#like physically since all that remains is the spare head

[romanoffsbish]

Method Acting

Scarlett Johansson x F!R

Request | When your friend gives you the leading role in her debut sapphic rom-com you find yourself elated, but then you see who her star-studded casting managed to be and suddenly you aren’t too sure what to do. How does one work with their crush in such intimate ways and not swoon further? | WC: 2,516

Smut: Masturbation (R) — Non-con 👀 (SJ) | Mommy (SJ) | Oral / Fingering (R) | Thigh-Riding (SJ) | Overstimulation (R)

18+ | Minors DNI

"Where'd all that confidence go, hm?" You gulped, not only to remain in character, but because Scarlett was literally hovering over your body and it was like the air around you'd thinned. Your head felt light, but you still managed to stutter out your line, "I-It was a r-ruse."

Bentley chuckled, "You know, I don't think I mind," then she lowered her smirking face into the crook of your neck, your breath dramatically hitched, and you threw your head back to give her the necessary space to leave behind her pale pink gloss for the camera to see.

——

This was meant to be acting, but she wasn't exactly not sucking a partial mark into your skin, fortunately it was hidden from any lens viewpoint, and it only really added to the scene as you moaned out affectedly.

"There you go Raina," she rasped against your cheek, smearing her collected spit and gloss on the skin. "I knew you'd be a perfect little dove for your mommy, you just needed me to help dumb you down, hm..."

You whimpered the title inquisitively, giving off the characters innocent girl aura as her lips clashed into yours, but deep in your soul you wanted to scream it.

Well, for the blonde starlet that is, Scarlett was nothing short of a goddess, her beauty perceivably effortless. It came with many perks, one of those being the ability to have people figuratively crumble before her. You had actually done so physically when you first shook her hand, it was embarrassing and she's teased you since.

When she wasn't teasing you though she was a natural nurturer. There was a calmness she brought to your anxious life that you were going to miss when filming inevitably comes to an end. Which was actually taking place this week, today you were working on the climax.

Bentley, her character, finally had a chance to corner Raina so that she could finally prove her love with the length of her fingers. Up until now your character had been avoiding Bentley as they were forced to see one another at the weekend long reception of a mutual.

Maritza, the director, screenwriter, and best friend of yours wanted the sex to feel real, so she is letting you two feel it out in a set of scenes. Scarlett appreciated the artistic creativity, because she wanted nothing more than to bring you to bliss, even if only fictionally as she knew the cameras were rolling. You genuinely liked the idea of an organic, sapphic scene too, but you just wished it could have been with any other actress.

Not the one you were recklessly falling in love with.

"Cut!" The director called after she felt there was enough tension, and kissing caught for the scene. She was also your very best friend, and knew you were likely spiraling beneath the surface; below Scarlett.

As soon as the director gave you the all clear for the night you took off without even sparing the blonde a glance. Months on this set with her and she'd teased you every step of the way, playing on your obvious crush, the one you'd publicized just a year ago.

"Y/N, who's your celebrity crush?" It was an easy question to answer, and since you were such a newcomer in the acting world it felt harmless to give them one, "Scarlett Johansson, she is just so gorgeous, and that voice of hers is just, ugh, don't even get me started." Or so you thought. Because not even three months later did you find out she'd be playing the love interest in this low-budget, cheesy sapphic rom-com.

The blonde was absolutely ecstatic when she got the script in her email because it came with your name attached. This was your closest friend's script, so you were given the lead without any issues, except for the casting. Without you ever knowing she took a shot in the dark by sending it to the woman who'd grown interested in you the moment she saw you in that interview. When you got the casting news you were mortified, and the blonde used that to her advantage.

There was no denying you meant it when she arrived on set for the chemistry read through, you were a bit of a stuttering mess—true to the character, but it was clear to the blonde that you were just being yourself. Scarlett played the part a bit too well, but she still kept it hidden that she desired you too. Until tonight she'd believed it was never going to go anywhere, but then you moaned in her ear and she realized it had to.

You weren't the only one affected by the small scene.

Scarlett was outside your trailer, her fingers flexed against the chill of the air as she prepared herself to knock on your door. It was Thursday night, normally she would go home, but she knew you were staying on the lot to cut costs so she felt compelled to stop by.

Without an answer she took it upon herself to open the door, noting her worry as the excuse for why she did. When she entered the trailer she was overwhelmed by a heady scent, and as she turned the corner to find you with your hand buried between your legs she'd found the delightful source. Scarlett said nothing as her body leaned against the wall, eyes focused in on the way your puffy lips devoured three of your fingers whole.

"Scarlett..."

The blonde's eyes snapped up to your face, fearing that she'd been caught, but it proved to be the other way around as you moaned her name upon releasing.

"My character's name is Bentley," she cooly teased, startling you into yelping and scrambling to grab the blanket that had bunched up by the end of your bed. Scarlett beat you to it, taking a predatory leap forward so that she could keep you from hiding your body. "None of that baby girl, don't hide from me now."

"S-Scar," you breathlessly muttered her name, or better yet part of it as she cupped your jaw and kissed you into a state of stunned silence. "Let's practice our scene for tomorrow darling, make it extra authentic."

"I-I don't think—." Scarlett slipped her thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your teeth to still you. "Oh, pretty girls like you should never try to think."

When she released her grip on your mouth she'd forcefully pushed you back onto the mattress, making your body bounce and driving your mind into madness all while she slipped out of her sweatsuit. The arousal you'd already felt doubled in intensity, mind alit with the endless possibilities for how this could go. Your mouth slowly filled with saliva as she sauntered closer to you while only dressed in her expensive lingerie set.

"You're so beautiful," you softly acknowledged and she offered you a genuine smile in return. Her lips gently pressed to yours as soon as she climbed over you and you both melted at the touch. "Thank you angel."

Scarlett took her time with kissing you, she didn't even move to deepen it until she felt your slick on her skin.

"I'm going to devour you Raina," she winked playfully and you met her tease with a smile that warmed her heart. "Make my dreams come true then Bentley."

Something about hearing her characters name didn't sit well with her, even if she had started the play on words, joking shoved aside she needed you to know this was more than a over the top scene preparation.

Scarlett pulled your body down the mattress by your ankles, throwing your legs open she took in a big whiff as her nose nuzzled into your plush thigh. "It seems I'll be making both of ours come true," she laboredly breathed against your slick cunt, "Just as long as you know there's no copyright on Scarlett," she winked and husked as your eyes widened, "Scream it for me Y/N."

"Oh Scarlett," you cried as soon as her tongue firmed itself against your folds, a long, drawn out moan left her as she tasted your glorious slick for the first time. The both of you were immensely pleased, your body began to squirm the more you felt your orgasm build. Her arm had to lay against your abdomen to hold you down so that her tongue could lash at you unchecked.

Your pleasure was entirely under her control, and the thought alone had the both of you teetering over the edge, ready to fall further into one another. Scarlett was unsure how that was even possible though, she'd loved you after a month into the filming, on a night when cast and crew rented out the local bar and she actually went regardless of her star power status. It was the only time you'd talked to her so openly, the booze in your system dropped your nerves and you let her hear all of your hometown childhood stories.

There was a twinkle of purity in your eye that she found refreshing that night, but this new glossy look you wore was far more enticing to the blonde starlet.

You looked almost peaceful, but beneath the surface you were absolutely losing your mind. Her masterful tongue was showing your fingers up in real time, your hot slick flowing out of you as if you were a leaking faucet, slowly dripping down from her chin and settling atop of the exposed skin of her bare breasts.

Which only made her move with more efficiency, her tongue slowly curled inside of you, caressing your g-spot as the tip of her nose pressed into your clit and you lost control of your every sense. Gasping for air as pleasure coursed through your trembling form, blurry white stars filled your vision as your eyes crossed and the taste of something metallic coated your tongue as you harshly bit down on your lower lip before you were screaming incoherently, her name sinfully intermixed.

You felt her smirk against your thigh and couldn't help but to smile yourself as you felt her kiss up your body with a softness that transcended all prior carnality. There was this break in the tension as she tenderly locked her lips to yours, tongues dancing around the other as her hands anchored to your chest, fondling the malleable skin as if it was second nature. Soft whines reverberated into her mouth the longer that she played with your sensitive breasts as she kissed you dumb.

Eventually the blonde felt this intense urge to satiate her own body, so she pulled back and you whimpered. "Fuck, you're so hot Y/N," she groaned as she stared at you, so beautifully spaced out, the thin line of spit tethering your lips together snapped as she grinned.

"You know, you're my celebrity crush too," she teased, finding amusement in the way you tried to shimmy away from her, but her hands firmly pressed down, keeping your body stilled by her grip on your breasts.

"Don't try and run now darling," she purred against your neck, her face having dipped down so that she could finish the job she started during your shoot.

"Scar, th-the movie," you warned but she simply didn't care, the woman chuckled against your skin, "Oh love, you know as well as I do that make up can cover this, plus, this is really just us aiding the film, you know?"

Scarlett continued on bruising your soft skin with her teeth as you couldn't, nor did you really want to, find a reason to dissuade her from her current ministrations. Just as soon as she was satisfied with her hard work she flipped you onto your stomach without warning.

A low moan left the both of you as her cunt touched down, your body shivered as her slick smeared onto the back of your thigh, the idea that you'd turned her on that much hadn't even permeated your mind until now and with the physical evidence you felt powerful. Even if she was on top, you aided her by tensing your muscles to which she rewarded you with a hoarse moan and two fingers that slid between your slick lips.

The both of your bodies moved in steamy tandem, your front being pressed further into the mattress with every rough thrust of her fingers and hips. The room soon became a lewd symphony as your skin slapped together and the both of your slick seeped and spread, all working to drown out your soft, choked moans.

With her free hand no longer on your hip you were thrown further into the depths of pleasure as her palm roughly pressed down on your abdomen just as her fingers reached your depth, your body jerked but she just kept going down until she could play with your clit.

"Mommy," you screamed the desired honorific, it almost sounded like a plea for mercy, but the blonde had none to show you, she instead slid a third finger into your core causing you to spasm uncontrollably. Which in turn tensed your muscles up even further, and sent her into a state of immense bliss, her teeth instinctively sunk into your shoulder and drew blood.

Her body had arched back then dropped to the side of yours in a matter of seconds, her fingers stayed buried within your warmth, almost like a place of comfort. It took you far longer than her to regain your composure as this was actually your fifth orgasm of the evening. The other two having happened before she caught you.

Nevertheless, you were able to form a sentence as you felt her fingers vacate your pussy, "W-what was this?"

Scarlett had been shifting to a place of comfort when your disconcerting question was aired, you caught her completely off guard but upon settling her cheek down on your bare ass she hummed softly in thought. Then as she really thought about it, imagining a future where you'd part ways after filming ended, she frowned.

"You're mine," she tiredly growled against the sweaty skin of your ass, her teeth nibbled at the round flesh as she gave you her answer (demand). "Then, now, the point is you'll always be mine Y/N so get comfortable."

"I'm plenty comfortable," you murmured, words a bit muffled as your face burrowed into your silky pillow. Scarlett smiled to herself, her heart officially settled now that she knows you understood; you were hers, this sinful endeavor was her official sealing of a deal.

Her worn down body sidled up by your side, still her strong arm wrapped around your midsection so that she could pull you close enough for her to feel your body against hers. "Goodnight baby girl, I think we've done enough work to ensure the scene will be a hit..."

—

When tomorrow came, and the scene was shot you two found it only took one go as the sexual chemistry was palpable. Maritza had winked, and mouthed a 'your welcome' thinking that you'd just won the blonde over, but unbeknownst to her this was just an encore...

Or as the sapphics would simply call it, round two.

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

[frracturedjaw]

Can you do the sleeping with not pants hcs for Ghostface and Brahms? I think it's a nice idea since I just sleep in my underwear or in that and a hoodie if its cold like rn. Plus I love those dorks

Thank you!!

warning(s): mildly suggestive

a/n: u didn’t mention which ghostface, so i just did billy and stu because i love them <3 again sorry this took absurdly long

billy loomis + stu macher

* they’re normally very relaxed about clothes when you’re alone in the house together, especially during movie nights

* (stu in particular is absolutely the type to walk around in just his undies, so you’re probably matching. might buy you matching couples underpants just to piss off billy.)

* it only becomes different when you’re asleep, curled up on the couch between them

* stu wants to put whipped cream in your hand, draw goofy shit on your face with a marker, etc

* billy’s the one with the interesting ideas, though.

* disappears upstairs, only to return a moment later with his film camera. he’s a little freak, but he also loves himself some physical media. wants to keep a memento of that sweet butt

* of course, they turn down the volume on the movie and grab a spare blanket to drape around your shoulders so you don’t get cold. but not before sneaking a few creepshots.

* it’s unlikely you’ll find them, probably stashed away in one of their closets or tucked into a wallet. maybe in a conspicuous shoebox filled with their ghostface gear. who knows?

* until then, though, you remain sandwiched snugly between them until they also fall asleep on the couch and tangle you into their cuddle pile.

brahms heelshire

* PISSED!! you fell asleep before tucking him in?? or giving him his goodnight kiss??!! appalling!!!!

* AND in your underwear?? you fall asleep when you could be getting dicked down?? how could this get any worse!!

* he’s inches away from shouting you awake in the most piercing boy voice he can muster before he’s struck by something

* it occurs to him — for the first time in a considerably long time — that he likes seeing you resting.

* he’s absolutely going to hold this against you in the future, probably to get double dessert or something of that nature,

* but for now, he diverts his attention to scuttling around the house looking for comfy things. blankets, pillows, his cardigans, some stuffed animals, spare sheets, anything he can lay hand on.

* returns to where you’ve fallen asleep and starts constructing. layering sweaters over top of you. planting pillows around you, under your head, against your back, everywhere. draping blankets all over you, picking the softest ones to go against your skin and the thicker ones on top.

* his process is so particular, if you were awake to see it, you might have guessed he’s done this before for himself.

* then, finally, he burrows in beside you. he’s left just enough room to curl around you, drawing you close to himself.

* gives you a kiss on the forehead before falling soundly asleep.

[eeunoia]

ENHYPEN Imagines

insolitus | yjw.

part three

pairings: yang jungwon x reader

synopsis: you’ve always thought jungwon is out of this world, out of ordinary. he’s someone who seems familiar but at the same time mysterious for almost everybody. you didn’t expect that he himself will unfold more of him with you and it was an insolitus experience.

word count: 4k

warnings: yandere themes, mention of murder, violence, obsessive love, grammatical errors, kissing. (let me know if i missed some)

note: i really wait until heeseung’s limerence were posted since this will spoil it if I released this first. anyway, sorry if i kept you waiting. replies and reblogs are highly encouraged. if you want more, giving feedbacks are the only thing i asked from you guys. i really loved reading them and boost me more to write faster. it really means a lot. ily and stay safe! send me asks too.

( part one ; part two )

fic moodboard › here

eeunoia 2024 © all rights reserved.

“You need to feed her more, Mr. Yang.” the doctor sighs then glances at your unconscious body laying on the middle of the queen size bed.

Some of the house helpers gathers around to make sure you’re feeling warm enough, tucked on the bed perfectly.

“Her body needs its nutrients or else her body will get weak.” he added then whips his head to look at Jungwon.

He looked serious while standing beside your bed, watching you cautiously. The doctor couldn’t tell what’s exactly inside his mind. If he’s feeling regret or what.

“If that’s all, I would take my leave Mr. Yang. Call me if you need something else or if ever something happened.” Jungwon nods his head without sparing their family doctor a glance.

One of the helpers guides the doctor outside the room and slowly one by one, they left the room. Jungwon was left with you. The sound of aircondition can be heard, preventing the deafening silence to overcome Jungwon.

He won’t try to cover it up. He does feel a slight guilt for what happened. You just collapsed after being deprived of food for several days. He does offer water to keep you hydrated, but he limits your intake of food to punish you. It was his only way to punish you since he refused to hit you physically.

He’s not very amused of your behavior lately. Trying so hard to escape after succeeding the first time that night. You just don’t learn and seems like not afraid enough. After knowing well how you affect him, you kept trying since then. He was playing along at first, but after you managed to run out from the mansion and up to their gate last week, he knew he needed to set boundaries towards you.

He slowly walked closer towards the side of the bed then sat down. Your face looked peaceful while sleeping. Despite the tears from the corner of your eyes, you looked beautiful for Jungwon. You look fragile. Like a bunny being hunted by a wolf.

He stretches his hand and caress your face using the back of it. Being a light sleeper, you stir from your sleep and gently flutter your eyes open. It was blurry at first, making it hard for you to register where you are or what happened prior to this.

You looked over Jungwon and opens your mouth, feeling your throat too dry. “W-What happened?”

He smiled a little then brushes away some of your hair, “You passed out, baby.”

Your lips pursed and tries harder to remember what happened to you. After finally realizing that it was due to exhaustion and being food deprived your eyes darted at his direction. Slight hatred flashes through your eyes. His remains soft, unlike whenever you try to run away.

That’s one of the things you noticed. Jungwon looked so soft whenever you look fragile. But he’s the complete opposite whenever you disobey him. He’s scary.

You gulped, “You did this to me.” you mumbled, eyes brimming with tears.

He didn’t say anything and just kept his stares at you. His hands rests over your arm then caress it softly while he listens to what you’re trying to say.

“You w-want to kill me.”

He sighs and licked his lower lip. “That’s not what I’m trying to do, baby. I just want to discipline you.”

A tear escapes from your eye, “Discipline? I’m not the one who needs disciplining, Jungwon! It's you! What you’re doing is wrong!”

He rolled his eyes and lifts his hand off from your skin. A part of your heart fell from the sudden lost of contact and it was odd. Why would you feel that way? He is your captor! The last thing you should feel is attraction and want of his affection.

“You can’t get away from this..” you stare straight to his eyes.

Jungwon cranes his neck to look over you. His eyes roams around your face before it trailed down your lips. He lets out a strained sigh. He can’t believe you are going through this once again.

“But I already did, y/n.” he stood up and stared down at you, piercing his cold dark eyes. It sent instant shivers to your spine.

You continued being stubborn towards him. Refusing any chances of getting close with Jungwon. He’s slowly losing his patience with you and honestly, he hates to go to his last resort but he knew have no other choice.

“PLEASE! STOP!”

Jungwon clenches his jaw while his feet taps continuously on the cold marble tiles. He’s trying so hard not to burst inside that room and save you from this misery. Jake notices his friend’s anxious behavior so he sighs and walks closer, clapping his hand over his shoulder.

One day, your loud and terrifying screams echoes over the silent hallway of the isolated mansion where Jungwon’s been keeping you.

“Relax, dude.” he smiles, trying to make him feel better.

“Are you sure its going to be fine?” Jungwon asks, brows hardly furrowed and head turning at the direction of the room you’re currently locked in.

“It’s fine, Jungwon. We’ve done that procedure a lot of times. I’m sure it will work. Don’t worry, okay?” Jake tries to assure his friend. He could tell how disturbed he is by the situation and he can’t even blame him.

Even before Jungwon can respond to what his hyung said, another petrifying screams ringed so loudly. Their heads whipped towards the direction of the room in unison and stayed silent for a while.

“Of course it can be painful, but I will guarantee you that it will be all worth it.” then Jake claps his hand over his shoulder.

Jungwon’s eyes didn’t left the room as he gulped with nothing in mind, but you. He delayed this for a while, insisting to his hyung that he can manage to get inside your mind without actually breaking you completely. Apparently, you are stronger than he thought you are resulting for his hyung to step in and take matters into his own hands.

They have plans and in order for these plans to go well coordinately, they have to follow certain rules and schedules. And due to your stubborness, they are falling behind schedule.

Jake knew he had to step in and force Jungwon to let you undergo this. Its really cruel and the jail time that they can receive if somebody knew about this can be very serious. They’re trying to mess with your brain to make you forget some memories if they trigger it by believing that its something traumatic.

When our brain senses something that can traumatize the host, it usually come up with solutions. One of them is forcefully deleting these memories and replacing it with hallucinations that can be planted by whoever gaslighter that will talk them through it.

“ENOUGH! PLEASE!” you cried out when you felt another electrifying pain occurying your whole body. Tears stream down your face nonstop and it felt so bad that you’re starting to wish for your life to end.

“P-Please,” you mumbled losing all your energy and body giving up from too much exhaustion.

The last thing you can remember is the blinding light from the ceiling and then slowly you lost consciousness.

Jungwon and Jake stood up at the same time the doctor went out from the room.

“How was it, doctor?” Jake asks hopeful.

“Is she okay?” Jungwon asked eagerly.

“She’s fine. Just really exhausted. We will leave her to take a rest for as much as her body wants. Once she wakes up, she might not remember the past events from a while. I have no idea what she will remember, but we’ll know once she does.”

Jungwon nods his head and eyes darted at the room. “I can go visit her, right?”

The doctor nods his head, “Of course. Its better to talk to her even if she’s still unconscious. Just make sure not to say anything you don’t want her to remember. She may be unconsious, but her brain is still currently active and it may caught on it later on.” he carefully reminded him.

Jungwon thanked the doctor and Jake told his friend that he will walk him out to talk some things with him as well. He gave his hyung a short nod before walking towards the room.

She saw one nurse trying to clean some of the materials and another one checking your vitals. As usual, your beautiful face looked peaceful as you sleep.

“Hi, baby. I’m here now.” he whispers after you two are left alone.

He kept his loving stares right at you. Silently admiring how beautiful you are. Letting him be fully drawn onto you. Not everyone will understand him if ever they knew what he’s doing. They may call him crazy and an awful person, but he doesn’t care.

None of them can beat his desires of wanting you for himself. Just by thinking of not having you with him is already painful. He suffered enough being away from you and now that he experienced having you near him, he have no plan of letting you go.

He will do everything to keep you. Even if it means manipulating and gaslighting his way into your life.

He caress your face gently, “I’m here now, baby. Nobody can take you away now. You are safe.” he mumbles carefully before leaning down carefully and pressing a soft kiss at your forehead.

“I’m here now, baby. Nobody can take you away now. You are safe.” that was the only thing you can remember the moment you crack your eyes open.

The first thing that greets you was the clean white ceiling and a nurse stood beside you, checking something. When her eyes drifted at you and she saw you finally awake, she gasped lightly and smiled.

“You’re finally awake!” she sounded so happy and even start checking you. Asking things like if you feel any pain somewhere or if you can see her perfectly.

