#smooth and fully idli

[trappolia]

SUNDAY IS FOR REST ── sunday x halovian!reader, 918

"do be careful, my dove," he murmurs as you straighten out the light feathers behind his ear.

"you haven't preened yourself in a while, have you?" your voice is soft, a hint of chiding to it that makes his heart flutter — there's a groggy rasp to your tone as well, having just stirred from your own dreams. sunday dares not look back at you, for there is a sweet domesticity to be found in the impression of rumpled bedsheets against your cheek and the heavy-lidded eyelids that make it known that you would love nothing more than to go back to sleep — proper sleep.

a hum resonates in sunday's chest as he allows himself to be fully immersed in the moment; early morning, messy hair and feathers, the sleepy press of lip against lip. his head tilts to the side, allowing greater access for you to tidy the feathers in question.

"you are correct. there's no need for me to do such preening in the dreamscape, though i prefer it when you offer your generous help," he replies, a mix of contentment and fondness pervading his voice.

"i'll help you only if you stay still," you grumble. your hands, which were straightening out his feathers, are now hovering just above them as sunday tries very hard not to shift in place again.

he cannot help it, truly. it is not just the factor that sunday is unused to, well, anyone touching something as intimate as his halovian wings, but also the fact that the slightest brush of your skin against his is a sensation like no other.

not that he would ever tell you, of course.

sunday nods, a silent affirmation that he will try his best to remain still, although a trace of a smile dances upon his lips. as you resume tending to his wings, each brush of your fingers brings a newfound appreciation for the sensation of your touch. he can feel the slight tingle, akin to electricity, every time your skin makes contact with his wings.

"my apologies," he murmurs, a chuckle slipping past his lips — as if he is not willing his chest to rise and fall rhythmically, having to manually breathe under your intimate ministrations. "i shall endeavour my utmost to be an inanimate statue. your wish is my command."

"haha," you say dryly.

in spite of your tone, sunday cannot help but chuckle at your jest. a cruel man he is, to find amusement in your grumpiness in the early morn. your nimble fingers gently untangle his feathers, and the sensation is a mix of tingles and warmth that spread across his wings. the act of having someone, especially someone he holds in such high esteem, tend to these parts of him that are reserved for only the most intimate moments is endearing, to say the least.

as you work, your movements deliberate and precise, your lover muses softly, "only you could make tending to feathers feel like a luxury."

"it is a luxury when you are not the one doing it yourself," you huff, hands moving around with practiced ease: smoothing a feather here, tugging a broken one out there.

sunday's chest rumbles with barely suppressed laughter at your huff of annoyance, but he remains true to his word and does all he can to keep still. his skin feels electrified with each brush of your touch, even more potent than before, and he wonders idly if it's because he's aware of how much effort you're taking in taking care of him. he is always the one caring and fussing, rather than being cared for and fussed over. it is strange, for the tables to be turnt. strange, had it been anyone else but you.

"perhaps," he manages to say between bouts of laughter, reaching back to catch one of your wrists and presses a chaste kiss upon it. "we could make a habit of this."

"is it truly proper of the head of the oak family to make a habit of keeping himself less than pristine?" you murmur.

how embarrassing; the passing thought occurs to sunday at your words. indeed, it is unbecoming for him, who stands at a position of such power and authority, to be so unkempt, so careless around you. it feels… freeing.

and so his response is a gentle tug upon your wrist, guiding your arms to wrap around his shoulders and link with his fingers. with a smile full of affection and a touch of teasing, he gently brushes his thumb over the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger.

"i am simply indulging in the pleasure of being cared for," he answers in that same gentle rumble. "and if that means i am a tad bit less than pristine as a result, so be it."

"i suppose so," you hum, and from where sunday sits in between your legs, he feels you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder. your own wings tickle his cheek, like a lover's kiss in the early morning. "preen me next?"

a low rumble resonates somewhere deep in his chest at the feeling of your breath against his neck. the closeness you've allowed between you is not something sunday takes lightly, and he relishes in it with every beat of his heart.

"with pleasure," he answers, unable to help the upwards tug of his lips as he squeezes your palms.

"let me take care of you, my dove — as you do to me."

© trappolia 2024

[leclsrc]

in so deep ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, charles has a huge crush and is a lovesick bloke, smut, humor, Fluff 

word count: 13.1k  

It takes you many cities, a botched Halloween costume and a failed break-in to realize how much Charles likes you. It takes Charles several years to realize he doesn’t need to do much to have you like him back. title from this

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise central, size kink, unprotected sex

auds here… thank u for all ur love during my periods of being awol .... i wrote this over the course of a week and i hope u all like it!!! its very much a self indulgent thing... :P

The first time Charles realized he liked you, you were both posed for a picture.

It happened at a dinner party in London, in late autumn, thrown by you to celebrate your first year on the paddock as a reporter. Few friends had been invited but, with how noisy everyone was and with the ease of conversation, it felt like a houseful of people in your narrow dining area. Lando was in front of the mirror, tipsy, demonstrating his best rendition of an Irish accent to a genuinely interested Alex and Lily. 

Max was playing with your pet cat, Gene Kelly, and mentally plotting a heist to sneak him out with Pierre’s help. Your boyfriend, Liam, was making himself a cocktail. And Lewis had been roaming around with a glass of dry wine and his brand new film camera to document the night’s festivities—but the host was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to everyone, full off dinner and tipsy off cocktails, you’d ducked into the balcony to find where Charles had run off to for the night.

The music was muffled when you shut the door, leaving it ajar just a little bit. Lissie had played Cocteau Twins and was singing whatever gibberish lyrics played, fully drunk off a bottle of Tito’s. Still laughing over her predicament, you turned to Charles and refocused your attention on him. Is it boring?

What w… what is? He asked, turning to you. Briefly his eyes flitted to your hand, the bracelets clasped onto your wrist. He noticed you held matching bottles of beer but yours remained full, nail tapping idly on the semi-opaque glass.

My party, you responded wryly, cocking your head to the side. A loose tendril of hair fell over your eye and he itched to tuck it back in place, thumb over your ear. You continued, still pressing for an answer. You left to smoke but you didn’t come back. 

I like the view. A half-lie but truthful in some way. He squinted to try and make out blurry, faraway signage. I should move here. Monaco makes me sick. He tried to say it jokingly, but was betrayed by the raw tone of his voice. You hummed quietly, to signify you were listening.

So move. Who’s stopping you? You smiled slightly. Aside from your ludicrous career, of course. 

You had a natural disposition of—something. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, almost like the rest of him had yet to catch up with something only his heart was already decided on. You spoke and acted with some kind of smoothness that only the most popular kids in secondary school could have reins over, but you always claimed you weren’t very popular in your teenage years. He just knew he liked hearing you talk, watching you smile. He felt something—but he didn’t want to name it even if he knew exactly what it was. Instead he played into your joke. Yeah, I’ve been told I should move to Dubai instead, become a prince.

You laughed aloud. You are terribly unfunny, you know that?

Am I? He asked. Just then, as the cotton of his tee brushed against your bare shoulder, Liam brashly tugged the balcony door open to find you. He had this drunk smile on his face, brushing his blond hair out of the way and raising a Leica to the two of you.

Hey, I got Lewis’ camera. Smile, Liam had said, eyes squinted behind it. You remained still, half-turned to the camera, and Charles gave a smile whereas you remained in a neutral, half-smiling pose. And right there, at that very moment, as a giggle escaped your lips from having to pose so quickly and even awkwardly, Charles realized with a damning force that he had a massive crush on you.

Liam had left shortly after to resume taking pictures, but would later confront you over your “weird, odd, fucking closeness with the Monegasque bloke” that you would vehemently deny despite a gut-churning feeling boiling low in your stomach. But that’s later. Your conversation continued calmly, along the passive whir of London and the streets below. You both people-watched as you thought of things to say—finally Charles said, Are you interviewing me next weekend?

I always try to get out of it when it’s with you. You rolled your eyes, feigning irritance, then smiled to break the illusion. I think so.

I’ll make sure I have good answers. You’re too smart. Hurts to be in the same room. 

Like you aren’t, you said back, but the rebuttal is shy in nature, like he struck you with a compliment so high you couldn’t bear to return it. He felt then like this was the kind of moment where you would start holding hands any minute, timid touches between clinks of bottles. He remembered Liam existed and screwed his eyes shut. He wished so hard to be able to kiss you. Abandon all sense and just kiss you.

—

“It’s 2023 and still London has the most rubbish ass, fucking cunt, stupid wanker stoplights,” Lissie huffs beside you, checking her watch. “Right then. We’re going to be late. You know how Lando is when people are late. Especially because this is his event.”

“We’re not people to Lando,” you reason, tapping the steering wheel. The ETA on your navigation app tells you you’re still twenty minutes away. “We’re his best friends. If he can’t forgive us, we should kick him out of the group chat.”

“Ooh, and add Alex,” Lily pipes up from the backseat, where she’s redoing her eyeshadow to pass the time. “I keep telling you guys he’s funnier than Lando.” Both you and Lissie make faint, vague sounds of dissent and she grunts again, deflating.

“No boyfriends in the group chat,” Lissie repeats an age-old rule that’s been around for as long as you three (four, including Lando) have been friends. “Or girlfriends, in Lando’s case, but we haven’t worried about that much, have we?”

You’re all en route to watch Lando crank out a brand-new deejay set, one he’s spent the summer break working on. It’s all house and inspired by beach music, and he’s very proud of it, so of course you’re all showing up to laud him. You’re not the only ones, though, apparently—whoever’s in the city is showing up to show their support, which includes a whole stretch of drivers.

“Oh, my God!” Lily says all of a sudden, eyes wide at something on her phone; you both gesture for her to show you and she does with speed. “Do you guys remember this? God, Instagram archives are a godsend.”

“Your dinner party in Chelsea!” Lissie coos, immediately sidling into a fond awwww! You tap at the story Lily had then posted: a video of everybody eating. You tap again to view the one she posted a few days later, which was a collage of Lewis’ camera scans he’d gotten developed overnight. There in the upper right corner, you almost immediately spot your photo with Charles.

“Oh, Christ, that picture.” Memories of your subsequent arguments with Liam flash past your head. Playfully, all you say is, “And I never had a boyfriend again.”

“Liam was an Irish arse, anyway.” Lissie scoffs. “Nobody liked him. Lewis joked about cleaning his camera after he used it that night. Plus, you actively avoid dating, so don’t complain.”

“Fair,” you say with a slight smile. Your mind lingers on the picture, the imprint of it burned fresh into your mind. 

“You—it’s also because you can’t take a hint, babe.” Lily says matter-of-factly. “Who knows how many guys have, you know… fancied, or, like, had crushes on you, and you just never knew?”

“Are you saying somebody fancies me?” You ask, voice whittling out playfully as your eyes count down the seconds to the green light.

Funnily, silence is all that answers. Beside you, Lily and Lissie exchange a look—one that communicates their years-long amusement over your cluelessness. You whirl back to them, eyebrows raised, and double down: “Wait. Does somebody fancy me?”

