Hi! I am happy that you found your way to my tumblr Page. I am Talia Rumlow, a pen-name given to me by my good friend and writing colleague @kitsuneraven29 . I was born in the amazing year 1983, which probably make me older than you. But worry not, I am young at mind.
I've always loved writing, but it wasn't until Covid landed on earth and shut down the entire world that I found the courage to share my writing. English is my second language, so I needed to build up my confidence before I shared.
I usually write Frank Grillo characters stories. But I'm open to write other characters as well. Yes, I do take requests. But I can't promise you that I'll say yes, or if the character you want me to write about is known to me.
I write explicit, NSFW 18+ content. So, if you're under the age of 18. Please stop reading now. I've warned you, and you are responsible for your own media consumption.
Dividers in my masterlist by @firefly-graphics and @breakablebarnes
You can also find me on AO3, Facebook and Instagram
Home Sweet Home (AU Brock Rumlow/OFC) WIP
Fight For Me (Alvey Kulina/OFC) WIP
Bound & Brockened (Dark Brock Rumlow/OFC) WIP
Strangers With Memories (Original Story) WIP
#Hollywood (AU Celebrity Brock Rumlow/OFC) WIP
You Should Be Punished For That (Jack Rollins/OFC) Coming Soon
Samantha slowly turns away from Calleigh and looks at her brother. Surprise is written all over her face as she raises a well-manicured eyebrow. “Brock!” She says, in a tone Calleigh can’t quite identify. “Can I talk to you for a second?” To be honest she was scared, scared that her brother had rushed into something without considering the consequences. She doesn’t wait for an answer, she just quietly retreats into the living room. Giving her brother a minute.
Brock looks at Calleigh, she simply nods back, signaling that it’s okay for him to go and talk to Sam, and that she was alright. Well, at least she was still alive.
He leaves the door slightly open, and she’s unsure if it’s because he wants her to follow him, or if it’s because he wants her to be able to listen to their conversation. Might be neither, might be something else entirely, might be nothing. Anyway, she’s too shaken up to move, instead she covers herself with the duvet, taking in the scent of him that lingers there. Hoping that Samantha won’t tell anyone.
Brock slowly enters the living room, where Sam’s already on the couch. He takes a deep breath; He knows his sister all too well. This can go one of two ways, either she’ll yell at him, or she’ll understand. With Sam there is no in-between. And there’s no beating around the bush either; the second he sits down, she’ll start to talk. He knows this. Yeah, maybe he had put himself in a situation that would blow up in his face, quite literally. But he loved her, that had to count for something.
He sinks down onto the couch, preparing himself for whatever reprimands would come.
“Sorry for asking,” Sam lets out, slowly turning to face him “but have you lost your mind?” She goes on, not exactly angry, more determined, maybe a bit scared. When Brock doesn’t answer, she continues. “She’s barely twenty years old,”
“21 in December," he corrects her. Yeah, Calleigh was significantly younger than him, but right was right.
“She can’t even buy alcohol, Brock!” Samantha continued, speaking in a hushed tone, that made her words sound more angry than they actually were.
“That never stopped you,” he argued, thinking back to a time long ago, when he was twenty one, and she asked him to buy for her.
“What would Jack say, Brock? Ever thought of that?” She steered the conversation away from the alcohol part, not wanting to delve into that minefield.
“What makes you think he doesn't already know?” Brock tried, but he knew it was futile. Just as futile as trying to stick the pin back into a grenade.
Sam simply looked at him, longer than necessary, before she let out “because you’re still breathing,”. She shook her head in disbelief. “What are you thinking, Brock?” She delivered the words more like a warning than a question. “Sleeping with Jack’s daughter,” she continued.
Brock took a deep breath. Fully aware that he had to say something. He just didn't know what to say, or how to say it. “Could you decide whether or not to fall in love with Michael when you met him?” He finally says. Michael was Sam’s high school sweetheart now husband, and the father of her two boys, Lucas, who was 6 and Aaron who was 7. Getting Sam to tap into her own feelings might save him at least a little bit.
“No,” Sam breathes out, her gaze disappearing into a distant memory for a moment. “Wait, what? You’re in love with her?” Suddenly she’s yanked back into reality. Not that she suspected her brother to be cold or heartless, she knew better. But she would never have guessed that he was in love, and certainly not with Calleigh.
Brock just gives her half a smile. Was he scared of his feelings for Calleigh? Yes. Was he scared that Jack would find out? Also, yes. Was he going to back out? No chance in hell.
Again Sam studies him, she knows her brother. She can tell if he’s telling the truth. She can see in his eyes if he’s in love or not. And right now, his feelings were radiating off him. Almost like his eyes had regained some of the spark that was missing when he returned from Afghanistan. She couldn’t help but smile. “That’s amazing, Brock! I’m so happy for you,” she beams, giving her brother a loving pat on his head. “And her,” she gestures towards the bedroom.
“Thank you,” he lets out a relieved breath. It felt good to have Sam on his side. To know that he had someone to talk to about all this. “She,” he starts, but stops again, unsure if it was wise to discuss this with Calleigh in the next room. And with the age difference, the fact that she was Jack’s daughter.
Usually he found it easy to open up to Sam, she was his sister, and one of his best friends. She even knew when and to whom he lost his virginity. It was just.. Maybe he was just scared. This thing was so intense, so real. Yeah, it scared him. Calleigh had the power to destroy him, shatter him. But he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.
“What?” Sam nudges, giving her brother that loving sisterly look, that look that say ‘you can tell me anything, I’ll be supportive’.
He cannot not tell her. Maybe it’ll help a bit too, to voice everything. To put his emotions into words, in front of someone other than his therapist. Not that he didn’t like his therapist, but she was paid to listen to him. Sam was not. Sam listened because she genuinely cared for him. And he should be able to share too. God knows Calleigh did. She probably told Molly and Jessica just about everything. Size and all. Not that it bothered him, he had nothing to be ashamed of.
“I haven’t had one single nightmare since I kissed her..,” he finally said. Enjoying the smile his sister’s sending him. It felt good. Better than good. With Calleigh he felt relatively normal. But that was now. He didn’t know what would happen once he told her everything. He hoped not, but he couldn’t know if she would see him the way Taylor had. He couldn’t know that, and that scared him more than he cared to admit. With Taylor the nightmares felt worse, because she didn’t care, most of the time she even added fuel to the fire. So he had grown accustomed to hiding it, not speaking about it. Carrying the burden alone. It felt like punishment, punishment because he hadn’t saved them, punishment for surviving, punishment for his lying, punishment. Sometimes, after waking up, if he closed his eyes, he could see them, their faces, half buried in the sand, blood streaking their faces, begging him to save them, and sometimes, sometimes asking why he hadn’t. Especially Miles, Miles haunted his dreams. Haunted him from time to time. It might just be in his head, but he swore, he swore that Miles visited him, yelling at him for lying to him. He could hear his voice, yelling about why he never got the chance to propose, have children or get that degree he wanted. It was hard, no doubt. But this had been going on for the better part of 14 years. He was used to it. Or so he told himself.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Mansfield, Texas October 2021
He’s awakened by his own screams, soaked in sweat. It feels like he just ran a marathon, his heart beats a million beats per second, and he can still hear the desperate screams and the sound of the explosion in his head. The emotions and the memories are overwhelming, sticking their thorns into every fiber of him.
When he finally realizes that he’s awake, safe and home in his bed, he starts the hard task of slowing his breathing down. That’s no easy feat, his whole body hurts, all the way out to his toes.
He turns to his right, expecting to see Taylor’s blonde hair on the pillow next to him. Hoping he could snug into her, using her scent to anchor himself in the present. But she’s not there.
Slowly he lifts his head, and there she is, standing beside the bed, a blanket around her. She’s staring at him, annoyed, no angry as it seems. Not an ounce of concern in sight on her part. No sign that she wants to help him or comfort him. It’s just anger. The anger he knows all too well.
“What is wrong with you?” Taylor hisses at him. Her eyes are totally devoid of any emotion.
Maybe she’s scared. He should explain to her that this is normal; you come home from deployment after being away from your home, your family and everything you’ve ever known. Just for PTSD to set in, to stick its claws into you, tormenting you. You suddenly wish you were back out there in the desert; because then people wouldn’t look at you like you were a crazy person. Like the look he was getting right now.
Not that he expected her to understand, or even listen, this wasn’t his first nightmare. He opens his mouth to at least try to make her understand, but she cuts him off.
“Seriously! This is the third time in a week you have woken me up screaming like this; it’s the middle of the night. Don’t you care you’re keeping me awake?” She’s yelling at him. She doesn't even seem to care that this is causing him to lose sleep as well. “You’re inconsiderate, Brock! No care at all for my health; I’m not getting enough sleep because of this!” She’s talking through stiff lips, not even trying to listen to what he might have to say. She has no regard for his well-being at all.
To be honest, he’s sick of this. How can she expect his nightmares to go away when she keeps creating new ones? Anyway, all he can do now is to try to defuse the situation at hand. “T–Tay, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough week, the anniversary and all…,” Actually the whole month of October was a living nightmare. But she didn’t need to know that. She didn't care anyway.
He desperately tries to stay calm, but the adrenaline from the memories is still pumping through his veins from the nightmare. The way she stands over him, scowling, isn’t helping at all. If anything, it makes it worse. He feels panic rising in his chest, taking a deep shuttering breath as he tries to remember the breathing exercises the V.A. therapist suggested.
“The anniversary,” Taylor hisses. “The anniversary. Get. Over. It,” she continues. Looking down at him like he was a mental patient. “You’re back home now; you’re with me! You should be past all of this,” she continues, portraying herself as some form of saving grace for struggling soldiers. Like just being with her would take all the pain and all the memories away. “I thought you soldiers were supposed to be strong,” she goes on, and Brock knows what’s coming. “You’re supposed to protect me, Brock! That’s what real men do. How am I supposed to trust that you can when you constantly act like this?” Her voice rising as she speaks, the last word hits him like a bullet. Close range, painful, direct hit. She truly didn’t care, she had no care in the world that she was kicking an already wounded man.
He takes a deep breath, struggling to find the words to explain to her why he’s like this. Why this is happening. He’s been trying for a while, but every time he tries, the words fail him, or she doesn’t have time to listen to his ‘problems’. If he’s honest with himself, she doesn’t seem to care at all. Maybe it’s just too hard for her to take? What he’s been through and seen, it’s… gruesome. And he understands that’s not everyone’s cup of tea; the counselor at the V.A., a Marine Veteran, needed a break after he was done sharing.
It’s easy to say get over it, because they weren’t there; they didn’t see what he did; they didn’t do the things he did, the things he can never take back; they don’t have blood on their hands like he does. God he wished she could just understand that all he wanted was for the nightmares to stop. He thought he would have support from Taylor, that she would help him work through this. After all she was the one who bragged about him to everyone she knew, calling him hero left and right. Was she really this misinformed? Even pre-schoolers understood that heroism came with a price.
Finally he manages to toss the covers off and get out of bed. He moves straight to the task of changing the sheets. This wasn’t his first nightmare, he knew what she wanted him to do. And he really didn't want her to yell at him again.
She simply observes him for a bit, before she turns to leave the bedroom.
“Where are you going, sweetness?” He asks, with the most loving voice he can muster right now.
“I’m getting a glass of water,” she replies, simply. Not asking if he needs anything. “You can sleep on the couch for the rest of the night, I can’t stand to be woken up again,” she continues, before adding “Just change the sheets first, they are soaked in sweat, and they smell,”
Brock does the same as he’s done twice this week already; and several times before that. It's becoming second nature by this point. He tossed the saturated sheets in the dirty laundry basket, hauling them straight into the bathroom to the washer to avoid that argument. Even though he’s exhausted and wants to lay back down, future Brock will thank him.
Then he locks the bathroom door and gets into the shower. The sweat and pain in his body make him cold. He needs to take a long hot shower and then go and sleep on the couch. For the third time this week. Why won't she listen to him? Why is she refusing to understand?
Brock leans his forearms against the wall, his forehead resting against his hands as the warm water hits his skin; he closes his eyes. He can see them, all of them. Especially the young ones. All dead now, everyone died that day. Young boys, barely eighteen, trusting him to keep them safe. Now all that was left of them was a stone in a row of hundreds; he failed; he failed them all. Why did he survive? Why does he get to go on living?Why did God choose him out of all of them? Why not Duke, who had a son? Or Miles who had a purpose, he wanted to be a teacher, he had a girl back home, and a ring. He talked about it non stop, could hardly wait to get back home and pop the question. So why did he survive? What did he have to give to the world? What was his purpose in life?
He couldn't stop the tears from trickling down his cheeks; he felt them pressing the second Taylor started to yell at him. But if there’s one thing he’ll never do again, it’s cry in front of her. The last time he allowed himself to be vulnerable, she gave him a long-winded speech about how real men weren’t supposed to cry, and of course that sentiment that she couldn’t trust him to be able to protect her when he acted like a weak pathetic loser. He wanted to care for her, keep her safe and protected. He wanted to make her happy, and make her feel appreciated. So he held his tears back after that. If he could, he would hold back his nightmares too, but that was outside of his control. Maybe Taylor was right. Maybe he was weak, after all he was standing in the shower, crying, in the middle of the night. Maybe he should be over it by now, and maybe he should be more thankful that he survived.
He just didn't know how to.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
“Hey, you went somewhere,” Sam’s voice brings Brock out of his vivid memory. Her brows pinched in concern. She knew about the memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares all too well. How hard certain times could be, and how much effort it took for him to force himself through regardless.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he replied, too fast, it came out too fast. He cleared his throat and rubbed his face. He was fine, it was just those damned nightmares. And he knew that Sam would talk him into telling Calleigh about them.
“Have you told her?” She asks, placing her hand on his shoulder. She was already fully aware that he hadn’t. And she knew why.
She knows how hard it’s been for Brock; he’s come so far since coming home. He’s built the garage from the ground up, through himself into the work; it was apparent he was running from something. They all assumed it was the war; but he never talked about it. He did see a therapist, several over the years, so she never pushed. Maybe a bit in the beginning, but she quickly learned that that only led to him pulling away. But no matter how much time they gave him, he seemed to just sink, not opening up to anyone. The spinal pain, flashbacks, countless sleepless nights and all the medication helped to wear him down; yet he never stopped.
And then there was Taylor.
What she did to Brock was almost worse than both Iraq and Afghanistan combined; that might be dramatic, but Samantha did not like Taylor one damn bit. When Brock had introduced her to them, on one of their weekly family dinners, Samantha recognized something cold and uninviting in that she-devil's eyes, it gave her the heebie-jeebies, and she kept her distance to the hell creature. Talking to her brother about it was futile, since the viper had already sunken her claws into Brock, and for whatever reason, he loved her, or well, the version of herself she made up to trap him. She remembers several times when she wanted to smack her brother in the face and tell him to wake the f up and to see that woman for who she truly was. But he was looking through rose-colored glasses.
She never smacked him, instead she did what any good sister would do; she was supportive, listened when he needed an ear and gave advice after advice she knew he wasn’t going to take. Eventually he saw for himself, and when she finally got the call to go and retrieve his things, she was happy. Brock deserved so much more than narcissistic Taylor. Brock deserved someone who could see him, understand him, maybe even protect him. Even Brock needed protection from time to time, though he would never admit that.
With Taylor it was always the Taylor show, and the few times it wasn’t, she made Brock’s life a living hell. Taylor loved that Brock was a United States Army Veteran; she loved the attention that got her. But what she didn’t like was the things you couldn’t see; because behind the medals, the benefits, the free coffees, the on the house beers; a Veterans life was one battle after another. Brock had come out fairly well. Samantha knew a couple of the guys who used to go to the V.A. Good guys, heroes, who’s lives were in ruins. How anyone could take advantage of that was beyond her.
“I haven’t even told her about my nightmares,” he replies, still looking into nothing. He’s lost in his feelings, his insecurities. How will Calleigh react if he tells her. Will she be afraid? Maybe she won’t even share a bed with him again. After Taylor he swore that he’d never fall in love again. But then…
“You should tell her,” Sam informs him. Yes, it might be hard. But it was Calleigh, she grew up with this, she knew about this. “You need to tell her,” she continued. Because he did. And she knew that he also knew that. He just needed a little push. “Having PTSD and nightmares does not make you less of a man,” she added, firmly. She knew all too well how he was made to feel otherwise.
When Brock didn’t reply, she went on. “What if something happens, and she doesn't know? What if she tries to wake you up?” She might be overstepping. But she needed to say this. “Brock! You could seriously hurt her, and I can tell right now; that would kill you Brock,” her voice softens “You’ll never forgive yourself, Brock,” she repeated the last part. To knock it into his head.
“I..,” He started, but then he stopped. Dragging his hand over his face as he plays the different scenarios in his head.
“Hey, Brock,” Sam says softly. “I know it’s scary,” she continues, placing her hand on his shoulder again. “But I think she really loves you, and I don’t think that’ll change if you tell her this,” she looked at her brother. “Maybe she even knows already,” she added.
Brock swallows, looking back at his sister. He knows she’s right. But.. just.. how? How is he supposed to say this to Calleigh. Should he tell her how Taylor reacted as well? Should he wait until he actually has a nightmare? Oh, who is he kidding? Sam is right. He could seriously hurt her. Even if she probably already knew a thing or ten about this because of Jack, the experience was something totally different when you were right next to the person.
“Calleigh is not Taylor,” Sam tells him firmly, moving her hand to his knee. “She’s nothing like Taylor,” she continued. She feels so bad for him. What he went through with that woman. Samantha doesn’t even have a word for it. That thing broke Brock down piece by piece. And Brock did an amazing job building himself back up. She was so damn proud of him for that. She wanted him to be happy, but at the same time she understood how hard it was to open up again. Taylor had shown him how cruel love could be. And it was hard to recover from that.
“I know that — I do know that, Sam,” Brock’s body stiffened. “It’s just hard, you know,” he went on. “How do you tell someone ‘hey if I wake up screaming, don’t touch me; I might break your arm’,” he huffs, leaning back and taking a deep shaky breath fighting the tears that threatened to unleash themselves. It wasn’t just from the fact that he had to tell her, or the overwhelming feelings he had for her. It was everything. Jack, Calleigh, the fact that he felt he had to conceal everything from the people he loved and cared for. And then, now, with Sam knowing. It was just a tiny bit too much at once.
“I wish I knew, Brock; I truly do,” Sam looks at him. It absolutely breaks her heart to see him struggle like this. She longed back to when they were younger, before he was deployed. They used to talk about everything. After Afghanistan, all of that changed. It was like a part of him was still over there, out of reach for her. “You know,” she started, carefully, knowing that her next words would shift the conversation. “You are allowed to cry,” she informed him, reaching out to try to ground him, but he abruptly stood up.
“I know that, Samantha,” he snapped, immediately regretting it. He even used her full name, and not Sam, like he usually did. It was just… It wasn’t like he feared his family would abandon him if he showed weakness. It was more about him wanting to be the big brother, the protector, the caretaker. A role he embraced pretty early on, and something he felt was expected of him. Not that anyone ever said it, he just felt that was his job.
Samantha gradually stood up as well; she knew she had overstayed her welcome. It would be impossible to push further. Every single time she or anyone else for that matter mentioned crying to Brock, he shut entirely down. She knew she just screwed up, again. She walked out into the hall. “Will you call mom, Brock, please?” She said as she put her feet into her shoes.
“Yeah, Sam! I’ll call her,” he replies, then he hears the door opening, and then closes again behind his sister.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Calleigh stays under the duvet even after she hears the door closing. She felt that Brock might need a few minutes. She hadn’t heard much of the conversation, other than Brock snapping to his sister just before she left. They had been talking in hushed voices, and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing; she suspected the worse. She always did, it was safer. And given Brock’s voice at the end, it both felt and sounded like it was bad. But, she’s thankful it wasn’t her father who rang the doorbell, at least that was something.
“Hungry?” Brock’s voice sounds from the door.
Her head snaps in his direction. He looks tired, and deep in thoughts, but it looks like he’s trying to hide it, and she doesn’t like that, she doesn’t like that at all.
“You want breakfast in bed?” He continues, an amused grin dances on his lips. The thought of having breakfast in bed with Calleigh filled him with happiness, a feeling he really needed right now.
When she doesn’t answer right away, he enters the room and props down on the edge of the bed. He feels Calleigh crawling up behind him, but she’s not reaching out. He’s not moving; needs a second to gather his thoughts.
Man how she wished she knew what Samantha said to him. Brock’s family was nice and all, she knew them well, or well, she knew them. They were always invited to the lake house for the 4th of July, and she can vaguely remember Jack babysitting for Samantha at least once. But this was different; this wasn’t a normal situation. And she feared that Samantha had made Brock realize that.
She wants to ask, but she can’t seem to find the right words. Maybe she should wait for him to talk, use these silent moments to brace herself for what would come.
“Princess,” he whispered, turning to face her, then he gently cupped her face, leaning in for a kiss. Perhaps too fast, but he felt he kinda just had to jump into this. Get it over with. Rip the bandaid off. So she could decide fast, what she wished to do once she was informed of the situation.
She tries to read his eyes as he leans his forehead into hers when he breaks the kiss. There’s a sadness there, mixed with something else that she can’t place. And that scares her. She can almost feel her heart breaking already.
“I…,” He starts, letting the sound linger for a second before he continues. “I need to…,” he breathed. Get it together, Brock! He told himself. “I need to tell you something,” he finally said. Now, there was no way back, no backing out. He had to lay it all on the table. If she left, she left, there was nothing he could do about that.