Despite being totally confused, you followed as she told you. Eventually, someone who seemed like a doctor came in. She flashes you the brightest smile that slightly melts down your guard.

She asked the nurse to raise your bed so you can be in a more comfortable position while she ask you a few question.

“Do you remember anything, y/n?” she asks and starts examining you. Looking through your eyes and all.

You stayed silent, trying to remember the last thing you can before waking up in this hospital bed. Yes, you’ve been informed that you are currently at the town’s hospital.

“Do you remember that your name is y/n?” she asks and pulls away slightly to look at your eyes.

You nod your head right away and she smiles in relief. She continued asking you, but also reminding you not to push yourself to remember and just take your time. No rush.

As you try to remember something, the familiar voice that has been echoing inside your mind repeats once again.

“I r-remember somebody talking...” you started that nods her head with anticipation in her eyes.

“He said that he’s there now and that I am safe. Nobody will take me.” you tried to repeat the exact words the voice said.

She broke into a very warm smile.

“That must’ve be Mr. Yang Jungwon.” she said that made you crease your forehead.

“J-Jungwon?” you asked confused.

Her smile fell for a bit while, but she pulls it once again. “Yes. You know him, right?”

You pursed your lips and tries to recall the most memorable interaction you have with Yang Jungwon, the president of the your school’s student council. The reliable, handsome, youngest son of the governor. He’s very famous in your batch. Not just because of his undeniable charms, but also due to his credibility. He’s indeed an amazing guy.

“H-He’s my schoolmate.”

She smiles even wider, “Right. He’s the one who found you unconscious by the far part of the forest.” she explained.

Your heart thumped faster by what you heard. The information suddenly clouding your mind and slowly making your head ache.

“F-Forest?” your head tilt and face showed displeasure.

“Hmm.” she hums and even caress your arm. “He was hunting with some of his friends when he found you and he took you here.”

You stayed silent and just accept what she’s telling you since you cannot remember anything other than walking home alone and then (ex boyfriend) appeared— Right. He went after you and you two argued. It was so intense that he starts yanking your arms hardly.

“(ex boyfriend).” you mumble lowly and she stopped talking.

“What’s that, y/n?” she tries asking since she couldn’t quite hear it.

Your teary eyes slowly trailed towards the doctor’s face to look at her now worried eyes.

“I remember having an argument with (ex boyfriend).” you told her and her lips pursed tightly together.

You teared your gaze away and tries to remember more when your head starts to ache so badly. You lift your hand and hold onto it tightly, eyes shut.

“Acck!” you groaned as she stood up to assist you and ask you to please calm down. She called another nurse to help her look after you.

They both panic as you starts to whimper in pain. The pain was not tolerable at the moment. You feel like someone’s drilling into your skull.

“M-Make it stop please!” you begged as blur memories of someone holding you captive and punishing you flashes through your mind.

They aren’t clear enough to see whose behind all of that. All you know is that even if you can’t remember it compelely, the feeling and emotions you’ve felt those moment are still carved in you. You felt scared and anxious that whoever did that to you probably will come after you anytime.

Even before you can open your eyes, you felt a sting by one of your arm. One of the nurses injects something to help you calm down and prevent you from harming yourself furthermore.

“Anything else, y/n?” your eyes drifts over the officer sat beside your bed.

He looked kind and reliable. The type of officer you will really trust, yet you can’t help but to feel anxious. Your hospital room are filled with some police officer that came to interview you and by the corner, you can see your parents watching you with worried eyes.

They are more than delighted after hearing the news of someone finally finding you. They didn’t waste any time and rushed over the hospital. It was hurtful for them seeing you laying on the bed with some bruises over your body, clearly lost weight and traumatized. They finally found you, but it feels like something in you changed ever since.

“I t-told you it was (ex boyfriend). He was the last one with me!” you’re starting to feel frustrated with all of these interviews. It’s so hard for you.

You understand that they’re just trying to do their job and to finally solve your case, but its just exhausting. Its like living your trauma over and over again. It feels like torture.

“But sweetheart, he’s already gone.” the police officer said in a low tone.

Your head lifts and brows furrowed in confusion, asking what he meant by the word ‘gone’. He gulped, hesitating a bit if he should tell you or not. In the end, he decided to do it.

“He’s dead, y/n.” he revealed that made your heart fell. You slowly shake your head side to side, denying it.

For the past two days that you are here, you have lived with the thought that he’s the one who captured you and kept you. Now that the police is saying that he’s dead, changes everything again.

“He died the same day that you’ve been kidnapped, three months ago.”

“T-Three months?” you are surprised to know you’ve been gone for so long.

“Yes.” he nods and your eyes dropped at your hand resting by your lap.

“We’re afraid that your captor is still on the loose and he might be just around—” the door to your hospital room burst open.

Your tearful eyes softens at the sight of Yang Jungwon entering. His eyes are fixed right at you before scanning the whole room. His brows furrowed hardly at the sight of police officers inside.

“W-Won...” you stuttered and sniffed, tears pooling your eyes even more.

Jungwon’s still wearing his school uniform when he close the door behind him then slowly walks towards your bed. His strict eyes darts at the officer beside.

“Mr. Yang,” he greets and bowed before standing up. Jungwon stood firm as place his hand at the small of your back, instantly sending comfort towards you.

“We’re just doing some more interviews to miss (surname).” he informs politely.

“Can’t you do that some other time? You’ve been doing that for two days straight. It can be harmful for her.” he sounded so serious but his touch over you is gentle.

The police officer exchange glances before they decided to go call it a day. He watch as they leave and bid goodbye to your parents. After they left, Jungwon turns his attention towards you. His eyes looked so worried for you and instantly, you can feel your heart beating so fast.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, leaning forward so he’s the same level as your eyes.

Your cheeks heated up because his face was so close and you can see how handsome he is. For the past two days that you’ve been confined here, he visited you. He’s so kind and caring that made you feel comfortable around him.

“Y-Yes.” you shortly replied.

Both of you stared at each other's eyes, doesn’t really want to break the eye contact. Your parents slowly approaches while having a warm smile on their faces. They couldn’t express how thankful they are to the family of Yang. They’re the ones who kept helping them to search for you. He takes after his good father, always very helpful.

They still remember when he saw him still wearing his hunting outfit while talking to the police officers outside the emergency room. It was the day that you are found. Jungwon’s eyes shifted over to your Mom when she approaches with tearful eyes.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Yang!” she exclaimes as she reach for his hand.

Jungwon showed her a small smile, “Just call me Jungwon, Mrs. (surname).” he politely said and even caress her arms.

She can’t explain what she felt those moment. Extreme happiness and relieved showers her, preventing her from seeing who truly is Yang Jungwon. His angelic face and warm smiles are perfect facade to hide the devil inside him.

“Thank you for bringing back my baby.” she pursed her lips and stared straight to his eyes.

Jungwon tried his best not to scoff right there and then.

‘Your baby?’ he asked sarcastically in the back of his mind. ‘She’s no longer yours. She’s mine. All mine.’ were the words he wants to say.

“No problem.” he says.

“Thank you.” your father shortly said after clapping his shoulder.

Jungwon’s eyes met his and for some reasons, there's something that flickers through your Father’s eyes. Besides relief and happiness, there’s a hint suspicion that flashes in a split second. He saw it.

He didn’t said anything about it and just bows for him, jaw slightly clenching.

Of course, none of them took suspicion that it was him who found you. Their alibi was perfect. Every week, Jungwon and his friends often hunt at the forest as a hobby. Something unquestionable for the town’s people as the group of friends really do have extraordinary activities. Some things that rich people do enjoys.

He found you and called the ambulance for you right away. Police and some journalists sworms the hospital afterwards. He was questioned too while the doctors and medical staffs of Jaeyun’s family owned hospital checks on you. That’s not a surprise anymore. Its just like how they predicted it. He didn’t even stutter as he shares his side of story. It was scary how convincing he sounds. He has no remorse and shame.

“Sorry if I arrived late. We got dismissed pretty late.” he says and cupped your face.

You shook your head side to side to assure him that it was completely fine. He doesn’t need to say sorry at all. In fact, you and your parents are starting to feel shy towards the Yang family. They had done so many things for you already.

“Y-You’re not required to visit me everyday...” the hint of denial evident towards your tone.

You don’t know if its because he’s just really nice or the fact that he ‘saved’ you made you attached to him. Whenever you see him, you just feel safe and secured. It was so strange.

“I want to.” he says and grabbed your hand.

Your eyes dropped to look at it and your stomach churns at the sight of his big hand engulfing yours. It was warm and comforting.

“Y/n, dear.” your Mom called you.

Your heads whips at her direction and you saw that she’s unpeeling the apple that Jungwon just brought for you. She flashes a warm smile before glancing at Jungwon, then back at you.

“We were talking about it and we decided that it would be safe for you to stay with Jungwon while your captor is still on the loose.” she announced.

Your eyes met with Jungwon and he’s smiling at you. His dimples so deep that you’re sure he’s being genuine.

“Are you sure its fine? You’ve done so much for me already.”

He tilts his head, “Its more than fine. I will feel more at ease when you’re near me. We never know where your captor is. I just want you to be safe.” he said then glanced at your parents. “We all want you safe.”

You stayed silent, contemplating. You want to stay with him. Like you mentioned, you feel safe around him. But besides feeling shy of being a bother, something in you tells you to decline the offer.

Jungwon’s thumb caress your hand snapping you out from your trance. His eyes stares at you softly, hypnotizing you.

“Y/n?” he calls.

“Don’t worry, honey. We will visit you all the time.” your Dad assured you and your eyes met his for a while before you finally nod your head.

Jungwon broke into a wider smile and tugs you closer to him, embracing you. He rests his head on top of yours as you snuggle over his chest, spacing out again.

“You’ll be all right.” he mumbles as all of you missed a ghost of evil smile spreading across of his handsome face.

“Her Dad is obviously suspicious of you, Won. What you going to do about it?” Jake cracks his neck before resting his back over their couch.

“If I were her Dad, I’ll suspect him to be the mastermind too.” Jay chuckles while busy playing his nintendo.

Jungwon shoot glares over his friend whose still busy with his game, bickering with Ni-ki from time to time.

“He’s not doing anything that can sabotage our plan so I think its still good.” he stated.

“And what if he tries to investigate himself? Like making you believe that he’s going along with you when he’s just gaining your trust and find the right timing to make a move?” Sunghoon asks.

He glances over his hyung and smirks, “Then I’d get rid of him.” he said without hesitation.

Sunoo chuckles, “Y/n will end up hating you.”

Jungwon smirks, “She won’t know its me. Besides, if she lost someone important she will be more vulnerable and she will lean on me more.”

Ni-ki lets out a big sigh, “You’re crazy, hyung. It’s so scary. I'm just glad I’m one of your friends.” he then laughed.

He and his friends are currently hanging out, trying to check if everything’s ready for what’s about to unfold tomorrow. They’re going for (Heeseung’s girl) plan.

“Its still crazy that she thinks she can pull this off.” Jake stated and smirks while looking at Heeseung.

The eldest grins, “Isn’t she adorable? She wants me so bad.”

Jay showed a displeased look on his face. “I’m just happy that it will be easier on our side. She’s digging her own grave.”

“Ah right,” Sunghoon says, “Did you get the pass from Irish? We need to roam around the building tonight to check the vicinity.”

Heeseung nods and pulls out the card from his pocket then handed it to Sunghoon. All of them then called it a day, heading out from their hangout place.

Before Jungwon enters their family car, his phone chimed for a newly received message. A smile made its way to his lips seeing your familiar contact name flashing through his screen. He went inside and his driver gets in too.

He taps his phone and called your number.

“Hi baby, I’m on my way home to you.”

permanent tag-list:

@rubyanne @map-of-border @hwangjangmi @13tter @candewlsy @simpforniki @classicroyalty @hime98 @moonsclassyslore @ddeonubaby @yeoungie @acciomylove @mymeloem19 @jvngw0n @dreamjerky @minamoons @clar-iii @herasalvatore @nyfwyeonjun @rcveribin @yizhoutv @one16core @soobin-chois @kyutiepeachy @chareadingpurposes @hwalllllllelujah @solelyenha @90sni-ki @nourhan-8 @nikipedia07 @yangbreads @drunkjazed @axartia @all4haru @sta-rie @purplepuppychild @iceeee @wtfhyuck @tobiosbbyghorl @nikililmj @ayayiiie @aeyeree @heeseung-min @in-somnias-world @psh-pjh @hveanlyanqelic

[matryosika]

Maknae Line: Love Languages and Sex

Wordcount: 6,250 words

Genre: Smut, headcanons and scenarios.

Includes: Skz maknae line members, female reader, dirty dialogues. Mentions of stress in Seungmin's scenario, and the tiniest bit of angst too.

Author's note: Finally, the maknae version is here! I know it took me a while, and I apologize, but here it is. This is all lovey-dovey, just sweet filth. I had tons of fun writing this, so I hope you guys like it. If you want, you can check out the Hyung Line version here. This is not proofread, and english is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Enjoy!

If you wish to support my work further, please consider buying me a coffee! The job hunting has not been good pretty far, so every single tip is appreciated. Also, feedback, reblogs and comments/asks are very motivating for me to keep on posting. I love you.

Smut warnings: Dirty dialogues and curse words. Use of petnames, mutual masturbation (for Jisung's scenario), oral sex, face fucking (for Felix's scenario), cum eating (for Felix's scenario), shower sex (for Seungmin's scenario), choking (for Jeongin's scenario), body cumshot (for Jeongin's scenario), also possessive Jeongin because I love him so much.

Jisung: Physical Touch and Quality Time

"Is this one okay?”

Jisung has been scrolling for about 20 minutes over the movie catalog, trying to pick a movie for you to watch together.

A waste of time, you think. It’s not like you’re going to watch it anyways, and he knows it. But he still spares some of his time to try and find the right one, something you'd want to watch... or have as background noise while you two make out.

“Yeah,” the movie looks promising, but considering’s Jisung’s sneaky hand between your thighs while he mindlessly stare at the screen in front of you two, you’re really sure you’re not going to pay any attention to it. “That one’s good”.

Once the movie starts playing, you two settle in beneath the warm blankets with all sorts of snacks, candy and chips to munch from, happily enjoying each other's company.

Because of college and part-time jobs, it’s has been a while since you last enjoyed a chill, relaxed weekend with your boyfriend. Surely, he does everything he can to meet you throughout the week —a quick call between your classes to chat for a while, an unexpected invitation to eat or have dinner, driving to where you work so he can pick you up and drive you home… Jisung always finds a way to spend some time with you, even for ten or fifteen minutes.

That's why whenever you two are free for the day, he rushes up to your apartment, or ask you to meet in his, just so he can spend all day together with you. Sometimes you two go out and enjoy a nice dinner somewhere, followed by a late-night walk through Seoul’s streets. Some others, you’d rather spend your weekend at home, ordering take out and just unwinding together like you’re doing right now.

But almost always, such dates end with you two fucking like you haven’t seen each other in months.

“The screen is right in front of you, Ji,” you tease him, once you realize his undivided attention is all over you, and not the movie he allegedly chose because he has been meaning to watch it for a while now.

“I know,” he simply replies, tilting his head while his loving eyes keep staring at you.

You turn your face to him, defeated. “You know, ever since we started dating I’ve never been able to watch a 2-hour movie complete”.

Jisung smiles fondly, letting out a soft scoff. “Am I really the only one to blame?”

“That’s not the point!,” you can feel the heat in your cheeks when he says so, but you try your best to remain calm. “The point is that you’re not paying attention to the movie, and it’s really good”.

“Oh, so you’d rather watch the movie?” his teasing tone tells you that you’re most definitely not going to keep on watching the movie, not even if you tried.

And although you’re not a fortune teller, the sudden touch of his hand against your inner thigh proves you right.

“If this is what you wanted since the beginning, why bother spending hours looking for something to watch?” you hum, spreading your legs underneath the comforter, welcoming Jisung’s touch.

He gives you a mischievous look before returning his attention to the screen, leaving his hand between your thighs without doing anything further. 

“You know, you’re right,” he sighs, cuddling into his spot. “We should watch the movie, we’re almost halfway through it”. 

His touch isn’t foreign to your body, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotten used to it. Every time he touches you, it feels like it’s the first time he ever does so. It feels like a spark of electricity, one that ignites your desire in no time.

“Yeah right,” you chuckle, shifting your position on the couch to get close to him. “You’re saying so like you’re not going to forget about the movie in 5 minutes”.

“Do you want to bet?”

Typical Jisung. His fun and always-down-for-a-challenge personality is probably one of the things that made you fall in love with him profoundly, so you smile at him. “Bet what? That you can’t keep your hands off of me?”

“You can’t keep your hands off of me,” he mocks you, staring at you with loving and playful eyes. “I’m just too handsome for you not to crave me all the time”.

You roll your eyes, but you know he’s right. There’s something enticing about him, something that captured your attention ever since the day you met him for the first time. You can’t think of going on a day without kissing him, or touching him, or letting him fuck you in every room of your apartment.

“Okay, okay, I think we’re even,” you tell him, leaving a quick peck on the corners of his lips. “You crave me just as much as I crave you”.

Jisung pouts because of the quick kiss, his hand moving from your inner thigh to your hip. “So we can forget about the movie, then?”

You chuckle softly, brushing your nose against his as he leans over your for another kiss. “It’s not that good, anyways”.

“No?” the dark-haired purrs against your lips, kissing you deeply while his tongue grazes yours. He only stops the kiss to let you breathe for a couple of seconds, but kisses you again right after. “Is this better?”

“A hundred times better,” you smile, still kissing him while his hand gets lost in the hems of your clothing.  

Next thing you know, the comforter has been discarded to the floor and Jisung's running out of clothes to take off from you, only leaving you in your underwear. His hands touch and grope your body like it’s the first time he touches it, like he is just exploring it despite knowing it very well.

Jisung always touch you like he has been craving it for ages, dragging his palms over the sides of your body and pressing you against his to feel you even more, completely at all. He kisses and licks your neck and chest, letting out quiet moans in between, enjoying your smell and the way your skin welcomes his love bites by turning shades of pink and red.

You latch your fingers onto his dark, soft hair when he slides your underwear to the side, his fingers immediately offering you the much needed stimulation. You do the same, sneaking your hand underneath his underwear to find his erected cock that is already leaking, practically begging for your touch.

“You got one thing wrong, though,” he murmurs in between kisses, shifting his position on the couch just slightly so that you can comfortably masturbate him while he does the same for you. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to crave me more than I crave you”.

“Do you want to bet?” you chuckle against his lips, drowning a moan when you feel his cock throbbing inside your fist.

The more you jerk him off, the sloppier Jisung’s fingers get, and the more he stimulates your clit, the slower the rhythm on your wrist —it’s a neverending moment. You’re kissing while pleasing each other, moaning in between, losing the pace of your ministrations as you both chase your highs, murmuring sweet nothings under your breathes, interrumpting the kisses to look at each other with lustful eyes and furrowed eyebrows, parted lips and quiet whimpers.

It doesn’t take you long to come in each other’s hands, making a mess of yourselves and your underwear. You’re now dirty, and practically naked, so Jisung can’t lose the opportunity to change his mind about the movie.

“Do you want me to run a bath for us, baby?”

You’re sure you know how that is going to end, but you can’t refuse.

Felix: Words of Affirmation and Quality Time

You both have been waiting for this exact moment ever since the last time you saw each other. Which was two days ago, but it felt like ages.

Tonight, you’re supposed to attend a dinner party of one of your closest friends, but you’re really struggling to get out of bed. Especially because it's Felix who's holding you hostage between his arms, pouting and whimpering every time you remind him of the very little amount of time left to get ready.

“Let’s ditch the dinner,” he tells you, snuggling underneath the bedsheets and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Let’s stay like this all night. What do you say?”

You throw a pillow at him and get free from his hold. Truth be told, you'd rather accept his proposal, but you can't ditch on this very close friends of you, especially on such an important occasion as a birthday is.

“Come on, Lix,” you murmur, walking towards the bathroom mirror to do your makeup. It had been a wise decision to take a shower before cuddling each other during the afternoon, otherwise you'd be more in a rush than you already are.

You hear him groan, and curse, and groan again until he meets you at the bathroom, joining you in the sink to brush his teeth and do a little bit of makeup.

When he approaches you, you notice his semi-hard bulge underneath his grey sweatpants as he relentlessly tries to fix and conceal it. Perhaps the cuddling session got to him, and he would rather stay at home and fuck you on every position known to mankind than going out and missing the warmth of your body.

You understand him, though.

“What?” he chuckles, his deep voice startling you minutes after being shamelessly looking  at his crotch. “Did you change your mind?”

Hadn’t been this a very close and dear friend of yours, you’d cancel them on the spot. But you really want to go, so the plan is still on.

However, it doesn't really matter if you get there a little late, does it?

“No,” despite your answer, the way you close your cosmetics bag mid-through your makeup confuses Felix. “But we can have fun of our own before meeting our friends, don’t we?”

His eyes widen just a little. “We’re not going to make it on time if we start,” he tells you, tilting his head flirtatiously towards you.

“The point is to be there,” you reply, planting a wet kiss on his freckled cheek. “I don’t mind if it takes us a little while to get ready”.

Felix wraps his arms around your body and holds you close to him, forcing your lips against his in a peck that quickly, turns into a heated french kiss.

He kisses oh so deliciously. Never too rushed, and never too sloppy. He kisses you slowly and roughly, fucking your mouth with his tongue and biting your lower lip in between, pulling it just in the slightest to earn a hiss from you.

“You’re only getting me harder,” Felix murmurs when you interrupt the kiss to breathe. Judged by the strong pressure against your thigh, you can only assume he’s right. “I’m gonna need to jerk off or else I'm going to spend the entire dinner like this”.

“Jerk off?” you query with knitted eyebrows, your hand playing with the hems of his sweatpants and underwear, “I’m right here, Felix”.

“I don’t want to ruin your make up,” it’s not fully done yet, but he doesn’t want to discard your efforts in what you had by now. The eyeliner and mascara were surely going to make a mess —last time he fucked you, you both realize it wasn’t as waterproof as they claimed them to be. “And I don’t want to make a mess out of you either”.

“I don’t care,” you whisper, leaving a trail of kisses from his lips, along his jaw and into the crook of his neck, “let me help you”.

