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netherfeildren · 7 months

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Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone.

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question.

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this.

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now.

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry.

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you.

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either.

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him.

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet.

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this.

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found.

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be.

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl.

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted.

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here.

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying.

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#pink fic #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #Joel Miller smut #joel miller imagine #the last of us au

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vampiretendencies · 1 year

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throw another stone at a glass house

request/summary; your writing literally gives me life. love it sm <3 would you be able to do something where jj and the reader get into an argument at dinner but they have a rule to never go to sleep mad at each other?

pairing; jj maybank x fem!reader

warnings; fluff & angst, maybe a bit suggestive

authors note; love loved writing this anon :,) pls continue to send in requests ! gif creds to owner

His cured blood was boiling— searing even.

Eatery being complacent, fairy bulbs roped neatly and whimsically throughout the establishment. Fake plastic plant leaves braided about the paneled open roof. The trimming on the tables simplistic and clothed white, any other vibrancy would clash with the modern elegance that was being established. Clammer from steel trays and the mouthy Kooks that JJ was rubbing elbows with.

His attire is classy to fit his false image— dapper wrinkle-free black button up: buttons done up until the narrowing of his chest, not too revealing, not too Pogue-like. Arms broad and fibrous, giving quite the show whilst they bulged and unbulged with every movement he made. Grey slacks, steamed specifically for this event, an absolute fool as to not recognizing himself cleaned up so pleasantly.

The amount of meals he missed simply for this one meal, to scrimp and scrape pennies together merely to see a joyous picture-perfect smile planted on your face.

And he hadn’t told you he was doing so, but for about around a month now he’s been saying ‘Got a special night for us in the works baby.’

You knew it was tonight and you knew the address.

It wasn’t a familiar one, no, the both of you, Pogues, and not having heard of such a lavish restaurant. Hell, JJ was even awestruck himself when he stepped foot in the door.

But to him it was showing you a glimpse into the future with him. The life he would scavenge to define, to escape the one he’s living in now.

Full Kook.

But, nevertheless a Pogue at heart.

With that being said, he cannot fathom as to why you wouldn’t be here.

As to why you wouldn’t be here basking in the night, with him.

As to what could possibly be any more revelation, right here.

“Sir, are you ready to order yet?”

The same lanky waiter, with a nasal like voice spoke— and the irritation of it made JJ’s skin crawl. His class bow tie, with upheld posture was something JJ cut his eyes at, interrupting his thoughts as he already done prior.

“I told you no the past three times, didn’t I?”

JJ bit back at the man, partially because he’d been to JJ’s table all those times within the span of twenty minutes, not to mention prior to when he’d arrived two hours ago. The waiters mouth turns up in disgust.

“M’waitin’ for my girl, alright?”

He proceeds to add, confirming again to not come back unless he proclaimed he was ready. A kind way of saying ‘fuck off’.

“We cannot continue to keep holding your table this long, there are other people waiting to eat.”

“I’ll call her.”

The waiter clicks his tongue, spinning on his heels to the rest of his section to serve. And JJ presses your contact in his phone, as he did thirty six calls ago— to be exact.

Pitiful, going straight to voice mail, beating organ falling straight to his half-cut boot clad feet.

Pissed, seeing to it that he should be. All this money, all this devotion, only for it to go to waste due to you not being on time?

JJ would give his soul away not feel this.

On the verge of flipping over this table and making a scene just for shits and giggles, or to cope.

The reason you were late was anonymous to him. A slumber took over you, sleeping in later than usual after work, exhausted in that shared apartment. Forgetting to charge your phone, all events that pushed you farther and farther behind. Remnants leaving you pressed to get ready for the event, all whilst having to catch a ride from Kie.

One would probably wonder why JJ simply didn’t wait for you to get ready and just drive you to the surprise himself. He was too adamant, prying on the idea that, even appearance would be a remembrance factor.

Small heels colliding with cement in a clack sound, digits on the iron knob studying the building once more, to assure yourself this location was right.

Pulled straight out of a dream.

And you prodded on the thought of JJ affording this, the effort that went into it. Wondering why he thought he had to spend so much just on you, yet impressed with your boyfriend— if only you knew the sheer devastation upon him.

The red lacey satin of your dress was enough to turn heads and you did just that, strutting whimsically to the front podium to be sat at the table with JJ. Every Kook eye studied you, but you spotted one head of hair in particular. Sat in a dainty wooden chair that caused his back to be turned to you.

Numerous round tables, purely yearning for just that one.

That one with the unearthly being; light locks dancing over his features, and a jawline fierce enough to cut paper.

The one that’s battling with himself as to wether or not to make a big deal out of this, the moment he saw you next.

Little did he know you were feet away, gawking at him and the entirely ethereal gesture he did for you.

Jesus, he looks so fucking hot.

Dapper.

Heat growing on his neck whilst he feels a shadow standing over him, he continues to play with the given metal utensils in front of him.

Perhaps the knife grazing past his fingertips, would pain much less than the ache of disappointment surging in him.

He almost, turns to face the shadow preparing to tell the waiter off. But as his sense receptors fill with that familiar warm vanilla scent ...

He doesn't.

He doesn't because he knows it's you.

And he's gathering himself for the argument that's about to ensue.

Did JJ want to fuss and fight with you?

Absolutely not, he avoids confrontation at any given moment.

However, he is also human and can only take so much.

Your graceful hand stretches over his flexed back, tensing up at a touch that would normally lull him away into no tomorrow. Blue orbs daggering into your figure overtop his eyelashes, clearing his throat at your presence. Your chair scratched along the patterned wooden floor, a notion JJ always does; pulling your chair out.

This time, you do it with no complaints; declaring to avoid the subject at hand. Acknowledging that you were in deep shit with your lover.

That exact lover teaching you so: deny, deny, deny.

And God, that dress is hugging you so tight his hairs stand up on his neck. Alluring and sensual.

If he wasn't so fucking livid, he'd rile himself up enough to temper delicate, mouth-biting, love marks to your neck.

Over

And over

Again.

Until he got his fill.

You're supposed to be mad at her, JJ thought to himself.

"Hi, J!"

His insides rumbled as if he ate sour food.

But, no food would be eaten tonight.

"Hey."

His tone laced with malice and defeat. The worse kind of greeting, not the usual 'baby' or 'pretty girl' attached to it.

Then you knew were in for it.

"Thank you for tonight, s'so pretty baby."

Reading you, he knew you were probably thinking how he managed to get a table here. But something this polite, it was uncalled for to ask such a question.

"Yeah, it was prettier earlier."

He muttered under his breath, with his face contorting into a frown. Across the table yet so far away, the bright light of the eatery highlighting his cheek bones so handsomely. And you longed for him to be, himself.

"What'd you say?"

His words unclear, he was someone that usually has a voice prominent enough to hear from miles away; so it couldn't have been anything loving.

"Nothin'."

Accent think and harsh, eye contact here and there, though it wasn't anything promising.

"Gonna' have to fix your face J, it might ruin the night."

You gasped out a laugh, but to JJ it wasn't fucking funny.

If he wanted to glower, then he'd do so and he meant it.

How dare you joke about something he busted his ass to do, money that could've been enough to pay the apartments rent that month.

He thought you were being ungrateful and that you didn't appreciate him.

First you were behind time, and now you're laughing in his damn face beating around the obvious bush that was weighing him down.

And he can't help himself.

"No ... you ruined the Goddamn night!" He spat, voice broad and demanding, through grit teeth. Knowing that if he spoke any louder the couple would be asked to leave.

He's disgusted with you for being so careless with his feelings.

A night that was supposed to be filled with desperate, needy touches, and bellies full of the finest food; JJ could find it coming to a halt.

You grew ansty in your seat at his remark, lungs missing air and guilt replaced it.

Remorse entering your features.

Falling apart at the cause of his disfunction being you.

"I didn't mean to, JJ."

You reach for his hand across the table, veins apparent and digits long; in effort to console him for your mishap of being extremely late. And he lets you interlock your finger with his upsettingly, though he waited for that same touch all night; unable to deny any touch from you.

To get his point across, he lets go.

"But, you did."

He corrected you with a tilt of his head, replacing your missing fingers with a comb through his hair.

"I-I overslept after work ... and-"

"That's such bullshit. Do you know how many long hours I worked for tonight? Just for you to not be here?"

The palm of his hand slams against the table, drawing the attention of the couple next to the two. You hurriedly shush him, bringing his anger back down to earth.

"M'trying to say sorry JJ."

Both sets of eyes glare at eachother as if in competition, and JJ's stomach whirls.

"I don't want a sorry, I wanted you to be here."

"Well ... well, I'm here now. We can still order, J."

You try again but ultimately fail.

"M'not sitting here with you and pretending like everything's 'dandy', when you fucked everything up."

His words were cold and emotionless. You search for everything to say, but all that JJ said clarified it for you. Your sullen heart thumped, salty tears brimming at corners of your eyes.

Making you feel small.

Fighting to prevent them, so you didn’t fall apart in the middle of this restaurant.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

He wasn’t cruel, not enough away, to leave you here with no way back to the shared home.

No matter how big the fight or the cause of it, it always left JJ wondering if you still besotted him the way he did you.

He wondered why, altogether going with the fact that nothing was ever permanent in his life,

Did you still crave him— on your lips, in your lungs, and beneath your skin?

One way to describe the ride home was— sickeningly tense.

Amid his rage, his hand clutches the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. Stealing glances at you, hoping you didn’t hate him. Neither of them able to etch a sentence, whilst the radio played and you sat turned with your knees to the door staring out of the window.

Oddly close enough to your position now.

On the edge of your side of the bed. Admiring JJ peel off his pants and unbutton his shirt, leaving them aimlessly on the carpeted floor— stripped down to his only boxers.

You’d thought you wouldn’t get much comfort tonight, being that he avoided even still after arriving home. Mustering a ‘gonna’ pick up the kitchen’, knowing full well it was only to an excuse to not be up under you while you both were overstimulated and on edge. Leaving you to get the bed ready and practice your night time routine. That’s why you are in the pajama attire of JJ’s t-shirt, his musk still attached to it.

His flesh on fire, conscious that you were boring at him.

‘When you fucked everything up,’ stung your chest and tainted your mind.

Reflecting, he’d wished he would’ve cut you some slack.

His baby, that he hoped for on nights when he had no one.

He baby, that he hoped for on every shooting star.

His baby, that he hoped for in a crowd of people.

His baby.

There was this rule book.

This rule book, was true and real, and contained all the expectations you and JJ had for eachother being together. It was for numerous reasons to begin with, but a year passed by and another and they fully became implicated.

The rule book was a thin black note book, adorned with two red pairs of lips. One was yours, and one was JJ’s— having put red lipstick on his puckered lips, afterwards staining your entire face with them.

Painting your face with his desire for you.

And still that notebook remains framed in the living room, just above the TV.

Rule #1: Never go to sleep mad at eachother.

It was in big, chunky black letters— JJ wrote it and with every letter he wrote he meant it more. One would think cheating would be at the top of the list— but that wasn’t a worry.

It wasn’t a concern because if JJ could inject you into his veins he would do just that.

And so would you.

Opening up his heart to you was not a thing he’d ever regret doing.

Letting himself become infatuated with you, and letting you treat him the way he deserved to be.

You’d silently prayed that JJ would enforce the rule tonight, seeing as even though you did fuck up, you had reason to be irate as well.

His feet pad against the khaki carpet to switch off the bedroom lights. Miscellaneous TV show, playing whilst it illuminated his appearance. He made a b-line for his side of the bed, queen size engulfing him. And you did the same, twisting to lie in bed next to him, but not right beside him.

Lying the exact same— backs flat against the black silk sheets, duvet pulled up past either arms. Pairs of eyes darting at the the other. Except JJ’s left arm is behind his head, the muscle fissuring with ease as it grooved forward from the small glance you got. His right arm is the one closest to you, flat in the open space between the two.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know how to lay.

He is so use to having skin on skin contact, but now he’s lying alone and deprived of your touch.

And you would initiate but you quiver at being denied again.

“Y’know you can’t go to sleep yet.”

His raspiness booms and echoes off the walls, causing you to jump in the slightest. Still continuing to look forward at the cinema before him, you bore into him with furrowed eyebrows— head turning on the firm pillow.

“How come?”

His insides fluttered at your melodic and rhythmically put together voice.

He’s still scolding to the touch, but realizing his tad of unreasonableness consumes him. Turning to his side, he faces you, an everlasting lump in his throat.

“Rule number one-“

“Never go to bed mad at eachother.”

You finish his sentence, and his mouth is partially open. Heartbeat becoming deathly, hands clammy at him bringing the rule book up. He remembered.

He remembered it all.

“So can we stop being mad?”

He pleads, voice cracking in the slightest.

Giving himself to you in every way possible.

Vulnerability only amendable when he’s near you.

Enchanted and explicitly, letting you suck his soul in.

And he didn’t care.

“I was never mad at you J, you were mad at me.”

Solely, truthful acknowledging that you couldn’t be viled at him chewing you out at dinner. Feeling like you deserved every bit of it.

“I s-shouldnt have said that, baby m’sorry.”

His lone hand encapsules your shoulder, the pet name leaving his mouth smoothly, a part of his everyday vocabulary. You crane your neck to place small pecks to each one of his knuckles, showing each one more attention than the last.

“S’okay, I get it J.”

“Just wanted us to have tonight, for us.”

“I ruined it, I know-“

“Nothing’s ruined … we still have us.”

His head lowers, lips puckering in the faintest way. Softly pressing with yours, all whilst enveloping you closer into his frame. An embrace his sore body hungered for. Tongue delving into your mouth, molding together like puzzle pieces. Angrily kissing to make up for the love lost today, he hummed at the comforting sensation.

“And m’not letting go of that, baby.”

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yonphilia · 6 months

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a/n: repost bc i wanted to add sumn😞 i jus love gojo guys <3 and wingman geto <33

Satoru was annoying, way too annoying.

You’re at the cinema right now with Suguru and Satoru, you didn’t plan on bringing them with you, but when you held up three tickets to Utahime and Shoko to go to the movies with you, the next thing you knew, there was a long arm around your shoulder dragging you away from the two girls before they could even answer.

Here you were now, in the middle of the hallway of the cinema glaring at Satoru, with your arms crossed, who could not keep his mouth shut during the movie which resulted in you three being kicked out.

Oh, but did he care?

No! He had the attention of 5 different girls asking for his number and fawning over him, so why would he?

Suguru chuckles, dragging Satoru away from the girls as you follow behind.

“You got us kicked out!” you say trying to sound annoyed. “That was such a waste of my money— you’re paying me back Satoru”

“What!” he raises his hands in defence, his shades sliding down his nose slightly “it was not my fault the heroine was going to—”

“Shut up” you say which causes Satoru to pout

“I mean, at least we watched the first 15 minutes, it wasn’t that bad.” Suguru cuts in trying to lighten the mood but instead laughs at your stern face and Satoru’s stupidity.

Youq roll your eyes at the two and walk away to the cashier to buy snacks for yourself, and yourself only. Because somehow, everytime you go out with these two, Satoru forgets his wallet, and Suguru’s wallet just happened to be at Satoru’s dorm, and the moment Satoru’s eyes lay on the packet of cookie dough candy in your hands, he’s dashing up to you.

“Pretty please buy me one? i’ll pay you back.” He says pouting and sliding his shades down his nose to show you his “puppy” eyes which causes you to scoff, and in the end you did end up buying him a packet.

You three head back to Suguru’s car, you rush to the passenger seat before Satoru could, sticking your tongue out at him as he gets in the back. “Tiz’ what you get looser.” you say smiling to yourself.

As Suguru starts to drive, you fumble with the buttons on his dashboard trying to put on some music which causes Suguru to side eye you raising a brow.

“It’s the button on the top right corner,” he says trying to hide his smile and keeping his eyes on the road.

Once you turn the music on, you try to shut it off straight away, ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You' by Mariah Carey was blasting in full volume. Satoru snickered at the irony of the song playing with the month being October at the moment.

Few minutes pass by in silent, until Satoru peaks his head through the space between your and Suguru’s seats.

“You still mad-”

“Yes.”

“C’mon, I’m sorry I’ll pay you back” he protests pouting.

You turn your head away from him looking out the window. “That will be 70$ plus the candy so 75$ because i’m adding interest.”

Suguru tries to stifle a laugh which has you saying “You too, you owe me as well,” and he purses his mouth shut straight away.

Satoru tries to make it up to you, by bringing you to the amusement park. You two were playing an arcade game, shooting the plastic animals with waterguns till one falls over and you win a prize.

sounds easy right? not if Satoru is around.

He looses several times, and in the end he ends up throwing his water gun at the stack causing the shelves to fall along with everything on it.

And there you two were once again, standing outside the gates of the amusement park.

“You have to hear me out-”

“Don’t even think about it Satoru” you say turning away from him, hair a little damp from the waterguns.

“Okay I’m sorry I’ll make it up to you-”

“No! you do this every time”

“What if-”

“No”

Satoru frowns, knowing this was probably your last straw, so he walks up to you standing infront of you and looking down at your sulking face.

“I’ll kiss you if you don’t let me make it up to you..”

Your face scrunched up into disgust as you snap your head at him and take a step back “No- dont even think about it ew”

“Then let me bring you to that favourite place you like to eat at”

“You got me kicked out last time because you-”

“I wont! i promise!”

And yet, you two were standing on the street covered in tomato sauce and noodles dripping down from your hair.

“Heh…C’mon..hear me out…”

He’ll make it up to you properly, someday.

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misguidedasgardian · 8 months

Text

I need to... (2)

... Go

MASTERLIST

Summary: Your time and your patience is running out

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader (for now), MAIN Cregan Stark x Fem!reader

Warnings: There are mentions of them being Minors! at some point in their relationship, a lot of cursing, cheating, angst, depression, age gap (not for reader), coercion, toxic relationship, drinking alcohol to cope, in some countries it is underage drinking, (reader is 18). contraceptive pills, panick attack, throwing up (not intentional), thoughts about injuries and medical procedures to one-self (not self induced), weird-ass warnings but you knew when you read them, might forget some …

+ 18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 5.1 k

Notes: I can’t believe the support on this! it's amazing! and I can’t wait for all of you to realize the ramifications of Aemond’s fuckery JAJA

It has been only been a week and you couldn’t take it anymore, so you found yourself almost running up the stairs leading to that ugly studio, that once you found “Artsy”, you had to do something, you had to face her, you had to

You found Alys alone cleaning her art supplies, when she saw you, she smiled widely

“Hey, you are free this time of day?, what do you need?”

“What I need is for you to stop fucking my boyfriend”, you snapped, her face went pale, “you know you were in the last year of highschool when he was being born? sick”, then her face turned bitchy, and unapologetic

“Perhaps you should ask yourself why your boyfriend prefers to fuck me than you”, you couldn’t take it anymore, you looked around frantically, and found quickly what you were looking for, a cartoner knife

Alys’ face was like the one of the woman of psycho, the scene in the shower, you couldn’t take it anymore and stabbed her right by her collarbone

You screamed when you woke up, you raised your hands to your face to see if you had your teacher’s blood in them, but they were clean, you looked around and found yourself in your dorm room… alone

You had not stabbed your teacher….

Yet

You jumped from your bed when you heard your alarm go off.