He tucked a stray hair away from her face, a soft touch that almost made her more afraid. His eyes flickers away from hers for a second, not long at all, but long enough for her to notice. What if this was it. What if he was doing these things to let her down easy, to make the pain easier to bear.
What the hell should he say? How is he going to tell her this? He has absolutely no clue, and just the thought of inadvertently hurting her makes tears force their way to the surface. To voice those words… It was scary to cry in front of people. Because what would they think of him if he did? He couldn't know if they would react like Taylor had, talk to him like Taylor had. He didn’t know that.
“Brock,” she lets out his name with a shaky breath. This is it. This has to be the conclusion of it all. Why else would he be so nervous? She is too young for him. She is his best friend's daughter. So yeah, it’s probably right of him to call it quits.
“Hey, Princess,” he sends her a soft smile. “What’s wrong?” He continued, placing a soft comforting kiss on her forehead before wrapping her in a hug. None of them are saying anything more, he just holds her close. Comforting both her and himself.
He lies down on his side, gesturing for her to do the same, happy when she does. Slowly lacing his fingers with hers, he needed her close, needed to feel her. He didn’t understand why, but it felt easier to be next to her, looking at her when he spoke about this. He still had no idea what to say though.
“I… I need you to do me a favor,” he started, but that felt wrong. “Calleigh,” he let out, as to wipe the slate clean, erase the previous words, start over. It wasn’t a favor he needed, this was something she had to know, had to do. And something he had to tell, no matter how hard it was or what consequence it might have. He had to tell her.
Jesus! He was the man in this relationship, not only that, he was significantly older than her too. He should be the one to protect her, not the other way around. She shouldn’t have to deal with this, with him. She deserved more, so much more. God damn, so much more.
“Mmmm,” She hums in reply. Scared to talk too much, afraid her voice will crack under pressure. She’s still trying to figure out what comes next, what he’s trying to say, and why it’s so hard for him. She did get nosy this morning; she probably looked at things she shouldn’t have, probably overstepped a line. And then there’s Jack, and then there’s the age difference, and then there’s the inexperience. There’s a million reasons for this not to work out. A billion reasons.
“If I…,” he starts, but it feels wrong. Every way of saying this feels wrong. What if she tells him that this is too much? That he is too much? Fuck, he should’ve come clean from the very first second. Before he slept with her. This just made it so much harder.
“If you ever wake up..,” he tried again. Fuck this. Every way sounds stupid. Weak, pathetic and fucking stupid. He just wants to protect her, protect her from everything, even him. She saw him as a hero, he knew the story she grew up with. He was aware. He didn’t feel like a hero, he didn’t feel like a hero at all. Far from it.
She moves a bit closer, trying to offer at least some comfort. It’s obvious he wants to tell her something, but it sounds like he can’t find the right words. Maybe she should tell him that it’s okay, whatever it is, it’s okay. “Brock,” she whispers, letting her hand glide through his hair.
Brock clears his throat again, looking into her eyes, she looks worried and that absolutely breaks him. He has to tell her. Because this; him not saying anything business, that scares her, and the last thing he wanted to do was to scare her. He has to tell, no matter what will happen next.
“If I ever have a nightmare when you’re around..,” the words spill over his lips rapidly, like he’s trying to get it over with as fast as possible. He looks away from her. Too afraid to see, too afraid to know.
Nightmares! Fucking nightmares. Taylor was probably right; no one will ever love him. Because no one falls in love with someone as weak and pathetic as him. No one could love a soldier who couldn’t save his comrades, and absolutely no one could stand a soldier who couldn’t let that go. Loser, that was what he was. A weak and pathetic loser, who got recognition he hadn’t earned, medals he didn't deserve, and who had to live out his miserable life knowing that.
Anyway, there was no turning back now. All he could do was to cling on to whatever little hope there was; that she would understand, that she wouldn’t get up and leave.
She looks at him, he’s still refusing to look into her eyes. Is he going to reveal his nightmares? She saw the medication, he knows that. So he knows that she knows. Maybe it’s worse than she thinks. How will she react then? What should she say to him? It’s not like she can tell him that it’s okay, because she knew it wasn’t; she had witnessed her fathers screams, she knew it wasn’t okay. She understood how painful it had to be, how hard, how exhausting. What if he doesn’t want to sleep next to her anymore? God, what on earth was she thinking. Brock needed someone so much stronger than her. She was still a child. A broken child. Brock needed someone whole, someone capable of shielding him, someone capable of helping him. Without even realizing, she closes her eyes and takes a deep shaky breath.
“You need to promise me,” he said, empathizing the word ‘promise’. “Whatever happens, no matter how scared you are, no matter what I do, no matter how much you want to,” he goes on, moving through every possible scenario in his head. “Don’t, I mean that, do not try to wake me up. I might…,” he lets the sentence die out. He can’t bring himself to voice those words. ‘I might hurt you’; it was just too hard to say. He didn't even want to think about it. It was too damn hard, his heart shatters just from the thought of it.
“I know,” she murmurs into his hair. “I know, Brock,” she went on. Finally understanding what he was trying to say, and how hard it must have been. Without even thinking she wraps an arm around him, inching closer. She knew how hard it was. She had been ripped out of her sleep multiple times by her fathers screams; thinking back she can almost feel her fists throbbing from her desperate pounding on his door. She knew she couldn’t enter, knew it could lead to things nobody wanted. She remembers; when Jack sat her down to inform her about what not to do if that happened. She remembers; how her grandparents had hushed conversations about how her father had changed after everything. God, she remembers.
“I know..,” she repeated, burying her face into his shoulder, taking in that strong safe scent that is him. “I know what could happen,” she whispered, placing a soft kiss in the dip of his shoulder. “And I know that you would never do it on purpose,” she added with another soft kiss, offering whatever little comfort and reassurance she could.
It couldn’t have been easy for him to bring this up, she could tell from his tense shoulders and shuddering breaths. She’s proud of him for telling her, for opening up. Even if he didn’t say it directly, it was evident that he needed reassurance; that he needed her to be the strong one right now. And she was going to grant him that; he didn’t need to be the strong one all the time. That must be so exhausting. She wanted him to understand that he could rest with her, that she would allow him to be himself; that she didn't want to fix him, she wanted to know every scar, that she loved him, scars and all.
“Thank you,” she steadied her voice, lifting her head to look at him. “For telling me,” she reassured him.
Brock lets out a shuttering breath, forcing his tears back. How could he be so lucky to meet someone like Calleigh? How did someone like that even exist? What had he done to deserve someone like her?
When Brock didn’t show any signs of meeting her eyes, she decided to take it up a notch. “It’s okay, Brock,” she breathed, nodding her head slightly even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m not going anywhere,” she added, hoping that he would dare to look at her. That he believed her. That he trusted her enough to meet her eyes.
“I love you, Calleigh,” he finally whispers, uttering her name like a prayer. Then he gradually lifted his head to look at her. “I love you so, so much,” he said as their eyes finally met. It felt good to open up about this, to know that she didn't leave. To feel her moving closer instead. It felt so God damn good to let that burden go.
She feels like her heart is breaking from the knowledge that he thought her reaction to this would have been different. Why would he think that? Had someone made him believe that having nightmares somehow made him unlovable? This would have been the perfect time to say ‘I love you’, but those words were still lodged in her throat like a painful lump; instead she leaned into him, pressing her lips against his.
TRIGGERS: Violence, Strong language, emotions, family drama, depression
CHAPTER THREE - WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS!
Alyssa places her bag in the back of the Van, then she leans against it, squinting against the sun. Just what the hell is she getting herself into. This whole thing feels like it’s spiraling out of control. The gym is about to go bankrupt, Nate is finding illegal fights; and still, after a whole week with training, he still didn’t have his guard up. Alvey wouldn’t let Wheeler fight; and even if she both knew and understood why, with the way things were going it was a terrible idea. And Jay; well Jay was in a league of his own. It was impossible to know what disaster would come next.
“Ready?” Nate's voice rips her out of her thoughts as he tosses his bag down, next to hers.
Alyssa just looks at him. He had put in exceptional work over the last week, but it still wasn’t enough, and now she felt like a failure. Not only that, she was scared out of her mind to send him into the cage when things were like this. And then there was Alvey. Alvey who had hardly spoken to her over the last week. It was only barking orders and a couple of fuck you’s during the million fights they’ve had.
“You can still back out,” she almost whispers. She didn’t want him to think she saw him as weak. But at the same time she needed him to understand her concern for him. It didn't help that she had seen fighters enter the cage in worse shape. God knows she knew. But Nate was different. Soft, still a fighter, but soft.
“And what will he think of me then?” He almost tosses the question at her. He had worked his fucking ass off these last few days. But it wasn't good enough. His balance was still off, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself for being weak, a failure, not good enough. Half of the time he felt that he didn’t even deserve to carry the Kulina name.
Alyssa takes a deep breath. “Don’t think like that,” she breathes out. “You are good enough, Nathaniel,” she continues. She knows it won’t help, but maybe, just maybe, if she said it enough times it would. Or maybe if she got Alvey to say it. Or at least get them to talk to each other.
Nate opens his mouth to say something. But he’s cut off by Alvey.
“Morning,” he says, simply.
Nate opens the backdoor and climbs into the car. Then he puts his headphones on and leans back against the seat. He was happy that Alyssa was back. She was the only one who actually understood him, even though he hadn't told her that yet. But she was also the only one who unraveled Alvey in a way that made everything else so much worse. It was easy with Lisa. Her and Alvey fought, then it calmed down. With Alyssa around Alvey was in a constant state of anxiety, and Alyssa didn’t even notice it. Of course that might be because this was how she knew him. He had always been like this around her. And now, she was going to spend the weekend with them in Fresno. If he were to be honest, he was more afraid about that than the fight.
“Alvey,” Alyssa stops him, before he can enter the car. “I don’t like this. We shouldn’t do this,” she continues. Looking at him with that stern look she always gets when she knows something will turn into a fight, vocal or otherwise.
“What do you want me to do?” He replies, leaning against the car, trying to look and sound casual. If he shows her that he has doubts, she’ll win, and that’s simply not an option.
“Gee Alvey,” she almost laughs at him. “Talk to him maybe,” she continues. “Have a conversation with your son,” her voice slightly elevated as she placed her hand on his shoulder, pushing his right side against the car.
Alvey doesn’t reply right away, instead he just looks at her hand on his shoulder, before he meets her eyes. “We talk,” he finally says.
“Yeah, about diets, sleep schedules and weight,” she almost spits at him. It’s not like she wants to be mad at him, or to start a fight. But this whole Fresno thing is just wrong, and she hates being scared. She truly hates it. “This last week I’ve spent more time with Nate than you have over the last year,” the words come out sharp, meant to cut deep.
Alvey’s jaw tightens, his fists clench. But he doesn't say anything. There’s nothing to say, and she’s right. Ally is right. He hasn’t been the father of the year. But there was no way in hell he would admit that to her. There was no way in fucking hell that he would allow her to just waltz into his gym and fuck him around like this.
“We’re leaving,” he informed her, then he got into the car.
Alyssa huffs. God Damnit. She tries not to look at Alvey as she gets into the passenger seat. Instead she turns to Nate, places her hand on his knee to get his attention.
He looks up at her, looks like he’s trying to turn the whole world off. God how she wished to truly understand what he hid behind that hard exterior.
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The location they are staying at promotes itself as a hotel, yet calling it a motel might be more appropriate. Beyond a dining room that has clearly seen better times and a bar that Ally would undoubtedly check out later; the label of hotel feels far removed from both the inside and outside of this establishment.
“Kulina!” Alvey informs the lady at the reception desk. Knowing very well what will happen next. Ally will definitely not like what’s coming, but this time he was prepared. He would never admit it out loud, but he had rehearsed this inevitable conversation in his head multiple times this last week.
He can see it in her eyes the second he gets the key; and even if he came prepared this time, his heart still beats a bit faster. It was undoubtedly harder to fight with Ally without the make-up-sex; honestly, it felt like she felt the same way. Fuck this! Why did she have to come back into his life? Things had been fine without her. Not great, but fine, well at least easier.
“Where is my key?” Ally hears her own voice before she realizes that she’s asking. With the way things had transpired over the last week Alvey couldn’t seriously expect her to stay in the same room as them.
When he simply flashes her the one key, her heart sinks. This would never work. This was destined to blow up, and it would not end well, it would so not end well. “Seriously?” She lets out, in disbelief.
“In case you haven’t noticed, the gym hasn’t exactly been a goldmine lately,” he simply replies as he moves towards the stairs.
She can feel the anger building inside her, but for now, she manages to suppress it. “It never crossed your mind to ask me?” She’s not quite sure if the question was about money or whether or not she was okay with this arrangement. It doesn’t matter anyway. None of them had any money for an extra room, and she wasn’t about to sleep in the van.
“If you had any money you wouldn't have taken this job,” he simply replied. Knowing damned well that Ally would never have returned to Navy St. If she had a choice. It wasn’t like he looked forward to sharing a room with her the entire weekend; or maybe he did, he hadn’t quite agreed with himself on that. It didn’t matter anyway; this was the way it had to be. There simply wasn’t any money for better accommodations.
Alyssa shuts her eyes and breathes in deeply. This was a truth she wasn't yet ready to accept. Her life had never been about great wealth, but being part of the sinking ship that was Navy St. was far worse. Just two nights, she kept telling herself. Two nights with Alvey? Who knows what could happen. She had to find every bit of willpower to endure this. And even if she did, it likely wouldn't change anything. Damn. Her. Life.
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The sun hangs high in the sky as the weigh-ins approach. Ally has done everything within her power. She prepared Nate for this fight, but she also tried to persuade him to reconsider. A sense of dread looms over her. A deep, unsettling dread. It’s not that she lacks confidence in Nate; she truly believes in him. He’s a skilled fighter, and with the right training—and if he can recover from that head injury—he could potentially rival Alvey. Yet, the timing… it just isn’t right. Nate’s moment isn’t now, not today, not this weekend. Despite her efforts, that persistent feeling that something terrible is on the horizon refuses to fade away.
The weigh-ins remain unchanged. On either side stands a fighter, flanked by their entourage. In the center, the promoter and the scale take their place. And, of course, the crowd is there too. Ally scans the faces in the audience, and the unsettling sensation in her stomach intensifies. "Alvey," she whispers, nudging him gently. "Even the crowd feels off," she adds. "So off that I regret wearing this outfit," she gestures to her attire, a white miniskirt paired with her black Navy St t-shirt. Her tone is sharp, perhaps too sharp, but desperation seeps through her words. Nate hasn’t stepped on the scale yet; they could still make a run for it. Face whatever consequences await them and just leave. In fact, they could even bolt after the weigh-in. All she needed to do was to get Alvey onboard.
Her gaze finally settled on the opponent. She examined him from head to toe, feeling that familiar unease creep back in. He appeared to be significantly heavier than Nate, perhaps 8 or even 10 pounds more. She nudged Alvey again while reaching for Nate’s wrist. "Seriously, Alvey?" Her eyes bore into him, compelling him to focus on her. "This guy?" she continued, her voice escalating. "He’s at least 8 pounds over, for sure,"
Alvey grasped her wrist firmly. "We wait and see," he nearly spat. Yes, she was likely correct. But this was neither the time nor the place to lose her composure. This particular conversation would not unfold here. He would be willing to discuss it once they were back in the room. Well, perhaps not willingly, but he could engage in the topic. Just not here, and definitely not now.
Nate steps onto the scale. Ally is filled with anxiety, not about Nate’s weight, but rather the other guy’s. This situation is bound to go south, it just has to.
"Exactly 154.3," the promoter announces into the microphone.
Ally inhales deeply, attempting to silence the relentless alarm blaring in her mind.
Alvey gives her a reassuring pat on the back. He senses her tension, and if he’s being honest, he’s not entirely at ease himself. But he won’t let her see that. The simplest way to mask his own worries is to uplift her. "You did great," he assures her.
She looks at him, her expression serious. "I really don’t like this, Alvey," she confesses. Yes, he could be obstinate—he definitely was—but so was she. There was no way she would back down now. If anything were to go wrong with Nate, she would hold herself responsible; and she was determined to prevent that from happening.
Nate returns just as the opponent steps onto the scale. Ally gives him a reassuring pat on the back, saying, "Good job," but her focus is on the man about to weigh in.
"Weighing in at 163.1," announces the promoter, igniting a frenzy in the crowd.
Ally glances back at Alvey, her eyes narrowing. Having witnessed enough dubious fights, she recognizes that the uproar signals an impending unfair match. And if there's one thing a shady crowd relishes more than the fight itself, it's a dirty brawl. "That’s too much," she hisses through clenched teeth. "Alvey," she warns. "That is too much," she reiterates before striding toward the promoter.
"He’s fucking..." she begins, but Alvey seizes her wrist, prompting her to jerk her arm away. "9 pounds over!" she shouts at the promoter. "9 fucking pounds," she continues, her voice laced with anger as she struggles to mask her fear. She knows this is a reckless move, and in a legitimate fight, she would be dismissed; yet, in a real, fair match, being 9 pounds over would have halted it before it even started.
"So he’s a bit over. No big deal," the promoter, a short, bald man with a beer belly, shrugs dismissively. That alone should signal to Alvey that they are in a precarious situation.
"You fucking..." Ally is on the verge of lunging at the promoter, her fist clenched and ready to strike.
Alvey intervenes, his arm entwined with hers. "Not good for business," he hisses. Did he want to take a swing at the guy? Absolutely. But that could wait; for now, his top priority was to extricate Ally from this mess without causing too much of a scene.
"Control your woman!" the promoter spits in their direction.
"Fuck you, you st..." Ally starts, but Nate steps in front of her. She huffs in frustration, yet she knows he’s right. This isn’t the right moment or place for a confrontation. Alvey is correct as well; it wouldn’t bode well for business.
Despite her urge to set the entire place on fire, she turns away and exits, flanked by Alvey and Nate.
Alvey attempts to soothe her multiple times on their journey back to the room, but she continually brushes him off. If he wanted to act foolishly, that was his choice. However, she was Nate’s medic, and he was her duty. She needed to advise him to step back, leave, and find some girl instead. Just not engage in a fight.
Nate trails behind them, merely watching the drama unfold. This situation was doomed to fail. The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a knife. There was no doubt that Alvey and Ally would end up in bed together again. Then the whole cycle would begin anew—fighting and passion spiraling into infidelity and her eventual departure. The only solace he found at the moment was that they all shared a room, so at least they wouldn’t be sleeping together this weekend.
As they finally arrive at the room after what seems like an endless journey, Alyssa snatches her bag and heads straight for the bathroom. She simply can't handle this situation right now; if things escalate any further, she and Alvey might end up in a physical confrontation, and she was all too aware of how that would turn out. A long, cold shower was exactly what she needed; hopefully, by the time she returned, the atmosphere would have settled.
The bathroom appeared to have lost its charm two decades ago. The ceiling was adorned with prefinished boards, white but marred by unfriendly black spots that she suspected were mold lurking over the shower. The floor was covered in white tiles, while the walls were painted a mint green, with patches of beige paint peeking through near the sink where the paint had been chipped away, likely from water splashes. Although she was accustomed to environments like this—having spent part of her childhood in similar places—she could never truly appreciate them. It made her feel like a sex worker or a criminal, someone entangled in shady dealings. Well, in a way, that was somewhat accurate this time, even if she was trying her hardest to change that.
She glances at her reflection in the mirror; at least it’s clean. The image staring back at her fills her with disdain. That uncertain, frightened expression—she detested it. It didn’t represent who she was. She was accustomed to being in command. She understood how to manage herself, how to safeguard her own well-being. Alvey had instilled that in her, and she had thrived. She aimed to be self-sufficient, resilient, and capable of steering every circumstance. The lack of control infuriated her; this situation required the agreement of both Alvey and Nate before any change could occur. "Damnit, Ally," she mutters to her reflection.
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Alvey fills the kettle with water and switches it on before grabbing one of the bowls nearby. He adds oatmeal and protein powder to the bowl, then fills it with water and mixes everything together before handing it to Nate. "You need to eat something," he says to him.
Damn, how does Ally manage to unravel him in every conceivable way? Typically, women were straightforward; he understood their feelings towards him and his feelings towards them. Even with Lisa, despite their numerous arguments, he could easily read her emotions and knew how to de-escalate the tension. But Ally? She was an enigma. He felt completely out of control around her, and it frustrated him. The most infuriating part of this entire situation was that he was stuck with her; she owned 24% of Navy St. No matter how desperately he wanted to escape this predicament, he needed Pro Grip. The gym relied on that equipment, and Nate was counting on it. Fuck.
Nate's focus is entirely on the sparse food as he consumes it. If it could even be called food, it was just water and protein. Merely something to quell his hunger, hardly a meal at all. He could hear the shower running. He hoped Ally would finish quickly, as he had no idea what to say to Alvey. In times like this, Ally was a blessing; she took care of the talking and the conflicts. Typically, she would relay everything he wanted to express to his father but was too timid to voice. That’s why this moment, with Ally in the shower and Alvey pacing the room as if he were trying to set a record for the most steps in a confined area, felt unbearable. If he had the guts, he would have thrown the bowl against the wall and stormed out. Instead, he continued to eat, silently praying for the sound of the shower to end.
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Alyssa tilts her head back, allowing the warm, comforting water to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Was there tension lingering between her and Alvey? Absolutely, that aspect remained unchanged. Did she still find him attractive? Yes, that too was still true. Essentially, nothing had shifted at all. Well, perhaps her self-control around him had, or maybe it was his self-control. She couldn't tell, and she didn't want to dwell on it either. But with him constantly nearby, that was nearly impossible.