“I won’t take responsibility for anything,” Felix warns you while not being able to divert his gaze from your figure that's currently kneeling in front of him. He rests his body against the edge of the bathroom countertop, with his back facing the mirror, and guides his fingers to your freshly brushed hair, “so you better start thinking about a new outfit option”.  

“Got it,” you hum, lowering his clothes to release his erection that's throbbing and pulsating inside your fist, begging for you to pay attention to it. “What about that black dress you like so much, huh? Should I wear that one tonight?”

Felix closes his eyes and throws his head back when he reminds the piece of clothing you’re referring to. Not only that, but the memory paired with the feeling of your warm tongue swirling against the tip of his dick earns you a deep moan from him.

“Y-yes,” he hisses, forcing his head down and opening his eyes to admire the whole scene. “But don’t expect me to keep my hands off of you tonight if you do”.

You smile while smacking his cock against your tongue, tasting the salty precum from his tip. He looks beautiful from this angle —his slightly sloping face is commanding, and his normally gentle eyes are now dark with desire.

“Like that,” Felix encourages you, grabbing a fistful of your hair while forcing your head back, “do that again for me”.

You stick out your tongue further and slap his cock against it yet again, making sure to put on a full show for him. You let drool fall into your chest, staining the dress you’re currently wearing —and the one you were supposed to use at the birthday dinner tonight— but you don’t do anything about it because you know how much Felix likes that.

“Fuck,” he sighs, guiding the grip on your hair towards his dick, asking you to take him fully inside your mouth. You follow compliantly, because that’s exactly what you want too. “You’re so- fuck, so fucking beautiful”.

Felix has a way with words. He's very vocal at all times, especially when it comes to sex —not a day goes by without him praising and complimenting you. That’s just one of the many ways he shows his love towards you, and he knows how much you love it.

“Since when does your pretty mouth can take me so well?” You hold your breath when your nose hits his pubic bone, drooling all over his cock as he says so. After much fooling around with Felix, your body has grown to know him fairly well, “you’re making me feel so good”.

You take his cock out of your mouth and continue stroking him using your own drool as lubricant, offering him a delicious friction that has him gripping the edge of the bathroom counter until his knuckles turn pale.

Felix does his best to keep his eyes open, staring down at you while you suck on his cock eagerly, demanding something he can only give you. He’s just about to give it to you, but he wants to elongate the moment as much as he possibly can.

“Look at me,” he demands, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. “I want to come while looking at your face”.

You're definitely not the best looking right now, with all the drool spilling from your mouth and your eyeliner and mascara smudged, but Felix thinks you've never look prettier. He loves this side of you, the dirty one.

He caresses the side of your face with his thumb, wiping away a few tears running down your cheeks after taking all of his dick inside your mouth. “I love you so much,” Felix quietly moans, his words getting overshadowed by his heavy breathing, but still managing to reach your ears nonetheless. “I love you so- fuck, so fucking much”.

You smile against the tip of his dick and increase the movement of your wrist around him, getting yourself ready for his orgasm —an orgasm that doesn’t take too long to happen, shooting white ropes of cum onto your face and dress while he curses and whimpers your name under his breath.

After a couple of seconds of him overcoming his high, and you licking his arousal up until he’s clean, Felix helps you get up from the floor and kisses you just as deep as earlier, tasting himself off of your tongue.

“I’m fully convinced I want to marry you,” he chuckles against your lips, licking up some of his cum on your chin.

“Well, my hand looks a bit empty without a ring, you know?”

Seungmin: Acts of Service and Quality Time

When you called him, crying over the phone, Seungmin's heart was practically wrenched.

“I’m so- I’m so fucking stressed,” despite his efforts to try and talk to you, asking you what’s wrong, you just couldn’t begin to explain him that there was nothing, specifically, wrong. You just felt overworked and tired because of college, and you were having a hard time handling everything.

“Where are you right now?”

“College campus,” you tell him, trying your best to look collected while crying, sitting on a bench not too far from the main building. “I’m supposed to attend another class in like-”.

“I’m picking you up,” it's not a question nor a proposal. It's an affirmation, one that you're ready to argument.

“No, Seungmin. It’s okay, I-”

“You’re not okay, you’re crying,” his voice is filled with concern, and judged by the noises in the background you can tell he’s walking while on the phone. “Let me take care of you”.

You agree, but feel guilty immediately afterwards once you realize that he probably left everything he was doing just to meet you. You didn’t ask him to, but he showed up a couple of minutes later, picked you up and drove you to your apartment, staring at you from the side every now and then just to see if you were okay.

“I’m sorry,” you exhaled. “I overreacted, I don’t know why I cried like that and I- just wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t mean to worry you, it’s really not a big deal. I’m just stressed over college and that’s it”.

“You’re rambling,” he cuts you off, sweetly and delicately as he always does. It’s not that he doesn’t want to listen to you, because he always does, but he knows you have this habit of rambling whenever you’re anxious. “I drove all the way here because I wanted to be with you”.

“Yeah but-”

“Hamburger or pizza?”

“Huh?”

“What are you craving for dinner?” Seungmin has always said he is not very good with emotions, but you disagree —he might not be one to use words, but his actions always speak louder. “I’m craving pizza, but I don’t know if you’re down for that”.

“Pizza is good,” you reply. “But let me- I just want to apologize, really. I feel so fucking silly for throwing a tantrum like a child”.

“Child’s tantrums are way worse,” he interrupts you, but his voice is so soft and delicate that you can barely hear it over your rushed, disorganized speech.

“My point is that I’m sorry for crying on the phone like that. You didn’t need to do all this, and now I feel awful. It’s just college stress, nothing I can’t handle”.

“And my point is that I know you can handle everything, as you always do,” he reassures you, turning to face you at a red light, “but I want to help you handle everything, too. If you call me crying, I don’t see why I can’t rush out to you and take care of you, it doesn’t matter the reason behind those cries”.

There's a lump in your throat that threatens to make you cry again, but this time for all the opposite reasons. You’ve never felt this safe and loved until you met him.

“So pizza it is?”

He drives to your favorite pizza place and orders take out  —the sky is getting grey, and the wind is getting chill so he would rather have dinner at the coziness of your apartment. You both eat, unwind, talk about your day prior to meet each other, and enjoy the company that you desperately needed today.

“I think I’m going to take a shower,” you inform him after doing the dishes together. “I think it’ll help me sleep better”.

“Mind if I join you?” Seungmin asks you, drying his hands with a small, kitchen towel. “Both to shower and bed”.    

It’s not every day you get to sleep in the very same bed as him, so you agree without thinking it twice. Knowing you’ll get to spend the night with him makes you forget about all the daily stress already, so you’re grateful he’s sharing his time with you.

“Close your eyes,” he warns you with a smile and hands full with shampoo foam. You follow his order compliantly, and the next thing you feel are his hands massaging your scalp and hair with shampoo. “Close them!”

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, closing them immediately afterwards. “I just want to see you”.

“Let me rinse this off, alright?” he guides you underneath the shower faucet and starts wiping away all the foam, delicately caressing your face while the water rinses off a whole day of stress. “Don’t open them yet, or else it’ll sting”.

It’s practically impossible to ignore his touch and body pressing against yours throughout the whole interaction, and he probably notices this too —your nipples are hard, both from the stimulation and the feeling of warm water running through your body, and you can’t help but whimper every time they rub against his bare chest.

“There,” Seungmin murmurs, encouraging you to open your eyes. The first thing you see is his gaze underneath his dark, wet hair, followed by bright smile.  

You tip toe a bit to reach his pink lips, and you leave a wet peck in the corner of them. A quick, single kiss that makes Seungmin’s bright smile turn into a flirty, soft smirk.

He brushes a few wet strands of hair away from your face, and caresses your skin while tilting his head. You know he wants this, just as much as you want it too, but he probably felt too scared to make the first move, considering the wholesome moment you were sharing.

“Can I?” he’s leaning over you, with both of his hands cupping your cheeks and his lips dangerously close to yours.

“Please,” you nod, closing your eyes even before you felt him kissing you.

It starts of slow, but gets gradually deeper as he holds you tightly against him; the water is still running, but it feels ten times warmer now.

“I don’t want to ruin the moment like this,” you whisper, feeling your heart racing, “but I really want you to fuck me”.

“How could that ruin the moment?” Seungmin chuckles, guiding his hands to your ass.

“I don't know, you're being so sweet to me and all I can imagine is how it would feel to have you deep inside me right now,” you confess, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You don’t have to imagine it, you know?” his hands guide you to turn around on your feet, and he presses his chest against your back until you’re trapped between him and the wall. You can feel his erection against your ass, and that alone has your pussy clenching around nothing, wishing it was his cock you were clenching around. “If you want, I can fuck you right here”.

You feel him kissing and nibbling at the skin on your shoulders and neck, and you immediately melt between his arms, “I want you”.

You can’t see him but, once he guides his hand to your core and feels your wetness, the soft scoff he lets out tells you he’s probably amused by your neediness. “You’re all ready for me, hm?”

You press your cheek against the cold, wall tiles, and arch your back a bit more —just enough to allow him a better access to your pussy. He places one hand on your hip, while the other guides the tip of his cock to your cunt, teasing your folds and rubbing it against your clit.

“Please fuck me,” you whine, laying both of your palms flat against the white tiles.

“Take a deep breath for me,” he latches his lips to your neck and the next thing you feel is a sudden stretch between your legs. You let out a painful moan, as you’re definitely not used to have him fucking you while standing.

It’s a challenge, really. The second you felt him entering you, your legs threatened to give up on your weight.

“Don’t worry,” Seungmin hisses once he bottoms out, feeling your walls hugging him tightly. He can feel how tense you are, trying hard to hold on to anything to prevent you from falling, “I’ll hold you tight, won’t let go of you, okay?”

You nod, barely frantically, and relax on the spot. You trust him Seungmin wholeheartedly, so you get completely carried away by the feeling of his cock hitting the right spot inside your pussy.

He reaches his hand forward, into the small space between your abdomen and the wall, and guides his fingers towards your clit, rubbing it gently while fucking you.

“J-just like that,” you moan. “I’m- I’m getting close”.

“Yeah?,” Seungmin purrs, managing to keep the pace between his thrusts and his fingers. “Come for me, then”.

You blame it on all the time you spent without being able to fuck with him because of your schedules, but truth is that Seungmin always makes you come really fast. He knows your body well enough by now, and he pleases you like no one has before. And could he not be? If he has spent hours and hours touching you, eating you out and fucking you so he can be the best at pleasing you.

“Seungmin,” you gasp, feeling your legs shaking and your mind dizzy. If you let go, you’re sure your face is going to meet the floor.

But, as if he could read your mind, he wraps his arm around you and holds you right in place, giving you all the support you needed. “Now,” he moans, “you can come”.

You finally let go between his arms, pressing your face against the wall while Seungmin takes care of everything —from helping you ride your high, to keep you standing on your feet.

He holds you while you overcome your orgasm, feeling your heart beats and the way you breath. He is close to coming as well, but you’re always his priority in moments like this.

Always so caring and sweet.  

Jeongin: Physical Touch and Gifts

[19:28, You: I’m here]

[19:28, You: Where are you?]

You stare at the big, white letters on top of the entrance of the store, and you can begin to guess what this urgent meeting is all about. It’s not the first time you visit it, and it is most definitely not going to be the last, you think.

There are a couple of people inside, people who make you feel as if you’re underdressed to go jewelry shopping —not that you had clothes to match the ocassion, but you didn’t expect to end your day standing outside one of Seoul’s most expensive stores.

“Hey!” Jeongin greets you from inside, smiling widely once he spots you. He walks towards you and the brightness in his eyes tells you that he's most definitely excited about something.

“What is it?” you immeditaly asked, catching his smile.

“I stopped by and I wanted to gift you something,” he grabs your hand and guides you inside the store, following a path and turning around every other table until you reach the jewels in exhibition he’s excited about, “I didn’t know which one you liked best, and I tried to take a picture of them but the camera didn’t make them any justice”.

“What’s the occasion?”

“You,” Jeongin tilts his head. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know, and these are the most beautiful necklaces I’ve seen in my entire life. Is only fair for you to have them”.

“I don’t- These are too expensive,” you furrow your eyebrows, not knowing the final price of each and confident you're better off without that information.

“So?”

“I can’t accept one,” you shake your head. Your eyes encounter an emerald and diamond necklace that’s too stunning it caught your attention —Jeongin has good taste, you have to give him that.

But said taste it’s also very expensive, so you’re not sure that works out.

“What about all of them?”

Your eyes widen in shock, and you playfully hit him in the arm, “you’re so unserious!”

“I mean it,” the dark-haired smiles, tilting his head at you. “Either you pick the one you like the most, or I’ll buy all of them for you”.

Jeongin never gifts you things expecting anything in return —if anything, the only thing he expects when he buys you jewelry, or clothes, or anything, is that you put them to use.

You’re still not used to this kind of love language, but he tries everything to make you feel comfortable.

“Are you sure?” you hesitate, and he nods eagerly, wondering which one is the one you like best. “That one, the one with the emerald”.

“Pretty,” he smiles, “just like you”.

He takes care of the bill, and you keep on staring at the rest of the jewelry exhibited around the store. To be honest, you’re curious about the price, but you’d rather stay ignorant than feeling guilty about the money he spends on you.

Then, Jeongin sees you admiring a bracelet for quite some time, and he makes a mental note to go back and buy it for you on the next occasion. He knows love can be expressed in many, many ways, but a gift is never out of place.

“Let’s go back to my place, yeah?” he asks you, grabbing your hand as you walk through the mall. “I can pick up dinner and we can spend the night together, what do you say?”

“Sounds good to me,” you smile, trying to keep up the pace with his long legs.

Once you get home, and you unwind together, Jeongin brings the small, white bag with the red, velvet box inside it. You saw the necklace on your way to his apartment, but you didn’t try it on.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, admiring the shine of it from every angle. “I’m not- sure how to style it”.

“Pretty sure you’ll find a way,” Jeongin smiles with his eyes fixed on the jewel. “You make everything look pretty”.

“Thank you,” your gaze meets his, and you can tell how sincere and genuine he is. Your heart skips a bit when you spot that spark in his eyes again, and your curiosity makes you question him once again. “What?”

“Let me put it on you,” he tells you, standing up from the dinner table and walking towards you, taking away the velvet box off of your hands, “come here”.

You follow him into his room, that’s barely illuminated because of the street lights and a small lamp on top of his nightstand. You stand in front of a big, full-length mirror, and he stands right behind you, holding the necklace with one of his hands while he makes eye contact with you through the mirror.

“Wait, just let me-,” he motions for you fix your hair out of the way, and once you’re done he he places the necklace around you. “There”.

The necklace is very, very pretty on you. So pretty that, for a minute, you completely forget about the outfit you’re wearing, and how it doesn’t match Jeongin’s gift at all.

“Thank you,” you chant again, caressing the jewel as you watch it become your most prized possession. “It’s just- beautiful. I don’t want to take it off, ever”.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on your naked shoulder. “Wear it all the time, let everyone know who gave it to you”.

You turn around on your feet and wrap your arms around his neck with a cheeky smile. “What for?”

“So everyone can know you’re mine,” his siren eyes are staring deep into yours, and that alone is enough to arouse you. Not only that, but the implied possessiveness under these kind of gifts is making you feel some kind of way.

“Everyone knows I am yours already,” you whisper, leaning in for a kiss. “I don’t need to wear a necklace for that”.

“But it’s fun, isn’t it?” Jeongin asks you, “everytime you feel the necklace around your neck, you can think of those times where my hands have done the job”.

You feel the heat rising up to your cheeks almost immediately, and you wonder if he can tell.

“The necklace is very pretty, but you like my hands way more, don’t you?” again, the filthy question makes you a bit timid, but you still nod.

“See? I don’t need expensive jewels to be happy,” you chuckle softly, planting a quick kiss on his lips. He responds the kiss with one much more steamy, one that actually makes you gasp for air in between.

“So what is it that you need, hm?” he teases you, cupping either side of your face with his big hands.

“You know what,” the complicit smile on your lips is the consent Jeongin needs to guide his hand from your face to your neck, squeezing it slightly as he applies pressure to the sides of it. The harder he chokes you, the wider you smile.

“Is this enough to make you happy?” judged by his cold gaze, and the deeper tone of his voice, you know you have Jeongin exactly where you want him.

“I’m missing something else,” you quietly murmur, just as much as his grip around your neck allows you to. “Can you give it to me?”

“What is it that you’re missing?” he asks you, a twisted smile peeking through the corners of his lips, “tell me, and I’ll give it to you”.

Jeongin knows exactly what you’re talking about, and what you’re referring to, but he menas every word he says. If there’s something you’re missing, he’d travel the whole world just to give it to you. If there’s something you want, all you have to do is ask.

“Your cock,” you finally tell him.

In the blink of an eye, you’re both naked in his bed and he’s hovering over you, positioning himself between your legs while he bites his bottom lip. You’re still wearing the necklace, as a request for him, and it feels somewhat heavy on your chest. It will probably weight heavy from now on, everytime you wear it, because it will remind you of how good of a lover Jeongin is to you.

“It looks so good on you,” he hisses, coating the tip of his cock with your slick. You’re so slippery, and warm, and inviting that he can’t spend another second without being buried deep inside your pussy. “You- look so good like this, with your legs spread for me”.

You moan at his words, wrapping your legs around his waist and forcing him to bottom out inside you, desperately wanting to feel all of himself.

“F-fuck”.

“So tight,” Jeongin whispers, closing his eyes while assimilating the stimulation your body provides.

He starts off slow and only goes rougher once he’s sure you’re ready for it. He wraps his hand around your neck and chokes you while fucking your pussy, admiring the diamond resting on top of your bouncing breasts.

The necklace is even prettier like this, he thinks.

“Right there,” you gasp, closing your eyes shut while your orgasm hits you unexpectedly. You writhe underneath him, digging your nails on his biceps. He fucks you even faster through your orgasm, making you spill a tear or two —not only he is a good lover, but he fucks oh, so well too.

You moan his name over and over again, thanking him in between. The ravages of your high are hitting you, as well as the painful overstimulation, but you don’t want him to stop. You want him to come inside you, to fill you up until he’s leaking out; however Jeongin has other plans in mind.

“Can I- come, on you?”

You’re not sure what he means, as he usually finishes inside you, but you still nod desperately, wanting whatever it is that he wants.

So he thrusts himself inside you a couple of times before pulling out, kneeling over you while stroking his cock and driving himself to his orgasm. You stare at him with dreamy eyes, aroused by the heavenly sight he’s offering you —there’s something enticing about his facial features when he comes, how they sharpen and his eyes get pitch black.

“Fuck,”  he curses under his breath as he comes over your breasts, spilling his hot cum all over them and the necklace.

You didn’t understand his petition until now, that you realize the diamond is covered with his arousal, glistening even brighter under the dim lights of his room.

“You made a mess,” you chuckle, staring at your tits.

“I just wanted to make sure you're going to remember who gave you this”.

[0lympia]

dopamine - denki kaminari

summary: recovery isn’t linear or easy. it isn’t a million things, and it’s about a million other things. you know this, most of hero society knows this and sort of accepts this. doctors and physical therapists and psychiatrists know this, and preach it. you know it too.

warnings: aftermath of war, mention of injuries, therapy, denki is a good friend

wc: 2,459

"Progress isn't linear," your physical therapist reminds you. It takes every last ounce of self control to keep yourself from snapping that you know hands white-knuckling the wood of the parallel bars.

You want to scream at all your therapists and doctors and nurses that you know progress isn't linear. There's no way for you to not know when you've heard it about a hundred times a day in the six months since the war.

It's even harder to deny when you watch your classmates, fellow hero students, struggle through recovery. The depression and anxiety and PTSD had swept through the nation, and had taken down aspiring heroes and pro heroes alike in massive swathes. You'd watched as the interest in becoming a hero dwindled, no longer a fantasy pipe dream for anybody, but instead a hard earned title with terrifying, life threatening responsibilities.

"I know," You huff out, mostly out of pain and exertion, and you try to take yet another excruciating step. You know you're only moving a few inches at a time — a sad shuffle, if you're honest — but it feels like miles.

There are a few of your classmates also in the PT room, all working on one motor skill or another. Midoriya is seated at one of the tables by the window, working with his own therapist to just grip a pencil.

You'd watched the terrifying green-haired aspiring hero go from screaming and shouting through tears to quiet frustrated sniffling and stifled tears when they'd had him working on the fine motor skill of writing. It had broken your heart, knowing that prior to the war he'd spent nearly all his spare time writing in that notebook he kept. Before the war you might have offered him a smile, some gesture of encouragement, but now you could barely even take a step before the titanium pins holding your joints together jostled and pain shot through you.

You're still hunched over, bracing yourself on the wooden bars, and you can feel a tug on your gait belt as your therapist makes sure you aren't going to fall on your face. You take another sad, measly, step forward and pain races through you, from your toes all the way up through your spine and into your skull. There's a quiet shout as you do it, and for moment you think the sound came from you, but your gait belt remains relaxed.

The shout had come from next to you, Kaminari had fallen, his therapist catching him before his knees could even hit the ground.

You'd watched him struggle through therapy too. His Quirk leaving his body wracked with uncontrollable shakes and tremors. You could still recall very clearly the absolute frustration and anguish he'd expressed at one of the early class therapy sessions over his autonomy being robbed from him.

You could relate.

"Fuck!" He curses, and you can tell he's biting back tears. You take another step, and it hurts so bad a grunt of pain escapes your gritted teeth, knees buckling so hard that your therapist can't seem to react fast enough, and you barely catch yourself on the bars.

You look over at Kaminari, and he's watching you through the long fringe of his blonde hair, the black streak he dyed into nearly entirely faded out. You know he's taking stock of your injuries, the same way you're assessing him, as you ease yourself to the padded floor with a heavy sigh.

"This never seems to get any easier, does it?" He asks, and he's offering you a smile.

"No," you agree in a rasp, vocal cords scraping roughly, never to sound like they did before the war, "It doesn't."

You quickly wipe away your stray tears of pain, turning your head in hopes that you don't have to watch as his expression morphs into something like pity. Or understanding, maybe. Either way, the looks people give you now make you sick to your stomach.

You'd been beaten nearly to death. Though, who hadn't. And although you hadn't had quite as exciting a resuscitation as Bakugou had, you'd been resuscitated twice during your hospital stay. The surgeries had been intensive, not that you'd know having been practically comatose for the three weeks following the end of the war, and recovery had been painfully slow.

