#I want her to do my botox

[hyunsvngs]

𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚! - stepdad!bang chan x fem!reader

wc: 10.2k

cw: chan is your mother's boyfriend and you want to fuck him, chan is 30 and reader is described to be younger & in college, lix is a menace, changbin is a moral compass, you do not care about morals, SMUT MDNI.

synopsis: you're home for the holidays, and your mother - who you can't stand - has a new, young, hot boyfriend. it's such a good idea trying to seduce him.. right?

a/n: it's so here <3 my first commission! i hope u all love it <3 smut warnings under the cut ofc. i also tried a new format with this fic so pls let me know what u think?!?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

sw: dirty talk, breeding kink, mutual masturbation, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampies, degradation, cumplay if u squint?, humiliation if u squint?, anal fingering (f rec), oral (f rec), edging maybe briefly, sex with feelings

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You hated going home for the holidays.

You were a rich kid, to put it simply. Your mother loved to leech off the men that she was with, marrying them quickly and trying to suck as much money as she could out of them in gifts and straight up cash before they eventually clued on and left her. It had been why your father had left when you were a mere infant, but you’d always lived in luxury due to the incessant payments that he was forced to give. You’d never met him, but there was a plus side - he was paying your college tuition, where you met your best friends.

Perhaps if you thought about it a bit more you’d realise that the only reason you went to college was to get away from your mother. She pissed you off, sauntering around the house in silk kimonos with a maid trailing behind her, pausing to look in mirrors so that she could choose where her next round of botox would hit. She frustrated you beyond belief, but you still had to go home for Christmas. Annoyingly early, too, because she had a surprise for you.

Okay, well, it wasn’t a surprise. She’d FaceTimed you a week earlier, an irritatingly wrinkle-free face popping up on the screen as she sipped mulled wine and revelled in your absence. She had a new boyfriend, she said. You’d love him, she said. Your opinion matters most to me, she said. The last one you knew to be a lie. God, you hated her. 

Still, you lugged your suitcase through the front door and huffed, booting the side with your foot to try and shake some of the snow off. No surprise, she hadn’t helped you in from your taxi. She hadn’t even come to get you from the airport a mere twenty minute drive away. You dropped the suitcase on the floor, giving it another kick just for good measure, and then you were trudging into the kitchen. You’d heard voices from there, so it had to be them.

“Oh, honey!” Your mother chirped upon seeing you. You couldn’t see the face of the man washing dishes behind her, his white shirt sleeves rolled up and back facing you. You didn’t care anyway. “You made it home safe, then.”

“Yeah. The taxi driver was super nice and let me call him mum,” You quipped. She furrowed her eyebrows, lips pursed. 

“Okay, you’re being weird already,” She mumbled, and then shook her head, shrugging it off. She walked to the man by the sink, spinning him around by his slender waist to display him to you. “This is Chan!”

You felt silly, stood in the kitchen doorway in oversized clothes and covered in ivory snow. The man’s eyes found you, shocked by your mother’s harsh manoeuvring, and he blinked with surprise at your figure. You blinked with surprise, too.

Chan was hot. Incredibly so, actually, and he looked young. Younger than your mother, with a big nose you wanted to ride and plush lips parting as he raised one hand to wave at you, still wet with soapy dishwasher. You wanted to lick him clean. The white shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were fit to burst around incredibly toned biceps. You allowed your gaze to wander down, eyes focusing on the thick thighs in the black dress trousers he wore. 

There was no way this was real. “Okay,” You burst out laughing, eyes darting between Chan and your mother. “And, who is Chan? A friend? A colleague? He’s not your boyfriend.”

Chan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, I am. I’m your mother’s boyfriend, sweetheart.”

His voice was deep - too deep, deep enough to haunt your dreams and those late night sessions you had in your bed with your trusty vibrator. This was going to be trouble. You were going to be trouble.

“You’re shitting me,” You couldn’t get the amused smile off of your face. No fucking way. Your mother hadn’t bagged that. “You’re fucking with me. You have to be. Mum, he’s closer to my age than he is to yours.”

“I’m thirty, actually,” He mumbled, looking sheepish. Your mother stared at you in shock, jaw dropped at your brazenness. 

“I rest my case,” You concluded, nodding decisively. When the two of them just continued to stare, you bristled slightly, starting to hop from one foot to the other. Awkward. “You… are you actually together?”

“Yes, honey,” Your mother confirmed, still looking shocked. You scoffed.

“Okay, I really need to go, actually,” You gushed, turning around to leave the kitchen. “I’m- I’m going to my room. Really nice to meet you, Chan, really.” 

Shooting upstairs, you completely ignored your suitcase still leaking snow all over the hardwood floors and darted into your bedroom. It still looked exactly how you’d left it, band posters all over the walls and teddies littering the end of your bed. You threw yourself on top of the mattress, fingers yanking your phone out of your pocket and clicking the button on the most recent group call on FaceTime. Immediately, your college best friends picked up.

“There’s already a problem?” Felix scrunched his nose up, face way too close to the camera. Changbin was on the other side, face looking confused in the little square designated to him on your phone screen.

“I just met my mother’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, right, how did that go?” Changbin questioned, tilting his head to the side. You caught sight of your face in your own little square, flushed and appalled.

“He is thirty years of age, Changbin,” You began. Felix gasped, tiny hand moving to cover his mouth. “He is thirty years of age, and he is really fucking hot.”

“Oh my god,” Felix mumbled, muffled behind his hand. “Oh my god, you have to fuck him.”

Changbin choked on air. “She has to- No, Felix, no!”

“No, I can’t do that. It would be fucked up,” You mused. Or.. “Wait, would it even be that fucked up? He is closer to my age. I hate my mother.”

Felix’s hand fell, and he giggled before speaking in his trademark goblin voice - “Fuck him.”

“Don’t!” Changbin shrieked, his phone shaking in his hand. “I really think this is a bad idea.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Felix grinned, looking smug. “I’d do it.”

“There’s not a lot you wouldn’t do,” Changbin retorted. Felix stuck his tongue out at him. You, however, were silent, musing on the situation and staring at your wall. Could you do it? Changbin noticed, sighing. “Baby, please no.”

You licked your lips, nodding. You could do it. You wanted to do it - needed it, even. Those biceps were going to plague your life forever otherwise. “Operation fuck my mother’s boyfriend is a go.”

Felix screamed in delight. Changbin ended the call.

SATURDAY

It was time. Your mother was out at brunch with some friends, and you had plans to invade Chan’s personal space because you had a feeling he’d be too polite to tell you otherwise. You knew he’d set up the spare room as his own home studio, because your mother had delighted in telling you how Chan was a super successful music producer and was often tinkering away in there these days. You were going to let yourself in, try to get to know him a bit.

The knock you landed on the door was anything but subtle. Your fist rapped on the door and you heard a little hum in response, so you swung open the door, eyes landing on Chan hunched over his desk. He looked even younger like this, beanie pulled down over dark curls and headphones positioned on his head. He continued to stare at the file on his computer, head bobbing absentmindedly, so you strode up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around on his computer chair, blinking confusedly at you. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” You beamed. “Sorry about last night. I was rude. I was feeling kinda weird, y’know, with the travelling.”

“No, I completely get it,” Chan put his hands up as if to diffuse the atmosphere. You nodded, still smiling. Chan stared at you when you didn’t respond instantly, and you crossed your hands behind your back, pressing against the plaid pattern of the dress you’d chosen for today. It was all part of the plan - the tight, short dress was perfect for seduction. He looked down at your chest, before clearing his throat, reverting his gaze to your eyes. “Um… did you need something, by the way?”

You gasped, as if remembering. “Oh, yeah! I did. My mother told me you were a music producer, and I was really curious. I was wondering if you’d show me some stuff…?”

It was Chan’s turn to smile, nodding excitedly. “Of course. Here, put these on.”

He linked two fingers around his headphones and handed them to you, to which you obediently put them over your ears. He was quieter now, but you could still slightly hear him mumbling as he found a spare chair for you to sit on. Your eyes scanned the files, eventually fixating on a file titled Drive. That one had to be dirty.

“Okay, so. I have this one, it’s my most recent one, and-”

“I want to listen to that one,” You cut him off, pointing at the song. When you turned to look at him, he was biting his lip nervously, pink tinting the ends of his ears and his cheeks. “What is it, Chan?”

“You- that one is a little, uh… heh. A little inappropriate.”

Unsurprisingly, you darted over his desk to grab the computer mouse and double click on the file. Chan squealed, but you ignored him, listening to the song. You were right. It was dirty, the two singers crooning about something that was a thinly-veiled innuendo about driving. It took you a second and then you clicked. One of them was Chan. This was Chan singing, on a song about sex. God, could he get any hotter?

You slid one of the ear cups off of your ear, turning to Chan with a shit eating grin. “This is you singing? You’re really good, Chan.” You weren’t lying. He was really good, and it had you wondering why he was a producer and not singing.

“Yeah, well, it was just an experimental track. Me and my mate were just messing around,” Chan mumbled shyly, hand scratching the back of his neck. You tried to avoid staring at the way his biceps tensed in his tight t-shirt at the movement. He was still blushing, but you had to kick it up a notch.

“It is kinda inappropriate, though, isn’t it?” You chirped excitedly. Chan’s lips parted, as if he was looking for something to say. His eyes stared into your own, piercing and dark and all-consuming. “I think you’re a little dirty, Channie.”

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed at your use of the nickname. “That’s- you can’t say that. That’s inappropriate.”

“What?” You feigned shock-horror. Play dumb. “I can’t call you Channie? Why not?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Chan groaned, pointing an accusing finger at you. You giggled anyway, jumping up and slipping the headphones back onto his head. You made sure to trail your fingertips down his neck after doing so. He shivered noticeably. You smiled.

“That was super good, Channie, thank you.”

You didn’t miss his groan of disbelief as you bounded out of the room. You had him, and it was easier than you’d expected it to be.

SUNDAY

Something was happening. You weren’t sure what, just yet, but something was happening. Chan was acting a little weird after what happened the day before, and you’d already caught Felix and Changbin up on the nonsense plan you had. 

“I think you need to accept that this is just down to you having a fat crush on him and severe daddy issues,” Changbin mused, and you gasped. He was right though. This wasn’t completely about getting back at your mother in a sick, twisted way. You wanted him.

Phase two of your plan was underway as soon as you caught sight of him on the sofa. He was watching some cheesy Christmas movie, your mother tinkering away in the kitchen - when had she ever cooked? - so it was prime seducing time. He had one of the thick throw blankets over his lap, fingers playing with the fluffy fabric absentmindedly. You hopped into the living room in your short pyjamas, frowning at Chan when you felt the goosebumps on your legs.

“Whatcha watching?” You asked, making him jump when he realised your presence. He smiled nonetheless, motioning to the seat next to him, and you took it. You perched and ensured that you left no room between you both.

“Some cheesy film. The woman’s marrying a prince, I think.”

“Sounds awful. I can’t wait to watch it,” You smiled, and Chan chuckled, relaxing on the sofa. You managed to make it five whole minutes before you were rubbing your hands up your legs, trying to create a semblance of warmth. 

Chan turned to you, frowning. “Are you cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” You whined, pulling your legs up into your chest. “‘S cold in here, right?”

“C’mere,” He mumbled, reaching for the end of the blanket and throwing it over your lap. You hummed contentedly, inching a little closer under the guise of the cold weather. The blanket was warm. You were kind of jealous he’d been in such comfort this whole time while you’d been thinking of ways to get his cock inside your mouth. 

“Thanks, Channie,” Chan only nodded, continuing to watch the film. You had a feeling he was pretending to be so focused on it, given you weren’t sure he even knew the plot before your arrival. 

You squirmed on your seat, thrashing each way until you found yourself comfortable, hand splayed over Chan’s knee. He tensed under your touch. 

“You’re touching me, sweetheart,” He warned, his voice low and deep. You shivered, turning to him.

“Am I?”

“You are. You’re touching my leg underneath the blanket, aren’t you?”

You hummed. “Is that okay, Chan?”

Chan turned to you, his eyes not even holding any sign of shock. He knew what game you were playing, you realised, and maybe he was playing along. He licked his lips, head back against the sofa, and then he shrugged dismissively. 

“It doesn’t bother me.”

You left your hand there for the whole film. 

MONDAY

The showers at home were something you’d missed. The ones in college didn’t quite cut it - not even now that you lived with Changbin and Felix in your own student home. All three of you were young adults, after all, and that came with you being a little too messy.

At home, you didn’t have to worry about mess. Your mother had cleaners employed with your dad’s money anyway. Admittedly, you realised you were being a little spoiled, so you’d learned to clean up after yourself. The showers were still better, though. Bigger, and the water pressure hit you just right. 

Especially when you detached the shower head and pressed it to your clit. You felt pathetic. You’d only tried to seduce Chan for two fucking days, and there you were, legs shaking at the thought of him. Maybe it was the chase that got you feeling hot, or maybe it was the fact that you might actually be getting somewhere - you might actually be getting close to fucking him, muscles bulging as he ploughed into you. 

It had you pressing the shower head harder, your spare hand coming up to pinch your nipple. You whined, bucking your hips into the water stream. The steam was all over the bathroom by now, staining the shower with condensation and making your skin feel pruned and flushed. Or did you feel flushed from the thoughts of Chan? Maybe he’d fuck you the way you liked. He must have experience, you assumed, being a few years older than you. You thought about how he’d make you feel, how he’d touch you, and how you’d feel in his arms. You thought about how you’d feel when you came, and what it would be like to be with him. You wanted to feel him so badly.

Was he as big down there as he was everywhere else? Sure, he’s not too tall, but he’s every part a man. That much was clear. Would he bend you in half, pushing you into a mating press and fuck you raw the way you liked, cumming inside and letting you call him daddy and-

You wailed, legs trembling with one last buckle before you were cumming. You felt wet, too wet even just from the shower, and you belatedly realised you’d have to wash again. Ugh. This plan needed to end, like… yesterday. 

Coming out of the shower freshly washed, you wrapped a towel around your figure and checked the time on your phone. Your thumb slipped around the screen from the condensation in the bathroom, but the plan was going well. If you left the bathroom now, then hopefully Chan would be heading to bed, and he’d catch you in your towel. Ideally, he’d be so hot for you that he’d just have to have you, and then you could get the thoughts of him out of your head.

You burst out of the room in a flurry of steam and movement, almost tripping over your own feet when you noticed that it had actually fucking worked. Chan stood stock still at the other end of the hallway, his eyes fixated on the way the towel wrapped tightly around your chest, at risk of falling. You smiled, waving innocently, and he stalked towards you. He was seeing red. You could tell from the way he cornered you, crowding around you with the small advantage he had on your height.

“You need to stop this,” He mumbled, eyes looking at your mother’s bedroom door. He was playing a dangerous game. You were, too, and you both knew it. “I’m dating your mother. You need to stop this, sweetheart.”

“Stop what?” You tilted your head, acting confused. “I just had a shower.”

Chan scoffed, shaking his head. “I fucking heard you in there.”

Oh. You couldn’t hide your smirk that time. “Yeah, I missed that shower head. Why were you perving on me, Chan?”

Chan rubbed his temples. He wasn’t wearing a beanie today, only a hoodie and baggy joggers. You liked it. You could see his hair like this, dark and curly and frizzy on his head. He looked cute. Wait, what?

He took a deep breath. His eyes moved to fixate on you, tongue running over his teeth. “Why would I be perving on you?”

“Oh, don’t lie,” You crossed your arms over your chest. Chan’s eyes moved down to stare at where your tits bulged over the towel. “I bet you stood there for ages, cock hard in your cute joggers, listening to me moan in the shower. That’s a little fucked up, no? Thinking about your girlfriend’s daughter like that-”

You were cut off by him pushing you to the wall, lips slamming into yours. He bit into your mouth instantly, letting out a deep groan and hands moving to grab your ass through the towel. You let your lips part in a whimper, pushing your tongue into his mouth and running your hands through his hair. It was a filthy exchange of tongue and teeth, and by the end of it, you were gasping, grabbing him by the waist and trying to pull him closer. You pulled away, breathing heavily and your eyes still locked on each other. You both stood there, not speaking, as you both processed what you had just done. You both knew it was wrong, but you wanted it so bad.

Chan stepped back, breathing out a heavy sigh. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You watched in shock as he turned around, walking into your mother’s bedroom and leaving you there. You were wet again. This was getting ridiculous now. 

In your room, Felix screamed so loud you had to turn the volume down on your phone. Changbin choked on air again. 

TUESDAY

You hadn’t seen Chan all day. You presumed he was in his studio, working away on another track while your mother was in work. You were bored. Felix had been spending time with his family, and Changbin was out doing rich kid things that you could sympathise with. Thrashing around on your bed, annoyed and huffing, you decided you were just going to go and annoy Chan. It was your newly favourite pastime to get under his skin.

Stalking down the stairs to his studio, you paused when you heard a voice. Not just one voice, two voices. Was your mother there? No, no way. She never goes into that room, it’s his work room. You’d been in there though. You tried to suppress a grin at that realisation. 

The other voice was a man’s. Chan had a call on speakerphone, judging by the tinny effect covering the unknown male’s voice and Chan humming every so often. Who was the other man? A colleague, or just a friend?

“It’s fucking ridiculous, mate,” Chan groaned. You could barely hear him, and you held your breath, coming closer to the closed door. “I want her so bad, and it’s so wrong. I- I kissed her last night, Minho.”

There were a few yells from the other end of the phone. “You kissed her?! Chan, you fucking animal. You want her so bad, just fuck her. She’s clearly hoping that’s the outcome here.”

You grinned. You were.

“She’s- it’s outrageous. She walks around in practically nothing, and she’s got such a tight fucking body, man. She makes my dick so fucking hard, I’ve never felt anything like it before. Even when I met her, in the kitchen, she was-”

Chan cut himself off with a sigh. ‘Minho’ hummed, waiting for him to continue.

“She’s so bratty. She’s exactly the type of girl I would’ve gone for, before I met her mother.”

“Seriously?” Minho questioned, and Chan agreed. “You have to do it.”

“Minho-”

“No, Chan. I’m serious,” Minho’s voice was firm. “If she’s fucking you up this bad, you can’t have liked her mother that much, yeah? Just do it. You know it’s going to happen anyway.”

“It’s-” Chan began. You could imagine him rubbing his temples in distress behind the door. “She’s younger than me. I don’t want her to feel as though I’m taking advantage, y’know? The ball’s in her court.”

The ball has always been in your court.

“It sounds like she wants you to take advantage, to be honest,” Minho erupted in a fit of giggles, and you found yourself almost laughing along. Minho was annoyingly right. You only hoped he could get rid of that stick up Chan’s ass and get you a good dicking down.

It meant it was time for the next phase of your plan. You assumed Chan had wanted you, embarrassingly so, but you weren’t quite sure until he’d kissed you the day before. After hearing this conversation? Well, you had to do it.

You returned to your room, scribbling a quick note on a piece of paper. If Chan found this, which he would, it meant that he’d come to your room tomorrow night and you could maybe talk about what the fuck was going on. The sexual tension was too much for you, and now you knew he felt the same. Why were you beating around the bush? You had to make something out of this.

You ignored the stuttering of breath you heard when you slid the note under his door, and returned back to your room with a cocky grin.

WEDNESDAY

Chan hadn’t mentioned the note. You didn’t think he would, but you felt disappointed nonetheless. You’d woken up in the morning, eaten breakfast with him and your mother - cringing when he kissed her on the cheek when she left for work - and you’d even done the dishes yourself, letting him slip off to do some work in the studio. It was prime time for him to mention what you’d written, and he hadn’t. It was pissing you off.

Still, good things come to those who wait. You were confident. Felix had been egging you on all day over text, Changbin had been sending random upset emojis. It was perfect. 

Settling on your sheets at night, you felt a little pathetic. You’d lit a few candles, left the curtains just right on the window so that the moonlight billowed in, and Chan hadn’t arrived. Maybe he hadn’t received your note. No, there was no way - you practically heard his response through the door when he saw it slid under. He got the note. Perhaps you’d made him uncomfortable, made him withdraw from you despite all the progress you’d made. Why had you put in so much effort? You didn’t like him, not like that. Or did you? You felt ridiculous, almost like a child waiting for-

A knock on the door brought you out of your self-loathing thoughts, and you jumped up, swinging the bedroom door open. Chan immediately crowded inside of your bedroom, pressing the door shut softly. You stood there in silence, taking him in. He looked cosy, in a baggy hoodie and plaid pyjama bottoms. It was hard to believe he was dating your mother, especially when he looked so vulnerable like this - dark, curly hair still slightly wet from his shower, and his eyes blown wide with an unreadable emotion while he looked at you.