If given the choice, she would linger in the shower for the entire weekend, but she recognized how foolish that would be. It simply wouldn’t work. Alvey would likely burst through the door to check on her. She knew him far too well. Although it might appear to outsiders that they despised one another, there was a profound respect and admiration between them, even love. She was aware of this, and she knew Alvey was too. That was likely the root of about 90% of their arguments. She couldn't explain why, but it had always been this way. It was almost an unspoken agreement that they could unleash their frustrations on each other. Yet now, she held back, uncertain of what would transpire without their usual make-up sex. That moment after a fight when he would fuck the living shit out of her, and they would collapse together, signaling the end of the conflict. But that was a long time ago, and it was something she had vowed never to do again. Still, she felt her resolve to keep that promise beginning to slip away.
With a frustrated sigh, she turns off the shower. There's no point in prolonging this; she must confront whatever awaits her outside the door sooner or later, so why wait for some elusive 'right' moment?
Carefully stepping out of the shower, she navigates the slippery tiles, determined to avoid any mishaps. As she scans the bathroom for a towel, it hits her—she left it on her bed. What the hell! In her frustration upon returning, she completely overlooked that essential detail. She can vividly picture it, neatly folded at the foot of her bed. Fuck.
With another sigh, this one laced with annoyance, she unlocks the door and peeks her head out, attempting to shield her nakedness behind it. "Alvey," she calls, her voice tinged with a hint of desperation that she despises.
She catches the attention of both men. "What?" Alvey responds, his tone still edged with anger. But what else could he feel? Nate had messed up; the opponent he was supposed to face tomorrow was 9 pounds over the weight limit, and Alvey was far from prepared for the fallout, financially or otherwise. Ally still unraveled him in ways he would never confess, even on his deathbed, and the gym was teetering on the brink of disaster. Fuck.
Nate exhales heavily. Wonderful. The tension he wished would vanish had instead returned with full force. He really needed to leave this room. Away from Alvey, away from Ally, away from their disapproving stares and Ally’s constant nagging for him to back out of this fight. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to walk out, take a long walk, and let Ally and Alvey handle their issues on their own; on the other hand, if he left, it was very likely that they would end up in bed together, and he was almost desperate to avoid that scenario. Maybe the best solution was to stay put, building up his frustration for tomorrow, and using it in the fight.
"Could you please pass me my towel?" Ally asks, making sure to keep her body hidden behind the door. At this moment, she didn't fully understand why she felt this way. Nate was facing away from her, and Alvey had seen her naked many times before. Yet, there was no reason to tempt fate; she hadn't even made up her mind on that issue. Should she sleep with him again or not? Even if it seemed like an inevitable conclusion, she could at least prolong the situation for as long as she could. The longer she waited, the more time she had before he inevitably cheated. Because he would, not because he was a bad guy, but simply because it was in his nature. And she didn't want to find herself in a situation where she would come to hate him.
Alvey stared intently at the door, so absorbed that he barely noticed her face peeking out. Fuck. She was completely naked behind that door. Was this intentional? Did she sense his desire, his longing for her? His mind was a whirlwind of love, affection, and frustration. He felt an urge to spank her, to punish her for her beauty that toyed with his thoughts. "Sure," he replied instead, reaching for her towel and offering it to her. His gaze drifted to the mirror on the wall behind her, where her lower back and flawless backside came into view. Oh fuck him, his jaw clenched. He wanted to bite her, to hear her moan. Fuck this shit.
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She zips her bag close with a hint of annoyance. Those eyes of his, she knew them all too well. That look he gave her. Fuck. Not this weekend she kept telling herself. Not. This. Weekend.
She cast a final glance in the mirror, her makeup was impeccable, understated yet perfect. Great. She felt good about her appearance. Her outfit featured yet another Navy St. T-shirt; during these moments, she often strutted around like a living advertisement. She wasn't sure if it truly benefited the gym, but at least she made an effort, which had to mean something. She paired it with one of her workout tights; it might not have been the wisest choice with Alvey eyeing her backside, but it was certainly a better option than a miniskirt; or so she believed.
"Nate, balance," she began to speak even before stepping out of the bathroom. Avoiding Alvey's eyes was her priority, and discussing anything with him was the last thing she wanted. She recognized that she might be placing Nate in a difficult position, yet she reassured herself that at least part of that burden was his own doing. In some ways, it would be simpler for him to concentrate on his training rather than her ongoing conflict with Alvey, even if it meant Alvey would feel let down and she would have to pester him once more. Even so.
"Did you bring the mat?" Alvey inquired. His question stemmed not from doubt in her abilities, but rather from his own forgetfulness. Deep down, he secretly wished for her to be as disheveled around him as he felt in her presence. Perhaps it was too late for them, and perhaps she truly meant it when she told him to keep dreaming; still, he sensed that something lingered between them. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but he was certain there was something there.
She rolls her eyes at him, before kneeling down to open her bag with supplies. “I’m his medic Alvey, I brought everything,” she replies flatly, maybe too flatly, but she really didn’t want to talk to or with him right now.
She avoids his gaze as she rises and places the mat down in front of Nate. "20 seconds," she reiterates, echoing the encouragement she has offered him three or four times daily throughout the week. "You can do this," she adds, hoping to lift his spirits. If she can't persuade him to withdraw, at least she can try to bolster his confidence.
Nate stares at the mat before him. Perhaps he should heed her advice and back out, leave, and return home. But that would only deepen the gym's financial troubles, and who knows what that promoter might do—vandalism, perhaps? No, he must see this through. For a fleeting moment, he meets Ally's gaze. She gives him a subtle nod and a faint smile; it reassures him. Maybe she’s right, maybe he can pull this off. He just needs to concentrate hard for 20 seconds—that's all it requires. If he can manage this, then perhaps the rest of the weekend will unfold without a hitch.
Alvey folded his arms tightly across his chest, shifting his gaze from Ally to the mat, and finally landing on Nate. He had faith in Ally; she was an incredible medic, and he understood better than most that she could work wonders. Yet, a nagging feeling within him whispered that this might not end well. He was reluctant to voice his concerns, but he sensed that a confrontation was on the horizon. All he could do was hope he would manage to keep his composure when that moment inevitably arrived.
Nate's insecurity and fear were palpable, emanating from him as if he were silently begging Ally to shield him from having to face this in front of his father. For a fleeting moment, she considered asking Alvey to step away, but a quick look at him made it clear that was not an option. Instead, she approached Nate, gently cupping his face with both hands and locking eyes with him. "You can do this," she assured him. When he hesitated, his eyes still filled with trepidation, she reiterated, "You can do this, Nate," nodding with determination. "Say it," she urged.
"I... I can do this," he reiterated, attempting to nod resolutely at her, though it felt more like a tilt of his head. He was determined not to let his father down, nor did he want Ally to witness his uncertainty. Deep down, he understood that this predicament was entirely his doing, and he had to confront the repercussions; he just wasn’t sure if any of them were prepared for it. At least, he certainly wasn’t.
Ally stepped back a couple of paces, raising the timer to indicate to Nate that she was set. He cautiously stepped onto the mat, his legs quaking, yet to his surprise, he managed to find his footing. Ally kept her gaze fixed on the timer, avoiding Nate's eyes to help him maintain his concentration. As the timer reached 13 seconds, her heart began to race; perhaps he would succeed this time. 14... 15. And then he lost his balance, his right foot crashing down onto the floor. Damn it.
Alvey's arms shot up involuntarily, and he felt powerless to restrain them. "Focus, Nate," he shouted, striding purposefully towards his son with two firm steps.
Without a second thought, Ally reacted, shoving Alvey back, away from whatever she feared he might do. "Calm the hell down," she snapped at him, following as he stumbled from her push. "Can’t you see he’s trying?" she pressed on. She was aware this was a reckless move; she should have just told him to leave, to take a breather, to cool off. But she was fed up. Fed up with Alvey’s incessant nagging and his unwavering, misguided faith in her capabilities. "This is his personal best; he’s been busting his ass so you wouldn’t be disappointed in him. Screw this, Alvey, screw yo..." she didn’t get to finish her thought before Alvey seized her shoulders, shoving her against the wall and covering her mouth with his hand.
"I’m his trainer, you’re his medic," he hisses. "You ensure he stays healthy, while I help him concentrate," he slams his fist against the wall as he emphasizes the last word. "How I achieve that isn’t your concern; it’s up to..." His sentence is abruptly cut off by a glass shattering against the wall, sending shards flying everywhere.
"Fuck!" Nate exclaims, glancing back and forth between them. Alvey still has her pinned against the wall, his hand firmly over her mouth, but at least they’re both focused on him now. "Just fuck and get it over with already so we can have some peace around here. I have a fight tomorrow," he shouts at them, taken aback by his own unexpected boldness. Perhaps it’s because he’s had enough of the chaos, or maybe it’s the knowledge that Ally will intervene if Alvey loses his hold. Whatever the reason, he’s said what he needed to say. He watches them for a brief moment before putting on his headphones and lying down on the bed.
They exchanged glances for a brief moment until Ally finally looked away, subtly indicating with her eyes that he still had his hand firmly over her mouth. He released her immediately and stepped back, maintaining eye contact. "It’s been ages since I last did that," he said, a teasing grin spreading across his lips. It was a daring statement, no doubt. But there was no taking it back now, and if Nate sensed the tension too, he certainly wasn’t mistaken about the chemistry between them.
"I need a drink," Ally said, more to fill the silence than to actually convey a need. She could have simply walked away without saying anything. That might have been the wisest choice, really; by speaking, she had revealed more than she intended. But Nate had already voiced what they both were thinking, so... well, forget that.
He doesn’t stop her, instead he remains in the same place just watching her leave the room. He couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips.
Grace hardly dares to inhale as the vehicle comes to a halt. Uncertain of what awaits her, she fears the worst based on his earlier words during the ride.
He pulls her from the car, hoisting her roughly over his shoulder, completely disregarding her cries of protest.
"Put me down!" she yells. Terror has completely consumed her, leaving her powerless to control her actions. She pounds her fists against his back, but he barely reacts.
Tears cascade down her cheeks, blurring her vision. "You’re insane! Let me go!" she screams as Jack unlocks the door. In a frantic attempt, she clings to the doorframe as Brock strides into the house, holding on for dear life.
Brock, with his superior strength, pulls her inside before setting her down. Without hesitation, she tries to escape through the door. In one swift motion, Brock seizes her hair and yanks her back. She loses her footing, crashing onto her back on the hardwood floor, with him quickly following, kneeling over her legs. Her fists flail wildly against him. "You’re a crazy person!" she shouts at him.
“ENOUGH!” He screams, grabbing her hair, while his other hand grabs his knife, placing it defiantly at her throat. “Shut up!” He breathes when she calms down enough for him to get eye contact. “I said I had no intention of wasting my million,” he informs her. “But that doesn't mean I won’t use this,” he continues, his gaze flickering down to the knife. “I’ve killed for a lot less,” he whispers in that threatening menacing tone she remembers from the ride over.
She breathes heavily, trying to position herself so that the knife won’t push so hard against her skin. He’s like triple her size, there’s no escape.
“Now,” he looks at her, eyes still black. “You’ll listen to me,” he continues, pressing the knife a bit more against her skin, as to empathize the significance of his words.
She can’t move, his hold of her hair and the knife pressed against her makes that impossible. “Yes,” she whimpers.
“Good,” he says, placing his knife back into his boot. Then he turns his head towards Jack. She follows his gaze.
Jack is slouched against the wall, one leg propped up, arms crossed over his chest. He simply watches them, observing with a detached demeanor. His face is expressionless, as if this were just another mundane occurrence. That alone sends chills down her spine.
"It’s your turn," Brock stated flatly as he stood up.
Jack detached himself from the wall, his eyes locked on her as he advanced. She tracked his movements, paralyzed by fear. He towers over her, composed and unwavering, ready to strike at any moment. Gradually, she begins to inch away from him. He mirrors her movements, step by step. There’s no urgency in his approach. He’s savoring the moment, intent on instilling dread and horror. His gaze pierces through her, icy and menacing.
Her back collides with the staircase, the cold steel railing pressing against her skin. Jack raises his hand, using his index and middle fingers to silently command her to stand. He remains wordless, his gaze as icy and unyielding as ever.
She feels compelled to obey, knowing that if she doesn’t rise on her own, he will force her to do so. Gradually, she pushes herself up to her feet.
"Take off my belt," Jack orders. It’s a straightforward command, nothing more, nothing less.
She hesitates, uncertain of his intentions once the belt is off. Would he force her to kneel? Strike her with it? These men were unhinged, twisted, and utterly unpredictable. They could do anything they wished to her, and she had serious doubts about Hades’ claim that he wouldn’t kill her.
"Remove. The belt," he repeats, his tone sharper this time.
She’s torn, unsure if she should comply. It might be a trap. It could provoke Hades, and she certainly didn’t want to anger him. He had made it clear that she was to follow his orders, not anyone else’s. She glances over Jack’s shoulder, hoping to see Hades, to gauge if she could reach for him or the belt. But he’s nowhere in sight. Panic rises as she scans the area for him. Had he really left her alone with Jack?
A hand suddenly grips her hair, yanking her back to the present moment. She gasps in pain. "I’d listen to him if I were you," a voice murmurs in her ear. How did he manage to position himself behind her on the stairs? Another whimper escapes her as he forces her head against the railing.
"Pl..," she begins, but Hades silences her with an even tighter hold on her hair.
"Remove the fucking belt," he growls. There’s a primal undertone in his voice that suggests this situation excites him. Here she is, caught between them, exposed and completely at their mercy.
With trembling hands, she reaches for Jack’s belt, her gaze dropping to focus on her task.
"Ah ah," Jack breathes out softly. "Eyes up here," he instructs. "Keep them on me.”
She locates the clip and unfastens it. Her hands tremble. Unable to read their faces, she remains clueless about their intentions.
As she pauses, Brock leans in, whispering into her ear, "Re.move it,"
A soft whimper of refusal escapes her, uncontrollable. Despite knowing it’s futile, she can’t help herself.
With the belt now in her grasp, she finds herself once again uncertain about her next move.
"Hand it to him," Jack inches closer.
Shit. Did they orchestrate all of this prior to tonight? It feels as if they’re perfectly coordinated, while she’s merely a piece in their game. Her heart races against her chest as she slowly raises her arm to pass the belt to Brock.
Then, everything unfolds so rapidly that she barely has a moment to process it. Jack seizes her other arm, and in an instant, the belt is fastened around her wrists, securing her arms to the railing above her head. She’s trapped. Another whimper escapes her.
Jack’s fingers glide over her face. "Now, Angel face," he exhales. "I get my taste," he adds as he gradually lowers himself.
She pulls at her arms, summoning all her strength to keep her legs together. It’s pointless. In another swift motion, both her legs are draped over Jack’s shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin as he feasts on her like a man starved.
"No," she protests, but it comes out more like a half-hearted moan. Damn it. She doesn’t want to find pleasure in this. She should be screaming for help. She should be fighting him off. But fuck. Tears well up in her eyes as she struggles to suppress her body’s involuntary reactions.
"Don’t hold back," Brock’s voice reaches her from behind. "Embrace the pleasure he gives you," he continues, panting. "Because I won’t be as gentle," he growls.
Gentle? This is gentle? Good grief. It’s the most intense experience she’s ever had, and she’s no stranger to the streets.
"Yes, that’s it," Brock whispers in her ear. "Fuck his face," he urges.
She was completely unaware that her hips were thrusting fervently into his face. "P-Please," she implores. It's unclear whether she's asking him to halt or to keep going. Fuck, she can sense every motion of his lips, each frantic lick, every plunge, every slurp. "Fsssk," she exclaims.
"Yeeeah," Brock growls from behind her. "That’s my good girl, you’re so good for us," he adds.
"Fuck," she moans. It should be mortifying, since no one was meant to find pleasure in moments like this. But fuck, the way his mouth worked on her, lifting her higher and higher, was just too much.
"Oh, my sweet girl," he rasps. "I’m going to fuck you, alright," he continues. "He’ll just make you nice and wet first, so you’re ready to take me," he says, as if this was the most ordinary thing for him. As if this was just another day in his life. And who knows, maybe it was. "All of me," he whispered into her ear.
The tension in her core grows stronger, pulling forth a series of moans from her throat as her legs tighten around Jack’s shoulders, drawing him in closer. "Ah fuck, god," she screams.
"Yes, fuck, work it," Brock breathes behind her. "Just let it go, baby girl," he murmurs into the back of her head. "Just let it all go," he continues, his breath heavy against her skin.
She erupts, her hips shaking uncontrollably, to the point where Jack has to hold them steady. "Oh fuckehhhh, Jesus, shit," she screams, moaning incoherent phrases as if she had just learned to talk. She can feel his face drenched in her essence as his tongue continues to savor her clit like it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Her heart races wildly against her ribcage, her hands gripping the belt tightly. "Oh my god, oh fuck," she gasps as she rides out the final waves of the most intense orgasm she’s ever experienced. And the most humiliating and terrifying. God, take away all the other elements, the violence, the threats. These guys were skilled, at least in that regard. They definitely knew what they were doing.
When Jack places her back down on the floor, she’s halfly thankful that her arms are secured over her head, because her legs are about to give out under her. She’s panting. Fuck.
Jack looks at her with a menacing grin as he slowly licks his lips before he drags his sleeve over them. Not uttering a single word.
Then they switch places. None of them are saying anything, and every movement they do seems measured, almost orchestrated.
“She’s so tiny,” Jack says as he sits down in the stairs behind her. “Are you sure she can take it?” He continues.
His remarks make her heart jump. No, no one’s that big. She’s had her share of both big and small. She was always able to do it. Always. No one’s that big. She desperately tries to convince herself.
“She can take it,” Brock replies. But if she’s honest, it doesn’t seem like he cares. He’ll do his thing no matter what. “Can’t you?” He inquires.
She has no idea what to answer. The safest was to just say yes, but then again, she had no clue what he’d do if she actually couldn’t. And if he caught her in a lie… No, she didn’t want to test him. “I… I don’t know,” she stammers, pressing her back into the railing in a futile attempt to get away from him.
“You can take it,” he informs her. Just like she thought. He’ll do his thing no matter how much it’ll potentially hurt her.
She can hear him unfastening his belt and his zipper. Yet, she doesn’t have the courage to look down. Instead, she focuses on interpreting his facial expression. This task proves to be as pointless as it has been before.
"Good girl," he commends as he closes the distance between them. "Keep your eyes on me," he adds. His fingers slide up the inner part of her thighs, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh fuck," he growls, "you’re dripping," he continues, lifting his fingers to his mouth and savoring her essence. "Exquisite," he remarks. He seizes her behind, hoisting her up and drawing her closer to him, grinding his erection against her pussy.
A whimper rolls over her lips, and once again she yanks her arms. Futile, so fucking futile. But she couldn’t help it.
Jack’s hand slowly circled her throat, not hard, more like a signal for her to comply. “Don’t fight it, Angel face,” Jack whispered. “It’ll hurt less if you relax,” he continued. Oh fuck.
“Please be…,” she starts, but Brock puts two of his fingers over her lips, signaling for her to be quiet.
“What?” He grins. “Be careful?” He continues as his grin grows. “I’m sorry little one. I’m not known as a careful guy,” he breathes, thrusting upwards into her as he utters the last words. Filling her to the brim with that one hard motion.
“Ungh,” she half whimper half moan. Her head lolls back, eyes roll back, her breath catches. Holy fuck.
Jack lets out a menacing laugh behind her. “Oh, I think she likes it,” he mocks.
“Yeah,” Brock breathes as he ups his pace. “Are you my good girl?” He asks. Thrusting hard as to empathize that he wants an answer.
“Yessss,” she breathes. Scared of what he’d do if she kept quiet.
Another mocking laugh from Jack “Oh, the little slut likes to be filled,” he lets out, still in that mocking condescending tone.
“Yeah, my good girl,” Brock praises “taking me so well,” he continues. His voice trails off, it’s obvious that he enjoys this. “Fuck, so tight,” he goes on. “I didn't expect you to be…. This… tight,” his breathing picks up. She can feel his breath, and how his frame shivers.
Suddenly his pace picks up, his fingers digging into her flesh, as he thrusts into her with all his might. It’s painful, she can almost feel the bruises, from his hands, and every time her hips meet his. But at the same time he hits every single nerve within her.
“Oh my…. Fuck,” she moans as tears again fill her eyes. Too much, it was simply too much. The muscles in her core work outside her command, she’s powerless to stop what’s coming.
“Fuck, Angel face, so eager to be used,” Jack keeps on mocking her.
“Yes, take it, all of it. Fuck you’re my good girl,” Brock moans. “Making me feel so good, yeah that’s it, grip around me. Ah fuck. Feels so good. You’re being such a good girl for me,” he keeps on praising.
It feels weird, strange and confusing. Jack behind her with his hand around her throat, mocking her, berating her. And then Brock on the other side, praising her like she was his Princess. Jesus Christ. She really was broken. Finding pleasure in this was surely something she had from the devil. Yet she couldn’t suppress her moans, she couldn’t hold back the volcano about to erupt in her lower belly. God, this was something new.
“Yes, fuck baby girl, do it!” Brock moans, keeping his pace steady, thrusting hard and deep. Making her moans intensify to the point of high pitch screams. “Come for me, fuck, yes,” he keeps on praising. “Come all around me as I fill you up,” his voice cracks under his pleasure. “Fuck… so good to me, ah, fuuuuuckkkk,” he moans, his voice turns into a growling predatorial mess as he thrusts one last time, keeping himself buried deep within her as he paints her walls.
