#I can’t picture him as david like saying the things he says and doing the things he does 👀 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darthannie · 8 months

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thesis statement

Pairing: professor!Jim x f!reader Summary: You accidentally bump into your Professor, Jim, at a sex shop. Word count: 3.3k Warnings: 18+ please for the love of god, age gap (reader is ~25, Jim is ~45), alcohol consumption (a few sips of wine), kissing, praise, soft dom! Jim kinda, fingering, p in v, Jim takes his time, a smidge of cockwarming, idk what else to put here! a/n: There will probably be a part two where they explore their little arrangement a bit more. Maybe it'll turn into something longer. I love Jim sm. I also want him to FUCK you know. We’ll get there, but I was feeling a lil soft. Also hmmm i wonder why Jim was at the sex shop in the first place.

It was around 5 pm on a Sunday and you were really in need of something new. Very in need. Your old toy just wasn’t cutting it anymore. To remedy this it was time for a trip to Deluxxx, your neighborhood sex shop. Your friend, Nadia, knew someone who worked there and you’d go there for all your wants and needs. You strolled in and gave a wave to the person behind the counter.

“Hey, David! How’s the shop been treating ya?”

They looked around at the empty shop, “Hey! It’s slow but I can’t complain. What are you in for?”

You sighed, “You remember that last toy I bought?“

”No way, does it suck?! It was so expensive.”

“No, no it’s great! Gets the job done, waterproof, 10 settings-“

“So what’s the problem”, they asked.

You gestured in front of yourself with both hands, “It’s just… a little too small?"

They laughed and threw their head back. “Of course. Well lucky for you we got something new in recently that you might like. It’s in the back aisle, bottom shelf.”

You thanked them and made your way to the back. You crouched down to find the one David was telling you about. It was definitely bigger than the one you had. And thicker. It didn’t have any extra frills but that wasn’t what you were looking for. You snapped a picture and sent it to Nadia with “new bf” as the caption. You let out a little laugh that was more like an exhale as you got up. Nadia has been nagging you about needing a boyfriend and you said you were just going to buy a new one. You were still looking at your phone as you turned to exit the aisle and bumped into someone. The apology on your lips died as you recognized the person in front of you as Jim, your professor and thesis advisor.

His jaw went slack for a moment and his eyes widened as he recognized you. You were the last person he’d expect to see there but it wasn’t an unwelcome sight. He enjoyed teaching you, not knowing whether it was your interest in the subject or the fact he thought you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. He broke eye contact for a moment, scanned your body, took note of the item in your hand, and then met your eyes again. You were suddenly very aware of your surroundings and before anyone could say anything he cleared his throat, said “Excuse me” and walked past you.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive and it was becoming clear why you did not have a boyfriend. You wanted him. This wasn’t a new revelation by any means. Nadia was in the same class as you, and she bugged you about it almost daily. You hadn’t expected him to find you in such a vulnerable position. You collected yourself and walked swiftly to the counter and paid. Jim was long gone. You said your goodbyes to David and you texted Nadia to let her know what happened.

She called you almost immediately and opened by saying, “So you know you gotta fuck him now. Like you have to. You don’t have an option. You MUST”. You laughed. There was absolutely no way Jim wanted you. You let her know as much and she disagreed.

“There’s no way he doesn’t want you. Come on. All the silent stares in class. Asking you to stay after. Constant emailing about things that have nothing to do with class. I mean who just emails their student a TED talk because they thought of them? All signs point to him wanting you. AND what about that one day where you teased him about not having a ring on his finger, and he just said I’m working on it? You know there was this smile he gave you afterward that I don’t think you caught. You were too busy hiding the blush on your face”

“I know I know.” You relented, “I don’t know, it just seems so far-fetched!”

You knew that was the logical response but something was telling you Nadia was right. He had to have known that his voice sent a shiver down your spine. That you wanted him to take you right there on the table after class. You had caught him staring during class. Maybe she had a point. You couldn’t help but wonder if he really did want you too.

Later on in the day, you got into the shower. Scalding hot water hit your back. You couldn’t help but recount the events from earlier. He had lingered, looked at the item in your hand, and raised an eyebrow. You would’ve been embarrassed if he didn’t already feel so familiar.

Soft music played as you lathered a silky body wash along your body. Your mind started to wander, thinking about what it would be like if it were his hands instead of yours. You rinsed off the soap, running your hands over your arms and breasts all while imagining they were his. You turned off the water, dried off, and headed towards the bag you placed on your small table.

You unpackaged your new toy and went back to the bathroom to clean it. Getting back to bed, you lied down and opened up an incognito tab on your phone. You looked for some porn to watch. Once you found an adequate video, you relaxed and continued to watch. The man in the video touched the woman’s body in all the right places. He laid her down and kissed up her thighs before starting to eat her out. This was enough for you to start teasing yourself with the toy, feeling the weight of it on your clit. Suddenly the video was unnecessary. All you could think about was Jim.

You positioned it just right and started to insert it. You gasped as you felt how it stretched you out. This was what you needed. You paused the video, throwing your phone on the side to focus on the task at hand. You put the rest of it inside you and let yourself adjust to the size. You began to move the toy as you thought of him. You wondered if he felt this good. He had to feel better than this. You got off that night thinking about him and only him. When you finally came down from your high you grabbed some water, cleaned your toy, and got straight to bed.

You didn’t want what happened yesterday to impact your experience in class so you decided to just go on like nothing happened.

You headed to the bathroom and began going through the movements of the morning. Before you knew it you were by the building where class was held. A bit further down the sidewalk was Jim walking from the opposite direction. The both of you got to the door at the same time. He didn’t say a thing. He just gave you a polite, awkward smile as he opened the door for you. You returned the smile and walked in. Side by side you walked to the classroom. This time you opened the door for him. You watched as he entered and mentally prepared yourself to take a class. It was just the two of you in the room. You sat at the round table with your laptop in front of you trying your best to seem busy.

He broke the silence, “Did you have a nice weekend?”

You summoned a response, “Yes, actually, I was able to spend some time with myself.”

He quipped back, “Oh, I’m sure you were.”

Your eyes widened trying to process what he said. He let out a light chuckle as another student arrived. The class was full within the next five minutes. Nadia walked in and looked between you and him. She smirked at you. The air was buzzing for the next two hours. You could cut the tension between you two if you tried hard enough. You asked and answered questions like usual. Each time you spoke he paid extra attention to you. When class ended you began gathering your things slowly, hoping you were the last in the class. Nadia leaned over and whispered in your ear, “Just don’t do it by my seat.” You gave her a light slap on the arm and she laughed. Then, it was just you and him. He approached you and spoke softly.

“Listen, I apologize if I overstepped a boundary with the joke I made earlier. I thought it would help ease the tension if, I don’t know-“

“It’s alright, Professor. We’re both mature adults who can bump into each other at a sex shop and move on with our lives.” You got up ready to leave but he spoke.

“Since when am I Professor?”, he asked.

You looked at him confused. He clarified, “Since when do you call me Professor? You never call me Professor.”

You cleared your throat, “Well I just thought we should reestablish a professional boundary since the- you know. Keep the personal and the professional separate.”

He looked at you, pensive for a moment. He moved a bit closer to you. “Well, what if we don’t keep it separate?”

Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening. “Are you serious?”

“Very.” He lowered his voice a bit and moved closer. He ran his hand down your arm. His mouth was now near your ear. There was no chance someone else was going to hear him, but he whispered anyway. “I think you should come over tonight. If you want to.”

“Yeah, I want to.” You mentally cursed yourself for caving in so quickly.

“How’s seven?, he asked.

“Seven’s good.” Your head was spinning. This was happening.

“I’ll also need your number so I can send you the address.” He handed you his phone with a new contact page open. You entered it in, gave him a shy smile, and turned to leave.

He grabbed your wrist before you were able to move away from him. “By the way, leave your new purchase at home. You’re not going to need it.”

Summoning some courage, you leaned in to kiss him. He didn’t close the gap all the way. “Let’s save it for tonight.”, he said as he pulled away. He gathered his things without looking at you and left.

When you returned home you threw your stuff down and immediately called Nadia. “I KNEW IT!" she yelled. “I KNEW that’s why you hung back. God, it was so tense between you two.”

“You could tell?” You didn’t think it was that obvious until she chuckled and said that everyone could tell. The rest of the conversation consisted of Nadia giving you a pep talk and making her promise you’d tell her everything.

As time passed you got more nervous. Around six you received a text from him telling you to wear something comfortable, along with his address. You sent a very quick response and, per his request, put on something comfortable. It would end up on the floor anyway. He didn’t live very far from you, which was lucky. You wondered if this would be a one-time thing. What would class be like now? I graduate soon anyway, you thought. If this all went south you could just forget it happened. You got to his apartment a couple of minutes before 7 and he let you up. When you got to the door you knocked twice and waited.

You’d never seen him so casual and… nervous. “Please, come in! You can put your things wherever you’d like,” he said.

You looked around at his apartment. You could tell a professor lived there. Bookshelves lined the walls. On the dining table, there was a bottle of wine with two glasses. You put down your bag near the door. You didn’t know what to do with your hands. He noticed your apprehension.

“Do you like wine? I got a nice Malbec after class today. Thought we could crack open a bottle.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“Nerves?”

“Yeah.”, you confirmed.

“Me too. But, uh, there’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just me.”

He smiled and the tension in your body slipped away. It was replaced by a sense of calm. Jim was letting you into his home, and into his life. You sat down at the table and he removed the cord from the bottle. You watched his hands work, feeling eager to get them on you. But that had to wait, he was about to take his time. He poured you and himself a glass. You sat across from him and took a sip, hoping its effects would be immediate.

“I’m glad you came. You know, I thought you’d think I was too old for you.” And he might’ve been. Twenty years was a healthy gap but it wasn’t anything you wouldn’t indulge in. Hell, if you could, you’d date him.

“Not at all.” You replied. “I can’t lie, I’ve been thinking about it all year.”

“About what?”, he pushed.

“About… seeing you.”

“You can say it.” He noticed your blush.

“I want to hear you say it.”, he egged you on.

You sighed, trying to muster up the words. “I’ve been thinking about… being with you all year.”

“And doing what?”, he took another sip of his wine and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to say it?”

“Yes.”, There was no way you would be able to admit it to him fully.

“You want your professor to fuck you. You want me to take you to my room, undress you, and take care of you better than anyone ever has.”

Your face was red. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.” You drank from your glass.

“Come here.”, he spoke softly and you got up. “Straddle me, love.”

You sat on his lap and he looked up at you, grinning ear to ear. He brought his hand up to your neck and pulled you down to kiss him. It was brief. He pulled away and looked into your eyes. Then he kissed you again. And, again. Then, he started kissing your neck. You couldn’t help but let out a small moan as you felt him getting hard underneath you. He kissed and nipped at your skin. His hands reached the hem of your shirt and he pulled it off before you could register it happening. Once it did, you helped him out of his.

He tapped your ass a couple times, silently saying get up. He walked you backward and pushed you up against a nearby wall. He started removing a bra strap, but you stopped him.

“Well don’t get shy on me now.”, he chuckled. “Come.” He reached out his hand and you grabbed it. He led you down the hall to his bedroom and you sat down on the bed. You took your cues from him. As he started to lean over, you began to lay down. His hand was unhooking your bra with one hand. He was finicking with it and after a few moments, it was off. The cool air hitting your nipples caused them to rise. Jim kissed you again, then kissed down your neck, and finally put his hands on you. He licked, sucked, and grabbed your breasts.

“You’re so beautiful. Even more gorgeous than I could have imagined. Baby, I need to taste you.”

You wanted to protest but your pants were already coming off. Your panties followed. He groaned, “Fuck, baby, all this for me?

Before you could respond he kissed the inside of your thigh, then down, down, down until he reached your pussy. You were so wet for him already. He used his fingers first, wanting to feel you first.

“You always get this wet for your Professor?”

“Yes.”, you responded breathlessly. His fingers were moving in and out of you. Slowly at first and then faster. He hit that perfect spot each time. Then he added his mouth. This time he didn’t go slow. He was licking and sucking on your clit. You moaned out his name and he smiled. He ate you out like his life depended on it. No one had ever done this to you. No one had ever paid this much attention to your body. You were a whimpering mess. His hand found its way back to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers. He then squeezed, hard, which made you load loudly.

“Please Jim, I’m gonna cum.”, you plead.

He got you close to the edge and then pulled away. You whimpered at the loss of him. “Please, keep going.”

“No, if you’re gonna cum, I’m gonna be inside of you.” He took off the rest of his clothing. You moaned at the sight of him. He was right. You would never need the toy again. You couldn’t wait for him to be inside of you. He knew this and instead decided to tease you with his cock. He dragged it along you and tapped your clit the same way you did with your toy at home. Only this was a hundred times better.

He nipped at your ear and whispered. “You really want it, huh?”

“Yes,” you begged “It’s all I want.”

He grinned and entered you slowly and without warning. Your jaw dropped slightly. You couldn’t even make a sound, you were too busy with the feeling of him filling you up entirely. He let out a sigh and grabbed your chin.

“Look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me while I fuck you.” You did as he said. He started to pick up the pace. He was making this intimate. He caressed your face and made almost as much noise as you did. “Good girl. You’re such a good girl, following directions. Ready for another one?” You nodded.

“Get on top. Sit down on my cock.” You started moving before he even finished his sentence. There was no room for shyness anymore. He sat up against the headboard as you sunk down on him; the new angle was doing wonders for the both of you. He thrusted up, wanting to feel more of you. He held you close to him as you began to ride him.

“You sure know how to treat a girl, Professor.”, you said breathlessly.

He chuckled and kissed you. “You sure know how to treat your Professor. You’re being so good for me. Such a good girl.”

His hand found its way back to your clit, his thumb rubbing circles. He wanted to make sure you came first.

And you did.

It came in waves. You felt it build up and told him you were close. Then, you fell apart. You pulled him close and kissed him passionately. He wrapped his arms around you and whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you came.

