#i am sorry i wanted to give you a more elaborated answer

[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

[ghost-proofbaby]

who could stay? (you could stay.) (eddie munson x reader)

summary: you're convinced that being loved comes with a cost. he finds a way to prove you wrong. (wc: 9.7k+)

order up! i've got one ash's special for anonymous. ♡

Keep going, keep going, keep going. 

Agree to run that errand for someone. Offer a shoulder to cry on for that person. Fix that problem for this friend. Keep going, keep offering, keep becoming indispensable. 

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact age you’d figured out the formula. You can never know for sure if the day was sunny or if it were rainy, if it were a calm December morning or a buzzing July night, but those details aren’t very important. The only important detail is that you had finally cracked the code at some point – you had finally figured out the solution to feeling unlovable. And that was that, truthfully, there wasn’t a solution. Once you were destined to feel this way, to feel so sour at your core, there is no easy way to rid yourself of that rotten pit. It would always be there – always churning, always burning, always yearning. Yearning to be loved, yearning to feel those waves of warmth cascading over your brain and down your spine, the ones others had always described to you but you’d just never… experienced. Never became familiar with.

It felt like everyone was playing an over-elaborate prank on you. They’d all conspired against you, invented a false feeling in which someone claims to feel loved, only to sit back and watch as you fumbled to find it. They’d laughed as you dug through a graveyard of relationships, caked your fingernails with dirt as you sobbed and would continue to claw deeper, trying to find just one set of bones that might hold that warmth for you. 

The only solution to that detrimental feeling of being unlovable, was to feel needed. 

You needed to feel so necessary, so essential, to everyone around you at all times. It never mattered how much of you it took. You’d give away every piece of yourself a million times over just to feel wanted at some capacity, even if that capacity were one you’d forced upon the other person. You didn’t care if you’d built the glass cages of theirs – you just cared that they kept you around to wipe away any smudges that appeared. 

Being wanted wasn’t quite the same as being loved. And if you thought about that for too long or too often, you might just break irrevocably. 

“I just don’t understand him,” Nancy sighs from the head of your bed, reclining against a wall of pillows you’d lined your headboard with. Two of which were body pillows. Long tubes of fluff to try and fill lonely spaces, you suppose, “Why didn’t he just tell me he didn’t want to go to the same college? Why… Why do I feel like I am forcing him to be with me?” 

Because you are. Just like I force you all to need me. 

“I don’t know, Nance.” 

That bland, bitter, half-thought out answer lingers on your tongue, almost burns your throat with the whisper of say more, say something useful, say something comforting. It’s the whisper of those four words not being enough. It’s the whisper of that threat that those four words could be the beginning of the end, the thing that makes Nancy realize she doesn’t need you. 

After all, what use is a friend that can’t give good advice, or be supportive during relationship rants? 

You open your mouth to add on something sweeter, something to coat the conversation like honey and smooth out the lines forming on Nancy’s forehead, but she beats you to it, “I’m sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” 

Yes. “It’s fine,” at least that wasn’t a lie – you’d dug this specific grave, had rooted down tooth and nail only to find another empty coffin of a friendship curtained with want instead of love. You’d all but asked for this, “What he did really was shitty. It’s not fair to you.” 

The words are almost robotic, telling Nancy Wheeler what she wants to hear rather than what she needs to hear.  You don’t always do that, you do make a point of investing in the truth from time to time to truly secure your position as someone who is genuinely needed in her life, but the headache nagging at your temples tells you it’s not worth the fight tonight. You’re tired, you’re agitated, and you really just want to get Nancy to the point of contentment in her rambling so that you can send her on her way. 

God, you’re an awful friend. 

It turns you quiet, a ricocheting thought that bruises your inner skull the rest of the time Nancy sits on your bed. The guilt eats you alive for that moment of irritation the rest of the night. Even after Nancy goes home, even after you’ve brushed your teeth and you’ve tucked yourself into bed. The guilt gnaws on the edges of that emptiness inside of you, that ever-present black hole that already existed, and says this is why you cannot be loved. 

Maybe the pity party for feeling like a bad friend is what makes you a bad friend. 

And maybe if you were a better friend, you would be loved instead of wanted for once. 

It’s all part of a cycle, never-ending and treacherous. It’s always been this way. You make promises to your friends and rip yourself to shreds before remolding yourself into whatever they need; giving rides to the younger kids within your circle to the pool all summer which evolved into taking turns with Steve as to who would pick them all up after their D&D club ran late every Friday night, always lending a listening ear to Nancy once Johnathan moved away and she’d had to witness her relationship and her love vanishing in real time, always being the one person who will listen to Robin ramble for hours about her sudden interests. None of it was born of ill-intent, but when you’d go home lonesome at the end of the night, you could see it all for what it was. 

You were trying to fill a void. A hollow rot, a black hole. And it was only working half the time. 

Half the time, until he came along. 

And make no mistake, his arrival was as bloody as anyone who had previously entered your life. For a while there, you believed his headstone was at the end of the line already, sanctioned away in this graveyard of the ability to be loved. He came crashing into your life on a random Friday night, and you had sworn you could already see the end as it began, but you had been wrong. 

“So, you’re the infamous babysitter.” 

His voice caught you off guard. You’d been sitting in your car with your windows down, enjoying the reprieve of a cooling autumn evening as you waited for the boys to finish up with their D&D club. With your head buried in the latest sci-fi novel that Dustin had recommended and would no doubt be grilling you on once he got in the car, you hadn’t even heard the club exit the school. 

“Nope,” you fought a smile as you glanced up from the pages to see an older guy standing there, closer to yours and Steve’s age than the kids. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that this was the famous Eddie all the boys would ramble on about for hours on end, “Harrington’s the babysitter. I’m just the taxi driver.” 

There was something particularly pretty in the way he threw his head back with laughter at your words. Curls that messily fell just beyond his shoulders, full lips disappearing as his teeth peeked through and shined beneath the parking lot’s lamp posts. His denim vest looked purposefully distressed with a mirage of patches and pins, and he was wearing a leather jacket beneath it, even if it wasn’t quite cold enough for it yet outside. He was cute – and watching him laugh because of you sparked something irreversible inside of you. 

“C’mon now,” he sighed as his cackles quieted, “Give yourself more credit than that. At least call yourself something fancy, like ‘chauffeur’.” 

“Ah, but ‘taxi driver’ insinuates that I charge them,” you don’t miss a beat, and your quick wit has him chuckling again. 

You caught sight of his eyes, corners creased with joy – brown. They were deep, russet, tantalizing brown. Almost indiscernible from his pupil in the dark. 

“I’m Eddie, by the way.”

You took his hand that he shoved through your open window with ease, and felt an immediate shiver run down your spine. Not quite from the cold, but not quite warm. You saw the first flash of his grave, and you knew you’d be digging your greedy hands into it soon enough. 

As you gave him your name in return, you knew you wouldn’t be leaving well enough alone. 

You had been half right that night. You wouldn’t be leaving well enough alone, you would be seeking out the impossible from Eddie – but so would he. 

It quickly became apparent that Eddie was a pest. Someone who weaseled his way into the lives of others, who made his presence felt and never forgotten. 

You’d started with the same slow dance as you did with every new person, a hesitant dipping of your toes into their waters, unsure if your presence in their life would only cause more trouble than you’re worth, when you quickly discovered that nothing could ever be hesitant or slow with Eddie Munson. He’s the one constantly reaching out to you. Driving the kids home now takes double the time it used to, long conversations being had with him that has the kids dragging you away, practically begging to just be taken home. The day he’d asked for your number, you couldn’t tell which one of you burned brighter red. And the moment he had your number in his clutches? Forget about it. You never heard the end of Eddie Munson, and you never really wanted to. 

Unlike your friends you already had and loved deeply, Eddie was observant. 

It’s within the first month of knowing you that he had picked up on your insecurities. Maybe he hadn’t directly seen that gaping hole in your chest yet, but he noticed your habit of running yourself dry to see others thrive. 

The need to be needed. He picked up on it quickly. 

“What about Sunday?” Eddie’s voice traveled over the line as you laid on your stomach, stretched out across your bed for a few moments of rest before you had to get up and take the cookies you’d baked for Steve and Robin into Family Video, just like you had promised, “I’m free then if I finish all my fuckin’ homework on Saturday night.”

Surprisingly, that phone call with Eddie hadn’t been something expected or planned. It had been impulsive; in a rare moment of peace, you found yourself craving to hear his voice. Somehow, the two of you had ended up trying to figure out a free day to properly hang out. Eddie wanted to go to Benny’s for milkshakes, and you wouldn’t turn down the free fries he also promised.

“I can’t,” you paused just to hear his predictably dramatic sigh, grinning as you continued to explain, “I’m taking Max to the skatepark that day.”

“And it’s going to take all day?” 

“It could!”

“There’s absolutely no way.”

“You clearly haven’t seen that girl skate.” 

The conversation continued, light-hearted enough with plentiful jokes made. Something about talking with Eddie made your heart lighter, the usual unbearable and contradictory weight of emptiness no longer on your mind as you listened to him ramble about something that had happened in one of his classes – a teacher tried to embarrass him when he caught Eddie doodling for a D&D campaign by asking him a question, not expecting him to know the answer. Eddie had, of course, leaving the teacher baffled with a smirk.

 It’s all about my charm, sweetheart, he responded when you asked how he hadn’t earned a detention from that. 

Only towards the end of the call, when the conversation finally lulled and the two of you found yourselves settled into a comfortable silence, did Eddie finally circle back to the beginning of your conversation. 

“You know,” he started, “When I first met you, I never took you to be someone so…”

“Amazing? Wonderful? Funny?” you jokingly attempted to finish his sentence.

“Busy.” 

Oh. You hadn’t expected that one. 

“Busy?” you repeated back to him, “I’m not that busy.” 

Your mind immediately started racing with thoughts of what he had meant. Was he feeling neglected? Maybe you should have canceled on Max on Sunday, agreed to Benny’s with him instead. No, you couldn’t bear Max’s disappointment. Maybe you could tell Max you had a time constraint, even though you knew she hated those when it came to her skating days. Was there any other plans you could abandon? Anyone else you could bear to let down for the sake of not leaving Eddie high and dry? No, no – all your other weekend plans involved going to the movies with Robin, helping Steve look into colleges finally, taking the boys to the Starcourt mall to shop for supplies to make figurines for their newest campaign. The room was suddenly getting smaller, your chest constricting, your head spinning. You couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing any of those people, no, but what about Eddie? Maybe he was right in feeling neglected, maybe you deserved whatever guilt was to come from whatever his next words would be. He was your friend, you were supposed to make time for h-

“Sweetheart,” he scoffed over the line, and you swore you heart stopped right then and there, “You’re the highest thing in demand since Cabbage Patch Kids last Christmas – and trust me, I should know how in demand those fuckers were. I worked seasonally at the mall, remember?” 

Your breath caught. He was feeling neglected. You weakly began your apology as tears were already filling your eyes, that panic turning over itself in your gut, “I’m-”

“And it’s not a bad thing, don’t get me wrong,” It’s clear your voice had been too soft, too weak, for him to hear you, “Just means I’ve gotta fight harder to be worth your time, am I right?” 

You had to clear your throat, but it did nothing to subsidize that anxiety that rattled your bones. It’s blatantly evident as your voice shook with a second attempt at an apology, “I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t mean- I can… I’ll… Just tell me when for Benny’s. I can make it work, I swear-”

“Woah, woah, woah.” 

He had to have heard the tears that had escaped down your cheeks. The shake of your breath as you’d stuttered over your words, grasping for a solution. 

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” his voice was soothing and soft, the most gentle it had been the entire night. You pinched your eyes shut and just tried to imagine those stupid, big doe eyes, those ungodly messy curls (you’d started to tease him about if he ever even brushed or combed them). The panic remained, but Eddie’s voice started to give it a run for its money, “I was just playing around. You know that, right?” he paused to give you room to answer, but your throat was still tightly squeezed by overwhelming emotion, overwhelming fear of having scorned Eddie, “You could only have enough time in your schedule to see me once a year, and I’d still be your friend. We could only have these random phone calls, even if they were never longer than a minute, and you’d still be worth it. You know that, right?” Another pause, another wave of silence from your end, “Sweetheart, you don’t owe me your time. And I don’t need monopoly over it for us to be okay.” 

Each word made the panic settle. You weren’t sure how he did it. You weren’t sure how mortified you should be that he had only been in your life for a month at most, and had just overheard you at your most vulnerable. 

All you were sure of was that you believed him. 

“Okay,” you croaked, finally feeling that ring of fear loosen, vocal chords finally functioning once more. 

“Okay,” Eddie repeated back in that same gentle, soothing, soft tone. 

You weren’t disappointing him. You weren’t making him feel neglected. He still found use for you, he still wanted you around – he still needed your friendship. That had to be enough.  

It was quiet over the line for a few moments. 

It has to be enough, you reminded yourself. 

“Say,” you finally said, voice back to normal strength and the tears having dried themselves up for the most part. Your heart had almost returned to normal rhythm, “How does Benny’s sound tonight?”

“Tonight?” he chimed back, sounding as excited as a little kid the morning of a cherished holiday, something like Christmas. 

A shiver ran down your spine. It’s not from the cold, and you tell yourself it’s not quite warmth – it can’t be warmth. 

“Tonight,” you confirmed, “With a detour by Family Video, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a special delivery of cookies to fulfill.” 

“What kind?”

“Excuse me?” 

You were grinning - God, you were a pathetic fool, grinning and clutching onto that phone like a lifeline. Like if you let go of it, you’d lose his voice, and if you lost his voice, that would be the end of the world. 

“What kind of cookies?”

“Chocolate chip.”

He hummed, not answering right away as if he were deliberating this information. When he finally spoke again, another shiver wrapped around your spine, spinning down, down down. Waves of what you almost believed were warmth. “Okay. I suppose I can be your taxi driver, for a price.”

“What’s your price?” 

“One cookie.”

“Deal.”

It had to be enough, because you were still clutching that telephone tightly to your cheek, long after the phone call ended with Eddie’s promise of being at your house soon enough. It had to be enough, because after that night, it became clear; the world would not end with the loss of just Eddie’s voice from your life, but the loss of Eddie, period. It was the first night of many in which you played a very, very dangerous game. 

Even with Nancy gone, you felt restless. You couldn’t help but linger just a little longer in all that self-pity, still replaying the night and all you could have done differently. 

Had she caught on with how out of it you had been? Had she seen through your act and immediately assumed the worst – assumed you weren’t worth keeping around? 

The thoughts might be an overreaction. 

You were definitely overreacting. 

You didn’t really care that you were overreacting, though, because you really couldn’t control it. It was just another dark path you couldn’t stop your mind from traveling down. It was endless, and it was lonesome, and… and it was just normal. What should be devolving into a panic attack can only settle like an emptiness deep within your chest; you’ve been staring at the blank wall of your living room for so long without blinking, your eyes have gone dry. 

A pattern. That’s what the therapist said. You had a pattern for overthinking these interactions, for projecting feelings onto others that didn’t exist. You think all your friends hate you, you think that a stranger found your smile to be more of a grimace, you think your mom hasn’t called in months because she recognizes you as a failure finally. But none of it is actually what those people think. It’s like a mirror – you look into the eyes of others, and you see all your own insecurities reflected back. 

She’d asked you to work on it. To take a step back and just breathe, just remind yourself of that, whenever this happens. You’d decide whether you’d mention this minor slip up later. For now, you were going to wallow. You were going to spiral with just you, this damn blank wall, and maybe even the bottle of wine in the fridge. 

Yes, your mind was made up, and you force yourself to stand from the couch and wander into the kitchen, eyes still dry and chest still caving in on itself as you open the fridge. 

That’s as far as you get. Your fridge is wide open, the bright luminescent light flooding your kitchen floor in time with the trickling chill that sneaks up on your warm cheeks and already numb toes, when you spot it. 

A box of takeout. It’s old enough now you could throw it out, you had known the moment he’d taken the last of his meal to-go that he wouldn’t finish it. Teased him about it, even. But he was stubborn and you weren’t capable of turning down the opportunity to let another piece of him, another flash of evidence of his place in your life, occupy this apartment. So there it sat, a half-eaten burger he hadn’t revisited. 

But he had revisited the apartment – revisited you. He’d been here every night this week, and you’d practically had to shove him out on the street to get him to leave this morning to get to work on time. 

The edges of that emptiness that weighs down your insides blur, already lightening microscopically as you slam shut the fridge and forgo the wine completely to grab the phone instead.

“You don’t have to always take care of everyone, you know,” he murmured as he joined you in the kitchen to retrieve popcorn for the gang, everyone gathered in the living room for a movie night. 

“Pardon?” you asked, hardly glancing over your shoulder as you punched in the designated time for the microwave to turn the kernels into an easy, mouth-watering snack of butter and crunch. 

“You always take care of everyone. You don’t have to.”

His words rang clearer that time, loud enough to have stopped you in your tracks. You paused mid-reach, the cabinet for the Harrington’s bowls wide open and shelves nearly too tall for you. 

“I-” you weren’t sure exactly what to say, “What do you mean?” 

His brows scrunched, eyes having narrowed in the slightest in your direction, “Please don’t play dumb right now.” 

“I’m not playing dumb. I’m trying to get popcorn for our movie night,” you waved your hand towards the shelves lined with bowls for emphasis on your point, “That’s not really taking care of everyone – it was just being polite. Steve’s hosting, it’s the least I can do.” 

“The least you can do? The least you can do is actually just sit with friends, enjoy the movie,” the crease between his brow deepened, eyeing you with an unfamiliar concern. You shifted beneath the weight of his gaze. 

You don’t know what to say. Except, “It’s not that serious.” 

He scoffed, and you nearly flinched from it. Fear threatened to bubble up – he’s upset, he’s getting irritated at you. He’s getting tired of you. 

You waited for him to say something more as the buzz of the microwave filled the tense space, but he remained silent. Brooding. 

“What?” your voice shook, your entire being torn between succumbing to all that fear and anxiety in upsetting him further and that voice in the back of your mind that urged you to push him, to hear what he really thought. “I know you have something more to say.” 

“In the six months I’ve known you, you haven’t taken a single break for yourself.” 

He met your push, stood his ground and didn’t let it put any distance between you two. It felt like a goddamn revelation, right there in the Harrington kitchen. 

“I take plenty of breaks, Eddie,” you tried to laugh off, “I do spend time away from you all, hard as that may be to belie-”

“Hardly,” he cut you off as sharply as the first resonating pop that echoed from the microwave. 

“What’s your point? I just like being around you guys. Like I said, it’s not that serious.”

This was the part where the distance would happen. You kept pushing, took the inch he’d given you to bite back and ran with it. Normally, you avoided conflict with any of your friends vehemently. Always afraid, always assuming the relationships to be so fragile and so delicate. You would take such care in never giving them a reason to hate you that you’d never taken to a battleground before.

But there had been a look in Eddie’s eyes that night. A shine that, breaking through all the worry for you, whispered, fight with me. Stand your ground with me. I’ll still call you tomorrow, no matter what words we exchange tonight. 

A safety net had formed that you’d never even noticed. That delicacy wasn’t needed here. You could pick up the sword, there in that kitchen, and it wouldn’t turn Eddie to smoke and shadows. 

“My point is…” he paused, he swallowed hard, he exhibited the delicacy that was usually expected from you, “You can like being around us. But you should put yourself first. At least once. At least on movie night.” 

“How is me making popcorn not putting myself first?” you got the question out, you took a deep breath, ready to go on some sort of defensive tirade for your habit you were well aware of.

He beat you to it, “Every day last week, you only got three hours of sleep, at most, before your shifts. You gave up sleep to hang out with us all way too late, refused to throw in the towel and go home before anyone else.”

“I could have napped-” 

“You didn’t nap,” he stressed, taking a step closer to you. The popping of the snack turning in the microwave was erratic, mere seconds left on the timer. Static noise to the conversation at hand, “I know you didn’t fucking nap after your shifts because you were immediately running errands for everyone else, or hanging out again. You offered to give Robin a ride to work every single day, and her shifts start… what, an hour after yours ended? And then you had to give her rides home, right? But in those hours she was at work, you were helping Dustin with an essay for school – that little fucker told me all about it. You were awake when Johnathan called you and we were all stoned off our asses, went and got us food we didn’t need but still wanted. We didn’t even expect you to pick up, you know? I told them, I swore to them, you wouldn’t pick up. You had a morning shift. You were scheduled literal hours from when we called you. But you picked up. You fucking picked up, and you went and got the fucking food for us fucking idiots.”

Your brain completely malfunctioned. You couldn’t comprehend how he was saying all of these things that should be good things, things that proved you were needed and you were reliable, but with such venom in his tone. 

Anger had sparked within you as you pictured how giddy Dustin had been over the B he’d earned on his essay, that sincere appreciation on Robin’s face every time she left your car last week, the dopey grin that Argyle had worn when you’d arrived with their food order in your pajamas. All previously things to fuel you, filling that aching hole inside of you, now being tarnished because he was concerned.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you seethed at him, “Would you prefer I hadn’t been awake? Would you prefer I let Dustin just… get a fucking F on that essay? Or Robin walks to work?” 

“Yes!” 

You were both shocked at the sudden volume in your voices. The quickness in his reply. The quiver in your lip. 

“Yes,” he breathed out, quieter this time, “I would prefer those things if it meant you were taking care of yourself. The word ‘no’ should be in your vocabulary, sweetheart. I… The world doesn’t end just because you don’t constantly make yourself available.”

But you all needing me might.

“Just… just…” your breaths came out in huffs, eyes downcast and unwilling to meet Eddie’s stare. A final push, and it came out more fragile than you’d ever intended, “Just mind your business, Eddie.” 

He opened his mouth to say more, but the microwave started to go off, signaling what you saw as the end of the conversation – the fight. You’d raised your voice at him, you’d swung that sword in his direction, and he hadn’t vanished. His friendship – he – wasn’t as breakable as you’d thought. 

You spun on your heel, you took the popcorn out and divided it into bowls for the group, busying your hands in any way possible. All the while, he never left the kitchen. He stood just feet away from you and let you do what needed to be done, and only stopped you as you turned to exit the kitchen with the snacks acquired. 

His hand caught onto your elbow, “You have bags.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You have bags under your eyes,” he elaborated. He no longer looked frustrated, but defeated, a morose distress pinching the edges of his feature.

“Jesus,” you were now scoffing, adjusting your grip on those bowls, “You really know how to compliment a girl, don’t you?”

“They’ve been there for months,” his grip refused to loosen, thumb trailing over the crease in your arm, “Please don’t run yourself into the ground.” 

You gave him a cold shoulder as you left him behind to rejoin your friends, unable to shake his consternation. It was so genuine, it terrified you. It made your insides churn, it turned your anxious attachment to dust. 

It made a shiver of warmth travel down your spine. 

The empty space beside you on the couch only remained for seconds after you’d passed around the bowls, keeping one for yourself. He was back there, back at your side, as if the two of you hadn’t just exited a battle ground. As if a stand-off hadn’t just occurred, as if it all hadn’t ended in a draw. 

He looked at you with those eyes.

Fight with me. Stand your ground with me. Don’t walk away from me. I will still call tomorrow.

He did more than call that night. As the movie started, he didn’t so much as flinch when your head fell to his shoulder in exhaustion. He only tucked an arm around your shoulders, only shifted you to be more comfortable as you used him as a personal pillow. He glared at everyone in warning not to grill you on the plot of the movie when you’d awoke mildly disappointed, he’d let you sleep on the drive home. He never once brought the fight back up. 

And he still called the next day. 

After your shift, he was the first voice you heard after dragging your feet into your apartment. A brief apology was exchanged before it was back to business as usual between you two. And somewhere between his rambles, you fell asleep with your phone balanced half-haphazardly between your cheek and shoulder. You could only dream of the grin he wore when he’d hear your soft snores over the line, quieting down immediately to let you rest. He never hung up – he was content to sit on a hushed line if only for the assuredness that you were finally resting. 

The warmth no longer traveled down your spine, instead curling up timidly near that hole inside of you. You let it. 

“Munson residence!”

That warmth that had found home in your chest still remains to this day, rousing at Eddie’s voice over the line. It’s nearly enough to make you cry – the relief that floods you just by the sound of him and his endless chipper. His optimism that always seems to exist, even in contrast with those harsh edges he tries to portray. 

“Eddie,” you whisper, as if you’re not the only one in your apartment, “Can you… Are you free?” 

Even after a year, you still sometimes felt guilt, asking so much of him. Asking so much, and giving so little in return. 

But you weren’t the one who set that standard. Eddie had. Ferociously, fiercely, stubbornly. The insistence that you simply being was enough for him. 

“For you, sweetness?” he chuckles lowly. He recognizes your voice immediately; you never have to say it’s you calling. You could have shrugged it off as Caller ID, but you knew the Munson’s phone didn’t have that. No, he recognized you by voice only. He’d once joked that only you would one day be able to rouse him from the dead, based on the ‘sweet melody alone’. Recognition in death – you had managed to burrow your way so deeply into his life, you’d earned recognition in death. “Always. What’s up?” 