She barely registers the moment Jack releases his grip on her throat and arms. She was so lost in her second orgasm of the night. Her senses gradually returned as Brock lifted her once more onto his shoulder, giving her a playful smack on the backside before his fingers dug into her skin. It was as if she were wading through molasses, slowly realizing they were climbing the stairs.
"Wh..Where are you taking me?" she manages to gasp, despite her heavy breathing and sore throat.
He remains silent, continuing his ascent without a word. She can hardly perceive his breathing. Goodness, this man feels like ice.
🖤⛓🔪🖤⛓🔪🖤⛓🔪🖤⛓🔪🖤⛓🔪🖤⛓🔪
He gently places her on the edge of his bed, allowing her to sit instead of stand. She’s unaware of the reason behind it, but she feels grateful for the chance to rest. Her legs tremble beneath her, and she doubts her ability to stand upright at this moment.
"What are you going to do to me?" she inquires, her voice revealing the fear that lingers within her.
He settles himself in front of her, raising her chin to meet his gaze. "Now I’ll reward you," he tells her.
What? Confusion clouds her mind, rendering her speechless. Even his eyes have regained their color, a warm hazel brown. "Wh..What?" she stammers, her brows furrowing in bewilderment. She can’t make sense of this man at all.
“Good girls get rewarded,” he informed, tracing her bottom lip with his fingers.
"Is.. Is that… also…. Sexual?" she asks, her voice trembling. The sensation of yet another orgasm looms close, threatening to overwhelm her after the two she just experienced.
"Do you want it to be?" he replies, tossing the question back at her like a playful challenge, though his tone lacks any hint of menace.
"I’ll run us a bath," he finally states, offering her a smile that feels more sincere this time. It’s not a smirk or a sinister grin that relishes her fear; it’s something warmer, almost friendly. "You must be tired; it’ll help you rest," he assures her.
A bath? He takes baths? Jesus Christ, who is this man?
She watches him as he opens the door to the en-suite bathroom, confusion swirling in her mind. Just moments ago, she was terrified he might kill her, and now…
She hears the water running, and a fresh wave of fear washes over her. Could he drown her? Perhaps this sudden change in his demeanor is just a ruse. Taking a deep breath, she rises slowly to her feet. If he intends to harm her, she will certainly fight back. There’s no way she would go down without a struggle.
Standing in the doorway, she observes him as he adds soap to the water, gathers towels, and lights a candle. She’s trying to unravel his intentions, to understand what he’s truly planning.
"You didn’t have to walk in here yourself," he comments when he notices her. "I would have carried you," he adds.
“Ca… Who are you?” The words tumbled out of her before she could process them.
Slowly he approached her. “Oh baby girl,” he smiled. “I am the monster,” he continued. His smile widened as she sucked in a breath. “But you’re also my pet,” he breathed, leaning in closer, smelling her. “I might punish you if you misbehave,” he breathed into her pulse. It sent shivers down her spine. “But I’ll also keep you safe,” he added.
He took a few steps back, carefully drinking her in. “Now take off that dress so I can really look at you,” he commanded.
Grace inhaled deeply as she gradually slid the straps off her shoulders. Being naked around strangers was not new to her, and it felt safer to acquiesce without a second thought; after what they had just done to her, who could predict what he might do next if she didn’t follow his orders.
He scanned her body, his lips curling in anticipation. She was his, entirely his to command, and he was eager to begin. "Undress me," he instructed. He needed to gauge her, to understand who she was before initiating the training, and he craved her touch, her gaze fixed on him. He yearned to dominate her, to dictate every action she took. That was his ultimate ambition.
Undress him? It was a simple command, devoid of emotion, as frigid as his demeanor had been all evening. With a deliberate pace, she moved closer to him. Not too hurried, yet not too sluggish either. It seemed wisest to avoid appearing overly eager, but also not to come off as timid or frightened. She hoped to decipher him better as time went on, though she harbored doubts about that.
"Please, go ahead," he prompted when she stopped in front of him. "Pet," he added, his voice carrying a note of warning, yet his eyes hinted it was a term of endearment.
Even though she had undressed others in the past, a wave of uncertainty washed over her. Which piece of clothing should she remove first? Did he expect her to act frightened? Should she submit completely from the start, or take charge and undress him in her own way? Without overthinking and risking his anger by hesitating, she reached for his belt.
He seized her wrist, thrusting her against the wall and pinning her arm above her head. "We begin at the top," he hissed, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "And we’ll save the best for last." His free hand slowly traced down her body, his finger slipping between her folds. "If you behave," he breathed. "I’ll treat you real nice," his finger slid inside her, quickly followed by another. "I’ll take good care of you," he continued.
The only sound she could muster was a mix of a moan and a whimper.
"But if you disobey me," his voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. "I’ll hurt you," he growled, retracting his fingers to grip her pussy, drawing a whimper of pain from her lips. "Until you understand your place."
"Please," she managed to gasp through her pain.
"Do we have an understanding?" he asked, completely unfazed by her desperate pleas for him to stop.
When she hesitated to respond, he tightened his grip.
"Yes," she whimpered, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her vision. How had she ended up in this situation? What was he going to put her through? If her instincts were right, what she had experienced tonight was nothing compared to the horrors she feared were yet to come.
"Good girl," he whispered into her neck, before slipping his fingers back in, swiftly locating her g-spot, initially caressing it softly and then increasing his pace.
Despite her desperate desire to stifle her moans and suppress her body's responses, it's utterly futile. Her toes curl against the floor, her neck arches back, granting him complete access to the delicate skin there. He lets his tongue trail upward; from her collarbone to her neck, never straying from her skin. "Do you think you deserve another orgasm tonight?" he inquires, as if it's the most casual question imaginable.
"Ungh," is the sole sound she can muster as he continues to elevate her pleasure. "Ah, fffskk," she moans, unable to contain the waves of ecstasy that escape her lips.
"I don’t," he suddenly exclaims, withdrawing his fingers in an agonizingly slow manner. It feels as if he has abruptly changed his mind, but her instincts warn her that this decision was made long before he began. They also tell her that this won't be the last time it occurs. He truly possesses her. All of her. And the realization that she is now nothing more than his slave; it sends a shiver of fear through her.
He releases her wrist, but his hand swiftly wraps around her throat. "You belong to me," he growls, a menacing tone lacing his words. "I can do whatever I want with you," he adds, inching closer to her face. His eyes are a deep, almost abyssal black, void of any trace of humanity. He was certainly truthful when he claimed to be a monster. "And I will show you," he continues, his tongue brushing against her lips. "How to savor every moment of it," he whispers softly against her mouth.
He raises his other hand to her face, positioning the fingers he had inside her just beneath her nose. "Can you smell that?" His voice is deep, steady, almost inhuman. Grace has encountered her fair share of threatening clients over her decade on the streets, but this; this was on an entirely different level. This man was beyond anything she could have conjured in her most horrifying nightmares.
When she hesitates to respond, he tightens his grip around her throat, urging her to answer.
"Yes," she manages to croak out despite his constricting hold. Speaking is a struggle, but she forces the word out, desperate to avoid him completely cutting off her air supply, as he had done in the car.
"Good," he leans closer, inhaling the scent of his fingers while still holding them under her nose. His breath is steady, devoid of any emotion or indication that he is affected by what is happening; by what he is doing to her. It’s as if he has completely shut off his feelings.
"Now taste," he growls, thrusting his fingers into her mouth.
He’s brutal, showing no compassion, driving his fingers deep into her throat, causing her to gag as he toys with her tongue, compelling her to lick his fingers clean of her essence. It’s not that she hasn’t been here before; she was even skilled at deep throating. But typically, she held the reins, and this was an entirely different experience. His force was more intense, more ruthless than anything she had encountered, and it frightened her more than she was willing to acknowledge.
"Are you choking?" His voice rises in intensity. Damn this woman. If she can't even handle a deep throat, she's worthless to him. "Answer me!" He demands, withdrawing his fingers from her mouth and tightening his grip around her neck.
She fights for a deep breath, but his hold on her throat renders it nearly impossible. Tears begin to form in her eyes; this is too much to bear. His threatening tone, the harshness of his treatment, his utter emotional detachment, and the choking sensation—it's overwhelming. She fears for her life; there's no way she can withstand this.
"Answer me!" He barks again.
A sharp sting strikes the side of her face, and it takes her a moment to comprehend that he has slapped her.
"Let me make this clear for you," he growls into the spot where he hit her. "If I tell you to do something, you will obey," he continues. "I don't care if it hurts, I don't care if you fight back," he leans in closer, whispering ominously in her ear, "I don't even care if you choke on my cock," he lets the threat hang in the air before moving on. "If I choose to force my cock down your throat, trust me when I say you will comply," he trails his tongue along her ear, sending a wave of fear and unwanted pleasure through her. "Am I making myself clear?" He finishes.
She nods, filled with desperation. The overwhelming fear paralyzes her, making it impossible to utter even a single word.
"Words, Grace," he replies, his fingers gliding over her lips. "You part those lovely lips and say 'yes'; that's the only response I will accept," he states, and then he simply gazes at her, waiting.
"Yes," she finally manages to choke out, a mix of a whisper and a sob. She has never felt this level of terror in her life, not even when she fled from home at sixteen. Deep down, she knows that one day, this man will push her to do something so horrifying that she will refuse, and in that moment, he will take her life. She is certain of it. It’s not a question of 'if' but rather 'when'.
"Look at you," he suddenly exhales. His tone shifts to one of tenderness, as if he has emerged from a deep trance and rediscovered his humanity. "You’re trembling," he adds, softly gliding his thumb across her cheek to wipe away her tears. "Let’s get you into the tub," he says, lifting her effortlessly in a bridal carry before gently placing her into the warm water.
He positions himself behind her, gently massaging her shoulders.
She stiffens, half-expecting him to suddenly shift and submerge her.
"You sweet, innocent little thing," he murmurs into the back of her head. "So vulnerable..." he continues, still soothingly rubbing her shoulders. "So effortlessly surrendering yourself to me," his tone remains calm, almost affectionate as he moves one hand to encircle her throat again. This time, he doesn’t grip tightly; he merely tilts her head back to meet his gaze. "Don’t be afraid, little one, I won’t harm you," he whispers before leaning in to kiss her.
Kissing clients has never been her preference. It feels too close, too personal. Kissing seems like a romantic act, and what she was doing wasn’t meant to be romantic. Yet, in this moment, she doesn’t dare to pull away. Who knows what he might do if she did? Strangely enough, the kiss oddly soothes her. It’s been ages since she last kissed anyone, and she had forgotten how wonderful it could feel.
"Feeling better?" he inquires as he pulls away from the kiss.
"Mmmhmm," she responds, still reeling from the intensity of that kiss. "I... I mean yes," she adds, suddenly realizing he expects her to articulate her thoughts, and that 'yes' was the only response he would accept.
"Great," he beams. "Now let’s get you cleaned up and head to bed. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow," he says, reaching for a bottle of soap and tenderly washing her, lathering the soap across her skin, then rinsing it off with warm water cascading over her.
He smiled at her? She’s uncertain which astonished her more: his smile directed at her or the fact that he was capable of smiling at all.
Once she’s dried off, they stroll back into the bedroom. She remains unclothed, while he is dressed, save for the belt she had unfastened earlier and left on. But she doesn’t mind; over the past decade, she has likely spent more time in her natural state than in clothes, and she senses that this new chapter will follow suit. It felt simpler to embrace her destiny and go with the flow. Or perhaps not?
He strides over to a closet and swings it open. Inside, it’s a treasure trove of dresses, luxurious lingerie, shoes, trousers, and pantsuits—every piece of clothing she could ever dream of. It appears to be worth a small fortune.
She gazes in astonishment, rendered speechless.
"Why are you just standing there? It’s all yours, take a look," he says. His tone isn’t as commanding as before, but it still carries an authoritative edge.
After a brief moment of hesitation, she approaches the garments, her fingers gliding over the fabric of a stunning red dress; it feels luxurious to the touch. "Why?" she exhales, overwhelmed by his unexpected generosity.
"Merchandise loses its value if it doesn’t look appealing," he replies flatly, devoid of any emotion. His aim is clear: to train her, to shape her into his ideal slave, one who looks and feels desirable. He wants the other men, his men, to covet her just as he does, so he can showcase her and offer her as a reward when he deems it appropriate. It would take some effort, but he was confident she would reach that point; with his firm, dominant guidance, he would teach her to submit without question or doubt.
"You will wear this tomorrow," he commands once more, presenting her with a set of red lingerie that seems like it was plucked straight from a risqué film.
"Wha… err," she stammers as he hands it over. His mood shifts so abruptly that she struggles to keep pace. Perhaps this is part of his strategy, to leave her speechless and perpetually on edge.
"We need to discuss the rules," he states, his tone as flat and icy as before. As if this were just another ordinary day for him.
"Rules?" She repeats the word, bewildered.
"Yes," he exhales, his voice softening as his hand glides up her spine. "I have rules," he elaborates, reaching her hairline. "And if you can’t follow them," he grips her hair, his voice regaining that menacing edge; a growl lacing each word, triggering her instinct to flee or fight. "You hold no value to me," he concludes, pressing the knife back against her throat. She’s bewildered by how swiftly he moves, her mind racing to keep up.
"I’m of no use to you dead either," she responds, struggling to decipher his movements, breath, or demeanor, unsure if it was wise or not.
He releases her, returning the knife to its rightful place. This situation called for a different approach. Training a street-smart woman might be more challenging than he initially anticipated. But, he had never been one to shy away from a challenge, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now.
"You’re free to leave if you wish," he says, motioning towards the door. "You can slip back into that silly little dress you arrived in and go. I wouldn’t advise it, but the choice is yours," he continued, moving to the window and pulling back the curtains to reveal the unyielding rain pouring outside. "Oh, look at that," he remarked, turning to face her, "it’s raining," tilting his head slightly. "That flimsy little dress won’t do you any favors, and all of this," he gestured towards the closet, "will vanish the moment you step out that door."
She simply stares at him, torn about what the best decision might be. It would undoubtedly be cold outside. Yet, she had endured worse. The real concern was whether he would pursue her, perhaps not today, tomorrow, or even next week; but she would never truly be safe. The echo of his shout, ‘one million dollars,’ plays on a loop in her mind.
"So...," he exclaims. "As I mentioned, you’re free to go, and I’ll have Jack stand down. But I believe that shelter from the rain, a warm bed, a soft pillow, and the company of a man," he gestured to the various items as he spoke, concluding with himself, "would be far more pleasant than whatever awaits you out there," he finished, pointing towards the window.
She feels an overwhelming urge to scream in her frustration. How on earth is she supposed to make a decision like this? Sure, stepping outside could lead to her death; he might hunt her down and kill her for no reason, or one of the clients she would inevitably encounter could end her life. She was painfully aware that such things happened all too often. But remaining here? Going over the rules tomorrow, living under the oppressive reality where he, in his own words, claimed ownership of her, and could do whatever he wanted with her. Was that really any better? Oh, damn it. If death was inevitable, she thought it might be more peaceful to die here, at least she had a bed to sleep in, complete with a pillow and a duvet. Right now, that felt like paradise. With a heavy sigh of resignation, she sank onto the bed, setting the alluring lingerie beside her.
"That’s what I thought," his voice dripped with condescension. It was as if he silently communicated that he already knew her thoughts, and that this choice would be twisted against her.
Home Sweet Home (AU Brock Rumlow/OFC) Chapter Eighteen
Wordcount: 8383
Triggers: Age gap relationship, PTSD, smut, emotions, mentions of war, medication.
HAPPY READING!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - ANYWHERE FOR YOU!
Calleigh stirs awake gradually, as if she's wading through thick molasses. It felt incredibly comforting to awaken in his bed, enveloped in softness and security. It was as if nothing could harm her. She could easily remain here forever, soaking in the warmth emanating from him behind her. She has never felt more content, never felt so much at home.
Brock plants a gentle, feathery kiss on her shoulder, coaxing the last remnants of sleep from her body, drawing her back to him. Oh, how wonderful it was to wake up beside her. To share a bed with her. It felt safe, warm, and secure. The nightmare he feared would intrude never even grazed the surface. Perhaps it was the medication, but he preferred to credit Calleigh for how much better he felt. Even when he took his pills, the nightmares always managed to seep through any tiny crack left unguarded. But with her… Oh, how he adored her.
Her head tilts back as she feels the rough, calloused pad of Brock’s fingers glide down her spine. His touch is so gentle and affectionate that she feels as if she’s floating. She wishes for this moment to last forever, stretching into eternity.
“Mmmmmm… Good morning..,” she murmurs, her voice still heavy with sleep as she leans into him, soaking up his warmth.
“You look so beautiful when you're asleep,” he whispers in her ear before letting his tongue trace her earlobe, giving it a playful nip. “I’m heading out for my run,” he adds, giving her behind a loving pat.
“Nhaaa,” she protests with a displeased sound as she turns to face him, pouting slightly when he flashes her a teasing grin.
“I’ll make it up to you later,” he promises just before placing a soft kiss on her lips. “I swear,” he murmurs into the kiss.
His lips are so soft and warm against hers; a blissful hum escapes her. She loses herself completely in the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut until she feels him pull away.
“Shower with me when I get back,” he requests as he rises from the bed, grunting and stretching.
Calleigh looks him up and down. He’s not wearing a single piece of clothing, and she can’t help but let his entire form captivate her. From his broad shoulders, and the muscles on his back as he stretches, to his perfectly shaped backside and strong thighs. He’s really something special.
“How can I say no to that?” She teases as she sits up, letting the sheets pool around her. She stands up, showing her entire naked form to him. Taking in how his eyes roamed over her body, enjoying how he licked his lips. She swallowed herself by the way his addams apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Brock cleared his throat before looking away. He had to go for his run, no matter how much he wanted to spend every single second they had together with her. He had to. Even when he didn't feel all that well, he went for his run. He couldn’t skip a day. And he could hopefully spend some time with her when he got back. Before he had to drive her back home, and lie his best friend straight in the face. Fuck, this whole situation was so messed up.
"Please, Calleigh," he grinned, unable to suppress his joy; being with her felt too wonderful to resist. "If you keep teasing me like this, I won’t be able to run at all..." he added, fully aware that it was an open invitation for more teasing, yet he couldn’t restrain himself. He gives his statement a bit more kick by looking at her with his most innocent look.
"You know…," Calleigh says as she strolls closer, resting her hands on his abs. "There are other ways to get your cardio workout in…," she grins, her hands gradually moving lower.
She gazes up at him through her lashes, biting her lower lip.
Brock chuckles softly, then tenderly takes her hands, lifting them to his face and placing a gentle kiss on them. "I know," he replies with a smile. "And we’ll tackle that part of the workout once I’m back," he teases, planting another kiss on her hand.
"I really have to run, Calleigh. My therapist says it’s beneficial for me, helps clear my mind and all that," he murmurs into her hands. He wasn’t quite sure why he brought up his therapist. But after what happened the night before, he felt she needed to know. He just… didn’t know how to express it. Or what to say.
Therapist? He sees a therapist? Calleigh inhales deeply. Brock appears so strong. He built his garage from the ground up, earned a solid reputation, and expanded to several new locations over the years. Therapist? Wow, there was so much she was unaware of regarding him. But then again, she had her own secrets too.
She locked eyes with him, those stunning hazel orbs. Even more captivating when they were focused on her. "Just one kiss?" she pleaded. "For the road," she added, fluttering her lashes, playfully teasing him.
He squints at her, playfully. "Those lovely eyes of yours are going to land me in serious trouble one day," he smiles. He wasn’t lying. Those green eyes had already steered his life onto a path he couldn’t predict. But how incredible it was to be on this journey. "One kiss," he chuckled, relenting.
Their lips connect in a slow, sweet kiss; his lips are soft and gentle against hers, and she finds herself yearning for more. She attempts to deepen the kiss, but he gradually pulls back, causing her to pout slightly.
"Alright, take it easy, Princess," he said in a husky voice. "Save that for the shower," he grinned at her.
He chuckles softly as he senses her hands gliding down his abdomen, but he gently pulls them away, giving her a playful yet exasperated glance, before planting a kiss on her forehead. Finally, he manages to step back and prepare for his run.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
She lets herself fall back onto the bed as she hears the door click shut behind him. Oh my God, last night was incredible. Brock was truly a gift from above. Even though she had no one to compare him to, she felt deep down that she would never find anyone better. That person simply didn’t exist.
Damn, she missed him. Just from that brief moment, she felt his absence. Without a second thought, she picked up his shirt from the floor and slipped it on. It carried his scent and provided at least a bit of coverage for her bare skin.
Calleigh wandered through his home, examining the various photographs displayed around. She hoped to learn more about him through those images alone. There were numerous pictures of him with his family—him playing with his nieces and nephews, family gatherings, even weddings. It was clear that Brock cherished his family, and that stirred something within her. She felt a flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She quickly suppressed them; it was far too early to entertain such thoughts. Way, way too early.
She glanced at his military memorabilia. The purple heart was impressive, but he also had the distinguished service cross and several other medals. There were pictures of him with his fellow soldiers, all with their names neatly embroidered on their uniforms. She recognized Rollins, of course, since she already knew that name. A young blonde boy, not much older than herself, bore the name Parker. A young woman, sporting sunglasses and flashing a peace sign, had Loken on her uniform. A slightly older guy was named Barnes, and then there was Brock. She couldn’t resist reading his name aloud as her fingers traced over the photograph.
