Sooo Normal (im Lying To Myself)

sooo normal (i’m lying to myself)

Mine All Mine

Michael doesn't have a lot of friends, nor does he want them. Now he thinks he might have found his perfect match, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away

Main Masterlist

Michael Gavey x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, Michael Gavey being a little shit (affectionately), possessive behaviour (yk the drill here)

Words: 7k

A/n: This ended up leaning into more of a cuter side, I definitely wanna do something creepier with him at some point! Also available to read on AO3.

He gets to the room early, before the tutor has even arrived. It’s his first tutorial of the year and his first ever at Oxford. He stands straight with his head up and his hands unmoving, a picture of neutrality. He has his problem sheet in his satchel and runs through the questions in his head, not because he needs to, not because he doubts himself, but simply because he can.

He doesn’t even like maths all that much, but he’s always been good at it. He had considered doing something a little less straightforward, physics or economics, but then what would be the point in getting into Oxford to be anything less than perfect?

He knows his tutor’s name from his schedule, Stephen Breyer. He arrives only a few minutes later and they go inside. The tutorial room is small, with three of the four walls covered in bookshelves. In the centre of the room there is a table, an armchair on one side and a small sofa on the other. 

Michael takes the seat closest to the door. It puts him in a slightly more direct line of sight with Stephen. It also means his tutorial partner will inevitably have to climb over his legs to sit down and the thought amuses him.

“How are you finding it so far?” Stephen asks, unpacking a thermos flask and a notebook from his bag.

“It?” Michael repeats.

Stephen pauses and looks at him, slightly bewildered. “Well, the course, the college, Oxford. All of it.”

“Right,” Michael says. He takes his time taking out a pencil and his problem sheet before placing them on the table. He sits back against the sofa and rubs his lips together in thought. 

He supposes it’s been exactly as he had expected. Lectures have been fairly straightforward, Lincoln college looks the same as it had in the prospectus, and so far, most of the people seem insufferable. So many of them have no sense of urgency, no drive to truly succeed because to them, Oxford is a rite of passage rather than an earned privilege. He’s met maybe one person he’d consider worthy of his time, and even then, Oliver Quick is only a literature student. He might as well get a degree in overthinking.

Stephen is looking at him like he is still expecting an answer. Michael stares back. He’s never been one to bother with smalltalk. 

“Alright then,” Stephen says, then nods to the empty place on the sofa. “Do you know if–”

The door opens and a girl walks in, closing it gently behind her. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, eyes flickering around the room and settling on the space beside Michael. 

He’s seen her before, in lectures, in the dining hall, walking around the college with her little group of friends. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were all Cheltenham girls by the way they talk and dress in the stupid outfits rich girls wear to make themselves seem like normal people.

He watches her as she walks towards him, the awkward little smile she gives him before she steps over his legs. 

“Sorry,” she says again, falling onto the sofa. Michael almost winces at the sudden jolt of movement and the faint scent of a sweet perfume drifting from his left. “Had some trouble finding the room.”

“You’re right on time,” Stephen says, “we haven’t started yet.”

She’s better at the smalltalk than he is. She has a constant smile on her face and a bright look in her eyes, already having plenty of humorous anecdotes to share, despite the fact it’s only their second week. 

As they go through the questions on the sheet, comparing calculations and answers, Michael is horrified to find that he’s a little nervous. His throat feels dry and he can feel his heart pulsing in his chest. It’s her fault, he thinks. Everything about her is distracting, the sound of her voice, the satisfied little hum she makes when she realises she’s got another question right. Her black tights, the way her skirt rides up her thigh when she crosses her legs.

He wants to think she’s vapid, a pretty face dressed up in black boots and a denim jacket, but to his dismay, all of their answers are the same, down to every detail in their calculations.

That is until they reach the last question. It’s terribly complex and he had almost struggled with it. Almost.

He steals a quick glance at her sheet and notices their answers are different. Because she’s missed a step, he realises. He feels a smile creeping across his lips.

He proudly goes through his working out, delighted at the surprised look on her face as she goes over her own sheet.

“I got something different,” she says with a shrug.

Stephen invites her to talk through her answer. Her voice is quieter and softer than it was before, but not as defeated as he’d like.

“She has you beat there, Mr Gavey,” Stephen says.

It’s like being punched in the gut. “What?”

“Overextend yourself a little,” he explains, drawing a line through the last few calculations on his paper. “Make sure to read what the question asks of you.”

His blood is boiling and his fists are clenched. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been wrong. A dangerous impulse in the back of his mind wants to scream his throat raw and tear his paper to pieces.

Then he feels a warmth settle over his knuckles. She’s placed her hand over his.

“It’s a compliment, really,” she says to him.

He looks up at her, only more infuriated by the gentle expression on her face. But he knows better than to let anger get the better of him. It will only leave him feeling ashamed. So he forces a smile and nods. “Thank you.”

She smiles too, sweet and reassuring. 

He can’t bear the humiliation. Once they’re dismissed he packs up quickly, practically storming out of the room before she even has a chance to stand up. 

He spends the rest of the day in his dorm, looking over the same problem and pulling at his hair, because now his mistake seems glaringly obvious. How could he be so useless? So careless as to not even read the fucking question properly?

His room is on the second floor, overlooking the quad. There are always people around, walking between classes, sitting on the grass, their voices and the smell of cigarette smoke rising and drifting in through his window. He hates it. He hates the noise, the distraction.

But as he goes to close the open window he spots her. It’s only for a moment. She’s walking towards the library with her hands in the pocket of her jacket and her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s not with any of her preppy friends, in fact she looks rather solemn. 

He feels a slight twinge of guilt in his gut. Perhaps he had been a little unfair to her in their tutorial.

He keeps noticing her, especially at meal times and during lectures. Whenever he enters a room he finds himself searching for her, and if he cannot find her, he waits for her to appear. He plays guessing games with himself, waiting to see what outfit she’ll wear, the pretty mini skirt or a pair of faded blue baggy jeans. If she’ll be with her friends or if she’ll be alone.

He never approaches her. He waits for her to look at him, and once they’ve made eye contact she’ll smile at him.