You could have just kept him on the phone. Had one of your infamous conversations about everything and nothing. Sat on the cold tiles of your kitchen and smiled like a child as you listened to him rant. But the cold chill of your lonesome apartment was becoming suffocating, and you remembered that take out in the fridge and the way one of his socks had ended up in your laundry last week. You remembered how you started keeping his favorite brand of beer in your fridge and how one of your pillows started to permanently smell like his aftershave.

He had a toothbrush in your bathroom. He had a key to your apartment. He had a space, here, in this lonesome apartment. And all you had to do was beckon to him, and he would come to fill it. Always. 

“Can you come over?” 

You don’t even have to explain yourself. He complies readily, whispers out a soft yes in the voice you’d also recognize even in death, and promises to be there within ten minutes. 

He makes it within eight. 

And you’re still leaning on your kitchen counter, your head still swimming dangerously with all the different ways you’d let down Nancy. Once upon a time, you might have worried about inviting him over, worried that your anxieties and your short-comings might bleed into your relationship with him. In the beginning, it had been simple enough. You kept him at an arm’s length away the moment you realized you couldn’t make yourself needed to him, not out of selfishness but out of fear. Fear, because if he didn’t need you, why would he stick around? 

Because without need, if you did the wrong thing, there was no necessary thread tying them to you. Because without need, there was no chance for the day that you might find love in your grave robbings, and you couldn’t handle the thought of someone like Eddie Munson deciding you weren’t worth his time. 

It hadn’t occurred to you for a very long time that maybe, possibly, you’d been going around the concept of love with a very wrong mindset. 

Your safe place. That’s what the back of the van had become over these sticky summer nights – your safest refuge. 

It was always the same scene; Eddie on his back beside you, lazily nursing a joint, while you sat up reading passages of the latest book you two had embarked on together. Sometimes it was poetry, sometimes it was fantasy, and sometimes, it was just a reread. That night, it was a reread. The Hobbit. 

“‘I don’t see that this will help us much,’ said Thorin disappointedly after a glance. ‘I remember the mountain well-’” you recited off of the page, when Eddie suddenly sat up abruptly and snatched the book from you. 

“No, no, no!” he wagged his finger at you after he discarded his joint into the ashtray you’d made him start keeping in the fan, “Sweetheart, you’re doing the voices all wrong.” 

You rolled your eyes at him, reaching to take the book back, “Not all of us have a Dungeon Master voice to whip out, Munson. Give it back.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Do I need to say please? I’ll say please.” 

It was best like this. Just the two of you, away from everyone else. Some nights, the two of you hadn’t even needed a book to bond over. You’d just gaze at stars, or indulge in whatever weed he’d brought along with him. He never pressured you, though – if you shook your head at his offer of the joint, that was that. He seemed to apply that to most aspects of your friendship this last year. 

You never had to prove anything to him. He saw your worth as if it were glaringly obvious, as if it were as simple of a concept as breathing. No extra effort needed from your end. 

Just by being, you had managed to become something important to him. He needed you, if only because you were you. 

“The puppy dog eyes aren’t gonna work on me,” he snorted, shifting so that his shoulder pressed against your own. A warmth spreads from the point of contact. “Let the master show you how it’s done.” 

You tried to not let it show, but your grin was radiant. He was the master at those ridiculous voices, at theatrics and at bringing the story to life. You were transported from the shore of Lover’s Lake, in the back of that stuffy yet comforting van, to meadows of soft grass and hobbit holes of comfort. To a place where all the threats were mythical and all the expectations of you were released. 

You’d spent the week helping Steve finish up his college plans. His parents had tried to pressure him into picking his top three universities, but the moment he had confided in you that he might prefer a community college to begin, you’d held his hand as you guided him through the process. A rewarding process, have no doubt, but it had left you numb and reeling. Sharing someone else’s stress, shouldering their burdens – it had been a bit much.

You needed this. You needed Eddie’s ridiculous voices and the sharp press of his shoulder against your temple. 

“Falling asleep on me already?” he teased when he’d noticed how quiet you had gone. 

“Never,” you lied through a yawn that quickly exposed you. 

“Liar,” he huffed. You didn’t even need to glance up to confirm the smile you knew he wore. “We can head back home, if you need. I know it’s getting late-”

“No,” you quickly sat up, effectively making yourself dizzy, “No, I- It’s fine. I’m awake. I swear.”

“It’s okay that you were falling asleep,” he was quick to reach out, to tug you back down to his side, wrapping his arm around you to press you even closer than before, “I just don’t want to keep Cinderella out past Midnight.” 

“It’s barely ten.” 

“Nothing gets past you, Sherlock,” he scowled as you pressed your grin against his t-shirt clad shoulder, “I’m serious, though. Do I need to take you home?”

“No, Eddie. I’m good.”

“Swear it? Swear you don’t have an early shift, or some… some obligation?” 

“No shifts, no obligations.” 

“And if I just kidnap you for the weekend? Am I going to have an angry mob at my doorstep, demanding your service?” 

You smiled wider at the thought. The idea of him hiding you away, letting you live in this reprieve for the entire weekend. It was a nice thought, “I certainly wouldn’t complain.” 

And so the two of you sat there like that for an hour more. Eddie coming up with ridiculous tones for the various characters, you slipping in and out of consciousness as his warmth stayed wrapped around him. You don’t even notice when the warmth he’d planted in you finally covers up that hole inside of you, not even missing the absence of that emptiness until Eddie went quiet.

In the silence, you noticed it. 

The gash you’d grown accustomed to, the hole that had become an extra limb for you. Vanished. Gone. Disappeared without a trace.

It was a sudden and terrifying realization. Everything in you urged you to jump up, to scramble around you to find the darkness again, like a comfort blanket you couldn’t stand to lose. You went against the instinct, though, and rose slowly from Eddie’s hold. 

In lieu of scrambling, you peered at Eddie curiously. “Hey, Eds. Can I ask you something?” 

He nodded sleepily, almost as drowsy as you. You’re shocked when he shifts and instead of pulling you back to him, he opted to lay his head in your lap. 

That hole was still gone. The weight of his head on your thighs, the feeling of his breath on your bare thigh. For a moment, you can’t breathe. 

You’re warm. Not uncomfortably so, but encapsulated with an internal warmth. Like a fever spreading, the ice in your spine that you had lived with for years had begun to thaw. 

“Why do you keep me around?” you whispered, still sitting stiffly, staring in awe down at the way he just nuzzled his face into your lap.

With his eyes still closed, face smooth from any worry from the question, he mumbled, “What do you mean?” 

You only hesitated due to the thought crossing your mind; what if you bringing this up reminds him? 

You thought back to the night in Harrington’s kitchen. The push and the pull, the bloody battle and the way he still called.

He was not as delicate as you took him for. 

“I- What do you get out of this?” you couldn’t figure out how to phrase it correctly. You knew what you got out of this, but what does he get? 

“Get out of what?” 

“Get out of keeping me around.”

His eyes finally opened, twisting in your lap so that he could stare up at you. “You say that as if you’re forcing me to be your friend.” 

I could be, that nagging voice in your mind whispered. You could very well be forcing him, and just be blinded because you were enjoying the summer of warmth that he carried with him too much to let him go. 

“You never let me do anything for you,” you sighed, fingers finding themselves tangled in his roots against better judgment. But you needed to touch him, to ground yourself, as you admitted this hard truth, “You do shit for me all the time. You drive all the way out to this lake just because I complain about everything being too much. You’ve started playing chauffeur for the kids to give me a break. Harrington said you even offered to look at college brochures with him. And…. And I’m not stupid, Eds,” your voice shook as you looked down at him, a sudden feeling of undeserving striking you in your chest, “You do so much for me lately. And you don’t ask for anything in return – you don’t let me do anything in return. Why?”

His smile twisted with a hint of sadness, and brown eyes met your gaze without so much as flinching, “Sweetheart, why do you think you have to repay me for that stuff?”

“I-”

“No, hear me out,” he reached up, taking your hand out of his hair and lacing his fingers with yours, slowly dragging it down to rest on his sternum, “I chose to do that stuff. And, yeah, maybe I was trying to take some of that shit off your plate. But you didn’t ask me to. I chose to. I wanted to do those things, do nice things for you, because you won’t let anyone else.” 

You bit back a scoff, “I let people do nice things for me-”

“You really don’t,” his hold on your hand tightened, “You really, really don’t. You constantly…. You just, you take care of everyone else, but you act afraid to let someone take care of you. People are allowed to take care of you, too, y’know? You should let them. They love you – they want to take care of you, just like you take care of them.” 

They love you. 

The air drained from your lungs in a slow, silent sigh. You waited a few minutes, but the oxygen never replenished as you tried to grasp his words. 

They love you. 

Why would they love me? 

“Why wouldn’t they love you, sweetheart?” Eddie looked more concerned now, suddenly prepared to sit up and remove his head for your lap. But his hand still held yours tightly, still clung to you, “You know they love you, right? God, you gotta know that. We all love you.” 

You hadn’t realized you’d spoken the bitter thought out loud until he looked at you, utterly heartbroken, in complete disbelief. “I…”

No. I don’t know that. What have I done to deserve their love? 

“They need me, sure,” you started, narrowing your eyes at the breaks in the waves of Lover’s Lake, “I mean, I just try to make myself useful to them. It’s the least I can do when I… when they…” you struggled to get the words out. You saw that hole again, like a light at the end of the tunnel, but so far from the relief most mean by that metaphor. Something peeking around the corner, ready to devour you all over again. So you plunged, you prepared yourself for it to spring to life and take you whole as you nearly whimpered, “When they put up with me. It’s the least I can do when they put up with me.” 

“No one puts up with you,” Eddie’s voice cracked. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes. “Least of all me.” 

The deadliest of blows. He cracked your hardened surface with that, shook the foundations of every belief you’d held for eternity. 

“Most of all you,” you corrected without thinking, “God, I- Eddie, seriously. What reason do you have for keeping me around? I don’t know how the fuck you put up with m-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you’d never heard him beg so painfully before then, “Please. Don’t… You want to know my reason?” you nodded numbly, finally looking to find him with wet eyes and lips pressed into a fine line, “Because you’re you. I… Fuck, I love you. I keep you around because you’re you. You’re good for me. Whether you believe it or not. You’re good for me just by being you, and there’s nothing you have to do to accomplish that,” you started to look away before he grabbed your cheeks, turning you to face him as he emphasized each word, “You don’t have to earn love. That’s not what love is. Got it?” 

You looked into his eyes, and saw all the soft declarations of love echoed back to you, even from the very start. 

‘Sweetheart, you don’t owe me your time. And I don’t need monopoly over it for us to be okay.’

‘The world doesn’t end just because you don’t constantly make yourself available.’

The entire time you’d been so worried about taking care of everyone else, he’d been worried about taking care of you. Endless late night phone calls, careful check-ins when he saw the exhaustion take the frontlines, sparse fights about putting yourself first. The only thing he ever wanted from you was for you to take care of yourself. 

While you were busy being there for everyone else, he was busy being there for you. 

He never once made you dig to the bottom of his grave to find the warmth. He’d handed it over on a silver platter. 

So how could you look him in his at that moment, and tell him that you didn’t ‘get it’? That you’d never been sure if what you were seeking from your friends was really love? That, really, you’d given up on being loved a long time ago, assuming it was asking too much? 

How do you look him in his eyes in that moment and tell him you had long since declared yourself unlovable? 

He didn’t make you say it. Only kept your cheeks pressed between his palms, as he leaned forward, forehead meeting yours and whispering words for only you, “I love you, no strings attached. You’re my… friend. I love you. Okay?”  

No one had ever fought so valiantly to get the point across. Not just that night at the lake, but in the entirety of his friendship with you. 

The hole slinked back behind the corner. The darkness decided it could wait another day. And in its place, warm brown eyes filled the void. Whether he even realized it or not. 

You nearly believed him. Nearly. But you bit down hard on that belief, throwing it out of sight, and instead of echoing back the ‘okay’ you assumed he was seeking out, all you did was sob out another, “Why?” 

When you collapsed into him, he held you. Your sobs remained dry, your confusion palpable as you clung to him and tried to let that belief envelope you like his arms had. 

I love you. 

How could someone love you? 

He didn’t press it the way you thought he would. He didn’t scold you for continuing to question him and he didn’t lash out at your disbelief. 

He just held you. Letting your face press into his neck as his fingers ran up and down your spine, giving it a moment before he started talking again. 

“Your humor,” he hummed after a couple moments of silence, heavy breathing eventually evening out. 

“What?”

“The way you take care of others,” he continued on like he hadn’t heard you, “That spark you get in your eyes when you tell someone about something good. A favorite book, movie, story from your day – whatever it is. The way you give the best hugs – and you don’t give me them nearly often enough. The way you snore, and the way you definitely deny snoring.” 

You opened your mouth, about to lift your head and argue with him, but he just placed an encouraging palm on the back of your head to keep you close to him. 

“The way your favorite color changes with the seasons. The way you only like artificial cherry flavoring, not the real stuff. The way you look at night when we’re driving and you’re just screaming your favorite lyrics. The way you look at me to see if a joke lands. The way you fuss about my wrinkled clothes, even when you also don’t care about the wrinkles in your own shirts. The way you take your coffee. The way you always offer to paint one of my nails to match yours. The way you treat your recipe for chocolate chip cookies like some top secret, government trade. But we both know it’s just some recipe from a cookbook you thrifted when you were ten. The way you get excited over the small things, like the cows we pass by on the way out here. They're always there, and you always point them out. The way you just… are.” 

He didn’t have to say it. He was answering your question. 

He was listing his whys. 

“You don’t have to earn it,” he didn’t say the word, not this time. You felt it, “It just… it’s there. It’s there and it’s not going anywhere. I’ll remind you of that every day if I have to.” 

Loved. For the first time ever, it felt like a possibility; to be loved. 

Eddie always knocks on your front door a certain way – a pattern he rarely strays from. But you can always tell. He’s the only fool who would find humor in knocking out such an annoying compilation of hits on the wooden panels until you finally unlatch the lock and open it to find him standing in your threshold. 

His hair is frizzy and in a low ponytail, wearing a baggy band shirt and plaid pajama pants. He greets you with such a wide smile, your chest aches. 

“Hey there, sweetness.” 

You don’t say a word, just drag him inside before you wrap your arms around his waist. Ever since that night, and his admittance of enjoying your hugs, you made a conscious effort to hug him more often. 

“Miss me?” he chuckles, and you feel the vibrations against your cheek as you softly pinch his side. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him only laugh harder once you pull away. 

“Not at all,” you snark back as you make sure the door is securely shut and properly locked.

“Not even a little bit?”

“Nope.” 

He smacks a fist to his chest as if you had stabbed him with your words, “Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.” 

“Get over it,” you tease. Your head has finally stopped swimming, your chest no longer tight with the fear of not being enough. Nancy is long forgotten as you say, “Have you eaten dinner?” 

“Depends,” he hums as he toes off his boots, “If you’re offering to buy me some, then no, I definitely did not eat spaghetti with Wayne right before you called.” 

You throw your head back laughing as he’s already making a beeline for your kitchen, digging out that damned takeout menu and reaching for the phone, already so sure of your order.

Knowing your order at restaurants. Without having to ask. Apparently, that was part of the whole ‘being loved’ gig. 

Adjusting has taken months. Since that night in Eddie’s van, he’d kept his word. Not a day went by without him finding a way to remind you, whether it be by direct words or small actions, that he loved you. You both kept it under that friendly guise. He loved you in that familiar way, the way the others supposedly loved you. A way you could manage to recognize some days. 

Other days were still rough. Days like today were still rough. 

The takeout is ordered and Eddie sets up camp on your couch, rambling about something that had happened during one of the DnD nights he still hosted with the kids. Something about a dumb decision Mike did that cost most of the group their character’s lives. You have a hard time following along, and he’s quick to pick up on it. 

“Hey, sweetheart?” he murmurs as you lean into the back couch cushion, smooshing your cheek as you watched him animatedly speak.

“Hm?”

“Bad day?” 

He never judged you for the rough days. He never judged you for the days you still couldn’t find the love, even after he worked so virtuously to show it to you. He may never understand it, that hollow ache that resided in your darkest corners and whispered that none of it was real, but it never deterred him.

He loved you on good days, and he especially loved you on bad days. 

You consider lying to him, but you can’t. Not when he looks at you so earnestly, “Yeah. It… yeah.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks you, shuffling to be more comfortable where he sits as he motions for you to lay down. You do so immediately, head finding a home against his thigh and his fingers stroking over your cheek before they toy with the ends of your hair. 

All you can do is shake your head. You didn’t want to talk about that fear of failing Nancy as a friend, especially when you know that wasn’t her take away from it. It felt silly now; all that overthinking, when you know now if you questioned her on it, all she would have seen from the day was a friend lending a caring ear. You know because you had asked her about it once, if she found your listening habits too callous, upon Eddie’s insistence. 

She hadn’t. In fact, all she could do was thank you, had insisted that she was just grateful someone would listen to her ramblings. And you understood that, left it at that. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice so quiet you nearly miss it. His fingers continue to play across your shoulders now, barely weighted against bare skin, “That’s fine.” 

He didn’t mind if you didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t mind if you never spoke another word, if all you needed was him here. You just needed him close by and to sit with you, to make it all a little less much. 

Nothing. He needed absolutely nothing from you, asked nothing of you. Because you didn’t have to earn this. All you had to do was simply be, and he would provide this. 

Love. What an odd concept, to have found warmth in a grave you never even got the chance to dig your shovel into. 

“Hey, Eddie?” his fingers pause at your croaking voice. You smile at his stillness, at the way he hums carefully in response, still trying to offer the silence you quietly begged for, “I love you.” 

There’s more to unpack there. More than just familial love, more than just two friends that love each other without conditions. But tonight is not the night, and you both see that it is enough. There will be other nights to dig your claws in and to dissect what those three little words mean between you two. There will be other nights to consider how your other friends don’t have a permanent spare toothbrush on your bathroom counter or a space for their takeout in your fridge. But not tonight.

For tonight, this was enough. The quiet, and the warmth, the being was enough. 

“I love you,” he emphasizes the last word, leaning down and his lips grazing your temple. 

You notice the way he leaves off the too. He’d love you, even if you didn’t love him. You’d love him, even if he didn’t love you. Unconditional, no strings attached. A warmth you do not have to fight to earn. A rarity you never encountered before, and may never encounter again, but you have for tonight and for as long as he chooses to stick around. 

Your shovel sits abandoned in a shed in the distance. Your fingernails are clean of the dirt. The graveyard, it seems, would go another night without its robber. 

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #yeah the archer has a chokehold on me #idk man this is scary to post a put... a lot of myself in here #my bad #3k celebration

[diremoone]

whipped cream apology | r. sukuna

fights are uncommon between you and your fiancé, but there are times they do happen. you know you’ll never hear a verbal apology come from him, but you know he’s sorry; Sukuna’s apologies always come in the form of gifts, food, or acts of service. this time is no different :3

w — modern au, chef! sukuna (he owns and works in his own restaurant but that’s not elaborated on), itsy bitsy sprinkles of angst bc of a mentioned fight, fluff, this is super duper short haha, food and food descriptions bc I am a woman who loves her food so sue me :3 this is just a random lil fic I wrote in like a day so i won’t be surprised if this flops lmao

[ divider credit to @/inklore ]

You don’t know how you go to sleep angry, but you do.

Last night had been awful. Maybe you’d blown everything a little out of proportion, maybe not. Your energy hadn’t been so great coming through the front door of your home. You’d just been stalked by a couple of guys that wouldn’t stop leering at you, and to top that off you had an old woman at the register of the store get ugly with you. All you wanted was the nice dinner you know would be awaiting you and to not be bothered for awhile after that.

Problem was, was that Sukuna was also in a bad mood. Someone at the kitchen of his restaurant had put him in a super bad mood by not following orders, and a food critic was to be coming by in a few days. And when you mixed his bad mood with yours, it led to you two going to bed on bad terms.

But now, you’re not even sure that Sukuna had come to bed.

Did that idiot sleep on the couch?

Just as you’re about to get out of bed, you see a note on the nightstand with your name on it. You grab it, unfold it and read: ‘Stay in bed and text me when you’re awake.’

Your sleepy brain goes blank for a moment, but you oblige your fiancé’s request anyway, texting him that you’re awake with a pink heart afterward, hoping he still wasn’t upset with you.

Sukuna’s answer is almost immediate.

Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be upstairs.

But you do need to pee really really bad. You make your bathroom trip as quick as possible and hop back in the bed, miraculously just as Sukuna comes through the door with a large tray of what you smell to be food.

“Morning, baby,” he greets you.

You can see the solemn look on his face, one of upset. He’s still bothered about last night.

“Morning, ‘kuna,” you reply, smiling at him. It seems to partially work, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

You flatten out the blanket as he sets the tray over your legs. Your eyes can’t help but blown open so wide in shock and excitement that you accidentally make them hurt. To your expression and blinking eyes, Sukuna chuckles.

“An apology, for my shitty behavior last night.”

There are several plates of food on the large tray. Perfectly cooked eggs, bacon, sausage; all of your favorite comfort foods all sit before you.

But right in the center is a heaping pile of one inch-thick, fluffy pancakes the size of your head, four stacked atop of another. Butter runs down underneath the sweet maple syrup. Neatly placed around the edges of the plate are bananas and strawberries. And on the very top is a generous pile of whipped cream in a fancy swirl.

You grin at his meticulousness of making such a wonderful plate that’s only just going to get messy.

“Sukuna—”

He scowls. “Don’t even bother me with apologizing back. I don’t wanna hear it. I’m the asshole. You did nothing wrong.”

Love swells in your heart and soul for the man you’re soon to marry. God, you love him.

“You’re sure?”

He tsks. “Positive.”

You smile brightly. “I love you.”

His cheeks and ears go pink. “Just eat.”

“Cheeseball,” you call him, cutting into the pancakes. “But don’t mind if I do.”

“If you can’t eat all of that, I’ll eat the rest.”

“Fuck off, it’s mine.”

taglist: (no longer adding)

@vagabond-umlaut | @poe-daydreams | @heresan @thedovahqueen | @lotus-n-l0ve | @chiyoso | @miraclecherryblossomsblog | @unbreakableblueheaven | @marscatbutler | @vanillabloo | @wo-ming-bai | @visionsofmagic | @tohsri | @yuujispinkhair | @lilacliliess | @bub-ss

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna fic #chef! sukuna #jjk fluff #jjk sukuna

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

No Other Gods

Serial killer! Billy Russo x Female Reader.

Billy’s POV mostly

Summary: Billy’s on the run, moving from place to place as he leaves a trail of bodies behind. When he steps into a church to hide, he stumbles upon someone that makes him want to stay.

Warnings: Dub- con, violence, gore, blood, blood smearing, so much murder, mentions of Billy's past assault attempt, suggestion of possible sexual assault attempts toward the reader, religious themes, blasphemy, sexual acts in a church, thoughts of non-con (no actual non-con), poison, restraints, oral, fingering, sexual intercourse, wax play/heat play, Devil worship. 

If you want clarification on a possible trigger, I am happy to elaborate. 

I took the dove out back, shot it, then resurrected it so I could kill it again. Be warned.

For my lovely @ittybxttykxttytxtty who was so instrumental in the design of this fic. This goes out to you, love, who reminded me that I shouldn't be afraid to write whatever inspires me.

He’s calm. 

Each step he takes is slow, measured, he hears the echo of it on the quiet street, the drag of his shoe on the concrete sidewalk. 

He turns the corner, and has to fight the instinct to hold his breath as they turn their heads to look up at him. The murder weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans feels ten pounds heavier.

Even breaths, one in, one out, he knows nothing, he has no sense of concern, or worry. He blinks, feels trepidation wash from his skin.

Internally, he readjusts his course, doesn’t want to walk past the group of officers that are studying him from further up the street, doesn’t want to answer questions just yet, not until he has his story straight.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the church and he changes his walk ever so slightly that it looks as though he’s been heading there the entire time.

When he’s at the closest point, he raises his head and smiles, gives a little wave to the officers, wishes them a good day, though he knows what they know, and it’s not a good day for them.

The church is pristine, unlike the other buildings on the street, it stands with fresh paint and the smell of almost dried varnish and scrubbed steps that tell him that this church is probably the most coveted place in the entire town. 

Billy, having just cut a man’s throat in the High school gymnasium, steps past the door, and does not immediately combust.

Surely, that must mean he’s doing something right, that his cause is a good one, maybe even approved of in the eyes of God.

He’s not convinced.

For a moment, he thinks it’s empty, thinks he’s alone with God and his thoughts, up until the slight movement of shoulders draws his eye.

He’s in disbelief that he missed you the first time, the light of the stained glass hitting your sedentary form.

He takes some quiet steps forward, swears he feels the concealed knife grow warmer. He watches you, studies in rapt attention the way the coloured lights look on you, the way they illuminate your hair, makes his fingers ache to touch something that looks explicit in its forbiddenness.

Your dress is white, or a cream colour that tells him the outward state of your mind, the purity nurtured in your soul.

He moves faster now, eager to see you, to know what you look like, to hear your voice, to look into your eyes.

He turns when he makes it to your pew, sees the way the light caresses the planes of your face, and he wishes he could do the same.

You are radiant, undisturbed beauty, your hands clasped together beneath your chin, a small rosary wound between your fingers. He wants to touch your hair, swirl strands of it around his finger, he wants to feel your skin, hold your form beneath his palms.

Everything he wants, halts, the moment you turn your head and look up at him.