You had classes

Plastic arts classes

For fucks sake

You looked at the mirror in the common bathroom and you looked like shit, dark bags under your eyes, your hair was messy, you didn’t even want to try, you just went to her class, not even having a shower

why bother?

You had kept yourself waxed, clean, hair always perfect, always makeup in your face, perfume in your neck, you had plucked your eyebrows every week, and for what?

Alys looked radiant today, her gorgeous black hair loose, makeup that made her green eyes even bigger and shinier

Fucking bitch

When you arrived class already started, she made eye contact with you, raising one of her perfect model-shaped eyebrows but say nothing as she kept giving instructions for the class of today

You sat at the last table, back of the class and took out your notebook, and started doodling.

You started to plan

Your godmother was going to be so happy you would want to change careers, because she knew what you truly wanted, and she didn't think it was a good idea to choose your college only for a man, which you had done, so… she was going to be easy..

Even though she was so proud when you told her you got in Dragonstone University, it was a prestigious school, and she wasted no time in telling everyone she knew in King’s Landing country club.

Anyways

Then you were going to buy a ticket to go live on the whole other side of the continent. You thought the money your parents gave you would let you live comfortably for the years you needed to study without even thinking about working…

You were going to be fine

You could kiss that family discount with the airline goodbye

Then you were going to need to take a few boxes with you, your belongings, luckily you didn’t have much, so you started to make a list of everything you needed to do.

And suddenly, you felt all eyes on you, you looked up and realized that witch Alys had made you a question or something, and everyone was looking at you to answer it

“Sorry?”, you asked

“i asked, at what temperature you need to heat plastic in order for you to mold”, she asked again, she tried to sound nice, but you could tell she was visibly annoyed

“I don’t know”, you answered, she looked at you, frowning, but then answered herself and continued the class, after everyone had stopped snickering

You had made so many mistakes, you had managed to enter one of the most prestigious schools in the country, taking someone else’s place, and you didn’t even want to be here. It was early, you thought, at least, it was not too late…

You would be ashamed, if you didn’t try so damn hard to fit in, for you to really be interested in your classes, for you to want to be an architect

Sadly you didn’t

As soon as Alys dismissed the class you jumped off your seat and ran off, even though you heard her calling you… Gods the audacity

If you were a tracher fucking your student’s boyfriend, the least you could do is leave her alone, right?

“Professor Alys is calling you”, said one of your classmates with a boring face, he grabbed your arm to stop you from running down the stairs, and you had no choice but to return and face her

she was wiping the board with her back to you, your eyes went to the desk where you found now only a cardboard knife, but also very big scissors. You felt like a lightning bolt had shot through your spine, you shook and grabbed yourself, reviving your dream all too well.

She finally turned around and looked at you

Boyrfiend fucker

You knew very well your boyfriend, Aemond, was the one at fault, he was the one in a committed relationship with you, but she was also at fault, she knew he was your boyfriend… SHE WAS YOUR TEACHER, she knew him through you! you wouldn’t go as far as to say she was your friend, but really close, she was your mentor, she was also at fault

“I know you are frustrated, and you don’t really want to be here, but I thought at least, together you and I, had come to some sort of understanding”, she said sweetly. Any understanding that you both may have had came to an end when you found her fucking your boyfriend in this very desk

The thought made you take back your hand that you had placed in top of that surface, you looked at it, disgusted, like it was some sort of roadkill, and for a second, as you looked back at her, you thought you saw some fear in her ghostly green eyes, but you quickly discarded it

“I’m failing two courses, it’s been a tough week”, you whispered, taking your eyes off of her

“You got pretty good grades in this class”, she tried, “Don’t ruin it so close to the finish line”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again”

Should you confront her? you didn’t want to lose momentum, but you didn’t think you had the strength, you had never been a confrontational person, and… what were you going to gain? explanations? a fight? an apology? what?

You found her looking at you with pity, and you almost snorted

“Yours is a complicated age, you are expected to make life-changing decisions without not truly knowing much of the world, it is almost unfair they made you choose what you want to do for the rest of your life at this young age… but that is what college is for, you know?”, she muttered, “it might take you a while, like I did, but in the end, you will find your calling”

You barely nodded, your energy suddenly depleted, you wanted to fall into your bed with five muscular relaxers on and not wake up for a week

If you offer, would the meds students put you in a coma for learning purposes? works both ways

Alys continued her motivational speech while you thought how good it must feel not to feel anything, you wanted to rip your heart from your own chest for it to stop aching like it was.

You watched Alys and how her lips moved and her eyes danced

And then, even though you couldn’t hear her, you saw her put her hand in her belly

“... And when you least expected, life surprises you”, she muttered, and then from her belly you looked up at her again

“You are pregnant?”

“I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, I only just found out, it's very new, I think six weeks”

You were going to pass out

“Is it my boyfriend’s?”, you asked before you can even stop your own tongue

“What?”, she asked, “how…?”

“I need to go”

You stumbled away from her, grabbing onto the wall you tried not to fall down the stairs and break your neck, fortunately the bathrooms were right there, you barely managed to enter and kneeled in the nearest stall, and you threw up, all the poor contents of your breakfast

You were shaking, with nausea and your chest constricting within itself

Once you were done throwing up, you lean back to the stall wall, and you started to hyperventilate, suddenly, you had trouble breathing, and you couldn’t, you tried to take long breaths, but nothing was helping

Soon, a couple of hands were on you

“Hey, are you alright?”, it was a girl, young

“Can’t breathe”, you managed to squeeze our of your twisted throat

“I think you are having a panic attack”, she said, completely concerned for you

“I think I might be”, you conceded, your chest felt too tight

Alys was pregnant with Aemond’s baby. I mean, was she? for how long this had been going on? she had a boyfriend when the school year started, you had seen him, he trained the Football team here.

You dry heaved and that made it worse

The student grabbed you and took you out of the stall, you managed to stand up and grab onto the vanity. She massaged your back with soothing movements

“Breathe in and out”, she commanded, and you obeyed, looking in the mirror and into your own eyes, to find your own strength

She placed her hands in your shoulders and began to rub, as you kept breathing

“Your chest hurts?”, suddenly, it stopped, and you shook your head

“No, not anymore”, you managed to answer, as you turn on the cold water and splashed your face with it, and put a bit of cold water in the back of your head, it always worked, to calm yourself down

“You need to go to the nursery”, she said, worried

“I think I’m alright”, you whispered

“Are you sure?”, she asked, you nodded

“Thank you so much”, you whispered

“My sister used to have them all the time, its fine”, she then looked at you and frowned, ”you are Aemond’s girlfriend, are you not?”

For fucks sake

“Yes”, you said, smiling fakely

“He is so awesome, I have him in all my classes”

You can have him then

“Anyways, thank you again”, you grabbed your backpack that was in the middle of the bathroom floor, and walked out of the bathroom hastily

Just a couple of more weeks

Just a couple

But you couldn’t

With shaky hands you grabbed your phone, ignoring Aemond’s texts about meeting up in the coffee shop, and went straight for the number you had in your phone, it rang twice before she answered

“Godmother?”

“My sweet girl”, she answered, only that made you smile, and even with one word, she knew something was wrong, “what happened?”

“I need you”

“I’m on the next ferry out”, it's the only thing she answered

It was still going to take a couple of days, but only knowing she was coming, made you breathe a little easier

You just had to put up with Aemond a couple of more days…

Just a couple

Your phoned “dinged”, and when you checked it, you were pleasantly surprised to see that it was a text from Ben

You are my only success story in my career as a recruiter, wanna celebrate?

A bit of a flirt, but you smiled and texted back immediately, not time to waste you thought

Sure

The replay came as quickly as you texted back

Meet you at the bar at eight, we will eat something there

You: Great :)

Now, a text from Aemond came in, he wanted you to meet him in the library now, and you went there

For maximum effect, for you to really make an impact with your absence, you had to keep acting a few more days, and then, you were going to get out of his life for good… But Alys, you had asked her point blank is that kid was his, she was going to tell him you knew…

You found him in the tables near the end of the century old library, you frowned when you saw him with Criston Cole, a senior who was just a walking neon red flag

“My lady”, you evaded him like the plague when he leaned in to kiss you, and he didn’t say anything, but you saw his jaw tick, you sat by his side, and took out your art history book,a t least you were going to leave this joint with your head held high, you had an exam two days from now

“I heard you took classes with professor Rivers”, muttered Cole, a twisted smile on his lips and his default crazy eyes

“yes”, you responded, bored

“darling, are the flashcards ready?”, asked Aemond, and you looked at him like he had grown two heads

“I didn’t got time to make them you now, failing all those classes”, you muttered, and again, that look that told you were going to have a huge fight once you were alone

“No matter, you can help me prepare them later tonight”, he teased, winking at Crispin, I mean, Criston

“I can’t tonight”, that touched a button, he turned to you, angry dancing in his eye

“Why not?”, he asked

“I need to study”, you said, pointing at the book

“You are going to fail anyways”, he said, Cole got uncomfortable quickly, and stood up from the table

“I’ll leave you to it”

“Gee, thanks love”, you mocked, ignoring him

“That is not what I meant”, he muttered, “we always study together”

“I’m sorry”

“We haven’t had sex in a week”, he whispered, annoyed, which reminded you bitterly that you had tried to get checked for STD’s but the girl told you you needed three months (for one of them) to notice symptoms and they were not going to show up in the results

“Sorry, I’m on my period”

“You are not, I told you to take the pills…”

“Did you know they can cause me an aneurism Aemond?”, you asked, he only sighed

“You are fine”

“I don’t want to take them anymore”, for what? you only told your Gynecologist to prescribe them because of your active sex life, not because you needed them

“We’ll talk about it later”, he whispered

“I can’t later, I have to study, and then I’m meeting with a friend”

‘What friend?”

“Ben”

“The one from the other night? forget it”, he growled

You’d think he’d be glad, he could go and fuck your teacher, his baby momma, oh you wanted to throw up again

“He is just a friend, I’m pretty sure he is gay”, not true

“So? you are not going to that slum to drink with a guy you just met”

“There is going to be other people there”, you said, like, other patrons

“I said no”

“You are not my father, I’m not asking Aemond”, you said back, he only looked at you with a frown

“Why are you doing this tonight? I had a surprise for you”

“What surprise?”, you asked

“Involves a velvet box, and flowers…”, the gift he didn’t get to give you that fatidic night, “your favorite movie”

“Sorry, Ben is leaving tomorrow, besides, you just told me you need to study”, you reminded him, caught him, you thought

“Whatever, you want to seem desperate to that guy? go then”, he looked down at his book, his closed fist over the table

“Tomorrow we can meet up at the coffee shop and make the flashcards”, he dind’t answer, he barely looked at you, and you want to laugh on his fucking face

The silent treatment

Really?

normally you would beg and get on your knees, figurative and literally, to please him and make him forgive you for whatever you did wrong, but now you just got up, grabbing your book

He looked like he had been slapped looking up at you wide eyed, but you didn’t look back, you just turned and left, leaving him there, soaking in his own manipulation

You wanted an opening

For him to say something and you bite back

You didn’t have the momentum anymore

You just wanted to leave, you knew that if you confronted him, he was just going to manipulate his way out of it, he had you stringed up…

But you just find a sharp pair of scissors

It was going to take a while, but you were going to get yourself free, you knew it

Just a couple more days, your godmother was on her way, she was going to get you out of here

you walked hastily to your dorm, to find Maris there, that girl didn’t have much of a social life

“I don’t appreciate you treating me like a doorman”, she snapped in sight, “that came in for you”, she said pointing to your bed were a big envelope laid

“Maris, you know what? maybe Byron doesn’t pay attention to you because he can see the stick poking out of your ass”, you snapped, and she opened her mouth, enraged, “save it”, you snapped, “I don’t feel like killing a million neurons trying to wrap my head around what might get out of your mouth”, she shut up again, but you sighed, she might be a terrible roommate, but she wasn’t to blame, “relax Maris you know what that is?”, you asked pointing at the bed, “your ticket to a single room, its my Winterfell course catalog for the next semester”, and her face it up, “I’m out of here”

“Really? wait, Bbt what about Aemond?”, she asked then, wary, you grabbed your phone and didn’t even looked at the picture, and you show it to her

“IS THAT…? PROFESSOR RIVERS?”, she said, sickenly marveled

“You still think he is too good for me?”, she took the phone off your hand to look at the picture closely

Oh if only you saw her airdropping the pic to herself

“You need to send this to the dean and fuck them up”, she said with a wide, sick smile.

Oh how much you had thought about

The very next day you were looking through your phone and find it, you didn’t even remember taking it, you were probably in shock, and then you thought about show it to the dean… but you couldn’t

That picture was straight up porn, and Aemond was on it, Aemond came from a powerful family and not even the whole university could protect itself from the massive lawsuit the Targaryens could attack them with, and you, you took it, it was defamatory and gods know what else, you were a nail and they were a massive hammer, you didn’t even wanted to know what they could do to you.

“She could get fired”, you whispered simply

“So?”

“She could get in trouble”

“She is fucking your boyfriend!”, she said back

“Doesn’t mean I want to ruin her life”, you said, “he is the one who should get fucked up, he was my boyfriend, and if this picture gets leaked, the only one who is getting fired and ruined is her, while he is going to get high-fived until his arm falls off”

“She deserves it”, she said

“He also deserves it, and again, he won’t even get scratched”

“Yes if you send it to his pius mother”, she teased

“The stick up your ass is falling off Maris”

“Haha, very funny, send it”, she warned

“I just want to get out of here”

“Do it, but leave nothing in your wake, scorch the earth”, you only shook your head

They deserved each other, they deserved for them to fall on their own weight, you had made your peace.

And besides, Aemond had other things to face, his mother for example, King’s Landing’s first lady

Aemond had a very elite political pedigree, you see, his family was like royalty, generations and generations of the country’s leaders, mayors, senators, presidents… even it was said they descended from Kings many centuries ago. And that was just his father, and on his mother’s side was from the same caliber.

And you were from a famous family in the Crownlands, your family only in the last three generations before you had become famous for pioneering in the big silver screen, actors, directors, producers, new money, you’d think, creatives, artists… But the main reason that Alicent had allowed you to squeeze into her family, was your godmother.

She was Cerenna Reyne, married to the late Tywin Lannister, one of the three heirs to the greatest gold mine of the continent, childless, you were the closest thing she had to a daughter, probably her heir, people were welcomed to speculate. You wondered, but you wouldn’t ask, she hasn't told you.

Aemond had the pedigree, and you had the money to take him were he allegedly belonged

Cerenna and your mother were friends since the cradle, and she took you in when she and your father passed when you were little.

You ignored Maris who was getting a pedicure from herself, and dropped to your bed and opened the heavy package

It was your acceptance letter, with a letter from the dean himself, saying he was gladly going to receive you, and then the course catalog

You opened it and look through it slowly, enjoying every picture, every letter, the gray and navy blue colors

All of it

You even wanted to get a Jersey

You were so excited… and you couldn’t wait for you to face Aemond the last day, tell him to fuck himself, that the vacation to Casterly Rock were cancelled, and he could fuck himself

You were going to enjoy it

But when do things happen the way you wanted them to?

You met with Ben at the bar, you ate french fries, and drank beer. You had a great time, you learned he had a girlfriend, and he was a sophomore in an administrative degree, he was such a friendly guy, very appropriate, you felt good with him. It was a nice night, talking about Winterfell and how excited you were, and how cute the wolf mascot was and the fact you wanted to buy a plushie

Until a drunk fool spilled his pint all over you, drenching you

Ben Tallheart, was a gentleman, and offered you his Winterfell Jersey

And you had to make the walk of shame wearing another man’s jersey all over campus

Of course Aemond found out

And he almost threw your door down looking for you. You went out of your room to meet him, your patience running very, very thin

“...Now all the school thinks my girlfriend is a whore”, and that broke you, you pushed him out of your room where an entertained Maris was, and you put a finger on his chest

“You are the whore and don’t you ever talk to me that way again in your fucking life!”

it was done

You were done

You had imploded

“What?”, he sneered

“You are fucking my plastic arts teacher and she is fucking pregnant Aemond!”, he went pale, you honestly thought he was just going to drop dead

“Are you truly insane?”, he asked then, recuperating himself, he had politician’s blood after all, “why is a classmate texting me you had a panic attack in the bathroom? you are clearly not well”, he said, gaslighting at its finest

“I’m very well, thank you so much!”, you fought back, “I saw you Aemond, with my own eyes, you fucking her over her desk last week!”

“If you saw us, then why didn’t you say something? uh?”, he mocked

“because I’m leaving, and I was just going to disappear from your fucking life, because you don’t deserve anything from me Aemond! NOTHING!”, you spitted out

“You are psychotic”, he said back

“Oh, I’m the psycho one”, you mocked

“You have problems”

“You know, I don’t even care that you are fucking her or why, I just want to get out of this fucking island, this fucking school, this fucking bubble”

“You are going to drop everything, for this?”, he asked then, you thought you saw fear in his eye, but in a second it was gone

“Yes”, you said simply, bored of all this

“No”, he fought, “I was just a slip up”, he muttered, your discussion fell to whispers, in fears of all the dorms listening, “come on I can show you numbers of all students who fuck their teachers, its… a rite of passage”, he said dismissively

“what?”, you asked

“Yes, Its psychology, you see, she is a hot older woman, and we are still in our teenage years, it is normal one feels an attraction for a woman in the position of power, besides, she reach me, because she was concerned for you, and I was too, things escalated, it was a one time thing, the heat of the moment, it meant nothing… Maegor had his Tyanna, but also his Ceryse…”, was he seriously comparing himself to the second ever president of this country that had a first lady and a mistress?

“Aemond”, you called, frowning

“What?”

“Let’s play a game of hide and seek, alright? I hide, and you seek psychological help”, he only looked at you, a dead expression on his face, and then he exploded in a rage

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”, he almost screamed, “What the actual fuck is wrong with you??? YOU ARE IMMATURE, AND CHILDISH, YOU DON’T EVEN HEAR A WORD I’M SAYING”

“I don’t need to Aemond”, you whispered

“So what?”, he snarled, “you are going to leave?”

