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tropes-and-tales · 19 days

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Ten Months as Yours

Colonel Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

CW: Angst (reader is CIA and has feelings about it; failed first marriages; talk of Catholicism); smut (oral, m! and f! receiving; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 10,951

AN: This was from an "Arranged Marriage" prompt list. An anon asked for it, and it was supposed to incorporate dates where the couple gets to know each other. I, an idiot, didn't remember that until nearly the end, but if you kind of squint, you can see it.

AN2: Not edited. Not even a little bit.

AN3: Sigh. I dunno, folks. It's whatever.

Horacio Carrillo’s first marriage was standard Catholic fare: the reading of the banns beforehand, then the long wedding Mass. Heavy on the incense, crowded church, a red-faced priest droning through the Gospel. Juliana, his blushing bride in a heavy lace veil, clutching a bouquet of lilies already wilted and brown at the edges in the Colombian heat.

Then, years later, the dissolution of that marriage. Papers signed separately in the presence of lawyers after an ice age formed between the couple. Then more years of Horacio being single again, but the time slipped by like water. He was so busy with work, he hardly registered the empty house he returned to every evening.

Horacio Carrillo’s second marriage is something else entirely.

It’s not, strictly or spiritually speaking, a real marriage. It’s a bit of maneuvering on the part of the U.S. government, logistical choreography as part of a larger plan. To the world at large, Horacio Carrillo is dead: murdered by Escobar’s men in a trap. Only a handful of people know the truth—the doctor and nurses at the American hospital who healed him under a temporary alias. And this man, Johnson, a U.S. Marshal and handler for the U.S. Witness Protection program

Johnson is the sole witness to this so-called marriage, if one could even call it that. It happens on the cargo plane from Bogota to Atlanta. Johnson sits in the jump seat across from his two charges: Horacio…and you.

Horacio doesn’t even learn your real name. There’s no exchange of vow and certainly no incense or bouquet of lilies. Instead of a blushing bride, there’s a silent one. Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line as you listen to Johnson’s rundown of your new life, and every time Horacio chances a look at you, he only sees the tension in you. Grim-set mouth, clenched jaw…and the white edge of a bandage on your temple, mostly hidden under the sweep of your hair.

Horacio wonders if you’re dead to the world too. You aren’t DEA or CIA, at least not in the Colombian theater, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t nearby. The U.S. agencies have their sticky fingers all over South America.

The broad strokes of the situation: you and Horacio are newlyweds. You met in Spain and are returning to the U.S. Horacio is dead, but he’s been replaced by Davide, and Johnson hands over a thick packet of official documents—Spanish birth certificate, Spanish passport, U.S. green card.

You are also dead, but you’ve been replaced by Gwen. Another thick packet of documents detailing your fake life as an ex-pat American in Spain.

Each packet also contains a simple gold band for each of you. Horacio turns it over and over in his hand, contemplates the little twist he gets in his gut to put a ring back on his finger after years of being divorced.

You slide yours on too, but you fuss with it the rest of the flight, twisting it around and around your finger.

“You’re going to Vermont, of all places,” Johnson tells you. “There’s a mid-sized college there with a lot of international folk coming and going, so you’ll blend in. The house is handled, and you’ll get a stipend every month, but we expect you to find jobs as quickly as you can.”

Johnson doesn’t even attempt to say how long it will be. Horacio knows he has to wait out Escobar before he can return to Colombia. You? Who can say?

The rest of the flight is silent except for the low roar of the engines and the creak of the netting holding the cargo in place. Once you land, you stand and follow Johnson and Horacio off of the plane to transfer to a smaller passenger plane that will take you to Vermont.

The final leg of the journey is silent too.

When you deplane in the small regional airport in Vermont, you stumble on the step down from the fuselage. Horacio catches your arm, keeps you upright.

“Watch your step,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” you reply.

It’s the first words you exchange, and his hand on your clothed arm—that’s the first time he touches you.

-----

Horacio has never been to the United States before, but when he thinks of it, he thinks of what he’s seen in the movies: New York City, perhaps, with the traffic and skyscrapers and Statue of Liberty. Or Miami with its white beaches and turquoise water and neon-tinged nightlife.

Vermont is something else.

It’s green. Everything is so green. The rounded mountains in the distance, the old trees with huge, spreading branches. The grass of the lawns in this college town. Even though it is near twilight, even the shadows are green-tinged as the sun sets.

“At least we arrived in the spring,” you say. You glance at him, explain that New England winters can be brutal.

The house is small, trim. It’s a simple ranch but well-built. There’s a fair amount of land, and the nearest neighbors are far enough away that there’s privacy.

Of course it’s awkward. You don’t know each other at all, and you’re both in hiding. Horacio is out of habit with living with another person, and he has to guess you are too.

That first night, the first moment of awkwardness: when you arrive at the house, there’s two bedrooms, and you both hesitate in the hallway that leads to both. You’re married on paper (kinda) but who would expect you to share a bed? But you’re also both exhausted, and Horacio takes in the dark circles under your eyes. The larger room has a full-sized bed, but the guest only has an uncomfortable-looking daybed.

“Take the master bedroom,” he says. “I’ll take the guest room.”

“You sure?” Your words, Horacio notices, are slightly accented, like you’ve been around people like him who speak English as a second language. He wonders about your past and what landed you here with him.

“Of course. Take the room. We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod, and he glances down at where you twist that gold band over and over around your slim finger. It’s here, he’ll realize later, that he starts to feel something for you, but at the moment, it’s only sympathy. You’re trapped in the same miserable situation as him, so sympathy is an easy emotion to access.

“I appreciate it…Davide,” you reply, and you give him a nod, then turn in for the night. He hears the quiet click of the bedroom door as you shut it, and he turns in too. The daybed is cramped, and he can’t stretch out completely, but he’s so bone-tired that he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

-----

The first month, April.

It’s awkward. It’s more awkward for Horacio; everything in the U.S. is familiar, but just different enough to make it seem like he’s dreaming. You’re already an American, and life in an idyllic New England college town is easier for you to settle into.

Living with another person is strange. Horacio finds that the two of you engage in a civil, stilted dance each day that first month. You each tiptoe around the other, defer to each other in a painfully polite way. When Horacio catches you singing along softly to the radio one night, you snap the music off and go quiet. When you walk in on him in the bathroom once—he was only brushing his teeth, so it is hardly salacious—you apologize and refuse to meet his eyes for the rest of the week.

The two of you don’t really talk, not that first month. You aren’t supposed to share details about your real lives with each other, so neither of you know how to converse in the weird liminal space you find yourselves. Your conversations are limited to menial topics. The weather, the house and yard, what you each want for dinner that night. You trade off chores, you drift around each other, and it’s like living in purgatory with another ghost.

Sometimes, Horacio swears he can hear you crying softly through the wall that separates your room from his, but you never offer any insight into your feelings and he doesn’t ask.

-----

The second month, May.

Johnson told each of you to find work, and you land a job first: you get a position at the college. You ask him, a bit shy, if you can take a certain portion of the monthly stipend to buy some new clothes for your office job, and Horacio’s gut does that twist again. Of course you need new clothes. You left wherever with nothing, the same way he left Colombia with nothing.

“Of course,” he says. “You don’t even need to ask.”

That makes you smile a little, and you make a weak joke about not wanting to be the sort of wife to spend frivolously. It makes Horacio chuckle. It breaks the uneasy tension in the house a bit, and he ends up going to the mall with you that weekend as you shop.

There’s nothing like a mall to encapsulate American culture, and Horacio tries to play it cool at the conspicuous consumption on display. The giant building, the icy air conditioning, the cacophony of sound echoing around the marble floors and walls. There’s so many people and only a handful of security guards. When Horacio studies them closer, he sees that they don’t even carry guns—they only have walkie-talkies as they saunter around at a lazy pace.

His life now is a far cry from his life as the leader of the Search Bloc. And when he glances over at the woman walking beside him, he realizes how far this second marriage is from his first.

But the thought leads to him ruminating about his first marriage and all the little ways he failed Juliana. This situation with you isn’t a marriage, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to be better.

So once you are done shopping, he pulls you into the Sam Goody and insists that you buy an album to celebrate. He catches you singing all the time in the house, listening to the radio, humming or singing along. When he imagines your mysterious life before now, he imagines an apartment filled with a big stereo and shelves of albums.

“Seriously?” It makes you smile again, and Horacio thinks you have a nice smile, though he wonders how often people ever get to see it.

“Well, it’s our stipend,” he clarifies. “It’s not like I’m treating you, really. I guess it’s not really a gift if it’s ours.”

Another smile, and he stands back and watches as you rifle through the stacks of vinyl records and CD’s, as you pull one out and read the list of songs, then replace it. You finally settle on one, and the two of you check out, and Horacio pulls out his wallet and pays.

And even if it’s your shared stipend, you thank him and smile again, and it feels like something that he can’t quite name.

-----

The third month, June.

You leave the house every weekday for work. Horacio finally has some firsthand knowledge of what Juliana must have felt when he left each day. He had always prided himself that he was able to provide for both of them, that she never had to work.

He had never considered how bored she must have been.

He wakes up early out of habit, but you do too. In the soft pre-dawn light, you go out for a run every day. Part of him remains Search Bloc; he stands at the living room window and watches for you until you return, panting, your t-shirt ringed with sweat. He finds he can breathe easier once you’re in sight.

While you shower and dress, Horacio makes you coffee. The two of you sip at your coffee in companionable silence, and then you’re off.

It leaves him with a full day with little to do.

He cleans the house, but that takes no time at all because both of you are fastidious and neat anyway. He maintains the lawn, trims back the unruly rhododendrons. He bought a weight bench and a set of free weights from a yard sale a few weeks after you moved, and he spends some time lifting in the garage.

That takes him to noon, if he’s lucky.

His afternoons are when he thinks of Juliana the most. Is this what her life with him was like? Back then, he used to scoff at the claim that women needed a life outside of the home. His mother had seemed happy to be a housewife and mother, and he had always assumed that Juliana was the same. Except the children never came, and Juliana had a degree in fashion design from the university—yet when she broached the idea of a job or even an internship, Horacio had dissuaded her.

He had thought he was being a good husband. Now, as he sits and drowses to “Days of Our Lives,” he wonders how he had missed the obvious.

But if he’s Juliana in this situation, you are no Horacio. For one thing, you return home in the late afternoon—he’s never left to eat dinner alone in a too-quiet house. For another, you immediately kick off your shoes and pad over to where he’s cooking dinner, and you fall into an easy rhythm of helping him finish it off.

Halfway through June, you get comfortable enough to start calling out, “honey, I’m home!” each time you return.

Which makes him smile, every time.

And he’s only a passable cook, but you praise every meal he puts in front of you. You joke once, say “I should have gotten a husband a long time ago,” and that makes him smile even wider, and it is easy to fall into the fantasy that this easy domesticity is real. The fantasy only falls apart at night, when you each retire to your separate rooms, as you do every night.

-----

The fourth month, July.

The easy domesticity cedes to something deeper and darker right at the start of the month.

Horacio has never been to the U.S. before, so he hasn’t experienced the usual Independence Day celebrations. When he asks, you grin and tell him that a good old-fashioned U.S.-style barbecue might be nice, and that’s what the two of you plan. You and Horacio as Davide and Gwen: patriotic Americans.

The day starts off great. The weather is hot and humid enough to feel like Colombia, and Horacio will admit that you look nice in your cut-off shorts and cotton tank top. He will admit that if you were really his wife, he might never even make it to lunchtime before taking advantage of a quiet house set apart from its neighbors.

The barbecue is nice. It’s all-American fare: hot dogs and hamburgers, corn on the cob steamed over hot coals. You buy an apple pie from a nearby farm stand, and you also make some trifle type dessert, and the two of you wash it all down with ice-cold beer. By the time dusk rolls around and lightning bugs start to flicker across the lawn, Horacio is pleasantly buzzed.

The town puts on a fireworks display, and as the sky turns a velvety black, the light show starts. Your house is in the perfect place to see it, slightly set on a ridge, and blossoms of red and white and blue sparks explode across the sky. Horacio, tipsy, watches the first few minutes, completely mesmerized…but when he turns to say something to you, he finds you missing.

He finds you in the house. More specifically, he finds you in the bathtub, hugging your knees to your chest, forehead pressed to knees.

“Gwen?” he says, and he feels stupid saying the obviously fake name, but he doesn’t know your real one.

You don’t answer anyway, and he steps into the bathroom. Studies you closer. Sees that you are shaking, and between the muffled booms of the fireworks, he can hear your panting breath.

He moves without any real thought. He knows—or can guess, at least—at what is happening to you. Horacio has led enough men through enough battles to recognize a panic attack when he sees one, but you aren’t one of his men and this is no battle, so he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to alert you that he’s there. Then he climbs into the bathtub with you.

“Scoot forward a little,” he orders softly, and you do. He maneuvers himself behind you, then pulls you closer to him. Your back pressed against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you, he holds you close despite the heat and humidity of the day.

“Just breathe with me.” He takes a deep, slow breath, feels his chest push against you. He does it again and again, and after a long while, you start to mimic him.

The fireworks end, and eventually you stop trembling. Tucked this close to him, Horacio can see the edge of a thick scar disappearing under your hair, and he remembers the bandage on the plane from Bogota.

He wonders if the moment that caused that scar is linked to this moment now.

After you calm, and after you sheepishly untangle yourself from him, he urges you to do whatever you need to. To take a cool shower or go to bed. That he’ll clean up. You gaze back at him a long moment, like you’re trying to decide something, and then you nod. You leave the bathroom and disappear into your bedroom, and he hears that quiet click of the door closing.

The rest of the month is uneasy. The panic attack seems to have dredged up the muck in your past, the trauma of a life that has resulted in you being in Witness Protection, injured enough at some point to have a thick scar on your head.

Something about this feels like an echo from his first marriage. Juliana went silent on him too, but for different reasons. Your silence is driven by an inner turmoil that he can only guess at, and he feels powerless to help.

So he only does what he can. He makes you coffee each morning before work. He makes you dinner each night. He asks gentle, tame questions about your work day, and when you don’t have much to say in that quarter, he tells you that day’s drama on “Days of Our Lives.”

“Stefano DiMera is back,” he tells you one night. “And Marlena is possessed by el Diablo.”

That’s the sole smile he is able to coax from you all month. You pick at the dinner he made, pushing it around with the tines of your fork, and repeat, “the Devil?”

Horacio nods.

“Like, Lucifer the Devil?”

“Yes.”

You smile. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He nods again, smiles back at you. “It really is.”

-----

The fifth month, August.

Horacio finds a job with a state nursery, and when he applies, he nearly despairs at the cliché of it: a South American immigrant becoming a landscaper.

But it’s not landscaping at all. It’s a quiet, peaceful job. The summer interns have already left for the year, so Horacio is hired on to help the old-timer, Lawrence. Lawrence has a thick Yankee accent, says little, but Horacio finds the job a revelation. He walks the rolling grounds and checks on the saplings that will one day be planted across the state. They’ll go into parks and line city streets, and it knocks something loose in him. A job where he’s nurturing life that will potentially live on long after him. The oak sapling he waters and feeds today could live hundreds of years when he’ll be long forgotten.

With him working now, you and Horacio switch off on meals. You teach him how to use the most American of small appliances, the slow cooker. You make him the most American of working class meals, the one-pot dish. He makes you the comfort food from his childhood, and together you find an egalitarian balance.

But something about July and your low mental health…it makes Horacio want to do better. Who knows how long the two of you will end up living like this? He wants to understand you better, and he wants you to know him, because the two of you exist as the sole inhabitants of this weird, unlikely life as Davide and Gwen.

“Let’s each say one true thing about ourselves,” he proposes over dinner one night. He’s bone-tired from work—he spent the day mulching rows and rows of tender little Eastern Hemlocks (and he knows the difference now between them and a balsam fir and a spruce). You look tired too, but at his suggestion, your eyes light up. Maybe you’ve been wanting some familiarity with him too and just were waiting on him to suggest it first.

So August is this: getting to know each other. Dumb stuff, usually. Favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods. Most embarrassing memory. Best memory. Age of first kiss.

-----

The sixth month, September.

The weather starts to turn. The nights grow cold, and the leaves transform from all that green to a riot of reds and yellows and oranges. Work at the nursery slows way down, and Horacio spends long hours following Lawrence’s lead, which means an hour or two of paperwork, then lunch, then quietly reading a book at his desk.

You’re busy with the new academic year, but the weekends are spent doing day trips. You’re six months into this, and you’re both braver, more willing to travel afield. You go into the mountains to look at the leaves from a different angle than what you see from your house. You go to pick apples, and you spend a weekend cooking them into pies, cobblers, and apple sauce.

The dinner-time “one true thing” game ends, and it turns into natural conversation. It’s so comfortable now. You chat and laugh and joke, and sometimes he teases you, and it makes you duck your head to hide your pleased smile. You like being teased, Horacio finds. You like being the butt of gentle jokes, so he obliges you as often as he dares.

It’s a revelation to find that he has a sense of humor after all.

Over one dinner, he mentions his first marriage, his first wife. You ask him questions, and he answers them honestly, and then he asks if you’ve ever been married.

“No.” You shake your head to emphasize the point.

“Ever engaged?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

You shrug, lifting one shoulder up before dropping it back down. “Life. Expectations. It’s hard to say.” You take a sip of your water, then settle your gaze somewhere past Horacio, like you’re looking at the specter of your failed engagement.

“I was young and very career-driven,” you add. “And not many men want that in a wife.”

“I’m sorry.” He is, of course, and he’s doubly-sorry because he was arguably one of those men. He kept Juliana at home, stifled her own career aspirations. A flush of shame courses through him at the memory of his own failings.

Another shrug. “It was for the best.”

“And now here you are, married to me,” he teases, and yes—you duck your head, but he catches the shy little grin, the curve of your cheek as you smile at the joke.

-----

The seventh month, October.

It’s the first time you’ve actually ordered him to do anything, so Horacio finds himself busy each weekend, decorating the house for Halloween. There’s ghosts strung in the trees in the front yard. Fake gravestones jut from the lawn like rotting teeth. Purple and orange lights are strung around the windows and banisters of the porch, and the two of you set to carving more pumpkins than Horacio thought possible.

But it’s worth it, because your town goes all out for the holiday. You bought him a costume weeks ago, and when he dresses after dinner, he’s surprised to find you openly checking him out. Your gaze sweeps from the hair on the top of his head—longer than Search Bloc reg, curling at the nape of his neck—to his shoes, and you take in his vampire costume.

“You look handsome,” you tell him, and he tries not to ogle you in turn and utterly fails, because you’re dressed up like a witch but the black dress hugs your curves, and the ridiculous hat, complete with a floppy brim, does nothing to detract from how sexy you look.

Horacio finds himself sitting on the front porch with you, handing out candy to the children that come by. And it charms him, how much you get into it, how you guess at what each child is supposed to be. You read the kids perfectly—you’re sweet with the scared little ones, but you play up the witchiness with the older ones, crooking your fingers and cacking at them.

When there’s a lull in the crowd at one point, he catches you as you shiver, so he pulls you close to him and wraps his cloak around your shoulder. He never touches you much, but this is blatant, and the moment feels heavy with intent.

You lean into him. A moment later, he feels your arm wend its way around his waist, under his cloak, so he holds you closer.

The evening continues like that. The two of you play it up more and more, comfortable with pretending. Not you and Horacio, and not Davide and Gwen, but a vampire and a witch, and the more you cackle and scare the children, the more Horacio flashes his fake teeth and hisses at them.

Who ever knew handing out candy in a cheap drugstore costume could be so fun?

When another lull happens, he pulls you back to him, and the motion takes you off balance a little. You hold him back but lean away from him, searching for your equilibrium, and it bares the smooth column of your neck to him.

Horacio forgets himself. Davide forgets himself. The vampire he’s pretending to be dips his head, and he presses the plastic points of his fake teeth into your pulse point, and you give a squeal of surprise, but when Horacio lifts his head to study you, he sees you staring back at him, your eyes wide and dark with obvious desire.

“That’s a good way to get a hex on you,” you warn, but there’s a smile on your red lips, and you don’t release your own hold on him. You don’t shove him away.

“I enjoy a good hex,” he replies.

The stream of children eventually dies off. The bowl of candy has been replenished multiple times, but you fill it one last time and set it on the porch for any stragglers.

Inside the house, you go from room to room and check the locks on the doors, turn off the lights. Horacio lingers near the hallway, and when you turn to make your way to your room, he stills you. He puts his hand on your waist, lightly, and he doesn’t say anything. The moment hangs suspended as you both stand there, silent.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to take you to bed?

He has always tried to be a good Catholic (the killing of narcos aside). He’s never been with anyone other than Juliana, and he feels a tinge of doubt. Guilt, too. He’s always prided himself on his fidelity, and post-divorce, he took a perverse pride in the fact that he never took a lover. That he still honored his vows despite the legal fact that he was no longer married.

He doesn’t mourn Juliana anymore, and he knows that something is growing between the two of you now, but what does it mean? Would it be right to sleep with you, knowing that this is just circumstantial? That it may end at any moment? That if you both weren’t in WitSec, you’d have never met, and might have never liked each other if you had?

Is this thing growing between the two of you only the result of being flung together by circumstances out of your control?

All of those questions rapid-fire through his head, and you seem to see the doubt in his eyes because the moment deflates. The energy and anticipation sour, and he sees it on your face. Your soft smile falls, and then you nod to yourself, as if you knew it would happen like this.

Then you smile again, thank him softly for his help handing out candy. You stretch towards him and brush the lightest of kisses against his cheek, and you step around him to go to your room.

When Horacio goes to bed, it takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he swears you must be awake too, separated only by the wall between you.

-----

The eighth month, November.

Your department at the university puts on a wine and cheese social, and spouses are encouraged to attend.

“We never really practiced our cover story,” he says as he bends over to tie his dress shoes. “Do you remember all of it?”

“I have a eidetic memory.”

“Yeah?” He glances up at you. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s a bunch of tenured professors. They love to talk about themselves and nothing else. They are all narcissists of the worse variety.”

But you aren’t entirely correct. The party is at the house of the department chair, and Horacio finds himself cornered by a pair of fellow lecturers. They are older women, charming and gregarious, and they sing your praises…and his own.

“I can see why she’s kept you hidden away,” says the taller of the two. “She said you were handsome but—”

“You make a gorgeous couple,” the shorter one cut in. “And she’s brilliant, you know, she planned out this—”

On and on they go, cutting each other off, redirecting each other, not letting Horacio get a word in edgewise. It’s not far off base from how you explained it would go, and when he catches your eye from across the room, you smile but mouth, “you okay?”

He nods, smiles back at you.

The evening is halfway over when he realizes with a start that he hasn’t cased the room once.

He hasn’t counted the exits and windows, hasn’t studied the egresses and any obstacles to them. He hasn’t scowled at each face to try and determine what dirty secret they held, if Escobar or one of his men had compromised them or their family. He hasn’t studied the lines of their clothing to see who might be hiding a piece.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to lose his edge?

It’s another question he ponders at night, since the minor disaster of Halloween. He knows he hurt you by hesitating in that moment in the hallway, but it’s a subtle hurt. He can see it in your eyes each morning, the way they study his face as if you could perhaps read his thoughts if you watch him closely enough.

More and more, these questions plague him because there’s no easy answers. Horacio is used to solving problems, but he’d be the first to admit that many of his solutions were just brute force. Displays of power. The Search Bloc has a problem? Send in men, armed men, men with guns and night-sticks, men with flint in their souls, men with hearts cased in granite. Send in Colonel Carrillo himself to a clandestine meeting place where a suspect is strung up. What’s a little light torture and murder when the fate of a country hangs in the balance?

That man is dead now. Horacio Carrillo received a state funeral, and his empty coffin lies in the mausoleum. Davide, his replacement, spent the week wrapping tender saplings in burlap in anticipation for the coming snows—all the while considering his place in the greater world and what his legacy may be.

At the end of the evening, Horacio finds you, brings you your coat, holds it out while you shrug your way into it. When the two of you leave, you pass the pair of lecturers who had cornered him, and their exchange is like a Greek chorus that follows him home.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” says one. “She’s a lucky woman.”

The other one scoffs lightly. “He’s the lucky one.”

You must not hear them because you don’t react. You only let him lead you to the car, and when he brushes away the light dusting of snow with the snow brush, his eyes find yours through the windshield—and you smile at him.

-----

The ninth month, December.

The university shuts down for most of the month, and Horacio is on an abbreviated schedule a the nursery.