Your throat had been ruined, and the reconstruction hadn't been easy — or pretty. So now your voice was a shallow rasp of what it had once been, and that was an improvement from the disturbing gargle it had been at the first class therapy session.

Kaminari was eyeing the marred skin on your neck, angry raised pink and red skin whorling around your neck and up to the right side of your chin and jawline.

Again, not pretty.

"I ha-haven't—haven't seen you without ban-ba-bandages before," Denki comments quietly, and when you lift your head to offer him a wry grin he's looking away, face twisted into something that looks like shame. Or maybe it's embarrassment. You have a hard enough time picking through your own emotions without the help of your therapist to be trying to decipher anybody else's.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," You mutter despondently, a hand coming to feel at the whorls of scar tissue, "I know it's pretty nasty."

Kaminari's therapist is helping him into a wheelchair now, the same as yours, holding onto you by your gait belt.

"Nah," He says, shaking his head as he leans back into the wheelchair. Then he's wheeled out, and his therapist takes him down a hall you've never been down.

"Progress isn't linear," Denki's therapist tells him.

"I know," Denki says, and he's glad that his voice is his right now. No stuttering, no awkward stumbles, his brain firing only the synapses it needs to, "It's just— I went from having total control to having none in just a little over a day. And the worst part is I did it to myself. People would have died if I didn't, but I would still be me if I hadn't."

Denki knows he's shaking, knows because his therapist is offering him a blanket— still not able to tell when he's got tremors or when he's actually shivering. He just shakes his head at her, not sure that when he opens his mouth next he'll be able to speak.

"People would have died either way," His therapist tells him, "Had you been put in your position again, knowing what it would do to you to stay, would you do it again?"

Denki looks appalled, shocked, maybe even a little angry at the thought, "I'd do it a hundred times over if that meant we had a better chance at winning the war."

For some reason, as his therapist points to him, telling him that he's got answer right there, he thinks of you. Wonders if you'd do it all again, even with the knowledge that you'd end up potentially with the worst of the injuries.

He remembers seeing you get wheeled past him in the hospital when the war had ended. A nurse had been on top of you, doing chest compressions, and he would never forget how air had wheezed past your lips, and the noise your ribs made as they cracked from the compressions. He'd been horrified when you passed by, his classmates who could stand gasping at the state of you as you'd been wheeled by. He remembers the many odd angles your legs had bent, and the vicious burns and cuts in your neck, and how your face had been so bloodied and bruised and swollen you were unrecognizable. The only indication it was you had been your tattered hero costume, hanging off of you in shreds.

"A friend of mine," Denki starts, even though he knows todays session is coming to a close, the visual timer his indicator, "Was in even worse condition than I was after the war. I think the worst condition in our class. They're still attending classes even though they can barely walk most of the time. I know they'd do it all again, too. But I can't imagine why they'd want to suffer through all that they have again."

"Why don't you ask them that?" His therapist suggests.

The next day Denki does just that. He hunts you down on wobbling legs, world tilting as he does, after classes had ended. Despite most everybody in class still suffering mobility issues, regular classes had resumed two months after the war had ended. And despite your incredibly limited mobility, your Quirk helped you get around better than most.

The war had either drawn friends closer in the aftermath, people clinging to the bonds they already had, like Denki had done, his friendships with his classmates who were willing even stronger than they had been prior to the war. Or it did what it had done to you, the remnants of war weighing so heavily that seclusion seemed to be the only option.

Then again, most everybody had become more withdrawn in the aftermath of the war. Conversations between anybody was stilted, even amongst those who had been closer than close.

So when he'd finally hunted you down, exhausted and shaking so bad it was wonder he'd managed to find you at all, it was an odd sort of relief when you'd smiled in greeting.

You'd hidden away on dorm roof, knowing that if anybody wanted to talk to you the stairs made the process all that more difficult for most of your classmates. You waved him over, and he wobbled his way over to you trying his best to walk steady, even as a particularly bad wave of tremors came over him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" You'd asked in way of greeting when he'd taken a seat next to you near the edge of the roof. You even smiled at him, halfway forced, but mostly genuine, the muscles in your face atrophied from a general lack of use over the past six months.

Denki smiles in return, his mouth twitching wildly as his brain misfires, "I was hoping I could ask you something. If that's okay?"

A spark of panic runs through you, there aren't usually very many scenarios when you're asked a question that doesn't make everybody uncomfortable when you deign to answer. You spare a glance at him, searching for any signs of discomfort in his face. Finding none, you nod slowly.

"If you could go back, would you still have fought in the war, knowing what you know now?"

You stare at him, and you can already see the regret sinking into his face. You rush to find an answer. You'd had a similar conversation with your therapist before, back when the concept of survivor's guilt had been new and foreign. You had told your therapist yes, of course you would, because -

"-It didn't really feel like there was any other choice to make," The words leave your mouth involuntarily.

Your classmates had expressed similar sentiments, that they were there, what else were they supposed to do? You didn't care that you were already there, time and place had nothing to do with it. You could've been out of there in a matter of minutes.

"You could've walked away, though," Denki says, knowing the same as you that getting away wasn't the issue like it had been for most of his classmates, "You had a choice. Why did you stay?"

"I was either going to die that day or live with a lifetime of guilt. Dying seemed easier at the time."

He flinches at the mention of death, having tasted it himself, "But you didn't."

"No," You agree, "I didn't. I wrecked myself, and I'd do it all again, even as I am now if it means I can die knowing I did all that I could."

He hums, maybe with electricity, you don't know. You don't look over to check.

"Nobody would have been mad at you if you'd left."

"I would have."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Your words haunt Kaminari in the days that follow, and he makes an active effort to drag you into his friend groups activities. You let him pull you along for lunch with his friends, and you try your hardest to greet them with the same enthusiasm they did.

His friends are riddled with about the same amount of scar tissue you are, Bakugo perhaps the worst. You'd heard about his meeting with death on the battlefield with All For One. He'd sought you out maybe a month after Kaminari had integrated you into their friend group to talk about the shared experience of dying.

Then, suddenly, you couldn't seem to shake Kaminari, try as you might. He was walking with you to and from class, and the two of you did physical therapy together, even though you'd progressed to a point where you could start more intensive training and he still wobbled every other step.

So, maybe it was a two-person effort that pulled him into your life, an integral player. Or maybe it was an unhealthy trauma bond, you couldn't tell, chest still numb in the aftermath. Though, you couldn't tell if the numbness was from your anti-depressants or the war.

"I'm glad you've found a support group of sorts," Your therapist tells you at your next visit, "It's important to have friends and strong bonds in times like these."

You nod along numbly. Granted, your therapist's right, you've been feeling better since that day on the roof when Kaminari had hunted you down to ask you what nobody else seemed to want to.

"Kaminari's been a really good friend to me," You tell your therapist, "Feels like I haven't been as good of a friend as I maybe should be."

Your therapist only hums, and leaves with the advice that you should maybe do something to let Kaminari know you appreciate his friendship with you.

The next time Kaminari finds you on the roof, you're greeting him with a Pikachu phone charm and a box of his favorite cookies.

"To say thanks," you tell him, even though he doesn't ask and you don't look at him. Kaminari's chest blooms with an electric warmth and this time he's sure it's not from his Quirk.

"You should call me Denki," Is all he says, and he feels giddy at the thought, "We're friends, after all."

You hum, your legs swinging gently over the ledge of the dorm roof. You smile with no restraint when you finally return his gaze, your eyes meeting his shaking golds.

"Only if you call me (f/n), Denki."

It's like you took a shot of dopamine when he smiles in return, and says, "Okay, (f/n)."

[pinkaditty]

Hi, hi!

I loved your perverted obey me brothers and you catching them with your underwear. Will you make a part 2 with the other dateables?

If not, no worries!!

I love your work and I hope you have a nice day!

anon. did u know that ur my first ask? did u know that anon? ily. i've been thinking abt this ask since i saw i first got it. i never knew getting an ask could be so euphoric.

anyways

Pervert (Obey Me: Shall We Date) Part 2!

summary: you are suspecting that someone is stealing your underwear. it will go missing and randomly reappear like it was never gone. you pretend not to notice, but set a little trap for the culprit… and catch them red handed.

a/n: folks. wow. i did not expect part 1 to be soso popular omg!! ily guys thanks so much for enjoying my stuff waaaah! sorry this second part took so fucking long man so much shit happened. like sooo much im so tired. anyways. here. this part includes the royals, angel, and human. ill be back with the others (thirteen, mephisto, and raphael) soon! they may be slightly ooc bc im unfamiliar with them but ill do my best! also im like literally praying that the characters i wrote here aren't ooc. I tried SO hard please lmk if they are. &lt;;/3

content warning: as usual fem!mc unless you like to imagine yours as a crossdresser (mc's physical attributes are not mentioned but fem undergarments are), and suggestive nsfw content! lmk if there's anything i missed :(

read part 1 here!

AS USUAL MINORS DNI PLEASE! PLEASE RESPECT MY BOUNDARY! THANK YOU!

Intro:

For a short while, you had been reassigned to stay at Purgatory Hall/The Demon Lord’s Castle/wherever else the Dateables are due to Satan having accidentally destroyed your section of the House of Lamentation. No big deal, but all of the brothers were less than happy to see you go. It’s okay, though. You’ll be fine among the others…

The story is the same, of course. You think someone has been nicking your intimates in their spare time. Which is, of course, strange but simultaneously exciting. 

You decide to set a trap to find out who they are, leaving your hamper full of clothes in the washroom before leaving to grab some scent beads. When you return, as expected, you can hear someone rifling through your intimates, but it’s not rushed. Rather, it’s calm and calculated, as though said person was desperate to not be heard. You decide to wait outside the door for them. Once they collect the spoils of their work, they quietly slip through the door, only to find you leaning against the wall outside, looking at them expectantly. Your arms are crossed and you’re tapping your fingers on your arm. You raise an eyebrow at them, stifling the urge to cackle at their panicked expression.

“Explain yourself, pervert.” 

Diavolo:

You know, simultaneously, you expected him and didn’t expect him at all - at the same time. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Dia was fascinated with humans, especially with you, but… To such lengths? Really? If only Barbatos could see him now. 

For a man that loves to talk… He sure is speechless now.

He’s frozen. The panicked expression remains on his face, his eyes flickering from the surrounding hallways and walls to you, to the floor, and back to the hallways. If there was a way out, he couldn’t find it. Before long, he deflated, resigning to looking down, a pitiful pout on his face. You got the feeling it was partially for show, though.

He whimpered like a hurt puppy before muttering a very formal apology. Keeping his head down, he held out the panties towards you. As you watch him, you realize this man has probably rarely ever felt shame before. It's almost entertaining - watching his eyes spin as he tries to adjust to feeling this way. Though he tries to hide it, you can hear his heaving breaths from here. He was ashamed. You could tell he wasn't ashamed for his actions; rather, he was ashamed because he was caught.

The thought makes you want to laugh, and you do, snatching the panties from his waiting hand. He looks up as you laugh, confused, his lips in a soft pout. His eyes almost look teary, as though he's that sad that you're laughing at him. You stifle your laughter with a hand and wave it off, walking past him into the laundry room to put your panties back in the hamper. Once your laughter dies out, you don't face him, but you do speak to him, knowing he is listening.

"Dia, the next time you find yourself fascinated with me, you can just ask. I'll be happy to spare a worn pair for your sake." 

You hear a surprised gasp, a shuffling of feet, and a relieved exhale. You turn to him, finally, to see him bowing his head in thanks. He's biting his lip and his face is bright red. Probably too embarrassed to make eye contact. He covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his words before speaking.

"Thank you, MC, for letting this slide… And please, don't tell Barbatos…" His face burns red at his final words, and you smile, amused.

"Don't worry, I won't tell." You wink at him before returning to your laundry, hearing his hesitant steps as he walked away.

Barbatos:

He's frozen. Mortified. He stands there, rooted to the spot like a statue of stone. He stammers out your name in surprise, nervously shifting his gaze from you to your surroundings. He clears his throat, holding a hand up to his lips, and keeps it there, as though attempting to hide his growing blush. "I-I deeply apologize, MC. I should not have been here… You were not meant to see me… " He sounds out of breath, his words light and mumbled.

He turns away from you at an angle, shutting his eyes tight and keeping his hand in front of his face. You watch him take deep breaths and attempt to steady himself and regain his composure. You had to admit, watching him fumble through such an embarrassment was awfully entertaining. His chest visibly rose and fell with each audible breath. He gently teetered on his feet, as though he could fall over if he couldn't keep up. What a sight to behold, Barbatos at a loss for words and composure. 

You approach him quietly, walking slowly to prevent the click of your shoes from being heard. You know that while he can't hear you, he can feel you, and he knows you're close. He shuffles backwards shyly, attempting to replace the distance you remove with every step. Ultimately, however, he is too slow, and you manage to get close enough to him, cornering him against a wall inside the laundry room. You make no effort to cage him in, but simply watch as he continues to attempt to get ahold of himself. He swallows thickly and slowly opens his eyes, calming down. He lowers his hand back to his side, and looks at you levelly, his expression still embarrassed but not mortified any longer. You smile, raising an eyebrow.

"I'd like my panties now, thanks." You hold out a hand expectantly, and Barbatos obliges, pulling the panties from his coat pocket and placing them in your waiting hand, all signs of embarrassment gone from his face, replaced by his trademark smile instead. His ears however, were a dead giveaway, as the tips of them remained red. You simply chuckle and lean away from him, humming in thanks and placing them back into the hamper. He moves to assist you with your clothes, and does so efficiently, though you watch him carefully to ensure his nimble fingers don’t grab hold of anything else without your permission. When the task is finished, he bows respectfully.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, MC?” 

You shake your head, smiling. “No, but thank you, Barbatos.”

With that done, his ears still burning red and his smile faltering slightly, he moves to leave. You stop him, grabbing his arm as he passes you. He looks back at you curiously, embarrassment still painted on his face. “And, please, ask me next time.” You smile, your eyes filling with mirth. “I’d be happy to give you a pair later as thanks for your assistance.”

He swallows thickly and his eyes widen. He bites his lip before nodding, thanking you briskly, and walking away hurriedly, his face red.

You think you see a flash of lace in his back pocket as he leaves, but maybe you’re imagining it...

Simeon:

Now, this was a surprise. The angel? Really?

He yelps in surprise, fumbling with the panties and dropping them on the ground, hiding his face in his hands and backing into a wall. He’s visibly shaking, his hands trembling as he hides behind them, not even peeking out to observe your reaction. His knees wobbled and he began to shrink in on himself, eventually kneeling on the floor. You watch him wordlessly, amused. He’s unexpectedly quite dramatic. 

After a few moments, you hear him mumbling to himself. Confused, you tentatively approach him, listening carefully. You catch little bits of what he’s saying before kneeling down, to which he shrinks further and his mumbling speed increases. Then it hits you. He’s… praying.

He’s literally fucking praying. 

You are so thoroughly amused at this that you want to laugh, but you wonder if being a victim of the wrath of Simeon or the almighty was worth it, so you decide against it. You stifle and disguise your laugh as clearing your throat, doing a comically loud “Ahem” to get Simeon’s attention.

Not one to be disobedient, he stops his muttering and slowly lifts his head to look at you. You smile smugly at him, your eyes narrowing with mirth. You reach out towards him and gently touch his chin. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away, looking between your fingers and your face curiously. You hold his chin and lift it upwards, and he follows your movements, adjusting himself so it’s easier to peer upwards at you. You smile wider, even more amused than before. 

“I don’t think that’ll work down here, Simeon.” Your voice is low and taunting, and Simeon gulps, his eyes still not leaving yours. He still doesn’t say anything, merely trembles, as though he were being judged.

Maybe he was, a little bit, but favorably so. It’s not everyday you’d find an angel ballsy enough to do this, right?

You tut at him, clicking your tongue and shaking your head disapprovingly. “Oh, Simeon…” You put on a fake pout, looking at him with pity in your eyes. “Don’t you know better than to do this?”

“Ugh…” Simeon bites his lip. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth creases downwards into a pathetic expression. You continued to stifle your laughter by biting the inside of your cheek. However, you are ultimately unsuccessful and end up bursting into an amused smile and a few breathy chuckles at him. 

When your laughter dies down, you look at him, still holding his chin. “Come now, Simeon.” You smile, winking at him. “All you have to do is ask… If you‘d like another pair.”

Simeon sucks in a breath in shock, and his eyes widen as he looks at you. He suddenly scrambles to his feet, straightening up, his head still bent forward in embarrassment. 

“I-I’m sorry, MC! It won’t happen again!” He swiftly walks past you, not looking at you and barely opening his eyes enough to see, narrowly missing the wall in his rush to leave. You listen to his retreating footsteps and only laugh. Maybe you’d drop by his room later and give him a gift.

Solomon: 

Shameless. But he’s old and barely human. He’s also the worst.

He doesn’t react much besides his initial panicked reaction, which soon melts into mirth, a smug smile appearing on his face. He’s confident, but not that confident. His exaggerated smug smile twitches at the corners and his face remains flushed a deep red. He dramatically clears his throat and smiles coyly, the picture of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “Ah…” He starts, shrugging his shoulders, still smiling, the corners of his lips still twitching. His voice shakes just slightly. “You got me!”

Your face can’t seem to decide if it wants to fall into a disappointed expression at his brazen admission or burst into a fit of laughter at his obvious fear. Instead, it seems to settle on a pitying smirk, and you have to stop it from turning into a full on grin. You sigh and shake your head, not super surprised. 

You approach him, and he visibly stiffens, but his arrogance forces him to stay in place, his confidence crumbling at your certainty. When you stand just in front of him, you hold out your hand, a smug look on your face. “I’ve got you indeed! Hand them over.” Your words are quick and terse, smug smile and knowing look still on your face. Solomon swallows, and looks to the side, gently dropping the panties into your hands. He makes no move to look at you again after that, still facing you but looking away. 

You scoff as you watch him simply stand there. You find it amusing, but you are also dissatisfied at his lack of retorts. You put your hands on your hips and smirk, attempting to provoke him. “Hm. I’d expect a panty thief to be more ballsy. What, cat got your tongue?” Your smug smile only grows and your eyes narrow with mirth. His confidence almost seems to fully crumble under your gaze, and he relents, his blush spreading all across his face. Yet still, he remains silent.

You approach further, your steps slow and deliberately intimidating. He’s rooted to the spot, unable to move, still frantically finding anything to gaze at instead of you. Eventually you stand mere centimeters from him, your body just barely touching his. You smirk at him and lean your head forward, blowing on him before pulling back. He flinches immediately, startled, and bumps into the wall behind him. You giggle at him, thoroughly amused at his frantic nerves. He looks at you pathetically, lips red from worrying at them with his teeth, pupils blown wide, red blush from his forehead to his neck. 

“Aw, don’t look at me like that~!” You tease him, pressing your finger into his cheek. He watches you warily, seemingly at a loss for words. Your lips pull into a wicked smile. “How long has it been, hm?”

Immediately his eyes widen and he stammers out some indignant words, trying to deflect and explain himself. You only laugh at his stammered words, and he eventually stops, worrying at his lips again with his teeth. “Oh, don’t worry, I imagine you have plenty of escapades. But why couldn’t you just ask me?” You tilt your head at him, looking at him with hooded eyes. “Hm? It couldn’t have been that hard to just ask.”

Surprisingly, he only sighs and shakes his head, blush still present. “My dear apprentice, I am only human. Even I still don’t know how to properly act in the face of attraction.” A small, wobbly smile pulls at his lips before he purses his lips again, biting down to stifle any further words. His answer was straightforward, but you can tell he is still nervous. His breathing remains heavy, his eyes are still wide, and he’s still covered in a crimson blush. You laugh again.

Instead of teasing him further, though you really want to, you smile. “Well, now you know. Simply ask, Solomon. I am willing to help you… if you want me to.” You smile before turning away, dropping the panties into your clothes hamper, and starting the wash. It takes Solomon a moment to snap out of it and leave, but he does. You could feel his eyes on you and his magic still lingers in the air.

a/n: *super saiyan yells* thank you for reading waaaaaah! i did my best and im soso sorry if any of these characs are ooc... if they are too ooc i might actually rewrite it fr im so scared :(

anyways as usual feedback is always appreciated, and so are comments, likes, reblogs and asks! (especially asks) please show me your appreciation! i love to know i've done a good job.

@ikevampharem asked to be tagged :3!

[22ayla19]

Sunday x Reader

Marriage of convenience

I arrived in Penaconia to relax with my sister, her husband and their daughter, my niece. Being the head of one of the most famous corporations, I took upon myself all the expenses of my vacation to Penaconia. I really wanted to please my loved ones with a vacation in a place like Penaconia, but who knew that I would almost meet death during this vacation...

The mercenaries followed us even to the Hotel of Dreams. Unfortunately, the sister and her husband died protecting their daughter, but... But these bastards did not even spare the child!

I can understand when an adult is killed. No matter how you look at it, an adult will always have sins that he will hide, but this is a child! The little angel that my sister has been waiting for so long! What did this little angel do wrong?!

I would have died too if the hotel staff hadn’t found me. They provided first aid to me and tried to save my niece, but it was all to no avail. She died...

While I was in the hospital, Sunday himself from the Family visited me. It’s understandable why; No matter how you look at it, this is a case of greatly affecting the reputation of the Hotel, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter to me, I just want the heads of those mercenaries and the customer who so wanted my death and the death of my family.

- Please accept my condolences, Lady (Y/N). We are able to compensate financially for the damage, but it seems to me that you will not accept it...

- You are not to blame for what happened. I myself should have been more careful, because I have many enemies, but who could have thought that these scum would kill even an innocent child!... - anger stupefied me. I wanted the death of these bastards and guessed who it could be, I was ready to rush into them right now and strangle them.

- Please, lady (Y/N), pull yourself together. I understand your anger, people like this shouldn’t live anyway. Now the best option would be to lie low and prepare a plan to expose your enemies. They probably think that you, as the head of your corporation, are already dead, so why not play on their self-confidence? As the head of the Family, I will help you and provide everything to help you,- Sunday’s words carried weight. I really need to pull myself together, and no one knew about my trip except my deputy, which means he is involved in this.

I had no choice but to accept Sunday's offer. I'm not in the best situation right now and I need any help I can get. I see what a hypocrite he is, looking for benefit from this situation, but to be honest, I don’t care. I already have nothing to lose, my hands are free from the shackles of family and nothing stops me.