“Yes Aemond”, you whispered, “I’m going to leave, this school, you, and everyone on it”

“No”, he muttered, shaking his head, “no, after all of this? one single mistake and you're going to leave just like that?”, he asked

“Yes”, you said quietly, “I need to go Aemond”, now it sank in, and he looked at you, his eye open wide, his mouth barely open, surprise, even a bit of skepticism, innocence even

“Don’t go”, he said simply, “it will not happen again”

“It’s been going on for weeks, right? Maybe months…”

“No…”

“Don’t lie to me”, you snapped, “have the decency to be truthful”

“Two months”, he said, you barely nodded

“Goodbye Aemond”, you whispered, and you walked away from him and your dorm room

You knew he was not going to go after you, but you also knew he knew you, and he was going to let you “cool down”, like every time you had an argument

He knew you were going to “crawl back to him”

And you spend the next day abed, Maris let you be, barely talked to you and you appreciated it, and then, sooner than you expected… you heard a knock on the door, and then, it opened, you raised from your lethargy to see the dark brown locks of the most important person to you

“What do I have to do to get a drink around here?”, she asked out loud, she removed her dark sunglasses and looked directly at you, “my beautiful god given daughter”, she muttered looking at you in the bed

“Godmother”, you whined, tears in your eyes

A long shower and an hour later, you found yourself at the coffee shop with your godmother, sipping a skinny latte, her… you were an extra cocoa mocha with whipped cream on it. You wore proudly Ben’s Jersey he gifted you

You told her everything

in whispers and conspicuous looks

“Oh darling”, she whined, arranging a lock of hair behind your ear, “I will take you up there, alright?”, she offered with a wide smile, “I’ll take you myself to Winterfell University, the palace you should have gone to in the first place, and those colors looked wonderful on you, my beautiful girl”

“You don’t have to”, you said, smiling shyly, she sighed

“No I do, I mean, it's perfect timing, you see, that motherfucker’s father, Viserys is campaigning AGAIN to be the mayor of King’s Landing, AGAIN!”, she whined, and you couldn’t help but giggle, “and as always, he invited me, to be there in front row”

“How much money he wanted this time?”, you asked

“Too much”, she said seriously, “I know my husband’s fund he left me was for precisely political campaigning, but, everything has a limit”, she said dismissively, “so, instead, a Velaryon cruise sounds just, perfect”, she whined, “what do you say? two weeks in the narrow sea, a nice week in White Harbour, they say the spa’s there are to die for, and then, I’ll drop you off at Winterfell”, she said lovingly, “recharged after vacations, ready to start your new life, away from that inbred family of fuckers”, she whispered, caressing your cheek, you laughed

“I love that idea”, you said, she dropped a kiss in your hand she was holding

“I’ll be staying at the Golden Lion hotel, alright? you just finish your things here, and I’ll make some calls''

“I love you godmother”, you whispered

“And I love you too my sweet sweet girl”, she whispered, “they will get fucked, like they deserve”, it sounded like a promise

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt”

“They won’t”, she said, “only they will get what they are owed”, sometimes she scared you

The bells above the door dinged and when you looked up, there she was

Fucking boyfriend fucker

Her face was like a Valyrian tragedy when she saw you, pale as paper, you couldn’t hide your anger, rage, hate on her

She walked towards your table

“Can we have a word?”, she asked, looking at your godmother sheepishly

“No”, you said, “I have nothing to say to you”, you growled, she looked uncomfortable

“Please”

“Leave me alone or everyone on this school is going to see the picture of you fucking my nineteen year-old boyfriend in your desk in your classroom”, you threatened, and with tears in her eyes she left the coffeshop

You then looked at your godmother

“I want to leave now”, you said

“I’ll get help to get your things”, she said softly.

Afterchapter notes: I think I’m having the “walt disney complex”, almost none of my MC’s have parents… sorry :( sometimes I think it's easier, in this case, for an eighteen year-old to make this kinds of decisions and move across the country and paying for it haha, I think it's easier for reader to have a badass godmother, I have one and it's the coolest

taglist!: @mxtokko @princesssterek @thefandomimagines @iamavailablesstuff @misspascalpunk @sweethoneyblossom1 @ipostwhtifeel @lunamoonbby @ahristata

#misguidedneed #aemond targaryen x reader #cregan stark x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd modern au #college au #cregan stark #house targaryen #hbo house of the dragon

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xinamie · 2 months

Text

🥟 — dumplings & dimples.

pairing: kung lao x gn! reader

summary: owning a food cart has its fun days, especially when that cute customer comes by. ♡

tags: flirting, fluff

The dumpling dealer — that's what younger customers called you. Apparently, they even spread that title amongst their peers which is why you had swarms of them waiting in line almost every other day. Xiao long bao, or soup dumplings, were the most popular! There was no secret recipe or ingredient though, you just made them with time, patience, and lots of care.

Someone seemed to disagree, however, wanting to know all your secrets. You could see the wide brim of his hat at the end of the line, most likely praying to that one benevolent lord he talked about. There was nothing to worry for as you always kept his favorite dumplings in stock. It was tradition at this point.

When he finally reached you, a grin stretched across his face as he ducked his head under the cover of your cart. His eyes immediately darted across all the steamer baskets before they settled on you, the corners crinkling in glee.

"Well, if it isn't my baobei..." He would joke every single time, the term of endearment being a play on words for the items on your menu. And without fail, he would receive an eye roll followed by that smile he grew to adore so very much.

No other words were necessary as you packed up his usual order, but of course it wasn't quiet for long.

"Don't forget the extra ch—"

"Chili oil on the side, yes, I know."

His lips curled into a satisfied expression as you poured the delicious spice into a little bag. As you twisted the plastic to secure the juice, Kung Lao couldn't help but speak up again. One of his arms leaned onto your cart, though he kept a respectable distance while you worked.

"Ready to spill your secret? Madam Bo said you told her, so why not me?"

There really was nothing special about your cooking, but the man could be pretty adamant at times. For him to keep coming to this same stall, there had to be a reason why and you just assumed it was for recipe leeching. At least, that's what he made it seem on most visits. Handing him his prepared meal, you shot him a look that he was familiar with.

"Fine, how about a date then?"

That was— certainly new. He held the bags with one hand while the other placed more than enough funds to cover his order into your money jar. A steaming hot bao was already in his mouth as he raised a brow, waiting for your answer.

"You're joking, right?"

A muffled noise escaped him, vaguely hearing a nuh uh in the middle of his snack. He then swallowed the dumpling properly, leaning forward to tap the tip of his finger against the visor you wore for food safety. A huff escaped you as you leaned back, trying to understand his motives here. All you received was a chuckle, the low tone rumbling from his chest and feeling as if it entered yours.

"Your time wouldn't be wasted, you know. Give me a chance." His words were buffed by his own secret weapon, those damned dimples, on full display just for you. It was one of his features that had always attracted you and by the look on his smug face, he knew it too.

A much more boisterous laugh came out of the man as he swiveled around, waving a dumpling in the air.

"The main fountains, tomorrow evening. Say... seven? See you then!"

He left without confirmation, a heavy sigh parting your lips as you watched his back. There wasn't much time to think about it as more customers demanded your attention.

If anyone asked, it was all the steam and pan frying that got you all heated!

☆

a/n: omfg i thought tumblr deleted my draft and i almost cried but hiii first fic! sorry if it's lame jfjeirkekdb

#mk1 x reader #kung lao x reader #mk1 kung lao x reader #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat kung lao x reader #xinamie writes

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hopelesslyromanticshark · 1 month

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✮⋆˙ finding the divine in the domestic; mortal gods blurb

content: greek gods as morals??? ig??? warning: you will cry (hopefully) you will laugh (hopefully) you will feel mushy gushy feelings (hopefully) author's note: this is the most beautiful thing ive ever written...i just...i dont even care if you guys like this one bc i love it...something about the romanticizing of human life from the eyes of people who have never experienced it just...gets me sappy.

the gods, wanting to avoid ending up like their parents, decided to pass the torch to their own children instead of waiting for a usurping to come. let's take a look into their mortal lives now, huh?

zeus and hera got a cookiecutter house in connecticut. its just one of those houses that always looks put together, a perfect wife curled up on the couch with a book waiting for her perfect husband to come home from work. for a while, it was a facade. they fought nearly every night, thundering voices and lightning quick jabs made constantly. but, every night, following another harsh fight, zeus would lay down on the perfect couch. he'd sigh, not completely sure why he fought with her as much as he did. then he'd hear it. the quiet pitter patter of hera's feet against the hardwood. she'd walk up to the couch and, without a word, curl up beside him. zeus always made room for her, his strong arms easily finding waist to keep her from falling off the couch in the night. and in the morning, they'd decide it was time to seek counseling. because the love was there - you could taste in, it hung so strongly in the air - and they both wanted to make it work. and there is no shame in getting a little help.

poseidon made his way to sunny, beautiful, california. he bought a bungalow, right on the beach, naturally. it was hard to find him not on the beach. and when he wasn't there, soaking in the sun or surfing the waves, he was picking up trash or joining waste management teams. he refused to let his son's domain rot away with plastics and trash. he often made his way to visit sally and her husband, becoming that strange uncle that you only see every now and then but is your favorite to estella. but, he was content, paying eight bucks for crappy coffee and giving advise to new surfers. he found peace on those california beaches. and trash. lots and lots of trash. but, he was working on it, chewing out any teens who had the audacity to leave behind any plastic straws or tin cans.

hades and persephone settled down in oregon, a house deep in the foggy woods. it was a modern and striking house but nearly impossible to find. the pair had gotten used to the doom and gloom, not quite ready to embrace the sun. persephone's garden was as large as she wanted, every whim of hers met and fulfilled by her husband. hades found a love for dark and smooth coffee, investing his time and money in a fancy espresso bar. stock, out of view as to not ruin his gloomy aesthetic, was stuffy for persephone's brightly colored margaritas. they'd share these drinks as jazz blared from a record player and hades would spin his darling wife around the living room. and for those of you who found this modern house deep in the trenches of oregon, you'd see a loving husband spinning around his loving wife through a large and impressive window. and you'd believe in love again.

hermes found a comfort in the busy streets of philadelphia. he became a huge sneakerhead, naturally, though he had a bad habit of running holes right through the soles of very valuable and sought shoes. he figured they were meant to be worn though, not hidden inside some glass box. he helped a local post office, helping elderly lady's send packages to their distant children and helping teens write love letters to crushes. he once helped a man with his voicemail, the two writing jokes for hours until they found the perfect one. hermes ran every morning, watching the sun raise on a city that he loved before stopping and finding a park bench. there he'd sit, a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies that always reminded him of the boy he failed and a philly cheesesteak from the shop that would have close down without his business. and on the days in which he missed anyone, he'd leave a voicemail, in hopes they'd just call him back.

athena never stood stagnant again. she bounced all over, never really finding a home to call her own. but she was happy this way, seeing a library in every state or country. finding books in languages she couldn't read but buying them anyways, knowing one day should would be able to read it. she went on loads of museum tours, correcting the poor guides at every opportunity. and while waiting for the next flight or train, she'd talk to strangers. men, women, old, or young, it didn't matter to her. she just wanted to know everything these people were willing to share with her. amir, a suave college boy from utah with a love for beanies, taught athena how to play cat's cradle. adelaide an elderly southern bell from georgia taught athena why she should never pair black and navy blue together. sweet little chloé, a seven year old girl from michigan dressed like a superhero, taught athena how to play pattycake. and she never forget anything these people taught her, the knowledge they shared something she held tight to her chest, it only oozing out when she was questioned by others who simply wanted to learn.

ares got a big house smack-dab in the middle of texas. he liked the biting heat and the numbing cold. he liked the seemingly endless roads that he could ride his bike on, never really knowing when it ended. he liked his guns and he liked picking fights over politics. but his favorite, by far, was the barbeque he could find on every corner. he liked starting bar fights but leaving before he could get caught in them, his bike reeving over the sound of glass smashing against someone's head. but he also liked tending to his neighbor's farm. he liked branding the cows and horses, burning permeant claims on them, the custody of it all. he liked yelling at the sheep to herd them, not even needing to cup his lips to get the desired decimals. he grew fond of the manual labor and the farmers tan. he whole dirty and bloody exchange of caring for a farm, raising pigs and cows for slaughter, riding and training horses that once started out bucking at anything that moved, even the lazy shepherd dog wormed it's way into what could be considered the closest thing ares had to a heart.

hephaestus and aphrodite moved into a house just outside of miami, florida. aphrodite wanted to be close to the buzz of people and hephaestus liked the work ethic of people down there. plus, he wanted his wife to be happy. they compromised, close enough to miami for a weekend trip but far enough away to allow them to relax. he opened up a shop of his own, his fingers itching to work, and she was more than happy to accompany him in this business endeavor. while hephaestus chatted up men about their cars, aphrodite would drag their lovers away into her office and gossip over glistening pink teas and scones. she'd been more than happy to help with paper work, filing their taxes in a glittery pink gel pen and signing away on checks with a metallic purple one. she'd always packed lunches for the two, sweet love letters written on pink post it notes shoved on top, the first thing he'd see. and he made sure the house was exactly what she wanted. if she off handedly mentioned she didn't like the color of the bathroom anymore, he'd be changing it within seconds. even if he just painted it the day before, he didn't care. his favorite passion projects were whatever her whims requested of him, each one he devoted himself to fully, even if he did have to change it in a week because sage green is apparently out now.

demeter got a condo in boston. she paid extra for a balcony, which she could barely walk out onto anymore as the plants she had were overflowing the place. she could see the boston commons from her condo, where she'd always pull a chair out onto the compact balcony with her iced tea and people watch. she chatted with people who passed under her balcony, waving warming as they raced off to their jobs or their classes. sometimes, when they had no where to be and nothing but time on their hands, she'd buzz them up. by the time they reached her door, there was already another chair set up and a steaming cup of tea just waiting for them. and she'd share stories, personal anecdotes hidden behind plant puns and her siblings names switched out for foliage. zeus turned into aster, poseidon to cypress, and hades to elm. she talked fondly of her family, secrets hidden behind the lip of her mug. and then she was waving the no longer strangers out of her door, leaning over her balcony as they left, beaming a smile and waving her hand like a flower bursting out of the snow at the end of winter.

apollo moved far out to san diego. he found comfort in one night stands, something about warm skin pressed against warm skin. he tested and trailed but never settled. walk of shames didn't exist to him, those were just a regular walk. and he was having fun, which is all he cared about. he'd return to his apartment, which was cloaked in sunlight and cozy vibes. he'd pet the tabby cat that moved in without his permission and serve himself a breakfast of avocado toast, thinking of the boy he'd met at the cafe a few weeks ago. and while he poured his steaming coffee, he thought of the girl he bought groceries for after her card declined and they way she hugged him so tightly and warmly, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. and as he curled up on his couch to eat, he called his twin sister, just to tell her he loved her and nothing more. she didn't pick up, surely asleep even though it was 9 in the morning, but she'd always been a night owl. without leaving a voicemail, apollo abandoned his meal and his cat, swiping up his keys and desperately running out of his house, determined to make it to his sisters place before she awoke. he just wanted to beam a smile at her and give her a warm hug and be spontaneously him.

artemis lived in colorado...sometimes. she moved around a lot, too. often she could be found slumming it at her brother's apartment, as he wasn't there very much in the night time. she'd found a deep comfort in speakeasies and dive bars, nothing filling her quite as much as an overpriced and crappy burger. the woods were another source of comfort and there she found a love for snowboarding. the racing down the snowy peaks and blurring of the deep green trees giving her a rush that only life-risking sports could do. she liked the clink and clank of her silver rings against each other, each finger have at least one, but probably more than one, except for her ring finger. that one she proudly left bare, not in wait, but simply because she was above that. she'd tried it, the kissing and the sharing of skin, and decided it just wasn't for her. her twin brother would always joke that now there was more for him and they'd laugh, finding it amusing in the way only siblings can.

god, doesn't just stun you how lucky we are to live a life?

#postcards from covey ౨ৎ #all my love ౨ৎ #pjo fandom #hoo #let me romanticize the greek gods please and thank you #greek gods #ancient greek #greek mythology

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h0unds-of-h3ll · 6 months

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Season of the witch

Elvis Presley. One of the biggest and most handsome musicians comes through your sleepy little town you couldn’t help yourself from giving him your potent honey pie. Little does he know it’s laced with your love sex pollen.

50s Elvis Presley x Witch! Reader.

Word count: 9k.

Warnings: Elvis becomes obsessed. To the point where he’s a munch. Sex pollen. Witchcraft, little talk of religion. Manipulation. Dubious consent. Talk of being eaten out, teeth. Heavy emphasis on breeding. Little coercion. Making out. Stalking. Slight noncon. You literally put him under a spell so he’ll be your pet. Titty sucking. Period sex. He has mommy issues and calls you mama a lot. Talk of drugs.

A/n: The only reason why I wrote this is because it’s inspired by one of my favorite movies The Love Witch, the scene where she poisons Wayne and he becomes so madly in love with her. Wanted to write this for Halloween too. So have a very devilish night imagining yourself as a witch in the 50s and having a 22yr old Elvis being bedeviled by you.

It was cold, very cold for a Halloween night in the Deep South. It had just rained and poured the night prior. The streets flooded with water, and puddles grew. The gold and brown dead leaves fell into the wakeless puddles. The sky overhead was dark with storm clouds; it was barely 5 o'clock, and it looked like midnight. It was so depressing, just as you liked it in your little town.

You made a honey pie for him. For Elvis Presley. You’re not sure how the governor arranged for him to perform at the little banquet. Your town needed the money and the praise. The once-booming oil town has now dwindled into a pass-through town to get to the interstate. Nothing was there; a couple of restaurants and a grocery store were it. A few antique mom-and-pop stores—nothing to stop at. The town's population barely broke two hundred this year. Full of old Bible-thumping seniors. The governor presumed if he got Elvis to perform then newcomers would realize how interesting the town is and would get people to move. Balance the old with the young.

Children were a phenomenon; the only time you saw kids was when it was their grandparent's turn to babysit. The youngest people who lived there were you and your friend Eileen, who was a few years older than you. She was actually the one who introduced you to your way of living. The art of witchcraft. She taught you mostly everything she knew, specializing in love. The most dangerous part of crafting. She even taught you how to make the love potion in the pie. The pie that he’ll eat.

Eileen said that she’ll meet with you at the hall. A stuffy run-down chapel that no one used, that was built in the 20s. It was a bit ironic that the governor chose Elvis, he wasn’t known for his godly beliefs but for his rather devilish dances. The governor came to realize the only way he could change the town was to shift the focus of religion, so people would feel comfortable living here.

Eileen had introduced you to a cult a few towns over that allowed you to express yourself better. To allow your blessings to become stronger. The cold nips at your legs and the pad between your thighs make your skin even more sensitive. Your black stockings didn’t allow any warmth. The dark wool coat with fur-lined on the inside was your only heat source. Your black jean dress had a white long sleeve under it to give you a little bit more heat too. The wool socks under your boots helped a bit too. Your cheeks and nose are painted a dusty pink.

The pie was in a plastic round Tupperware bowl. Surely he'd only need one bite for it to hit, you made absolutely no mistake in making the pie potent. Not wanting for your only chance of him falling in love with you go to waste. Oct 31st, 1957 you were going to make Elvis Presley fall madly in love with you.

The chapel breathed with people. The seniors in town didn't bother coming. They were actually repulsed by the notion of Elvis coming here. However, the hundred or so people who did were in a two-hundred-mile radius. You're not sure how they knew he was coming but they were here. You shuffled past all the different giddy girls, trying to find Eileen. She'd most likely be in the back eating the crackers that they stored for commission.

From the amount of people who came it looked like the second coming of Christ. The governor decided to make a row of food outside for the people who couldn't get in. Handing out plates full of homemade meals. You knew that you had to hide the pie in the back closet. How you were going to make Elvis eat it would be the most important question. Maybe since you and Eileen were huddled in the back he’d walk past and you’d be able to convince him. That was a big maybe.

Your attention went back to the governor who looked at you. The governor was an older man, named Henry. Late in his 40s with dark black hair now turned gray. He was tall and wasn't ugly in the slightest. His family was politicians, founded the town even though it was his right to become governor when his legacy was passed down. His lineage extends to the church along with the police. His Father was the priest of the chapel until he died a few years ago. The only reason why you knew this was because you had a fling with him. He was cute and the town was little so why wouldn’t you? It was only until you realized that the love pollen only amplified their deepest subconscious was what warded you off of him. He was nothing but the son of Satan himself. Coming home and finding him doped up to the point where he’s incapable of thinking because the only thing he could think about was you. Thankfully, Eileen helped you reverse the spell but something still in him yearns to be with you. You learned from your mistake and made the pie far less potent.