The two of you have so much time together.

Horacio has seen snow before, but never like this. Vermont, so green when he arrived, is swaddled in thick layers of white like cotton batting. It absorbs and reflects sounds in weird ways, and a hush falls over your little home.

Being Colombian, he should hate it. He should curse the cold and the snow and the quiet, but it does something to his soul. It soothes him in a way he never would have guessed. True, the cold is difficult at first, but you take him to the mall one weekend and load him up with sweaters and thick woolen socks, and he’s better after that.

Everything is so calm. Peaceful. Horacio has never slept so well in his life, bundled under layers of blankets, even on the uncomfortable daybed. He sleeps, he doesn’t dream, and he wakes up naturally, in slow measure, to a soft light creeping across his bedroom floor.

Being on break, you still wake up early. Earlier than him, some days, and when Horacio wakes to the scent of brewing coffee and something delicious baking in the oven, he wishes sometimes that this was the afterlife. He wants to freeze the moment in time and never let it slip past him. He wants nothing more, in this moment.

He’s always half-asleep those mornings, but the smell of food draws him out. One morning, he pads out to the kitchen in his thick socks and startles you when he grumbles “good morning.” You shriek, then swear, then lightly try to swat him with the spatula in your hands, but he’s still half-asleep, still incredulous that this is his life at the moment, and he takes the spatula from you and pulls you into a big bear hug.

“What’s this for?” you ask. Your words are muffled against his chest, but after a beat, you wrap your arms around his midsection and hug him back.

“Just because,” he replies.

You spend your days doing puzzles, reading, listening to music. You watch “Days of Our Lives” with him and you both laugh at the bad cosmetics and even worse acting on the demonic possession storyline.

Your evenings are spent cooking dinner together. You make the trip into town every few days, and you rent movies and watch them too. You watch everything together—old Hollywood classics, campy horror, meandering romances. The two of you sit on the couch side by side, and it takes all of a day before you’re tucked in against his side, his arm firm around your shoulders.

Sometimes he glances down at you and sees your face in profile lit by the flickering light of the television. Sometimes he can make out the edge of your scar, but he doesn’t linger there. Instead he takes in the whole of your face—the curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes as you blink. When something funny happens on the screen, you smile, and it makes Horacio’s heart stutter in his chest to see it.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to fall in love?

Another question to ponder. Another riddle to solve. He’s losing sight of the man he was. Maybe that man is completely lost already. The thought doesn’t unnerve him; he thinks he likes the man he is here. He likes the man he is with you, the job that coaxes life into being instead of snuffing it out. He likes wearing cable-knit sweaters and thick socks and eating the banana bread you bake on mornings you don’t have to work.

He likes sitting on the couch with you and watching a rental VHS of “Beetlejuice.” He likes the feel of your body pressed against his, and he likes looking down to see you smile.

That’s the night he dares ask for more.

After the movie, you do your usual pre-bedtime sweep of the house—locks, lights—then brush your teeth and go to your room. The usual quiet click of your door closing. Horacio, as usual, goes to his room, peels back the layers of blankets, prepares to tuck himself into the cramped bed….then doesn’t.

Instead, he returns to the hallway. He taps a finger on your door, a soft staccato, and he hears you call out, “Davide?”

“Yes.”

You tell him to come in, and you’re sitting up in bed. Your eyebrows are furrowed together.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head. How can he begin to explain it? He’s fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, and his Italian is passable, yet not a single language he knows can capture the maelstrom of emotions roiling through him. He loves you, he wants you. He’s afraid you don’t feel the same for him. He’s afraid you do feel the same for him. Is this just situational or are you truly the woman he was meant for all along? Has he gone mad? Is this some tame mental breakdown, the result of coming close to death and then finding himself, improbably, in Vermont with a woman who also was near death?

From your “one true thing” game, he knows you’re a polyglot too—English and Spanish and Russian—but that shake of his head to your question seems to transcend the need for language. You seem to read it exactly, the turmoil in him, and you climb out of bed slowly, make your way over to where he stands by the door.

You reach down and take his hands in yours, and the touch bolsters him. Reassures him. He’s Horacio and Davide both, and you’re both Gwen and yourself, and he doesn’t need to parse the two. He can be both with you. You’re both complicated people with complicated pasts, but none of it matters right now because the world is swathed in layers of snow, and the two of you are the only two who exist in it.

Neither of you say much else for the rest of the night. When you turn your head to peer up at him, Horacio tilts his head to kiss you, and it’s like a bolt of lightning when he does. Maybe he fell in love with you by small moments, but this is the moment that seals it forever: this first kiss, his mouth on yours, writes your name—your real name, even if he doesn’t know it—on his heart like a line of fire.

You each lead the other back to bed; you tug him, he pushes you, and you fall gracelessly back on the rumpled covers, but each kiss, each searching touch peels back another layer of reserve. Horacio slides his hand under your shirt and cups the softness of your breasts, pinches lightly at your hardened buds. You slip your hand under the waistband of his flannel pajamas and grasp his growing erection, stroke it into full hardness as he groans into your mouth.

There’s no art to it. No seduction. You’re both starving for each other, ravenous, and you both kiss the other as you each strip out of your layers. He kisses down your neck, nips at your pulse point like he did on Halloween. He licks against the hollow at the base of your throat, draws the sweetest goddamned moans out of you, then returns to kiss you, to lick against the inside of your mouth so he can feel the sounds you’re making too.

If he’d known how vocal you were in bed, he would have summoned his courage months ago.

Your mouth is on him too. It’s another line of fire, each press of your lips on his bare skin. He finds himself on his back and you astride him. He reaches up to touch your bared breasts, but you don’t even notice because you lean down, focused only on him. Your mouth on his neck, along his stubbled jaw. You kiss his collarbones, his chest. You bite lightly against his nipples, your teeth making him huff at the sensation, and then your warm tongue laving him. Further down, a trail of kisses across his belly, which is less firm than it was in his Search Bloc days but you make a pleased noise as your mouth places wet, lingering kisses there.

Then even lower, and this is uncharted territory. Love-making with Juliana was only ever for the purpose of making children, and while Horacio had convinced her a time or two to go down on her in the interest of foreplay, he never has received head in his life. Juliana had called it dirty, and he had left it at that.

He doesn’t even register it until he feels your hand grasp him at the root of his cock, then feels the smallest, most kittenish little lick of your tongue against his leaking tip.

“Dios,” he groans out, and then he feels the rest: your tongue tracing a pattern along the length of him, then a teasing rhythm where you work him into your mouth. First just the tip. You lavish him with attention there, suckling against the most sensitive part of him, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks from him. Then more and more and more; you work him into your warm, wet mouth, and he feels your breath tickling against his groin, feels you breathing carefully through your nose as you take him as far as you can, and then you swallow against him, you hum against him, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. You press your tongue against the underside of him and you hollow your cheeks, and when your warm palm reaches up to lightly fondle his balls, Horacio’s orgasm breaks around him like a tidal wave. His hips judder once, twice, and he thinks he warns you, but you don’t move. You only hold yourself there, and when he comes, you swallow every drop of him, and he wishes he could explain this feeling to Juliana: that it doesn’t feel dirty at all. It feels like a sacrament. That it feels like love.

It's only fair that he shows you his love for you in turn.

Once he recovers, he flips you onto your back and repays you in kind. He kisses his way down your naked body, makes a note of all the spots that you moan at. Make a note too of all the scars that speak to a life a lot like his was in Colombia. He kisses your scars, presses his lips to each raised ridge as if he can take away any lingering pain.

Then he settles between your legs. There’s no shyness he can detect; you spread your thighs eagerly for him. You allow him to put a pillow under your hips to tilt your pelvis into a more agreeable angle.

He’s not especially skilled at this. The handful of times with Juliana had been a race against the clock—a sprint to coax her to orgasm before she gripped his hair and made him stop. There’s no clock now, so he takes his time. He settles your legs on his shoulders and he bends his head to your gorgeous pussy, and he takes his time.

He licks against your folds, then reaches down to part them with his fingers. Licks a slow, tortuous route from the firm bud of your clit to your entrance. Over and over and over until you squirm underneath him—then he slides a finger into your clenching heat, then another, then a third, and he feels how your pussy twitches against the intrusion, how you grab against his fingers like you’re trying to pull him deeper into you.

He fingers you in a lazy rhythm, and he circles his tongue against your clit. That does something for you; you whine out a curse, and a moment later your hand is on his head, your fingers tugging against his hair, so he purses his lips, suckles against your clit, and that turns your whine into a wail.

He wishes he could tell Juliana this too, that this isn’t dirty either. When you come, he feels a flush of pride at drawing pleasure from your body—your thighs tight against his head, your pussy clamped down on his fingers, and the slick cum that pulses from you, that coats his tongue and lips in the taste of you.

He’s hard again, but he wouldn’t press his luck. This is more than he ever dared hope for. He’d be happy to curl up with you now, to fall asleep beside you, but when he lifts his head from where he’s perched between your thighs, he sees you gazing back at him.

“Please,” is all you say, and he knows what you’re asking for because he wants it to.

If there’s an argument about this being two people pushed together because of circumstances beyond their control, there’s also an argument about the two of you fitting together so well. Because you do. Your body seems like it was made for his; you fit together like two jagged puzzles pieces. Horacio settles over you, lowers his body onto yours, and it’s like magic: his cock bumps against your inner thigh, but he moves half an inch and he finds your wet heat, and then he’s pushing into you, feeling your feverish flesh part and mold to the shape of him, and then your legs are around his waist, holding him to you as he bottoms out inside you.

He stills for a long moment. He’s unable to move. It’s not because he’s afraid he’ll come too soon but because he’s afraid he might cry. Horacio Carrillo is not a man who cries (maybe Davide is), but gazing down at your face, seeing the stunned love written in your expression, he nearly cries at how lucky he feels. How blessed. That shootout in the Medellín alley should have killed him, yet here he is.

Eventually, you give him the faintest of nods, and he starts to move. He’s gentle at first. He warms you up to the feel of him, and him to you. You lay one hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he thrusts into you, but the other hand settles over his heart.

He could love you like this forever. He coaxes a second, then a third orgasm from you, and he watches your face during each one—the way your eyes go wide, then close tight, the way your mouth takes a hitching breath then goes slack as you breathe through it. The look on your face as it ebbs away, your eyes shiny with tears, and happy little smile curving your lips.

“I want you to come,” you whisper to him. You must feel the tension in him, and you bear down on his pistoning cock to urge him along.

“Where?” he pants out.

“Inside me. Please. Come inside me.”

He knows you’re safe. He’s lived with you for nine months now, and he’s run enough errands with you to know that you have that little plastic compact you pick up from the pharmacy once a month. He sees you swallow the same pill each morning with your vitamin. But still—he’s a man with his history, so he doesn’t register your contraceptive use in this moment. The thought comes to him that if he comes inside you, he may make you pregnant, and Horacio is surprised by how quickly the thought urges his orgasm forward.

“You sure?” At your words, he’s amped up his thrusting, driving forward in deep, strong strokes until he swears he can feel the crown of his cock nudging against the end of you, and the thought takes hold: you round with his child, the two of you in this bedroom with a child in the guest room converted into a nursery. At this moment, it’s the tamest of breeding kinks, but in the morning, he’ll realize it’s just more of this perfect life extrapolated. You not as his pretend-wife but as his real wife. A child as tangible proof that this isn’t just an incongruous moment in time.

“Yes. Please.” You lick your lips, blink up at him. “I-I want to feel you coming inside me.”

It’s only fair that he obliges you. You ask so nicely, so he does: he thrusts three, four times more, then feels his pleasure snap and spark up his spine as he fills you.

Then he collapses on top of you, and a moment later, he feels your fingers combing through his hair, lightly running over his back.

“You can sleep here, if you want.” You say it shyly, like you think this might just be a physical release for him, so he lifts his head to kiss you and reply that he wants that very much.

Horacio never sleeps in that cramped daybed again.

-----

The tenth month, January.

What does it mean to Horacio Carrillo for the lines between real and pretend to blur?

It means that through Christmas and into the new year, you live as husband and wife. You live as newlyweds. You make love in every room in the house, and you spent lazy days tangled up together. It means you draw straws to see who has to drive into town for provisions, and it’s all a joke anyway because you always go together. It means your world collapses down into the most basic of human needs: feeding and fucking.

It means that between love-making, the two of you share more about your real lives. Horacio learns about your family life. He learns that you’re CIA, and you’ve been stationed in Panama post-Noriega. He learns that it was an explosion, a car bomb outside of your headquarters, that left you with that scar on your head.

You learn about the Search Bloc and Escobar. You learn about his childhood as the son of a great military leader, and how that legacy shaped his own life and career.

But what does it mean when that line blurs?

It means that when Johnson returns to your lives, everything ends abruptly.

“Everything is all clear,” he tells you when he turns up one Saturday in the middle of January. He sips at the cup of coffee you made him, and if he notices the stunned silence of both of you, he doesn’t remark on it.

“Escobar was gunned down early today. It hasn’t hit the wire yet.” Johnson glances at you. “And the group that bombed your HQ has been cleared out too. You’ve been safe for a few months, but we didn’t want to upset the situation here.”

“So now what?” you ask, and Horacio feels sick to his stomach as Johnson explains that your old lives are waiting for you and that it’s time to go.

-----

The end comes that day, but not the way Horacio thought it would.

You gesture to Johnson after he gives the rundown on the logistics, and the two of you go outside. Horacio watches from the kitchen window as you cross your arms against the cold. You talk, Johnson listens. Then Johnson talks, you listen. Back and forth, and by the end Johnson shakes his head, shakes your hand, and returns inside.

“Okay, so change of plans,” he says, and he rubs his hands together briskly to bring the warmth back to them. “It’s just you and me now. Go pack and say your goodbyes, and I’ll be back in an hour.”

He leaves, and Horacio watches him pull out of the driveway, and when he turns back to the interior of the house, he sees you standing there. Crying openly, tears cutting tracks down your face.

“I can’t go back,” you explain, your voice thick with tears. “I won’t.”

Then you break down into sobs, and it’s second nature to stride over to you, to pull you into his arms. He tries to soothe you—rubs your back, holds you to him—as you choke out the words. That you have had a crisis of conscience. That you wonder if your work in the CIA did more harm than good. That you think it’s the former, and how you want to spend the balance of your life not doing more harm than good. That you want to live in a quiet town that is green in the summer and swaddled in white in the winter. You want to teach, you want to come home to a house with….and you catch yourself at the last minute. You don’t say it, but Horacio can guess it.

You want to come home to a house with him in it. You want to come home to him.

“I love my life here,” you amend hastily, but you push away from him, aware he’s leaving and that your life won’t be exactly the same either way. You mumble something about not wanting to say goodbye, about wishing him the best, and then you disappear down the hallway. He hears the click of the door and your crying, and it doesn’t abate while he packs.

When Johnson returns, Horacio taps on the bedroom door, but you don’t answer and he doesn’t push it. He’s sleepwalking through the moment, numb, so he leaves. He doesn’t say goodbye. He only climbs into Johnson’s rental car, and each mile that Johnson puts between you and Horacio only makes the numbness grow.

“Women, huh?” Johnson says as they near the airport. “That’s why I said they should never take field work. They don’t have the stomach for it, in the end.”

Horacio grunts a non-reply, but he thinks Johnson is off the mark. It’s not that you don’t have the stomach for it. It’s that you don’t have the heart.

-----

February.

He goes from Vermont to Miami, this time around.

Horacio is given a hotel room, and he’s given the orders to just chill for a bit. Johnson has extricated him from his fake life as Davide, but his old life as Colonel Horacio Carrillo isn’t quite ready for him yet.

There are mountains of paperwork to bring a man back from the dead. There’s talk of giving him a cushy role in Madrid. There’s talk of commendations, medals, a comfortable pension to retire on. He’s done a lot for his country of Colombia, and Colombia wants to reward him.

He sleepwalks through this liminal space. The not-Davide, not-Horacio time. He wanders the streets around the hotel and picks at the food he orders in restaurants, and each time he hears a woman speak, he looks up expecting to see you.

I don’t even know her real name, he thinks.

Gwen, his one-time pretend-wife. Gwen, who had a panic attack on her country’s birthday. Gwen, who questioned the harm she may have caused to another country, another people. Gwen, who only wants the chance to do a little good now, or at least to do no more bad. It wasn’t Gwen at all, but he has no other name to use, so he runs through all the lovely little moments he had with Gwen.

Watching for you to return from your daily jogs. Walking through the falling leaves of autumn with you. Making you coffee, pressing the steaming mug into your hands each morning. Handing out candy to the children at Halloween, tucking you under his cloak at the autumn chill. Watching movies with you as the snow fell outside, then curling up in bed with you, slotting his body against yours, giving you pleasure and taking pleasure from you in equal measure. Threading his fingers through yours as he arched over you, his eyes falling on the glinting light in the gold band in your ring finger, it’s twin on his own.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to finally make a choice?

Of course he’s made choices before. Every day, he made a million choices, large and small. But the big stuff, the giant stuff, the life-shaping stuff—did he have much choice? His father’s military career pretty much guaranteed his own career in the Search Bloc. His family’s status pretty much guaranteed he’d marry a Catholic girl from a family of similar standing. And when Juliana chose to leave him, he really had no choice then, either.

Same with his pretend life of ten months. He had no choice in being paired with you, no choice in ending up in New England, little choice in working as a man who tended trees.

He imagines you in your shared home, alone. Johnson explained on the plane that you’d be able to buy the place, that WitSec only rents homes across the U.S. He explained that this has happened more than once, and that it’s actually not too difficult to let a witness slide into their pretend-life permanently.

The choice comes down to the most mundane thought. Horacio stands in his hotel room in Miami and wonders, who will make her coffee in the morning if I’m not there?

*****

Winter always loses its charm by the time February rolls around. The fleecy white snow turns into grey slush, and everything is cold and soggy and depressing.

Davide leaving doesn’t help at all.

You knew it would end eventually. You didn’t have much insight into his situation, but you knew that the cartel targeting you would be easy enough to neutralize. They were only there because of the power vacuum left behind by Noriega, and they were poorly organized.

You just thought when it ended, you’d have more time. Which is one of your fatal flaws, always thinking you’ll have more time. Your father died from a heart attack when you were in high school, and your mother died from a car crash when you were in college. You, more than anyone, should realize that time was never a guarantee, yet you always think you have a surfeit of it.

It's not your proudest moment, those final minutes with Davide. Not falling apart in a wash of tears, and not fleeing to your room. You should have committed to one extreme or the other. You should have either calmly explained your decision and bade him farewell…or you should have given in to the emotion of the moment and spilled everything.

Why do you never learn your lesson? You never had a chance to tell your parents that you loved them before they died. Why didn’t you tell Davide you loved him before he left to return to whoever he was before?

You know you could find him. You’d caught his lightly accented English and guessed at South America. Colombia, if he was hiding from Escobar. He told you about the Search Bloc. You knew some people in that theater. You could find him and tell him that you loved him, but would it do more harm than good? Doesn’t he have the right to return to his previous life without any baggage from this one?

February, then: grey, cold. You go to work. You teach your classes and hold office hours. Political science can create real monsters, so you gently try to steer your students towards the path of diplomacy and not war. Maybe this is how you make amends, if such a thing is even possible.

You go home each evening and pull together a sandwich for dinner. Sometimes you get take-out, and you eat over the sink. Sometimes you watch T.V. and sometimes you read, but you always sleep alone with Davide’s pillow clutched to your chest, the lingering scent of him fading away within days.

-----

Then March. The snow starts to melt a bit, and under some of the trees in your backyard you start to see the little purple and white jewels of budding crocuses.

You resume your runs in the mornings. The campus shakes off its doldrums too and the students seem livelier.

You made the right choice to stay. You go to the bank with your real name and get a mortgage. You buy the house under your real name, and you go to the university human resources and hand over the paperwork Johnston gave you, and it’s weird at first, explaining why you’re not really Gwen, but it shocks you how quickly people adapt to using your real name.

-----

March is still fresh when there’s a knock at your door one Saturday morning.

Your first guess is that it’s a delivery. Johnson promised to ship all of your stuff from your apartment in Panama City. Not that you have anything valuable, but it would be nice to have your record collection back. You don’t want to have to rebuild that from scratch.

You’re already out of practice from your prior life. You don’t bother to check who it is, don’t look out the window before you open the door, and so it’s a shock to see Davide standing there, his fist lifted like he’s about to knock again.

He drops his hand and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You are speechless too, but you don’t need words to because as he drops and unfurls his hand by his side, you see the way the gold ring on his finger catches the morning light.

He’s still wearing his wedding ring, you think, and your body moves towards his, you leap into his arms and he’s there to catch you. You breathe out his name, but he chuckles, pushes you gently away from him.

“No, cariño,” he replies, shakes his head. “Not Davide.”

“Well, no. I mean—”

“I’m Horacio,” he interrupts. You reply with your own name, and he repeats it, almost to himself.

“Everything else was me,” he adds. “Everything but the name. What we had…” He trails off, fixes you with that dark-eyed stare of his.

“Everything else was me too.” All of the bare facts of your fake life as Gwen hold little weight to that nebulous everything else: every joke and shared laugh, your Fourth of July panic attack. The feel of his hand on your waist when you went apple picking. The way his hair curled after a shower, and how you loved to run your fingers through it when he fell asleep beside you. All of it. Every stupid little moment that most other people would have already forgotten.

Horacio holds up his hand to show you the ring you’ve already noticed. “I never took it off. It didn’t even occur to me to.”

You hold up your own hand. “Me neither.”

He looks away, squints his eyes as he looks off into the distance, but you swear you can see tears there. He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rougher than usual.

“I’d like to see if I’m as good a man as Davide was,” he says. “I’d like that chance, but only if you…” Another cough as he clears he throat, then continues. “Only if you’ll have me.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours. You touch the warm metal on his finger, then the thought comes to you. You slide the ring off, and you feel Horacio watching you. On the plane, you each put your rings on yourselves, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it?

Now, nearly a year later, you take his wedding ring off. For a long beat, you study it—it’s a simple thing, nothing elaborate. WitSec wasn’t going to waste money on an expensive ring for a fake marriage, and it already has a shallow scratch in it, likely from his job at the nursery.

Then you lift your head and gaze at him, and without breaking eye contact, you slide the ring back on his finger. The smile that spreads across his face when you do is enough of a promise as any vows recited in a church, and he repeats the motion with your own ring—takes it off, then slides it back on with intention.

And then, because there’s no priest there to give the order, Horacio bends down and kisses you for the first time as himself, and the first time as yourself, and perhaps you learn your lesson about time after all because the moment you part, you whisper, “I love you” to him.

And perhaps he needed to learn the same lesson because he sighs, pulls you closer to him, and whispers “I love you too.”

#colonel horacio carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes and tales

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sheriffgrimes-archerdixon · 2 months

Text

Practice makes perfect

Request: please could you write one where Rick helps inexperienced reader shoot a gun and he also teaches her how to defend herself? Thank you!

A/N: hope this is okay!! Would you all like to see a daryl version of this??

Rick grimes x fem! Reader

You were new to the prison environment, you had stumbled upon the prison when you had lost your people to the dead. It was terrifying but thankfully Rick grimes and his people welcomed you in with open arms— or… well. Held at gunpoint. But that’s beside the point. You had been here for almost 18 days now and you were fitting in just right. You had found comfort within Hershel the kind man who seemed to be incredibly loyal and genuine. Not to mention his kindness towards everything was gratefully accepted during times like these. Beth too was a sweet girl but there were a few of the group who seemed a bit rough around the edges. Not that you minded of course, you were just glad you could say you had some kind of “friends.”

Here you were positioned near the gate where walkers were pressing themselves against, ruthlessly clawing at the metal structure desperate for the taste of flesh. You stood silently staring and listening to their groans and moans your hand numbly gripping onto the pistol that dangled by your side. It might’ve seemed stupid but you had never shot a gun in your life. And now that you were in this situation you wished you had accepted the many times family members offered to take you to the shooting range when the world was still normal. You exhaled shaking your head before you pointed your gun at one of the walkers heads, squinting your eyes slightly your finger resting upon the trigger as you tried to figure out how to do it, footsteps slowing just behind you— ricks scrutinising eyes examined you thoroughly before he cleared his throat. “The safety’s one” his thick accent touched your ears and you quickly glanced at him “what?” You murmured nervously “the safety’s on. That’s why you can’t pull the trigger.” He vaguely explained taking steps towards you before stopping beside you, slender fingers grasping onto the metal of the gun as he stood side by side with you his arm brushing lightly against yours “look,” he tilted the gun your way his thumb brushing against the metal before a click was heard “safety’s off now.” He spoke before slowly handing it back to you. “Try now.”