He likes watching her, and comes to the conclusion that she is charming and polite, but not overbearing, and that’s what's so intriguing about her. She knows how to talk to people, even the most insufferable of their peers, but she’s not nearly entitled enough to truly be one of them.

It’s a Friday evening the next time they actually speak. The library tends to be quieter at this time and he has a textbook to look over before his next lecture. Only, when he goes to find the book, he discovers the last copy has been checked out a matter of minutes ago. Fucking typical.

He goes to stalk out of the library, debating whether or not he can be bothered to ask Oliver if he wants to grab a drink in The King’s Arms, when he sees her.

She’s alone, with her chin in her palm, writing in a notebook as she looks at the textbook open in front of her. He’s willing to bet that’s exactly the book he needs.

He approaches her slowly, waiting for her to look up and notice him, but she seems utterly absorbed in what she’s doing. Only when he puts a hand on the back of her chair and leans over her shoulder does she react to him.

He sees her jump when he gets too close. “Jesus Christ!” she hisses, clutching her hand over her chest.

“Sorry,” he mutters, still hovering over her. “Did I frighten you?”

She hums a laugh but composes herself quite quickly. She turns her head to look at him. “I’m guessing you want the book?” she says, her breath fluttering over his cheek.

He straightens his back so he can look down at her. “Will you have it for long? Only I think I’ll get through the reading quite quickly.”

“Oh yes of course, you’re a genius, right?” she says with a grin.

Irritation scratches under the surface of his skin, hot and restless. That’s how he usually introduces himself, but it’s the truth. 

“We could just share,” she says, gesturing to the empty seat beside her, “that is, unless you don’t think I’ll be able to keep up.”

There’s something exciting about the way she holds his gaze, the hint of a smile on her lips.

She offers to go back a page so he can catch up and admittedly, he skims through, only writing down a few notes before he tells her to move on. He can find the book again if he really needs to.

He has to lean over his left arm rather significantly to read the book properly. She notices this, and pushing it closer to him, shuffling her chair over to follow. They’re close enough that he can smell her perfume again.

“None of your little friends around then?” he asks quietly, so as not to disturb the other students.

“What?”

“That group of girls,” he says, “I’ve seen you sitting with them in the dining hall.”

She brings her chin back to her palm but doesn’t look up from her notes. “They live on my floor. I don’t need to spend every waking moment with them.”

“Touchy subject?” he asks, perhaps a little too hopefully.

His heart leaps in triumph when she looks up at him. “No. I’m just not sure I’d count them as friends, necessarily.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not my kind of people,” she says.

“Why not?”

She frowns briefly. He thinks she might scold him for being so direct, for asking so many questions, for being too intrusive. But she doesn’t.

The textbook is forgotten. She tells him about the village where she grew up, a sad little place by the sounds of it. She spent most of her schooling surrounded by the same twenty or so kids.

“For a long time, I knew there was something people didn’t like about me,” she says. “I didn’t understand why. I was never rude or cruel, I just kept my head down and did my work. The other girls told me I was a freak, the boys used to tease me, pull my hair, tear pages out of my books. Mum said people hated me because I was clever. Dad said I should stop complaining. So I did.” 

He can’t help but draw a comparison to himself. He can feel it when he meets someone new, the inherent distrust, the sense that there is something inherently unlikeable about him. In a way he likes that people are unnerved by him because at least it’s something he can control. He has never been one for friends or common ground, a consequence of being the smartest person in every room.

He watches her intently as she tells him about a private school a few miles outside of her village, a proper posh place, Victorian buildings and sprawling estates. For her, it was her one chance of escape, and while her parents worked hard to make ends meet, the only way she was going to get in was with a scholarship. So she worked for it, got all A*s in her GCSEs, started at the posh school, and from there, set her sights on Oxford.

“You’re rather deceptive,” he says.

She smiles at him. “It’s not like I lied. Were you expecting a daddy’s money brat?”

“There’s enough of them about,” he says.

She huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Fucking tell me about it.”

They start to make a habit of studying together, at first it’s by coincidence, and then she gives him her number so they can organise themselves more effectively. They meet at the library every Friday to share a textbook or go over problem sheets, in preparation for their lectures. They even start to meet before their tutorials together, to compare answers and make sure neither of them are left out. Sometimes they go for coffee after their classes, and branch off to chat about things that aren’t maths.

He tells her about the grammar school he went to, that most of the boys there were rugby playing morons. He tells her about his family, his mum, his dad, the family cat that’s been around longer than he has. He tells her about his summer, running numbers for his uncle’s accountancy firm.

She tells him about the posh school, that starting at a boarding school was like being thrown into a different universe. Sure, she had been the odd one out and got the odd “povo” comment, but it was the first place where she had felt like she didn’t have to be ashamed of her own intelligence. She learnt how to fit in, to the point where he can’t tell if she actually likes her preppy friends or if she just puts up with them for the sake of it.

He starts to wonder if he could consider her a friend. He likes that she’s smart and sharp, the slight air of competition when they compare notes or go through a problem together. He likes challenging her, making her second guess herself, watching the way she squirms and tries to hide that she’s flustered. Just once, he thinks it would be fun to one-up her, but of course, she never slips up, and she never makes a mistake.

On Halloween she mentions a party at Magdalene College being hosted by one of her old school friends. Of course he’s sceptical. Hanging around a bunch of stuck up posh kids, who no doubt will all be in slutty costumes and getting off on each other’s egos, isn’t exactly his idea of fun. Although, part of him is intrigued to see her in a different setting.

So he agrees to meet her outside her dorm at 10pm exactly. He doesn’t bother with fancy dress, opting for jeans and a black jumper so that he can just fade into the background. 

She appears with some of her preppy friends. They’re all in pastel dresses of differing colours, matching wings strung on their backs, glitter on their cheeks, a little pack of fairies. She’s in white mini dress that floats around her thighs as she moves, more like an angel.

She introduces him enthusiastically to the girls, already giddy from their pre-drinks, pink gin and rosé. None of them seem that interested by his presence and he grunts in response. 

She links her arm through his as they walk over the cobbles, through the maze of ancient buildings to the dorm where the party is being held. She talks about everything and nothing. She tells him who’s going to be there, who’s been uninvited but might show up just to stir shit, how many girls are going to be there and that they’re all going to be trying to get into Felix Catton’s Calvin Kleins.