His lips part in surprise, he’s taken by you. You must be an angel, or something more.

“Hello.” You say softly, gazing up at him with unsure eyes.

“Hello sweetheart, I'm sorry to bother you.” Billy answers smoothly, as though he isn't desperate for you to get closer so that he can catch your scent.

You look like you smell like flowers, he thinks to himself, bristles with delight when you finally stand, the light streaming through the stained glass paints you with a myriad of colors.

“It's okay,” you soothe, “I don't mind helping.” You smile at him, an ease of trust in your eyes. Trust, he could so easily extinguish with the weapon concealed on him.

You extend your hand, giving him your name, he smiles, gives his back. In your eyes, he can see something he doesn’t quite recognize.

Too pure, Billy finally decides. You're too pure, there must be some wrong.

“I’m new to town,” Billy explains, leaning in so that he can stand in God’s light with you, in hopes that you can absolve him of the thing he has done.

“Got a little bit lost. Will you help me find my way?”

You smile, and it reminds him of warm fires in the winter, of standing in sunlight after being drenched from head to toe.

“Where are you going?”

.

One of the wives whispers something in your ear, Billy watches you tilt your head back laughing. You had this entire town wrapped around your finger and before he’d arrived, he’s sure no one had ever questioned your purity.

A white dress and blue cardigan, he wants to take you into one of the back rooms of the church and push his murderous hands under your dress, feel your gasp in his skin as his hands paw at your delectable thighs.

He wants to ruin the very image of you, reshape you for him, and him alone.

He turns his head slightly, observes that he’s not the only man here transfixed by you, but one in particular catches his eye.

The reverend, in the same clothes he’s just delivered Sunday sermon, gazes lustfully at you, his glasses balanced at the very tip of his nose to conceal the direction of his eyes. 

He recognises the expression, knows it like he’s looking into the face of someone who once looked at him the very same way. The reason he started killing in the first place. 

He feels the itch swell inside of himself, his fingers flex.

It seems as though it would be time to hunt again very soon.

.

“Lost again?” Someone says behind him while he’s picking out laundry detergent.

He turns, seeing you there, in a pale pink shirt, and tan pants that hide your figure from his view. 

He smiles, watches the way you light up even more. A sweet, little morsel made for his fangs.

He holds up two different boxes of detergent for you to see.

“What do you think?” He asks.

You hum, deep in thought.

“This one,” You say, pointing at the item in his right hand, “smells too flowery for my taste, and you don’t seem like a man that likes to smell like flowers.” 

He smiles, raises his eyebrows, intrigued.

“And this one,” You point to his other hand, “Oh, that’s the one I use.”

“So it must be the best.” He agrees, as if you made a proper suggestion, putting the latter into his shopping cart.

You smile up at him in amusement.

“So, how are you getting all of this back to your place?” You ask, tilting your head at the moderate amount of groceries in his cart.

He turns, looking at what you were observing.

“You’re right, I might have picked up too many things for my walk back home. I’ll have to put some things back.” He agrees with her implications.

“No way!” You protest, reaching to take his hand, tugging him with you.

“Pastor Wade brought me along with his wife, I’m sure they’ll have some extra space in the back for you.” He follows, feeling anger that Wade had found himself closer to you than before. You wave your hand excitedly at the reverend, and Billy smiles internally at the sour look he receives from the man himself.

The trunk gets filled with the reverend’s new items, and Billy smiles, looks at you as you tilt your head, trying to solve a problem of too many groceries and too many people trying to fit into one vehicle.

“Give it up,” He says, mouth angled near your ear, “I’ll find another ride-”

“Don't you dare,” You argue, “I promised you a ride home and I won’t back down now.”

He smirks, watches you pile yours, and then his items into the backseat of the car. When you’re done, there’s only just enough space for only one person to fit.

“That’s okay.” You insist, “I can sit on you, if you don’t mind?”

Of course he doesn’t mind.

“If you’re sure.” He taunts.

“It’s a great idea.” Wade’s wife echoes, too eager to have them both in the back seat and the journey started.

Billy does his best to appear aloof, he gets in, and looks up at you expectantly.

You’re hesitant at first, before looking around, and then climbing into the back seat of the car to seat yourself in his lap.

Billy takes a deep breath, exhales, watches the pores on your neck and collarbone rise when his breath touches you.

A few moments into the ride and you’re wriggling uncomfortably in his lap.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Warm.” You explain, reaching for the buttons on your pink cardigan, brushing his stomach with your hand as you tug it off your shoulders.

Billy watches, with rapt attention as you reveal a white shirt beneath your cardigan. When you almost slip off his lap, he reaches to grip your knees.

“Hold on, sweetheart.” He whispers, just so you can hear.

You hold conversation with Wade and his wife throughout the journey, talking about how excited you are for the upcoming Christmas season, and that dressing up as an angel at the annual concert is a highlight for you.

All the while, Billy keeps you seated in his lap, your ass right on his hardening cock, the smell of blossoms drifting from your hair.

He closes his eyes, tries to distract himself from thinking too much about you, but he knows it doesn’t work. When the road gets bumpy, Wade apologises for the rough ride, and you respond with something reassuring.

You stiffen after a moment, and he knows he’s been caught.

He knows you feel him when you turn your head to look at him in surprise, his cock, hot and hard below your ass, rubbing against you as the car sputters along.

He looks right back at you, meets your shocked look with a sinister one of his own, wants you to know what a man feels like, makes sure you commit him to memory.

In the rearview, he sees pastor Wade glance at the pair of you. Billy looks back, holds his eyes, gives the supposedly pious man a smirk.

.

The next Sunday, you sit beside him in church.

It completely unfocuses him from his next target, he tilts his head to look at you.

Such a curious thing, drawn to something you now know isn’t as wholesome as appeared to be. It makes him feral, makes him want to put his hand on your thigh, slide it slowly up until he’s at the apex, tuck his obscenely large fingers under the waistband of your panties, find you dripping, feel you aching, press a lone finger to your swollen clit, make your sweet little cunt gush in God’s sacred domain. 

When it’s time to take his hand in prayer, he makes sure to do it as slowly as possible, dragging his fingers along your palm, your touch makes him feel blessed.

.

It becomes a habit, sitting beside him for Sunday mass, the eroticism of your touch right before you pray, before you ask God for forgiveness from all your impure thoughts and deeds, and Billy sits besides you, blood dripping from his hands as he imagines the ways he wants to violate you in this very church.

.

It’s a Wednesday evening when he steps into the church, the most desolate time possible. He knows there’s only two people here, him, and his target.

He moves slowly, cautiously, on the balls of his feet to avoid making too much sound. The wind blows, the front doors to the church groan. 

He passes the stained glass windows where he’d first met you, he passes the pew he sits at every Sunday while thinking about you, he passes the doors at the back of the church that he thought would make a decent place to defile you.

He goes deeper, till he can hear the quiet familiar slapping of a man going at it.

He’s not shocked by it, or scandalised, he knows his wife barely touches him, he knows she has an idea of what goes on inside his head. Billy’s studied her too, looked at her while she watched the way he leaned in to speak to you, a spark of realisation in her eyes. 

He makes gentle movements, turning the doorknob with two of his fingers at a pace so slow it goes unnoticed by the person on the other side of the door.

He gazes steadily through the small gap.

Pastor Wade has your pink cardigan pressed to his face. Billy remembers the last place he saw you wear it- in the back of Wade's car. 

He has one hand to his face, and the other stroking his meagre erection. Billy waits, in the stillness, the only sounds are the preacher’s laboured breaths and the movement of his hand.

There’s a right moment to act, and Billy waits patiently, he doesn’t have to talk himself into this one as much as he’s done with some others before. This one comes easily, in part because he’s grown accustomed to the feel of blood spilling onto his hands, almost craving it now, but mostly, it’s because Wade’s next intended victim is you.

In front of him, Wade groans, tilting his head back pace quickening. Billy pushes the door open. The wooden door doesn’t groan like it did before, Billy had greased the hinges just last week in preparation for this.

Billy stands behind the man, waiting for the precise moment, and when the preacher lets another groan loose from his lips, a warning of impending release, Billy strikes.

The man comes just as his throat is cut open, blood spraying from his neck as semen spills from his cock. Warm blood pours over Billy’s hands, as he supports the man as he drops, not wanting to cause more noise than necessary.

He lies on his side, turns his head upward, mouth parting in surprise as he sees Billy’s face. 

“I wish I could punish you more, but I’m not worried, I know the Devil is going to take his sweet time with you.”

He watches the words register behind the dying man’s eyes, and Billy smiles wickedly as life leaves him.

He tugs your cardigan free from Wade’s hand, it’s partially soaked in blood and will need to be properly disposed of, he doesn’t want anyone finding it and linking you to the crime in any way. 

He studies the soft pink material, smiles at the thought of you. He brings the material up to his nose, catching the smell of blossoms just barely clinging to the fabric.

The fluttering wings of a bird above makes him glance upwards, and he figures one must have found its way into the space between the ceiling and the roof, searching for a comfortable space.

He uses your cardigan to clean his knife, before turning, and heading for a sink to wash the blood from his hands.

.

He brings a casserole to the deceased’s house the evening they discover him dead. 

It’s just a little something to help out, he explains to Wade’s widow when he greets her in the kitchen. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, crying from the moment she’d heard the news, no doubt.

He doesn’t stay with her too long, excusing himself despite her attempts to hold onto his hand, the women around her gazing at him, more intrigued than ever about his culinary skills.

He wants to find you, to see you. There’s an itching inside of him that won’t go away until he knows you’re here with him.

When he finally catches sight of you, something inside of him unknots itself. You’re standing in the middle of a large group of concerned people, you look like you’re fighting tears with everything you have. A woman touches your shoulder, and you raise your head to give her a brave smile.

He pauses on the outskirts, wonders how he’s ever going to get your attention.

But he doesn’t have to worry, because your eyes lock with his as soon as he stands still, as if you’d been seeking him out this entire time. He gives you a small smile, something of an icebreaker from so far away, and you take it as an invitation, running right to him with tears already spilling down your cheeks.

Your body collides with his, and for a moment, there’s only you, and the softness of your form, and the smell of your hair and he’s quietly reassuring you that everything is going to be okay.

He enjoys it, the way you grip his shirt, the way you cling to him with every ounce of strength you have. He hugs you back, finding a way to the soft loveseat in Wade’s living room. You don’t pull your head from his chest as you cry, you shake with big, heaving sobs, and he tries his best to comfort you.

If you’d only known what Wade’s intentions were with you, you wouldn’t be crying. After a while you calm, and you continue to cling to him while you sniffle, his shirt damp with your tears and he wears it like a badge of honour.

So many people stop in to check on you, more and more with each passing hour. Billy thinks more people are concerned with your wellbeing than with Wade’s actual widow.

It amuses him, that so many people are drawn to you, that you have such influence on everyone, that they care so much for you, and here you are, tucked into his body, turning your head into his chest to cry every now and again, growing less frequent with the more time that passes.

Later, he offers to take you home. He’s just been able to afford a slightly beat up car, and he asks if you’d be okay with being driven by him. You accept with sleepy eyes, and he smiles internally, going to find Wade’s wife to bid her goodbye.

He overhears one person speaking with another about the state in which the body was found, covered in his own blood and semen, throat slit from ear to ear. Billy is delighted to hear it, he wants everyone to know, he wants to shame Wade’s name, even in death.

His widow is sad to watch Billy leave, she grips at him once more, trying to wrap her arms around him the way you do. When he mentions your name, he watches her stiffen, mouth set in a grim line, something in her eyes like accusation, or knowledge of something that she cannot say to another soul. 

She doesn’t speak her accusations to him, and he leaves, wraps an arm around your wobbling form and helps guide you to his car.

You’re so tired, and you fall asleep in his car as soon as you’re buckled in. He drives slowly, takes the long way, anything to be by your side longer. Your cheeks are stained with tears, he thinks about how beautiful you’re going to look in black.

You hum sleepily, reaching across, he blinks in surprise when you take his hand in yours.

“I heard how he died. Can’t wrap my head around it. Someone just decided he shouldn’t be alive anymore. Can you believe that?”

The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away, he wants to say.

Out loud, “I’ve seen it a couple of times, back in New York.” he says instead.

You squeeze his hand.

“Do you think you could ever take a life?” 

His breaths pause, it was time to confess to you.

“I have,” He clears his throat, “I have killed people, I was in the army.”

Your head swivels to him in his peripherals, he glances back with a sad smile.

“I just thought you should know.” 

“Thanks for telling me.”

You continue to hold his hand.

“You- you’re not- you don’t hate me?” 

“It’s not in me to hate, I have to believe that the path you’re on was necessary to bring you to me.”

“To you?”

“So I can help you.” You answer, squeezing his hand.

He wants to rip you apart and reshape you with his own hands.

When he finally gets to your house, he helps you out of the car, helping you up the few stairs and supporting your weight as you get the door open. When he tries to let you walk on your own, you stumble, and he has to catch you before you fall.

“I’m really tired.” You explain to him, and he hums in understanding.

He takes you up to bed, watches you collapse onto the soft surface, knee length dress rucking up so that he catches just the quickest glimpse of your underwear.

His hands clench into fists. He wants to push your skirt up, bury his face between your legs, taste your little cunt, worship you until you come on his tongue. 

“Will you stay?” You ask, arms spread out, legs slightly bent as they press together.

He kicks his shoes off decisively.

“What will people say?” He teases.

“You don’t strike me as a man who’s ever cared about that.” You whisper softly.

He grins, climbs into bed beside you, reaches around your hip so that he can pull your body against his.

“Goodnight, angel.” He whispers as your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay conscious.

“G’night, Billy.” You respond, touching your face into his chest once more before you doze off completely.

It's too much power, and you must know it. To fall asleep so easily right beside him, every temptation to be like the predators he hunts. He could press his palm to your thigh, drag his hand up to your hips, you would never even know. He could do so much worse, pin you to the bed, pull his cock out and take you right here, watch you wake in shock while he fills you. Watch his cum leak out of your little hole. What could stop him? You? God? Everything he's wanted at the tip of fingers and all he has to do is take.

In the end, he doesn't do it. He lies beside you and thinks of all the vile things he could do and doesn't act on a single thing and he doesn't really know why.

He thinks it's because of the consequences. Doing that would mean you wouldn't want to be around him, and he needed you to want to be around him. 

By the time morning comes, and you wake, he's spent the entire night memorizing the feel of your body against his. If you feel his aching erection, you say nothing of it, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or not.

.

He finds you right after the funeral, lighting the candles that have gone out when the doors had been wide open to allow the coffin through.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, approaching you, swallows as he finally has a chance to fully appreciate your funeral attire. 

It's loose, giving you an almost formless shape, to hide from everyone's view, your skirt is just a little shorter than usual, probably something you haven't worn in a while, resting at mid thigh and no doubt giving the women something to chat about in hushed voices. 

You glance at him with a little smile, before continuing your painstaking process of relighting each candle. 

“I'm alright. The lord gives, and like natural order, the lord takes.”

He blinks.

“That's right.”

“What do you think about the Devil?” You ask suddenly, not looking up, simply tilting your head to continue your work.

“What do you mean?” He pries.

“Is he evil? Or is he just the way God made him?”

“He's both.” Billy answers.

You smile, and finally turn to look at him. 

“Do you think God loves him?” 

“Doesn't the Bible say God loves all his creations?” 

You smile wider, nodding. For once, Billy feels like he doesn't have the upper hand in a conversation. 

“Are you worried about eternal damnation?” Billy asks, taking a step closer, ready to reassure you that someone as sweet as you couldn't possibly end up in Hell. If you were damned, well that didn't bode well for him.

“I'm not afraid of Hell, I can handle fire.”

Billy watches you raise a hand, and hold it closely over one of the candles. He hisses, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away.

He turns your palm to check for any serious burns, but he'd withdrawn your hand just in time.

“I'm alright, Billy.” You reassure him, leaving your hand in his, and using the other to continue with your previous task.

It's the first time he realises that there is more to you than he'd initially thought. He'd seen you as a pristine painting before, something to be looked at, forbidden to touch, to love from afar. Now? You were an enigma, a puzzle whose pieces were made to be handled, to be solved by the right person.

Billy wanted to be that person.

.

“-He wants to be here with you, the lord is one with everything, he’s in everything you see, and everything you touch. You just have to close your eyes and let him in.” 

From around the corner, Billy listens to you speak, your hands holding the other woman’s, who’d stumbled into the church an hour ago, searching for someone to speak with. 

“I’m not worth the forgiveness.” The woman sobs.

Billy is ashamed to admit that the very sound of your voice turns him on. He feels sick, that listening to you speak about the lord makes him hard. If he closes his eyes, he swears you talk about God as if he’s just another person in the room, 

“He believes in you. You’re here, you found me, because that’s what he wanted. You found the strength to come in, to open yourself up to being judged just a little, and I know he appreciates that. He loves you, and I do too.”

Later, when the woman leaves, with a promise to be here on Sunday, Billy finds you, shuffling and reorganising reading materials near the altar.

“You’re good at this.” Billy murmurs.

You smile.

“I’m just doing what he commands.”

Jealousy stirs in Billy’s chest.

Before he can stop himself, he’s stepping into your space, you look up at him with wide eyes, as you try to back away.

“You’re so selfless, don’t you know what people say about you?”

You blink in surprise, your body lowering as you descend the stairs, away from the altar and toward the pews.

“It- why should it matter what people say?”

“They call you a temptress, you’re the reason Wade’s burning in Hell. I heard his wife say it herself.”

“That’s not my fault.” You defend.

“It’s not? You’re telling me you have no idea of the effect you have on men?”

You go down another step, he follows.

“I- I don’t- I’m not-”

He feels so large, looming over you, frightening you.

“You don’t?”

“I only want to serve.” You whisper.

“Who?” Billy taunts.

“What?”

“Who do you serve?”

“The Lord.” 

The back of your legs bump the wooden pew. Billy watches you gasp. 

“And what if I wanted you to serve me?”

He doesn’t let your confused expression last for too long.

Billy acts fast, sitting on the pew, and gripping your hips to drag you onto his lap. He guides your legs over his, spreads his thighs so that you’re forced open too.

You suck in a deep breath, head falling back onto his shoulder. You look up at him, mouth parted, eyebrows drawn together.

“What are you doing?” You ask, your body still on top of his own, he realises that you’re not fighting him like he was worried you would.

He shushes you, gently presses the tips of his fingers right above your knees, takes his time dragging them up.

You reach for his hands, covering them, unsure if you should stop him or not.

“I’m giving you what God can’t.” He simply says, looking up at the altar before them, listening for anyone walking in as he brings a veined hand up to cup your mound.

You let out a little whine, fingers gripping his wrist, unable to pry his hand away.

“This is wrong.” You whisper, tugging at his wrist.

“I’ll make you feel right in a minute.” He answers, moving slowly to push his hands into your panties.

This is what your cunt feels like, is his first thought. Billy bites down on his bottom lip, his fingers feeling over your pussy, exploring, learning, and when he finally dips his hands lower to find you wet, he can’t help chuckling to himself.

The wrongness of your situation turns you on, and Billy uses it like fuel, lights a fire so readily, eager to watch everything burn.

“This is all an act, isn’t it?” He jabs, “You pretend to be so pure but that little cunt is dripping on my fingers.” You shake your head in protest.

He’s gentle when he finally touches your clit.

You gasp, let out a strained moan, trying to fight a losing battle with your body.

He circles his fingers on your little bud, pulls your legs open wider when you try to shut them. He’s slow, he’s careful, he feels you tremble, feels your breaths get faster. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already.” He chides, “I’ve only just started.”

A soft cry is your only response.

When the sun is at the right angle, it shines through the stained glass and paints you both in multitudinous colours. He looks down at you, your face is one of mindless pleasure while the hues dance on your trembling skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs reverently, “sinning in God’s light.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, mouth parting with the start of a loud cry, he slips his free hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds of pleasure you make.

You rock on him, cunt spilling more and more onto his fingers, his mouth begs for a taste.

Your nails dig into his wrist, he welcomes the feeling, delighted to have given you something only he could give.

When he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he slips his hand from your mouth, and after a few moments, he pulls his hand from your panties.

His fingers go right into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss at your tart taste, he licks his fingers clean, runs his tongue over them one more time to make sure he’s gotten every drop of you.

You look at him with parted lips, caught in your own amazement, coloured light still spilling onto you.

He smiles, pulling your skirt down, closing his legs which close yours.

He pauses when he feels your fingers touch his chin, he looks at you in surprise to find something calm in them. You part your lips, like you’re about to say something, and then you startle when the doors to the church are pushed open.

You slip off his lap, rising to a stand, you smile, welcoming the people coming in.

.

Billy is waiting in the confessional booth for you to pass by. You’d been so exhausted recently, trying to help the newest preacher get settled, and then someone else had been murdered. A woman working at the bank had been stabbed repeatedly in the face inside the bank vault. Her body had been found on a pile of money. 

It was odd, Billy thought he was the only one of his kind in town, to know there was another out there, made him want to look out for you more than ever.

This, was not him looking out for you.

Rather, he was waiting to pull you away, to be your distraction from another funeral, to save you, if he so dared call it that.

He hears footsteps, identifies you from the click of your familiar shoes on the church floors.

He hears the large wooden doors at the front open to allow the coffin in, and while everyone looks in the direction of the doors, he slips out, wraps his hand around your mouth, and pulls you, struggling into the confessional.

You stop fighting when you see him, and he smiles, bolting the doors closed from the inside. 

He looms over you, cock hardening in his pants, presses a finger to his lips with a smile.

Your mouth parts, curious about him, and when he presses you back, settling your body onto the wooden bench, you don’t have much choice but to obey.

He watches you, fire in his veins. You look up at him with the sweetest eyes, and he knows he’s ready to defile you right here.

Instead, as the funeral begins, he drops to his knees in front of you, pulling your panties down your legs so that he can worship you with his tongue.

He keeps you right on edge for the entire sermon, licking you slowly, your hands in his hair, your breathing deep and low to avoid attracting attention.

He edges you, echoes the prayers being said outside into your heated core, licks at your sweet bundle of nerves, doesn’t stop for a single second.

When the congregation takes up a gospel in praise, he waits till the voices are at their highest point to let your orgasm take you.

He tastes you greedily, thankful to have ever crossed your path.

He closes his eyes, decidedly not done with you, peeling at your virtue until nothing remains.

.

He takes you home that night, helps your exhausted form like he did before, hands gripping your waist to support your fumbling steps.

“You need to stop expending all your energy like this.” He chastises, lips in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“I’m fine, I just need to sleep.” You protest.

He guides your key into your door.

“Will you stay again?” You ask hopefully.

“If you want me to. But if someone sees me leaving-”

“I know, they’ll have reason to call me a whore.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” His voice is maybe too sharp with you.

You let out a little laugh.

“Right. Sorry.”

He gets you up the stairs, feels you take a deep breath as you yawn.

“Help me get out of this dress?”

God, you really were tempting him.

He watches you fall back onto the bed, clad in only your underwear. He finds it impossible to look away, when your body looks so divine. 

He gulps, wants to kiss every exposed inch, wants to make you see heaven any way that he can.

You watch him while he watches you, he’s transfixed by you.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?”

He curls his hands into fists.

“I always want to touch you.”

You give him a sleepy grin, arching your back, reaching behind to unclasp your bra.

“Can you bring me a dress from my closet?” You ask softly, and he stiffens to obey.

He pulls the door open, searching through the delicate things suspended from hangers for something for you to sleep in. He finds a sheer dress, smiles as he pulls it from the closet, he glances back at you to find you already asleep, your breasts exposed to the cold air.

He smiles, turns back to close the door, pauses when something shiny catches his eye.

It’s behind the wooden walls of your closet, shining through the slats. Billy’s eyebrows draw together, leaning in to press against the spot, the entire panel of wood shifts, and he realises that the closet has a false back.

He tosses your dress over his shoulder, reaching for either side of the wood, he presses down gently, and the entire thing shifts upward, allowing a space for his fingers to fit in.

He pulls, the piece of wood is heavier than expected, turns, and tucks it against one side of the closet.

What he finds… washes his mind blank of any rational thought.

It’s an altar, but it’s not for God.

There’s an inverted pentagram painted onto the wall in something that Billy, with his years of experience in the matter, knows to be dried blood. On the pentagram, there are photos pinned, polaroids of him that he’d never seen you take, taped to your wall with little hearts scribbled on. There’s other things as well, the dog tags from his bedside drawer, the pocket square he’d thought he’d misplaced after Wade’s funeral. So many little items of his, in this space, and he realises that he has no idea who you are at all.

On the floor, is the pink cardigan soaked in Wade’s blood, half burned from where he’d tossed it into a quick fire in the woods behind the church. Billy kneels, fingers brushing the handle of a knife with a blade embellished with flowers, stained with blood. The skull of a goat, surrounded by black and red candles.

He knows he should be feeling fear, but there’s no ounce of it anywhere in his body. He licks his lips, plucking a photo of himself from the wall, he feels his lips curl up involuntarily.

He stands, turns to wake you, to confront you, and halts when he finds you already behind him.

You look sleepy still, swaying on your feet, body still bare, and before he can say anything, you raise a fist, and blow a strange powder directly into his face.