He took a step back giving you room to try but now under this much pressure you felt your nerves kick in. You were worried that because you didn’t know how to shoot a gun without looking like an idiot you’d be seen as someone lesser and be kicked out the group. But really that was just your over thinking. You hesitantly pointed the gun towards a specific walker Rick remaining silent as he observed you fingertips lightly brushing against the handle of his own gun it was just engraved into his mind to constantly do just in case he had to pull it on anyone or anything at any point. You couldn’t ever be too careful… you glanced back at him momentarily he was hard to read, you then looked forward again steadying your breath as you attempted it. And with one last deep breath you pulled the trigger the bullet flying through the air and zipping straight past the walkers a silent cuss leaving your lips as you shook your head embarrassed. “Not bad.” Rick spoke calmly, as if noting your anxious state and how you seemed to be slightly apprehensive about shooting the gun. He took a step towards you stopping beside you “have you ever shot a gun before?” He questioned and you glanced at him before shaking your head “no. I didn’t like using guns when the world was normal…” you murmur nervously and he only nods. “That’s understandable” he soon comments “I was a sheriff in Atlanta before all of this.” Rick began talking, your eyes snapping back towards him as you listened to him silently admiring him his jaw slightly clenching every now and then his baby blue eyes holding many memories within them. His eyes moved to look at you “so I was all involved in guns and protecting myself and my people.” He spoke as if trying to make you more comfortable. Opening up little by little…

“My wife…. She hated the thought of our son using guns. She refused to let him near them. Even when I offered to train him up for if anything ever happened she wouldn’t let him… even when the world went to shit… she wouldn’t let him touch a gun…” he analysed you as he spoke “until I convinced her enough… I wish I had held back slightly..” he swallowed thickly glancing down at the ground as he remembered the thought of Carl shooting his own mum. If Rick hadn’t of taught him how to shoot a gun then would Carl of shot Lori? It was a question left for speculation. No one truly knew. But Rick did feel guilt when he thought on it really hard… that’s why he tried to push it all down. Keeping it all at the back of his brain. “So I get where you’re coming from. But knowing how to shoot a gun now is… something we all need.” He spoke simply turning his back to you momentarily before he pulled his own gun out the sun reflecting off of the metal slightly making it glint every now and then “just copy my stance alright.” He spoke and you nodded watching as he put one foot forwards the other foot remaining in place almost as if he was bracing himself before he held the gun with two hands— one on the handle and trigger the other cupping it slightly as if to keep it stable. “Holding with both hands isn’t absolutely necessary but holding it with both hands keeps your focus and hands from shaking.” Rick explained and you nodded watching as he shot the gun the bullet immediately piercing the skull of the dead as it collapsed onto the ground. “Your turn.”

He spoke before backing away, and you exhaled shakily breathing in sharply as you attempted to copy his exact positioning slowly raising your gun until it was eye level with you both your hands steadying the gun “like this?” You murmured nervously Rick moving to your side his hands grabbing onto your elbow slightly “tilt” he suggested calmly making you tilt your arm ever so slightly before he moved behind you resting your hands on your shoulders knowing the force of the gun was far too powerful sometimes. He kept his hands on your shoulders “focus…” he advised gently and you nodded focusing as hard as you could. You inhaled sharply lining up the gun more straight before pulling the trigger the bullet piercing through a walkers shoulder “good. You’re getting there.” Rick praised before he reached forwards grabbing onto your hands as he positioned your hands more correctly “just remember they’re dead. Okay?” He spoke almost as if reading your mind. Knowing that you were struggling with the fact that these were once human beings. Just like you and him. “But they…” you swallowed thickly not knowing how to describe it, Rick maintaining eye contact with you “look at it this way y/n…. They don’t feel anything. They only have one job and one job only. Successfully get the food they’re constantly searching for. It’s a cycle… a painful cycle. If you shoot them you’re putting them out of their misery right?” He was right and eventually you nodded. You still needed to detach the people from the actual walkers and whom they once were but that would be a learning curve. “Alright shoot.” He spoke and you took a deep breath before squinting your eyes and once steadying your hands you shot the gun the smell of gunpowder growing stronger but you didn’t mind. You watched as the bullet pierced into the dead’s skull as it collapsed to the ground,

“Good. Again.” He spoke. The sun was starting to set and Rick knew it wouldn’t be long before more walkers started arriving. You then lined up the gun again before shooting the bullet again successfully hitting the Walker square in the head. You continued doing this over and over again until the clouds had turned a deep orangey colour rain specs starting to fall upon you and him “you did great.” Rick spoke with a faint smile “you’re going to be a pro at this soon enough. Gonna put us to shame.” He murmured nudging you playfully and you couldn’t help but smile slightly “thank you… could we do this again tomorrow?” Rick nodded slightly “sure. I’ll get you up at 7 am sharp.” He spoke and you nodded smiling as you began walking back towards the main area of the prison with him. “After all practice makes perfect.” He chuckled out lightly you could tell that helping you practice had alleviated something off of his shoulders and mind… and the same was said for you.

You walked inside with him some people eating some food and others already sleeping “I’m going to go to my cell.” You murmured and Rick nodded “goodnight. Sleep well. If you need anything just shout.” He spoke and you nodded watching as he began walking away. “Rick..” you spoke, making him stop as he turned to look at you Judith being handed to him as he held onto her securely his free hand skilfully putting his gun back onto safety “thank you. Seriously. Uh… you saved a girls life.” You spoke, Rick looking slightly confused but appreciative. “I lost my people. To the walkers…. I was close to just waiting for another herd to come take me down… you and your people gave me a reason to live.” The look on ricks face was difficult to read but he looked grateful, happy and somewhat relieved all at once. “Glad you’re still with us, y/n.” He gave you a nod lips curling up into a small smile. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gave you another curt nod before turning around tending to his daughter and you silently watched him before retreating back to your bunk a small sad smile forming on your lips— grateful for him and his people who had given you a reason to survive. You got into your bunk laying down as you began getting comfortable until you heard a slight creek before the familiar teenage boy was hanging over the top bunk “hey y/n” Carl spoke cowboy hat barely staying on and you smiled tiredly at him “hey.” He then disappeared momentarily before coming back continuing to dangle off the bed “don’t fall…” you warned with a tired smile and he only smiled holding out a red packeted chocolate bar for you to take. “Just in case you were hungry.” He spoke not letting up until you had taken it from him before he laid back down on the top bunk “thanks carl.” You spoke hearing the sound of pages turning and you smiled knowing he was reading his comic… what a thoughtful boy… a thoughtful group whom you didn’t deserve in the slightest. But you knew they’d continue over and over again giving you a reason to live.

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billthedrake · 10 months

Text

TELEPHONE POLE

If it hadn't been for the lousy weather on the long weekend, Frank Grisholm may never have taken the chance. But he'd spent two days straight in his apartment, edging for hours with a vial of poppers, a tub of Albolene, and a collection of his favorite dildos, some quite impressive in size. The former D1 football player had a life change at 30, but for as long as it took for him to come out, it had taken less than a year for the muscled 6'5" hunk to realize he craved to have his hole worked over.

Just like grocery shopping when you're hungry, you should never log onto the apps when you've been marathon masturbating. But Frank couldn't help himself. Something about the dildos felt second-best that day. He scrolled through some familiar profiles, holding his phone in his right hand while his left slowly sawed a black-rubber Big Boy in and out of his ass.

He saw a couple of tops he'd hooked up with. Not fuck buddies, but maybe he could reach out for a repeat. Only his attention was caught by a new profile. Or at least new to Frank. The picture was PG rated. Well, R rated, maybe. A picture of a guys' shorts with a huge ridge filling out the package. The profile listed the vital stats. 20 years old, 5'9, 155#, top.

But the dick pick is what got Frank excited, and maybe a little scared. He'd never seen a dick as fat as this. Sometimes guys used the term "beer can" for cocks that probably weren't quite as big and round as an actual beer can. Unless images deceived, this one was fatter than one. It was a bludgeon of a cock that looked like a butt plug, slightly torpedo shaped with two heavy balls clinging to the stalk and a tuft of dark brown pubes behind it.

Then there was the rest of the writing:

THE REAL DEAL. This isn't photoshopped, fellas. It's a tree trunk cock ready to plow some experienced muscle ass.

TURN ONS: Masculine men, linebacker builds, meaty asses. Older guys cool. Cunt training. Seeing that gape.

TURN OFFS: Guys who pussy out. Condoms. Drugged out dudes (poppers and 420 ok)

FRONT OF THE LINE: NO FOREPLAY fucks. Military men.

I need serious takers only.

Frank had enjoyed some intense dildo play, for sure. Even back in his 20s, he had a secret stash of them, and he'd use them on himself whenever his fiancee was out. It was a lie he kept up, until his 30th birthday. He splurged and rented an escort on a business trip to Atlanta. He had to scratch that itch, to get it out of his system.

Only it was the best sex of his life. That big cocked escort had fucked the ex-jock to two toe-curling orgasms in quick succession. He didn't even charge Frank for going over the time.

The next week, Frank called off his engagement and started making plans to get a job in a city, a real city.

"Hey," he now typed. He was actually intimidated to reach out to Mr. Tree Trunk.

But he got a quick, flirty reply. "Hi man. You're fucking hot."

"Thanks," Frank said. Maybe it was the kid's age, or just that sheer cock size, but he didn't expect this easy rapport with the messaging. Frank revealed that he'd been edging all afternoon. Jake said he was taking a study break because he was really horny.

"Feel like coming over man? I'd love to pound your ass." The direct approach might not always work, but in Frank's worked up state, it was just his speed.

"Sounds hot," he wrote. "But I won't lie, that monster scares me."

"You a noob?" came the reply.

Frank had a sudden fear he'd killed the vibe and spoiled his chance to get laid. But his asshole would thank him, he decided. "Not to bottoming," the man replied. "I have some big toys, too."

"Hot," the college dude wrote. "I like breaking in new dudes. I won't hurt ya. Promise."

"That's tempting," Frank replied. "I'm so frickin horny."

"Me too man. Let's do this. My roommate is gone for the weekend." Jake sent his dorm name at one of the universities not far from where Frank lived. "I need to get back to my studying soon, but I wanna get my rocks off, bad."

It felt tawdry as hell, but the 32-year-old got cleaned up and dressed and made his way over to Jake's campus. Frank texted him when he was close, and Jake was down in the lobby waiting for him. The tall, almost beefy man blushed when he thought how transparent this was, being some college kid's booty call. But what the fuck, Jake was an adult, Frank was an adult, and it's not like anyone there knew the man.

"You're even hotter in person," Jake growled as they made our way to his room. He was wearing just some shorts and T-shirt and flip flops, with a college ball cap. He had a soccer player look about him, not a competitive one, maybe, but that tone, lean-muscled look accentuated by his ruddy cheeks and cute face. His body was buff for a college kid's, but his face looked younger.

Jake may have been in a rush, but Frank had to give him credit, he took his time. They sat on his twin dorm bed and made out, then lay back. The ex-jock had never made it with a dude this much younger than him, but the fact Jake had a massive cock gave that age differential a certain thrill. And when the college dude started tugging at Frank's sweatshirt, that put the man in a real bottomy mood.

"Fuck," Jake growled as he lifted Frank's arm and started feasting on the furry pit. The swipe of his tongue sent goosebumps down the bigger, more muscular body. Jake kissed along the chest, then munched at the other pit.

When they finally kissed again, both could feel the temperature rising. Frank reached down and massaged that fat boner in Jake's shorts.

"Wanna see it?" he asked. Boasting.

Frank nodded. "Please."

"Big muscle guy is a frickin size queen, aren't ya?" Jake wasn't a dom, not exactly. He mostly loved the physicality of sex. But he also knew he had 7 incredibly fat inches calling the shorts.

He undid his shorts and there in the flesh, Frank learned that in fact no Photoshop was involved. He was staring at the most colossal prick he'd ever seen or could imagine.

Like a hungry power bottom the big man scrambled to get down and lick it. He actually tried to work the head between his lips, but that cock was too fat.

Jake gently massaged my short hair and laughed. "Don't worry, dude, I've only met one guy who can suck me."

Frank Grisholm felt sad he wasn't that guy. And more than a little ashamed for his lust for that tool. The college kid was cute as fuck but it was the monster meat between his legs that had me acting like a slut. "OK if I lick some more?"

"Be my guest," Jake said, hands on his hips as the man laved him. The thing about dicks that big is they're generally not as hard as smaller cocks. Too much blood flow needed for all that vascular tissue. But as Frank licked him, Jake grew harder and definitely sported a fuck hardon now.

"On your back, man," he hissed. "I wanna eat your hot hole."

The big man did as instructed and when he pulled those meaty legs back, Jake actually whistled before getting down into place. He stared at Frank's pucker and gently ran his finger around it. "So nice... you have a little looseness." He looked up at the guy, a horny expresion on his face. "You been playing with your toys all day, huh?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah. But none of them are as thick as you, kid."

That made Jake smile. "Should be a tight fuck, then," he growled and dove in to lick the hole.

Frank loved every part of this. On his back in some goddamn college drom room getting a very eager and skilled rim job. He had to imagine Jake's endowment meant he had a good deal of experience, if he wanted it. Now he softly urged the college stud in a deep gravely voice, coaxing to lick him deep.

The rimming didn't last TOO long. Maybe five minutes. But Frank's hole felt alive and ready. There had been too much stimulation and edging and now he wanted it.

Jake wasn't giving him a chance to back out. At least not unless and until the big guy said no. He slathered on some milky viscous lube, and Frank realized he'd seen it in some toy play videos. The college kid was actually nervous as he pushed that first fat inch past Frank's ring.

The ex-footballer wanted this, bad. But the entry stung and he did his best to hold back a wince.

Jake looked on concerned but also majorly turned on. "Yeah, man, first time's a bitch," he said. "But you got it." He reached down and ran his hands along Frank's beefy furry front. "I'm in ya now, buddy. So just relax and let me in."

Frank took a couple of deep breaths until he decided the heavy breathing was making him tense up.

"Want some poppers?" Jake asked.

"Um, yeah," Frank said. Sometimes they gave him a headache afterwards, but that would be worth it if it allowed him to take this massive cock.

Jake walked as the big guy huffed the fumes. "You're just my fucking type, man," He said excitedly as he fisted that tree trunk meat and added some extra viscous lube.

Frank screwed the cap back on the vial and lay it down on the mattress. He nodded up at Jake.

The poppers rush coincided with the college kid's second entry. That humongous prick was boring right into that slick ass and Frank's body was letting it.

"Fuck!" the big man growled. "You're huge."

"You like huge," Jake said in his turned on voice. He pressed on, feeling a crazy snugness but not an outright clenching of the man's guts, like he usually did with noobies. Soon he felt his balls press against that muscle ass. "I was right, man. You're tight as fuck."

Frank had lost his hardon earlier but the idea he had that giant dong buried all the way up him turned him on and made his cock bone up. He reached down and scooped up some extra lube and applied it to his cock.

Jake was now sawing in and out. Not a lot. But priming the pump. "Not gonna last long today, I'm afraid," he grunted. "Too fucking tight."

"That's OK," Frank said.

Jake nodded down to the poppers. "Take another hit," he urged. "You'll need it."

The ex-jock did just that. Then enjoyed the wave of warmth in his body. Jake was fucking now. Heavy full strokes. It wasn't rough or hard or fast, but with a tree trunk dick, it didn't have to be. Hands down, it was the most intense fucking Frank Grisholm had ever experienced. He tugged at his regular-sized boner and felt jolts of pleasure. His prostate was downright flattened by that torpedo-tapered dong, which sawed over it over and over.

"Shit!" Jake hissed. As he came, that was the only time he lost control, his hips jerking harder and fast as that bazooka blasted deep inside Frank. He'd actually had bottoms pass out with that part, but Jake couldn't help himself. When he was mid-nut, nature took over.

Fortunately, that extra intensity pushed Frank to the hardest cum of his life. Pleasurable to the point of hurting as ropes of seed got pushed out.

Before the poppers wore off, Jake was pulling back, very slowly. With size comes responsibility, and Jake was always careful in the dismount, at least until he knew a bottom was well trained for some rougher stuff.

His eyes were fixated on Frank's well-fucked hole. "Damn, that's one hell of a gape!" he enthused. "Fucking beautiful."

Frank felt exposed and slutty but the fact this kid liked his wide-open cummy hole made him less self-conscious.

"I wish I had more time to play with that," Jake said softly, actually wistfully as his fingers traced the gaping rim. "Is my finger OK, man?" he asked.

Frank winced a little. "I'm a little tender. But go ahead."

Jake was like a kid in the candy store as he examined his handiwork. The man's pucker was a little red and a lot stretched, though it was closing back up before his eyes. Frank leaned back and watched that giant college dong shrink to a soft elephant trunk.

Jake looked at Frank with a leer. "You think you'd ever be up for cunt training, man? You have an amazing pussy."

Two years ago, Frank would have objected to those terms. Now, he was OK with them. "What do you mean, cunt training?"

Jake smirked. "I've given some guys real big pussy lips, just by fucking regularly." He added, "though some of the dudes have also used toys. Either way, it's hot as fuck."

"I dunno," Frank hissed. He'd loved everything about taking on the challenge of Jake's cock, but he didn't want to be a freak or anything.

"Just think about it, man," he urged. He pulled up his finger and licked off the fuck juice from it. "You'd have a lot of fun doing it."

Jake patted his meaty thigh. "Listen, I really do need to study for my midterm. But dude, that was incredible... I'm glad you hit me up."

"Me too," Frank said sheepishly, gathering his energy to get dressed again. The popper headache was coming on, but he'd been right: this was all worth it.

"Seriously man," Jake said as he slipped his shorts back on over that soft heavy, flopping meat. "Let me know if you want a repeat. I'm not looking to date or anything, but it would be hot to have a longer session."

"We'll see," Frank answered, but with an encouraging smile. Jake stepped up for one last kiss, then Frank was off.

The whole way home, the ex-jock's hole felt tender and used, but that very feeling made him smile.

#drakestories

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strangefable · 7 months

Text

thank you for the many, many tags over the past... let's not count the time. but thank you to everyone who's continued to tag me for wips <3 most recently @inafieldofdaisies, @direwombat, @adelaidedrubman, @cassietrn, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @trench-rot, and many many more, thanks so much to everyone who thinks of me <3

today, i have a little bit of the opening chapter of the atlanta prequel to share:

Micah slowed her bike. Wouldn't do to get pulled over for speeding. Not with what sat strapped to the bike behind her. She felt the hard, sharp edges even through the leather of her jacket. She could almost hear ticking in the back of her mind; that thing may as well have been a bomb.

Hell, a bomb would’ve been less unnerving.

She followed the monotone, mechanical voice in her ear as it directed her to the appointed address. She felt a twinge in her neck as she tried to look up to the top of the building. Dark, ominous, sharp. It was a vague shape in the dark night sky, but it still felt foreboding as she gazed upward.

She pulled her helmet off and shook her head, releasing her hair as well as the chill along her spine. She was just a mechanic, but she was not going to get intimidated by some slick, rich asshole too impatient for his coke to wait for a regular mule.

As she entered the lobby, she saw the sleek marble floors, the stark modern architecture. There were heavy plaques on the wall with mysterious names. An office. A swanky, high tower one. Ballsy place to take in a delivery like the one she carried.

A man behind the security desk eyed her suspiciously. She offered him her sweetest, doe-eyed smile. “Hi, I have a delivery for…” she glanced down at her phone, “Mr. Duncan.” She looked back up at the security guard, still smiling warmly.

He grunted, waved his hand toward the metal detector. “Of course he’s still here,” he muttered to himself, before meeting her gaze.” 38, top floor.”

She hesitated as she stared at the metal detector’s arch. She took a few slow steps toward it, wondering how sensitive it was. At least she didn’t have to explain a gun, since hers was locked safely at home.

The detector went off as soon as she stepped through. She winced and stepped back.

The guard gave her a knowing look. “What’re you carrying?”

She attempted another smile. “Just a knife. It—”

He smirked and waved a hand. “Yeah, you’re not the first. Most of the couriers have some kind of protection these days. Can’t be too careful.” He nodded her through, ignoring the alarm as it went off again.

She nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.” His casual attitude about the whole thing surprised her, but she wasn’t about to argue. She wanted to get this over with and get the fuck out of here.

The whole place reeked of wealth and prestige and it made her skin crawl. So much metal and isolation from a single natural thing. So cold and uniform. She hated shit like this. Not that she’d admit it aloud, but it made her ache for home.

The elevator stopped at the top floor, and Micah ducked out swiftly, grateful to escape the grating music that jangled her nerves even more. Why did the wealthy always have such bland taste in everything?

She entered another lobby, but straight ahead was a formidable wall with a list of large, brass-lettered names behind a block of marble that must’ve been a reception desk. The woman seated there had a strained look on her features as she glanced over at Micah. Instead of a greeting, she only offered a stony, questioning stare.

Micah made a small sound in her throat. “Uhm. I…I have a delivery for Mr. Duncan. Urgent, I was told.”

The woman’s eyes went glassy at the name, and her expression seemed to grow even tighter. “Of course. Down the hall, Fourth door on your left.” She pointed to a hallway to her right.

Micah nodded and followed the directions. The lighting was low everywhere, probably dimmed to save cost outside of normal business hours. She wondered what kind of business it was they did here, then she stopped herself. She didn’t want any details at all. “I’m just a mechanic, that’s all.” She mumbled softly as she came to a stop outside the large, solid wood door.

It was floor to ceiling and she felt a sudden urge to run anywhere else. Instead, she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Yes?” The voice was smooth and sure, the barest edge of a threat beneath the word. Why did the image of a shark swerving beneath the water flash into her mind? She shook her head and pushed open the door.

“Delivery for Mr. Duncan.” It felt so stupid to say, but what the fuck else could she say? This was not her job. She would not let this become her job. She didn’t want the heat of being a mule; she’d made that abundantly fucking clear.

Yet here she stood.

“Come in.” The voice was clipped and cool, all business, but with an attempt at warmth. A small measure to pretend at civility, she supposed. She opened the door.

To her surprise, this room was not all sharp, sleek steel and concrete. It was lined everywhere with deep, rich wood. The scent of it filled her lungs, soothing, familiar. She blinked as her eyes took in the shelves lined with thick, heavy looking tomes. There was a wet bar taking up a whole wall, and it was where most of the room’s light came from.

That and the Tiffany lamp sitting on the gargantuan desk in the middle of the room.

A large, sleek, black, leather chairback greeted her. “You’re late.” The chair swiveled suddenly but soundlessly. A man with piercing blue eyes and a firm mouth stared at her. He peeked his fingers together in front of his face. One eyebrow lifted slightly as he took in the sight of her. “And you’re new.” A glint flashed in his eyes.

She narrowed her own. “No, I’m not. I’m doing a one time favor. Because, I’m told, you were very… insistent.”

His lips curved into a mirthless half smile. “Oh, is that how they phrased it?”

She snorted. “I could read between the lines. Not exactly anyone’s first choice to send a mechanic, but no one else was aw—available.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Mierda.” The whisper escaped her lips before she could stop herself. Shit. SHIT. She was saying too much.

She felt his eyes as he trailed them down her body. She felt them lingering around her curves, so easily displayed by her tight leathers. She shifted her weight and clutched her helmet closer to her body, as though it were a shield. A poor one, but what else did she have?

When she looked up again, she found his eyes staring directly into hers. His expression was unreadable as he forced his gaze on hers. She resisted the urge to clear her throat or look away. Something in his eyes reminded her of the predators she’d faced in the backcountry. You don’t look away from a predator when it’s sizing you up, so she steeled her nerves and met his gaze, her lips pressed thin and straight.

He smiled. Tight. Sharp. Too feline to be real, despite the straight, glaring whiteness of his teeth. It was a smile meant to disarm, but she knew better. “They have been rather… less than satisfactory of late. I’ve been considering exploring other avenues.” His eyes looked her up and down once more. “However, I might be amenable to changing my opinion.” As his eyes met hers again, the weight of his meaning settled heavy on her shoulders.

She shrugged slightly. “That’s above my pay grade. I’m just here to give you what you ordered.”

He ignored the package she held out to him. “You’re not curious?” He took a step toward her. His hand lifted, but instead of the package, he slipped his fingers around her wrist.