“Are you going to get with anyone?” she asks.

He makes a sound of disgust.

“Come on, Michael, live a little!” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think– I don’t know–”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and turns him to face her. “Have you kissed anyone before?”

He swallows thickly. It’s not something he’s ever been ashamed of before, now it feels like a weight crushing down on his chest. “No,” he says, simply, determined to remain indifferent.

“Get with someone tonight!” she says excitedly, “just for the fun of it, we’ll find you someone good.”

He hates the idea, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her. Perhaps it seems like fun to her, but to him it seems like an impossibility, and he thinks he’d rather have the consistency of being unwanted.

The party itself is loud and sparsely lit by neon lights. He starts off on bottles of beer to ease himself into it, but seeing everyone else is doing pills and white lines, he thinks he might need something stronger to get through the night, especially when she keeps getting distracted. The angel is quite the social butterfly and insists on saying hello to everyone, even the people she’s never met. 

He finds himself in a common room and reaches for a bottle of whisky and a cup when he spots her. She’s leaning against a wall, wings discarded on the floor beside her. A tall boy, wearing nothing but jeans, a pair of feathery costume wings and a horrible Carpe Diem tattoo on his forearm, has his hands on her waist. She’s smiling and giggling into his neck every time he goes in to kiss her. Of all the girls Felix could go after.

His skin feels tight. He fears if he keeps having to watch this little display he’ll retch his guts up, and yet he’s utterly hypnotised by it, the way she had her arms around his shoulders, the way her fingertips trace the base of his neck. And fuck, he’s never seen her look so beautiful.

He ends up downing the rest of the whisky straight from the bottle and most of the night becomes a blur after that. At some point he thinks he starts trying to talk to one of her pastel fairy friends. He doesn’t catch her name, and he wouldn’t care to remember it anyway. She plays with his glasses, tries them on and giggles hysterically. He thinks she must be completely off her face, considering the look of utter disgust she had given him at the start of the night.

Somewhere in the noise of the party she throws her arms around his neck and they sway clumsily to the overwhelming bass of the music. He thinks he feels her lips graze his cheek, his jaw, his neck, but where he can help it, he keeps his eyes on his angel. Felix has one of her legs around his waist and his hands halfway up her skirt. 

Fuck this.

He pushes the nameless girl off him and storms over to put an end to the scene before him. He grips Felix by his shoulders to pull him off her, grabs her by the arm and drags her out of the dorm. He doesn’t look back to see if Felix protests, he’ll probably find some other throat to stick his tongue down. 

She tries to shout over the music. “Where are we–”

“I’m tired,” he snaps, bringing his face in close to hers. He gets closer than he means to, pressing his nose and his forehead against hers. He’s breathing fiercely, he realises, desperate to contain the full extent of his anger, his jealousy. “I want to leave.”

She stares back at him with parted lips, and nods.

He feels better the moment they’re outside, away from the disorientation of the party. He takes deep breaths of the night air, cold and sharp in his lungs. He snatches off his glasses, runs his hands over his face and his hair to find himself drenched in sweat.

His angel tucks herself in against him, under his arm, huddling her arms around herself and shivering.

“Do you want my jumper?” he says. His voice and the words on his tongue feel strange. His limbs feel weightless as he pulls it off and helps her into it. 

“Hmm, thank you,” she says dreamily, clinging onto his arm as they stumble back to Lincoln College. He burns where she touches him, her fingertips digging into his skin. He loves it, and hates that her hands were on someone else before him.

“You were getting rather cozy with Miranda,” she says.

“Who?”

“Lilac fairy costume,” she says, playfully hitting his arm. “Did you kiss her?”

His heart sinks. He presses his lips together but she doesn’t seem to pick up on his annoyance. “No,” he says with a tight jaw.

“Oh no,” she says, looking up at him with a comically sad pout. 

“It’s not important,” he says.

“It’s your first kiss! Or should have been your first kiss. It’s important. Did you at least have a good time before you got tired?”

“No,” he says, “your friends are all imbeciles.”

They walk the rest of the way back to her dorm in silence. He makes sure she has her keys, holds her face between his hands and tells her to drink a whole glass of water before she falls asleep. 

She leans into his touch with a sleepy smile. “Yes, yes, I will,” she whines.

The sound stirs a wanting in his stomach. Suddenly his heart is beating faster than it ever has before.

“And call me if you need anything–”

“Would you want to kiss me?” she asks.

His eyes flicker down to her lips. His hands are still cupping her cheeks. “What?”

Her eyes are wide and alert. “I just mean, I could be your first kiss, if you wanted to.” She places her hands on his wrists, tracing her fingertips over his skin, along his forearms. It’s such a simple touch, and yet he can feel it driving him slowly insane. 

He imagines her hands running over the rest of his body, down his chest, his stomach, teasing over the growing hardness in his jeans.

“You’re drunk,” he whispers, terrified of how desperate his voice might sound.

She rises onto her toes, inching her face closer to his, drawing her nose over his cheek. “So?” she says, lips brushing over his skin, “I promise it’ll feel good.”

Their lips find each other in a simple movement. It’s easier than he thought it would be, following the movements of her mouth, letting his hands fall from her face and rest on her waist. He can feel her breathing, the little hums she makes as she kisses him and runs her hands through his hair.

He decides, in that moment, that she is perfect. She is bright and beautiful, passionate and kind, soft and sharp, everything he wants for himself, the only person he has ever felt a need for. That need burns through his bloodstream, goes straight to his head and makes his mind hazy. It tightens in his gut and only makes that wanting feeling in his chest feel emptier. His heart races, his trembling hands graze over the thin, silky material of her dress.

His glasses come askew. He feels her smile against his lips and it feels good. Really fucking good.

His hands clench into a firmer grip on her waist. He needs to keep her close, to touch her, feel her, know she wants this as much as he does.

Only she’s slipping away.

Her hands come away from his neck and the cold night air stings his skin in her absence. She pulls her head away, not abruptly, but that’s the pain of it. He leans forward to chase her lips but he has no choice but to let her go in the end.

She looks up at him with a vague smile. “See? It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Nice in the moment. Pure torture that he’ll have to spend the rest of the night clinging onto the memory, only able to imagine how good it felt.

