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mangosrar · 3 months

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call it what you want part9

matt sturniolo x fem reader.

MY TAGLIST STILL ISNT WORKING 🫠🫠🫠

6 days. it has been 6 days since you had spoken to matt. he had turned up at your house on monday morning to take you to school. but you had decided on sunday night you weren’t going. you couldn’t face him. you didn’t want to.

he showed up again tuesday. and when you didn’t even tell him to leave, he knocked on your door to be met with nothing. he stood out there for a whole 17 minutes before accepting defeat and leaving.

wednesday, the same story. he showed up, you didn’t come out. he knocked. no answer. he left.

thursday he even went as far as knocking, getting no answer and then sitting outside, repeatedly pressing the horn for almost 4 minutes straight, and then eventually giving up.

but when friday rolled around, matt sent an alliance to your door.

“y/n. it’s me open up” you heard him say. his voice was muffled from the thick wooden barrier between you both.

you stood staring at the door, contemplating wether to open it or not, like you had every day this week. you knew matt would turn up but this wasn’t his fault. he didn’t deserve to be shut out because of his piece of shit brother.

you sighed before reluctantly opening the door, coming face to face with the one person who knows you best. chris sturniolo.

“oh y/n” he breathed, frowning at your state as he stepped inside.

your hair was a mess, and dark circles donned your eyes. your face was pale, like you were sick.

“how you feeling?” he questioned looking down at you. it was a really stupid question. he could tell you were doing terribly just by looking at you, but he would never admit that out loud.

you just shrugged and looked down at your feet. chewing on your lip. there was no way to even put into words how you’ve been feeling. so for a lack of a better term, fucking horrible.

“i don’t know exactly what happened… but matts doing terrible too” he stated.

“i bet he is chris” you replied sarcastically. rolling your eyes.

“he’s been asking about you every day, he even tried talking to caden at school. he’s a mess y/n” chris sighed. looking at you with pleading eyes.

“you can go back to hating him, but i think you should just talk to eachother, it would be a waste for things to end like this” he told you.

there was an internal battle going on inside your head. part of you was a little warm inside over the fact he was worried and asking after you, the other part was enraged over the fact he had the audacity to be upset over his own actions. he deserved to dwell in your absence. why should you forgive him. he had hurt you and he had to live with that.

chris stood there, watching the cogs turn in your head. he knew you were stubborn, but he also knew his brother was 10 times more stubborn, so the fact that he was willing to admit he was wrong and do everything in his power to get you to listen, was shocking.

“is he outside?” pointless question. you knew he was.

chris nodded, standing infront of you with his arms by his sides.

you took in a breath before muttering.

“give me 15 minutes”.

the whole car ride was uncomfortable. chris had forced you into the passenger seat and it made you want to grab the wheel and run the car off the road, but you decided against it.

luckily for you, matt had used his common sense. he look one look at you and kept his mouth shut, just offering a small smile to witch you did not return.

he didn’t deserve it. he did not deserve the satisfaction of thinking there was any chance you were ever going to forgive him. because as far as you were aware, you weren’t going to.

up until 2 weeks ago you and matt couldn’t stand the sight of each other, so after 14 days of slightly less hatred, going back to your old ways wouldn’t harm anyone.

“i’m gonna give you two time to talk” chris muttered, opening the car door and stepping out.

you hadn’t even realised you had arrived at school. the whole way there you had been aimlessly gorming out the window, trying to stop yourself from screaming.

you wanted to get out of the car and sprint in the opposite direction. there was no way matt could justify himself, but you at least wanted to hear whatever sorry excuse he would come up with, so you stayed put.

there was an abundant pause, the both of you just sitting there. you couldn’t even look at him out of fear you might just slap him across the face there and then, but you could feel matts eyes burning into the side of your head as you stared out of the front window with your arms crossed.

matt turned his body towards you, opening his mouth to speak, but the words got caught in his throat, he didn’t even know what he would say. he sighed before dropping his head.

“i’m sorry” he mumbled.

his eyes wandered back up to your face, and when you didn’t even flinch, he continued.

“there’s no excuse for what i said. it was so fucked up. and i don’t think what i said is true y/n. i don’t think you’re damaged and i don’t think you’re weak. i was just something i said out of anger, but that isn’t an excuse. angry or not i shouldn’t have said it” he stated softly. like the distinct tone of his voice would determine how this was going to go.

“i showed up every day this week trying to get you out of the house y/n, does that not show you how sorry i am?” he added.

“oh so you showing up, and banging on my door for 15 minutes every morning makes it okay?” you spat at him. still not looking at his face.

“no, no of course not but… i’m trying y/n, i’m really trying” he sighed.

you just shook your head, keeping your eyes trained forward.

matt swallowed, eyes darting across the side of your face, frantically trying to read your mind.

“if i could go back in time and change what i said i promise i would” he whispered, leaning over the centre console slightly.

he didn’t know why he was beating himself up so much. he’s said stuff like this before with out even batting an eyelid, so why now?

his heartbeat quickened when you slowly craned your neck to face him.

there was a blank look spread across your features that he couldn’t place.

you took in a breath, and blinked at him, pursing your lips before speaking.

“go fuck your self” and with that you were shoving the car door open and getting out.

you could hear him calling after you but you didn’t care. you continued marching across the parking lot towards the school doors. leaving him there once again to wallow in the knowledge that he had hurt you to an extent that was fucking unforgivable.

“nope. not happening” chris said.

“why chris? this is a good way for me to stay calm” you whined.

“turning to drugs and getting high is a bad way to deal with your emotions y/n” he tutted.

“you do it. so what you’re saying is that you are bad at dealing with your emotions?” you quirked. coming to a stop when chris got to his locker.

“deflecting is not gonna get you what you want” he spoke, looking at you briefly with a flat expression before turning back to his locker.

“ughhh, look, i’m dealing with my emotions. i’m sad and i’m angry at your brother. i know how i feel. i just wanna smoke so i can take the edge off” you said shrugging.

he shook his head slowly, pressing his lips into a thin line, standing his ground.

“come on chris” you whispered, looking up at him with big round eyes.

he sighed before closing his locker and turning to you.

“i’ll let you smoke under one condition” he stated.

you nodded your head excitedly and grinned waiting for him to continue.

“you have to come to that party on sunset” he smiled sarcastically.

you hated parties and chris knew that, so if he asked you to go, he knew you would refuse, and that would be his get out of jail free card as to not let you get high.

he blinked at you with a smirk on his face, because in his head neither of you were gonna get what you wanted.

“okay” you shrugged.

“‘okay’?” he exclaimed, “you’ll go?”

“yeah why not, maybe i’ll find another dark tattood, handsome man to sweep me off my feet” you wiggled your eyebrows at him.

“so what you’re saying is that you think matt is handsome and he swept you off your feet?” he giggled, wiggling his eyebrows back.

your face dropped and you swatted his arm, trying to hide your smile, he just dodged you, carrying on laughing as he walked down the hall with you trailing behind.

“ok but if i wear the black one the shoes won’t match” you ranted holding the shirt up to your chest in the mirror.

this had been going on for about an hour. nick ans chris had been sat on your bed, waiting for you to get ready.

at first you were all listening to music, talking and laughing, but by the time you had re applied your makeup for the second time, and re curled your hair for the third time, chris had gotten bored and fallen asleep, and nick had just simply lost interest and started staring at the wall.

“i don’t wanna wear these shoes”

“the white shirt is so cute though”

“but the sleeves are weird”

“i’m not going”

“y/n!” nick yelled, snapping you out of your frenzy and waking chris up.

you turned to him with wide eyes at his sudden outburst.

“we were supposed to leave an hour ago, wear the black shirt with the white shoes” he breathed, closing his eyes, briefly before opening them and looking at you with a hard stare.

“fine” you replied, rolling your eyes and stomping over to your bathroom to change.

“what if matts there?” you yelled through the door, pulling your shirt over your head.

“he won’t be” chris yelled back.

you didn’t say anything else as you straightened the top out and fixed your hair. there was a small tiny microscopic piece of you that wished he would be there. not so you could talk or anything. just so he could see you enjoying yourself, but the way this night was going. you highly doubted you would.

the strong smell of alcohol and weed wafted through the air as you made your way through the house, chris close on your tail.

there were people everywhere some of wich you recognised, some you didn’t, all sandwiched together, and it only made you question why people enjoyed parties more.

you had been here for almost an hour now and you hadn’t left chris’s side once. he had been catching up with some old friends who moved town when they were younger, but you just stood quietly scoping the area.

so far you we’re safe. no matt. no elijah. and you hoped it would stay that way, partially.

“hey i’m gonna go grab a drink” you said, pulling on chris’s arm to get his attention.

he nodded, and started saying his goodbyes to his friends, telling them he would see them later, indicating he was coming with you.

there was a large table in the middle of the kitchen, full of alcoholic drinks and right now, to you, it looked like it was glowing.

“you’re drinking?” chris questioned with his eyebrows pinched together.

“yeah why not?” you shrugged, reaching for the vodka bottle and a red solo cup.

“whatever just….don’t get too drunk” chris laughed, but his voice carried a warning tone.

you just rolled your eyes before pouring both you and Chris a shot, and handing him the cup.

“here’s to, handsome dark tattooed men, aka matt” Chris laughed before bringing the cup up to his mouth.

you just shook your head, smiling before also taking the shot.

your face scrunched up at the taste in your mouth, it was horrible. but the feel of it burning in your chest was thrilling.

you never really drank. sure you’d had alcohol before, but always in an environment where you were comfortable, like you’re own house while your parents were asleep, or nicks room while his parents were away for the weekend, never in the heat of a raging house party.

“hey, i’m gonna use the bathroom i’ll be right back” chris said, raising his voice slightly over the music.

you just hummed a reply before watching him walk away, and then turning back to the table of drinks.

fireball.

you poured the shot and downed it instantly. better than vodka, still gross.

one more couldn’t hurt.

you poured the shot again, bringing it to your lips, and just as the hot liquid entered your mouth. a voice appeared behind you.

“thirsty?”

fuck.

you ignored him completely, bringing the cup back down and placing it on the table.

“didn’t think i’d see you here, this isn’t really your scene” he told you, coming around to the side of you and leaning on the table.

you ignored him again, pouring yet another shot.

“then again, matt sturniolo isn’t really your scene, somehow you’re all over him” he muttered in a low voice, and from the corner of your eye, you saw him looking around.

he was just as paranoid as you were.

“who i’m all over is none of your business anymore elijah” you sighed, turning to him and smiling sarcastically. but someone else caught your eye.

a dark, tattooed, handsome man who could easily sweep you off your feet.

he was watching you. his gaze strong and jaw clenched. and suddenly elijahs voice became a ringing in your ears.

you could have crumbled there and then, he looked good. his tattoos on full display, slight stubble growing, that you had noticed this morning but you were too fucking angry to register it.

his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away, and when you didn’t, he pushed off the wall he was leaning on, and sauntered over to you.

“….and as far as i’m awar-“

“hey baby” matt cooed, cutting elijah off and wrapping an arm around your waist.

you wanted to pull away. you were still angry at him, but for the sake of the act, you stayed put.

elijah scoffed, looking matt up and down like he was scum of the earth.

your eyes darted between the two, waiting in expectancy for one of them to talk.

“you gotta tell me how you do it sturniolo, you’re always there, you know? waiting to pounce every time i talk to her. maybe i should be concerned. are you stalking me?” elijah questioned. he was trying to get under matts skin, and the way he squeezed your waist slightly, told you it was working.

matt laughed slightly, looking off to the side before bringing his eyes back to elijah.

“well if you wasn’t always bothering my girlfriend, i wouldn’t have to be there every time you talk to her” he shrugged, smiling sarcastically at your ex.

matt turned to you, pulling his eyebrows together.

“is he bothering you sweetheart?” he asked.

you just looked at him with wide eyes. silently begging him not to do anything.

yes you and matt hated each other, but you knew him well enough to know he would use any excuse to punch someone. and elijahs face had been served to him on a silver platter.

“i think you’re bothering her Whitlock” he stated, removing his arm from your waist and stepping in front of you.

“matt” you mumbled. he ignored you.

elijah laughed and dropped his head, standing up fully, like he was trying to intimidate matt but the odds were even. there was no turning back now.

when elijah brought his eyes back up, they landed on yours, his gaze was cold and unsettling, but the words that came out of his mouth, didn’t mean half as much to you as they did matt.

“considering she’s such a slut, i don’t think she minds who bothers her”.

oh shit.

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itsspiiit · 9 months

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Unexpected…

Parings: Hobie Brown x Reader

Summary:You’ve been staying up at ungodly hours due to the bountiful amount of work you had from school. Your good friend Hobie comes over one night to help you stop your stressing and sleep. But the night had different plans for you both.

Inspo: Wet by GRLWood

Warning(s): NSFW (mdni), mutual masturbation, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, mentions of sex work, NOT proofread (cause I didn’t feel like it). If you see any errors… no you didn’t.