“That’s it, baby. So, so good for me. God, such a pretty little thing.“ He took control, holding you up and thrusting into you. The sensation was almost too much to bear.

“Where do you want it.”, he asked.

“Inside. Please. I’m on the-“

“Are you sure, love?” You could tell he couldn’t wait any longer.

You begged, “Yes. Yes, I am, just please cum inside me.”

And he did.

He filled you to the brim. You felt him twitch inside of you as his hips stuttered. He held onto you so tightly you were sure it would leave marks. You were both breathing hard. He stayed inside of you and held you against him. He put his forehead against yours as you regained your breath.

He kissed you again, this time not wanting to pull away. But, you did. You pulled yourself off of him and laid down as the realization of what you did started sinking in. He lied down next to you and stared at the ceiling.

Silence. And after a few moments, you turned your head and spoke.

“So, is this it?” It came out more timid than you would have liked it to.

He gave you a look you couldn’t quite place and after a moment he said, “Oh, love, you’re mine now.”

#jim the delinquent season x reader #jim delinquent season #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #jim delinquent season x reader #jim delinquent season x f!reader #professor!jim x reader #i proofread this but no one is perfect #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #annie writes

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leclsrc · 10 months

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more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel��s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun?

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?”

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.”

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!”

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him.

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking.

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed.

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?”

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise.

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—”

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again.

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?”

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.”

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people.

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace.

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say, “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different.

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?”

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response.

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.”

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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morganbritton132 · 11 months

Note

Love the idea of Steve and Eddie being so sickening in love that Eddie calling him by his name makes Steve be like “why are you being mean”. Imagining how funny it would be if Steve was hanging out with a new friend or co worker or something at the house for the first time and Eddie comes in and is like “hey Steve” and kisses him on the cheek before introductions and obligatory “how was your day” and when Eddie leaves a couple minutes later the new friend is about to comment on how nice Steve’s husband seems when Steve turns to her and is like “I’m so so sorry you had to see that he is not usually like that he is just still pissy about (insert dumb funny thing here)”

This is cute and hilarious, and it’s so canon to this AU that it hurts. I love it so much.

I’m picturing Steve having a group of teachers over because they’re part of a committee and they’re planning an event at the school. Some of the teachers are people that Steve has known years, but the majority are people who don’t know Eddie outside of the guy that sometimes picks Steve up on bad brain days.

They’re in the thick of making posters and streamers when Eddie comes into the house, guitar case in hand from practicing at Jeff’s. He comes into the dining room where everybody is, plants a kiss on Steve’s cheek like, “Hey, Steve. Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” Steve hums back, sinking into Eddie’s side when he wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him closer.

Eddie rests his head on Steve’s shoulder and looks down at the poster he is making. It’s very glittery. He asks, “How’s it going?”

He listens attentively as Steve tells him of all they’ve accomplished and even reminds him of something that he said he wanted to do for the event and forgot about. He smiles and shakes hands when he’s introduced to other teachers and even recalls some of the things Steve told him about them.

At the ends of it, Eddie kisses Steve’s cheek again, tells him that they’re doing amazing work, and then says, “I’ve got a melody in my head, gonna go iron it out. Let me know if you need anything.”

He even says as he leaves, “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Steve echoes back. Once the basement door closes, Steve just sighs and says so apologetically, “I’m so sorry you had to see that and if it made any of you uncomfortable. He’s not typically like that, you know. He’s just mad at me right now because I won’t walk a red carpet with him next week.”

At first everybody thinks that he’s joking but Steve looks so genuinely embarrassed that they have to believe him. Everybody is just like, “Excuse me, he’s mad at you?? He isn’t usually like that??? Meaning that he’s typically more loving and affectionate???”

Kathy, a seventh grade English teacher who shares way too much about her failing marriage, is just like, “Shoot, I can’t even get my husband to say he loves me half the time.”

“Kathy,” Steve says sincerely. “You need to divorce your husband.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat of silence before David, a newer teacher at the school, asks, “Red carpet? He is like, movie star or something?”

#while Steve is apologizing Eddie’s in the basement writing a song about how Steve doesn’t love his voice acting enough to go to the premiere #Eddie: *calls Steve by his given name*#Steve: oh my god this is so embarrassing. sorry you had to witness that #I just love the idea of Steve having completely unrelateble relationship problems #eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months

Text

Favorite Woman

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: Street celebrates you, his girlfriend, daily. On Women's Day, however, he steps up to make you feel special and loved.

Warnings: fluff!! brief mention of domestic violence (20-David responds)

Word Count: 1.5k+ words

A/N: Happy Women's Day to all of you amazing women! Life wouldn't be the same without you.🤍

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

Picture from Pinterest

When you wake up on March 8, you don’t expect anything special. It’s just another day on the calendar, but when you’re dating Jim Street, you never truly know what will happen from day to day. After you rub your eyes and stretch, you reach for your phone. A message from Street pops up when you unlock it.

Happy Women’s Day to my favorite woman.

You smile as you type a quick reply before getting up and preparing for the day. The message was unexpected but a sweet surprise that put you in a great mood, and you hope it’s the beginning of a great day. Once you’re dressed and ready, you text Street another message, asking him to have a great day and let you know how he is when he gets a chance.

Opening your front door to leave, you nearly trip over a large bouquet of flowers. Your smile grows when you see Street’s name on the card. He pulled out all of the stops for Valentine’s Day, so you probably shouldn’t be surprised, but you’ve never had someone celebrate you for an entire day just because you’re a woman. Then again, you are Jim Street’s favorite woman.

✯✯✯✯✯

“What’s up with you, smiley?” Luca asks.

“Nothing,” Street answers. “Just excited for a good day.”

“Oh,” Hondo interject. “And why is it such a good day?”

“It’s Women’s Day,” Street replies.

“Ah, best day of the year for a playboy,” Luca teases. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Dinner reservations at a café on the beach.”

“Wait, you celebrate Women’s Day, like make a whole thing out of it?” Tan asks.

“Of course. I mean, I’m dating a woman, and she’s amazing, so I’m going to celebrate her every chance I get.”

“They grow up so fast,” Hondo jokes, shaking Street’s shoulder. “What else you got up your sleeve, Mr. Romantic?”

“Please don’t let that stick,” Street whispers. “I got her a couple presents, sent her a text this morning, just little things to show her I appreciate her.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“What is that?” you ask, staring at the gift bag with wide eyes.

“Delivery. It just got dropped off. Have a good one.”

“You too.”

Pulling the bag closer, you untie the intricate bow holding the handles together before removing a long jewelry box. The bracelet inside is small, minimalistic, but incredibly beautiful. The light pink color is nearly invisible, seeming to be a sparkling white diamond shade unless the light hits it right. At the clasp, a small charm with ‘JS’ engraved on it.

Despite knowing that he may not answer, you call Street. When he does answer, you don’t let your surprise distract you.

“Hey,” he greets happily, and you can picture the loving smile on his face.

“This is too much,” you say. “I can’t accept this.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want another color, or-“

“Jim,” you interrupt with a laugh. “It’s too expensive.”

“You make it sound like you’re not worth the money. You don’t really want to have this argument on today of all days, do you?”

“Look, I love you.”

“And I love you. I meant it, you are my favorite woman and I love you and want to celebrate you.”

“You do that every day.”

“Not like this.”

“Wait, what does that mean? Street, is there more stuff coming?”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“Well,” you begin, smiling as you lean back and think of the one thing you want but haven’t gotten today. “In that case, can I make a special request?”

“Sure.”

“I want a kiss, as soon as possible.”

“I can be there in five minutes.”

“Without leaving work,” you add. “LA needs you, too.”

“LA isn’t as pretty as you.”

“Street.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Street, seriously, listen to me very closely. I love you, and I know that you love me, you make me feel seen and heard and loved, and I appreciate you and all of the gifts more than you know.”

“I love you, too. Hey, we just got a call, but I’ll-“

“See you then,” you interrupt. “Be safe. I love you.”

The line beeps when he ends the call, and you smile, looking at his initials hanging from your wrist. Street is the best boyfriend in the world, and knowing he is willing to celebrate you just because of who you are makes you fall even deeper in love with him.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Domestic disturbance,” Hondo alerts as the team climbs into Black Betty. “Neighbor said he could hear the husband yelling before things were thrown against the wall, but both neighbors are barricaded inside, refusing to talk to police.”

“Any idea if he’s armed?” Deacon asks.

“No registered weapons,” Hondo replies. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not.”

“How are we doing this?”

“I say we go in through the front door,” Street offers. “If he thinks cops are waiting out there, he’s not likely to expect it to get blown open.”

Hondo shrugs before nodding. “Stay liquid.”

Street reaches the door first, kicking it open once he feels Hondo’s hand on his shoulder.

“LAPD, step back!” he yells.

✯✯✯✯✯

It’s been about an hour since you talked to Street, and each moment that goes by without an update worries you. Playing with the bracelet and looking at your flowers helps, but you need confirmation he’s okay. Someone knocks on your door, drawing your attention away from the bracelet as you sign for another delivery.

The assortment of fruit and chocolate is so beautiful that you don’t want to eat it. When you see the card, you rush to open it and read it.

One more delivery, but enjoy this until then. Thank you for making life fun. I love you.

You wonder what more Street could have planned because your day is as close to perfect as you’ve ever experienced.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Well, if you’re done being a terrible human being, I’ve got a date with a beautiful woman,” Street grunts, pulling the handcuffed man to his feet.

“Hope yours listens better than mine,” the man replies.

“Tan, I need you to take him,” Street calls, passing him off before he can do something he’ll get in trouble for (not regret, just be punished for).

Street looks at his watch, and Hondo says, “Get out of here. But you may want to clean up before you pick up that beautiful woman.”

“Hey, are we ever gonna get to meet her?” Deacon asks, smiling as he removes his helmet. “Because I for one did not expect you of all people to settle down.”

“I’ve met her,” Luca brags.

“Yeah, yeah, roommate privileges,” Tan says as he returns. “But no one else wants to live with Street.”

“I’ll bring her to dinner or something soon,” Street promises. “Bye.”

“I’m sure there’s a joke about his mommy issues or something, but he’s so happy I can’t bring myself to make it,” Tan muses.

✯✯✯✯✯

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Street apologizes as he walks into your apartment, slipping his spare key into his suit pocket. “I- whoa.”

“It’s okay,” you reply, smiling.

“You look amazing,” Street adds, kissing your cheek. “Perfect.” Another kiss. “Beautiful.” Another kiss.

“You have good taste.”

“In women or clothing?” he asks. “Because you're the one that wanted the outfit, so I’m going to go with good taste in you.”

“How did you stay single this long?”

“I looked, but there’s only one you.”

“You did way too much today, but I love you for it.”

“I didn’t do enough. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I don’t show you enough.”

“You do. Jim, you’re the best part of me, and every single thing you do and say shows me that you love me.”

“So, you don’t want to go to dinner?”

You smile, laying your arms over his shoulders. “I really want to go to dinner. You look amazing, and I feel amazing, and I love you so much that I’m not sure I can survive another moment without kissing you.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry, I forgot about your special request.”

“Then do something about it,” you whisper, leaning closer to him.

Street smiles, pulling you against him as he kisses you. Being his favorite woman makes you feel whole, and you’re never as happy as when you’re in his arms.

“I would like to hear more about how I’m your favorite woman,” you say, pulling back. “Because you’ve worked with some incredibly strong women.”

“But there’s only one you.”

“And there’s only one you.”

Street kisses your temple, wrapping an arm around you as he leads you toward his car. You lean against him, enjoying his warmth and the joy and comfort he provides you.

“That’s probably a good thing,” he replies. “Because the one of me that there is loves you, even if he doesn’t tell you enough. Happy Women’s Day, to the most beautiful, loving, perfect woman in the world.”

“Will you still feel that way tomorrow?”

“I’ll feel this way until I can’t feel anything. You’re stuck with me.”

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street x reader #jim street fluff #fluff #swat cbs #requests #fem!reader #happy women's day #hanna writes✯

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mad-maximoff · 2 years

Text

When We Met

Wanda Maximoff X G!P Reader 18+!!

Summary: You were invited but to a join a party at the new Avengers compound. You locked eyes with a certain Scarlet Witch

Warnings:(Female Reader has a pen!s) drunk sex, wlw, sloppy bj, unprotected sex, ejaculation

Word Count: 4.1 k

(I haven't written a fanfic with dicks in a LONG time! Almost 7 years lol! So I apologize if it isn't good.) :) <3 Enjoy!

Part 2 is here

It was never in your nature to come to these sorts of things. Though, one never passes an invitation from Tony Stark. Or else you’d get pestered by him relentlessly. You couldn’t figure out what to wear, but it had to be something formal. Not wedding-worthy, but drunk picture worthy where you still look hot as you’re a complete drunk mess. You wore a brownish-grey suit, with a sheer lace button-up top underneath. You allowed your bare skin to catch the air cooling yourself. You paired the outfit with some layered gold necklaces to liven it up. With your enhanced abilities, you had some things bigger than other women. Though, when you were so ‘happily bestowed’ onto you, there were some minor cons to the reality stone touching your civilian skin. Yes, you became stronger than a common super-soldier, and fight the Hulk family and live to tell the tale. The con is the extra appendage you weren’t born with. It was huge, frankly, everything about you was huge but the thing that hung between your legs made you feel like a real freak.

You shook the thought away, fluffing the silk pants away from your skin, overthinking the inseam of your pants hugging your unwanted “third leg” too tight.

You were in the main entrance in the front of the Avengers compound finishing off your smoke. Everyone was like cattle herding into the main doors leading into the party. You weren’t too fond of crowds, thinking everyone was staring at you. Your face was feminine but your shoulders down looked like a man's body. You looked like Bucky Barnes with tits. Or that’s what you thought.

“Oh miss Y/n! Fuck finally! Some real people to hang out with!” Kate sat slumped over on the couch, already drunk even when the party had just begun. She wasn’t wearing anything special, just a pair of ripped jeans and her white long-sleeved she always wear saying “лайка”.

you were kicking yourself in the ass for dressing up. Until you noticed everyone but Kate was wearing something formal.