He engaged in battle. And she couldn’t help but ponder what that experience was like. It must be quite extraordinary to defend your nation and your loved ones. Yet, she was aware of the collection of pill bottles Jack kept in his bathroom. So she understood; she understood that beyond the accolades and the esteemed position in society; it wasn’t merely a bed of roses. No, it came at a cost, and from what she gathered, it was often a significant one.
She exhales deeply, then groans, feeling the aftermath of her dragon breath. Brock kissed her, and her breath was absolutely foul. Goodness, how embarrassing.
Calleigh nearly tore her bag apart to retrieve her toiletries. She had to brush her teeth, like, for an eternity. Ugh. It’s as if she felt compelled to apologize. Goodness, how humiliating.
Brock’s bathroom is quite lovely. It’s also fairly spacious. The vanity area boasts both a lower and upper cabinet, complete with a modern sink. The upper cabinet features mirrored doors, and on the side, there’s space to hang towels or anything else you’d prefer to keep off the floor. The shower is roomy as well, adorned with white subway tiles and a black vanity. Quite nice. Perhaps a bit stereotypical for a single man, but still nice. The flooring has a wood-like appearance, reminiscent of the master bathroom back home, though these tiles are lighter in shade. Calleigh had to concede that she appreciated the ambiance of this room.
She scowls at her reflection; how long has her hair been in this state? With her toothbrush clenched between her teeth, she attempts to tame the chaotic bird's nest atop her head with one hand while searching for toothpaste with the other.
As she opens the cabinet, a line of orange pill bottles greets her. She halts, simply staring at them, her toothbrush slipping from her teeth without her even realizing it. Goodness. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five? Oh God.
It’s not that she intended to invade his privacy. She didn’t mean to sneak behind his back and sift through his cabinets or personal belongings. But her curiosity. Curiosity overwhelmed her. Gradually, she reached up and seized a bottle.
Brock Rumlow
635 N Glendale St Mansfield, Texas 65475
HYDROcodone-acetaminophen
7.5-325MG per tablet
Take 1 Tab by mouth every 6 hours as needed for pain
The next one she takes down says
Brock Rumlow
635 N Glendale St Mansfield, Texas 65475
Meloxicam
15MG tablet
Take 1 Tab (15mg) by mouth daily
Hydrocodone? Is he suffering? The bottle is almost empty; he must be taking it frequently. Her thoughts drift to the scar that disfigures his lower abdomen. Just how badly was he injured? She had watched enough films to understand that during an explosion, one could be struck by debris or other objects. Her father had experienced this; he bore a permanent and quite noticeable scar as a result. Had Brock been struck as well? Scenes from movies raced through her mind, depicting soldiers extracting debris from their bodies while they pressed on with their mission, groaning in agony. They fought enemies while grappling with their own survival. It sends a chill down her spine.
Why? Just why? Why did her father and her boyfriend have to be those men? She had never considered war in this light before. At least not those particular conflicts. History lessons were one thing, recounting everything that transpired during World War II and similar events. She found that appalling; she reflected on that war. But Afghanistan and Iraq were entirely different. She had been raised with the conviction and teachings that those wars were necessary to protect the United States of America. That her safety depended on it. In some respects, she still held that belief. Yet, what kind of safety came from traumatizing young men and women? From her perspective, neither Brock nor her father seemed to feel any more secure now. In fact, it felt as though they were more vulnerable. As if they had encountered the devil and now lived in fear of him.
Cyclobenzaprine? What on earth is that? And why do all these medications have such bizarre names? It sounds like a villain from a Sci-Fi film. She knows she could never be a doctor. She would choose much cuter names for the drugs. Perhaps ‘Booboo fixers’ or something equally charming. She figures that would be more effective too. With a sigh, she shakes her head and places it back.
The next container she retrieves is labeled Paroxetine. Jack has the identical prescription at home, right down to the dosage and all the details. Her entire body goes rigid, she can barely catch her breath; tears begin to form in her eyes as a wave of memories rushes back to her.
Memories of her father sitting her down to explain, to teach her about the importance of not entering his bedroom when he was disassociating. He was terrified of accidentally causing her harm. Calleigh recalls it as if it were just yesterday. When her father had shared this with her, she had no inkling that he even experienced nightmares, and she certainly never imagined that she would face them herself. But then… The next night, or perhaps the one after; that entire weekend remains a chaotic blur in her memory. She found herself outside his bedroom door, banging on it until her fists throbbed, begging and pleading for him to awaken; to return to reality, to come back to her. This occurred multiple times afterward; and each instance was equally devastating. She felt as though she was losing him, as if her father was slowly fading away right before her eyes, even while he was still alive. Now, that sensation had dissapated over the years, yet the memories continue to haunt her regardless.
Had Brock ever gone through nightmares? Had they occurred while she was present? Was this the reason she sensed he was withholding certain things? Goodness, how foolish she was. He had been in combat zones, right in the thick of it, in both Afghanistan and Iraq.
Not once did she consider that Brock might be dealing with the same lingering effects as her father; perhaps this was due to the fact that Brock was always depicted as the hero during her upbringing. And her grandfather, a man who only respected those who earned it, held immense admiration for Brock. Yet, she should have known, should have realized, should have understood that even heroes possess hearts.
Perhaps it was simply easier to view Brock as the hero, a safer perspective in a way. Not just for her, but for her grandparents and Jack too. She vaguely recalls hearing something about survivor's guilt on the news or in a documentary or something similar. Maybe it was simpler for her dad to cope with the fact that he had somehow survived if he could narrate the story in that manner. That the heroic best friend had saved him. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed plausible. Or perhaps it was her; maybe viewing it this way made the entire situation easier for her.
She berates herself, never once had she contemplated this. Not even once. Not when she watched the news, not when she listened to the speeches, not a single time. And at this moment, that realization made her feel incredibly foolish.
The term hero suddenly leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. A real-life hero wasn’t like those in the films. Brock wasn’t some kind of Captain America. He wasn’t invincible, and while he was somewhat like a super soldier, he still wasn’t. No, Brock was made of flesh and blood. A human being. Brock could break too, just like her father and everyone else. Hero? No, he was human. But what other term could one use to describe his deeds?
She gasps for air as tears begin to flow down her face, sinking onto the closed toilet while still gripping the pill bottle tightly. Jesus, Calleigh, she scolds herself. What a perfect moment to start crying. Why is loving someone so incredibly difficult? It’s as if she wishes she could snap her fingers, rewind to that moment by the pool, and prevent everything from unfolding. Spare herself the pain.
As she hears him returning, she forces herself to take another deep breath. Her mind doesn’t immediately register that he’s actually back, and she’s still clutching the pill bottle.
She truly loves him; it must be real love. What other reason could there be for her tears at the mere thought of him having to face everything alone? “I love you,” she murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. It’s mostly for her own sake, trying to see if she can actually utter those three words aloud. Why can’t she say it to him? It shouldn’t be this hard. Should it?
Heavy footsteps echo through the house; he’s clearly looking for her. She keeps her lips sealed, trying to will her tears away. It’s futile; the more she tries not to cry, the more tears flow.
Then there’s a gentle knock on the door. Still, she remains silent, unable to speak; her voice would shatter if she tried.
“Calleigh?” Brock’s voice filters through the door, accompanied by another soft knock. “Are you okay?” His tone is laced with concern.
This is all wrong, completely wrong. She should be the one taking care of him, making him feel secure, not the other way around. She sniffs, attempting to wipe away her tears, but new ones keep spilling, so she surrenders. There’s no point; he’ll notice regardless of what she does.
Once more, she inhales deeply. Why was this so incredibly difficult? Her thoughts race; should she confess that she went searching for toothpaste and got curious, or should she keep that to herself? Perhaps an explanation wasn’t necessary at all. How could she possibly know?
"Calleigh," Brock calls out again. Then the door creaks open. He halts in the doorway, absorbing the sight before him. Calleigh is slumped on the toilet, the cabinet ajar, and her toothbrush lies in the sink. Tears stream down her face. Why is she crying? Then he spots the bottle in her hand.
His heart skips a beat. Well, there’s no turning back now. Maybe this was for the best. It would have come up sooner or later anyway. Now is as good a time as any. But he still has no idea what to say.
"Are you okay, Princess?" he asks, his concern evident. It felt simpler to start with her. And this wasn’t the moment for anything else. He needed to think before he opened up. Not just for her sake, but for his as well.
She rises, wiping her face once more. The tears have ceased, so this time it actually worked. Brock steps closer, his expression filled with worry. "I…I’m fine," she manages to whisper. "It’s okay," she adds, meeting his gaze. More to ensure he’s alright than to genuinely check him out. Then she notices his eyes flicker down to the bottle still clutched in her hand.
"Okay," Brock replies, furrowing his brows. He’s not entirely certain why she’s crying. And he doesn’t want to pry too much either. To be completely honest, it feels easier to avoid prying and to remain silent. But deep down, he understands that for this to work in the long run, they both need to be more open. Yet, he fears he’ll have to take the first step, and the thought of that sends a chill through his stomach. "Let’s put this back in the cabinet," he suggests, closing the distance between them and gently taking the bottle from her hand.
Calleigh's heart races; she completely overlooked that detail. Well, it's too late to change things now. He already knows, so there's no point in trying to conceal it or over-explain. All she can do now is brace herself for whatever consequences lie ahead.
"And then you can shower with me," Brock says as he returns the container and shuts the cabinet. It felt simpler to say those words without meeting her gaze. Discussing showering together in the midst of everything felt a bit... Nevermind. He wasn't ready to explore that just yet. All he wanted was to cherish every second with her, even though he understood that eventually revealing the truth was unavoidable.
"Are you upset with me?" Calleigh inquires, as Brock takes off his shirt. It was much simpler to express that specific worry while he was pulling his head through the fabric.
Brock drops his shirt, not even making an effort to toss it into the laundry basket. Upset with her? Why on earth would he be upset with her? Gradually, he moved closer, raising his hand to gently brush away a solitary tear from the curve of her nose. "Princess," he whispered as his hand traveled down to her shoulders. "I’m not… I’m not upset with you. Why would you think that?" He went on. In that moment, all he desired was to envelop her in his arms, protecting her from the harshness of the world. But he understood that was not feasible. No matter how deeply he cared for her and how fiercely he shielded her, they still had to navigate this world. He could only hope they would face it together.
Calleigh gazes up at him, finally summoning the courage to meet his eyes. His gaze is so warm and inviting. She merely gestures towards the cabinet, no words necessary.
Brock simply smiles before leaning down to gently place a tender kiss on her lips. "I wasn’t really trying to hide them," he remarked. "Let’s take a shower, and then we can talk," he continued. Not that he was eager to have a conversation, but rather suggesting that discussing things could be a wise choice. Because without that… This relationship would face yet another obstacle to overcome.
He gently brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. She returns his gaze with a smile and a subtle nod.
"Good," he beams. Taking in her beauty, she looks stunning in his shirt. He could gaze at her endlessly, yet he still wanted his shirt back. "I love how you look in my shirt," he added, his voice laced with playful desire.
She watched him closely as he removed the last of his clothing. Oh my God. He looked incredibly appealing. Fresh from his workout, he stood before her, completely naked. "Mmmm," she murmurs with delight.
He places his hands on her hips and leans in, showering her neck with soft, tender kisses. He couldn't resist; she looked so tempting in his shirt, and he felt the urge to comfort her, to ground himself. Calleigh was his anchor, his safe haven.
"Mmmmm," she sighs again, his warm lips and rough stubble teasing her neck, sending delightful shivers throughout her body. His large, calloused hands slid up her hips before he grasped the hem of the shirt, pulling it up and off her body.
"God, I love you," he murmured against her skin. His entire being ached for her. He simply wanted her, to be with her, to connect with her, to be one with her.
The sensation of his lips on her skin as they traveled down to her shoulder felt like love manifesting. The warmth of his naked body against hers made her core tighten. She craved his closeness, to feel him. Without overthinking, she stepped into the shower, eager to experience this. To feel him against her as the water flowed over their bodies. Just like in the movies. She desired this, desired him.
She turned on the water, ensuring it was at a pleasantly warm temperature. Then she glanced at him, playfully teasing him with her eyes as they roamed over his physique. "Are you coming or not?" she asked, fluttering her lashes at him.
"I was thinking about it," he playfully responded, his right hand gradually wrapping around his cock as he admired her in the shower, in his shower. She was stunning, with water cascading down her skin. Damn, how he craved her. Yet, at the same time, it felt incredibly exhilarating to indulge in this teasing once more. To simply gaze, but not to touch. It had been ages since he had the chance to do that, and it felt freeing. "But you’re so gorgeous," he moaned, gently stroking himself, slowly, deliberately, teasing her. "I just want to look at you," he added, feeling his eyes roll back, overwhelmed by desire, yearning for more, needing more.
Calleigh swallowed hard, witnessing him pleasure himself was a sight that thrilled her. He looked absolutely divine. She couldn’t decide which was more enticing; his expression when his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, or his hand firmly wrapped around himself, methodically stroking his thick cock. "You can look at me from in here too," she exhaled, her voice unmistakably revealing her arousal, but in that moment, she didn’t care.
Eventually, Brock moved, although he wanted to tease her, he realized he could do that from the shower as well. Keeping them both in suspense a little longer, but this time he would be close enough to reach out and touch her.
Brock is like twice her size, broad shoulders, muscular frame. His shower is big, but with both of them in there, they have to stand pretty close to have room. Not that any of them minded that detail, this was exactly what they wanted.
He tenderly glided his hand over her backside, taking his time to savor the contours as he leaned down to press his lips against her neck.
“Mmmmm,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in tighter. She couldn’t resist glancing down at him, nestled in a thick tuft of neatly trimmed dark hair, standing proudly and oozing precum. Wow, it’s impressive. Not that she had anyone to compare him to, but yes, it was definitely impressive. She couldn’t shake the thoughts of him stretching inside her, the sensation of his cock dragging against her, his warm breath on her skin, and the sound of his moans. “Nghshh,” she exhales, unable to hold back the memories of the previous night.
“What?” he rasps, his fingers weaving into her hair, gripping gently to tilt her head towards him. He was careful not to go too far, ensuring his touch remained gentle. Just slowly, softly revealing what he enjoys, hoping she would be willing to join him on this journey.
Oh my God. His grip on her hair was a new sensation. It didn’t hurt; she could simply feel his hand resting there. And dear Lord, it was incredible. That gentle hold alone made her pussy clench with eager anticipation.
Brock hums with satisfaction as she relaxes, leaning down to kiss her lips softly. How he craved her. Yet, he knew he had to tread carefully. Ensuring her needs were fulfilled, making certain she felt safe. He had been raised right, and as far as he was aware, he had never crossed anyone's boundaries. But this was different. With experience, one could read desires or needs from a mere glance or a specific touch. With Calleigh, it was another story; she lacked that experience. And even if he were to ask her, how could she know what she truly wanted when she had no idea what it was?
“I want you inside of me,” she breathed. It felt a bit porn like to voice those words. But how else would she tell him what she wanted? And he was all for using words. He’d made that clear the previous night. And she had words, she knew words. She met his eyes, just to make sure her message was received.
“Yeah?” He questioned. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she did know. At least halfway. The different positions and all that could come later, or they could explore as they went. Either way, he wasn’t going to back out if she wanted to. She didn’t have to ask him twice. He locked eyes with her, brows cocked in surprise and excitement at the possibilities.
“Yes,” she whined, wrapping her arms tighter around him, pressing their naked bodies together. “I need you,” she breathed. She didn’t feel like she overstepped his boundaries, though she did challenge herself. Just a couple weeks ago, uttering words like this was alien to her. Yet, now, at this moment, it felt totally normal. She didn’t even feel any shame in expressing her needs.
He hums softly at her, a playful smile gracing his lips. His hand glides down her body, tenderly exploring her skin until it halts between her legs. A soft whimper escapes her lips, which he leans down to capture with his own. Her responses to his touch only heighten his desire. Yet, he holds back just a little longer, wanting to tease her further.
She gasps as his thick finger tantalizes her entrance, slowly penetrating her, gliding through her slick folds until the rough pad brushes against her clit, making her mewl against his mouth.
“I can feel that,” he remarks with a predatory grin before pulling away for a brief moment, eliciting a whine from her due to the sudden absence of his touch. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes out, as if those words have been trapped inside him for ages.
Then he grips her thighs, lifts her up off the shower floor. Unable to wait, he craves her, needs her.
She gasps at the sudden change in him, not that she doesn’t enjoy it. She grips around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him like he was her lifeline. Her back is pressed against the tiles, and the coldness in contact with her heated skin makes her hiss. “Now,” she begs, breathing heavily. “I want you, Brock,” she breathes into his ear, slowly and enticingly nipping his lobe.
Brock lets out a deep groan; her whispering in his ear that she wants him, while simultaneously feeling her hot skin against his is more than he could take. He has to feel her warmth surrounding him, he needs to feel her walls gripping him tightly. “Princess,” he half says half groans as he reaches between their bodies, lining himself up with her entrance.
The second the fat head of his cock starts to enter, she feels the burn, the stretch; it’s an amazing sensation that sends jolts of pleasure up her spine, making her curl her toes.
He stops, wanting to play a bit more, to prolong the teasing. It makes her whine, and he can feel her clenching, desperately trying to suck him in deeper. Fuck, it feels amazing.
“More!” She begs, almost pleading as she claws at his shoulders, trying to grind his hips against him; but he holds her in place. The need for him can be felt in her entire body, the primal desire threatening to consume her.
“Princess…,” Brock grunts, biting his lip. The sensation of her; showing with her entire body that she wants him, that she needs him. Fuck, he can feel his frame shaking. He wants to bury himself deep within her, enjoy how her body reacts and relish in her moans. God, he can’t remember ever wanting someone like this.
He can’t wait any longer. Can’t hold back, won’t hold back. He moves her legs, spreading them wider as he slides his arms under them. Once again he can feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Shit, he’s not going to last long.
Calleigh feels exposed, open. But strangely she doesn’t care the way she thought she would. And she doesn’t get that much time to process it either, because he grips her ass and starts to move. With a firm grip and his knees slightly bent, he bounces her up and down on his cock. “Ah ah,” Calleigh lets out, gripping tighter around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. “Yes, fuck,” she moans into his skin.
Her pussy clenching around him, her warm breath teasing his skin, her moans only heighten his desire. The sound of their bodies slapping together reverberates throughout the shower. "Nahgh," he exhales roughly into her neck, gripping her ass even tighter.
Oh Dear God, the grip he has on her will surely leave a bruise. She’s shaking in his grip. Of course she’s heard of this. Jess wasn’t one to back down when the topic of rough sex came up. But never had she thought it would be this amazing. It’s like she leaves everything behind, letting him steer her completely. Like all her worries, all her problems, all her thoughts are laid on him; with that tight grip, those moans and how he pounds into her. Jesus! His grip is rough, yes. But his warm breath on her skin and his moans makes up for that. She wants more, needs more.
“Take me, Brock! I’m yours!” She moans, though she has no clue if she can even make coherant words.
That was the tipping point. Brock can no longer restrain himself; he changes tactics, releasing his grip on her and instead pinning her against the wall with his body. He withdraws slowly, feeling her walls clenching around him, desperately trying to pull him back in. He listens to her soft moans and feels her breath against his skin. Goodness, how incredible this feels. Then he thrusts back in with a groan, grinding himself deep inside her, experiencing his entire length enveloped by her. The pleasure is indescribable, surging up his spine like a jolt of electricity.
The sensation of his rough pubic mound relentlessly rubbing against her clit causes her entire body to tense. Her fingernails dig into his back, to the extent that she fears she might be hurting him. Yet, every sound he makes is one of pleasure. "Ahhhh, Brock!" she cries out, her voice echoing off the bathroom walls. Her body goes into a frenzy, every muscle working overtime, every nerve ignited. She has lost all control over her body, unable to dictate how it reacts or what it does.
Her foot hits something, and suddenly without warning the water goes ice cold.
“Ahhh. Fucking cold,” Brock jumps, almost losing his grip on her. “Shit,” he chuckles when the freezing water stops.
He looks at her, smiling. A soft smile with a teasing edge. “Trying to cool me down, eh?” He chuckles.
Calleigh looks down. Well this was just swell. Ruining a perfect moment like this. This was so typical, typical her luck, typical her. Stupid Calleigh, she scolds herself. “I… I wasn’t,” she starts, but with no words to complete that sentence. God, she felt totally useless.
He looks at her, studying her expression. She refuses to meet his gaze, and he can sense that she feels responsible for the cold water. “Hey, Princess,” he says softly, tilting her face up to meet his. “It’s okay,” he continued. There was obvious that something was bothering her, and that that something had little to nothing to do with him. It was almost like she felt the need to be a hundred percent perfect at all times, and if she felt like she wasn’t she retrieved into a hidden place within her that he wasnt privy to yet. God how he wanted to dive in, all in, take all her worries away. “Don’t beat yourself up over this,” he comforted before leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead. “These things happens when you’re wrapped up in a moment,” he explaned. Because they did, and that was part of the whole experience. Something to laugh about later, together.
“I was… It’s just that…. I,” she tries again, but the words fails to follow. It felt weird to tell him straight to his face that she was about to come. And God how she wanted to do just that.
He continues to smile at her. God she’s so amazing. “I know,” he says, licking his lips. “I can make you come in the bedroom too,” he continues. At least he hoped that was what she was trying to convay to him. It had certainly felt like she was about to finish. And he wasn’t one to shy away from making that happen. Anywhere in the house was fine by him. As long as she was there, with him.