“No!” Lily ekes out; you don’t miss Lissie’s poorly-hidden laugh. “No. I’m just—it’s just—no.” 

Truth is, it truly seems like the only person in the entire paddock (team and Sky Sports staff included) who hasn’t caught on to a certain somebody’s boyish crush is the crush herself, oblivious as ever, even years and years later. One might think you’d have realized eventually, but perhaps owed to your type A personality and immersion with work, and Charles’ pathetic and total inability to express how much he likes you, the crush has always remained just that, despite your two friend groups’ best efforts to hint at it.

It wasn’t to say, though, that you didn’t sometimes entertain the idea of liking him, too. On that one rainy race weekend when he’d brought you a plastic cup of soup, and embarrassed, laughed sheepishly at Lissie’s joking request for one; then returned twenty minutes later with soup for everyone in the media pen. Or that time in Monaco where he’d pretended to be your boyfriend at a bar to ward off a creepo from hitting on you any further. Or another time, in Budapest, when he’d drank half his body weight in jello shots and slurred out a goofy, heavy I’m soooo sorry, baby while you helped him into the passenger seat of his car.

That one, singular time in Cancun you told your friends once and never again.

But those are isolated incidents, you suppose; plus, dating someone you work with has never seemed like a remotely good idea to you, and you don’t think it ever will.

For all your thinking on the topic, you fail to realize that you don’t know much at all—you don’t know the fact that Charles has liked you for years, after getting to know just how charming and funny you were as a friend. You don’t know that he still gets gut-churning butterflies when he sees you, hands shaky and face tinged pink. You miss the fact that he’s not had any long-term partners in the years of his liking you. You don’t know anything. 

“Don’t lie.” You narrow your eyes as you rev the car and continue the trip. 

“We’re not,” Lily says loudly and a touch too defensively, crossing her fingers. Quietly, she continues, “You should just pay more attention.”

Whatever she meant to say is lost on you as soon as you make a left and spot the club Lando’s at, already teeming with high-profile guests and their high-profile cars. Half an hour later you’re in—valet and being on the guest list effectively cuts your entrance time in half. You separate at the entrance—you, to find Lando; your two girls, to find your reserved table. You find him eventually, busy behind the booth churning out high-frequency tropical music; he pauses for half a beat to flash a huge grin and a thumbs-up before redirecting his attention to the knobs and sliders you can’t seem to guess the functions of.

These kinds of parties are affairs in and of themselves. They mimic the afterparties during the season—nothing if not shows of opulence and networking: champagne paid for by business magnates, yachts that barely make dents in anybody’s wallets, thick CVs, fruity cocktails spilled on pieces of clothing that cost upward of 3000 pounds. You make eye contact with at least seven skeevy businessmen before you spot your friends, but only because you hear them first—by them you mean Lissie, her loud voice raised even more to match the noise at this club.

“I said I didn’t fu—ugh—I don’t want ye fahkin’ champagne,” she slurs out to an old man in a pressed suit, eyebrows knitted angrily. “Got it?!” Behind her, Lily and Alex (who’s arrived now, apparently) watch, concerned and helpless to stop her but equally (perhaps more) entertained.

You step closer and make a move to calm down the exchange taking place, but somebody whispers a “hey” in your ear and startles you. You turn, and come face to face with Charles. His black tee accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, which you connect to his crossed arms; there’s a shy, boyish grin playing on his face. “Oh, Charles!” You smile. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, straining to raise his voice. “You look—you look well. Are you alone?”

“No, I’m—” You turn to your three friends nearby, and to Lissie’s argument heating up. “I actually have to go.” You raise your thumb, jabbing it toward them. “But hi again… again!” You both laugh, but he laughs much louder. “I’ll see you around.”

“I jus—” He says, and you stick around for a second to hear him say what he has to say.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat and laughs stiffly, abandoning his previous statement in favor of a new one. “I just…. want… to have a great time.”

“Ohhhh,” you holler, nodding, clearly trying to mask your extreme confusion under a polite smile. “Okay, well… go ahead!”

You smooth down your dress and laugh again, evidently more forced but, unfortunately for Charles, not any less pretty.

You carry yourself in a very pretty, graceful way, loud and quiet at the same time, like your confident voice when you’re holding the mic and asking questions or making drivers laugh. He might sound creepy, though, a touch too observant, if he tells you so. He observes you instead, for a second, the low cut of your dress and the way the red overhead light shines on your exposed collarbones—and then you’re leaving. He watches you walk over to hug Lily, realizes how stupid he’s sounded, and smothers a hand over his face, humiliated. 

—

“I just want to have a great time?” Max’s jaw drops and he shakes his head, disappointed above all else. “Charles, what the actual. Like…. fuck?” They’re all camped out at the latter’s hotel room, around the dining table, in varying states of sober and doing different things to wear off the last hour of the night before they’re all due to train or debrief again in the morning. Charles had relayed the disaster of the night to everyone at some point, but Max is the last to hear of it; this, unfortunately, does not inoculate him from the shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“Pierre told me to—” Charles starts, forlorn.

“Oi, no. I told you to say something like I just wish… I’d seen you sooner,” interjects the Frenchman with a tut. “You know, flirting? Not… whatever the fuck you said.”

“I didn’t—I was—I lost my mind,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. It couldn’t possibly be entirely his fault when you looked so pretty tonight, hair down and a wash of glitter on your eyelids. Just subtle little flecks of them. They brought out your eyes, too. And your blush, the pink flush of it that sat high on your cheekbones.

“…llo? Charles.” He blinks and sees Carlos’ deep eyes, wide and staring right at him, so pointedly he’s genuinely startled.

“Jeeesus fucking Christ. What?” He places a melodramatic hand over his chest. “Yeah?”

“What do you mean with the”—Carlos mimics his confused expression—“I asked you a question, tonto.” 

“Don’t bother with him,” chimes in Pierre, half-distracted by his phone. He looks up with a devious smile and continues. “He’s still thinking of Miss Reporter of the Year.” A round of loud, jovial laughter makes its way across the table, a few teasing quips being chimed in here and there.

“I just,” mocks Pierre from across the table, adopting a sing-songy tone as he bumps his shoulder to Carlos’ with a mocking laugh. “Wanna have a great time.” His voice is much higher and more mocking, which is enough to send Charles into a fit of petulant embarrassment.

“This isn’t sixth year,” he grits out quietly, but the blush on his face could just as well be plastered on the cheeks of a twelve-year-old. “Give it a rest.” 

“Mate.” Pierre’s voice mellows into something more austere. “You do know she’s leaving the reporters’ job at the end of the season? She’s going to London full-time. No more seeing her all year round. You know this. And I keep telling you. If you are really, and I mean really, interested, I say go for it. C’est la fucking vie, yeah?”

“Plus, if she says no, you can go for pretty much anyone else, anyway,” concludes Max with a convinced smile.

“It’s not the same,” he admits helplessly, smothering his hands over his face in bleak frustration. Behind his eyelids he sees you still, beautiful and smiling and funny—he seriously needs to institutionalise himself before he goes even more mad with the years-long malady he’s called a crush. And seriously, for a twenty-something to have something he calls a crush is despicable in itself. He feels juvenile.

“I can’t tell her. She’s always told people that dating coworkers is a bad idea.”

“You’re not coworkers.”

“We’re—well, we still work closely together. It is the same.” He groans. “It’s just… I’ve said it before. If I admit I like her, things will become awkward. I’d rather we remain friends.”

“Well… see, nobody said you needed to tell her,” begins Pierre schemingly, eyebrows raising. Around them, everybody groans at the birth of another Pierre-brained scheme that will, no doubt, need the enlistment of everyone’s help and will likely end in disaster. “What?! I’m just offering… I’m just saying, mate—you’ve liked her since forever. Why not make a move?”

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?” 

“Pierre,” groans Carlos, ever the voice of reason, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—whatever this is you’re planning, it’s going to go to shit. I swear.”

“You are acting like I plan to take somebody hostage.” Pierre shrugs. “You know, girls like when you don’t tell them straight up. You have to show you like them. You know, be interested in the things they’re interested in, compliment them, make them laugh. And then they think, oh, how thoughtful, oh, how adorable, and before you know it, they like you. And you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Mmm. Uh-uh. Untrue.” Max says decisively, shaking his head. “I told Kelly I liked her.”

“Yeah, sí. I told Isa I liked her, too.”

“Will you two—just—” Pierre gesticulates and makes a funny noise that insinuates just go with it. “Okay?” he points out to the latter, rolling his eyes. He turns back to Charles with a ready, dazzling, so-French-it’s-scary grin and continues. “I suggest you let us be your wingmen and help you charm her.”

“Whoa, whoa, wh—us? You’re on your own here,” Max quips with a laugh. “It’s your stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s going to work. She probably likes you already.” His confidence carries the lie with gusto. “We just need—you just need to show her instead of saying the dumbest shit to her face.” Pierre leans back into his chair and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Max and I will be regular wingmen, but we have a secret weapon.”

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

“Yes. Lando, Lily, and Lissie are all close to her, eh? Well, perfect—Carlos will get information from Lando about things she likes, you gift her those things or talk to her about them, bam she’s in love. It’s literally a perfect plan.”

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

“No.” Charles shakes his head firmly, setting the record straight. “This will not work. Who’s to say she even needs a boyfriend?”

—

Despite what his best and closest friends—on and off the paddock—might have you believe, Charles hasn’t always been so hopeless when it came to trying to catch your heart. His closest call came in Cancun, after a long weekend of racing and a flight to the area, early into the night where he thought he was the only one who decided to opt out of partying.

Your skin’s peeling. You turned from where you sat on a barstool observing the shore, startled, immediately relaxing when you found him standing there eyeing you. Your hair was still damp, crunchy with saltwater, and your skin had tanned considerably, a sunburn sitting on the bridge of your nose. You stuck your tongue out.

I spent the whole day swimming. He observed your bikini, yellow and green contrasting the colour of your skin. He blinked slowly, ordering himself a drink to hopefully pass the thoughts away. His eyes couldn’t stop, though, wandering, the translucent material of the scarf you’d tied loosely around your hips, the tinge of heat on your shoulders and nose. I’m burnt everywhere.

There are remedies for that. He smiled around his glass.

I’m aware, you said lightly, crossing your legs and sliding your finger along the salt rim of yours. But just in case I forgot, maybe you could refresh my memory.

Your voice was so sweet, so low, so tempting. Already he knew he was wrapped around your finger, the same finger picking up grains of salt to press on your tongue peeking between your smiling lips. You brought your glass to your lips. It had been some time since the dinner in London so he pressed, his voice deep and a little rough, Liam can do that for you, I’m sure.

Pity, you said meekly as you set your glass down and looked back at him. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Out of eyeline, the bartender’s eyes widened at the exchange he was overhearing. 

Is it a pity? He asked, leaning backwards and cocking his head to the side. It’s easy, an easy glide of conversation, flirt, something he’s wanted for a while now. To have you playing into him, and have himself playing into you, just like this. It was naturally easy in a foreign city where nobody knew who either of you were, where you were just two strangers flirting at a beachside bar.