Yelena stood behind the bar with Tony mixing drinks. Yelena scoffed handing you a beer.

“Da, Y/n. I’m quite pleased you are here. Kate is a fucking lightweight when it comes to drinking.” Her back turned to nudge Tony as he cleaned glasses. You noticed she forgot to open your beer. You looked around making sure no one was watching as you intertwined your index and your middle finger around the cap lifting it lightly making a popping noise.

“Y/n. Come now. You don’t have to feel embarrassed about your strength. Buck and I can do that easily.” Steve stood behind you clinking your beer to his. You both took a swig each before finally finishing the conversation.

“Oh, I’m not ashamed, Steve. I just don’t want to freak anyone out when if I accidentally shatter the bottle. You can control your strength. Sometimes I can’t.” Your fingers clung around the shaft of the bottle. You broke out in a tiny sweat, feeling your chest burn from the inside out.

"If it happens, it happens Y/n. Accidents happen. We all know you're trying your best." Steve's hand pressed gently on your shoulder, walking off in front of you to join Natasha. You shrugged quitely chuckling to yourself. You followed along standing in front of Kate trying to lift her face off the pillow. "Come one champ! Let's get you sitting straight up huh?" You tried not to move her forcefully, but strong enough to move her body straight up.

"Come on Y/n! Let's get fucked up!" Kate leaped up to her feet head-butting your collarbone. "No, no. How about I get you some water and sit your ass back down." You grabbed her shoulders sitting her back on the couch. "No! Fuck that! Let's get white girl wasted!" You had to laugh at her state. You've seen her drunk but never this out of it. You had to think of a plan so she wouldn't get sick. You darted to the bar whisking two shot glasses and a bottle of water. You poured the water into the shot glasses, running back to Kate. "Okay, Katey-baby. You wanna drink? Fine here you go!" Kate's hand slurred trying to latch onto the shot glass, finally, however, she gripped the glass throwing the water back. You drank yours slowly making sure Kate didn't notice. "Hell yeah! That went down fine! Give me another!" You turned ripping the water label off and pouring more into her glass. You heard a laugh behind you. You cocked your head around noticing a brunette wearing a white ruffled bustier cami dress, with black heels. She wasn't laughing over someone else saying something, she was laughing at you. You raised an eyebrow towards her which made her grin. She glided across the floor to the couch you were planted on with Kate.

"Hey there! You wanna little help with this one?" She reached over to Kate's ponytail tightening the elastic. "Help with what Wanda? I'm fantastic! Y/n L/n, this is the beautiful Wanda Maximoff!" Kate tilted her head up to stare at the beautiful brunette. Her lips raised ear to ear, her lips were glossy. "You're too cute Kate." She made her way around the couch sitting next to Kate. "Hi, Y/n. Nice to meet you. Are you having fun babysitting Kate?"

"Likewise, not really, but I've never seen her this bad. Yelena got ahold of her before I did." You flexed your hand seeing all the veins pop, clenching your knuckles under the gold ring on your middle finger. You seemed nervous speaking to Wanda but it wasn't hard. She was beautiful, yes, and you loved being around beautiful women like her. You loved women but it was hard to explain to women why you have a real dick.

She laughed again flashing a pair of red eyes instead of green. "Oh yes, Yelena can be very heavy-handed with the booze. How did you meet the gang? You seem like a normal girl, with a little secret." Little secret? What secret? Can she tell? Is there an imprint? You glanced down quickly to see the crotch area, looking back at her. "Secret? Me? Haha, never. I met with Steve when he was searching for Bucky. I touched the reality stone and fucked with my entire genetic makeup completely." You laughed awkwardly seeing Wanda knew you did in fact have something to hide. Yelena came out of nowhere as she stood in front of us waiting for us to finish our conversation. Wanda broke her red-eyed contact with you returning to green to see Yelena. "What you want Maximoff? You want another beer Y/n? I told Barton to collect Kate Bishop so you won't be taking care anymore." She scoffed nudging Kate, taking the shot glasses away. Kate was passed out quite snoring in the middle of the couch.

"I'll have champagne."

"Yeah, I'll take another beer, Yelena." You fidgeted your watch flexing your bicep, looking around the room and seeing it fill up quickly.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Clint picked up Kate after a while of you and Wanda chatted. The party was intensely loud almost making it extremely hard to hear Wanda. The coffee table in front of you was surrounded by empty glasses and beer bottles. You both were getting drunk, the stone didn't affect you as the super-soldier serum did to Steve and Bucky. You can get drunk like a normal person. The only plus was you didn't get hungover. Wanda was warming up to you really quick. The spot where Kate sat was vacant with you and Wanda touching thigh to thigh. Her hand became accustomed to grazing your thigh ever so often. Her hand clenched, nails digging in lightly. It made you jump every time her hand went higher up your leg.

"Funny. I touched the mind stone and it intensified my powers. My telekinesis, energy manipulation, and some form of neuroelectric interfacing, as Banner calls it. I just called it a burden." Wanda adjusted her body shifting her knees to touch your thigh. Her hand draped behind you against the back of the couch, as her other hand laid gently on your chest. You tried to stay calm feeling a warm sensation boil in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah it's a little crazy I guess, but at least you can hide your powers. I open a bottle the wrong way and it shatters. You get a lot of weird looks when your this big and still have boobs." You laughed sipping the last little bit of your final beer of the night. Wanda bit her lip softly staring you down.

"I don't see that as a bad thing Y/n. You just haven't learnt how to manage your day-to-day with it. At least you weren't taken by HYDRA agents to be their main defence." Wanda hiccuped holding her free hand in front of her mouth. She reached in front of herself grabbed her glass, pulling it back. She looked down at the empty glass almost upset. "Uh oh, my drink's empty. I'm getting more. I'll get you another detka?" She arose softly adjusting her dress over her ass. You took a glance quickly trying not to seem noticeable. Her skin was perfect. Her ass was tight seemly not hugging anything underneath. Was she not wearing panties? You thought. Or a thong you didn't notice. You had to stop thinking like that though, you wouldn't want her to return and you were half mass. You'd be too ashamed. You're always uncomfortable with your little friend. You felt so disgusted by it that you never touched yourself. It's been months. You felt bent up but you didn't want to release. You felt wrong too.

Wanda returned with a bottle of champagne and beer. You thought you were done for the night, but watching Wanda walk back to you made you reconsider. She gave you an exciting smile scrunching her nose tightly. You laughed at the sight of her feet fumbling about. All of these drinks must have gotten to her quickly when she started walking. The music was booming and Wanda knew the song. She mouthed the words swaying her hips to the beat. She stood in front of you shimming her chest.

"I'd given up on romance, then I found you. Ain't it crazy what love can do?" She sang along to words cutting through the air. Her hips bucked rotating them in every direction. She popped the cork off the champagne bottle drinking the foam dripping from the opening. She slid herself onto your lap, continuing to girate feeling her pelvis on your belt. Fuck! You have to keep it together.

Wanda chuckled pulling the bottle away from your lips and placing it beside you on the couch. "Haha! I love this song! Me and my..ex-husband...Vision. Went to a club in Norway and this exact song played!" Her thighs tightened around yours jumping up and down onto you as she danced around. Dammit, Wanda! Stop making it hard to keep yourself in control! You thought trying to think of something to not make you hard.

"Oh yeah, Vision. I'm sorry about what happened to him. You two seemed to be a really cute pair." Your hands glided on her exposed thighs feeling her warmth heaten your hands.

"We were. Right now though, I could be all yours Y/n." Wanda bent her head down connecting her forehead to yours. "Now drink your beer detka." Her hand held your beer pursing it to your lips tipping it up softly. Her center was rubbing against the mound in your pants. You felt it rise a bit trying to shift away from her.

"You wouldn't want me, Wanda. You don't want me to break your bed into the next floor." You grabbed hold of your beer chugging it quickly knowing you'll need it. Wanda stopped moving around on you to grab her bottle, taking a huge drink. She huffed wiping away the extra liquid across her lips. "What if that's what I exactly want Y/n? To be thrown around like a little paper doll." She hummed finishing the rest of the contents in the bottle. You had to laugh again feeling in a daze. The liquor was working on you fast. "You know what my other talent is Y/n?" Her lips grazed your cheek hovering beside your ear. Her breath was hot and it spiked your senses.

"Huh Wanda, what's that?" Your erection becoming more apparent. Your hand was grasped firmly around her thighs trying to hover her body from your crotch.

"I can read minds," She moved her head crashing her plump lips onto yours. Her kiss was rough and sloppy. Mixing wine and beer wasn't the best idea but with her, it tasted like heaven. She let go of your lips. Tasting the cherry lipgloss painted on her blush lips. "And...I give good blowjobs too..so I've heard." Your expression must've said it all. It was shocking to hear Wanda speak in a way. Even though you only knew her a short time you'd imagine she'd never talk that way sober. You'd hope.

"Well I hate to break it to you lovely, but I'm a girl. You can't give me a blow job." You whispered back trying to keep her still hovered over your crotch. As soon as those words spilled out of me, it made you grow harder. You prayed you didn't give up and drop her. Her eyes glowed red again, this time her hands turned colour too. Her hands made yours heavy, making it extremely difficult to keep her off your inseam.

"That may be Miss Y/n. You are in fact a woman by birth. But the reality stone gave you something really, really special..." Your hands were being pushed down. The red mist latched onto your wrists pulling them down. You couldn't stop. With all of the strength you had, you finally met someone who can beat you. And she was winning.

You didn't fully realize how erect you were until you felt Wanda sit fully on your lap. "Please Y/n. I know how much you hate your body right now, but please. Let me allow you to enjoy it at least. You need it. Your body is screaming at me to help." Her lips laid onto yours once more. It was deeper, meaningful, and passionate. "Let me help you cum detka..." Wanda whispered on your lips. Her mist came back unbuckling your belt, undoing the one button on your pants. You were so caught up you forgot where you two were. You are at a party full of people. Some may be watching. We weren't totally in the corner. The couch was near the entrance more than the middle of the dance floor. You had to make her stop in case she got even further.

"How about we go somewhere more private huh?" Your cheeks were burnt with either embarrassment or excitement from Wanda. Wanda looked down at you letting her teeth catch her bottom lip. "Good idea fetițăI. Let's go to my room." She leaped off your lap noticing a large lump below your zipper.

You followed after Wanda trying not to draw any attention to yourself or your state. Everyone would stare if they saw a chick with a boner right now. In front of thousands of thousands of people. We both made it down a hallow hallway. Not a person in sight. All of the Avengers' bedrooms were at the end of this hallway. There were paintings and other things hung on the wall but because the compounds kept getting bombed or destroyed, they kept it very minimalist.

"I can't make it to my room. I need you now." Wanda was in front of you as she turned to face you. Her powers pushed you into the wall beside you. Your belt was still unbuckled and so were your pants unbuttoned. You couldn't move. You had motion in your wrists and hands but your elbows were glued to the wall. Wanda fell to her knees before you wasted no time unzipping your pants, making them fall to your ankles. "I haven't done this in so long, ever since I lost Vision. But, I exactly know what your girly-dick needs." Her shoulders dropped to either side letting her white straps fall off. You looked down at yourself feeling uncomfortable about how close she was to it. That pesky sore thumb sticking out of your white lace panties. Wanda's eyes flashed again looking up at you. "Don't be embarrassed drăguţă. You just stay still and try not to cum too early okay? It's okay if you do. So don't be ashamed if you do. I can tell you never play with yourself." Her fingertips were now cold. Tracing her fingers across the hem of your panties pulling them down to your pants. You saw your dick bust out of freedom moving by itself. It bounced all which ways it could. Wanda's grin glowed. "God are you ever twitchy!" Her hand was soft lifting your shaft straight up.

"I-I'm...sorry..." You spoke softly, you're fingers rubbed together becoming very nervous.

"Don't be sorry miere. I love when cocks move by themselves. I can fix it easily." Her plump lips wrapped around your head breaking no eye contact. Her lips were warm and inviting. You felt every little sense ask her tongue twirling on your heads opening. Her head bobbed lower taking all of you in her mouth, your cock tingled up to your stomach. You've never been touched in months, even long after your life was shaken up. You felt like a bottle ready to pop open. You wanted to grab Wanda's head but your elbows were stuck to the wall. Your wrists flicked all ways around. You cracked your knuckles in between your middle fingers. Wanda's hands laid tightly on your thighs digging her nails in deeper. Her red mist shined again unlatching your elbows from the wall. Your hands ferociously sank into Wanda's scalp, pushing her behind the back of her head. Her sloppy noises turned into quiet gags as you felt her uvula at your tip.

"Fuck Wanda...I'm gonna.." Your head rolled back as your sight became fuzzy. You felt like you were dripping out.

"Mhm..don't cum just yet detka, please." She gagged out dripping saliva all over her knees and dress. With Wanda saying just that, you had no sense of self-control. Wanda's tongue spun around your shaft as she repeatedly forced yourself into her mouth. You came instantly, you felt so ashamed. Wanda told you not and you did. Why can't you control yourself? Everything you do you are out of control, why can't you just control your dick?

"I'm sorry Wanda.." You huffed. Your grip on her head loosened as the guilt washed over you. You couldn't look her in eye. Your head tilted up again looking at the fluorescent light buzzing around. You felt your eyes gloss over but you were trying your might not to shed a single tear. You quickly wiped away a tear ready to fall. Wanda's tongue flexed swallowing her cum-filled mouth.

"I told Y/n, it's okay. You've never cum with your dick before. I understand." She arose pressing her body close against yours feeling both of your chests rubbing softly. "Now, how about we both figure out another place to it in huh?" Her hand lifted your limp cock in a stroking motion.