Thursday, 3AM

You sat at the desk in your room typing away on your laptop with a bowl of various fruits next to it. The flexi rod curls you put every ounce of arm strength you had into almost didn’t exist anymore. Your reading glasses slid from the bridge of your nose to the tip of it, making it easier to see the chanel bags slowly forming under your eyes. Unknowingly, your back hunched over the longer you sat down and tried to complete the third essay assigned to you this week.

You were exhausted. But you had a fuck ton of english work to do and insomnia kept you awake. Your regret for majoring in psychology grew with every indentation and word you typed on the keyboard.

Just as you were about to start typing the third to last paragraph, a soft rhythmic knock on the window startled you. Your body jolted at the unexpected sound causing your glasses to slide further down your nose. Using your middle finger to push them back to their proper position, you turned your head in the direction of the window and almost all of your stress left your body when you saw him.

Hobie, your best friend with the cool hair, stood outside with his contagious smile painted across his face as he waved at you with his long, slender, ring decorated fingers. His torso was covered halfway with a black crop top you ripped and designed for him and a spiked leather vest you spray painted the anarchy symbol on the back of. He wore black ripped jeans that were secured on his hips by a spiked belt and chains dangling from the belt loops.

Fuck, he looks so good.

Pushing your thoughts to the side, you pushed your chair back and stood up to open your window for for the 6’5 man. “Hey, Hobie.” You greeted him with a soft smile, watching him climb into your room and start to take his boots off before closing the window. He walked towards your bed and threw himself on it, placing his hands behind his head and crossed one leg over the other.

“Wagwaan.” He greeted back with a lopsided smile. His smooth, deep voice and british accent always sounded so sultry to you. Every time you guys talked it felt like a challenge to see how long you can keep your self respect before you up and pounced on him.

“Well,” you began to respond as you sat back in your desk chair and tossed a grape into your mouth, “it’s three in the morning and I’m trying to finish… what? Like… the third, fourth essay I was assigned? Been working on it since probably ten or eleven.”

His beautiful pierced face immediately fell into a shocked expression with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and frustration. “You haven’t taken a break, have you?” All you could is shake your head and let out a long stressful sigh as you looked at your computer screen with visibly tired eyes.

“Not only is it because I can’t sleep, but I wanna get everything done ASAP. My work is do on Sunday an-”

“It’s due Sunday?!” He cut you off, his tone bursting with disbelief. You felt a laugh bubbling up in your chest hearing his thick accent but held it in, reaching into the bowl and eating a pineapple chunk. “You know that’s in three days, right?” He continued as he pressed his elbows into your soft mattress and sat up giving you a look that read “are you serious?”

“Of course I know that, but-”

“But nothin’, mate. Close the computer.” He cut you off again, gesturing his head towards it.

“Hobie-”

“Close it.”

Not having the energy to go back and forth with him, your eyes rolled in annoyance and you shut your laptop. You turned your head in his direction and saw that a closed mouth smile was painted across his face. “Oh, you’re happy now?” You asked with a deadpanned expression.

A low chuckle escaped his throat watching you mug him as he nodded his head. The sound had you doing backflips mentally as your face began to heat up slightly. “Knowin’ that you aren’t nose deep into a screen goin’ mad about somethin’ that’s due in seventy two hours? Yeah, I’m quite happy.”

He swung his legs off your bed and sat up, reaching over to grab a mango chunk and tossed it into his mouth. As he chewed he saw your face drop into a “are you deadass?” look. He stopped chewing for a moment, awkwardly looked to the side and back to your face.

“Yeah, Hobs! You can take one!” You voiced with sarcasm as you threw your arms up and back down to your sides. He gave you an apologetic smile as he started to slowly chew the sweet and refreshing fruit again. “What made you come here at this time of night though? Can’t think of anywhere to steal from?” You asked playfully with a teasing smirk.

A light laugh came from him as he finished chewing before he responded. “I actually didn’t feel like stealin’ until you mentioned it.” You chuckled and shook your head at his antics. “But, nah. I couldn’t sleep and I knew you’d be up so I thought why not come over and bother you.”

“Ahhh… so what you do almost every day!” Both of you erupted into laughter at your comment. He knew that you were joking, and you knew you enjoyed his presence a little too much.

“Oh, come out of it. You know you love when I’m around.” He spoke as you guys’ laughter died down. Placing his hands on your bed, he leaned back bit and gave you a cocky smile.

Oh, he know he fine.

“Eh, sometimes.” You shrug playfully, reaching into the fruit bowl and munching on another grape. He reaches for the bowl again and takes a kiwi slice, but you don’t mind this time.

Once he done chewing he begins to speak. “Are you saying that because I always beat you in Uno?” You gave him a bored expression as you watched the smile on face grow.

“Hobie, please. You beat me that one time-”

“And I beat you three times in a row.”

You scoffed at his cocky behavior and crossed your arms. “I bet it won’t happen again.” You eyed him up and down with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

He gave you the same look as one of his eyebrows lifted in feigned curiosity. “Is that a challenge?”

It was now four in the morning. You sat on your bed with your back against the headboard and the gorgeous punk sat in front of you with crisscrossed legs, his leather vest now off his shoulders and hung on the back of your desk chair. You guys were two intense Uno games in, Hobie being the winner of both of them.

“Uno.” He announced with a lopsided grin as he placed a yellow three card and red three card down at the same time. You were starting to lose hope. You held the two cards you had thinking hard about the multiple possibilities of how this game could end. Until…

“UNO OUT!” You exclaimed slightly with a proud grin as you slammed a red skip card and red eight card down. You finally won a game after what felt like hours of playing.

He also gave you a proud smile as he began to pick up all of the cards that were piled on your mattress. “You finally beat my streak. ‘M proud of you.”

The voice. The Smile. His Confidence. Now the praise. It was all slowly becoming too much. His comment made your heart beat a bit faster, waves of heat traveling from your head and down to your lower region. It caused your sensitive bud to throb gently, and you crossed one leg over the other to somehow bring it to a halt.

He’s gonna be the death of me, I swear.

“Wanna play another game?” He asked when he was done picking up all of the playing cards. You sighed softly as you crossed your arms and shook your head.

“Nah, I just wanted to beat you in at least one game of Uno. Got tired of you talking shit.” He chucked at your confession and wrapped the rubber band you used to keep the cards together back around them. “But we can play connect four if you’re down. I’ll definitely win the first game.”

“Oh, I’ve got to see this.” He spoke with a sarcastic laugh. “I’ll go get the game.”

He got off your bed and walked towards the closet, opening it and instantly scanning the top shelf for the box. You pulled your phone from underneath your pillows and scrolled through instagram as you waited for him to come back with the second challenge for the night. Your cluttered top shelf slipped your mind as you thought you wouldn’t even have company today.

When he found the game, he tried to pull it out of its position without knocking anything down. But it all happened so quickly. As he began to pull the Connect 4 box out, so did Candy Land which was right beneath it. He reached his unoccupied hand out to make sure that game didn’t fall in the process, but he didn’t know that these two board games were keeping a pink Shoe Dazzle box from falling as well.

He successfully got Connect 4 from your top shelf without another game falling, but he didn’t see the pink box making its way out of the closet as well. When it fell, it landed on the side which caused the top to fall off as it hit the floor. He looked down and watched what was inside of the box roll out in awe.

Various sex toys with different shapes, sizes and functions were now scattered across the floor in front of her closet. A pink massage wand, black seven inch dildo and a black silicone butt plug with a blue gemstone on the bottom of it were the main toys that caught his attention since they were so close to his feet. He wanted to speak. He tried to speak. But he was too stunned to try and even utter a word.

There’s no way she has all of this. Am I dreaming?

The sound of the box hitting the floor made you look up from your phone with a confused expression, but it was immediately taken over with disbelief and shock. Your eyes were so wide you’re surprised they didn’t fall out of your head. Your jaw hung so low it would probably hit the floor if you were standing. The gasp you let out was so sharp and loud it made Hobie turn his head in your direction. You can see the disbelief in his face as well and that alone made tears start to form into your eyes.

All you could do is grab a pillow and sit it on your lap, plop your head on it to hide your face and scream. Your face was so warm in embarrassment that it felt like it could melt off any second now. You can feel your friends stare on you, searching for answers in a way, but you couldn’t even look at the man.

There was a long, unbearable silence between the both of you. So much tension in the room that it could be cut with a knife. You sat with your face buried into your pillow, take deep breaths to calm yourself down before you finally built the courage to get off your bed and walk towards the “mess” that was created. Without looking at the handsome man next to you, you squatted down and placed the box down with the opening facing the ceiling and began putting everything back where it was before.

“Uhh… you need help with tha-” Hobie spoke awkwardly in attempt to break the loud silence. He put his hands up in surrender and backed up a bit when he saw you side eye him with a displeased expression.

(I had to use the picture this was the PERFECT opportunity to do so 😭)

You continued to pick up your toys, still without uttering a word or even looking at him. From your peripheral vision you saw his feet step away from his position next to you and heard his footsteps stop where your bed was located. You assumed he sat and your bed again, maybe to give you some space. You picked up the cardboard top and slammed it onto the box when you were done picking everything up, instantly getting up and putting it back on the top shelf in your closet.

You kept your head down as you closed the closet and walked to your previous spot before all of this: your desk chair. Still not being able to look at the company on your bed, your hand reached for your closed laptop until…

“Don’t even think about it, bruv.” Hobie stopped you with a playful scowl in his tone crossing his arms. All you could do is let out a dramatic sigh, cross your arms on the desk and place your head on them, hiding your face once again.

Hobie eyed your movements the entire time. He understood why you were embarrassed, wanting to curl yourself into ball and just hide. But he didn’t understand why you were acting this way towards him. Of course he was shocked that you out of all people had all of this… material. You’re the introverted, shy, kind of nerdy and laid back friend. Always at home with your head stuffed into a comic or manga, loved sleep more than anything, would rather write than talk. Just the opposite of him and he didn’t mind that.

But he didn’t understand why you thought he cared about your secret box so much. This wasn’t gonna make him think about you any different. If anything, he was more curious and a bit turned on after finding out such covert information.

He decided to try and break the silence again. “This isn’t as bad as you’re makin’ it seem, love.” You can hear the sincerity in his tone, his sultry voice and the pet name he used still had your sensitive bud aching for attention.

He couldn’t see it, but your eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his statement. “What do you mean?” You questioned without lifting your head.

“It was a little unexpected, but it’s not botherin’ me in any way. Your personality isn’t in that box.” His honesty never faltered as he let out a light chuckle, gesturing his hand in the direction of your closet.

You scoffed at his statement in disbelief, finally sitting up and crossing your arms as you gazed at the wall in front of you. He was starting to get annoyed at the lack of eye contact and he sucked his teeth, glaring at the side of your face. “Look at me, mate.”

You heard the seriousness in his voice, and you closed your eyes taking a a deep breath before opening them and turning your head in his direction. Finally locking your eyes with his, you searched for any vacillation that could be hidden. But there was only sincerity. He meant every word he said.

“I’m sorry, Hobie. It’s just…” You trailed off looking to the side for a moment before looking back him. “You saw everything in that box. My childhood best friend doesn’t even know what’s in there. How am I supposed to believe that you don’t care about what you just saw?”

“Because I don’t.” He shrugged with a sarcastic laugh. “If I’m bein’ completely honest, the only thing I’m wonderin’ is how and why you have so many. I’ve never met someone with a box full of sex toys. Shit, I don’t even have that many.”

Your face fell into a curious expression as you listened to his words. “You have sex toys-”

“It’s not about me right now.” He spoke quickly shaking his head.

You chuckled at his quickness to dismiss your question. “Well, to stop your wondering…” You trailed off again with a sigh, scratching the back of your head nervously.

Am I really gonna tell him this?

You saw his eyebrows raise, eager to hear what you had to say.

Might as well just tell him. It doesn’t make sense to hide this now.

You blew a raspberry, preparing yourself to inform your friend of your biggest secret. “Long story short… I’m a sex worker. About a year and some change now. The financial aid package I receive from my college falls short on covering the cost of the tuition and other expenses. I don’t wanna put myself through five hours of class and then seven to eight hours of labor to make ends meet. So, I started looking into sex work. Seeing how much I could possibly make, the different types of content that people would pay for, the fact that I’d be working any time and anywhere I wanted was a plus as well. Now, here I am: I make about eight hundred dollars weekly, two to three thousand monthly. It’s enough to make sure I can pay for college and still do what I want.”

When you finished your confession, Hobie was left speechless with a slack jaw. He blinked a couple times to try and process the information he was given. His friend who couldn’t even socialize for more than two hours… Is a cam girl?

…Why is this kind of hot?

He picked up his jaw and cleared his throat, shaking the thoughts out of his head with a deep sigh. His behavior made all of the negative feelings you had before resurface. You looked down at the floor with shame as you shook your head.