After that night he cannot escape the thought of her, when he’s in his lectures, when he’s in the library, when he’s walking between classes, when he’s in the dining hall. If he’s with her he cannot help but notice every little detail about her, her clothes, her hands, the colour of her nail polish, every micro expression, every word, every laugh, every sigh.

And when he’s alone, he can’t help but picture her in that white dress, the sound of her voice, the feel of her lips. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to run his hands over every inch of her skin and make her a breathless, whining mess. When he’s in his dorm, it’s inevitable that his hand will end up dipping into his boxers, stroking himself until he spills over his knuckles with a grunt or a whisper of her name.

He’s never known himself to be so distracted.

Worst of all is the rage that comes with the wanting. He hates walking into the lecture hall to see her chatting to someone else, seeing her with her preppy friends around the college or drinking with that old school friend in the King’s Arms. None of them deserve her. None of them. Does she even realise it? How long before she loses herself, before she decides she doesn’t need him?

He knows he’s not a sentimental person. He doesn’t have a lot of friends nor does he want them. People have come in and out of his life, but this girl is different. He feels a draw to her, a hunger that he can’t satiate with his own imagination. She is everything he wants for himself, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away.

As Michaelmas terms comes to an end, the colleges and libraries are covered with garlands and wreaths. Despite the lingering worry in the back of his mind, Michael is rather happy with his collection of outcasts, though poor Oliver Quick seems rather unhappy at being a designated Norman-No Mates. 

He finds it easier to get her attention as the term and the workload progresses. They’ve had tutorials and summative assignments, and she’s finally starting to struggle. 

And then there was the incident about the scholarship. One of the preppy friends let slip that she wasn’t paying for her tuition fees or her accommodation, likely done out of jealousy after she’d gotten close to Felix at the Halloween party. He was there for her with a perfectly good shoulder to cry on when half the girls in her dorm started teasing her for it.

He tells her that she doesn’t have time to get distracted with parties or friends who won’t help her succeed. 

He’s sitting at a table in the library, ready for one of their Friday evening study dates. She’s late but soon hurries in, pulling off the thick red scarf she has wrapped around her neck and shrugging off her denim jacket.

He has the textbook open at the right page and places a Crunchie in front of her when she sits down.

“Did you know there was a college Christmas party tonight?” Michael asks as she takes down her notes. “We’re NFI, apparently. Not fucking invited.” He’d checked his pigeonhole, and Oliver’s for good measure. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees her look up from her notebook. 

“As if we’d actually want to hang out with those vapid cunts,” he says, laughing to himself. He turns his head to check if she’s laughing too.

She doesn’t look very amused. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me,” she says.

He pauses, hovering his pencil over his worksheet. “You got an invitation?” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” she says, “I was chatting with some of the literature guys the other day, you know Farleigh Start–”

“What the fuck were you talking to him for?” He asks in a voice like ice.

She stares at him with wide, almost accusing eyes. “What, am I not allowed to talk to anyone besides you?”

“They’re not worth your time so stop acting like a fucking bootlicker” he hisses. “They’re all self-obsessed and cruel, and I don’t know why you’re so desperate for their approval.”

“Desperate,” she echoes.

The silence of the library is screaming at him. He has an awful feeling in his stomach, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s pushed a little too far.

It’s Halloween all over again. He can feel her slipping away, and he can’t reach out for her, can’t hold onto her and make her stay where he wants her. He curls his fists as he feels his body start to tremble.

“I guess I won’t waste any more of your precious time then,” she says sharply as she starts to pack up her things.

“No,” Michael utters. He reaches his hand up as if to stop her but she stands up, out of his reach. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She throws on her jacket, wraps her scarf around her neck and turns around, glaring down at him with sad, glassy eyes. “I need to get ready,” she says. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” Then she sweeps out of the hall with a cold rush of air and a slam of the doors.

Michael groans and lets his head fall into his hands. How had he managed to fuck up that badly? 

He can’t think about the problems on the sheet in front of him, or think about the reading from the textbook. All he can picture is her in some skimpy dress, letting some sick trust fund baby put his hands all over her. It makes him want to tear his hair out. 

He stays there until the evening has turned to night, until any other stragglers have left the library, to attend this stupid Christmas party or to make their own fun.

He can’t understand why she keeps trying to befriend the people who would abandon her the moment they got bored of her, the very same people who shamed her for her scholarship. 

He’d never leave her, never let her feel anything less than worshipped.

When he finally packs up his bag he finds himself walking to her dorm. A few girls are leaving as he arrives at the building and he easily slips in while they’re busy chatting. He knows which floor she’s on, and then all he has to do is find her name on one of the doors… and there it is, under the number 205. Perfect.

He glances up and down the hall. It’s deathly quiet. He wonders how many students have already cleared out of their rooms, how many will be at this party, at the pub with their friends.

He can hear music on the other side of the door, a voice singing softly to a song he doesn’t know.

He brings his knuckles up and taps four times against the wood.

She seems happy when she opens the door, but her face falls when she realises it’s him.

He buries his hands in his pockets, keeps his chin down as he looks up at her. “I need to talk to you,” he says.

She sighs and purses her lips, but steps aside enough for him to come into her room. 

It’s not as neat as he imagined, but it’s cosy. There are photos and posters all over the walls, clothes strewn everywhere, an opened makeup bag on the floor by the mirror, pieces of paper and used mugs on the desk. His eyes are drawn to her bed, to the colourful comforter tossed carelessly over the duvet and the pile of mismatched pillows. It smells like her perfume, and something else that is distinctly her.

A red dress hangs on the front of her wardrobe, her outfit for the party, he guesses. For now she’s dressed in her favourite pair of baggy jeans and a tank top, her hair slightly damp and her skin dewy.

She sits on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed. She doesn’t prompt him, but he knows what she wants to hear.

He stands in front of her, his knees almost touching the bed. He tries not to look at the cut of her tank top, the way it clings to her torso and teases the swell of her breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “You were right, I was being unfair.”

She looks up at him, furrowing her brows and catching her lip between her teeth, like she always does when she’s thinking. It makes his stomach drop. 