She shook her head. “They don’t pay me for that.”

“What do they pay you for?” Another step closer. His fingers tightened. His other hand rose to rest lightly against her waist.

tagging onwards (no pressure at all ever <3) @ivymarquis, @v0idbuggy, @derelictheretic, @henbased, @redreart, @wrathfulrook, @confidentandgood, @damejudyhench, @florbelles, @jillvalentinesday, @marivenah, @harmonyowl, @unholymilf, @shallow-gravy, @g0dspeeed, @strafethesesinners, @fourlittleseedlings, @voidika, @foibles-fables, @chazz-anova, @josephseedismyfather, @turbo-virgins, @roofgeese, @i-am-the-balancing-point, @poisonedtruth, @simplegenius042, @incognito-insomniac, @dumbassdep, @theelderhazelnut, @legally-a-bastard, @aceghosts and anyone i still have managed to miss in this list. (also if you don't want me tagging you, drop me an ask or a dm and no questions will be asked <3) edit: trying to fix tags.

#it is always so hard to know which pieces to share and where to cut into the full story #i had forgotten how difficult those choices are to make agh #anyway here is part of the beginnings of what happened in atlanta and how john and micah first met #i am loving writing this story again #hopefully that is enough tags to keep me out of any sitewide searches now #micah hale #ship: our sins make you mine #fablemade #strangefable writes #wip wednesday #if that doesn't work and this still just... i will delete everything #possibly my whole blog idk #not feeling great any more tonight

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dirtysvthoughts · 2 years

Note

i just can't stop thinking of sweet sex with seungcheol 😪😵 can u write a lil scenario/drabble abt it

a/n: oh my god, hey friends! it’s been a minute! last week was the atlanta svt concert (which was an AMAZING experience btw!), but the rest of the week i suffered bc i wasn’t getting enough rest 🥲 but we’re caught up and we’re back! i hope you enjoy this one! i missed writing for you guys these past few days!

this drabble/scenario features: seungcheol x female!reader

tags/warnings: established relationship, sweet, supportive “dirty” talk from both partners, basically all round good ole relationship vibes we all want and need in life

omfg sweet sex with cheol would be AMAZING - like you will feel heavenly bliss and the aftercare?! holy hell, why can’t i have him in my life..

imagine coming home after a date night and the whole night, he hasn’t kept his hands off you the minute he saw you. the whole date he kept whispering in your ear about how beautiful you looked, how lucky he was to have you, and how he intended on showing how much he loved you when you two were alone.

so when you finally step into your apartment and he closes the door behind him, he wastes no time. he closes any gaps between you two and kisses so tenderly, yet fervently. you feel your heat rising as you take off his jacket, moaning at how hard you can feel he is through his pants. you two make your way to the couch, your mouths refusing to leave each others.

“you’re so special to me, y’know,” he begins to undress you as he leaves you in your bra and panties, kissing his way down your body. “your personality, your beauty, your body - you’re the whole package and more.. words can’t explain how much i fucking adore you.”

you could cry in the tenderness of the moment. how did you end up with the most loving person on the planet? you’re so entranced by him that you almost don’t hear him talking to you.

“can i go ahead baby?”

“yes, make love to me like only you can.”

that was all the motivation he needed.

he adjusts and positions himself to thrust inside of you, and when you feel that first one - you thought you were ready, but he was already taking you to your edge.

“ch-cheol.. you’re so big,” you somehow manage to say through pursed lips and nearly teary eyes. “do you think you can go a little bit faster?”

seungcheol chuckles as he caresses your cheek and then gropes your breast, “sorry, sweetie - i intend on taking it slow today, wanna make you feel so good. you deserve to feel this way,” he grunts in your ear as he thrusts into you again, your wetness going straight to his dick.

“f-fuck, cheol, i-i don��t deserve you.. you’re my everything,” you loudly and sharply gasp when he adds a finger to the mix, softly rubbing your clit - and further pushing you to your blissful orgasm.

“you don’t deserve me? baby, i think it’s the other way around. you are my goddess, my light - i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“i. love. you.” he says dramatically as he brings you to a heavenly orgasm. hearing those three words from his deep voice felt so good to ears and to your core. but you wish it could’ve waited just a few more minutes.

“ugh, sorry,” you say regretfully, slightly pouting at yourself. “i wanted to give to you longer, cheol.”

“no need to apologize sweetheart, you are amazing and beautiful as always. did you ever notice you have a glow after your orgasm? i almost wanna take a picture of you like this.. all pretty and covered in your own juices,” he smirks as you bury yourself in his chest, lightly smacking it. you smile to yourself, hoping and praying that this feeling of happiness, peace, and security would never go away.

“i really meant it when i said you were my everything. i love you cheol.”

“i love you more baby.”

-kenny

#seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #svt x reader #svt smut #seventeen imagine #seventeen x female reader #seungcheol imagine #seungcheol smut #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol x reader #scoups imagine #scoups imagines #scoups smut #scoups x reader #seungcheol #scoups #dsvtt: answered asks

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 4 months

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For Klay “why don’t you just come here?”

"So coach thinks we have a-", Klay stopped speaking to let out a huge yawn, a smile creeping on his face when he heard you giggle on the other end of the phone. "Sorry, we're doing two a days right now. I'm exhausted."

Klay was in Denver playing a three game series with the Nuggets, and with your busy schedule, the two of you hadn't seen each other in over two weeks. Your nightly phone calls were the only thing keeping you afloat right now, you missed your boyfriend so much.

"No, don't apologize. You have a very cute yawn." You couldn't see him in the moment, but you knew Klay was blushing. As much as he loved to give you compliments, he was almost annoyingly dismissive of how much you loved him.

"What are you up to?" You listened to Klay shuffle around, assuming he was getting comfortable in bed, it was after midnight.

You were on your third business trip of the year for work, and it was getting harder and harder to tell the hotel rooms you were staying in apart. You tried to make the most of it by exploring the cities you visited, but it didn't change the fact that you just wanted to go home.

"Trying to pack re-pack my suitcase again. Its getting old wearing the same thing every couple of days, but only 48 hours before I'm back home. Can't wait to see you again, baby." Klay sucked in his teeth, and you let out a sigh, knowing it was nothing good.

"You're coming home, right?", you asked, already knowing the answer.

"We only get 24 hours off, so I was planning on going straight to Atlanta with the team."

"Klay...". You knew you sounded pitiful, but this just pushed you over the edge. "I'm sorry, babe. Its just not worth it."

"I know. I know. I don't mean to make you feel bad." You'd save your sulking for after you got off the phone.

"Why don't you just come here? We can spend the day in Denver and then you can come to Atlanta and catch a couple of games." Now it was your turn to suck in your teeth. Klay actually sounded excited about the idea, and that made you feel even more guilty for being apprehensive. "Or not, no pressure."

"No, no, I really want to. Its just-". You were telling the truth. You did want to join Klay on the team plane and get a chance to spend as much time with him, but you weren't sure if you wanted to live the life of a professional athlete's girlfriend. At least not yet. You had seen what social media could do to these women, and you always valued your privacy and independence more than anything. The moment the public found out you and Klay were together, all of that would change and you would be under scrutiny.

"I get it. You don't have to explain." You could hear the drop in his tone.

"Klay, please. I love what we have now. I don't want it to change." You plopped down on your bed, the thought of packing too much right now. "If its about your safety, I promise, you won't have to worry about anything."

"Its that", you nodded, "but also, I've seen what people have said about Ayesha, I don't think I'm ready for that." Klay sat up in bed and swung his feet over the side to hit the ground, resting his forearms on his thighs as he held his phone in his hands. "Listen, babe, if there's one thing I learned in this industry, its that people are always gonna talk. No matter how good you play, how good of a person you are, somebody will always have something to say. We can't let that keep us apart, okay?"

You let out a shaky breath. "How are you always so sure?"

"So sure of what?"

"About us. All of the doubts I've had, you've never waivered. Why?" Klay chuckled to himself. "I don't know. Its just always felt right. The only other time I've felt like this is when we won the finals. Being with you is like living that every single day."

There was a moment of silence as you had to resist the urge to squeal with glee, not wanting to scare Klay away. You did a little happy dance around the room, making sure he couldn't hear how happy you were to have him in your life.

"So, you'll come to Denver?" Klay couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Yes, I'll change my flight and come to Denver." You didn't even try to hide the eagerness with which you answered.

#klay thompson #klaythompson #klay thompson fan fiction #klay thompson concepts

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ciaossu-imagines · 1 year

Text

It’s been years, I think, since I wrote anything even slightly raunchy for Class of the Titans and I really enjoyed doing so again! I did my best to get in several characters, based on this prompt here, and hope you all enjoy!

Jay

Aqua: Top or bottom?

I think this is a little surprising, but Jay, while he can and will top, tends to be a bottom more of the time. He’s got a lot of pressure on him as a leader and people always expect him to know what he’s doing and to be in charge and I feel that sexually, he likes to just let go of all that and to relax and let someone else take charge for once. When he’s really stressed or worried about something is the times when he does take charge sexually.

Azure: What’s your biggest turn-on?

He gets really turned on by a lot of touch and he really likes it when his partner gives him back or shoulder rubs or offers him a massage. A full body massage is right up his alley and he’ll be trembling and painfully hard by the end of the massage, right on the edge of orgasm and he’ll desperately need his partner to give him that release.

Baby: Have you ever had sex with someone of the same gender?

This is just my personal headcanon, and if your view of Jay differs than I fully support that, but I do think Jay is straight, without even a hint of bicurious tendencies, and I don’t think he’s into the idea of having sex with the same gender and has never done so.

Theresa

Carolina: Have you ever had sex with someone of a different gender?

I do think that Theresa has been with someone of a different gender, and I actually feel that she’d be one of the earlier ones to lose her virginity, probably in her mid-to-late teens.

Cerulean: What’s your biggest turn-off?

It doesn’t seem like it would be her biggest turn-off to most people, but it really is. Theresa is really into her partner’s taking good care of themselves and heavy sweat or body odour will make her completely turned off, as will bad morning breath or a lack of personal grooming.

Cyan: What’s your sexual orientation?

As anyone who has read this blog for a bit knows, I’m not into discussing my takes on a character’s sexual orientation just because I don’t want to stir up any controversy, but rest assured that I am completely cool with however you want to headcanon Theresa’s sexual orientation.

Herry

Cobalt: Rough or soft?

Herry will never purposefully go into sex meaning to be rough and he tries really hard to hold back, since he is aware of his own strength. He prefers softer sex, either just really romantic or lazy or caring. That being said, when he gets really lost in pleasure, he can lose a little bit of his self-control and things can get quite rough, especially when he’s getting close to his orgasm.

Cornflower: Are you a virgin?

Herry’s one of the last to lose his virginity. His grandmother had the talk with him fairly early in his life and while she explained the details, she also hammered it into his head that he shouldn’t rush to lose his virginity, that it was to be a gift between two people who truly love each other, and Herry wouldn’t really want to lose his virginity until he really fell in love for the first time.

Denim: Are you naturally submissive or dominant?

Because of his size, a lot of people would just assume that Herry was more into being dominant sexually but he’s really not. He actually leans more towards being submissive sexually and is so eager to please his lovers, willing to let them take the lead or to follow their orders. That being said, he’s not into anything more extreme than maybe being tied up, and he wouldn’t like a harder dom or anything degrading in the slightest. He needs a soft dom, who will give him praise and encouragement and won’t push his limits too much.

Atlanta

Electric: Do you prefer lingerie to regular underwear?

Not at all. Atlanta lives in her sports bra and plain cotton underwear and I feel she’d actually be really into boxer shorts, especially the ones designed for women, especially in fun patterns or prints.

Indigo: Do you like phone sex?

No. This is actually a pretty hard no for her. It’s just awkward and it does nothing for her and, if a partner was to keep pushing for it or trying to instigate it, it actually turns her off quite a bit.

Lapis: What’s your best fantasy?

Atlanta has a really big kink for sex outdoors. She wants to go for midnight runs that end with getting rutted against a tree or her riding her partner desperately in a forest clearing, the sound of nature and the feeling of the wind on her skin just enhancing the sounds of sex and pleasure and the feeling of deep need and approaching orgasm.

Odie

Midnight: Are you into role-play?

I do see this being a kink for Odie. He likes sexy costumes on his partner and especially sexy cosplays from his favourite comics, videogames, and shows. Most of his roleplay would veer into geeky territory, though he does have a thing for student-teacher roleplays or the hot librarian roleplay.

Oxford: Have you ever had sex with more than one person in a 24 hour period?

No. And it will remain a no forever, even if it is a kink of his partner’s and even if his partner gives him permission. Odie is so incredibly monogamous that the idea of being with more than one person sexually makes him a little nauseous. He doesn’t even find the idea of a threesome appealing, despite it being one of the most common male fantasies.

Periwinkle: Do you use sex toys often?

I don’t think Odie uses sex toys all that often. He has an interest in sex toys and he’s really into the idea of using one but he’s really quite shy with his sexuality and he’s too embarrassed to order them online and definitely wouldn’t ever be able to walk into a sex shop to buy one.

Neil

Persian: Would you do public sex at all?

Okay, I know this might seem out there, but I feel, what with his inflated ego, high opinion of his own attractiveness, and need for attention that Neil actually would do porn with a partner if they were at all up to it. He’d be completely fine with them not wanting their own face shown and he wouldn’t brag about it, but he definitely enjoys filming them having sex and would throw it up on PornHub.

Powder: Vanilla sex or spiced up?

Neil needs a mixture of both. He can get bored pretty easily sexually. He still wants vanilla sex, especially if he’s feeling blue or if he’s in a lazy period, but he wants there to be some sexual adventure in his sex life. When he and his partner are experimenting sexually or indulging in kinks, he wants those occasions to be more of a big deal, with more effort put into those times.

Prussian: Confess a kink to me?

Neil really likes to watch himself have sex, so he’ll really enjoy having sex with a partner in front of a mirror. In his own bedroom, he’ll probably install a mirror on the ceiling just so that he can always see the action from multiple angles, no matter what position he’s in.

Archie

Royal: What’s your favourite position?

Archie’s actually really simple in terms of his taste and he’ll really enjoy most of the basic vanilla positions, though he does like cowgirl position a little more than some of the others because of the visual aspects of it. However, he does need a lot of changing it up in terms of positions during sex to actually reach orgasm.

Sky: Do you read smut/watch porn?

I actually have this pretty strong headcanon that not only does Archie read smut, but he writes it too. He’s really popular in a couple of fandoms, or on places like Wattpad where he posts more original writings, for his erotic writing.

Teal: Where was the strangest place you ever had sex?

Archie is another one who I could see being quite into having sex in nature, provided that it was done in a more private setting. I think he’s probably had sex in a cave while out hiking, with that being the strangest place for him.

Tiffany: Would you/do you do sex work?

That’s one of Archie’s heaviest hard no’s. He’s not puritanical, by any means, but he does have a healthy respect for sex and doesn’t believe it should be a really casual thing and I think he’d have a less than stellar view of those who did do sex work.

Cronus

Turquoise: Have you ever taken part in group sex?

Yes. It was a different time, the time of the Titans, a time when morals weren’t quite so rigid and hedonistic tendencies flourished.

True: Do you remember your first time?

I really don’t think that Cronus would remember his first time. Being immortal, he’s had eons of experience and living and pleasant memories tend to be easily discarded from his mind.

Ultramarine: Do you do/enjoy oral?

I feel like Cronus is actually really good at giving oral sex but won’t get his partner off that way. He’ll get them most of the way there, but he refuses to let them cum anywhere besides around his cock. As far as receiving, he’s really into that as he loves seeing his partner on their knees for him, but he really doesn’t much care for deep throat-fucking. The noise actually turns him off more than it turns him on.

#class of the titans #cott #cott headcanons #odie cott #jay cott #herry cott #theresa cott #archie cott #atlanta cott #neil cott #spicy headcanons

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penn-central-official · 9 months

Text

You all seem to like the map dunkings so here's another one

This map is also very dumb. Possibly dumber. It is also geographically unaware, but introduces a bafflingly arbitrary exclusion or inclusion of different lines. Virginia Beach and Norfolk? Sure, let's go there but Birmingham? New Orleans? Not a chance. These (majority black) cities don't need transportation.

What I think has gone wrong here is the creator of this map is looking at city populations not metro area population. Metro area population in my opinion should be considered. They come across as a European who doesn't know American railroads.

Okay now for the senseless dunking.

-thats not where Atlanta is.

-a branch to San Jose makes no sense, just go through San Jose. (Also that's not where San Jose is)

-the Western section mirrors California HSR's map but doesn't follow it, this is silly as CHSR already had a decent map.

-Philadelphia to Pittsburgh may not be pheasable to construct direct because of the existence of mountains. What would be done about them is unclear because this map was made with a straight edge.

-the South East was baffling not made with a straight edge only in sections that doing so would feel more justified. The section running from "Atlanta" (Cartersville) to Chattanooga and Nashville wouldn't be that straight.

-the creator seems to acknowledge that people might want to travel from Portland to Vancouver. Including this in this way is a compromise that pleases nobody and annoys everyone.

-dont call yourself a Guru, it's cringe.

-I don't take advice from Pregar U approved sources.

-thats not where Toronto is. There is a lake in the way.

-Map seems to go out of its way to serve Kingston Ontario. This makes no sense as every other similar instance it seems to avoid as many people as possible.

Do not go bully this person. Seriously. It's not like they are threatening anyone. I didn't make this disclaimer for the last map because it's hard to attribute it to one person. This one can be. And I blocked their name. Because you should not bother this person.

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thesinglesjukebox · 24 days

Text

CARDI B - "ENOUGH (MIAMI)"

youtube

We can't get enough of Cardi, which is why you'll be seeing her again later today...

[6.23]

Alfred Soto: A flex that tries to cow the feeble backing track, "Enough" is a demonstration of Cardi B's talent for a contempt that makes exceptions for consonants. No one human enough to mind sits on the receiving end of "Enough" -- this is pure brand extension and proud of it. [7]

Katherine St. Asaph: I think I just took physical damage. [7]

Leah Isobel: Cardi is truly Azealia's daughter. Just like her mother, she can do some truly phenomenal things with a consonant sound; the way she launches the word "sluts" off her tongue or pushes the plosives into her nose on "got 'em thick like peanut butter/bitches is jelly about it" is pure ear candy. The glee in her voice elevates "Enough" past its vaguely tacky brand management, but not past its slightness. [6]

Oliver Maier: Cardi virtually feels like an elder statesman at this point, and her aggressive, carpet-bomb style of rapping would feel quaint and outdated if it wasn't still so fun to hear her do it. There's a real tactility to her flow that it took me a while to appreciate, but the way that she doubles down on certain plosives and syllables while snubbing others entirely is so clearly a strength rather than a weakness. She regularly pronounces about half of the letters of the word "fuck" and it still feels ballistic. Comfortably her best song since "Up" with bonus points for the "How Many Licks?" reference. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Less a Cardi B song than the outline of a Cardi B song – if I turn "Enough" around in my mind I can imagine where a more engaged Cardi could fill in more compelling material, lines that would hit harder if they had a more specific image or funnier joke. Instead, we've got this, which is not quite there in so many ways that the whole thing capsizes. Dayenu? Not this time. [4]

Jeffrey Brister: I’ve always enjoyed Cardi B a lot more in this stripped-down, straight-ahead context. It gives the spotlight to her technical skill and hilarious writing, laden with punchlines and laugh out loud moments (three shots an’ I’m ready to FUCK -- girl, same). This is the most satisfying kind of meat-and-potatoes rap. [9]

TA Inskeep: I want and expect more from Cardi at this point than just endless boasting. [5]

Nortey Dowuona: "Her" has four producers. "Enough" has three. Maybe it should've had a 4th to fix the chorus. Or the drums. Then again, "Sweetest Pie" had five producers, OG Parker and Romano amongst them, so maybe it's not just the number. Maybe it's OG Parker's fault... wait, he made "Thot Shit"? "Slippery"? "On It"? "Ur Best Friend"? "LIGER"? Was this youngblood Parker on the boards today? [0]

Dave Moore: Cardi B's charm is effortless, so even a track that seems like it was assembled on autopilot has something to recommend it, grimly "hard-edged" (read: dull) though it may sound. She sounds fantastic on the Shakira single; maybe she should make a harder artistic pivot. Pick any direction you like... how about Cowboy Cardi? [6]

Ian Mathers: Whereas some of Cardi's more notable rivals have, err, notably dropped off over time, this is her firmly succeeding in "Bodak Yellow" mode except... I think I like it a little better? The delivery and wordplay are even more confident (points for referencing "Just Say That" and "Knuck If You Buck" without just copying them), it's got a better chorus, and the production is simple but effective. You can get away with a lot when your core is this strong. [8]

Taylor Alatorre: Atlanta's cultural hegemony over 21st century hip-hop is such that a back-to-basics NYC drill track can use "Knuck if You Buck" as its central signifier for choosing violence, and no one bats an eyelash. Not that I'm the first person to observe this, of course, but Cardi isn't exactly giving me much to work with here. The beat is clean, suggesting danger without creating it; the flow is lean, snapping at haters without devouring them. One gets the sense that this was written as a comeback single, but for better or worse it doesn't take the kinds of risks that are traditionally associated with such mass-marketed stabs in the dark. It is the first-ever notable release in the history of popular music to use the term "regular-degular," though, and one figures that has to be worth something. [6]

Isabel Cole: Cardi always marries boastful menace with silliness so well. I hope this song kicks off a trend of don't-fuck-with-me rap songs expressing badassery through fun animal facts and Dr. Seuss homages. [7]

Mark Sinker: So this one has a little star, and this one has a little car Say! What a lot of bitch there are [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#cardi b #music #rap #hip hop #music writing #music reviews #music criticism #the singles jukebox #Youtube

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okaylikesmomo · 1 year

Text

Chapter 13: Sharon

The shuttle arrives at the hotel and finally after a long day of travel you made it to Atlanta. The girls were definitely exhausted, as Jihyo feebly tried to cheer them up while they grabbed their bags.

"Girls, we made it, think about how sad it would have been for Once if we had to cancel the show!" Jihyo says, trying to convince herself just as much as the other girls that she was in high spirits.

A few of the members muster up smiles as there is a general mumble of agreement. It was different, seeing the girls look so tired. You understood though, they had already done so many concerts and so much traveling, it was no surprise that they were getting tired. As someone who has seen the amount of extra work they have to put in outside of the three hours or so of performance per concert, you really respected their perseverance. Hours spent doing makeup, traveling, rehearsals, and various other prep would really take a toll on anyone.

The girls just needed a bit of rest, and you were sure that tomorrow they would all wake up refreshed and energetic as always, ready to perform. There were some brief talks about getting lunch together before the concert as the girls made their ways to their rooms. One by one the girls went to their rooms until it was just you and Mina walking together through the hotel hallways.

Mina was the exception to the group as she walked with a light bounce in her step, somehow still full of energy, "the night's not over yet," she says as she walks with you.

You knew this was coming. Mina sat next to you on the shuttle and definitely kept you wide awake during the ride as she was very handsy with you. The short session on the flight was definitely not enough to satisfy Mina's craving for you, and with how much the girl has been teasing you lately you were far from satisfied. The two of you arrive at Mina's door and you consider dropping your bags off at your own room first but you decide there was no point. Frankly, there was no point in even having your own room with how little time you actually spend in it.

You follow Mina in and drop your bags by the door so you can turn to lock it. Before you can even finish turning back around, Mina forces herself onto you, her mouth colliding with yours as your back gets slammed into the door. You can already tell what kind of session Mina wanted tonight, but she confirms it completely when she bites your lip.

You let out a small yelp from the pain as Mina giggles, "same safe word," and runs over to her bed, sitting on the edge. You walk into the room, following her, feeling your lips where you think you could taste the slightest amount of blood.

By the time you walk up to the bed, Mina had already stripped down and was just wearing her underwear now. As you stand there in front of her, she looks up at you with puppy dog eyes. She was wasting absolutely no time tonight.

"I've been naughty, are you going to punish me," she asks while pouting up at you, emphasizing the last two words.

You lean down and unclasp her bra, letting it fall down and expose her chest. You stare at her body for a moment, composing yourself for what was to come. She reaches for your belt but you grab her hands firmly.

"Like you said, you deserve to be punished," you say, gripping her wrists hard, "you don't get to do anything tonight unless I say."

Mina can barely contain her excitement as she lowers her hands back to her side and nods up at you.