“I knew I should’ve just kept my mouth shut-”

“No, no, no, no, no!” He quickly stopped you from finishing your sentence waving his hands. “I meant everythin’ I said before. None of this is gonna change my perspective of you. It’s just…”

He trailed off, the naughty thoughts he had slowly clouded his mind again. He felt his blood slowly rush to the head of his member thinking about the fact that he was sitting on the bed that you made some of your content on. You could’ve made yourself cum on the sheets you currently have on your mattress today, and thought of him sitting in the spot where you probably left a big, creamy mess was driving him mad.

“Hobie?” You spoke with a bit of worry as you noticed him zone out. You watched as he swallowed thickly and blinked twice, the leg that hung off your bed beginning to sway from side to side. You bit your lip to hide the smile that was threatening to paint your face at the scene.

Ahh, I see what’s up.

He felt his length throb softly, the feeling made him groan but he attempted to hide it with a deep, throaty chuckle. The sound not only made your entrance clench with need, but it gave you a bit of confidence to say your next words.

“Do you wanna see how I make my content?” The slight seduction in your voice caught him off guard, his head shot up to look at you with a shocked expression. You could see the desire in his eyes start to expand at your question.

“Wai- what?” He stammered breathlessly. He didn’t know where your sudden boldness came from, but he didn’t mind as it made it him throb again, his manhood slowly becoming erect.

“I know you heard me, Hobie.” You answered teasingly with a voluptuous grin and. “It’s a simple yes or no question.”

There goes that silence again. Sexual tension building as you eyed each other down. Once you both saw that y’all were on the same page, you smiled at each other with a knowing glint in your eyes. Y’all began to stand and walk towards each other with only one thought in mind:

“Finally.”

You were now laying on your bed with your torso completely exposed, showing off the nipple piercings that Hobie didn’t know you had. He swore it was as if he was finding treasure with every second he spent with you. Your legs were spread wide open to expose the red lace thong you’ve been sporting, revealing a small wet stain that your aching core left on it.

Hobie sat in your desk chair that he moved to the front of your bed, his torso also completely on display. The sight of his lanky yet toned and muscular physique only made you wetter. His boxer briefs were still attached to his lower half, his erection very prominent and aching to see what was next. Your tripod stood next him with your phone placed on it horizontally as it recorded.

“I’m so wet for you already. Dripping through my thong for you.” You spoke seductively, moving your body closer to the tripod and gorgeous man in front of you. Even though you looked into camera the whole time, he knew every word was meant for him.

“I only get this wet for you, baby. I’ve been waiting so fucking long to show you how I make myself cum when I think about you.” As if read each other’s minds, both of you placed a hand on your chest and slowly dragged it down to your most sensitive parts. Your hand slid inside your thong as his began to gently palm his shaft over his boxers, biting his lip to hold the groan that was ready to escape his throat.

The hand you slipped into your underwear made it’s way to your throbbing clit, your natural juices already coated all over your flower. You slowly and gently began to rub your sensitive button in circles, a low moan escaping your lips at the smooth feeling. The sound of your arousal squelching echoed off the walls in your room, drawing a low grunt from the half naked man at the foot of your bed as he continued to palm himself.

“I’ll show you how pretty she is, only if I get to see how hard the sound of my needy pussy made you first. Can you do that for me?” You continued to play with yourself, applying the tiniest amount of pressure. He immediately lifted his hips and slid his boxers off of his hips with ease.

His length was finally revealed to you, springing out effortlessly with him sighing blissfully at the feeling. Watching it slap his stomach gently, the tip going past his belly button, had you moaning at the sight. Your leaking entrance clenched with need as you thought of his member thrusting into you slow and hard, the prominent veins rubbing against your smooth, wet walls deliciously.

“Mmmm~ that dick is so pretty.” You admitted as you lifted your hips to remove your thong. You slid it off your legs and threw it in a random direction away from you. Your other set of lips spread slowly as you opened your legs again, showcasing your beautiful sensitive flower glistening with your wetness. “It’s so hard for me already, babe. I know you wish you stretching this tight, wet, warm pussy with every inch.” Your hand reached for your slit, spreading your labia to display your opening.

It was already starting to become too much for Hobie. The way you uttered such naughty words with ease, how you played with your beautiful pussy so delicately, the way you looked into the camera with such lust and longing desire. He bit his lip at the alluring sight before him, eyes rolling back as they closed for a moment when his shaft throb for attention.

You moved your hand so that you were touching your delicate bud again, letting out a pornographic moan as you started to rub it in circles again. “I wanna watch you make yourself feel good too, baby. Spit on your hand, get that aching cock nice and wet for me, and stroke it nice and slow. I don’t want you getting close too fast, okay?”

He instantly did what your smooth, gentle voice commanded him to do. The sensation of his moisturized hand slowly sliding down to the base of his length made a deep groan fall from his lips. He slid his hand up to his tip with the same pace, hissing at the feeling of himself softly pulsate in his grip. He found a rhythm rather quickly, a rhythm that already had his head lulling back in bliss as he imagined it was your pretty, dripping hole gripping him gently as you rode his erect member.

“Mmn~ fuck.” You whimpered as you felt your opening leak more of your sweet extract at the lustful view of his now glistening girth pulsate in his slender hands. The friction of his hand spreading his spit around him could be heard as he watched you play with yourself. “You’re throbbing so hard for me already. You like watching me play with my needy pussy for you, baby?” Your hand moved downward to tease your leaking hole, and you let out a short, low purr followed by a sharp gasp when you felt the tip of your middle finger almost enter.

The pretty boy in front of you analyzed your face and body with hooded eyes clouded with hunger and eagerness to cum with you, wishing it was the tip of his dick teasing your entrance. A deep, animalistic growl escaped his throat as he began to thrust his hips into hand at a steady pace. “Shit.” He moaned when he started to flick his wrist as he continued to caress his length, stroking at faster pace.

“Ooh~ my finger slides in so easily.” You moaned breathlessly when you felt your smooth, greedy walls suck your digit into yourself. You slowly thrusted your coated finger in and out twice before pulling it out, watching a string of your arousal stretch from your core attached to your digit. The strand of your extract broke when brought your hand to your face, sucking the juices off but making sure your finger was still moist enough so you can slip it into your hungry opening again.

Hobie grunted eagerly as he watched you. His release was building up slowly, but he held it in. “So fucking good.” He groaned lowly feeling his pleasure intensify, the pace he stroked his girth never faltering.

You eased your index finger in after penetrating yourself with your middle for a while, your mouth falling agape at the delightful feeling of being stretched out slightly. Curving your slick digits upwards, another sharp gasp escaped your mouth as you felt the tip of them gently press again a spongy spot inside your dripping core. “Oh, yes, right fucking there.” You whined desperately at the new feeling, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you continued motioning your fingers upward.

At this point you and Hobie forgot about the phone that was recording your sinful actions and naughty sounds. You were both in a state of euphoria— the sensual noises coming from guy’s mouth, your arousal squelching and leaking nonstop with every thrust of your fingers, the sight you both had as you watched each other masturbate intensely with the same amount of eagerness. It was enough to bring you both closer to that release y’all were so desperate to receive.

Your hips bucked into your hand as the pace you thrusted your dripping fingers became faster and sloppier, your free hand gripping the covers on your bed tightly as you felt the small pressure in your stomach start to expand. “Fuck, Hobie, I’m gonna cum so hard for you. I’m so close, baby~, i’m so close.” You babbled mindlessly as you brought the hand that was gripping your sheets to you aching clit, rubbing it in steady circles to quicken the arrival of your powerful orgasm.

“M’ right behind you, love. Get that nut, baby. Fuck… I’m right there with you.” He encouraged you with a growl. The pet names, his seductive voice, and seeing the pace of his thrusting hips increase as he watched you bring yourself to the most mind shattering orgasm was all you needed to make the pressure in stomach pop as you made a delicious mess on the bed and floor below you.

Your eyes slowly rolled to the back of your head and jaw fell open as you came with a long, loud, moan. Your juices flew out of your pulsating entrance when you quickly removed your fingers from inside of you, rubbing your clit in circles rapidly making your squirting essence fly in any and every direction.

Hobie watched the voluptuous scene in front of him with a slightly gaped mouth, breathing heavily and rapidly as it brought him to his climax. His eyebrows furrowed in bliss, his stomach and testicles tightening as he milked himself with his hand. A loud groan exited his throat as he angled his girth towards his stomach and released, ropes of his seed painting his beautiful melanated torso. The hand he used to jerk himself off reduced its speed as he slowly came down from his high.

You both sat in your current positions regulating your breathing after the intense mutual masturbation session. When your breathing began to balance out, you heard a quiet whimper come from the attractive man in front of you. Your eyes made their way to him, seeing him slowly stroke his still erect girth with his head thrown back.

You threw your legs off your bed and got off of it, walking towards the tripod and stopping the recording. You sent the video to Hobie before making your way in front him, kneeling down and gently placing your hand on his thighs as you looked up at his pretty fucked out face. He felt your hands run up his thighs and to his hand to remove it from his length.

He looked down at the beautiful woman in front of him with a raised eyebrow, wondering what she planned on doing. All of his wonder went out the window when he watched her bring one of her hands to his thick, long member jerking him up and down once just to feel him throb. She then brought her head down a bit, slowly licking a wet line from his balls to the sensitive spot below his tip as she looked him in his eyes with hers feigning innocence.

“Fuck. Baby, don’t tease me like that.” He he groaned breathlessly at the sensation. She chuckled seductively at his words, kissing the head of his dick before spitting on it. She brought her hand back to his length to spread the moisture around him, feeling her lower region begin to ache for attention again when she heard him whine at the feeling of her warm fist starting to jerk him off at an agonizingly slow pace.

Hobie’s eyebrows creased in confusion when he felt her stop her movements, but his confused expression was immediately replaced with a slack jaw and his eyes rolling back when he felt her lips wrap around him gently. “Mmm~ so soft.” He moaned as she pushed her head lower onto him with her humming at the taste of him taking over her tastebuds.

“Oh- ooh, shit. What the fuck?” He moaned blissfully in bewilderment as she immediately slid his girth down her throat. She contracted the walls of her throat around his manhood as she started moving her head up and down.

The feeling of her warm lips and wet, tight throat wrapped around him has his eyes behind his head for the thousandth time tonight. One of his slender hands made their way to her soft, messy hair, gripping it gently as he held her head down and began to thrust his hips into her face. “Your throat feels so good, doll. Oh, my…” He trailed off with a needy whine.

He thrusted his hips faster, her eyes beginning to water as he slid further and further down her esophagus. She felt him gently throb in her mouth as she mentally thanked the man above for not having a gag reflex. She hummed around him once more to bring him closer to his second release.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes! Oh, f-fuck, baby. I’m gonna cum. I’m-” His babbling stopped abruptly due to his climax crashing down on him. He groaned breathlessly as he throbbed repeatedly and came down her throat, still holding her head down and keeping his hips still.

Once she felt his member slowly start to become flaccid, she pulled her head up and removed her lips from him with a pop. She looked up at him with innocent eyes as she swallowed every drop of cum he fed her, opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out to show him afterwards.

He smiled proudly at the sight, watching her come up from her position on the floor and straddle his laptop. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hers made their way around his neck and rested on the back of her chair. “I didn’t think you had that in you, love.” He spoke teasingly as he looked up at her with his bright, gorgeous smile.

She chuckled at his comments before responding. “You didn’t think I had a lot of things inside me. Now look at where we are.” You both laughed lightly at your statement, Hobie pushing you down towards him by your back and gently pressing his lips onto yours.

You instantly melted into the kiss as he gripped your thighs and stood up with your legs wrapped around his hips. He walked towards your bed and laid you down on it, him laying next to you as you guy’s lips separated. You faced each other, one of your hands making their way to the back his neck as you started to playing in his hair.

“So, about those sex toys you mentioned earlier…” You spoke with a playful grin.

“Oh, my days- no. Good night.” He responded with playful frustration, Shuffling his body closer to yours and stuffing his face into your neck and wrapping his arms around you. You laughed at his tone and words, holding him close to you as you rubbed his back gently.

Both of you enjoyed the fact that after engaging in such sinful activities, you can still joke around like nothing happened. You also really appreciated how he didn’t judge you and made sure that you knew his intentions and perspective of you were still pure… kind of. He really enjoyed what went down tonight, and he hoped that you guys could do it again sometime.

And you felt the same exact way.

I know the ending seems rushed I apologize guys 😭 I said this was gonna be posted Thursday night and I MEANT IT okay. But I hope you guys enjoyed!! My first smut on tumblr and more to come 💕

#mdni #hobie my beloved #hobie brown smut #hobie brown x reader #spiderman atsv #atsv #spider punk #spider punk smut #hobie brown x black!reader #hobart brown #hobart brown x reader #hobart brown x black!reader #hobart brown smut #spider punk x reader #spider punk x you #spider punk x black!reader #atsv x reader #atsv smut #marvel

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devils-dares · 3 months

Text

Man's World

summary: a tight championship race, a relationship situationship enemies with benefits that can't take place anywhere but behind the scenes, two drivers pitted against one another. who will prevail?

pairing: f1 driver x f1 driver!fem!reader (written with lewis hamilton in mind, but contains no identifying traits for any driver)

warnings: smut MDNI, verbal fights, driving, strong language, toxic masculinity, women being talked about negatively (in a man's world), being pathetic

wordcount: 5005

a/n: i have been working on this since august. this fic has gone through many phases of life with me, and i have finally finished it. i truly hope you enjoy.