Chan sighed. “You’re really playing with fire. Do you know how this could look, me coming into your room at night? Do you know how wrong this is?”

You faltered. For the first time since meeting Chan, you felt as though he was angry at you. “I- I heard you on the phone, Channie. I thought you wanted me too.”

You watched in awe as Chan crossed your bedroom, groaning and throwing himself onto the bed. He was hard, erect in his bottoms. You blinked confusedly. He was hard just from being in here?

“I do want you,” Chan said, but it was muffled, hidden behind his hands that he had placed over his face in distress. He let them fall to his sides, staring up at the ceiling. “I want you so bad that it’s pissing me off beyond belief. I know what you’ve been doing too, trying to seduce me. It’s so pathetic it makes me feel hot, y’know?”

You giggled, following his journey across the room and settling next to him on the bed. You sat cross legged, comfortable in your long pyjamas. The candlelight flickered, casting a glow over his face, and he turned to look at you. He licked his lips, and then he let out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“This is ridiculous-”

“It’s ridiculous that you haven’t fucked me yet,” You responded, quick as a flash. Chan leaned up on his forearms, raising an eyebrow at you. Now was the time. You had to say it. “You know how bad I want you. I touched you up on the sofa, and you let me. You wanted me to, I think. Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but-”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, and you’re not wrong,” Chan admitted. You could see the blush on his cheeks despite the dimly lit room.  He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want you, too.” 

Chan shot across the bed, leaning in and kissing you deeply, his hands tangling in your hair. It made you wet beyond belief that he just felt like he knew what he was doing, hands travelling down to your waist to softly press you into the sheets. His tongue swept into your mouth, pressing against yours and you whimpered, making him groan into the kiss. When his hands went up to your hair, he intertwined his fingers in the strands and pulled, making you gasp and let out a heady, hot breath. He pulled away, lips parted when he stared at you. 

“You are such a horny little thing, it’s so hot,” He mumbled, lips pressing to your neck. He bit your skin sharply, making you keen and spread your legs, allowing him to position his hips between your thighs. The movement pressed his bulge into your core, and you tried not to shift and move your hips in a rhythm of pleasure. His fingers traced over your skin, and he chuckled, a low, sexy sound that made your heart race. He pulled back, leaning back on his legs and staring at you, eyes blown wide with lust. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

You paused. “What?”

“I want to know what you like. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow night. How’s that sound?” He was propositioning you, teasing you, and you were falling for it - hook, line and sinker. 

You gave him a nod. Right. Touching yourself for him - that was something you could do. This was just another Wednesday for you, you loved putting on a show, especially for a man who was rock hard and obviously desperate for you. But with Chan… why did you feel so fucking nervous all of a sudden? You'd spent your whole day waiting to fuck him, and he’d taken back the power, thrown a wrench into your plans.

You leaned back on your bed. How did you sit sexily? You were stuck in your own head.

Chan moved backwards, hand moving over his clothed erection. He’d spread his legs, thick thighs parted for you to see the promising bulge between them. "Pretend I'm not even here, sweetheart," he said, eyes blown wide with lust. You almost rolled your eyes. Easier said than done, when he was sitting there with his dark curls and his thick, kissable lips and his impossibly huge bulge. “Touch yourself like you’ve done before. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow, I promise.”

Fuck it. You'd never let an attractive man break you down yet, and that wasn't going to change. You nodded timidly, hands moving to grip your breasts through your shirt. It made you sigh, and Chan responded with a noise of his own when you impatiently rucked the fabric up to above your chest. Sucking two fingers into your mouth, you whined when you traced the wet digits around your pebbled peak teasingly. 

“Ah, ‘s- I’m sensitive there, Channie,” You mumbled, and he nodded as if he was making a note for it for later. You trailed your fingertips across your nipples, pinching and twisting them almost painfully just to make your hips cant up into thin air. You were too impatient to do this how you normally would, so you scratched your fingernails down your tummy and shoved a hand in your pyjama bottoms. You were met with slick, wet folds, fingers sliding around in the mess you made. 

“Show me,” Chan said, eyes trained on where your hand disappeared beneath the fabric. “Show me that pussy. You’re meant to be showing me everything, remember?”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” You huffed, and Chan shook his head in disbelief, grinning. You were shocked to see he actually listened, though, pushing his joggers down to his thighs and letting his erection spring out. It was impossibly hard, pearlescent drops accumulating on his cockhead and you licked your lips subconsciously. “I wanna-”

“No,” Chan cut you off, hand moving to wrap around his cock in a tight fist. He was long, thick and heavy between his thighs and you felt your pussy clench sadly around nothing. “Show me your pussy. I’m not asking again, let me take a look at it.”

You whined, pushing your pyjama bottoms down to reveal your slick core. Your clit was swollen, throbbing with need just from a few kisses and Chan’s general presence, and you could feel a rivulet of wetness sliding down between your lips. Chan groaned in approval, hand quickening on his cock just slightly.

“Spread it, show me your hole,” Chan said, and you moved your thighs further apart for him. Reaching down with two fingers, you moved them into a v-shape and spread your folds for him. Your hole quivered under the inspection, leaking more wetness and Chan’s eyes were hyper fixated on it. “Oh, baby. That looks tight. Has no one ever fucked that little pussy right, huh? Tell me.”

“N-No,” You shook your head, thighs quivering when you finally let two fingers rub over your clit. You started with a blistering pace immediately, making your toes curl into the sheets and your back arch upwards. “No, I- it’s only boys from college, I don’t-”

“Ah, I see. You need someone older, yeah? More experienced?” Chan questioned, his breath coming out heavy with every tightly fisted movement on his cock. You whined, nodding, and then you were breaching your hole with two fingers immediately. The stretch made you groan, head falling back against the pillow. “Is that why you tried to seduce me, yeah? Wanted to have my cock stretching you out just right, wanted to call me daddy while I made you cry?”

God, he’d got it. He was right on the mark. “Yes, y-yes, I- I wanted to, oh, I wanted to call you daddy, and- and feel you inside me, and oh, Channie, please-” You cut yourself off with a moan, perhaps too loud as you curled your fingertips up against your g-spot. Chan threw his head back, letting out a grunt as he pinched his cockhead almost painfully. 

“Say it then, baby. What’s stopping you?” He polished the head of his cock, moaning before he took it into his tight grip again. His precum served as lubrication, his hand now making wet slick sounds on his thick length. You gasped when he moved his free hand to his balls, rubbing calloused fingertips over them and letting out his own gasp. “Beg me for my cock. I know you want it, look at you. Fuckin’ desperate, yeah? Beg daddy for his big cock.”

“Oh, daddy,” You whined, moving your free hand to rub over your clit. Everything was so wet, sliding around your pussy and you were honestly surprised you could feel anything - but it felt so fucking good, having him watch you like this, learning what you liked so he could replicate it. “Fuckin’- daddy, daddy, please, can I have it? Been good, doin’ what you asked, I- hnnng, daddy, oh my god-”

“No,” He smiled, a cocky grin while he rubbed one hand over his cock and the other over his heavy balls. “No, baby. Not tonight. Make yourself cum tonight, and daddy will help you tomorrow.”

“I- need more, need more, I-'' Chan surged over the bed, leaning over your figure to press his lips against yours. His tongue dominated your mouth again, and you could feel his closed fist hitting your stomach as he worked himself to his orgasm. The sensation had you whining against his plush lips, fingers thrusting quicker into your pussy and your other hand sliding around your clit messily. When he pulled away, lips digging into your bottom lip teasingly, his lips were quick to move to your neck to suck some dark purple marks into the skin. You felt yourself trembling, your body tense as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Your fingers stroked your walls faster, pussy fluttering around your digits in delight, and your mouth opened in a gasp as you felt your body tense and tremble with pleasure. “I’m g’na- g’na cum, gonna cum, please, can I? Can I, daddy? Can I cum for you, please?”

“Yeah, baby,” He huffed, eyes rolling back into his head. He was practically drooling onto your skin, lips parted against your neck as you whined and thrashed on your bedsheets. “Cum for me. Been good for daddy, haven’t you? You can cum, baby, c’mon. Show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

You fell apart around your own fingers, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Your thighs tensed with your orgasm, your pussy clenching down impossibly tighter around your hand and flooding down to your knuckles with your cum. You begged and pleaded, your voice a barely audible babble as your body shook with the sensation. 

Finally, when you’d just felt like you were coming down, Chan pulled your wrist away from your pussy. The movement left you empty, your walls still clenching down except now it was around nothing, and you whined, bottom lip quivering in need. 

“Hands off,” He sighed, hand slowing down on his cock. He was trying to last longer for something - you weren’t sure what, but you let your other hand drop from your clit obediently. “Daddy’s gonna cum on this wet little hole, baby, okay? You gonna let me cum here, mark you as mine?”

“Yes,” You moaned, nodding. You couldn’t think of anything better, actually. “‘M yours, I’m yours, daddy, gimme.”

“Dirty thing, perfect little girl,” He grunted, and then he was positioning his cockhead at your hole. With a few more movements, increasing in speed, you watched as his face screwed up in pleasure. His hips bucked, and with a final thrust, he came. You felt his cum drip down your hole as he groaned through his orgasm, thick white cum plastering your pussy. It was definitely the sexiest thing you’d experienced, but you still felt a little disappointed - why couldn’t he have just done it inside you?

“Wan’it,” You whined, pulling your legs back. Chan chuckled upon seeing the pout on your lips. “Why couldn’t you- in me, wanted it in me, daddy.” 

“Greedy bitch,” He mused, and then he was delving down to your core. Your mind went blank when his tongue licked fat stripes up your folds, collecting all of his cum and your wetness in his mouth. You briefly thought you could cum from this, very quickly judging by the way he knew what he was doing, but he simply leaned over you and grabbed your jaw. 

Oh. You let your lips part, tongue lolling out of your mouth obediently, and he spat the mixture of your cum into your mouth. You felt him lick into your mouth again, groaning at the taste of your pussy and his load. He smiled against your lips and pulled away, your eyes wide as you tried to process what had just happened. 

Chan’s lips curved in satisfaction at your state, your chest still heaving with a blotchy rash that bore the truth of what you’d been up to. He ran his thumb over your bottom lip, and then he was standing up and leaving the room, bottoms barely pulled over his hips. You laid there, feeling an intense mix of pleasure and confusion.

What the fuck just happened?

THURSDAY

You hadn’t even processed what had happened last night. In all honesty, you’d run out of the house in the morning under the premise of a coffee date with friends you didn’t even have. You just sat in the cafe on call with Changbin and Felix and screamed way too loudly for a public area. The whole cafe knew of your predicament by the end of it.

Upon your return home, you’d beelined to your room and kicked the door shut as quietly as you could. Unfortunately, your foot slipped on the floor and you’d ended up face down with a groan.

Turning over onto your back, you huffed at the offending item that had caused your decline to the ground. A piece of paper met your eyes, neatly folded and written on with what looked like black Sharpie when you’d finally unravelled it.

Three words. Three words that changed your life and let you know that what occurred the night before had really happened. No, not ‘I love you’ - it was simple, a scrawled ‘your room, tonight’. It did happen. You touched yourself in front of Chan, and he was planning on coming back to your room to continue what you’d discussed.

You wanted to squeal and kick your feet, but beneath it all, you felt panicked. This plan had gone too far, and you’d perhaps started to think about spending time with your mother’s boyfriend - actual time, not just sexually charged meetings. It hurt a little bit, a pang in your chest when you remembered that what was happening really was just sexual. Your little arrangement being anything else just wasn’t fathomable.

Chan was interesting. He was a fucking music producer, for god’s sake. That was just straight up cool. That, and he was older than you - you did have raging daddy issues like your friends had said, after all. His friend had sounded funny on the phone, which meant he had to be funny, too. 

All things serious, you didn’t really know much about him, but you wanted to know. Felix had encouraged you to find out, and you felt like you owed it to him - or yourself, you weren’t sure. 

The knock on your door once the evening fell brought you out of your reverie. Chan didn’t wait for a response, swinging your bedroom door open and walking straight in as if he owned the house. You huffed at his demeanour, yet your eyes were still fixated on the way he walked over to your bed with intent. You threw your phone to the side. Felix would have to wait for your half-typed text message. 

“Back again so soon?” You quipped, and he raised an eyebrow. He was only in grey joggers, the thin material highlighting his thick dick imprint between his legs. The fabric hung low, showing off the body that you knew he worked so hard for. His chest was honey toned, yet covered in light, sparse freckles - you wanted to make yourself acquainted with every single one. You felt a little overdressed in just an oversized t-shirt and shorts.

Seeing the frustrated expression on your face, Chan’s own face fell. “Do you not want me here?” He said, voice no more than a whisper. “I can go, if you don’t want to see me tonight. I just thought-”

“I do,” You nodded, finally raising yourself from your position lying down to sitting up cross legged. Chan laid on the bed in front of you, one arm propping his head up. He gazed at you for a few moments, and you could see the relief in his eyes at your words. “I do want to see you tonight. I want to see you like… a lot. Don’t you think it’s weird though? I’m your girlfriend’s daughter, Chan, and we’ve kissed and- and done other stuff, and-”

He scooted over so that he was next to you, and you leaned into him subconsciously. He pulled you in with his arm around your shoulders, broad and muscled. You felt content, comfortable and most of all safe. It was a feeling you’d never felt before.

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Chan hummed, his chest vibrating beneath where you’d landed when he pulled you in. He chuckled, then, his hand moving to your hair comfortingly. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird. I’m just very interested in you. I know you heard me on the phone to Minho, and yes, you are my type - I want to know more about you. Like, even beneath the sexually charged tension, heh.”

Oh. You licked your lips, eyes fixated on a random spot in your wall. “You do?”

He nodded. “I do.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You raised your head, surging over Chan’s body to press a kiss to his lips. His hair was soft when you ran your hands through it, despite random curls getting caught in your nails and causing him to groan at the pain flooding through his scalp. His hands went to your waist, licking into your mouth while he effortlessly pulled you on top of him. The show of strength had you whimpering into the kiss, hands moving down to his jaw. It clenched and unclenched while he had full control over your mouth despite you being on top. 

You pulled away with a wet sigh, moving downwards to kiss at his neck. He groaned underneath his breath at the sensation of your lips on his skin. Your bed squeaked awkwardly as you moved down it, too quick for the old springs to handle. It felt naughty, kissing him like this in your childhood room - it felt even dirtier than the night before had, and you hadn’t done anything yet.

“I need you, Chan,” You whispered, nipping at his collarbone. “Need you. Please.” 

He gasped as he felt your tongue trace the outline of his collarbone. He flung one bicep over his dark eyes with a deep sigh, allowing you to kiss and bite all over his skin. He looked like he was trying to control himself. You didn’t want him to.

Your hips started to grind against him, and you placed your palms flat on his chest. Both of Chan’s hands moved back to your hips with a surprised noise, but he didn’t stop you. His dick was hardening in his joggers, and it was providing the best clothed friction to your aching, needy clit below your pyjama shorts. You saw how big it was before, yet the length of it still shocked you when you slid your clothed core up and down the shaft.

“Daddy,” You whined, hips starting to buck frantically. You were sure that you had never felt this needy in your life. “Daddy, daddy, I want you so bad. You turn me on so bad, make me feel so hot, please-”

“Baby,” Chan groaned, his head falling back against your pillows. The soft pink bed sheets juxtaposed completely with what you were doing, and juxtaposed completely with him - Chan, the muscled man with dark hair who wore black and grey clothes constantly. It was as if he was corrupting you, and he was in a sense, being so much older. “Baby, c’mere, come and lay on the bed. Let daddy eat you out, yeah?”

“No,” You shook your head, hips still moving on his erection. Chan’s chest had started to accumulate a thin layer of dewy sweat, slick on his skin and making you want to lick it off. “I want your cock. I don’t wanna wait, I don’t wanna wait, please, just put it in, I’m wet enough, I promise.”

He knew you were babbling, incoherent in your haze of lust, but he still entertained you enough anyway. You spread your legs wider when his hand met your thigh, and then he was pushing two fingers beneath your shorts. He was met with your slick folds, and you gasped at feeling the touch of his fingertips, calloused from years of working with music.

“Oh, fucking hell. Dirty girl, dirty fuckin’ girl,” Chan moaned, his eyes almost rolling back into his head. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ wet, baby. All we did was kiss. Are you that much of a slut for me? Are you that much of a slut for your mother’s boyfriend? That’s filthy.”

“Yes!” You wailed, nodding. You reached down, canting your hips backwards a little bit so you could spread your thighs wider before hooking your fingers in your shorts and pulling them to the side. The movement revealed your pussy, clit swollen at the top of soaking wet folds, covering your drippy hole. “I wan’it so bad, so bad, so bad, please, please. Just push it in, make it hurt, I don’t care-”

Chan shoved the fingers of his spare hand between your parted lips, effectively shutting you up. “Shut up. You’ve got to prove to me you deserve it, baby.”

With those words, he was pushing a finger past your entrance. It breached your hole easily, the digit sliding through your wetness and curving up past your g-spot. Chan shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and shock, and then he was pulling his finger out. With a quick movement, he’d yanked his joggers down and let his cock spring out. The coarse hair was trimmed above his long, thick shaft and you couldn’t help but imagine the type of friction that would give your clit - you couldn’t wait.

“You were right. That slutty pussy is wet enough,” He mused, pulling your hips over his bare cock. Your pyjama shorts were slightly in the way, and you pulled them aside even more, letting your folds leave wetness over his shaft. “Lower yourself on it. Stretch yourself out. Slowly.”

You did as he asked, lowering your body onto his length. You felt the stretch immediately. You moaned, loud and ringing off of your walls. You didn’t give a shit if your mother heard. Fuck, you needed this. You wanted to bounce all over his cock until there was nothing left and your hole could do nothing but remember the tight fit. Trying to sit down quicker, Chan grabbed your hips, stopping you while only half his length was in you.

“You're gonna hurt yourself like that, sweetheart. That hole is so tight around me.”

“Please, daddy,” Your head fell into the nape of his neck. You wriggled yourself in his tight hold, trying to get more of his length in your pussy. He shook his head against you, chuckling.

“You want it? Fine, but don't fucking cry to me when it hurts,” Chan said, letting go of your ass. You realised he'd been holding you up, and within a millisecond you'd slammed down onto him. You wanted to scream, the stretch more than you could take. He laughed again, raising his eyebrows at you mockingly. “Too big?”

"N-No, perfect," You retorted. He moaned, spreading his legs and placing his feet flat on the mattress. More. More. Fucking more. You began to raise on him, expecting to ride that perfect cock, but he started to thrust up into you at an unrelenting place straight away, his balls slapping against your ass. You moaned incoherently, almost babbling, hands digging into his toned biceps. He leaned up to nip at your neck, and then he was pulling your t-shirt off of your body.

“No fucking bra?” Chan laughed in disbelief. His mouth went straight to your nipples, biting and sucking on the hard peaks. You jostled on his lap with his thrusts. You wanted to rub your clit, but you felt like he probably wouldn't let you. “Knew you were fucking filthy, sweetheart. You didn't even care about me going raw, did you? You want my load in that dirty hole. And now I find out these pretty tits were only one layer away from me…”

His voice trailed off. You whined, leaning down to try and kiss him again. He shoved his two fingers back in your mouth, making you suck on them. His bruising sucks caused your nipples to hurt, and you fucking loved it. You knew he was marking you up and you'd just have to deal with it.

You tried to start riding him. He didn't let you, manhandling you off of his cock.

“Daddy!” You whined in protest. Chan chuckled. He lifted you and manhandled you so your back was facing him on your bed, and you immediately repositioned yourself so you were face down, ass up. He reentered you in one swift thrust, causing you to jolt in surprise.

“Fucking tight pussy,” He groaned, thrusting into you with the same vigor as before. You almost screamed, but managed to just moan incoherently. The mattress creaked, the sound of old springs ringing around the room. “Fucking dirty hole. Listen to that, sweetheart. Can you hear how wet your cunt is for daddy's cock? For your mother’s boyfriend’s cock?”