As you stood in the long line you listened to women chatter amongst themselves about Elvis and where he was. Holding onto your plastic bowl you moved in with the crowd, slowly but surely. The table the governor was sitting at was right by the chapel's door. He smiled as he handed over another full plate.

“Thanks for comin’.”

Finally making it to the door he holds his hands out expecting you to give your pie to him with a smile. His dark blue eyes are holding you frozen. You see his smile falter when he realizes it’s you. His face drains.

“I never knew you liked Elvis.”

He crosses his arms, giving you a shocked face. You shrug your shoulders.

“You never asked, Henry.”

He nodded, his eyes falling to his feet thinking for a second before he looked back up. Excitement etched into his face.

“Say, why don’t I take you out tonight. We can go back to my house, get fat off some candy, and watch old cartoons after the show?”

You give him a sheepish smile, patting him softly on the shoulder. His eyes light up at you touching him. You almost feel bad for letting him down.

“How about a different night?”

His face falls and he nods.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He sniffles as tears well up in his eyes.

“Jus’ miss you is all.”

You blink a few times, trying to regain your mind. You hear women gossiping about you behind you.

“I know, I’ll see you around though.”

He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands, his eyes lingering on you far longer than they should’ve.

The church pews were gone so the floor was open. There were people stuffed into corners and billowed out the doors in lines. As you made your way in you were hit with overwhelming heat from all of the energies combining together. Your wool jacket almost made you sweat.

You weaved your way through the back, getting glares shot at you. Rubbing arms with others as you went behind the curtains down the hall to the familiar door where you and Eileen hid during Sunday mass for free food. Relieved to find that no one was in the back it made it easy. Everyone was too focused on the front. You positioned the plastic bowl on your hip and knocked three times.

You stood there looking back and forth to make sure that your coast was clear and it was. Your stomach aches with a tight squeeze. Menstrual cramps settling in. You wonder for a moment if Elvis would still fuck you if you bled. The thought made you nervous, and the fur of your jacket dampened. Goddammit, Eileen, where were you?

You raise your fist to knock again before you hear a muffled voice.

“Password?”

You roll your eyes popping your hip out that has the tub on it.

“Eileen I don’t have time for this.”

Pleading doesn’t help.

“Whose Eileen? Only a witch burns here.”

After thinking carefully about what the password could be, it finally dawns on you. Witch. Eileen and her play on words are going to be the death of you. She was a highly intelligent individual, which was one of the reasons that drew you to her.

“Salem, final answer.”

Groaning the answer, she smirked behind the door.

“What year?”

Pushing your sweaty forehead against the wooden door, you shut your eyes tight. A sinner sweating in church—how comical.

“1692 through 3, let me in. I don't have time for this; he can be here any minute!”

You take your head off the door once you feel the momentum shift, and it reveals Eileen. A petite, long-haired woman whose face was practically bone, with striking green eyes, beams at you. Mouth stuffed with cheap saltine crackers—you don’t know how she enjoys those things.

“You know there’s a feast outside.”

Remarking on how strange it was that she’d rather eat cheap crackers than a home-cooked meal. She chews slowly, the tub of crackers in one hand as you walk into the small closet. Kicking the door behind you closed with the heel of your boot. A light bulb dangles in the middle, illuminating the room. Bibles and crosses line the shelves. Your skin erupts with goose flesh. The smaller woman shrugs.

“Half of the stuff out there will poison me, I know those old bats target us.”

She smiles softly, her voice muffled as she finally swallows.

“Like you with your own poison.”

She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles as you grow flustered.

“Be more quiet, Eileen! It’s like you want us to get caught!”

Scoffing, you turn around, reaching high up, and place the tub on one of the shelves next to a bible. You discard your coat over the top of the plastic. Turning back around, you watch her stuff more crackers into her mouth. Half the tub is gone.

“Do you think it will actually work this time? I mean, not like what happened with Henry; he’s a wreck out there.”

Sighing at the end of your sentence. You wanted Elvis to be in love with you; sure, so did every woman and girl in the world, but you didn’t want him to be devastatingly obsessed with you. Eileen shakes her head. For the first time in minutes, she puts the jar on one of the shelves and swallows thickly.

“Honey I watched you practice; I even asked the superiors what they thought, and they even encouraged your attempt. Yes, y/n I think you’ll be fine.”

“Promise?”

She sticks out her pinky, and you wrap yours around it. There’s a screech of feedback into a microphone and a roll of thunder as it begins to pour rain.

“As you may know, my name is Elvis Presley.”

Big, heavy policemen were situated in the front and center of the stage, holding women who threw themselves at Elvis, back into the crowd. He was only a couple of feet above the regular ground. A few managed to slip through and got to Elvis. He’d laugh and shake it off, singing the rest of Hound Dog. As the men got distracted, you and Eileen held hands and tucked yourselves by the front left of the stage. Some girls shot you dirty looks, but it wasn’t anything you hadn’t already seen before. The people in the room were stuffed so tight that you couldn’t stand still without touching elbows with someone.

He shifted his hips back and forth, his black trousers hanging loosely on his skinny hips. His orange shirt clung to his sweaty skin, and the dark brown wool jacket did him no favors. His black hair was slicked back so much that you could see the globs of gel. He’s struggling with the cord of the microphone, moving around so much that it keeps getting tangled. Throwing his head back and standing on his tiptoes, he takes off his jacket, and the girls scream at the action. One of them manages to grab the sleeve and drag it off the stage, and a couple of them fight over it. He restrains himself from laughing hysterically. His leg starts jumping. His eyes run over the vast group, and they fall on you. Eileen squeezes your hand, smiling at you. His eyes linger on you as he sings, then he looks away, breaking your spell, and walks to the other side of the stage. It wasn’t more than a second but it felt like hours.

Thunder booms throughout the sky, and the lightning makes the artwork on the windows glimmer. The storm outside grows. The song finally ends and he’s a huffing mess. He sips on the glass of water by the rest of his band. He sets the glass back down on a stool and stands in the middle again in front of the microphone.

“Never been much of a Halloween guy, but y’all are makin’ me change my mind.”

He swallows, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. His voice is quieter with the crowd roaring.

“What am I goin' to do with all you women?”

He licks his lips, his fat bottom lip tucked between his front teeth as he revels in the roar.

“Huh?”

Egging them on, you just watch amazed- speechless at how he has a hundred people at his will. Similar to how Jesus willed people together.

He cups the microphone in his big hand and drags the stand with him as he walks to the side of the stage, farthest away from you. The girls claw at him over the policeman's shoulders. He crouches down on his knees.

“Shouldn't ask this in a holy house, but I'm sure God will forgive me for it,”

“What d’ya want me to do to you after the show?”

He pushes the mic over to a young girl no older than sixteen in a white dress. She's a mess.

“I-i can't say that!”

She shrieks and it makes him smile, shaking his head. He stands and takes away the mic.

“Y’all got some dirty minds.”

He walks to the middle of the stage leaning over to a girl whose face is red and she's hyperventilating. Her big eyes almost came out of her head as she stared at Elvis. She almost weeps as he asks her the same question. She's paralyzed and can't speak.

“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

He smiles wide, amused by his joke.

“Or do I?”

You watch as she turns white as a ghost, her body falls lump and the girls behind her hold her up. She fainted from just talking to him. It's a hassle for everyone to part and an officer to lift her up and escort her out. Elvis shakes his head again before moving over to the side you were on. You stare at his creased leather shoes. They're polished but the creases make white lines across them. The laces aren't matched on both of them either.

“Gon’ do one more ‘fore I gotta start doin’ my job again.”

A few boos were shouted. The others screamed suggestions for him to play. He smiles before crouching to you. A cop in front is sandwiched between you two. You can see the sweat beaded on his forehead and trickle down the base of his throat. The lightning struck and a few girls jumped but you were too enchanted with his eyes. A shade of blue you’ve never seen before. It’s a staring contest between you both. Testing to see whose will is strongest. His eyes held the fire burning in your stomach. He made the fever boil your skin. He made you undeniably horny. The longer you stare the more time you commit his gaze to memory. His plush lips part and he asks the question.

The room is hot as hell itself. You can’t hear from the storm and the women, but the metal mic is placed in front of you. His hand is mere inches from your face, he has a couple gold rings on his fingers. You want to taste the sweat. Suck on those long digits until the diamonds weigh heavy on your tongue. Without hesitation, you speak into the microphone proudly. Staring him straight in his eyes.

“I want you to fuck me after the show.”

The room goes quiet. The heavy pattering of rain is the only thing heard. Gasps spread throughout the small chapel. A few applauded your bravery for saying what they wanted to say but couldn’t. His dark blue eyes with dark lashes go wide. Blinking profusely at what your voice told him. You just a little nungen wanted to fuck him. Shocked to find that a little girl had thoughts of a grown woman. His mouth is parted as he breathes heavily, removing the microphone from you back to the front of the stage. He just stares at you enamored. For the first time in years since he started performing he’s speechless. That bold dominant act of a man is gone and replaced by a blushing boy.

He regains himself with his deep chuckle, which brings your thighs to dampen with slickness. You shift your thighs together to satiate the pulse of your throbbing clit. Eileen beams up at you like a child given a bag of candy. She doesn't need to say that you did it and that your plan is working, you know it.

He leans between the cop, close to your face to where you can smell his breath. Peppermint and cola.

“Meet me in the back, and I’ll make it happen.”

He finishes the show as a heaping puddle in the middle of the stage. The last song was Crying in the Chapel which you deemed the utmost respect. The cops start to push people out of the chapel, and the doors opening makes the sound of rain louder along with the raging whip of the wind. Most people dashed out to their cars, and others had to wait beside a designated corner to be picked up. Eileen squeezes your hand once more. Leaning her lips to your ear she whispers.

“Make sure he eats at least a crumb.”

She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before she leaves. The curtains had closed around the stage so you couldn’t see Elvis but you knew the only way out was the side of the stage where you stood. A few lingered and watched as he left, giving a sheepish wave. You absentmindedly tried to walk straight past the cops but their arms struck out and hit you in your stomach pulling you back. Confusion writes across your face.

“I need to go back there.”

The cop smiles and laughs.

“Yeah, you and every girl in here.”

You shake your head.

“You don’t get it Elvis gave me permission to meet him back there.”

He gives you an incredulous look not believing you. You rub your temples and sigh, becoming frustrated before you have to pull out the card you dreaded most.

“Listen, I know the governor and he trusts me enough to be back there. I have my jacket and a pie I made for the banquet in the storage closet. I just need to go back there and get it, that's all. I’ll come right back and it won’t be more than a minute.”

It’s quiet and you’re not sure if your half-true story would work. You’re more worried that he’s left already and thinking that you stood him up. Finally, the cop shrugs and shifts horizontally to allow you to pass as you do you smile. He grabs your arm before you can get too far.

“No more than three minutes.”

“Yessir.”

He lets go and you continue to walk to the door that Elvis had walked behind. You’re not sure where you’ll find him. There are only three different rooms in the little hallway, one of them is a unisex bathroom, the other is the pastor's office and the other is the storage room. Some of Elvis’s band walks past you talking about what they're going to do after the show. They don’t even care that you’re around them as they shuffle out the back door at the end of the hall. You go to the closet and open the door not expecting to find the man of the hour there. Your stomach drops and your body burns with goosebumps. Cheeks heating up flustered.

Absolutely floored. He’s eating the pie. The lid is discarded by your jacket. He’s sitting on the edge of a square table, Eileen’s cracker tub empty by him. He takes his thick index with a chunky golden ring and swipes it through the last syrup and crumb of the pie. His legs are spread out wide, and the black slacks cover his wide thighs. He sticks the pad of his finger between his plump lips and his cheeks hollow out. He places the tub by the crackers and leans his head back. He closed his eyes and groaned deep in his throat.

You can’t even begin to fathom what’s happening. You don’t know why he would choose your food in the back. How he chose the closet rather than the pastor's office. Why did he eat the pie when there’s a feast outside but then the realization hits. None of the visitors brought food and only the residents brought some so the visitors ate all the food outside waiting so he had none. From the mere viewing of watching him eat, he was ravenous. Dread fills you as you realize he’s eaten the entire goddamn thing. Realizing someone was in the room with him he stared at you, his eyes half closed as his gaze ran over you. He licks his lips and wipers his hand on the top of his trousers. He leans back, putting his hands behind him.

“Did you make this?”

His voice is hoarse and a deep gravel within his chest. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Could he tell that you were that inconspicuous? That he could taste the pollen? No. He couldn’t, could he? You nod, incapable of speaking. Your throat is dry from anxiety.

“It’s really good. Should be a baker or somethin’”

He breathes heavily, his cheeks and neck a bit pink. His face is still glossed with sweat.

“I wanna know what you cooked in it. Jus’ something I ain’t ever tasted before.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. You’ve stood in the same spot in front of the closed door.

“It’s a secret. An old recipe that uses natural oils.”

You hoped and prayed that your answer wasn’t as suspicious as it seems. He nods his head before standing.

“‘M sorry for eatin’ all of it. Didn’ mean to, I just burn through so much energy out there. Can’t help myself.”

You smile shakily.

“Oh.”

He scratches the back of his neck, grinning. His face is becoming more red with the blush creeping up his neck. He stands in the middle of the room only a few feet away.

“Which led me to eatin’ your pie. Hope you’re not angry or nothin’”

You shake your head, wringing your hands anxiously. You can’t look at him so you look at his shoes. His smell has taken over the room. Your hormones being amplified because of your period makes his scent intoxicating. From the way he’s acting it seems like how you smell is making him antsy too. He’s tapping his foot.

“Made it for you.”

As soon as you mutter the end of your sentence he walks to you. He reaches out and takes one of your hands and it makes your heart stop. You look up at him with wide eyes. The height difference makes him overlook you, he cranes his head down peering at you. Your knees go weak looking in his eyes. He smiles wide, pearly teeth and squeezes your hand. Your back is up against the wooden door as he holds you against it with his waist. His torso pressed firmly against yours. You can feel him. Feel how solid his cock is.

“You did? I appreciate that honey.”

You wish he would kiss you, touch you more but he doesn’t. He just holds your hand, his grip makes the metal of his rings pinch your hand. You watch his mood shift in his eyes to a much darker tone. You can see the sweat bead and fall down his sculpted face. Feel the heat radiate off of his vast body.

“Pretty little thing.”

His voice has dropped an octave lower and it’s nothing more than a mumble but you hear it. Before he leans in there’s a banging by your head. It slams three times over.

“Ready to go!”

His touch leaves and your heart aches. A sheen of sadness wedges it into his eyes. He realizes that this might be the last time he sees you before he leaves for Memphis.

“Gimme your address.”

He pushes out hurriedly. It’s not a question, it's a demand. You start stuttering an unfamiliar speech impediment summoning.

“I-I don’t have anything to write on or with.”

He nods solemnly but he doesn’t take no as an answer. He removes himself from you entirely and scavenges throughout the small room. He finally grabs one of the Bibles and a pen tucked inside the book. He hands both of them to you and you take them. As you open the front page you write your address and name on the front cover. It’s strange since it’s like giving him your autograph. As you write your address he’s hovering over you watching you etch your way into his heart. The man on the other side pounds on the door once more.

“There’s a cop out here asking ‘bout some girl. You gotta open up!”

Elvis’s hand softly graces your shoulder, urging you to finish.

“Just give me a damn second!”

He bites back through gritted teeth. You jump at his sudden outburst. Finishing suddenly with a period. He smiles hugely seeing you done. He kisses your cheek and you’re stunned at the softness of his lips against your skin. You give him the book and turn around to watch him leave. As he touches the door handle he pivots.

“I want to know your name.”

You’re taken aback not understanding why, but you say it nonetheless. He nods his head, saying it to himself, committing it to memory.

“I like that name, it suits you.”

Warmth spreads over you at his compliment. You stare at his broad back as he opens the door and leaves. You listen to the rain, as the familiar cop is stunned to see Elvis so close. Before he walks into the small room watching you melt.

“I told you three minutes.”

“I know, he just took longer than I expected.”

Sitting quietly in the back of one of the officers' cars. After the rendezvous with Elvis, you watched as the cops took people who lived in town back home. Serving as a transportation hub. You waited for your turn. The cop didn’t say a lot during the ride, only a few questions about where you lived and about Elvis. You shivered every time you talked about the musician. Not only was it freezing in the car, but your furry coat couldn’t keep up. But you were riddled with the fact that he had eaten the entire pie. You traced your fingers over the plastic tub in your lap. Not only did he do that, he has your address. Will he visit you tonight? Will he visit you at all?

It’s dark outside as you pass through streetlights. Your stomach twists and fills with butterflies as you think about him being in your home. Something that you imagined for so long is now coming true.

“Is this it up here?”

The cop asks and you nod, he parks and watches you walk up the sidewalk and into your house before he leaves.

The rain manages to soak you for the few minutes you walk in it. Your house is grim when you enter. Dark and cold. You take off your jacket and place it and the tub on the island in the kitchen. Opening the drawer below the sink you take a box of matches and light the candles you had scattered around the house. The soft glow allowed warmth to spread. The smell of pumpkins started to flourish throughout your home.

Turning on your little box television to a random black and white cartoon. The last thing you decided to do to get settled in was to play a record. Your collection has grown over the past few years. You had more Elvis albums than any other musicians. Making a vital point to buy one whenever a movie of his would come out or a listening party would be announced. Making Eileen drive you to the nearest record store since the one in town wouldn’t have it until a week later. You’ve arranged his albums to be the ones in the front. Knowing that you were more likely to play those than any other. The record player itself sat between the columns. You touched the covers as you shuffled through. Deciding to put loving you on since it was fairly new.

You start to sway your hips to the first song that plays. Slipping off your boots and socks you walk to the back of the house where your bedroom was. You unbuttoned the oval buttons on your dress and folded it onto your dresser. Left in the long sleeve and little cotton panties. You opened the drawers, mumbling the words to yourself as you listened to Elvis’s singing. You grabbed a new pair of panties and a nightgown. Shedding the rest of your clothes you take the new ones with you into your small bathroom and draw a bath.

The hot water fills the tub and the room becomes a sauna, you place the clothes on your sink and grab the towel from the cupboard. You stare at your naked body in the mirror. Your body is already damp from the rainwater and the condensation that fills the air. Your nipples are already hard from thinking about him. God did the pollen work on you instead of him? You run your hands over your sides, up from your hips to the swell of your breasts. Imagining his hands instead. His song plays as you sway to his voice. Talk to me like that. Sing to me. Tell me you love me. It thunders outside and lightning flashes through the window above your bathtub.

You sigh, skin flushed from the heat. You step your foot into the hot water and turn off the faucet. Slipping deeper into the water. Completely relaxing into the oasis. You wonder what his lips will feel like on your own. What his mouth will feel like between your legs. Would he care about the taste of blood on his tongue? You close your eyes and dream. Surely you won’t have to dream any longer. You reach up, and the droplets of water run down your chest. Taking a tiny jar of essential oils you let it drip onto your neck and spread down. Cleansing and releasing your energy. You put the jar back where you got it from and lounged in the alluring water.

What if it didn't work? You ask yourself as insecurity wedges itself into your thoughts. He seemed awfully engaged in you at the chapel, but what if that's as far as it'll go? Your heart aches at the thought you did all of it for nothing. Maybe you should've learned from what happened to Henry and cut your ties. You don't hear the knock on your door, because the record is too loud. You think about how fitting it is that lonesome cowboy plays.