Two strangers laughing while they dug their toes into the sand. Two strangers basking in the water, tinted orange by the sun dipping below the horizon, scarf untied in favor of one last swim before night fell. There was nothing keeping either of you from doing whatever you wanted. Nothing keeping Charles from finally acting on the attraction that honest to God crushed him.

You ended up leaning on the door of your hotel room, keycard fiddled in-between your sandy fingers. You combed a hand through your hair and offered a shy smile. So. 

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

Sooo. You were laughing and your breath smelled like a mint leaf and vodka. You looked up at him, blinking slowly. I have a rule.

What rule is that?

I don’t date coworkers. He wanted to dip down, place a hand on the dip of your waist, and kiss you.

Pity, he said gruffly instead, a smile forming on his face.

Is it a pity? You chewed on your lip and looked at his barely parted ones, pink and pretty. When I’m about to break it? He was about to help you do just that—eyes fluttered shut already—when a crash resounded from down the hall and you both turned to find the culprit. You broke apart and with your separation, whatever atmosphere of tension you’d built up popped, too, leaving you awkwardly standing beside each other.

Oh m… Lissie? You asked, leaning closer as you recognized your friend more and more. You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl crawl her way through the carpeted floor. Oh, Jesus—let’s—get you—

You both hauled her up and wrapped either arm around your shoulders, unlocking her hotel room with great effort and tossing her onto the bed. You stood back and sighed at her half-blacked out state, slightly amused but ultimately relieved she ended her night unscathed.

She pried one eye open and sleepily, she groaned out, what were… you two… doing together outside your room?

Nothing, you said quickly, face warm and eyes wide.

Because you—Lissie raised a lazy finger in your direction—don’t date coworkers. 

I wasn’t—it wasn’t—goodnight, you spluttered, eyes refusing to meet Charles’ even as you both exited the room, paying him quiet thanks as he pulled the door back closed.

Sorry, you said, pretty as ever. The light shone on the red splotch on your nose. Goodnight.

And so he went to his room that night, bummed out and still high off your scent.

—

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” he lies through his teeth, averting his eyes away from your figure by the shore. Sue him if he was staring (which he wasn’t… but most definitely was) but he finds you much too pretty. After the disaster that was the Mexican GP, he figures he could use some sort of stress reliever. Apparently he was not alone in thinking this, considering half the paddock hauled ass to Cancun and prompty partied.

Across Charles, Joris and Pierre share a knowing look that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I said I’m not!”

“So you are not staring at her blue swimsuit then?” Joris tests, mouth twisted into a devious smirk. “It’s black,” Charles says matter-of-factly before catching sight of his friends’ smug expressions and realizing he’s implicated himself. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, petulantly almost. “And I wasn’t. Can you fucking—fuck off?”

“Just ask her out already,” Pierre groans, nodding when Joris chimes in with agreement of his own. “I seriously can-not handle another bar of this shit. It’s been years.”

“I don’t know how to,” he laments. “It’s going to be awkward if I do it all formal, and she’s going—she’ll laugh at me, and it’s…” He blows a raspberry. “Non. Pointless.”

“Just kiss her at the party,” reasons Joris with an easy attitude, shrugging. 

“Joris! Charles didn’t know about that,” Pierre says, trying to lower his volume, but it’s pointless since they’re barely a metre apart. “Fucking tattletale.”

“Party?!” Charles repeats, eyes wide. “Why don’t I know about a party?!”

“It’s a Halloween party,” Joris says, a wacky grin on his face. “And you said it yourself, didn’t ‘cha? You told us not to tell you if any functions were happening because you’re too tired to go to any. Too… too wrapped up racing.” He laughs. “Or something of the sort.”

“Well the season’s ending,” he huffs, wringing firm fingers over his face, his shut eyes, “and I still fucking haven’t… so I think I’m afforded a party.”

“Alright, then come to the party! Dress code, Halloween. Sexy Halloween.” Pierre wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, speaking of our plan, Carlos overheard Lissie and Lily talking about what your girl’s costume is going to be.” He leans in closer and laces his fingers together. “She’s going as a… Christina.”

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused. 

“Christina. I did some digging, and I think it’s this.” Pierre scrolls and dicks around on his phone for a minute before turning it back around to Joris and Charles, who peek with great interest. They seem to be looking at an outdated movie poster of—

“Cas-per the friendly ghost,” Charles reads aloud, trying to get his accent to dissipate. “Huh. What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a movie, idiot.” Pierre shuts his phone off. “Starring who? Christina Ricci.”

“Vraiment? You think his crush is going to show up wearing… a white gown?” Joris asks, his mind stuck on the outfit he’d seen just seconds ago. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Well Carlos and I agreed, so. Two to two. And Carlos says she and her friends always wear silly costumes like these. So if she shows up as Christina, what better way to start conversation than to dress up as Casper?”

Charles’ eyes widen with comical horror. “No. No, no, no. Did the ghost and the kid fuck?”

“No!” The two men across him yell in unison.

“Right!” He gesticulates. “So it’s not a couples’ costume!”

“But it’s still—” Pierre pauses. “It still matches. Trust me on this one, mate.” He smiles. “We even brought the supplies.”

—

The party is a hit as soon as Charles and his group enter. The former finds refuge at the table, unwilling to socialize. Pierre roams for a bit and ends up finding you almost immediately—you’re wearing low-waisted pants, a strappy top, and you sport alternating streaks of blond and black in your hair.

“Hey!” He calls, jogging up to you. “I heard you were coming as a Christina. Guess who I am?”

You rake a hand through the streaks in your hair and smile. “Not just any Christina. The artist. Xtina? You know?” You twirl a bit, the dark material of your strappy pants swishing as you go, as if the movement will help Pierre deduce the costume’s identity. “Whatever. You’ll get it. Lando is—we’re matching tonight, but I g—it wouldn’t make any more sense if you don’t understand it.” You sigh a bit and gesture vaguely to the crowd behind you, referring to the Eminem-dressed Lando, who you guess is currently caught in the thick of.

“Xtina?” Iks-tina, he repeats, clearly confused. “I remember hearing… somebody saying you were going as a… a Christina.”

“Chris-tina, Xtina, yeah. Christina Aguilera.” You smile, fingers pinching at the material of your belt. “Anyway—where is everyone? I’ve only seen Daniel’s costume and then yours.” The recent memory of Danny’s neon orange traffic cone costume bumping into everybody flashes in your mind.

“Save yourself,” he huffs, smoothing calloused hands over the denim of his jeans. “Zhou and Esteban came as Bella and Jacob, Max as a Tifosi. Anyway”—he points to his ensemble—“guess yet?”

Your mental images of each cited costume are cut short. “Aha! You’re, um. Yes! You’re Ken from the Barbie movie,” you crack finally, remembering the revealing denim vest and jeans combo from the film you’d watched four times over in theaters a few months ago. “Wow, even your briefs say Ken. Very accurate. Minus the non-bleached hair.”

He tuts and shrugs. “I’m no Alex. What’d he come as?”

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

“Let me guess,” Pierre starts, and already you’re nodding because you can tell he’s going to predict exactly how the night has turned out, “Alex is Cher?”

“Wig and sequined dress and all.” You nod, laughing and squinting; Alex’s tall figure, head clad in a long, fringey, black wig, stands out above the rest. “Oh, I did see Carlos at the bar. Ricky Martin?”

Pierre really laughs at that, a loud, distinctly French guffaw involuntarily forced past his lip glossed mouth. “What the fuck, mate! Ricky Martin?! He’s El Profesor from La Casa de Papel. You know, Money Heist? Bella ciao? Oh, my God, he’s going to fucking freak if he hears—heard you said that.”

“He seriously gave off Ricky Martin vibes,” you defend in-between laughs of your own. “So that’s everyone? Oh—oh. Charles! What did… I never saw him! He kept telling me how excited he was for his costume, too…” Just a few hours ago, at that—a boisterous voice honing into the your voicemail inbox, boasting about a costume while you prepped for the party with Lissie and Lily. Your eyes peruse the room, but the lighting is too dark and vague for you to make out anything you haven’t already seen.

“Oh. Charles?” Pierre’s voice lilts higher. “Um. Yeaaah. Um.”

You, however, are sufficiently distracted by your own search for him, and you fail to notice Pierre’s clear scrambling attempt to stall you. He takes a long swig of beer and clears his throat. “He’s just, well, around. I should actually—excuse me, I need to actually go look for him. I owe him a drink.”

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

You’re a bit surprised by his sudden, jolted departure, but bid him a rushed goodbye anyway. He waves back vaguely, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of worry as he shoves his way back into the crowd and toward the area littered with tables. It’s only then that Lissie surfaces from the crowd, scratching absently at her nose as she crashes into you with a floaty giggle.

“Lis, you’re all sticky.” You place two palms flat against her shoulders and push her off. “Are you high?” 

“Yes but not drunk.” She giggles again, eyes fluttering.

“Oh—that’s not. Whatever, I guess.” You exhale and cross your arms over your chest. “Who’ve you been with?” She listens, plays with the braid in her hair, matching her getup as Lara Croft. 

“Um, the deejay. I gave him my number, but he’s actually pretty fucking weird. Come on, I want to pee.” As always, her speech quickens to something inhuman, an effect elicited by alcohol; giving you essentially zero time to react, she loops a hand around yours and drags you with ferocity to the nearest restroom. She moves so aggressively through the thickly-packed crowd you barely have time to react or say hi to people you’re acquainted with en route.

You whiz by the door, and in the rush, you notice Pierre entering the one adjacent with a worried expression etched onto his face. Just minutes ago you’d been conversing—you wonder why he’s suddenly become privy to worries.

“So the deejay,” says Lissie, effectively distracting you for the time being. You hum to signify you’re listening, fixing bits of your outfit in the mirror as she kicks different stalls open to judge their cleanliness. “One, he was dressed up as James Bond. Which is just about the most fucking pretentious thing ever. Two, all he played was Chainsmokers. You’re telling me this pub—club—whatever—in Mexico could only afford to commission this guy? Three, he was”—she kicks the last door open and a gasp escapes her and morphs into a semi-shriek—“a ghost?!”

“Ghosted you? Already?” Your eyes, focused previously on re-lining your lips, flits to Lissie’s in the reflection. She’s distracted, staring at the contents of a stall with comically wide eyes. “What’s up? S’that a fucking glory hole or something?”

“No!” She yells when you approach, immediately lunging forward to pull it shut. “No. It’s—I saw a roach. Serves us for going to a fucking… pub. Don’t go in there, it’s…” She exhales a long breath. “It was a mama roach and… with eggs.”

“What are you talking about?” This isn’t even a pub, it’s a nightclub—one with a door fee that definitely did not warrant rogue cockroaches in the water closet. “Lis, you’re drunk-hallucinating.” You’re not even sure if that’s a thing, but you shove past her and push the stall door open again, ready to come face-to-face with, maybe, a sleeping Tinkerbell or a puking black cat. Worst case scenario, shit on the floor; worst-er case scenario, Lissie is right and you’ve stepped into a den of roaches.