“You can be cruel too, you know that?” she says, “and so full of yourself, but you hold it against everyone else you meet.”

“But I’d never lie to you,” he says, “and I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not.”

She keeps frowning. “Neither have I.”

He hums a laugh. He can’t help but reach for her, taking her chin between his fingers. She doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t question it when he gently strokes his index finger over her cheek. “Silly girl,” he says, “you care too much about what people think of you. You’re smarter than that, but you’re happy to hide it.”

Her breath hitches as tilts her head further back and lets his thumb drag over her lower lip.

“Michael,” she utters, pressing her palms against his chest, but not enough to push him away. Her hands grip at the collar of his jumper and she nudges her nose against his.

He doesn’t know where the sudden recklessness comes from. Perhaps it’s in the way she said his name, the way her eyes are gazing up at him, but every part of him feels hollow. 

He leans in closer. “Why bother? Why do you want to dumb yourself down when I could just fuck you stupid?” 

She leans in to kiss him and he indulges her, letting his hand settle against her cheek as they clash together in a mess of lips and tongues. It’s more frantic than the night of the Halloween party, wetter, clumsier.

She comes up onto her knees, snaking one of her hands down to the hem of his jumper.

“Have you fucked a girl before, Gavey?” she says between their kisses. He can feel her smiling.

“No,” he says, practically tearing his jumper and his shirt off, “but I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“Anyone in particular?” she says, palming over the bulge in his jeans.

“Who do you fucking think?”

His hands are on the buttons of her jeans, ripping them open, dragging them down her legs before she’s on her knees again. He slips his hand between her legs, against her clothed centre and she ruts against him like a bitch in heat.

With his other hand he grabs at her waist, impatiently pulling her tank top over her head to reveal a lacy black bra underneath. He can’t stop himself, planting firm, desperate kisses over the flesh of her chest as he undoes the clasp.

He tosses her bra aside and takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and circling his tongue over the sensitive bud. He loves how she whines for him, how she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls when it feels good.

And then her phone rings.

She sighs in frustration before she shoves Michael away and crawls over to the table by her bed. 

Michael groans at the loss, wanting nothing more than to grab her and pull her back across the bed. “Who is it?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Could be Farleigh, or one of the girls, I said I’d meet them before the party–”

That’s all he needs to hear. In an instant he’s on top of her, pinning her wrist to the mattress so she can’t reach her phone, legs on either side of her body as he presses her down.

She writhes underneath him, unintentionally grinding her rear into his crotch. She tries to turn her head over her shoulder, but it’s hard when she’s caged in underneath him. “Michael! What the fuck are you–”

“When are you going to get it into that pretty little head that you don’t need them?” he says, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear. He feels her shudder, feels her heartbeat racing against his chest.

“I know I don’t need them,” she says.

“Hmm,” he says, leaning back to undo his jeans enough to free his hard and eager cock. I’m not convinced.”

He takes his time pulling her panties down her legs, kneads at her thighs and her ass, pulls her hips up and parts her legs so he can get a look at her slick, glistening cunt. He’s almost fascinated by it, drawing his thumb through her folds, noticing how she reacts to his touch, the sounds she makes, the way she fists the bedsheets when he gets close to her clit, but just enough to keep her on edge.

“I could be so good to you,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder, “so fucking good, so why do you act like you don’t need me?”

“I do,” she breathes, interrupting herself with a light moan when he presses firmly against her clit. “I do need you.”

“There you go, you’re starting to get it,” he coos, circling over her most sensitive spot with the pads of his fingers. He may not have the practice but he has the knowledge, and he needs this to feel good for her.

She responds beautifully, sighing and rocking her hips against him, and she just melts when he presses the tip of his cock against her entrance.

He has to push harder than he expects, pausing when she gives a little yelp of what sounds like pain, but she assures him she’s fine.

He grabs her hip for leverage, hissing through his teeth as he pushes in deeper. She’s so tight, so wet, so warm.

“You can move,” she says, letting her head fall against her arm. “Please, I need it.”

He starts slowly, focuses on the drag of his cock through her, the way she stretches around him, but he can’t hold back for long. Once he finds a rhythm he gets a little more reckless, snapping his hips against her rear, keeping his harsh grasp on her flesh as he fucks her into the mattress.

Her moans are heavenly and obscene. She’s given up struggling but she’s trying to look at him, trying to touch him but she can’t. She calls his name and it sounds so pathetic but so endearing.

He chuckles lowly to himself. “Silly little slut, didn’t know what she was missing, did she?”

“No,” she whines. He can feel her clenching around him and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to last. “Fuck, Michael, it feels so good…”

He pulls out of her, only to turn her back and slam back in. Suddenly she’s all over him, running her hands down his torso, wrapping her arms around his neck. She has her face buried into the crook of his neck, grazing her lips, tongue and teeth over his skin. 

It feels good to have her close, but he’s still not entirely satisfied. 

He pulls away to hold her down again, one hand on her throat, the other on her stomach. “Mine.” he huffs as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. “All mine. Fucking say it.”

She places her hands over his, urging him to hold her tighter, press harder. “Yours,” she utters, “all yours.”

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, and feels her respond to his voice, cunt fluttering, back arching, another whine sounding in her throat— maybe she likes that. “My clever little girl.”

He feels her come undone around him, back arching as he lets out a breathless moan, practically squeezing him to his own release.

He pulls out and with a few strokes of his hand, paints her belly and her thighs with his spend.

She’s trembling, smiling, reaching out to touch him again, grabbing at his wrists and pulling herself up. She guides him to lay back in the bed and straddles him, tracing her finger over his lips, his jaw, along his nose to push his glasses up for him. He can hardly see through them, the lenses fogged up and smeared with sweat.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” she says.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pawing at her hips, watching his cum as it drips down her body. He can feel a sense of pride swelling in his chest, the arousal in his gut starting to tighten again.

He gasps when she drags her wet cunt over his already hardening cock. “You.. want to go again?”

She tilts her head, looking down at him with that familiar excited look in her eyes as her mouth spreads into an eager grin. “You’re adorable,” she says, tracing her fingertips over his chest, down the lines of his abs, to the trail of thin hair on his navel.