"I can think of a couple of good places." You raised an eyebrow lifting her dress by your index finger. Her body was sweaty underneath her gown. Your hand traced up further feeling a tiny string around her hip. "Looks like you found a spot." Wanda's jaw sat on your shoulder, planting tiny kisses up your neck to your earlobe. "Go ahead, take my panties off." Her teeth clenched a part of your skin. Leaving a glossy kiss sticking spot behind your ear. Your hands hooked onto her biceps flipping her body against the wall. Your hand let go tracing down her body under her skirt. The tips of your nails latched onto the strings of her panties, ripping off her skin. Your hand excitedly stuck into Wanda's core immediately. She was wetter than you thought, your fingers just slipped in and out with ease. A small grunt blurted out of Wanda peering down at your hand. Your middle finger raised rubbing her pulsating clit.

"Fuck are you ever wet Wand..." Your dick became hard again. Just feeling another woman again after a long time was enough to make your tip drool. Wanda's cheek stuck to the wall letting a hushed moan out. "I know...I just want you to fuck me so badly." Her ass swayed against your hips. Trying to stay up on her feet. You knew she had way too much to drink trying to lie against the wall. She wanted you. And did you too. You wanted to just take Wanda right then and there. Blow her up on that wall. Though, in her drunken state, you knew she couldn't hold onto her own.

You flipped her back around facing you, she grinned having all of her hair flying in either direction. She laughed hysterically trying to stand in her heels. "Makeup you mind Y/n!" Her arms flung around your neck biting the bottom of her lip.

"Oh, my mind is made up beautiful. Now, you open up." Your breath was shaky, trying to be assertive. Her leg wrapped around your hip, slowly opening herself for you. Your hard cock slid in with no friction. Her pussy was warm and inviting. Naturally, you supposed but man did it feel amazing. You never had sex with your cock. It almost felt ten times better than when you had a pussy of your own.

"Awe shit!! Y/n! Fuck!" Wanda's head rolled back on the wall as her hand clutched the nape of your neck. Her other leg is wrapped on either side of your hip. Your hands latched onto her legs hoisting her, slamming her down on your thick cock. Wanda's body jolted forcing out a moan into your ear. The force of your thrusting her down on you made the top of her dress let her boobs pop out. Her ass was soft on your legs as she bounced.

"Fuck Y/n! You're gonna make me cum fast!" She whined as she forced your head directly into her chest. Your hot breath was cool against the cold sweat between her breasts. You were trying so hard not cum, you had to stay focused not to cum inside Wanda. You had to plan to pull out when you felt it coming. "God Wanda! Don't say cum! Not now!" Your brows furrowed trying not to think about cumming.

A red little light sparked behind Wanda's body. Wanda was using her powers. You couldn't tell why. You were too hard-headed trying to focus on other things. Wanda's chin was above your head clenching her teeth. "It's okay detka. Y-you can cum in me..." Her words were choppy thrusting on you. You felt her heartbeat, it was fast and comforting.

"No, no, no. Don't tell me that! Cause I will cum inside!" You groaned between your teeth, locking with Wanda's eyes.

"That's what I want Y/n. I want you to cum in me. Please, please. Cum." Your focus was lost. All of your hard work was gone down the drain. You felt the urge rising rapidly. Just thinking about cumming in Wanda was enough to make you lose track.

"Fuck you're making it hard for me not to.." You whispered thinking maybe that'll calm your urge. Even though it didn't. Wanda's walls clenched around your thick cock, making her thighs vibrate.

"Do it! I'm cumming Y/n!! Cum with me!!" She screamed out flicking her crimson eyes. One final thrust did it. Both of you came at the same time. You felt an eruption flow out of you, going inside her. She was being filled by your warmth on top of already being so warm. Her body tightened around yours.

"Fuck look what you made me do...I came in you, Wanda.." You sighed wiping tiny beads of sweat off your forehead.

"Y/n. Don't worry. I wanted you to cum inside." She giggled standing back on her feet. "But you do realize what that means right? Do you have emergency protection or-.." You panicked realizing what you did. Could I get her pregnant? You thought. You assumed you shot blanks but yet. This was your first time. Wand interrupted your train of thought.

"Honey don't worry. I have it all planned. You get to be the hero you want to be. And I get to have my family back."

You sobered up once you heard Wanda's true intentions. She probably really liked you. But you heard what Stephen Strange said. Her kids weren't real. Now, they will be.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #lgbt #lesbian #marvel #wlw fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #wlw #avengers #scarlet witch x reader #g!p #wanda maximoff x female reader #mcu #wandamaximoff #mommy wanda #Spotify

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heyimdove · 5 months

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Things of Note at @neil-gaiman ‘s NJPAC talk:

1. Do you people understand that he switches into accents when he reads? Do you people know he does a perfect Michael Sheen impression? did you know it’s also hot

2. He used to cold call publishers/mags to see if they’d publish his work. He’d lie when asked what other magazines he wrote for; they’d think he was more legitimate and would, therefore, be more likely to take him on themselves. “You couldn’t get away with that now” thanks to Google. Also, back then, “we had telephones and we used them,” but today’s publishers would not easily recover if you unexpectedly called them on the phone.

3. It was a personal point of pride for Neil to write for each of the magazines he’d claimed to have written for. He said “I didn’t lie. I was chronologically challenged.”

4. Neil made a deliberate effort to not be boxed in by publishers. He’d interviewed many authors who were unhappily boxed and did everything he could to avoid it, including declining big contracts from prestigious publishers (notably after American Gods). This is why he can write what he likes now. Comics writing spoiled him in this regard, as publishers mistook the medium for a genre, and therefore didn’t care what he wrote (so he wrote all the genres he wanted to in Sandman).

5. He hates Thomas Hardy thanks to being introduced to him in school. Regarding being forced to read Tess of the D’urbervilles, he said “I wouldn’t do that to a dog”. He hopes students, who might have liked him if they found him on their own, don’t encounter his work in school and hate him for it.

6. “The evil characters (you write) don’t possess you, you try to find the little bit of you in them….the little bit of you that is gloriously evil.”

7. “I touched the magic and passed it along” this was a line from Watching from the Shadows that especially moved me.

8. Terry was increasingly upset as the bidding on Good Omens increased (eventually reaching 150,000 - can’t remember if he said $ or £). For his part, when the book finally sold, Neil put on Iggy Pop’s Success and danced.

9. Anansi Boys should be out on Prime by the end of 2024!

10. Described Sandalphon as someone you want to “hit with a large oar”. (The woman next to me, who was extremely stingy with her applause, hooted like an owl at this and clapped til the last).

11. Pronounces Amazon as “Ama-zin” and Los Angeles as “Los Angelese”. This isn’t noteworthy, but I liked it enough to write it down.

12. “Being on a beach in bare feet” was the line that led Neil to realize David Tennant would be perfect for Crowley.

13. He is pictured on the ALA’s poster holding Wind in the Willows because, as a child, “it messed up my head.” He said he is “in love” with a chapter in the middle called The Piper at the Gates of Dawn where the characters meet Pan. It’s often left out of printings, which makes him sad because it is “strange, beautiful, luminous”.

14. TOATEOTL was originally planned to go to Broadway. Then, Covid. They did a “world tour” instead. Now that it’s wrapped, talks about Broadway are happening. He says all of adaptations of his work, this is his favorite.

15. “Disney’s Aladdin plays four times a day in Hell”

16. His favorite question of the night was “WHY did you think of the Other Mother?” He was tickled by the word choice of “why”

17. Asked the library in Sussex “What have you got in the way of really good horror for four year olds?” Obviously none existed so he wrote Coraline.

18. Talked about going viral for being in a falafel, seemed to marvel at the progression of the meme’s meaning.

19. “Tumblr is its own madness”

20. “Stephen King has fabulous stories about meeting fans in toilets, including being passed a book under the stall”

21. Read “The Day the Saucers Came” which I misheard initially as Sauces. Saucers is definitely better.

22. “You want to see me doing Dickens?” I laughed inappropriately at this. I was the only one.

23. I don’t want to say what pieces he read because I want you to buy tickets to his events. But it was very nice to be read to by Neil Gaiman.

It’s very worth it to go. I flew out from San Diego for this and would do it again in a heartbeat!

#neil gaiman

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bullet-prooflove · 20 days

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Crime Wave: David Hale x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hatersaremymotivators bennykk kelpies-shed

Companion piece to Graffiti

David Hale wants to court you.

It surprises you because up until now the men in your life have been interested in one thing and one only and that’s fucking you.

When he calls you that night, you fully expect it to be a booty call. It’s past ten pm and you’re curled up in your arm chair, listening to the sounds of the 70s, 80s,and 90s over the radio as you sketch out a scene from the café on Main Steet earlier today. It’s nothing special, just a flower that you saw in a glass of water but you haven’t been able to get it out of your head so you’re committing it to paper. That’s usually how your art comes to you, you see something in the wild that sticks in your brain and you can’t let it go, not until you’ve drawn it.

Usually it’s people. You have entire sketchbooks dedicated to folks you don’t know the names of because you’re fascinated by their posture and facial expressions. It’s the reason you decided to draw David this morning.

When you met it had seemed like he carried the weight of the world up on his shoulders but in that moment, asleep in your bed, he’d seemed relaxed, free. You’d wanted to capture that. You didn’t intend to give the picture away and the phone number had been a last minute addition, hastily scrawled as he was heading out the door.

The truth is you never expected him to call.

“Don’t tell me it took you this long to find my number.” You tease after he greets you.

He laughs and that sound, you don’t realise how much you’ve missed it during the twelve hours you’ve been apart.

“It’s been a busy night.” He tells you as he sits at his desk, reviewing the arrest reports. “It’s been hard to find a moment between throwing the regulars in the drunk tank and arresting delinquents for drawing dicks on other people’s property. It seems you’ve started a trend, one that’s going viral.”

“You’re kidding right?” You say, tapping your pencil on the surface of your sketchpad and you can envision him shaking his head with that amused expression of his as he surveys the evidence.

“I wish I was.” He tells you and you hear the chair creak as he leans back in it. “Cars, mailboxes, shop windows. You’ve inspired a crime wave.”

“Honestly David, I’m so fucking embarrassed.” You say as you press your fingertips to your lips. “Let me make it up to you.”

“This is dinner and a movie at least.” He tells you with a humorous lilt to his voice. “I can give you a tour of your handiwork afterwards, we can rate them, biggest to smallest, most anatomically accurate…”

You can’t help but laugh and on the opposite end of the line David feels something blossoming in his chest.

“I actually took some pictures for evidentiary purposes if you’d like a preview.” He tells you as he scrolls through his phone. “I thought I’d ask as I’m against sending unsolicited dick pics to women I’ve just met.”

“That implies you’ve sent some to women you do know in the past.” You tease and you swear you can feel the blush creeping across his cheeks as he clears his throat.

“I can neither confirm or deny…”

“Some would consider it a form of art.” You say as you survey the images he’s just sent you. There’s some real creativity going on in these pictures, you’ve never seen such a variation of cocks. You wonder if you should be putting together some sort of art installation.

“Like your life modelling?” He prompts and you tune back into the conversation.

“Does that bother you?” You ask him. “That other people see me naked on a regular basis?”

It’s been a source of contention with most of your previous partners. They don’t understand that life modelling isn’t about sex, it’s about the art form, about providing a subject for students to learn from, to develop. It’s not a job for just anybody, you have to be comfortable with yourself, sociable enough to put the artists at ease especially in the beginning stages of their journey.

“No.” He says and you can tell he means it. “You have a beautiful body.”

It’s your turn to blush.

“Do you want to come over tonight?” You ask him and he hesitates.

“Yes.” He says finally. “But I think we should wait for that dinner and a movie.”

You read between the lines.

I want to fuck you, but I want to date you too.

“Tomorrow night.” You say as you scroll through your phone searching for the movie listings. “I’m free tomorrow night.”

Love David? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#david hale #david hale x reader #deputy chief david hale #soa

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nightgoodomens · 3 months

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Crowley is the character who broke away from being stuck in a cult who follows blindly. He has a really realistic view on the world that he loves and protects. He’s very protective of Aziraphale and humans. He’s so smart he’s been fooling Hell since the beginning. He has seen it all and was involved in most important events of the world.

His whole point is freedom. He is the one who introduced free will. He fell because he hated blind following and control. He calls them all toxic.

So, yes, to see the fandom reduce him to nothing, call him degrading names, act like he canonically wants to be controlled and used, is fucked up. It is so fucked up.

And then taking Aziraphale, who Crowley spent 6 thousand years trying to make him see that he is still stuck in a cult and letting himself be manipulated, and that when Aziraphale cut himself away he automatically started reporting to Crowley instead because he needed someone to report to as he still has this mindset, Aziraphale who spent whole season trying to woo Crowley and create a fantasy ball for them - and reduce him to a cold monster who would want to degrade Crowley and have satisfaction in it…

I just can’t. It’s so insulting to both of them.

Everything Crowley does is a prompt to degrade him for it. (He danced once - degraded. We ignore that Aziraphale danced plenty of times before for him before Crowley danced even once. We ignore that it is something they both do. We don’t call Aziraphale a bitch for it, only Crowley.) Aziraphale doing what Crowley does plus so much more does not result in degradation. No, in his case it is seen as boss behaviour. It’s all just fucked up at this point. Crowley follows him once - degraded. Crowley does anything to show his love - Pet. Whore. Slut. Wants to be owned. Wants to be controlled. Pathetic. Cant cope without Aziraphale. Aziraphale creates the ball, gives away precious belongings for him, plays a damsel in distress, doesn’t accept what’s going on around him, his head is so focused on Crowley and looking at him like at a picture - boss behaviour. Master. Owner. Made Crowley his bitch. All sexually meant too of course. Yikes.

I just… what?

If you’re desperate to degrade one then I guess Aziraphale should take the fall. Except… why the fuck either of them has to?

Because I watch the show and see an Angel and Demon in love. Who want to spend time together. I see Aziraphale who loves Crowley with his whole heart but is still stuck in a cult. I see Crowley who loves Aziraphale with his whole heart but he wants to be free and wants Aziraphale to be free too. I see both of them needing to break free from toxic bosses and finally stop being hurt and controlled. That’s the whole point of the show.

