through a whimper as she tried to set herself free, the truck slipped a little further and Sophie froze in fear. She was looking death right in the eye now, it was a long way down to the bottom of the quarry. “Mickey—“

“I’m right here, I’m gonna get you out, I just need to buy us some time to figure out how.” He explained. “There’s a rope in the back, I’m gonna tie the truck off to the tree okay, I’ll be right back.”

Sophie Garcia knew she wasn’t getting out of the truck the longer she stared out into the abyss that was the quarry threatening to consume her. She could hear her baby boy crying out for her but there was nothing she could do but accept reality, accept the hand she’d been dealt. All she hoped in that very moment was that her college sweetheart, her best friend and father of her very first and only child would find someone who could love him like she did, or possibly more. She wanted him to be loved forever because Mickey deserved all the love in the world and more. He didn’t deserve this, to lose the love of his life.

And perhaps Sophie wasn’t the love of Mickey's life, perhaps she was just his first, maybe there was some greater love waiting for him around the corner. It brought her a calming sort of comfort as she sat there teetering on the edge of nothingness, trapped in the wreck of her actions. She should have been paying attention.

Mickey grabbed the rope from the back of the truck and tied it around the back of the tow bar, making sure it was secure before he took off running right towards the tall tree that he knew was strong enough to hold the weight of his BT-50.

But when he felt himself stopping, being pulled back by gravity as he fell to his arse, Mickey's heart sank into the very pit of his stomach.

“No—oh god no no no no!!” The rope wasn’t long enough. The rope wasn’t fucking long enough. “Oh god no, please no.”

Mickey felt the truck shift forward as he let go of the rope and raced back to his wife’s side. There wasn’t enough time, he needed more time to get her out, to think, to understand why this was happening. But there wasn’t any time.

“I love you so much.” Sophie cried as Mickey reached in to try and free her legs from being trapped up under the steering wheel column but he was doing more damage than good. “So much Mickey.”

“I need you to pull your legs out right now!” At this point Mickey was a wreck, he didn’t know what else to do. “Pull your damn legs Sophie!!” Her bottom lip quivered as the truck shifted forward again, it was tipping. It was about to go. “NNOOOOOO!!” Mickey shouted as he held onto the door and tried to pull it open. He couldn't do anything else to help his wife.

“Please look after Logan for me—take care of him always.” Sophie cried as Mickey reached in to try one more time to free her. “I love you.” Was the last thing she ever said before Mickey felt two hands on his body before he was being shoved away. The second he fell back onto the ground the truck his wife was still trapped inside of went careening over the edge of the quarry.

“NOOOO!” It felt like time stood still as Mickey watched the love of his life fall to her death over the edge of the quarry cliff face. He laid on his stomach and peered over to see the crumbled aluminum at the bottom—all twisted and broken and shattered. “NNOOOO!”

Logan continued crying even when Mickey had found the courage to pick himself and his son up off the ground to try and find a way down. He probably circled that particular part of the quarry for the better half of half an hour before the next car came down the road that was barely driven on. They saw Mickey walking along the edge and stopped when they saw the skid marks kicked up in the grass but no car in sight.

“You alright there bud?” An older looking gentleman asked as Mickey turned around to face him. Only then did he let himself crumble to his knees when reality set in. He’d just lost the love of his life.

“My wife and I were in an accident—I think, I think she’s—she’s trapped down in the quarry.” He cried out through painful tears. Mickey didn’t have the courage to say she was dead. “Please help me.”

“I’ll call an ambulance.” The older gentleman nodded as Mickey sat with his now soothing son on the ground, rocking back and forth mumbling to himself.

“I should have driven, I should have driven, I should have just driven.”

Until he saw the same white horse, staring at him from across the broken fence he and Sophie had smashed through. Just watching the man who lost it all in the blink of an eye unravel in the mid afternoon glow.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Are you heading out for the night, Fanboy?” Mickey was one of the last patrons left in the Hard Deck, but he hadn’t taken any notice of the time that had passed as he thought back to the day he lost his wife. The damned day.

“Uh—“ He was going to say yes, going to head out and make sure Logan got to bed because it was way past his bedtime. But he was sleeping soundly in his arms as Mickey approached the bar. “No actually I was uh—I was gonna see if you needed a ride home actually.” It was the boldest Mickey had been since he met you and had started to develop some sort of feeling or two. “Or if you might just want the company while you shut up shop.”

It hurts to tear that bandage off, we don’t wanna see what’s underneath. But maybe it’s not the fear of the pain that holds us back, but maybe it’s the fact we’re afraid to see if the wound underneath is still open.

“I’d love a ride home.” You smiled softly with a nod as you felt the heat in your cheeks rise. “And the company seems pretty good to Flyboy.”

Or if it might actually be healing.