You hear the incessant pounding on your door like one of those cheesy horror movies where the victim runs to the house to escape the villain. You thought it would go away but it doesn't, it just gets louder. You groan, opening your eyes to stare at the white tiled wall.

“Just a second!”

You yell out and you blush as you remember him yelling that out earlier just to have a little more time with you. There's a dreadful ache between your legs as you dry off with the towel. You need something to fill the emptiness, that void that's growing oh so apparent. You need him.

You don’t drain the tub, as you put on your panties. Not caring if you bleed into them, Eileen knows a remedy to get the stains out anyway. The nightgown is dark red with the lace around your tits and thighs black. You smile as you remind yourself of a skimpier Betty Boop. You can't answer the door looking so promiscuous so you throw the fluffy bathrobe over it. The banging on your door grows, along with Elvis's slow love ballads.

Opening the door you're instantly hit with a massive gust of wind and emotions. It's him. He looks like a kicked puppy. He's sopping wet with water. His orange shirt is now a dark brown. His hair is messy and scattered along his face. His once dark blue eyes are now pale gray. He's heaving for air. As you stare longer you realize he didn't drive a car. He ran here with the Bible you wrote in his hand.

“Elvis! I-what're you doing here? Why are you in the rain?”

Your brain runs too fast for you to comprehend his presence. The faint glow of your candles from inside is the only light shining onto his face.

“Had to see you. Ever since the show, I can't stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I've never felt like this before.”

His voice is sheepish like he’s afraid to admit what he just said. As he looks at you he’s almost brought to tears by how pretty you look. If you don’t let him in he’ll sit right down on your porch in front of your door and wait until you do.

“I mean come in, you’re going to catch a cold standing out there!”

You grab onto his forearm and pull him in, opening the door wider for him. He winced at your touch. It’s too much for him, he’s too sensitive. You shut the door behind him and he stands in front of it like a statue. He sets the Bible down on top of one of his records, he smiles. He stares down at the floor, he can’t look at you. You wring your hands nervously. He’s not the same man you saw at the chapel, he’s softer, fragile.

“Let me get you some clothes, and warm up the bath. I’ll be right back hon don’t go anywhere.”

You turn to leave and he catches your hand. His eyes are glassy and his lips pout. His hand is strikingly cold, and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“Can I go with you? I don't want to be alone again.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, contemplating how you are going to fix him. God the pie worked. It worked too well. You nodded your head. You were going to have to call Eileen for her help, you can't have a human puppy always following you, especially since it was Elvis.

“Why don't we start by taking off your shoes and socks, yeah? Don't want you to leave a trail behind you.”

He nods, he's already made a puddle by your door from just standing there.

“Yes, mama.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. For some reason, your body burns alight at the name. He’s bent down and untying his shoes.

“What did you call me?”

You ask softly, not believing your ears.

“Mama, I hope that’s fine I just I lov-,”

He stops himself and chews on his bottom lip cursing himself for slipping up.

“I just like ya so much that I wanna call you mama..you make me feel so different, so-so special like my own mama does and I just- I can’t help calling you it.”

He’s rambling now, trying to justify the newfound feelings he’s having. Feelings that are too big for him to have. Too potent and unfamiliar. He’s had girlfriends that he’s loved, sure, but never so much so as he does about you right now.

He finally slips off his shoes and socks and stands upright. He trails behind you as you walk back into your room. He’s mesmerized by all your decor and art. The makeup scattered on your vanity. The frame of your bed. Your clothes. The smell of your perfume. Everything you like, he loves. He keeps asking you questions about your interests and the various cult things you have strewn about. You answer every question given honestly. It’s the least you can do. You didn’t realize how difficult it was to find clothes in your own wardrobe to fit him. The record finally stops and scratches on repeat.

You hand him a baggy white shirt and some checkered boxers he can change into. You show him the bathroom, and as you enter he’s only seconds away from following. You sit on the edge of the tub, sticking your hand into the water to see if it’s cool enough. You turn on the faucet to warm it. As you wait, he sits on the toilet by you. He stretches his long legs out as he watches you. He takes off his rings and places them on the sink with the clothes you gave him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as pretty as you.”

He mumbles and it makes you blush. He thinks you’re pretty. Not only that but he thinks you’re incomparable.

“You don’t mean that.”

You shake your head, as you reply he finishes taking off his rings, and one of his hands cups your jaw. Making you look him dead in his uncanny eyes.

“What’s there not to like mama? I like everything ‘bout you and I don’t like it when you don’t see what I see,”

He runs his thumb over your chin.

“It ain’t right thinkin’ that you ain’t pretty.”

You nod. He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I’m pretty.”

He smiles, but it’s cold. There’s no mirth behind it. The water is finally hot enough for him to get in.

“It’s ready.”

He nods and removes his touch from you. You go to stand and he holds onto your hand. Giving you puppy eyes.

“Don’t want you to leave.”

You didn’t feel right leaving him, but you also desperately needed to call Eileen and ask her how to make him human again. You chew on your bottom lip, wondering what the right thing is. Finally, you smile at him.

“I’ll be right outside by the door. I just have to call a friend and ask her when the storm should pass.”

His eyes linger on you and he finally lets go.

“Alright, don’t go too far mama I’ll miss you.”

You give him a soft smile and walk outside the door, closing it behind you. Walking back to the front of the house you stopped the record from scratching again. Putting the plastic back into its sleeve and by the Bible.

The old rotary phone stuck to the wall is right next to the door and the player. You hear him take off his clothes, the wet smack of them hitting the floor makes your thighs burn. You dial Eileen’s number, cradling the phone to your face. She needs to pick up, if she doesn’t you’re not sure what you’ll do. The line is dead until she finally picks up.

“You’re going to have to hurry, I'm with Jim.”

Eileen says hurriedly. Jim was her latest fling and the superior in the cult. You sigh in relief at her static voice. You curl the cord around your finger as you think.

“Elvis is here. In my house.”

“That’s good!”

Eileen says ecstatically.

“No, not good. It’s Henry level bad again.”

“Oh.”

She whispers into the phone, her mood instantly changing.

“How much did he eat?”

You rub your temples as the memory of him in the chapel comes back.

“The whole thing.”

She whistles low. Your anxiety grows as the morbid thoughts come into play.

“Well, you’re not going to like how to reverse it.”

You’re happy to know that you can even reverse it.

“Really, how?”

“Mama..”

Elvis whines loudly. It’s a high-pitched whine. You listen and hear the water splashing around.

“Jim told me how to reverse it, and Elvis is going to need to taste your blood.”

“My blood!”

You shriek at the incredulity of this all.

“How am I supposed to get him to taste my blood?!”

Eileen is quiet on the other side of the phone for a few seconds.

“Are you on your period?”

You're taken aback as to why the question matters. And then it hits you. He has to eat you out. A shiver runs up your spine.

“Mama..”

Elvis whines out again.

“Yes, why?”

You can hear Eileen talk to Jim before she's rushed to hang up.

“It's going to help you out, trust me. Oh! And before I forget he's going to have to taste his semen and your blood together. It's a love spell after all and lovemaking is the best solution to get it out of him. Bye, y/n!”

The line goes dead after, and your mouth falls open in shock. Not only were you going to have to make him sleep with you, but you were going to have to make him eat you out after. You placed your head on the wall, putting the phone back into the case. Listening to the wailing man in the bathtub moan out Mama for the third time.

It was strange seeing him in normal clothes. They were all too big for him, so they hung loosely on his body. He nursed a glass of warm milk to sip on as he sat beside you and watched the old black-and-white movie play. His gold rings gleamed brighter with the candles. Your couch could only seat three people, and he chose to sit in the middle, closest to you. His arm stretched out behind you. A quilt was shared between you both. He smelled like you. It finally felt like things had died down and simmered. It felt like when a teen girl had a boy over at her parent's house just to watch movies. You couldn't help yourself from going over what Eileen had said. Make him fuck you and eat you out after.

You've only spoken to him briefly since he got out of the bath. He only asked for a warm glass of milk, and the rest was quiet. There's a sensual scene playing on the TV. A woman is arching her back as the man thrusts into her, it looks as if it was made in the ‘30s.

You feel the soft brush of his lips against your ear as he whispers.

“I think I could do that to you better than he can.”

Finally, after everything, you let go and surrender yourself to him. Not caring for the consequences, just relishing the moment. You crane your neck to the side, looking at him. His eyes are glossed over and his pale blues trail over your face. The tip of his nose is mere inches from your cheek. His middle finger swirls over the top of the glass. His lips are damp from the milk. His eyes burn into your stomach, directly into your womb.

“You think so?”

You ask and he nods, his voice dropping, and he takes a sip from his glass. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows.

“I know so.”

He leans forward, placing the glass on your coffee table, and sits back, spreading his legs out wide so his knee touches yours. When you look at him, you can’t resist; you take the blanket off of his lap and yours. You swing a leg over his lap and sit down on his broad thighs. He looks up at you as you lean down. His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs, and his rings are cold on your legs. Your robe is parting so he can see your cleavage, and his eyes flick from your tits back to your eyes. The woman moans in the program. You can feel how solid his cock is—warm, hard, and right between your weeping legs. His lips are parted, and his hot breath fans across your cheeks.

“Can I suck on them, mama?”

He whispers to you. You nod, shifting back so you’re sitting down fully, face to-face with him. Your robe and night dress are riding up your thighs. Taking the sash in your hand, you slip it through the rest of the robe. The sides fall open, you shimmy it off, and it falls onto your floor with a soft thud. Your nipples are already pebbled; the nightdress didn’t leave much to the imagination. He stares at the peaks. His hands leave your thighs, and they shake as they hover over your tits. You’d be shocked if he was a virgin from his rampant lifestyle, but now it looks like he’s never even touched a woman. He can’t touch you; he’ll burn. You perched on his lap, which is enough for the blood to rush to his lower abdomen. In all honesty, he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this hard- not since he first hit puberty.

He feels your tiny hands touch his big ones and place them on your tits. He doesn’t grope; he just holds them there. The warmth in his palms makes the buds perk up even more.

“Oh.”

He mutters. You wiggle your hips on his length, and his head hits the back of the couch. His eyes roll back. He slips the bands of your dress off, and the garment pools around your hips. The bareness of your body makes you shiver. He pauses, admiring from afar. He likes the swell, the curve, and the color. He likes all of it. All of you. He cups the sides of your chest, pushing them together and watching them fall. You’re too sensitive for his bemusement.

“Elvis, please..”

You urge him by pushing his hands firmly onto both of your tits. He nods, and a hand drops onto your lower back, leading you closer to him. Your stomach pressed against his. He takes one of your breasts, his mouth parting as he licks over your nipple. You arch your back to his face like the actress did on the screen. He takes the rest of it into his mouth. The wet softness of his tongue sends a wrath of fluttering to your cunt. Your hands squeeze his shoulders as his teeth graze the sensitive nerves. He gropes your hips with his free hand, encouraging you to grind against him. His eyes are closed, and his grip on your waist is going to leave a bruise. His rings bite into your skin. He nibbles on your nipple; it makes you jump and moan out his name, long and slow.

His hips jut up into your pussy, making you bounce when you come down. You feel dampness seep onto the lips of your cunt. He hits his head back onto the couch. He moans deep in his chest. He’s panting.

“Did you-?”

You ask quietly, not trying to upset him, and he nods.

“Yeah, I think so.”

He admits it absentmindedly. You smile softly, and before getting up, you press a quick kiss on his temple. It’s sweaty, but you can’t care. He watches you like a wolf as the dress falls off of you and down on the floor over your robe, leaving you in your little panties that have a dark patch under them. He adores how you look in the soft light of the candles and the TV static. The rain pours on. He lifts his hips up, slipping the boxers down his long legs. His cock springs up between his legs. Your expectations were exceeded. He’s uncut, thicker than you imagined, and what he lacks in length he makes up for with girth. The head is a ruddy color, and purple veins pulse along the side. It’s painful how hard he is—pins and needles shooting at his nerves. Even if he just came, he’s still rock solid. Cum is dripping out of his slit and down his length. Pooling at his balls.

Yours–his shirt, hangs over his taut stomach, touching the base. He crosses his arms and lifts the shirt over his head, leaving him bare on your couch. There’s a mountain of clothes on the floor, along with the blanket. The sight you imagined for so long made your clit throb. His legs spread out, his heavy dick in the middle of his thick thighs, and his arms spread out along the edge of the couch. His inky hair scattered messily along his face. But most of all, the way he looks at you, hungrily as a man starved.

You tuck your fingers under the band of your panties and take them off. His cock twitches at seeing you bare, he wets his lips.

“Can I make love with you mama?”

You smile sheepishly as you walk over to him. Sitting beside him, you cup his face. Scratching softly at his cheeks.

“Of course.”

You press your lips to his and it feels like fireworks burst within your soul. Getting a kiss from Elvis was a milestone in your book. His lips were soft, and his tongue tasted like milk. He was slow at first, letting you be in control, but as your tiny hands wrap around his broad shoulders and pull at the hair at the base of his neck, he loses himself. He becomes hungry, pushing his fat tongue into your mouth. He grabs onto your hips, making you lay down on the couch. Your head is by the end table. He moans into your mouth when he feels your soft thighs around his skinny waist. The groan vibrates into your chest, making you squirm. His body feels like a sauna, making you sweat. His body is sticking to yours. He leans back, his knees touching your ass. He takes his cock into his hand, jerking himself off a few times. Not that he needs to, but so he can keep whatever composure he has left.

His lips finally leave yours, letting you both regain your breath. It’s only then, as he looks at your pussy, he realizes you're bleeding. An inexplicable wave washes over him. Adrenaline and hormones beat into his heart. He needs to fuck his kid into you. Needs to breed you and fill you up. A brutal,l primal hunger grows within him.

“I don’t think I can go slow.”

He admits it to you, and you can’t even answer before his tip works its way into your tight cunt. His mouth falls open, and you squeeze his shoulders. Blood mixed with your slick starts to coat his length. He doesn’t wait for you to relax around him, he pushes his way to his base in one swift thrust. Your head hits the table.

“Fuck!”

You yell at his roughness. He grabs at your hips, pulling back out. His eyes stare at where he enters you. He’s obsessed with the way your pussy clings to him. How tight you are when he fucks into you. His balls hit your ass as he thrusts into you. He watches your tits bounce. You’re already overstimulated from being on your period but the heavy weight of his cock, pounding into your cervix makes tears well up in your eyes. Strangely enough, you feel that familiar wave in your stomach begins to build.

“Gon” make you a real mama.”

His grip on your hips tightens, his rings burying into your flesh. The lamp on the end table starts to wobble every time he snaps his hips into yours.

“Gon’ breed you ‘til you can’t even walk no more.”

As you look into his eyes, you can’t find the sweet boy that once was there. He’s possessed by an animal. Hell-bent on making you his forever. His teeth are gritted as he continues his rampage. You weekly moan with every hit of his intrusion. You can’t help how badly your body craves this. The first time all night you finally felt content. He’s fucking the bad energy out of you, and what confuses you the most is how he’s doing that when he is the bad energy. His chest is glazed with sweat; he’s dripping on you. His lip curls up, and he takes his hand from your waist and puts it on top of your clit. The weight of it was enough to send you over the edge. Your body starts to shake, and your pussy tightens around him to the point where he can’t move.

“That’s it, mama.”

He swirls his thumb lazily on your clit, watching your body wither on him. His thighs are becoming soaked with your cum. He watches you relax, your back flat on the couch. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly.

“Are you done?”

You nod weakly.

“Good.”

He takes his thumb into his mouth and sucks on the blood that coats it. His eyes roll back into his skull as he starts his rhythm again. You can’t take his beating on your cunt, you plead with him to slow down but he doesn’t, he can’t. The loud slap of his body smacking into yours fills the air. Tears fall down your face as he goes as fast as he can. Your nails cling to his back. Clawing red stripes down it. He’s bound to be hurting in the morning, along with you.

After one of your nails makes his back start to welt with blood, he lays his hips against yours and releases. His cum hits right against your cervix, and you feel pleasantly full.

His balls draw up and then relax as he lets his load go in you. His grip softens into a caress. He doesn’t let his dick slip out of you as he lays down on top of you. His weight is pressing you deeper into the couch. The rain finally slows to a soft patter. It’s finally calm, and the tears on your cheeks are dry.

He’s drifting off to sleep, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. Cradling you to his chest. You run your fingers through his damp hair, watching the rest of the movie. It’s only when he whispers, I love you into your chest by your heart, that you realize that you forgot to break the spell. All you can wonder is how long his love will last.

#xreader #fanfic #smut #elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis #elvis 2022 #elvis presley x reader smut #elvis x reader #elvis presley smut #elvis smut #50s elvis #season of the witch #halloween #happy halloweeeeeeen #halloween smut

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lilacmingi · 2 months

Text

STUPID CUPID

My works are 14+ ONLY. If you’re under 14 DO NOT interact with me or any of my works

Pairing: Cupid!Jisung x human!fem reader

Word count: 4,000

Note: Happy Valentines Day you guys! This is an idea that’s been floating around in my mind for a month or two and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to write it. It’s Jisung’s first day on the job and he accidentally shoots himself with his own arrow (silly boy!) 🏹

Valentines Day. A capitalist holiday that took advantage of people's romantic feelings for one another and profited from it. Teddy bears, heart-shaped balloons, jewelry, cards, roses, even heart-shaped pizzas. You shook your head at the thought of people going above and beyond for their significant others. While it was sweet, you often wondered why people didn't do that on any other day of the year. You shouldn't need a special holiday to do something nice for the one you love.

Valentines Day. An unnecessary day for couples to rub their relationships in everyone's faces and a complete waste of time and money. The only thing you liked about it was the chocolate. That's what led you outside on this godforsaken holiday. You may dislike Valentines Day, but there was nothing wrong with treating yourself to a little candy.

Your eyes roamed the large section of sweets, catching a glimpse of a middle-aged man with an armful of Valentines goodies hastily snag a heart-shaped box of truffles before brushing past you towards the register. You shook your head. Looks like someone forgot to get something for their sweetheart.

Your index finger hovered over a section displaying your favorite chocolate, your mouth watering at the sight. When it came to treating yourself to snacks, you hardly had boundaries, always grabbing whatever it was you wanted without giving it a second thought. Besides, you worked hard for the money you earned and you intended to spend it.

Perusing the aisle for a few more seconds, you grabbed some other favorite sweets of yours before heading to the chip aisle for a salty snack for later after you get into all the chocolate. Any time you overindulged on sweets you found yourself scouring the pantry for something salty to balance it out and vice versa. It was a never-ending cycle sometimes.

With an armful of snacks and sweets to last you two weeks, you headed to the register where a teenage boy stood, typing away on his phone. You didn't mean to be nosey, but your eyes instinctively glanced down at his phone screen only to see a plethora of hearts spammed on iMessage.

The boy was quick to lift his head, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket while sputtering apologizes.

"Sorry about that. I, uh, have a date tonight with my girlfriend."

"That's nice." You smiled, trying to be polite.

You weren't sure why he decided to say that, as you were a total stranger, but it was nothing to get upset over. He could've been caught off guard by your presence and blurted that just because he was nervous, or perhaps this relationship was fairly new and he was just excited about going on a date. Either way, you put on a friendly smile and acted as if that little tidbit of information didn't bother you.