It stings when it touches his eyes. He groans, drops the photo of himself he was holding, presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and stumbles. His throat tickles, he coughs, body trying to expel whatever you’ve dosed him with. He can’t see, and he reaches for where he knew you were last, only to find formless air.

He tries not to panic, if you wanted to actually hurt him, you would have by now. Perhaps you just didn’t know what his reaction was going to be and you were safeguarding yourself.

He feels the handcuff wrap around his wrist, but he fights it, his eyes sting too much for rational thought.

“I’ll help you if you cooperate.” He hears you say.

He huffs out a breath, extending his cuffed arm for your guidance.

You pull at him, bringing him to your bed, and cuffing both his arms to the frame. His eyes sting when he tries to see through them, his face burns too, like it’s on fire.

The next thing he feels is a cold cloth on his face, and then there’s instant relief. 

You place a damp rag over his eyes, and on the lower half of his face, leaving his nose exposed for him to breathe.

“Let it sit for a little, it needs to neutralise the poison.”

Poison? He thinks in shock.

He tries to calm himself, tries to tug on his restraints as little as possible. He tries to run through everything he’d learned in the past few minutes, sort them into his head, solve puzzles he didn’t even know existed.

You were entirely not who he thought you were, not even a little, not even at all.

No, not true, he’d seen it, glimpses of the real you from the very start, too pure, he’d thought, too pure that there must be something wrong.

He should have seen it from the minute you took his hand, from the minute you sat on his lap, when you felt his erection and still flocked to him. Billy should have known. It was in the way you thrived under the attention, the memory of you holding your fingers over the candles in the church. He’d seen it all, and had been unable to put the pieces together.

He hears movement, feels the bed dip as you come closer to him, feels your weight settle on his hips, straddling him.

The rags are pulled from his face, and you use the edge to wipe the remnants of something he can’t see.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was this or hitting you over the head with a bat.” You smile down at him, he can still see you there.

You don’t look like a new person, you only look more relaxed in his presence, his eyes drop down to find you wearing the dress he’s picked before he’d discovered your secrets.

“You don’t worship God.” He starts.

You smile.

“No I don’t.”

“But you go to church, you help other people find God.”

“You think that saves them? No one in that church is free of sin, no one is made better by being there, they’re only better at hiding it.”

He blinks, tilts his head, waits for you to continue.

You reach for a box of matches, striking one, you light the candle sitting on your bedside table.

“I go to church, because every time I step in there, I spite God.”

He watches you reach to strike another match, lighting the candle on the other side of the bed.

“My Lord, the only one I pray to, is the Devil himself.”

Billy blinks, tilts his head.

“You tempt everyone there with your innocence on purpose.” He says, thinking out loud.

You make a sound of disagreement.

“Not exactly, I’m just charismatic, and the fruits fall where they fall. My intention isn’t to tempt, it’s not my fault that men are so easily… tempted.”

He raises his eyebrows in amazement at your point.

“Look at Wade for example, I was only as nice to him as I was with everyone else, but he took it another way, I’d finally decided to kill him when he touched my thigh for too long… I was watching him from a small space in the roof when you came in.”

Billy watches, hypnotised as you drag your palm over your stomach, your ass grinding gently against his semi-erect cock.

“I watched you stand behind him, waiting for the right moment.” You whisper, hand slipping under your sheer dress, working its way down the front of your panties. Billy’s teeth clench, pulling at the handcuffs.

“I watched you cut his throat,” You groan, “There was blood everywhere.” Your head tilts back as he watches you touch yourself to the memory of his past crimes.

“You took my cardigan. I knew there was something about you before, but it was only then that I knew I had to have you.”

He watches you, fingers hidden from his view as you pleasure your little cunt. He feels rage at not having any control.

“The woman in the bank,” Billy tries to think with you so close, “That was you.”

You nod, smiling down at him. 

“She was a bad person. I wanted to give Satan someone to play with. Just like he gave me you.”

Billy’s hands are in fists, blunt nails pressed to his palm.

“Let me go.” He grits out.

You smile dreamily, shake your head.

“Not yet. I want to have you first.” 

His breath halts in his chest, desperate to ask you what you mean, but he thinks your intention is clear enough.

He pulls harder on his restraints, not wanting to be bound the first time he feels you.

“Don't fight it, Billy. Let me have you how I want, and then, maybe we'll see about those cuffs.”

He stops struggling, takes a deep breath, goes still.

You smile, undoing his belt as quickly as you can, and then tugging at the buttons of his shirt until his torso is bared to you. 

He listens to you hum with delight, feels your scorching tongue lave at his chest, over his heart, flicking at his nipple.

He begins to understand how feral you are, listening to your hums of appreciation as your tongue drifts over his neck. He realises, that you’re just a small thing, searching for someone exactly like you in a world full of people pretending.

When you open his pants, his mouth goes dry, his jaw drops open as you suck on the tip of his cock for just a small moment, enjoying the taste of him before you’re slipping your panties to the side to take him in.

Billy closes his eyes, swears, low in his throat. You feel better than he’d imagined, your walls fluttering around him, pulling his cock deeper into you so naturally that he swears it was always meant to happen.

You moan loudly, head tossed back.

“I would have let you fuck me in that church.” You confess, “I would have let you fuck me in a pool of Wade’s blood.”

Billy groans.

“I’d fuck you in the bare earth.” He grunts, supporting your conversation, “I’d make you beg me to.”

You clench tightly around him, and Billy swears he sees stars for a moment. Your breasts bounce as you roll your hips on him, and after a moment, you pause, reaching for one of those lit candles beside your bed.

Billy looks at you, keeping your steady gaze, trying to prepare himself for the possibility that you might drop hot wax onto his skin.

But you spare him, instead, you tilt the candle, letting a few drops of molten wax fall onto your thigh.

He feels you tighten, grunts in pleasure at the vigour your pace takes on.

He’s so captivated by your enjoyment of it, that he can’t help but ask.

“Do it to me.” He asks.

You smile, hovering the candle over his chest, and when the first drop hits, he gasps. It stings, burns like fire, but then something sweet fills the space, his body somehow asking for more.

You don’t give him any more though, placing the candle back in its original spot, and beginning to rock your hips in tandem.

You’re struggling to achieve orgasm in this position, and he feels amusement rise within him, knowing more about your own body than you seem to know.

It finally makes him relax, knows that no matter how hard you try, you still need him to get you off.

He waits, and waits, and finds that he can be patient when it comes to pleasuring your cunt.

You pause, pouting.

“Poor little girl,” Billy chides, “Can’t manage to come on her own. You need my help, don’t you?”

Your eyebrows are drawn together When you look down at him, trying to make sense of his words.

“N-no, I can, uh, do it myself.”

He grins sharply, relaxes.

“You’re so out of your depth.” He taunts.

“Nuh uh.” You hum, still trying to use his cock to pleasure yourself. Billy turns his head to study his restraints, the wooden pillar he's cuffed to on the headboard is wobbly, he figures one sharp pull at just the right angle would get that hand loose. The other pillar however, is too sturdy for a move like that.

He has to move fast when he does it, find a way to get you to release his other hand.

But first, a distraction.

“You're beautiful like this,” he says truthfully, “Your true self is so much more than I'd imagined and- well maybe we are right for each other.”

He watches you nod eagerly, still trying to reach your peak, your head tilts back, lulled into a false sense of security.

Billy takes his opportunity to strike.

He pulls as hard as he can on the wooden pillar of the headboard, muscles flexing almost painfully. He almost thinks he's going to fail but right at the last second, the wood gives, freeing the handcuff and allowing movement.

Your eyes fly open, and you reach for something behind you, pulling out a knife.

He catches your hand, twists your wrist so that the knife falls free, and pushes it off the bed.

Before you can scramble off of him, his hand grips your hair harshly.

“Unlock me.” He hisses into your terrified face.

Despite your obvious fear, he still feels you clench around his cock, and his desperation to have you exactly how he wants, increases.

“I'm not going to hurt you.” He clarifies, “But you're mine now, so unlock me.”

Your eyelids flutter, your eyes glancing at a spot beside him. He doesn't turn to look, simply leaning his body with yours, hand still fisted no doubt painfully in your hair.

He looks from the corner of his eye, as you tug the bedside drawer open and stick your hand in.

 “You better not be reaching for another knife. It wouldn't take much for me to squeeze the life out of you, even with one hand tied.”

He feels you clench around him again.

“You like that? That I could kill you without a second thought? Your cunt’s gripping me so tight, baby.”

You let out a little whine, withdrawing with just a metal key pressed between your fingers.

“Good girl,” Billy praises, feels even that go right to your cunt, “Now unlock me.”

You do his bound hand first, and then pull the other cuff from around his wrist. Your eyes cling to the reddening bruise on his wrist from pulling too hard.

When he's finally free, he grins, right in your face, before pulling you off his cock and flipping you over.

You gasp in surprise as your back hits the bed, Billy leans away to get a good look at you.

He can see your delectably shaped tits through the white sheer dress, he admires the way it looks- like innocence and somehow pure sin wrapped all in one. 

He thinks, for the first time, he finally sees you, finally understands what he has, looking up at him with careful eyes. 

“You said something earlier. That the Devil sent me here for you,” he leans forward, cups your breasts through the dress, stiffening your nipples, watches you writhe beautifully under him.

“But I'm not your plaything, little girl,” His fingers pinch down, pressing your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, watching you gasp in pain and pleasure, “You're mine.”

It sets off something inside of him, and like an avalanche, any semblance of self control he'd ever had, just crumbles.

He leans down, lips pressed to yours, he feels an ache inside of him lessen.

You kiss back, with forceful lips, your hands gripping the back of his head, fingers in his hair to stop him from pulling away.

His hands press against your shoulders, feeling their way over the sheer sleeves of the material, gripping your hips, fingers catching on the fabric as he touches your body for the very first time.

Your legs wrap around him, it makes him so delighted, that you want him, that he's going to use that against you.

He pulls back, grinning when you whine, reach for his mouth once more, his hand finding your throat too easily, gripping it to push you back.

“Where did my little fighter go, hmm?” He leans forward to lick your cheek, enjoying the surprised expression on your face.

“Please,” you whisper, “I need you to make me come.”

His nose brushes yours.

“Why? Don't you touch yourself all the time?” He taunts, already knowing your responses before you say them.

“I haven't been able to- since you touched me.”

He laughs, watches you get more and more demure with each moment.

“You haven't been able to come since I put my hands on you? I wonder why?”

“You feel too good.” You confess to him.

He tries to fight it but it makes him laugh again, he buries his face into your neck, amusement so heavy in his body and he has to let it out.

“Sorry, It’s just that- you haven't even seen what I can really do yet.”

“Show me.” You beg.

His hands caress you gently, he nods his head, and then, tears your dress into pieces.

You’re so turned on, aching for him, you shudder as he pulls the remnants of your dress from your skin.

His touch is frantic, his palms skate over your skin, gripping, feeling, your thighs, your legs, your arms, it makes you so much more aroused to be felt like this. No part of your body is safe from his wandering hands, it feels as though he’s trying to learn you, and you are so eager to let him.

His lips are next, kissing the top of your breast, working his way between them, the feel of his lips on your skin makes you feel more connected to him than before. He pulls your panties off in a swift rush, kissing at your knees when he finally gets them off.

“Want to know why my touch feels good? Because I know you. I know what your body likes.” Billy says, you lift your head to look at him, his hand sliding up between your thighs, the tips of his fingers making delicious sparks.

He touches your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt so gently, desperation pooling under your skin. He presses a single finger against you, until he just brushes your clit with the very tip of his finger.

“You need this little bundle here touched, kissed, and it can’t be too harsh.”

You cry out when he just softly strokes your clit. Pleasure burning through you at just the simplest move.

“You think that just because you like pain, that this has to be rough too, but no, your pretty body craves a soft touch.”

He proves it to you, his gentle fingers massage your clit, he makes it look effortless, eyes drawn to your centre, looking up at you with dark eyes every now and then.

It’s the burn of his slow movements that make you lose your mind. The worst part is that he’s right, you’ve never touched yourself so gently before.

“Does that feel good, baby? I’ve killed so many people with these same hands. But I bet that makes your little cunt even wetter.”

You mewl, nodding, remembering the way you’d seen Billy kill. The amount of blood he’d left behind, such a messy crime scene.

You bite down on your bottom lip, back arching, hands gripping your sheets.

Just a little bit more, you think, gasping, quietly urging him on, hoping that he doesn’t stop his movements.

“That’s it,” Billy praises, “Just like that, show me exactly who owns you.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, your vision goes white as pure euphoria overtakes you. It comes in waves, cunt fluttering around nothing, your body shudders as your brain tries to process pleasure beyond your comprehension.

It takes you a moment before you can breathe through it, and like before, it feels like you’re floating, somewhere deep in your subconscious.

His face comes into your line of sight, a proud smile on His lips, beautiful in every way as He hovers above you.

You suck in another breath, it helps you feel your body, and the remnants of your still occurring orgasm.

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t look away. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I wanted you all to myself. Now that I have you here, now that I see you, I want you forever.”

You nod eagerly, smiling up at him, gripping his hand to press your cheek into his palm. You wanted that, you wanted to be His as well.

“Now be a good girl and stay still.” He whispers, lowering his body once more, burying his face between your thighs for the second time in your life.

You almost want to scream. His tongue pushes its way to your clit, flicking softly, dipping down to lick at your entrance.

You hear Him moan between your thighs, you shudder, arching your hips into his face.

He slaps your thigh, a warning that he intends to uphold the discipline of His instruction, you simply clench in response.

You wanted- so much more than you could admit.

You'd thought, for a brief moment, that he was the personification of Lucifer himself, that Billy was a reward for your years of devotion, but somewhere in the back of your head, you were starting to feel something different, new, that not even your devotion to Satan himself could match.

He licks you like he's starving for it, hands on your thighs, tongue in your cunt you want to struggle just so He has a reason to hold you down.

You say His name, you feel your thighs tremble, His lips kiss at your swollen clit.

You don't know what you're feeling, something in your chest, that tugs everytime he touches you.

Drunk on His mouth, you hiss when his pace increases, unsure if you'll even be able to have another orgasm so close to the last.

He's careful, dexterous, precise, he licks cunt the way he kills- with careless precision, a spectacle to be admired, spoken about in hushed tones. 

Billy doesn't ask, he simply manipulates your body until you're wound so tightly on edge once again, unable to comprehend how you got here in the first place.

You groan, your grip on sanity crumbles away, all you can think about is Him, and the way his beard feels, scratching between your thighs, and the darkness of his hair and the grip of his fingers on you, holding you to him, daring you to struggle. 

There’s a loud rushing in your head when your next peak finds you, your back bowing off the bed once more, something pinches in protest but you can’t focus on it, the pleasure too important to give up just because you’re a little uncomfortable. 

He licks at the arousal spilling from you, moans into your body with each taste, making you see stars, or fireworks or maybe even just flashes of bright lights and colours. 

It somehow reminds you of the stained glass of the church, makes you feel adjacent to something that’s on the tip of your tongue but you can’t find the right words for it.

He draws back, beard wet with your slick arousal. It’s gorgeous, and you watch him tug his black shirt off- that he’d worn to the funeral of the woman you’d killed- and use it to dab at his chin.

Your eyes roam down his body, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a man as sculpted as he is, lean and muscular, small bits of hair on his chest and a spot right below his navel that your tongue aches for.

You sit up, looking at him, pressing your thighs together as he pushes his pants all the way down his legs, his cock already solid and leaking for you.

You remember the first time you felt Him, the way you knew without a doubt that you were going to have him, before you even fully understood what he was.

He reaches for you, grips your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You gasp at his easy display of strength, watching as he strokes himself for a few moments before lining his cock up with your dripping entrance.

Your past orgasms have made you more sensitive, each inch of him he presses in makes you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to breathe through the overwhelming pleasure and the stretch associated.

“You're so tight.” He utters with a strained voice.

You can only moan, reach to touch Him, the light of the candles flickering on his bare skin in the dead of night.

Your fingers graze a circular scar on his lower abdomen, and at the same time, he thrusts the rest of his cock fully into you.

You cry out, the sudden bliss of being stretched, goes right into your head, you gasp, your body begs for more, begs to be undone by him.

You swear you can taste blood in your mouth from biting down on your bottom lip too much, unable to vocalise your appreciation of him, he draws his cock out, before making another harsh thrust.

Your back arches, you don’t feel like you’re in your body, or maybe you feel too much in your body, the only thing you know for sure is the pleasure that fills you, that threatens to swell under your skin and explode outward.

He keeps his motions swift, harsh, deep, following through with each shift of his hips fully before beginning another.

“Who’s your God? Tell me.”

“L-Lucifer.” You utter automatically, but it’s the wrong thing to say. He stops, hands gripping your jaw tightly, bringing all your focus to him.

“What was that?” He grits out.

“Lucifer?” You whisper, voice light with pleasure.

He shakes his head, leaning away and reaching for something nearby.

You tighten around him when you spot the burning candle in his hand.

“Say that again.” 

“Um…” You stutter, unsure of what to say.

You gasp in surprise when the first drop of hot wax hits your hip. It stings, just for a moment, before leaving the sweetest tingle in its place.

“Please.” You moan, pressing your hips upward for more of his torment.

“Can Satan do that?” He asks, rutting his cock into you at a slow shallow pace. When you don’t respond, you feel another heated droplet sting the skin of your hip.

You peek at him through parted eyelids, watching the way he looks at you in amusement, before tilting the candle again, this time to allow hot wax to fall onto the opposite side.

“Billy.” You moan, and you watch him grin.

“Answer my question, little dove.”

You shake your head.

“N-no. Satan can’t make me feel like this.” You whisper.

He moves, drips wax onto your thigh, making you gasp in pain, feeling it heighten your euphoria.

“Do you like feeling this way?” He asks, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re nodding, raising your hand to your chest to roll your nipples between your fingers for his appreciation.

“I like it, Billy, I love it.”

“Then tell me who your God is.” 

You think you finally understand what he's trying to say, his cock pressed deep inside of you. He's the reason you feel so good, he's been the person occupying most of your thoughts from the day you met. He's someone you'd be willing to kill for.

“You.” You finally answer, and he smiles, moves his hand, still holding the candle, wax dripping onto his fingers, he tilts the candle and lets a few heated droplets touch the skin over your womb.

You gasp, the skin there is a little more sensitive, the burn is more intense, more pain than pleasure but He doesn’t seem to care, simply continues to smile as he blows the candle out, putting it back on your nightstand.

There's still another candle on the other side, allowing you to see, though everything is just a little dimmer now.

Your skin tingles, warm, the dried wax on your skin cracks as you move, but you don't get a chance to focus on it too much, because as soon as Billy lets go of the candle, he's pressing into you with renewed vigour.

Your thighs tremble, tears pool in your eyes, He's rough, grunting with each stroke he makes, earning a reciprocated cry when his cock bottoms out inside of you each time.

Skin against skin, sweat glistens on his chest, you want to taste him.

“Say it again.” He commands, leaning over you to brush his lips to your ear, “Who do you worship?”

“You, Billy.” You respond eagerly, gripping his shoulders, pressing your nails in, listening to him hiss in response, gripping your jaw to bring you into a bruising kiss.

It's messy, his tongue dipping forcefully into your mouth like he owns you, his cock doing the same, taking everything as if it's owed.

You bite down on his bottom lip, hears him grunt out a manic laugh in response.

“You're all fucking mine.” He grits, leaning back and pulling your boneless body up until you're on top of him, his hands gripping your hips to keep you moving on his cock. You tuck your head into his neck, unable to be anything more than a receptacle, to take Him, over and over until he's finished with you.

“How does it feel to be saved by your new God?” He grunts between thrusts.

You can barely find the words to speak.

His hand slaps the flesh of your ass hard, demanding a response.

Cruel, you think, that He wants you to speak, that He thinks you're even capable of thought.

“Feels good.” You hum, fingers gripping his neck, nose to his jaw, taking what he gives, you tears dripping onto his collarbone.

He groans into your ear, it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard and you finally begin to understand true devotion.

“Please,” You beg, “Please.”

He grunts out a chuckle between thrusts.

“You don’t have to beg, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

You tilt your head up, vision hazy, your body tingling with something too intense to be just bliss.

He kisses you softly one more time before dropping you back onto the bed, pushing your knees upward so that they’re almost to your ears.

He feels so much deeper this time, fucking you hard, merciless thrusts that has your cunt fluttering again, warning you that you’re on the right path to an orgasm.

He doesn’t stop, looking right into your eyes as he pushes his cock into you, over and over and over. You see stars, you see him, you see nothing else.

He licks his thumb, lips wet with saliva, he slips it between your bodies, angles it right against your clit, swipes gently from left to right.

You make a loud sound, followed by a flurry of pitiful whines, trying to warn him, to implore him. He doesn’t stop fucking you.

Your toes curl, one small breath of air before the most intense rush of ecstasy takes root in your body. You’re lost in the rapture, taken by the experience to even register the sounds you make.

You feel fire, you feel sparks, tingles that rush all over your skin, your inner walls gripping him so tightly as you’re forced to experience bliss at His hands.

He groans loudly, and before you know it he’s fucking into you rougher than before only for a moment before he makes a sharp sound of relief, cock pulsing as he spills himself into you.

You clench around him, making sure he gives you every drop of himself. Knowing that this is the right way to show your devotion.

There’s a moment of insecurity, when he crashes to the bed beside you, eyes closed, his breathing is quick, as if he’s just run for miles. You worry that once he’s had his fill of you, that he won’t be interested any more.

Your head is turned to look at him, lungs still heaving, the bliss of your orgasm hasn’t left you completely yet, and you watch him, curious to observe what he does next.

He peeks an eye open, mouth pulling into a smile that bares his teeth, he pushes himself up, crawls closer till he’s in the space between your body and arm, kissing at your cheek and shoulders softly.

It opens something inside of you, to feel that, to know without a doubt that He meant every word He said.

You raise your hand in wonder, fingers gently brushing His cheek, before pressing your palm to His face. 

He looks down at you, moves his own hand to run the backs of his fingers against your face, two people, finally seeing each other, finally showing themselves, unafraid.

It’s more than you could have ever hoped for.

.

Billy stands in the shadows, waiting.

He watches his targets leave the bar, two men, laughing with each other as they head to the nearby bus stop.

He follows, observing the way they move, trying to figure out just exactly how drunk they are. One wears a leather jacket, with his hair slicked back, the other wears a plain white t-shirt, and jeans.

They talk loudly, confessing to things Billy already knows about.

When one of them looks up, and sharply elbows the other, nodding to a place ahead, Billy knows what they see.

You lean against the bus stop, face buried in your phone, too occupied with it to notice that you’ve been spotted.

You’re beautiful, Billy muses, white dress, denim jacket, a little purse hanging from your elbow, standing under a small streetlight. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. 

The man in the leather jacket gets to you first, looking over your shoulder, peering into your phone looking at what you’re doing for a moment before saying something to you.

He watches you startle, look up at both men as they approach.

It’s like a dance, the way your fright gives them confidence, the manner in which you step back, warning them that you’re going to run before you actually do.

He smiles as you slip from their reaching grip, running into the nearest alley, he watches them take chase.

He moves faster, making sure there’s no chance of putting you in any real danger.

When he gets there, they’ve got you cornered, your back against a wall with them closing in. They’re too focused on you to ever notice him.

He takes a breath, waits for a moment, enjoys the thrill of what he’s about to feel.

When one of the men reaches to put his grimy hands on you, Billy strikes.

The man in the leather jacket makes a gurgling sound as his throat is cut wide open, splashing mostly on himself, but some of it gets on your dress and he knows he’ll get on his knees later to apologise for getting your dress messy, even though he knows you like it.

The other man can only make a single sound of terror before he’s falling to the floor, mouth agape as the handle of a knife protrudes from his eye.

He’s still alive, though not for long as Billy watches you drop to one knee, pulling the knife from his skull to plunge it into his vocal cords next. 

You look up at him, with bright eyes, excited to be doing this with him. He bites down on his bottom lip, thinks you look adorable when you’re seeking his approval.

He doesn’t care if the men are in their last moments, he reaches for you, grips the collar of your jacket and hauls you up, manoeuvring you until your back is pressed against the wall of the alley.

He drops his head, angles to place a fierce kiss on your lips, smearing blood on your face when he grips your jaw.

Billy pulls away, breathless, heart hammering with the thrill of murder, he looks into your eyes, and finds himself looking back.

He’s not surprised- simply acknowledging to himself that it’s what he’s been seeing the entire time, what he couldn’t put a name to when you first met, he now knows.

.

“And the lord said ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’” 

It makes you look up, to meet Billy’s eyes.

You watch the corner of His mouth twitch in amusement.

.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #the punisher #my writings #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #serial killer!Billy Russo #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #just overall bad #everyone is evil #there is not a redeemable character in sight #Forget 'I can fix him' #reader just said 'watch me make him worse'

[greg-montgomery]

hey fay! I hope you're having a beautiful mornin

I am here to request like SWOONING hotch, touchstarved, red-cheeked, brain shortcircuited hotch, who is left a puddle by reader's lingering touches at the office.