With the help of Sunday, the right people found out about my “death,” which helped me recover physically and find out that my deputy was to blame for this whole situation. So I was right... All that remains is to find evidence of his guilt and then my revenge will be accomplished.

- Milady, I apologize if I disturbed you, but I would like to offer you a deal. I hope you don't mind? - again that nasty fake smile.

- I have nothing to lose anymore. So talk about your proposals.

- You see, my friends and parents really want me to get married, but to be honest, I don’t want it. Since your revenge will soon be accomplished, you will be able to return your corporation, but the position will be very precarious after what happened. I would like to offer you an arranged marriage where you will receive support from the Family and I will get rid of all the talk about marriage.

The offer is more than good, because I really need support and yet, looking at it, you can understand that he is up to something. Well, it doesn’t concern me, if he wants to get my corporation through a marriage of convenience, then you’re welcome. I don’t even want to work after everything that happened.

A couple of months later, we found the necessary documents about who killed my relatives and that they tried to frame me. You should have seen the face of these scum when you saw me alive. It’s a joy for the soul to see how they lost everything in one moment, just like I once lost everyone.

After the trial, Sunday and I got married. I had to forcefully squeeze out my emotions so as not to ruin the event with my indifference. My corporation was under the wing of the Family, received the necessary support and I felt calmer, just like Sunday. He was no longer pestered with questions about marriage; now he is a family man himself.

Children from this marriage... To be honest, this topic is quite painful for me, after everything that happened. No matter how you look at it, there is no love in our marriage. We respect each other, but this is not love. The child was not conceived out of love, he may be injured in the future, but I don’t want that.

- What are you thinking about, my wife? - It’s disgusting to hear something like that from his lips, but I need to get used to living with him until I’m old.

- About children. Even though this is an arranged marriage, you will need an heir, right?

- Of course, an heir for organizations like the Family, this goes without saying, but until you feel better morally, I will not insist on children. After all, you will carry the pregnancy and you will also have to endure all the hardships of pregnancy. Let's put this topic aside for now.

It was unexpected...

In fact, in many arranged marriages, children do not grow up in love. They were literally conceived by force. In such marriages, men do not even think about how difficult it is for a woman during pregnancy. Simple respect and understanding that it would really be difficult for me during pregnancy was for me the beginning of respect for such a person as Sunday.

Yes, he is still a hypocrite, but at least he respects my interests and consults my opinion. I’m his wife, even though it’s under contract, but I’m still his main priority. This was a revelation to me, because I thought Sunday was arrogant and a hypocrite.

After a couple of years, I was able to let go of deceased loved ones and became a trusted person in Penaconia. Even if it was an arranged marriage, there were many people who did not trust me, but after a while I corrected this situation. Resurrection and I have a close relationship, we respect each other, but there is no love as such. The topic of children was never raised, but my heart feels that this conversation is not far off.

An heir is needed not only for the Family, but also for my corporation. It's only a matter of time before I get pregnant, but preferably soon, because there are already unpleasant rumors going around.

- Wife, why were you so lost in thought that you didn’t even notice me? - Sunday apparently just returned from work, since I didn’t notice his presence.

- Yes, I just remembered some unpleasant gossip, nothing like that.

- Is this a coincidence, not those rumors that you are still not pregnant?

- Still, I heard... - the conversation, of course, had to begin sometime, but not on such a note...

- It’s hard not to pay attention to them when they strive to pay attention. Of course, I wanted to talk to you about this topic, but I didn’t think it would be on such an unpleasant note, - sitting next to me on the sofa, his expression showed dissatisfaction. He didn't like the gossip about our marriage. It was clear that some wanted our divorce.

- It’s worth starting to think about conceiving a child, isn’t it? - we did not look into each other’s eyes, each looked at the ceiling and thought about his own. And although I did not receive an answer, but by the way Sunday’s wings began to twitch, one could assume that he agreed with me, - Will you fulfill one of my wishes?

- What? - Apparently, I was taken by surprise by Sunday. Until today, I have never asked him for anything, let alone desire, - Yes, of course...

- When the baby is born, please give him all your parental love. Both my sister and I were unwanted children. The father needed a son to be the heir, and the mother hated us. I literally replaced my sister's mother. I can live in an arranged marriage, but I cannot live with a person who will hate his child. I just ask... Love our future child just like I do...

And although Sunday himself should have gotten to the bottom of my past, because I didn’t tell him, such a desire came as a shock to him.

- I promise. I will do everything possible to ensure that our child grows up in love.

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .4

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Mutual masturbation; Come eating; Angst; Vague mention of abortion; Discussions of child neglect; Discussions of unwanted pregnancy

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Some of this is so… phew… idk what came over me or how i come up with some of this shit. sorry (but not really). Joel’s a little nasty in this beware

Art is by Denis Sarazhin.

Word Count: 7.7K

Read on AO3

.4

A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

To think that despite his momentary acquiescence to your need for space, he was not, afterwards, made into a raving, snarling beast prowling its cage after having tasted you, would be fallacy – because that was what he was calling it in his mind, for now. Not yet ready to accept it within himself as a full blown rejection, so yes, for now, space, time.

He returns home with Sarah after the lakehouse – Eva gone off with her girlfriends on an extension of the weekend, wanting to draw out the farewell to summer just a little longer – to their routine of lunches and snacks and daycare and evenings playing mermaids and dinosaurs in the little pool in the backyard that he’d gotten for her at HEB. He tries to be good, to remain calm, controlled, but it’s just short of impossible. He feels as though he still has the taste of you on the surface of his tongue, the sounds of your moans ringing in his ears at all hours of the day, in bed at night, hard and aching and alone, wanting you. This turns out to be a different type of hell to the one he’s usually used to, that of monotony and loneliness and resentment. No, this is burning and painful, a type of fire that whips through his arteries and chars his bones and leaves him dizzy and disoriented.

He’s never experienced something like this before. Not in his entire life. 

It is not easy, per se, but productive, to lose himself in his work, and the start of Sarah’s school year. She’s in a 3K program for the fall, her first time going to a real school, and the work and preparation and pure fucking anxiety induced at the thought of his baby going to such a big school is overwhelming. No small feat to accomplish all on his own. 

But at night, after he’s worked himself into the ground all day, and read Sarah her bedtime story, at least three times, sometimes up to seven, but never passing ten, that was their very strict rule, and tucked her in and checked the closet and under the bed and behind the door for monsters, when he’s finally found himself alone and quiet and with a spare, but infinitely painful moment to think of you, he lets you in, in full force.

He pulls his shirt up over the back of his head, tossing it into the hamper as he passes his closet into his restroom, undoes his belt and jeans, pulling his contraband from the pocket, to push them off as he reaches to turn on the shower. 

As he lets the water heat up, he pauses to look at himself in the mirror. Tall, long frame, still pleasing to a woman, he’d imagine. Well, he hopes so. He’s still strong, his shoulders broad, his chest built from the long hours of hauling and climbing and exhaustive physical labor. There are a few grays threaded through the dark curls at his temples. Sprouting, just in the last year, to remind him that he’s getting older. One of his buddies had told him that eventually everything went gray, everything. That weirded the fuck out of him, to be honest.  He hates the thought of you seeing that, thinking of him as old. You’re so much younger than him. So pretty. Too pretty. His middle has gone slightly softer since hitting forty, but only slightly. There’s no helping that. And the small creases at the corners of his eyes… shit, he’s getting old. But his cock is still long and thick, and he’ll give that to you as much as you’ll let him. If you ever let him. All the time if he can. All he has to do is find a way to see you again, to convince you to let him see you again.

He feels a small bitter ribbon of self consciousness curl through his stomach as he takes himself in. He doesn’t want you to think of him as some old man. Some old, sleazy man who’d seen you and been so fucking desperate for you, he hadn’t cared that he was married, that you’re too young for him, that he has a family, and responsibilities and a life, like some pathetic fucking pervert. You’re just so lovely, so soft and pretty and you smell so good, always. And he’s been so alone for so fucking long. He is lonely. And you, you’d looked at him, you’d seen him, you’d wanted him back just as fiercely as he’d wanted you, even if just for a moment. How was he ever supposed to be strong enough to resist that? And further than your wanting, you’re good and kind and smart and so fucking funny and adorable. Joel could be strong when he needed to be, but he could also be weak, and he thinks that you, perhaps, have the power to make him weaker than anything else. 

What do you do when you meet a woman, have a child, get married, and then find the person who you could very well fall, probably, very deeply in love with?

Because yes, even now, he is emotionally aware enough to recognize that. More than anything, he can recognize that he has, as of yet, never been in love, but that you present the great, great possibility for that. And yes, it’s too soon, and maybe nonsensical or crazy or what have you, but Joel has always been a man that’s known himself well. When he knows, he knows, and when he chooses, he chooses, and he is very close to knowing and choosing you. 

He looks down at your panties laying on the bathroom counter – the ones he’d stolen. After you’d slipped them off, too wet from your come, from him making you come – they’re his now. 

He runs his thumb and forefinger along the silk lace at the edge. They’re a pretty, soft blue. He loves the color blue now. It will, forevermore, be his favorite color after this. The cut in the back is high, he knows the soft flesh of your ass was left mostly uncovered by them, he remembers he felt it when you rode his thigh. He wishes he could have seen it. He hopes he’ll have another chance to see it. 

If he thinks about it hard enough, he can imagine that the middle gusset is still damp from you. He brings them to his face, presses them to his nose and inhales deeply. The scent: still faintly musky, but also, slightly sweet. He sticks his tongue out to taste the fabric, and a violent shiver passes through him. He has to clutch at the countertop to hold himself upright. His cock is fully erect and leaking now. 

He has to taste you. He has to get the chance to. He’ll die if he doesn’t. He’s sure of it.

He brings the soft lace down to his aching erection. He doesn’t care if he’s disgusting. He doesn’t care about anything. All he wants is to feel you. To temper this fire churning in his blood. He can’t remember the last time his body felt like this, the last time he wanted something this fucking badly he felt like he’d die if he didn’t have it. Maybe never – he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this. He wraps your panties around his hard length and starts to jack himself off. Strong, tight strokes from base to tip with the tiny, blue silk sliding along his fevered skin. The sound of your orgasm, the look in your eyes as you humped his thigh, ground your little clit on him and soaked his denim. He should’ve touched you more when he had the chance. He wants to fuck you so badly, wants to sink into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt and fuck you full of his come. Mark you. Brand himself into your skin so that you’re never without him. He wants you to smell like him. He wants to feel the wet gush he felt on his jeans on his cock and dripping down his balls, and Jesus fucking Christ, he comes at that. Long, thick ropes of white spend, spitting from his swollen tip at the thought of your pussy coming around him, a desperate whimper escaping in the quiet loneliness of his restroom.  

-

He thinks of you constantly, what seems like every moment of the day, in the weeks that follow. As much as he tries to keep a straight head on, he can’t. He craves you, dreams of you, fucks his hand to the memory of you coming for him, spilling his seed over and over again in the shower at the remembered look in your eyes and the sounds you made for him. He can’t help himself. 

Outside of that, everything else in his life is bleak and slow and… and he doesn’t know what else to call it, except for sad and wanting. Lonely. To have touched something so alive, so beautiful and sweet and perfect, and then be forced to return to the barren landscape that is his life in everything outside of his daughter, it’s jarringly difficult to do. He wants to be strong, to do what you asked of him, but it had been so long since he’d really wanted something for himself. Couldn’t remember what the last thing had been, really, and so to now have something to desire, something to want and think of, it makes him weak and fills his head with all kinds of excuses to see you, to call you – he’d forced Tommy to steal your number for him out of Gerri’s phone – to go to your work and wait for you to come out, just so he can catch a single glimpse of you.

He restrains himself from that, though. He forces himself to focus his mind on other things, Sarah and school and playdates, and he works himself like a dog, taking on more contracts than he ever has before. He doesn’t give himself any time to rest, any time to think, and in the few moments that he does, when he stares at your number on the screen of his phone, imagining what it is he’d say to you if he called, if you answered, what the sound of your voice would be like saying hello to him, saying his name, or in the moments when he fucks himself raw and spent and sad, those are the moments when he feels weakest, when he feels most alone, when he’s almost overwhelmed with wanting. 

-

He only lasts a measly three weeks after the lake house before he’s outside of the elementary school, one late Wednesday afternoon during the second week of the new school year. The sky is dark and angry, on the verge of a downpour, and he’s been waiting, agitated and anxious, for about half an hour, before you finally come out the double doors. 

The lightest sprinkling of rain is starting up, and he jumps out of his truck’s cab, jacket in hand, to approach you. He says your name softly as he comes up on your side while you’re distracted, digging in your purse for something.

You jump slightly at the sound of his voice and turn your wide, worried eyes on him, “Joel–” your voice, soft and breathy, so sweet, “Is everything okay? What are you doing here? Is Sarah okay?”

He holds his hands up in what he hopes is an appeasing, non-threatening gesture, he doesn’t want you nervous. Fucking Christ, asking for Sarah with that look of worry in your eyes, “Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” how in the fuck is he supposed to not be obsessed with you? “I was just – I was just hoping we could talk, is all.”

You look around at the sparsely filled parking lot, as if searching for witnesses, or perhaps, an escape, but then you turn back to him and pause to take him in. He watches the sweep of your eyes down his body, and then back up, stopping to search for something in his eyes. Whatever you find there must give you the answer you need because you nod your head once, “Alright, we can talk,” you say softly.

“My truck? Can we drive for a bit? I’ll bring you back.” You nod again, and he drapes his jacket over your shoulders to protect you from the drizzle as he leads you to his truck. “S’bout to come down hard,” he murmurs as he opens the passenger door for you, taking your wrist in his hold to help you up into the truck. He can’t help himself, he reaches for your seatbelt and buckles you in himself – is filled with an obscenely embarrassing fizz of pleasure at the gesture of it. 

You’re looking at him with the most concerned little frown marring the soft spot between your delicate brows, “Are you okay?” your voice slow and unsure, and then more of him being unable to help himself, to keep his hands to himself, because he reaches up and gently brushes his thumb over the little frowning wrinkle, nods his head once. 

“I’m okay, baby.”

He drives for a bit, takes you to a spot up in the hills he likes to come to sometimes when he needs to think. Somewhere the two of you can be alone and quiet, just for a moment. He parks the truck by a copse of trees, a view of Austin on the other side of the two of you. The rain has turned into a violent downpour by now. He shuts off the engine and looks out at the view of the city. 

-

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t bother you – you asked me to stay away, but –” He lets his head fall back against the headrest and sighs, and the sound of it is so weary, pained in a way that’s so very, very sad. It makes you hurt for him. You reach across the center console to grip his bicep, you can’t help yourself. You could see from the first look at his face that something was wrong. You know he wouldn’t have come to look for you if he didn’t need you now. 

“You’re not bothering me. I know I shouldn’t, but I wanted to see you too.” You only confess this because of the look in his eyes. The glassy, burdened look of them. You wish that you could climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, press your warmth into him. The rain hits the windshield like bullets, the sound deafening. The world outside of his truck’s cabin seems distorted, as if this liminal space the two of you sit in now, has been carved out of the rest of the real world, and the two of you exist here now, only, together. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he wraps his hand over yours on his arm, drags his thumb over the smooth little hills of your knuckles. His gaze out the window is so far away, lost, something almost childlike in its desolation. You watch the strong ripple of his neck as he swallows, clears his throat. “Nothing – just wanted to see you. ‘Dunno… Felt so tired today.” He closes his eyes for a moment, “Couldn’t stop myself. Wanted to just give myself this one thing.” He lets his head roll against the seat to look at you, gives you the gentle curve of his crooked smile. So beautiful and so sad, and you can tell that something is endlessly wrong. You feel afraid, for one moment, that he’s going to start crying, the sadness in his eyes is so overwhelming. You don’t think you’ll be able to stand the sight of his tears, you think they might break you. “Just wanted to look at you, to sit here with you, just for a little bit.”

“Alright.” You’re quiet for a beat, watching him watch the rain. Part of you wants to give him space, give him quiet, but you need to know what’s wrong. You can’t bear the look in his eyes right now. “Did something happen?”

He’s silent, as if gathering his thoughts or his strength around him, and then: “Eva had a pregnancy scare this week.” A jagged shiver slices through you.

“What?” You croak, you try to pull your hand back, but he clamps down on your bones, holds you to him. “But I thought–”

He shakes his head, “Not mine.”

“Joel… what? Are– are you–” You blink furiously, at a loss. What do you say to the man who you’re kind of having an affair with when he tells you his wife, who is also seemingly having an affair, might be pregnant with another man’s child? This is all so, so fucked up. So ugly. You swallow, turn to look out at the rain. You don’t want to cry, but you can’t seem to help the tears from pooling. A bombardment of recurring images from your childhood slingshotting through your mind; your mother, leaving, angry, cold, quiet. Always pushing you away. The sound of her crying through her bedroom door, your child’s ear, pressed to the cool grain, trying to get as close to her as possible even though she doesn’t want you. Always shutting you out. Your father, dead to the world on the sofa in the living room, drowning in his liquor and yearning and hurt. The sight of a tall, handsome stranger, coming up the front walk to ring the doorbell, to take your mother away with him. The way he’d crouched down from his great height to ask you what your name was because she hadn’t even bothered to tell the man she was having an affair with, the man she was leaving you for, what your name was. 

What is it about being unlovable, you wonder, and why is it that some are cursed with it so cruelly, while others are not?

“Hey,” Joel tugs on your wrist, pulls you closer to him. “I told you, we’re not like that, we’ve never been. I don’t want you thinkin’ somethin’ else, that I haven’t been honest.” He drags the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone, tips your head back to catch your eyes. You let them flutter shut and swallow, open them again. If you talk you’ll cry, but he needs words from you now. You swallow again, shake your head. 

“It’s– it’s not that. I believe you. And even if it was otherwise, I have no right–”

“Stop. Don’t say that. You know that isn’t true. You have the right to honesty after what I’ve told you, after what we’ve done.” You try to pull back, but he brings his palm to wrap around the back of your neck and grip you by the scruff. “Stop,” he grits, “Don’t pull away from me.” 

You bring your palms up to his chest, clutch at the collar of his shirt. “I’m not. I’m not, I’m sorry. It’s just–” you huff a sharp, bitter laugh, “Sometimes it’s like you’re just telling me the story of my childhood, over and over again. Like you’re living it again for me. This all sounds very pathetically familiar.” A tear finally falls, you can’t help it. A weeper in a long line of weepers, always. 

“Sweetheart…” he brushes the track of your tear away with his thumb.

You shake your head. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Is she?”

“She’s fine. Took her to the doctor this morning.”

“God, Joel– I don’t – I don’t know how you do this.” Another tear. You think of your father, how weak, how broken he was after her. He could have never shouldered the things Joel does. You feel very sad, very sorry, for the both of them, as different as they are. You feel sorry for the whole miserable lot of you, really.

“She needed my help, she was scared–” his thumb sweeps a slow, hypnotizing path up and down the back of your neck. The rough callus on his thumb catches at your sensitive skin and makes you feel hot and sweaty and overwhelmed for the feel of it on every other tender place on your body. “Terrified, really. Of being trapped like that again.”

“Trapped?”

“Sarah was never her plan. Neither of us were. She never wanted any of this.”

“You told me the marriage wasn’t conventional… but I didn’t – I didn’t think Sarah was included in that…” Your stories are too similar, the similarities too painfully familiar.

“We met at a bar, it was–” he looks away, and you watch a hot flush flood his cheeks. He’s embarrassed to tell you this. “It was a one night thing. Her birth control failed, and then – it was just – well, ending the pregnancy was never an option for her, and I told her from the get go that I’d do whatever she wanted, support her in anything she chose. She chose to go on with it. So I asked her to marry me, it made sense, it was– it was the convenient thing. At least, at the time – in my mind, it seemed so. But we – we were strangers, there was no connection. And then… I don’t know. It wasn’t, eventually – it wasn’t the right thing, at all, for any of us. She never wanted to be a mother. She told me once, after, that she’d chosen wrong, she’d made the wrong decision. And I always tried to be supportive, but by that time, well – we had Sarah by that time, and I– I loved her more than anything I’d ever loved in my whole life. Didn’t even know it was possible to love anything that much – and it made me so fucking angry with her – to–  to hear her say something like that, that she should’ve gotten rid of her. It was – I don’t know – a very complicated and painful thing –  for the both of us to grapple with, I guess. But I–” he pauses, takes a deep breath. His eyes shift madly, looking out the window as if the rain will bring with it an explanation or an escape for whatever it is that’s churning inside his mind as he tells you this. “There was never really anything to be angry with, I don’t think. No real reason or focus for my anger. I realized it’s impossible to fault a person for not being what they were never meant to be. She never wanted this. And I hadn’t planned for it, it just happened. And the decisions we made were made, and then things just ended up as they did. Sometimes – I don’t,” he frowns, shaking his head, “I don’t know how to say it, but–” He turns to you now, a wild, pleading look in his eyes, “But how can I say that we made a mistake, without saying that Sarah was a mistake? Because if I’ve ever done a single thing absolutely perfect, in my whole entire life, it’s that little girl. She’s perfect. You know what I mean?”

You nod, swallowing back your tears, “Yes.”

He frowns at you, his eyes filled with infinite tenderness, “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“I’m not,” you lie, turning to press the back of your hand to your hot eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just – it reminds me of myself, of my own mother. She – she was the same, I think. Never meant to be a mother. But not bad. It’s just what it was. And hearing you, hearing this, it makes me so sad for you, for all of you. I’m sorry.” He leans forward, wraps his hand around your jaw to press his brow to your wet cheek and just holds there. The two of you breathe each other in, match the cadence of your breaths to the other. You snake your arms around his broad shoulders to press yourself closer to him. It scares you, this feeling of necessity he forces out of you, like you need him, even this soon, for strength, for comfort, for happiness. You’ve never felt like this before, and it’s coming on so quickly, overwhelming you. You feel like you need him, and if you don’t have him you’ll never be happy for the rest of your life, you’ll never be able to forget him, to let him go. He shifts to nuzzle against your cheek and then your jaw, and then the hot press of his lips to the tender spot behind your ear. A violent tremble moves through you at the feel of his soft mouth against your skin, and you dig your nails harshly into his shoulders. 