You tried to stop whining and moaning to hear what he was pointing out to you, hearing wet slaps. Your cheeks burned with humiliation, fingernails digging into the mattress. You knew you were dripping for a fact now. You could hear it, you could hear everything, his balls slapping against your clit as well as the wet noise of his heavy cock reentering you. 

You threw your ass back against him, trying to get the tip to hit that special spot inside of you. 

“I think that asshole needs me too, sweetheart,” Chan laughed mirthlessly, his hands resting firmly on your ass, encouraging your bouncing. You moaned in response, clenching your pussy tight. He was going to ruin you for everyone. You'd have to just keep coming back for more. “You want daddy's finger in there? You want me to finger your asshole?”

Oh, yes. “Please, daddy, need to be full,” You said, wiggling your hips against him. You vaguely registered him reaching around you and making you suck on the fingers that had previously been in your mouth. He was going to fill both of your holes, and he moaned loudly at the sight of you sucking his fingers. There was no way that the whole house hadn’t heard you both by now. You hoped they were sleeping.

You sighed in ecstasy, feeling the fingers begin to move inside your ass. His thrusting was now hitting your g-spot in your pussy, given the added pressure from being full in both holes. You felt the orgasm finally begin to build. You liked the way he wasn't rushing you to cum, not like those younger college boys. He was taking care of you and just having good fucking sex. “Feels so fucking good, daddy. Feels so good.”

You were now semi-incoherent, your words all joining together in one long moan. Chan loved it, judging by his moans. His cock was pulsing inside you. You wondered if he was close. You wanted him to fill you up to the point where it was dripping out of you. 

He pulled out of you again, grabbing your leg with one strong hand and flipping you onto your back. You were out of breath from the exertion, despite him doing all the work, and he looked fully composed save for the thin sheen of sweat on his body.

“Feels good, baby?” He asked, looming above you. You squirmed feeling your sweaty back rubbing against the blanket uncomfortably, but you nodded anyway. You wanted to please him. He looked down at your writhing body, letting out another groan. “So fucking sexy. You don’t know how much you fucking killed me, teasing me like that. Touch that pussy for me again, show me.”

He started pumping his shaft quickly, still staring down at you. You reached down with one hand and immediately pressed two fingers against your entrance, collecting the slick gathering outside before diving straight in. You curled your fingers against that spot inside of you, whining out. It wasn't enough. Not after having that fat cock in you. He definitely had ruined you for everyone else, including yourself. Nothing was ever going to feel the same again. 

“Mmm. Looks so wet, sweetheart. Daddy wants a taste, is that okay?” Chan questioned, moving back onto his knees. You pulled your fingers out and tried not to cry at the loss.

“Please, daddy. Wanna cum in your mouth,” You slurred out, pushing his head towards you. He moaned into your pussy, taking his fat tongue and licking one wet stripe up your slit. He pulled your pussy back, exposing that throbbing clit to him, and placed one lick directly onto your button. "Fuck, daddy, feels so good! Suck it, please, suck it. I - please - need to cum so bad!"

“Need to cum, huh, sweetheart? I'll make your little pussy throb for me and then I'm putting my cock right back in that tight hole, where it belongs,” He spoke. He thrust two fingers into your slit, much thicker and longer than yours. You spread your legs, holding them up against your chest. You literally almost purred when he started moving his fingers, curling them up into that spot and sucking on your clit whilst he did so. It wasn't going to take long. The man was clearly amazing at every part of sex. 

You focused on the feeling of his wet tongue rubbing up against your clit and writhed, feeling closer and closer to the edge. He knew what he was fucking doing. Your thighs started to shake, taking everything in you not to just let them go from your hold and clutch around Chan’s head. You wanted him to permanently live between your thighs. Your eyes clenched shut, a deep sigh leaving you. 

“Fuck, I'm g’na cum,” You mumbled out, chest heaving and flushed a shade of crimson. Chan pulled away, causing you to whine. You pouted, reaching up to grab his shoulders. "No, no! You said I could. You said you would help me.”

“What I said was that I'd make it throb for you and then I'm sliding back right in here, sweetheart. Be good for daddy, you'll get to cum,” He positioned his length at your core again, sliding right back into home. You both moaned, and he was fucking you in a mating press this time, almost as if you were a couple in love. You wished you were, and realised this was definitely your favourite position so far. The man fucked like an animal and now he was fucking you like he was going to breed you, and you loved it. He reached down with one hand to rub your clit rapidly, trying to bring you to the edge. “This is my fucking pussy. My favourite fucking pussy, my only girl, the only pussy for me, okay?”

“Fuck!” You cried of overstimulation, hands still wrapped around your legs. “G’na... getting close again, gonna-”

“Cum then, sweetheart, flood my cock. Make a mess for me, come on, do it," Chris encouraged, breathing heavily next to your ear. His eyes were focused on where he was entering you over and over again, taking note of the white ring of slick that had formed around the base of his cock, soaking the hair that rested there. You scrunched your eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed with bliss. “That's it. That's my good girl.”

White hot ecstasy overtook your body. You wanted to squirm, but with the pressure of the muscular man on top of your body, you had nowhere to go. You focused on the feeling of his slick chest rubbing against your sensitive nipples, whining and moaning as the orgasm coursed through your body and made it feel like you were being electrocuted. 

“Fucking clenching on my cock, shit,” Chan groaned, his hand falling away from your clit once your breathing had began to calm slightly. His hands went down to grab your hips, and before you knew it, he was lifting your hips up and fucking you senseless, treating you like a toy. “W-Wanted to be soft with you for our first time, sweetheart. I'm not normally like this, not at all, but this fucking pussy is driving me insane, fuck... I need to fill you up. Will you let daddy fill that pussy with my cum, sweetheart? Let me breed you, make you mine?”

You nodded quickly, unable to speak at this point. Your hole felt raw, sensitive and fucked open, but you needed his cum in you. You thought you might die if you didn't get it soon. His tip jabbed into your g spot incessantly, almost causing you to cum again, but you subconsciously knew you couldn't take another orgasm at the same level as the previous one. You might die. 

“Fucking- g’na breed you, sweetheart. Gonna make you mine. G-Gonna give you a baby, g’na fill you up, fuck!”

With an animalistic growl, Chan’s head dropped to your neck, biting into the skin there and definitely leaving a mark. You felt his hips still and cum flooded out of the tip of his length, flooding your hole with a new sense of wetness. You sighed with content and laid there until Chan’s breathing calmed, his body weight fully on top of you and yet not uncomfortable. 

“I have to be honest about something,” Chan sighed. You looked up at him from your position on his chest, and he looked down at you with an apprehensive look. He looked a lot shyer than he did moments before, when he was fucking you senseless and calling you a slut - he was blushing now, embarrassed. You were sure that’s what you liked about him. “You’re- it’s like you were made for me. I don’t know what the fuck to do, heh. I’m falling for you, I think.”

You blinked, leaning up to rest inches away from his face. Got him. You’d got him. “Well, that’s okay, Chan. You’re closer to my age anyway, right?”

#juno's fics ♡ #bang chan smut #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x reader #chan x reader #chan fanfic #chan fic #chan smut #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz scenarios #skz smut #skz imagines #skz fanfiction #skz fic #skz fanfic #juno's fics: bad idea

[leclsrc]

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

[euno11a]

Tattooed Hearts II

Genre: No one to someone Tattoo artist! Jungkook X Reader

Summary: What happened to us? Why did we end up like this? It was only a one time thing. Now it’s ruined us both.

Warnings: fluff, angst, smut, mentions of hookups, insults, arguing, blood, mentions of period, insecurities

Pt I • Pt III • Pt IV • Pt V• Pt VI • Pt VII • Pt VIII

***

What a jackass! Months of not seeing you, and all he had to say was ‘glad you’re back?!’ Seriously? Watching him walk away so nonchalant made your blood boil, he was a player. What did you expect? He wasn’t gonna drop to his knees and start sobbing! It was dumb if you to even have hopes of him doing that. You glared at the closed office door, hoping he would trip over a stone and scrape his knees. Yes, it was childish, but scraping your knees hurts! You opened your juice, sipping it while cursing Jungkook out in your mind.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun again, “Is the juice good?” V asked with a small smile.

You nodded happily, drinking even more. The question stood in your mind, how did they know it was your favourite drink? You hadn’t told any of them apart from Jungkook…oh my god. OH MY GOD! Was he still thinking about you?! No, there’s no way, all he thinks about is getting his dick wet, he was not thinking about you. It was probably just a mix up with a flavour. V continued with the tattoo, mentioning that you’d have to come back for a second round to do the colouring and final touches. You agreed, wanting to finally have the tattoo finished. Time went by and a woman walked into the parlour, she was wearing a black latex looking skirt with a matching top, fishnets and some funky looking heels. She was his next client? Good god. Listen, you weren’t one for being insecure. You loved your body! It was amazing! But looking at the woman that just walked in, you couldn’t help but compare yourself just a little bit. She had the ‘perfect body,’ almost no body hair, an hour glass shape, perfect face (probably because of Botox), she was the ideal woman. So watching Jungkook step out of his office and lean on the doorway, smirking at her, made me know that it wasn’t just a touch up that was about to happen. I groaned and looked at V, “Am I almost done…?” “Yep! Just gonna wipe it down with an alcohol wipe and tape you up, then you’re free to go.” He smiled politely at you, which you returned. You luckily finished just before the moans echoed through the parlour, the woman from before, moaning and screaming for Jungkook. You made a small face of disgust, walking to the front desk to pay. RM gave you a sympathetic look, setting up the machine so you could pay. The worst part, was that you could hear his grunts. The grunts he used to make when he fucked you, when he touched you, when he ate you out, even when you bent over to pick something up. Now you’re realizing that you weren’t that special to him. You were a quick fuck and drop. After paying, you walked out of the parlour, a sense of rage present in your gut. Who the hell did he think he was? Honestly, he will never find someone to love forever. He'll always be a player. *** “Is that even sanitary?” Lindsay asked as you guys walked to the bar. You’d came home and told her about your adventures at the tattoo parlour. You weren’t sure if she was treating you to drinks because she felt bad for you, or if it was because she needed to wipe away the vivid picture you painted for her of Jungkoon fucking a woman in his office. You shrugged, stopping in front of the bar, pulling the door open. “I don’t think he’d care even if it wasn’t. Such an asshole…” You mumbled, getting seats at the bar top. You ordered your drinks, a gin and tonic and a dirty Shirley, waiting for the bartender to make them, Lindsay nudged you.

“Look at Mr Hottie over there! God, I’d let him bend me over the bar and fuck me.” She said proudly, biting her bottom lip.

You almost choked on your spit, “I’m sorry, wHaT? Lindsay, you can’t just go around saying that!”

She leaned back and smiled at you, “Come on! I haven’t been fucked in a good while, my vibrators not cutting it anymore! I need a real dick.” Turning her head, she smiled at the guy, winking.

“I thought you were here to drink with me, not get fucked by some random guy.” The drinks came and you instantly drank some, you had a feeling this was gonna be a long night. Grabbing her drink, Lindsay smiled at you once again, walking in the direction of the guy. You groaned and leaned your head on your hand, mixing your drink. Maybe it was from the day, but the gin didn’t feel strong enough. After about 30 minutes, you turned to look at your friend, but not to your surprise, she was gone and so was the guy. “Hope you have a nice fuck.” You mumble to yourself. “Thank you, I will.” The voice caught you off guard, making you jump and turn your head. Jesus Howard Christ. Jungkook smirked down at you, leaning on the bar top. “It was nice seeing you again today. Still looking good.” You didn’t reply, don’t speak to the devil, he’ll hurt you. You sipped your drink in silence, trying not to pay attention to the muscular man beside you. “Come on, you could at least say hi.” “You can at least tell me when you decide to cheat.” You shot back, angrily. Damn it, where’s Lindsay when you need her? “Woah, woah, woah, I never cheated.” Jungkook replied, grabbing his scotch on the rocks. “We were never together, so technically I didn’t actually cheat on you.” Was he serious right now? “Oh, sorry, my bad. I was a fuck toy.” Your jaw clenched, hand gripping the glass of gin and tonic tightly. You could see him smirk from the corner of your eye, “You were a good fuck toy. Always let me use your pretty pussy…fuck you so good. Bet you haven’t had good dick since.” “I’ve had plenty of dick, many that've topped yours.” You snarked back, god, where was your buffer? What happened to ignoring him? And what was with all the lies? “Sure you have. Speaking of, where’s that friend of yours? Did she dump you for dick?” He was trying to get a ride out of you….it was working. “No, she escaped before you came. God blessed her today, but I unfortunately haven’t had his graces placed upon me yet.” You could hear him chuckle lowly, his laugh was deep and husky…fuck, it was hot. “Come on, Y/N, we both know you don’t worship god. You like to worship me when you’re on your hands and knees, waiting to be fucked like a good girl.” He whispered in your ear, using that soft but husky voice you liked. Why’d he have to say your name? Why couldn’t he have kept his stupid mouth shut? “That’s in the past. I’m never going to stoop to a level so low ever again.” Grabbing your bag, you placed a $20 bill on the bar top, paying for you and your friend’s drink. You pushed by Jungkook and made your way to the exit. The air outside was refreshing, something you craved after being stuck in there with Jungkook and his sweet smelling cologne. When you were walking away, your name was called, but you knew it was him. You weren’t gonna answer this time. Not now, not ever again.

Taglist: @talyaaas-blog

#bts #bts army #bangtan #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n

[f1goat]

his teammate + lando norris x part eleven

In which you find yourself getting closer to your brothers new teammate who's a dick.

lando norris x fem!verstappen (sister) + cursewords + smut

A couple weeks have passed. Things are good between Lando and you. You’re coming closer by telling Max. Last days you already thought about telling him multiple times. You’ve noticed that Lando is getting a bit impatient as well. According to himself he wants to be able to take you out and be seen with you in public. You tried to tell Lando about what that will do to his - and yours - public images, but he doesn’t care about those things. Something you get. 

Lando: come to my drivers room?

Y/N: you’re impossible

You smile at your phone before looking around. Max is somewhere in an office with Christian. Nobody is paying attention to you right now. If you want to see Lando privately this weekend, this might be one of the few chances you get. Without further thinking about it, you walk towards Lando his drivers room. When you’re standing in front of it you look around yourself a few more times, but it seems like you have it easy today. There’s no one around. You open the door and walk into Lando his drivers room.

“Hey babe,” you say without even looking in front of you. You just turned around to close the door. When you don’t get a response as soon as you normal do, you turn around curiously. 

Lando isn’t in front of you. You already thought so. Normally you can’t take one step into his drivers room without him clinging to you. Then you remember he had the same meeting with Christian as Max. Fuck. There’s someone else standing in front of you. You know you recognize the girl, but you need to think about from where. Then it hits you. It’s Maisie.

“Maisie?” You ask surprised.

“At least he told you my name,” Maisie says bitterly, “You must be his newest toy.”

You notice the weird, almost unnatural tone in her voice. Now that she’s standing in front of you, you take the time to look at her. Last time you barely saw how she looked. Now you take your time while looking at the (fake?) ex girlfriend from Lando. You already noticed before that she’s pretty, but now that you have the time you notice that pretty might be the wrong word. The girl is beautiful in a not natural way. 

Was this Lando his type you wonder. It seems like she isn’t afraid for needles. She has no frowns or signs from a face that lives. You’re pretty sure it’s botox. Not that something like that is bad, but it surprises you on this age. Her hair is dyed, the blonde color is nice but starts to fade already. It’s a bit yellowish now you look at it. 

“Aren’t you going to respond?” She asks you.

“I thought you had more to say,” you tell her, “otherwise you probably wouldn’t get me in here with Lando his phone and insult me in the first seconds I’m here.”

“Hm,” she mutters, “You’re a bit more intelligent then his normal type.”

“Thanks I guess?”

“So I guess you already figured out that Lando is in some meeting and left his phone here,” Maisie continues, “and I thought as it of a chance to finally meet you properly.”

“Why would you want that?” You ask her curious. 

“I want to tell you about Lando,” she says, “because I don’t think he has been honest with you.” 

You think about your possibilities. It seems like this girl wants to damage Lando and not you. You decide to play along with her. You’re pretty sure that she will tell you the same things Lando already told you before. But she doesn’t have to know that.

“What did he tell you about me?” Maisie asks you. 

“Uh almost nothing, just your name,” you lie.

“Pff,” Maisie sighs, “What a treatment for his first girlfriend. Well let me tell you, after this you don’t want to get near him ever again. He’s the absolute worst. Did he ever tell you about his family?” You shake your head to lie again. “They have ditched him because he’s an awful person and he doesn’t even care about that. He never tried to make things right with his family.”

“What happened?” You ask Maisie while you know she’s going to tell you only more lies. 

“He became famous during his first formula one season,” Maisie tells you the truth this time, but is quick to continue lying, “and then he slowly lost all interest in his family. He became a dick. In the mean time I met him and we we’re quick to become a couple. So I know all about his family because I saw it happening myself.”

“Okay,” you mutter. You hope Lando will show up soon and stop this nonsense because it seems like a bad idea to leave Maisie here alone with Lando his phone. Maybe she can do even more damage to him. 

“He was always mean to them, he had nothing nice to say anymore. The things his sisters did weren’t interesting for him anymore. He didn’t care about their lives and thought they should be at every race to support him. When they didn’t show up once because of a birthday, he completely lost it,” Maisie lies to you, “He called them up and told them they were horrible people. He said that he wished them dead. After that he blocked everyone of them. Sometimes they still text me to see if I can change his mind since they miss him so much.”

Some parts of Maisie her story make you nervous. This is the ultimate test for you if you really trust Lando as much as you say. What if Lando haven’t told you certain things and Maisie is telling them you now? You’re quick to shake off the thought. You shouldn’t worry about things like this. Lando is trustworthy. You’re sure of that. Some crazy ex girlfriend of his isn’t going to change that.

“And then he did even worse things to me!” Maisie continues with a raised voice. You notice that she walks around a lot and isn’t looking at you all the time. Should you text Max? He can send Lando. You get your phone out of your pocket and unlock it. Maisie turns herself back to you again. You ignore her looks and start to type something to your brother.

Y/N: tell Lando to get his phone, it keeps ringing and is driving everyone around here crazy

“Who are you texting? Are you really that stupid to text Lando right now while I’m holding his phone?” Maisie asks you.

“Oops, fuck I totally forgot that,” you lie while acting clueless. You put your phone on silence and tuck it back into your pocket. 

“Pff you’re just as stupid as him,” Maisie comments, “but I was saying that he used me. He used me for more fame because at that moment I had more followers then him.”

“He did that?” You ask as fake surprised as you can. 

“Yes! You should have heard him when I confronted him,” Maisie says bitterly, “He was such a dick. So I made it my mission to get my karma.”

When the door opens again you’re glad to see Lando coming in. He’s just like you not looking around himself and didn’t notice Maisie yet. He’s focused on you. “Couldn’t you wait till after my meeting princess?” He asks you with a smirk. Normally you would have loved this, but you have a feeling that Maisie isn’t going to like his question. Lando is already walking closer to you when he finally notices Maisie standing in the room as well. 

“For fucks sake,” he grunts, “what are you doing here Maisie?” 

In the mean time he walks even quicker towards you. Lando stands in front of you, making sure that nothing can happen to you. It surprises you how protective he’s acting without even giving it a second thought. It makes you feel safe. Lando makes you feel safe. That’s something new.

“I’m just informing your girly over here about the shitty things you did to your family and me,” Maisie tells him with a big grin, “So she can see that you’re unworthy of her time. Just like you told me I wasn’t worth your time.”

Maybe this is the moment you truly realize that the girl is crazy. She’s a real crazy ex girlfriend. You wonder how Lando will react. He stays silent at first, but turns himself around to look at you. You try to tell him it’s fine with your eyes, that you still have the same opinion about him. But you’re quick to notice that Lando his earlier smirk has already faded away and made place for a sad expression. Is he actually afraid that you believe Maisie over him? 

“So,” Maisie continues to speak, “Are we ready for the best part? Not gonna lie Lando, it’s more fun now you’re here as well.”

“The best part?” You question surprised.

“I’ll summarize it for you. Lando used me for fame and after that he kept using me for sex, just like a billion other girls,” Maisie says, “and I guess you’re the newest one. Did you already get his speech?”

“Speech?” 