***~***~***~***~***~***~****~**

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #jekyll & hyde // mickey garcia #mickey garcia angst #mickey garcia whump #mickey garcia x reader #tw: car accident

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coldresolve · 3 months

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are you a torture apologist, or are you just dumb

... said with all the due diligence this subject warrants, etc etc. i’ve written posts about this before, it’s fallen on deaf ears, people either aggressively ignore it, or they go out of their way to take me in bad faith, and when the latter doesn’t work, they fall back on ye olde reliable: tone policing. but we’ve had that conversation too, haven’t we? it’s my culturally determined value of blunt honesty versus your culturally determined value of politeness. i express my opinions in a way that’s admittedly harsh and hyperbolic, and in so doing, my intention is to treat you like someone who is mature enough to distinguish my point from its delivery, and emotionally well-adjusted enough to deal with whatever the fuck some rando on the internet has to say about what you wrote. i also do it because its more fun this way. are we still cool? ffs lol

the thing is, right, it’s fucking easy not to write torture apologia. very straight-forward and simple, in my humble little opinion. you learn what the usual arguments are, and then you try to avoid accidentally making them – a bit like how, when you learn that white supremacy is a thing, you typically then go on to try and not write some wildly racist shit. same principle.

and i genuinely don’t understand why people are so opposed to this, specifically. they don’t know they’re doing it, which is fine, but then when you try to let them know they’re doing it, on the off-chance they even acknowledge that you said anything, they’ll hit you with an “its just for entertainment,” or “it’s not that deep.” so you tell them they sure seem to spend an awful lot of time weaving torture apologia into their vapid, shallow entertainment. and they don’t like that, jesus. but what else are you supposed to say?

i figure i just havent bullied people hard enough about it, honestly. and by bullied i mean pointing out the mindless use of torture apologia as plot points in the slop everybody writes. i would happily tell all of this directly to the writers of 24’s jack bauer, but those guys aren’t here, so.

you probably won’t be surprised to learn that the majority of the myths surrounding torture are rooted in facistic, reactionary thinking. might makes right is big among people who endorse corporal punishment; the ends justify the means is in play when governments try to excuse the use of t-, ahem, enhanced interrogation tactics. allegedly.

and among a much, much longer laundry list of bullshit i’ve seen spewed – oh, not by shady governments, but by you:

torture as an interrogation method yields reliable information

some forms of torture are more sophisticated than others

torture makes people obedient

torture used as a punishment deters unwanted behavior in others

brainwashing is a thing that is possible (usually through torture)

it’s not torture unless it leaves a physical mark on the body

see to me, it’s fucking easy to rework that scene in your story where torture results in the perpetrator gaining trustworthy intel. fucking easy to reconsider that arc where a character gets rewired by torture into passive obedience. fucking easy, when writing a story, to not accidentally send the message that torture is a tool that works. but hey, allow me to really dig my teeth in.

you drumming up your torturer as “skilled” in the “art” of torture feeds real nicely into the myth that torture works as an interrogation method, here under the condition that you should at least do it properly. is that what you believe? or do just believe that there’s an extra special way to cause extreme physical or emotional destress in a person which, for vague unspecified reasons, superceeds all the other, more amateurish ways one could go about it? the former would make you an direct torture apologist – the latter, a fucking twat. ask yourself why “some torture methods are more sophisticated than others” is an idea that needs to be perpetuated. who benefits from that idea? who would feel really validated by that idea? which government on this green earth of ours, hypothetically speaking, could use this idea as a way to paint their own acts of torture as more cultured or civilized than, say, hypothetically speaking, the torture used by those other nations where the brown people live? allegedly.

alternatively, your little good boy slave fantasy seems to imply that being subjected to torture will make a person obedient. is that what you believe? is it true that might makes right? say, wouldn’t state-sanctioned corporal punishment be justified as a tool to make people obey the law, then? no? okay, hear me out then, cause this is really out there, but. could the idea that violence is a tool that makes people more compliant with the demands of their aggressors, possibly maybe perhaps, be something you only find it acceptable to greenlight as the result decades of war propaganda? naaaaah. fiction isn’t reality, and it means nothing, and victims of torture are weak and malleable and broken, and also what they say can’t be trusted cause they have no real fucking agency anyway. fuck me.