Weirdest case scenario, though, if that’s an actual thing: Charles Leclerc seated on the closed toilet seat, face painted white, wearing an all-white ensemble of a large white shirt, shorts, high socks, and sneakers. He’s got two hands on either side of the wall, as if he’d been preparing to escape; how or to where, you’re clueless. Why he’s here, you’re even more stumped.

His entire face is a stark white, with black smudges of face paint on his forehead (eyebrows, you’re guessing); his hair’s been curled by the humid air at this club, and he looks like himself in all the ways he totally does not, eyes big and caught when yours click onto them. 

Despite confusion, you chalk it up, as one would rationally do at a party, to intoxication. You spend a few bated breaths staring at him staring at you, his face of pure shock and embarrassment enough to sober up a drunk for a few days. “Hi.” You can hear yourself say it, but you’re so caught off-guard and full of confusion it feels alien.

“Hey,” he says, wiping four fingers over his stubborn face paint with a smile. The smile and the paint barely fade. “I’m a ghost.”

“I see. Classic.” You pause. “I’m Chr… nevermind. Um—are you okay?”

“A bit, uh—a tad bit drunk. I seem to be in the ladies’ room.”

“Yeah, you seem to be,” you recite back to him, amusement quickly overtaking confusion. “I think Pierre was looking for you. Let me go get him. Lis, make sure he doesn’t…” You gesture a puking movement, and the pair watch and listen to your shoes click against the tile, before the door swings open and then shut again.

“Coast is clear.” Lissie’s voice has been lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I reckon everyone you know is already looking for you?”

“This is a disaster.” He rubs frantically at the face paint, but it’s horribly futile. “You know, I didn’t even realize I was in the ladies’ room until you two came in. She cannot see me like this.”

“She already fucking has, mate.” Lissie sounds exasperated. “Whose idea was this? If you say Pierre I swe—”

“—Pierre—”

“—ar to Jesus fucking Christ, Charles—I can’t keep saving you from Pierre’s antics.” She grumbles out a sigh. “What are you supposed to be, even? Have you—did you see how hot she looks? This is like… you look like a… I can’t—” She lets herself taper off, so disbelievingly shocked at his odd costume.

“I’m Casper the Ghost!” Lissie mentally forms a crude picture of the kid ghost, which looks absolutely nothing like what’s in front of her. “Casper was opposite Christina Ricci. Pierre told me so.”

“That’s the dumbest analogy ever, holy Christ. You look like a poster child for some…” She regards him for a moment. “Anemia advert.”

“Take that back.”

“You don’t really have the upper hand here, Charles,” says Lissie with a grimace. “I’m texting Pierre. Are you—did you even get drunk?”

“No,” he woes. “I am totally sober. I had to lie. Pierre went to the table and told me that my—that the costume we planned—it was wrong, and I just—I ran to the bathroom.” Lissie can’t help but laugh at the story, raising her camera to record the incriminating evidence.

Mid-video, Charles’ white face droops and his painted lips part to ask: “You think she found me cute?”

—

Charles likes finding things about you. He supposes the first time he realized just how much he liked hearing you talk about yourself—which you rarely did—happened in São Paulo. He’d been stressing over a spiel to recite in front of a camera, rewriting over words for hours to make everything sound more natural.

Each margin had been hastily written on with pencil, run-on sentences with semicolons in the place of periods. The team scriptwriter didn’t do much to make his lines sound more natural and less like they’d just been spat out of an online translator. You peeked into the media pen and coughed. You don’t belong here, do you?

Tch, he clicked his tongue, turning to offer a smile. I’m working on a script for Sunday. Portugese stuff.

I can help, you responded, walking slowly over toward him. You smiled quietly, approaching slowly like you were waiting for him to greenlight your offer. He did so by pulling a chair out for you, and once you sat you traced a nail over each line, murmuring them under your breath.

You speak Portugese?

You looked up and gave a half-shrug, laughing like you were amused with yourself. Kind of. It’s not very good, but it’s enough. You resumed your editing and he felt content to stare, admire, watch every movement of your lips align with the syllables of the words. You asked for a pencil and began writing something much cleaner. He couldn’t help but let himself be in awe of your intelligence.

You read over the last few lines and turned to face him. Let me guess, you said. You want to make a pun on Ferrari before you say bye.

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

See, I know you so well, you half-joked, scrawling idle edits on the margins of his script.

He was already looking at you when you turned back to him, seeking his response, agreement, anything. When your eyes met, something caught at your chest—it tugged, tugged, then tugged again, a dull feeling burrowed deep in you. Words failed to wrench themselves free, but once they did, all you could manage was a faint—What?

Nothing. He smiled and shook his head, like he was waiting for you to figure it out. You know… sometimes, I wish I met you sooner. He does. He wishes he knew you back then, when you first learned Portugese. Or when you were in high school, so you could see just how exponentially awkward he was in his own teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he’s lost too much time, met and liked you too late.

Hm, you breathed out, because you didn't know what else to. I know why—so you could always have me. As a proofreader. Right?

Hah. The tilt of his laugh was high and mocking, and he stuck his tongue out, as if to punctuate that. He looked away then, like he wasn’t ready to say certain things to your face just yet. Quietly he added, Always have you… something like that.

—

If you ask Charles what he’s doing hiding in a laundry basket of a luxury hotel in São Paulo, he wouldn’t be able to answer you, either. It’s been some time since the disaster that was Caspergate Cancun 2023, and if he’s perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like facing you again for the rest of his life. Pierre, of course, has other plans. 

All he knows is last night, Pierre suggested he leave a huge vase of roses for you to arrive to in the living room of your hotel; as he planted it in said room, the door’s lock turned, and he sought a hiding place in the adjacent bedroom. Judging by the prevalent scent of Dior Sauvage, this is Lando Norris’ room.

Did u get to escape??? Pierre’s text irritates him. At the same time, the light flips on; Charles curls in on himself, remaining perfectly still. Lando’s voice trills through the room. “I didn’t leave those roses for either of you,” he’s saying to you and Lissie.

Charles hears you hum. “They’re so beautiful.” His heart swells. “I gotta run for a sec, pick up something from Will’s room.” A few seconds pass and the door opens and shuts, which means Charles is currently alone with Lando and Lissie. Which means he needs to plot his escape as soon as he can. Otherwise he’ll be caught in the crossfire and much too embarrassed to—

A foot meets his concealed body and he lets out an oof! as he’s sent flying out of the hamper, along with strewn-around clothes. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, scared shitless and in a fetal position; he only unfurls when a socked foot kicks at his ass. Above him are Lando and Lissie, both extremely confused. 

“How did you know I was…?!” He asks, aghast.

“My fucking laundry was breathing, mate, s’not that hard to leave alone,” Lando retorts sharply. “What are you doing?!”

“I left roses for her,” he explains fruitlessly, gesturing to the vase outside. “But you came in, and this was the closest hiding place. I was told this would be a great gesture.”

“Right. Where did you even get that advice?” Lando tries to suppress the critical tone in his voice, but judging by Charles’ embarrassed grimace, he’s failed. Beside him, Lissie makes a hm? noise, goading Charles to answer quicker.

“I got it from.” Charles pauses. “A friend,” he ekes out vaguely.

“No shit. Who?”

“Um—” Charles’ eyes are shut. “Pierre.”

In unison, Lissie and Lando both release incredulous gasps, throwing their hands up in the air. Lissie points at the mess of clothes in the corner of the room to emphasize her point and asks loudly, with comical cynicism: “This seemed like proper romantic advice to you?”

“Scratch that. Pierre’s words seemed like proper romantic advice to you? His girlfriend is—!” Lando places a flat palm a few inches off the floor and shakes it a few times to insinuate Kika’s age, his disbelieving expression growing funnier by the second. “Mate!” His voice cracks mid-syllable, though even this mishap seems to be the least crazy thing about tonight.

Charles, burning with humiliation, releases a shaky sigh. “I know! I know!”

“You don’t know!” They shout simultaneously in response, disappointed if anything. Just then the door opens again and your two best friends hurry to throw assorted pieces of laundry on the lying Charles, exiting to make sure you don’t suspect anything. 

“Hey,” you say slowly, because they’re both posed the exact same. “Am I… missing something?”

“A shower, girl,” Lando says, and you flip him off before retreating into your room.

Belatedly you ask, “Did you find out who sent those flowers?”

“Some loser, probably,” he calls right back. Charles emerges to poke him accusatorily, but Lando just shrugs. Charles definitely does not have the upper hand here, anyway. 

“Just get out,” Lissie says, completely done with Charles’ antics. “And stop. Listening. To Pierre.” 

He rinses the odor of laundry off him once he’s at his room, but thinks, despite himself, that you called the flowers beautiful.

—

Are you—

—no. I’m not. You wiped a hand over your face and caught mascara along with it. I’m fine, it’s fine.

What he said, it wasn’t…

I said, you turned to face him, eyes rimmed and mouth trembling. You didn’t finish your sentence, just tore the microphone off your lapel and buried your face in your hands. There was always going to be a first time. Your first time insulted on a live feed, after the Abu Dhabi weekend, was not any less shocking. You felt small. You felt humiliated.

You didn’t want to show Charles any of it. You moved around the green room, picking up shit to throw into your bag. Thank God the season was fucking over, you kept thinking. I feel so, you said, still failing to finish anything you started to say. You’d been called an annoying bitch by a fan of one of the drivers—to your face, as you exited the paddock.

He moved nearer. Charles, you said, a half-sob, and then you were allowing him to crash, allowing him to hug you. Your arms were weak when they wrapped back around him, linking softly in the small of his back. You sobbed hard into his chest until his grey tee was dark with tears. I want out, I just want out.

You’ll lord your career over that prick when you’ve made a million dollars doing this, he said. You do it too well to want out. You’re too smart. You’re too good. You cried harder, your face hurt and every word felt wrestled unintentionally, like it took too much work to say much at all. I’m sorry, you said. You should go. 

No, he said. He held you closer. Not until you feel better.

—

He cries after Abu Dhabi. Bad season, everyone’s said. You snap a few smiling pictures with Max, who wins, and Lily and Lissie and the lot of them, the people who made the year so great. You notice an absence in all the pictures and you find it in a room in the Ferrari motorhome.

You’ve found you both find solace in words. In reassurance. But you’ve also found that your connection enables you both to reassure without having to say anything at all. You sit beside him, lean your head on his shaky shoulder, and wait.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he admits brokenly. “I was just not feeling good.”

“I know,” you respond. “It was a bad race. Shit strat.”

He’s quiet. His breaths are ragged and wet and shaky. “Will you stay? Until I feel better?”

You don’t move. “I’ll stay for longer.”

—

In the kitchen Charles unscrews himself a beer. The sky outside is pink and the sun hides behind faraway mountains, gradually darkening the entire atmosphere, save for the few woolly clouds. He’s by the patio door so he can spot people in the wide yard: Pierre, exchanging a Frisbee with Lando. Max, Alex, and Lissie engaged in an intense match of Uno.