“Yeah, the I’ll change for you speech,” Maisie answers with a smile, “He’ll tell you that he’s really trying to better himself. You’ll never see any changes, since he doesn’t want to change. He just lies to you so you stay with him until he’s done with you.”

Lando is still silent. You’re too. You don’t even look at Maisie anymore, you are focused on Lando. Why isn’t he saying anything? You don’t get it why he doesn’t defend himself. Should you defend him? Even after everything Maisie just said, you still trust Lando. After the conversations you have had with him where he showed you his vulnerability you know you can trust him. 

“So, is this the part where you will break up with him?” Maisie asks you.

“Technically I can’t break up with him,” you state, “We’re not official.”

“Whatever,” Maisie sighs, “I don’t care how you call it. But I want to see how you tell him it’s done.”

Lando turns himself to you. You notice the stressed look on his face. He breaths fast and almost seems panicked. “Please don’t,” Lando almost whispers to you, “I.. I didn’t lie. Not to you. Never.” You grab Lando his hand, you draw figures on his skin with your thumb. “I know I’m not worthy,” Lando continues to ramble, “but I’m really trying.”

“Fuck Lan,” you sigh, “I told you before, you are worthy.”

“Sorry?” Maisie interrupts annoyed. 

“You’re a lair Maisie,” you tell her even more annoyed, “Lando already told me what happened between you two and with his parents. And yeah, I got your so called speech but since I know Lando he keeps changing into a better person. So maybe you just weren’t worth changing for?” 

“You’re lying!” Maisie screams angrily, “He isn’t changing for you. That’s a lie.”

This might be the moment you’re actually getting scared of the girl in front of you. You feel a bit alone. Lando is as quiet as before and doesn’t seem to notice anything that’s happening around him. He seems stuck in his own head. You wonder what he’s thinking of. Maisie is sending you a lot of angry glares which make you even more nervous. You drop Lando his hand, which causes him to look up with an even sadder expression. You take a few steps closer to Maisie.

“He is,” you tell her while walking closer. 

“He is using you for sex,” Maisie sneers. 

“Maybe I’m using him for sex,” you sneer back sarcastically, “I mean he’s pretty great at it.”

“Don’t lie,” Maisie replies, “he doesn’t even want go down on a girl. I ask him every fucking time.”

Her words surprise you. Lando and you are quite active and it happens a lot that he goes down on you. He’s always making sure you’re as much enjoying it as him. You wonder if you’re the first girl he has ever done that for. 

“I’m not lying, but I’m also done with this conversation,” you sigh, “and to be honest, I think it’s time for you to leave. You’ve said everything you wanted to say.”

“I’m not leaving before I convinced you about him,” Maisie replies angrily.

You decide to lie a bit more. Let her think that she made a difference, who cares. If that makes her leave faster you sign for it.

“You gave me a lot of things to think about,” you lie eventually, “but you need to understand that I need time to think about those things.”

You don’t know how but Maisie has finally left. You needed to lie a bit more about having to think about everything she said and how it will influence your ‘thing’ with Lando. When she’s finally out of the drivers room, you’re quick to turn your attention to Lando. Who’s still really quiet. You expected him to say a lot more during the conversation with Maisie. He didn’t even defend himself. He only defended you. When you look at Lando it’s hard to miss his unsure attitude. 

“I’m so sorry Lan,” you tell him with a bit of pity, “Are you okay?” 

“Just say it,” Lando says with a soft voice, “Just tell me it’s done.”

“Sorry?” You ask confused.

“You told her you needed time to think, I know you’re just too nice to dump me in front of Maisie,” Lando mutters, “so please don’t sugarcoat it and just tell me.”

“I’m not dumping you!” You exclaim, “I just said that so she would go away.” 

“You’re not?” Lando asks you confused, “Why would you not? She probably told you even more awful details about me.”

“She told me a lot,” you tell him, “but I already knew a lot if it was a lie, because you told me the truth earlier. She tried to confront me with what you did to her and what happened between you and your parents. She lied about those things. She made everything your fault.”

“Do you think that it’s my fault?” Lando asks.

“I still have the same opinion,” you state.

“Nothing changed after she told you so much?” Lando asks confused.

“I trust you,” you tell him, “not her. And when you’re calmed down, we can talk about what she said and then you can tell me what’s true and what not if you want to.”

“So we’re still together?” Lando asks confused.

“You still need to ask me officially,” you joke, “but nothing has changed between us Lan. I promise.”

“I really don’t know how I deserve you,” Lando mutters.

You press a kiss against Lando his lips. He is quick to pull you on top of him. He slides his tongue into your mouth and together you start to make out. You feel his hands toying with your bra clasp, you use your own hands to play with his hair. When you remove your lips from Lando, you’re glad to see that he’s smirking again. 

“I did come in here to do this you know,” you tell Lando, “it’s too bad it wasn’t you who texted me.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Lando replies smugly. He lets his hands wander through your skirt and is quick to pull it up. He moves himself so that he can face your pussy. He teases you a bit by pressing kisses against your string. 

“She was right about one thing,” Lando mutters. He slides his finger against your clit that’s still hiding behind your string. You let out a soft whimper. “You’re the first one I’m doing this for,” Lando continues to tell you. Surprised you look up.

“But I never asked?” You say surprised, “You ate me out the first time without even mentioning it.”

Lando shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says. His finger is still lingering around your clit. “I never had the need before,” he explains, “but with you I wanted to.” He presses a kiss against your clothed clit. You whimper.

“You’re a natural,” you tell Lando, “I’d never have guessed that it was your first time.”

“You’re just giving compliments so I will stop teasing you,” Lando laughs, “Aren’t you princess?”

“Lando!” A shout disrupts your conversation - and the rest of your activities. You realize that the voice sounds an awful lot to your brother. Lando is quick to change his position, while you put down your skirt. The two of you aren’t fast enough. The door opens. 

Fuck you were right. It’s Max and Lando is still sitting between your legs. Maybe it doesn’t seem sexual anymore, but it’s still way too close to believe it’s friendly. 

“Fucking hell,” Max mutters when he walks into Lando’s drivers room. “I won’t need Pierre anymore,” he continues to sigh. 

i think this story is slowly ending :( don't have much to write about it anymoree. i guess one more part :)

part twelve

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfiction #lando norris imagine #ln4 #formula one #f1 #lando norris imagines

[spiderfreedom]

my suffering is profound and legitimate, yours is frivolous nonsense

Just reading a blogger I like but I had to laugh because she was talking about how beauty practices are bad for women's mental health, and she left a note saying "unlike gender affirming care! gender affirming care improves people's mental health and it's nothing at all like cosmetic practices."

TIL, when an older woman gets botox to remove her wrinkles and avoid facing the inevitability of decline and death, her problem is spiritual/structural and she needs to Do The Work to deprogram her ageism, unlike people with dysphoria, who of course have legitimate claims to cosmetic alteration.

And it is cosmetic - no part of the body that is altered by HRT or SRS or any of the feminization/masculinization surgeries is failing to function or functioning poorly. The problem is with the brain, which perceives the body parts as foreign or undesirable. We may sympathize with someone struggling with such a condition, but that does not change that the body parts being altered were already healthy and the alterations are cosmetic, and the relief being brought about is mental.

But plenty of trans people openly admit that separating body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria is a losing game. Contrapoints's video on "Beauty" (transcript) has the observation that she feels least dysphoric when she is meeting feminine beauty norms:

But I also think that trans people often talk like gender dysphoria is this intrinsic, personal experience that's always 100% valid and never has anything at all to do with the external pressure of beauty standards. But in fact, gender dysphoria is not sealed away in a vacuum away from the influence of societal ideals and norms.  [...] When I try to psychoanalyze myself, I find that my desires to look female, to look feminine, and to look beautiful are not exactly the same, but they're woven together so tightly that it's kind of difficult to untangle them. And the opposite is also true, that for me feeling mannish or dysphoric usually goes along with feeling ugly. I don't have a lot of days where I walk out the house thinking "well, I'm giving femme queen realness, but apart from that I look like absolute shit". 

Max Robinson's book "Detransition," from an FTM perspective, points out how the prospective trans man views his suffering as unique from and distinct from women's, even as the surgeries they seek are not especially different:

The stereotypical cosmetic surgery patient is seeking to become closer to being perfectly feminine - she wants to be beautiful. Transitional cosmetic surgery, on the other hand, is widely understood to mark the patient as ex-female and therefore unfemale; this is part of the meaning FTMs seek to create through surgery. FTM desire for cosmetic surgery is positioned as something totally different than the stereotype of a woman who 'merely' seeks beauty at her frivolous leisure. FTMs are deemed to have a rare affliction that needs urgent, life-saving treatment. Conversely, there is nothing more common than for a woman to become obsessed with her socially-deemed 'unsatisfactory' looks and desperately seek to change them, believing that such a change is the only thing that can restore her quality of life. This comparison will feel like an insult to the FTM. It will feel that way because we believe other women's suffering doesn't matter, and recognize how much ours does. Women's suffering is ordinary but ours is extraordinary. For us to matter, we must be differentiated from the silly little woman who wants to be pretty so badly she'll pay thousands of dollars (now billable to credit cards and loan programs designed to pay for elective surgeries!) to risk her life and health. These women don't need to be fixed; we do. FTMs know that we don't deserve a woman's fate but have not yet realized that no woman does.

I have more to write on the topic of the relationship between gender identity and beauty culture, but I'll end this one here. It makes sense that somebody who is identified with the opposite sex would also be affected by the standards of beauty expected of that sex. (Non-binary identification is more complicated and requires separate treatment.)

#mypost #beauty culture #gender identity ideology #radical feminism #100 notes tag

[queenofcoquette]

anti-aging: the good and the bad

not to be all “we live in a society” but i’ve noticed that on social media at least, there’s horrible discourse about anti-aging, pushed by beauty companies that pressure people into botox, fixating on their apperance. etc. so i want to talk about the good and the bad- agingin healthily vs. being superficial.

anti aging- the good:

good mobility/flexibility. a lot of older people get injuries due to their lack of mobility and flexibility. as we age we naturally lose these skills, but by working out and staying consistent we can ensure that we’re strong even when we’re older.

healthy diet. younger people usually don’t think too much about their diet, since our bodies just kinda take care of themselves most of the time. but for an older person an unhealthy diet can lead to a whole lot of problems, so it’s important to invest in a good diet that keeps you healthy and happy.

healthy lifestyle. staying active now and when we’re older is another way to stay young, mentally and physically. having good hygeine, having hobbies, things like that. take care of your body, not just for the sake of looking good, but for the sake of feeling good.

staying mentally sharp. another factor to anti-aging is constantly learning. keeping an open mind and being fascinated by things. continuing to learn instead of being stuck on the past.

living life to the fullest. life shouldn’t stop when you turn 60 or whatever. my grandma’s sister is one of the strongest people i know. she lost her son and her husband yet even in her late 70s she volunteers, she went to Hawaii. her life is still fun and she’s surrounded by people she loves!

anti aging- the bad:

fixating on wrinkles. having good skincare and sun protection is important for the health of our skin, but fixating on not having wrinkles can be damaging. certain skin conditions can lead to getting wrinkles younger, or just if your skin is drier or oilier. i’m tired of seeing influencers pushing ‘anti wrinkle straws’ or telling people to smile less. its dumb- we’re all gonna get wrinkles.

fixating on a youthful appearance. we only have a bit of control over how “youthful” you look. like if you have a more angular face and dry skin, you’ll look less youthful then someone with a rounder face and oily skin. there’s no way to control that, so who cares?

what we can do:

stop giving in to these toxic ideas. i see so many girls on TikTok freaking out about wrinkles and all those things. i was scared a while ago cuz when i smile i have tiny lines on the corner of my eye- but i realized everyone my age has those! stop engaging in toxic content.

health over beauty. focus on longevity- working out to be strong in the future, eating good to feel good when we’re older. when you prioritize being healthy you’ll automatically look younger. so you’ll look and feel good- it’s a win win!

keep learning. even when we get older we should always prioritize learning new things and broadening our mind. my grandpa is 83 but he’s still open-minded, he’s willing to hear different political points and that keeps him young.

reflecting. age only brings wisdom if you’re willing to learn and reflect. 

remember that life never loses meaning as old as we are. the people who think life stops being fun when you’re 40 are the people who act old. plenty of people can be old and have fun. i saw a 97ish year old guy who goes to the gym everyday, a 93 year old lady on Instagram celebrating pride and going to parties with her friends. life only stops being fun when we close off our minds.

conclusion:

instead of fearing what we’ll look like in 60 years, let’s think about how we can live our best life 60 years from now. anti-aging should be about health, to live life to the fullest when we’re older, instead of worrying about little things that don’t matter. life is kinda short, so we should make the most of it, and ensure that we can always have fun. we shouldn’t spend our whole lives worrying about wrinkles or living in the delusion that life stops being fun with age. living long is a blessing that we should all use to the best of our ability. life only stops being good when you give up.

#self improvement #that girl #that girl 2023 #queenofcoquette

[treason-and-plot]

“Very funny, Dipshit,” says Joël. “I wouldn’t say no to lunch though, as long as you’re paying. Money’s a bit tight at the moment. Is the venue toddler-friendly?”

“I wanted to go to that new seafood restaurant down on the waterfront,” says Roy. “It’s a restaurant for grown-ups, dude. Can’t Neets look after Alice for a few hours?”

“Anita is a little bit under the weather,” says Joël. “She’s probably going to spend most of the day in bed.”

Roy snickers. “Yeah, she was already slurring a bit when I left.“

“You were at the Prosper Room yesterday?” says Joël.

“Yeah, I went there for lunch with my mate Alec and we ran into Neets and Renee as soon as we walked in. Jesus Christ, how much Botox do you reckon Renee’s had? If she ever tried to frown she’d probably fart. Anyway, Alec started buying everyone drinks because he had the hots for the bartender, except I couldn’t stay for long because I had to go to a meeting with Amex. Alec said he put Anita in a taxi around 3 pm. Did she get home okay?”

“Kind of. Saffy’s boyfriend had to pull her out of the hydrangeas. And then she passed out on the bedroom floor-”

“Saffy’s boyfriend? What? Do you mean to tell me Saffy has a boyfriend? First Celine, now Saffy…why the fuck didn’t you tell me Saffy had a boyfriend?”

“I only found out for sure myself yesterday,” says Joël. “What business is it of yours, anyway?”

“I’m her Godfather, dude. Of course it’s my business,” says Roy.

“What the f....you’re not Saffy’s Godfather. Get real.”

“Well, if the position’s open, I think I should be the one to fill it. I’m happy to be Godfather to Alice and Jared, too,” says Roy. “They can call me God for short. I'm totally okay with that. You can call me God too, if you want."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

#Roy #joël #Alice #Back to Bridgeport #5 years later #sims 3 #ts3 #sims 3 story

[notnorwood]

“Wow this is quite the new house! Did you or your wife get new high paying jobs or something?” My friends wife said to me as we walked thru my new massive mansion.

“Well it’s funny you say that Colleen because Anna is actually out by the pool right now working” I told her and my friend Craig.

“Oh is she working from home? I thought she was nurse? Does she now do something online?”

I smiled and said “yea you could say that”.

We walked outside to our large pool to see my wife oiling up her voluptuous body and setting up a camera to take pictures. Craig and Colleen’s mouths dropped as they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

“Oh hi guys! And hey daddy hehe” she said as she pecked me on the cheek with her new plump blowjob lips.

“Anna? Is…is that you?” Colleen said, and was then frustrated to see Craig’s jaw was still dropped and he was rock hard gazing at my new and improved smokeshow wife.

“Absolutely it is Colleen! I’d give you a hug but I’ve covered in oil for my photo shoot hehe” she said as she nonchalantly took her bikini top off to oil up her new massive F cup tits. “I bet you hardly recognize me after my procedures”

“Procedures?!? You look like a blow up sex doll!!” Colleen yelled.

Anna looked at me and started blushing, “well you know how I started doing the aesthetic side of med care? The Botox and lip filler and all that to make some extra money? Well I was seeing these girls come in who were making so much money capitalizing on the work they had done and their bodies and I thought…I could do that! So I did Botox on myself and the lip filler, and then some of the girls contacted me with a great surgeon to get a BBL and boob job! I mean babe you can’t tell me I don’t look sexy as fuck!”

I smiled, smacked Anna’s new bubble butt, and said “and she is using her new perfect body to bring in quite a lot of money, of which we used to buy this mansion, new cars, a vacation home in Florida, and more” as I turned to kiss her.

Colleen couldn’t believe what she was hearing “and what do you do? Just sit back and count her money?”

“Oh no no no he does so much more than that” Anna said as she grabbed my cock over my pants “he manages my money and content, takes care of our investments, and treats me whenever and wherever I want”.

She wiped out my cock and squatted down. “So unless you want to stay and watch us fuck, which I’ll let you see this one for free, I would head out because it gets pretty intense”

Anna started slobbing on my cock and Colleen stormed out. She damn near had to drag Craig out of there.

Anna was now my little sex doll, for me to use however I damn well please.

#amanda nicole

[oneforthemunny]

hi! this is so silly lmao but my birthday is on tuesday the 21st (barf im turning 25) BUT if your requests are open, i was wondering if you could do a little eddie blurb (any one of the eddie’s i love them all sm) dealing with the readers birthday and how she doesn’t want to make a big deal of it (she secretly wants to but shhh) because aging is freaking her out but eddie makes it special and calms her down (this is soooo not self indulgent at all not in the slightest that would be soooo silly and crazy)

so sorry if this request is like so vague i’m just going through it fr! i love your work ive been binging it so much lately. no worries at all if you can’t get to this. okay i’m going to shut up talking now. love u!

happy happy birthday!!!! i've been saving this one for you <3 also 25 is so fun!!! anything but 23 truly. for this... i'm going with mafia!eddie lol. hope you enjoy!!!

"Baby," Eddie hummed, rounding the corner with a telephone note in hand. "Rosie said you got a call to confirm your appointment with Dr. Crothers?" His eyes met yours carefully, bleak, but scanning.

"Are you feeling alright?" He pressed, looking at you through the bathroom mirror. Your rigid posture, how you froze- even for just a moment- when the name was mentioned. Eddie didn't miss it.

"Yeah," You nodded, fingers brushing over your brows, smoothing them into place. "I- It's not that kind of appointment."

Eddie paused, waiting for you to continue. "What kind of appointment it is then?" He pressed, voice even and calm. "You're- You're not-"

"-No." You shook your head quickly. "No, I-I'm not. It's just for botox, Ed." The heat rushed to your cheeks, head ducking down to your chest.

"Botox?"

"Yeah, just a little bit. I-I read that you're supposed to get it early before you start really showing signs of aging, and it will help you not look so old in the future." You were rambling, heart buzzing furiously.

"You don't look old, baby." Eddie shook his head lightly, shoulders dropping.

He knew what this was about. You'd been off since the start of the month- your birth month. A whole month where all Eddie wanted to do- and did do- was spoil you, smother you in affection and drown you with gifts. Instead, you'd been cold, reserved.

"You don't have to do that." Your voice was soft, eyes dropping to the counter. "I'm twenty five-"

"-Exactly." Eddie rolled his eyes, scoffing lightly. "What's the matter? You're still young. Still hot." He muttered, tattooed hands brushing over your jean clad ass, squeezing your right cheek gently.

"Stop." You giggled gently, his lips finding your neck, nose buried in the perfume soaked skin- perfume he'd just bought you- lips sucking playfully at the sensitive skin.

"What's wrong?" Eddie muttered, arms heavy around your waist, an anchor that pulled you into him, steadied you. "Why are you being like this?"

You let your head rest against his shoulder, deflating in his hold. "I just feel weird." You mutter. "Getting older is weird. I still feel like I'm seventeen sometimes."

"Well, I'm glad you're not." Eddie snorted lightly, grinning at you through the mirror, squeezing your sides to make you squeal. "Glad you're twenty five. I hope you always get older with me."

You blushed, head lolling to the side, looking up at him. "You're sweet."

"I mean it." Eddie muttered, nose brushing over yours. "Not everybody gets to get older. A lot of people around me would've given anything to get older, keep having birthdays. It's not a bad thing."

You knew he was talking about his mom, maybe Jacob- his old business partner and friend.

"Besides, on birthdays," Eddie grinned, pulling away gently. "You get gifts."

"You do that all the time." You mumble, letting him pull you out of the bathroom, tugging on your hand, leading you to the stairs.