“but elias,” i hear you say, “how am i supposed to write an interesting story that features torture in a way that’s in accordance with scientific consensus on its effectiveness and/or consequences? realism and compelling storytelling are diametrically opposed to one another!”

here’s my take: you just straight up lack creativity. cope and seethe.

if you’re interested in writing about torture, read up on what it is, instead of assuming everything you’ve been told by military-sponsored action movies is true and valid. we’re talking about some pretty extreme facets of human behavior and psychology here, but ones that none the less exist in reality. the bare minimun is to not buy in to the myths and propaganda surrounding it. the next step is to write what it can look like in reality. the big boy galaxy brain move is to write torture in a way that challenges the status quo on how we culturally view torture, and how all these false myths affect victims and perpetrators alike. you just have to fucking think about it.

torture for information doesn’t work – but your perpetrator might be convinced that it does. so instead of going the easy route and proving them right – explore how they're wrong. show torture failing. show your perpetrator’s desperation as they gain nothing. they conceptualize their actions as the lesser of two evils, but whoops, there is no second evil. hows that for a change?

is there such a thing as “torture lite?” does it make any real difference whether it leaves a physical mark behind or not? where do we draw the line between interrogation and torture? is that question not interesting enough for you?

is complying with demands under threat of torture the same as genuine obedience? maybe your victim is forced to pretend in certain ways, through feelings of absolute powerlessness. their survival is pitted against the guilt that comes from following the demands of their perpetrator/s. the sense that they’re betraying themselves, the hatred they feel against their aggressor for making them obey, which is otherwise completely uncharacteristic of them. they’re never reduced to a blank slate, there’s always an internal conflict. what if they reach a point where they have nothing left to lose? real torture makes people more defiant. human beings are amazing at adapting to impossible situations. how is that not a wicked fucking cool thing to explore?

brainwashing isn’t real, but your victim’s loved ones believe that it might be. this means that their attempts to talk about their complex feelings toward the more humane sides of their torturer, or recount moments of a strenuous mutual understanding, are met with vehement denial from the people who are supposed to facilitate their recovery. “don’t talk about him like that, he hurt you.” and a desperation to get people to understand that it’s just not that simple. they’re not just saying it because they’ve been brainwashed – people just aren’t black and white, torturers included. the way they feel compelled by the pressure of their loved ones to just… keep quiet about that aspect of their trauma.

here's a fun fact: not only is torture absolutely useless at everything it sets out to do, but rates of PTSD are equally high among victims and perpetrators. the latter is something called participation-induced post-traumatic stress, or perpetrator trauma. you see it in murderers, too. nobody talks about that. and i get it, it’s a touchy subject, we wouldn’t want to portray torture as something human beings do. but, and here’s my counter-argument: maybe reality is just messy and complicated. and maybe exploring that messy complicated reality in fiction can serve as something interesting and worthwhile. emotionally cathartic. no?

if you read up on torture in psychological studies, regarding the psychology of both victims and perpetrators – and possibly also read some sociological studies about how governments have used a lot of the myths i’ve mentioned about torture to excuse their own actions (allegedly) – you start to get an idea for just how comprehensibly it fucks with people, and how effective that propaganda machine has been. real life torture is not rare. torture will continue to not be rare as long as people believe in the idea that it is useful. so maybe it’s a good idea to approach the subject with a little bit of thought beforehand, you know? we could approach fictional depictions of torture with the same amount due diligence we take with the topic of rape or child abuse, instead of, you know, literally affirming all the myths that justify its use and then brushing off criticism like mine in that aggressively uncritical fiction-isnt-reality,-depiction-isn’t-endorsement,-zero-further-introspection way.

or whatever. maybe im just a big meanie, i must be fun at parties, etc

#inspired by 10k notes on my last rb proving there are sane ppl on this site. im starting this discourse again okay idc #im happily dying on the hill of 'maybe don't gargle the balls of US war propaganda in your whump fic' tbh #other #torture #media literacy #media criticism

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chrollohearttags · 10 months

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can you pls make a part 2 for containment IM BEGGING I READ IT AND NOW IM DAYDREAM EVERY HOUR

YOOOO! I have been looking for an excuse to revisit this story and I’m so glad you gave me one. 🥹 so thank you so much for reading it.

content warning: time skip, lots of angst, sexual content, engagement and marriage talk, bits of his canonical personality and situation, mentions of violence, s*xual assault and murder, religion, mentions of alcohol abuse :(, happy ending though because I couldn’t write the alternative w/o crying :)))))

📝: also gonna preface and say you aren’t going to agree with all of (y/n)’s decisions and that’s okay. No need to be mad or rude. Let’s keep it cute 🫶🏾 also, minors do not interact! This is really long for this format so I apologize but I got emotional writing it and got carried away. Sorry! 😭

(Y/N) continued working as a guard for Greenville and on the containment unit for another year. In that time, maturing and learning a lot about yourself. As well as your inmates..mainly #104330, Eren Jaeger.

the illustrious affair between you and the convict continued for a while. Sneaking around the prison and hiding in unknown places just to get a taste of one another. Your lust growing stronger as time passed. “I can’t get enough of you, Ms. (L/N)..I know it’s wrong, I know I can get you in a lot of trouble but I can’t help myself.” “You’re the criminal here, not me. If anything, I’m the one that knows better..but I’m not sorry. Not sorry for the way I feel about you.”

that insatiable lust eventually grew into something deeper but even so, neither of you were in the position to confess or put that love on display. It would bring great shame if you did so you had to find a way to conceal those feelings..including some pretty bad habits. Downing a bottle every night to keep from thinking about your actions.