I see so much love and marriage behaviour.

The whole point of the show is freedom.

And some in this fandom shit all over it.

And to take Crowley out of everyone and do this crap to HIM?! And think this would be “taking care of him”?! Oh I shuddered. He doesn’t need to be taken care of, not like this especially. That he needs that?! That Aziraphale/Crowley would want that? When they’re finally free you want them to revert and start doing this to each other instead and act like that’s a good thing.

Fuck. We really watched a different show.

Not everything has to be toxic.

At least - Neil, Michael and David - considering their views during interviews (Crowley being clever and he gets it and wanting Aziraphale to open his eyes and how much they’re like yin and yang and adore and love each other) and on Twitter (Michael basically saying Aziraphale is a bottom and how much he adores Crowley and sees him as Thin Dark Duke) - they watched and acted and directed the show I watched. Because I see it the way they do. Which is the opposite of what so many in this fandom are seeing.

#priv

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taste-your-silhouette · 9 months

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I wanna paint your face like you're my Mona Lisa

Pairings: Damiano David x fem!reader Contents: Smut Summary: Damiano takes you to see his new yacht Words: ~1205 A/N: Forgive me if you come across any errors while reading. I hope you enjoy it 💙

Damiano tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and says, "Today, I'm taking you on a nighttime picnic."

"Nighttime picnic? Sounds cool!" you laugh.

Damiano grins, matching your excitement, and nods. "Exactly, amore mio. We'll be under the stars, and a picnic will be perfect."

"Hmmm, sounds intriguing. So, where are we heading?" you ask.

With a gentle kiss on your lips, Damiano replies, "Let's head to the marina. I've got something new and I'm excited to share."

And he takes the lead, pulling you by the hand toward the marina. It's not a long walk, so you stroll hand in hand, chatting about random stuff and playfully teasing each other along the way.

As you arrive at the marina, you both wander through its numerous alleys until Damiano stops and gazes at you with gleaming eyes.

"Okay, you've got a yacht, I can tell. Which one?" you inquire.

"Y/N"

"Hm?"

Damiano chuckles and points to a massive, stunning yacht.

"That's the name. 'Y/N in the sea with diamonds'," he announces proudly.

You burst into laughter at the yacht's name and the fact that your name is on it, but most of all, you're filled with love for Damiano for arranging this surprise. You take a step closer to him, closing any remaining distance, and plant a passionate kiss on his lips. He places both hands on your waist, intensifying the connection between you, and sending shivers down your spine. Your heart races as he pulls you closer, but as he breaks the kiss, he reveals.

"Let's hop in soon, I've been keeping this Yacht secret from you for weeks."

"Weeks ago?! I can't believe it!" you lightly push him, laughing playfully.

Damiano holds your hand, taking the opportunity to guide you into the yacht. It's magnificent; your heart races as you step inside the Yacht—it's like stepping into a movie set. The interior is sophisticated, adorned with muted tones and soft lighting, creating a welcoming atmosphere. The huge picture windows allow the sunset light to dance across the elegant hardwood floors.

"So, did you like it?" Damiano asks, his eyes filled with anticipation.

"Gattino... it's amazing!"

"Come here," he takes your hand and leads you to the deck.

The deck is utterly cozy, featuring a soft rug and cushions scattered on the floor. A basket filled with delicious treats sits nearby: fancy sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a selection of tempting sweets.

"You're a box of surprises, you know? Look at this place!" you exclaim, marveling at the setup.

You glance at Damiano, who's looking at you expectantly and happily—his beauty enhanced by the golden glow of the sunset. A gentle breeze envelops you, and everything intensifies as Damiano draws even closer, so close that your breaths intermingle. He whispers:

"I love you, Y/N. Nothing I can create in this world comes close to what you deserve."

"I already have everything I want, I have you loving me, and I love you," you express with a contented smile.

You resist the urge to jump on him and skip the whole snack part.

"I want to madly kiss you until I lose my breath."

Damiano holds your gaze and smirks. "You, my love, have no idea of the things I want to do to you right here, but come on, let's eat first." He takes your hand, and together, you walk to the soft pads on the floor of the yacht and sit down.

You find yourself comfortably nestled between his legs, leaning back against Damiano's chest. You both enjoy the delectable treats, savoring each bite while talking and laughing, basking in the joy of being together.

The sun has already set and the moon is massive, with its twin dancing in the sea, Damiano gets close to your ear and whispers:

"You look damn gorgeous in the moonlight, Y/N"

His heart races as he feels Damiano kissing your neck and caressing your face lightly, bringing his mouth to meet yours. You turn to face Damiano completely and straddle him, wrapping your legs around his waist, his arm wrapping around your waist and squeezing as the kiss intensifies.

You moan in between the kiss as you press yourself down and rock forward slowly, causing the perfect friction between the two of your sensitive parts. Your clit swells with pleasure as you feel how hard Damiano is.

He moves his hands from your waist to your hips and gives it a gentle squeeze, guiding the movements and setting a rhythm. The kiss between you is interrupted by a moan, and Damiano takes the opportunity to explore your neck even more with kisses, bites, and hickeys. You feel him getting even more aroused with the increased pace of the movements.

In a flash, he's got your ass and lying down on the comfy floor, his body on top of yours. His hands roam all over your body, causing a trail of excitement and goosebumps on your skin, which he has easy access to thanks to your dress.

"So wet for me..." he says, softly rubbing the right spot.

With his other hand of his, he holds one of your boobs and squeezes it.

"So delicious," he slides your panties down your legs with only one hand, "and mine." And he enters you.

His hips go all the way down and stop, he buries his face on your neck, and you can perfectly hear all his groans, even the quietest ones, just as he hears yours. He holds your thighs tightly.

Your hearts are pounding, as are your moans as Damiano's hips slide in and out of you faster, his balls hitting you with each thrust, his hands gripping you so firmly it makes you tingle.

You scream his name as you start to feel your legs shake.

"Come for me, Y/N," he says between moans in your ear.

You moan louder and stronger after hearing his voice asking you to come like that, and it's impossible to hold back the huge feeling that is about to explode.

And it comes, as soon as you feel it penetrates you as much as it can, gushing all the pleasure it feels for you inside you, spurt after spurt.

He collapses on top of you, his hands slightly loosening their grip on your thighs. You look at him, his eyes still filled with desire and lust.

You hook your legs around him and spin around on top of him, sitting right on his lap.

"You're even more irresistible with the moonlight illuminating you," he says, lifting both hands and massaging your boobs.

You smile, wiggling slightly with his cock inside you.

"Let's not end this anytime soon then, because I can say the same for you."

And so you spend the night, on Y/N in the Sea with Diamonds, christening every corner of it with pleasure.

"You're even more irresistible with the moonlight illuminating you," he says, lifting both hands and massaging your boobs.

You smile, wiggling slightly your hips with his cock inside you.

"Let's not end this anytime soon then, because I can say the same for you."

And so you spend the night, on Y/N in the Sea with Diamonds, christening every corner of it with pleasure.

#må #måneskin #damiano david #damiano måneskin #damiano david x reader #damiano david smut #damiano david x you #damiano david fic #måneskin imagine

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kittarts · 1 year

Note

I just arrived in this page and im in love with your artstyle and Kiri x rotxo stuff 😭😭❣ (perhaps i could ask about any headcanons that you may have about them or show more content about them?? IM OBSESSED❣)

Thankyou so much! Welcome to my page!!

And oh my god happily,,

I just love the idea of Rotxo being immediately head over heels for her, he’s so determined to court her he tries everything in his book to prove himself a worthy partner! Cue heaps of Metkayina courting attempts.

But poor Kiri has so much obviously on her mind she’s either completely unaware or doesn’t know how to react — maybe we can throw in some angst and say her uncertainty is her insecurity about whether she’s proper Na’vi or not! Maybe she doesn’t think she’ll be able to provide what he wants in a relationship with her, because she knows she’s not ‘normal’ and can do things others can’t 👀

So she thinks Rotxo has this fantasy of them growing old, all lovey dovey on the reef when she’s already lost hope of ever having a relaxing life after Quaritch came back into the picture. So Rotxo pursuing her makes her sad because she doesn’t think she’ll be able to provide that safe normalcy for him 😭

In reality Rotxo doesn’t want a normal life, he just wants Kiri 🥺

I like to think Metkayina courting is him spending extra time with Tuk, subtly showing her he can take care of her family. Or maybe hunting rare fish to cook for her after she goes through another seizure? Bringing her meals to show he can provide food. Maybe if she eats the food he thinks it’s a sign she’s interested too when in reality she was just hungry and doesn’t understand Metkayina courting rituals nskjsj

Rotxo totally lives in an all female family I feel this to my core, so he cooks her meals based on what the women in his family enjoy best.

Apparently Tonowari likes Rotxo around Aonung because he’s a good influence bahah, I take that as meaning Rotxo doesn’t seek out conflict. So it’d be interesting if he starts acting out more when Kiri comes into the picture, which is very unlike him, so the whole tribe notices quick.

Imagine Rotxo asking for Neytiri’s approval, only to find out Kiri’s birth mother is actually in a tank in the Omatikaya forest, and so he goes out of his way to meet Grace and speak to her regardless of him being out of his element and in dangerous territory. It’s tradition, so he takes it very seriously.

I just love the idea that Kiri is just this special spirit whisperer that attracts all these gentle creatures and Rotxo is one of them 😭

Oh also, David and Nani clip because it’s Kiri, Tuk and Rotxo vibes!

#Rotxo x Kiri #Kirotxo #Rotxiri #Avatar the way of water #Awow #If you ever have headcanons or ideas please don’t be shy to share I want more of them #kittchats #My art

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1moreff-creator · 10 months

Text

Trying to figure out the DRDT chapter 2 murder method, with evidence! (Theory)

CW: Murder, mentions of suicide, hanging, general brutality.

So, I’ve noticed a lot of people have given their predictions for the second case murderer, the motives and all that. This is obviously what most people care about, and I love reading predictions for it!

However, I am not most people. I also am really curious about the exact murder method.

You see, DRDT has consumed my brain mercilessly, and thus I have decided I can’t wait for the hiatus to end, and want to see if I can figure out the murder mystery with the clues we have. As a warning, this doesn’t actually help much with the culprit, but I will give my thoughts on that at the end.

I think a decent job! It’s not perfect, and I’m fully expecting to get a lot if not most of this wrong. I will be happy regardless of whether I’m right or wrong, so what matters is that I had fun thinking about it! Right? :D

This took me hours.

Spoilers up until Chapter 2 ep 11, and… further? Maybe? It’s just a prediction, but with evidence, so, you decide if you wanna read it.

Where we left off

The cliffhanger currently consuming me, as you may recall, happened just after David started his Tumblr sexyman arc, with Charles cutting in with just a fantastic line (“You’re out of your element!”). He says that, while trying to prove David’s innocence, he realized something bigger, before proclaiming he and Teruko fucked up.

As many have pointed out, Charles cuts in when David mentions the time of death, meaning he’s likely realized something about that.

What Charles has probably noticed is that the note Arei received never mentioned if she was supposed to go to the playground at 7:30 PM, as the characters had assumed because of the fish and the nighttime rule for the Relaxation Room, or AM. The fish could have easily been kept in the water jugs found outside in a trash can, so it’s pretty feasible that the murder actually happened at 7:30 AM. Unfortunately, Nico, the only one keeping track of the fish, likely fed them before David went there, and thus before 7:30 PM, so we can’t tell for sure when they were taken.

(This is because Nico mentions they fed the fish after dinner, and they likely ate before David. Whit mentions having a ‘late dinner’ when he and the gang meet with Suspenders Man in the kitchen and send him to the fish, David even mentioning he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there. Assuming Nico ate dinner with most of the class, they would have eaten before David went to the Relaxation Room, which we know was around 7:30 PM)

However, if Charles is only bringing the possibility up now, it’s likely the right answer. Also, as you’re gonna see, the murder method I believe was used requires quite a bit of setup that would have been easier to do at nighttime, without potential witnesses showing up out of nowhere.

Now, this is where I’ve seen most people stop. Content with knowing what the cliffhanger itself is about, they don’t think further into the murder method. But I will, because my life is extremely empty.

Let’s get to the evidence!

“Truth Bullets” (let’s pretend)

-First, the layout of the scene.

(Ultimate Artist coming through-)

The exact position of things doesn’t matter, but it helps to visualize. The seesaw, to the dismay of Korekiyo stans, is unimportant and can be disregarded. Here are the takeaways:

•The ground near the entrance is scuffed. This heavily implies something went down in the playground, and we probably aren’t dealing with a crime scene switch.

•The fish, you should be acquainted with.

•The spinny thing will be important.

•Not pictured is a sand pit without sand. This isn’t important, but I do find it funny.

•Then, the swing set. I’d like to point out that the rope attached on one end to Arei has nothing on the other end, and rather remains there via a knot at the top of the swing set. This is important because of:

-Broken Neck: Arei’s neck is broken, alongside:

-Veronika’s Account: Although a hanging can cause someone’s neck to break, it wouldn’t happen to Arei if she were to be hung from that height. She would either need to weigh more, or fall from higher. Because the rope Arei’s corpse hangs from is tied with a knot, it can’t extend further than what we see, meaning she was likely hung from somewhere else (if that’s even her cause of death).

-Bound Wrists: Arei’s wrists were bound with duct tape at some point.

-Duct Tape on Spinny Thing: There is duct tape covering every handlebar the spinny thing has.

-Longer Rope: There was a longer piece of rope bundled up below the spinny thing. Teruko claims it’s a couple yards long. I don’t use that unit of measurement, but it sounds like it’s large.

-Flickering Lights: According to MonoTV, one of the lights in the playground was flickering. The way he acts when inquired implies this had something to do with the murder.

Going away from the playground now, we have the trash can.

-The note: You know this one.

-Eating utensils, food, painting tools. Unimportant.