-----

Good God, what had you gotten yourself into? It wasn’t supposed to be anything, if anything you two were bitter rivals to the death. Saying his name was like licking a battery, leaving a coppery acidic taste in your mouth.

So why did you wake in his bed? He, his body shining in the early morning sun, was making a plate from what you imagined was room service breakfast. His sheets, they smell like him, and the memories from last night and nights past come flooding into your head again.

He’s laying it on thick, smiling at you when he sees you sitting up in bed.

“You okay?” He says, the sweetest voice spilling from his lips. You hum, the ache between your thighs and the soreness in your hips delectably painful. He hands you a plate.

Your head spins from the irony of it all. Enemies to lovers, you’d said the night before as a joke. And what did he say in response?

“Lovers don’t fuck each other like this.”

It was true, the bruises on your body spoke wretched stories when they darkened over days, but sung beautifully while you moaned out his name underneath him as he pressed on them. He fucked as hard as he fought on track, the two of you trading first and second place back and forth every race. It’d become a game, riling each other up all week long just to end up on the podium next to each other and the same bed later on. It was a joke around the paddock that the two of you had tension and needed to “sort it out”.

All things had to end eventually, right? It bothered you when his alleged girlfriend was at Silverstone. He’d just spent the night prior making sure you couldn’t talk while his head was between your legs and now Thursday brings rumors of him walking the paddock with a lady friend.

She was beautiful, and that pissed you off.

He came to your room Sunday night after the race, a knock you two have come to create inadvertently. You didn’t bother to open the door, instead opting to lean against it.

“Open the door,” he said, “someone could see. Open the fucking door.” He’s agitated, good, you think. He led the race by a few seconds, but his cockiness came through like always, leading to an ill-timed spin and you taking the win from him. You’re winning the championship by just over ten points, and he’s had a slew of what could be considered amazing races, but losses in his book because he’s a place behind you. He knocks and knocks until you’re sure his fingers go raw, and you wipe a stray tear before opening the door to toxicity personified. He pushes past you to get in and slams the door shut. You sigh and rub your forehead before he pushes you up against the door.

“When I say open the door, open the fucking door, got it?”

“I’m not going to listen to you.” You challenge him, and he puffs his chest out, showing off just how much bigger he is than you.

“You’ve already tried being a brat, remember what that got you?” A night full of edging and no release, that’s exactly what that got you. Your body shudders at the memory.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” He laughs.

“Fuck you!” You try to shove him but he barely moves an inch, instead grabbing your wrists and pushing them back against the door.

“What’s got you in such a mood? Back to back races left you a little sex-starved?” He tuts. “I thought I taught you better than that.”

“Who was that girl you were walking around with?” You ask, tears brimming at your waterline in anger.

“You’re jealous! Do you know how pathetic that is? What gives you a right to know, being my whore in private?” Your face turns away from his, but he pulls your hands up to hold with one of his, and he turns your chin towards him with his free hand. He sees how red you are, face burning with embarrassment.

“She’s an obligation. Management, you know.”

“So you’re not-”

“No. I wouldn’t be here if I was. She’s in the room across the hall from me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? You don’t own me, you shouldn’t be obligated to know who she is.”

“Yet you told me.” He drops his hands.

“You know, if I’m not going to get what I want from you tonight, maybe I should go to her. She seemed very eager to get to know me when we got together for this.”

“Wait, no,” you say, sighing at the words you’re about to say, “just stay here with me, you’ll get what you want.” You’re embarrassed, face turning red. He smiles, and the bared teeth spell out danger for you.

“That’s what I wanted to hear from you.”

He leaves at two in the morning. You know because you lay awake all night, listening to him breathe. The ache between your legs was no longer pleasant or welcome, and you were tired of giving in to him. He gathers his clothes, does a half-assed job at pulling the covers back over your body, and doesn’t even bother to close the door quietly, instead opting to come near to slamming it.

You wish he could just break your heart, leave you to sulking by yourself, but he seems to have that same, sick attachment that you have to him. He’s bad for you, and the both of you would be sick in the head if you had any fantasy of this becoming a real thing. He’s not worried about losing his job if this gets discovered, his name is more than enough to keep the lights on and the paychecks running. You, on the other hand, were not well liked throughout the paddock apart from the drivers. You were a controversial topic, people either hated you or were your fiercest defenders.

You turn over and check the clock, 2:46, it reads. You sigh, squeezing a pillow over your head. This needs to end, for both the betterment of you and him.

—--

That ideal comes crashing down in Qatar, literally. The two of you collide, taking each other out of the race. It was his fault entirely, and that was reflected with the addition of two penalty points to his super license. Unfortunately, the two of you had to enter the media pen at the same time, and the daggers of death he sent your way were not easy to miss.

You were wound up, he hadn’t come into your room since Zandvoort when he’d beaten you by quite a close margin, just a touch over half a second. He hadn’t even spared you a word, driver’s meetings be damned. You were left to hang high and dry.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. Almost every stop you had, and weekends in between, you spent time at the clubs, attracting men to bring back to your place, but none of them scratched the itch that he left. You barely even finished with half of them. He was obnoxious, insufferable, yet you found yourself in the bathroom of another hotel room fixing up your hair to go knock on his door.

You looked at yourself. You were attractive, sexy, but it made you feel dirty that you dressed up all for him. Suddenly, the lace in your lingerie felt itchy, cutting into your skin. The silk felt like it was actively pilling against you, and the tendrils of your hair wouldn’t stop sticking to the lipstick that just so happened to be his favorite shade on you.

You had to get your independence back from a man who knew he had it and just didn’t care. You didn’t go.

That didn’t stop you from opening the door when he knocked a few minutes later, though. He smiled when he saw your attire, you didn’t bother to cover up. At least you didn’t fall into the trap of knocking on his door, small victories.

He stayed the night this time, just like the first few times. He actually cared back then, and it feels like that today, with his hand in your hair holding your head to his chest. You woke to his soft breathing, he’s still asleep, and that gives you the perfect opportunity to leave him like he left you.

You throw all of your clothes in your suitcase haphazardly, and drag out the luggage to the hallway to zip it up, in fear that he might wake and try to talk or squeeze another round out of you.

You two ran into each other a weekend later at an event in Monaco.

“You left.” He says.

“What did you say?”

“You left a week ago in Qatar. You weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Did you expect me to be?”

“Considering how-”

“If that sentence ends in some grade school jab against me I’m going to hurt you. You just lost a good thing.” He put his hands up in mock defeat.

“I didn’t know how sensitive you were going to be about this whole thing.”

“And if you knew?”

“I would’ve found someone else to fuck.”

—--

The Las Vegas Grand Prix, if you could’ve skipped it you would’ve. Inaugural grand prix in Sin City, your hands were already shaking on the way over here. He must’ve gotten the idea after Qatar, because absolutely no effort was given in him talking to you other than what was necessary, which seemed like a lot, given every single interview question was framed towards yours and his friendship. Both of you answered the same, there was no friendship beyond what was required in a purely professional setting, and the two of you were excited to put the championship race behind you once one of you was crowned.

Mathematically, there were about six drivers still in the championship race, the thorn in your sides that kept the two of you from being in a truly isolated battle, but realistically it’d come down to the two of you. That idea was currently being drilled into you from your team. Keep a clean race and good pace. Every single scenario was being run through during this meeting, and you only participated when necessary, which wasn’t smart, considering this would be your first time racing this track. You couldn’t help it, your mind was wrapped up in a twisted way, your situationship taking over your mind like a sick grade school crush.

I wonder if I’m on his mind as much as he is on mine. Does he think about me often? Does he think about what happened? About why I left the way I did in Qatar?

Your name was being called and your teammate knocked your leg with his knee. You looked at him, a thankful look in your eyes as you answered a question on strategy.

The start of this race weekend sucked. Practice 1, you’d picked up a puncture from an extra bit of carbon fiber on the track. Practice 2 brought mechanical failures, components overheating from the temperature of the track. Your confidence was shot seeing him at the top of the leaderboard in the sessions leading up to qualifying. And when qualifying came, your bad luck stuck around. You felt a power cut in your last flying lap of Q3, resulting in a measly P6 where your teammate qualified P2 and he got pole position.

With the team breaking curfew to put you in a driveable car for the next day, you were shaken up to say the least. You were in the car, the team doing their last minute checks and holding tire blankets and coolers to the car. The track was lit up beautifully in an elegance that only the night could hold.

Five cars in front of you. Five to pass and then hold the position. That’s all you had to do to secure a good lead into the final race. The clock clicked into position, the track cleared. You took the formation lap to get locked in, butterflies fluttering in your chest when the red lights started stacking.

The timing was perfect. You had an amazing start, picking off two positions into turn one. The start was great, but not much else was. You gained another position about halfway through the race, and a botched pit from another team allowed you to gain second up until an aggressive move from another driver caused damage and relegated you to P3.

But everything about his race was aces. Perfect pit, minimal tyre degradation, he was flying. You would’ve taken him out yourself, he was pissing you off that much. Yet again, you felt a power cut in the straight, and that caused you to lose fastest lap to him. Luckily your teammate was in a position to steal it back, but that was one less point for you in a championship battle for the ages.

You stood on the podium next to him, proud bastard, you thought. He walked past you, a glint in his eyes that was unmistakably lust, but could’ve only been seen as a rivalry spark by anyone else. He took his spot on the podium, and when it came time to spray, he was sure to aim only for you, seemingly rubbing in his victory.

He didn’t knock that night, or the night after that. You waited up for him, willing to bring him inside, but he never came. You couldn’t bring yourself to knock on his door either, saving yourself from the embarrassment of him not answering. You didn’t go clubbing, you couldn’t. If you saw him out with another woman, having the time of his life… you shook your head. It wasn’t worthwhile to think of him like that.

You flew home. Wasting tears in Vegas would do nothing to prepare you for the last race. The only one that really mattered, the championship decider.

You put in the hours at the facility, spending nights there because you didn’t want to go home. You’d sleep in your office, the only place he hadn’t tarnished with his presence. The team was concerned about you, but they still had two cars and two drivers to get ready for the finale.

I wonder if I’m on his mind as much as he is on mine.

If you had to go to one more team related event, you were going to cry. You were squeezed into formal wear and airbrushed to the gods the days leading up to Abu Dhabi. You shook hands with sponsors and promised results over the weekend. You were fucking exhausted.

It didn’t help that he looked amazing every time you saw him, which was often considering you stayed at the same hotel, and he was everywhere you were. Whether you were arriving and he was already sat in the breakfast lounge, or you were with a friend and his gaze lingered just a bit too long on your smiling figure, he was fucking everywhere.

Finally, a moment of reprieve, you thought as you entered the hotel. You were able to sneak past the fans, and took your hood off as soon as you entered, the lobby serene in the middle of the night.

You punched the button to call the elevator, and once you got in you pressed the button for the rooftop terrace, leaning against the back wall. Just before the doors closed, however, a hand jutted between the doors. A few people darted in from different teams, immediately making the cart feel small, and someone came to stand next to you, their body pressed up against the side of yours, pushing you against the wall. You knew that cologne, and dared to peek up.

It was him.

You cursed him in every language you knew. He stayed pressed up against you like that even as staff began to filter out. Soon enough, it was just the two of you, and he seemed like he was heading to the roof with you. As if every holy body hated you at that moment, there was no one else on the terrace when you two got there. You rushed to the edge, taking in a breath with your arms on the railing.

“Been a while since it was just the two of us, hasn’t it?” The man had to be immune to taking hints. You didn’t answer.

“Are you just planning on ignoring me for as long as possible?” Ignored again.

“I just hope you’re doing okay, y’know.”

“Don’t do that thing where you pretend to care just to get into my pants, it’s not going to work.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” You turned around to face him, a look of disbelief on your face.

“I swear.” He says. You don’t answer.

“What we were doing, it was fun, it is fun, but I’m not losing you over it.”

“Look who’s ready to be the bigger person,” you say sarcastically, “we weren’t friends, you’re not losing anything.” He rubs his forehead.

“Don’t you get tired of all of this?”

“I tire of you.”

“Ouch.” Silence falls on the conversation.

“We’re rivals,” you say after a bit, “we were never meant to be close.”

“So it’s like that.”

“It always was.” The two of you lock eyes, both unwilling to break first. You’ve effectively shut down the conversation, but your heart still aches to hear his voice, his hands on your skin, anything.

“For your sake, I hope you win on Sunday.” He starts to walk away, towards the elevators.

“Why the sudden attitude change?” You blurt out.

“Maybe I realized I lost a good thing.” He turns back to you as he says it.