I feel like if y/n was the type to just grab him by the hand when they need to show him something, the type to cradle the back of his head with their hand whenever they pull him in for their signature hugs, the type to casually doze off on HIS SHOULDER 😳🚨 he would simply be putty in their hands, he's just enamoured every time they open their mouth and say HIS NAME? HIS? and if they gave him his very own nickname like not even aaron not hotch but a personal nickname because THEY think about HIM enough to think he needs his own special word (personally I imagine they call him beam and he never knows why - but its bc when he smiles, like really smiles that gorgeous face thats nothing but smile lines and dimples ear-to-ear, he's beaming, he's a beamer, its just what he does. I. dont make the rules).

basically i would love to just read about lovely little hotch to get butterflies and blush and be enamoured by somebody, and of course reader is clueless bc they think thats just how he is but NO when they touch him he feels sparks and he'll follow them like a magnet, its this force they have on him, he's just a willing participant in any aspect of their life they're willing to let him see.

i would totally get if this was not your vibe or not something you want to write/elaborate on but GOD i need more swooning hotch in my life

bestie i'm embarassing late to this 😭 you're just so sweet - if you read this pls tell me you saw it lmfao <3 ily

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“Aaron!”

Hearing the sound of his first name coming from your lips made him pause for a second. Impatient from watching him standing there frozen, you grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the direction you wanted his attention at.

“Come on, look at this. I found his son’s drawings. This could give us some insight of what their relationship looks like,” you explained, but Aaron was unable to pay any attention to your words, as your hand was still holding his.

“Beam, are you listening to me?”

Here goes that nickname again, he thought. He would sell his soul to find out what that nickname meant. He had asked you about it before, but your only response was a sneaky smile. A smile he would do anything for.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was distracted.”

“That’s okay,” you answered, softly. “I know our last case was tough and we jumped into the next one without having a chance to recover first.”

Aaron was grateful you assumed that the cause of his distraction was the last case and not your beautiful face, and even though you weren’t necessarily correct, his heart still melted at your comforting words.

“Yeah,” he simply said, and nodded.

“Well, you can always talk to me if you want. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

--

You wrapped up the case quickly so you flied back home that same night. Everyone on the jet was already asleep, except for the two of you.

Aaron was lucky enough to have been chosen as the one you sat next to, and his heart hadn’t calmed down for a second.

He felt embarrassed by the feeling of butterflies in his stomach just because his crush sat next to him, but he was glad his heart could still feel those emotions.

“Can I?” you sweet voice interrupted his thoughts.

As he turned to look at you, he saw you pointing at his shoulder; you were asking for permission to fall asleep on him. As if he’d ever say no to you.

“Of course you can,” he said, almost breathless.

“Thank you, beamy,” you grinned as you let your head fall on his shoulder, and it was impossible for him not to smile too.

His smile grew bigger when you turned your head slightly to look up at him.

“That’s why you’re my beam,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Everyone says you never smile, but I see you smile all the time. And when you do you’re just beaming. You light up the whole room, no joke.”

“Stop,” he laughed, unable to keep his cheeks from blushing.

“It’s true!”

“You’re usually the reason why,” he admitted.

His words got you shy, he could tell, but you wrapped your arm around him and snuggled closer in the crook of his neck. “That’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever been given,” you mumbled against his neck.

Aaron breathed out a laugh, and it was his turn to wrap his arms around you, making sure there was not even an inch of space between your bodies.

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch 🪐 #ask

[backjustforberena]

oooo can you elaborate on what you mean by there being meaning behind rhaenys not being at the dinner?

I am typing on my phone because I'm without my laptop for a few days but I REALLY wanted to answer this so sorry for any typos or messy thoughts or just general un-policed rambling.

I love it because it illustrates Rhaenys's place within the Targaryen family and what she means to those responsible for the dinner. The answer of which is... bugger all. Take Viserys's words. He's delighted that his whole family is there and wants them all to come for dinner. He looks around the table at the faces "dearest" to him.

But there is no seat for Rhaenys. Rhaenys is not one of the faces looking back. Rhaenys is not even mentioned. There's no clue to support the idea that Rhaenys has been invited and rejected the idea because of her feelings. It's just... she's not there. She is a Princess of House Targaryen and she is not present at a dinner to celebrate House Targaryen. And not only that, but the settled succession of HER HUSBAND'S seat and her home, and the betrothal of 4 of HER grandchildren. A dinner that is meant to symbolise peace and bygones and unity after strife. She's not a part of it. Either because she cannot, emotionally, be a part of it, or it does not matter. She does not matter. Not to the adults present. Not until they want something from her.

Everyone at that dinner had a calm before the storm. A happy memory. A grand delusion, just for a night. Rhaenys gets no such comfort. She gets the consequences of her good brother's body on a slab. And she LOOKS at it. They don't have to do that, even though they've brought it about.

It's the severance of the relationship she has with her paternal house. With her cousin. A cousin she LOVES, but who has orchestrated the destruction of everything she holds dear. He is the root cause. It's his brother who wants his love. It's his daughter who he enables. It's his war that her husband fights, and who might be dead. It's his will that sees over everything.

He has his meal of peace. He sees the children laughing and dancing. He eats and drinks and has his loves (however complex that is) by his side. He GETS VALIDATION, enough to shuffle off this mortal coil.

Rhaenys gets nothing of the sort. She is the flip side of him. Viserys and Rhaenys, to me, have always been in opposition. They don't want to be and they love each other very much but the gap has become wider and wider. Think about it, we've had Rhaenys and Viserys smiling and being so happy with one another in Episode 05 ("Cousin!!" / "Princess!") - to a relationship where they haven't seen one another in 6 years and there is no contact between them other than when he is King and she his subject. When she is forced to give up something and follow his rules to benefit him and keep her life. He gives her leave to speak... but not her own words.

Rhaenys is left alone. The only persons she has had in this have been Baela and Rhaena. And she has had to give them both up. Because of Rhaenyra. And because of Viserys. Baela especially. Baela, who stood with her in the Throne Room. Baela, whose hands she could hold. Baela, who has been her ward. She does not have Baela anymore. Her granddaughter is claimed by the Blacks, by the family. By a betrothal Rhaenys had to make to keep her safe. They take her away to Dragonstone as soon as.

Rhaenys's only other kin are Velaryons. But Vaemond lies dead on a slab. Her husband lies, dying, on Tarth. Her children are both (she believes) dead. She has no claim to her home. Her future looks terrifying. If Corlys dies... she will have to be reliant, mainly, on the hospitality of the woman who killed her son. Lucerys is not of age. Rhaenyra will be the true power. And how horrifying is that?

On a more basic level, her not being in the dinner illustrates the idea that she does not belong to a faction. She sides with Rhaenyra for the succession, but only that. Her voice in that instance does not equal her declaration for the Blacks. She is not a part of it all. Nothing has changed, in her heart. Which means that Alicent can make a bid later, which means her isolation is a real danger, which means she's still in the Capital.

[xxblairexxss]

My girl

Pairing : Mason Mount x plussize!reader

Theme : Angst (idk 😭) / fluff

Requested.

I’m not sure if I did justice to your request, anon. I hope I did. I can’t make it 100% igau because I always feel the need to elaborate more so igau alone won’t make me feel satisfied. Sorry about that… oh and I used olenia as face claim because her settings made it easier for me to use, I’m sorry if she’s not what you imagine the reader to be 😭

masonmount

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masonmount 1 year. She’s the reason I get up in the morning. She makes me feel enough and stop doubting myself. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Thank you for giving me a chance to be loved by you, darling.

username WE HAVE WAITED FOR A YEAR GIVE US PROPER PIC

username aww this is cute i wish we get to see her

sophiaaemelia i miss u guys!!

ynusername

Liked by masonmount, sophiaaemelia and 3627 others

ynusername Thank you for choosing me and loving me. I love you so much! ❤️

Comments on this post have been limited.

You met Mason through a mutual friend. When he first approached you, you made it clear that you were not interested and if he was looking for a girl to play around, he could count you out but he insisted for you to go out with him for just one date and you could be the one to decide about the next one, either you wanted him to leave you alone or you wanted to give it another chance.

Mason was really nice. You thought he would be a cocky guy, thinking he was above everyone but he was everything but that. Your first date with him was an unanticipated one, you wasn’t hoping for anything but he really knew the way to win your heart.

And that was how he became your first ever boyfriend.

You refused to talk about this matter a lot but another reason why you had a hard time to accept Mason into your life was because you didn’t believe he would fell in love with someone like you. He was surrounded by models, social media influencers, heck, even some of his fans have ‘better’ body image than you. Sure, you don’t like to talk badly about yourself but it was hard not to do so when you were raised in a society that set an inconceivable image on women.

Mason knew about this though you rarely talked about it which was why he respected your decision to not have your face posted on his social media accounts.

“Mase…..can we agree on one thing?”

“What is it, sweetheart?” Mason took a step forward and took your shaking hand in his to leave a peck on your fingers. He had realised you were being quit this whole day so he asked you to have a cooking session together because he knew you loved trying out new recipes.

“I don’t want you to post my face on your social media.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it…? You are not gonna ask why?” You immediately looked up to look at him, his answer made you stunned.

“I know the reason why, baby and I know you don’t like talking and explaining about it so I’m not gonna ask.”

“Are you mad…?”

“Mad? Silly, why would I get mad at you?” He chuckles and enveloped your figure in his arms, your head fitted perfectly around his forearm and he loved it so much. “I am not mad at you, baby. I just..I can’t…how do I put this in words. I can’t tell you to stop hating on yourself because I don’t know what you actually feel like. I’m not in your shoes. I don’t know what it felt like to grow up as a woman who was constantly being told by the society that you have to look this and that to be called pretty.”

And you heart bursted, not because he made you feel heartbroken, but because of the huge amount of love you felt for him.

“But I know very well how it felt like waking up in the morning being greeted by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, I know how it felt like falling in love everytime I see your captivating smile when we successfully tried a new recipe, I know how it felt like when my heart swelled in pride seeing how you got excited over cookies or cakes because you loved sweets. You are my girl and it’s my job to make you feel appreciated, to cherish and admire you. I won’t push you to step over your comfort zone if you are not ready, you know that, don’t you?”

ynusername

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ynusername life lately 🤍

username girl are you holding mason at gunpoint

username mount is embarrassed to be ur bf

username maybe you should start following mason’s diet plan

masonmount my darling ❤️

masonmount

Liked by ynusername, kaihavertz29 and 674,598 other

masonmount cheat day with my favourite girl 🍕❤️

username lmao if i were you i would have starved her

masonmount You have no right to comment about how I treat my girlfriend.

username i bet everyday is a cheat day for her 😭

username can she even fit your hoodie lololol

username IM CRYING 😭😭😭

You did read the nasty comments but it didn’t made you cry. Probably because you were used to it, not sure if that made it any better but there were days where it made you stared at yourself in the mirror hating every single part of your body, there were days where you had no appetite no matter how famished you were but Mason would always made it better, it was as if he could read your mind.

Mason did in fact could read your mind like an open book. He knew when your smile had a hidden meaning, he knew it when you looked at him and he could see all those black clouds hovering your head but he never pointed it out. He knew you didn’t like to talk about it so he helped you through his acts.

“Hi there, princess. What are you staring at?” Mason came home to see you standing in front of the mirror, hands on your hips and you just looked so broken. He stood by your side, arms wrapped around your waist to pull you close and you leaned on his chest in response and heaved a sigh.

“Nothing, Mase..”

“Do you wanna bake something tonight? It’s Friday. We always bake something on Friday.”

“Can we skip it tonight? I don’t feel like it…”

“Remember the beignets we saw from Princess and the Frog last night? I found the recipe on Tiktok.”

“Really?!” Your face instantly lit up and turned to look at him. You had told Mason how much you craved for the beignets but non of the recipes looked legit.

“Yeah! I think we have the ingredients already. Wanna give it a try?”

“Yes! Yes, please!” You squealed and hugged him, causing him to stumble back from the sudden change of mood.

So, beignets were your recipe of the week.

It was a success, which was a surprise. So now you have a plate of beignets and ‘Princess and the Frog’ on play.

“You know, princess..” Mason spoke all of sudden which caught you by surprise. The audio from the movie is now long forgotten.

“Yeah…?”

“You know how you always told me you wondered why I chose you over anyone else? I wished you could see yourself from my point of view because when I tell you how perfect you are, how beautiful you are, I mean every single words I said. And I’m not talking about your appearance alone, you have such a good heart, Y/N. We used to meet up with Jason, our mutual friend, at the same old club, remember? One day I walked outside the club to get some fresh air and I saw you rummaging through your handbag just to give a heat pack to an old man who was walking home from a night shift. The other time I met you outside the club, you were calling out to this stray cat and I thought to myself, what the heck is she doing this time. Turned out you got a small pack of cat food, again, in your handbag so I saw you feeding the cat to which I had to stand on guard nearby because you were so busy talking to the cat that you paid no attention to your surrounding.” He poked on your nose which made you chuckled.

“It frustrated me so much that those people on the internet never bothered to know you, the real you that made me fell in love. I just— I wished I could just grab their heads and let them know what kind of person you are. It pained me to just constantly having to see all those comments on yours and my accounts because you didn’t deserve it, heck, no one deserved that but you told me to not entertain any of them because it would be like fighting with a wall. I always remember you told me to not fight with someone who speaks with their ears closed so I held myself but it’s just..”

“It’s okay, Mase. You have been the biggest help I could ever asked for. I think it was kinda hard for me to think that none of them actually have powers against me because I felt like they would always win but all this time, I have always won. I have a boyfriend who always made me see my worth every single day, a boyfriend who never missed to compliment me every day, a boyfriend who always respected me and I think I’ll manage…with you by my side.”

“Always, baby. You can always count on me.” He wiped your tears off and cupped your cheeks to brush his lips against yours. A single kiss turned into two, three, and a shower of kisses all over your face which caused both you and Mason to giggle at it together.

masonmount

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masonmount I know how hard the internet has been on her and I know no matter how strong of a person she is, one can only bear too much before it break you down. Y/N is one of the strongest person I know and to see her breaking down from the comments that were quick to judge on her based on how she looked broke my heart. I am no saint and best believe, I don’t even deserve to be with someone as quintessential as her so if there was one who deserved to be judged, it should be me, not her. Please be respectful towards my girlfriend, and everyone else as everything you comment would linger in someone’s mind for god knows how long.

Comments on this post have been limited.

ynusername

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ynusername Life has been pretty rough lately but I was blessed with this man to help me through day and night. 🧸🤎

masonmount My beautiful princess ❤️

username WELCOME BACK MY QUEEN

username YOU ARE BEAUTIFUUULL

username i wish i have your confidence

username girl fck off ur just ugly no amount of confidence can fix it

ynusername

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ynusername surrender to my vision 👑

masonmount my girl

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[pupuyvs]

22

(written)

Here it was, the day Jimin had been waiting for all week, dinner with Sohyun.

Taking one last deep breath, she opens the door to the private room the actress had rented for them.

Sohyun immediately looks up when Jimin walks in, flustering Jimin by the unexpected eye contact.

She went to stand to greet her, but Jimin quickly motioned for her to stay seated while she took her own seat across from her.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Sohyun simply shook her head, “No need to apologize, I haven’t been here that long.”

Jimin nodded, low key grateful about that fact.

“I didn’t expect you to choose a barbecue place.”

“I wasn’t planning to originally, but I found out you liked it.”

It’s official, I’m in love.

Taking Jimin’s silence as a negative reaction Sohyun spoke up again, “That probably sounds really creepy, I just didn’t know what you liked and since this is supposed to be a congratulatory dinner, I didn’t want to risk it being something you hated. So I watched a video and saw that you liked it.”

Jimin smiled at the girls obvious rambling, it was nice to see that the girl in front of her seemed to be equally as nervous as her, made her feel less of a loser.

“I didn’t find it creepy, I actually find it cute that you did research.”

The actress, clearly embarrassed, just muttered an “I guess” before clearing her throat.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I ordered one of everything.”

The idol’s eyes widen, “Everything? There’s no way we can finish all of that.”

Sohyun laughs, “Of course not, anything we don’t finish I can bring back home to Sooyoung and you can bring back for your members.”

Jimin furrows her eyebrows at the mention of Sohyun bringing something home to anyone.

Taking it as Jimin is confused the actress begins to explain, “Sooyoung, you know her as Yves, is my best friend. Though we’ve known each other for so long she might as well be my sister.”

The idol nods being able to relate to the girl, the members were like sisters to her too. Then she remembers something.

“Is that why your manager was handing out her cards?”

Sohyun winces slightly, “Yeah, she had been wanting to work with you guys. It was the reason why I said yes in the first place, which is no offense to you guys of course, I’m just not fond of the idol scene.”

Before Jimin could ask her to elaborate the server comes with all the food Sohyun had ordered.

“I’ve never done this before, when my friends and I went out one of them cooked. So it’s probably best if you do it.”

A lightbulb went off in Jimin’s head, “Why don’t I teach you?” Not giving the actress a chance to answer she moves to sit next to her, now happy with the lack of space between them.

She quickly starts to instruct the girl what to do, teaching her to cook it the way she hopes the girl would like it.

“So tell me the story about Midnight,” as she lays more pieces of meat on the grill.

She smiles when she sees Sohyun’s eyes light up at the mention of the feline.

“I adopted her three years ago from a shelter. She was originally a gift to this little girl, but her father apparently got rid of her. Soo and I thought our, at the time, new apartment was too big for just the two of us. So when we went to the shelter all it took was one look at her and I knew she belonged with us. She latched onto me more than Soo, so she just became mine.”

“Why the name Midnight?”

“Well that was the name the little girl gave her, it didn’t feel fair to take that away from her. She would’ve been hers, if it weren’t for her father, so in my eyes she’s just as much as Midnight’s owner as I am.”

Jimin pauses when she hears that and just stares at the girl in slight awe. The smile on her face widens when she sees the actress smile excitedly at the meat she just finished cooking.

They finish cooking in a comfortable silence, Sohyun taking it upon herself to organize the cooked meat. As Jimin goes for a piece, Sohyun takes one and places it on her plate for her.

Jimin can only stare at the girl once again, eyes filled with hearts. Sohyun, feeling her stare, looks at the girl confused. Before Jimin can think she speaks, “Are you flirting with me?”

Sohyun chokes slightly on the food she was eating,“Huh?”

Jimin just shakes her head, ears burning red, “Nothing, I was just kidding, sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“Sorry-”

This earns Jimin a playful glare before the two go back to eating. The dinner continues and ends without a hitch, the two using the time to learn more about each other. When they finish the two divide the leftovers and leave, since Sohyun paid before Jimin even arrived.

“Do you have a ride home,” Sohyun asks.

“Yeah my manager should be here soon. You?”

“I drove myself here.”

She drives? She’s so hot.

“Well, drive safely then.”

Sohyun looks at her weirdly, “I’m not leaving just yet, I’ll wait with you until your manager gets here.”

“But it’s freezing,” Jimin tries to argue back.

“And yet you still expect me to leave you here, alone, while you only have a long sleeve shirt on.”

Jimin had no rebuttal, she was too worried about being late, which she was anyways, that she forgot a jacket.

After ten minutes of Jimin checking her phone and shaking from the cold, she finally gets a text from her manager. Only for it to say she won’t be able to grab her for another hour since she has to get Giselle first. The text makes her groan out loud, she was going to kill those two.

“What’s wrong?”

“My manager won’t be able to get me for another hour, due to another member needing her. You should head home now, sorry for making you wait.”

When Sohyun stays silent in response, Jimin believes she may have actually left turning slightly to check she’s met with the girl holding out her coat.

“Here, I’ll drive you home.”

Thank you Giselle and Somi!

“Sohyun must be rich,” is the only thought Jimin has as she enters her car. The car was a perfect sleek black, with darkly tinted windows. The interior had nice leather seats and smelled just like the actress, vanilla. She saw the girl press some buttons when she started the car, which she soon realized must’ve been the heat since she feels the car, and her own seat, starting to warm up.

Texting her manager that Sohyun will bring her home, she looks up to find the girl staring at her.

“I kind of need your address.”

“Oh, right!”

Giving the girl her address, she watches her type it in to the car’s GPS, and then pull out of the parking lot.

During the ride all Jimin can think of is how attractive Sohyun’s side profile is, she’s so glad the girl has to focus on driving since it means she can finally stare all she wants.

“You can play something if you want,” Sohyun says to her.

Jimin rather just hear Sohyun talk but obliges anyways.

Turning on the radio she’s met with the sound of her group’s song blasting.

“You listen to us?!”

Sohyun visibly blushes at the fact she was caught, “Your new song is really good.”

“Aww, thank you, you’re so sweet.��

Sohyun doesn’t say anything in response, still flustered, so Jimin just connects her phone to the car. Playing a random song off her playlist, she allows it to play lowly, eventually lulling her to sleep.

Arriving at a red light Sohyun finally turns to look at the girl, only to discover her newfound state, causing her to unconsciously smile. As she traces the girls face with her eyes Sohyun comes to the realization that she finds Jimin to be one of the prettiest girls alive.

She forcibly tears her eyes away when she sees the light turn green. For the rest of the drive Sohyun begins to drive slightly slower so the girl can sleep peacefully.

When they finally arrive, Sohyun can’t help but feel bad for having to wake up the girl. However, she’s already been in the idol’s apartment parking lot for ten minutes and saw that her manager was asking where she was.

Gently shaking the girls shoulder she softly says her name. Getting no response she tries again, after a few more tries the girl starts to slowly get up.

Jimin, clearly confused, looks around. Making eye contact with Sohyun her own widen.

“Don’t apologize,” Sohyun says before the girl could speak, “We’re here.”

Jimin quickly unbuckles her seatbelt, wanting to quickly escape this embarrassing situation.

Opening the car door and getting out, Jimin turns around to face the girl one last time, “Thank you and sorry.”

Not giving her a chance to respond she closes the door and walks away. She only turns around when she hears her name being called.

“Jimin.”

“Yes?”

“…Never mind, goodnight.”

“Night.”

Once she enters the building, she hears the girl’s car drive away.

She sighs, leaning against the wall before she has a sudden realization.

“I still have her coat!”

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a/n sorry chaewon nation

taglist: @thefckghost @emgchip @yoontoonwhs @rinapomu @jenlisaforthewin @flolio @petruchiosstuff @glassflowerpetals

#karina smau #aespa #aespa fic #aespa giselle #aespa karina #aespa ningning #aespa smau #aespa winter #fem oc #aespa fanfic #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #karina #karina x reader #karina fanfic #giselle #ningning #winter #yu jimin #yu jimin x reader #kpop smau #kpop x reader #le sserafim #eay #🧸au

[streamingcolors-gvf]

Skin Deep- Part 9- 2/2

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x f!reader x Jake Kiszka

Word count: 7k

A/N: Thank you all for being so patient with me getting this out. I apologize it being in two parts, but there was a lot more detail I wanted to add. I apologize for any editing mistakes.

Feeding the Jake girlies again!

Hope y’all enjoy!

As always, I appreciate all the love, feedback and support from you guys

Warnings: cursing, sexually explicit content 18+ - MINORS DNI!! (Oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, edging, dirty talk, toys, sq*irting)

Masterpost, Part 9 1/2

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh. 

“That’s the spirit,” he chuckles softly, causing the calming sound to vibrate against you. His laughter is quickly becoming something you crave. He releases his hold around your waist and gives your asscheek a playful squeeze. “Go ahead and eat and I’ll grab that numbing cream for you.”

You stand there as he breaks away from you, watching him shuffle through the trays of his black tool chest in his station. “You don’t have to.”

Drawer after drawer he searches, sifting through its contents while explaining over his shoulder, “Shading and color work is arguably more painful than the linework, dove. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

You chuckle, sitting down on the couch to open up your to-go container of food. “Here I thought you were some kind of sadist that gets off on causing me pain.”

He’s half-turned away from you on his swivel chair, but you can see the smirk playing on his face. “Not this kind.”

His comeback makes your face flush with heat. The thought permeates, rendering you silent for a minute, trying to find something to say while you pop open the to-go lid to your noodles. “I would ask you to elaborate but your answer might scare me.”

He turns on his chair to face you, showing you a confused expression. “Scare you? I highly doubt that.”

You meet his gaze for a split-second before dropping your eyes to the floor as you admit sheepishly, “You make me nervous, Jake. You must know that.”

It’s cathartic, confessing how much he truly affects you. You wait for his reaction, expecting a witty remark thrown your way. But when too much time passes, it sends anxiety through you like an incoming wave of nausea. You glance up, catching a flash of uncertainty cross his features before seeing his face contort into a look of concern. 

For a brief moment, you see his exterior crack, revealing a glimpse of the same vulnerable man you saw hours ago laid before you. The light has dimmed, and a switch has been flipped between you. Something you said clearly bothers him, and you wish for nothing more than to peek inside his mind and decipher those thoughts. 

Instead of giving you a hint at what he’s thinking, he turns away with the stiffest movements.  He deflates, asking in a voice heavy with defeat,  “Am I too much for you?” 

“What do you mean?”

He pauses, eyes scanning over his workstation while he decides what to say next. He eventually sighs as he stands to his feet, gathers a pair of gloves, the cling-wrap, and the tube of numbing cream in hand, and walks over to you. “The way you left…last time,” He trails off and clears his throat. “Am I too…aggressive?”

“No!” You blurt out, piecing together what he’s shown you. The guilt reappears like an old friend. “No. I really like that with you.” The words feel innocent enough, but the implication behind them makes you flustered. 