Eren had been sitting behind bars for six years now, only a small dent in his fifty year sentence. And not once had he spoken about trying to get out. Nor did he have any desire to confess his crimes to you or anyone. However, under his sentence, he was granted an automatic appeal that he had no choice but to take.

It was during an audit of prisoner paperwork that you discovered what he was behind bars for and the truth shocked you. He was convicted of second degree murder after the owner of the foster home he was raised in was found dead. Stabbed over ten times. The community was devastated and with the victim being a prominent member in the church, they threw the book at him. There was still a missing piece of the puzzle that didn’t make sense though and he had no interest in clearing it up..

“There’s my dirty little secret, CO. Still wanna keep defending me? I’m just like every other piece of shit here..another monster with a fucked up past. Nothing special. I’m even worse because I killed a pastor.”

(Y/N) was still convinced that there was more to the story and you were right when you just so happened to hear one of his phone calls with his best friend.

“I don’t understand, Eren. If you told the truth, it could change everything. That man was no saint, he abused us for years. If they knew you did it to protect us, they might let you go. This could be your shot at freedom.” “I’ve been free for six years. Free from all of it..I’m finally out of that hellhole, nothing here could ever be worse than that fucking place and you guys are able to live happily without having to worry anymore. You’re in college, doing big things. You’re about to graduate. Mika’s married and having a kid, like she always wanted. She doesn’t have to worry about some creepy old bastard touching her at night. Is that not enough? It is for me..”

your heart was breaking, knowing that his actions were completely selfless and he refused to fight for himself. Missing out on important accolades and milestones that he shouldn’t have to. Meanwhile, he continued his same routine of holing up in his cell..reading, studying and staying to himself. But things were about to take a drastic turn when one of your coworkers confronted you about him.

“He’s being transferred out next week..they’re sending him to Liberio.” “There’s no way!…that place is a hundred times worse.” But your supervisor and warden’s hands were tied and quite frankly, he was one less person to deal with.

“My hands are tied, (L/N). You’ll have to find a new pet..” mocking the fact that the two of you were so close.

you were devastated hearing the news, knowing he’d end up in trouble or dead in a facility like that. Now more than ever, you wanted to fight for him to be free! He was the last person who deserved such a cruel fate. But being relocated was the least of his worries. He was only upset about one thing…

“…I don’t give a damn where they send me. Truthfully, it’s just another cell for me to rot away in…but I don’t wanna lose you, CO. I think you may be the only thing keeping me from checking out. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Here with you..”

full blown tears coming down the both of your faces, right after another passionate quickie as you holed up in your normal spot. You were hysterical, as was he and it was the first time he’d ever shown emotion, at least from what you’d seen..

“Eren, you have to file that appeal. You shouldn’t be here..you don’t belong with these fucked up animals. Please, you have to fight. Let me testify at that hearing.” “So they can put your pretty ass in a jumpsuit too? It’s fine, miss (L/N). I’ll just take whatever they give me. I’ve been doing that my entire life, it’s nothing new.”

he refused to put you in that situation though..knowing that someone must’ve noticed your little rendezvous by now and would surely use it against the both of you. You’d end up fired or worse and he’d have his sentence lengthened. So you’d have to trust that he’d be okay. That they wouldn’t tear him apart.

some months passed and Eren had been longed transferred to Liberio. Nicknamed ‘the underworld’..known for its seedy dealings, organized fight clubs with the prisoners and countless inmate deaths. It was awful and all you could do was hope that he’d be alright. While at work, you’d even visit the prison chapel and pray for him. His safety, well being and all..meanwhile, you were falling apart. Laying up with a man you knew nothing about nor did you love just to fill the void but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t him…

It was one day when you were sitting at home after getting some much needed time off; as they had made that job much worse..that you received a letter in the mail and it was from a name that you’d heard quite often..Armin Artlert. After a while, Eren began to loosen up and tell you all about the two people on the outside that made his life tolerable and he was one. His very best and only friend for a long time.

upon reading it, he’d proceed to introduce himself; saying that you’d never want but Eren wrote about you constantly. He said that you had helped him so much. He then went on to tell you how Eren was adjusting at the new facility. Told you that he had been in a pretty bad attack that left him with a stab wound but he was fine now. “He’s so brave, I wish I had half of his courage. I owe him everything. It’s because of him, we got to live.” He wrote that not only had Eren gotten saved but that he was finally letting him and their other friend Mikasa have visits, even bringing his ‘nephew’ to see him. With a picture of all of them together.