"Yeah, but not like this." Eddie grinned, that glint of devious excitement in his eyes, leaving you spinning.

He covered your eyes with his hands, a side stepped kind of dance into the sitting room, off of the garage.

"I told you not to get me anything else." You laugh, hands on his wrists to steady yourself while he guided you. "You already got me too much."

"Yeah, you're gonna like this one though, baby. Promise." You could hear Eddie's smug grin through his tone. "Alright, Gare."

There was a shuffling, a grunt of struggle from Gareth, and for a second- you really were clueless what Eddie could have possibly gotten you.

Then you heard it.

The faint whine of excited struggle.

The gasp that tore from your chest had Eddie flinching. You shoved his hands off your eyes, blinking to clear your vision, when you saw Gareth.

Standing in the middle of the room.

Wrangling a squirming, excited puppy in his arms.

"You-You didn't." Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes shining up at Eddie. He stood proudly, smile beaming with joy.

"The shelter in Bedford called last night. Gareth went and got him this morning." Eddie shrugged. "Happy birthday."

You took the excited, squirming puppy from Gareth, a sweet, baby Doberman that looked just like his brothers but with floppy ears that were too big for his size- it made your heart melt.

"Oh, look at you. You are so precious, yes you are." You cooed, nose nuzzling into the soft fur. The puppy whined excitedly, licking at your cheeks, clawing up your shoulder to get closer to you.

"He's so sweet!" You squealed, hugging the puppy closer. "You're so sweet." You look at Eddie, love drunk and starry eyed.

"Anything for you, beautiful. You know that." Eddie muttered, finger hooking under your chin, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. Well, part of a sweet kiss, until the puppy was licking at the both of you. Eddie snarled, wiping his face dramatically, your pouting glare stopping him from snapping.

#oneforthemunny #munnyblurbs #oneforthemunny blurbs #mafia!eddie munson #mafia!eddie munson x reader #mafia!eddie #mafia!au #mafia au #eddie munson au #eddie munson au #eddie x fem!reader #eddie stranger things #eddie my love <3 #eddie x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you

[kscheibles]

e la vita ch. 1

content warnings: f! reader, drug mentions, drinking, emetophobia, bisexuality (homophobes and biphobes begone I will block u so fast)

word count: 3.8k

I didn’t want to be in Italy this summer.

That makes me sound ungrateful or something, but it’s the truth. Three months ago, I had planned to stay in Brooklyn with Claire all summer long. Hosting dinner parties, eating greasy breakfast sandwiches, dancing to old $1 records in our cramped apartment, picnicking in Prospect Park, and being totally, delusionally in love.

That was before things went south, she stopped trying and left me with more rent than I could possibly pay in the city. When Christina had first mentioned that a group of her friends was headed to Italy for the summer, I’d dismissed the possibility of going with them. Not only did I dread cohabitating with her wealthy, influencer friends who seemed to deal only in clout, I thought I’d be otherwise engaged. Weeks later, I’d gone back to her groveling, asking if I could sleep on the pull-out couch in Nina’s family villa for the summer. Luckily, the sofa was still available.

Now I sit at a wrought iron table – lease broken and all of my belongings sold to wealthy Manhattanites – in the warm yellow light of the Lombard sunset. Around me are chatty, outgoing girls, each more beautiful than the last. They gab about clubs and brands and boys. In the sea of Botox and iPhones, I cling to Christina like a life buoy. I push my tortellini around my plate to make it look like I have an interest in food, but I really don’t. I’m jet-lagged and uncomfortable. And even if that wasn’t the case, I’ve barely eaten since the breakup, relying on oat lattes and dirty water dogs to keep me alive.

“Try the pasta,” Christina jabs, “trust me, you’ll have a lot more fun this summer if you lean in.” I break the shell open with my fork revealing succulent ricotta curds and bright green spinach. The filing swims in a sauce of brown butter and fragrant tarragon but doesn’t affect me as it should. Nothing does anymore. The group’s conversation interrupts my train of thought.

“They’ve come every summer since the nineties, same as us,” says Nina, smirking at the girl to her left. “Hottest little accents you’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Who is she talking about?” I whisper to Christina.

“The boys in the other house,” she says, “the one you see on your way up here.” Nina’s family’s home is at a higher altitude than the rest of the city, necessitating a laborious hike to the bottom to actually do anything while in town. I’m sure that they’d been sold on the privacy of the location, but its impracticality left me wanting. The only other villa nearby sat at the base of the lush green hills before the road disappeared into winding dirt.

Another girl chimes in, “I saw them last year at a dinner in the city. They’re cute, too,” she coos. 

“I kissed George the summer I turned fifteen,” brags Nina and the whole table breaks into oohs and aahs. I usually have a shut-up-unless-spoken-to policy at group dinners, but I know Christitna is right. If I don’t lean in then the credit card debt I’d amassed to buy my plane ticket and the back problems I'm sure to contract from sleeping on a pull-out couch for a whole summer will have been for naught. Think of it as an acting exercise, I tell myself, a performance of the girl who is totally not hung up on her ex and excited for a fun summer with her friends. 

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “who are these guys?”

“They’re in a band,” says Nina.

“Like a real one?” I ask. Years of living in New York have taught me that all bands are not, in fact, real ones. Nina laughs.

“You’re funny,” she muses, “yes, a real one. They’re like famous. We’ll go over eventually, they throw the best parties you can find around here. Get real drugs, too. Not just liters upon liters of Aperol, not that I mind that either.”

With my question sufficiently answered, I return quietly to my pasta, cutting each shell into impossibly smaller pieces until it’s rabbit food that will glide down my throat and do the hard job of nourishing me without any work on my part.

–

After dinner, I tuck into the pull-out couch in the villa’s spacious living room. The lack of A/C and the balmy summer air make it impossible to enjoy the luxurious wool blankets Nina’s family no doubt splurged on. I allow myself to eavesdrop on the elated sounds coming from upstairs: women confiding in each other, commiserating about their troubles, and shrieking excitedly at each other's successes.

I first try to doze off at 10:15, hoping that an early night will be exactly what I need and I’ll wake up refreshed and on Italian time. After an hour of staring at the popcorn ceilings and trying to suppress my crippling fear of missing out, I’ve tired my mind out enough to begin slipping toward sleep. I have fewer and fewer thoughts until I’m jolted by a hip-hop bassline. It resonates through the trundle bed and rebounds off my ribs, cozying itself into my heart. As I begin to come to, I recognize the chords of a house track that used to play at the girl bar Claire and I frequented in Green Point. The melody is warm and familiar and undeniably annoying. How loud must the music be for it to affect me so acutely even as I’m a few kilometers away from them? 

I decide I’m pissed – and yes I decided. I’m freshly single, broke, jet-lagged, and fucking pissed at those entitled rich assholes. I slide my sandals on and head out down the hill in my sleep clothes.

-

I step outside onto the winding dirt road that leads the way to the boys’ home. The night is dark, lit by stars much brighter than I’m used to seeing in Brooklyn. I tilt my head back to look at them, trying to identify the big dipper. After a few seconds, I’m dizzy. I shake myself and trudge ahead, almost lulled into submission by the constant chirping of cicadas and the sweet fragrance of orange blossom that wafts off the bushes. 

With each step I take towards the boys’ villa (what were their names again? Nina said one was called George), the music, electronic and fast-paced, becomes louder. 

When I first knock on the faded wood door, I’m quite sure no one has heard me. I stand outside for a few minutes, contemplating whether I should knock again or cut my losses and return up the hill. I decide I may as well disrupt their party as some kind of karmic retribution for keeping me awake even as I’m exhausted from a transatlantic flight. I raise my fist and rap harshly at the door. A moment later, it flies open, revealing a curly-haired boy. Well, not boy, I decide as I inspect his features – lines decorate his forehead, and gray peeks out at me from within a ringlet that hangs over his eyes. He gives me a once over and can immediately tell I’m not here for the party. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, annoyed. His accent lilts and falls over the words. All of a sudden, I feel insecure in my braless and plaid pajama-clad state. He’s beautiful – and exasperated by me. I double down on my own annoyance. 

“Would you mind turning the music down?” I ask, still cordial, “I’m staying at the house up the way and I can’t get to sleep.”

The guy in front of me purses his lips and considers me for a moment. I feel itchy and uncomfortable. He’s looking at me like he can see through my clothes, to my soft hips and painted toes and peaked nipples. 

“Let me show you around, gorgeous,” he smiles, “then maybe you won’t mind so much.” He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the party. A warmth covers me as I cross the threshold into the villa. The inside of the home smells like college: cheap weed, sweet sticky mixers, and sweat. My sandals stick slightly to the floor, reminding me that I really shouldn’t be here right now. Like the alcohol that’s been spilled on the ground is some great cosmic interference to convince me to go home and get the rest I ought to. 

Suddenly, a big hand falls on the shoulder of the boy who’s pulling me by my limbs.

“Matty!” says the man. I can make out enough to see that he’s tall and devastatingly handsome. 

“George!” the boy – Matty, I remind myself – drops my hand and fully embraces the bigger guy. “Was just showing…” he nods at me to introduce myself.

“Y/n.”

“Around,” Matty finishes. George gives me a once over.

“Did she just roll out of bed? Or get released from prison?”

“Y/n came to ask us to keep the noise down,” Matty declares with fake sincerity, “Not a partier, are ya love?”

“Under the right circumstances, I can be,” I retort. Matty and George’s eyebrows raise in amusement, faces breaking out in smiles. That sounded much more cunning in my head. Now I feel like a toy they’re playing with, winding me up to see what noises I make. It feels infantilizing. I’m uncomfortable, crawling in my skin; pride battered and desperate to go home as soon as it doesn’t look like I’m running away from a fight of my own picking. “I’d better be going actually,” I assert.

Matty puckers his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I’ll show you out, princess.” It’s a sweet nickname but it tastes bitter out of his mouth. He seems to twist everything good and make it unbearable. I resent him for it. I trudge in front of Matty towards the door with steadfast focus. As I cross the threshold, I turn to meet his gaze.

“Thanks for nothing,” I say calmly. Matty breaks into a devilishly smug grin. His eyebrows tilt a little and his lips reveal a few crooked teeth at the bottom of his mouth.

“My pleasure, darlin’,” he says. I scoff and turn on my heels, leaving Matty in the dust.

–

The scent of freshly chopped garlic fills the kitchen as I stand in an assembly line of young women with cutting boards and chefs knives, each diligently chopping an ingredient for the bruschetta. 

In front of me is a bunch of basil, perfectly fresh and green. I gently remove the leaves from the stem and create a pile in the middle of my board. It reminds me of when I would be tasked with raking the leaves as a kid. Too distracted by my childish whims, I would create more work for myself by piling the leaves on top of each other and taking a grandiose dive into them before scooping them up into a trash bag and discarding them. Each leaf was like a piece of confetti, a celebration of the season and of youth. Now I do these things to prove to myself that I’m young and that I can still conjure up that imaginative, playful nature if I try hard enough. 

As I rock my knife back and forth over the soft leaves, Christina asks me where I was the night before. 

“I came out around eleven to invite you upstairs, but I couldn’t find you,” she says.

Embarrassed, I train my eyes to the task at hand. This is not the group to look like a tattle-tale in front of. Actually, there’s very few groups in which that would fly. My penchant for playing God and divvying out karmic consequences to everyone whose path I cross is a part of my nature I’m not particularly fond of. I’m not keen to share it, especially around people who are still making up their minds about me. Despite my steadfast beliefs and borderline-outlandish behaviors, I maintain a fervent desire to be liked. It’s pathetic. 

“I stepped out for some air,” I murmur.

“Really?” she nudges, “Because I didn’t see you on the porch.”

I turn my basil bunch 90 degrees in a flourish, beginning to chop it lengthwise. 

“Fine, I couldn’t sleep because of the music,” I spit.

“And…” Christina has always been too good at getting me to reveal my true feelings. She goads me torturously until it’s easier to say what I’m thinking than to conceal it.

“And I went to ask them to turn the music down,” I finish, “There, are you happy?”

“Very,” she smiles. 

I pick up the chopped basil, letting the pieces float through my fingers and deciding I need to chop them smaller, still. I whack at the pile haphazardly, ruining the lovely squares I meticulously crafted earlier. 

“They didn’t turn it down, if you were wondering,” I pant, “Pricks.” Christina chuckles to herself.

“No one ever does.”

–

The music of the club is omnipresent as I enter hand in hand with Christina. On my feet are heels too high to be comfortable, but the perfect lift to accentuate my calves. As soon as I cross the threshold, I drag Christina to the bartender, ordering two negronis. We idle by the bar for a moment and I take in my surroundings, savoring the bitter aftertaste of my drink and the waltz of the lights that flicker and cover the dancefloor with reverie. I listen to the synths and flourishes of the melody that envelop my senses. I hadn’t expected to like the music, but the DJ is spinning disco and it just feels right: the cold Italian aperitif, the funky basslines, and the tranquil nighttime air. I almost wish I’d left my phone at home. Nights like these aren’t compatible with phones anyway. The atmosphere feels like a relic of a bygone era, full of free love and intoxication. 

Nina and a friend of hers find Christina and me at the bar and run up to us with inebriated bravado. “You guys made it!” she squeals. Little does she know we were pre-gaming at the villa in anticipation of this exact moment. I couldn’t handle Nina while sober tonight, that much I was absolutely sure of. It also didn’t help that I was alone – for the first time in several years – in a romantic foreign country without the girl whom I still loved. As unhealthy as it was, alcohol made that reality hurt a bit less. Nina grabs my hands and leads Christina and me away from the bar. 

“I need to introduce you to the DJs!” Nina exclaims. I glance at Christina to communicate that no, I’m not particularly enthused at the prospect of meeting some Eurotrash guy whose head is shaved and whose torso is covered in Gucci logos. She returns the glance, silently begging me to behave. I relent.

Nina leads us around the side of the floor to some kind of dark stairwell. Rationally, I should be scared of being kidnapped but my drunken stupor inspires more carelessness than I would usually indulge in. I watch the sway of Christina’s hips and follow her like a lost puppy. Finally, we reach the top and the DJ deck is revealed. It’s shadowy and hazy. To the left is a corner booth with a straight couple making out in a way that really ought to be illegal in public. Past the lookout, laser lights flicker and sweep across the dancefloor, catching on the artificial fog and filling the air with psychedelic color. My eyes fall on the backs of two figures at the DJ booth, smoke rising above their heads. I can make out that one has headphones on and is faffing with the turntable while the other has their hands in the air and the small, flickering glow of a lit cigarette dancing around their figure. I’m dragged towards them by Nina who throws an arm around each of their necks in greeting. As soon as the one with the cig turns around, I catch his eyes.

It’s Matty. Selfish, arrogant Matty. I nod my head and flatten my mouth in a kind of recognition. The room is spinning from the alcohol and my skin is buzzing with discomfort. The bass of the music resonates in my ribs, teaching my heart how to beat. My mouth tastes salty and my knees feel weak. 

I’m running to the corner where I can see a bin. Tears prick at my eyes and my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead as I swiftly empty the contents of my stomach into the small trash can. I kneel on the rough carpet and brace myself on either side of the bin with my hands. Between heaves, I lift my head to shake my hair off the back of my neck. The cool air feels grounding, but I’m soon back with my head in the can. I feel a hand on the back of my head, wrangling my frizzy hair off of my shoulders. I gasp, looking back for the sisterly comfort of Christina’s bottomless, cerulean eyes. Instead, I find a pair of brown, honey-flecked irises: Matty’s. I’m reeling too severely to be upset or confused; I’m just grateful when he uses his free hand to sweep my damp bangs out of my face and nods at me.

“Go on,” he encourages, “better out than in.”

I bury my head in the bucket again. 

“Atta girl,” Matty coos in my ear. I can almost notice his hand rubbing circles on my back. Even when I’m quite sure I’m finished, I keep my head down for a moment savoring the last few seconds that I don’t have to look Matty in the eyes. Curse him for helping me. I wouldn’t know how to interact with him under normal circumstances, much less when he’s been nice to me – and watched me unceremoniously blow chunks into a bin.

“You feel better?” he asks. I lift my head tentatively, still scared another wave of nausea will hit me. 

“I think so, yeah,” I mumble. Matty searches my eyes for any warning sign that I’m still sick.

“Have you got a hair tie?” I instinctually fish in my jeans pocket for one, handing it to him. Slowly, he corrals my locks into a ponytail and secures it, fingers grazing the tops of my ears and making me shiver. I sit back against the wall with my legs splayed out in front of me, knees visibly carpet burnt from my previous position. Matty flops down beside me. He reaches out to touch the red, irritated skin. 

“You don’t need a doctor or something, do you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I hiss when he applies a little pressure to my knee and shake his hands off me, “Why are you being nice to me?”

“When have I not been nice?”

“You wouldn’t turn the music down the other night,” I state. He smiles at me, eyes scrunching up until his pupils are totally obscured. 

“No one ever turns the music down,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus,” he adds, “I thought you were a buzzkill. Now I can see that’s not the case, sweetheart.”

“I can usually handle my drink better than this,” I protest, “And I’m also usually not a buzzkill.”

“I guess I don’t know anything about you, then,” he acquiesces, thinking for a moment, “Do you want to start over?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” I nod, smiling tipsily.

“So what’s caused you to be sick tonight?” Matty asks, leaning his head back against the wall. His hair is curled up in perfect ringlets and his skin glows golden even in the dim club light. He looks at me carefully, like his stare could hurt me. It could, I suppose. 

“Alcohol?” I say it like that should be obvious. His face wrinkles up again in a laugh I can vaguely identify as something that’s my fault. He looks pretty. I realize I want to make him do it again and again forever. I want to see the crinkles that grow at the sides of his eyes and the curl of his upper lip that reveals his boyishly crooked teeth.

“I figured as much. Anything in particular that drove you to drink?” I frown for a second, trying to remember. 

“My ex,” I say quietly.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, “that’s the problem. She didn’t do anything.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago?” My god, it’s already been two months.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs,  “that’s still fresh.” I shrug.

“It’s alright I guess. You just feel a little betrayed when someone stops trying. I thought that was the whole point of…” I trail off, gesticulating aimlessly with my hands, “love or whatever. To keep trying.”

“I get it,” he utters. 

“People stop trying with rockstars, too?” I tease. He smiles.

“How did you know that I’m a musician?”

“Well, first of all, I said rockstar–”

“Which I chose to ignore because it was sarcastic.” I roll my eyes.

“And second of all, the girls I’m staying with told me,” I finish. He nods in understanding.

“Well yeah,” he sighs pensively, “people stop trying with everybody. Even rockstars. If I’ve learnt anything in my life, it’s that giving up usually has more to do with them than it does with you.”

“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I argue.

“Nothing does. You just have to let it hurt for a while.”

We’re both quiet for a second. I catch a couple of bars of an Earth, Wind, and Fire song and hum along, content with the silence. I let my head fall onto Matty’s shoulder and he immediately turns his head to look at me.

“Oh fuck, sorry. Is this okay?” I ask, hand flying to my mouth “I know I just puked.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I just didn’t think you would want to.”

“I want to,” I kiss his shoulder through the cotton of his white button-up shirt. He watches me the whole time as though he can’t quite compute what’s happening. Then he snaps back to his regular confident state.

“Let me know if you ever want to deal with your girlf– ex without drinking your feelings away…” he trails off, mouth meeting the crown of my head, “I’d love to show you around here sometime.”

“Okay,” I mumble, the alcohol, tiredness, and emotions beginning to get the better of me and coax me toward sleep.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Matty grabs my hand from my lap and wraps it in his two larger ones, caressing my thumb and humming into my ear.

–

a/n: the next bit is written, but I am still writing the end. smut soon! x

#matty healy fanfic #matty healy x reader #matty healy x y/n #matty healy fluff #matty healy fanfiction #matty Healy

[sacredthefran]

Cream & Sugar

Pairing: Jake Kiszka + Female Reader  Warnings: Sugar Daddy, Some Drinking, Oral Sex (M receiving). 18+. Minors DNI Word Count : 10.2k  Authors Notes: The recent pics of Jake have been giving me sugar daddy vibes. This is my first smut. I’m scared. I’m thinking about making this a series but I’m not 100% sure yet  Enjoy :) 

Part 2 (x)

Tick tock.Tick Tock. You glanced at the clock on the far wall from your cubicle. Just two more hours, you kept repeating to yourself. See, your job wasn’t horrible, it’s just been a hell of a day. Monday’s, gotta love them, right? You woke up late, your car wouldn’t start, spilled coffee all over your favorite blouse and heels. But the thing that really topped your morning off? Receiving a letter stating that you had a week and some spare days to pay your rent up to date or you were going to be homeless. To be fair, your landlord has been an angel for the past couple of months. Your payments have been consecutively late or you just haven’t paid for a couple of months. You guessed they decided that enough was enough. As close to homelessness as you were, none of your friends or family would let that happen, they would take you under their wing in a heartbeat. But the last thing you needed right now was your father giving you the lecture of a lifetime. 