Calleigh offered him a subtle smile. It wasn’t that she didn’t find the idea of the bedroom appealing. It was simply that she craved something deeper. She longed to genuinely feel, to embrace that intense ‘I want you right here’ sensation. The kind that made two people tear each other's clothes off the moment the front door clicked shut behind them. It wasn’t that the bed wasn’t a suitable spot. She just desired to accompany him, to discover from him. Everywhere.
“Or the couch,” he teased. “Or the kitchen table even, you lead the way Princess,” he continues as he wraps a towel around his hips, and hands her one as well.
Her mind goes blank. Did he just say what she thinks he said? Maybe the bed is the best place after all. It feels kinda strange to move this to the kitchen table. That stuff is supposed to just happen, right? It wasn’t like you were supposed to plan to do it on the kitchen table? Yeah, the bedroom was the safest option. It felt like the right choice. Without thinking too much about it, she laced her fingers with his and guided him towards his bedroom.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
With Brock’s words echoing in her thoughts, her confidence is on the rise. At least for the moment. She’s determined to make the most of the brief time they have together, even if it means lying directly to her father’s face.
She gazes at him, standing there before her, the towel still securely wrapped around his hips. "Drop the towel!" she exclaims suddenly, catching both him and herself off guard.
Without a moment's hesitation, he lets the towel fall to his ankles, exposing his bare form to her. He’s already becoming aroused. The anticipation of what’s about to unfold sends warmth pooling in his groin. He clears his throat, bracing himself for whatever is to come.
"Sit," she playfully commands, gesturing towards the bed. She’s uncertain about her next move, but as long as he’s willing to join in, she’s ready to engage in the game.
A deep, moaning sound escapes his throat as he settles onto the bed, his eyes fixed on her as she lets her towel drop and kneels before him. "Calleigh," he exhales, almost reverently, as her hands glide up his strong thighs.
"Yes," she responds, giving him her most innocent smile while her delicate fingers tease his balls.
"Ahhh, fuck," he moans, his voice trembling, thighs quaking. Fuck, her touch feels absolutely incredible on his skin. He leans back on his arms, his head tilting back as another moan escapes him. "Princess," he rasps as her tongue playfully dances over his tip.
She can't help but let out a soft chuckle as she bends down to let her tongue tease his balls. She knows she's playing with him, but as long as he enjoys it, she can keep this up until he can no longer contain himself.
"Oh, fuck," he moans again, raising his hand to her shoulder.
"Ahah," she whispers against his balls. "No touching," she adds, emphasizing the last word, the T resonating on the sensitive skin between his legs.
"Shit, Princess," he groans. His entire body responds when she wraps her hand around his growing cock and swirls her tongue around the tip. "Oh, fuuuck," he moans, wishing this moment could last forever.
Just as she was about to envelop him with her lips, the doorbell shatters the electric tension. FUCK! Calleigh jumps, instinctively backing herself into a corner of his room. Jesus. Oh dear God! What if it’s Jack? What will she do then? What are they going to do? Her heart pounds so violently in her chest that she feels she might faint.
Brock feels exactly the same way, and if he could, he would want to curl up in a corner right now, pretending not to be home, or sleeping, or anything to avoid facing whoever was at the door. When the doorbell rang again, he finally managed to think straight; grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the laundry basket and putting them on. "Fuck! This isn’t happening," he muttered, before turning to Calleigh. "Stay here, Princess," he said in a calm tone, trying to soothe them both.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
He makes sure the bedroom door is securely closed before he moves towards the door. Jesus, he should’ve thought of this. How could he be so stupid? His relationship with Calleigh came with consequences. He just hoped he wouldn’t face any of them right now.
This was just fucking perfect. If it wasn’t Jack at the door, he would give whoever it was a piece of his mind. Fuck, just when he–.
He ran a hand trough his still damp hair, hoping to fuck it wasn’t Jack at the door. Because that would most certainly end in disaster. He stops for a moment as he reaches for the knob, preparing himself to face whatever… whoever lay on the other side.
He slowly turns the knob and barely gets the damn door open when…
“Brock! You need to call mom and tell her to take it easy,” Samantha, Brock’s sister, the eldest of the five girls marches into his house like she owns the place, talking fast. “Both me and Liv told her that we would bring something, and Becca is making dessert. But she won’t hear of it,” she continues in a high annoyed pitch as she strolls further into his house.
Brock simply follows. This is becomming an almost normal routine the day before Sunday dinner. He rolls his eyes behind his sister’s back as he follows her into his livingroom, folding his arms over his chest, waiting for her to get out what she needs to get out.
They all wanted to help out with dinner, but his mom was as stubborn as they came, and she wanted to make her kids and grandchildren a good, hardy meal once a week.
“We’re not just seven kids anymore, Brock,” Samantha states, like he didn’t already know that. The Rumlow family had grown over the years, to not only include him and his six siblings, but also their husbands and Brady’s wife, and their kids. Now they were fifteen in total, and yes, it required a lot of food. “We’re fifteen for god’s sake,” Samantha continued, earning a nod from Brock, just to show her that he just thought of that himself. “She’s gonna work herself to death. And she…,”
Samantha stops mid-sentence; she arches a dark brow as she eyes her brother. Sensing that something is odd, something is not right, or at least different. She can’t quite tell, and with Brock’s history, that doesn’t feel good, that doesn’t feel good at all.
“What are you doing?” She asks, giving him that signature Sam look. That look that says, I’m not letting this go. I’m not leaving until I know.
Brock clears his throat. “Hi Sam. Good to see you too; thanks for calling to see if I was busy before you just came over to my house and walked in,” he accompanied his words with an unimpressed look aimed at his sister.
Samantha studies him intently. “Do you have company?” She asks. Praying to higher powers that it wasn’t who she suspected it might be.
She looked at him like she just caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. It became a bit too exciting for Brock’s liking when she started to walk around the livingroom looking for signs that someone else had been there.
“Errr,” Brock lets out, rubbing the back of his neck, desperately trying to figure out what to tell her. He wasn’t afraid to let Sam know, it was just that he wasn’t quite ready yet. And he knew that Calleigh wasn’t. Hell, half the time he felt he wasn’t even ready for what they had now. Everything had happened so damn fast, almost too fast. Not that he regretted a single thing. But given who Calleigh was, that complicated things.
Instead of elaborating, he simply sent his sister one of those looks. That look that tells you not to ask any more questions. Though he knew that didn’t work all that well on any of his sisters; but Sam was in a league of her own. Probably why she was the one to come over to his house asking him, as the eldest to call their mom.
“God, Brock!” Sam’s whole face cringes. “It’s Taylor, isn’t it?” She goes on, giving her big brother that look, the look that says, I think you’re stupid, but it’s your life. I still love you. “I was afraid of this when I saw that she was back. Brock, she’s not go–,” she goes on, but Brock stops her.
He frowns at her words. He wouldn’t touch Taylor like that again for all the money in the world. “Wait! Hold up!” He almost yells. “It’s not Taylor!” He goes on. Fuck. How stupid did she think he was? Taylor might be back in Mansfield, but not with him. The fuck? “Why would I sleep with Taylor?” He added. Realizing too late how much he gave away with that one sentence. Jesus, he really had to stop talking.
Sam raises both her eyebrows almost in disbelief. “You’re sleeping with this person?” She questions, her tone is unmistakable. “Who is she?” She continues. When he’s still not answering she goes on. “You might be my older brother, but as your sister, I’m entiteled to have a screening process,”
Brock just looks at her. Trying to stop her from prying any deeper. When she simply looks back, he takes a breath. “I don’t think you even want to know,” he tries. Sam wasn’t stupid, curious yes, but not stupid.
Sam narrows her eyes. “Is it a guy?” She asks. Not that that would matter for her, but it would be a surprise. But if she’s honest, she mostly asked to nudge him closer to actually reveal the truth of the mystery woman who brought her brother to walk around in just his sweatpants on a Saturday morning.
“Haha,” Brock replied, then added “It’s not a guy,”. He needed to calm down this situation. To stop his sister before things went out of hand. “Sam, please,” he continued, only to be cut off by a phone ringing.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Calleigh slowly gets to her feet when Brock closes the door behind him. Listening, trying to figure out who was at the door. Praying that it wasn’t her dad. Jesus. What on earth would she do if it really was him at the door? That would end in disaster, totally life shattering disaster.
She swallows as she moves over to her bag, slowly, careful to not make a single sound. She grabs her shorts and t shirt, hastilly getting them on. If her father suddenly bursted through the door, there was no way in hell she would be sitting on the floor naked. Though it probably wouldn’t make that much of a different, she was at his house at 9am, that said it all. There was no way to recover from that.
She listened again, almost to the point where she forgot how to breathe. Oh thank God! She recognized that voice, and when she heard Brock say ‘Hi Sam’ it was like a brick was lifted off her heart. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord. All she had to do now was to keep quiet until Sam left. And hopefully not get an urgent need to go to the bathroom or anything like that.
She fished her phone up from her bag, turning the sound off, she scrolled through her social media, not because she was looking for something, more to calm herself. She knew it would be difficult to keep this a secret, but she wasn’t ready at all for it to blow up now. Not yet, she needed more time. They needed more time.
Her ringtone pierces through the silence like a loudspeaker. Almost causing her to throw her phone to the floor. Fuck! Shit! Jess’ picture lights up the screen. Great! Fucking perfect! Of course it was Jess. She wasn’t even here, and still she managed to spill the beans. She should get an award for this kind of things.
Calleigh presses the green button as fast as she can, but from the noise on the other side of the door, she already knows it’s too late. “I can’t talk right now,” she hastilly says into the phone before she hangs up. Picturing Jess’ frazzled face before her.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Samantha is strolling towards the bedroom door with determined steps. It wasn’t exactly that she wanted to force her brother to spill the beans. But she knew herself, she would continue to nag him about this until he did, and she didn’t want to do that. Besides, after the last relationship her brother had, she almost felt an obligation to keep him from ever entering anything like that again.
“Sam! Sam please! This is something I’m–” he doesn’t get to say anything more before Sam opens the bedroom door. “Not ready to share,” he let out, defeated.
Samantha stopped in the door, looking at the person sitting in her brother’s bed. She was clutching a pillow, knees bent and pulled up, clutching the pillow between her legs and her stomach, almost like she tried to dissapear. God, she should’ve listened to him, listened to her brother. Believed him, trusted him. Because he was right. She didn’t want to know this. It was just that she didn’t know that she didn’t want to know, before she knew. And now it was too late. “Calleigh?” She breathed out in surprise.
Calleigh looked up, facing the deeply surprised face of Samantha, and the ‘I’m so sorry’ face of Brock. She didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. Gradually she lifted her hand as to kinda say ‘hi’ to Sam.
Hello everyone and welcome to my recommended reading list! I hope you will find something you will enjoy on this weeks list.
Thank you to everyone who enjoys my lists and reblogs them. Your support means the world to me. Thank you again to those who recommended fanfics or tagged me.
💜 This week, I read 40 fanfics—absolutely amazing fanfics. It has been so much fun for me, and I hope you enjoy my reading lists.
As always these will be listed in no particular order. None of these stories are mine. I’m just signal-boosting them. The author is listed next to the title. My goal is to signal boost writers and spread positivity in the community. 💜💜
Click HERE to see what I will or won’t read. This is very important.
Click HERE for past reading lists.
For my Masterlist Click HERE.
Please make sure you’re reading the warnings on every story. They range from dark to fluff. Do Not Read if you are under 18 years old. These stories are meant for adults only. You’re responsible for your own media consumption.
Header by @fictional-affairs
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If you can, please reblog these lists so they can reach more people on Tumblr. Likes are nice but Reblogs are golden.
I love you 3000 💜 Missy
My Last Goodbye - (Bucky x Reader) - @saiyanprincessswanie
Private Affairs - (Bucky x Reader) - @saiyanprincessswanie
The contract (16) - (Steve x Reader) - @holylulusworld
Turned Sour - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817
Worth It - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817
FILTHY - (Bucky x Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
It Was No Trouble - (Lee x Reader) - @soelstress
Priceless - (Dark!Steve x Reader) - @holylulusworld
Fake Bimbo - (Bucky x Reader) - @holylulusworld
Little Squeeze - (Nick x Reader) - @societyfolklore
Major Tags: Angst, fluff, slow burn, constant tension, dangerous attraction.
N/A: My gift for @talia-rumlow. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HILD!
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@saiyanprincessswanie
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After one week of reading 50 fics I’m ending January with a total of 190 Fics read. Phew 😂 lots of long days and nights.
Hello everyone and welcome to my recommended reading list! I hope you will find something you will enjoy on this weeks list.
Thank you to everyone who enjoys my lists and reblogs them. Your support means the world to me. Thank you again to those who recommended fanfics or tagged me.
💜 This week, I read 50 fanfics—absolutely amazing fanfics. It has been so much fun for me, and I hope you enjoy my reading lists.
As always these will be listed in no particular order. None of these stories are mine. I’m just signal-boosting them. The author is listed next to the title. My goal is to signal boost writers and spread positivity in the community. 💜💜
Click HERE to see what I will or won’t read. This is very important.
Click HERE for past reading lists.
For my Masterlist click HERE.
Please make sure you’re reading the warnings on every story. They range from dark to fluff. Do Not Read if you are under 18 years old. These stories are meant for adults only. You’re responsible for your own media consumption.
Header by @fictional-affairs
Page-break by @whimsicalrogers
If you can, please reblog these lists so they can reach more people on Tumblr. Likes are nice but Reblogs are golden.
I love you 3000 💜 Missy
My Last Goodbye - (Bucky x Reader) - @saiyanprincessswanie
The contract (15) - (Steve x Reader) - @holylulusworld
Wishful Thinking - (Nick x Reader) - @navybrat817
Longing - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
Menace - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
Lie-In - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
Home Sweet Home - Chp 15 - (Brock/OFC) - @talia-rumlow
Bed Warmer - (Dark!Steve x Reader) - @navybrat817
Noble Enough - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817
For Months - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817
Shattered - (Steve x Reader) - @ice-vipers
No tears left to cry - (Ransom x Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
In My Sights - (God The Bounty Hunter x Reader) - @soelstress
Home Sweet Home (AU Brock Rumlow/OFC) Chapter Seventeen!
Wordcount: 5648
Triggers: Age gap relationship, PTSD, smut, emotions, mentions of war.
HAPPY READING!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - WHAT WE STARTED!
Calleigh surveys his bedroom. It's spacious, more spacious than she anticipated. The light hardwood floor gives the room a relaxing feel. The walls are in a darker shade of soothing blue. A Perfect mix of colors and materials to relax after a tough day.
Behind the door there's a chest of drawers, this one is also filled with pictures. Lifting her eyes a bit, she encounters a floating shelve; packed with medals and other military things.
“You're decorated…,” she lets out, startled slightly from the amount of medals he has. Though she remembers the stories from her childhood, about how Brock had saved Jack's life. About how her father would have returned home in a casket if it wasn't for Brock's selfless act that day; she hadn't pictured anything of this magnitude. “Good soldier,” she whispers as her eyes land on a picture of Brock and Jack.
Both in their uniforms, looks like it's taken just before deployment. Brock holds Jack's head in one of those typical 20-something-boy-best friend grips, as he plants a kiss on his cheek. They both look different than she knows them. More happy in a way. Bright smiles and glimmering eyes that reflect the sun. Not that her dad or Brock wasn't happy, it was just something about their eyes that caught her attention. Something that they both had in this picture, but something she'd never seen in any of them before. Something brighter, like their eyes had shed some of the color and life that used to be there, on the way from this picture till today. And of course, the scar, the scar that was absent in this picture.
She can't help it, her fingers glide slowly over the picture. Of course she knows that this is from a time long ago, before her, but still; she can't help but feel like she'd missed out. She would have done just about anything to be able to see that life in their eyes herself, in real life, and not just through a picture.
“Yeah,” Brock breathes out, before he reaches for the picture, adjusting it just a tiny bit. More to do something than anything else. “That was before…,” he lets the sentence die out.
“Before…,” Calleigh echoes the word. She didn't know any of them before everything they went through over there, because she wasn't born yet. But she could almost feel it, the happiness that was lost; gone forever. Buried in the Afghan desert, or at Arlington Cemetery. Oh, what she would have done to see that light in their eyes, that which came from pure happiness and life. A life he'd lived before she even came into existence.
Brock takes a deep breath, looks at her; she has that look in her eyes, that look that says I want to know, but still I'm not sure. To be fair, he didn't know either. How much he could or should share. Not only for her sake, but for his as well.
At the same time there was this lingering feeling he couldn't shake. That if he opened up, just a tiny bit; she might also share some of the things she carried with her. It was a long shot, but it could be just what she needed; at least she might open the door just a little, and right now, that was all he needed.
In a leap of faith, he opened the top drawer and pulled out a black box. Slowly handing it to Calleigh.
Her fingers resting a bit on his as she accepts the box given to her. She's not sure, but there might be a small tremble in his frame. She doesn't open it right away, she just looks at it, letting her fingertips glide delicately over it.
Her breath hitches as she opens it. The box contains a medal. The pin is almost two inches long with purple material and white trim. Hanging just below the pin is a gold heart with deep purple background and the silhouette of George Washington in the center and his coat of arms above. A white shield with two thick red strips and three stars between sprays of green leaves. Engraved on the back it reads For Military Merit.
She can almost feel her eyes watering over, if it wasn't for the tight knot forming in her stomach. It's the Purple Heart. Jesus. She knows this medal is rewarded for one purpose only. Soldiers who were wounded or killed in service. Jack has the exact same medal at home. She remembers, because it was always taken down when the story was told. That story, the story of how Brock selflessly had saved his life. Brock the best friend, Brock the hero. They even talked about it at the Golf Club. Her grandparents never grew tired of sharing how amazing Brock was, and how much they appreciated his sacrifice.
How could she not have understood the meaning of sacrifice? That meant that you actually sacrificed something; that you gave up something. When she was younger she just focused on the word hero. That was what he was to her; the hero who brought her father back alive. She had never once thought about what he gave up to do so. Not once.
She draws in a shaky breath as she lets her fingers carefully glide over the medal. Hardly touching it. This particular medal is sacred, holy in a way. This medal carried with it not only recognition of the service member, but also certain benefits. Not to mention it's one of the highest ranking medals. If you asked someone about the highest ranking medals in the US military, the Purple Heart would be mentioned.
She hands the box back to him, not closing it first. In a strange way she feels like he should be the one to do that. Like he should be the one to decide when and where to hide it. Why is he hiding it? Why isn't it on display along with all his other medals? What was so painful that he decided to put it in a drawer?
After placing the medal back and closing the drawer, he gently took Calleigh's hand, placing it on the scar marring part of his lower abdomen.
Her skin feels so warm and soothing against his skin. As she traced the uneven texture with her fingertips he nearly forgot what he wanted to tell her.
“When I came to,” he started, taking a breath, “after,” he continued, looking into her eyes. So beautiful. “I didn't even feel the pain,” Okay, maybe that was half a lie. But he struggled to distinguish the physical pain from the emotional pain he had felt that day. And since the emotional pain seemed to have taken permanent hold, it was easier to explain it that way.
“All I could think about was finding him,” he continued, looking into her eyes. “To make sure he was okay,” his voice trembled a bit as he tried to push the images away. “To make sure he came home…,” his voice is surprisingly calm given the struggles inside. “To you,” he finished.
For what seemed like an eternity they just looked at each other, not saying a word.
“Thank you,” she managed to breathe out. Probably a stupid thing to say, but no other words came to mind.
He traced her bottom lip with his thumb, feeling the silky texture beneath his skin. “I'm a terrible friend,” he whispers as he leans in closer. Probably not the most thought through thing he ever said before he kissed someone. But he needed to get it out. Because he was, he felt like the most useless friend in the history of friendships; but he couldn't back down, wouldn't back down.
“I'm probably not the greatest daughter either,” she whispered back.
She didn't want to back down from this. But if they were going to be terrible people anyway, they might as well be terrible together. That way it felt easier to deal with.
“You're perfect,” Brock breathes before he lets his lips press gently against hers. He still struggles to understand the effect Calleigh has on him. All forms of reason disappear. All the consequences he'll probably face fades away. Leaving only her. Only Calleigh.
Calleigh tugs at his shirt, pulling it upwards just enough for him to take the hint. Their lips locked together again even before his shirt hits the floor. She can't fathom this. How the kisses seem to get better and better each time. How she seems to melt into him. It's like they were meant to be together, and now, the universe had finally heard their call.
Brock lets his hands glide gently up her sides, pulling her shirt with them. Her skin is so soft and soothing, like silk against his rough palms. His whole body is drawn to her, it’s an intoxicating euphoric feeling that blocks out any intruding thought of reason or consequences. In these moments with her, the rest of the world disappears, leaving only them, only Calleigh and him.
When she discarded her shirt, his eyes landed on her perfect breasts. All he wanted was to lose himself in her, savor every inch of her body before taking her up against the wall. Fuck how bad he wanted her. But he held back, had to. Her lack of experience in this field forced him to hold back, take it slow, one step at a time. Careful not to rush her or scare her in any way. It took almost everything he had, his erection already growing painfully against his jeans.
“I want you,” his voice deep and dark, filled with raw lust and desire. The sexual tension between them is unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Raw, feverish, genuine. This was so much more than just physical for him, and he longed to let her know that. To lay bare every feeling he felt. It was just that he had no idea how, or even where to start.