She leans down, reaching between them to take his cock in her hand, moving with agonisingly slow strokes. When he tries to protest she silences him with little more than a peck on his lips, before she trails down to his throat. “I stand by what I said, Gavey, and you’re not leaving this bed until we’ve taken that ego of yours down a notch.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Green is the Color

Pairing: Matt Murdock x FemReader

Word Count: 7,200

Summary: Karen Page looks flawless next to Matt in a way that you don’t. Insecurities and jealousies were bound to pop up at some point.

Trigger warnings: None. Just some angst with a happy ending.

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Tonight, Tonight [Brandon DiCamillo x Reader]

Desc: Dico always cheers you up when you’re sad.

A/n: quick one ! just stupid fluff based off tonight, tonight by smashing pumpkins (: reader is gn

Warnings: alcohol

1k words

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

You rolled over in your bed and groaned, you didn’t want to get out but you knew how shit you’d feel if you didn’t. It was 10pm and you hadn’t budged all day after your friends bailed on you for the millionth time and you were starting to wonder if you were the problem. You fumbled in your sheets to get your phone, you knew who to call.

“Hey.” Dico’s voice sounded through your ears as you lay in fetal position under your covers. “Hey.” You muttered. “Are you free?” You waited for a response. “I just got off work so, yeah. What do you wanna do?” You sighed, “Absolutely nothing, come pick me up.” The boy laughed on the other line. “I’ll be over in five.” You shut your phone and clambered out of the nest you had created to make yourself look somewhat presentable for the outside world.

Your relationship with Dico was different than with the other guys and your girlfriends. Yeah you were close with them all, but you were closest to him. You knew you could always call him to cheer you up and vice versa. He knew every problem you had and was always a shoulder to cry on and you liked to believe you were the same for him. People always joked that you were like a married old couple and everyone was suspicious that you were secretly dating but that wasn’t the case. Sure he was cute and you basically did everything anyone in a relationship would do, apart from sex of course, but you never really viewed him that way. Maybe because you didn’t want to open that can of worms.

Almost exactly five minutes later, you heard a car horn outside your house, how polite! You grabbed your scuffed up shoes and ran out the door towards Dico’s beat up car, letting yourself into the passenger side as some Smashing Pumpkins CD played. You hugged him awkwardly as you entered. “Where are we off to?” Dico asked, hands positioned on his wheel. “Anywhere that’s not here.” Brandon smiled and nodded, setting off for god knows where. You were silent for a moment before Dico questioned your unhappy manner, “Who pissed in your corn flakes?” You scoffed at his stupid idiom. “Sorry, my friends just blew me off again and it’s starting to feel personal.” You scratched the back of your neck and looked out the window to avoid eye contact. Sure you had spilled your guts to the guy on your left countless times but it usually took some warming up for the venting to commence. “Why personal?” You could see him flick looks of concern at you from the corner of your eye as he continued driving. You shrugged, “Like maybe I did something or I started to annoy them and now they don’t want to hang out with me anymore.” Dico shook his head. “That’s fucking stupid.” You turned your head, “What do you mean?” He shook his head more, “Who wouldn’t want to hang out with you? It’s probably not personal at all, I doubt they even realised it’s become a pattern, they’d be crazy to find you annoying.” You smiled flatly and rested your hand against Dico’s arm. “Thanks Bran, always the voice of reason, kind of wish I had a little longer to wallow in self pity though.” You laughed and so did he, though he began to stiffen up a little in response to your touch.

Brandon pulled in to an old parking lot the crew used to skate at when you were kids. You all skated less and less once Bam became a proper pro, kind of felt childish and pointless to try when compared to him but you still had late night skates every now and again. You drummed your fingers against the dashboard once Dico parked before he turned to you. “Guess what I have.” It was a rhetorical question because he immediately leaned over his seat to the back and reached for a bag. In it, a bottle of white wine was revealed. You laughed and clapped your hands together. “Oh how I love you.” Dico had repeatedly called wine a ‘girly drink’ and would refuse to try any whenever you had some until one day he caved and the two of you had the best drunk you had ever experienced in your lives. ‘It’s like my whole body is tingling! This is amazing!” He’d giggle and you’d laugh. Now it became a sort of tradition as long as you swore not to tell the guys about your ‘girly’ endeavours.

Dico cracked it open and took the first swig, handing it to you afterwards. “Ah, just the perfect amount of vinegary!” Dico laughed, “Five dollar’s finest.” You smiled and looked at him adoringly. “Thank you for all this.” Dico furrowed his brows, urging you to explain. “You always make me feel so much better when I’m in a shit mood.” Brandon shared your smile then. “Of course, it’s what friends do.” You shook your head, “Nah.” You looked at him properly then, taking in his handsome face. “You’re better than a friend.”

You weren’t sure if it was the way his face softened at that sentence, or the little bit of wine in your system or just the love you felt bubbling inside you but you leaned in and planted your lips on his. You weren’t even thinking when you did it, it just felt natural, like every atom in your body was waiting for you to do it. Almost immediately he kissed back, your lips moving in synchronisation. It took you a second to understand what you had done and once you did you pulled away. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know-“ You stuttered but Dico shut you up at once, hand on your cheek as you touched lips once more. You stayed like that for some time, kissing as the music played in the background until you pulled away simultaneously. Both of you shared a grin, wine bottle still in hand. You took a swig and wiped your mouth. “Wasn’t really expecting that to happen tonight.” Bran laughed, “What? Figured it would be more slow burn than that, maybe two, three years down the line?” You laughed and shoved your hands in your face, nodding stupidly. You bit your lip and brought your head back up to face him. “Something like that.” You replied before leaning in again to feel his lips once more.

End.

@jackussy420 @gnarkillknoxville @lovexjoe @ckygetsjobs @spoookyberry

chris pontius is so pretty :((

stealing is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off

pairings: security guard! mike schmidt x shoplifter! reader

warnings: shoplifting, getting caught stealing, being in a cell, oral (m! receiving), forced stripping, mockery.

a/n: i thought mall jail was real when i was younger but it ISNT i hope this makes sense to y’all 💋

♡ the mall is filled with clothes, makeup, food, and toys. all of your favorite things in one place! it also had fun activities like massage chairs, smelling candles, and stealing!!

