character info!
derian rodriquez, twenty, he/him. a ballet dancer, before being kidnapped by the wainwrights. hard to get along with, but he really does just want people to care about him.
nicolas wainwright, twenty-six, he/him. a serial killer, because it's fun. otherwise he works as a photographer, in which he is also a creep. but his only crimes are murder, promise.
ophelia wainwright, twenty-one, she/her. a serial killer, partially because it satiates a need, partially because it's fun. nicolas introduced the idea to her, but she probably would've started without his influence. mostly tortures derian for kicks.
charlie aikyō, twenty-one, he/she. an artist, mostly a painter, and derian's sort of partner. their relationship was fraught, to say the least, so charlie wasn't surprised when derian disappeared. only when, after a month, he didn't reappear again. charlie is trying to move on with her life, convincing herself he just finally left her, but she has a nagging feeling that isn't it.
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imagine asking wade if he still likes you when he’s literally inside you LMAOOO I just know he’d be so flabbergasted
i know a normal people fan when i see one (18+, fluff)
but jokes aside, and dicks inside, wade would likely get whiplash; his head turning so fast he can hear a crack in his neck, staring at you like you're crazy because just seconds ago you'd been running your gentle hands over his skin. your fingers brush against the divots of his scarred skin, your cheek pressed to his chest, humming softly, close enough that your lashes tickle whenever you blink.
wade's a little out of breath, sticky with sweat, and miraculously, rendered speechless. to others, a rarity, but with you, while still rare, is more frequent, especially after sex.
sure, he drops a joke or two, but there is a window where wade likes to sit there, holding you, skin against skin, in silence; listening to the sounds of your shaky breaths as you come down from your high, the sounds of the bedsheets ruffling with slow movements from the both of you, even the sounds of the old crackly fan on his ceiling.
and so, in that small window of silence, the two of you lay there in a warm embrace, listening to each other's heartbeats as wade's dick slowly softens inside you.
but then that small window starts to close, the silence breaking with you. you shift, turning to press your chin against wade's chest while looking up at him, "hey," you whisper, a smile growing against your lips.
"hi," he whispers back to you, but he continues to stare at the window, watching the soft light of the rising sun peeking in through the white lace curtains you picked out, a part of you in the dingy apartment he shared with blind al.
"we've officially gone at it all night. fucking like rabbits. and i can't believe i'm saying this but, i'm fucking spent. i might need a few weeks to recover. i asked for a bone and you threw a whole skeleton at me, peanut."
you snort, rolling your eyes, "yeah, right."
"okay, fine, a week is too long." wade hums, he finds your hair and runs his hand over it, twirling a strand around his finger, "i'll be good as new by tonight or at least by the time you scroll to read another fic of me, of course."
you're still staring at him, and wade, ever the observant, notices. he shifts, sits up, holds onto your waist, and brings you up with him. you have to bite your tongue to hold back a moan, sensitive to the way he's touching you, the way his dick keeps you full.
wade raises his brows (or at least, where his brows would be), "what? is there something on my face? i know i'm ugly but i thought we were past that. your staring is making me a little self conscious, sweetbuns."
"wade?"
"yes, cupcake?"
"do you like me?"
"what-?" he stares at you, eyes wide and nearly popping out of his head. "do i- what? what the fuck kind of stupid ass fuck ass question is that? you think i don't like you? we literally fucked all night. literally did every position in the book. i let you peg me! you might be the only person on earth that matches my freak-"
"yeah, i know but-"
"bitch, i'm literally still inside you."
that's when you can't help but laugh, grinning against his neck when he wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer. you love the way his body emits warmth, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer like you want to live inside his skin.
wade holds you, his cheek pressing against the top of your head. and he groans loudly when you say, "you never answered my question."
"oh my god," he huffs dramatically, "of course i fucking like you. like no shit."
"okay, great. i was just making sure."
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My love for Benoit Blanc knows no bounds. He's just some guy, he's a genius, he's the new Poirot, he encourages women to speak their mind at people who screw them over, he hates rich people, he's married to malewife Hugh Grant, he dresses like a 70s queer man with access to online shopping, he has no consistent accent other than Vaguely American Southern, he can solve any mystery, he cannot win Among Us, and I would marry the hell out of him him if I wasn't a lesbian and he wasn't a gay dude.
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