You bring your palm to her cheek and give it a little slap. It was barely more than a pat, as you didn't want to actually hurt her. You unbuckle your pants and drop them to the ground, letting your cock get right up next to her face. You lean down and whisper into her ear, "and what do you do if you can't say the safeword."

She pinches your thigh twice, showing you that she remembers the signals that the two of you previously established. You stand up straight and place your hand on the back of her head.

"Knees," you command.

Mina obeys as she slides off the bed and onto her knees before you. You grab her head with both hands and immediately guide her mouth to your cock. You angle her head, making sure you can clearly see her pretty face, as you press her mouth against your cock. She parts her lips and you enter her, moving her head back and forth. It doesn't take very long for you to become fully erect as the topless girl lets you use her mouth freely. You can feel her start to move on her own accord, without the need of your hands.

You remind her that you are in control of her tonight by pressing her head all the way forward, holding her face to your crotch. Her hand moves up to your thigh and you wait a moment, giving her a chance to signal stop if she needed. She doesn't. You push forward even more so that she is slightly leaning back and hold her for a few moments before pulling her head back all the way and then pushing forward again. You repeat the motion of going all the way back and all the way forward a few more times. You withdraw your cock, Mina's saliva making a trail from the tip to her lips as she coughs lightly. She looks up at you, not even close to her limit yet.

"Use my throat, I deserve it," she gasps.

You stroke yourself, coating your shaft with her saliva evenly and step forward so that your balls are hanging above her face. You let her capture her breath briefly as she licks your balls. You notice her hand between her legs, rubbing her underwear as she licks you. You step back and pull her up so she's standing in front of you.

"Nuh uh, I didn't say you could touch yourself."

She pouts, "I'm sorry."

You grab her shoulders and turn her around before pushing her forward onto the bed, bending her over it. You pull her underwear, the same ones that were in your mouth just a couple hours ago, down to her ankles. You spread her cheeks, squishing away at her gorgeous ass and observing her cute little asshole. You raise your hand and give her right cheek a big smack, her ass rippling in a wave.

"Sorry for what?" you ask.

"I'm sorry for not listening," she whines.

"Are you going to do it again?"

"No."

You slap her left cheek this time, leaving a red imprint of your hand, "No, what?"

"No I won't do it again," she moans.

You admire her round ass, wanting nothing more than to shove your face into it, but you control yourself. It wasn't time for that. You reach forward and pull her up from her shoulders so that she is upright again. With both hands, you take her tits into your hands, feeling the softness and pinching at her nipples until they are hard. You reach down between her legs and coat your hand in her juices.

"Lay down," you order her, positioning her so that she is laying down flat on her back on the bed with her head hanging over the bottom of it and her feet up towards the pillows.

You step over her so that you are standing at the base of the bed, her face between your legs, and lower yourself slightly so that your balls rest on her lips. She resumes the licking at your command, this time taking your balls into her mouth and sucking on them. You stroke yourself slowly with the hand covered in her juices. You lift your balls out of her mouth, making her release them with a slight popping noise.

Her breaths hit your cock as you reposition slightly so that your shaft is angled downwards. You squat so that your cock can enter her mouth, bending forward and placing your hands on the bed next to her legs to prop yourself up. You're now in a pseudo sixty-nine position with her laying on the bed while you stand. You start thrusting into her mouth as you feel her hands rest on your thighs, staying aware of her touch just in case. You thrust hard and deep into her throat, the sound of her gagging increasing with each one.

Raising one hand you give her pussy a little slap, making sure to be a bit gentle as you knew how much this could hurt. You rub your fingers up and down her folds while thrusting your cock down her throat. You rub her entire pussy, spreading her fluids all around, coating her ass as well. Using your fingers, you spread her lips so that the light pink is showing clearly. You stop thrusting for a moment and lean down all the way, giving her a singular lick and then blowing cold air onto her pussy before lifting yourself back up and resuming the thrusting.

Mina struggles to make much coherent noise with your cock filling her mouth, but you are pretty sure you can hear her moan of disappointment as you tease her pussy with your mouth. You lift your cock out of her mouth, giving her a few seconds as she gasps and catches her breath, before plunging your lower body back down into her mouth. You go slightly slower now and not as hard, giving her a bit of a break.

You reach your hands forward and grab the back of her thighs, pulling her legs up towards you. Then you slide your hand back down between her legs, rubbing them down her pussy and between her ass. You insert your middle and ring fingers and begin thrusting into her little asshole while still fucking her mouth. You can hear her moaning in pleasure. With your free hand, you occasionally rub her clit. Not enough to make her cum, but just enough to keep her on edge.

After continuing for a few minutes, you remove your cock and fingers from her body. You step back and admire your work so far, as her chin is covered in saliva and her pussy has been leaking excessively onto the bed, leaving a puddle. You lift her up so that she is no longer laying there with her head hanging over the edge. Her face was a bit red and she was breathing heavily. You give her a few moments to recover, as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"You've been teasing me a lot lately," you say as you walk towards her bag. You rummage through it until you find what you were looking for.

Mina notices the straps in your hands and can barely contain her excitement, but she sits patiently on the bed awaiting your next order. You guide Mina so that she's on her hands and knees, doggystyle position on the bed. You slide the little strap across her ass.

"Are you going to tease me more?"

Mina looks back over her shoulder at you and bites her lip before answering, "no."

You whip the strap against her ass, the sound cracking through the room making it sound a lot harder than it actually was.

"We've been over this before, no what?"

"No I won't tease you," she whimpers.

You slide the strap between her legs, rubbing her pussy.

"Do you deserve to cum."

She nods her head, "yes please."

You whip her again, this time just a bit softer.

"Do you deserve to cum," you repeat.

"N-no I don't," she stutters.

You place your hand on her ass, feeling the warmth where the strap hit. Her cheeks had a rosy glow.

"Should I fuck you?"

She hesitates, trying to figure out what the correct answer is as she looks back at you.

"Y-yes please?" she says unconfidently.

You raise the strap up high and she shuts her eyes tight, bracing for the hit. But it never comes. You lower the straps and massage her ass for a moment, relishing in the softness of her skin. You grab her hands and pull them back behind her body, making her face fall forward into the bed. You tie her hands together and then loosen the strap to put the other loop around her neck. Her arms were now tied behind her back and attached to her neck. You give her wrists a small tug and watch as her head moves back in response.

You let go of her hands and let her face fall to the bed again. You climb onto the bed, on your knees behind her. You take your penis and guide it towards her pussy. You enter with ease, as she was dripping wet at this point, and plunge balls deep into her pussy. Mina moans loud, finally being satisfied by your cock. But it was short lived. You pull back and withdraw your cock from her pussy entirely. She looks back at you, her expression looking like she was about to start crying, but she remains silent.

You slap her ass again, eliciting a small gasp from her. "You'll have to work a bit harder if you want that," you whisper.

Mina could barely contain her disappointment, "please, what can I do," she begs.

You position your tip against her tight asshole and push forward, your bodies already drenched in Mina's bodily fluids. Her ass accepts your cock and Mina cries out in pleasure as you insert yourself.

"Make me cum and I'll consider it."

You see her smile for just a brief moment before she turns her head to face forward, away from you. Accepting your challenge, she begins moving her body back and forth, fucking herself in the ass with your cock. She was using you as if you were a sex-toy attached to the wall. Her body moved fast, back and forth, and she began doing small circles with her lower body. It was impressive, the amount of body control the girl had. You loved fucking dancers.

The way she moved made it look like her ass offered no resistance, but it was tight. You looked down and could see her asshole gripping your cock as she slid back and forth. Luckily she was wet enough, because this time you didn't add any extra lube like you normally would. You grab her hands, gently reminding her of the constraints, but you only give a very small tug. You let her work her body on your cock, and you quickly felt your orgasm coming.

With your free hand, you slap her ass again. This time a bit harder than before, leaving a small mark. You see her body shake, but she keeps fucking you. You let go of the straps and place both hands on her ass, gripping onto her as you are mere moments away from cumming. You give her one last slap before you begin exploding inside her tight little ass.

As you fill her up, pump by pump, she starts slowing down. You watch your cock pulse inside her, noticing now that her back was coated in a layer of sweat; She was working. You pull back, the cum quickly leaking down her leg. You grab your cock and slide it up her thigh, collecting the white goo on your tip to the best of your ability. You stand up on the bed and step in front of her, putting your cum covered tip into her mouth. She sucks at it enthusiastically, licking as much of your cum off as she could.

You stroke her hair as she cleans your cock, "you've been a very good girl."

You step off the bed and grab a wipe from her bag, quickly cleaning your cock off. Mina was still in doggy position in the bed, using her hand to rub her asshole. It must be a lot more sore than she was willing to admit. You walk back to the bed, behind her again. The bed was completely soiled at this point as Mina was dripping all over it, and now your cum was also spread across it.

Considering she had a concert tomorrow, you figured it would be best to not push limits. You massage her ass a bit, hoping to reduce some of the soreness for tomorrow as you reposition yourself on your knees behind her. With one hand on her lower back and the other hand gripping your shaft, you slowly push into her pussy once more.

She moans quietly, still unsure if you were going to actually fuck her this time. Her apprehensiveness, however, was unnecessary. You had teased her enough already. You start fucking her pussy at a steady pace, not too fast but also not too slow. You could see drops of her juices flying out of her pussy already, further soiling the bed sheets. You bring your thumb to her asshole and lightly massage it, too.

Her pussy never once stops leaking as you fuck her, making you wonder if she was going to become dehydrated. It really took no time at all to make her cum, as you could feel her pussy getting tighter rapidly. You keep thrusting away at a steady pace, playing with her ass while you do. After what was probably only a couple of minutes, she cums. Her legs start trembling and her pussy gushes a bit as you feel the pressure on your cock. You reach forward and grab her hands, yanking them back as she cums.

Her cries fill the air as her orgasm takes over. As the straps choked her slightly, you felt her pussy tighten even more. She was a mess, her whole body shaking as she rode out the orgasm. You keep thrusting, slowly and methodically, letting her enjoy every second of the orgasm. This had to be one of her longest orgasms ever, as it felt like she was never going to stop, but eventually she did.

You untie the straps and sit down at the head of the bed, propped up on the pillows. You watch as Mina lets her body fall to the bed, finally free from the restraints. She was in a state of bliss as she lay there on her stomach, one hand between her legs slowly rubbing her pussy. She turns to face you and smiles, before sliding up the bed and laying on your chest.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

She reaches her hand back and rubs her ass, "I can take a hundred of those slaps again no problem, but whipping the strap really hurts."

You reach your hand down her body and also rub her ass a bit before kissing her forehead, "I'm sorry, now we know for next time."

She giggles and kisses your cheek, "I liked it though."

You pinch her butt playfully, "in that case, next time I won't be softer." You look down at the completely soiled bed sheets, "maybe we sleep in my room tonight."

Mina laughs again, "yeah good idea, but first I think I still need to finish you off."

You wouldn't have minded, as you had already cum once earlier, but you knew that Mina wouldn't let it go. She slides down and starts blowing you, while you take the time to massage her cute bum.

You wake up and turn to your side, watching the black haired girl sleep. Her gentle breaths alongside the movement of her chest up and down was cathartic. You bring your hand to her face and move her hair to the side, giving you a clear look at her. She had an ethereal beauty to her, her resting expression in a slight frown. As you move her hair, she slowly opens her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," you apologize.

She sat up, the blanket falling down as she raised her arms to the roof and stretched. Her small top rode up, exposing her tummy and abs. She rubbed her eyes before dropping her arms calmly to her side and turning to face you with a smile. Even waking up was a graceful event for her.

"I slept great, don't worry," Mina says with a smile as she gets off the bed and walks to the bathroom.

You grab your phone from the side table and quickly take a look at your emails as you hear the shower turn on in the bathroom. Nothing of major importance, but you were told that you weren't needed for setup at the venue for today's concert, so you could arrive a bit later. You open up the Twice group chat where a few messages were sent earlier.

JH: Is anyone actually awake

NY: I am, Momo is not

JY: Ya but I'm tired

JH: I think we cancel lunch, pretty sure everyone is tired

NY: agreed

Sounds like the girls had canceled the plans already, you start typing on your phone.

Y/N: I can get some extra snacks set for before the concert and then I'll have food ordered for afterwards

MM: are you the snack

JY: Momo stupid

JH: I guess Momo woke up, that sounds perfect Y/N!

CY: Dahyun also wants to know if you are the snack.

You spend a bit of time browsing social media as you lay in bed, reading comments on the posts about how Twice almost had to cancel the show. There were a handful of articles on various tabloid sites as there always are anytime Twice does literally anything. Some of them were pretty click-baity, claiming that Twice was canceling their tour and all that. A lot of people get annoyed by these types of articles, but you did see a bit of humor in their absurdity. While the company would quickly shut down any damaging rumors being spread, there was no point in making a big deal about the very obviously insane ones.

You put your phone away as you hear the bathroom door open. Mina walks back into the room with a towel wrapped around her body and using another towel to dry her hair. She looked so pretty, standing there as the towel hid none of her curves. She had a small frame, but her body was stunningly curvy.

"You're still in bed?" she asks, tilting her head.

"The girls were tired, plans got canceled, we have some extra time."

She pouts, "so I could have stayed in bed?"

"Nothing is stopping you from coming back."

"You'd like that wouldn't you," she says as she turns to her bag and pulls out an oversized shirt.

You sit up, leaning on the headrest and watch her from behind when you notice something, "wait, isn't that my shirt?"

She drops the towel, revealing her nude body for a moment before she slips into the shirt. It was way too big on her, but she looked so cute wearing it. The oversized shirt with no pants look was definitely a good one on her.

Mina walks over to the bed and straddles you, smiling wide, "so I guess we have some time to kill."

This girl was insatiable at times, not that it bothered you.

"How do you propose we do that," you reply, "should we watch a movie?"

She moves her face into your neck and utters just one word, "no."

"Should we listen to music?" you ask as you slide your hands up her thighs, feeling her body up.

"No," she states before kissing your neck gently.

You move your hands further up and around her body until they find her ass and you press your palms into her cheeks, "should we read something?"

Mina moves her face up from your neck until she is face to face with you, staring into your eyes. This time she whispers, "no," before moving her face forward.

Her tongue enters your mouth as your noses brush up against each other and her eyes shut. Her lips were softer than normal, probably because of the shower, and it seems she had put on a gloss that tasted slightly sweet. Her hands rested on your chest while your hands grabbed handfuls of her ass. But you were gentle, matching the softness of her tranquil movements.

Your mouths part and she opens her eyes. Mina's expression was screaming that she wanted you, but not like last night. She wanted you as a lover, not a fucktoy; That was just how Mina was, either on one extreme or the other. You let her take a quick breath before this time you press forward into her, resuming your kiss. Your hands move past her ass and slide up her back. You rub her soft skin as your tongues intertwine. Her body was not entirely dry from the shower, but it was warm. You reach down and pull the shirt she had just put on up over her head, as your mouths are forced apart briefly.

You take a moment to admire her nude body. You've seen Mina's body ample times within the last 24 hours, but this morning it was different. She had a celestial glow to her this morning as she sat on your lap, taking deep breaths. Her entire torso was moving up and down, maintaining eye contact with you. Once again the two of you lean forward, this time equal amounts. Her hands move up to your face, caressing your cheeks as she breathes into your mouth.

You move your hands up her body, admiring every inch, until they are just below her breasts. Instead of grabbing her small mounds, you slide your hands around her body to her back once more. Your bodies press into each other as you hug her tight, your mouth still working in tandem with hers. You feel her arms wrap around your bare chest as she embraces you. It would have been no bother to you if this moment lasted forever.

Mina shifts her body slightly, removing the tight contact with your body while still keeping her lips on yours. You feel her hand slide around your bare body until it slides into your boxers. You feel her fingers wrap around your shaft as she slowly and softly pumps it to life. You let her take full control of the moment as you just enjoy the ride. Mina eventually stops kissing you once she feels your cock harden and slides off your body, pulling your boxers down to your ankles. You help her remove the garment and let your cock stand up straight.

She positions herself on her knees between your legs. She lowers her upper body until her face is just above your upright cock as she continues to stare into your eyes. Her ass is lifted, and you can see it in your periphery, but you keep your eyes locked on hers. She brings both hands to your shaft, locking her fingers, and slowly moves them up and down, stroking you with utmost care. She leans down and plants a kiss on your tip.

You watch as Mina kisses your tip a couple more times before she straightens her body again. Again, she brings her lips to yours and resumes making out with you. Her hands stayed locked together, still pumping away at your shaft slowly and gently. You don't know how long it went on for, but eventually you stop her. It was difficult, but now it was her turn.

You flip her around so that she's on her back, her knees bent and in the air, surrounding your body. You give her a short kiss on her lips. Then you move down and kiss her chin, her neck, between her breasts, and her tummy. Each movement is slow and calculated, tasting every piece of her skin as you work your way down. You were now face to face with her most intimate part.

She was wet, and you're sure it wasn't because of the shower. You place your hands under her thighs to hold her steady and then you take your tongue and run it around her pussy in a circle. You leave a big trail of saliva around her lips, tasting her soft skin. You kiss her clit, spending a bit longer here than you did with the rest of her body, making Mina moan slightly as you do. Then you open your mouth wide and place it on her entire pussy, engulfing as much of her lady parts as you can before you start licking away.

Mina erupts in moans as you eat her out. Your tongue works efficiently as your hands lightly massage her legs, your only goal was to satisfy the girl. You're quick, but not aggressive. It was clear that Mina was liking it as you feel her body squirming, using your hands to hold her somewhat steady while still giving her the freedom to lose control. Time flashes by as after what feels like seconds you feel Mina's lower body rising off the bed.

Her pussy was now angled upwards, giving you even better access to it. Her moans were getting louder, but becoming more muffled as her thighs began to squeeze the sides of your head. Your hands slide upwards a bit, helping support her body by holding her up from her ass as she starts shaking. You can feel her cumming as her legs shake around your face. You close your lips slightly, still attached to her pussy, and begin kissing her clit again. Mina's lower body falls down to the bed and her legs straighten out. You lift your face up from between them and look at her. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was the heaviest it has been yet. She opens her eyes and looks at you. She has the softest expression ever as she smiles.

You lean forward and kiss her again as she hugs you. Her eyes were a bit glossy, and you use a finger to carefully wipe them for her as she lays there and lets you, leaving herself in a more vulnerable state this morning than she ever was last night. Your hand rests next to her head.

"Fuck me," she whispers purely despite the vulgar wordage.

"How?" you ask softly while having an idea of her desire.

She stares at you and answers without speaking as she spreads her legs wide. You knew this time, in contast to last night, she only wanted the most intimate positions; there would be no animalstic fucking from behind. You loved Mina's duality, it fit her so well. You kiss her again before backing up and pushing her legs together. You lift them up so she is bent 90 degrees at her waist, her feet pointed towards the roof. You slide your cock in her thigh gap, rubbing against her wet pussy and sliding all the way forward.

Her folds wrap around your shaft, while her thighs create a tight pocket for you to fuck. You start moving your body back and forth, hearing the wet sounds of her pussy sliding across your cock. You move her legs to the side slightly so you can see Mina's face clearly as you thigh-fuck her. Your hands grab her calves, holding them together for her. You move forward even more, bending her body past 90 as she shows off her flexibility. Her feet remain pointed, balerina style, as you fuck her soft thighs.

She's moaning hard now, approaching another orgasm. You stop thrusting and reach your hands up, grabbing her feet. Using them as handles, you spread her legs wide into the splits. You slide your hands down her legs as you do until they reach her thighs. You rub the wetness from her pussy around, covering her thighs until they are shining with her fluids. Your cock was still sitting on her pussy, her folds wrapping around it slightly.

You pull back, sliding through her pussy lips until your tip reaches the entrance. Before inserting, you lean forward and hug her, sticking your face into the crevice of her neck and kissing it softly. You wrap your arms under her body, embracing her completely before slowly, inch by inch, entering her pussy. She lets out a long, drawn out cry into your ear. Once you reach halfway deep into her, you pull back slowly and push forward again.

With each subsequent thrust, you go deeper. It took an insane amount of control to not just plunge balls deep in her perfect body, but this moment was about her. You feel her legs wrap around your body, her arms wrapped around your neck. Your bodies became one as you thrust lovingly into her softness, eventually at the point of going all the way in. Her cries and moans fill the room as you lift your head and stare into her dewy eyes. She had a pleading look of pleasure which you admire briefly before kissing her and closing your eyes. Her warmth engulfed your body in every way possible. This kiss being the wettest one yet as she starts moaning into your mouth.

You lose track of time. You forget about the tour, about the concerts, about your job, about everything that is not Mina. Her lower body was matching your movements, she was fucking you as much as you were fucking her. You felt yourself about to cum, but no words needed to be said. Somehow, you knew that Mina also knew, as you start pumping just a bit faster into her, still being gentle. Your hands grab her back tightly as you start to cum, your cock pulsing deep inside her body as she keeps moving. The way she kept working her body back and forth as you lost control of yourself made the orgasm staggering.

You stop kissing her and move your head to the side, leaning into her neck again. While you have stopped thrusting, Mina was still slowly moving back and forth along your cock, taking full control of your orgasm as you savor her body. When you finally feel the pulsing stop, the two of you lay there for a bit longer in each other's embrace.

You eventually muster up the strength to lift yourself up, unwrapping your arms from her. She, in return, unwraps her legs from you. As you lay there above her body looking down at her, she smiles warmly.

"I think I need another shower," she says.

You slowly pull back, withdrawing your shaft, watching as a giant glob of white cum spills out of her pussy. It was only now that you noticed how agonizingly sensitive your penis was. You also notice how wet Mina was between her legs.

"I think I'm willing to skip every lunch for this," you say.

She giggles and hits your chest playfully as you roll off her body. Mina gets up from the bed and waddles over to the bathroom before pausing and turning her head.

"Coming?"

#smut #fanfic #fluff #twice #kpop #nayeon #jeongyeon #momo #sana #jihyo #mina #dahyun #chaeyoung #tzuyu #jype #male reader #mature

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greenlikethesea · 2 years

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Hiiiiiii I am here in reference to your previous post for a director’s commentary on old wives tales???? Like as much or as little of it as you want, lol, I love Fair Ithilien and I LOVE listening to you and sparklyslug talk about the conception and writing of the series!!!! And old wives takes was SO GOOD I literally think about it all. The. Time.

hello my friend! happy to answer! <3 @sparklyslug please feel free to tag in at any point!!! this turned into a novel, sorry y'all --

more about erica's character will be expanded upon as we work on the series more, but i definitely am happy to tell you a few things that i had in mind as i was writing old wives' tales:

i absolutely love the sinclairs as a family and i love erica especially. i love this girl who is all hard edges where lucas is softness and sensitivity, the head where lucas is the heart. she and steve are probably canonically the most genre savvy of the bunch, built to be the final girl.

eddie is her fucking achilles heel.

she's about thirteen when she realizes that the bubbling feeling in her stomach when he smiles at her is not just the need to one-up him, not just the need to prove that she's the best, but another thing entirely -- the thrill of seeing slivers of skin, his tattoos that are so dark against his pale skin. i think she tells him, after steve's wedding when dancing with him felt like floating somewhere in space, but before eddie leaves for california, in the fall of 1989. she knows it'll never go anywhere, knows that it's doomed, thinks he's going to be mean because that's the rapport they have. ribbing, teasing. he's the big brother (sort of, kind of, lucas is like fucking annoying and screams like a girl and erica wants to drown in eddie's eyes, gross, disgusting) and she's the kid sister.

he lets her down so gently. takes her hand and looks directly into her eyes with those fucking cow eyes that make her want to die and speaks so softly. thank you for telling me. it takes a lot of guts to say something like that. and it's an honor. i guess i ought to tell you something too, right? in exchange. a lord for a lady. he takes her out for milkshakes, and they talk for hours, and she finds out why he's never had a girlfriend, why he's never even looked at a girl in the whole time she's known him.