Calleigh's gaze indulges in the sight of his upper body. From the way his jeans sit snugly on his hips, to the impressive six-pack and well-defined pecs. She yearned to kiss his skin, to feel its texture against her lips. But, no. That seemed inappropriate, and he didn’t initiate anything. What did she truly understand about this? How could she discern what was expected of her or what was right or wrong? Oh, how foolish she felt.
To play it safe, she reaches behind her back and unclips her bra, allowing it to drop to the floor. "I’m all yours," she whispers as she gradually settles onto his bed. Slowly making her way up to the headboard, making herself comfortable. Then she removes her skirt.
Brock’s pupils dilate, turning into ravenous black orbs as he watches her. His cock is fattening up in his jeans. Fuck. He wants her. All of her. With slow, deliberate movements, he removes his jeans, his eyes never leaving her body, then proceeds to climb into the bed, hovering just above her, showering her skin with soft kisses as he moves over her body.
A soft moan escapes Calleigh’s lips as his expert touch ignites her entire body. Regardless of her feelings about betraying her father, this moment can’t be wrong. Something that feels this incredible can’t possibly be wrong. Can it?
"You’re unbelievably sexy," he exhales, allowing his hands to roam over her breasts before leaning down to envelop her left nipple with his lips.
Her head tilts back as she raises her lower body to meet his arousal, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Don’t stop," she gasps.
He raises his head to gaze at her, damn she’s stunning. The way her lips part and her eyelids flutter from his caress is nearly impossible to resist. "Princess," he murmurs, just before their lips collide in a fervent kiss.
Every nerve in her body ignites, from her toes to her head, it’s exhilarating, overwhelming. Yet, it’s the most incredible sensation she’s ever experienced. Everything she’d ever read about intimacy suddenly clicks into place.
"Do you want me?" He half moans, half growls into her neck. The sensation of their bodies brushing against each other, separated only by the delicate fabric of their underwear, is driving him wild. "Do you want me to taste you?" he continues, taking his time, not unleashing all his risqué words at once. Just a hint, to gauge her reaction.
"Mmmm," she nearly whispers, then gives a slight nod. His words send shivers down her spine, causing warmth to pool between her legs. She craved more of his voice; his deep, husky tone stirred something within her. It felt so authentic, so integral to the entire experience. But she hesitated to respond, at least for now, and any words that came to mind felt inappropriate, like they didn’t belong to her.
Brock lets his lips trail her skin as he descents on her body. Stealing soft moans from her lips along the way. Her underwear is black, with a cute light blue silk thread along the lining. He lets his hand glide over the soft fabric, making her shiver beneath his touch. “Did you choose these for the occasion?” He asks, with a teasing smile, letting his fingertips trail the lining.
“Mmhmm,” she breathes out, unable to form any real words. Her heart is pounding out of control and all she wants is to grab his head, pushing it down between her legs. To feel that warm, soft caress of his tongue that she remembers from that first time in the guest room. She wants him to ignite that deep hungry feeling in her lower belly that erupts into what can only be described as blissful fireworks within.
“I like it,” he whispers against her inner thigh, before his tongue caresses her, outside her underwear.
“Nishh,” she breathes, parting her legs a bit more.
Brock slowly and gently lets his fingertips slip under the lining, then he proceeds to remove them, gracing every inch of her legs on his way down.
Calleigh almost holds her breath. This whole thing feels so amazing. His slightly dirty talk mixed with those deliberate soft touches awakens something in her that she didn’t even knew existed, something that makes her forget about consequences or reason. It makes her feel alive.
He lets go of her underwear, letting it fall to the floor, then glides his palms back up her legs, savoring the feeling of the slight shiver beneath his touch. “I want you,” he breathes into her pussy before he lets his tongue glide through her folds.
“Oh my god,” she moans, her back arches, fingers digging into the sheets, toes curling. “Fuck,” she moans again as his fingers joins his tongue. “Brock,” she breathes in.
“Shhh, Princess,” he breathes into her slopping wet flesh. “Relax… enjoy,” he continues. His cock is throbbing in his boxers, desperate to break free, it’s almost painful. But he’s determined to put her first. Calleigh is his number one priority. Her pleasure first, he decided that he was going to make her finish, each and every time. Making sure she felt secured, loved and taken care of.
Her body is in full throttle, gradually yet consistently sending blood to that tantalizing area in her lower abdomen; it feels as if the very atmosphere surrounding her is vibrating, akin to an electric surge, pulling her nearer and nearer to bliss with every flick of his tongue on her clit. "Oh my ffsss," she gasps as his fingers begin to knead that secret place deep inside her.
He adjusts slightly, draping his free arm across her lower abdomen, ensuring she stays put. "Yeah," he whispers against her damp skin. "Right there," he adds, as his fingers continue their exploration within her. The escalating sounds of her moans stir a growl of longing from deep within him. He can sense her muscles tightening around his fingers; combined with her rising moans, it signals that she’s nearing her peak. With deliberate slowness, he envelops her clit with his lips, sucking softly.
It’s as if a bomb detonates in her lower abdomen, sending shards of euphoric bliss coursing through her entire being. If it weren’t for Brock’s arm, strategically draped over her belly, her lower half would have soared off the bed. Her toes curl into the mattress, while her arms reach up to clutch one of the pillows beneath her head. The sounds escaping her lips feel alien, like a brand new language she has just discovered. It’s almost mortifying to surrender to such loss of control, yet it’s utterly impossible to hold back. The pleasure is simply too overwhelming. Like a drug, and she’s already hooked.
Brock allows his arm to gently slide off her abdomen, his gaze fixed on her as the waves of her orgasm wash over her. Fuck, she is stunning. He pulls off his boxers, a low growl of appreciation escaping him as he finally releases his throbbing cock.
He carefully crawls over her, tracing every inch of her body as he moves. He feels every curve of her silky skin, committing each contour to memory. Her eyes remain closed as she basks in the final waves of ecstasy. He leans down, whispering softly in her ear, “I love you.”
She parts her lips, almost yearning to express those words herself, but they remain lodged in her throat. She can't fathom why, especially since being here, feeling his entire form gently pressed against her, and hearing him whisper sweet affirmations in her ear makes her heart swell. All she desires is for him to understand that her feelings mirror his.
"Princess," he breathes, locking his gaze with hers. "Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?" he inquires, hoping he hasn't overstepped with his words. Although he restrained himself, it could still be too much for her.
"Absolutely not," she breathes, her fingers weaving through his hair. She could hardly comprehend how being naked and so close to another bare body could evoke such deep emotions within her. His eyes shine with warmth and kindness, exuding love and tenderness. "I want you, Brock," she whispers.
“Good,” he smiles, holding her gaze as he slicks up his cock. He could almost feel his pupils dilate from the desire he felt for her. “Fuck,” he moaned as he stroked his throbbing cock a couple of times.
Calleigh bends and parts her legs a bit more, overtaken by a primal feeling, driven solely by lust. Not only does she want to feel him, she needs to feel him. She almost finds it funny that she feels no shame in this.
A deep guttural sound escapes him as he breaches her. Every embarrassment and torn feeling from earlier that night, every fear for the future, every single thing resonates into that one sound. Fuck, how amazing it is to be with her. She makes him feel whole, liberated, home. In every way, not just right now.
“Nhgahhh,” she moans, her neck arching, her head lolls back, toes curling into the sheets. Feeling him breaching her, slowly filling her up, is utterly amazing. And the sounds escaping him makes it even better. “Brock,” she breathes out.
“Ah, it feels so good,” he moans, slowly gliding his hands over her arms before intertwining his fingers with hers. He leans in, placing an open mouth kiss on her neck, inhaling her scent. A floral perfume, mixed with that primal scent of pure lust. “Ah,” he moans again. The feeling of her warm velvety walls engulfing him was pure bliss. The closeness, the tightness, the way her body moved with his, it was almost too much. “Fuck, I want you,” he rasped against her neck. Unable to hide it, hell it was almost impossible to hold back.
Calleigh takes a breath, steadying herself. Although she’s not quite ready to take part in the dirty talk, she still has a voice. Right? And Brock wouldn’t oppose her using it. At least she hoped he wouldn’t.
Slowly she leaned in, aligning her lips with his ear, it felt stupid, but she wanted him to know, no, she needed him to understand that she was all in. For all of it. Always. “Then take me,” she whispered.
Brock stops, it’s like his whole body is on fire. Did she really say what he thinks she said? Slowly he moves to meet her gaze. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, and he almost forgets how to breathe for a moment.
For what feels like an eternity, they just look into each other's eyes, trying to pour every emotion imaginable from that look alone.
Then, with a deep growl he surrenders to her completely, burying himself deep within her over and over.
“Oh, ah, ah,” her moans feel more like screams, screams of pleasure that echoes off the walls. She wraps her legs around him, pushing him down on her, desperate for the connection, the raw intimacy.
“Fuck, Princess,” he breathes into her neck. A series of moans and growls escapes him as her fingers grab his hair, holding on for dear life. “Fuck, so tight,” he rasps into her neck. His lips and tongue tracing her chin, desperately searching for her lips.
Her lips collide with his in a passionate and sultry kiss, as he continues to thrust into her, stimulating every nerve along the way. She breathes his name into the kiss, while his fingers intertwine with hers once more, pressing her hands down into the mattress beneath them.
"Say my name again," he groans low and throaty. He can't quite grasp why, but the way she utters his name—unfiltered, raw, and dripping with desire—affects him deeply. Fuck. It ignites something within him, a sensation that begins at the base of his spine and radiates throughout his entire being like an exhilarating wave of blissful energy.
"Fshhhk," she struggles to articulate coherent words, her mind completely blank. Her body teeters on the edge of ecstasy. Yet, she yearns to call his name again. This is what she has wished for, what she has longed for. For him to lead her down this path of discovery. To teach her, to guide her. To help her uncover her desires, while he shares his own. There’s no way in hell she’s going to hold back from saying his name again if that’s what he wants.
Gathering every ounce of focus, she parts her lips; just then, Brock strikes a particularly sensitive spot within her, launching her body and mind into a realm of pure ecstasy. "Oh, fuck. Oh-Brock—Brock," she half-shouts.
Jesus Christ almighty, hearing her all but shout his name as her walls clenching around him in a frenzy, he wraps his arms beneath hers, forming a protective cocoon around her as he drives into her with a renewed fervor. "Fuck. So…tight… Fuck," he groans, unable to complete his thought before he succumbs to his own release.
Oh dear God in heaven. A blissful paradise.
Brock lets his hand gently caress her hair, meeting her eyes as she opens them. Her hands glide over his shoulders, mapping out his muscles underneath her touch. Fuck, she gets more beautiful every time he looks at her. “I love you, God, I love you” he whispers before placing a kiss on her forehead.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
As Clint stepped out of the shower, he let out a deep sigh. Damn, that kiss. It was stuck in his mind. She really kissed him, right? He couldn’t have imagined it, could he? At this moment, he was uncertain about what had actually happened; after lunch, she hadn’t brought it up at all. It was as if it had never occurred. Or perhaps she regretted it. He had no way of knowing. How could he, when she had been completely absorbed in her studies after they returned from lunch? He understood that girls could be difficult to read; God knows he had dealt with his fair share of them. But Jessica. Jessica was more than just a puzzle. She was more like an enigma, akin to one of those escape rooms where you had to uncover and follow clues to unravel the mystery. The problem was; he had absolutely no clues to guide him.
It wasn’t like he could ask her either. ‘Hey, Jessica, what did you mean with that amazing kiss?’. No, there was no way. He was a grown ass adult. He wasn’t going to ask, he was never going to ask.
Damn. He couldn’t allow himself to spend the entire weekend fixating on this. He just couldn’t. But deep down, he knew he would. Every single waking moment.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Jack is slumped on the couch, struggling to make sense of the events of the evening. Calleigh was one aspect he could grasp; he understood that moving into his house was a significant change for her as well. In some respects, her anger towards him for having Brock essentially babysit her was justifiable. So, if he focused intently and pieced everything together, he could at least comprehend that she might have her reasons for acting the way she did. But Brock? What could possibly motivate him?
It definitely wasn’t Taylor, that much was clear. They had discussed that topic numerous times before, with Jack feeling guilty for encouraging Brock to embrace the whole ‘wild night’ concept, and Brock regretting not heeding Jack’s advice to steer clear. No, the Taylor situation couldn’t be the cause.
Could it be that Peter had said something to upset him? It was a possibility, but it seemed unlikely considering Peter’s unwavering gratitude and the immense respect he held for Brock. Everything felt out of order, and Jack often thought that the visible scar he bore was a disappointment to Peter. It served as a constant reminder that his son had enlisted in the military, even though he didn’t have to, and despite his responsibilities at home—a new baby and a stable job that would ensure his financial security for life. It was as if Peter didn’t even want to acknowledge that Jack had made this choice for all of them, to protect them. When he learned about Gen and the pregnancy, he only saw another reason to enlist, to fight, to serve, to ensure their safety. No matter how hard he tried, he could never fathom how his father could praise Brock’s service while simultaneously reprimanding Jack for his own.
With a deep exhale, he ran his hand across his face. He felt overwhelmed at this moment. Everything was happening simultaneously, and attempting to make sense of it all was a challenge he wasn't prepared to face.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
James was exercising on his rowing machine. Sure, it was late, but he needed to release some tension. His bare torso, shining with sweat, clearly showed that he had been working hard for quite a while. His six-pack tightened with every stroke. Damn his life.
Being unemployed was tougher than he had anticipated; now he had to stretch every dollar to keep everything afloat. He even had to pause his gym membership, which was almost more than he could bear. Sure, he had some equipment at home, but the gym offered so much more and was of much higher quality. Plus, it felt great to step outside and socialize. Damn it.
He had reached out to Rollins Delivery, but Jack was away on a business trip, and the substitute wasn’t capable of managing such issues. At least that’s what he was told. Jack should have returned by now, so he needed to try again next week. This felt like his final opportunity; if this didn’t pan out, he might as well throw in the towel. That wasn’t in his character, but what other options did he have? If his calculations were right, he had two, maybe three months at most, if he really pushed it, before he would be completely broke.
Life certainly wasn’t a walk in the park.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Jess couldn’t sleep, no matter how much she wanted or needed it. Brock had been right, this evening had aged them by like five years, but that wasn’t what occupied her mind at that point. Her mind was filled with the memories of soft lips and warm breath. And then she had just left him there. Jesus, how was it possible to be that stupid? No, Jessica, once again she has to remind herself that she didn’t have those kind of feelings…. Anymore. Relationships and boys had screwed up way too much in the past for her to even consider going down that path again. And with someone at work? No, no, no, no. There was no way that wouldn’t blow up in her face.
And Barton hadn’t mentioned it after lunch, not even a little bit. He was the adult here, about a decade older than her. If he wanted to kiss again, he should have the balls to say it, or just do it. Oh balls, fuck. Damnit, Jessica, she scolds herself. Those steamy images she envisioned in the office earlier flashes in her mind again. She wanted to slap herself.
She couldn’t get feelings for him, especially not now. He was her only hope to actually get a degree, and she didn’t even want to begin to contemplate what her father would do if she flunked. Damnit.
She looked over at Molly, sound asleep. The low snores had given that away about an hour ago. God, how Jess wished she could be more like Molly or Calleigh. Fully focused on studies, never bringing any guys into it. Her two best friends had managed the task at adhering to their parents, finishing school with flawless grades. Jess however, though she had good grades, hadn’t quite managed the top one in every class. She used to like the fact that she had experience, that she knew what to say when the topic of sex came up. But now, having her fathers watchful eyes, scrutinizing every word in every assignment, now, she wished she didn’t. Because maybe, just maybe she wouldn’t have those steamy pictures of her and Barton playing on repeat in her mind.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Brock struggled to slow his breathing, each inhale shallow and uneven. The cold along his spine, the dampness in his palms, the faint tremor running through his arms—there was no mistaking it. His body knew before his mind caught up.
“Calleigh,” he whispered, even though he knew she was asleep. He needed to be sure.
She didn’t stir.
He turned his head and looked at her. She was sprawled comfortably on her side, lips parted slightly, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. A strand of hair had slipped loose and brushed across her cheek. She looked peaceful. Safe.
God, she was beautiful. So damn beautiful it hurt to look at her.
Carefully, Brock eased himself out of bed, moving slow enough that the mattress barely shifted. His legs wobbled the moment his feet hit the floor. He paused, steadying himself on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched.
Fuck. Not now. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Not this soon.
The bathroom light felt too bright when he flipped it on. He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face, again and again, as if he could wash the memories down the drain. It didn’t help.
When he finally looked up, the man staring back at him barely resembled the one from earlier that night. The color had drained from his face, leaving his skin pale and tight. His eyes looked hollow, ringed with something close to fear.
“Oh, goddamn it… all to hell,” he muttered.
His hand shook as he reached for the cabinet and pulled it open.
Rows of pill bottles stared back at him.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Too soon. This couldn’t be happening now. He briefly considered grabbing a blanket and sleeping on the couch, but the idea made his chest tighten. Waking up alone would scare her. Raise questions he wasn’t ready to answer. No—he couldn’t do that to her. Not like this.
It was that damn Purple Heart.
He had his reasons for hiding it. For never looking at it. Because every time he did, this happened. Every single time. And he couldn’t afford to lose control—not now, not with her. Not yet.
He knew Calleigh understood PTSD. She knew about nightmares, about panic, about the aftermath. But that knowledge lived on the other side of a closed door—outside Jack’s bedroom. As far as he knew, she’d never actually seen what it looked like up close.
And he wasn’t ready to be the one who showed her.
Fuck that medal. He didn’t deserve it.
Why the hell was he awarded anything at all when he couldn’t save them? What kind of honor came from surviving when they hadn’t? Miles hadn’t. Duke sure as hell hadn’t. Miles had been torn apart. Duke’s insides turned to mush right in front of him.
And Brock walked away.
Why was he the one left breathing? The one left whole?
He hadn’t come home and done anything extraordinary. He hadn’t fixed the world. He hadn’t saved anyone—out there or back home. All he’d managed to do was stumble into a relationship that scared him more than any firefight ever had.
“Goddamn it,” he exhaled.
He tipped two pills into his palm and swallowed them dry before chasing them with a glass of tap water. The pills stuck in his throat for half a second before finally going down.
He stared at his reflection again, willing himself to look normal. To feel normal.
“Get it together, Brock,” he told the man in the mirror, his voice low and sharp. “Get it the hell together.”
Home Sweet Home (AU Brock Rumlow/OFC) Chapter Sixteen!
Wordcount: 4199
Triggers: Narcissism, Domestic abuse, infidelity, emotional trauma, age gap relationship
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - NARCISSIST!
Brock unlocks the front door to his house, letting Calleigh step inside first. Part of him wished to extend their chat in the car, avoiding the topic of Taylor for as long as he could. Yet, another part urged him to hurry them inside, away from any curious onlookers, whoever they might be.
It wouldn’t be odd for him to have Calleigh over at his place. However, having her stay the night could raise eyebrows and spark rumors he neither wanted nor needed.
What people said about Taylor was already too much. Even though no one had ever approached him about it directly, he was aware—oh, he was painfully aware.
Calleigh surveys his home. The spacious design creates an illusion of greater size. In the hallway, there's an empty area, likely where a wardrobe once stood. A chest of drawers is positioned against one wall, adorned with picture frames both on its surface and on the wall behind it. For a fleeting moment, Calleigh feels a pang of fear; worried she might stumble upon a photo of him and Taylor. However, that anxiety dissipates just as swiftly as it arose when she recalls the way his voice changes whenever he speaks her name.
His living room is quite spacious, featuring an open layout that connects seamlessly with the kitchen. In the center of the room, a black leather couch is positioned to face a large screen TV, accompanied by a set of bookshelves. The shelves are filled with pictures and personal memorabilia, mostly military-themed items, as far as she can see. It's much like the collection that occupies Jack's office at home.
"Would you like a drink… um, something to drink?" Brock inquires as he opens the fridge, his nervousness bubbling to the surface. Should he share everything with her? Should he reveal his nightmares? How would she respond to that?
"I have water, Coke, Sprite," he informs her, pulling out a bottle of iced tea from the door and checking the expiration date. It's five days past. "And some questionable iced tea," he adds to his list of drink options, desperately trying to lighten the atmosphere, mostly for his own sake. But he knows that listening to what Taylor did was likely no easy feat either.
"I'm doing well, thank you," she replies. She felt uncertain about her readiness to listen to Brock recount his story involving another woman. Yet, she also sensed a strong need to understand; to grasp the reasons behind his deep-seated animosity towards that woman. She recognized Brock as a genuinely forgiving person, so for him to possess what she could only label as hatred for someone meant that individual must have committed an act that was truly unforgivable.
Jesse's voice abruptly resonates in her thoughts. "Apparently, she treated him terribly." Had he been mistreated? Was she prepared to learn about it?
Regardless of her readiness, there was no way to retreat now.
"I wanted one, so I thought I’d bring you one too," Brock says as he returns from the kitchen, offering her a can of coke.
"Thank you," she replies softly, contemplating if this was a wise choice as she settles down beside Brock.
"What is it that you wish to learn?" he inquires. Perhaps a tad quicker than he intended, yet he had never truly shared his thoughts about Taylor, except with his therapist. Even his sister Sam was left in the dark regarding many aspects. Still, he suspected that Sam might know more than he realized.
Calleigh gazes at him. What is it that she truly wants to uncover? Does she genuinely desire to know anything at all?
"How did you come to know her?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Not that the specifics of their meeting were particularly significant; it merely seemed like a gentle entry point before delving into what she could only think were much weightier topics.