But that wasn’t even the best part..not only had Eren passed his exam for the law certificate but he put it to use and went through with the parole hearing and you couldn’t believe what was said next.

“He’s being released…he’s coming home.”

collapsing to your knees right there in the living room, you’d sob and clutch the letter. Overcome with joy that he’d be out of there. And of course, there was one more thing that Armin needed you to know: “he still loves you..very much. I believe he fought this hard for you.”

Eren, who’s released a month later on parole, calls you from outside the bus station, telling you that he’s finally free and that he wants to see his beloved CO. And you don’t hesitate to come running..

Eren, who makes love to you better than any man is overcome with emotion as he’s inside of you. Going deeper and deeper as if he never wants to pull out. Doing all the nasty things he’d written about prior. Fucking you all over the entirety of your house for all the time that you two had been apart. From the kitchen counter that he placed you on top of to the shower, where he pulled your hair and fed you back shots. Even eating you out as he hoisted you against the wall; those days of lifting weights on the rec yard coming in handy. Losing his mind when you called him ‘daddy.’

“I missed you so much..so tight for me..feels so fucking good. I swear, I thought about you every night, baby..” Making you come more times in one night than your ex ever could…

Eren, who left his cock buried deep inside of you, long after you were finished, laid on top and stared at your pretty face. Confessing how much he loved you and you’d do the same. Knowing that this would change everything with him being here but neither of you cared.

Eren, who wanted a second chance at life, so as long as you were by his side.

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kiwinatorwaffles · 2 months

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hmm. i'm usually not one to post about these topics but i think i've gathered enough thoughts on wilbur's abysmal apology towards shelby to form a cohesive message.

WARNING: the rest of the post will discuss abuse and also a lot of my personal experiences as someone who has hurt other people in the past. obviously not to the extent that wilbur has, but please move on it you don’t want to see it. thank you and stay safe.

being stuck in a hard place, whether it be living conditions, mental conditions, or any other factor, will naturally hurt the person going through those tough times. and hurt people hurt people. but i think there's a pretty Big Fucking Difference between doing bad things in the past and actually owning up to your actions after regretting it VS doing bad things in the past and turning a blind eye against those you've hurt to wallow in your own ego and misery.

i’ve experienced my fair share of abusive friendships, but when i was fifteen, i WAS the toxic friend. (yes, i’m aroace. friendships aren’t the same as a romantic relationship but they can be just as strong. i value my platonic bonds as much as allos value their marriages or date partners.) i was going through a huge depressive episode. it was tough for me, but during that time, i made fun of my friends' interests to their faces because i couldn't personally understand it, and i also vagueposted about the little things they did that ticked me off right where they could see it. it got to the point where they had to make a separate group chat to talk about their interests where i wouldn’t see it. i hurt all of them, and it ended in them confronting me about my actions. they put me in my place and called me out for my horrible attitude.

after seeing my friends' perspectives, i realized just how awful i was to them and sincerely apologized to each of them. i recognized their feelings towards my actions and didn't make excuses. even though i was going through a hard time myself, my abuse towards them was absolutely NOT justified. as i recovered, i made sure not to hurt them any more, and years later, our friendships are still going strong.

my experiences aren't nearly as extreme as what wilbur has done to shelby, but i think it's pretty fucking clear that his apology was flaming dog shit served on a trash dump. like, i was a fifteen year old. he's a Grown Ass Man with a big platform. he dug his own grave by talking about himself first instead of actually addressing his mistreatment of shelby first and foremost. he didn't even MENTION shelby by name. talking about his "strides to betterment" without even directing his apology towards the person he actually hurt is just pathetic. that whole spiel about how he "thought" the whole exchange was consensual is fucking wild. he didn't even apologize for that; he moved on right afterwards.

we can infer that wilbur has been struggling with being a person who has done bad things through his songs and lovejoy's music. he might have been going through a hard time and maybe even regretted it (though his apology really makes it seem like he's just doing it for damage control), that STILL doesn't validate any hurt he might have caused. the least he could’ve done is to sincerely apologize to shelby, even if she didn’t accept it. but he couldn’t even do that.

it's just disappointing that, as someone who has a platform of millions of followers, he displayed an act of shallowness. in the end, his attempt at sincerity fell flat and benefited no one, especially not the people he abused. if he had properly apologized, even if his apology wasn't accepted, it would've shown people in a similar situation how to apologize to the people they hurt in the past in a mature and sincere way.

so, yeah. FUCK wilbur soot. focus not on the fact that he has done bad, but that the one he abused didn’t get a proper apology. support shelby and other victims of abuse. listen to their experiences and spread awareness of these cautions. uplift their voices, not his.

for those who have connected to his and lovejoy's music that have gone through a similar dark time in their lives, i also extend my heart out to you. it must also be hard to see someone who reflected your struggles of betterment reveal himself to be someone who really hasn't gotten better at all.