He sets the supplies down on the table and lowers himself to his knees. “My goal is not to scare you or upset you like that, dove. I just gotta know that you’re okay…after.”

You hang onto every word. There’s seriousness in his tone, but he sounds far from angry with you. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

He responds to your apology with a closed-lip smile and reaches out to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You want to kiss him, to take his hand from your leg and pull him into you. Forget the tattoo and just have him fuck you right here and now. You imagine it, and nearly lose yourself in the fantasy. He breaks your daydreaming with a pat on your thigh. “Let’s get this on you.”

While he pulls on a pair of gloves, you stand from the couch and come to the realization that you have nothing underneath the borrowed sweatpants. “Uh… slight problem.”

“What?”

You laugh nervously, hooking the band of the pants to expose your bare hip to him. “I didn’t wear any underwear here.”

His eyes widen and his brows jump into his hairline, staring at you in silent awe as a grin spreads across his lips. “Good thing we’re alone, huh?”

“You want me to Winnie-the-Pooh-it in here?”

A giggle breaks free — a real, genuine unfiltered laugh. Hearing it for the first time feels surreal. The way it sounds just like Josh’s catches you by surprise somehow. “Fucking right.” With a gloved finger, he gestures to you to pull them down. “Let’s go.”

You shouldn’t feel this bashful about undressing in front of him. He’s seen you naked more times than you can count, but somehow a blush blooms up your chest into your cheeks. You shimmy the sweatpants down, letting the loose fabric collect around your ankles. 

Unlike the first time you met him, his eyes linger on your body — the part of your body that’s inches from his face. After a few beats of time, he looks away and grabs the small tube off the table, squeezes out a liberal amount of cream onto his fingers, and starts applying it onto your thigh. It’s a thick layer, covering the entirety of your unfinished tattoo. You’re so focused on what his hands are doing, that you’ve completely forgotten about your meal that’s getting colder by the second. 

He then takes the cling film and starts wrapping your upper leg. Staying true to his professionalism, he’s meticulous and thorough, making sure to secure it tight enough that it doesn’t come undone. It’s intimate with how his fingers graze between your thighs and hip. 

He lets out a satisfied sigh, “Alright, so we’ll keep this on for about an hour and then get started.” 

“An hour?” 

“Yeah.” He peels off his gloves and picks up your sweatpants to carefully pull them over the cling wrap. “Gives enough time for the cream to absorb into the skin. Since I’m not worried about a stencil, it can sit while I get set up.” You nod along even though he’s working on cleaning off the coffee table. He notices your food and nudges the plastic tray toward you. “Eat.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease with an unquestionable air of sarcasm. 

He turns on his heels as soon as you say it, shooting you a fiery look that says “You’re going to pay for that later”.  You can’t help but laugh and salute him, which only makes him roll his eyes at you. 

He retreats to his corner of the room, and you eat your stir-fried noodles with the uncomfortable crinkle of saran wrap against your skin. Just as he would for any other client, he goes on to set up for your tattoo. You’re becoming familiar with the steps, all the things Josh had done with your chest piece. They share similarities in their process, the only difference being Jake using a traditional coil machine instead of Josh’s handheld one. 

You feel the urge to fill the silence with small talk, but you manage to suppress it by scrolling away on your phone. With Josh, he would have been chattering away, leaving small opportunities for you to get a word in. Thinking of him, you check your messages to see if he replied. 

You finally set your phone down and finish up the last bit of your noodles. Jake has been busy working in silence, listening and nodding along to the music playing softly around him.

Once the hour timer goes off, he helps unwrap the clingfilm from your leg. He wipes it down and sanitizes the area. The steps are the same as the last time you got tattooed by him, minus the addition of numbing cream and the use of a stencil.   

After you settle into a comfortable position on the prepped table, he lets you control the Bluetooth to the music you like and starts the process. The fact that you don’t have underwear on becomes an insignificant detail as soon as the machine makes contact. You watch him pass the ink-dipped needles in tiny circles across your flesh, deep in concentration. Minutes go by, and you feel more compelled than ever to ask him questions, enticing him to reveal little bits of information about himself you have yet to learn. He seems quieter than the first time he tattooed you, but the hold of his fingers on your leg feels far more affectionate. It makes you believe that you’re not just a client, you’re someone he cares deeply about.  

You’ve tried your best, but a question that’s been eating away at you for days finally slips out. “So, is everything okay between you and Josh?”

“Okay?” He pulls the needle away from your skin, seemingly taken aback by your question.“Like talking and shit?” You nod, making him ask again, “Yeah, why?”

You chew at the inside of your cheek, questioning whether you should venture further into the topic. “I dunno. He seemed pretty pissed at you the other day,” you start, gauging his reaction before continuing. “And I haven’t seen you guys together since everything happened. Things just seem tense since… yeah.”

The needle makes contact again, punching the pockets of ink deep into your flesh, making you wince. “Yeah, we’re good. I don’t think we would be good at living together or running our own business if we let all of your disagreements get in the way.”

You hum, but you’re not convinced. The skeptical look you give him makes him snort a laugh. “We’re twins, dove. I understand him a lot better than you think.” 

You stretch to lay back, trying to focus your attention on anything other than the fact your numbing cream is starting to wear off. “Bizarre to think you were a single cell at one point.” 

“Don’t remind me,” he groans with faux annoyance and the loud buzzing from the machine takes over. “He did tell me that you talked.”

You wonder how that conversation played out between them. “We did.” When he doesn’t ask a follow-up question, you fill in, “How are you feeling about it?”

“How do I feel about it?” 

You sit up so you can look at him. “Yeah.”

He straightens and lets out a heavy breath, like the thought has been weighing on him as well. “Listen, if the decision about being exclusive or not was up to me? I’m not fucking sharing you. Plain and simple. Even with him.” He breaks eye contact with you, dropping his focus to your swollen leg. “And we both know that’s not happening. So that’s a decision left to you.” He glances up, catching your stunned expression. “And that’s what it seems like he’s done. Leave it up to you.” 

“Oh…” 

You’re not sure what to say to him. While the honesty is something you appreciate, the sting from the edge of his tone remains. There’s a bitterness in his voice that you can’t quite place. You’ve been convincing yourself all day that you’re getting closer to him, even if it’s baby steps, but this feels like another wall — another way for him to have his guard up with you. 

You retreat into your thoughts and slump back against the table. Before the machine makes contact with your skin again, his other hand squeezes around your calf. The way his gloved thumb rolls across the skin is meant to be comforting. 

He checks in with you every ten to fifteen minutes to alleviate the tension. Your answers are short, but not angry. All you can do is lay here going over his words in your head as the pain comes through with a vengeance.

He reads your body language, taking the signs that he needs to finish up sooner rather than later. The final passes of the needle feel like a hot scrape of a blade, nearly sending you over the edge. You couldn’t be more grateful for the cool water soothing over your raw skin.

“Wanna see?” He asks after gently patting you dry, bringing you out of the dark corner of your mind. You nod, and with his help, you’re able to sit up to see the final design. 

“Oh my god, Jake,” you gasp in shock, turning your leg side to side to admire it fully. It goes beyond your vision, exceeding all expectations you could have ever had. He brought your idea to life. Intricate details now fill in the spaces that were left from the last time. It’s feminine, decorating and accentuating the curvature of your body. You realize within seconds of its value, knowing that he could charge you at least a thousand dollars for this piece. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

Your praise brings out a boyish innocence within him. As soon as the words leave your lips, his shoulders relax and a wave of relief washes over him. You ask him to take a picture to send to Josh since your phone is tucked away in your bag. He applies ointment and wraps the clear Saniderm in the same way he did last time.

You leave him to clean up and close down his station for tomorrow, making it look as though the two of you were never here. He ties the final knot in the garbage bag, calling out to you from across the room, “Do you have to go by the house for anything before I drop you off?”

Hooking your bag over your shoulder, you spin around to face him. “Drop me off?”

He shuffles over to you, bag in hand. “Uh…yeah.” He’s been trying to read you, but your body language right now is telling a different story, causing awkwardness to settle in the space between you. You can’t help but note how he feels so far away despite the fact he’s only a few from you. He then clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck.  “I just thought you might want some time to yourself tonight.”

“I don’t.” Your response clips the air with a harshness you didn't intend. Hurt resurfaces and tries to sour your mood, but the last thing you want is to leave the night off on a bad note. You don’t want your time with him to end, making you ask, “Would you come back to my place with me?”

You look up at him, gauging what his response is going to be. You brace for him to decline your offer, only to be surprised when a smile creeps across his face again. “Are you inviting me to your apartment, dove?”

You don’t even bother holding back a smile of your own. Making your way toward the stairs, you throw your back to make him chase you, “Yes.”

Bringing a man back to your place at night is an entirely different game. You felt nervous showing Josh your apartment days ago, but Jake on your heels as you ascend the creaky staircase makes your heart thump so wildly against your chest you’re scared you might have a heart attack. 

The fluorescent light, a bulb that probably hasn’t been replaced for decades — so old you can see the collection of insects that have made their way inside the glass — flickers above you. 

The atmosphere in here is eery — reminiscent of a scene straight out of a horror movie— and Jake is quick to pick up on it. “I’m not going to get murdered or anything, right?”

You laugh, looking over your shoulder to see him standing one step behind you. “I think I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”

“That would be a rookie move for a killer,” he says, matter-of-factly between heavy breaths.

You finally reach the landing and turn to face him. “Would it?”

You strike a curious brow, making him pause and lean an elbow against the railing. “It would.” He takes the moment to look around, take in the finer details, and gesture to the stagnant air with an open hand. “I don’t know the layout of your apartment, escape routes, where to get rid of a body…when your roommate is going to be home.”

You hum, giving him a more than amused look. “I’m impressed. You seem well-versed in the topic of murder.”

He chuckles an airy laugh through his nose. Despite the topic, it’s that persuasive smile that’s going to be the death of you. “I’ve seen my fair share of true crime documentaries, dove.”

As silly as it is, you’re thankful that you’ve both loosened up enough to have this banter. Imagining him binging crime documentaries instead of cooking shows, you take the next step up the second flight of stairs. “Well, I’ll try not to be disturbed by the fact you’ve taken notes.”

“Don’t lie and say it hasn’t made you wet thinking about it.” He says it so boldly, loud enough that you’re positive that the sound carried through the walls into your neighbor's apartment. 

You’re blushing and flustered as you search for your key on the metal ring. “Horned up about you being a murderer?”

He presses himself against you, close enough to speak softly into your ear, “What a plot twist that would be.” His hand finds your untattooed hip, making you rock back into him. “Sounds kind of hot, right?”

You know he can feel you grinning like an idiot. He lowers his voice, teasing you with a certain rasp that makes your spine tingle, “Women love being scared.”

You giggle, thinking about the weird looks you’re going to get from your neighbor the next time you cross paths. With the warmth of his breath ticking the back of your neck, you unlock the deadbolt and doorknob. You break the seal of the door, and step in, ushering him to follow. His movements are cautious and quiet, maybe even borderline slightly uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry. My roommate isn’t home,” you reassure while shrugging off your jacket and bag onto the chair.

He relaxes enough to pull off his own jacket. “Good to know.” You take it from him to hang on the hook, watching as he looks at the space around him. “I’m not gonna lie…I was beginning to worry walking up, but you have a nice place here.”

Before you can thank him, you’re interrupted by a welcoming chirp from Tater Tot, a sound that tells you that he missed you. There’s never a worry in your mind about his food and water always being topped off. Your roommate, Haley, spoils him as if he was her own. He’s well cared for, but time away from him has been an adjustment. You’ve never spent more than a couple of hours away from him at a time. 

You smile when you hear the hefty thud of his paws hitting the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Within seconds, you see him come from around the corner and trot toward you and Jake. “The famous Tater Tot. I’ve heard a lot about you, big guy,” Jake chimes with a level of excitement that surprises you. You give him a puzzled look, eliciting an explanation. “Josh. He wouldn’t shut up about your damn cat at work all week.”

“Why am I not surprised?” You huff and laugh, watching Tater Tot slowly approach Jake’s leg to give it a testing sniff before rubbing his face across it. 

Jake’s face lights up from the feline’s acceptance, and lowers to a crouching position to give him a few careful pets. 

After the cat darts off back to his spot on the counter, Jake takes the chance to meander further into the living room, leaving you by the front door. He’s quiet, letting his eyes lead the way around the small room. 

The need to say something takes over. “I know it’s not as nice as your place. Yeah, the building is old as shit, but the rent is controlled and dirt cheap for this part of town. I can’t complain too much.” You’re rambling, throwing anything out there to fill the silence. He listens, glancing over the framed artwork and posters adorning your walls. “I think Haley and I have done a pretty good job at making it comfortable.”

He pivots on his heel, giving you a soft smile. “It’s lovely. It feels like you.”

The compliment swims around in your head. It isn’t flashy or showy, but your apartment feels like home. Admittedly, it’s taken you a while to get there on a barista budget, but the humble space is more than you could’ve asked for.

“Thank you.” You’re suddenly hit with the feeling that you’re being a terrible host, making you offer, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink? I can make some food if you want...”

He smirks to himself as he makes his way past the bookshelf filled with novels and knick-knacks. “You don’t have to entertain me, dove.” 

“I know. You’re right.”

He rocks on his heels, giving you a reassuring smile. “I’m okay. Really.”

You chew on your lip for a few seconds but ultimately bite the bullet. “I’m gonna jump in the shower and change out of these clothes really quick.”

“Take your time.” 

Showering at the twins’ house has been a treat the past few weeks. You’ve been pampered by the spacious walk-in enough to realize how much you’ve been missing it with your own. 

You step into the ancient clawfoot tub and draw a shower curtain that lets more water onto the floor than keeps in. There’s no point in bothering with waiting for the water to warm up. It takes ages to get the right temperature. You’ve learned the hard way that it can go from scalding, melt-your-skin-right-off hot to frigid in a matter of seconds — and that’s on a good day with how finicky the water heater is. 

Unreliable water temps and cramped spaces aside, knowing he’s out there in your living room makes it even harder to enjoy your shower. Careful to avoid your fresh tattoo, you scrub and clean your body, doing the necessities before cutting the water that was seconds away from running ice cold. 

After wrapping a towel around yourself and drying your wet hair enough to brush the tangles out, you dash across the hall into your bedroom. 

You fish out one of those oversized sleep t-shirts you thrifted from the men’s section out of your dresser. Thinking that underwear might rub against your tattoo, you decide against it, continuing your trend of going commando for the evening. 

You giggle at the juxtaposition of you now, dressed in a gimmicky giant t-shirt that was bought at a gift shop somewhere, in comparison to that drunken late-night phone call when you sent him pictures of yourself in lingerie. 

“What’s so funny?” 

You startle at the sound of his voice. He’s standing in the open doorway with his arms crossed, making you wonder how long he’s been standing there. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself and try not to fixate on the fact you look like a wet sea otter — hair slicked back against your scalp, face blotchy from the shower without an ounce of makeup in sight. “Thinking about how I probably have never looked less sexy than I do right now.” 

He leans a shoulder against the frame, clicking his tongue before pouting out his bottom lip. “Oh, that’s not true. Phil’s Crab Shack merchandise has never been hotter. The “Got Crabs?” on the back really adds a nice touch.”

“You’re an asshole,” you scoff with a dramatic eye roll before laughing. 

He smiles but doesn’t laugh with you. “How’re you feeling?”

There’s a dull throb in the area, but nothing unbearable. At least for now. “It’s a sore but I’ll be okay. I’ll probably feel it more in the morning.”

Concern washes over him for the second time tonight, making him straighten, “Did you take anything?”

“Some Tylenol.”

“Good.” He nods. You notice how he has yet to enter your room. He’s lingering at the door, shifting back and forth on his feet. 

“You okay? Looks like you’re itching to bolt out of here.” 

His eyes find yours as he lets out a heavy sigh, “I’m not. I just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You wonder where his confidence went — the ego that leaves you trembling with excitement. The Jake you’re familiar with would have started ripping your clothes off the second you stepped into your apartment. A roommate would have been the least of his worries, overstaying his welcome wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. You stare at him, but his eyes are glued to the floor, making it impossible to gauge what he’s feeling. “I already told you I wanted you to come over tonight.”

“Right.”

“So are you gonna come over here or what?” You challenge him, emphasizing your point with the loud smack of your hands against your legs.

You are the switch, causing something to ignite inside him. He takes the bait, sauntering over to you in a few strides. You’re expecting his embrace, but the strength of his calloused fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck takes you by surprise. You can’t help the yelp you let out as he pulls you into a kiss. 

You’ve been testing him all day, and now you deserve the way he’s shoving his tongue into your mouth. You’ve been craving this urgency, that aggression that’s been locked up and buried inside for the entire day. With a heavy groan and a spiteful nip on your lip, he grinds himself against you, causing your following moan to echo into his parted mouth. Hungry for more, you reach down to feel his hardening cock with your hand. He becomes distracted by the touch, allowing you to stroke him over the jeans. Realizing what you’re doing, he knots his fingers in your damp hair and pulls just hard enough to break your kiss. 

He’s panting, sending his warm breath across your wet lips as he speaks, “I don’t think sex is a good idea tonight.” He swallows thickly to collect his thoughts. “If I fuck you, I can’t promise it will be gentle… and I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Even with seemingly thoughtful intentions, you never predicted being turned down by him. Confusion and disappointment are quick to cast over your features while your insecurities try to weasel their way into your mind. “But you fucked me the first night I got it. What’s changed?”

He reconnects the kiss before peppering your jawline. The sensation of his lips brushing against your skin pulls you back in, making you forget that he’s rejected the idea of sleeping with you. When his lips meet the shell of your ear, he coats your senses with a honeyed voice. “Everything.”

The word trickles down your spine, seeping into your body like a masked poison —making you clench your thighs with need. You want him. You want to feel him in your hands and on your tongue, even if it means sacrificing your own pleasure for it. 

You decide to take the initiative, kissing that hidden spot behind his ear where the dagger is inked into the flesh. He hums, causing the sound to vibrate within his chest while his grip tightens around your body. You nip and suck the path down his neck, fighting the temptation to leave your mark. 

You continue your kisses down his torso, making sure to wet the thin fabric of his t-shirt with your tongue. Before you have the chance to settle onto your knees, he reaches out and takes hold of your forearm to stop you, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Let me,” you insist softly, looking up to catch the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He won’t admit it outright, but the way his resolve weakens at the sight of you on your knees is unmistakable. “I want to take care of you,” you add, tracing along the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t need more convincing than that, and his fingers relax around your arm, allowing it to fall free from his grasp. 

You rub up and down his legs, massaging the fatigued muscles of his upper thighs while avoiding his obvious erection with each roll of your palm. You take your time, ignoring the fact you have no underwear on and your kneecaps are digging into your floor. 

You make a show of popping the button of his jeans and slowly pulling down the brass zipper, giving him a visual that will be hard to forget. You peel back the denim, exposing the recognizable band of his black Calvin Kleins and the soft skin of his tattooed stomach peeking out beneath his t-shirt. Lifting it, you place wet kisses just below his navel. He’s warm against your lips, squirming from the ticklish touch. You give him a little more, tugging at his jeans by the belt loops as you nip and suck at the high points of his hip bones. 

He groans and bucks forward slightly to chase the feeling. Now that you’ve let go of it, he takes his t-shirt and bunches it up in a tight fist against his stomach while the other hand finds the crown of your head. 

You explore the stretchy, silken material of his boxer briefs against your lips, gliding along the contours of his body until you reach his cock. 

“Fuck,” he slips out. He’s stayed rather silent up until now, only really giving you ragged breaths and a few groans. 

You can’t help but giggle at his current state as you slide his boxers down his legs inch-by-inch until his cock springs free. No matter how many times you see it, it will always surprise you. You can’t help but stare, fixating on the memory of how he feels and tastes. You finally break away to look him in the eye as you hold him by the base and lean forward to kiss the head. 

You tease him, licking and kissing down the length of his shaft, withholding the gratification of his being fully in your mouth from him. He’s fighting an internal battle by growing more impatient by the second while not wanting the feeling to stop. 

An idea sparks in your mind. Acting on impulse, you break away and open the drawer of your nightstand. Before he has the chance to complain or ask what you’re doing, you retrieve a sleek, black silicone vibrator. 

With the toy in hand, you find your place again. You catch his stunned expression before he laughs, albeit, a rather fucked-out laugh, “Oh, hello. When were you gonna tell me about that?” 

You smile, convinced that he probably thinks you’re about to use it on yourself. “I’m telling you about it now.” With a wicked smirk, you click the on button, spurring the toy to life.  

“Kinky. What other stuff are you hid— oh, fuck!” The moan curse is ripped from him the second you bring the vibrator to the underside of his cock. “Heyyy…” he tries to protest, but the word gets dragged out through a feral growl. 

You run it up and down his length while sealing your lips around the tip of his cock. You taste him, swirling your tongue around him and clicking the button again, increasing the intensity of the toy. His fingers instantly tighten around your hair and you can feel him throw his head back. 

You can sense his core getting rigid, and pull him from your mouth with a wet pop of your lips while also taking the toy away. “Fucking hell, babe,” he mutters through labored breaths now that you’ve given him a chance to regain his composure. “I’m not gonna last another minute if you keep doing that.”

Holding him in a tight fist, you press the end of the vibrator to his frenulum — that special, oh-so-sensitive spot on the underside of his cock. And the moan that escapes from his chest is indescribable. The sound alone makes it all worth it. You drink in the rare sight as you play with him, watching how his stomach muscles flex with his building climax, how his knuckles have turned ghost-white around his t-shirt, to how sweat has started to collect around his throat. 

He’s so hard, flushed with color and glistening from your spit. His violent shaking is your cue to pull it away and give him a few teasing strokes of your hand. “Feel good?”

“Fuck you,” he sighs, the sound falling into a breathy laugh. 

“I wish you would,” you tease, taking him back into your mouth once again. Holding the toy in your hand, you keep it pressed against him while gliding his cock across your tongue. You increase the power again with another push of the button to feel the vibrations through him. 

You would consider him a verbal man during sex, but now you’ve reduced him to incoherent curses. The reactions of his body are praise enough, giving away the fact he’s close before his words do. 

Accepting the loss of control, he breathes your name out of desperation and as a final warning. Within seconds of it leaving his lips, his warm cum fills your mouth. You swallow him down, guiding him through the violent orgasm that racks his body. After switching off the toy, you lick him clean until he shudders from overstimulation, and carefully tuck his softening cock back into the safety of his boxers. 

“What the fuck was that?” He huffs, combing back his sweaty hair from his face with his fingers. You laugh in response, making him look down to see your shit-eating grin as you wipe your mouth dry with the back of your hand. The look in his eyes is far from satisfied. It smolders with lust —that dominance that you’ve been searching for.

“Get on the bed. Lay back,” he instructs, pointing behind you. You do as you're told, biting back on your bottom lip knowing what you’re in for. As you settle on the mattress, he kicks his jeans off his legs and pulls his t-shirt off his back. 

Standing at the side of your bed, he gives you a full view of his body. There are too many pieces to count, from the mermaid and pirate ship on his legs to the massive skull with its sword in the center of his chest. Weeks together and you still haven’t had the chance to admire every single one. 

“Open your legs.” He gestures with a sweeping motion of a pointed finger. You let them fall to the side, showing him your bare pussy. As if the sight tortured him, his brows furrowed and his mouth fell open. “Sometimes I can’t believe how hot you are,” he admits, crawling onto the bed toward you. 

He settles between your legs, careful to avoid the Saniderm covering your thigh. Taking the toy from its spot on the blanket, he clicks the button again and starts dragging it up and down your inner thigh. “Let you have a taste of control… it’s addicting isn’t it?” You focus on the feeling of the vibrations, anticipating where it's going to go before it gets there. He massages it over your lips with a gentle touch before pressing it directly against your clit.  “Can’t let it go right to your head.” 

You cry out and go to snatch the toy from him, making him click his tongue in disapproval, “Aht! You’re a better girl than that, dove.” He switches the pressure, bringing it back to your clit. You writhe against the bed in response, allowing your eyes to close. He chuckles, watching your body in real time to something that’s not his mouth, fingers, or cock. “This nifty little thing does feel good now doesn’t it?” 

You’re surprised by the wet feeling of his tongue. He licks through you, compensating for where the toy doesn’t reach. The roll of his tongue is sinful, focused directly on your clit. 

“You like it sweet and slow, don’t you?” he coos, blanketing your cunt with his heat. He’s making you feel so good you have completely forgotten about the pulsing pain of your tattoo. He flicks his tongue over your clit, teasing you, “Should I get a tongue ring too?… spoil your clit like he does?” 

“Jake,” you scold breathlessly. The combination of the vibrator and the velvet softness of his mouth overwhelms you. You’re in the same position as he was minutes ago, pushed right to the edge of your release within seconds. 

He pulls the toy away, making you whine in complaint. “Tell me, baby.” He taps it against your swollen clit as he mumbles through his kisses to your thigh, “What do you think of when you’re using this?” 

“Fuck…I dunno. You and Josh I guess.” It’s not a lie, but there’s no way you can give him more details than that. While your mind fogs with your building orgasm, you know the answer you gave him won’t suffice. 

He hums, drawing the tip of the vibrator everywhere but where you want it most. “Who do you think of more?” 