♡ you scanned the store, licking a cherry flavored dum dum, positioning your body so only you could see what you were doing. you snuck in a pair of earrings into your purse and a bracelet.

♡ you continued to the clothing racks, picking out multiple tops and hiding one within one. the sweet lady handed you a door sign with the number 3, not knowing you actually had 6. you entered the changing room and took off your baggy hoodie. taking off the tags before layering the tops on yourself, then putting your hoodie back on.

♡ you made sure to buy a necklace, sucking the candy as you happily made your way to the exit. it was a nice haul for one store, you were excited to go to another store before the alarm went off.

♡ “excuse me, ma’am. i’m going to have to check your receipt.” the security guard said. his tired eyes looking down at you, flickering his eyes to your purse and back to you. he held his hand out, furrowing his eyebrows.

♡ you exit the lollipop out of your mouth with a pop, “mhm, of course!” you place the receipt on his calloused, big hands as you make eye contact with him, smiling sweetly.

♡ he checked the receipt and opened your shopping bag with his other hand. his hand exited before digging into your purse abruptly, “what a shame that you forgot to close your purse.”

♡ you look at his name tag before looking up at him with pleading eyes, “mike, you can let this slide, right?”

♡ “depends, is this your first time?”

♡ “mhm, yes it is, sir..” you bit your lip.

♡ “what a fucking liar.” he gripped your arm tightly, leading you to mall’s cells.

♡ you wrapped your hands around his arm, trying to pull him off. “c’mon, please, mike?” batting your eyelashes as you look up at him, but he ignored you.

♡ the room was small with one cell, a telephone, and a desk. he kept his grip tight, throwing you into a cell. he locked it, taking the chair out from under the desk, facing it so he can watch you.

♡ “you really think these people are this stupid, huh?” he ran his hands through his brown curls, a frustrated sigh leaving his pretty lips.

♡ you were on the ground, crawled up in the corner. your ass ached from the throw, you knew it was going to bruise. you teared up as your lip quivered, “n-no..”

♡ “of course you do! shielding your hands from the cameras?” he takes out his walkie talkie. “you see this? every time they see you, the dumb slut, they tell us to keep a close eye on her.”

♡ “d-dumb slut..?” you questioned, tears rolling down your cheek.

♡ “look at the way you dress, how you act, the way you look-“ he paused, scanning your body. “that hoodie is new though.”

♡ he was right. the hoodie was new, something you would never be caught dead wearing.

♡ “take it off.”

♡ “wh- no!” you blurted out between sobs.

♡ “what’s wrong? not wearing a bra? that’s not a problem because everyone’s seen your tits, dumb slut.” he hissed through his teeth.

♡ “fuck yo-“

♡ “i’ll call the cops. is that what you want, hm?”

♡ “n-no! fine. i’ll do it!” you took off the hoodie, your mascara running down your cheeks as you looked at him.

♡ “was wondering where you put those tops..” he grins. “sensitive, slutty, and somewhat smart?” he chuckles, man spreading, his bulge showing through his slacks.

♡ even through your sobs, your face scrunches up in disgust. eyeing his huge- you mean, gross bulge.

♡ he smirks, “wanna help me? it’s the least you could, making me work extra hard just so you could look slutty..”

♡ “fuck no.” you say, covering yourself with your hoodie.

♡ he glides his hand on the telephone, “a simple 911 call..” he jokingly presses the phone against his ear, twirling the wire, mocking you by batting his eyelashes, “e-excuse me, sir!” he let out a breathy laugh, remembering your pleas. “this young lady h-has been… been stealing!” he forces the stuttering, pouting, and out right mocking you.

♡ “just let me go! please!”

♡ god, hearing you beg made his cock harder. he pressed on one of the buttons, “nine.”

♡ “stop!” you screamed, hurriedly taking off two of the tops, leaving you in a white tank top with no bra.

♡ “that’s the slut i know..” he scanned your body, your nipples hardened from the cold air, the perky buds in view, your tight shorts, making your thighs look extra plump, and the straps of your thong showing. the combination of your body, ruined makeup, red tongue from your treat made him need to palm his bulge through his pants.

♡ you shuddered at the sight, no no no… you felt your wetness leaking from your lips, onto your underwear. “t-this is illegal.. keeping me here t-to take advantage of me..” you warned him, but you fucking loved it.

♡ “strip searches are legal.” he spat out. “now strip.”

♡ you pouted as you unbuttoned your shorts.

♡ “turn around.” he ordered

♡ you turn around, bending down as you slid off your shorts. you could hear him groan at the sight of you, your pussy barely hidden from how soaked your thong was. you smile to yourself, pulling down your thong slowly. a string connecting your cunt to the fabric, the string getting longer the further you pull them down.

♡ when you meet his gaze again, his cock is out. twitching as his pre cum leaked down his beautiful pink tip to his unshaven base. “hmm, now your top.” he groans.

♡ you noticed the more you resisted, the more his cock ached. “please don’t make me.” you whimpered out as you tilted your head to the side, a chill running up your spine as you watched his cock leak even more.

♡ he pressed another button, “one.”

♡ you forced more tears down your cheek as you pulled off your top, your clothes lying beside you. he slid the keys to you, grinning as he watched you snatch it from the ground. you reach out from the bars and unlocked your cell, dropping on your knees in front of him.

♡ he runs his hand through your hair, gripping it as you lick from the base to the tip of his cock. he looks down at you, smirking, as you look up at him with your messy eyeliner and mascara running down. “poor baby, hadn’t had cock in hours. so desperate for a dribble of cum, hm?”

♡ “mhm..” drips oozes out of your pussy onto the tiles, you whine as you swirl your tongue around his cock. sending vibrations down his cock, swallowing the salty, sticky fluid. as you entered more of him inside, he forced the rest deep inside your throat.

♡ “your throat feels so nice, baby..” his head is pulled back, groaning at the sound of your gags, not daring to look at your messy face cause he knows he’ll cum at the sight. “bet you’re happy that you got caught, hm?”

♡ you slide him off your mouth with a pop for a moment, stroking him as you talk, “yes, yes… m’ so happy..” you immediately continue to deepthroat his cock, feeling it twitch as you hallow your cheeks.