“I just– lemme just–” he mumbles against your skin, and then that hand wrapped around your jaw is turning your head and forcing your mouth open so that he’s kissing you, licking into your mouth and everything goes tight and painful and white hot inside of you. “Jesus–” he says against your mouth. He forces your head back to deepen the angle, his other hand coming up to fist painfully in your hair, and you whimper into him. His answering groan is deep and rumbling and so, so wanting. Your heart feels like it’s flipping and squeezing and pinching inside your ribcage. You can hear how much he wants you, this, in the cadence of the sounds he makes. The kiss is wet, sloppy, full of teeth and all the desperation and yearning of these past few weeks. The days and days of not seeing him, of remembering your encounter in that dark room at the lake house, the way he’d made you come against his thigh, the sound of his own orgasm, the inhibition, the flush in his cheeks as he spilled in his jeans for you. The desperate, pathetic nights of your cunt stuffed full of your fingers, so wet and aching and still not enough even though you’d made yourself orgasm multiple times at just the memory of him. You claw at his hair and neck and back, you want to draw blood, imprint yourself on him in some way, the same way he’s imprinted himself on you. He brings the hand in your hair down to your waist to press you closer to him. The center console digs painfully into your ribs and you want to climb over it and settle in his lap, but you know you shouldn’t, that if you end up over there you’ll let him fuck you, and that you’ll never come back from that. Not ever. He drags his hand up to your breast, grips the heavy weight in his large palm and squeezes, and it hurts and it feels so, so fucking good that you rip yourself away from his mouth, push at his broad chest to force him away from you. The both of you stare at each other, wide eyed and panting great, heaving gasps. His hair is sticking up at all angles, messy from your pillaging fingers, his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed almost feverish. 

Oh, you want him so badly. This will be your undoing. 

“We– we can’t– I didn’t come here with you for– for that,” you gasp, pressing your fingers to your wet mouth.

“I know– I know– shit, we–” He passes a palm over his mouth, and you feel another tear slide down your burning cheek. You’re surprised you don’t see steam rise at the contact. “Fuck – fuck, baby, please. Please, don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I got carried away– ”

“I’m not crying– I’m not.” Maybe if you say it enough times it’ll be true. You turn to wipe it away on the hill of your shoulder, try to hide your face.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you

“I wanted you to. I want it so badly,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut tight. You feel inconsolable. 

“I know– I know.”

You want him so badly, so badly, so badly, you want him to keep touching you forever. “It hurts, Joel. It hurts–”

“Jesus, what hurts? Tell me.” He leans forward, gripping your knee painfully tight, and you press yourself into the door at your back, “Fuck– is that sweet, little cunt aching for me? Tell me, baby.”

You nod

“Fuck, what if– what if we just – just watch each other? What if you pet your cunt for me, and let me watch? Just– just to make the ache go away? Would that be okay?”

You shake your head, unsure, but your hand is clutching his over your knee now, digging your nails into the top of his palm and letting him slowly push your knee open further. 

His voice is so coaxing. Oh, he shouldn’t use that tone of voice against you, you’re powerless to it. “You can, it’s okay. It’s just to make the ache go away, it’s okay,” and you have no choice but to capitulate, no desire to not give in.

His palm on your knee slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt to bunch at your hips, and he hooks one finger into the side of your panties to pull them down as you lift your hips, allowing him to divest you of them. So easy, you’re so fucking easy, and you don’t even care. All you can focus on right now is the throbbing ache between your legs. 

His eyes don’t leave yours as he says, “Spread your legs… that’s it.” 

“Don’t– don’t look–” you stutter as you bring your shaking fingers to your core, and he’s leaning back to undo his belt and drag his zipper down. You can’t look either, you can’t, if you do, you’ll lose, you know it. You see the peripheral movement of him reaching into his clothes to pull the heft of his cock out, the shift of his upper body as he lifts his hips to readjust his pants to free himself. Your cunt is slick and throbbing, painfully swollen. 

You watch the movement of his shoulder as he starts to jack himself, “Just your clit first, baby. Soft, little circles, yeah… how does that feel?”

“Good– good, yes.” You’re panting, mouth hanging open. There is fire in his gaze, all for you, only for you. 

“Yeah? You need more?”

“Please, Joel–” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but you don’t think it’s for your touch alone. 

“Give yourself one finger, sweetheart. Just one – tell me how wet it is? Are you soaked for me?”

You press one finger inside, and yes, yes, your’re fucking soaked for him, you say. He groans at that, the rhythm of his shoulder gets faster. “I have to look, baby. Please, please, I have to see how wet it is.” The tops of his cheeks are flushed red, but as you watch the downward shift of his eyes to your spread sex, the place where you’re impaling yourself with a single finger, his eyes flare, the flush seems to ricochet even higher, hotter. You pull your finger out to cup yourself, hide yourself, burning with shyness and lust, but fuck, the look in his eyes, it’s bright hot, devouring. No one has ever looked at you like that. Never. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, “Put ‘em back in. Fuck yourself, make yourself come. I have to see it.” So fucking gorgeous, you hear him mutter under his breath, and you finally give yourself permission to look down as you stuff two fingers back into your desperate pussy. Fuck your rules, you have to see him.

He’s huge.

Thick and long, the size of his cock is not made smaller by the massive breadth of his fist holding it in a vice-like grip, jacking it, tight and fast. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, the slit at the top weeping a pearly stream of precum that makes your mouth water and the muscles in your pelvis tighten – you want to taste him, you want him to fuck your mouth until you’re forced to swallow his load. There’s a thick vein running up the entire length of the underside of the shaft that you’re sure you’d feel his pulse in if you set your tongue against it. He’s pulled his heavy balls out over the edge of his jeans too, and he cups them and squeezes. 

“Spread yourself wider for me – yeah like that… Lemme see you stretch that cunt.”Oh, he’s so dirty. 

You’re sucking in quick, shallow gulps of air, on the verge of hyperventilating as you watch his massive palm beat at his cock, almost dizzy with lust, your blood rushing in your head, your pussy sopping wet, tight as a knot. This isn’t enough, you want to stop, you want to go further, you want him to touch you, to climb into his lap, to take that heavy, thick weight inside of you and feel him stretch you to the point of pain. “Don’t look– you shouldn’t look–” you don’t know why you say it, maybe because you feel you have to, but it’s nonsensical when your eyes are glued to him. 

“I have to look, baby. Please, don’t ask me that. I have to see it – fuck, you’re so gorgeous, look at you. Prettiest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“Stop,” you moan, arching your back further to crook your fingers inside of yourself, hitching your knees higher to pet at the spongy, tender spot inside you that you’d like him to own. “St– stop– I’m–  m’not your baby– don’t– don’t– oh fuck, I’m gonna come–” your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sound of his choked growl, his eyes glued to your stretched sex, the sounds of your wetness and his slick palm echoing in the truck cabin. 

“You are, you are – even if you won’t let me touch you, won’t let me have you – you fucking belong to me now. Already, even like this – look at you, about to come for me with just my eyes on you.” His hips start to lift into his fist, his hand almost a blur for how fast he’s fucking himself, teeth gritted, tendons in his strong neck popping starkly under the surface of his flushed, sweaty skin. 

“Fuck– fuck, it’s so pretty.”

“Stop– please, Joel, I need–”

“Wanna taste it and fuck it and fill it with my come–”

“Oh my fucking God–” you’re going to come, now, now, it’s right there. You tell him.

“One more finger – lemme see you stretch yourself… yeah like that… my good fucking girl,” grunted as you stuff a third finger inside and start to spasm, mewling high and desperate for him, grinding your clit against the mound of your palm. You want his cock to stretch you like this, and you tell him. The sound he makes at your desperate plea, as if it’s been ripped out of him, painful, desperate, savage. You watch the wide head flush an almost deeper shade, verging on purple now, and he squeezes the base cruelly, his sack fisted tight in his other hand, and he starts to come, a thick white stream of milky spend that makes your mouth water, sliding over his fist and spurting onto his exposed belly. “Oh God, Joel, I want it.” You can’t stop the words, the sight of his orgasm forces them out of you. 

“I know, baby, I know. I want to give it to you,” he says through clenched teeth. 

You both stay frozen like that for a moment as you come down, panting and staring at each other wide eyed and flushed and trembling. That was, perhaps, no, it was without a doubt, the most intense thing you’ve ever experienced with a man, and you’d barely even touched each other. Pain and pleasure coalesce to leave you shaking and sweating, your skin hypersensitive. You’re scared you’re going to start crying again and scare him, give him the wrong idea – that you’d not liked this, that you’d not wanted this. When the truth is that nothing could ever compare to how much you wanted, needed it. How much you’ll want this forever now. You want to take him inside of you. The sheer force of your desire almost has a flavor, a shape to it. The strength of it, so potent, it is almost made sentient – a living thing. 

You pull your wet fingers out, and he snaps forward suddenly, to snatch your hand towards himself and brings the slick digits into his mouth, his tongue laving hot and wet between the spaces, sucking on them. All the while his eyes are zeroed in on the space between your legs, on the place that is still clenching and stretched, so ready and eager for him to fill. You gasp at his ferocity, at the feral look in his eyes because you can see, you can see that almost sentient desire you’re filled with, reflected in his own eyes. 

“Joel–” you whisper as he presses one final kiss to the wet tips of your fingers, his eyes fluttering shut as he holds there for one moment. 

“I know–” he whispers back, and when his eyes come back to yours, there is such a depth of understanding in them. You realize in this moment, in this shared look, that the two of you are the same in an essential way. It isn’t just your desire that connects the two of you now, it’s so much more. A loneliness, a sentimentality, perhaps, a keen sense of familiarity. That vein of shyness, of being closed off, that fear of opening up, of being hurt, of being left. He’s the same, you can see it, feel it. 

You’d never thought you had a very good sense of self identity – your perception of yourself skewed in the image of your mother, of who she was, of her shadow, of the things she’d done, but in this moment, looking into the reflection of Joel’s eyes, you feel you see yourself very clearly, almost securely, for the first time. It is recognition the two of you are sharing now, for some reason, in some way, you recognize him. And you find it ironic, that now, in this moment of all times, when you’re doing the very thing that you’d always been so afraid of, of turning into the thing that you’d always feared because of your mother, it is ironic that you are finally able to cast away her shadow, her image, and see only yourself, so clearly, so wholly, because of him.

And yet, despite the sudden, blinding clarity, oh, it was all so dark, so dark, that it be this man, this unavailable, married, unreachable man, that would make you feel so wholly seen, so understood, so connected. 

Your wrist is left wet and sticky where he’s gripped you with his spend covered fingers, but you’re careful not to wipe it away. You want to be left with the tightness of his dried come over your skin. 

“Don’t say that we shouldn’t have done that,” he tells you.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“I was going to say that I wish we could do it again – that I wish we could do more.”

“Shit–” he whispers, passes his dry palm over his mouth and then up into his hair, to tug at the messy curls. You move to right your clothes, and he follows your lead, tucking himself back into his jeans. “Me too.”

You let your head rest back against the window as the two of you stare at each other in silence for a moment. It’s comforting, filled with companionship, understanding, the intimacy of the moment the two of you just shared. Your cheeks feel hot and you can’t help but smile at him, just a little, a small laugh escaping, and then he’s returning it, smiling and laughing softly too, until the both of you are wracked with the most ridiculous, schoolyard giggles, like two blushing teenagers. It’s a wonderful moment for the purity of it, the two of you together, laughing. Later, you’re sure it will make you very sad and desperate to relive it, but now, oh, now, it really does feel so wonderful. You wish the two of you could live here forever, together in this moment, in the warm, intimate space of his truck’s cabin.

You talk for hours after that, about nothing and everything. His work and yours, your art, his love of building things, of taking care of things, music and movies and books and Sarah. Always, Sarah. 

“She has an obsession with bats right now, weird kid, and there’s a sanctuary up town. We spent a few hours there on Saturday, she loved it. Scampering around in this Snow White princess dress she’s refused to take off for the past three weeks. Won’t part with the damn thing, not even to let me wash it.”

He loves her so much, and it makes your heart pinch and your eyes go hot and weepy. He is, you think, an exceptionally good father, an exceptionally good man. 

Eventually, however, it gets late enough that the two of you realize you need to get home. He drives you back to the school in the most comfortable of silences, your hand intertwined reassuringly in his strong embrace. It feels worryingly natural, right. 

“Will you let me see you again?” he asks when he pulls up next to your lonely car in the school parking lot. 

“I don’t– I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Joel. This will only go further from here if we continue. And I don’t– I can’t be your–” you frown, shaking your head, disgusted at yourself for even having to say the words, “I can’t be your mistress,” you tell him bluntly.

“I would never, never ask that of you.”

“So, then what is it supposed to be? You’re going to leave your wife? That– that isn’t what I want. I don’t want to be the thing that breaks your marriage up, your family, that leaves Sarah in a broken home. I cannot be that.” It would be your worst nightmare come to life. 

He says your name in the most serious tone you think he can muster, as if he can imbue the understanding of his words into your stubborn skull with the resonance of it, “There is no marriage to break up. She’s leaving soon, I know it, I can tell. She’s done. She’s leaving Sarah, and I don’t think she’s coming back this time. I don’t think I can let her just – just come in and out of our daughter’s life like that. Something needs to stop or change. I have to do something to make this better for my girl.”

“I understand that, and I can’t– I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that for Sarah. For you. Really, I understand more than I can tell you – but still, when it comes to you and I, or you and her – I can’t … I can’t get into that like this. I– I, I don’t–” you pant, “I don’t know. I’m sorry. But I can’t do that, this. Not now.”

“Baby–”

“No, Joel. You don’t understand – I watched my mother cheat on my father my entire childhood, until she up and left us one day, left him. I watched him love her for years, unreturned, suffer for her, and then I watched him kill himself slowly, drink himself to death until I buried him.”

“That isn’t what Eva and I are–”

“I cannot have an affair with you. I know – I know that’s basically what we’re already fucking doing – I know I’m a hypocrite–”

“You’re not–”

“But I can’t also be the reason you leave your marriage. It would kill me – do you understand?” your voice cracks, you’re shocked you’re not crying right now. “Please, Joel.”

He looks at you for a moment, you’re afraid you can see anger in his eyes, but then they go soft, understanding, and he says, “Yeah… yeah, sweetheart. I understand.” Your eyes flutter shut, and you let out a shaky breath, relieved, but at the same time, filled with a sick twist of disappointment. What would you do if he pressed you, if he forced you? You know part of you would like it. “Can I at least call you? Only sometimes, please. Just to talk – to hear your voice.”

You start to shake your head, but when you open your eyes and take in the pleading look in his gaze, you can’t say no. “Alright, yes… yes, you can call me. That’s okay.”

“Can I kiss you? Just once more?” You lean over the console and press your lips to his, sudden and rough, as an answer, your teeth clicking together harshly. Of course, you want to kiss him again, of course. 

One long, tight moment, you clutch his wrists to keep them from pulling you in closer, and then you’re pulling back, scrambling out of the truck and forcing yourself away from him. You need to get away before you lose all strength of will and just let him do whatever he wants to you. You hear him get out, as well, and follow you around to your driver’s side door, waiting behind you as you dig for your car keys in your bag. You open the door, and then turn back to him, you can’t help yourself, and he lifts a hand to drag his thumb across your cheekbone, along the edge of your jaw. His eyes look so sad, like he’s afraid this’ll be the last time the two of you ever see each other again. The tears are back and angrily demanding release, but you try and take deep breaths through your nose to keep them at bay while your entire frame shakes and shivers at the restraint. He nods once and leans forward to press a long kiss above your brow, and then he turns and walks back to his truck, gets inside. He waits until you’ve gotten in your own car and are driving away, great heaving sobs wracking your body, overwhelming you, before you see him finally turn his truck on and start to drive back home, back to his wife and child.

Chapter .5

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

End Notes: This was kind of a heavy one, if there’s anything you’d like to chat about (or yell at me for all the angsty bullshit) pls come do so :)

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love, chapter 8

♥ here you go lovies, it’s series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter nine ♥ summary: uhm yeah he confronts you and goes all demon on you but you're like "babe it's just us babe look at me". reader getting ready to jump off a bridge at any moment because this is the worst confrontation she's been through (but she's having a stone face to not let him win). ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic to romance) ♥ word count: 3.7k ♥ pinterest board ♥ notes: she's on artfight, and once again i'm getting catholic on you guys. she also is speaking more often. this story is NOT going to get nsfw but i like a lot of mildly sensual things bc I feel like alastor would do crazy shit and not realize how sensual it is. i wrote this while high (it's 3am) ♥ no tag list rn :3

And so you walk, head tilted downwards, back to the hotel. Chatter silences, and people eye you. Instead of sprinting away, they just back up, not knowing your next move. You watch every crack on the street as you step on them, crushing the gravel and tiny bits of concrete.

Zestial had walked you to the door, basically saying his form of "gg" and leaving you alone.

You think of the place where Alastor found you. Leaving Zestial's little study within Carmilla's professional ownership meant walking through that area and that memory.

Just two overlords find an interest in each other, sparing each other's life in a plan to corrupt the other. That's not exactly humorous.

You suppose it's possible that you'd both somehow taken a form of emotional poison, and it had only taken effect just now, but that's only an excuse for corrupt passion. But at the same time, it's not hard to imagine how this physically attractive person, who's been touchy since the day you met, could have lured you in.

The cars coming up the road don't crash like you expect; they only speed up. You're not angry anymore, that's good.

The demonic deer died without a clue of what would happen, the woman died from drowning. It's a bit reminiscent, isn't it?

The hotel is a cemetery now. Each person inside could be tumbling out the moment the doors open. This is both a suspension of your imagination and the sudden thought that you made Alastor angry. He would have come for you first, right?

The two-door entrance, where you can't lock the doors with the key still inside, felt like introducing your doom. He'd know you're back. Are his ears twitching to the sound of your music? It's hard to imagine that any force outside his heart can penetrate his robust interior. You're special to me because I happen to love you quite a lot.

What kind of expression do you have? Do you look scared shitless, as you feel?

You open the doors, peaking your head in before anything else. You pause to catch your breath. Husk is looking off into a distance, and from this angle you can't tell if his eyes are locked into something or if it's a drunken stare.

When he notices you, he smirks, shrugs, a drunken stare. How dare he have the audacity to smirk at you?

If it hadn't been for the disaster of under an hour ago, Alastor might have given you the usual space. And if he had, you wouldn't have the sense that Alastor was just around the corner. Unless you're delusional with paranoia, it looks like he's on the verge of blurting it out.

You face your fears and walk closer to the foyer, letting the door close behind you. Your eyes dart to the couches, but there is no sign of him.

Even though two demons can sneak up at each other simultaneously, you remain across the hotel from each other.

Husk throws a bottle your way, and it crashes against the wall. You don't jump; you just turn your head slowly.

"His tower." He points upwards.

Good, because you're not going up there. You have space until Alastor decides to come down. He'll likely intrude in your space if you attempt to walk to your room. Should you stay here with Husk? Is that going to summon him quicker?

"Husk."

He rolls his eyes, internally begging for you to leave him alone.

You approach, feet echoing through the silent room. A chill runs up your spine from his hard stare. Was he offended from earlier? It doesn't matter; he's going to indulge.

"When was the last time we saw each other, before all of this?" You suddenly ask.

"At a bar, probably. You'd think you were smarter than me and I'd win every time," he laughs at the memory. "Why? Wanna try again?"

You shake your head. "Was I by chance with Alastor?"

"No."

"In other words, we spent time alone, without Alastor."

"What the hell is your point?"

"Nothing," you give him a smile, "I'm just wondering."

He smiled at the memory, what a cute sentiment.

He growls. "I can tell when you're acting stupid. Stop this little act, it's not going anywhere."

Your smile grows more. "When was the last time you thought about me since then? Before you saw me?"

His eyes squint. "What?"

"Am I not allowed to ask questions?"

"No." He signs again.

You lean further on the desk, nodding with a faux understanding expression. "What if we make an unofficial deal?"

"No."

"So," you continue anyway. "You tell me something I want to know, and in return, I tell Alastor to leave you alone when I'm around. You know he'd listen to me. How does that sound?"

"You could have just bought me beer."

"Will that work?"

His hand goes to his forehead, trying to rub the drunkness from his brain.

"If you don't forget your promise."

You put a hand out, getting his attention again. "And we can gamble again, like old times."

"Sure." He places his hand on the table, staring at them, flexing his claws to prepare for his following words. "What's the question?"

"Did you know Alastor was going to bring me here?"

As he hit his fist on the table, it vibrated, a bottle on the wood shaking a bit. He hadn't touched the drink since you walked over.

His hands lift before dropping again. He wants to sign another why, but that won't satisfy you at this point.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"He said old friend. I didn't think about it too hard. He said you could help us."

Your spine straightens. Your shoulders raise, your eyebrows furrowing. "That I could help, that's what he said?"

And not that he wanted to be near you again?

"Don't let it get to your head," it's a strange comfort. "He's... Hey, just be cautious."

And then his ears flicker, eyes looking behind you, and you embrace the inevitable. If you could predict the future, you imagine Alastor's hands gripping your shoulders and instantly throwing you to the floor before eating you alive.

Warm breath brushes against your neck, the bangs of a familiar friend hitting your head. Husk turns away. You try to do the same, but a hand wraps around you and pulls you around.

"May I walk you to your chambers?"

"Always such a gentleman."

"Yes, I'm afraid that's true."

What does that mean? Ugh, he's the worst.

His grip doesn't leave you as he forces you to his side, the other hand holding his cane behind him, neither available for communication. This is better than getting his constant teasing.

But he's definitely been planning this since the moment you left. The more you reflect, the more genuine he seems. He hugged you after the meeting and invited you into the kitchen just to rest with you.

As the two traveled, nothing happened for a while. You just try to match his steps while getting comfortable in his rough grip.

And your room approaches. The optimistic part of you wants him to drop you off and leave you alone for the night. But, of course, that wasn't his plan. He stood in front of your door. Did he expect you to open it?

He just stared at it, smile dark, expecting, ready. His grip on your releases.

You reach a hand towards the door knob.

And then the door of his room slams open. A tentacle wraps around your waist, pulling you into the room and lifting you from your feet. It only lets go when Alastor closes the door from behind him.

You don't back away when he strides long and stands before you. He growls, showing his gums and his eyes showing nothing but resentment. He looks at every part of your calm face. His hands lift to grab you but then drop, once again expecting you to move.