Brock almost bursts into laughter inside, yet he skillfully maintains a serious expression on the outside.
He truly has no clear idea of what the correct response to that question would be. Relaying that story just as it unfolded felt almost like he was attributing the blame for his situation with Taylor entirely to Jack. But that wasn't the truth. While it was true that Jack had been the one to introduce them; if it at all could be called that, he had also been quite clear about his disapproval of Brock pursuing that route.
Regrettably, Brock had been a bit slower than Jack in recognizing Taylor's true nature. It was a mistake that cost Brock dearly.
“Through your dad,” Brock says. Forcing himself back to that day in mid June 2019.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Mansfield, Texas – June 2019
Jack seemed somewhere else entirely. He was right there beside Brock, but his eyes had that far-off look—like his mind had boarded a different train hours ago. The fact that he’d invited Brock to spend the afternoon at the Golf Club was telling enough.
Jack hated the Golf Club. “It’s a place crawling with pretentious rich folks who think they’re more important than they are,” he’d once told Brock when asked about it. The words had been sharp, almost spit out, like the very thought left a bad taste in his mouth.
No one in the Rollins family played golf, but they never missed a chance to talk about the club’s social events—luncheons, charity galas, cocktail hours where nothing in the glass cost less than a small fortune. After a few conversations, Brock had realized that the “Golf Club” was just a fancier way of saying “country club”—a place for the well-heeled to gather, flash their money, swap stories about themselves, and leave feeling even more important than when they arrived.
At least, that was Jack’s perspective.
Now, the Texas sun glared off the hood of Jack’s red convertible as they cruised down the road, wind whipping through Brock’s hair and carrying with it the faint scent of freshly cut grass and hot asphalt. He leaned back in the leather seat, watching neat rows of oak trees and sprawling manicured lawns roll past. The closer they got, the more the scenery changed—chain restaurants gave way to gated drives, and modest brick houses were replaced with wide, glass-front mansions.
Brock had never stepped foot inside the Golf Club, but he could already feel it: a world polished to a shine, all high ceilings and hushed voices, where every handshake was a performance and every smile had a price.
“It’s terribly boring, but the food’s usually good,” Jack said as his car rolled to a smooth stop in the parking lot. “And who knows—you might even get a few new clients. These rich motherfuckers really don’t know how to park. Just look at that guy.” He gestured toward a sleek black Porsche sprawled across two spaces.
“Like I said,” Jack added as they got out, “inflated egos.”
“I usually call them customers,” Brock replied, tugging at the hem of his shirt as if that might somehow make it look sharper. “I feel really underdressed,” he muttered.
His eyes moved over the crowd—men in tailored suits, women in expensive dresses that seemed to glide as they walked. He felt like an outsider standing at the gates of a world that wasn’t meant for him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said quietly, something softer threading through his voice. “I’m just… trying to fill my days.”
He didn’t need to explain further. Brock understood. Ever since Gen had left with Calleigh three weeks ago, Jack had been moving from one distraction to the next. He probably wouldn’t see his daughter again until Christmas, and though the subject was never spoken aloud, the weight of it hung between them.
Still, as they made their way toward the entrance, Brock began to feel the edge of his discomfort ease. Faces lit up in recognition, people offering polite nods or friendly greetings. His reputation—built on years of military service and solid work as a mechanic—preceded him here. He might not blend perfectly into this high-class scene, but he realized he wasn’t entirely out of place either.
“Hello there,” a voice purred in Brock’s ear, low and enticing, as a pair of hands slid over his shoulders and traced slowly down his arms.
He froze, startled. This kind of welcome felt more suited to a strip club than to a polished venue like this. Maybe she thought he was someone else.
“Miss Spencer,” Jack said flatly. The apathy in his tone was unmistakable. His eyes narrowed, the kind of look meant to push someone back without a single word more.
The woman only smiled, unbothered. She pulled up a chair beside Brock, close enough that her perfume—a sweet, heady floral—hung between them.
“Oh, come on, Jack,” she cooed, her hand sliding onto Brock’s thigh. “How could I not say hello? You brought a hero to our little get-together.” Her fingers gave the word hero extra weight with a light squeeze.
“I’m Taylor,” she said brightly to Brock, extending a hand with perfectly manicured nails.
“Uh—Brock,” he managed, shaking it. He was completely thrown off by her forwardness. Still, in a room he barely understood the rules of, politeness seemed like the safest play—especially with Jack’s clear disdain radiating between them.
“Oh, I know,” Taylor said, releasing his hand only to place hers on his bicep. “You’re a hero in our community.”
“Taylor,” Jack snapped. His voice was low, but sharp enough to cut. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her near Brock. He knew confronting her would have consequences, but he didn’t care.
She met his stare. “God, Jack, relax. I’m sorry for interrupting you.” Her eyes shifted to Brock, her tone softening. “Unless… you’d rather I stay?”
“Uh… I—” Brock stammered, caught between courtesy and curiosity. “I guess I’ll let Jack decide.”
Taylor pouted, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Then of course, I’ll give you space. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, each syllable steeped in disdain.
“See you later,” Taylor murmured to Brock as she stood, her voice a velvet thread. She walked away with deliberate grace.
Brock let out a slow breath, eyes following Jack’s fixed gaze—still locked on the woman until she disappeared into the crowd.
“What was that?” Brock asked, a nervous laugh slipping out before he could stop it.
“The devil,” Jack said flatly. The words came out sharp, with no attempt to hide the venom behind them.
“Wow,” Brock muttered. Part of him was curious about the intensity in Jack’s tone, and part of him wanted to keep his distance from whatever history was tangled up in it.
“I…” Brock hesitated. “I thought she was… well, attractive,” he admitted carefully, as if choosing each word might keep from lighting a fuse.
Jack gave a short, humorless laugh. “Fake, fake, fake, fake, and fake,” he said, pointing to various features as though checking off a list. “That woman has more plastic in her than a Barbie doll.” His contempt was so thick it could’ve been bottled.
Brock’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, followed by a weak chuckle. “Isn’t that… um… what rich folks do? Enhance their looks?”
“She’s different,” Jack said, his tone flat, giving nothing away.
“Really?” Brock asked, glancing back over his shoulder at Taylor’s retreating figure.
Jack’s gaze followed his. “Listen, Brock,” he said, voice low but edged with something between anger and warning. “If you want to have a wild night with her, fine. Get it out of your system. Be my guest.” He paused, looking up at the cloudless blue sky as if weighing his next words. “Just… use protection. And—” he drew in a slow breath, exhaled, “—don’t take it any further.”
Brock didn’t answer, and Jack didn’t press him. Whatever had happened between them was clearly enough to leave Jack with a permanent grudge.
Still, Brock couldn’t shake the thought. The idea of a wild night with Taylor lingered in the back of his mind—dangerous, yes, but tempting all the same.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
It's quiet.
Brock inhales deeply, looking at Calleigh.
Calleigh is absentmindedly drawing circles with her index finger on the top of the Cola can she holds.
Brock clears his throat, breaking the stillness.
Calleigh glances up at him, a subtle smile flickering on her lips.
A wave of anxiety sweeps over Brock. Had he crossed a line? He would never divulge the specifics of his and Taylor's intimate moments; that would be crossing a boundary. Yet, he often forgot that Calleigh was just twenty. She might not be interested in any details whatsoever. Perhaps she simply expected him to respond with straightforward answers like 'the Golf club' when she inquired about where they had met.
"I love you," he murmurs, almost inaudibly.
Calleigh raises her eyes, meeting his; yet she remains silent.
"I love you, Calleigh," he repeats.
Still, no response.
"Before we move forward, I need you to understand this," he presses on. "I want you to know that I am completely finished with her. Done... with her," his tone resolute. "I have no desire to be involved with her... ever again," he finishes.
"I understand that," she finally responds.
Then, silence envelops them once more. They simply gaze at each other, quietly.
Suddenly, Calleigh bursts into a soft laugh. "So...," she giggles. "You were at the Golf Club," she smiles. The image of all those pretentious, self-absorbed individuals, along with Brock, dances in her mind. It's undeniably a funny sight. "I would love to see that," she adds.
"Yeah," he chuckles back. The tension gradually fades away. "Don't hold your breath," he grins.
"I wasn't planning to," she replies with a smile, though her expression shifts to seriousness once more. "Did you start dating her after that?" she inquires. Unsure if she truly wants to hear another tale, yet something deep within her craves to know.
"Uhm," Brock begins, hesitating as he grapples with how to reveal that truth without coming off as shallow or foolish… or perhaps both. "She… um," he attempted, quickly abandoning that line of thought. "She sort of didn't back down," he eventually admitted. "She chased after me as if I were some sort of royalty," he went on. "And…," he cleared his throat.
Reflecting on this now made it difficult to articulate. He could now recognize how oblivious he had been, how foolish he must have appeared. To be honest, it was quite humiliating.
"It made me…," he allows the thought to hang in the air. He didn't want Calleigh to look at him the way he perceives himself when he thinks back.
"Feel special?" Calleigh accurately completes his thought, nearly causing him to tumble off the couch.
"Uh, yeah," he responds, furrowing his brows. Intrigued by Calleigh's insight on the subject. "She... um...," he attempted once more, pondering how to disclose the remainder. It wasn't that he feared Calleigh wouldn't grasp it. She had clearly indicated with her recent response that she did, thoroughly. No, Brock was more concerned that she might alter her perception of him. The entire Taylor ordeal; it left him feeling weak, foolish, and unworthy.
"She made me feel like I was the love of her life, the only one she wanted...," Brock exhaled. Deep down, he pleaded for Calleigh to comprehend how it truly was, to not shift her opinion of him. "And when I finally came to the realization that it was all a charade...," he went on, shutting his eyes, inhaling deeply, preparing himself for whatever comes next after he spoke his next words.
"You were in too deep...," Calleigh whispers. A shiver travels down her spine, causing her to tremble.
Brock remains silent, merely nodding. Completely taken aback by Calleigh's insight, her wisdom. If anything, this only deepens his affection for her.
"What happened?" Calleigh inquires, fully aware that it's a broad question. The sort that could lead to answers she's not prepared to face.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Mansfield, Texas November 2023
Brock clutches the steering wheel tightly, inhaling deeply. The past few weeks have been a nightmare. His mind is constantly in a state of fight or flight, he keeps forgetting important things, and his nightmares seem to haunt him even in his waking hours.
Taylor isn't making things any easier. It's a constant cycle of nagging and arguments. Nothing ever seems to meet her standards. He truly couldn't grasp what more he could do to make her happy. Regardless of his efforts, the things he did, or the money he spent, it felt like he could never satisfy her needs.
Every Friday, he brought her flowers, without fail. Yet, every single time, they were the wrong kind. Honestly, he questioned why he even bothered anymore. Why he kept trying. He doubted whether she even loved him, if she ever had. It felt more like he was just a plaything for her; an old, broken toy that she kept around for her own entertainment. Damn it!
And now, he found himself needing to turn back halfway to work, because his troubled mind, plagued by nightmares, flashbacks, and PTSD, had caused him to forget his wallet, driver's license, and everything else. How could this even happen?
The ring on his finger; once a symbol of love and devotion, now felt more like a noose, like handcuffs. It offered just enough affection now and then to keep him anchored, to ensure he stayed. He was trapped, reluctant to remain, yet equally unable to break free.
Where could he possibly go? The house belonged to her, the furniture was hers. He hardly possessed a single thing of value. Except for the garage and his car.
Over the last three to four years, she had meticulously constructed a prison around him, all without his awareness. With flawless subtlety, she had drawn him in, effectively capturing him in a situation from which escape seemed nearly impossible.
Brock exhales sharply as he steps out of the car. How did his life come to this point? It seemed as if the past years had sped by without him. It was as if he had jumped directly from that day at the Golf Club to now, while everyone else had grown and changed over the years.
Just retrieve your wallet, he reminds himself. Just peek inside the door, grab it, and then he could immerse himself in work for the remainder of the day.
These days, work provided a welcome escape, the only place where he could truly be himself, engage in light banter, and laugh at the jokes that Taylor considered too inappropriate for someone of her caliber.
After he retrieves his wallet, he makes a quick decision to check on Taylor. She’s likely still asleep. But he could steal a quick kiss, just to show her that he still cared. Although he wasn’t sure if he genuinely did, or if it was merely his way of maintaining whatever little peace he could.
The bedroom door is ajar, and he hears them before they come into view.
Taylor is on top of someone, though he can’t identify who, but he can certainly grasp what’s happening.
The feeling he gets is strange, a chaotic mix of disappointment and determination. This is his opportunity to escape. His chance for freedom. Regardless of how let down he feels, this is something everyone will understand. This is the story he can share, and no one will label him as the villain. In many ways, this is a blessing. Taylor’s infidelity is a blessing, a means of escape, a route to freedom.
He leans against the doorframe for a moment, attempting to envision various scenarios in his mind, none of which seem likely.
Then he begins to applaud. He isn't entirely sure why, but he feels compelled to maintain a sense of civility. The last thing he wants is for Taylor to have any reasons to label him as the bad guy.
He captures the attention of both of them. Taylor hurriedly scrambles off him, while he attempts to conceal himself beside the bed. What a pathetic loser.
"Don't worry," Brock addresses the idiot, who is now halfway under the bed. "I ain't gonna touch ya’,” he adds before turning his gaze to Taylor.
"Well," he says to her, his tone flat, the indifference in his voice almost scares him. "Congratulations, Taylor. It seems you've found yourself a new toy." He continues, removing the ring from his finger and placing it on the chest of drawers near the door. "I hope it was worth it," his words remain flat, devoid of emotion. Yet, he questions how long he can maintain this facade.
"Brock," Taylor begins, but he interrupts her.
"Don't even!" he exclaims, then he turns to leave. His feelings are on the verge of overflowing, and he knows he must get out of here.
Taylor rushes after him in the hall. He senses her reaching out for him.
"Don't touch me!" he snaps, then he spins around.
“You… you weren’t supposed to be here. Or find out.” Taylor’s voice trembled, panic sharpening her words.
“Oh, what a relief,” Brock shot back with a scoff. “You’re unbelievable. And you know what? This doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.”
“I—I thought you’d be at work,” she persisted, tears brimming in her eyes—no doubt for show.
Brock wasn’t taken aback. Not anymore. Taylor was used to getting her way, and clearly she’d assumed this would be no different.
“Oh, right,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Let me guess—should I step out and come back when you’re done?”
“Brock…” Taylor tried again, her voice softer now. “Please. I love you.”
He looked at her. No—he was done. There wasn’t a single redeeming thing left in her that he could see. Not one.
“You have a strange way of showing it,” he said, his tone steadier now. “I’ll ask Sam to pick up my things. I can’t stand to look at you another minute.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned, strode out, and closed the door behind him.
•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
"Oh," Calleigh murmured. She finds herself at a loss for words. Fortunately, her lack of experience in this situation is a blessing. Yet, she has watched enough films to grasp, on some level, the emotions tied to such an experience.
"That was the final straw," Brock breathes out.
What he truly desires at this moment is to curl up next to Calleigh, inhaling her scent, to truly embrace the tranquility he feels when he is near her. But that hinges entirely on her—whether she has more questions or not.
"I'm sorry," Calleigh gazes at him. It was a meaningless gesture of comfort, but it was all she could think of.
"Eh," he chuckles, "I managed to escape," he goes on. His gaze softened. "And then I found you," he adds.
Calleigh felt her heart race, almost uncontrollably. She shouldn't shut him out anymore. If he truly loved her as much as he said he did, he should know all of her, everything. It was just…
“The final… Straw…” Calleigh drifts off, uncertain if this is truly the right time to delve into that topic.
It's not that she doesn't want to know. She's just not really sure if she's ready. If she's steady enough to not break.
“Yeah,” Brock exhaled. “Narcissists typically conceal their real selves for just a few months…,” he goes on, inhaling deeply.
He had put in considerable effort to reconcile with his past. To acknowledge that this was the reality of his life and to alter whatever he could. However, there were times, particularly when discussing it, that he felt small, foolish, exposed, and unworthy.
“Months…,” Calleigh echoes the word, her mind drifting for a brief moment. “You… You were with her for years,” she finally states, not as a true inquiry but more as a declaration.
Brock merely nods, no words necessary.
“In the movies they're all men,” Calleigh blurts out. Like that would help at all. Like that would comfort him at all. She just had to say something, anything. Months, years, decades. How long could someone survive living like that?
Brock lets out a nervous chuckle, unsure of what he should answer to that, or if he should reply at all.
“In reality most of them are women,” he breathed. “It's just that they are better at hiding it,” he continues. “And.. um.. as men it.. it's.. ehh.. Tougher to talk about,” he finishes.
“I'm sorry,” she hastily lets out, her eyes fixed on the unopened Coke can in her hand. Her right index finger plays with the pull tab creating a distinct metal sound. She's not sure why she does it, but both the repetitive sound and the motion calms her beating heart.
“Did she…,” Calleigh stops for a second, pondering whether or not she should ask this question. “Hit…. You?” She continues, trying to keep her voice steady; her eyes still fixed on the can.
Brock furrows his brows, looking at her. She's still avoiding his gaze, looking at the can in her hand like it was a grenade or something similar.
I know I’m 4 days early with my list but in just 10 days I read 50 fics so onto my next list I go! 🤭🤭
Hello everyone and welcome to my recommended reading list! I hope you will find something you will enjoy on this weeks list.
Thank you to everyone who enjoys my lists and reblogs them. Your support means the world to me. Thank you again to those who recommended fanfics or tagged me.
💜 This week, I read 50 fanfics—absolutely amazing fanfics. It has been so much fun for me, and I hope you enjoy my reading lists.
As always these will be listed in no particular order. None of these stories are mine. I’m just signal-boosting them. The author is listed next to the title. My goal is to signal boost writers and spread positivity in the community. 💜💜
Click HERE to see what I will or won’t read. This is very important.
Click HERE for past reading lists.
For my Masterlist click HERE.
Please make sure you’re reading the warnings on every story. They range from dark to fluff. Do Not Read if you are under 18 years old. These stories are meant for adults only. You’re responsible for your own media consumption.
Header by @fictional-affairs
Page-break by @whimsicalrogers
If you can, please reblog these lists so they can reach more people on Tumblr. Likes are nice but Reblogs are golden.
I love you 3000 💜 Missy
Personalized Heater - (Bucky x Reader) - @saiyanprincessswanie
The contract (14) - (Steve x Reader) - @holylulusworld
Sweet kisses - (Steve x Reader) - @nekoannie-chan
Perfect Match - (Ransom x Reader) - @navybrat817
Small Blessings - (Dark!Steve K x Reader) - @navybrat817
January Jumble Scribbles - Day 3 - (Bucky x Reader) - @thenameswinter99
January Jumble Scribbles - Day 6 - (Nick x Reader) - @thenameswinter99
Betrayed - (Dark!Nick x Reader) - @targaryenvampireslayer
January 6: Curtis Everett - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor
Thrills - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
A first time for everything - (Steve x Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
Tuna Temper - (Lloyd x Reader) - @societyfolklore
Dirty Dancing - (Bucky x Reader) - @navybrat817
Contigo Aprendí - (Steve x Reader) - @ramp-it-up
So Full. So Filled. - (Bucky x Reader) - @sunday-bug
Hanky Pantry - (Bucky x Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
Fresh Air - (Bucky x Reader) - @/navybrat817
Spin Cycle - (Ransom x Reader) - @societyfolklore
Insecurities - (Steve x Reader) - @ice-vipers
Jacket - (Steve x Reader) - @targaryenvampireslayer
Make Me See Stars - (Bucky x disabled!Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
Just You - (Yelena x Reader) - @castielscaplan
And Yours, Always - (Yelena x Reader) - @castielscaplan
Crazy - (Bucky x Reader) - @thezombieprostitute
January 9: Johnny Storm - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor
Take you home - (Curtis x Reader) - @ice-vipers
gentle hands - (Bucky x Reader) - @sheriff-bodecker
Save You - (Bucky x Reader) - @mrs-elsie-barnes
Which Road - (Lee x Reader) - @soelstress
January Jumble Scribbles - Day 7 - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
Misunderstandings - (Lee x Reader) - @buckybarnesfic
Touch Starved - (Bucky x Reader) - @tuiccim
Float - (Ari x Reader) - @late-to-the-party-81
January 12: Steve Rogers - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor
Waking Up In Westview - (Bucky x Reader) - @writing-for-marvel
betrothed - (Bucky x Reader) - @sheriff-bodecker
Breakfast Interrogation - (Bucky x Reader) - @mrs-elsie-barnes
The Villainous, Infamous, and Bonnie Sea [1/?] - (Steve x Reader) - @steviebbboi
updated January 23 2026-- updated several lists. will be working on getting each of these lists more organized into smaller categorizes on their own docs in the next several weeks.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
i'm in the process of updating the current lists to include categorized lists to make searching for prompts even easier! i already finished organizing the Fluffy/Domestic prompts, working on the angst prompts now :)
WRONG. talk about it. shout about it. yell about it. scream about it. so what if it’s a fanfic? it’s done with love and passion. it’s art created by a fellow human being who, despite life and lord knows what battle they may or may not be going through, probably stayed up all night writing it before they shared it with the world for free. they’d probably spent months or years writing it. it’s as much a piece of art and literature as any other art and literature that aren’t fanfics. and unlike artists who make profit off their works, fanfic writers truly write for free, because they are that passionate about their stories. the least we can do is show them our love and appreciation.
Talia Rumlow (Brock Rumlow is my husband) @talia-rumlow - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