♡ “i’ll call the cops if you don’t swallow every fucking drop.” he orders before cumming down your throat. his load was too big, dripping down his cock and your chin. “all. of. it.” he looks down at your fucked up face.

♡ “yes, sir..” swiping your finger to slide the excess cum into your mouth. looking into his hooded eyes with a sultry look before entering one of his sacks his mouth.

♡ despite just cumming in your mouth, his cock still hard. watching you as you suck his most sensitive place, his cock twitching, “of course you’re fucking experienced.”

♡ you giggle, “i would’ve drank it all regardless, mikey..”

♡ he grins, “you can keep your shit. next time i won’t be so nice, though.”

♡ “thank you, sir. :3”

thank u for reading and yes you said :3 out loud :33333

trying to go to bed mad at Carmen but he’s just not having it LMFAO i just love him with a grumpy gf :(((

You’d like to blame him for it, just because he was short with you this morning. Stressed about a food critic coming to The Bear this weekend, he’s been on edge, losing sleep, and this morning was just one of those days it was getting to him: dodging your affection, hurrying out of bed, disjointed conversations he doesn’t try too hard to be a part of.

It’s not entirely his fault, and you know this, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, to be put to the side for even a day to make room for that colder edge to him when he gets zoned in.

So you give yourself the liberty to be a little bit shitty, too, just for the night.

You don’t greet him like you usually do, with a deep kiss hello and your hands squeezing at his sore muscles, offering to massage the knots in his shoulders. Instead you sit on the couch reading your book and offer him a fleeting glance. He pauses at the difference, but carries on.

You wait until long after he’s showered to get up. He even pops back into the living room beforehand, shorts hanging low in his waist, to call for you:

“You comin’ to bed?”

“Soon,” you tell him, which could be true, but not definite.

“Okay,” he sighs, coming behind you with a hand on your shoulder and a kiss to the opposite cheek.

You don’t give in, though, and he heads off to the bedroom.

You do join him eventually—almost an hour later, when you’re so tired that it’ll make you even more of a pain to deal with. He’s in the middle of fighting off sleep, trying to stay awake to make sure you come to bed with him, but as much as that makes your chest yearn for him, you plop down in bed a foot away and turn your back to him.

Behind you now, he shuffles to sit up. “Hey,” he tries, a soothing hand on your shoulder, “You alright, baby?”

No response.

Scooting a little closer to lean over and see your face, he brushes hair out of the way to press a kiss to your temple. “C’mon, talk t’me.”

But you turn away from his touch, and he scoffs.

“What, you mad at me now?” He watches you expectantly. “Not even gonna tell me what I did?”

“You didn’t do anything, Carmen,” you mumble, face muffled into your blanket.

“Wh—baby, don’t be like that right now—”

“Be like what?” you snap, sitting up and turning to look at him. “I’m sorry that my needs don’t align with your work schedule. Just let me know when it’d be best to reach you next time.” And with that, you drop back into bed, moving just a little further away from him.

He nearly laughs, then, real subtle with a hand rubbing his eyes and forehead because he knows you, he knows how you get when you miss him. He turns back onto his side with a groan and reaches his hand upon your waist, smoothing beneath the fabric of your shirt.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, but you don’t dare move his hand away: it feels so much better this way, getting the touch he didn’t give you this morning.

“You’re bein’ mean today. You all cranky ‘cause you miss me, ‘s that it?”

You don’t answer.

“C’mon,” he urges you, shuffling closer so that his arm wraps fully around your waist and his face can bury into your neck with a kiss to your smooth skin. “‘M sorry for bein’ shitty this morning.” Instinctively, he draws a hand up your tummy, right beneath your breasts. “Missed you all day, y’know that?”

“Just leave me alone, Carm, I’m serious.”

“‘M really sorry about this morning, baby.” Pressing kisses to your neck, he takes a deep breath to sink into you. “After that guy comes, it’ll be over with, and I’ll take a couple days off, alright?”

“I don’t care, do what you want.”

He sighs, deep and gravelly and frustrated with your antics—but more so frustrated with himself. He has been shitty this week, he knows it, and he knows you especially don’t deserve it. “C’mon, hon, you’re killin’ me here, at least—at least gimme a kiss goodnight, huh?”

But you don’t. Because of course you don’t, he’s on you’re fuckin’ nerves with his distance lately—but this, his rough hands against your skin, his pleading, his groveling like he can’t imagine a world without you…it helps.

A little.

Not quite enough to cave or give in, though.

He seems to lose a bit of strength against you, laying into the mattress on his back again with a sigh and an arm resting over his eyes. The room stills, the fan whirrs, yet the tension between you is thick enough yet to slice through it with his chef’s knife.

That is, until his arms wrap around you again, and his hands grip your waist tight, and he lets out a grunt of a Can’t believe you’re makin’ me do this, and he wrangles you on top of him, leaving you chest to chest, with your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck and his hand rubbing soothing patterns up and down your back while the other holds you steady, worried you’ll slither away again.

Like he knew it would, the tension in your body dissolves. And maybe that’s what you wanted anyway, but you’d never tell him that—at least, not until tomorrow morning.

The room stills again. The hand smoothing along your back sneaks beneath your shirt, and you melt that much quicker. It’s hypnotic, his rough palms against your soft skin, scratches an itch you didn’t know was there until he wasn’t. He smells crisply clean and of the body wash he buys because you like the scent, a little musky with aldehydes and vetiver and sandalwood.

“This better, baby?” he murmurs, lending a careful kiss to your head.

But you only bury yourself further into him and answer with “Mm.”

He chuckles a bit, squeezes you tighter to make your heart throb. “Thought you’d say somethin’ like that.” Punctuates it with more kisses where he can reach, because now that he’s got you tethered to him again, he doesn’t think he could let you go.

The two of you stay where you are, then, just soaking in the other’s presence with wordless appreciation exchanged, growing heavier with sleep as heartbeats sync and eyelids slip closed. And by morning, legs will be intertwined, and Carmen will pull you from a groggy daze with a kiss to your lips, and you’ll be a little less bitter when he heads off to work.

(He knows it’ll simmer till he comes home, but if he gets to sleep with your weight and your warmth again, he’s sure it’ll be alright.)