The automatic doors to the store slid open as you walked out with a plastic bag in your hand loaded with delicious candy and junk food that you couldn't wait to get into once you arrived home.

Jisung was brimming with excitement. His first Valentines Day on the job. He had spent an entire year training for this and he couldn't contain his enthusiasm. He counted his arrows three times to make sure he had enough, and if he happened to run out, he could always conjure up more. He checked the heart-shaped watch strapped to his wrist, tapping the touch screen to make sure everything was working and in tiptop shape.

"Han Jisung."

The cupid perked up upon hearing his name, standing at attention.

"You don't have to do that." Minho informed him, his expression showing little to no emotion.

"Sorry."

Minho was one of Jisung's friends and had been working as a cupid for years. He was professional, experienced, and knew everything there was to know about being a cupid. Jisung looked up to him and always asked questions when he had them.

"You're on the clock in approximately two minutes. Are you ready?"

"I'm more than ready." Jisung responded confidently. "I'm prepared. I'm equipped. I'm all set. I'm hot to trot!"

Minho gave his friend a once-over before responding with, "O...kay."

Jisung's shoulders relaxed as he let out a deep exhale. "I'm a little nervous."

"Everyone always is on their first day. It's normal."

"What if I do something wrong?"

"You won't."

Jisung nodded, hoping Minho was right.

Minutes later, Jisung found himself perched in a tree, his legs swinging back and forth while he waited for his watch to go off.

The cupid chose to bide his time by wondering who his first client would be—that's what they refer to their targets as. After all, "clients" is a much less morbid term.

Would they be a boy? A girl? Younger? Older? Maybe someone who hasn't found love yet and is still waiting for the right person? Oh, Jisung would love to help someone, both young and old, start a new and exciting chapter in their life.

His train of thought was derailed immediately as soon as you came sauntering down the sidewalk. His eyes followed you for much longer than he intended, unable to look away. He had seen humans before but none of them were as entrancing as you.

His watch beeped, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. He tapped the small screen and an image of a young woman was displayed on it. The heart-shaped watch was technologically advanced and would pick up the presence of an approaching individual that was set to be struck with a love arrow. Each watch was programmed specifically for the cupid that wore it.

Jisung reached for his quiver strapped to his back and pulled an arrow from it, sliding it into place on his bow. Rearing back, he aimed the bow clutched in his hands, releasing a breath before subsequently releasing the arrow, watching as it hit his intended target in the back. She stopped in her tracks, jostling slightly due to an invisible force which she couldn't see.

A man was headed down the street towards the woman just a few seconds later, an image of him promptly flashing on Jisung's watch. The cupid was quick to jump into action, pulling out another arrow and sliding it into place. He aimed and waited for the man to get closer to the woman before shooting the arrow. The man jerked a bit, bumping into the woman who was unable to pay attention to her surroundings due to Jisung's previous love arrow seconds earlier. Perfect timing.

He watched from his spot in the trees as they both sputtered apologies to each other with gleaming smiles on their faces along with a shared lovestruck expression.

I did it. Jisung thought to himself proudly.

He watched as the woman said something to the man and next thing he knew, the both of them were walking off down the street together towards a coffee shop. A fond smile graced his features as he watched the couple until they entered the cafe.

Jisung then began looking around for the human girl that garnered his attention—you. When he couldn't find you, he left his post, flying above the streets while heading in the direction he saw you walking.

When he spotted you (thankfully not far away from where he last saw you) he decided to follow, wanting just one more glimpse of you since he got distracted earlier.

Jisung's bottom lip stuck out in a disappointed pout when you entered a building and he could no longer see you.

Before he could try and find out which floor you were headed to, his watch went off again, tearing his attention away from you for the second time.

The cupid glanced at his watch to see who his next client was. Loading a love arrow into his bow, he diligently aimed and released it, repeating the process when an image of his second client flashed on the screen of his watch. The two began talking which brought a smile to Jisung's face. He heard stories from other cupids about Valentines Day and how fulfilling it was to watch their clients fall in love after being struck with one of their magic arrows. He dreamed of the day he would be able to do what his seniors did and now he was. It was just as fulfilling as Jisung imagined, however, he had something else on his mind now and that was trying to locate you... again.

His eyes searched the many windows in the apartment building, hoping to see you in one of them. There were at least ten floors and twice as many windows. Jisung had no clue how he would find you.

Just when he thought all hopes were dashed, he caught a glimpse of you through one of the glass panes. You were stood inside, gazing out the window at the streets below.

He promptly flew over and made himself comfortable on the grated platform of the fire escape that was mounted to the side of your apartment building.

He was thankful humans couldn't see cupids or else you'd be really freaked out to see a stranger perched outside your window. If a cupid wanted to be seen, they would show themselves and right now, Jisung preferred to stay hidden.

Your eyes followed the figure of a delivery man walking down the street with a large bouquet of roses in his arms.

What is it like to receive flowers from someone? You wondered.

The man made his way up the steps of someone's home, knocking on the front door that was pulled opened seconds later. A woman stood in the entryway, astonishment and joy flashing across her features at the sight of the ruby-colored blossoms.

"Must be nice." You commented aloud.

Back in school, you'd see girls walking around with a heart-shaped balloon and a box of chocolates or a stuffed teddy bear and a single rose. Of course, you were never one of those girls and a small part of you always wondered what it was like to receive something like that from someone.

Oh well. You had chocolate and tons of delicious snacks, you didn't need flowers. Stepping away from the living room window, you dropped down on the couch and opened up YouTube on your TV, searching for something entertaining to watch. After settling on a new video from one of your favorite content creators, you began sifting through your bag of treats, completely unaware that someone was watching.

Jisung's wide eyes observed you in fascination as you unwrapped a piece of chocolate and popped it into your mouth, savoring the sweet taste.

He knew humans often indulged in chocolate and junk food on Valentine's Day, but that was usually for the ones that were single... which meant you were alone. On second thought, maybe alone wasn't the right word, as you seemed rather content to be by yourself.

The cupid's watch went off again, startling him from his daze and simultaneously catching him off guard. He scrambled to grab an arrow, fumbling to load it into his bow. He spared a hasty glance at the image on his watch before launching the arrow, except it didn't soar through the air towards his target. Instead, it went directly into Jisung's chest. He had loaded the arrow backwards.

"Ah!" He yelped, snapping his head towards your window, momentarily worried you had heard him. However, he was quick to remember that he was invisible.

With one concern out of the way, he pulled the arrow from his chest cavity and retrieved a new one from his quiver, hastily loading it before aiming at his client. He nearly missed but managed to get a hit. Not a second later, his watch went off again. This time, he was paying attention and was able to execute his actions with no hiccups.

He breathed out a sigh of relief only to glance down at the arrow he discarded moments earlier, lying on the grates of the fire escape.

He gasped.

That's right. He shot himself with his own love arrow.

"Oh no." He grabbed his hair, tugging on the roots in a stressful manner. "Oh no."

He spared a glance towards you, still sitting peacefully on the couch watching TV.

"No!" He covered his eyes.

He wasn't supposed to look at anyone.

Now you've done it. He thought despairingly.

He was totally screwed.

"Okay, okay." He slowly released the breath he was holding in, talking out loud in order to calm himself down. "Don't panic."

He was totally panicking.

The first thing that came to mind was that he needed to notify Minho. His heart dropped to his feet at the thought, the color promptly draining from his face.

Oh no. Minho.

He placed a hand on his chest, feeling his rapid pulse beneath it.

"This isn't good. I can already feel my heart racing. The effects are already starting to take place."

He hung his head, muttering to himself while he tried to figure out what to do. Jisung knew telling Minho would be the right thing to do, but he didn't want to. If he did, he'd surely get an earful from the older cupid.

Maybe the symptoms wouldn't get bad. In fact, maybe they'd just go away.

Your loud laughter captured Jisung's attention and pulled him out of his worry-induced thoughts. Head thrown back against the couch cushions, you were clutching your stomach, letting your joyful laughter fill the apartment.

Jisung couldn't help but smile, the sound of your giggles sparking happiness and adoration within him.

Yeah, maybe he would hold off on telling Minho.

Days passed and Jisung's escapades continued. He would leave Cupid Headquarters and go off to see you, peering into your apartment from the window by the fire escape. From his vantage point, he had a good view of the open kitchen where he watched you cook meals for yourself.

He picked up on your little habits and things you did without a second thought.

Jisung's heart fluttered at the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed at something on TV or the way you spoke your thoughts aloud, giving your own commentary to no one at all.

A week was all it took for Jisung to spill the beans. While perched on the grated floor of the fire escape, he became self-aware of all the emotions he was feeling and how incredibly strong they were. Any time he looked at you it felt like a his chest was struck with an iron fist, taking his breath away. The need to be closer to you, to speak to you was so strong it was almost beyond his control.

He was infatuated.

"Minho!" Jisung shouted, rushing over to his friend and coworker, his wings flapping as fast as they possibly could.

Minho huffed, rolling his eyes. "What?"

The younger cupid came to a halt. "I did something terrible."

"I'm sure it's nothing."

"No, no. It's bad." Jisung dropped his head into his hands. "I shot myself with my own arrow. I can't believe I was so stupid! The effects are in full force. It's not working as fast as with humans but I'm really feeling it. You see, there's this girl and oh... every time I see her my heart races and I find myself watching her go about her daily life. She's so beautiful and I can't stop thinking about her. She's on my mind 24/7. I'm really falling hard, Minho. I don't know what to do. Please help me."

"Love arrows don't work on cupids." Minho produced an answer in a dead delivery, his eyes blinking languidly.

Jisung's rambling was put to an immediate halt as he stared wide-eyed at the older cupid.

"What?"

"We're immune."

"So..." Jisung trailed off. "I didn't screw up?"

"No."

"If the arrow doesn't effect me, then what does that mean?"

"It means you're in love with a human."

Jisung blinked owlishly. "In love?"

"You're a cupid, Hannie. We tend to fall in love very quickly."

"What do I do?"

"For starters, you could introduce yourself."

"I can do that?"

"If you want to. There's no rules against it. Love is love, after all."

Jisung was left to figure out how he was going to go about this whole situation and how to approach you. He laid back on his bed, running his fingers through his silver hair, releasing a sigh.

He didn't even know your name.

Maybe he could give you your favorite chocolate, assuming that's what you were indulging in when he saw you for the first time on Valentines Day.

He expelled another sigh. No. He needed something else—something better.

"Come on." He murmured.

He had been secretly admiring you for a while, surely there was something he was able to learn about you during that time.

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off and Jisung sat upright with wide eyes that glimmered with elation.

Flowers.

He'll never forget that look of longing on your face as you watched that delivery man bring a bouquet to a woman across the street.

Now all that was left was figure out how he was going to introduce himself without freaking you out.

He smirked to himself.

"I could use my undeniable charms and that thing Minho said humans say. What was it again?"

"Rizz! Can you believe it?" Minho exclaimed exasperatedly, shaking his head. "I can't believe humans are using such a ridiculous word."

"What does rizz mean?"

"It's short for charisma."

Jisung hummed, nodding.

"I'm gonna rizz him up." Minho mocked, rolling his eyes. "It's embarrassing. Honestly."

"Rizz." Jisung repeated with a sly grin. "Yeah."

Wait. Did he even have rizz?

The cupid groaned in frustration. This shouldn't be complicated.

Jisung returned to your apartment the following day to put his plan in motion. The window to your living room was cracked ever so slightly. Not exactly smart or safe on your part, but convenient for Jisung who entered with ease.

In his arms was the prettiest bouquet of roses he could find. Little white tufts of baby's breath were placed throughout the arrangement which sat beautifully in a vase.

The cupid placed the arrangement on your coffee table so you could see the flowers as soon as you got home, taking a moment to spread out the cluster of crimson blossoms and make it look presentable.

Now all he had to do was wait.

You stepped into your apartment and dropped your keys into the glass dish by the door, releasing a short sigh, thankful to be home. The shoes on your feet were kicked off without a care as to where they landed while you shuffled into your living room, coming to a stop when you noticed a bouquet of flowers sitting on your coffee table.

You looked down at them perplexed, wondering how they got inside your apartment.

"Who are these from?" You wondered aloud, searching the bunch of blossoms for a card or something that indicated who the sender was.

"Me."

You jumped at the sound of another person's voice, spinning on your heel to find a man sitting on the windowsill in your living room.

Assessing his appearance, you could only assume he was some cosplayer getting paid to dress as Cupid and deliver flowers. Though this guy seemed to take a more modern approach, wearing a pair of white slacks and a pale pink shirt made of delicate tulle fabric, but the set of wings on his back was a dead giveaway.

Oh geez. Surely he wasn't one of those singing telegrams.

Wait. How did he get in your house?

You instinctively took a step back. "Who are you and how did you get in here?"

"I'm Jisung and your window was cracked."

He could see your eyes widen and knew you were about to start freaking out or throwing things at him—or both.

"I'm not here to steal anything! I only came to bring you flowers." He assured in a rushed manner before you could do anything rash.

"Why?"

"Because..."

Jisung didn't think this through. You were clearly on edge and he wasn't making it any better. What was he supposed to say?

"I'm a cupid."

He wasn't expecting to spill the beans so soon, but it's the only thing he could think to say.

You narrowed your eyes. "I can see that, but why are you here?"

"To bring you flowers."

"So did someone pay you?"

Jisung's head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. "Pay me for what?"

"To dress up. Are you one of those people who dress like cupid and deliver things?"

"No. I don't even get paid for what I do."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm a cupid."

"With those fake wings? I don't think so."

"Do these look fake to you?" He turned, showing off the set of white wings on his back.

You were prepared to say yes when you saw them twitch.

A gasp left you. "How did you do that?"

"They're attached to me?" His response was spoken like a question.

"No." You shook your head, letting out a laugh of disbelief. "You have some sort of mechanism that makes them move."

Jisung wore a confused expression the entire time you spoke. "No."

"I don't understand."

"If you need more proof, I'll let you touch my wings." He turned again, presenting them to you.

They did look real—a little too real.

You apprehensively approached the so-called cupid, holding your hand out until it made contact with the white feathers protruding from his back. He shivered lightly under your touch, feeling the sensation of your fingers ghosting over them.

Now that you were up close, you could clearly see that the wings were coming out of his skin which was exposed due to the way the shirt was made, the fabric draping down low to reveal his (very muscular) upper back.

"Do you believe me now?"

You pulled your hand away, nodding wordlessly, unable to speak.

"I'm sorry if I scared you. You see, I first saw you on Valentines Day and ever since then I've been observing you from right there." He pointed to the metal fire escape just outside the living room window.

What? No. You would've known if someone was watching, especially if they were right outside your window.

"I never saw you."

"Cupids can't be seen unless they want to be. That's how we do our jobs."

Just as you were prepared to question him, he disappeared, causing you to stumble back in surprise.

"Ah! Sorry, sorry!" He reappeared, apologizing profusely. "I just wanted to show some proof."

"Why were you watching me?"

The tips of Jisung's ears tinted pink.

"Well..." He chewed on his bottom lip. "I like you. I just learned that cupids tend to fall for people quickly which is why I couldn't seem to stay away. Once I laid eyes on you, it was like a magnet was pulling me."

This was a lot to process.

"I needed a way to introduce myself and I saw the way you looked at that delivery guy with the flowers on Valentines Day, so I thought a bouquet of roses would be a nice gift."

He was watching you then? Suddenly you felt a little embarrassed.

"I've never received flowers from someone."

"Well, now you have. I would've added a card but I don't know your name."

"It's Y/n."

At last, the pretty girl Jisung had been swooning over had a name.

"Well, Y/n, I'm sorry for startling you. I'll let myself out."

"Don't leave."

He paused.

"You can't just tell me you're a cupid and not expect me to have questions."

A bright grin spread across Jisung's face. "What do you want to know?"

No part 2

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

Note

Ransom x reader

Enemies to lovers , bot came from wealthy backgrounds as one is a trust fund (ran) then the other has her life getting good with a buissness outside her family . Why are they enemies at first? Shes admired for not relying on her folks too much as a teen and down to earth , enjoys the finer things as she views them as a reward or gift but ransom Demands that shit they also bicker how shes freinds with people bellow her and she sasses him how he always rely on perks thats petty

Warnings: so. much. cursing. It's all from Ransom's point of view, and since he's a disturbing(ly sexy) asshole, that translates to language. Plus smut (protected sex) MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Reader's background/company is ambiguous. Also of note is the 'enemies' portion is quite subtle. WC 4k

The Root of All Ransom, Part One (see series)

There’s new money and then there’s new money.

Ransom loves the smell of new, physical money, and because he spends so much of it, he gets to feel those crisp bills all the time. Sure, his black card gets the same look at a register, but the plastic gets tattered after a while. The metal cards are a nice touch. Hefty. Metal makes a great tapping sound when he’s bored of waiting for a retail worker to do their fucking job and let him leave already. Cash is easiest to toss down and run out. He likes all forms of money. Ransom is diverse that way.

You, however, you are the New Money, the shit that’s a title, the shit that’s been earned, and it reminds him of his mother’s ranting. ‘Self-made’ his ass. Grandpa Harlan never made Linda repay a dime; that’s not a million-dollar loan. That’s good, old-fashioned nepotism. That’s inheritance come early. Old Harlan is Old Money, but New Money You is just as stale.

“She’s a breath of fresh air,” the middle-aged woman beside him coos.

Fucking gross.

Each time Ransom sees you he gets a foul taste in his mouth. His nostrils flair. He can smell the budgeting on you even at a distance. For every one of these events (with swag bags and a charity write-off promise) where you make a speech after receiving an award for whatever—he’s already too bored to listen—Ransom drinks heavily to make it to the end of the night.

He hasn’t given a dime, mind you, but Harlan has, and Linda has. Neither of them ever wants to go hobnob. Linda would but can’t trust Richard at these things, so she sticks to daytime shindigs. Walt is a bumbling, awkward mess, so he can’t represent anything other than why big pharma for every neurosis exists. He’s not welcome. Instead, it falls to nowhere-else-to-be Ransom.

He thought he’d hate the events as much as the company until he found a thick, silver lining: some starry-eyed wannabe is always seated at an adjacent table. Handsome, young Ransom is guaranteed someone to go home with. Bonus points if they give head during the car ride.

Tonight though, he fucks up.

Ransom Drysdale makes the mistake of chatting up your date: your friend, Mariah, from high school who’s in town for the weekend. She’s doing a remarkable impression of a bimbo socialite, and he’s already wasted most of the meal trying to land an unattainable prize—though not a worthwhile prize, obviously.

It’s not his fault; he was at the bar when you and Mariah arrived, so he had no clue.

He expects you to be defensive once you make your way back to the table after your speech and find your friend with him. Ran is sure his reputation precedes him. He looks great in the photo ops just as he looks for great ass. He thinks your smile seems forced until you get closer. All you do is tell them to enjoy themselves.

Mariah here looks like she’s about to drop to her knees under the table, and you’re gonna let her?

You can’t possibly be stupid enough to trust him, can you?

He snorts out a chuckle, thinking you may know your business but you clearly do not know people. He wants to fuck Mariah. Then he really wants Mariah to tell you about fucking him, ad nauseam, hopefully, multiple times. Then he’s not sure whether he’d prefer you want to fuck him or you be mad about him fucking Mariah. He’ll have to wait and see.