“You…” You try to start. He steps closer to you, looking at your hands as if he was contemplating holding them. He huffs, deciding on grabbing them and holding them close to his chest.

“You are far more important to me than you realize.” And just like that, he’s got you trapped again. He leans down, letting go of one hand to cup your chin, tilting your head up to kiss you. You curse yourself for feeling a connection to him, even still. HIs hands fall to your hips, squeezing them.

“We shouldn’t… too out in the open up here.” You say.

“My room?”

“We have practice tomorrow.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” He starts to turn away.

“Just a little bit of time together won’t hurt, right?” You say. He smiles at you.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He takes your hand, leading you back to the elevator, clicking his floor number.

As it turns out, spending a night with your ex-enemy with benefits does hurt. Your phone was buzzing off the nightstand with your manager asking you where you were. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you reached over.

“Fuck!” You yell, waking him up with your voice.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m going to be massively late, I have to go.” You scramble to find your clothes, scattered across the floor.

“I’m not going for another hour and a half, you can’t be that late.”

“I also can’t be seen with you, do you know how bad that would be for both of our reputations? If someone were to catch me leaving your room and going back to mine… I knew this was a bad idea!”

“Don’t overreact, we’ll figure this out.”

“There is no figuring this out, I’m going to get caught on the way to my room in my clothes from the night prior, which, may I remind you, I was photographed in. That is going to ruin me publically, who, may I remind you again, already hate me.”

“I’m sorry.” He says.

You get dressed quickly and sneak out, getting to your room with almost no eyes on you.

—--

Friday brings a better showing for you and your team than Las Vegas did, topping both free practices by two-tenths and one-tenth respectively. Everyone was happy about your performance, and you were excited to see yourself on the top of the timing sheets again.

Saturday brought the same results, topping another free practice. It was a bit touch-and-go at qualifying, having to rush across the line with only a few seconds remaining to get your last flying lap, but that was just enough time to push you over him.

Sunday. The day you were simultaneously dreading and looking forward to. Between the two of you, winner takes all.

You sat in your car in the pole box. You glance to the side and catch a glimpse of him, he’s nodding his head to something the mechanics are saying. You sigh. Your mechanics float around your car, fiddling around for anything last second. The coolers blow on you as well as the car, the temperature of Abu Dhabi was nothing to trifle with.

You take a deep breath, feeling secure and quiet in your helmet. You play out the track in your mind, feeling every twist and turn in your body before you drive. Your eyes are closed, but your mind is far from relaxed.

During the formation lap, you become acutely aware of just how much is riding on this race. Not only your reputation, but your opportunities for the next season, and just how much power you can have with negotiations as it was your contract year. You shake your head. No time to think about that if you haven’t even accomplished the first step, winning this race.

You roll into your box, watching in your side mirror as the last of the drivers do so and then your eyes flick up to watch the lights. All you had to do was get the start.

Your timing couldn’t have been better. You were gone by the time you reached the first corner. He’d gotten a good start, but nothing compared to yours. All you had to do was manage the race.

The two of you quickly realized you were both pulling away from the competition, and he had much more grip in the corners, cutting at your lead. Soon enough, you were called in to box.

Time ticked away as you rolled into your pit box. The mechanics lifted the car, but one of the tyres wouldn’t come loose. Your internal timer was screaming at you. You see him enter the box and leave before you get all tyres on, and by the time you exit, he’s got a second and a half on you. You curse out your engineer after learning the pitstop took six seconds.

The race was on, and with him just out of DRS, you had a lot of time to make up. The race was slipping out of your grasp, and you thought of every wrong decision that put you in this position. Did you not slim down enough? Was there an extra gram or two of something on the car? You huff, shaking your head clear of the thoughts. There was no time to think like that, not when there was a slim chance you could still win.

And then it happened.

The screens on the side of the track blinked the letters that turned out to be your saving grace: FCY followed by SC. The limiter flashes on the screen of your steering wheel and suddenly you’re back in the race, seeing his rear end grow closer and closer until you’re right up against him. Finally, after a few laps, your engineer lets you know that the safety car is coming in.

“Be ready,” he warns, “you know he could take off at any point.” And so he does. The exit of turn 16, onto the start straight.

You had him, you didn’t let him slip away, not even for a second. It was close with him for a while, two laps to be exact, before your slipstream and DRS combo took him. Your engineer cheers you on as calmly as he can, his even voice showering you in praise. You breathe through the turns, knowing only a few laps remain between you and this championship. Everything rides on this, everything. Win this last race and your name will be in the history books forever.

And that’s exactly what you did, crossing the finish line with those fireworks going off in the background, nothing could take this from you. You did your cooldown lap, pulling back up to the finish line to do your celebratory donuts, laughing and hollering on the radio with your team. You couldn’t even be bothered that he was there with you, right next to you. You pull into the pitlane, your heart racing as your engineer offers the news that you are not, in fact, the target of any penalties. You sit in your car after pulling up to first place, flipping your visor up and crying, soaking up every emotion possible in this moment. You feel pats and slaps on your helmet, other drivers congratulating you on the win, on the championship. You finally find it in you to leave your car, climbing out slowly and soaking it in, that your name will forever be in the history books. You drop your steering wheel in your car and turn around-

He’s standing right there, his shoulders droop a little more than usual but he stands there, waiting for you. He approaches you slowly, leaving his helmet on.

“Congratulations, you drove well.” He says softly. Interestingly enough, your heart breaks a little for him. You pull him into a half hug.

“Scared me for a minute there, thought I’d lose to you again this year after that pit stop.”

“You underestimate your drive. There’s nothing I could do to stop you in those last laps. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful set of last laps to close out.” Your heart races at his words, his praise eliciting a reaction that feels unlike anything you’d ever felt with him. He flicks your visor down as he walks away, getting a small giggle out of you.

Finally, you get to your team. They’re practically bursting over the barricades to congratulate you, chanting your name. You laugh, running up to them, allowing yourself to be bombarded with their congratulatory cheers.

“Go get that damn trophy for us.”

The trophy ceremony was honestly a blur, literally and figuratively. You’re pretty sure you blacked out during it, and tears filled your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. You don’t even remember the party afterwards, the sprays of champagne, the club overflowing with the team’s staff, your teammate getting hammered after helping to win the constructor’s championship as well.

You didn’t remember much until the next morning.

You woke up groaning in the hotel room, your phone buzzing itself off the nightstand. You grabbed your head, this hangover was not going to let you go gently. You snatched your phone off the floor, genuinely surprised that you remembered to plug it in last night.

“Hello?” You answer, your voice hoarse from whooping and cheering all through last night.

“Please tell me you didn’t fuck him, because if you did I’m gonna bury your body where no one will find you.” It’s your publicist, sounding exasperated and also hungover.

“What?”

“Did you fuck him?”

“Fuck who?”

“Friday morning, somebody has a photo of you stumbling out of his room at the goddamn crack of dawn in your dress from the night before.”

“Oh my god.”

“So I’m gonna take that as a yes-” You drop your phone, unwilling to hear the rest as you can just predict how much of a PR nightmare this will be.

“Who knows?”

“It’s a pretty grainy photo, honestly, and it’s posted by one of those deuxmoi wannabe F1 twitter pages… but-”

“But what?”

“If you edit it to make it a little clearer, it’s pretty fucking obvious. It’s circulating pretty fast, but we can put out a statement if it’s not true. So, did you?”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“How many times?” You sigh, rubbing your forehead.

“I don’t know. A lot.” It’s her turn to sigh.

“I’m too hungover to deal with this, but I’ll see what I can do. It… it won’t be a lot, more likely than not we’ll be planning damage control. And of course this comes out the morning after you win the championship, you need to pick your men better.” She hangs up with a click.

You know you shouldn’t, but of course you begin to scroll through social media, seeing everything that’s under your name. Forget the championship, this is the biggest piece of news this sport has seen in a while. And of course nobody’s condemning him, why would they? He’s got a paycheck the size of his goddamn ego and a fanbase that spans continents. You scream into a pillow, throwing your phone across the hotel room. Your phone buzzes on the floor again, and you’re the most sure you’ve ever been that if you dare to check, it’ll be your team principal. He wouldn’t reach out, it’s not his reputation that’s being destroyed. No, he’s being paraded around for hitting that.

Angry tears stream down your cheeks. How could you be so fucking stupid? Of course you were bound to get caught, but they couldn’t let your championship sit undisturbed for one day? The stupid trophy sits on the countertop by the bar, practically taunting you with its presence. The hunk of metal changes from an achievement to an accusation before your eyes. That you slept your way to the top, that he let you have it, that you needed a man to get you to where you are. It makes you sick, and that’s probably why you find yourself hugging the toilet now. It’s not fair, it’s never been fair…

And it will never be fair.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

Text

Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.

Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevirr @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1

Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁

It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!

“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.

Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.

You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.

“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.

“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”

“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”

Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.

“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”

“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.

“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”

“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”

Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.

“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”

And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”

“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.

“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”

“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.

“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”

“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.

“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.

“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.

“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”

“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”

“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”

“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.

“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”

Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”

“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”

“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.

“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”

“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”

You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”

“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”

“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”

Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”

“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”

“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”

I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”

“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.

“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”

Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.

You pivot. “How many children do you have?”

Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”

“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”

“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”

The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.

“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”

Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”

Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”

“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”

Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.

You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”

“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”

“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”

He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”

“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.

“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”

Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”

“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”

“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.

“And how much do your cakes cost?”

“$10 each,” Amir tells her.

“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”

“Of course, no problem.”

Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”

“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.

“In that closet over there.”

Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.

As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.

“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”

Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”

Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”

“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

“Thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.

Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.

“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”

“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”

“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”

What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”

It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”

Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.

“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”

“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”

“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”

“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”

“Bye.”

“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.

“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”

You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”

“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.

“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”

“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.

“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”

“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”

“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”

Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”

“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”

“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.

You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.

“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”

Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:

“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,

Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,

Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?

Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”

Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.

“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”

“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”

“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”

“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.

“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.

Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”

“You can keep it.”

“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”

“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”

“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.

“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”

She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”

“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.

“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”

He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”

Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”

“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”

“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”

You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”

“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”

Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”

Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”

You ask: “Who did you interview?”

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”

“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”

“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”

“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”

“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”

Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”

“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”

“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”

“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”

Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”

But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”

“Is he really?”

Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”

“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.

“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”

“People get paid for that? To study history?”

“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”

“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”

“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”

“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”

Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”

“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”

He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”

“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”

He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”

“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”

You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”

“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”

“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”

“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.

“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”

“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?

“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”

Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”

“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”

Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”

“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”

“No, I don’t like coffee.”

“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”

“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”

“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”

“What, and walked 25 miles home?”

“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.

“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”

But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.

“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.

You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”

“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”

That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.

It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.

“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”

You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”

“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”

“I told you that?”

“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”

“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So something happened.”

“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”

“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.

“I don’t really ever talk about it.”

“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”

You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”

Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.

“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I��d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”

“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”

“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”

But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”

You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”

“And he wouldn’t drive you.”

Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”

Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”

“Aemond—”

“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”

You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”

“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”

“But you should have had a choice.”

You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”

Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”

“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.

“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.

“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.

“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”

“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.

“Seven?” you say.

“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.

“Radical! Amazing!”

Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”

“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”

“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”

Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”

“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.

Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”

“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”

“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”

“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”

“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”

“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”

“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!”

Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”

“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”

“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”

And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”

“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”

“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”

“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”

“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.

“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”

“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.

You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.

At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”

“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”

He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.

You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”

“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”

“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”

“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”

It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”

“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”

He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.

“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”

“No girlfriend either?”

“No.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”

“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”

“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”

And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

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yonah · 2 years

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massive tail monday. titanic tail tuesday. wide tail wednesday. thick tail thursday. fat tail friday. sizeable tail saturday. stupendous tail sunday.

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wntrbell · 5 months

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BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

beautiful stranger by laufey

I don’t hate the train. Thursday afternoons may involve being compressed between strangers, but it’s not torturous. Rush hour bus rides, on the other hand, are my own personal hell—seats filled to the brim, traffic, and the uncomfortable proximity to unknown faces.

The train isn’t that bad, I swear. Sunday morning commutes are blissfully unexciting. People are sleeping in, lying in beds with loved ones. The roads are tranquil, seats unoccupied, and plenty of space to stretch out.

Perhaps, I do like the train. Seated at the back, lost in daydreams. Occasionally, my gaze drifts to the brown eyed stranger in the seats opposite mine. It’s at these moments that I entertain the idea of liking the train. An oddly beautiful boy occupies the space across from me, and we share a comfortable silence.

Should I break it?

No.

As the train doors open at my stop, I grab my bag and pass by the boy with the thick hair and soft brown eyes. I briefly pause as I watch the bus leave behind me, and in that moment, I wonder if, just maybe, I’ve come to love the train.

#riize #riize wonbin #riize x reader #riize imagines #riize fluff #wonbin #wonbin fluff #kpop fluff #kpop #wonbin x reader

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captain-mj · 3 months

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Bender

Tried to write four different asks, got super indecisive and wrote something about 09 SoapGhost who none of the asks were about

Ghost woke up slowly and a little bitterly. His head was pounding. Mouth dry as cotton. Luckily all of his clothes were intact but there was a certain grime to them As if he had been out in the rain or maybe fell.