They’re all gathered here in Spain at Carlos’ behest to celebrate the dawn of winter, and the end of the season, Max’s third championship.

He’s yet to spot you—he’d been told earlier you’d be late—but it doesn’t matter. He’s been feeling uncharacteristically himself all day anyway. He wrote that on his notebook this morning, on the flight here, verbatim. Looked up the word to spell it right and everything. He remembers you saying it, that time in London where you and Lando took him around and annihilated Borough Market before lounging on the grassy knoll of a nearby park. I feel so uncharacteristically happy, you’d joked. The syllables were too stunted and too fast for Charles to nail it. But he feels it now. Uncharacteristic.

He tells everyone he’s fine, though, and does a good job of it. Three beers in and he’s beginning to trick himself into thinking he actually is doing fine. Nobody suspects he’s been feeling empty from such a bad finish to the season—the season that was already bad in itself. He hasn’t been feeling his usual drive, his usual appetite. He doesn’t know when it will return.

“Here you are.” Carlos has this goofy smile on his face when he bounds into the kitchen, depositing empty dishes at the sink. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Charles and Carlos have always shared an easy dynamic—they’ve both always wanted the same thing. Racing has always been at the forefront of their minds. It makes conversation passionate, easy, fun; it was what helped build their now-natural rapport in the first place. “Yeah?” He prods, leaning against the counter and tipping fizz into his mouth.

“I invited everyone here to announce… something important.” Carlos crosses his arms. “But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?” Charles knits his eyebrows and smiles. “Wow.” He gulps, cocks his head. “What is it, then? Are you switching teams?”

Carlos’ goofy smile grows. “Isa and I are engaged. I’m retiring next year.”

“You—you’re—” Charles laughs and shuts his eyes all at once. “Oh, my God, mate! Congratulations!” The overload of information isn’t lost on him, but he channels it all into a hug. “Are you really retiring, though? I mean. Wow, this is amazing news—but—”

“I was sure as soon as I asked,” Carlos says squarely, smiling as if he’s conjured an image of Isa’s smiling face (which is likely the case). “As soon as she said yes. As soon as I bought the ring!” He laughs aloud, so overwhelmed with happiness of recalling everything. “I’m so glad you were the first person I told.”

“Besides Lando,” Charles says, because he knows it’s true.

“Besides Lando.” Carlos smiles. “I’m… dios, I’m happy. I always knew I’d have something to look forward to after racing.” They hug again, and then he clambers past Charles and into the patio, where he resumes the façade of being unengaged and still a driver. Left behind, Charles thinks over it himself. What does he have to look forward to after racing? All his life, racing is all that ever existed to him. 

The announcement comes eventually—when it’s dark out, intermittent stars white and twinkly against the black above. Charles has once again turned into a blushy mess because you arrived a few hours prior, wearing a lovely dress and with your hair down in messy waves and you said hi to him earlier without him approaching first. They present a stupid, but very Carlos-and-Isa ring-shaped cake to announce it, and somebody queues up music and everyone’s cheering. Of course everyone’s cheering—it’d be impossible for this announcement to not come with bouts of yelling and cheering and goodbyes to Carlos, who accepts them with glee and—dare he say—excitement.

Charles remembers their first year as teammates, the jokes they’d made about needing to beat the other out. For both of them, he recalls, it’s only ever been the drive to race. He didn’t think Carlos would even entertain the idea of retiring yet. He wonders when he will. The thought of it alone is enough to send a well of anxiety run deep into him—which happens after he congratulates the couple, so he excuses himself to the empty outdoors area to get fresh air back into him.

He didn’t mean it, but he finds you already there. “Hi,” you say when he slides the door shut. “You okay?”

“Just… yeah, I’m fine.” You smell faintly like smoke. “It’s crazy, huh. Everyone’s… moving on.”

“So Carlos told everyone, then,” you say, pursing your lips and waiting for his response. He closes his eyes and lets a soft exhale escape him, warm air out and fresh air in, a welcome change from the heady atmosphere in the party. “I knew. I bought that God awful cake. I kept saying get a normal one but they both wanted it to be shaped like a ring.” You punctuate your sentence with a crisp laugh, a stunted exhale of air to break the tension.

You have a natural sway over words, graceful and beautiful and commanding, something he only wishes he could be. For so long he’d been told the feedback loop of one and the same thing: you’re good. You’re the best. You’re going to be the next big thing. And this season had just… aggravated every single insecurity he’s picked up in his years of racing. He wishes sometimes he’d been told something else: you suck. You’re normal. You’re irrelevant. Then at least he wouldn’t exist in some odd panopticon of feeling on top of the world and yet looking at it from the bottom of a pitch black abyss.

“Yeah,” he says instead, wringing his hands. He mimics the wrist movements he’s made to do during gym hours. “It’s wild how—I mean, not really wild, but. I just can’t… even picture my life after racing.”

“You’re young, that’s warranted,” you laugh. “You’re also… I mean, even if you drop out of racing tonight, it’s not like you’re going to become dirt poor or anything. You could become a bloody orthodontist and people will still love you.”

“Will they?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud but out it comes, garbled and rushed and he’s a bit embarrassed for sounding like a child in front of somebody he finds so beautiful. The silence is suspended and dry, and for a minute all he hears and feels is the slow rise and fall of his chest. To somehow mend the vulnerability, he tries again. “It’s not—I just think I’ll be lonely if I decide to stop racing.”

The fact that Carlos can say with so much ease that he’s willing to drop his career to ensure his pending marriage lasts is almost terrifying, because Charles knows he wants that. He knows—he’s always known—that he wants that intimacy, that realness, but for it to come at the cost of something he’s known for so long is so scary it’s almost a dealbreaker.

“Lonely?” You echo, voice tinged with concern. “Charles—”

“Lonely.”

He says it with an edge to his voice, so final, so steadfast. Loneliness is what he’s always feared and he knows, with a deep drawling punch to his gut, that loneliness is what will come if he decides to stop racing. Even if he’s tired. Even if he’s so pent up with frustration and loss and anger. Racing is all he’s ever known, it’s all he is—when he’s not tied to it, who is he? “Like no one… like I’m just standing in front of what I’m supposed to be, and when people see me, that’s all they see—what’s behind me. Right through me.”

“Well, you’re off racing right now,” you respond, trodding carefully. “So, well. Do you feel that way?”

He knows what you mean: it’s winter break, so he’s not driving or doing some form of it every single day. And he knows in turn what to answer: no, not really, he doesn’t really feel detached from it because there’s a low anticipation in his belly that tells him he’ll be doing it all again soon. But he chooses to interpret it differently; differently, but not falsely.

“I th… I don’t feel lonely,” he says, “when I talk to you. You see me.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart begins to pulse a mile a minute, knuckles tightening where they’ve gripped onto the wooden post of the patio. You can feel the air in your lungs pass through every divot of your body as it escapes and arrives in long, shaky breaths. He’s looking at you, his eyebrows knitted like he wants—needs an answer, if you’d be kind enough to please give him one. 

“I…” You bite your lip, every thought in your head at odds with the other.

Time feels like rubber, like it’s been stretched and manipulated and Carlos is ducking out to announce that it’s time to blow out candles on the stupid ring-shaped cake and you’ve taken too long to respond and your body feels too heavy but your heart feels too light and your eyes are blinking, open and shut and open again, and you feel like the wind could honestly blow you away now because Charles has given you a neutral nod and left you alone again, to contemplate the weight of what he’s finally, finally admitted, tonight here under the sky of Spain.

You move a hand over your hair, watch him walk away. The words lodge themselves in your throat, but they’re there.

—

One minute after  you realized you liked Charles, you swallowed the feelings until they were barely decipherable.

In happened in Dublin, at a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, when you’d emerged fresh out of a breakup with the most arseholic Irishman you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And funnily enough, it happened without Charles’ presence. You’d spent the day at Liam’s, hours of fighting over so many things—the growth of your career and the decimation of his, where your relationship had soured, why you never came to visit him, Charles, the sodding bloke you like so much—until finally, you took your things and left.

Wise, because you might’ve honestly gone insane if you stayed a minute longer, attuning your ears to the deafening feedback loop of his voice. Also decidedly unwise, because you had a piece of luggage and barely any battery, in a full city of people you didn’t know at all.

There was no chance Liam would let you return, and no chance you wanted to, for that matter—the fact still stood, though, that you needed to kill the night before your flight to France left at 6AM. You entered the first pub you heard, deposited your bag at the coat check for an extra couple of euros, and accepted the first pint thrust into your hand and first leprechaun hat plopped atop your head.

In between watching people compare how they poured Guinness pints, Sinead O’Connor songs, and exchanging headdresses with a random stranger, you found yourself impressingly drunk. The Irish did it too well.

A university student stumbled past your stool, tears in her eyes; she stopped to steal a shot of whiskey lying unattended on the bar. You looped a hand around her wrist and stared at her menacingly. Manners?!

Fuck manners, she said wetly, wrenching every word out with great effort. Nobody paid either of you any attention. I just caught my best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her accent was unmistakably Irish and was stronger with the tears.

Oh, you said, loosening your threatening grip. Sorry.

Don’t be. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid, she said, aghast, before finally stalking outside the pub. Half an hour later, you wound up at a table of thirty-somethings, all belting along to a folky sounding song.

Drunkenly you slurred out, I thought it was a stereotype.

What was, love? One of them paused her singing, dipping down to listen to you properly. Your cheek was smushed against the varnished wood, moving with every syllable you eked out.

The songs. You sound like… you belong in the 19th century.

She laughed at that, surfacing and yelling something to the band onstage you couldn’t quite decipher. The song reached its peak, loud and getting the whole crowd singing along, before fading into a familiar opening. S’this better? She asked, her voice slightly raised above the guitar.

You looked up. I liked the other one too, to be fair. M’not a fucking anti-Irish.

Nobody said that, love. Come sing. She hauled you upward, exaggerating her arm swinging in the air so you’d follow suit, which you did. You hummed the opening, eyes fluttering open and closed. You imagined opening them again and finding Charles across the room, already looking, with the same charming, boyish smile on his face that came to you as comfort.

You thought back to the dinner in London, the feeling of his shirt against your shoulder, the way he’d gotten you so easy and laughing and babbly, something you never got with Liam. You squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled raggedly. Fuck.

Linger’ll do that to you, your companion mused. Around you, the entire pub sang along to the song that served as the backdrop to your all-encompassing romantic epiphany. Missing a lover, huh?

No, just… You opened your eyes, watched the band sing out the rest of the prechorus before they slid into the next verse. A new kind of air had crept over the pub, one that exemplified just how much this song could mean to anyone, no matter who. You shut them again and saw Charles. The green of his eyes, mossy on some days and bright on others. The moles on his face. The grooves of his hand, the way it wrapped around things like pens, mics, bottles, your fingers. His voice, how he curved around words. He always knew exactly what you meant even if it took you ages to get to the point, even if you felt like you didn’t know what you meant exactly. 