“Isn’t she the best,” Mariah tosses out as flippantly as her hair extensions over her exposed shoulders. “I’m surprised she wanted me to come instead of a real date.”

“Sure,” he swigs his whisky quickly, “but then I wouldn’t get you for the evening, too.”

If he’s not mistaken, Mariah just soaked the pretty little thong he can just see the outline of in her tight dress, so Ran lays on a few more easy moves and thinks it’s a done deal.

Alas, he is wrong, and you and your friend leave together smiling while he races to text a booty call to meet at his place in a half-hour.

It’s all very frustrating, and Ransom hates you that much more.

Ransom has two new coats, a half-dozen new shirts, a three-piece suit, three new pairs of shoes, and he’s looking for the piece de resistance: a scarf (or several).

He loves accessories because he loves to change things up. He gets bored extremely easily, and he feels better when he treats himself.

In Hermès, he eyes a few options. He might even bother to get that one for his mother just because it has a few hideous accent colors he knows she’ll hate. Linda will still smile tightly and fake gratitude; it’s the only type of gratitude she knows. He doesn’t find anything for himself though, so he heads to the counter and recognizes the curves of a woman’s backside…in a dress that he’s seen in multiple candid tabloid shots.

How old is that garment? Jesus. Have some pride, woman.

His bored greeting startles you.

“Mr. Drysdale,” you exclaim, hand over your heart, “good to see you again.”

Is it?

“Right,” he grumbles roughly. “What brings you out of your goodie-two-shoes hole this afternoon?”

You seem excited, but in a different way than he’s ever noticed. At events, you are the picture of humility, full of genuine gratitude (and possibly the only reason he knows what that looks like), but this is something else.

The salesman returns with your order and unboxes a Birkin bag for you to inspect.

Now you’re just plain giddy, overjoyed, and vibrating, and Ransom preens a little to see Ms. High-and-Mighty so lowered as to indulge in retail therapy.

That’s a twenty-five thousand dollar bag you’re holding.

“Nice color,” Ransom chides, but he isn’t rewarded with your deterrence. You simply turn to beam at him.

“My favorite!” Your hands return to sweeping over the beautiful pebbled leather. “I had to wait for years—which is fine—“ you quickly add “—but I promised myself I’d do ten hours a week of volunteer work to earn such an extravagance.”

“Are you going to use it?”

You nod without turning back to him.

“Are you going to enjoy it?”

Another saleswoman motions to help him with the scarf he holds, and Ransom says nothing to her but drops his black card on the counter.

“Very much so,” you say quietly, almost like a confession.

“Then what’s so crazy about that?”

You giggle. You actually giggle. You don’t tell him how wrong he is or judge his spending in any way, which is surprising when that’s all those events he knows you from are for—to get him to spend money their way.

Ransom doesn’t know what compels him to stand there with his small purchase and watch while your bag gets squared away. You don’t choose to wear it out of the store, something he finds patently ridiculous because it’s a fucking Birkin and you’re about to walk out of Hermes with it in a box in another bag.

He pushes off the counter to walk out with you, an idea springing up.

“You’ve met my mother, I believe.”

Your polite smile gives nothing away. “Yes, a few times. Very briefly.”

“Her birthday is next month—” he lets an employee open the door for you both “—her sixtieth, allegedly.”

“Oh, well, tell her happy birthday for me.”

“You could come.”

Your face scrunches but whether from his offer or the bright sun on the street, he doesn’t know. His sunglasses are already on. You rummage around in what looks like a tapestry bag on the bad side of vintage for yours.

This is why you should have left using the Birkin, and he’s honestly surprised Hermès even served you looking like you do.

Where’s all that new money now, he thinks, because one bag is certainly not all of it.

“Why not? You both own businesses and run in similar circles.”

“Hugh, I don’t think—“

“Ransom,” he corrects with a sneer.

“Well, I just…” You regard him thoroughly for a long moment until a black car pulls up and its driver opens the door for you.

There it is. There’s a bit of pomp. He’s almost proud to see you being served. You’re just like him—or rather his family—in a way; you have help.

“Fine,” you say to Ransom while nodding to your driver, “text me the details, and I’ll see if I’m in town.” Even though your words are dismissive, they sound genuine and kind.

Yuck.

Your driver fishes a card from his breast pocket and curtly adds a ‘sir,’ before shutting you behind tinted windows.

Ok, so it’s not the easiest ‘yes’ he’s ever gotten. It wasn’t a ‘no’ either. Good news is that Ransom is not holding his breath. If it works, it works.

The idea is to flaunt you in front of Linda, not romantically, of course, but as a younger woman, perceived as better, more self-made, more successful, with a Birkin bag in his mother’s actual favorite color, while he gives her a scarf she’ll be revolted by. It’s perfect.

This did not at all go to plan.

Linda is supposed to be pissed. She’s supposed to be appalled and furious and have to hide that from her guests—which is most of the family, catering staff, and Harlan’s house help. She’s supposed to look at Ransom and know that he did this on purpose.

He told you not to bring a present for a reason, but he made damn sure when he picked you up that you were wearing that damn bag.

How the fuck was he supposed to know you’d go and be the dumbest bitch ever?

Linda got through two whole sentences of greeting after obviously clocking the Birkin and then turned it about her. She’s predictable that way, but you are not.

“That’s my favorite color,” she said.

“Mine too,” you said.

You both fucking laughed.

“I’ve always wanted one,” she said.

“You should have one,” you said.

He should have known right then except for on what planet does someone…

Ransom only stepped out for a few minutes to mess with Walt, smoking that sickening cigar. When he comes back in, there on the table right beside Linda is your bag. He looks around, but you aren’t in the living room. Then his mom smiles and pets the Birkin possessively.

“Oh, Ran, that girl is so sweet,” Linda coos.

Richard snorts in astonishment. “She’s really something.”

Ransom cringes at the lustful leer on his father’s face while he stares off toward the library.

What the shit?

You gave his mother your bag? After one minute of conversation?

God fucking damn it.

He has no words. Ran just purses his lips and stalks off to the other room in search of you. You’re deep in conversation with Harlan, seated across from each other in the bay windows of the library in high-backed upholstered chairs. On the floor beside your foot is a Blood Like Wine tote, partially filled.

“Grandpa,” he interrupts, leaning one arm against your chair with a questioning gaze.

“Ransom, my boy, it’s good to see you.” Before he can get a word in, Harlan waves an arthritis-gnarled hand in your direction. “Have you met my neighbor?”

“Neighbor?”

You shrug with a weak smile. “I purchased the Carlyles’ old property last year but kept my apartment in town.”

He’s thrown off by this news, thinking. “That’s walking distance from here,” Ransom says flatly.

“Yes, it is. That’s why I can find my own way home tonight.”

“Ah,” Harlan taps his nose, “so you two know each other.”

“Your grandson was kind enough to invite me.”

“And you made quite a fucking impression,” Ransom growls while putting a hand on your shoulder.

Harlan flicks Ransom away. “Don’t be creepy, son. Get the lady a drink.”

“Mr. Thrombey, please.” You stand, forcibly pushing his hand off of you. “Ransom’s your family. Why don’t I get you boys something while you catch up?”

“Whiskey, neat, two fingers,” Ransom bitterly spits, shoving the hand in his jean pocket.

Harlan tsks him with a solemn look.

“The same,” his grandfather sighs before returning your smile. “I appreciate it, dear.”

“Anytime.”

Ran fights the urge to kick your tote on the floor.

Harlan simply moves on. “One of my next novels is an intrigue of corruption, involves a non-profit, and Good Miss was enlightening me to a few details of their inner workings.”

“Glad you both can turn it off for five minutes,” Ransom grunts back.

Harlan’s sharp gaze lands on him.

“While I am glad you did not use her and lose her, as they say.”

“God, no,” Ransom groans in revulsion. “She’s here to rub Linda the wrong way…not me.” He tries to bury his self-satisfied smirk in a sweater sleeve held to his mouth.

“Charming.” Harlan means anything but charming as he looks to see you side-tracked again by a chat with Marta. “You’ve done much worse before—“ he turns to the window “—but my guess is she never has.”

Ransom’s jaw twitches. This is why he hates his family, even his favorite among them. No wonder he brought someone exclusively to annoy them, hoping to make them feel small and selfish, but he forgot something important.

They’re all like him. None of them care to be selfless. They don’t want to be charitable. They are fine being perceived that way, if necessary, if it gains them something else they want.

But.

What Harlan says gives him another idea. What if he keeps you around? They are sure to lose their minds. Harlan would be impressed (and proved wrong). Richard will be jealous (although that’s still gross). Linda would be unable to manipulate that situation (though she’ll try).

Plus, Joni will hate you instantly because you’re prettier and don’t need her snake-oil skin shit.

“Harlan,” you offer his grandfather his drink first, then turn to Ran with that irritatingly kind smile. “Hugh.”

He takes the glass and flashes pearly whites.

It’s decided. He just hopes the sex won’t be as boring as he thinks. You’re definitely not a roadhead bitch.

Although based on that damn Birkin, you are stupidly generous, so he hopes that translates to the bed…or wherever he fucks you.

“Sure your shoes can take it?”

As if he can’t walk across the fucking woods…the embers of waning alcohol all push around in his gut on the trek over to the Carlyles’ place. He hasn’t gone over there since maybe freshman year of high school during a long Christmas stay at Thrombey Manor.

He was wrong. Ran’s shoes are not fine, but he has to bury that irritation down deep while entering the warm and inviting mansion filled with your...roommates?

Four other people live in a house that you sometimes stay in: Angela, Diego, Terrell, and Luca.

Ran doesn’t fucking care. This is not some weird orgy he’s planning. He almost walks right back out and floors the Beamer back to civilization.

Mercifully, you have most of the upstairs entirely to yourself, a small suite of a bedroom, office, and bathroom neatly tucked above a quieter part of the house.

He’s surprised that you drop the tote bag and start shedding clothes so quickly.

“Sorry about them. We all went to uni together and this works as a crash-pad for the internationals.”

“No problem,” he sighs, “I know what it’s like.” They’re freeloaders, like my cousin Meg, is what they are, but Ransom keeps that thought to himself.

You offer him another drink, which Ran accepts, watching you like a hawk with sky-blue eyes.

Beneath your dress, you wear a slip, a silky satin thing that actually impresses him. He’s convinced there is thick shapewear beneath it because that just seems like a you thing to do: one sexy move, one boner killer. Instead of showing him though, you spin your finger around in front of him.

“Really,” he quips. He’s already resigned to putting his dick in either way, so he doesn’t really care.

You smile too sweetly for it to read as coy. “Make yourself useful and go to my bag.”

“That’s not a bag,” he scoffs. “Might as well be made of tissue paper.”

He still obediently wanders over to the chair you draped it over and flips back a handle. Excellent. This nearly makes up for the entire party. Ran derives a sickening amount of pleasure from knowing these condoms were stored in the Birkin his mother will now carry around with pride.

He downs the remainder of his drink and whips out a wrapper. He wouldn’t care if you didn’t have any, or didn’t want to use one, or if you made some reference to them but the lights were off and didn’t check. The lights are still on though, and you’ve pointed him right to them. He’ll play ball. He hopes you play with balls, too. He hopes this is fun instead of just mediocre. He prepares himself to be actively bored, however, because that’s the most likely scenario.

It’s his usual MO. Works like a charm. Start out slow and teasing—girls tend to think it’s sensual but he’s being lazy (and they beg soon anyway)—until he can take over in exactly whatever fashion he wants. Except you don’t quite let things unfold that way.

He expects you to want him to kiss you, but you playfully turn away each time he advances. You swat his hands when he tries to touch you, only to grab the hem of his sweater and rip it off him. You don’t wait for him to unbutton his jeans before sliding cool fingers down past the band of his boxers.

Fuck, he does like it when they're forward.

He pops the button, pushes the zipper, and shuffles out of the heavy cotton while you get a good hold of him. Ransom doesn’t care that your hands are soft, just rough enough for friction and nothing more, and he doesn’t really care that your slip is still on because he’s figured something else out.

You’re not wearing underwear. He’s not sure if you were but tossed them aside while he grabbed the condom, or perhaps you’ve been speaking with his family for the better part of two hours with your cunt kissed by the same air they were all breathing, but he’s happy about it.

Ransom leans forward to you again, but instead of letting him kiss you, you look down to spit in your hand and work him harder.

“The sooner you suit up…” you taunt him, glancing at the wrapper still clutched in Ran’s hand, “sooner you get in for the night.”

He’s been with bossy doms before—not his favorite—but this is different. His instinct is that you want a show of it, maybe you want to see him touch himself, maybe you want to see his face as the tight latex is rolled down his throbbing cock, but you hold his gaze while turning your body away from him.

Since he doesn’t have to play up how he looks, Ran focuses on the expanse of skin across your back. There’s so much more than your dress showed, yet not enough, and it’s beautiful. He thinks about the same, smooth skin that must be stretched across your ass and rolls his hips against the fabric while his mouth maps your neck and shoulders.

Not romantically, of course, he’s not trying to make you feel better—you are more than capable of feeling yourself, but Ransom enjoys a little taunting of his own now and then.

His hands move to cup your breasts, and fuck, did you not have a bra on earlier either? This day is full of surprises.

His intense rutting coupled with teasing your taut nipples makes your slip catch between your ass cheeks, and he angles his dick to press through the apex of your thighs, taking the satin with him.

Pretty skin beneath his lips, pretty noises ringing in his ears, Ran pulls away.

The fresh wet spot on your slip sticks to the condom when he looks down at his demanding erection.

You’re ready. He’s ready.

Fuck, Ransom is so ready, and you know it, climbing onto the edge of your bed to get comfortable presented in all your glory, all the lights on, fingers already teasing and working yourself open.

This is already way better than he expected. He doesn’t have to work. He doesn’t have to try. He doesn’t have to fake interest. You handle your clit like the expert you are on yourself, and Ran works himself up, sheathed and thrusting in you like the expert he is on himself. Pleasure for pleasure, and fuck is it pleasurable.

His fist holds onto the bundled satin across the small of your back, and you make natural escalating noises.

It sounds genuine.

Shit, when was the last time he didn’t get annoyed at some bitch hamming up her moans? Not that it distracted him from coming, no, he could get him whether she was dramatic or an awkward, silent one. Takes more effort when he has to ignore something she’s doing though.

Then you demand he goes faster, and he’s into it. Then you come with a groan that’ll haunt his hindbrain, and he can feel the massaging grip and release. Then you take his balls in hand, tugging gently, and he fucking loses it.

He feels the hot flood of his cum into the condom as your walls still ripple against him.

Damn, he doesn’t even care if you made him wrap up. That was fucking satisfying. It wasn’t even complicated, but you came and he came and that’s all he needed.

Ransom hasn’t been at a girl’s place in a while (certainly not without his car ready to get away) because he prefers to kick them out and already be home, but his hookups are usually clinging to the idea of staying the night.

You immediately go to the bathroom, clean up, and—now completely naked—stand at the foot of the bed.

“You good, Hugh? I’m on a call with Beijing in fifteen, so take your time—“ you button up a plain, blue shirt, your nipples showing right through “—or sleep or whatever. I’ll be a bit.”

“Only the help calls me Hugh.” It’s all he can come up with while he stares at your breasts and contemplates why he feels a bit used.

He got off, you’re not clinging to him, and you’ve given him an easy out. If he had to describe his perfect fucking date, this would be it, and his gut twists oddly just thinking about being dismissed.

You don’t miss a beat, heading for the door with only panties and the shirt on. Your ass pops out easily from under the hem.

“Suppose I’ll see you at the Kennedy thing next weekend, huh?”

Ran slaps his hand over his face, remembering there’s another fucking event coming up. “Yeah. Is that the stupid inner-city garden initiative?”

You hum in response, grabbing something else out of your flimsy purse tote. He better not see you carry that fucking thing around in front of actual fucking people. You don’t see him staring at your ass through his fingers before you swivel back around.

“If you need something, text me. Don’t knock.”

He snorts, knowing that he wouldn’t stay if a girl paid him to.

For one shining moment, you turn to beam at him. “Thanks for making it quick,” you chirp with a wink and shut the door behind you.

You goddamn wink at him after chucking him into the quickie category in your own mansion.

What the fuck?

Out of spite, he should just sleep here, he thinks. Let Harlan question why the Beamer is still in the drive. Let Walt stare at the car and know Ransom can get better pussy than that twat has had in a lifetime. Let Linda…

Hell, let Linda do whatever the fuck she wants and let Richard think whatever the fuck he wants.

Ransom takes his own naked walk of glory to the bathroom and does just that—he sleeps in a hookup’s bed all night, completely pleased with himself and his control of the situation.

a/n: Honest to god, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Genuinely, I swear. Now that I've plotted it out though...there was no way. I just personally don't really like more than 5k per Tumblr post. Too easy to lose your place. This way we stick with a three-ish-act structure, too. Squee! Hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think in comments, reblogs, or anon asks!

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#hugh ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #ransom smut #fanfic #fanfiction #knives out fanfiction #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale smut #ro answers

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maraschinomerry · 1 month

Text

Little Pink Heart

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, implied Locklyle

Summary: following a fatal Ghost-Touch, Lockwood and reader must figure out how to manage love and life after death

Content: reader's death, ghost!reader, grief, angst, bittersweet, not a happy ending, established relationship

A/N: Please please be aware that this fic has some very heavy content, don't feel obliged to read if you could find it upsetting! That being said, this is as much about exploring the concept of Visitors' sentience that Jonathan Stroud introduced and building on what we saw with Annabel Ward as it is about the angst and the grief. This is dedicated to @bella-rose29 for mentioning the idea of ghost!reader and giving me inspiration (bonus angst: listen to Someone New by Freya Ridings while you read)

Word count: 4.9k (my longest fic yet!)

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

The click of the key echoed through the house as you opened the door. Dusk was falling, the fine mist that had settled tinted a soft blue. As much as you didn't want to go inside, you fancied staying out here less.

“Don't linger, darling,” your boyfriend, Anthony, murmured as he passed over the threshold. His hand slipped into yours and he led you in. The house was cold and dim in the fading light, and from the fine layer of dust and lack of personal effects it was clear that it hadn't been inhabited for some time. It was a shame that the owner, who had seemed like a nice enough young woman, had had to move out of her family home, but you couldn't help but be grateful. You and Anthony had only just got your licences, and with no links to any agencies nor desires to join them you'd decided to try and set up your own. That took time, though, and money, and though Anthony had a little equity in his house you'd agreed to take a couple of small, private cases to make up as much as you could. That was how you found yourself here, ready to earn a reasonable sum in exchange for eliminating a lone Type Two. A few jobs like this would help set you up nicely.

The kitchen was slightly warmer than the rest of the house, the west-facing windows having allowed in the last of the sun before it dipped behind the trees in the distance. Together you set up your kit bags on the table - you didn't have much: a few handmade salt bombs, filings and chains, a few flares only in case of emergency (they'd cost far too much to waste) and of course your rapiers. Lockwood pulled something extra from his bag, a small plastic-wrapped packet. Bourbon biscuits.

“You're the best,” you smiled as he opened the packet and offered one to you, which you bit into quickly.

“I know,” he grinned back, brushing a stray crumb from your lip. You blushed.