Something moved and he instinctively went for the knife stashed under his pillow.

"Morning, Lieutenant Riley."

"Johnny." Ghost relaxed just as his hand brushed thin air. He wasn't at the flat he lived where a knife was stashed under a pillow.

"Don't Johnny me." His Captain spat, looking pissed. "Ya come to my door. Reeking of alcohol and weed. Groveling. You take anything else last night?"

Through the pounding in his head, Simon thought through it. "Don't think so, sir."

His Captain looked at him and something like regret curled inside him, so thick it choked out his lungs. Luckily, MacTavish softened a little when he saw the look in his eyes. "Aye. Get up. You can take a shower. I don't have any tea so coffee will have to do."

Ghost sat up slowly and adjusted his mask. "What day is it?"

"Sunday."

His last sober memory was on Thursday night so not as bad as he thought. He wondered why his drunken, high brain thought this was the best place to go though.

Ghost stood. "I can shower later. Don't want to be these clothes right back on."

"Nonsense. Those are going in the wash. You can wear some of mine."

"Jo-"

"That's an order, Riley."

Ghost bit his tongue. They weren't in the field or on base. He had ever right to tell him to shove it. But no. Johnny was the one person he'd led order him around and he knew it. Took advantage of it.

So Ghost followed the fucking order. He handed Soap his clothes through the door, careful for no skin to show besides his hand and wrists. He turned the water on hot, deciding if he had to take one, he was also going to use all of Soap's hot water. It felt nice as the water worked some semblance of life back into him.

Soap must've gotten out the good stuff cause he could smell the coffee even in the bathroom. He used Soap's vanilla scented stuff and the man's loofah since he hadn't had the foresight to give Ghost something else to use.

Ghost even used his fancy hair stuff, working the "Clarifying shampoo", whatever that meant, and conditioner into his hair in turn. He wrapped a towel around himself and checked outside the door for clothes. When he didn't see anything, he called for Soap, waiting patiently.

Soap appeared almost immediately to give him underwear. "I have bandages. You injured anywhere."

Ghost's heart spasmed in his chest as he looked over his body. He slid on the underwear during his inspection. "No, I'm in good condition."

A beat of silence before Soap responded. "Don't believe you."

"Want to check yourself?"

"You offering?"

Ghost's turn to be quiet. He glanced at himself. As far as he could see, he really did look fine. If he told Soap he wasn't offering, they'd move on like nothing happened.

"That was inappropriate-"

"Yes. I'm offering." Ghost cut Soap off.

The door opened and he used the towel to dry his hair, doing his best to seem a lot more confident than he was.

Soap didn't look at him in disgust. That was a good place to start. He reached forward and grabbed Ghost's jaw gently, tilting his head back and forth. "Got some bruises."

Ghost tried to remember anything happening. "Don't think I slept with anyone."

It was a piss poor attempt at a joke, but the way Soap's grip tightened on him... a flutter ran through his chest. Close to fear, but too closely related to trust. If Soap hit him, he'd know it was cause he deserved it.

Soap swallowed hard, searching over Ghost for... something.

"Do you not like the idea of me sleeping with someone else?"

"I don't care about that." His body language told a different story. All tensed up like a bowstring. Jaw rigid.

"You purposely have me stripped to my fucking underwear, Captain. You have a death grip on me. And you look pissed. Starting to think you might like me Captain."

Soap frowned. "Course I like you, Simon." It was too honest. Too open. Ghost broke the moment, even if he didn't forgive himself for doing it.

"You promised coffee."

Soap forgave him. Course he did. "I did, didn't I? Let me get you more clothes." His eyes roamed over him one more time. Just... making sure. But Ghost was fine.

Simon wasn't. Simon wished very much he deserved the concern Johnny was showing him.

There was something firmly between them. If they just... knew how to get around it. If Ghost knew how to get around it.

Soap made him a cup of coffee. "Don't have any more benders like that."

"yes sir."

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare ii #cod mw2 #ghostsoap #cod #soapghost #ghoap

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swabian-princess · 11 months

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My current beauty routine

Monday: - am: brush teeth with whitening toothpaste. wash face with microbiome friendly foam cleanser. mix toner with vitamin C serum and apply. use hyaluronic acid serum while face is still damp. use sunscreen. brush hair and use gisou honey infused hairoil. put hair in clawclip. apply deodorant. apply perfume. - pm: dry brush. use clinique balm to cleanse face outside of shower. take cleansing balm off in the shower. use microbiome friendly body wash 2x. double cleanse with BHA gel cleanser. apply babyoil on the body while skin is still wet. step out of the shower. let body air dry. use toner on face. apply chemical peeling on face. moisturize face. apply jojobaoil on face and neck. use deodorant. use perfume. brush hair and massage serum in. do a low ponytail.

Tuesday: - am: the same - pm: the same but with shaving. use microbiome friendly body wash with an exfoliating glove. scrub body down. shave. use microbiome friendly bodywash again.

Wednesday: - am: the same - pm: the same but with facemask. cleanse face with clinique balm. double cleanse with BHA gel cleanser. apply BHA mask. let it sit for 15-30min. wash mask off in shower. do skincare after shower. switch jojobaoil for laneige cica sleep mask and apply thick layer.

Thursday: - am: the same - pm: the same but with shaving and hair washing. wet hair throughouly. apply bond repair shampoo. massage with silicone scalp massager. apply bond repair conditioner. let sit for 5-10min. rinse. wrap in microfiber towel for 40-60min. apply hair serum. apply heat protectant. blow dry with dyson airwrap. use gisou honey infused hair oil. do a low ponytail.

Friday: - am: the same - pm: the same

Saturday: - am: the same - pm: the same

Sunday: - am: the same - pm: the same with shaving, hair washing, facemask and hair removal. pluck eyebrows. trim eyebrows. cleanse face. shave off facial hair.

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tubbybunnysblog · 3 months

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✨Cream filled✨

Androgynous feedee and feeder Cw: force-feeding, stuffing, teasing, weight loss mention, pig play, spanking, mention oh, crotch touching

I whimpered softly as I feel the warm sun light shine against my tubby face. I open my eyes and go red as I see the mess around me. Grease covered paper bags, burger wrappers, soda cans, Styrofoam cups once filled with milkshakes the room with a mess. I slowly push my body up, feeling my gut slosh “oof…” I reach my chubby hand towards my phone and pick it up “shit.” as I look at the time I realize it was Sunday afternoon. Every day since Thursday morning I have been stuffing myself silly since my partner wasn’t home. They had been gone for a work trip, and had the house all to myself. The only problem was I told them I was going to start losing weight cutting back. My heart starts to pound in my chest as they text me “I’ll be home in an hour sweetheart <3”

“Oh god” I begin to rock myself back-and-forth trying to ignore the dull sense of fullness in my belly. I had to clean up I didn’t want them to know I went back on my word. I slowly start to waddle around, looking for things to easily pick up. I couldn’t bend down with my heavy gut in the way which just make things difficult. As I clean I notice some thing in the corner of my eye, it was an entire gallon of butter cream frosting. My eyes light up as I start to drool a little my partner made the best frosting It was always so creamy and delicious. My belly was begging for it, but I shouldn’t. I try to ignore it, but after 20 minutes of attempted cleaning the temptation got to me.

I waddle over to the container and peel open the lid “just taste” I lift one of the piping bags to my lips and start to suck moaning at the taste “fuck-“ I lean against the counter, pushing the thick cream into my mouth it tasted like a little bit of heaven I didn’t even care how many calories were probably in it. I was so distracted by the heavy decadent cream, I didn’t hear my partner pull into the driveway. They enter the house and instantly notice the mess still left in the living room. “Jesus-“ they chuckled themselves and walk through the living room into the kitchen. Their eyes grew dark with lust and frustration as they saw me practically drinking through their supply. They finally speak up leaning against the kitchen counter. “Now what do we have here?” I freeze when I hear their voice from behind me. I quickly put the piping bag down and turn to them burping loudly from my sudden movements “babe! Hi!” my face looked like a tomato is the stalk towards me staring down at my gut. “don’t stop on my account.” They said roughly turning me back around. “I didn’t- I just wanted a taste I-“ “Save it. Pick it back up and keep eating.” I shiver as they push me over the counter, smacking my ass, which was barely contained by my shorts “b-but” they roughly, grab my chin and turn my face to theirs “did I stutter keep eating. You wanted to be a pig, then do so.” I whined as they picked up the piping bag, pushing it back to my plump lips.

I begin sucking down the mixture as they run their hands over my fat hips “you know I wasn’t sure how long it would take you.” I look up at the tears filling my eyes as I felt their nails run along my sensitive stretch marks “I mean I wasn’t sure how long it would take you to realize that you weren’t ever going to lose weight” They laugh softly as they pull down my tight sleep shorts. “Ever since you started this little journey of yours, your clothes have become even tighter, isn’t this is my shirt used to cover everything now it’s barely a crop top” I wheeze as they pull the first piping bag out of my mouth, replacing it with a second. “I’m just surprised it took you so long to find these I know they’re your favorite that’s why I left them for you.” I buck my fattened ass into their crotch as they reach their hand up to my jiggly chest “I knew you could never resist stuffing your face until you can stand, so I left them so maybe my overfed pig could realize that they like being filled with cream, filled with lard and sugar~” they slowly trail, their hand under my gut which was starting to hang and begin playing with me as they replaced the second with the third. “You were trying so hard to deny you like to be in overfilled like it was heavy donuts your stuff done stuff down your gullet. But you don’t have to.” I whimpered trying to move my face away. My belly pushes painfully into the counter, the top becoming a red from how many calories are packed inside of it. I moan against the metal tip of the piping bag. “please no more.” I look into their eyes and noticed something new. A look so predatory so lustful, I knew it wasn’t going to stop. I knew I wasn’t ever going to lose weight again. I knew that pretty soon it would only be your cream filled pig and part of me, most of me loved it.

#feedee belly #feedee feeder #feedee encouragement #feeding kink #feedist #feed me #fatty #fat piggy #dark feederism #fat rolls #feedee perspective #feedee writing #feederism writing

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kastlequill · 7 months

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i/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus bisferiens

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 1.3k synopsis: the first time you save gaz tags: whumptober, gunshot wounds, blood and injury, wound tending, hurt/comfort, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: none ao3: read here next →

Tuesdays were unremarkable. They couldn’t compare to the infamous Mondays or halfway-mark Wednesdays, to anticipatory Thursdays or the thank-God-it’s Fridays, least of all to the relaxing Saturdays and Church-going Sundays.

The new orders you received last Tuesday, however, were anything but plain. There was nothing ordinary about getting shipped out to a classified location to provide aid to the soldiers injured during their classified missions to eliminate classified targets.

You knew next to nothing about your current assignment. High command had informed you that you’d be working as the lead on-site medic, tending to the wounded and assisting in their recovery to the best of your abilities. That was all your superiors had felt the need to tell you.

The base of operation was fairly sizable, well stocked, and even had a couple other medical personnel around to help too, so you couldn’t really complain. You’d primarily be dealing with soldiers who were designated as special operators, and, in your experience, those types made absolute dogshit patients. Only a single week had passed, yet you could already tell that some of the lot were more injury-prone than others.

A specific British SAS sergeant came to mind.

Your first time meeting him had been relatively benign; he’d entered the mess hall as you exited. Although speedily heading in different directions, he had nonetheless offered a casual salute, and you had returned his gesture with a nod of your own. Simple, polite. No fuss.

The exact opposite of how he arrived to you today, the second Tuesday of the month.

Two towering men flanked him on either side as they shouldered their half-conscious comrade into your medbay. With them came chaos. Thick English accents yelling for a medic, combat boots storming toward you, dragging in a trail of blood. They brought war to your feet and Death to your door.

Rushing over to them, you quickly scanned the sergeant’s body for damage. Preliminary assessments yielded speculative results at best: a tourniquet around his thigh told of prior heavy bleeding, and the sway of his head meant he wasn’t fully capable of supporting its weight. But nothing was certain.

“What am I dealing with here? Concussion, gunshot wound, broken bones—?”

“—got caught in the blast radius,” interrupted a gruff voice belonging to the masked lieutenant. “Knocked ‘im back a few meters. No major visible injuries, ‘cept a bullet to the leg.”

You swore. “Is it still inside?”

Exit wounds typically offered a better prognosis; the energy driving forth a gunshot needed somewhere to go, and, preferably, that somewhere was far from surrounding organs or internal systems. If the piece of metal remained lodged inside of him, then you would have to remove it.

He answered with a single definitive nod. Unsurprising; of course nothing in war ever turned out for the better.

“Put him on my table. Carefully.”

The two soldiers hauled their brother-in-arms up onto the examination table that had seen more action within a week than most ever did. Trauma to the head required immediate attention; the brain was a delicate organ, and if the explosion had badly jostled it against the walls of his skull, there could be severe damage.