"does lucas know?" she asks.

he shakes his head. "i'll tell him eventually, probably. but i think you deserve absolutes."

erica, after everything in hawkins, goes the nancy wheeler route of getting some physical distance between herself and the utter mess that was her time growing up in indiana (with both eddie and max's encouragement -- max, who is her fucking hero and her favorite of all of lucas' girlfriends, even after all these years). she gets a full ride to spelman college in atlanta (sue sinclair went there, and she wants to form friendships with other fierce, whip smart, assertive young Black women). she outgrows her parents' more conservative leanings, gets more than a little radical left, kisses a girl or two just to make sure she's straight (she is, and she's a little bummed about it, to be perfectly honest). loses her virginity to a guy from georgia state she met while organizing a protest against planned public transit cuts and, for some reason that she cannot fathom, calls steve's house phone at 2am to tell him. as mentioned, he takes it very well; they do not speak of it again not because he's embarrassed, but because she's mortified at how well he takes it. while she's a little bit closer to eddie than she is to steve (and steve's hot, anyone who is remotely attracted to men would agree), she and steve still keep in fairly regular contact.

charles, sue, and lucas all urge her to take a break after undergrad, but nope, erica has never done anything by half, so she goes to emory. she meets antonio, a pretentious, snotty rich boy from a prominent marietta family at a first year mixer and it's loathing at first sight -- so naturally, they have all of their classes together. it's very much a beatrice and benedick situation in which, of course, they're madly in love with each other and everyone in their cohort is placing bets on when they're just gonna do the damn thing already. ugh, so annoying.

eddie and erica stay really close. in the whole eddie and steve song and dance, erica mostly stays the fuck out of it. she likes megan, thinks she's smart and funny and interesting, but she clocks the resemblance between her and eddie immediately, and is one of the first people to pick up on things going south. while outwardly she's switzerland, she's a sucker for the long game, and is very much gunning for everyone involved in that situation to have something, like, remotely resembling what she and antonio have.

erica and antonio have a very long engagement while they both establish their careers in gary -- antonio is estranged from his parents and gets a placement there and erica figures it'd be good to be closer to her family anyway. they tie the knot in april 2003, and their son, leon edward powers (and oh, how eddie cried!) is born on august 14, 2008, steve's 42nd birthday.

(when they finally get married, steve and eddie have been together for a little over a year. she's having a moment by herself, taking a breather from the frankly exhausting rigamarole of greeting every single person she's ever met. eddie gently taps her on the shoulder. "right behind you. may i have this dance?"

and god, in another life, in another world, in some other dimension that isn't the one crawling with eldritch abominations -- but just a fantasy, really, so grateful it isn't real -- he would be her husband. she's floated there from time to time over the years, a safe dream in her mind when things got tough in school, at work, in the raw moments just after fights with antonio, but she's happy to leave it behind.

"you snagged a good one, littlest sinclair," eddie says, pressing a kiss against her forehead. embarrassment and joy duke it out inside her, but she kicks that mortification to the curb for just this moment. she can have feelings. her husband, her wonderful, impossible husband, who is currently arm wrestling lucas over by the dessert table, taught her that. but eddie planted that seed, the suggestion that she deserves to be loved exactly as she is, prickly and strange and a little raw, but wholly worth it.

"yeah," she says. she did.)

#fair ithilien verse #asks #ask game #stranger things #erica sinclair

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90363462 · 1 year

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The Haunting Of Lake Lanier And The Black City Buried Underneath

An American horror story filled with terror, death, genocide, and black ghosts.

Source: Joanna Cepuchowicz / EyeEm / Getty

There’s a city buried under Lake Lanier(Georgia’s biggest lake), and submerged with it is a secret: An American horror story filled with terror, death, genocide, and ghosts.

If you spend any time in or around Atlanta, you’ve heard tales of Lake Lanier. There are the eerie accounts of fishermen seeing ghostly kayaks floating on the water, or women with no hands roaming the Jerry D. Jackson bridge. Every so often, someone loses their life at the lake and leaves behind stories of good swimmers being snatched under the water, unexplainable boating accidents, or vehicles crashing into the lake without cause.

Many folks who live close by will tell you straight up, “Don’t go to Lake Lanier.” And its death toll certainly validates their point. There have been well over 500 deaths since the lake’s inception and more than 200 since 1994. Whether the lake is cursed or not is entirely up to you. But, one thing’s for certain, its horrifying past adds a much-needed perspective to understanding its haunting present.

In the Beginning

Lake Lanier is a massive 57.92 square-mile reservoir that was established in 1956 with the completion of the Buford Dam. To this day, it helps control flooding along the Chattahoochee River, as well as provide water and power to residents near Atlanta. However, to get a clearer picture of how and why this behemoth of a lake exists, we’ll need to go back 45 years before its creation — to 1912, in the small African-American town of Oscarvllle.

Settled along the Chattahoochee waters,Oscarville was home to roughly 1,100 black folks, most of whom were freed after fighting in the American Civil War. Many worked as hands in the cotton fields or performed odd jobs for white residents in the surrounding neighborhoods. They managed to make a decent living for themselves, creating a healthy community with churches, schools, and small businesses.

Still, on edge from the Atlanta race riots of 1906, many locals feared more violence could erupt at any time. Black-American sociologist and author, W.E.B Du Bois, penned an emotional essay, called A Litany of Atlanta which was printed in local newspapers and captured the shared pain, fear, and terror black people felt in the south during that time.

“Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!”

“Bewildered we are, and passion-tossed, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the arm posts of Thy Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign!”

Read all of W.E.B Du Bois’ A Litany of Atlanta

It was clear that in the early 1900s, blacks in Atlanta lived in constant fear of violence. For the small town of Oscarville, that fear would turn into brutal reality.

Forsyth County Racial Conflict

On September 5th, 1912, a 22-year-old white woman named Ellen Grice claimed two black men tried to rape her, but were unsuccessful because they were scared away by her mother. The Forsyth County Sheriff arrested five black men for the alleged assault. News of the attack and arrests caused quite a stir in the surrounding black communities. A vocal black preacher, named Grant Smith, appealed to the Sheriff to release the men. He claimed there wasn’t much evidence to hold all five men accountable for assault, and also suggested that one of the men could have already been in a consensual relationship with Grice. Many whites were outraged by Smith’s allegations and an angry mob beat and horse-whipped the preacher on the steps of the courthouse, almost taking his life.

A week later, on September 12th, 1912, an 18-year-old white woman named Mae Crow was raped and beaten in the Big Creek community of Forsyth County Georgia. The next morning Crow’s body was found half-naked, bloody, and hidden under a pile of leaves. Her skull had been bludgeoned with a stone, but she was alive and barely breathing. Searchers would allegedly find a small pocket mirror at the scene of the crime that was said to belong to Ernest Knox, a 16-year-old black boy from Cumming, Georgia. Knox was arrested at his home, then subjected to a mock lynching, which led to his coerced confession for the attack on Crow.

As word spread of the attack on Crow and the confession by Knox, whites became increasingly angry. It wasn’t long before a lynch mob formed in front of the jailhouse where Knox was being detained. Officers had to sneak Knox out the back door late that evening, just to keep him from being hanged. He was taken to a jail in Atlanta for his protection, but would soon stand trial for the attack. The next day, four additional men (Oscar Daniel, Rob Edwards, Jane Daniel, and Ed Collin) were arrested and taken into custody, suspected to be accomplices to the 16-year-old. All of them black. Soon, another angry mob of more than 2,000 whites had stormed the county jail, gaining access to the cells. They shot and killed Rob Edwards, dragged his body from the jailhouse, and hung him from a telephone pole in the town square.

Ernest Knox and Oscar Daniel were both found guilty of the rape of Mae Crow. They were sentenced to death by hanging, even though it was illegal by state law at the time. 8,000 whites congregated in the town square of Cumming to watch two teenage boys publicly hanged for an alleged crime they never truly had the opportunity to fight. It was after this hanging that the terror would begin to spread, as a white group of terrorists known as the “Night Riders” would make it their mission to run every black person they came across out of town.

Oscarville would end up being one of their main targets, and over the short period of just a few years, 98% of its black residents would end up either leaving their homes or being murdered for refusal to move. Black property deeds found their way into the hands of white neighbors without any bill of sale or transfer. This effectively allowed many whites to steal the land once owned by their black counterparts when they were driven out by the “Night Riders.” More than 1,100 blacks would lose their livelihood, and in little time, the once functioning African-American town of Oscarville would be a ghost town.

Source: Joanna Cepuchowicz / EyeEm / Getty

So, Is Lake Lanier Haunted?

Maybe.

Maybe it’s haunted by the culpability of genocide, terror, and a hatred for blacks that cannot be ignored. It’s interesting to note that The Forsyth County Newspaper was created in 1908, but its records before 1917 are completely missing? Why? It’s our duty as Americans, to be honest with ourselves about the past. Atlanta and its surrounding areas have a deep-rooted history of inflicting terror onto the black community. Unfortunately, this story, like so many, has been relatively hidden, stolen away, and drowned beneath a lake filled with pain and suffering.

We may not have facts, but we do have folklore. Stories like these are passed down through the generations, as a means to keep us safe. Some “culture rules” black folks might not understand, but they sure do follow, like: “Don’t go to Lake Lanier.”

Therapist and Psychology Grad Student, Sheena McLaughlin grew up in Decatur, Ga in the ’80s. She recalls many stories about Lake Lanier growing up and the folklore of a black city under the lake:

Q: Growing up in Decatur, did you ever hear any stories about Lake Lanier?

A: For sure, amongst the various tales that we would hear, one of the prominent ones was lake Lanier. From a younger age, I recall there would be jokes and hints that lake Lanier was a dangerous place and that you might visit, but don’t go in the water. As I got older I got a little more detail behind the stories and it became a lot more of a folktale, they would speak about the town underneath, how it was haunted. The black folks buried underneath the water would snatch you under. We would hear stories of graves and bodies that were never removed when they built a man-made body of water over black spirits.

Q: Do you believe that lake Lanier is haunted?

A: Absolutely.

Q: Have you ever been to Lake Lanier yourself?

A: Oh, yes many times. Growing up we would do boat trips every so often, but as I got older and learned more about the lake I couldn’t bring myself back to that place. I haven’t been in 15 years.

Like Sheena, many folks in the south are starting to learn the truth about Lake Lanier. No longer folklore, but not quite fact, history begins to bleed into the present as we get closer and closer to the truths of the past. Sadly, stories like these from the 1900s are hidden all over the south. Black communities were destroyed before having a real chance to thrive. Communities like Oscarville are just the tip of the iceberg in understanding the terror southern black folks faced in the periods after the American Civil War.

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[19] Despair

-> Heartbeats 💕 Masterlist → The story on Wattpad

CW: This chapter is hard stuff. If you don't feel good with reading it, please skip. Warning: emotional roller coaster, descriptions of injuries and accidents.

December 5th 2022 - Atlanta Flashback „Please don't cry, prinţesă. I don't like to see you like that. I love you too much to see you hurt like that." Seb said with a lovable voice - y/n could see sparkles and passion in his eyes.

The biggest possible firework exploded in her stomach, she placed her hand above Sebastian's - that was still on her cheek - and she answered:

„I love you too, honey. You can't even imagine how much."

Realtime Y/N could see tears in the edge of his eyes when she said the words that needed to be said between them for a while.

Yeah their relationship was a roller coaster and it was a fast one. The didn't know each other long but when you realize that the other person is 'the one' you don't want to waste time with each other. There was no blueprint for love.

It felt right for y/n to say the words and in Sebastian's eyes she could tell that he felt the same. They loved each other. And it took a damn accident to confess it.

Couldn't it be in another way?

Sebastian placed his arm next to his abdomen again and she could see the pain in his eyes.

"Are you in pain, honey?" she asked with a concerned voice while she fell down on her chair again - grabbing Sebastian's hand. After hours of holding his cold and lifeless hand he finally squeezed hers back.

"No, I'm fine." he lied.

"I can see that you're lying. Remember? Eyes never lie." she sighed and forced herself to smile at him.

"Okay. I am in pain. But I'm just enjoying every second of us. Didn't want to destroy the moment, you know." he whispered.

"I'm gonna get a doctor. Then he can explain to you what happened and what they did in the surgery. He explained it to me this night already. But I didn't understand half of the words, so I won't be able to tell you." she said and raised her body from the chair. She leaned over him again and finally gave him a kiss on his lips. He deepens the kiss before they broke apart so that he could breath again. Y/N could tell that he was still not breathing properly and it seemed like the deep breaths that he was taking right now hurt him - although he tried to maintain a straight face.

She left the room to look for Dr. Smith and found him in his office. He sat behind a huge desk and typed in his computer - glasses on his nose.

Y/N cleared her throat and Dr. Smith raised his head to see the visitor in his door frame.

"Miss Y/L/N, how can I help you?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"Sebastian... ehm... Mr. Stan is awake. He woke up 10 minutes ago. I wanted to let you know. And he is in pain, although he tries to deny it. I saw it in his eyes." she answered him with a slightly concerned expression on her face.

Dr. Smith grabbed the glasses and placed them on the desk - looks like he only needs them to read on the computer screen.

"I will let the nurse bring him some more painkillers. He will get it through the IV. I'll be around in an hour to check his wound and change the plasters on his side. Also I will explain to him what happened and how his recovery will be going. How are YOU feeling? You look better than an hour ago." he observed her closely.

"Yes, I am much better. I feel relieved that he woke up and that he is fine. According the circumstances." she answered and gave the doc a small smile.

He nodded in response before y/n turned around to head back to Sebastian's room. The doctor followed her closely to gave the nurse the information about the painkillers. Y/N opened Sebastian's door and saw him laying exactly in the same way as she left him.

"I missed you!" he said and pouted.

"You're a dork. I was gone for how long? 5 Minutes?" she laughed. It was the first honest laughter since two days and Sebastian was happy to hear her beautiful voice again.

"At least 6! I thought you left me." his face looked still like he was offended but she knew that he was acting right now. He was indeed a good actor - no news for her as she saw his performances over the last decades.

"I would never ever leave you, Sebastian." she smiled at him while walking around the bed to sit next to him. She could see that he wanted to extend his arm in her direction but as he tried to move his arm again, his face was full of pain.

She reached out her own hand to place it on his shoulder and said: "The nurse should be here soon. Doctor Smith said you will get some painkillers though the IV."

He turned his head to look at her and smiled.

God did she miss that smile. The view of him unconscious in the hospital bed will probably haunt her in her dreams for a long time.

A few seconds later a female nurse entered the room with a syringe in her hand. She smiled at y/n and Sebastian and inserted the liquid of the syringe at the device that combined the three tubes from the syringe-machine. Y/N still didn't understand what that machines does.

"Mr. Stan, this is a strong painkiller. If you feel dizzy or get tired again: this is normal. Don't fight against it, please. Just take your time. Your body needs a lot of rest now." she said with a very calm voice.

"Okay, thank you." Sebastian answered while looking at her with a small smile on his face. Then he turned his head again to look at y/n. She gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze and said:

"It's okay, honey. If you're tired then just sleep. I'll be still here when you wake up."

"But I don't want to sleep. I want to be with you." he said with a sad face expression.

"As far as I can determine your well-being, you won't run anywhere in the next days. So you'll be forced to be with me." she said, looked around to see if the nurse was already gone - she was - and kissed Sebastian gently on his lips.

He looked like he was already fighting against the urge to close his eyes. His eyelids became heavier with every second.

"Just close your eyes. It's alright." she said and caressed his upper arm.

Sebastian didn't want to, but he was not able to keep his eyes open so he fell asleep right afterwards. Y/N was kind of shocked how fast the painkillers did their job, but she was happy that he wasn't in pain anymore.

She grabbed her phone out of the pocket and decided that she would call Mackie and let him know that Sebastian was awake. To not disturb the sleeping man she went outside in the corridor. She called Mackie, but he didn't answer. It was 8:15 am so she wasn't sure if he was still asleep or already in a meeting with someone from Marvel to see how the accident effected the time schedule.

Y/N Hey, Mackie. Just wanted to let you know that he woke up. He went back to sleep five minutes ago, because he was in a lot of pain and the painkillers made him tired again. But he is fine. Was already able to smile again. But can't even move his arms without pain. Will be a long way 'til he will be able to work again. The doctor will come over later to check his wounds. I hope to have more information for you afterwards.

She locked her phone and saw Dr. Smith coming in her direction. A nurse was following him with some stuff to change bandages and plasters and everything that comes with that. Maybe it was time to check Sebastian's wound. She was sorry that he just fell asleep and that the doctor might wake him up while the examination.

"Miss Y/L/N, how is he doing?" Dr. Smith asked her.

"He was in a lot of pain, but as soon as the nurse gave him the painkillers, he fell asleep again."

"Oh, then I try to be gentle and quiet to not wake him. He needs to rest as much as possible. His body is still recovering from a major surgery and bad injuries."

"Can I go inside with you?" she asked shy. As the doctor and the nurses wanted her to be out of the room earlier, she wasn't sure if she was allowed to be in there while the examination.

"I think that will be okay." he said, opened the door and waited for y/n to go inside.

Sebastian was still sleeping with his head turned towards the window - where y/n was standing earlier.

They entered the room and Dr. Smith and the nurse were standing on the right side next to Seb's bed. Y/N was standing behind it, because she was curious and wanted to know how the wound looked like.

The nurse slowly pushed the hospital gown beside so that they were able to see his bare upper body.

Y/N let out a loud squeak with a high pitched voice when she saw Sebastian's left side. Quickly she put her hands in front of her mouth to not wake him.

It looked terrible. She suddenly realized how bad Sebastian was injured.

Most of his left side was covered in a dark blue bruise. The bruise covered most of the area around his nipple and went down until his hip bone. So almost 80% of the left side of his abdomen was covered in a giant bruise.

On the side of his body she could see a small plaster with a tube coming out of his body.

There was a fucking tube coming right OUT OF HIS BODY. The tube was partly filled with blood and the doctor explained to y/n that it was a drainage that was used to get the blood out of his body that was still in the area around the lung.

The lung still needed to unfold to its normal size so with blood filling that area, it could be a problem. That's why they left the drainage inside of his body. They would release the drainage before Seb was able to go home at the end of the week.

Above the drainage was another small plaster. Underneath it was the wound where the doctor used the hollow needed with the syringe to draw the air from the pleural space.

The nurse peeled off both plasters and y/n could see that Seb's skin around those areas were a mixture of orange from the iodine and blue from the bruise.

The wound itself was very small. Just three stitches. The doctor looked at it in detail and said that everything looked good. They covered it with a new plaster.

The drainage was also fixed with stitches so they checked those wounds as well. They wanted to be sure that there were no infection. But it looked good as well and the nurse covered it with a new plaster.

Sebastian slept through the whole procedure.

Then the doctor checked the syringes at the machine and explained that in one of them was an antibiotic, in the second one was a not so strong, but constant painkiller and the third one included a saline solution to keep his body hydrated.

They would leave the machine attached to the IV on his body for the next one to two days. Depended how fast he recovered from the surgery.

„Everything looks very good. I will come back later when he's awake so that I can explain to him in detail what happened and how the recovery process will look like. I assume he will stay with you?" Dr. Smith asked.

„Yeah, of course!" y/n answered without any hesitation.

„Then the nurses will show you tomorrow how to change the plasters and clean the wounds if necessary. The stitches get out in 14 days, so he will have them for a week at home as well. I will explain the rest to you within the next days. And answer your questions. No need to worry. It's not complicated."

The nurse next to the doctor smiled at her in agreement. Y/N thanked the doctor and they left the room.

Y/N laid down on the couch to maybe get some rest, too. But when she grabbed her phone to scroll through Instagram she saw some messages:

Susan Heard about Sebastian. Damn! Is he fine? Are you with him?

Jennifer Anthony told us that you're in the hospital with Sebastian. Take your time. Shooting is paused anyways for the whole week. Let me know if you or Sebastian need anything.

Unknown number Hello Y/N, this is Joe Russo. I heard you're with Sebastian. Please let us know if you have more information. Say hi to him and speedy recovery.

Mackie I'll be around in 10 minutes. Have a vanilla latte and a bagel with cream cheese and turkey for you. Hope you like it.

Anthony's message was sent 5 minutes ago, so he must be here soon. No time to sleep then.

Y/N sighed and sat up on the couch. The doctor and the nurse said that Sebastian needed rest to recover as soon as possible. So she decided that Anthony and her would go on a little stroll through the hospital so she can update him with the newest information. Although she wanted to be by Sebastian's side when he wakes up again - like she promised.

She left the room after placing a kiss on Seb's forehead and caress over his cheek. She could see Anthony coming down the corridor with a tray with three coffee cups and a large paper bag.

"Good Morning, y/n! Let me see the sleeping beauty!" he screamed in her direction with a smile on his face.

"Hi Anthony. The doctor said we have to let him sleep as much as possible. Let's walk around the hospital and I can update you." she said and gave him also a welcoming smile.

"It's so good to see you smile again, you know." Anthony said with a straighter face before his mood lightened up again.

They went on a walk through the corridors until the reached the cafeteria. They sat down and had their coffees and bagels. Anthony brought something for Sebastian as well, but the coffee would be cold when he wakes up. Maybe he could enjoy the bagel. Y/N wasn't even sure if he was allowed to eat normal food. She didn't know anything yet. But the doctor wanted to explain everything to her within the next few days.

Anthony was shocked when y/n explained to him how the wounds looked like - of course after they finished their breakfast.

„So he needs someone to take care of him after he's been released?" he asked. Y/N knew that Anthony's apartment was right next to Seb's so this would be the cleverest option. So Seb had all of his stuff nearby while living with Anthony.

„I thought about bringing him at my apartment and then I can cook for him and help him with everything. He wasn't even able to lift his arm. I am pretty sure he won't be able to walk or go to the bathroom alone in the beginning." y/n said thoughtful.

„You sure, you wanna do this? I mean it's a lot." Anthony asked carefully.

They both knew that it was the only realistic option. Of course being at Anthony's would be clever because of all of Seb's stuff. But nobody knew when Anthony had to go back to set. And then Seb would be all alone.

„Yeah, I am. I'm gonna ask Jennifer if I can have unpaid days off until Seb is stable enough to live on his own for a few hours a day. That should be fine. I'll be there for him - no matter what." she said and Anthony smiled at her.

„Young Love..." he chuckled and got a hard smack on his upper arm as response.

They decided to go back to Seb's room for the case that he had already wake up.

When they were near his door, they could hear voices out of the room. It was a male voice, but it was not Sebastian's.

Anthony opened the door and saw Dr. Smith standing at the left side of Sebastian's bed. He was holding the hospital gown and Sebastian looked down his abdomen with a shocked expression. His face was very pale again and y/n could see on the monitor that his heart rate was a lot faster than earlier.

„... and we will observe closely how much blood will come out of the drainage and if there is no more coming, we can pull it. After that is done I want to have you here for another two nights and than you can go home." Dr. Smith was explaining Sebastian everything about his injuries and the surgery - like he had promised.

The two men heard the visitors and Dr. Smith turned around to see who was coming into the room. He recognized y/n and Anthony, gave them a welcoming wave with his hand and turned around to Sebastian to continue his explanation.

„You're not allowed to sit straight in the first two weeks. The good thing is: you won't be able do that anyways. I'm not gonna lie to you: the pain of three broken rips and a collapsed lung is immense. You can have pain killers but we won't give you too much. Pain is a natural defense mechanism. If we give you too much, it is possible that you create more damage with a wrong movement in your sleep or so."

„That means he has to suffer?" y/n said shocked. She walked around the bed on her common place and grabbed Sebastian's right hand. Anthony sat on the chair that was next to a little table on the other side of the room.

„No, Miss Y/L/N. But he will still feel it. We don't want him in constant bad pain." Dr. Smith said and raised his hands in front of his body in defense.

„Mr. Stan, you're not allowed to sit straight. While you are here, you're not allowed to walk on your own. Not even to the bathroom. There is a special wheelchair where you can sit back a little to relieve the pressure on your rips. Call the nurses for everything. You're not bothering them." he smiled at Sebastian but he was not smiling back. His face was still shocked. Seemed like he hadn't expected to be hurt that bad.

Y/N squeezed his hand and tried to comfort him, but it didn't work.

„Will it be better when I'm allowed to go home?" he said with a quiet and husky voice. Dr. Smith sighed and y/n knew that Sebastian won't like the answer.

„Maybe a bit. But don't expect to leave the hospital walking. You definitely won't be able to walk alone until the end of the week. And you're still not allowed to sit straight for a longer time. It all depends on how fast you recover. Before we release you, we will let a physical therapist see you and check if your body is strong enough to be released. You were in a good physical condition before the accident. That will help to speed up your recovery. But you need to be patient."

Everybody could hear the warning tremble in the voice of the doctor.

„I will make sure that he won't do anything stupid!" y/n said and smiled at Sebastian who was looking on the blanket - trying to process everything he had heard.

„Good. We'll talk about the rest later. If you have any questions..." he looked at Sebastian and y/n „...just let me know." he said, turned around and left the room.