“Now y/n, you know damn well that if you were falling behind on bills that you could’ve told us. We have no problem helping you out.” 

Your mother and father still viewed you as their little girl– constantly ignoring the fact that you were a grown twenty-five year old college graduate and one of the only women actually holding a position other than  “secretary” at your law firm. Granted you were just an intern, still-it felt like a huge accomplishment. American Justice wasn’t the biggest firm in Chicago. None of the lawyers here have yet to receive a big case or have any big name clients. Slowly but surely, American Justice was starting to gain more attention. But, that didn’t really matter to you. You were willing to do anything it takes to make a name for yourself.  

“Hey, fuck face. Come take a smoke with me.” 

Oh Beth, she always had a way of making a grand entrance. With a swift roll of your eyes, you grabbed your pack of Marlboro Menthol Ice and headed towards her.

“You okay? You’re looking a little stressed. All that stress is going to make you need botox.” 

You turned to her with a quizzical look.

 She backtracked, “Not that you need it right now, but you keep furrowing your eyebrows. Those wrinkles are going to catch up to you sooner than you realize.” 

Grabbing Beth's arm you started a brisk walk towards the doors, “Yeah, yeah. You got a lighter or am I going to have to ask one of the pricks upstairs?” 

“You know I always have a lighter.” 

You inhaled the nicotine and exhaled the stress. Silently hoping that all the comments about your stress were over. It turns out Beth wasn’t finished with that conversation quite yet. After taking a long drag - she speaks her mind once again. 

“C’mon y/n out with it, I can tell that something is going on with you. Lie all you want but I know when something is eating you up. What is it? Guy issues? I thought you kicked the last guy to the curb. Or were you lying to me about that? You better not have been. Wait, I know exactly what it is!” She exclaimed. “It’s money issues isn’t it?” 

Dammit, she was always so good at reading you. While being at the ripe age of thirty-six, Beth has experienced some things. She has a habit of telling people bits and pieces, but never the full story. 

“Okay, okay. If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone. I mean anyone.” You looked at Beth with hope that she would promise you to keep her lips sealed. 

“Damn kid, did you kill someone or something?” Beth chuckled, but it dropped the minute she saw how serious you were. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t say anything”. 

You took a deep breath and mumbled. 

“Huh? You know I’m old, I can't hear you.” Beth spoke. 

“I’m so far behind on all my bills! I'm going to be homeless in a week if I don’t pay my rent. I can’t be homeless, I can’t move back in with my family. I can’t do it Beth, I just can’t do it.” You finally lifted your eyes to meet Beth’s. 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay, you can always just move in with me and my family.” 

As much as you loved Beth, it wasn’t ideal. She had a nice little townhouse filled with her husband and three kids. You loved kids– actually, you absolutely adored them. You couldn’t wait to have your own, but you just didn’t want to deal with them in your twenties. 

“Beth you know I love you, but I can’t do that.” 

Beth started chuckling “Oh, I know. I wouldn’t want you to deal with those little crotch gremlins. They make me want to rip my hair out and I’m their mother. I can only imagine what they’ll do to you.” She always had a way of making you laugh when you wanted to cry. It just wasn’t working this time.

 “Beth……I’m serious. What the hell am I going to do? I’m scared.” You felt teardrops starting to leak out of your eyes. 

“It’s easy. Just become an escort,” Beth shrugged her shoulders as if she was just mentioning what she wanted for lunch.

 “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say to me?” You huffed.

 “Easy tiger, maybe not an escort but a sugar baby.” 

Beth must be out of her mind.

“Look, I know it's not an ideal situation for you. Trust me, there are good men out there who just don’t have time to date, they just want someone to talk to. Maybe occasionally fuck, and they just so happen to pay you for your time.”  

You looked at her with so many questions in mind. “How do you know so much about being a sugar baby?”

Beth started chuckling once again.  “Wipe that stank look off your face. I used to be one. I did it for two years before I started law school. I was able to make enough money to put myself through school and I didn’t have to work. I know it sounds crazy, honestly, you should just try it. I’ve been out of the game for a long time, but I’ve kept in contact with one of the girls, Deandra. She’s still in the business and I bet that she would help you out.”

Beth kept on rambling. 

“Matter of fact, she asked me if I would be interested in this one guy, but obviously I turned it down because I have Dean now. I can send you this guy’s number. That’s all she supplied me with. Deandra does a background check on any guy that comes across her radar - weeds out the bad ones and handpicks all the ones that seem promising. He’s too young for her to deal with. You know what? Y/n you don’t have a choice in the matter, I’m sending his info over tonight.”  

She put her hand up quickly before you could retort. “Do not try to fight me on this. You won't win.” 

With a roll of your eyes you and Beth hooked arms and headed back inside, you to your desk and her to her office.  She’s crazy, you thought. Glancing at the clock, you sighed happily knowing you only had one hour and forty-five minutes left. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of hours later and just a little tipsy off of some Cabernet, you were finally taking a relaxing bubble bath. Probably the last bubble bath in this apartment, that thought kept replaying in your head. A flash of light caught your attention, looking over onto the floor you noticed it was text from Beth. Realizing that she actually did it, she actually sent you the contact information for  this man. At least she gave you a name this time ; Jake. Jake, okay that’s not an old man’s name. Maybe you could do this, maybe you could go on a couple of dates with him, listen to him bitch about how hard his life is and make a couple of thousand. Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? After downing the rest of the blood red liquid, you managed to draft up a text. Even after the three glasses of liquid-courage, you still felt yourself having trouble finding the right words to say. Here goes nothing.  

Y/n- Hello, I’m not really sure how to go about this…. but I’m y/n. I got your number from Deandra. She mentioned to me that you were looking for a special type of arrangement. 

After sending that text, you decided you weren’t going to sit around and wait for a response. He probably won’t respond anyway, he’s probably going to wonder about why Deandra pawn off his info to someone else. You decided to put your phone on airplane mode until you were finished with your nighttime routine. However, it was almost as if Jake knew that you were planning on not waiting around for his text..

Jake- Y/n, what a pleasure it is to finally hear from you. I was wondering when you were going to message me. Deandra informed me Beth had a gorgeous woman that would reach out to me 

Fuck. How in the hell were you supposed to respond to that? Maybe you need another glass of wine. 

Y/n- Charming. I wanted to text you and see what kind of a deal we could make. Or how this whole process goes. Sorry. I’m just new to this whole type of arrangement. 

Great, now he’s going to know that you’re inexperienced. Way to go y/n. The time seemed to tick by at the speed of molasses. Finally, your phone dinged with the familiar text notification.

Jake- No need to apologize. Deandra already mentioned to me that you wouldn’t know how to go about this whole situation. You’re a smart girl, we’ll figure it out. Besides, everyone has to start out somewhere. I think that we should ease into this relationship. Since you’re new to it. I don’t want to scare you off before I get to experience the lovely y/n in action. Matter of fact, how about we meet Friday night for dinner? 

Breathe in, breathe out y/n. It’s just a simple dinner. You can do this, just pretend you’re meeting up with an old friend. It’ll be easy. 

You- That sounds perfect. What restaurant do you have in mind? What time would you like for me to meet you there? 

Jake- Don’t worry about the restaurant. I’ll make a reservation. I will have a driver come pick you up. His name is Taylor. He will be there precisely at 5. Sharp. Make sure you are ready to go. Please make sure that you are wearing a green dress. I think that it compliments your skin tone well. I look forward to seeing you. 

You- 1)How do you know what the hell I look like? 2) How do you know where I live? 3) I don’t wear green, I prefer purple. 

Jake- Like I stated before, make sure the dress is green. I don’t do well with people disobeying me. Don’t worry about how I know those details, I know a lot of people in this city. It’s late, you need to go to bed. Have a goodnight Ms.y/l/n.

What the hell am I doing? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next couple of days seemed to fly by. Jake texted you off and on that week. It seemed as if he was excited to see you, but you didn’t want to get ahead of yourself. Tuesday morning you were met with Beth’s beaming face proclaiming that she wanted to know all of the details. Who are you to refuse Beth? It felt nice just to get it out of your system and express all your worries. Of course, the biggest worry was that this man already knew your last name and where you live. 

 “Oh, that’s easy. I had Deandra tell him your full name and I guess he did his own research to figure out your address”. 

Beth then proceeded to tell you that this was normal in the industry, especially as someone of his status. Having little to no details about Jake, you decided to trust Beth’s judgment. She kept promising that he was a good man all throughout the week. Almost like a broken record. Every time you would ask for more information about Jake she would shut you down. Apparently he was the type of guy who wanted to keep all his details private until a deal was made. Cause that’s not sketchy at all.

Wednesday came and went. Thursday morning you walked into work to see a bouquet of flowers on your desk. Attached to them was a little note “I hope that this finds you well, in the envelope there’s a couple of hundreds. Like I stated before, I'm expecting you in green. Wouldn’t want for you to receive a punishment during our first meeting.  I look forward to seeing you tomorrow - Jake” . 

There was no way this was actually happening. Peaking into the envelope, reality started to hit you. You were actually going to meet this mystery man and let him pay your way through life for the next couple of months. Your inner feminist was screaming at you, it told you to run–preferably away from this whole situation. Your conscience was begging you to just forget about this and go back to your parents. Deciding against your better judgment, you ended up taking Beth out shopping to find a little green number that would drive this man crazy.

“That’s it!” Beth proclaimed. You did a final look in the mirror acknowledging Beth's statement. 

After going to countless stores; trying on every green dress possible. You finally opted for something short and lacey. Usually you want to cover every part of your body, but if you were going to commit to this sugar baby bit, why not buy something that is guaranteed to keep all of his attention on you? The dress came just below your fingertips, thank God for dresses that cinch around the waist, it accentuated your hourglass figure. Every curve on your body was looking right and let’s not forget how the cups in the dress were pure lace. Looks like there was no way for you to wear a bra, fuck it.  

Friday morning came faster than you could imagine. Maybe it was the nerves or maybe it was the fact that you wanted to make sure you looked perfect for Jake tonight, after all, your life was betting on how dinner would go. It’s been a while since you had to dress for male validation. You were putting on your shoes when a knock on the door startled you. 

Looking out of the peephole, you noticed a man standing on the other side of the door seemingly to look directly in your eyes through the small glass circle. “Uh hello?” You opened the door with a shaky breath. 

“I work for Mr. Kiszka. I’m Taylor. I’m going to be your driver for the night. I was given specific orders to be at the restaurant by five-thirty ma’am. Let's get a move on. Mr. Kiszka doesn’t take too kindly to people wasting his time. I’m sure he’s mentioned that to you before”. 

No. Fucking. Way. It can’t be. There’s no way that Jake is Jacob Kiszka. He was one of the most notorious lawyers on the scene right now.  Jake was a practicing lawyer at New Horizons Family Law. It was the biggest firm in Chicago. Jacob Kiszka was a force to be reckoned with, he rarely lost a case. Word on the street was that his clients were actually a part of organized crime, instead of “family law”. Standing in your doorway, you prayed that you wouldn’t stick your foot in your mouth and ask him about his clients tonight. You figured that it would scare Jake away more than anything. You were pulled away from your overthinking to Taylor clearing his throat and pointing at his watch. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Much to Taylor’s dismay, you actually arrived at five thirty-five. Exiting the car you came to the realization that you have no clue if you should wait out front for Jake or if you should already be seated when he gets here. Turning to Taylor you asked him what option would be best, with a huff and puff he told you to go to the host and tell them you’re with Mr. Kiszka. No questions would be asked.

Following his directions, you were shocked at how fast the host was scurrying to get you to a table.

He led you past all the tables in the restaurant, noticing the look of fear in your eyes, he mumbled “Mr. Kiszka is one of our high profile guests. He likes to have all of his meetings in a private room.” 

It was all starting to click with you. Jacob Kiszka is the man that you have been texting all week leading up to this moment. Once you finally were seated, the host froze as the door on the left was whipped open. Something was telling you that he wasn’t supposed to be here when Jake arrived.. 

Oh. My. God. All your suspicions from earlier were true. Standing in the doorway was Jake Kiszka. Before you could get a good look at him the host ran out of the room mumbling a quick “I’m sorry”.  

Slowly making his way over to you, you were observing as many details as you could. The first thing you noticed was his hair was pulled back, giving you a perfect view of his angelic face, he was wearing black dress pants with a white shirt unbuttoned all the way down to the beginning of his torso. He wore a golden pendant that rested gently in the middle of his chest, you just wanted to reach out and touch him. He didn’t seem real.  Once your eyes finally met his, Jake gave you a smirk. Hopefully he didn’t see you looking at him like an art collector finding an undiscovered Davinci. 

“Well, I hope you’re done checking me out. I’m ready to have a seat now,” Jake said smugly. 

“Oh, of course. Have a seat. I’m y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” Not only did Jake call you out for ogling him, his smile grew tenfold when he realized how rosy your cheeks were getting under his gaze. 

“I know who you are and you know who I am. I think we can skip past all this small talk and actually start to get to know each other. I also wanted to apologize for being late. I had a meeting with my client run over. But, I guess that doesn’t really matter since you were late too.” Jake replied with a smug grin.

 “I, uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be late. I couldn’t find my shoes,” you stuttered nervously. 

“So you want to start our relationship off on a bad note?”

 You gave him a quizzical look.

 “Taylor told me that you were ready to go but you just couldn’t stop daydreaming about me. So much so that it made you late. I don’t do well with people who are late. I expect proper punctuality from now on. It’s okay, I'll let it slip this time. By the way I noticed that you followed my request and wore green. Good Girl.” 

You’d hate to admit it, but those two little words had you squeezing your thighs together. No one could blame you for that. This man practically dripped sex. It’s like he knew what he was doing to you. 

“Tell me princess, or do you prefer y/n?”

 Swallowing the lump in your throat, you finally met his gaze. “Princess works for me.”

 Jake grinned at your acknowledgement of your pet name already. “Do I live up to your expectations? Or should I pack it up and send you on your merry way?” He already knew the answer to that question, he just wanted the confirmation from you that you were attracted to him and willing to do anything that he wanted. 

“No, you definitely meet my expectations.” Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to come out. Good Job y/n. Now he’s going to think you’re desperate. Jake kept beaming at you, he really was as cheeky as all the rumors stated him to be. As he was about to answer, a waitress came through the door. Saved by the bell. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I was wondering if you guys were ready to order?” She offered both of you a smile.

 Without breaking your eye contact Jake responded, “We’ll have a bottle of Cuvee Indigene and the chefs special. Thank you.” 

You looked at him with an open mouth. 

“What?” He looked at you confused.

 “Cuvee Indigene? That’s an expensive bottle, I don’t want you to feel like you have to impress me.” You stated matter of factly. 

 Jake interrupted you by sucking his teeth. “I’m not trying to impress you, I know you like Chardonnay, so why not get you top of the line? I’m about to wire some money into your bank account so I wouldn’t be worrying about how expensive the bottle is if I were you. Also, close your mouth unless that’s an invitation for me to put something in it." 

If it wasn’t possible before, your jaw was practically on the floor. Who the fuck does he think he is? Your inner feminist wanted to smack the hell out of him. But as much as you didn’t want to admit it, he was making you feel things that you weren’t supposed to. Judging by how dark your eyes got, Jake could sense it too.

Little to your knowledge, Jake was trying to see how turned on he could get you and how far he could push his limits. 

Once again, the door to your left opened and you could hear the noise from the outside. Something to distract you away from this awkward conversation. You noticed in her hand that she had the bottle of wine and two glasses in her hand. Thank you, Jesus. As she went to pour some wine in your glass Jake waved her off and insisted on doing it himself. 

“Now, now. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t take care of my girl?” 

My girl. You barely know this man and he's already staking his claim. Taking the wine glass in your hand, you reached it out towards him to fill up. Even though there was clearly a power imbalance in between you two, you still wanted to make it known to him that you weren’t some run-of-the-mill sugar baby. You actually would let him boss you around and ruin you, but you didn’t want him to know that yet. You had to keep some semblance of composure. 

“Relax Princess, no need to start getting hostile. I just want to show you what it’s like to have someone take care of you.” 

Aaaand there the cheekiness is again. He kept filling your glass until it was a half inch from the top. 

“Drink up, we have a long night ahead of us.” 

Yes, Sir. 

Once again the room was filled with silence, it was like neither of you knew what to say to each other. It didn’t feel like it was the proper atmosphere for you to ask him what his favorite movie or color was. Think y/n. Think. You were sweating bullets thinking about what he was implying with “long night”. 

If you knew anything about Jake, you would be able to tell that he felt like he stuck his foot in his mouth. He didn’t want to come off too cocky, Jake was attracted to you and wanted to make you aware of it, but he wasn’t sure how to do so. Just as Jake parted his lips to speak, he was interrupted by the waitress coming back into the room. 

“Sorry, to interrupt you guys again, but the food is ready.” She glanced at the couple with a nervous smile. You felt bad for the poor girl. You could pick up that Jake’s demeanor made her nervous. As she set down the dishes, he kept a stone cold stare at the back of her head. You waited until she left and then cleared your throat. 

 “Mr. Kiszka, what are these dishes exactly?” 

“Please, call me Jake. Have you ever had French before?”

 You quickly shook your head no. 

“Why didn’t you tell me when I suggested French? And this dish is called Bouillabaisse. The chef is a personal friend of mine, I made sure that he used Cod instead of Sea Bass, it tastes better.” 

You kept your gaze down. 

“If you don't like it, I’m sure I can speak to him and have him make you something different.”

When you finally looked up at him, he was biting his lip–staring at you intently. 

“No, no. I’m good with it. I didn’t even try it, I was just wondering what it was.” After you stated that, you quickly took a bite to ease his nerves. Damn y/n, you barely know this man and you’re already aiming for his approval.

Jake smiled at this and kept making small talk over the course. 

“So what’s the main reason why you wanted to be a sugar baby, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Well, it looks like that was the end of the small talk. You gulped down the remainder of the first wine glass and started motioning for him to fill it up again.

 “Do you want the real reason or do you want me to give you some bullshit excuse?” 

Jake was in the motion of filling up your glass and looked you dead in the eyes. “I always want the truth, if we are going into this type of relationship I need you to be a hundred percent honest with me. At all times. Do I make myself clear?”

Clear as crystal. 

“Does the same apply to you?” You asked him in a venom-ridden voice. 

“Of course it does. I know you don’t know how these types of situations work, but I like to run all my relationships based on honesty and trust. If you don’t have trust with your partner, then there isn’t a relationship. That applies to business and personal. You should know that, being a lawyer and all.” 

So Beth wasn’t lying. Someone of his status does their research. Well, there goes the thought about being able to lie about why you needed the money. You finally pulled your gaze away from the floor and made eye contact.

 “I don’t come from a wealthy family, as much as my parents say they would love to help me, they wouldn’t be able to handle it. If they paid my rent and the bills that I'm behind on, that would put them in the hole. I can’t do that to them. As you know I’m a lawyer, well not yet, technically. I passed my bar but American Justice wont let me practice yet. They want to keep me as an intern. So obviously, they’re not paying me enough. Ever since this damn pandemic, I haven’t been able to support myself. Everything is just starting to add up. Monday I got a letter threatening to evict me if I couldn’t pay the past two months rent by next Thursday. Frankly, I’m just scared. I don’t want to come across as a failure to my parents.”

 Jake interrupted your rambling “How would you be a failure?”

You looked at him like he had three heads, “How wouldn’t I? I left for school telling them that I was going to be somebody. I can’t show up on their doorstep years later begging for a place to stay.” You could feel the tears starting to well up in your eyes. Jake noticed this, in an attempt to stop you from crying he reached across the table and rubbed your arm. 

“American Justice just wants to keep you as an intern?” You slowly nodded your head at him. “Have you thought about applying to different firms?” 