Unwilling to waste a second longer, you gently parted the now-supine man’s eyelids with your fingertips to get a look at his pupils. In the midst of an unfocused sea of brown, one pupil was more dilated than the other—concussed, then. At the intensity of the blue overhead light, he reflexively squinted and shut his eyes once more.

That wouldn’t do. “Sergeant, I need you to open those eyes again, okay? Think you can track this flashlight for me?”

Being as sensitive to brightness as he was currently, it took some effort for him to pry his eyes open. They valiantly fought the urge to close whilst following the stick-end of your black flashlight from left to right, right to left. There was some unsteady shakiness to their movement, but they still appeared properly calibrated.

“You’re doing great,” you encouraged, holding his gaze as you pocketed the light. The next course of action was to check his processing of visual information. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He blinked slowly, an inquisitive frown contorting his features. Several confusion-riddled seconds elapsed until the man decided to simply feel what he could not see. Grasping your hand in his own, he grazed your knuckles with a calloused thumb, explored the lengths of your raised fingers, puzzled out how they were configured into the shape of a peace sign. Recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Two.”

An endeared smile graced your lips. The only predictable constant in this profession was its unpredictability. None of your previous patients had done that before.

“Try again.” You lightly pulled your hand free and watched his own fall back to rest on his chest, physically unable to sustain the lifted position. Unfurling your ring finger to join your index and middle, three total fingers hovered in front of his face, just out of reach. “How many do you see now?”

Without using his sense of touch to determine the correct number, all the sergeant could do was sigh and reply honestly. “Six.”

“Y’can’t be serious, Gaz. The limit’s five,” his mohawked companion corrected, a hint of incredulity and amusement slipping into his tone.

“Quit taking the piss, we’ve got ten of ‘em.” The words were slurred, but intelligible. As he spoke, his brows began to furrow, the man suddenly unsure of himself. He looked at the captain, whose belated entrance managed to diffuse some of the anxiety present in the room. “Right, sir?”

The room erupted with noise as the three other soldiers simultaneously began to talk over each other. You were able to catch the occasional bloody hell and heard yes, Gaz, that’s right and even chuckled a bit at no need to worry, you still ‘ave all ten of the little bastards.

Military folk had a specific way of coping with the consequences of war, and you didn’t think you would ever quite understand it from your side of the line. But if it worked, then it worked. What mattered was the patient’s ability to persist in spite of the world; the exact methods used to do so weren’t up for scrutiny, not by you or anyone else.

Donning a clean pair of surgical gloves, you exchanged glances with the technician and nurse on duty. “Get him a CT scan. Let’s make sure his brain’s in one piece, then we can deal with the bullet. I’ll prep the OR.”

When you made to leave, a tug on your wrist stopped you in your tracks. A quick turn of your head revealed the image of his loose yet insistent grip around you once again, unwilling to let go of what had seemingly become his sole anchorage to the land of the living.

“Don’t worry,” you said softly, squeezing his hand in yours. This—comforting the wounded—was as much a part of the healing process as medicine itself. Even the toughest of soldiers reverted to a childlike state of vulnerability after too close a brush with death. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

The tension in his features relaxed as did his hold on you, and he lowered himself to lay flat on the table’s surface before being wheeled away by the technician. As you watched his form disappear beyond the threshold of a plastic curtain, you were struck with a near-overwhelming sense of foreboding.

Though you hoped this Gaz wouldn’t soon return with an irremediable injury, optimism had never been your strong suit.

tbc.

#kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #cod x reader #cod gaz #cod #call of duty #whumptober #my fic #one day late but we out here #fic: ‘til my pulse loses time

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belphieslavenderscentedpillow · 2 months

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Dear Solomon

The clock was ticking rather slowly. It felt as if time was going by slower on purpose. I look out of the window, feeling an empty hole in my heart. A hole that was carved out by him.

It’s been 209 days. I mark the date on the calender, but it seems so mundane. Was it Tuesday? Thursday? Friday? Sunday? What year was it? 2019?

All I remember, all I care about is that it’s been 209 days. 209 days since I’ve seen him. 209 days since I’ve heard his voice. 209 days since I’ve touched him. 209 days since I felt his lips on mine.

It’s been 209 days.

Without him, the rain just didn’t feel the same way it did when I first felt it with him. The kiss we had, the love we shared. Now the same rain just didn’t feel like the way it used to.

I miss him.

I know it’s stupid to hold onto the past. Especially if it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. But I can’t help but ponder why he left.

We’ve not known each other for very long. But in the time we learned about each other we learned a lot. And I loved learning more about him. I knew what makes him laugh. His favourite colour and all the places he’s been to. I knew his favourite food and his inability to make it. I knew his passions, and I knew what he liked and hated about himself. I knew..

The list could go on.

I knew him so well, but it felt as though I knew nothing at all.

He never told me about his family. I didn’t push, but that didn’t stop my curiosity from growing.

He never told me about his friends, even after I asked why.

Solomon never liked the question why.

It’s like he hates everything that has to do with it. Not only does he hate it’s presence, but he also ignores it when its high in the room.

“Why have you never told me about your friends?”

“Why do you never stay in one place for long?”

“Why do you never tell anyone about yourself?”

“Why are you upset?”

“Why do you not like them?”

“Why do you never answer my letters?”

….why do you never answer me, solomon?

209 letters.

One for each day we’ve been apart. I know he reads them: he just chooses not to answer.

100 reasons to leave.

But I just need one reason. One reason that’ll make me believe that he still loves me.

Just one reason.

It didn’t matter, really. This is a daily thing. Wondering about Solomon. I think about him, a lot. I try not to, but usually,

I forget that.

It felt as though my life was falling apart, because of me. And I missed the people in my life. I especially missed my best friend, but she was still disappointed with me, after what I did a few days ago.

I heard an aggressive knock on the door. I shift the weight to my legs and get up from my bed tiredly. Everything felt boring without him. I stalk towards the door, peaking my head through the crack. When I notice who’s face it was, my eyes go wide.

“Hello Mc.”

“ thirteen?”

Thirteen and I were close. You could call us best friends but we were more than that. We were family to each other. Through thick and thin, that’s everything we’ve been through. We’ve known each other for years.

But, we’ve grown apart.

“Hey thirteen, wanna hang out? We could go out, have dinner-“

“Sorry doll, can’t.”

“Hey thirteen wanna talk? It’s been a while.”

“Sorry Mc, busy..”

After a while, I just stopped trying. I knew she was hiding something, but I didn’t want to pry. I knew it wasn’t me she was avoiding, more like she was scared that I’d find out something about her that she didn’t want me to find out. But it still hurt.

It hurt that she didn’t trust me.

It hurt that she’s been avoiding me for the past 2 years.

It hurt that we weren’t talking after we used to talk every day.

It hurt that she didn’t even explain why she was doing it.

That’s something she and Solomon have in common.

“What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as roughly as it did, but you can’t control everything. I was upset, and disappointed. I’ve been wanting to talk to her for ages, but even after all those years; she still didn’t trust me, after I trusted her with my life.

Life.

Life is an interesting and beautiful thing. 209 days ago, it still was beautiful. 678 days ago was the best life’s ever been. With my best friend and Solomon.

Life is also a tricky subject for both of the people dearest to me, because every time I say, life’s beautiful, or I hope we’ll stick together, the atmosphere turns somber and depressing.

Why? I wish I knew. And if life was a tricky subject, death was a topic that was off limits for both of them. Why?

I don’t know.

“I’m sorry.” She looks at me sadly.

In retrospect, I should’ve just been the bigger person. It was probably a touchy subject for her, whatever it was she was hiding from me. So I should’ve just forgiven her.

But I was so hurt. From everything in my life right now. It’s a reason, not an excuse. But I was hurt.

From her and Solomon shutting me out of their life.

I slammed the door in her face.

I let the tears stream down on my face. I cry into the pillow. Something I’ve grown used to.

I could dream about the idea of reuniting with my friend, with my lover, but I don’t even know if they even see me that way anymore.

Do they even see me the same way I see them?

All the things I do for them, writing letters, planning dates. Everything just to be left with no answers, no love, absolutely nothing.

I get up from my gross bed, and walk towards my desk, wiping away my tears. I take out all the letters I got from Solomon, and burn them in the fireplace.

At least, that’s what I wanted to do, but instead I wrote one last letter.

Dear Solomon,

Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for your reply, but you never answer. I’m tired of waiting for you. I know you don’t love me as much as I love you, but this is cruel, even for you. All I ever needed was one reply from you, but you never answered.

MC.

Even if the letter wasn’t written with 100% of honesty, I was fine with it.

Because all I wanted, was to get a reaction out of him.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #obey me x reader #obey me solomon x mc #obey me thirteen #obey me swd

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pennyserenade · 4 months

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the devil hath power

part two: the game

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: m (mature, 18+) tags/warnings: talk of suicide, talk of death, talk of sex work, classism, a little bit of power play, power imbalance, food mention, alcohol mention, tigris snow cameo <3 word count: 3.6k+ summary: Coriolanus and his 'friend' begin to play a game neither of them are prepared to lose. a/n: the link to part one of this story can be found here (tumblr) or here (ao3). part three of this will follow very quickly after this one - maybe a day or two later - i promise. i've written a good chunk of it, as i intended to post this all one part, but it became much too lengthy. also, if you want to be tagged in the next part of this - or other stories like it - you can sign up to my taglist here or follow my updates blog @belovedinfidels and turn on the post notifications. thank you a ton for all your support and love. it's been lots of fun interacting with you all and writing for this fandom.

part one | part three

The money for what had conspired between her and Coriolanus came quickly, as he had promised it would. In the early hours of the next day a nondescript envelope, along with a sizable clothing bag, was delivered to her door by a nameless Avox. The amount was far more than she would’ve charged him, and yet not enough (as it always seemed to be).

However, it was the contents of the clothing bag that surprised her most of all. When she opened it she found a finely made pantsuit, feminine in its cut but masculine in its style, with wide shoulders and flared pant legs, but a more tapered, closely fitted waist. The fabric was not inexpensive either; it was a costly wool in a light burgundy shade, not unlike the color he had worn when he’d approached her in the club. She ran her fingers beneath the peaked lapels, admiring the work of what must’ve been his in-house tailor.

Though she enjoyed this gift—it was far more expensive than anything she’d purchased for herself in years—she did not feel particularly warm nor grateful towards its giver. She took the suit and hung it in the closet of the main bedroom, where she kept all her finest items, and did not think about it again until the next week.

To say Coriolanus filled her thoughts during this time would be a lie; he slipped in occasionally as she conducted business, but did not remain for more than a moment. Young men, with their heads full of ambition and tongues thick with Capital accents, brought her back to moments in that darkened bedroom, watching Coriolanus’ pupils blow wide, his lips twitching, his voice lower. The earnest clatter of teeth provided by Monday’s man reminded her of Coriolanus’ bruising intensity. The cool touch of Thursday’s regular brought her back to Coriolanus’ fingers beneath her chin. Saturday’s newcomer had blue eyes, which were infinitely kinder and much more open than Coriolanus’, but still filled her with a wave of repulsion. But it was nothing, harmless meanderings to make the time pass.

The only time she truly allowed him to invade her truly invade her thoughts was the following Sunday. The same Avox that had delivered the suit and the money returned with another envelope. Whereas the previous one had been free of design, of name, of anything that could mark it back to Coriolanus, this one bore all the signs of him, from the golden rose seal to the loopy script that read out his name.

The Avox stood at her door, staring down at the envelope in her hands with some urgency. She got the hint, opening it up without her usual regard for its design. Quickly her eyes scanned over the contents. She frowned softly; he was inviting her to a soirée at his apartment, asking if she would so kindly RSVP or decline and then send it back immediately. The date was not far away—only two short days. This, the invitation implored, was why the RVSP - or the decline - was so urgently needed.

Of course, she checked yes. How could she not? The previous envelope was evidence enough that Coriolanus followed through more than enough in terms of money, and wasn’t that all that mattered? When she handed Avox the invitation, the woman handed her another envelope. This time she did not stick around to watch her open it.

When the Avox left she sat down at her kitchen table, putting the envelope in front of her. Somehow she knew that whatever was inside its folds would impact her life in a way so few things had, and she was not yet prepared for it. Her eyes trailed over the details of the room, focused on the dampened quiet, the emptiness that lay in the elongated dining table with no guests to fill it.

As a child she had loved this room, perhaps more than any other, for it was a basin of social activity. Her mother had been a lively host and her father a jovial one at the head of the table. Wine had flown freely and their plates had been filled with food they had not known to appreciate but in retrospect. There had been nights when the guests got so drunk and so merry, and they found her innocence and her childishness compelling, cooing as she weaved her little body through their legs beneath the table. In the next room there used to be a grand piano on which she would sit with her mother after dinner concluded, and listen to her sing to the guests. Her father, a typically stoic man, would slouch against the piano and look at her mother and herself with a fondness she would never forget. How beautiful love feels when it's all gone, dried up except for the aching ghost of it rattling in the bones of a once beautiful home.