but you don’t have to be like him. you don’t need to follow in his steps as long as you own up to your mistakes, even if you can’t talk to those you hurt anymore. in the end, what matters most is that you apologize in a sincere way and make sure you don’t repeat those mistakes going forward.

you CAN get better. if anything just so spite that british boy’s ass

thank you. kiwi out ✌️

#ask to tag #discourse #am i yapping? maybe #but i just really wanted to say something about it because. ugh #actually not sure how i feel about tagging him any more but i do want to spread the word and trigger tag #shubble #wilbur soot #tw abuse #abuse ment #also after all this i still can’t hate lovejoy. their songs portray the aromantic struggle in ways not many other bands have #but that doesn’t mean i won’t replace their songs in my playlist with a local file upload get fucked lmaooo no money for you until #you get your shit together #kiwi’s calls

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juniormint1125 · 1 year

Text

Appreciated - Wooyoung x Reader

THIS POST CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT. PLEASE READ WITH THAT IN MIND.

Appreciated

Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend, Wooyoung, comes to visit you at work. When he takes your comment out of context, you make it your mission to get him to understand how amazing he is.

Word Count: 2,726

Genre: smut

Warnings/Contains: body insecurities (Wooyoung), a little cursing, thigh riding, very light ass play, nipple play

You’re in the back, taking the last batch of cupcakes from the oven when you hear the front door jingle.

“Angel!!!” Wooyoung’smusical voice echoes throughout the shop.

“Back here baby!” you reply.

His happy-go-lucky smile greets you when he bursts through the kitchen door. He kisses you on the forehead as he says hello, then walks directly to the rack of already iced cupcakes. Before you can scold him, he’s got one shoved halfway in his mouth.

“Jung Wooyoung! Those are not for you!”

“I can’t help myself, Y/N. Your cupcakes are mouthwatering.” He grins in satisfaction, a crumb falling from his lip.

You wipe a bit of icing from his bottom lip and smile. “Aren’t you the sweetest? But you can’t have another one,” you tease. “One is more than enough.”

His smile disappears, replaced by a frown. “You’re right, Y/N. I don’t even need this one.” He throws the other half of the cupcake in the trash and sighs.

“Oh, Woo, I didn’t mean it like that!” You take his hand and pull him into a hug. “Those are a special order. That’s why I said that.”

“I know.” His voice sounds defeated.

“Did something happen?” you ask as you brush the hair from his forehead. He shakes his head, but you know he’s lying.

“Jung Wooyoung…”

“It’s nothing angel, just the same old shit.”

“It’s not nothing if you’re hurt by it, baby. I’m so sorry you have to hear those hateful comments. But none of them are true. Not one bit.”

He looks away from you, trying to hide his pain. Even though he tries to brush it off, you know it affects him when people make comments about his weight. “What you look like is no one’s business, Woo. There’s nothing wrong with how you look.”

Leaning back against the counter, he sighs again. “All those people are right. I’m too fat. I don’t know why I can’t have more self-control.”

“Don’t say that Wooyoung! You’re not fat! Anyone who says that is delusional. And an idiot.”

“Why would they say it if it wasn’t true?” He’s like a little boy who just found out that Santa isn’t real. The devastation in his eyes is heartbreaking.

“Sometimes people say things without thinking how it will make the other person feel. And sometimes people say hurtful things because they’re hurt themselves. Whatever the reason, none of those comments are true, baby.” You caress his cheek with your thumb, coaxing him to look at you. “I lovethe way you look, baby. I want my man to actually look like a man, not a bony skeleton.”

He cracks half a smile. “You appreciate my manliness?” His eyebrow raises, teasingly.

You willingly take his bait. “Of course, I do.”

You trail your fingertips down his cheek, and he trembles, almost imperceptibly. He lifts you onto the counter, and with a devilish grin, whispers, “Tell me what you appreciate.”

His breath tickles your ear, and you shiver. You brush your lips against his cheek, then begin planting a single kiss on each feature you love. “I appreciate all of the adorable things about you. These ears. This mole. This dimple. And this one. And this smile.” You brush your lips over his.

“I also appreciate all of the sexy things about you,” you whisper into his mouth. “Like when you bite this lip.” You nibble against his lower lip, eliciting a sharp hiss. His hand runs down your arm, his fingers curling tightly around your wrist. You trail your thumb down his cheek.

“And when you look at me with those eyes, practically undressing me with just a look.” As you trace the outline of his lip, his teeth close over your thumb. Your core clenches, and you moan softly, your eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure.

You slide your hands across his shoulders to his waist, sliding them beneath the hem of his shirt. He flinches at the contact as your hands trail over his abs. “And this,” you whisper, smoothing your hands over his chest, “this is perfection.”