“That’s not fair,” you huff in frustration. You’re so close,  knowing that he will drag it out as long as he wants. 

“I know, but I don’t care,” he rasps with calm collectedness. 

You swallow the dryness on your tongue and open your eyes to stare at your ceiling, searching for an answer that will make sense. “I think of you in different ways.”

“Oh? How so?” He brings the vibrator to your entrance, holding it there as he waits for your response. 

“Uh... oh, fuck,” you moan, the sounds becoming increasingly more desperate. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He slips the vibrator inside you, but only an inch. It’s enough to scramble your thoughts like a mental blender. The noise you make is feral, causing him to shush you softly. “Tell me and I’ll let you cum.”

“I think about you when I want to be fucked hard. When I want you to rail me into the bed I forget my name.”

“Interesting.” He hums as he guides the toy inside you another inch and clicks the button again. “And him?”

“Jake, please!” You cry out, but his hand wraps around your wrist like a cuff. 

“Just a simple answer, baby girl. I’ll give you what you want,” he sings, coaxing you further into bliss. 

“I think about Josh when I want to be eaten out…when I want to be the one to ruin him,” you blurt out the answer without processing what it could mean. 

“Does he eat your pussy better than me?” he asks, sliding the toy all the way inside you until it nudges against your cervix. When you stall, mostly because of the vibrations against your g-spot, he adds, “You wouldn’t be the first girl to tell me how good he is.”

“Huh?”

He chuckles at your reaction, “Word around the shop travels fast, and there might’ve been a girl or two that he’s fooled around with in the past that had a lot to say about it. The things I had to overhear…but I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Oh,” you pant, trying your best to focus on his words while he fucks you slowly with the toy. 

“You didn’t answer me.”

“He’s the best I’ve ever had,” you admit sheepishly. The movement of his hand doesn’t stop, and his expression doesn’t change. 

He smiles, nipping at the flesh of your thigh. “Well, I guess I have a new challenge for myself, huh?” He licks a path from your inner leg to your clit, sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth. You realize within seconds that you’re at the mercy of their competitiveness.

He swirls his tongue at the same pace as the toy. The feeling is unreal, a pleasure that’s going to corrupt you from this day forward. He’s thrown you to the cliff’s edge, and all you can do is accept your fate. You whine, clawing at the back of his hand draped across your stomach, “Oh my god, Jake.”

“I know, I know, dove,” he soothes with a calming lilt, voice mumbled by the fact his face is buried into your pussy. He laps at you with an unprecedented fervor, making you cum harder than you have with him yet. You see stars, or blackout entirely — the details you’ll never be sure of. Without warning, a gush of warm wetness pools beneath you, soaking the sheets. 

You come to and freeze all movements not sure what to do next. He lifts his head from between your legs and retrieves the vibrator from inside you before tossing it to the side. Embarrassment starts to take over, and your thoughts begin to race with ideas of how you’re going to explain yourself.

“That has got to be the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes in pure awe, looking down at the mess he helped create. Ashamed, you hide behind your hands.

You peek through your splayed fingers, mumbling against your palm.“Wait…really?”

He pulls your fingers down from your face with a gentle hand. “Fuck yeah. Why didn’t you tell me that you could squirt?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I …I honestly didn’t know.”

He lifts his pierced brow. “You mean… you haven’t done that with him?”

“No,” you confess, blushing bright red and still reeling from what had just happened. “At least I don’t think so?” 

“Fucking A!” He shouts into the open room, making you scold him with a violent shush. He laughs, kissing you deeply as he falls back on the bed beside you. “A fucking win for once. About damn time.”

“Both of you are idiots,” you groan as you try to sit up. Exhausted, you grimace at the scene before you. “Now I gotta change my sheets and mattress cover.”

TAGLIST:

@gretavanbitches @dannyandthekiszkas @asparrowofthedawn @ageofnations @welightthefire @garbagevanfleet @lvnterninthenight @pennylanefics @writingcold @alexxavicry @gvfficrecs @jakeyboiiiiiii @doodle417 @richjaaasss @pr41sethemoon @gretavanflowerpowerrr @joshskittytickler @tripthelightfatality @maddie-van-fleet @sarakay-gvf @josiee-gvf @milkgemini @sammiejane22 @gretavanbear @capturethechaos @welllauragvf @averagemisfit03 @myownparadise96 @givemeyourtots2 @gretavangroove @objectsinspvce @myownparadise96 @feilores @josh-iamyour-mama @givemeyourtots2 @joshkiszkasbigtoe @lightmylove-gvf @mydarlingdanny @shutupdevvie @twinszka @busybeingtrash @carlybubs @demonrat444 @high-fidelity1 @jake-kiszkas-smirk @sunandthemoontwinflames @gvfcinema @klarxtr @sacredthethreadgvf @gracev0609

#gvf fanfiction #gvf fic series #josh gvf fic #gvf fic #gvf smut #gvf au fanfic #gvf au smut #gvf au fic #gvf au #jake kiszka au #jake kiszka smut #josh kiszka au #gvf tattoo!au #gvf tattoo au #gvf tattoo fic #skin deep fic #skin deep update #jake kiszka x you #josh kiszka fanfiction #josh kiszka smut #skin deep #gvf twin au #gvf twin fic series #gvf twin fic #gvf twin series #gvf twins

[xanaduclover]

⋆ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 ⋆ | 𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒓

eren x female reader

tw: angst

~ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ~

“Why are you out here?” Eren called out from behind you, watching as you looked up at the moonlight. “Everything okay?” You sighed, and he walked up next to you, staring at your face, trying to read your expression. “I’m fine.” He didn’t believe that at all but decided not to pry. “You’ve been off these past few weeks…” He says softly, “What do you mean, Eren?” The tone of your voice sounded a bit hostile to Eren, it rubbed him the wrong way but he didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know..it just seems like…you’re less interested than usual..now you spend most of your time alone..Even Armin is—” You sighed, shaking your head a little. “You worry too much, tell Armin that I’m fine… and that I just want some alone time.” Eren looked at the ground for a moment, evidently not liking this big change in your personality. “What…what about you and me?” He asks, staring deeply into your eyes. He wasn’t too specific on what he meant but you already knew.

“What about us?” You questioned reluctantly. This was a subject t that you didn’t want to elaborate too much on. “Well…I…I’m trying to find the right words to say…” he says, quietly. There was a small moment of silence between you two. You really hoped that he would go on about another topic but he didn’t. “I feel..we have...a strong connection…”

He was trying to sound confident, but his pauses showed he was nervous. You weren't sure how to reply so you simply said, "We’ve always have, ever since we were kids.”

"No.. not like that," He replies quickly, almost annoyed by your response.

"Then how?"

Eren looked at you again and stepped forward. You weren't sure how close to stand but he took the choice from you. “You know, Y/n.” You looked down. You had no idea how to respond to this. You loved Eren, that much was obvious, but you weren't sure how to express your love, not even to yourself.

"Eren..." you began slowly, not wanting to hurt his feelings, "What am I to you?” He asks quickly, not giving you any time to finish your previous sentence. “What?” You asked in a whisper, trying to make out his features in the moonlight. “What am I to you?" Eren says again, his voice becoming more stern.

"You're…you’re one of my best friends…my..companion..someone who I can depend on and trust..."

"That's not what I meant, Y/n."

You stared at him, confused. What was he trying to get at? You tried to think back to your conversations together and see if anything in them might've been able to hint to his question, but you came up blank. "What do you mean then, Eren?"

"i..I..” He took a step back, his cheeks turning a dark shade of red.

"I want to be closer to you, Y/n."

You stood there, still in shock. You were surprised by his confession. You didn't expect it, especially not from him. "Eren..." You said softly, unable to finish your thought.

"Sorry..I know you weren’t expecting that..." he said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “But I’ve been feeling like this for a long time, and I never knew how to tell you, and I wasn’t sure if you would ever feel the same, but I had to say something...I just..I wanted to let you know that you mean a lot to me..and I would like to..spend the rest of my life with you.”

You blinked a couple times, processing his words. Your mind was spinning. You didn't know what to say, but you needed to say something. "Eren..I-i..”

“I love you, Y/n.”

You felt your heart begin to beat faster. You weren't sure how to answer him. It felt like a dream, but you knew that this was real. “I don’t expect you to feel the same..I just needed to get it off my chest..I couldn't keep it in anymore..I'm sorry...I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.." He says, his eyes full of guilt and regret. You looked up, meeting his gaze. “I..I..I think we should go inside..it’s getting late…." you say quietly, avoiding eye contact with him.

Eren didn't respond, and just nodded, looking at the ground. You began to walk away, your mind racing, still in disbelief. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?

"Goodnight, Y/n.." Eren says quietly.

~ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ♤♢☾ ~

au: this was extremely lazy of me, i apologize❤️

#aot #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #attack on titan #eren aot #eren yeager #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger #eren x y/n #eren x reader #attack on titan eren #eren jaeger x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren jeager x you

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: The aftermath of injury leads to a desire for comfort.

Warning: Mentions of injury, hospitals, probably incorrect info on concussions, mentions of alleged abuse (like for a second but not in great detail), fluff. P.S: Idc if reader is coming off a little childish in the beginning, i said it before and i’ll say it again reader is honestly almost completely based off of me and something about me is that i hate hospitals. I’m a chronically ill girlie and i still despise them, every time ive had to go ive complained—it’s who i am as a person.

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra , @fablesrose , @ada--44 @bonkydarnes , @star-yawnznn

Word count: about 2k

Rest

(Master list, Prev Ch, Next Chapter)

“So where to next?” I ask as I buckle my seat, allowing my head to rest finally. I am more than happy to leave behind this apple-loving, pagan-worshiping town.

“‘Bringin’ you to a hospital” Dean answers, starting the car. I jolted up, immediately regretting the action as the pain in my head spiked and my vision wobbled. “Nooo. No. No hospital” I plead, not caring if I sounded pathetic, “I hate hospitals!”

“I wasn’t asking if you wanted to go, sweetheart” he quips. “No, please! I’m totally fine, sure I'm a little beat up but nothing a bandaid and sleep can’t fix.”

“You’re not winnin’ this one” he replies with a little half shrug. I turned to Sam, who already had the map out, and pulled open. “Sam, help me.”

“Sorry Y/N, Deans right.”

Dean sighs dramatically, “I love bein’ right.”

“Shut up” Sam half laughs, “Seriously though Y/N, you probably have a concussion. You should get checked out for a definitive answer.”

“Okay, well, Dean he was hit over the head with a gun too.” I try and deflect. Sam turns his head to face me giving me a “really?” look, “He’s also walking and talking fine, and doesn't look like he’s fighting to keep his eyes open.” I thought I was talking and walking just fine despite feeling like everything was spinning and I was doing a wonderful job of ignoring the ringing in my ears.

I open my mouth to make another retort but I don’t get a single sound out before Dean cuts me off, “If you try any of your escapes I'm callin’ your brother.” That shuts me up, I love my brother but he's very protective and will yell at me if it means being safe. I lean back against the soft seats of the car, pouting, I hate hospitals. I catch Dean's eyes staring at my lips in the rearview mirror, “You can pout as much as you want to, ‘still going.”

I know I'm acting like a child but hospitals are the worst, sure the doctors can be nice but there's so much always going on that it's just too overwhelming and they poke and prod at you. And especially as a hunter, you must make such elaborate lies just to be seen.

The dark-haired doctor removes the small yet extremely bright light from my eyes, “You have a minor concussion” she concluded after the many tests she ran, “there's not much we can prescribe you. But you need a lot of rest and to relax, no drinking or crazy activities for at least a week. You can take Advil in 24 hours if the pain is too much.” If the boys were in this curtained-off room they would most certainly say ‘I told you so.’

She suddenly looks a little nervous, staring back at the curtain before looking at me again, speaking quietly, “This is a safe environment, if those boys are hurting you I can help you.” Her eyes slipped to my wrist, of course she saw the bruises and made the connection to restraints. And so much of my appearance from the now cleaned and bandaged wound on my head to my dirt-stained clothes would lead her to that thought.

I tug down my sleeves, trying to cover them, “No! No, they didn't do anything, they would never do that to me, seriously” I insist, eyes wide. She doesn't seem so convinced, “Look” I sigh, “The person who did this is being charged, alright the cops know about all this. The boys I came with did not do this.” It was mostly a lie, of course, but the point was to clear their names, that part was true. She nods, “I’ll be back with your discharge papers.”

She pulls back the curtains, and the second she's out of sight I sigh. I know it's her job but in this case it wasn't helpful, I didn't want any further fights or complications to go on today.

….

I hold a hand up, “I don't want to hear it. Yes, you were right.” Sam’s lips curve up into a smile, “Hey I said I don't wanna hear it” I cut them both off before they could say anything. Dean swings his arm around my shoulder pulling me into his side, “Like I said, ‘love bein’ right.”

It was still early afternoon when we pulled up to the motel. It was just your regular-looking motel, with two floors of rooms to choose from with dingy lighting but I could not be more happy. We all exited the car rather quickly, it had been a long couple of days. I grab my bag meeting the boys by the trunk, Dean distributing our duffle bags. But when he gets to mine he doesn't hand it over, just closes the trunk, “I can carry my own bag, you know.”

He shrugs, “I know.” God, he was a sweetie pie. I study him as he walks just a few steps ahead of me, after everything that transpired I don't think I want to be alone. I wasn't scared per se, I just wanted comfort and I didn't have any stuffed animals packed. I didn't want to be a burden to him, he was probably tired and would want a bed to himself. But maybe I could just hang in their room for a long while.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks, stopping to look back at me. Of course, he could practically sense it. He places our bags on the concrete, getting close enough that I could easily breathe him in. He lifts his hands to cup my face gently, he’s been doing that a lot lately. “‘Your head hurtin’?” He was looking down at me so carefully, his green eyes softening as he watched me. I have to remind myself to respond even as my thoughts extinguish each time his thumbs caress my cheeks, careful to pass over the bruises there, “Well yes but that's not…” I don't finish my sentence not having a single idea of what I should say to him. He looks down at me expectantly, just waiting. I wanted to hug him, keep my head buried in his chest even as my head pounded like a bass playing through an amp, but I can’t exactly say that.

I sigh, “Is it okay if…” I swallow, speaking quietly, “Can I stay with you?”

His eyes widened a fraction and if I wasn't looking right up at him I would have missed it entirely. It's not like this was anything new for us, we've cuddled before while watching a movie or something and even slept in the same bed if needed for a hunt. But to ask like this somehow felt so different, so much more personal. “Of course” he answers simply, eyebrows scrunched together as if he was insulted that I would be so hesitant to ask. He lets go of my face, and I immediately miss the steadiness of it all, he takes a single step back but not before grabbing hold of my hand and picking up our duffles to hold in his free hand.

We catch up to Sam in the small lobby, two keys in his hand instead of the usual three. Was it a coincidence that they just didn't have a room I could use or did he just know? I guess it was possible he saw us in the parking lot and figured out what I would want, am I that easy to read?

….

The room was quite nice, the walls were grey with some white detailing. And the beds were big, most likely a queen, with the crisp white blankets and a tall cushioned headboard. Sam walks in first, choosing the bed on the far side of the room, which was predictable at best seeing as Dean preferred being closer to the door out of a sense of protectiveness.

Dean places his duffle on the bed, handing me mine, “You can take a shower first” he says, telling me more than offering. I swing off my messenger bag, placing it on the bed before looking between both boys, “Are you sure?” I was already intruding in their room and his bed I didn't want to take over the bathroom too. They both nod their heads, I mumble thanks before heading there.

I didn’t care to study the bathroom, just wanting to be under the hot water and wash away the dirt and feelings of the day. I turn the shower on, lifting my shirt over my head before having to stop with it halfway off of me to stop the room from spinning. I close my eyes forcing myself to relax and not sway as I stripped down to nothing.

Being naked only made my bruises look worse. My wrists were rubbed raw, painful red marks adorning each one, and my cheeks had dark bruises on them from being punched twice over the span of a couple of days. Never mind the gash on the corner of my forehead, which I’d have to bandage again after the shower, and the subtle black and blues on my side likely from being thrown to the ground.

I swallow hard, I don’t want to think of any of this anymore. I step into the rather small shower, the hot water pouring over my head and down my body taking the tension with it as it went down the drain.

I step out of the steamy bathroom feeling infinitely times better despite the spinning room and hurting head. My hair was wet and clean and felt lighter now that it was no longer dusted with dirt, and I was in comfortable pajamas.

Yes, it wasn’t nighttime yet or time to sleep but that doesn't mean a girl can’t wear comfortable clothes. It was nice to be in pajamas, wearing some white plaid pants and a loose tee with a cute little embroidered bear in the corner and of course an oversized sweater because somehow I was always cold. It was a wonderful yet small feat.

Dean’s sitting up in bed, both boys watching some football game on the small TV. I slump into the bed carefully lying my head down as I get underneath the covers. Dean seemed to study me for a moment, smiling softly, he was probably trying to assess how I felt. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find, nodding to himself before getting up and heading to the bathroom with a change of clothes. A moment later the shower turns on.

I sink into the bed further, turning away from the TV, I didn’t care enough for sports to want to watch it anyway. The weight of the past few days catch up to me quickly, my eyelids feeling heavier and heavier.

….

The bed beside me suddenly sinks down, and my eyes flutter open being met with Dean’s familiar frame, “Sorry sweetheart didn’t mean to wake you.” I shake my head, I must have been out for just a couple of minutes, “It’s okay” I mumble still on the outskirts of sleep. He gets under the covers, his black shirt accentuating the muscles in his arms as he moves.

Once he situates himself he holds his arms open to me, silently asking if I wanted to get closer. He always seemed to know what I wanted or what I felt, sometimes I feared he knew me too well. I shift closer to him and he meets me halfway pushing me the rest of the way into him.

He practically places my head on his chest, close to his shoulder, his arm closes in on me holding me impossibly closer to him, his hand resting on my waist. His body warmth immediately reaches me, and in his embrace, any fears or anxieties I had the last few days seemed to dissipate. I place a hand on his chest feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. The hand on my waist begins to move slightly, his thumb rubbing slow circles into my side, my heart seems to flutter and I fear I won't be able to move on from this. It is moments like these that I find it hard to keep my feelings to myself, my love seems to bustle in my veins threatening to spill out. And with everything I have in me, I must bottle them back in, even as he places a soft kiss on my forehead and I think my heart just took off flying.

I melt into him, neither of us saying anything–not that we needed to. I can feel his rings on my side and the comforting weight of his hand there, the warmth he let off and his scent of something like pine or maybe it was wood, and just for a moment under the fog of a mild concussion, I imagine a forever like this. Being able to fall asleep each night to his hold and wake with him still there right beside me.

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #john winchester #slow burn #dean winchester x witch reader #witch reader #witchcraft #the hunter and the witch update #the hunter and the witch #dean winchester being a cutie #dean winchester x f!reader

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

My Dear Sweet Home

Self-Aware! Sigma x GN! Reader

Description: You need a helper for one task. You talk.

Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Give Sigma home he deserves

Sequel to Reading to him

Prequel to Art Forgery

Warning: OOC. English is my second language

A/N: Reader from one shot series getting bits of lore. The next part of"We will protect you" will elaborate a little on it.

_______

"[Y/N], do you think, this place will be my home?" Sigma's voice was quiet. You stopped marking the furniture in the catalog and looked at Sigma.

The table before you were covered in furniture catalog. Some of them you already looked through, others were waiting for their hour. Alcott, who brought this catalogs, overdid herself, by bringing two backpacks full of pamphlets.

And it was your job to look through it.

Fitzgerald finally found the house, that was big enough for all of you. And, he offered you to look through the catalogs and looked at the furniture for new house. And you immediately rope Sigma into helping you. His opinion about what to put in the new house deserved to be heard.

You two sat next to each other on the couch, looking through countless furniture catalogs.

Everything went well, until this moment. You were looking through decor part of the catalog, where all this "Home Sweet Home" things were displayed.

And Sigma asked his question. You put pen and catalog down. Sigma was waiting for your answer.

"Beg pardon?" His home? Is Sigma thinking, that you will kick him out? Or forget him in this apartment? He looked sad, nervous. And... hopeless. He looked at you, his eyes looked tired. Sigma point at picture of the house and a building plan.

"Will this place be my home? Will I finally found home?" you didn't answer at first. Sigma spoke again. "I knew, you already have home, so, my question may sound dumb to you, but, please, can you answer me?"

Home... Do you even have a home?

He looked like he was ready to plead. Your own thoughts swarmed your mind. You licked your lips and spoke.

"What is 'home' for you, Sigma? I need to hear it, before I answer your question."

Sigma looked at the distance, thinking.

"It's a place, where I belong. Where I feel safe. Where I can find people, that don't want to use me. Where I can be happy."

You feel tears in your eyes. You try to wipe them as stealthy as you can. In that definition, you also don't have a home anymore. Only a house. Should you share some of it with Sigma?

Not should. You must.

"Then both of us must hope, that new house will be our home, Sigma." your voice was soft. Sigma looked at you, baffled.

"But, this place... And you mentioned your family... Aren't you..."

You laughed. The laugh was hoarse and mixed with sobs. You wipe your tears again. You start talking, slowly, carefully choosing the words.

"My family don't want to see me. Ever since I promised to do something during last family reunion..." You chew your lips. Sigma looked like he wanted to ask more. You elaborate a little. "Nothing Illegal. Moreover, one day, I will be in the right to do it. But, my family didn't want me to do it."

Sigma looked confused.

"What do you want to do?" You looked guilty. But you can't tell him or others right now. You shook your head.

"Sorry. I can't tell for now. It's a long story. Something terrible happened in my childhood. And, what I am planning to do is connected to what happened. I am not ready to tell about it." After a few moments of thinking, you add. "I promise, one day I will tell you and others about my past. But, sorry, not today."

Sigma looked like he wanted to say something, but, he simply nodded, showing, that he understands. You decide to continue your speech about not having a home.

"Ever since I tell them my decision, they constantly remind me, that I am not welcomed in my parent's house. That I am not welcomed in any family gathering." You take a breath. "Mom doesn't agree with then, but, there are too many of them. And every call with them ends in futile attempts to make me change my decision."

You looked at Sigma again.

"So, I don't belong, I don't feel safe, people want to use me, and I am not happy. I don't have a home. And that" you slap one of the walls. "I am renting this place, and, I don't think I will stay here, after I graduate."

You leaned back on the couch. You were silent. The familiar sense of loneliness crept into your soul. You forced yourself to speak.

"I hope that new house will be a home to you, Sigma. And that it will become my home as well."

You reached out to Sigma, taking his hand in yours.

"I hope, that we will find our home. Both as in a place, and as in people."

Sigma scoots closer to you. He gave you a side hug and put his chin on your head. He squeezed your hand.

"I... Back in the app... I hoped that my home will be next to you. And I think, that's how it will be. [Y/N], let's find our new home together."

You turned your face a little and nuzzle his neck. On a whim, you kissed his cheek.

"Deal, Sigma."

Sigma chuckled.

"No problem, Cookie Heart."

You chocked on air. How did he call you? You feel, how your cheeks became warmer.

Noticing your face expression, Sigma blushes.

"Sorry! Just... All of us have a nickname for you, besides Guiding Light. And, I thought that moment was appropriate..."

You blinked a few times and smiled.

"Don't worry. If you want, you can call me that." you mentally repeated your new nickname.

'Cookie Heart... Cute'

The moment between you and Sigma were interrupted by Steinbeck's voice, who called from the kitchen.

"Sigma, [Y/N], are you going to join us for lunch? Or you two decide to skip lunch and bury your noses in the catalogs?"

You and Sigma glance at each other. Then Sigma stands up.

"We are coming. Shall we, Cookie Heart?" he held his hand towards you. You took it.

"We shall... Sigma, I want to promise you something." You looked at the former casino manager. Sigma raise an eyebrow, waiting for you to speak.

"I promise, that I will never ask you to use your ability. Friends don't use each other. Family don't use each other."

Sigma didn't look surprised. He hugged you.

"I knew, that you will say this. Back then, you also promised that I won't be used."

You stay like this for some time. After another shout from the kitchen from John, wondering if the 'two turtles get lost', you two finally go to the kitchen.

#self-awarebsd #self-awareau #bungou stray dogs au #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #sigma x reader #sigma bungou stray dogs #bsd sigma #sigma x you #sigma x y/n #Self-Aware Sigma

[nqify]

hi hi, i'm liking your stuff, and welcome to the quaritch hellhole!

he's a certified sadist here, and smth tells me you'd be the perfect person to elaborate on his humiliation kink. pls do! ty :):):)

hi!! omg thank u SOSOS much!! ur WRITING IS MWAH SO GOOD!! i know I’ve already posted but I needed to write this!! like my god, this request got me thinking THINGS!!! Love im sorry if it’s short PLS FORGIVE ME!!!

humiliation kink. — miles quaritch ☆

pairings. na’vi!miles quaritch. fem!reader

content warnings. girl. read the title.

note. if you don’t like getting made fun of by our boyfriend, this ain’t for u baby!!

oh he’s a sadist alright!! he loves and I mean he loves causing you pain (with pleasure ofc) choking, spanking, tying up, you name it!! this fucker has got it under his belt!!

due to his sadist ways, miles loves humiliating you!! especially with his words cuz duh?? he’s a certified dirty talker.

this guy is huge right? like hung for sure. you’d try taking his cock while ur riding him. His hands would be grabbing the sides of your thighs and smirking up at you. You’d be struggling ofc, barely fitting all of him in and this fucker is like, “can’t even take my cock?, such a stupid baby” and youd be here for it. “what a fucking nasty bitch you are, you like me calling you stupid?? you’re that much of a slut huh?” girl u r drooling.

at this point your done trying to fit him all in and give up. this guy picks you up and slams you down on the bed, “you’re such a fucking slut that you’re making daddy do all the work, you can’t do shit by yourself can you?? Cant get off without daddy huh?” and you’d just nod over and over again.