-Water Jugs: Likely where the fish were kept overnight. Notably, the handles are snapped in the middle.

-Needle and thread?: I’ve seen some people mention there’s a needle with a bit of black thread that none of the characters address when dealing with the trash. Personally, I think this isn’t going to be important, but I do have a place for it if it ends up coming up. That is:

-Ball of clothes: Charles takes this from the dress-up room. It’s apparently held together with starch (not an adhesive, just sticky, but sure), though I wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually created with the needle and thread. Again, I don’t think it’s important, but you can choose to believe it was used here if you want. It’ll make sense later.

-The gym. I’ll be honest, this is the one thing I don’t know how to fit in. During the investigation, Teruko makes memory to how the gym looked before and after the Nico incident. I’m not great at Spot the Difference, but for the life of me the only thing I could see change was the missing fan and the missing ‘grippy thing’ on the pull-up bar. I don’t know how that would fit with the mystery, so I’ll be glad if anyone can figure something out.

-The motives: Not important for the method, obviously important for other reasons.

So, with the evidence laid out, what can we figure out?

Theory Time

When I said I spent hours thinking about this, I mostly meant running through several theories at once, trying to see which one made the most sense. I went to some weird places: from a crime of passion disguised as a suicide, to drowning her in the Relaxation Room, to somehow getting from the Movie Screening Room to the Playground (MonoTV had mentioned punching through the wall would get you there), to Arei herself being the one originally trying to murder…

But in the end, it was simpler. There are three important facts which help narrow down the options.

-Arei’s neck was broken. This eliminates simpler killing methods such as strangulation. Something happened which broke her neck, yet:

-Her wrists were bound. A broken neck is instant death, but Arei’s bound wrists imply the killer feared she would struggle. This eliminates a crime of passion. This thing was premeditated.

-The murder happened in the playground. The scuffed floor, broken light, duct tape on spinny thing and the other rope all make it clear. There’s no crime scene switching here. This eliminates stuff like the drowning in the Relaxation Room I mentioned.

All of this makes me believe that Arei was hung from somewhere in the playground, likely after the killer bound her wrists to stop her from struggling. The scuffed ground serves as evidence of an initial struggle. It doesn’t quite look like that, but frankly I just don’t know what could have caused the exact shape in the ground, so a struggle it is.

However, how? If Arei’s neck broke from her hanging, as per Veronika’s Account, she would need to be hung from somewhere else first, in a way that she either weighed more or fell from higher. Now, at first, you might assume that she had to be simply hung from higher, since it’s impossible to make Arei weigh more than she does. But what if I told you, there is a way to achieve that?

Enter: the water jugs.

I don’t know about you, but the way those handles are broken looks to me like they were snapped too cleanly for human hands. It almost looks… like someone tied a knot around them, then exerted a bunch of force on the rope.

(WARNING: Geometric depiction of a hanging a bit below)

We know for a fact there are at least two pieces of rope: one longer, one shorter. It would be possible to tie the two ends of the shorter one around the handles of the water jugs, then tie the middle around Arei. Water’s pretty heavy, so the extra pull of the water jugs would exert an additional force to her body once she stopped falling, one which could serve as one of the reasons her neck broke.

…Now’s probably a good time to mention, I have no idea why the killer did half the shit they did. I cannot explain to you why they would do this with water jugs. I’m just telling you how my brain’s interpreting this evidence.

However, this doesn’t exactly solve the height problem. You still can’t hang Arei from the swing set directly, as the jugs would hit the ground. It’s still necessary to hang her from higher up, although thankfully it’s easy to see where that would happen.

Yeah, the railings of the playground. The problem, naturally, is how to get there. Or rather, how to get the rope there.

Well, here’s a question. How would you do something like that if it was lower down, but still unreachable? One answer is to try to throw the rope over the railing, so that one end stays near you, and the other, on the other side of the railing. Of course, that’s impossible with a rope of this length and a railing of this height, but the concept can still be used in conjunction with something else. Thinking about the other pieces of evidence we have, there is one that stands out as particularly strange, doesn’t it?

Exactly. The ball of clothes. Because throwing a ball, especially one as light as this one would be, is much easier than throwing a rope, you can set up the hanging spot by tying one end of the rope to the ball, and throwing that over the railing.

You might think it’s still too far up, but think of it like this. How far can you throw a basketball straight up? Probably enough to clear two floors, at least given enough attempts. The ball of clothes would have more drag, yes, but it would be lighter. Keep in mind the killer had all night to get this right, and they could have even climbed on the swing set if they needed a bit more height. It’d be awkward, but possible.

There is one more piece of evidence that makes me think this is the case. That is, the flickering lights.

The lights weren’t broken, but they did get fucked up. This is by far the clue which gave me the most trouble when thinking about this, since it just seemed so impossible to achieve. However, this ‘ball of clothes’ theory gives us a solid answer. On the way up, the ball of clothes may have hit the lights:

This wouldn’t break the light, but it could displace it, causing it to flicker… or something like that. I’m sorta banking on J giving a proper explanation with her pre-established expertise, since I’m no electrical engineer. However, I see no other way this could have happened, so it’s the answer I’m giving for now.

So now we have the long rope on both ends, all that’s left is actually pulling Arei up. Except, that’s still quite complicated, isn’t it? Already pulling her up would take quite a bit of strength, but the main problem is the ‘going down’ part.

For Arei’s neck to break, she needs to enter free fall, then abruptly stop halfway. That would mean you need to stop the rope from moving on the way down, but how? Just using your hands is impossible, because you’d get burnt.

Enter: spinny thing.

The duct tape tipped me off that this thing was important, and once the use of rope is factored in, my first instinct was to use it for a sort of pulley system.

Weave the rope through a few of the handlebars, then tie a knot around one of them. That way, if you make the thing spin, it will drag the rope with it, sort of like a roll of film in reverse.

Then, once Arei reaches an appropriate height, you spin the thing the other way, letting her fall at full speed for a bit. When you want to stop her, you would just need to stop the carousel from spinning, which may take a bit of strength, but it’s perfectly doable.

Now, this explains how the murder could have been done, but where does the duct tape come into play?

…

Yeah, good question. My best answer is that the rope somehow burnt a friction mark into the spinny thing, which the killer feared would give away their trick. After all, even if the duct tape is more noticeable, it’s harder to make a connection between that and the murder than a friction burn, which while harder to notice, would point more directly to the pulley idea.

Yeah, it’s not a great answer, and it’s frankly the part which still puzzles me the most, but it’s an answer, so I’m going with it for now. Open to change, though.

Notably, this is also the part of the crime where I feel the gym may come into play. Again, I have no idea what the relevance is, but if it has something to do with this crime and not just the Ace - Nico incident, perhaps the grippy strap of the pull up bar was somehow used to better grip the spinny thing’s handlebars for the pulley trick? Again, this is one piece of evidence where I could use the help.

And so, we’re done! Practically all of the important evidence was used, and I can’t find any contradictions in the reasoning!

Closing Argument

The killer first put water from the Relaxation Room, fish and all, in some water jugs before nighttime.

At nighttime, they stuck together Teruko’s and Hu’s old clothes with either starch or the black string. Going to the playground, they tied a long rope they got from storage around the ball of clothes. They repeatedly threw it up, until they managed to get the rope over one of the railings in the playground. However, on the way up, the ball of clothes hit a light and displaced it, causing it to flicker. MonoTV would later remove this light.

After that, they tied one of the ends of the rope to one of the carousel’s handlebars, possibly looping it around some of the other handlebars to make sure it would work as a pulley. The killer left the water jugs in the room, first tying a shorter piece of rope around their handles, and took the ball of clothes back to the dressing room.

After that, the killer wrote a note. They had overheard the Eden-Arturo-Arei situation, and used that to lure Arei out to the playground at 7:30 AM. She potentially arrived just before the killer, based on the scuffed ground being a bit far from the door, but the killer got there just a moment after, before Arei could understand the situation.

The killer overpowered Arei, scuffing the ground near the seesaw in the process. They eventually bound her wrists together, and wrapped the middle of the rope attached to the water jugs to Arei’s lower body. Possibly around her waist, as to prevent rope burn injuries from giving the trick away.

After that, they tied the unused end of the longer rope around Arei’s neck, and moved to the spinny thing. Using the grippy strap they got from the gym (maybe), they grabbed one of the handlebars and spun the spinny thing so that the rope was pulled in and around its handlebars. This also had the effect of pulling Arei up towards the ceiling.

Once Arei was high enough, the killer quickly spun the carousel the opposite way, then abruptly stopped it just a few moments later. This caused Arei to free fall shortly, before suddenly stopping. The force of that stopping broke both Arei’s neck and the handles of the water jugs. Arei died here, if she hadn’t already asphyxiated beforehand.

All that was left for the killer to do was cleanup. Retrieve the longer rope and hide it under the spinny thing; set up Arei’s body to look vaguely like a suicide; empty the water jugs on the ground; throw them away, alongside the duct tape and the note. The killer’s trick had also left marks on the carousel, which they decided to cover up with duct tape. Finally, the killer reconvened with everyone at around 8 AM for the motive announcement.

And with that, all questions are answered. Well, except for:

What the fuck

Like, why would the killer do this? It’s so unnecessary cruel, when they could have just hung her. I was honestly worried, as I thought about the method, that the killer would end up being Veronika, just because it’s so fucked I genuinely can’t see anyone else doing this. But Veronika doesn’t have a motive to do this: she’s talked about wanting to enjoy the trials for as long as possible, and it’s been set up if she murders, it would be of boredom. Doing that before a motive announcement which would make things interesting doesn’t fit her at all. Or maybe I’m coping.

The answer to the question of why the killer chose this method is only part of a larger question, though. So, knowing the method, how does that change the final question?

Who did it?

EDIT: DISCLAIMER: The following part of this blog is outdated. Go here to read a revised version of the method, with a different culprit. It's a reblog of thebadjoe's reblog of this post, as they pointed out a lot of flaws in my original theory (adult content warning for Arei's corpse). I'm leaving the rest of my original post up, but just know I now believe the killer to be Eden, with an accomplice.

Let me start by saying that I can’t definitively say anything about anyone, even knowing the murder method. However, this *does* paint some of the theories in a different light.

Smaller theories

I’ve seen a few people suggest everyone from Charles to J or even Arturo. A lot of these theories are decent, but some rely too much on certain assumptions which may or may not be disproven if this method is accurate.

Charles is ruled out. The murder required moving the corpse around postmortem, and while there wasn’t any blood around, Charles’ necrophobia would make it impossible for him.

A theory I saw was that J may have used her remote to open secret trapdoors and move around rooms, taking advantage of the placement of the playground in relation to the Movie Screening Room. However, while that theory is interesting, the murder is perfectly possible without these trapdoors, so the main argument kinda goes out the window. Although I guess it’s possible her remote could be used to make the carousel go spin, but that’s kinda ridiculous if you ask me.

Arturo was ruled out from the beginning because the handwriting in the note is too pretty to be a doctor’s. That’s a joke, and Arturo would actually be quite capable of the crime. In fact, he’s sort of become my second most likely culprit, even if he was accused early in the trial.

Hu / David manipulation, in shambles

A popular theory states that the killer was manipulated by David to do the deed. The most common victim of this manipulation theory seems to be Hu Jing. However, in my opinion, the sheer brutality of the method pretty much rules this out. David may be a good enough manipulator to get somehow to kill Arei, but I really doubt he’d be able to convince them to do… all this.

Especially since he has no reason to order the specific method, which would imply it was born from the killer’s own mind. So, even if David actually told them to kill Arei, they decided to use this insanely elaborate method all on their own. And, listen, I don’t care how you feel about Hu, she wouldn’t do this.

Is it still possible? Sure, I guess. Does it look a lot weaker under this method? Absolutely.

The surprisingly strong Whit/Eden allegations

I didn’t make this theory considering these two the killer, I really didn’t. I still don’t think they are. And yet, they are the only ones who could benefit from this method. How? The BDA.

You see that loophole, right? I noticed the moment I saw the rule. The way it’s written seems to imply the BDA only plays when three ‘spotless’ see the body, ruling them out as the murderer. Except, that’s not how it’s worded. It doesn’t say ‘three non-murderers’, it says ‘three people who didn’t witness the murder’.

So, pray tell, what happens if the culprit has their back to the victim when they die? Simple; they didn’t witness the murder, so their eyes count for the BDA.

How does this help? Well, imagine if Teruko had been the one to kill Arei. By making a contraption where she can be sure Arei dies instantly upon something happening (in this case, abruptly stopping the spin of the carousel), she can make sure her back is turned the moment Arei dies. Of course, the moment she turns around, the count for the BDA goes up to one, but it doesn’t trigger, since you need three.

Then, when Teruko ‘discovers’ the body alongside Eden and Whit, the BDA plays; one person (Teruko) had already ‘discovered the body’, so Eden and Whit seeing it would increase the BDA count by two. That makes three, BDA plays.

And yet, during the trial, if the murder method hasn’t been found out, Teruko could claim she isn’t the murderer because of the trickily worded BDA rule.

Now, we obviously know Teruko didn’t do it, but Eden and especially Whit are common theories. This could be used as evidence, except…

There’s a pretty obvious problem there. It’s not them, but Teruko who asks to team up in a group of three for the BDA, and it’s also her who suggests going to the second floor. Then, the playground is the last place they check, and Whit even questions Teruko when she suggests going there (the infamous ‘hanging out there’ line).

I wouldn’t rule out Teruko’s bad luck making her pick the absolute worst possible partner possible, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that neither Eden nor Whit were proactive in the search method, which goes against this potential ‘BDA alibi’ plan.

As for the rest of the theories, I don’t quite believe them. Yes, Whit definitely has more issues than he lets on, but he has no motive to do this (remember; he asked an entire group of people to reveal his secret if they had it, so the only reason his secret lasted until the trial was Rose throwing it away). Eden even less so.

And in the end, it really is the motives which points us to what I believe to be the killer.