“Of course I have. You don’t think I’ve done that already?” You huffed back at him.

“First off, watch your tone when speaking to me. I’m just trying to help you. After all, this whole arrangement is about me helping you. If you don’t like the way I speak then feel free to leave. The door is right there, princess. Nothing’s holding you here.” 

Except the fact that you needed his money. 

After realizing that you weren’t attempting to flee the scene, Jake cleared his throat. “I read over your essays from law school. Specifically your thesis about Women's Rights. I’m friends with Roxanne from Sisterhood Movement. Have you tried there? Roxanne would take you under her wing. She would help you build your cases. Roxy is all about empowering women.” 

Jake was studying your face. He couldn’t make out your expression. 

Looking down at the table, you took a deep breath. “I can’t apply to Sisterhood Movement. Are you kidding me?”

 “Why can’t you?” He countered back.

 “They’re all powerful names over there. They take on the most high profile cases. I don’t mean just the cases in Chicago, I’m talking about the cases that they take all across the States. As much as I love Roxanne’s work, I don’t want to go over there and ruin everything she’s worked for. I’m just not ready to take on cases of discrimination and sexual harassment yet. I just can’t do it, Jake” God, you sound so insecure right now. Pull it together. 

Jake could see the tears forming in your eyes again. He understood that he had to wait until he knew you a little bit better before he could keep pressing the issue with you. “Okay, okay. I won’t keep pestering you about it.” 

After that statement, you felt like you could look him in the eyes once more. 

“Thank you.” 

He smiled weakly at you. “Of course. Now, is there anything that you want to ask me?” 

Well there is one thing. 

 “Out with it. You’re biting your lip. If you’ve got something to ask then just ask.” 

You weren’t sure if it was the wine or your nerves but you quickly blurted out “Are you actually a defense attorney for the mafia or is that just a rumor?”.

His eyes turned ice cold at that moment. 

“I don’t think that’s anything for you to know. You should know that I do not disclose my clients information. If you were worried about me being connected to the mob, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now, would you?” You hated the fact that warmth started to flood all over your body. 

He sensed a change in your breathing pattern. “Now, anything logical you want to ask me? Or do you want to keep sticking your foot in your mouth?”  Your jaw dropped open again. 

“Princess, I thought I told you earlier to keep your mouth closed. You’re practically begging for me to put something in there.”

 Instead of replying to that comment you decided to lean forward just enough that he could see your cleavage. Two can play this game. 

Innocently, you traced the rim of the glass. “Mr. Kiszka, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just asking a simple question.” 

Jake could feel himself harden. He wanted nothing more than to bend you over the table at that moment. Jake wasn’t dumb, he knew what you were trying to do to him.  “You should really finish your wine right now,” 

You tilted your head and in the most innocent voice you could respond, “And why is that Mr. Kiska?” Sitting back you smiled sweetly at him. It was at this moment that Jake registered you weren’t wearing a bra. Your nipples were peaking out of the lace at him, begging to be touched. 

“Because, if we're going to continue this conversation, I want to be in the privacy of my own home. Plus, I want to play with my new toy.” 

You were positive that your cheeks were painted red at the mere thought of him referring to you as a toy. Without hesitation, you gulped down your wine and smiled at him. “Good Girl,” Jake reached his hand out towards you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jake Kiszka wasn’t a man to waste his time with words, when his actions could do the talking.  The whole car ride back to his penthouse, he kept inching his hand further up your leg while driving. Which is kind of ironic to you because he sent you a driver but he preferred to drive himself. 

You weren’t sure if it was the wine talking or your subconscious, but you could feel the sexual tension. You could practically cut it with a knife. Unbeknownst to you, Jake was feeling the same way. 

Once arriving at his place, he dismissed you from following him into the kitchen and instructed you to “sit still and look pretty” on the couch. After five painfully long minutes he came back into the room with two glasses filled with an amber liquid. Offering you the glass, you winced as you smelled it. Jake chuckled, “Not a fan of Bourbon? This is Guadalupe. It’s good, take a sip.”

Jake then proceeded to raise the glass to your lips and tilt your head back. Opening up your lips, you realized that you were ready to swallow whatever this man would give you. Jake soon realized this was a mistake as you started coughing up a lung after taking a pull of amber down your throat. 

“You good over there?” Jake gave you a wicked grin. 

“Uh, yeah I’m okay. I'm just more of a wine drinker.” You replied shyly. 

 “Noted, I'll be more careful next time when I make you swallow something”. 

You were sure that your eyes were the size of golf balls. Acting like he casually just asked about the weather, Jake circled back to the conversation at the restaurant. “So anything else you want to ask me?” 

Taking another small sip of bourbon, you found the courage to speak again. “Why are you a sugar daddy?” Peaking over the glass at him, you noticed Jake furrowed his eyebrows. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just curious. You're Jake Kiszka. You could get any woman you want. I know women throw themselves at you all the time.”

Interrupting you, Jake sighed from his spot. “You’re right. I probably could have any woman I want. I always sucked at dating. Just never had the time to give to someone. To be honest, I frankly don’t have the time right now. I basically only have the time for a casual dinner and a quick fuck. A couple of my friends do this and suggested it to me. I have the funds to give to a pretty lady. So why not try it?”.

It was surprising that he even gave you the answer that he did. Jake didn’t seem like the type to open up to people even a little bit. 

“A quick fuck? That’s what I’m here for?” You stood up, you knew you were here for his money, but he didn’t have to talk to you like you were nothing. Like you weren’t a person. Fuck That. 

“Sit back down. You and I both know that you’re not going anywhere.” Swallowing your pride you took the spot next to him on the black leather couch. You hated that he was right. 

“Obviously it’s not going to be quick. I have stamina. Did you miss the part where I said casual dinner too?” Jake was chuckling. “I didn’t think I had to go into details. There is going to be communication between us. You will be taken care of y/n, as long as I’m taken care of. At any moment you can walk away from this. If you're uncomfortable we can just forget that this meeting ever happened. Anytime you feel uncomfortable, you tell me to stop and I will. No questions asked. Now, are you okay with this?” 

You shook your head yes. 

“Y/n, I need to hear it.”

 “Yes, I understand.” you breathed out, shakily.  

Jake beamed at you. “I’m assuming that this is the time where we talk about your payment? I was thinking of a weekly allowance of $1,500 to start, then if you’re a good girl for me we can up it. I’ll make sure to wire you the money on Monday.”

 You nodded along, “Jake, I'm grateful for this, don't get me wrong. But is there any way I can get an advance? $1,500 isn’t going to pay my past due rent.” You felt embarrassed even asking him this. He knew you needed money, but you didn’t want him to see you grovel for it. 

Jake then picked something up off the table. As he got closer to you, you recognized that it was a check. “I knew that you were going to bring up the rent situation, so I went ahead, called your apartment manager and wrote you a check for the next two months. I already paid your past two.”

 You were shocked to say the least. You couldn’t help it but your jaw dropped at the thought of how much money that is, even though it's probably spare change for him. 

“You must really want me to put something in your mouth, princess. All you have to do is ask.” Jesus. This man is going to be the death of you. 

“Anyway, I know we talked about the weekly allowances, but there’s some other things involved as well. Of course I have benefits, galas and public appearances to keep up, you will be attending them with me. No excuses, obviously with that comes all the shopping that you could want. I need you to be dressed to the nines when we go out. It comes with the territory. I’m sure you understand. Think this is something that you can do?”

 You nodded along with what he was saying. “Yes, Jake. I’m positive I’ll be able to handle all of this. Are you sure I’m the one that you want? Don’t you want to shop around a little and see what other options are out there?”. 

He looked at you like you were crazy for even suggesting the thought. “No, I’m sure that I want to do this with you. The minute I saw your picture, I knew I wanted you and wouldn’t stop until you agreed to this deal.”

This man was persistent, maybe it was a trait that he formed being a lawyer. It didn’t matter, you couldn’t get over the fact that he saw a picture of you before you locked eyes at the restaurant. 

“How did you get a picture of me?” You quizzed him as he finally took a seat next to you.

 “I have connections, don’t worry about it. '' He was looking deep into your eyes while licking his lips. You couldn’t help but drop your gaze to the spot that he just wet.

 “You know, it’s okay to go after what you want y/n,” leaning into you. He was giving you the option to lean into the kiss or pull back.

 “I don’t know, I’m just a little nervous,” Jake seemed to smile at the small confession. 

“Nothing to be nervous about, darling. It’s human nature.” 

That right there sealed the deal, you closed the gap between you. Your lips melted together, it was like he was made for kissing you. Just as you were about to pull away to admire the man in front of you, you felt a hand making its way to the nape of your neck. It wasn’t aggressive, he was just holding you into place, giving you the option to stop if you wanted. Jake noticed that you weren’t pulling away. He took this as a sign to deepen the kiss, there was only one problem here. You were fighting him for dominance.

Jake broke the kiss and pulled you to straddle him. “Stop trying to take control.” 

Pressing his forehead against yours, he gave you a lustful look. With a simple nod of your head, you felt yourself losing control. He took your nod as reassurance to continue, and you watched as he moved closer. His hands grabbed your thighs as he lifted himself up towards your face, capturing your lips again. From your outer thigh, his hands began to travel upwards until you could feel the heat of his palms drag up your waist, then the small of your back. You melted with his touch, feeling yourself lean deeper into the kiss. Your skin tingled as he reached your breasts, protected only by the lace cups of the dress. You could feel your cheeks reddening as you followed his lead. Fuck, he just brushed against your nipple. You jolted at the sudden sensation, and he sensed you were feeling it. He swiped his thumb against the other one. While you were distracted, he moved his mouth lower, to the crook of your neck–kissing a trail all the way to your shoulder. His breath was hot on your skin and you moaned at even the slightest of touches. Was it the wine from dinner? The bourbon? Was it him and his obsession with being suave? Or was it the way he kept looking at you with lust filled eyes? 

“I like you best when you’re at my mercy,” he said before closing his mouth around the lace that covered your nipple. 

The first thing you felt was the heat, then the pressure–and finally, the pleasure. And you wanted more.  Instead, Jake lifted his head. You opened your eyes, suddenly realizing that they were closed all this time. You met his gaze, wanting to open your mouth, hoping he’d say something about filling it again. But you didn’t. Instead you wet your lips. 

“Show me why I should pay your rent,” he whispered in your ear, oozing with lust.

 “Wha-what do you mean?” you stuttered nervously.

 “I want you to show me why I’m spending my money on you. Show me I made the right choice to choose you out of all others.” As he was distracting you with his rugged voice, Jake was sneaking his hand underneath your dress to feel the puddle of warmth that was forming between your legs. “Damn, princess. All this for me?” he licked your ear and then blew on it. 

“Yes Jake, it’s all for you”.

 You felt a sharp stinging pain on your ass and when you went to lift up off his lap, he pulled you back down in a sharp motion. You could feel his cock struggling against his pants. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one enjoying myself,” finally, it was your moment to tease him. 

“I would enjoy myself more if you would take my cock out of my pants and show me how much you want it,” he growled out.

You could feel yourself looking down at him with hooded eyes. It was at this moment you knew that you were always going to be at his mercy. This man knew how to turn you into putty. 

Instead of giving into Jake, you decided to tease him a little bit more. Grinding down on him and reaching down to pull your dress over your head. You felt strong hands grabbing your wrists. 

“Nuh-uh, only I get to take off your clothes, you do as you're told.” 

You moved back and forth on him a little bit harder. Leaning forward, you whispered into his ear, “But I thought you wanted me to show you why you’re paying my rent.”

 Jake paused for a minute, before deciding to grab onto your waist and flip you around. He realized that having you on top made you feel like you were in charge - you never were going to be when he was around. 

“Is that back sass I hear? That won't get you far with me, darling.” He was staring you down like a hunter stalking his prey.

 “Darling? I thought my name was y/n?” You replied coyly.

 “Keep talking and I’ll have no choice but to punish you.” 

You involuntarily felt your pussy clench. Jake could feel it too, his cock was nestled right in between your folds with just a thin layer of lace separating the most intimate parts of yourselves. “Oh, it seems like you like that idea,” he smirked. 

You moaned in response, there was no way to keep you quiet. Just with Jake’s talk alone, you were ready to orgasm right then and there. 

“But I don’t want to fuck you yet, I want to see how badly you want me.” You're doing the best you can to keep your composure- well, what was left of it anyway.

 “I want you, I want you to fill me up, I want you inside of me,” You mumbled into his neck. 

“Princess, you really don’t listen do you? We’re going to have so much fun with all the lessons you need to learn. I said I’m not going to fuck you. Trust me I want nothing more than to feel this tight little pussy around my cock, but I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.” 

Your body felt like it was on fire. It was like Jake was just casually asking you what you wanted to eat, all of this just seemed to roll off his tongue. Before you could stop yourself you found the words slipping past your lips “Can I put your cock in my mouth?”. 

“You know that’s not how you ask for what you want.” he reapplied smugly. ”Beg for it.” 

“Ja-” A quick swat on your thigh stopped you. “Sir?” 

Jake shook his head, “You’re getting closer, but that's not what you should call me, princess.” 

You had one guess left in your mind. “Daddy?” 

Jake didn’t think it was possible for him to get harder, but hearing your sweet innocent voice and doe eyes peering up at him, he couldn’t hold himself together. “Daddy, can I please suck your cock?” 

“You want Daddy’s cock in your mouth?”  

Instead of answering him, you pushed on his shoulder, flipping both of you around and then pinning his shoulders to the couch. Jake didn’t fight you on this, he wanted your mouth on him just as much as you wanted him to fill your pussy. He wanted you to feel like you had a little control–for now–it gave you confidence. 

“Go ahead baby, take it out. Show Daddy how much you want his cock.” 

With shaky hands, you undid his belt and started to pull his boxers down. Jake could feel you starting to hesitate. He gently put his hands over yours and helped you pull down the fabric- freeing his cock. You couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of his cock going into your mouth and eventually your pussy.

 “Aw, is my princess speechless? Don't worry, it’ll fit in all the holes you want. Right now we’re just gonna focus on putting it in the back of your throat. Then we'll focus on it fitting in that sweet cunt of yours. I can just tell it's a ripe pink and I bet right now it's just aching for my touch. Isn’t it? You want me to rub on that sweet little clit to give you some relief?”

 You couldn’t hold back the little whine that escaped your throat. “You like the sound of that huh? Daddy touching you? Just wait until I put my tongue in your pussy. Oh baby, I can tell that you’re going to taste divine.” 

At this point you were melting into him, you started to move your hands in a twisting motion, hoping to bring Jake as much pleasure as he was giving you with these filthy little thoughts spilling out. 

 “Sorry, it’s not going to happen, it’s all about you putting my cock into that sweet little mouth of yours.” 

Jake didn’t give you any time to respond to that, he lifted up three fingers to your mouth, urging you to open up and let them in. You did as he asked and wrapped your mouth around his fingers, but Jake noticed something, you were so nervous that your mouth was dry.  Pushing you down onto your knees, looking at you with lust blown eyes he pulled your hair, forcing your head to tilt back.

 “Open your mouth now.”

 “Why?” 

Jake gave you a stern look. “Trust Me. Open. Now. “ 

Sitting in front of him, you watched in amusement as he took a sip of the amber liquid. Making eye contact with you one more time, he leaned forward and spit the liquid directly in your mouth. 

“Swallow.” 

Starting to gag a little on the taste, Jake chuckled. “Princess, that wasn’t even a lot to swallow, we’re really going to have to work on that, aren’t we?” After watching you swallow he grabbed your jaw, “Ready for more?” 

Nodding your head wasn’t going to work–Jake had you in a grip that wouldn’t allow you to move. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good Girl. Now open up for me again.” 

Per his request you opened it up again. “Wider princess. C’mon. My cock wont fit in that tiny little opening.” 

Fuck. You were drooling for him. Jake didn’t come this far with you to not have you put your mouth on his throbbing cock. 

“That’s my good girl. You’re listening to Daddy so good.” Jake looked like he was debating on doing something. After a moment of contemplating, you watched in fascination :as a solid string of spit left his mouth and fell on your tongue. He dipped his fingers back into your mouth and spread the fluid all around your mouth. 

“Don’t close your mouth yet, it’s not wet enough” He spit back into your mouth with a firm: “Don’t you dare swallow.” You didn’t want to disobey him, you wanted to do everything that he said, word for word.

 “Good Girl, keep your mouth open, we’re not done yet.” Jake then directed your head towards his cock.

 You caught a second glimpse at it and just had to admire it. It was long, thick and had the perfect pink tint. His mushroom tip leaking precum- begging to be tasted. Jake didn’t stop until his cock was right in front of your mouth, with a hand wrapped around his base, he gently eased it in. He kept going until he hit that little sweet spot in the back of your throat that makes you gag. Jake finally let out a groan as he felt you wrap your lips around him. 

The groan that Jake left out was unholy. It sent a shock all the way down to your core. Once your mouth got used to the feeling of his cock stretching you out, you slowly started to bob your head up and down. In need of a breather, you released Jake out of your mouth with a solid ‘pop’. After sitting back for a couple of seconds, you dropped a thick bead of spit on his head, while using your left hand in a twisting motion, staring at Jake’s face. You started at the base and worked your way to his tip, getting a good feel of every single little detail of his throbbing cock. From how thick it was, how you needed to use two hands, and last but not least, the way he would twitch when you touched the underside of his head right where a prominent vein is.  His mouth was opened in pure bliss while he was looking down his nose at you. God, you wished you could see Jake like this everyday. 

He had had enough of your admiration and was starting to yearn for the feeling of your mouth again. Jake ran his fingers through your hair again and yanked you upwards. Chest to chest; forehead to forehead. Feverishly, your neck was whipped to the side and you felt the presence of hot air hitting your ear. 

“I think that's enough princess. My cock is missing your mouth already. Show it how much you love it. I want you to suck me dry, I want to cum in the back of your throat and I’m not stopping until I do. Do you understand?”

Not wanting to waste anymore time, you quickly nodded and tried to free your hair out of his grip. Jake didn’t budge. “Do you understand?” You nodded again.

Jake wasn’t taking that as a response. “I need a verbal answer princess, before we go any further”. Locking eyes with him you said, “Yes Daddy. I want to make you feel good.” 

With a quick groan, Jake let go of your hair and pushed you back down so your face was right at his cock. You wanted to be a good girl for Jake, hell, you wanted nothing more in life than to hear those filthy noises coming out of his mouth. Taking his cock into your hand again, you sunk your mouth onto him slowly. Taking him inch by inch. As much as Jake wanted you to go fast, you were going to take your time. You wanted to work his cock like your life depended on it, after all, it did. You were taking your time with him, as he was filling your throat back up, you kept swallowing around every inch. Once your plump lips reached the bottom of his cock, tears started to form in your eyes. Jake could sense that you wanted to move your mouth off of him again, so he put his hand on the nape of your neck holding you there. 

Looking up at Jake through your tears, you saw him smirking. “Oh, is my baby starting to gag on Daddy’s cock? You want to take it out for a second?” You moaned around him. The vibration from that alone had Jake ready to shoot his cum down the back of your throat, he just had to hold on for a little bit longer. 

“That's too bad princess. You’re going to keep my cock in your mouth for as long as I want. Here let me move your hair out of the way.” 

Doing as he said, Jake took the elastic band that he keeps around his middle finger and moved all your hair back. Jake wanted to enjoy the show, he wanted to see all of you, trying to take every inch of him. But those watering eyes were doing something to him, your eyes looked so clear and filled with lust. Grabbing the base of your ponytail, he decided to start moving your head up and down. The sound of you gurgling around his cock was deafening. While Jake was busy with not trying to blow his load prematurely, you successfully snuck your hand down into your underwear in search of some type of relief. 

You dove your fingers through your folds hoping to gather some moisture. When you finally gathered enough, you reached up to circle your clit a couple of times. Silly you for thinking that you could get away with doing this in front of Jake Kiszka. After the third swirl on your clit he noticed that your moans were starting to change octaves. He quickly opened his eyes and realized what you were doing. He snatched your hand out of your underwear in an instant. 

“I don’t think so princess, this is about me getting off tonight not you,” Jake growled out.

 You looked back up at Jake with tear glossed eyes. This only made Jake yearn for you even more. You pulled your hand gently out of his grip and cupped his balls lightly. With a slight movement of your fingers, you felt him start to twitch. “C’mon baby, just like that,” he sputtered out as he started to feel the pleasure really begin to take over his body. Moving your head wasn’t enough for Jake. 