You pull his t-shirt up and over his head throwing it to the floor. “Should I lock the door?” you purr against his ear.

He nods and helps you down. You practically run through the kitchen door to the front of the shop where you latch the front door and lower the shades. Then, from behind, you feel a pair of hands sliding slowly up your sides, landing on your breasts. You smile and turn to face him.

“You’re lucky I already pulled the shades. I don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine,” you coo, drumming your fingertips across the taut muscles of his chest.

He chuckles gruffly, his voice heavy with lust. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m all yours, no one else’s.”

He smashes his lips against yours, quickly parting them with his tongue. His hands tangle in the strands of your hair, tugging lightly to tilt your head back. He wants access to your neck, and you oblige. He kisses you roughly. “I’d like to do more than just undress you with my eyes, angel. Can I?”

You grin, nodding yes. He puts his arms under your knees and sweeps you off the floor, then carries you to your office. With one hand, he pushes back a stack of orders on the desk, positioning you in the empty spot. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him as near as possible. He snickers at your wantonness. “Are you feeling a little needy, angel?”

“I’m always needy for you, Wooyoung.” Using one finger, you trace a path slowly across his chest. “Everything about you drives me mad with lust. I want to run my tongue over every square inch of your body.”

You trail circles around one nipple and then the other, goosebumps forming under your fingertip. He shudders as you move your fingers closer to his pants. But you’re not ready to let him have what he wants yet; you quite enjoy seeing him squirm under your touch. Changing gears, you unfasten the buttons of your shirt slowly, licking your lips as you admire him.

“Your skin is the most scrumptious color, Woo, like honey,” you remark as your shirt falls to the floor. “I’d love to have a taste.”

He swallows hard, running his thumb over his bottom lip, and you grin lasciviously. Moving closer, you kiss just over his ribs, then up to his neck, stealing a nibble here and there. He groans loudly, and you revel in his response. Your teeth graze his collar bone. “Delicious,” you purr. “And all mine.”

A smile spreads across his lips; he loves when you’re possessive of him. It makes him feel wanted and cherished. And it offers a large boost to his ego, something he seems to really need today. You have no problem indulging him. Jumping down from the desk, you lead him to the couch. Playfully, you shove him back against the cushions.

“Do you know what I really appreciate, baby?” He shakes his head. You offer him a clear view of your breasts as you lean forward, sliding your hands up the inside of his thighs.

“These thighs.” He inhales sharply as you brush past the growing tent in his pants.

You stand in front of him and unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor. You slide off your pants as well, then climb onto Wooyoung’s lap, straddling one thigh. You deliberately take your time, dragging your core back and forth against the rough fabric of his jeans. The friction against your hardening bud is delightful. Reaching for your breasts, Wooyoung asks, “Do you like to get off rubbing your clit on my thigh, angel?”

You nod, the rising heat squelching your ability to reply with words. He moves his hands to your hips, his nails digging into the flesh as he helps to propel your movements. After a few moments, you push his hands away, leaving him confused. Through heavy breaths, you explain. “As amazing as that feels, it’s not about me right now.”

His eyes soften and he smiles. “I love you, angel. So much.”

You wink at him, pursing your lips in a kiss, and he giggles. It makes your heart melt to hear his happiness. You climb off his lap, and push his legs apart, kneeling between his thighs.

You can never get enough of running your hands over his body. You want to memorize every inch, every mole, every scar. You smooth your fingers over his neck, admiring the contrast of the delicate curves to the sharply defined veins. You spread your palms wide to stroke the firm muscles of his chest. Your hands grip his biceps, the strength of his arms making you desperately aroused. You follow the path of veins down to his hands. They’re powerful, but gentle as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Despite all of his facades, he’s nothing but a giant teddy bear.

You let go of his hands and tap a trail with your fingertips along the waistband of his jeans. Once they’re unfastened, Wooyoung lifts his hips so you can pull them off. There’s a telltale dark patch on the front of his black boxer briefs; he’s enjoying your undivided attention immensely. Moving your hands back up the inside of his thighs, you settle one over his cock, squeezing gently as you hum in satisfaction.

“Y/N.” His voice is a whisper as he moans your name.

“Yes, baby?”

“That feels so good.” You smile, satisfied with his pleasure.

“Would you like me to tell you what else I appreciate?” He nods, unable to speak as you softly kiss the only fabric left covering him. “I so very much appreciate your cock.”

He groans in pleasure as you caress his already stiff member. “What do you appreciate specifically, angel?”

You deftly remove what’s left of his clothes, tossing them aside, and run your fingertips down his length. He shivers. “I appreciate this curve, the way it hits just the right spot when you’re fucking me from behind.”

Your fingers trail the underside, stopping just below the head to caress his most sensitive area. “I also appreciate this spot for the beautiful moans it pulls from your throat.”