Yeah, it’s Levi

As does what I believe is most of the fandom by this point, I think Levi is probably the killer.

Many have already theorized about the remaining motives, so I’ll spare you the ordeal and tell you: Just with the information all the characters have access to, it’s possible to narrow down Levi’s secret to ‘murdered someone’, ‘poisoned competition’ and ‘dead family’ (I know the last one’s Xander’s, but the characters don’t really have access to the Bonus Episode).

However, Eden can eliminate the ‘dead family’ one, as Levi has talked about his family with her, and they’re not dead (He also mentioned having brothers in the present tense during the trial, but just in case).

Min’s Bonus Episode makes it likely her secret is the ‘poison competition’ one, though how the characters are gonna figure that one out is beyond me. The point is, Levi’s secret is the ‘murdered someone’ one, the one Arei had. And, listen, in-game logic aside, you don’t just give that secret to the victim of the case and then have it mean nothing for the murder.

Other suspicious behavior has been noted, such as him wanting to start voting time quickly when David did his thing, him quickly checking the motives when they became public (keep in mind, as some characters mentioned, it’s possible the killer thought just killing someone before the motive reveal would be enough to prevent it), etc. Also possible foreshadowing such as Ace claiming Levi could ‘snap [his] neck with his bare hands’ and Levi promising to protect Eden in the trial, which is exactly what Arei did before dying.

However, something I feel people overlook is that not only did Arei get Levi’s secret, but it was also Levi who got Arei’s secret. A secret which, keep in mind, wasn’t public knowledge until the trial, when Levi finally revealed it. Sure, David and Teruko knew, maybe Eden at best, but other than that, only Levi knew of that secret.

And this is where the murder method may come in. I’m still unsure. Because the only reason I can find for this amount of elaborate planning and brutality, beyond the BDA thing which I mentioned likely isn’t important, is the killer having a deep grudge against Arei.

Levi is a guy who cares about his family. Sure, he was disowned, but he claims it was good, because he and his family were ‘bad influences on each other’. He seems like he genuinely wants the best for his brothers, it just so happened that the best thing was going their separate ways.

So, how do you think he feels when he learns that Arei, someone who had already insulted and belittled him, calling him a pushover and stuff, did horrible things to her sisters? If he doesn’t have the full picture, it’s not impossible to see how that may make him angry at her, especially with his already established anger issues.

Not to mention, keep in mind the setup for the crime was done one night after the Nico - Ace incident, one which ends with Levi grumbling ‘why do I even bother?’ as he locks himself in his room. This could imply a complete loss of faith in the group in general, which could lead to him deciding to kill.

Of course, that theory has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Levi’s outbursts of anger don’t really last long enough for it to explain such a long and elaborate murder scheme. Not to mention, if he really did react negatively to the motive, he’d have done it the moment he received it, not several days later. He has murdered without remorse before, if his secret is to be believed, but until we get the specifics, we can’t know for sure how okay he’d be doing something like this.

However, the important question Levi as the culprit answers isn’t the ‘why?’, but the ‘how?’.

I’ve sorta glossed over it until now, but it would take quite a bit of strength to stop the spinny thing in the trick. I don’t think Levi’s the only one capable of it, but he’s certainly the most capable, if that makes sense. Not to mention, actually overpowering Arei in the first place wouldn’t exactly be easy. Plus, the ball of clothes being involved implicates him in a meta-sense, as it could technically count as his talent being involved in the murder.

The problem, of course, is that I have no definitive evidence. His custom weapon, brass knuckles, wasn’t involved at all, and there’s no way to place him at any of the important scenes. No one has an alibi for nighttime, no one has an alibi for 7:30 AM, and pretty much no one has an alibi for the Eden - Arturo - Arei incident (afternoon of the day of Nico’s attempted murder, when for now we only know Hu, David, Nico and Teruko where talking in the Relaxation Room. Though of course, the exact time is impossible to know).

I suspect he’s going to be suspected for the motive and the strength thing, and either someone will come up with something incriminating, or he’ll make a slip-up a la Mondo. I have no idea.

So… what did we learn?

Kinda nothing. As you can see, the murder method doesn’t really point to a killer in any definitive way, so we’re just back where we started, basically. But hey! It was fun! I guess.

Now, back to crying over the hiatus. See you!

#danganronpa despair time #drdt #fanganronpa #arei nageishi #drdt chapter 2 #drdt theory #levi fontana #whit young #eden tobisa #this took way too long #i need therapy #veronika grebenshchikova #arturo giles

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livesincerely · 3 months

Note

i was just reading back through your writer’s desks and remembered how much i loved the slideshow au! no pressure but do you have anymore thoughts on it? it’s just one of my faves <3

The outline/notes for that one are still in the very early stages but I’m happy to share what I’ve got so far!

00000

He’s waiting for Tony to come back from the bathroom, the next episode of Crime Scene Kitchen queued up on the tv, when his phone vibrates with a text from Jack.

this prod meeting is running long, probs won’t be back until late. Go ahead and watch w/o me

Everything ok?

ya but part of the set got busted during a scene change so I gotta figure when/how to fix it before tomorrow night

I’ll put your takeout in the fridge and save you some egg rolls

and that’s why you’re my favorite

Say hi to Medda for me

of course

“Jack’s not going to be home until late,” Davey announces as Tony wanders back into the living room. “He says we should start without him.”

….

“Dave,” Tony says, sighing deeply. “Why am I looking at a PowerPoint titled, “Jack Kelly + David Jacobs: A Comprehensive Argument for Maintaining Equilibrium.”

Davey pins him with a scathing look. “It’s a Google Slides presentation, you godless heathen.”

“What the fuck?” Tony asks, ignoring him, clicking rapidly through the screens. “When did you even make this?”

Davey shifts in his seat. “I mean, it’s more of a living document, so it’s never really finished—“

“Davey.”

“A couple years ago, I guess,” Davey says. “Give or take.”

Tony squints at the computer screen. “It’s saved on your old university account.”

“Okay, or maybe it was three months into junior year!” Davey admits, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was a stressful semester and I was super nervous about failing my animal science midterm and Jack was out on a date with that PoliSci major that lived upstairs and— And the when isn’t the point! The point is, according to my research, telling Jack isn’t worth the risk of ruining our friendship.”

“What are these graphs even measuring?” Tony asks, staring at one of the slides. “‘Overall Happiness, Jacobs v Others’?”

….

“Well, your math is absolute shit, for one thing,” Tony says, frowning at a graph entitled ‘Art Pieces per Subject’. Davey’s name is sitting in dead last. “There’s no way these numbers are right. Jack draws you literally all of the time.”

Davey frowns right back at him. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Uh, yeah he fucking does,” Tony disagrees. “You’re, like, one of his favorite things to make art of, period. He spends about half his time bitching about how copic doesn’t make a marker that matches your eyes—at this point I’m pretty sure he’s got more drawings of you than actual pictures.”

“I think I would’ve noticed if Jack suddenly started drawing me,” Davey scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not like he’s subtle when something’s caught his eye. Plus, he lets me flip through his sketchbooks whenever he finishes filling one and I’m almost never in them.”

“Which one?” Tony asks.

Davey blinks. “Which one, what?”

“Which one,” Tony repeats, oddly intent. “Which sketchbook does he show you?”

“What do you mean, which one?” Davey asks, irritated. “The only one! The one he always— it’s not like it’s some big secret!”

Tony stares. Then Tony sighs.

Very quietly, Davey hears him mutter, “…pair of fucking morons.”

…..

“Okay, but, riddle me this,” Tony says. “Why don’t you just tell him? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“What’s the worst that could— I literally just went over all the reasons why that’s a horrible idea!” Davey exclaims. “It would ruin everything!”

“I really don’t think it would, Dave,” Tony says. “You and Jack… will ya at least think about it?”

“I’ve done nothing but think about it,” Davey says, and to his horror, he can feel his eyes starting to sting. “I can’t.”

“Want me to do it?” Tony offers, and he says it like a joke but Davey knows him too well to think that he’s anything but absolutely serious.

He jolts forward, arms outstretched as if to preemptively cram the words back down his throat. “Don’t you fucking dare, Tones, I am so fucking serious—“

“Okay, okay!” Tony says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I won’t snitch on your neurotic ass, even if it’d make you happier in the long run. My word as my bond or whatever.”

Davey huffs out a laugh, and it’s only a little teary. “Fuck you, my neurotic ass is the reason you made it to graduation, shithead.”

…..

“Hey, can I borrow your laptop?” Jack asks. “Mine’s dead and I left my charger at the theater.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Davey absently responds.

…..

“Davey,” Jack says, voice straining. “What the hell is this?”

“What is what?” Davey asks.

“This.” He turns the laptop around and— oh shit. It’s The Argument.

He feels his blood run cold. “Oh,” he says. “That.”

“Dave,” Jack says, his mouth set in a hard, thin line. “Did you make a fucking PowerPoint about me? About us?”

Davey swallows. “…It’s actually a Google Slides presentation,” he says weakly.

…..

“You’re telling me this is nothing?” Jack demands, incredulous. He tilts the screen back to show Davey the current slide, which is just an enlarged photo of Jack’s handsome, smiling face, surrounded by a halo of red arrows and the caption, ‘JUST LOOK AT HIM,’ written in boldfaced text. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“Maybe we can stop looking at it now,” Davey says, loudly. He leans over the back of the couch, making another panicked grab for his laptop, but Jack dodges out of the way, clicking to the next slide.

#*ask #newsies #javid #*editor's note #*the writing desk #bits & bobs #the google slides fic #this is the roughest of rough drafts but I hope it was legible and made some kind of sense?#hope you enjoy!!!#☺️

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heavyhitterheaux · 1 year

Text

Play (Based on the song by David Banner, NSFW 18+)

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

AN: Imma head out to take a bath in holy water lmao enjoy my heauxs!

Synopsis: You can't be with Jack for his entire tour and since this is the first time that this has happened, you come up with a bright idea that will hopefully hold him over. That idea involves a camera and your best friend Urban.

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader, Urban Wyatt x Best Friend!Reader

Requested by: a lot of my beautiful readers 😘💖

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU ARE NOT 18+

There was about a week to go until Jack's Creme De La Creme tour was kicking off and you couldn't have been more excited for your husband. However, he had been in his feelings ever since you had told him that you wouldn’t be on tour with him for the entire time. Majority of it, yes, but still in his feelings nonetheless. Your heart broke at the sight of his solemn expression when you told him that there were a few dates that you would have to miss.

"Baby, it's only a few shows." You said while trying to reassure him, but he wasn't having any of it.

"A few shows my ass."

"Smush!"

"What!? You’re basically divorcing me."

"Jackman! That's a little dramatic don't you think? It is literally less than five shows."

"Not the point. You know I want you near me at all times."

"I know my baby. However, I trust Urby will keep you in check…. Actually I take that back. I don't trust either of you alone. The two of you are always doing something."

"Neelam is our chaperone."

"Mm hmm. I trust her about 15%."

"I know you remember the look on her face when you almost beat her ass, I doubt that she ever wants to be in that position again. She knows better and you should give her the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm getting there. I can at least take being in the same room as her."

"She's trying baby girl."

"She wouldn't have to if she didn't pull that stupid ass shit."

"Okay anyway. Moving on."

A few minutes had passed and Jack noticed how you were staring at him.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer."

"That's it."

"What's it?"

Jack pulled you onto his lap and you were simply smiling at him.

"What if we make a little video for when I'm not on tour with you?"

Jack then got a startled look on his face and you couldn't do anything but laugh.

"I'm listening."

"Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it."

"Baby, don't tell me that if you aren't about to back it up. You know how your ass likes to run."

"I promise, baby. Whatever.You.Want." You leaned down while whispering in his ear.

"Hmm let's get started!" Jack said while flipping you onto your back so that you were underneath him.

"Wait, babe."

"What am I waiting for!?

“First off, we haven’t set up the camera. Second, I umm kind of have a request. But it’s okay if you say no.”

“What you want to request, baby girl? Choking? Spitting? Spanking? Cream pie? Actually that’s my request but go ahead.”

“Urban.” You quietly said while breaking eye contact with your husband.

“Excuse me? Come again?”

“I want Urban to film it and be in it. But, only if you feel comfortable enough. I get it if you say no.”

All Jack did was get a more confused look on his face trying to take in what you had just told him.

When he was quiet and didn’t say anything, you immediately went into an explanation hoping that it would make sense to him.

“I’ll explain why. The other day when Urban had met up with some girl, he came back and told me all about it and well… I had a thought. That I wanted to have both of you at the same time and whatever he did to her, I want both of you to do to me. And like I said… whatever.you.want. I have multiple holes for a reason. You know that there are very few things that I’m not comfortable with so you and Urby can have at it.”

Jack was quiet for a few seconds taking everything in that you had just told him.

“The thought of having one of you in my mouth while the other is sucking on my clit is doing things to me. So, baby, I need an answer.”

“Yes, on one condition.”

“Anything, baby.”

“I want to watch him fuck you first.”

After you had gotten your confirmation from your husband, you went to find your best friend who was messing with his camera on the couch in the living room. You simply moved everything to the side and sat directly in his lap with him looking at you as if you had lost your mind.

“Uh? Can I help you?”

“Actually you can, bestie.”

“What is it now? I am NOT going with you to buy another vibrator. We were gone for three hours trying to find the perfect one that was up to your standards.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not that, but it is something else along those lines.” You answered while taking a strand of Urban’s hair and twirling it around your finger.

“Y/N, out with it already. What do you need? I can always tell when you want something.”

“I know that you’ll do absolutely anything for me.”

“Within reason and if it’s something that won’t get us killed or arrested.”

“Well this has nothing to do with that.”

“Baby girl, say what you need and stop stalling.”

You took a deep breath before finally answering Urban.

“I want you to fuck me. Senselessly if we’re being honest.”

Urban’s eyes went as big as saucers as he was looking at you. He promptly slid you off of his lap and immediately jumped up in disbelief.

“Uh! One little issue or should I say big issue! You’re married to my best friend! Or did you suddenly forget? My best friend who is UPSTAIRS as we speak!”