After a few seconds of motionless stares, he lifts a hand, touching your speaker, the fast heartbeat pulsating against his fingers. He digs his fingers in the tight space between your skin and the metal. And then he slowly removes it, revealing the strong muscle layer beneath it. You sigh.

You often used to do that, placing your speaker somewhere to sneak up on a victim.

The music goes silent. Alastor kindly holds it in his hand, not letting his claws pierce it. You hate it when your speaker isn't a part of you. It feels as if your heart has been ripped out, and though it causes no pain, the emptiness is a physical and mental anguish.

And then he walks past you, placing the stereo on the table between two lounge chairs. The fireplace ignites. You look at him while he motions to the chair across from him, buttoning down his overcoat and laying it on the head of the chair.

Something horrible is advancing, slowly but surely the situation will only get worse. You try to have a normal stride as you sit on the opposite chair, pushing your dress under you more comfortably, trying not to fidget with your lace, red sleeves.

Whatever passion he shared for you only exists to show signs of warning, his smile more threatening than ever. If you end up dying, you'll die with a look of astonishment on your face.

"Dearest, how do you feel?" He asks. What a pointless question. Does he really expect you to answer? What a sensitive, compassionate question. You almost run away once again.

"Did I betray you?" You ask. "Do I need to apologize?"

His smile widens. Your tone is almost non-caring.

"I'd appreciate an apology, yes."

"Well, I'm sorry for doubting you. I still don't know if you were just joking or not, but judging by this reaction, I, uhm... I'm sorry."

"It's not just anger," he reads your mind.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Jealousy? Aggravation? Hatred?

He continues before you have the chance to lift your hands. "I am fearful, too."

He crosses his legs, soothing his suit. His fingers interlock and rest on his knees, looking at you expectantly, waiting for your response to his rare sensitivity. But then he changes his mind, suddenly raising his hands, signing faster than usual. "Think about it. I presume you've grown to consider me some beast that comes from out the woods. And at the same time, you're just a girl who has clung to me. What does that make you? You melt into my touch while trying to get as far away from me as you can."

"You do the same thing."

And in an instant, his claws sharpen, his hair goes into spikes, and he grips onto the chair. You fight the urge to react in fear. This is just his emotive wall, you remind yourself. At least he's trying.

He isn't giving you room to respond; he hasn't been. "How insensitive. You're trying to dissect me but it won't work, I can see through you."

A stiff shrug is your only response. You squeeze your hands to soothe the shaking before you respond. "You're a trendsetter."

His body grows, contorting, and he lifts himself from his chair, both hands reaching to grab you. Even this smiling shadow circles you. The lights flicker before shutting off completely. The only light is the fireplace and the glow of his eyes, not including the green aura his anger lets off.

"You think this is a joke?"

Not at all. Acting like a scared little girl will only feed his ego; knowing his words messed with you will satisfy him.

This reaction is what you wanted. You stand, hands nearing his face, leaning close, straining your own life by swooping his bangs out of the way, pressing a kiss to the target on his forehead. You force your forehead on his. His hands immediately claw into your skin, a threat, a warning that he's going to break you in half.

But you speak to him, a low whisper. "Your love is not a joke to me."

His hands touch your stomach as he shoves you away. You fall to the floor, body having missed the chair behind you.

"Enough," he signs. "Do not touch me lest I'll take your soul."

You don't even try to sit up, head on his carpet. Your hair falls on either side of your face, and you keep your eyes on Alastor as he crawls just barely over you. You keep a straight face. "You wouldn't hurt me."

One of his hands raises while the other plants by your side, wrist brushing against your ankle. His bowtie is crooked, his collar half up and half down. The disordered fashion is unlike him, you've never seen it before.

"Physically."

And that hand presses on your stomach, clawing at it until the fabric of your dress rips. The warm air hits you. His threatening nature doesn't cause the usual butterflies.

He sits up. "I hate this dress."

When you tilt your head, he continues. "I hate the good memories, I hate cherishing you."

You raise to your elbows, but he slams you back down.

He finally crawls over you, knees cradling your thighs, his hands on either side of you. Your fingers brush against his. He leans down, putting his forehead against yours. His breathing is heavy, his smile is closed, and his lips threatening to open in a snarl. You keep your eyes open; his are calmly closed. Around a minute pasts, the longest minute of your life. His breathing slows, and his body returns to normal. His head remains in front of yours, almost shielding your eyes from his transformation. He tilts his head, not leaning in but changing the angle of his access.

And as quick as he can, he leans back, arms stiff and straight, eyes expansive with fascination. You try to calm your eyes and remain stoic, but your lips part, and your eyes shine in response. He runs his eyes through your upper body, with no sense of salaciousness, staring at the hole in your chest and your hands, relaxing against the floor.

If you're ever in danger, he thinks, it will be the end of me.

"That."

"That."

"Yes, that."

Like the rest of this conversation, you wait for him to interrupt you, but his arms relax. He can't stop staring at you, unblinking. Finally, you shift uncomfortably under his stare.

"What?" You pinch your fingers together.

His smile widens. He looks so attractive when he looks down at you like that, attempting to calm his breath, his red button-up wrinkled with violent movements. You log this memory into your brain to hold onto forever.

"The forehead touch, the first time we did that you were wearing this."

His hands slide down your waist, and you try to jolt away. His hands move back. "Apologies."

"I didn't know you liked the forehead thing so much."

"My darling, can't you remember that I initiated it first? But you refuse to remember, silly girl, while I can never forget. There was a swirl of love in your eyes, I had never seen somebody look at me like that. You had lost your mind."

You smile, lips lifting unintentionally. "Didn't you run away?"

His smile drops only a bit. He shakes his head, hands not lifting anymore, and he stands, offering a hand to you. As if you weigh nothing, he lifts you to your feet with one motion.

You change the topic, intending to save yourself. "May I touch your collar?"

He tilts his head up, still remaining silent but smiling, the corner of his mouth returning high on his cheeks at your touch. Your fingers fold his collar back, straightening his bowtie and tightening it. "There you go."

He grabs your wrists, puts them to his lips, and kisses them softly. Instead of dropping them immediately, he leans into your knuckles, holding himself there until you grab both cheeks. His eyes close, and he smiles small.

Can't wait to tell Zestial about this.

This embrace has only ever been in your imagination. You never pictured how warm Alastor was, how he admitted to liking (loving? still difficult to process) you, the way he held your speaker as if it was a newborn kitten, his claws never drawing blood on your skin no matter how much he wanted to, and you'd definitely never imagine his small smiles.

Is this what he has been wanting all along? Was Husk just seeing the worst in him?

Alastor's hands hold your shoulder blades as he pulls you in enough for your hands to still touch his cheeks. His hair rests against the top of your head, making you smile.

But with a twitch of his hands, you both realize something. You have yet to say it back. You bite your lip, leaning away, still not removing your hands from his face. His eyes peek at you, red eyes glowing. Your hands remain in their place.

Think of Zestial's advice, think of Zestial's advice, think of Zestial's advice.

A deep breath leaves you. He straightens his body, your hands falling from him. All you do is lift up your fingers, ily, not sign the sentence, and put it against his chest. He doesn't look at your hand. He stares at you.

Your other hand signs a soft "Please."

For now, he'll accept your hesitation. But he won't again.

You return your hands to yourself. "Let love be without dissimulation." His ears press to the back of his head. He tries to grab your hands, but you don't stop, so you take a big step back. "Abhor that which is evil and cleave to that which is good."

"Those verses mean nothing." His claws bump into each other as he signs, his precise angles long gone.

"They do to me, let love be genuine, Alastor. Mutual affection, don't you understand?"

Another argument approaches: "Do not bring those verses into my life, any of them. You challenged me once, and I will not let you challenge me again."

He points his finger at you, and you stare at it. "Is your love genuine?"

"You're letting words play in your head," he points to his temple, doing the crazy motion. "You're doubting me again."

"You didn't answer."

He reaches forward, fingers curved to emphasize his claws, but he stops his grasp only centimeters away from your shoulders. "My dear, you're driving me crazy."

"You ruined my dress."

"You're always so good at changing the subject."

You can't help but smile. Alastor's anger becomes less threatening the longer it lasts; his sharpened hair and strong shoulders just make you want to caress him into normalcy.

The lights flicker back on. You look around, eyeing the environment you didn't get the chance to see before. "So this is your room?"

His hands drop dramatically.

You sign, "I'm a bit disappointed there's no huge portraits of me, how dare you."

When you're eyeing the bones on his wall, he puts his overcoat back on, pulls the sleeves down, and buttons his waist. The rip around your stomach is the most visible part of your appearance, he snaps it away, glancing off to the side nervously. He needs to control himself more. He needs to stop acting like such a baby around you. But how you look at him draws him in more than anything; he's truly never been around someone who has treasured him as much as you do. Your eyes light up whenever he touches you, and you sulk when he pulls away. Do you live off of the contact? Sometimes it feels like it.

So when you turn to face him again, hands rubbing against the place on your stomach where the rip was, his eyes twitch a bit and watch your hands.

"Ah, my dear, put those hands to better use."

You squint, tilting your head before he wraps his arms around your thighs and lifts you up. You let out a loud woah, hands gripping his neck, his face plush against your collarbone. He feels the dip of the empty space where your speaker once was.

He spins around, gaining laughs from you, his main goal. He wants this night to be a good memory. Your hands roam upwards to the back of his head, your nails digging into his skull, pulling on his hair. He groans, vibrating against your skin, tightening his hands on your thighs. When your hands run up his hair, puffing it up with your touches, he feels a chill down his spine. So that's what that feels like. It's thrilling.

Before you can even process the lack of contact, he throws you onto his bed. You bounce in place, the pillows moving alongside you, and a shadow pulls you higher up, wrapping a blanket around you.

Alastor swipes his hands together, almost clapping. "Get some rest, darling!"

And traveling with his shadow, he looms over you, standing, holding your speaker in one hand. He slips it in place, the music pulsating before starting off again. How exquisite, you must love him.

"Alastor." You try and sit up.

"No, no, darling, put your little head to rest." He pushes you down. "We have to make sure you don't start sulking again, I don't want my residents being tortured by your dear melodies," he snaps his fingers and puts you in your nightly clothes, the red dress draped over the same chair, his coat was, "I'll always be here if you need me."

"I know." You stare at him through your eyelashes. He definitely wants you to try to sleep so you don't go roaming around flustered. What time is it even? Considering his little meltdown, you won't try to test him on it.

"Well," he stands, and you realize how tall he is from this angle. "Try and have good dreams."

You just scoff, turning to your side, capturing a second pillow in your grasp, and cuddling with it. Alastor definitely doesn't use this bed, it smells like nothing at all. Disappointing. You need to change that soon.

[nai-nyeartwork]

The AU you have where Vox is the vintage one and Alastor the modern one has been living in my head rent free. I can’t stop thinking about Vox being all bouncy and cartoony (definitely like you said, Roger Rabbit) and having very cartoon-esque physics and power base. Or Alastor still being radio but very much modern and staying ahead of the game. If you are willing and have any time to indulge me, I would love love love to hear more about your AU!!!

Hey! I'm happy you like this AU. I wish I had more time to explore or write a proper story for it since I have too many ideas for it. For this AU, Vox can upgrade himself to how he normally appears in the show but he honestly prefers staying like a cartoon demon since he thinks he is more powerful in that form. Like breaking the 4th wall and using cartoon logic to mess up hell's landscape/ other demons. When he does switch TV heads, because his retro TV got busted or needs to try a different attack, his powers will changed based on the type of media or how advanced the technology is. I keep thinking he secretly doesn't want Alastor to see him differently than his normal retro look since Vox knows how the Radio demon feels about technology. Since it sort of like a swap AU, Vox has two thralls, Valentino and Velvette instead of forming an alliance with them. He tricked Val into signing a contract with him when the moth demon was struggling with his porn studio or had problems with the shark mafia. While Velvette tried to confront Alastor and Vox to be the new overlord media but lost against Vox. He kept her around since she seemed useful and would call on her more than Val when it came to promoting his or Alastor's broadcasts. Vox still lets his thralls try to make their own business but constantly demands their assistance for random dangerous schemes. If the Vees oppose or try to avoid Vox, then he will control them like puppets with his inky cable wires. The Vees are up to date with hells society even using advanced technology thanks to Alastor, but because they are under contract their appearance remains the way they arrived to hell? Or like vintage animation style? Like Val’s appearance has 70s archie animation/comic style while Velvet's is more 80s lolita anime (kinda like Perfect Blue).  Meanwhile, Alastor still befriends Rosie who also has to catch up with the time. He often promotes her business since Rosie's cannibal town has become more like a meat/food factory. Rosie often repurposes any meat, scales, teeth, and angel feathers/blood to sell at her cannibal markets.

Husker stays as an overlord but owes a favor to the Media Overlords, and often plays host to them whenever they visit his casino. I was gonna make Niffty an overlord too but I haven't decided what type she would be or just be Alastor's assistant.

I kind of want Vox to help the Hazbin Hotel and Charlie (if I don't change her and the other hazbin residents roles too much). He wants to help the hotel because Vox's end game would be controlling them. Alastor only offers to help the hotel when Vox asks him to otherwise he doesn't bother to interact with the other residents or with Charlie since he has a podcast to run.

As for Vox and Alastor's relationship, they can be very professional in front of strangers/public while with associates/friends they get a little affectionate. They are on guard constantly and only trust each other since they are media demons. In private, they are very vulnerable and give each other a lot of aftercare. Or try to have a few mental breaks from upholding an image to the public. Like Vox has a whole-ass aftercare routine when Alastor is stressed and doesn't want to listen to demons due to his radio abilities. He even mutes himself and plays silent films while Alastor hides under a blanket with noise-cancelling headphones on. And when Vox destroys or needs to repair his TV head, Alastor always makes sure to have spare parts and tools on hand to assist him. He is used to repairing Vox and acting like a doctor for him.

They have been together for so long in hell, they lose their shit if the other overlord gets hurt or someone tries to take them away since in their eyes no one else compares.

And that's all I have folks!

[keisgirl]

not gonna put a title cuz i might delete this

some random thoughts 10pm (i have an essay due tmr)

the first sign was how quiet the apartment had become. once, it was filled with laughter, shared moments, and the kind of silence that was comfortable—warm, even. now, the quiet was different, tense and cold, like an empty stage after the audience has left. and in a way, that’s what your relationship had become—an empty performance, only the echoes of what once was.

you sit on the floor, back against the couch, your knees pulled to your chest. your phone lies face down on the coffee table, the buzzing stopped hours ago. it was easier that way, not looking at it, pretending for a moment that you could be okay without constantly waiting for a message that might never come. it’s been two days since you last heard from him. two days of silence that stretch on longer than any tour, longer than any distance he’s traveled for work.

he used to text you between rehearsals, sometimes sneaking in a call late at night when his members were asleep. you lived for those moments—the stolen seconds where it was just him and you, no cameras, no screaming fans, no demands. just him, the boy you fell in love with before the fame swallowed him whole. back when his smile was yours, not something for the world to claim.

but somewhere along the way, those calls became fewer, the messages shorter, until eventually they stopped altogether. now, you were lucky if he spared a moment to leave you a quick “i’m busy” before disappearing for days.

the door clicks open, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he's home. your eyes lift, your heart torn between relief and the sharp ache of knowing that even when he’s here, he’s not really here. his shoulders are slouched, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin, and he barely meets your gaze.

"hey," he mumbles, dropping his bag by the door.

"hey," you reply, but the word feels foreign on your tongue, like you're speaking to a stranger.

he moves past you, heading straight for the bedroom, his presence like a ghost passing through the space. no hug, no kiss, no acknowledgment that it’s been days since you’ve seen each other. once upon a time, he would have scooped you into his arms, kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in years, even if it had only been hours. but now, it’s like he’s too tired to care.

you follow him into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe as he collapses onto the bed, his back to you. the weight of the silence between you is unbearable. it’s not just physical distance anymore; it’s emotional. it’s the way he doesn’t ask how you are, doesn’t even notice the tear-stained pillowcases from the nights you spent crying yourself to sleep, wondering if this is what love is supposed to feel like—waiting, always waiting.

"are you okay?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid that if you speak too loudly, it’ll shatter whatever fragile connection remains between you.

"just tired," he mutters, not even turning to face you.

you nod, though he doesn’t see it. tired. he’s always tired now. tired from the schedules, the rehearsals, the interviews. tired from the weight of being an idol. and you wonder, how long before he’s tired of you too? or maybe that’s already happened.

"i don’t know how much longer i can do this," you say softly, more to yourself than to him, but he hears it.

his body tenses, and for a moment, you think he’s going to get up, going to say something that will make it all better. but he doesn’t. instead, he sighs, a long, drawn-out breath that feels like the beginning of the end.

"i’m trying, you know that," he says, his voice low, defeated.

"are you?" the words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and cutting in the quiet room. "because it doesn’t feel like it anymore. it feels like… like you’ve already given up."

he finally turns to face you, and for the first time in a long time, you see him—the boy behind the idol. and he looks lost, more lost than you’ve ever seen him. there’s pain in his eyes, but it’s different from yours. his pain isn’t from the distance or the silence. it’s from the guilt, the crushing weight of knowing he’s hurting you, but not knowing how to stop.

"i don’t know what to do," he admits, his voice breaking. "i don’t know how to make it better. everything’s moving so fast, and i… i don’t know how to keep up with it all."

"you don’t have to keep up with everything," you whisper, stepping closer, your hands trembling as you reach out to touch him, but you stop yourself before your fingers brush his skin. "you just have to be here. with me."

he closes his eyes, as if he can’t bear to look at you. "but i can’t. not the way you need me to be. and that’s the problem, isn’t it?"

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. because he’s right. it is the problem. you need him, and he’s slipping further and further away with each passing day, until you’re left holding onto memories that feel like they belong to someone else. the boy you fell in love with is still there, somewhere, but the world has taken so much from him, and now there’s barely anything left for you.

"maybe…" his voice cracks, and you feel your heart shatter at the sound of it. "maybe we’re both holding onto something that isn’t there anymore."

you shake your head, tears blurring your vision. "don’t say that. please."

he looks at you, eyes red and tired, and in that moment, you both know. this isn’t the end of the conversation, but it’s the beginning of something you’ve both been too afraid to face.

the truth is, love isn’t always enough. not when the world demands so much from him, and all you can do is stand on the sidelines, watching as he gives everything he has to everyone but you.

and for the first time, you wonder if maybe it’s time to stop waiting

--------

| andteam; koga yudai, nicholas wang, nakakita yuma

| enhypen; park jongseong, yang jungwon, park sunghoon

| boynextdoor; myung jaehyung, kim woonhak

| stray kids; han jisung, bang chan, hwang hyunjin

[lets-try-some-writing]

I like writing little stories and snippets of things I like and alot of your TFP work I really like, but this AU was what finally got me to send in an ask, so how about this for a prompt? (I'm new to the TF Fandom so please excuse my excited rambling)

In your Innocent Abominations AU, what if - in a bout of strength and clarity - Orion/Optimus fights back against the Matrix and gets through to Megatron, Bumblebee, and whoever else might be there? (Like Elita One, Ratchet and Drift (if they came to visit), Grimlock, the Humans, etc.) He begs them - mainly Megatron - to remove the Matrix, this accursed power that's willing to kill sparklings that have no clue about their origin, that haven't done anything wrong. He even reasons that since the Emberstone, Quintus Prime's artifact and thus a creation of Primus, had created them. Despite their Earthly origins, they were still Cybertronian. But the Matrix is having none of it, actively trying to suppress Orion/Optimus again so it can fulfill its duty. 

Megatron asks who's who, if he's Orion Pax or Optimus Prime. To which Orion/Optimus says they are one in the same, just that the Matrix would offer wisdom and influence his decisions. And now the Matrix was in fill control, or trying to have full control.  A puppeteer forcing Orion/Optimus to watch as his frame attempts to slaughter innocent sparklings. 

As his strength is weakening, he bears his spark chamber and begs for the Matrix to be removed. To free him. To silence these overwhelming voices in his head once and for all. And just as the Matrix is about to smother Orion/Optimus for good (what good is "the perfect host" if it doesn't listen?), Megatron rips out the Matrix, shoves it into a container that silences its commanding whispers, and the Prime collapses from exhaustion. Optimus retains his Primely frame - the reformatting he went through when he accepted the Matrix was permanent - and his spark chamber is damaged, but his spark itself remains intact, having physically rejected the Matrix from his frame. 

But the Matrix was successful in one thing, it sowed a seed of doubt in Optimus' mind. He just hopes that despite the Terrans being of Unicron, he made the right choice in sparing their lives. Seeing the sweet Innocent Abominations sparklings happy and alive - not scrapmetal beneath his axe - was all the more relieving and could put his warring mind to rest.

It was finished. He was free. But at what cost?

I love this prompt thank you.

Previous part here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

The voices grew louder with every passing cycle. Optimus knew deep in his spark that he was hunting sparklings, but he found he simply didn't care. For weeks he stalked, his remaining inhibitions stopping him from progressing further than a few feet out from the tree line once a few warning shots were fired. Megatron and Bumblebee always stood in his way, and while the Matrix wanted the Terrans dead, it did not demand the loss of life of his own kind. There were so few of them. He could not risk killing those that remained.

The parts of him that were untouched by the Matrix grew quieter, and soon enough, he found himself no longer fighting back against the Matrix's demands. Beings not born of the Well were not Cybertronian. How could they be? They were not touched by Primus, they knew not the trial of emerging from the Well and the struggles of living on Cybertron. So many long nights he fought with himself, until at last, something in him was silenced and it did not cause him any distress to imagine killing the Terrans. The pain hung in every cable still, but it was no longer the unbearable agony that caused him to try and tear his plating off.

The itch, the urge, was impossible to ignore. But now that he had his mind? He could handle things more... delicately. The Matrix hummed in affirmation as he stepped out of the tree line one dark night, for once completely composed. Megatron and Bumblebee raised their blasters and the Terrans emerged from their resting place in horror. They did not know the details, but they knew enough to be fully aware that Optimus was no friend. Not while his optics shone a pure white.

Optimus: Megatron, Bumblebee.

Megatron: Stay back Prime!

Twitch: What's going on? Optimus, are you alright?

Bumblebee: Don't go near him! That's not Optimus, not anymore.

Optimus: That is where you are mistaken. I was foolish for failing to listen to the Matrix. It only caused me pain because I refused to adhere to it. But now-

Megatron: Save it! My old foe would never sink so low as to slaughter sparklings!