You lightly kiss the tip where he’s leaking in anticipation. “And I appreciate this spot right here because of the way it stretches me in the most agonizingly sweet way imaginable.”

With the tip of your tongue, you trace around the head causing Wooyoung to shudder. He moans your name again, and you’re delighted by the way it rolls off his tongue. His groans are melodious, and you feel your core dripping in arousal. You finally take him into your mouth, inching your lips down the shaft until you’re gagging on his length.

“Is it too much for you, angel?” He smirks at you; his confidence has returned. You raise an eyebrow at him to say as if. Then you prove him wrong by taking him deep into your throat. You feel him buck against you and another groan emanates from his lips. You increase your pace incrementally, feeling him fall further apart the faster you move.

“If you keep this up, Y/N, I’m gonna cum,” he mutters. You only want to please him, so you keep going. Moments later he mumbles, “Y/N, stop. I want to cum inside you.”

When you’re still, he pulls you from the floor and into his lap. As he leans you back against the cushions, he whispers a simple thank you. He doesn’t need to say anything else; you understand his meaning. You draw his lips to yours, pulling his body tight against you. You want to protect him; you can’t stand anyone hurting him.

As he hovers over you, his hands travel your body, caressing your breasts tenderly, and his touch sets your body on fire. Unexpectedly, he smacks the naked skin of your ass. “Roll over,” he commands. “I want to give you something that you’ll appreciate.”

You snicker at his words, and slowly roll onto your stomach. You arch your back putting your ass on full display. He hums in satisfaction, smoothing his hands over your bare skin. You moan as he runs his fingers through your folds, spreading your arousal all over.

“You’re so fucking wet, angel.” He plunges two fingers into your core, and you gasp at the welcome intrusion. As he pumps them in and out, his thumb makes circles around your ass, pressing lightly against your hole. You groan in anticipation, your wetness now dripping down your leg from his fevered movements. He plays with you a little while longer before carefully siding his thumb inside. The feeling of fullness makes you moan with pleasure.

“Do you like that, angel? Do you like when I fill up your holes?” His voice is filled with smug confidence; you’re sure there’s a smirk plastered on his lips. You rock in rhythm with his movements as his fingers draw all the heat of your body to your core. You’re getting tired of waiting.

“More,” you beg him.

“Does my angel want something else to fill her up, hmm? Maybe my cock?” You clench around his fingers at the mention of his cock, and he chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He slowly withdraws, and you sign at the emptiness. You’ve waited long enough, and your patience is all but gone. You push backward to find his cock, but his hands stop you. “Not so fast angel, I want you to truly appreciate every moment.”

You groan and roll your eyes. The tip of his cock brushes against your folds, then circles the edge of your pussy. He teases you mercilessly until you’re writhing beneath him.

“Please Woo,” you whine.

“Oh. Angel. I’m so sorry for teasing you.” He grips your hips with his hands. “Is this what you need?”

He lines up the tip of his cock and thrusts into you. You feel his hips against your ass as he bottoms out inside you. It’s what you’ve been waiting for. You started out trying to fulfill Wooyoung’s needs, to make him see how perfect he really is, but ended up the one begging on your knees.

His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you up, your back snug against his chest. You shiver as the cold sweat from his body meets the blazing heat of yours. You’re still on your knees but positioned atop his lap. As he thrusts into you, he purrs seductively in your ear.

“Tell me angel, are you appreciative of the way my cock pounds into you? Does it hit that perfect spot while I’m fucking you like this? Is this something you can appreciate?”

He draws out his last word, reaching around to paw at your breasts. He pinches and squeezes until your nipples are raw in his hands. But he doesn’t stop, spurred on by each moan he wrenches from inside you. Your legs ache, but he doesn’t slow his pace. He rails into you at what feels like a thousand miles a minute. You aren’t sure how much more you can take when his voice rumbles in your ear again.

“Will you appreciate it if I cum inside you, angel? I want my cum dripping out of you so you remember that you’re mine.”

You squeeze yourself around his cock, propelling him closer to his orgasm. You reach behind you, caressing his face and whisper, “Cum inside me, Wooyoung. Make me yours.”

His growl in your ear is feral. A few more thrusts and he explodes inside you, thrashing into you in short bursts. As his convulsions slow, you stroke his hand resting on your hip. When he’s utterly spent, he collapses on top of you sending you into a fit of giggles.

You sigh playfully. “I do not appreciate your sweaty body pinning me down.”

He laughs heartily and raises his body enough for you to roll over before he collapses again onto your chest. You smooth his hair back and plant soft kisses on his forehead. He tangles his legs with yours, wrapping his arms around your waist. He squeezes you tight, then looks up at you and grins.

“It sure is nice to be appreciated.”

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