Anthony was the first one to say something as y/n was watching Seb with a concerned look on her face. Seb was overwhelmed from all the information and bad news.

„Would be good if you had the super soldier healing powers, right?" Anthony chuckled, stood up from his chair and handed the tray with the last coffee and the paper bag with the remaining bagels to y/n.

„You want some breakfast, honey?" y/n asked with a lovable voice and put her hand on Sebastian's shoulder. He shook his head as response - his gaze still on the blanket.

„Hey, man. I know it was a lot, but you're alive. That's all that matters." Anthony said and tried to calm his friend. Seb raised his head to look to Anthony - his face expression full of anger and sadness at the same time.

„Have you heard him? I can't do anything. Nothing. Nada. Niente. I can't even go to the bathroom. There's a fucking tube coming out of my cock because I can't even pee on my own. How the hell can you be so positive?" Seb screamed at Anthony while tears were falling down his cheeks.

He tried to lift his upper body but regretted his decision within a second. He groaned loud and his face was full of pain.

„Shhh, honey. Don't move. Please. Don't hurt yourself." y/n sobbed because she was crying as well. The last hours were also hard for her and she didn't had time for herself to process the happenings.

Anthony looked at both of them with a neutral face expression. He knew that Seb was shocked and frustrated and didn't mean it. Screaming back wouldn't be helping. It would be like throwing alcohol in a burning flame.

Sebastian turned his head to y/n and his mood changed immediately when he saw her crying.

„Please don't cry, prinţesă..." he said but stopped in the middle of the sentence. He remembered their first conversation after he woke up which was blurry in his memories. But now as he used the same words as earlier he remembered it clearly.

Y/N green eyes met his steel-blue ones and she saw sparkles and love in them. He managed to lift his arm and placed his hand on her waist. Then he gave her a warm smile that stopped her tears.

„I am sorry for screaming." his face was now turned to Anthony.

„It's alright, man. I understand." Anthony answered.

„Not it's not okay. It's not your fault. You saved my life because you realized that I was badly injured. I have to thank you but instead I screamed at you. I am sorry. This was a lot to process. I am frustrated and scared. But none of that is your fault, Anthony." he said with pain in his voice.

Anthony nodded and gave Seb a huge smile. Then he added: „I actually just wanted to look if you're finally awake and bring you some coffee and breakfast. I have to go back to the headquarter, we have a meeting with Kevin over there."

„Oh, to see how we continue with the movie?" Seb asked curious and Anthony nodded.

„Say hi to all of them. You can FaceTime me while in the meeting." Seb suggested.

„That is actually a very god idea. I'll do that! See you later, man!" he said and waved at y/n and Seb before he left the room.

Y/N sighed and Sebastian tried to caress his hand over her waist - but the movement hurt him so he simply left his hand on one place.

„I love you, y/n" he whispered.

„I love you, too, Sebastian." she answered smiling.

„I know! You said it first!" he chuckled like a child.

„So you do remember? I wasn't sure. I am happy that you remember. And I like the new nickname" she winked at him.

„Prinţesă?" he asked and she nodded.

„I had many nicknames for my former girlfriends like honey, hun, love and so on. But I've never called my girlfriend prinţesă before - because it needed a special person like you for that." he said and she could feel the butterflies in her stomach.

She leaned down and kissed him passionate. But as she knew he was still struggling with breathing she broke the kiss right afterwards. He was stubborn and she needed to protect him from himself.

„Your girlfriend needs to go home and get some stuff. I rushed here tonight and didn't bring anything. And I need to take a shower and cook something for us for later. Pretty sure the hospital food is aweful. I'll be back later, I promise" y/n said and gave him a kiss on his forehead.

„My girlfriend..." he whispered and smiled like a maniac.

„I need to call my mum anyways and have the meeting with Anthony later. So I'll be okay until you return. But don't stay tooooo long" he added and pouted.

„I won't, honey. I promise. I love you." she said and kissed him.

„I love you, too, prinţesă." he answered after the kiss.

They wanted to scream their love for each other into the world - letting everybody know. But y/n was still scared that her relationship (HELL YES IT WAS A FUCKING LOVE RELATIONSHIP!) with Seb could have negative effects on her job at Marvel.

What both of them didn't knew: Anthony had already explained their situation to the people in charge at Marvel. They were all very understanding (although surprised) and supported y/n in ever possible way so that she could take care of Sebastian as long as she had to.

Before y/n left the room to head home she gave Sebastian his phone from the bedside table, because he wasn't able to reach it without rotate his upper body - something he was not allowed to do. And wouldn't be able to do without blacking out in pain.

~~~

It was already late in the afternoon when she was ready to return to the hospital. She had fallen asleep on her couch after a hot shower and was shocked that she had slept for four hours straight.

After all the stress she's been through the last 24 hours her body needed to rest as well. She grabbed her phone and saw a few unread messages from Sebastian.

Sebastian 11:15 am: Already miss you ♡ 11:55 am: My mum will come over to Atlanta on Friday. She needs to work for the rest of the week but has already booked a flight for Friday afternoon. Let's talk about that later. 2:23 pm: Lunch was aweful. Can you bring me something delicious? 3:52 pm: Where are you? I miss yooouuuuu! 3:53 pm:

Y/N 04:15 pm: Did you really use a picture of yourself to express your emotions?

Sebastian 04:16 pm: Really? That's the only thing you respond to? 😂

Y/N 4:50 pm: I'll be there in 10. 😘

Sebastian 4:50 pm: 😘😘

As she told him she was at the hospital ten minutes later - with three large Tupperware boxes in a bag and a backpack with clothes and other stuff. One of the Tupperware contained the pesto pasta with chicken and the other two a rice-dish she had cooked for them before making her way to the hospital.

She entered Sebastian's room and was greeted by a large smile. He looked better than this morning as his skin was still a bit pale but finally he looked more like a human than a zombie.

„Hey, honey. Brought you dinner" she said while heading around his bed.

His eyes widened in excitement when he saw the bag in y/n hand and managed to lift his right arm in her direction.

Her eyes were shocked by his movement and she exclaimed: „See you're making progress already! This morning you were not really able to lift your arm."

„Well, yeah. But just the right one. I can't even think about moving the left one for an inch." he said sadly.

She gave him a kiss on his head before putting the Tupperware on his bedside table. She wondered how he was able to eat as he can't move his upper body or sit straight and placing the Tupperware on his abdomen sounded like a bad idea, too. Sebastian seemed to have the same thoughts as he said:

„I think you need to help me and feed me..."

She couldn't help herself but hear shame in his voice. But there was no need for shame. It wasn't his fault that he was not able to move at all. It was a fucking accident.

„I'll go and ask the nurses to store the lunch for tomorrow in their fridge and then I re-heat your pasta in the microwave." she smiled at him.

Sebastian nodded and tried to maintain a happy or at least straight face, but she could see in his eyes that he suddenly realized how the next weeks would be and that he was not feeling comfortable. Not because he didn't want y/n to be around him 24/7, but because he didn't want to be a burden for anyone.

Y/N came back with the pasta and Sebastian could see the steam coming out of the container. He licked is upper lip in excitement and turned its head to y/n when she arrived next to his bed. His stomach made a loud growl and y/n laughed. Sebastian started laughing, too, but the pain kicked in very fast and very strong, so he stopped laughing.

He saw the concerned look in y/n's face and whispered a „I'm fine. Just hungry" in her direction.

She fed him very gently and Seb realized that at least eating didn't hurt. Yeah, at least ONE THING.

After dinner y/n managed to push the couch from the end of the room right next to Seb's bed. He was shocked how strong she was and she told him a few stories about her weightlifting workouts.

„So we need to workout with Don together one day!" Seb chuckled.

„I would love, too!" y/n answered with excitement in her voice. She saw Don's Instagram page and couldn't wait to train in his gym.

Seb was yawning while they were watching television together. As y/n had a very long nap in the afternoon she wasn't tired yet, but stood up from the couch and turned to Seb. She cupped his face with both of her hands and gave him a kiss full of love.

„Good Night, honey" she whispered after the kiss and smiled at him.

„Good night, prinţesă. I love you", he answered with the same wide smile and sparkles in his eyes. Thank god no firework in his stomach, because that would have hurt like hell.

„I love you, too. Let me know if you need anything tonight. If you're in pain or something. Don't hesitate to wake me. I'm on duty, Sergeant Barnes." she saluted him what made him laugh for a second before the pain kicked his ass.

~~~

December 6th 2022 - Atlanta The night was without any events although Sebastian woke up to hear y/n whine in her sleep. It seemed like she had a nightmare and he was unable to help her.

All he wanted to do was hug her tight and kiss her temples and forehead to comfort her.

But he was not able to. And wouldn't be in the next weeks. What frustrated him more than he confessed to y/n and the doctor.

The nurse came with breakfast at 7 am - one tray for Sebastian and one for y/n. She stretched her body on the couch and he whined:

„Showing me all the things I can't do? That's not fair!"

She needed a moment to realize what he meant but then she chuckled: „You miss to stretch your body?

Sebastian nodded in response and said: „I miss literally doing anything."

„But you can still do that..." she said and gave him a deep kiss. He managed to lift his right arm to grab her waist and clench into her shirt as he deepened the kiss. Y/n broke the kiss to give him a few breaths.

„Can't wait to have sex with you again" he whispered and his eyes were dark of lust.

„Don't want to be the party pooper, but that will take a while." she said with a sad face.

To lighten the mood she started feeding him breakfast but he insistent to take it from her. So she put the tray with food on his thighs and he ate on his own. Well, half of the food landed on his blanket, but none of them cared. Sebastian was proud to do something on his own. Y/N would take care of the mess later.

After the breakfast the nurse came to change the plasters and wash him. She wanted to show y/n how to do it so that she could practice the next days when the nurse was still around.

Anthony had brought Sebastian some clothes out of his apartment yesterday - during the time y/n was at home- so Seb asked if he could change into some of his own clothes. The nurse agreed but told him that changing into a sweatpants would be painfull as hell. Stubborn as Sebastian was, he wanted to try.

The nurse changed the plasters and it wasn't hard to do at all. While the nurse showed y/n how to do it, Dr. Smith entered the room and looked for Sebastian's drainage. Unfortunately it had to be still inside of his body today, but he would pull it the day after - he promised.

As Sebastian's oxygen saturation had been very good over the last 24h the doc was able to release him from the nasal applicator. „One step after another." y/n thought.

Then it was time to wash him and the nurse used a wash cloth to gently scrub Sebastian's upper body. Although the nurse was really really gentle tears of pain were streaming down Sebastian's cheeks and he whined and whimpered - not able to move or do anything against the pain. His hands clenched the sheets on the bed while he tried to lay without movements.

It broke y/n heart to see him like that and she wanted to take all his pain away. But that wasn't possible.

As even the gentle touches of the wash cloths had hurt him so much Sebastian admitted that it was to early to change into his clothes. He still wasn't able to move his left arm any higher than a few inches and to change into a T-Shirt he would need more movement. So it was impossible today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe on Friday. He was forced to wait for his body to recover and he couldn't do anything to speed it up.

Within the day they had lunch and Anthony and Joe Russo came to visit Sebastian. They talked a lot about the movie and how they would continue filming. Dr. Smith was there as well and explained that he didn't know yet how long it would take for Seb to be able to continue work. For the easier scenes where he didn't have to do much it would take at least four weeks minimum. Running and fighting wasn't possible within the next 3 months.

Everybody in the room was frustrated and Joe decided to talk to Kevin again. The idea was to extend Bucky's injury in the movie so that Sebastian would have more calm scenes. Thankfully they already shot the final battle right in the beginning.

The team was in Atlanta until end of February and then moved on to Cleveland. Bucky would be deleted from all scenes in Cleveland and hopefully Sebastian would be able to travel to Bucharest end of March to shot the abroad mission where Bucky got hurt.

That would mean less screen time for Bucky but not much delays in shooting. They would arrange to shot the scenes with the other actors in the next weeks until Seb was able to do smaller scenes.

Y/N was shocked how many changes had to be done because of an accident like that. And that the whole script would be changed. She always thought a movie was scripted and then just shot like that. She heard about a few changes here and there but never worked on a movie with huge story changes like this one.

In the end of the day y/n took a hot shower in the hospital bathroom and they watched a movie together. She missed cuddling with Sebastian but was sure that they will be able to cuddle soon.

~~~

December 7th 2022 - Atlanta Sebastian looked at Dr. Smith with excitement in his face. The doc was about to pull the drainage out of his body and release him from the bloody tube. The new freedom came with a kick in the ass, because Sebastian didn't knew that pulling a drainage is one of the most painful things in the world. For one second. But for that second you think you die.

He was dizzy because of the shock and the pain and needed to close his eyes. Y/N strolled one of her hands through his hair to comfort him while holding his right hand with the other.

"Holy Shit, that was painful", he exclaimed a minute later.

The nurse asked him if he wants to change into his clothes and he said that he wanted to try. As the drainage was out of his body he was able to move his left arm more than before - although not really much. The nurse explained Sebastian that he shouldn't try to help move the arms or fight against any movement the nurse was doing. That was very important to prevent any damage or big pain.

After two minutes of fight Sebastian finally worn his own shirt and smiled happy. The pain that was caused by the movements from his left arm forgotten. But the harder part was yet to come as he needed to lift his hip in the air while putting on the sweatpants. The nurse said a boxer was not needed as Seb still had a tube coming out of his manhood.

You really lose all your privacy when you're in the hospital.

The nurse carefully started putting on the sweatpants and as the waistband was in the middle of his thighs it was time to lift his hips so he could fully slip into the pants. The first try leaded to a whining Sebastian who was not able to lift his hip at all. The nurse left the room and came with a supporting tool which looked like a belt that she put under his hips and lifted them with her own power. Y/N helped her pulling the sweatpants over the rest of Sebastian's thighs.

It was done. It was painful and it was frustrating like hell, but it was done.

Seb felt so much better immediate and smiled at his girlfriend while proudly saying: "See, I look, feel and smell like a human again!"

Y/N chuckled although her heart was full of pain and her mind was shocked. How the hell should she do this all on her own for the next weeks. She didn't want to hurt him. Was she able to do all that on her own? Without any experience?

She needed to clear her mind, so she excused herself and explained that she wanted to get a coffee for the two of them. Sebastian realized that it was an excuse, but he didn't say anything. He was grateful, that y/n was there for him during this difficult time.

"It was overwhelming this morning, right?" he said as she gave him his cup of coffee. The nurse had cleaned the crumbles of breakfast from his blanket as well so Sebastian tried to avoid spilling coffee on the fresh blanket. His movements with his right arm were a lot smoother than yesterday and didn't cause him pain anymore. He was also able to lift his left arm to place it on his thigh and put it back, but as the IV in his arm bend also hurt when he bent his arm, he tried not to use his left arm as much as possible.

They sipped their coffee in silence while watching TV.

Sebastian's phone rang and after he read the message he broke the silence:

„We haven't talked about my mum coming around on Friday."

„Oh, Right!"

„Is it okay for you that she comes around?" he asked with a concerned voice.

„Of course, honey. It's your mother. I would see my son as well after such an accident. She must be in shock as well. Have you spoken to her again?" y/n answered.

„She is texting me a lot. But I haven't called her since yesterday."

„Sebastian Stan, you call your mum now. She musst worry a lot and you have to comfort her."

Sebastian sighed before he said: „But I'll put it on speaker. She has to know about you anyways."

So they had a very nice conversation with Sebastian's mother. Y/N could hear in her voice that she was happy that Sebastian called and she was also happy as he told her the improvements he already made. Georgeta was also very interested when Sebastian told her about y/n and they switched into Romanian for a few minutes - leaving y/n clueless if that was a good sign or not.

„I can't wait to meet you on Friday, y/n!" Georgeta said in English again.

„Can't wait to meet you too Mrs. Stan." she said smiling.

„Just Call me Georgeta, please. I'm not Mrs. Stan anymore but I'll explain that to you on the weekend."

„Okay, Georgeta"

„Mum, I'm going to hang up now. We're about to watch a movie. See you on Friday. Don't worry. Y/N will take care of me until then." Sebastian said and added a few words in Romanian.

Georgeta answered in Romanian and they hang up afterwards.

~~~

December 8th 2022 - Atlanta It was Thursday and y/n managed to change Sebastian's plasters on her own for the first time. It wasn't hard, so she was happy that she could handle that.

The nurse also watched them carefully when y/n and Sebastian managed to change his tshirt together. After they were done Seb raised his hand in the air and y/n gave him a high five - making all of them laugh.

Sebastian was surprised that his pain was better this morning. His right arm was freely movable and he could even lift his left arm a lot better than yesterday. As there was no infection at the wounds and he ate and drank normally the IV was removed and the machine with the syringes was gone. The heart rate monitor and the monitor for the oxygen saturation were also gone so that he was free from most of the tubes - except one.

He got his painkillers via pills from this morning onwards.

Y/N was happy because these were big steps in the right direction.

The doctor confirmed that Sebastian would be released on Friday - if the physical therapist gave his okay on Friday morning.

„Can't wait to be home." he said to the doctor smiling.

„You know that you're coming to my apartment, right?" y/n chuckled.

„Yeah. It's my second home from now on!" he chuckled as well.

The accident made their relationship rush like a high speed aircraft. Y/N was scared that it was too fast. That they would realize that they were not meant to be and than would be trapped in the same apartment.

She tried to think about something else. She loved him. It felt like they knew each other for years. But the upcoming challenge would show them if their relationship would last. It was exciting and scary at the same time.

Anthony came around this afternoon and was surprised by Seb's improvement. They talked and laughed and - if they were not in a hospital room - it felt like a normal afternoon with friends.

Anthony told y/n a lot of funny stories about the last 8 years working with Sebastian and they just had so much fun and forgot about all the worries for a short period of time.

At Thursday evening they enjoyed a pizza that they had ordered and Sebastian took y/n's hand and kissed it.

„We'll be Home tomorrow!" he exclaimed in a happy scream.

„Oh yeah. Can't wait to sleep in a bed again." y/n whined and stretched her back.

„Would let you sleep with me in the bed but I am afraid I won't be able to move so that you have enough space." he sighed.

„It's okay, honey. One more night. Tomorrow we're together in the same bed again." she smiled at him and caressed over his thigh.

„Finally!" he said while chewing on another piece of pizza.

One more night. Then they were able to leave the hospital behind. Leave all the horrific memories and shocking moments behind. Then they could finally focus on Sebastian's recovery.

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vampirekangaroo · 1 day

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15 years ago, my mother passed away. On April 13th, two months away from my dad turning 66, he passed away in a car wreck. I took care of my dad cause he had a heart condition and we're rather certain he had a heart attack behind the wheel. Right now I'm just trying to figure out my new normal and try to raise some funds to create a bit of a buffer in my account. So if you can donate, or reblog this I would appreciate it.

To give you a bit of perspective about him....this is what I wrote to be read at his funeral:

When I was younger, my mother used to tell me all the time that when I was a baby I would get on her nerves with the amount of times I affectionately looked up at her and said dada. After all, she was constantly with me and my father was constantly working to support our family. The least I could have done was say mama first right? But no. Even as a baby I was a daddy’s girl and as I grew up this never wavered.

Whether we went to an amusement park, a horror convention, the movies, a concert, or we were playing basketball or baseball outside, I just wanted to spend time with my dad. I became even closer to my father after my mother's passing. And what both have taught me is that time is a blessing. No matter what we were doing, or how little it cost, I have memories that will last me a lifetime because my dad wanted to spend as much time with me as I did with him.

This is probably what made it even funnier as back in February I was getting ready to attend Atlanta Comic Con. I was finally going to meet Charlie Cox, one of my favorite actors. My dad knew how excited I was and jokingly told me he was going to ground me that weekend so I couldn’t attend. With a straight face I looked up at him and I said, “Well then for the first time in my life I’m going to have to defy you and go meet a boy.” He immediately gave me a look that read “Who is this man?” with a mixture of, “Do I need to attend this convention with her and carry a shotgun?” and little bit of “He best give her the best experience in the world if he knows what is good for him,” before laughing and actually saying, “I don’t know that you’ve ever said those words to me.” And I laughed and said, “Yeah, it took 39 years to get here, but it’s finally happened.”

That Sunday evening when I came home, I sat on the edge of the bed and I transformed into that five year old little girl again who got to meet her favorite star as I rambled on to him. He smiled, he listened, but more importantly he asked questions. He asked to see the photograph. He wanted to know about the experience because it was important to me. And that’s the thing about my dad, he always did anything he could to make my mother and I happy. He was always there for us no matter what and he taught me what true unconditional love looks and feels like.

I’m lucky I had him as a father, but the truth is I’m luckier I had him as a friend. I thought when this time came, my only regret would be that I never found that vampire to bite him, but the truth is I never had to. His love is like the wind. I might not be able to see it anymore, but I’ll always be able to feel it.

#tw: death #tw: car accident #tw: grief #tw: loss #my dad was the best

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renaissanceclassics · 23 days

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Up From Slavery: Part 16

of 18 parts. Chapter XV. The Secret Of Success In Public Speaking

As to how my address at Atlanta was received by the audience in the Exposition building, I think I prefer to let Mr. James Creelman, the noted war correspondent, tell. Mr. Creelman was present, and telegraphed the following account to the New York World:—

Atlanta, September 18.

"While President Cleveland was waiting at Gray Gables to-day, to send the electric spark that started the machinery of the Atlanta Exposition, a Negro Moses stood before a great audience of white people and delivered an oration that marks a new epoch in the history of the South; and a body of Negro troops marched in a procession with the citizen soldiery of Georgia and Louisiana. The whole city is thrilling to-night with a realization of the extraordinary significance of these two unprecedented events. Nothing has happened since Henry Grady's immortal speech before the New England society in New York that indicates so profoundly the spirit of the New South, except, perhaps, the opening of the Exposition itself.

When Professor Booker T. Washington, Principal of an industrial school for coloured people in Tuskegee, Ala. stood on the platform of the Auditorium, with the sun shining over the heads of his auditors into his eyes, and with his whole face lit up with the fire of prophecy, Clark Howell, the successor of Henry Grady, said to me, "That man's speech is the beginning of a moral revolution in America."

It is the first time that a Negro has made a speech in the South on any important occasion before an audience composed of white men and women. It electrified the audience, and the response was as if it had come from the throat of a whirlwind.

Mrs. Thompson had hardly taken her seat when all eyes were turned on a tall tawny Negro sitting in the front row of the platform. It was Professor Booker T. Washington, President of the Tuskegee (Alabama) Normal and Industrial Institute, who must rank from this time forth as the foremost man of his race in America. Gilmore's Band played the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the audience cheered. The tune changed to "Dixie" and the audience roared with shrill "hi-yis." Again the music changed, this time to "Yankee Doodle," and the clamour lessened.

All this time the eyes of the thousands present looked straight at the Negro orator. A strange thing was to happen. A black man was to speak for his people, with none to interrupt him. As Professor Washington strode to the edge of the stage, the low, descending sun shot fiery rays through the windows into his face. A great shout greeted him. He turned his head to avoid the blinding light, and moved about the platform for relief. Then he turned his wonderful countenance to the sun without a blink of the eyelids, and began to talk.

There was a remarkable figure; tall, bony, straight as a Sioux chief, high forehead, straight nose, heavy jaws, and strong, determined mouth, with big white teeth, piercing eyes, and a commanding manner. The sinews stood out on his bronzed neck, and his muscular right arm swung high in the air, with a lead-pencil grasped in the clinched brown fist. His big feet were planted squarely, with the heels together and the toes turned out. His voice range out clear and true, and he paused impressively as he made each point. Within ten minutes the multitude was in an uproar of enthusiasm—handkerchiefs were waved, canes were flourished, hats were tossed in the air. The fairest women of Georgia stood up and cheered. It was as if the orator had bewitched them.

And when he held his dusky hand high above his head, with the fingers stretched wide apart, and said to the white people of the South on behalf of his race, "In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress," the great wave of sound dashed itself against the walls, and the whole audience was on its feet in a delirium of applause, and I thought at that moment of the night when Henry Grady stood among the curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke in Delmonico's banquet-hall and said, "I am a Cavalier among Roundheads."

I have heard the great orators of many countries, but not even Gladstone himself could have pleased a cause with most consummate power than did this angular Negro, standing in a nimbus of sunshine, surrounded by the men who once fought to keep his race in bondage. The roar might swell ever so high, but the expression of his earnest face never changed.