You opened your eyes. Suddenly fights with Liam didn’t matter. Whatever little sympathy you had left evaporated as you listened to the lyrics and realized, with a damning force, that you were thinking of Charles. And this was not weak, this was not vague, this was a strong thing that took you off your feet like a gust of wind, hurtling you out of the pub. You thought of every time your eyes met his, both of you already laughing at something else present. Every time he saw you at the end of a busy work day and asked if you were doing alright.

Just this guy, I suppose. His name’s… yeah. We’ve been friends for ages. He’s really very talented. Very kind. Your voice was drowned out by the music but you didn’t intend for anything to be heard, anyway. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. He always knows what to say. He’s not in Dublin tonight, not even in Ireland, for God’s sake. 

He’s your boyfriend, then?

You closed them slowly. No. T’wouldn’t be very smart to date him.

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

Don’t be, you mused, eyes still shut as Linger came to a close. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid.

—

Charles should be in Monaco. You should be in London. But at four-thirty PM, leaning against the counter of a tiny café in Dublin, you cross paths for the first time in weeks, and everything tilts on its axis.

He notices you first, because he hears you thank the barista quietly. It’s not your reporter voice, not the one you put one when you’re interviewing him or his teammate or his fellow athletes. But it’s your real one, and it’s the one he thinks he could hear through a snowstorm.

A tuxedo-clad man exits and suddenly you’re there. You’re wearing a white top, low neck and thin straps covered by a cardigan. You’re sliding coins into the pocket of your jeans and he watches your hand freeze, drags his eyes back up to you, finds you’re already looking.

You look beautiful, he thinks. You put on a lot of makeup for the cameras, and you looked gorgeous, but seeing you like this—caught, almost, in a moment you didn’t expect to see him—you look unbelievably beautiful. He aches with it. 

“You look well,” he says first when he opens the café door for you. “What’s your business in Ireland?”

“Acquainting myself with my new coworker.” You wait for him to follow and squint when the sun hits your eye. “We’ve been here three weeks, fly back to London next Monday. You?”

“It does seem weird for me to be here,” he observes absently. “I needed a change of pace, I think. Gear up for the season.” He shakes his half-full cup of coffee. “Where are you staying?”

“Just up ahead.” A slow silence overcomes you both. “Come over. I have beer. I know you can’t be fucked to have coffee.” He laughs and nods, following you through the road and up into a flat—a BNB, if he’s guessing. There’s a tiny landing and then stairs to a wider living area, where you proceed to unwrap the croissant you’d gotten a few minutes earlier. You chuck it into the fridge and produce two bottles of beer in one go.

“Sit,” you gesture to the spot beside you, and he sits himself there. “We can talk. We should.”

You’ve shrugged your cardigan off, and he observes every detail of your exposed skin, the way your hair layers atop it. Right as he opens his mouth to respond, a blond girl enters, rings of mascara caking her eyes and a wine glass twiddled in-between thumbs. She’s talking her head off and only pauses when she spots Charles.

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.” 

“You’re Charles?” She notices how close the two of you are seated together.

“Yes,” he says. 

“Charles, this is Robyn—my coworker’s friend. And by extension my friend.” You pat her knee and point to Charles to get them properly introduced. “She leeches off the apartment.” 

“You love me,” she retorts, mockingly—but sweetly. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. I was just on the phone with my situationship.” She rolls her eyes. “Does he think I give two shits about goodnight texts? It feels impossible to be romantically satisfied these days.”

Charles grunts. “I hear that,” he says, just to make Robyn feel less excluded. You get up then, to fuck around at the kitchen sink—he suspects you’re not actually doing chores—but you come back with wet hands and you sit yourself across Charles, on the loveseat, instead of next to him. 

“The thing is, right,” she gulps wine, “there’s such a thing with dating now,” Robyn says, not missing a beat, her Geordie accent curving round the syllables with a distinctive twang. She stares at the opaque red liquid in her glass, like that will supplement her with more words. “Like a deal. A big deal. Everyone’s making this huge thing out of it, and it’s like, can’t we be in our twenties and fuck around occasionally?” She laughs, a high-pitched, tapered noise.

You shift from where you’re seated, buried into the material of the seat. It’s quiet and beginning to touch awkward, so you speak in a rough voice: “I dunno, I kind of… get it.”

“Oh do you, now,” she responds, voice saturated with wine. “No, it’s—I was joking. Of course you would, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, is all.”

Suddenly you feel all too seen and inclined to touch a fingertip to your cheek, feather light. You blink so you won’t feel tempted to meet Charles’ eyes, because you feel them on you. “It’s—thank you, I mean. It’s nothing to do with that. I just always feel it’s impossible to find someone who loves you. I feel like I’m not very lovable.”

“You? You’re bloody fucking likable!” Robyn’s laugh is so disbelieving you find yourself semi-convinced. “You’re a bit intimidating, yeah, but you’re lovable as fuck, babe.”

You double down anyway, voice thin. “Right. I don’t think I’m very good at being… affectionate.”

“Hah. Bull. You’re affectionate with… with Charles! I’ve heard you talk about him to Jane.”

She turns to Charles before you have the chance to defend yourself. To him she asks: “Is she affectionate with you?”

But it’s basically rhetorical. Everyone speculates, sees the way you two bend the line between friendship and romance, the care with which you treat Charles, the way you two understand each other in ways impossible for anyone else in your orbit. Fuck if it’s not overtly physical. Robyn’s known you three weeks and has never even met Charles until seven minutes ago and already she’s sensed the energy, the difference, even if she hasn’t seen you do so much as embrace.

“It’s—” You say and say too quickly. You wind up slowing your speech so you don’t sound too defiant and lean backwards, willing yourself to relax. “It’s… different with Charles.”

“Different?” She repeats, miming every dip and rise of your voice. “Why?”

“We’re close.” You refuse to meet his eyes. “Be—because we’re good friends. I feel… things are… just. They’re different. That’s all, really.” Barely satisfied with the answer you eked out, you cross your arms over your torso like it’ll help shield you from the interrogation going on. Briefly you let your eyes fall on Charles; he’s reclined, eyes all over the place, blinking in quick flashes.

“But you admit it, at least?” She smiles. “That you’re affectionate, I mean.”

“Only with…” you taper off, unwanting to dig yourself a deeper hole. “Right. Sure, yeah.”

“Well then,” she says, eyebrows raising as she dows the rest of her glass. She sets it down on the low wooden table with a clink. “I’ll get going. Don’t let me keep you two from shagging or whatever.”

“We don’t f—shag,” you interrupt, voice sharp. “And you’re not keeping us at all. Me, at all.”

Us sounds so exclusive, you realize as it leaves your lips. Us. It tastes like sour cherries on your tongue, bleeds all over. Robyn gives you a look. In response, you insist on seeing her out, leaving Charles at the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands toying with the neck of the beer bottle. He can make out faint words but he doesn’t try translating or deciphering them, just listens to your muffled voice peek through every few words. You sound amused, also accused, also endeared—a bit irritated. You end it with a laugh.

You clamber back in after a few minutes and find him at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry,” you wave off, rolling your eyes to fend Robyn’s earlier interrogation efforts of. “She’s very strong-willed.” You climb the stairs, your striped linen shorts folding with every movement of your legs. Finally you make it to the top, on the second-to-the-last stair, staring up at him.

“You know,” he says, watching you ascend to the top finally, but you’re still staring upward. “You should know.”

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

You inhale and are grateful to find the air is all him. “I missed you, too.”

“In a different way.”

“Me, too,” you echo again, voice quiet. “I missed you. It feels like I’ve missed you all my life.”

He can hear your still, controlled breathing. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when, you know, it’s… hard. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “It’s never difficult, not…” With you.

He leans down and captures your mouth in his then, like it’s a thirst he’s always needed quenched. You allow it, kiss him back like you’ve needed this your entire life. His lips are chapped, but you don’t mind—Dublin’s cold. He kisses like he’s smiling, like he’s happy, and you think maybe that’s not far off. He moves downward, to your jaw; lower, along the column of your throat, around your collarbones, cornering you against the wall, letting you lean against it.

Charles’ kisses are light and soft, but also heavy, like he’s trying to waste as little time as possible. You sigh, feeling light, feeling ecstatic. He puts two hands on either side of your face, presses your foreheads together, and shuts his eyes. 

You feel the divots of his fingers on your hip, your waist, places he’s never touched before. “I’m sorry I left,” you breathe into him. “Back in Spain. In Madrid. I wanted to think about it. About what you said. About everything, about you.”

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

You tiptoe to kiss him again, because now that you’ve had it once you’re terrified you won’t have it again. In-between kisses he picks you up, cages you fully against the wall, and you breathe shaky little exhales. It builds up quicker and harder; you feel his cock at your hip and shiver, eyelashes fluttering. “Upstairs,” you say breathlessly.

He likes knowing you want this, because he’ll give you whatever you want. He’d fuck you for hours. Have you shaking, eking out moans of his name. He’d whisper praise up and down your ear. He wants this just as much, if not more.

“I want you, so much,” you exhale when he lies you both down on your bed. “So much.”

He tugs your shorts off, then your panties. He doesn’t usually lack self-restraint, but he thinks he’s never felt this much temptation in his life. He’s so hard. He brings one hand to his thigh and squeezes his dick through his pants, but it doesn’t provide him with any kind of relief. You’re needy already, whimpering, mind dizzy. He slides a finger up your slit and watches you screw your eyes shut.

Slowly he sinks in, watches you accustom to the stretch. “Wanted this,” you breathe out.

He thrusts in further, feels your warm cunt stretch around him, feels your breaths get hotter and quicker against his lips. But he takes it nice and slow, so he can feel every little ridge inside of you as you take all of him. “You like it?”

You nod, too dumbed down to speak. “Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl.”

He’s wanted this for so long, fucking you deep and slow and desperate. He thrusts harder, watches you unravel and your hot breaths pick up in pace. He reaches down, smears wetness around your clit as your thighs begin to shake. Your pretty, flushed face is enough to send him into overdrive, your eyes rolling back as he goads you into orgasm.

You’re still cumming around him when he takes a shaky breath, pulls you tightly back against him, and lets the pleasure take over. He fucks you full, rides his orgasm out while you ride yours out—buries his dick all the way inside, so each spurt fills your contracting pussy up.

He pulls out and collapses beside you, pressing his lips to your shoulder before lying on his back. “I’ll clean you up in a minute.” It’s quiet for a second, just you two breathing.

Then: “I did, I did think about it,” you say, voice reedy. “I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” He watches you blink at the ceiling, lets you clasp your hands onto his.

“About me, too.” You open your eyes and stare into the green.

“D’you want this?”

“Believe me,” you say, threading your fingers into his tightly. Your hair’s fussed from the sex. “I do. But—”

His heart drops.

“I don’t want to… I want you to not…” You sigh. “You know, I like seeing you. I like being that. I like knowing I make you feel good. And I want you to know you… you make me feel amazing. Like you and I… we understand each other.” You pause. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who understands every inch of me.”