“I know.”

“YOU KNOW?!?! THEN WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME?! I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING IN THE HARLOW HOUSEHOLD! DO YOU WANT YOUR HUSBAND TO KILL ME!?"

“Urby calm down, I want both of you at the same time until I am a sticky, crying, whining mess that can barely walk.”

“There is no way Jack agreed to this. This has to be some sort of prank you’re pulling on me.”

“But he did.”

“I don’t believe you. As jealous as your husband can get? If someone looks at you for too long he's ready to kill them.”

“Hmm, fine. Ask him yourself. BABY! COME HERE!”

Jack came down the steps and into the living room to where the both of you were and saw the look of disbelief on Urban’s face.

“He give you an answer yet? I just have to get a few things and it’s a go.”

“AN ANSWER FOR WHAT?!”

“Since baby girl won’t be on tour with us the entire time she came up with the idea. She wants you to film it so it’s something I can take with me.” Jack answered as he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around you.

“I-.....”

“And she wants you in it.”

“Oh. She really wasn’t playing.” You simply shook your head no while looking at him.

“Ehh I don’t know. The last thing I need is you kicking my ass. And we know how jealous and territorial you get over your wife. I’m getting flashbacks to when we were 17. I just knew you were about to kill me then and all I was doing was admiring her outfit.”

“I agreed to it so it’s 100% fine. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She said anything we want is fair game. Within limits of course.”

Urban was quiet for a few minutes weighing his options.

“Come on Urby. Just imagine me a sticky, crying, whining mess underneath of you.” You said while brushing a hand through his curly hair.

“If I say yes, I have one request or maybe two.”

“Anything. Nothing is off limits for my two favorite people in the world.”

“Jack might not like to be deep-throated, but I do.”

“Consider it done. What else?”

“I’ll save that one as a surprise.”

“Oh, and I should tell you…” Jack started to say while looking at Urban.

“What?”

“She agreed to have you fuck her first while I watch.”

—

“Urban, you look nervous.” You said as you were watching him set up his camera.

“I’m not.” He proceeded to say while peeking over at you and you couldn’t help but to stifle a laugh.

“You sure about that?” Jack asked observing the exact same thing.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think that there’s ever been a time when I’ve seen you nervous because you definitely are. So you can stop with the bullshit. Besides, it’s your best friends and you have nothing to be nervous about.”

“Oh, I know I don’t have anything to be nervous about. You’re the one who should be nervous.”

“Oooh Mr. Wyatt talks a good game. I would love to be able to see you back it up.”

“I’ve never disappointed you in anything else have I?”

“Well, no.”

“And you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Hurry up and start recording.”

“Is there something else important you have to do?”

“No.”

“Then stop rushing me so I can make sure that everything is right.”

You then looked over at your husband who had a small smirk on his face.

“What is your ass smiling about now?”

“I have another request and I want for you to do this first as soon as Urb gets everything set up.”

“Hmm, I’m listening.”

“First I need you in that purple lingerie set that I bought you. Then I want you to touch yourself and use your vibrator before either of us touch you.”

“I love the way you think.”

—-

As promised, once Urban had everything set up it was a done deal. You were in one of Jack's favorite lingerie sets like he had asked and was now in the center of the bed, vibrator in hand with the camera facing you.

"Damn, baby, I can see how wet you are from all the way over here. Who got you that wet?" Jack said while admiring the scene in front of him.

"Only the two of you."

"And make sure you spread those fucking legs. I want to be able to see that pretty pussy."

You did as you were told and began to trace small circles along your clit imagining that it was Jack or Urban doing it.

Both of them were dead silent with their eyes on you wanting to take in the sight of your body being displayed for them.

As soon as you entered your pink vibratory inside of you, you could have swore that you heard a small moan slip out from in between Urban's lips.

"Spread your legs wider mamas. Don't get shy on us now. You wanted me to record this so I expect for you to do as you're told. You said anything that we want right?" Urban inquired as you increased your movements and let out a soft moan.

"Don't you start that shit. Answer him." Jack piped up.

"Yessss, fuckkkk."

"Good girl."

You then removed your vibrator to the side and quickly inserted two of your fingers into you and started to slowly move them in and out knowing that the both of them were bricked up by now.

You felt how close you were to reaching your peak and soon inserted another finger and increased your pace.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

"I guess this is what you're up to when I'm not around to give you this dick."

You ignored Jack since the only thing that you were focusing on was giving yourself an orgasm in front of your husband and best friend just like he had asked.

It only took three more thrusts of your vibrator when you felt warm liquid spilling from you and running down your legs.

"Baby girl, don't tell me we have to change the sheets already."

"We can keep them a little while longer." You said after a few minutes before throwing your vibrator to the side.

You then made eye contact with Urban and intensely held it as you undid your bra in the back of you.

You made sure to throw it at him and it landed right at his feet.

"Are you going to stand there or fuck me like you promised?" You finally asked as Urban slowly took off his clothes in front of you.

He then slowly climbed on top of you and was simply admiring the gorgeous body in front of him.

“Damn, who knew that this pussy would be so pretty?” Urban asked as he was making tiny circles along your clit making you shudder. As requested, Jack was sitting in the far corner of the bedroom watching the two of you.

Who knew that he would be so turned on by seeing his best friend fuck his wife.

“And you’re already so wet and I haven’t even touched you yet. Jack wasn't lying every single time he says how gorgeous your body is."

“And I’m going to need for you to hurry the fuck up. And he had better said that about me.”

“Patience, baby girl, patience. Keep having that attitude and me and Jack will edge you the entire night.”

You looked up at Urban in disbelief and your mouth opened and closed several times before you answered him.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but we would baby. Be a good girl and do what we say.” You heard your husband reply and all you could do was roll your eyes. You didn’t think either one of them caught it, but that thought quickly went out the window once you heard Urban.

“You got one more time to roll your eyes at me before I fuck that attitude out of you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Urban suddenly stopped his movements on your clit before sliding into you without warning making you gasp.

He let you get adjusted to his size before slowly going in and out of you, making you moan out his name.

“Oh, shiiiiit, Urban.”

“Damn, you’re tight as hell. Spread those legs for me and act like you want this dick.”

You did as you were told and soon reached up to bring him closer to you if that was possible.

Urban then reached down to take one of your breasts in his mouth and he was lightly sucking as he continued to pound in and sped up his pace.

“Fuckkkkk.”

“Tell me how it feels, baby girl.”

“So good, so fucking good.” You said in between breaths as you hugged Urban closer to your chest.

“You gonna be a good girl tonight and do exactly what we say?”

You nodded your head yes not trusting your mouth to communicate for you because of the amount of pleasure that you were in.

“I asked you a question, mamas. Answer me or I’ll stop right now.”

“Yessss! I’ll do anything you say, just don’t stopppp.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything Urban. Damn it, you heard me the first time I said it. Oooohhh fuck!”

“Then get on your knees.”

Urban slid out of you and waited for you to do what he had told you.

“Look at me.” Urban said while lifting your chin with his finger.

“Can you do something for me, pretty girl?”

“Depends on what it is.” You answered and all Urban did was smirk while Jack looked as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on you.

“Open your mouth and my dick better not leave it until my cum is sliding down your throat. Do you understand?”

You simply nodded, but Urban wasn’t taking that as an answer.

“Baby! What did I tell you? Use.Your.Words.” You heard Jack exclaim from the other side of the room.

“The answer is yes and are you about to put your dick in my mouth or not?”

“Here you go with that attitude again.” Urban said as you took him into your mouth all the way until he hit the back of your throat.

You admit since Jack didn’t like to be deep-throated that it might be a challenge for you seeing how big he was. However, you had said anything that they wanted you to do that you would do it and you definitely weren’t about to back down now.

“That’s it, baby girl. Damn you’re doing such a good job. I’ll make sure to award you for this later.”

So, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Confirmed.

It had only been not even three minutes when you had to take a break and Urban looked down at you in disbelief.

“Nuh uh, what did I tell you? Who said you could stop?”

“I’m definitely punishing you for that later.”

You didn’t even bother responding to either of them and once again went back to the task at hand.

At this point in time, there were literal tears rolling down your cheeks and at this point Urban had put your hair into a makeshift ponytail and pulled you even closer to him which made it seem like he was close.

“Fuckkkkk!”

You felt warm liquid hit the back of your throat and Urban titled your head back to look down at you.

“You better fucking swallow it too.”

You did as you were told and soon saw your husband out of the corner of your eye get up and start to make his way over to you.

“You already know what position I want you in and you have five seconds to get there.”

“And if I don’t?” You curiously asked while still on your knees looking up at your husband as Urban had now moved to take his place on the couch where he had been sitting.

Jack then placed his left hand around your throat and lightly squeezed and you knew if it had been a puddle in between your legs before that it was now a waterfall.

“You usually never get this fucking smart with me so I’m surprised. I guess because Urban is watching but you need to cut that shit out now.”

“And…. if.I.don’t?” You once again asked and you could now tell Jack was about to fuck you into oblivion.

What he didn’t know is that you would always do this on purpose.

Jack let out a light chuckle before picking you up and throwing you onto the bed but not before making one of his favorite requests.

“Open your mouth.” You followed directions and was soon met with Jack spitting in your mouth and making you swallow it.

“Spread your fucking legs.” He told you as he stroked himself a few times and you could see the precum dripping out of it.

You spread them as far as your body would allow before Jack slowly slid into you bottoming out.

“Oooohhh shiiiiiit.”

“Got damn you’re so tight and feel so fucking good. Still not used to it after all this time.”

“Hurry up and make me cum.”

“I’m going to be doing a lot more than that, but if you keep that attitude up, I won’t let you cum for the rest of the night and you know that you can hold me to it because I just did that shit to you last week.”

You had gotten flashbacks of your husband edging you for more than three hours and definitely did not want to got through that again.

So you decided to stay quiet.

This time.

You had now pulled Jack closer to you as he was mercilessly pounding into you making you scream his name at the top of your lungs.

“Jackkkkkk!! Fuckkkk!”

Jack suddenly stopped his movements and looked down at you and you were confused.

“Is that what you’re supposed to call me when I’m in you?”

“No.”

“Then fix that shit and what are you supposed to call me?”

“Daddy.”

“Don’t mess up again. You understand?”

Jack then continued his movements in and out of you when you had wrapped your left leg around him.

He increased his pace as you were trying to grab a hold of anything to help anchor you.

“Mrs. Harlow better stop running away from me. Take this dick.”

“Shiiiiiit, I’m close.”

“I know. Cum for me baby, cum all over daddy’s dick.”

With only two more thrusts you did as you were told Jack and made himself comfortable in between your legs and took one long lick making you shudder.

“Ehh. I can’t.”

“You can and you will. Come here.” Jack replied as he slowly started sucking on your clit and he grabbed both of your thighs to keep you in place. You had barely recovered from his making you cum the first time and it was safe to say that the corner of your eyes were now watering because of how much pleasure that you were in.

“Come on baby, let me at that pussy. You can take it. Keep your legs spread.”

“AHHHHH fuckkkkk.” Your hands immediately went into Jack’s curls and you were tugging on them to pull him even closer.

“Same person who said they couldn’t take it, but now look.”

Jack then inserted two fingers into you and then lapped at your folds at the same time.

Your breathing became heavier and that’s how Jack knew that he was about to make you cum for the second time.

“I know you’re almost there, baby. I can tell.”

Not even thirty seconds later, a rush of liquid made its way onto your husband’s face.

“Got damn, Y/N, I had no idea you were a squirter.”

“You never asked, Urby.” You responded while looking over at him.

Jack then flipped you over so that he was underneath you and you were on top of him and Urban was now behind you.

“Your jaw isn’t tired yet, right baby?”

You simply shook your head no as you leaned down to take him in your mouth.

As you were moving Jack in and out of your mouth you felt Urban take one long lick over your folds and you immediately shuddered not having recovered from Jack doing the same thing to you less than five minutes ago.

“Come on mamas, don’t run now.” Urban said as he continued working along your folds.

Trying to concentrate on both of them had proved to be difficult in the beginning, but then you had gotten into a comfortable rhythm.

You then felt Urban move higher and you immediately let out a gasp.

“Stay fucking still. Don’t you dare move.” Urban continued his movements as you felt as if you just had the wind knocked out of you.

You would have probably made Jack cum by now, but you were distracted by the amount of pleasure that Urban was giving you.

“Fuckkkk, Urban. Shit!”

“Move again and I’ll fucking stop.”

“You heard him mamas, act accordingly like I said.”

You made it up in your mind to get Jack back for that and would have him begging you to let him cum.

It had been a few minutes before you felt Urban slowly enter you from behind and immediately started pounding into you.

“Fuckkkkkk, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“I didn’t plan on it.”

"Do you want us to cum all over your face pretty girl?" Urban asked you and you eagerly nodded.

As promised you were a sticky, crying, whining mess who was begging for mercy.

You had lost track of how many times the both of them had made you reach ecstasy, but you knew that it had to be close to double digits.

No.

Scratch that.

It was definitely double digits.

"Speak up, pretty girl. Tell us exactly what you want. You've been such a good girl for us." Jack said while bringing your chin up to look at him.

"I want all of it running down my face until I can't see straight."

"As you wish." Jack answered you as he sloppily kissed you and pushed you down to your knees.

Not even a minute later your face and chest was covered with both Jack and Urban’s cum and you proceeded to place some on your fingers and then bring them to your mouth to suck on.

“Such a good girl for us.”

“And make sure you get all of it.”

Once you finally finished, Jack helped you to your feet and he leaned down to kiss you.

“That should be enough for you to last on tour, right?” You asked while looking up at him.

“Hmm, it should be but we’re nowhere near done with you.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Rest up, baby girl. I hope you didn’t forget about us punishing you.” Urban said while looking over at you and you suddenly looked at him with wide eyes.

“Fine. Then I have a request too.”

“Anything mamas.”

“Whose face am I sitting on first?”

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