AND BC miles loves loves you being vocal, he would go CRAZY when u answer back, “who’s my stupid little baby, huh?” and you’d whine, “m-me, I am!!”

or when u don’t answer back, your just a mumbling mess, drool leaving the corners of your mouth while ur lips become all puffy and pink. he’d just laugh in your face, “can’t even say a single word?? this dick too good baby?? making you all stupid in the head??” Yes it is daddy.

mirror sex y’all. god this man will use his humiliation kink to his advantage. He’d have you doggy style, ass up in the air while ur head is getting shoved into the ground. He’d noticed the mirror in front of you two. HE GETTING IDEAS!!

Miles would grab the roots of your hair and push your body up to where your back is now touching his chest. “Look baby”, he’d point to the mirror, “look at the mess you made” specifically talking about the ring of cum around his cockGIRL!

you’d roll your eyes back at the pure pleasure, leaning the back of your head on his shoulder. uh uh girl he wants u LOOKING TOO!! he’d grab your cheeks and pull u from his shoulder, “want you to look at how much of a dirty slut u are” u fluttering around him for sure

Miles would notice, “fuck u like that??” dude is laughing at you. Your not saying anything, just moaning and whining, grinding against his dick. “My stupid sluts tryna cum?? that’s all you do right? just cum over and over again, just for me?? for daddy right??” your nodding. “I want you to say it, say your daddy’s slut little cum slut, c’mon be a good girl” girl u r shaking.“I-I’m d-daddy’s l-little cum slut ah!!

would use his humiliation kink in public FOR SURE!!! let’s just say both your friends are over and he’d pull you aside, saying he needs to tell you smth. that smth was his dick girl.

Your back now arching off the walls in the hallway, so close yet so far from your friends. His hand would be covering your mouth, blocking any of ur little whines. He’d keep you close, practically hugging u at this point.

”f-fuck baby, you like getting fucked when ur friends could catch us at any moment mm?”. that def hit a spot. “Yeah mama? ur so dirty ain’t you? you want them to catch you being such a slut for me, isn’t that right?” U R NODDING YES YESYES!!

he’d cum right inside you and make u not clean it so you feel more humiliated. Your friends def knew what was going on by the messy hair and puffy lips - but trying to cover up the fact that u have his load still in you?? have fun girl.

he’d come up from behind you and whisper, “ur dripping some mama, don’t you want my cum in you??” He mocks you. UR EMBARRASSED!!! “such a fucking dirty slut..” girl u r crying at this point!! He is coming for you, “my little dirty slut isn’t that right pretty?” only for u daddy MWAH

requests are wide open baby!!!

#miles quaritch smut #miles quaritch x reader #miles quaritch #colonel quaritch #colonel miles quaritch #na’vi quaritch #na’vi smut #na’vi #avatar the way of water #avatar 2 #avatar #avatar smut #avatar way of water

[undertheorangetree]

Our Gentle Sin

Aylesbure

Summary- The situation at Aylesbure results in a need for comfort.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Mild angst. Dry humping. Thigh riding. Titty sucking. Handjob. Loss of virginty. Cunnilingus. Fingering. Porn without plot.

Author’s Note- This is the third part of Our Gentle Sin so I added more here cuz it's longer. Link to the full story below!

find the series masterlist here

dividers by firefly-graphics

She finds him in his rooms, just as she expected too. 

Aylesbure is a large fortress, big enough that they had all been given rooms of their own to rest and recover in through the night. A privilege, as far as she is concerned, considering all Uhtred has done to incite Alfred's wrath. Though a piece of her still thinks he would have preferred to throw them all out, it seems his Christian charity had won out in the end. Even if it did only allow them a single night of rest within the fortress's walls. 

Still, she cannot help but wonder if this pious act truly is charity, with the look on Osferth's face. Though he had tried to seem as impassive as possible in the hall and in the yard, that impassivity has long since died. He had left them all rather quickly after Edward had finished speaking with Uhtred and Finan, complaining of some pain he would not elaborate on before disappearing into the fortress. She had wanted to go after him the moment he ran off but had forced herself to wait, striving to show nothing more than friendly concern. In truth, her heart hurt for him, more than it likely should, and she ached to do all she could to help him. But she knew how suspicious that would look so instead she had forced herself to remain seated, fingers tracing the wood grain on the table anxiously. It wasn't until she had met Sihtric's eye and he had jerked his head in the direction Osferth had run off in that she had gone after him, not bothering to come up with an excuse. 

"May I join you? Or would you prefer to be alone?"

He does not answer her. Instead, he shuffles down on the bed to clear a place for her, glancing from her to the now empty space beside him before staring back down into his lap. She decides that is permission enough and closes the door behind her, padding her way across the room. He doesn't look up when the bed shifts with her weight, staring determinedly at a stain on the side of his knee. One finger scratches at it idly, but it has long since set into the fabric and does not give.

The silence is near deafening and she gnaws on her lip as she tries to come up with something comforting to say. She turns to face him, bringing one leg up to rest against the mattress, shin pressing into the side of his thigh. 

"I'm sorry for all you have suffered today," she finally manages. "Seeing the king. Having to watch him with Edward and Aethelflaed both and then Edward coming to speak to Uhtred... It couldn't have been easy for you."

His face scrunches up for a moment as if he is trying to push back a sudden onslaught of tears and she presses herself closer, prepared to do whatever she can to help him. He manages to calm himself, letting out a slow breath as his finger continues to scratch at the stain. 

"He looked right at me," he says, bitter sadness tinging his words. She knows the moment he is referring to, when Alfred had cupped Aethelflaed's cheek and declared that the only reason Uhtred was still permitted to live was because he had seen her safe. His eyes had flicked away from his daughter's face for half a moment and she had watched as they landed on Osferth, on his bastard son. They had only stayed there for a moment before he had carried on, but she is sure that moment was more than enough to send a thousand questions running through his head. To rip open decades old wounds that would never really heal. "And I thought for a moment that perhaps he thought of me similarly to how he sees Aethelflaed. Edward. I know that I could never compare to them but... I am his son too. And when he looked at me, for a moment I thought... maybe he would at least consider Uhtred’s request for my own sake. For his son."

Her heart breaks for him all over again and she reaches a hand out, squeezing at his arm as her face falls. His eyes move from the stain and turn to look up at her face. He tries to smile at her, but it is a miserable failure, only one corner of his mouth able to turn upward before he looks down again. She shifts her hand from his arm to his hand, linking their fingers and holding fast. 

"He does not deserve to have you as his son. If he cannot recognize what a good and kind person you are in spite of him, then he does not deserve you. He never has."

His eyes have darted over to their joined hands rather than the stain and she rubs her thumb along the side of his hand. He watches it move for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, before he says, "How good could I ever be? I am a living reminder of his sin, proof of adultery and-"

"His sin," she interrupts immediately, refusing to listen to this any longer. Keeping hold of his hand, she shifts to sit on her knees beside him, taking his chin in her free hand so that he must look at her. "Not yours. Bastard or not, you are a better man than he could ever hope to be. I do not care if he is a king, he is far more selfish and cruel than they give him credit for. To spurn you over something you could not help, to disregard you entirely..."

She cuts herself short, as he is staring at her with wide blue eyes, entirely unreadable. For a moment, she thinks that perhaps she has gone too far and releases his face. She would drop his hand as well, to make her retreat total, but he is gripping it like a lifeline, so tightly his knuckles have gone pale.

She swallows a lump in her throat as she looks up at him, trying not to sound too pleading. "Tell me how I can help you."

The hand in her own loosens somewhat, but it does not go far. Slipping free, he slides it up her wrist, her forearm. He doesn't meet her eye as he says, "I would have your comfort, lady, if you will give it."

It is not a completely out of the ordinary request but there is something in the way he says it that strikes a fire within her. She shuffles a little closer, trying to keep any expectation she may have to herself. "How would you have it?"

Again, he does not respond, but the way he looks at her seems answer enough. She meets his eye for one breath, two, and then his hand has curled around the side of her neck and he is pulling her into him, kissing her with urgency. He has yanked her forward too suddenly, stronger than she is used to, and one hand slaps against his chest, fingers tightening into the chainmail that lays below his neck. It does not give under her touch, chain links merely shifting, but it gives her something to hold on to as she chases his mouth, tries to keep up with the kisses he gives her. 

Read the rest here

#osferth x reader #osferth smut #osferth #osferth tlk #tlk #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #osferth fanfic #osferth x you #osferth x fem!reader #the last kingdom x reader

[rubykgrant]

(Segment of my story, How It Feels, with Jon and Martin recovering at Daisy's cabin after leaving London, and before the Eye Apocalypse happens. This in particular focuses on Martin, how he's changed since being in the Lonely, and how he is also still himself. This involves tooth loss and feelings of depression/disassociation, but isn't gory, and leans more toward being comforting. Inspired by the art of @lonelyslutavatar ~)

Jon is quite proud of himself for responding to Martin in a very calm manner, instead of rushing in and assuming the worst.

The calm quickly shatters when he sees Martin standing in the bathroom, face a mix of embarrassed and worried, holding two teeth in the palm of his hand.

Several teeth-related horror stories from past statements flash into Jon’s mind (the apple, a few dozen about some sort of “evil tooth fairy” that were probably not real but still upsetting, and several connected to the Flesh and the Hunt). Jon nearly starts to panic as well, but somehow he composes himself, and moves slowly, helping Martin sit down on the lid of the toilet, and begins trying to figure this out.

Martin has some pain in his jaw, but nothing feels “broken”, and there isn’t any blood. The teeth look “fine”, except for the fact that they aren’t where they should be. Jon asks Martin to open his mouth, and it doesn’t appear as if anything is infected or irritated. To be thorough, Jon runs to get a small torch.

“I’m VERY close to freaking out! Just so you know!” Martin says, loudly.

“Yes, I’m- I’m sorry, I’ll be there in a-”

“ANOTHER ONE JUST CAME LOOSE!” Martin is able to spit it out before yelling the news to Jon. He does NOT want to swallow any of his teeth.

“I’M COMING BACK! HERE! HERE I AM!” Jon stumbles to a stop at the small door, and walks back in carefully.

This time, Martin opens his mouth WIDE, and Jon shines the little light to see properly.

“Oh,” Jon says after a moment.

“Oh? Oh, WHA?” Martin asks, making sure his mouth doesn’t close.

“Oh, um… I sort of see the- er, the issue?” Jon answers, without actually giving Martin a real answer.

“Wha ih ih?” What is it?

“Well, I can see the empty areas, where your teeth were, and… it looks like something is, er- pushing them out?” Jon elaborates. Martin finds this description unhelpful and worrisome.

“UH HUH UH AH EEE?!” The fuck does that mean?! Good God, what was in his mouth?

“Sorry! There are NEW teeth coming in! Like- like when we lose our baby teeth, and-”

“I AREHEE AH I AHEE HEE! HOW OOH I HAH OR!?” Martin demands, and after a brief second of trying to translate it in his head, Jon realizes Martin has just said- “I already lost my baby teeth! How do I have more!?”.

“Uhh…” before Jon can say anything else, two more teeth fall out, helped by Martin’s attempts to talk. These were from his top row, on the left side. They completely leave Martin’s mouth, and land in his lap. Martin groans, irritated. Jon tries to speak again, before something else distracts him. “If- I had to guess, which is all I’m doing, I’m sorry, this- this might be like your OWN spooky puberty?”

Martin groans again, giving Jon a glare.

“You were working with- hell I’m just saying his name, Peter, you were working with Peter for a while, and before that you were working at the Institute. That changed all of us, a little bit, but Peter really pushed you along, and… what finally made me change and become something more than just human was- I died. Sort of. When I was in that coma, I was pretty close to being dead, but then I came back. You were… you were almost ready to fade away when I finally found you, and then you came back. I think you might have become something more than just human,” Jon pauses a moment, to let Martin have a chance to understand what he’s saying… and because another tooth falls out. “And we saw what happens to ME when I don't feed on any statements, so… you haven’t been doing anything at all when it comes feeding what you are connected to,”

Jon places his hand on Martin’s cheek and turns off the torch, letting Martin know he can close his mouth again. Martin does so, and then immediately gives an angry huff, spitting still another tooth into his hand. He gathers up the rest in his lap, so he’s holding all of them together.

“What the hell. The isn’t FAIR. Your- your eyeballs didn’t fall out when YOU changed! And why my TEETH?! Am I supposed to start eating people? Peter didn’t even do that!” Martin blinks a few times, uncertain. “I mean, I never SAW him to that…”

“This might not be so LITERAL. I doubt this is a sign you need to actually eat anybody-”

“Pff, whatever, you don’t KNOW…” Martin scoffs.

“What I mean is- sometimes when people like us change, it isn’t always straight-forward. This might be more… like it symbolically represents the way loneliness can, er- consume you? Eat you up?” Jon is leaning back against the wall opposite Martin, arms crossed anxiously. He hunches his shoulders up, as if to shrug in a way that asks for approval.

Martin does not exactly “approve”, but unfortunately, he’s beginning to see that Jon may have a point. He also remembers that nightmare he had, as if it had been some kind of “punishment” for rejecting the Lonely. The fact that Martin can now remember Peter purposefully pulling him into the Lonely to avoid true and permanent death added up as well. Did the Eye punish Jon when he wouldn’t feed it new fear? Yes, he supposes so.

“Wonderful. So my teeth are falling out as a METAPHOR. And what am I even supposed to DO about it? Read statements that are relevant to feeling forlorn and isolated?” Martin now feels THREE teeth pop loose. Great. More to add to the collection in his hands.

“Perhaps not…” Jon ventures another guess. “That’s sort of the specific thing I’m stuck doing. And it started even before the coma, remember? So maybe- was there anything you did while working with Peter that might have been related to feeding this particular kind of fear? It might have even been something that seemed almost normal, but the more it happened, the more it had an affect on you, and when you stopped, you felt strange?”

Martin’s first reaction is to just say NO, because he’s in an ornery mood (Why shouldn’t he be moody? His teeth are falling out! He has a right!). Instead, he tries to give Jon’s question some real thought…

When Jon was still in the coma, and Peter first became the “new boss”, Martin had initially tried to take on more responsibility as a way to shield other people from the problems that came from working so closely with… a man like that. The most unnerving part was how pleasant Peter seemed. He often asked Martin to come along as his personal assistant when he went on various errands; some were clearly for meeting with other unusual people part of the whole Fear situation, while others were part of the more normal side of business for the Magnus Institute.

These people, in either situation, would usually not even acknowledge Martin at all until Peter made a point to turn to him, ask a question or make a request, and then they’d startle to see there was a WHOLE man there beside Peter. When Martin got more used to it all, he’d speak up on his own, blatantly pointing out when somebody was giving Peter incorrect information or outright lying. In those moments, they were not only surprised that Martin existed, they were suddenly INTIMIDATED by him.

Peter was very amused by this, and proudly complimented Martin on being so “accomplished”.

Yeah, that may have been how this started.

Martin was well practiced at going unnoticed, keeping quiet, fading into the background. That was a good way to keep yourself safe. It was also a good way to be lonely. The shock of suddenly being given attention no doubt fed Peter’s patron Fear plenty of Martin’s own nervous energy… and when Martin did it on purpose, making himself known with an aloof sort of confidence, it caused unease in other people. The Lonely probably loved feeding on all that.

That was the start… but what turned it into a pattern, something that Martin had to continue doing, and also something that he did without thinking about it?

It finally occurs to Martin that what was happening when he first left the Lonely might be a hint; the sleepwalking. That never happened back in London, not exactly. However… very often, when Martin left the hospital after visiting Jon, or took a break in the evening in the middle of working late, he would walk through the city and let his mind wander.

No, that was putting it mildly. He’d feel a growing disconnect from his own feelings and thoughts, and whatever remained gave him a sense of bored contempt, if anything.

He blended into the crowds, but still wasn’t “part” of it all. Martin remained separate, even in the shared experience of riding the bus or waiting for a light to change.

Occasionally he would pop into a store and use the self check-out lane, or even a bar with no intention to mingle or drink, and he would go unnoticed.

All around him, he would see people talking to each other, or chatting on calls, crying over break-ups, getting into arguments, lying about what they were doing, waiting to meet somebody who wasn’t coming, staring at displays in stores of things they longed to buy but couldn’t afford, getting frustrated after searching for a job all day, trying to be funny for friends or deal with a stressful visit with family… Martin could nearly picture himself, as if looking on from another point of view, and he was nothing but a nameless face on the street.

Obscure and forgettable. Martin would walk on, automatically, no effort in reaching his destination. It was eventual and certain. He may as well be a memory, instead of somebody who was still there.

Then he would be back at the Institute, or at home, and his thoughts would click back into place. Maybe he’d take a shower, or have something to eat. If it wasn’t too late and he was done with research or paperwork, he’d watch something on TV. It was alright. Mostly.

In the current situation, with Martin sitting on the toilet in a bathroom of a safehouse in Scotland, trying to figure out why he’s losing his teeth… he thinks that he’s finally connected some dots, and sees the bigger picture.

“Yeah… well, um- I guess maybe when I would walk around London and sort of lose myself in groups of people, without interacting with anybody, that was possibly like feeding on loneliness. So. Maybe I just need to do THAT again,” Martin looks up at Jon again, now the one checking to see if what he’s saying makes any sense.

“Hmm… it might work when you go out to buy us supplies. You’ll be around people again, and- whatever lonely feelings they have,” Jon nods, though he doesn’t look happy about it. That’s fine. Martin isn’t happy, either.

“What if I… Jon, when you got REALLY bad, you compelled people to talk about things when they didn’t want to. What if I VANISH somebody? What if I can’t control this?” Martin asks, and as soon as he closes his mouth, he has to spit three more teeth into his hand.

“That is upsetting, I know…” Jon replies, reaching out one hand to place on Martin’s shoulder. “But, listen- a few days after I started to really try and rein myself in, one of the people I compelled actually showed up at the Institute again. I was… well, I- erm…”

“You were outside, sneaking a smoke,” Martin guesses.

“Yes, FINE. Anyway, I thought they were still having problems because of me, and I immediately apologized and assured them it wouldn't happen again. I was honestly sort of distressed about that, I didn’t want to go find everybody I had compelled, because seeing me might just make them even MORE afraid, but I still wanted to say I was sorry… well, this person told me they only came there to explain they weren't angry with me. They didn't forgive me exactly, but-,”

“What, they wanted to rescind what they said before? Like, withdraw the complaint?” Martin raises his eyebrows at this.

“Something like that. They told me… they weren’t having nightmares anymore, about me OR what I made them talk about. It had faded after a while. They also told me that it sort of helped, in a weird way, to finally confront something they’d been ignoring for so long. And now they knew, the world had scary things in it, that was REAL, and they weren’t crazy for wanting to be careful…” Jon sees Martin wants to jump into the conversation, but has to pause to catch another tooth that has escaped. Jon continues talking, knowing what Martin was going to ask.

“The reason I didn’t say anything at the time- I didn’t want it to seem like I was making excuses. Oh, this person says the nightmares stopped and they faced their fears, this means nobody should be mad at me anymore! Hell, no. I still forced people to share private thoughts and experiences against their will, and that wasn’t right. I’m only telling you this NOW because I’m hoping that you being around people in public, absorbing whatever you need, THAT will be more like when I read the statements. The fear and the hurt already happened. You aren’t making it worse. If you keep ignoring this hunger, then… it will most likely get more intense, but even if that happens, you still might not vanish somebody to death. People even escaped from what Peter did, occasionally. I just don’t want you to feel… hopeless,”

“OK… yeah, OK. This is still pretty fucked, though,” Martin says, trying to steady his breathing.

“Yes. And it will probably continue to be fucked. But we can try to help each other feel better,” Jon smiles down at Martin, and somehow, that makes a tense knot in his chest loosen.

Jon waits with Martin as the last few teeth come loose, and gets a small glass jar for them. After some “Should I leave them under my pillow?” jokes, Jon grabs the small torch again to see what the situation is with Martin’s new set of teeth…

“You really don’t feel them growing in?”

“Uh-uh,” Martin may not physically feel the teeth coming into place, but he has noticed that the ache in his jaw is gone, and the weird grinding has stopped (that was probably his weird new “spooky” bones making room for his weird new “spooky” teeth. This sounded like such a stupid problem when he thought of it that way, but there just wasn’t a better term unfortunately).

“Well, they’re almost all here, and- they’re sharp! Martin, your new teeth are POINTY!” Jon uses his hand not holding the torch to tilt Martin’s head back slightly.

“WHA? LIE A HA-HIRE?” What? Like a vampire?

“No, not like that… you don’t have fangs, exactly… oh lord, I can see them rising up!” Jon says, and now Martin is starting to get annoyed that he sounds EXCITED about this. “They’re wider, and sort of flat… Martin, I think these are like- like shark teeth!”

Jon has set the torch aside, and is now holding Martin’s head with both his hands, leaning him back even more so the light from the ceiling shines into Martin’s mouth. Jon is pushing aside Martin’s upper lip to see the teeth as they move through the gum better, and that is IT, Martin is DONE.

“GEH YER FEE-HERS OW UH I OW!” before Jon can translate that into “Get your fingers out of my mouth!”, Martin actually SNARLS as a final warning, Jon whips his hands away, and just to be dramatic, Martin CHOMPS his mouth shut.

His new teeth are officially finished growing in; all the severe ridges fit together. Sharp, solid, and strong.

Shark teeth... really? Was that just the Lukas Brand? Martin has to turn half-way into a SEA MONSTER? For the aesthetic?

Jon knows Martin wasn’t actually going to bite him… and Martin knows that Jon knows this. Which is why Jon still looks more fascinated than afraid of Martin’s new MONSTER TEETH, and that just makes Martin want to try and snap at him again. Jon can see that as well, and he starts to snort laughter. Martin wishes he was strong enough to stay furious, but the corners of his mouth betray him, curving into a smile.

Yep. All his human adult teeth fell out, he’s got weird spooky shark teeth now, he’s damn near close to laughing about it. He must be mad. Oh, well. So is Jon.

#tma #the magnus archives #jmart #jonmartin

[sgiandubh]

The stigma

I do not have time to elaborate, but I think all the people in this fandom should have a real look at this. Me included:

It is a thing of wonder to constantly stigmatize a whole group of people using this umbrella term: the loons.

The person who does this several times a day, in print, personally knew some of the people she is talking about in these terms: that is no state secret, she tells us herself. People who laughed with her, shared personal details with her, supported her when she was feeling down, encouraged her. People she probably also met IRL.

In a nutshell: former friends.

Anyone can fall out of a friendship. I will not discuss her reasons, because I am in nobody's head and it is none of my business to give lessons to anyone.

I can only talk about me. I lost some friends here and there. Sometimes because I moved to another country and the relationship diluted to oblivion. Sometimes over a silly miscommunication - great friendships are always lost for idiotic reasons, in my opinion. Sometimes because I grew up and out of a particular context and it happened organically. And sometimes yes, because I was betrayed and felt disappointed with the breech of trust.

When it happens, you have exactly two choices, after you move on: a) get bitter and nasty about it and spew your venom to whoever happens to pass by or b) understand people share your path for a reason and for that same reason they might stick around for a very long time or call it quits at the next relay.

If you go with point b, you'll remember all the good things and carry on with great memories and at peace.

There is a wonderful Zen story. You can find it here, but I will quote it for the people who use Google Translate (https://isha.sadhguru.org/global/en/wisdom/article/helping-lady-across-river-zen-story):

" One day while Zen monk Tanzan and a young monk were traveling, they came to a river with a strong current. As they were preparing to cross the river, they saw a young lady in distress also attempting to cross.

Tanzan offered, “Here, let me carry you across,” and placed her down gently on the other side. 

The lady said, “Thank you very much. Goodbye.” The two continued on their journey for more than half a day. 

Finally, the younger monk could not contain himself any longer, and blurted out, “I thought we monks were supposed to avoid women. Why did you just do that?"

“Oh, you mean the woman way back there? I put her down long ago. Are you still carrying her?” 

So why are you still carrying your former friends on your back, woman? And why are you calling loons people you have no idea about and who did nothing to you, spare answering when provoked by you?

For the newbies? Oh, give me a break. This is ridiculous and I hope you know it. People will ultimately believe whatever they want, despite your best efforts. Luring them with pronunciamientos is not exactly the way to achieve success.

I also might have prompted you to take your pills. I am very sorry for that burst of anger. It is none of my business if you need to do that. But if you do, really do it. It is about self-care.

I am also done with you, too. Write whatever you want. Spit how far and wide you want. Send how many anons you want. Call me Puffy if it suits you until the end of time. I do not care anymore and I promise your Anons will all go straight to the bin. What you need is a secondary stage and it is not going to happen in here.

#fandom