The truth of it was that her parents were dead and this home was all she had. When Coriolanus called it a museum, he wasn’t too far off. Not much had changed since her mother had died. So much had been taken before, as the Dark Days reached their peak and the hunger became unbearable. Everyone who had been beautiful and lively at those dinner parties became hollow, and thin, including her parents. It was her father who died first, but when he went it was as if her mother had died, too – it only took a little longer. Seconds, days, weeks, a total of two years until it was truly over.

It was a frightening thing to witness as a child, the destruction of something as sure and sturdy as one’s mother. She had not been told of the gruesome demise of her father, only that it had been attributed to the war. It was only later that she would find out that he had died by his own hand, that he had left what little funds they had with her mother, found an empty home, and did away with himself. His death had affected her but none so much as her mother’s had. She had to become a spectator of her mother’s failing health, watched as the rot of it filled their home, and sat idly beside her bed as it consumed her completely. Death was not delicate, not kind, not to her parents.

A better woman would’ve left this home behind as soon as she’d gotten enough funds to free herself from it, but she could not seem to. Somehow living in it felt like the greatest vengeance - or revenge, depending on the day - for her parents. Everything she did was to better this home, to restore it to the beauty she had witnessed in her once-grand childhood. That’s why the envelope was so daunting; she knew that whatever Coriolanus wrote her, even if it was inconsequential, would somehow tie to this dream. He was money and money was everything, the single stepping stone to life.

She took her time when it came to opening it, first finding a gold letter opener in the haunts of her father’s old office. The envelope was not thin but it was easy to open with the knife; she cut smoothly beneath the seal and peeled back the lip, running her fingers over the rose details that sat on the outside. She could see through the back of the folded paper that it was a letter, handwritten.

Everything is about winning, the letter began, but you know that, don’t you? I think you can see that I am not a man of unfulfilled promises now and you’re taking a step in the right direction – as any smart girl would. On the night of the party, I will send a car for you – the weather’s been rather cool for a walk – and it will take you to my apartment. Whether you choose to wear the clothing I sent is up to you, but I will say to you that the designer of the suit will be there, and she is very eager to meet you. Don’t fret too awfully much about keeping up with your appearances; it will be a small gathering, full of like-minded individuals such as yourself. They may ask what you do for a living and you may divulge the truth to them if you wish. I think I am no more ashamed of you than you are of me – what a thrilling dynamic we have.

Until then, Coriolanus Snow.

The letter remained open on the table until the night of the party. It was a reminder that she was a player in a game of her own making, but that she needed to tread carefully, lest it slip through her fingers.

She knew she could not afford to lose this; it meant far too much now that this kind of money had entered the equation.

— Even Coriolanus’ building gave the air of being self-important, large and foreboding.

Before she stepped out of the driver’s car and onto the sidewalk before the opulent apartment, she first took a wary glance upwards. The sky was a flurry of white, but even through the thicket of snow she could see the bright lights of the apartments shining ominously above her.

Her mind had been churning over the possible outcomes of this party all day. She had poured over his letter and dissected it until the individual words meant nothing and everything all at once. What she kept coming back to was the line about her occupation—how it meant very little to him whether she told the guests she was a prostitute or not. If she knew Coriolanus’ type the way she thought she did, she knew that her occupation would be of some worry to his acquaintances. Had he written that to throw her off? To make her embarrass herself the way she had him? If so, he’d have to work harder than that. She wrapped her black coat more tightly around herself and mounted the stone steps. Exhaling a deep sigh, she braced herself for whatever could come of this night.

The doorman greeted her with a curt nod as he opened the door for her. The lobby was an enormous space, full of stone columns and large potted trees. She admired the high ceilings and beautiful hanging chandeliers before another man, dressed smartly in a tuxedo and red bow tie, escorted her in the direction of the stairs. She wanted to request a walk up the large staircase but thought better of it. Now was no time to gawk over the fine housing of one of her clients. Because that’s what Coriolanus was: a client.

The elevator ride up did little to prepare her for what would come. What greeted her first was the warm sound of music and laughter. Not rich, honeyed laughter but real laughter, laughter that belonged to a time she had not been familiar with in far too long. It was feminine, rich, and pleasant. This, more than the intricate design of the apartment itself, excited her.

Before she knew it Coriolanus was standing in front of her. While another tuxedo-ed man took her coat, he walked up to her. “Welcome,” he greeted, his grin proud and wide. His eyes scanned over her and he was evidently pleased. “You wore the outfit.”

He acted as if she had said the correct answer.

Her smile was warm, and performative to a degree. “I’d be a fool not to,” she cooed.

He was pleased with her, showing it in the way he extended an elbow for her to take. She wrapped her hand around his bicep and he walked them through the long corridor, closer to the sounds of chatter. “Is there anything I should know?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing that I can think of,” he answered.

When they walked into the main room, everyone’s eyes turned in their direction. Coriolanus took to the attention, wearing a cordial grin. One of the women sitting on the multitude of cream chairs hopped up, eyes widening in excitement. “Oh Coryo!” she gushed, pushing through the small crowd to get to them.

She was a stunning woman, lithe, tall, her hair as fair as Coriolanus’ and cascading in loose curls down her shoulders. She reached her hand out in greeting. “I’m Tigris. Coriolanus told me wanted me to make an outfit for someone but he didn’t tell me how beautiful the model would be,” she gushed.

Her cheeks tinted, unused to be fawned over with such earnestness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she responded, smiling warmly. “Thank you for the outfit, it’s truly stunning.”

Coriolanus patted the hand she had on his bicep and beamed. He was showing her off like a prize, flaunting her. If she didn’t so much like the company of Tigris, she might ask him what he was getting at. But she did like Tigris, quite a lot even though this was their first meeting. Unlike Coriolanus, she was…kind. Nothing disingenuous, not so far as she could see. There was no air of haughtiness to her, no ulterior motive. She reminded her of her mother, in a way.

“I wanted her to be a surprise, Tigris. I knew you’d think she was lovely,” Coriolanus said softly. Tigris looked at him gratefully, cupping his cheek with a gloved hand affectionately.

“You’re sweet, Coryo,” she said. “Why don’t you go introduce her to the rest of the party, maybe feed her–” she looked down. “Sorry, I don’t mean to talk like you’re not here. There’s food in the kitchen and more drinks on the counter if you’re interested. I’m certain everyone else will be very excited to meet you. It’s not often Coriolanus brings someone to my parties.”

They both watched as Tigris returned into the mix of individuals. All of them were stunning, model good-looking—even the ones with more exotic appearances. Their bright hair colors and lavish makeup only accentuated their beauty. They were, to put it simply, ethereal. Not at all like the people she would expect Coriolanus to consort with.

“She’s my cousin,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

“And what does she think I am to you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A friend, I suppose.”

“That doesn’t make her curious?”

Coriolanus laughed. “No. Tigris stopped asking me questions long ago and it’s best that way. Now come.” He pointed to another open space across the room. “If I don’t get you something to eat she’ll be angry with me.”

“Is this all you wanted me here for?” she asked once they were secluded from the rest of the party. “To make your cousin happy?”

He handed her a plate and smiled his typical confounding grin. “If it was?” he taunted, tossing a berry in his mouth.

“I’d say I wasn’t an escort,” she responded.

This response made his grin stretch. “Of course you’re not,” he assured.

He followed her down the line of food, watching as she selected bits of fruits, meats, the fanciful little hor devours. Something about Coriolanus made her feel more transparent—like he knew the game she’d been playing and was waiting for her to acknowledge how clever he was for catching on. But of course he knew the game. Wasn’t he the one who sought her out?

“It’s no lie that I’m hungry, Coriolanus,” she finally submitted. Her admission made him hum delightedly around a grape.

“So eat,” he encouraged, taking a step forward. He raised a grape to her lips. When she didn’t take it from his fingers, he smirked. “Not a fan?” he teased, plopping it in his mouth. “Well, no worries. There's a lot of food here. And—“ he lowered his voice, “you can have as much as you like for as long as you like. That’s the nice thing about working with me: you don’t go hungry.”

Her eyes turned into slits. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she snapped.

He nodded, his carefully styled coif of hair bouncing. “You are, but there’s still more for you to decide. When we walk back out there, Tigris’ friends will grow interested even if she doesn’t. They’ve never seen you and you’re objectively good-looking—of course they’re going to want to know where I found you.”

She took a sip of the wine, not understanding where he was headed. This didn’t seem to bother him. He continued with a crooked grin. “When they ask you what you are, you're more than welcome to be honest. The future is what you make it.”

He took his own sip, his eyes full of meaning. She hated him. He was thrilled at her undoing, thrilled at the fact that he could control her in even the subtlest ways.

“And if I say I’m a whore?” she challenged.

He wetted his lips, setting the glass on the counter behind him. “Then a whore you shall be.”

“And if I tell them I’m your whore?”

He regarded her with an uneasy calm. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his unblinking gaze.

“Then my whore you’ll be,” he answered.

The finality of it sent her into a reflective quiet.

—

As Coriolanus predicted, Tigris’ friends were inquisitive.

After he’d let her eat in quiet, he’d guided her back out to the party where everyone was positioned in a circle. The room was made that way, adapting the Snowflake design of the house itself, each of the chairs orbiting one lone glass table in the middle. It was clever, helping facilitate conversation, but intimidating for whoever had the floor.

“Coriolanus, what does your little dove do? You’ve both spoken so little tonight and I think it’s safe to say we’re all dying to know,” one of them, who she thought was named Otho, said.

Tigris smiled ruefully. “I’m sure she speaks for herself, Otho.”

She smiled, having remembered the name correctly. It wasn’t until a second later that she realized they’d all turned their attention to her expectantly—including Coriolanus. They shared a glance before she eased back in the chair. He was nervous, perhaps just as much as she was.

“I don’t do much,” she evaded, bringing the glass of wine up to her lips.

Otho pressed on. “Oh, and how does one as young as yourself get on with doing nothing? Don’t tell me you’ve got one of those adoring Capital husbands. I mean, you’re pretty enough, but it’s just terribly unfair. I hate meeting them.”

It was a welcome lie. She didn’t look at Coriolanus as she eased her way into it. “I’m sorry to say I do,” she responded. They all leaned forward in their chairs, interested, so she continued. “He’s off in District 2 at the moment. I got one of the patriotic ones; he signed up to be a Peacekeeper not too shortly after our wedding.”

“Was he poor?” one inquired. Tigris poked them with her finger, shaking her head in disappointment.

“It’s quite alright, I don’t mind saying he wasn’t. He thought it was the right thing to do, being fit and young as he was—as he is.”

“Coriolanus was a Peacekeeper,” another one said. She didn’t remember their name either. “Is that how you met him?”

Coriolanus took hold of the conversation. “No. We go back a little farther than that,” he answered. Everyone’s eyes shifted to him.

“Do you?” Tigris asked. She seemed hurt by the idea of not knowing this. It struck her that Coriolanus and Tigris were rather close, like siblings, friends, maybe.

“As children we studied together.” Coriolanus shrugged his shoulders flippantly. Tigris nodded, but looked away.

“That’s true,” she added. She was hitting her stride. It was easy to perform, to be others, almost simpler than to be oneself most days. Coriolanus underestimated how much practice she’d had at that. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d known all along. It was hard to tell with him. “When Coriolanus and I were children I had such a massive crush on him. He was beautiful.”

She looked over at him. He wore a tight grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t you remember how I used to fawn over you?” Her fingers grazed his wrist, and she laughed. He did too. To an outsider, they made quite the jovial pair.

“I can’t say I do, but I’m flattered.” He took another sip of his drink, looking back out to their audience.

“Well, never mind that you don’t remember. I do.” She looked back at them, too. Even Tigris, who seemed wounded by what she didn’t know, stared longingly for more as she plunged into the story. She did remember Coriolanus as a little boy. It was easy enough to supply this information.

“Coriolanus was one of the more considerate boys in our grade. At that time boys made up terrible sing-songy rhymes about how girls were ugly and stinky or what have you, but not Coriolanus. Not that I heard at least.”

Everyone laughed and she looked wistfully at him. He did not look back. Instead, his eyes were captivated by the liquid in his cup. She didn’t let it bother her or take away from her story. “I remember on my sixth birthday I invited him and insisted he sit beside me. He got me a doll. I remember it very clearly. It looked a little bit like me and I thought it was very thoughtful.”

Tigris smiled softly. “That sounds like my Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus rose from his seat. He held up his glass, now empty. “I’m going for a refill,” he informed.

Everyone looked to Tigris as if searching for answers. She guided them towards another topic, smiling brightly as if unbothered. But it was in her eyes, the hurt, the confusion. After a little everyone seemed to forget the absence of him, though. Everyone almost seemed to blossom during it.

She was beginning to suspect that perhaps she’d bit off more than she could chew as she watched them all chattering away like that. Who was this man, she wondered, And why did he hold this much power even over people he seemed to love?

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