A ragged, ebony giant, squatted on the floor in one of the aisles, watched the orator with burning eyes and tremulous face until the supreme burst of applause came, and then the tears ran down his face. Most of the Negroes in the audience were crying, perhaps without knowing just why.

At the close of the speech Governor Bullock rushed across the stage and seized the orator's hand. Another shout greeted this demonstration, and for a few minutes the two men stood facing each other, hand in hand.

So far as I could spare the time from the immediate work at Tuskegee, after my Atlanta address, I accepted some of the invitations to speak in public which came to me, especially those that would take me into territory where I thought it would pay to plead the cause of my race, but I always did this with the understanding that I was to be free to talk about my life-work and the needs of my people. I also had it understood that I was not to speak in the capacity of a professional lecturer, or for mere commercial gain.

In my efforts on the public platform I never have been able to understand why people come to hear me speak. This question I never can rid myself of. Time and time again, as I have stood in the street in front of a building and have seen men and women passing in large numbers into the audience room where I was to speak, I have felt ashamed that I should be the cause of people—as it seemed to me—wasting a valuable hour of their time. Some years ago I was to deliver an address before a literary society in Madison, Wis. An hour before the time set for me to speak, a fierce snow-storm began, and continued for several hours. I made up my mind that there would be no audience, and that I should not have to speak, but, as a matter of duty, I went to the church, and found it packed with people. The surprise gave me a shock that I did not recover from during the whole evening.

People often ask me if I feel nervous before speaking, or else they suggest that, since I speak often, they suppose that I get used to it. In answer to this question I have to say that I always suffer intensely from nervousness before speaking. More than once, just before I was to make an important address, this nervous strain has been so great that I have resolved never again to speak in public. I not only feel nervous before speaking, but after I have finished I usually feel a sense of regret, because it seems to me as if I had left out of my address the main thing and the best thing that I had meant to say.

There is a great compensation, though, for this preliminary nervous suffering, that comes to me after I have been speaking for about ten minutes, and have come to feel that I have really mastered my audience, and that we have gotten into full and complete sympathy with each other. It seems to me that there is rarely such a combination of mental and physical delight in any effort as that which comes to a public speaker when he feels that he has a great audience completely within his control. There is a thread of sympathy and oneness that connects a public speaker with his audience, that is just as strong as though it was something tangible and visible. If in an audience of a thousand people there is one person who is not in sympathy with my views, or is inclined to be doubtful, cold, or critical, I can pick him out. When I have found him I usually go straight at him, and it is a great satisfaction to watch the process of his thawing out. I find that the most effective medicine for such individuals is administered at first in the form of a story, although I never tell an anecdote simply for the sake of telling one. That kind of thing, I think, is empty and hollow, and an audience soon finds it out.

I believe that one always does himself and his audience an injustice when he speaks merely for the sake of speaking. I do not believe that one should speak unless, deep down in his heart, he feels convinced that he has a message to deliver. When one feels, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, that he has something to say that is going to help some individual or some cause, then let him say it; and in delivering his message I do not believe that many of the artificial rules of elocution can, under such circumstances, help him very much. Although there are certain things, such as pauses, breathing, and pitch of voice, that are very important, none of these can take the place of soul in an address. When I have an address to deliver, I like to forget all about the rules for the proper use of the English language, and all about rhetoric and that sort of thing, and I like to make the audience forget all about these things, too.

Nothing tends to throw me off my balance so quickly, when I am speaking, as to have some one leave the room. To prevent this, I make up my mind, as a rule, that I will try to make my address so interesting, will try to state so many interesting facts one after another, that no one can leave. The average audience, I have come to believe, wants facts rather than generalities or sermonizing. Most people, I think, are able to draw proper conclusions if they are given the facts in an interesting form on which to base them.

As to the kind of audience that I like best to talk to, I would put at the top of the list an organization of strong, wide-awake, business men, such, for example, as is found in Boston, New York, Chicago, and Buffalo. I have found no other audience so quick to see a point, and so responsive. Within the last few years I have had the privilege of speaking before most of the leading organizations of this kind in the large cities of the United States. The best time to get hold of an organization of business men is after a good dinner, although I think that one of the worst instruments of torture that was ever invented is the custom which makes it necessary for a speaker to sit through a fourteen-course dinner, every minute of the time feeling sure that his speech is going to prove a dismal failure and disappointment.

I rarely take part in one of these long dinners that I do not wish that I could put myself back in the little cabin where I was a slave boy, and again go through the experience there—one that I shall never forget—of getting molasses to eat once a week from the "big house." Our usual diet on the plantation was corn bread and pork, but on Sunday morning my mother was permitted to bring down a little molasses from the "big house" for her three children, and when it was received how I did wish that every day was Sunday! I would get my tin plate and hold it up for the sweet morsel, but I would always shut my eyes while the molasses was being poured out into the plate, with the hope that when I opened them I would be surprised to see how much I had got. When I opened my eyes I would tip the plate in one direction and another, so as to make the molasses spread all over it, in the full belief that there would be more of it and that it would last longer if spread out in this way. So strong are my childish impressions of those Sunday morning feasts that it would be pretty hard for any one to convince me that there is not more molasses on a plate when it is spread all over the plate than when it occupies a little corner—if there is a corner in a plate. At any rate, I have never believed in "cornering" syrup. My share of the syrup was usually about two tablespoonfuls, and those two spoonfuls of molasses were much more enjoyable to me than is a fourteen-course dinner after which I am to speak.

Next to a company of business men, I prefer to speak to an audience of Southern people, of either race, together or taken separately. Their enthusiasm and responsiveness are a constant delight. The "amens" and "dat's de truf" that come spontaneously from the coloured individuals are calculated to spur any speaker on to his best efforts. I think that next in order of preference I would place a college audience. It has been my privilege to deliver addresses at many of our leading colleges including Harvard, Yale, Williams, Amherst, Fisk University, the University of Pennsylvania, Wellesley, the University of Michigan, Trinity College in North Carolina, and many others.

It has been a matter of deep interest to me to note the number of people who have come to shake hands with me after an address, who say that this is the first time they have ever called a Negro "Mister."

When speaking directly in the interests of the Tuskegee Institute, I usually arrange, some time in advance, a series of meetings in important centres. This takes me before churches, Sunday-schools, Christian Endeavour Societies, and men's and women's clubs. When doing this I sometimes speak before as many as four organizations in a single day.

Three years ago, at the suggestion of Mr. Morris K. Jessup, of New York, and Dr. J.L.M. Curry, the general agent of the fund, the trustees of the John F. Slater Fund voted a sum of money to be used in paying the expenses of Mrs. Washington and myself while holding a series of meetings among the coloured people in the large centres of Negro population, especially in the large cities of the ex-slaveholding states. Each year during the last three years we have devoted some weeks to this work. The plan that we have followed has been for me to speak in the morning to the ministers, teachers, and professional men. In the afternoon Mrs. Washington would speak to the women alone, and in the evening I spoke to a large mass-meeting. In almost every case the meetings have been attended not only by the coloured people in large numbers, but by the white people. In Chattanooga, Tenn., for example, there was present at the mass-meeting an audience of not less than three thousand persons, and I was informed that eight hundred of these were white. I have done no work that I really enjoyed more than this, or that I think has accomplished more good.

These meetings have given Mrs. Washington and myself an opportunity to get first-hand, accurate information as to the real condition of the race, by seeing the people in their homes, their churches, their Sunday-schools, and their places of work, as well as in the prisons and dens of crime. These meetings also gave us an opportunity to see the relations that exist between the races. I never feel so hopeful about the race as I do after being engaged in a series of these meetings. I know that on such occasions there is much that comes to the surface that is superficial and deceptive, but I have had experience enough not to be deceived by mere signs and fleeting enthusiasms. I have taken pains to go to the bottom of things and get facts, in a cold, business-like manner.

I have seen the statement made lately, by one who claims to know what he is talking about, that, taking the whole Negro race into account, ninety per cent of the Negro women are not virtuous. There never was a baser falsehood uttered concerning a race, or a statement made that was less capable of being proved by actual facts.

No one can come into contact with the race for twenty years, as I have done in the heart of the South, without being convinced that the race is constantly making slow but sure progress materially, educationally, and morally. One might take up the life of the worst element in New York City, for example, and prove almost anything he wanted to prove concerning the white man, but all will agree that this is not a fair test.

Early in the year 1897 I received a letter inviting me to deliver an address at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument in Boston. I accepted the invitation. It is not necessary for me, I am sure, to explain who Robert Gould Shaw was, and what he did. The monument to his memory stands near the head of the Boston Common, facing the State House. It is counted to be the most perfect piece of art of the kind to be found in the country.

The exercises connected with the dedication were held in Music Hall, in Boston, and the great hall was packed from top to bottom with one of the most distinguished audiences that ever assembled in the city. Among those present were more persons representing the famous old anti-slavery element that it is likely will ever be brought together in the country again. The late Hon. Roger Wolcott, then Governor of Massachusetts, was the presiding officer, and on the platform with him were many other officials and hundreds of distinguished men. A report of the meeting which appeared in the Boston Transcript will describe it better than any words of mine could do:—

The core and kernel of yesterday's great noon meeting, in honour of the Brotherhood of Man, in Music Hall, was the superb address of the Negro President of Tuskegee. "Booker T. Washington received his Harvard A.M. last June, the first of his race," said Governor Wolcott, "to receive an honorary degree from the oldest university in the land, and this for the wise leadership of his people." When Mr. Washington rose in the flag-filled, enthusiasm-warmed, patriotic, and glowing atmosphere of Music Hall, people felt keenly that here was the civic justification of the old abolition spirit of Massachusetts; in his person the proof of her ancient and indomitable faith; in his strong thought and rich oratory, the crown and glory of the old war days of suffering and strife. The scene was full of historic beauty and deep significance. "Cold" Boston was alive with the fire that is always hot in her heart for righteousness and truth. Rows and rows of people who are seldom seen at any public function, whole families of those who are certain to be out of town on a holiday, crowded the place to overflowing. The city was at her birthright fête in the persons of hundreds of her best citizens, men and women whose names and lives stand for the virtues that make for honourable civic pride.

Battle-music had filled the air. Ovation after ovation, applause warm and prolonged, had greeted the officers and friends of Colonel Shaw, the sculptor, St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee, the Governor and his staff, and the Negro soldiers of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as they came upon the platform or entered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, of Governor Andrew's old staff, had made a noble, simple presentation speech for the committee, paying tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in whose stead he served. Governor Wolcott had made his short, memorable speech, saying, "Fort Wagner marked an epoch in the history of a race, and called it into manhood." Mayor Quincy had received the monument for the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw and his black regiment had been told in gallant words, and then, after the singing of Mine eyes have seen the glory Of the coming of the Lord,

Booker Washington arose. It was, of course, just the moment for him. The multitude, shaken out of its usual symphony-concert calm, quivered with an excitement that was not suppressed. A dozen times it had sprung to its feet to cheer and wave and hurrah, as one person. When this man of culture and voice and power, as well as a dark skin, began, and uttered the names of Stearns and of Andrew, feeling began to mount. You could see tears glisten in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. When the orator turned to the coloured soldiers on the platform, to the colour-bearer of Fort Wagner, who smilingly bore still the flag he had never lowered even when wounded, and said, "To you, to the scarred and scattered remnants of the Fifty-fourth, who, with empty sleeve and wanting leg, have honoured this occasion with your presence, to you, your commander is not dead. Though Boston erected no monument and history recorded no story, in you and in the loyal race which you represent, Robert Gould Shaw would have a monument which time could not wear away," then came the climax of the emotion of the day and the hour. It was Roger Wolcott, as well as the Governor of Massachusetts, the individual representative of the people's sympathy as well as the chief magistrate, who had sprung first to his feet and cried, "Three cheers to Booker T. Washington!"

Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney, of New Bedford, Mass., the brave coloured officer who was the colour-bearer at Fort Wagner and held the American flag. In spite of the fact that a large part of his regiment was killed, he escaped, and exclaimed, after the battle was over, "The old flag never touched the ground."

This flag Sergeant Carney held in his hands as he sat on the platform, and when I turned to address the survivors of the coloured regiment who were present, and referred to Sergeant Carney, he rose, as if by instinct, and raised the flag. It has been my privilege to witness a good many satisfactory and rather sensational demonstrations in connection with some of my public addresses, but in dramatic effect I have never seen or experienced anything which equalled this. For a number of minutes the audience seemed to entirely lose control of itself.

In the general rejoicing throughout the country which followed the close of the Spanish-American war, peace celebrations were arranged in several of the large cities. I was asked by President William R. Harper, of the University of Chicago, who was chairman of the committee of invitations for the celebration to be held in the city of Chicago, to deliver one of the addresses at the celebration there. I accepted the invitation, and delivered two addresses there during the Jubilee week. The first of these, and the principal one, was given in the Auditorium, on the evening of Sunday, October 16. This was the largest audience that I have ever addressed, in any part of the country; and besides speaking in the main Auditorium, I also addressed, that same evening, two overflow audiences in other parts of the city.

It was said that there were sixteen thousand persons in the Auditorium, and it seemed to me as if there were as many more on the outside trying to get in. It was impossible for any one to get near the entrance without the aid of a policeman. President William McKinley attended this meeting, as did also the members of his Cabinet, many foreign ministers, and a large number of army and navy officers, many of whom had distinguished themselves in the war which had just closed. The speakers, besides myself, on Sunday evening, were Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch, Father Thomas P. Hodnett, and Dr. John H. Barrows.

The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of my address:—

He pictured the Negro choosing slavery rather than extinction; recalled Crispus Attucks shedding his blood at the beginning of the American Revolution, that white Americans might be free, while black Americans remained in slavery; rehearsed the conduct of the Negroes with Jackson at New Orleans; drew a vivid and pathetic picture of the Southern slaves protecting and supporting the families of their masters while the latter were fighting to perpetuate black slavery; recounted the bravery of coloured troops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow, and praised the heroism of the black regiments that stormed El Caney and Santiago to give freedom to the enslaved people of Cuba, forgetting, for the time being, the unjust discrimination that law and custom make against them in their own country.

In all of these things, the speaker declared, his race had chosen the better part. And then he made his eloquent appeal to the consciences of the white Americans: "When you have gotten the full story of the heroic conduct of the Negro in the Spanish-American war, have heard it from the lips of Northern soldier and Southern soldier, from ex-abolitionist and ex-masters, then decide within yourselves whether a race that is thus willing to die for its country should not be given the highest opportunity to live for its country."

The part of the speech which seems to arouse the wildest and most sensational enthusiasm was that in which I thanked the President for his recognition of the Negro in his appointments during the Spanish-American war. The President was sitting in a box at the right of the stage. When I addressed him I turned toward the box, and as I finished the sentence thanking him for his generosity, the whole audience rose and cheered again and again, waving handkerchiefs and hats and canes, until the President arose in the box and bowed his acknowledgements. At that the enthusiasm broke out again, and the demonstration was almost indescribable.

One portion of my address at Chicago seemed to have been misunderstood by the Southern press, and some of the Southern papers took occasion to criticise me rather strongly. These criticisms continued for several weeks, until I finally received a letter from the editor of the Age-Herald, published in Birmingham, Ala., asking me if I would say just what I meant by this part of the address. I replied to him in a letter which seemed to satisfy my critics. In this letter I said that I had made it a rule never to say before a Northern audience anything that I would not say before an audience in the South. I said that I did not think it was necessary for me to go into extended explanations; if my seventeen years of work in the heart of the South had not been explanation enough, I did not see how words could explain. I said that I made the same plea that I had made in my address at Atlanta, for the blotting out of race prejudice in "commercial and civil relations." I said that what is termed social recognition was a question which I never discussed, and then I quoted from my Atlanta address what I had said there in regard to that subject.

In meeting crowds of people at public gatherings, there is one type of individual that I dread. I mean the crank. I have become so accustomed to these people now that I can pick them out at a distance when I see them elbowing their way up to me. The average crank has a long beard, poorly cared for, a lean, narrow face, and wears a black coat. The front of his vest and coat are slick with grease, and his trousers bag at the knees.

In Chicago, after I had spoken at a meeting, I met one of these fellows. They usually have some process for curing all of the ills of the world at once. This Chicago specimen had a patent process by which he said Indian corn could be kept through a period of three or four years, and he felt sure that if the Negro race in the South would, as a whole, adopt his process, it would settle the whole race question. It mattered nothing that I tried to convince him that our present problem was to teach the Negroes how to produce enough corn to last them through one year. Another Chicago crank had a scheme by which he wanted me to join him in an effort to close up all the National banks in the country. If that was done, he felt sure it would put the Negro on his feet.

The number of people who stand ready to consume one's time, to no purpose, is almost countless. At one time I spoke before a large audience in Boston in the evening. The next morning I was awakened by having a card brought to my room, and with it a message that some one was anxious to see me. Thinking that it must be something very important, I dressed hastily and went down. When I reached the hotel office I found a blank and innocent-looking individual waiting for me, who coolly remarked: "I heard you talk at a meeting last night. I rather liked your talk, and so I came in this morning to hear you talk some more."

I am often asked how it is possible for me to superintend the work at Tuskegee and at the same time be so much away from the school. In partial answer to this I would say that I think I have learned, in some degree at least, to disregard the old maxim which says, "Do not get others to do that which you can do yourself." My motto, on the other hand, is, "Do not do that which others can do as well."

One of the most encouraging signs in connection with the Tuskegee school is found in the fact that the organization is so thorough that the daily work of the school is not dependent upon the presence of any one individual. The whole executive force, including instructors and clerks, now numbers eighty-six. This force is so organized and subdivided that the machinery of the school goes on day by day like clockwork. Most of our teachers have been connected with the institutions for a number of years, and are as much interested in it as I am. In my absence, Mr. Warren Logan, the treasurer, who has been at the school seventeen years, is the executive. He is efficiently supported by Mrs. Washington, and by my faithful secretary, Mr. Emmett J. Scott, who handles the bulk of my correspondence and keeps me in daily touch with the life of the school, and who also keeps me informed of whatever takes place in the South that concerns the race. I owe more to his tact, wisdom, and hard work than I can describe.

The main executive work of the school, whether I am at Tuskegee or not, centres in what we call the executive council. This council meets twice a week, and is composed of the nine persons who are at the head of the nine departments of the school. For example: Mrs. B.K. Bruce, the Lady Principal, the widow of the late ex-senator Bruce, is a member of the council, and represents in it all that pertains to the life of the girls at the school. In addition to the executive council there is a financial committee of six, that meets every week and decides upon the expenditures for the week. Once a month, and sometimes oftener, there is a general meeting of all the instructors. Aside from these there are innumerable smaller meetings, such as that of the instructors in the Phelps Hall Bible Training School, or of the instructors in the agricultural department.

In order that I may keep in constant touch with the life of the institution, I have a system of reports so arranged that a record of the school's work reaches me every day of the year, no matter in what part of the country I am. I know by these reports even what students are excused from school, and why they are excused—whether for reasons of ill health or otherwise. Through the medium of these reports I know each day what the income of the school in money is; I know how many gallons of milk and how many pounds of butter come from the dairy; what the bill of fare for the teachers and students is; whether a certain kind of meat was boiled or baked, and whether certain vegetables served in the dining room were bought from a store or procured from our own farm. Human nature I find to be very much the same the world over, and it is sometimes not hard to yield to the temptation to go to a barrel of rice that has come from the store—with the grain all prepared to go in the pot—rather than to take the time and trouble to go to the field and dig and wash one's own sweet potatoes, which might be prepared in a manner to take the place of the rice.

I am often asked how, in the midst of so much work, a large part of which is for the public, I can find time for any rest or recreation, and what kind of recreation or sports I am fond of. This is rather a difficult question to answer. I have a strong feeling that every individual owes it to himself, and to the cause which he is serving, to keep a vigorous, healthy body, with the nerves steady and strong, prepared for great efforts and prepared for disappointments and trying positions. As far as I can, I make it a rule to plan for each day's work—not merely to go through with the same routine of daily duties, but to get rid of the routine work as early in the day as possible, and then to enter upon some new or advance work. I make it a rule to clear my desk every day, before leaving my office, of all correspondence and memoranda, so that on the morrow I can begin a new day of work. I make it a rule never to let my work drive me, but to so master it, and keep it in such complete control, and to keep so far ahead of it, that I will be the master instead of the servant. There is a physical and mental and spiritual enjoyment that comes from a consciousness of being the absolute master of one's work, in all its details, that is very satisfactory and inspiring. My experience teaches me that, if one learns to follow this plan, he gets a freshness of body and vigour of mind out of work that goes a long way toward keeping him strong and healthy. I believe that when one can grow to the point where he loves his work, this gives him a kind of strength that is most valuable.

When I begin my work in the morning, I expect to have a successful and pleasant day of it, but at the same time I prepare myself for unpleasant and unexpected hard places. I prepared myself to hear that one of our school buildings is on fire, or has burned, or that some disagreeable accident has occurred, or that some one has abused me in a public address or printed article, for something that I have done or omitted to do, or for something that he had heard that I had said—probably something that I had never thought of saying.

In nineteen years of continuous work I have taken but one vacation. That was two years ago, when some of my friends put the money into my hands and forced Mrs. Washington and myself to spend three months in Europe. I have said that I believe it is the duty of every one to keep his body in good condition. I try to look after the little ills, with the idea that if I take care of the little ills the big ones will not come. When I find myself unable to sleep well, I know that something is wrong. If I find any part of my system the least weak, and not performing its duty, I consult a good physician. The ability to sleep well, at any time and in any place, I find of great advantage. I have so trained myself that I can lie down for a nap of fifteen or twenty minutes, and get up refreshed in body and mind.

I have said that I make it a rule to finish up each day's work before leaving it. There is, perhaps, one exception to this. When I have an unusually difficult question to decide—one that appeals strongly to the emotions—I find it a safe rule to sleep over it for a night, or to wait until I have had an opportunity to talk it over with my wife and friends.

As to my reading; the most time I get for solid reading is when I am on the cars. Newspapers are to me a constant source of delight and recreation. The only trouble is that I read too many of them. Fiction I care little for. Frequently I have to almost force myself to read a novel that is on every one's lips. The kind of reading that I have the greatest fondness for is biography. I like to be sure that I am reading about a real man or a real thing. I think I do not go too far when I say that I have read nearly every book and magazine article that has been written about Abraham Lincoln. In literature he is my patron saint.

Out of the twelve months in a year I suppose that, on an average, I spend six months away from Tuskegee. While my being absent from the school so much unquestionably has its disadvantages, yet there are at the same time some compensations. The change of work brings a certain kind of rest. I enjoy a ride of a long distance on the cars, when I am permitted to ride where I can be comfortable. I get rest on the cars, except when the inevitable individual who seems to be on every train approaches me with the now familiar phrase: "Isn't this Booker Washington? I want to introduce myself to you." Absence from the school enables me to lose sight of the unimportant details of the work, and study it in a broader and more comprehensive manner than I could do on the grounds. This absence also brings me into contact with the best work being done in educational lines, and into contact with the best educators in the land.

But, after all this is said, the time when I get the most solid rest and recreation is when I can be at Tuskegee, and, after our evening meal is over, can sit down, as is our custom, with my wife and Portia and Baker and Davidson, my three children, and read a story, or each take turns in telling a story. To me there is nothing on earth equal to that, although what is nearly equal to it is to go with them for an hour or more, as we like to do on Sunday afternoons, into the woods, where we can live for a while near the heart of nature, where no one can disturb or vex us, surrounded by pure air, the trees, the shrubbery, the flowers, and the sweet fragrance that springs from a hundred plants, enjoying the chirp of the crickets and the songs of the birds. This is solid rest.

My garden, also, what little time I can be at Tuskegee, is another source of rest and enjoyment. Somehow I like, as often as possible, to touch nature, not something that is artificial or an imitation, but the real thing. When I can leave my office in time so that I can spend thirty or forty minutes in spading the ground, in planting seeds, in digging about the plants, I feel that I am coming into contact with something that is giving me strength for the many duties and hard places that await me out in the big world. I pity the man or woman who has never learned to enjoy nature and to get strength and inspiration out of it.

Aside from the large number of fowls and animals kept by the school, I keep individually a number of pigs and fowls of the best grades, and in raising these I take a great deal of pleasure. I think the pig is my favourite animal. Few things are more satisfactory to me than a high-grade Berkshire or Poland China pig.

Games I care little for. I have never seen a game of football. In cards I do not know one card from another. A game of old-fashioned marbles with my two boys, once in a while, is all I care for in this direction. I suppose I would care for games now if I had had any time in my youth to give to them, but that was not possible.

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