Nightshade: Slaughter...

Bumblebee: All of you, back inside.

Hashtag: No, we are staying here. We are family. And if Optimus isn't right in the head, we are going to deal with this together.

Optimus: How very noble of you abominations. If there is truly any touch of Primus in you, come to us willingly. Your deaths shall be swift.

Twitch: Why do you want us dead? I thought we were all Cybertronian!

Optimus: You wear our faces, you act like us, but you are not of us. The Matrix says this. Parasites, all of you. It is for the benefit of all that you perish by our blade.

Megatron: Stop this Optimus!

Optimus: There is no halting the inevitable. This is our only attempt at diplomacy. Give us the Terrans now and they shall die without pain. Deny us and we shall inflict as much damage to the surrounding life forms as necessary to accomplish our goals.

Megatron: This isn't you! Fight back against that Primus forsaken relic! It does not control you!

Optimus: You will not give us the Terrans... how very disappointing.

Optimus glared, but he did not fight. His voice rang cold, his expression so frigid that there was no room to even imagine what he was thinking. As he turned to walk away, his frame did not sway with any sort of life. He moved with calculation, like a true machine. Megatron almost fired on him, but he could not bring himself to for both the political havoc it would bring and due to the simple fact that he had no desire to see his old foe slaughtered. Bumblebee hurried the Terrans back inside and quickly called in all Autobots who were aware of him being on Earth and fully functional.

Arcee and Elita-1 were informed with haste. Starscream was called in, and he came without complaint the moment the situation was explained. Grimlock arrived without question as soon as Bumblebee notified him of the potential danger to the Terrans. Soundwave was kept in containment but on standby. An agreement was made that he would defend the Terrans if it was required, and in turn, he would be allowed to walk free afterwards. Megatron was willing to take no risks when it came to the Terrans and the unstable Prime. Bumblebee could only do his best to keep everyone calm as the children were forbidden from leaving and the Maltos carefully extracted. It was too dangerous to move them, not when Optimus could be lurking. And so instead they remained at home and the available Cybertronians constantly stood watch. There was always someone on guard, regardless of the situation. G.H.O.S.T were kept out of the loop through careful artificial orders and recordings.

As such, they did not react when Optimus Prime failed to return to base. None knew where he was, and for weeks, he remained completely off the map. Their fears grew, until at last, Optimus returned.

It was a sudden affair. The Terrans were milling about the Malto property and the children were sitting with them, watching Thrash play with Jawbreaker. Then there was a distinct sound of pedesteps, and Starscream who had been keeping watch that day, leapt to the air with his blasters ready as the lost Prime came crashing out of the tree line. Optimus was all but feral as he flew forward, his optics blazing white and his axe coming down hard into the ground where Thrash had been mere moments before. Starscream did not hesitate to throw himself into action, rocketing down and grabbing the Prime around the neck to by the Terrans time to flee while the others arrived.

Optimus flung Starscream off his back and slammed the seeker into the ground, causing him to scream in agony as a wing broke under the hit. The Prime did not waste a moment in rushing toward Nightshade who stood their ground, their optics cycling in fear only dulled by conviction. He charged like a rabid animal, his mind long degraded by the Matrix as he threw himself into action. Nightshade dodged the worst of it, only receiving a minor slash to their left arm. Twitch flew in to attack with her blasters, drawing Optimus's attention away while Jawbreaker rammed the Prime, sending him sprawling as he practically frothed at the mouth.

He rationalized his weeks hiding by saying it was for the best. Phycological warfare and all that. But in reality, the small parts of Orion that remained cried out and did their best to push forward morality to subvert the logic. He wandered for so long as a desperate attempt to prolong the Terrans lives. Now all that remained was wild wrath that did not even belong to him.

Elita arrived with Arcee and they wasted no time beating the Prime into the ground, tying him down like a wild boar. Starscream was tended to and the Terrans stood around in fear as Optimus snarled, screaming obscenities' and strange prophecies to the stars. Too weakened by weeks of wandering without reasonable energon rations left the Prime unable to do much when Grimlock arrived and kept a pede on his back to ensure he couldn't escape. He snarled, he bit his own derma, and by the time Megatron arrived, he'd damaged himself enough on the ground that his face bled from a thousand small cuts.

Something changed in that moment though. As Megatron drew near and Optimus was heaved to his pedes and held in place by Grimlock, Optimus stilled. He fell eerily quiet for the first time since he came bursting free from the forest. Those who were gathered feared he would attack, but instead his voice came out so softly as to be a whisper.

Optimus: Take it away. Make it be silent.

Megatron: Who am I speaking to? I refuse to be manipulated by that Primus forsaken relic.

Optimus: You speak to Orion Pax, I who then became Optimus Prime.

Megatron: How-

Optimus: We are one and the same. The relic merely awakens the Prime, it does not make us.

Megatron: Then we can remove it.

Optimus: Yes. Take it away. Make it be silent. Remove it before it silences me. I don't want to kill them. Please don't make me kill them...

Optimus spasmed in Grimlock's grip, his optics flaring as his voice turned to static. His plating folded away and revealed his spark quickly being smothered by the relic within him. Megatron did not waste a moment in dragging the Prime to the ground and reaching in to rip the relic out. It burned him, sending power flooding up his arm and into his frame. He screamed as his servos wrapped around the relic that was clasped around Optimus's fluttering spark. But with a burst of strength, he tore it free with an agonized scream from the Prime on the ground.

Before anyone could stop them, the Terrans hurried forward and checked on both downed mecha. Megatron got up with a few new electricity scars, but he was fine. Optimus for his part remained prone, his frame falling still. His spark still blazed, but it was weak. He was taken away and held in restraints, the Matrix boxed away and hidden until Optimus woke and they could decide what to do next.

But when he woke, Optimus was... different. He was still very much a Prime in frame and mind. He had the programming and he still remained the same in personality. However, as he recovered and revealed himself to be ordinary, no longer plagued by madness... he looked upon the Terrans differently. At first the gathered Cybertronians worried he was still maddened, but when questioned, he only had one thing to say.

"They are young, they are no threat to us. However... despite the lack of the Matrix poisoning my mind, I fear that they may not be pure. I could never harm them, not now. So if they really do become the threat the Matrix warned me of... I do not think I would have the strength to fight back."

With time, he returned to his normal activities, and the fear abated. He spoke with the Terrans normally, teaching them under supervision. He continued acting as Prime. But deep beneath the surface, he questioned.

And unbeknownst to anyone, when the Emberstone was used to restore the fallen, Optimus felt the all familiar call once more. The call that summoned him to receive the mighty relic of old. It was back, and this time, it was not loving.

He could ignore it. The call never grew stronger. But whenever he passed by the container the Matrix was held in, his spark flared in pain and fear.

It wanted him back. It still wanted the Terrans dead.

[doodle-pops]

House of Finarfin | Being In An Arranged Marriage With Them

A/N: I've been painfully pinning for more. The only thing to note once more is that all of these takes place in Valinor, in a no-darkening verse. Here's our golden-hair boys!!

Warnings: arranged marriage, dispute, resentment, feeling of loneliness and neglect, there are fluff and soft themes, love at first sight, comfort, happy-ending in Aegnor (because I have a soft spot for him, he’s my baby)

Arranged Marriage AU: Nolofinweans ver.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Finarfin

As much as Finarfin attempts to hide his disappointment, it’s visible to the point that you tremble by simply being in his presence during the hearing. You’re sitting on the opposite side of the table and he’s silent the entire time, eyes darting between glaring at his father and looking intently at you.

Truth be told, Finarfin is a gentle and wise soul and he’s aware that you’re both being forced into a situation neither of you wants to be in. He doesn’t have the heart to be rude or mean towards you. The most he would do is keep a distance until he can wrap his head around the situation.

He’ll speak with you, should you ask him questions; he’ll answer and converse. However should you remain silent, he’ll attempt to crack the ice or allow the silence to run its course. There are times when he’s torn between deciding if he should make it work or continue maintaining the distance since it was forced upon him.

As a man of respect, he’ll ask to speak privately with you, wanting to have your honest opinion on the situation and whether or not you have a secret lover on the side before deciding his moves.

“I know this was forced upon us both and neither of us is pleased, however, I’m not fond of the uncomfortable silence growing between us and would like to make something possible. But firstly, I’d like to know if there’s someone apart from me? A secret lover? If not, I would be pleased if an acquaintance could blossom between us, otherwise, I would understand and keep a respectable distance.”

If there isn’t anyone in your life and it’s just you and Finarfin, he’ll make his move to develop some sort of friendship between you both, remembering to not overstep your boundaries. A simple arm in the crook of his elbows or walking shoulder to shoulder, also practising to appear comfortable with physical affection in public.

He would harbour feelings towards his father for ruining his chance of going out there to find actual love, nevertheless, he never makes you feel unworthy of being cared for by him. Attempts at building comfort would be his priority.

Of course, not everything is sunshine and rainbows. There are moments when he is roused through his divine senses and stumbles upon your weeping figure somewhere in the house. During these moments, your vulnerability is revealed which brings you closer.

Private conversations about how neither of you believed your lives to end up this way and how much turmoil you must both face because of the new lifestyle to adapt to. Finarfin will be honest in a modest manner and admit that he also felt the same despite the friendly act, but genuinely wants something positive to blossom.

To the public eye, you two are considered the perfect example of what a couple should be like, however, behind closed doors, they aren’t aware of how troubled you both are as you’re trying to overcome obstacles and endure the arrangement.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Finrod

It comes as a massive shock to him when his father delivers the news that he must commit to the arrangement made between him and your family. Never in all of Finrod’s life, he would suspect his father of denying him a chance to find love and explore the world to settle down for an arranged marriage.

Finrod is sulky and visible displeasure is plastered across his face as he listens to arrangements being made. You on the other hand weren’t spared from his behaviour (though it wasn’t directed at you).

Of course, Finrod disagrees with everything every chance he gets which causes an issue. He’d be told to excuse the room due to obstruction and stumble out pissed as hell about the situation. Definitely the type of drink his stress away all to forget the horrible conversation of feeling like he and you were objects being sold away like cattle.

Not a great way to be introduced to your future husband, but the most you can do to set the record straight is show him you cared whether or not you were intended. You saw him as a person nonetheless and wished only the best for him. Due to this, it would change some of Finrod’s perspective of you to witness your gentle nature.

Now Finrod isn’t disrespectful towards you or anyone, only displeased at the situation. With this in mind, he will care you for like he does with anyone, however, things would be mostly kept at the friendship level for a lengthier time. For the longest period, Finrod would keep you at a great distance due to how clouded his mind and heart were at the situation before noticing that something could possibly be.

“You must forgive me if I’m dragging this…situation out longer than it should be. It’s just, that I am still unaccustomed to an occurrence like this, and to simply overlook the reasons and be merry is challenging. However, I promise to treat you with respect and kindness.”

There will be days when Finrod isn’t at home because he’s out adventuring across the lands, when he returns, he comes bearing gifts. It might not be the typical gifts you would expect from his excavation, nevertheless, he thought of you. He would do his best to involve himself in your crafts or trade, wanting to show his interest while he hopes you would reciprocate.

As time progresses, your friendship will blossom and develop your comfort around one another. Having breakfast, lunch dates and dinner would become more frequent, sharing a hug and a kiss on the hand or cheek would lack awkwardness and becoming mentally vulnerable is more common.

Marriage between you both would come soon, however, you two wouldn’t escalate your friendship into something more until years into your marriage. Finrod isn’t the type to just go with the flow when it hinders his opinions and emotions. He would prefer to ensure a secure friendship over a broken and forced romantic relationship.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Angrod

He’s the most disgruntled of them all and it is shown in the way he greets you and everyone upon learning of the news. Like his elder brother, he’s dissatisfied with the agreement his father and mother would make without his opinion. To simply drop his single life and be forced into pursuing a marriage to a complete stranger is unacceptable.

From the beginning, he’s distant. Barely speaks and acknowledges your presence, treating you as though you had some hand in arranging your marriage. Once you realise where you stood on the scale of people he despised because of this arrangement, you’d maintain your distance and only politely greet him when he was around.

If you were in the same room or table, you’d be on the opposite side unless you had to appear as a couple. Because of his distance behaviour in the beginning, it makes it impossible to accomplish anything to make it work for the public eye. All you wanted was some closure to make this work, even if it meant remaining acquaintances who understood they were victims.

You would be the one to plant your foot down, tired of being treated without an ounce of remorse and like the villain.

“Please, all I’m asking is for you to understand, I’m the same as you and I had nothing to do with it. I know you don’t like this…or me; you probably have someone else you love, but at least acknowledge I’m not the one to blame. I only want us to be relaxed, not be truly in love; friendship is also welcomed.”

He’d feel like dick for treating you like one when you’ve been trying to smooth things over with him all these months. All the days when you avoided him or didn’t speak with him were due to his unpleasantness, it would dawn on him that this was not the way he was taught to treat someone.

He’s the only person who would take forever to come around and welcome you as a so–so friend. Angrod would begin to spend mornings or lunchtimes with you, making small conversations to break the ice and see that you’re not as horrible as he assumed. This doesn’t mean he’s going to go out of his way to become an absolute gentleman; he’s still maintaining his distance.

As your days morph into weeks and months, having breakfast, lunch and dinner becomes a norm, and stepping into public also. He would have mastered being composed holding you closely and defending you should anyone ill–talk about you. At times, he would catch himself slipping away into a hearty conversation as though you’ve been longtime buddies.

There is awkwardness and tension still present all the way into your marriage, yet, as he progresses into understanding your stance and opinion on the situation, he slowly becomes vulnerable.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Aegnor

Disappointed at the news but slightly intrigued by who he’s being paired with to spend the rest of his life. There’s a gloomy atmosphere over him as he’s sitting beside his parents, listening to them prattle forever about the joys of uniting the family while he’s listening for any clues to determine your identity.

Profanities and problems are arising the same way his elder brother Finrod did; complaining and throwing everyone off with their speech to have them say the wrong words so that he could get out of the arrangement.

It’s only after the meeting is over and he’s allowed the privacy of being introduced to you, that his frown flips upside down at the sight of how beautiful his spouse is. He’s spellbound and frozen in his spot as you come over to introduce yourself, entirely enthralled and compliments you immediately without being aware.

What a perfect way to break the tension and fear you were experiencing during the entire planning. Aegnor washes everything away with his charming smile and youthful persona as he feels light on his feet, falling in love.

“You are too beautiful to be my spouse; you would steal my spotlight which I have no hesitation in giving. I fear it is I who is unfit for this arrangement, I do not entirely appear suitable to be your husband. You deserve someone who is equally stunning and handsome as you are, Your Grace.”

I hate to say it, but he’s a hopeless romantic and would be the only sibling to fall head over heels in love you with over the duration of time leading to your wedding. Spending breakfast, lunch, dinner and all his spare time learning the most about you. All the anger that he had during the preparations has dissipated and he’s all about romance and being appreciative.

If there was any rumour about him hating the idea of being in an arranged marriage circulating, he shut it down and made it clear that such words were never spoken and ceased to exist. He’s a grateful ellon proud to have you as his spouse.

Of all his siblings and even his father, Aegnor would be the one to make this arrangement a success, being the first to fall in love and truly pursue a genuine relationship. He doesn’t attempt the friendship path like everyone else, he dives directly into the fire.

Respectful of your personal space and wouldn’t encroach unless you initiate hand–holding or bestowing a kiss to his cheek (he’ll turn tomato if you do so). All physical interactions are lovingly returned; full of meaning and he’ll throw in a ‘My love’ at the end of each.

There isn’t much to worry about when it comes to this arrangement between you and Aegnor. He’ll maintain any annoyance he has away from the relationship, wanting to make it work because he sees that you’re trying. He comes to your defence and stands up to anyone ill–treating you.

Masterlist

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[bestworstcase]

penny was the winter maiden for two days.

ozma has been reincarnating for centuries, if not thousands of years.

assuming that the maiden cycle depends on the exact same metaphysical process (which is in itself textually uncertain, given that the maidens are non-conscious entities said to separate from the host’s aura at death and cleave to another whereas ozma’s reincarnation works by combination of his aura with another—as described, these are explicitly different mechanisms, and because the different outcome of the two cycles (one overwrites the host, one doesn’t) are explained by this difference in mechanism, i see no real reason to question the overtly-stated differences in what is happening when a maiden finds a new host vs when ozma is bound to one), the notion that penny could have—in two days—achieved some mastery over the reincarnation process that has eluded ozma for, again, thousands of years, is… nonsense?

it’s the most grasping-at-straws out of a lot of very straw-grasping penny 3.0 theories and the premise is, more or less, “ozma has been needlessly murdering his hosts for thousands of years because he’s too stupid to realize that he doesn’t have to do that.”

when like. ok. listen to me.

in the lost fable, ozma takes control within seconds of landing in the new guy’s head. he’s not able to answer the question “what’s your name,” because he doesn’t know. jinn talks about ozma traveling for years before seeking out salem. he’s with her for years; they found a kingdom and have children. through all of this time, there is nothing to suggest that ozma has another presence in his head—until his reflection speaks to him, and he physically recoils in pure shock.

i think, when this began, there was no “merge.” ozma just landed in someone’s head and erased them, almost completely, right away.

in v8, oscar says he doesn’t like using magic because it makes the “merge” happen faster, and oz answers “i don’t blame you.”

many lifetimes ago, ozma either divided his magic or carved the divine blessings out of his soul and gave them to four young women who had helped him. the maidens persist as non-conscious entities who confer magical powers upon their host without, in any way, corrupting or taking over the host consciousness. meanwhile oscar is still holding on—by his fingernails, perhaps, but he’s still alive and himself—and he feels that using magic erodes him faster.

do the math.

at some point, ozma worked out that the divine magic he carried was killing his hosts, leaving behind just a reflection that monitored him to keep him in line. so he tried to get rid of it, by giving portions of that magic away, and it worked, even if not to the extent he might have hoped. the maidens are ozma’s best effort at sparing the lives of his hosts.

(reading between the lines of how oz phrases it to the kids—“i reincarnate, but my memories stay with me”—in combination with his obvious projection of his own suicidality onto salem? i’d bet that ozma was hoping to destroy his own consciousness when he did this, too, so that his future hosts would receive his remaining powers and inherit the task but not him.)

it’s a mistake to look at the resigned acceptance ozpin has now and assume that it’s representative of how ozma has always felt about his curse; the whole point of him as a character is that he’s been ground down and slowly corrupted in the gristmill of this curse over thousands of years.

and it’s also, frankly, a mistake to take penny clocking blake as a faunus because she saw blake’s ears through the bow in infrared or penny figuring out that ruby can carry people with her semblance after 1. ruby flew with penny in volume two and 2. several months of ruby demonstrating abilities in training that she’s been doing since v4 without consciously registering that she’s doing them, like splitting to go around obstacles, to mean that penny is uniquely insightful or good at “figuring things out” in general. she has superhuman sensory capabilities (infrared vision, aura-scanning) that give her an advantage in perception of certain situations, and she’s fairly book-smart.

that doesn’t make her capable of solving ozma’s Divine Curse after sitting with the maiden powers for Two Days in a war zone. lmfao

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

WIP definitely not Wednesday!

Hi, hi, hello, it's been a long time since I last did a WIP Whenever, but I wrote a lot today and I'm quite happy with myself! Things have been quite hectic currently, but words are finally word-ing so I'm grasping the chance to share a lil' something about ch22 of TPATD...👀

They lie there in silence, as still as a held breath, for what feels like forever. Miraak could stay beside her this way as long as she wanted him, till the rain ceased, till the sun came out again, or not at all. Or—or he could tell her stories from his childhood, those long nights in Atmora before the frost set in. He could tell her about roaming through Frostwood Forest, guided only by the moonlight that carved a ghostly path ahead of him; with shadows, both eerie and fantastic, lurking behind the dense cypresses and spruces that inspired him to spin epic sagas in his head and sing the fear away. He could recount how he found his shelter upon the snow, just as he does now with her, gazing up at the sky and counting the stars, always searching for the Lodestar that’d guide him home. He could describe how his own father sent him to hunt for the family in that unforgiving wilderness, ignoring—or perhaps choosing to ignore—that a boy greener than summer’s grass would likely fall prey to nature’s violence and never find his way back to Jylkurfyk. Tonight, he’d tell her anything. For her, he would at least try; no matter how it hurts—how it hurts to remember. But Jia rises to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. The rain and snow have soaked her through her garments, and wet strands of red hair cling to her forehead and cheeks like open wounds. After a little while, Miraak stands up with her. The relentless thunderstorm doesn’t spare him either, but it does little to physically affect him, as the First Dragonborn’s skin is more than resilient to it—it’s made by it. He’s unsure, when he unfastens his cloak and approaches her from behind until he stands tall above her shoulders, for the way she shrinks, jostling her head to the side to check the soft crunch of the sleet underfoot, is the blatant tell of her lingering turmoil. One small step more, and he freezes—her cold body trembles against his chest, yet she doesn’t otherwise pull away. Instead, she remains there, quietly seeking any warmth she can find and shivering helplessly. The little fool is too proud to ask for it aloud. As if a confirmation to his doubts, his arms instantly enfold around her, pulling her close as his cloak cascades over her, and he holds her there, his hands balled into fists upon her bosom. A shaky sigh escapes her when she senses his faint silvery stubble grazing her damp cheekbone, his voice murmuring in her ear—deep and rhythmic as always, like the chime of ancient church bells, so much so that when they sound, it feels like she converses with a God. “This... is no mere storm,” he tells her like he could divine the scrolls of the heavens right this very minute. “This is a growing rage that has been building up for a long, long time, and it had to be unleashed all within an hour. These clouds—racing wild across the sky and pouring out of their bellies all this rainstorm—are but rags torn by the hand of a wrathful god.” Her resolve begins to falter, the cracks in her armor showing. His gaze shifts to her, and he speaks in the language of their souls: “You have been brave tonight, soul of my soul. But you need to pretend no more... Not with me.”

Poor Jiraak... They truly live up to their "Soggy Kittens™" name with all this thunderstorm drenching them both... It's okay though, it's hot.

Okay, so, I'm tagging: @kiir-do-faal-rahhe, @thequeenofthewinter,

@miraakulous-cloud-district, @oblivions-dawn,

@blossom-adventures, @hircines-hunter and everyone who wishes to share something—don't forget to tag me back so I can see it! 💖 No pressure of course!