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

“I look up to you, you know? I don’t want you to anchor yourself onto me. I want you to realize that on your own. You’re smart. You’re a great driver with a shitty fucking team I hated reporting on last season.” He laughs shakily. “You know I look up to you. You know… you know I love you.”

“I do. I love you.”

“I always have. It wasn’t… it didn’t always make itself clear, but I always have. And I know I always will.” You smile. “We’ll be in different cities, in separate timezones, but if we survived the years of not telling each other how bloody fucking much we liked each other, this is nothing. When we’ve sorted ourselves out, we’ll know the right time to finally call this what it is.”

He’s never thought of himself as a writer, but his notebooks might beg to differ. Many times you’ve told him yourself that he has an affinity for describing things, especially when he lets go of language as a limitation. He wonders what you’d say if you knew the amount of times he’s tried to write about you. Careful letters or typefaces, in an effort to form a coherent picture of you, the way he sees you, the way he loves you. But he’s so scared he tears the pages off before they get too intimate, too personal, crossing the border from having a crush on you to being in love with you.

For once he’s not. He nods. It’s bittersweet, but it’s a segue to a better ending. He moves a hand over your hair and holds you close.

“You could never be unlovable,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead because finally, he can. “I mean it.”

[cambion-companion]

A Marriage Contract

Eyo...I had an idea LOL what a world!

The scenario of Raphael x reader (gn) being forced into some sort of marriage agreement has been bugging me ALL day! Hopefully some of you lovely folks are as depraved as I am and enjoy this!

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”  

You were sitting opposite Raphael, the firelight flickering orange across his scarlet visage. You watched with bemused interest as, with a black quill, he scratched ink across a sheaf of yellowed parchment.

The cambion took little heed to your agitated words. His posture was relaxed, one long leg stretched out between your own, his tail tapping idly against your thigh where it rested.

“Raphael.”  You leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the words he now wrote in that elegant script of his. “…Hey, I did not agree to doing that every day with you.”

A peeved hiss escaped Raphael’s sharp teeth as he removed quill from paper and sat back, his yellow eyes finally moving to your tense face. “This arrangement is at the behest of one I cannot yet deny.” His long fingers drummed a pattern against the cherrywood table. “Don’t complain too much, pet.  I may begin to think you’re getting cold feet.”

“Not in this sweltering house.”  You quipped back.  Then you pointed again to the sentence he’d scrawled detailing what lurid acts he expected from you. “I will not be doing that.”

“Might I remind you, this is a contract of marriage.”  

“Believe me, I am well aware.”

“You would receive such pleasures in kind.”

This gave you pause, your brow arched in disbelief. “From you?”

Raphael chuckled dryly. “Yes, from me.  Master of the House, your doting husband.”

Your skin prickled. “There’d better be a clause in there for an annulment once all this is over.”

“It’s possible for such a loophole to be penned in.”  Raphael tilted his horned head diplomatically, though his eyes remained hard. “For you to take advantage of should the fires burn too hot.  However, you will always be mine.”

“How romantic.”  You deadpanned.

“I certainly try.”  Raphael rolled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck side to side.  “Now, shall I rescind these latest conditions or are you now more amenable?”

You hesitated, scooting your chair closer so you could better read the script without getting a crick in your neck. “Hmm…yes, alright. You can get rid of the ‘submits to my will in all infernal matters’ bit.”

With a smooth motion Raphael struck a line through the offending words. “Would ‘heeds my counsel in all the doings of my domain’ better suit your tender palate?”

“Rewording the same sentiment isn’t going to get passed me, love.”  You kissed his cheek, teasing.

Sharp claws pierced the flesh of your jaw as, quick as a viper, Raphael grabbed your face with one hand and held you very still.  His face turned and your noses brushed. You felt his warm breath and his hot skin.

The air between the two of you grew tense, riddled with the frustration at your situation and the desire you’d had for one another since meeting. The lust to dominate and own from him and your need to be wanted and no longer alone.

“This marriage contract is forever binding, little mouse. Much more so than those fragile slips of paper from your insipid mortal world. There is not a clause in your wildest imaginings that will free you from me once you sign yourself over.”

You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks, his strong hand still holding your head firmly. “We have little choice.”

Raphael’s grip tightened and he brought his lips against yours, just enough to leave you craving more. “What a quaint notion, to believe I have no power to deny or evade.”

He did not elaborate, but his message was clear.  Raphael wanted this. The thought didn’t leave you feeling warm and fuzzy.

There was an evident dynamic here that you didn’t have the capacity to fully understand.  It gave you a sense of dread yet sent a thrill through your body.

You gave Raphael a smile bordering on playful. “Your signature mysterious and vaguely threatening answers won’t exactly breed a relationship of trust.”

“You and I have very different concepts of what a marriage should look like.”  Raphael released your jaw and took both your hands, pulling you with one strong movement onto his lap.  His tail wrapped around your waist, securing you against him. “Speaking of ‘breeding’, I have an excellent idea.”

Your retort was silenced as a long tongue and sharp teeth claimed your mouth and drank down your following noises.

[radiance1]

Pariah watched as his vessel paced around the room, worried beyond belief by something that the king, personally, couldn't see as much importance. He jumped down from the couch, his far to small feet hitting the light thud muffled by the fluffy carpet and walked away.

He opened the fridge, squinting his eyes in distaste at his newfound shortness, and shuffled around for a moment before deciding to simply levitate to the top and swiped a popsicle.

Pineapple. It was no mint, but it would do.

He ripped off the wrapper with his teeth, chewing the material for a bit before swallowing and pushed off the fridge with a light kick of his legs and let the momentum carry him off from the kitchen.

He turned around in midair to stare at his vessel from upside down, lightly chewing on his treat.

The boy was still pacing around, muttering to himself as if something actually worrying was going to happen.

He bit off a piece of the treat, chewed, then swallowed. Did he want to get involved in whatever this was? Not really no, but it was annoying how his vessel kept at this habit for.... he took a quick glance at the clock (he idly entertained the thought of if Clockwork was watching. Knowing the ghost always was) and back at his vessel... A few hours at the least.

Pariah Dark sighed, took a hard chomp of his ice cream and then swallowed.

"Vessel," He called out, pointing his treat in said boy's direction. "Whatever causes you such worry? It is annoying."

Danny paused, muttering and all, before slowly turning to stare at Pariah Dark. Or, well, the small piece of him that for some reason bonded itself to him after he passed out. "Oh, it's nothing, just that the Justice League is going to pull up on my doorstep any second now." He shrugged, voice practically dripping with sarcasm as he leveled the fragment with a flat look. "Nothing much."

Pariah Dark let out a small, confused hum as he ate what was left of his ice cream -stick and all- and moved himself into a cross-legged sit, still upside down. "Then what ails you so?" He made a gesture at the imprints made from his relentless pacing on the carpet as an example, looking at him in curiosity.

Danny's turned blank for a moment, before remembering that Pariah didn't exactly have a proper gasp on what sarcasm was. He sighed, placing a hand on his head before sighing again. "It was sarcasm."

Pariah Dark watched as Danny went back to pacing, less than impressed at the rather blatant dismissal as if the worry over this situation was of actual importance. As far as he knew, this 'Justice League' were just a band of mortals who fought for peace, the good of others and were strong, yes.

But they were still mortal, nonetheless.

Even with one of their core members being a demi-goddess herself, and another of their members being a powerful vessel of the gods in his own right.

Danny was a vessel of the king, one of the most powerful ghosts across the Infinite Realms and its history. He knows the boy denied such a fact at first, but was he simply not as confident enough in his own strength as the king had thought?

He righted himself in the air, no longer upside down as he crossed his arms. "Vessel." The boy paused again, this time a bit more rigid as Pariah Dark, for the first time in a while, used the voice of a king. "Whatever worries you have for that band of mortals, put them aside. You are my vessel; you have defeated all of me in combat once before-"

He tactfully avoided mentioning that he had aid and was draining his lifeforce to do so.

"-so that is a full testament to your own strength. If you can fell me, then I believe you are fully capable of felling this so called 'Justice League' if the need ever arises."

Pariah Dark stared the boy hard in his eyes, reaching out in ghost speak to transmit his own confidence in his vessel while also smoothing said worries more than he ever could in words. Then snorted as the boy untensed and walked over to flop face first onto the couch.

He floated down to land on the boy's back gently. "If you so wish, I can even lead you a portion of my power." He let out an amused huff. "I cannot have you losing to the vessel of those arrogant gods after all."

Danny turned his head to stare at the ghost king and gave him a look. It was extremely hypocritical for him of all beings to call another arrogant, but you know what? He didn't care anymore. He turned his head back to sink his face into the cushions and let out a muffled "Fine."

[stellar-skyy]

Could I order a hot white tea for Aventurine? If you can also add angst to confort please 👀

“order up! i have a white tea for aventurine, fresh and hot!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: At a work event, your coworker offers you a dance. ii. CWS & NOTES: no warnings applicable. aventurine x gn!reader. reader & aven are coworkers. mild angst & fluff. 1.6k words. iii. A/N: thank you for the order! i hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t their plan to hide in the corner all night, but it was where they ended up; drink clutched in both hands, shoulders hunched tightly, and eyes cast to the floor. All around them, their colleagues and fellow members of the Interastral Peace Corporation mingled and danced, filling the night with a dull drone of chatter and laughter. Around the groups and pairs scattered across the hall, were those few idly loitering on the outskirts like shadows, themself included.

They could busy themself for a while pretending to survey the hors d'oeuvres arranged on the table, but soon enough they would catch someone’s attention. Then would come the questions of why they were avoiding people, and the feeble attempts to drag them into a conversation they had far too little energy to engage in.

A charity ball, organized by their colleagues and funded by the ICP themselves. It seemed like a perfect idea when it was pitched, all up until they were standing alone in a crowded room, trapped in layers of formalwear the dug into their sides. The festivities grew all too much after a while, leaving them exhausted and weary of every greeting and smile.

It was much easier to turn their back on the other guests and ignore them for however long they could manage. That way, they weren’t forced into mindless small talk, or dragged into a half-hearted dance with any of their coworkers. They were fully content on spending the rest of their evening on the sidelines alone, without anyone to disturb their—

“Ahem.”

Peace.

The voice tore straight through their attempt to sink into the background, silky smooth and laced with the slightest trace of amusement. They lifted their head up, hands tightening around the drink in their hands and lips forming his name before they even had to look at him.

“Aventurine.”

The man smiled. He was dressed much more formal than usual, decked out in a three-piece suit with a deep green tie. It was tailored, cut and shaped around each part of his body to fit him perfectly. The outfit was simple, but it suited him well; even in a room of people dressed in their finest, he managed to outshine every one of them.

“You’re certainly hidden well, aren’t you?” Aventurine remarked, plucking a canapé off the table beside them and popping it into his mouth. “How long have you been here? An hour? Two?”

“I wasn’t hiding—” They tried to say, before they were cut off with a laugh.

“You can lie, but not well enough to fool me.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t make excuses. I really don’t care that much.”

The music changed suddenly, turning from a light jazz to a slower tune, complete with sweeping violins and deep echoes of a cello. Like clockwork, the few folks dancing in the centre paired up—both actual couples who had attended together, and coworkers who hurriedly joined together in time for the song to start.