The owner of the house had provided a floor plan, but her account of the Visitor had been so inconsistent and vague that it was difficult to pinpoint a possible location for the Source. Anthony spread the roll of paper across the table, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder at the diagram. There were two floors and a basement, but the latter had been gutted a month ago ready for renovation so there was nothing in there at present.

“Let's start upstairs and work our way back down,” Anthony suggested. “More likely to find something in one of the bedrooms.”

“True, but it's a lot of wasted time if we don't. Why don't we split up and take a floor each?”

His expression soured, and he moved closer, taking your hand again and rubbing small anxious circles above your thumb. “That's smart, but I hate the idea of leaving you on your own.” Even when he didn't agree with your ideas, he always found a way to compliment them. Just one of the things that made you love him all the more.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won't be for long, and I'll call for you the moment I find anything suspicious.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You leant forward and placed your lips delicately on his. He held you close, your hands on his chest, one of his on your waist and the other fidgeting with your necklace. It was one he'd bought for you, a small pink gemstone in a heart shape on a simple silver chain. His promise to always love and protect you. Not a day had gone by since that you didn't wear it. He nodded at last; he knew he would, he'd do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat. It still worried him not to be by your side, but he trusted that you were a good agent who could handle yourself and that you meant it when you said you'd call for him. His only condition was that if the Source was more likely to be upstairs, that would be where he'd look.

So it was that you found yourself, torch in one hand and the other on your rapier, exploring the ground floor. The silence was oppressive, seeping the confidence from you with every step. Not a ticking clock, not the creaking of the old building settling, not even the residual hum of electricity or plumbing, just the occasional thud from your boyfriend upstairs. Working quickly, you ruled out the dining room and bathroom. That left the lounge. The air smelled musty, and a shiver ran through you as you entered. That was never a good sign. You pulled out your thermometer and watched the temperature drop the further in you went.

“Anthony?” Your voice felt deafening against the quiet of the room, but you knew it hadn't been anywhere near loud enough to travel upstairs. No, this was silly, you could handle this. There were no signs of a spirit yet, for all you knew the change in temperature could be from the wind blowing down the chimney into the empty fireplace. You flicked the torch off, using your now free hand to hold your necklace, grounding yourself as you tuned in and listened. There was nothing at first. You wondered whether Anthony was having more luck upstairs; so far down here had been thoroughly useless. Maybe you should go and check on him. But then you heard it. A tragic, gut-wrenching wail, getting closer.

“Anthony?” you called again, louder this time but as steady as you could. There was movement above. He'd heard. So had the spirit, the wailing definitely nearby now. You pulled out your rapier.

The temperature plummeted.

A screech, so close you would have felt the breath on your neck had it come from a living being, made you whirl round. Your rapier clattered to the floor. Shit. Stay calm.

“Anthony!” you yelled, not caring how scared you sounded. His footsteps rattled down the stairs. He was so close.

You lunged towards your rapier.

The Visitor lunged towards you.

Lockwood was in the back bedroom when he heard his name. All his senses were immediately on high alert - you were the only person he allowed to call him Anthony, so he always reacted differently to his first name anyway, and under the circumstances hearing it immediately made him fear the worst.

“Y/n?” He crept out onto the landing, slowly pulling out his rapier and listening intently for any more noise. It was moments like these he was grateful not to be a Listener, he could focus on you and not the sounds of the house's history. He was only two steps onto the staircase when his name came again, louder and more panicked. Without a second thought he ran down the stairs, only holding back enough to make sure he didn't fall. His blood ran cold when he heard you scream.

You tried to both duck and spin as your hand came into contact with the hilt of your rapier. The blade sliced upwards, connecting with the Visitor, but it was too late. Its clawing grey hand clutched onto your shoulder moments before it disappeared. You screamed as tendrils of ice shot through you, radiating outwards from the spot. Through the fog of pain that had suddenly engulfed your brain you heard Anthony, close by now, yelling your name. You had to go to him. He'd know what to do. Everything would be okay.

You took one step, then another. Your torso was going numb, your entire arm having already fallen victim to the plasm which was turning your shoulder a violent shade of blue. One more step, and your legs gave out. You just about made out the silhouette of your boyfriend in the doorway, rushing towards you as you slumped to the ground.

“No, no, no, y/n!” Anthony's face swam into view, trying to mask his utter horror for your sake. “It's going to be okay, darling, I'll go and get help.”

The fingers of your good hand twitched towards his and he took it immediately, despite how cold it was. You struggled to focus on him through your tears, and noticed the same in his eyes. “Ant-” Your voice was failing fast.

“Shh, I've got you.” He cradled your head, his own tears mingling with yours on your cheek, but you could barely feel them. Almost everything was numb. The blue had spread across your chest, and the little pink heart stood out starkly against it. “I'm so sorry, my darling,” Lockwood said softly. He choked back a sob as he leant down, placing a kiss into your hair. You wanted to do the same, to speak to him, to do anything.

His face was the last thing you saw before everything went black.

—

You had no idea how much time had passed when your vision returned, a room slowly materialising in front of your eyes. It was a bedroom, filled with knick-knacks and bathed in a warm golden light. It looked familiar, but you hadn't been here when it went dark, you'd been… somewhere else. It was so hard to remember, but you knew there had been a dark, dusty room and a feeling of agonising cold. And a person. There'd been someone there, someone you needed to say something to. Now here you were, everything feeling so normal yet so bizarre; you were still you, still able to move and see and hear, but there was a disconnect between those sensations and reality. Nothing felt real. You looked around again, desperate for answers.

There.

Perched on the edge of the bed was a boy. His crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his dishevelled dark hair, doleful brown eyes and the deep eyebags beneath. He looked exhausted, like he'd barely slept or eaten. There was something in his hand, balanced carefully on the tips of his fingers: a necklace, with a little pink heart. A spark of recognition bloomed in the back of your mind. That was your necklace. It was important. He had no right to be holding it. You drifted forward. The boy looked so familiar. Oh. The icy feeling rippled through your chest again, and you remembered. He'd been there when that feeling had taken over your body until you couldn't feel anything else. Rage boiled in your veins, and a snarl crept onto your face. But then, as quickly as it started, the anger subsided. He'd not caused it. He'd held you so gently, cried as everything faded. You knew him. You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak.

Lockwood stared at the tiny gemstone in his hand, unsure whether he wanted anything to happen this time. He'd secretly slipped it from you before DEPRAC had arrived, and spent the past few weeks periodically taking it out of the little silver-glass box in his bedside table. Part of him desperately wanted you to come back, to let him see you once more, but the other part knew it would hurt so much. What if you didn't recognise him and turned violent like so many Visitors? What if you didn't because you didn't recognise anything, just hung there as a shadow of your former self? What if you did, and he had to live with putting you back in the case and removing you from his life all over again?

The decision was made for him when a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of his bedroom. There you were. Tears welled in his eyes as the image of you sent him spiralling back to that day: your edges were a little fuzzy but everything else was the same, from your outfit to the scared look in your eye to the dark patch spreading from your shoulder. You looked at him now and he was relieved to watch you processing your surroundings. The person he knew was still in there, you weren't just a hollow shell. Suddenly you snarled and he flinched, fingers twitching towards the silver-glass case.

You moved closer.

You stopped.

Your face fell.

He watched the glimmer of recognition in your eyes, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled out along with all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

“Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen, I should have been there for you, and-”

He paused. You were mouthing something. Over and over. Your death loop, he presumed. God, just putting death in the same sentence as you stung.

“I'd give anything to be able to hear you right now,” he said, voice wavering. You stopped, giving him a sad look. The realisation that at the very least you could understand him, even if you couldn't communicate fully, hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Lockwood!” a boy's voice called from outside. You both looked at the door and your anger flared again. The boy on the bed shook his head.

“He's a friend,” he told you reassuringly, before calling back, “One minute, George!” You waited in the corner, puzzled. The boy, Lockwood (you knew that name, didn't you?), gave you an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, y/n, I've got to go. I'll explain soon, I promise.” He dropped the necklace into its little case and clicked it shut, and you watched the world dissolve.

—

You still weren't sure how much time had passed when you found yourself back in that bedroom, but it didn't feel like very long. The last rays of the sunset poked through the gaps around the drawn curtains, the room lit instead by a lamp on the bedside table. The boy, Lockwood, was sitting on the bed again holding your necklace, but this time he looked at you almost immediately. His hair was a little neater, his eyebags more pronounced.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “Sorry if I disturbed you, I don't… really know how this works.”

You knew he couldn't hear you, but you gave your message again anyway.

“Maybe I should see if George knows how to lip-read,” he chuckled wryly. The sound reminded you of home, wherever that was. Things were still hazy, but part of you had a feeling this was it. Here, with this boy. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I did promise to tell you about him.”

You settled into the space in the corner, allowing Lockwood's low, gentle voice to wash over you. It was incredibly calming. George was his new housemate, he told you, who'd been living here for about a month. It was all very confusing - it had felt like both minutes and years had passed since you were last here and the same before that, but he explained that the other boy had moved into the house in mid-September, and the last time you'd been here was a week ago in late October. Where was all the time going?

“I have no idea whether you experience time when your Source is contained, whether you're aware of what's going on in between or remember things from last time,” he admitted. Source. You knew about those. They were what you'd been looking for that night in that dark old house. A spirit had been tied to it, and you had to seal the Source to get rid of it. But you'd failed and it had found you, and now… your chest tightened at both the memory and the realisation. Nothing felt real because you weren't. You were just a Visitor. You continued to listen numbly as Lockwood kept talking. Not much wonder he'd recoiled when you first appeared, he'd seen what the touch of a ghost had done to you and without knowing you'd almost inflicted the same fate. You vowed in that moment that no matter what, you'd never let that happen.

The next few months saw Lockwood getting you out every chance he got. Bit by bit, he helped restore your memories and did his best to accommodate you even though the two of you couldn't properly communicate. He set up a little daily tear-off calendar on his dresser so you could keep track of how long it had been between visits, and stored his kit bag in the bottom of his wardrobe so you could move more freely around the room. Eventually, you'd come to remember him more. Not just the events from the night you died, but him. Your boyfriend, Anthony. You wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to be a comforting presence, but you knew you couldn't. Not only because you couldn't touch, but because deep down you knew that as much as you treasured being able to keep him in your life (or rather, afterlife), you had to let him go sooner or later and he needed to do the same with you. He'd been followed around by grief since long before you met him, and you hated that you were adding to it. You were just glad to see him slowly improving week by week - his face was a little brighter, and it seemed George was making sure he stayed fed. You'd have to thank the other boy if you ever got chance. Anthony said the two of you would have got along if you'd met in life, and even now George's obsession with the Problem would have made him your biggest fan, but their friendship was too new and besides he wasn't a Listener either so you'd not be able to tell him anything.

“I've got something to show you,” Anthony announced as you materialised one sunny day in late spring. He sat down with a large pink folder and patted the space next to him on the bed. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Come on,” he sighed fondly, “you never had any sense of personal space before, don't start now. Just no hugging.”

You glowed a little brighter and drifted over, your legs disappearing into the mattress until your torso was level with his. Being careful where he positioned his arms, he angled the folder towards you. It was a photo album, labelled in handwriting you recognised as your own. Page by page, he took you through your memories, giving you time to linger on each one: you as a baby, then a toothy toddler with your first pet; your family and childhood friends; Polaroids of your first team in training to become agents. His hands trembled a little as he reached the next section. On the left were four photos: the team you'd transferred to, the one he'd been training with; a slightly blurry action shot of the two of you sparring for the first time; a goofy photo he'd taken of you cartwheeling down a grassy hill after a case; your team all proudly holding their Grade Four licences. On the other side, surrounded by two styles of hand-drawn hearts, was the two of you hugging on the steps of 35 Portland Row, Anthony's lips pressed in a smile against the top of your head. You remembered that sensation well, a frequent occurrence right up until the moment you died. The rest of the album was full of photos of the two of you, ones taken by others and candids you'd snapped of each other. You felt a pang of regret that you'd never get to take any more.

Anthony turned another page. Hold on. You knew for certain there were no more photos. You looked sideways at your boyfriend, and he gave you a bashful smile. Pasted across a double spread was a copy of a certificate from DEPRAC, confirming A.J. Lockwood & Co Investigators as a registered agency. Inspector Barnes, who you vaguely recalled meeting once or twice, had signed as the licensing authority. Anthony and George had put their names down as the founding members. But then underneath that, in Anthony's familiar hand, he had added an extra section. Honorary Member: y/n y/l/n.

He looked at you so lovingly. “We did it, darling.”

You would have reached for his hand if you could.

—

Weeks began to pass before Lockwood got you to visit again. He'd have spent every day with you, but business was good and he owed it to you to make a proper go of it. In the meantime, George talked incessantly about Visitors which gave Lockwood a chance to think about you. Each time he finally got to see you again he'd apologise profusely, and you'd repeat your death loop back to him. He tried so hard to figure out what you were saying - his Sight was good, you were as clear as day and he knew your every quirk and mannerism, but he just couldn't put the movements of your lips to the right sounds.

Everything changed the day he met Lucy Carlyle. From the moment she set foot in his living room, he felt like he was supposed to have met her. The feeling only grew when he gave her the interview tests - plenty of people had passed through, some with better Talents than others, but none had come even close to the Listening abilities of the girl before him. When she spoke of the gentleness she found in his uncle's pen-knife, he knew he had to hire her.

Lucy managed to defy even his high expectations on the Annabel Ward case. He kept his focus on the young woman's spirit hovering at the end of the corridor, rapier levelled in case the details of her aggressive nature were true, but he couldn't help but think of the first day he brought you back and how quickly you'd retreated and shown a level of sentience he'd never expected from a Visitor. Was this poor woman the same? Lucy's eyes were closed, listening intently.

“She's in pain,” she said softly.

“Of course she is, she's dead.”

“No, something's different.”

He was intrigued instantly. “What's different?”

She shushed him. “I can almost…”

Annabel launched forward, sending Lucy crashing through the wooden railing in her attempt to dodge the grasping hand. Déjà vu overwhelmed Lockwood, your pained eyes flashing across his mind as he staggered backwards.

No.

He'd already lived through this once and regretted the outcome every day since. Now was his chance to redeem himself. He sprang towards the ghost, fending her off with his rapier, pulling Lucy from her desperate grip on the picture frame as soon as the coast was clear.

“Did it touch you?” he asked in a panic as she clung to him.

“Course not, I'd be dead.” Didn't he know it. The more she explained how she'd connected with the spirit, the more sure he became. Later, when they experimented with Annabel's necklace and he listened to Lucy describe the scene in such detail, he knew for certain.

“He loves me. You love me, don't you?” Her hand stroked delicately across his cheek, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. For that brief moment, he could pretend it was you, still with him, saying those words. Perhaps with Lucy's help, it could be.

—

It had been a while. The trees outside Anthony's window were tinted a beautiful copper. You couldn't wait to hear his updates this time.

“There's a sadness, but so much love too. She feels very kind.” That wasn't Anthony's voice. Something was wrong. There was a girl sitting beside him on the bed, holding a little pink heart on a chain. Your necklace. You grew defensive, preparing to strike.

The boy looked up and saw you glaring. “It's okay, darling.” The girl followed his gaze. “Lucy, this is y/n, my late girlfriend. Y/n, this is our new associate, Lucy. She's a Listener.” Ah. Finally. You settled back down and took in the girl properly. She was pretty, with a warm brunette bob and a blue jumper which made her eyes pop. She smiled up at you, a genuine friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. Anthony gave her an encouraging nod. You noticed that he seemed a little nervous, but there was also a calmness to him that had been missing for the past year. If that was Lucy's influence, then she was alright in your eyes.

Anthony spoke to you again. “She's brilliant, connected with a Visitor on our last case and I thought maybe she could finally help us figure out what you've been trying to say.” You nodded in agreement, and the girl closed her hand around the necklace.

You weren't sure whether you were in Lucy's head or whether she was in yours. The two of you blended into one as she ventured into your memories. Anthony's room melted away around you, sending you back to that cold dark room. You bristled.

“It's a bit different having her in the room with us,” Lucy murmured, eyes closed. “Let me know if either of you need me to stop.”

Anthony glanced at you, flickering slightly but still present and unagitated. “We're okay, go on.”

Meticulously, she described what you were both experiencing, or in your case reliving. It was hard knowing you were getting closer to the agony all over again, but it was important for your boyfriend to finally have a chance for answers and closure, so you kept the inevitable moving along.

“Anthony?” Lucy said softly, the same way you had. By the look on his face, it seemed he was realising now what you had at the time - that you'd tried to call him and hadn't been loud enough, that if only you'd tried again straight away, maybe you'd still be alive. “Anthony?” she called again. “Anthony!” You heard your own scream echo in your mind, felt the cold grasping your shoulder. The boy reached out and gripped Lucy's free hand, never taking his eyes off you. The gesture was supportive for her, but meant for you too. A tear rolled down his cheek. Lucy's breathing was shallow.

“It hurts,” she gasped, “and she's scared.”

“I should have been there quicker.” His voice was shaking with emotion, barely able to get the words out.

“No, there's no anger. She knew you were coming, and having you there through the end was a comfort.”

Anthony swallowed thickly. “Her death loop. Can you hear it?”

She opened her eyes and watched you as you spoke, the words spilling from her lips a second after.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

The boy broke down, his sobs rattling through the small room. Lucy held out her arms and he folded into them. She threw you an apologetic glance, and you said it again to her. “It's okay. It's not your fault.”

They were still hugging when, with his and your permission, Lucy gently slipped your necklace back into its case.

—

Now that the secret was out, you really did become an honorary member of the agency. Sure, you couldn't exactly contribute to the cases, but other than that the whole team treated you as one of their own. Anthony always waited for your opinion on big decisions, which you could make quite apparent with how happy or angry your energy was. George was absolutely fascinated by you, and took every opportunity to quiz the others on your awareness of various things and how you reacted to his experiments. Lucy often got you out on her own to have another girl to talk to. In return, of course, she'd fill you in on any gossip they came across or funny things that happened on cases that the boys were too embarrassed to tell you about. Through it all, you watched the three of them grow into a little family. Anthony and Lucy especially had clicked with each other; they reminded you of how you and he had been. That realisation filled you with a mixture of relief and melancholy. You loved Anthony so much, all you wanted was for him to be happy, but you'd be lying if you didn't wish it was you putting the light back in his eyes.

He sat you down shortly after New Year. His face was sombre but hopeful, and he fidgeted with his ring. Part of you could already tell what was coming.

“I don't really know how to say this,” he began hesitantly, “but after everything we've been through, you deserve to hear it.” You waited patiently for him to find the words he needed. Really, you had all the time in the world.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “I promised to always love you, and I will still keep that promise until the day I die…” But. There had to be a but. “...but I really care about Lucy too, and I just-” He didn't need to finish the sentence. And technically he was single. And he stood a chance of having a life with her. And she wasn't going to keep him tied to his past and his grief.

“It's okay.” Now he knew what your death loop was, he could tell what you'd said, and the way you'd limited it to just those words was a reminder of how remarkably well you understood everything that was happening. How you were as close to being a person as you could be, how it wasn't close enough.

“Promise?”

You touched the hollow of your neck, where the outline of a little sparkling heart sat against the darkness.

He nodded in understanding and reached for the silver-glass case. “Thank you, darling.”

“It's okay.”

It's not your fault.

#lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #fem!reader #ghost!reader #angst #lockwood and co fic

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