Holding your head steady, he started bucking his hips off the couch. With every buck your nose was touching his pelvic bone; breathing in  the woodsy smell of this man deeply. The more you tried to move your head back the more force would be pushed onto the back of your head to keep you still. Jake could feel your throat start to tighten up and try to push him out. 

“Keep that throat relaxed for Daddy baby. He’s almost there.” 

The mixed noises of your gags and the praises that Jake kept slipping out were taking over the atmosphere. You could tell that he was close to his peak. His thrusts were becoming sloppy, the sweat was starting to roll off his torso and drip down to his pelvic area. Jake’s breath was becoming unsteady, every other moan kept getting hitched in the back of his throat. You went into overdrive at the mere thought of his release coming, with every thrust towards the back of your throat, you were sticking your tongue out in search for his balls when you reach the base. 

Jake finally felt the tip of your tongue grazing that soft spot on top of his balls. A deep guttural moan spilled out of him. “C’mon princess, just a little bit longer. Daddy’s gonna give you his special little treat.”

 As soon as those words fell from Jake's lips, you hollowed your cheeks as much as you could and put all your effort into just breathing in Jake. Placing your hands on both thighs, you let him take full control over your mouth. You could tell that Jake was ready to come any second, the tip of his cock kept swelling up in size. Jake was in a frenzy he couldn't stop. The thing that pushed him over the edge was you looking up at him one last time. He pushed himself all the way into the back of your throat, let out a loud groan and emptied his load down your throat. 

“Stay right there Princess. Don’t swallow yet. I’m going to take myself out of your mouth now, I want to see it in there.” 

Jake slowly slid his cock out of your mouth. Looking down at you to make sure that you were listening to him and not swallowing anything. He pulled you up to his height with a single hand around your throat. 

“Open up princess, let me see.” 

As you slowly opened your mouth, Jake slid two of his fingers in there and pulled them out. He was mesmerized looking at the cum threading through his fingers. 

“Look up at me” he jerked your head up with a hand under your chin. “Now you can swallow,” he closed your mouth with the force of two fingers pushing your jaw up. Jake beamed at you as he watched your throat move up and down, proving to him how much of a good girl you can be for him. 

Jake took your hand and led the way to his bedroom. He finally found his own little sugar baby, there was no way that he was going to let you get away that easy. 

“Hey Jake?” you spoke up. 

“You okay? What's up?” He turned around to face you.

 “Nothing, I just wanted to know if I could use the bathroom?” 

Jake gave a jerk of his head towards the door on the right, without speaking another word you headed in that direction. After opening the door, you startled yourself. Looking at the reflection in the mirror you couldn’t recognize yourself. Mascara was running down your cheeks, lips swollen and your hair looked crazy. Jake was kind enough to move it back from your face, but he seemed to pull out over half of it when he was holding you down to his pelvis area. Fuck, these knots are going to be a bitch to get out. Running your fingers through your hair, you peeked into the bedroom once again in search of Jake. With no luck you called out for him. He came out of his closet with a pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt.

 “Here. Change into these, it’s late. Taylor will drive you home in the morning.” Glancing from the clothes in his hands back up to his face you didn’t quite understand. 

“What are these for?” Jake looked a little bit taken back at your comment.

 “Like I said, change into them. There’s makeup wipes in the one drawer. You don’t have to stay here. You can stay in the guest room if you want. Once again, it’s late. Taylor will drive you home in the morning.” 

 At this point Jake was shoving the clothes into your hands, he didn’t give you any room to protest. Once you closed the door you slid down it and just kept thinking to yourself. 

What The Fuck Did I Just Get Myself Into.

#jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fic #sugardaddy #sugardaddyxjake #greta van fleet #greta van fleet fan fiction #jake kiszka #gvf fanfiction

[azsazz]

CEO Nesta...? Please 🙏🙏

I need it 🥺

CEO!Nesta is THAT BITCH

CEO!Nesta intimidates everyone. There’s rumors around the office that she’s unable to smile, some say it’s because of bad botox (which she’s hasn’t had a need for yet, she just has a phenomenal skincare routine) and other say its because she was in an accident that left the muscles unable to work

CEO!Nesta is always working. Always always always. Never has time for a lunch break, meetings back-to-back, you don’t even know when she has time to go to the bathroom

You’re convinced that she thrives off of two hours of sleep

As her assistant, you’ve been in her office but haven’t seen a bed, but knows she has a closet for the late nights that turn into early morning with little to no sleep

CEO!Nesta isn’t a bitch, she just knows what she’s doing and how she wants it done. She doesn’t tolerate laziness or office gossip or any of that, she’s not afraid to fire someone on the spot

Thankfully, you don’t fit into those categories

You can see the stress lining her eyes the longer you work for her. So you start to do little things for her that she doesn’t take notice of in the beginning. You have her favorite coffees delivered in the afternoons where you know she’s had little sleep. You start rearranging her meetings on her calendar so that there’s more time between them to take a breath or use the restroom

When you really start getting comfortable with it, you schedule her an entire hour for lunch, and she calls you into her office

Your heart is beating out of your chest. Either you’re going to get fired or she’s going to make you schedule something. you know you won’t be thanked for it, but she deserves this kindness more than she realizes

CEO!Nesta blinks, confused. “What’s wrong with my calendar?”

“Nothing,” you answer nervously, “You have a free hour.”

CEO!Nesta looks confused, as if she doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t had a free hour since she’s become CEO, she doesn’t think

You think she’s glitched out, the way she stares at the empty space on her calendar

Finally, she turns to you, and asks if you’d join her for lunch

You stammer out a yes, and she takes you to a nice restaurant, not needing a reservation because they always have a table for her

You find that you really like Nesta

She’s a woman who knows what she wants, is confident, intelligent, gorgeous and she’s funny. You don’t think you’ve laughed this much in ages

You start spending more time together and you make sure to give her an hour free when you can, and she always asks to spend that time with you

Things turn to something more before either of you notice. Gentle touches as you hand her things, a caress across your arm as she passes when you hold the door open to her meetings, linger glances that have you hot between you legs

CEO!Nesta has never been shy except for this. She doesn’t know how to make a move. Men are easy, she walks them like dogs, but you’re very much different

So she just goes for it. Invites you to have a late dinner in her office since the both of you are there. Everyone else has gone home, and when you’re both wine drunk with full stomachs, she leans forward and kisses you

It turns hot, quickly. The both of you are acting on feelings hidden, that have been growing and blooming ever since that first free hour. her hands shake a little, but her movements are still confident in the way they unzip your slacks

He lips are incredible, tongue even more so as she eats you out on the couch in her office. You cum embarrassingly quickly but she doesn’t seem to notice, shoving her fingers inside of you as she drags another orgasm from you

The frenzy turns more. You can’t keep your hands off of each other. Quickies in the bathrooms, smeared lipstick you help her fix, hair mused. Good thing she has that extra closet in her office because one morning she slipped a vibrator up your cunt after going down on you, and she turned it on throughout the day, setting the speed to tortuous, and you’d had to change into one of her skirts halfway through the day, only after she demanded you sit on her face

You’re no less reciprocating. You love the feeling of her creamy skin, so perfect and soft. The feeling of her clit between your teeth, her breasts in your mouth, fingers and toys and tongue and whatever you can get in the vicinity of her cunt. You’d even fingered and sucked at her clit under her desk while she was on a video call. You’d enjoyed her trying to keep her normally cool composure very much

#ceo!nesta #nesta AU #nesta #azsazz #azsazz AU

[bordysbae]

Could you do 53 and 54 combined, with Mark Estapa? Please and thank you 💋

“can i be your boyfriend?”

mark estapa x fem!reader

53. yeah i like you dipshit

54. i want you, not them

disclaimer: i’m so sorry this is definitely one of my least favorites i’ve written, but it’s been in my inbox for a few days and i felt like i need to write it sooner than later? i’ve been pretty sick lately so i truly apologize if this is actually dog shit ugh. ALSO!!! emma is a fake character, idek if ethan has cousins LOL

—

you and mark aren’t dating, but everyone can clearly see that you guys like each other, it’s just a matter of time until you both admit it. normally you aren’t one to get jealous, but something clicked tonight when you saw him talking to her.

ethan’s cousin came to visit him at college, and this isn’t the first time she’s been here either. last year when she came to visit for her winter break, which started a week before michigans, she had everyone’s attention. all the guys were swooning over her, but of course she chose mark. at that time you were nothing with mark, just a close friend with all of the guys, so it didn’t bother you. they never ended up working out since mark thought ethan would be pissed, and he didn’t want to do long distance on top of that.

at the beginning of this semester you and mark became very close friends, and you both developed feelings. neither of you wants to admit it, but it’s just sort of a known fact that you’re bound to date. you guys have seen other people, but once you both began hooking up it stayed that way. you haven’t seen anyone else since you guys first hooked up, and neither has he. but now you’re not so sure, since mark seems perfectly content with her obvious flirting.

you begin to chug your drink as she laughs at whatever he said to her. you can’t imagine anything mark estapa said is that funny, so obviously she’s faking it. “you need to relax, he wouldn’t do that to you y/n,” dylan says to you as he takes a sip from his red solo cup.

“dylan you saw how obsessed they were with each other last year, and it doesn’t help that she’s prettier than me! she looks like a fucking instagram model!” you throw your head back as you place the cup to your lips, finishing the last of your drink.

“relax, she’s not prettier than you. she gets botox and her hair color is fake” dylan chuckles.

“oh dylan you’re such a woman, i love you!” you exclaim as you wrap your arms around the boy. he lets out a laugh and scruffs up the top of your hair.

“let’s go get more drinks yeah?”

“oh hell yeah, i need a lot more to be able to watch this shit” you groan, making dylan chuckle. on your way into the kitchen you both run into luke and tj.

“ah my favorite hughes!” you reply, buzzed a little bit. “hi y/n, hey duker!” luke says.

“y/n did you hear em-“ tj begins to say. “shut up tj, yeah i know she’s here. i don’t really care buddy” you roll your eyes and scoff. you excuse yourself from the conversation before you show anymore jealousy.

you cant stand how much the boys talk about her. it’s always “emma this!” “emma that!” like honestly who cares? you assume ethan isn’t very happy with her at the moment either, so you go find him once you refill your drink. you spot him on the stairs looking bored out of mind as he talks to some random girl, so you decide to save him from his misery, “ethan!” you shout to grab his attention. he instantly turns around and excuses himself from the conversation with the girl. “thank fucking god, you’re my lord and savior!” he exclaims, pretending to bow down to you making you laugh.

“why aren’t you with mark? i feel like at every party you’re always under his arm” ethan asks, taking a sip from his drink.

“he’s uh, with your cousin”

“he is? of course” ethan chuckles. although he’d never admit it, ethan isn’t too fond of his cousin. she’s very touchy with all of his teammates and friends, but since she’s family there’s not much he can do about it.

“yeah, they’re over there” you say pointing to the living room full of drunken people vaping and dancing. emma and mark are sat on one of the couches, and that’s when you notice her hand on marks bicep. that throws you overboard, and makes your blood boil.

“oh you’re kidding” you mumble. ethan turns to you and gives you a confused look.

“what’d you say? i cant hear you over the music.” he says leaning down to hear you better.

“ethan flirt with me!” you blurt out, making ethan spit his drink back in his cup.

“pardon?” he asks, thinking he’s maybe had too much alcohol and is beginning to hear things.

“i said flirt with me! i need to make mark jealous”

“you’re gonna get me killed, y/n!” he cries out.

“and whys that? it’s not like me and mark are dating or anything! we’ve been hooking up, i caught feelings which everyone knows about, and now he’s all over your cousin. so i don’t really see why i cant flirt with you!” you shrug

“i cant tell you why but i just cant do that to him!”

“well he hasn’t been a man and told me he likes me, soooo just flirt with me for christ sake! i’ll go find some random guy to flirt with me if you won’t!”

“no no don’t do that, the guys here are sketchy. fine i’ll flirt with you, but if mark kills me you better speak at my fucking funeral”

“attaboy!” you say playfully hitting his chest.

you and ethan begin fake flirting, and it’s only when you lean into his ear to whisper something that drives mark over the edge. you’ve seen him glaring at you both a few times, but now he’s storming over to you guys.

“eddy what the fuck are you doing?” he drunkenly yells at ethan, making ethan’s eyes go wide. “see i told you he’d kill me! get mad at her man not me! y/n explain it to him” ethan proclaims.

“mark can we just go outside” you roll your eyes at him, he nods his head in annoyance and follows you out onto the porch. you sit against the wall and mark sits down next to you. “the fuck was all that? are we nothing to you?” mark says.

“oh you’re fucking funny mark! you’re one to talk! don’t go blaming me for this shit! first of all, we aren’t even dating so i don’t know why you’re so pissed at me! and sec—“ you begin, but mark cuts you off, “well—“

you then interrupt him back, “i’m not done talking shh! as i was saying, second of all, you were all over emma! you didn’t even seem to mind that her hand was on your arm, and that she was laughing at every fucking thing you said! so no mark, this isn’t my fault and dont accuse me of assuming we’re nothing! i like you, dipshit! is that so hard to see?! i’ve liked you for months now! i don’t want you with anyone else, so i wanted to make you jealous! im not used to seeing you with other girls mark, it’s always me under your arm not emma!” you cry out, now standing up pacing the deck.

“i like you too dumbass! i was planning to ask you out on a date and tell you how i felt, maybe even ask you to be my girlfriend, but then stupid emma came back to town and ruined it! i’m sorry i made you feel that way, but it also hurt me seeing you all over my best friend. girls use me to get to ethan sometimes, and i don’t think you’d do that but it just struck a nerve i guess.” he explains, now standing up as well.

“why did you let her be all over you?”

“i don’t really have an answer if i’m being honest. i didn’t even think about it, i’m really sorry. i get it if you’re pissed at me, i would be too.”

“i’m not pissed at all i’m just annoyed. not necessarily at you, just at everyone. they all kiss the ground she walks on and it’s just fucking annoying. i’m sorry for everything mark, i promise im not mad at you” you say, looking up at the 6’2” boy.

mark looks down at you, and cups your cheeks, “i want you, not emma. know that.” he then leans down to kiss you, and you return the act. his hands remain on your cheeks, and your hands find their way to the back of his nec. you both taste like a mixture of alcohols, but you’re both too far in the moment to even notice.

he pulls back for air and smiles down at you and your slightly swollen lips. “so what do you say, will you be my girlfriend? actually no scratch that, can i be your boyfriend?” he smiles cheesily, way too proud of himself for his romcom of a proposal.

“you’re so cringe, but yes i would love for you to be my boyfriend estapa!” you giggle, playing with the hairs at the back of his neck.

#mark estapa x reader #mark estapa blurb #mark estapa imagine #mark estapa #hockey blurb #hockey imagine #umich hockey #michigan hockey #ethan edwards

[swabian-princess]

Appearance goals until summer

Hey girlies,

since I got promoted to a stay at home girlfriend a big part of my „job“ is to look my absolute best for myself and my man.

We have an event in the beginning of June and my birthday is in July, so I have set myself a deadline – I will be the best version of myself in the summer!

perfect skin – face: I won’t need a new skincare routine because I’m happy with my routine and with the results I’m getting. My pores are almost invisible and I only get pimples right before my period starts. The only thing I will start doing is using retinol again, however, I think two times a week should be enough for me.

perfect skin – body: shame on me – I seriously neglected my body skincare for the last couple of months but that’s gonna change now. I am shaving every second day and do a peeling beforehand when I’m already in the shower. I have a few dark spots and little red spots on my thighs and legs and since I am very pale they are super visible. I’ll start using a chemical exfoliant on those spots to brighten them up. I’ll also start mixing vitamin C and retinol in my bodylotion a few times a week.

Reduce the appearance of cellulite: I only have cellulite on top of the back of my thighs and minimal on my butt – so it’s not really visible in any clothing. Still, I want to look my best in swimsuits. I’ll try out thigh wraps with ground coffee once a week, focus on building muscles in those areas and I’ll be upping my water intake!

super white teeth: I brush my teeth two times a day, obviously, but I’ll start flossing in the morning too! I am also gonna use a mouth wash after every brushing session and I will book one teeth whitening appointment.

fresh nails: I’ll visit the nail salon every 3-4 weeks and get my my toes and hands done. Always in a natural pinkish color or with french tips. I’m also gonna start using hand lotion at home way more often.

perfect hair: my hair got pretty long in the last few months and goes below my shoulder blades. I have an hair appointment coming up and I want to go almost platinum. I want to be really light blonde for spring and in the summer. To maintain the color, I’ll go back every 6-8 weeks to get my roots retouched. At home I’m oiling my scalp and my hair once a week with argan oil. I am also going to use heat protection every time I style my hair.

perfect lips: I already have 1ml hyaluron in my lips but I want them just a little bit more jucy. Maybe 0,5ml will be enough – we’ll see!

appointment with my injector: she's amazing. She’s always honest and never did me or any of my girlfriends wrong. I want her opinion on maybe jaw/cheek or chin filler to make my face more symmetrical. I also want to talk about baby botox and a botox brow lift.

working out: duh. I workout 3-5x times a week and I want to tone up just a little bit more before summer starts. I’ll also try starting to incorperate daily walks into my routine.

new wardrobe: I am gonna clean out my closet in the next few weeks and either donate or throw out anything that doesn’t fit my aesthetic anymore. After that, I’m slowly gonna start building my dream wardrobe.

Selene

#hypergamyblr #hypergamous woman #hyperfemininity #hyper feminine #hypergamy #high class #baby heaux #heaux #heaux tips #high maintenance heaux #high maintenance #hypergamous mindset #highsociety #stay at home girlfriend #leveled up mindset #leveling up journey #leveling up tips #level up journey #leveling up #happy sugar life #sugarbaby #sugar bowl #spoiled heaux #spoiled gf #spoiled girlfriend #stay at home wife

[mother-marilynn]

Reading cod ghost fan-fiction while jazz music plays overhead in the airport as I wait for my flight to board.

A lady eats a burger king burger as her crusty white dog sits growling in a small crate at her feet; groveling at its apparent lack of freedom.

A blonde older, lady with powdery tan eyeshadow is not-so-discreetly peeking over my shoulder to see what I'm typing.

My eyes are tired and my feet are aching as I think idly about whether I actually want to get better and be human at the same time. I begin to believe I can do both at the same time.

A man's voice crackles in the speakers announcing a flight boarding that is not mine.

An older lady with too much botox and a too fake wig talks loudly to a stranger about her daughter getting married and I wonder if she was talking so enthusiastically to this person she doesn't know because she has no one else to tell.

I wonder if I'll actually get it together when I reach my home. If this trip will actually serve as a renewal for productivity and health as all my last trips were meant to but ended up just failing.

I wonder if we'll go to In-n-out when we fly into Los Angeles like we always do. If me and my mom will get into an argument like we always do when we go to that In-n-out.

I wonder why I only notice the women in airports. I wonder why when I'm just day dreaming all men cease and it's only women, how terrible they might be.

#girlblogging #girlblogger #hell is a teenage girl #im just a girl #just girly things #gaslight gatekeep girlblog #self help #self improvement #gaslight gatekeep girlboss #girlhood #dear diary #diary #diary entry #journal #my diary #journaling #journal entry #girl rotting #bed rotting #my brain is rotting #rotting in my room #girly thoughts #girlrotting #sadgirl #this is a girlblog #girl problems #becoming that girl #cinammon girl #clean girl #clean girl aesthetic

[keplercryptids]

the thing that i really appreciate about my neurologist is not his expertise about migraines. he....has none, and doesn't even pretend to, lmao. but what i really appreciate is that he just. does what i ask for. rolled up to my appointment today like, "i don't know that aimovig is doing a whole lot, i want to try aimovig and botox as a combo therapy to see how that goes, but at my next appointment three months from now, if i'm still getting a bunch of migraines i'd like to try something else." he started to tell me about CGRPs in pill form and i was like, "yes, i know, i tried some of my friend's samples that she got from her neurologist," and before he could ask me what kind, i was already giving him the brand and the dose of my favorite one and going over the hoops we'd need to jump through for insurance, etc. after a while he just started taking notes lmao. anyway at minimum if doctors don't know things, they can at least be cooperative!

#jd.txt #migraine tag