Aventurine cleared his throat again. When they turned to him, there was a look in his eye that told them he was planning something.

“I did have something I wanted to ask, however. May I have this dance?” he asked with a small smile, hand outstretched.

They bit back any retort that might have been on their tongue, as he stood waiting their response with a glint in his eye. It was a challenge, like everything was with him; a bet to whether their pride outweighed their self-consciousness. They could almost see the dice rolling behind his eyes, breath held in anticipation.

If it was a game he was playing, they would be happy to indulge him, if only for an evening. It wasn’t as though they had anything else to do, other than waiting idly in the corner for the music to die down and the guests to leave. They could spare whatever was left of their energy for a few minutes of dancing.

“Of course,” they said, taking his hand. A look of surprise crossed his face for only a moment before it was replaced with a wider grin.

“Ah, I knew I came over here to a reason,” Aventurine smiled, leading them away from the corner and into the lights.

They were uncomfortably aware of each eye fixed on their back, but Aventurine was unfazed; his hand was firm in holding onto theirs in a surprisingly gentle grip. His gloved thumb softly stroked the side of their hand, a move that was much too close to romantic for their liking.

“Are you ready?” he asked, when they reached the floor.

“Yes,” they said instantly, and hoped it wasn’t a lie.

He laced his fingers through their hand, sliding his other over their hips. A heat flushed across their face—the result of the stuffiness inside the venue, no doubt—and they fumbled to place their hand on his shoulder.

“You act like you’ve never danced before,” he laughed.

The music swelled, and Aventurine began to lead their dance. One step, then two and three. He was surprisingly adept at sweeping them across the floor, out of the way of the rest of the dancers, while keeping up their pace.

Together they twirled and spun, in time as the music sung a chorus for them and them only. The rest of the guests faded away, until the two of them were alone on the dancefloor, held tightly in each other’s arms. It crossed their mind, for a moment, that the scene was something more suited to a couple than a pair like them. They wondered if he was thinking the same, whether he thought it odd that they were so close. Was he regretting his choice of dance partner, or feeling thankful he asked them?

They found themself glancing around them throughout, but oddly enough Aventurine’s eyes never left them. He seemed transfixed, watching them carefully as they seemed to melt into the dance.

“Are you ready?” He asked abruptly, just as the music reached a crescendo.

“What?”

“Are you ready?” He repeated in lieu of an explanation.

“Ready for wh—” they tried to ask, but were suddenly pulled into a spin. He let go of their waist, long enough to twirl them around as they squeaked in surprise. Their head was reeling by the time he pulled them back, holding them even tighter so they didn’t fall over.

“Ready to be spun,” he clarified, a moment too late.

“Yeah,” they breathed, hand clinging tightly to his shoulder to balance themself. “Yeah… I got that, now.”

The two of them whirled and spun for some time more—was it minutes? Hours? It was long enough for the music to change again, into an equally slow but slightly more melancholy song—before he spoke up again.

“You’re not a fan of dancing?” Aventurine asked, an eyebrow raised. The question was posed in his usual lilting voice, but there was a note of concern in his tone that wasn’t present in the moments before.

“Why do you ask?”

Aventurine paused to spin them past another dancing couple—a woman who was giggling far too loudly, and a man who seemed like he would rather be anywhere else—before continuing. “Well, for starters you haven’t made eye contact with me for more than a few seconds this entire time. You keep looking down at your feet.”

The music swelled. Aventurine abruptly pulled them into a low dip, leaning down so their faces were close enough that they could taste his breath. Their heartrate spiked, loud enough to drown out the music, but not enough to mask Aventurine’s voice.

“Is something wrong, [Name]?” He whispered into their lips, and all of a sudden they couldn’t breathe.

Not while you’re here was their first thought, but it was something far too raw to speak out loud, and only a half-truth. Aventurine’s presence had managed to quell some of the discomfort eating away at their stomach, but he was only a pretty distraction to the uneasiness that threatened to sweep them off their feet in the worst way. It whittled away at their already cracked mask of indifference, leaving them desperately holding the pieces together.

The eyes were still there, watching. They tracked their every move, noting each way they tilted further into his body to shield themself from their sight. He noticed too, pulling them up and out of the dip and turning them away from the people staring.

“Can we just go?” They whispered hollowly. He blinked, seeming to be caught off guard by the defeat in their voice. The shift in his demeanour was immediate, like a switch had been flipped.

“Of course, let’s—” Aventurine cleared his throat, standing straighter. “Let’s go.”

His hand rested on their lower back, guiding them out of the ballroom. The eyes never left, but Aventurine met them with a glare, and slowly they turned their gaze.

 “After you,” he said, opening the wide doors and beckoning them through. And in the open air, they remembered to breathe. “Now, is something the matter?”

They shifted in their steps, tugging on the edge of their sleeves. Was something the matter? It was a perfectly reasonable question, especially since they dragged him out of the event so suddenly, but they were at a loss for an answer.

“I don’t know. I just—” They let out a shuddering breath. “I just wanted to leave.”

Aventurine hummed. “I suppose that’s something enough.”

“I’m sorry,” they whispered.

“No apologising,” he chided, flicking them lightly on their arm. “You can’t be expected to want to be social at every moment. It’s not like I was inclined to spend my entire evening talking to my coworkers.” He shook his head. “Let yourself breathe once in a while, okay?”

“…I guess.”

“Come on. Let me walk you home.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[zaynesaurora]

ʟ&ᴅꜱ ! reaction to you having medical anxiety—

a/n: no in depth medical terms/procedures used, anxiety talk obvs. only the three main boys this time, hope you enjoy ✨ nonnie <3

zayne ! uses his status within the medical field to his advantage, as soon as you make it known which doctor will be overseeing your appointment he's straight to his emails- typing out a well worded paragraph in which he all but directly threathens the poor recipiant. it's not in bad nature by any means, in an ideal world he would love to be the one resposible but making the relationship offical meant he had to follow professional protocol. a few tiny favours would slide under the radar.

he'd hit you with an "im assured everything went smoothly?" when your back by his side, an almost none existant smirk lingering on his lips when his hand reaches out to offer you a small boiled sweet. he's a firm believer in sugar following procedures after all.

other doctors in the hospital start to get nervous when your name crops up but dr zayne doesn't care. not when your needs are met every time and you come back to him safe, each appointment becoming easier with his help- unbeknownst to you.

xavier ! is also the anxiety patient, offering to come with you to as many check ups as he possibly can- even if the white walls make his heart begin to race too fast and his palms sweaty, he'd sit by you the entire time. both your legs bouncing in place agaisnt one another, conversation almost non existant and your shoulders jolting when a name is called forward to the examination rooms. he'd squeeze your thigh when it's finally your turn, grounding both you and himself before speaking.

"do you need me to come with? or wait here?", you'd nod- not fully hearing the latter half of his question in your unsettled state but he'd know. rising to his full height, hand in hand as he led you down repetative corridors.

throughout the consultation itself, xavier would continue lettling you hold his fingers- your skin sticky as your thumb idly traces his knuckles. he'd notice when the words are getting stuck in your throat, pushing his own troubles aside to answer anything he could on your behalf.

rafayel ! would plan as many activies as he can either side of your arrangement so that you can't possibly spend the day focused on one little aspect that may or may not go well, something your prone to doing- even when the appointment is in the later hours of afternoon. your booked in at 5pm? okay, so he's going to take you for breakfast, maybe a walk along the beach afterwards. probaly some form of shopping, hit the claw machine as usual- that alone kills 3 hours.

before you know it, rafayel would have gossiped with you all the way to the waiting room, keeping you focused else where everything running as smooth as possible- in an out in a matter of minutes, "see not so bad right?"

he'd pull you off to dinner straight after, ending the night on a high that puts a positive outlook on a day that terrorized you for hours before hand- doubts long forgotten.

[epiclamer]

Obsessed with your recent Touch-starved Villain snippet, it's so good!! Could I request once again a touchstarved Villain, but Hero is fully aware of this, and does things specifically to "tease" them, Villain doesn't realize that Hero knows, and Hero intends to keep it that way

I'm just always down for asshole Hero, it's just quality vibes

Teeheehee

Under(the)cover(s)

The party was a drag. Through and through.

In all honesty, the hero hadn't thought that to be a possibility. Villains liked to break rules and stereotypically party hard. That's how many of them got their villainy done anyways; drunk and disorderly turned societal menace and murderer.

It seemed impossible for one of the biggest gatherings in the world of villains to be a complete and utter boring hell. But here they were.

To think they had wasted their nicest outfit on such an event...

"Is this seat taken?" The hero's voice was glassy, smooth and cool. Perfected through years of training.

The villain blinked up at them from their chair, a dumbfounded look on their face as they stuttered out a 'yes'.

They grinned, their sugarcoated smile hid their mal-intentions. "Then do you know a place I can sit? It seems every chair in this hall is busied..."

"I-I meant no! You can sit here, y-yeah, it's just me. Sorry."

Hero had to stop themselves from smiling any bigger to avoid suspicion, they'd have to thank their team for the disguise when they got back. It seemed to work almost a little too well... "Perfect."

They could feel the villain's eyes trailing them while they got comfortable, making sure to put on a show for their lifelong nemesis. Flashing their eyes and drawing their lips in between their teeth, they were allowed to have a little fun on a late night mission, no?

"Enjoying your time so far?"

The villain hardly looked up, eyes glued to the way the fabric hugged against the hero's curves. Hero could've basked in the attention, but they were on the job, so they did the next best thing.

Lived in the moment.

Another second passed and the villain mumbled something as they snapped out of their trance-like moment of desperation. Blush creeping in on their nose, dancing with their freckles. "U-uh yeah, very good. It's um, been pretty busy."

"Oh yeah?"

"Y-yup."

The hero giggled, dragging the villain into a laugh with them. They leaned forwards, fingertips grazing the tops of the criminal's knees. "You're cute." Hero wanted to devour the heavy blush right off the other's face. "Has anyone ever told you that before?"

They could almost feel the way Villain swallowed, tracing it with their gaze like it was their fingernail, watching their throat bob and settle back down. A bead of practically invisible sweat following suit.

Hero loved nervous prey. It ignited something savagely primal in their gut; a desire like never before.

"I-I, well, I don't really--"

"You don't date?" The crime-stopper put on their 'taken aback' look in fake surprise. "Or at least flirt a little?~"

They already knew the answer, but seeing as to how the villain could barely get a word out with the other so close, it was amusing to say the least. Maybe if they weren't rivals on the field, they could've taken it even farther without a guilty conscience.

"Uh, too busy. W-with you know... villainy and all."

The hero pushed their hands atop the villain's knees, digging their nails in just slightly as they brought their forehead just a few centimetres from the other's. Idly soaking in every inch of the villain in this shared breath, sucking in air like it was the criminal's essence and fluttering their eyes closed as their noses brushed.

"You should try it..." Hero slid their hands up to the villain's thighs, grabbing a little tighter. "You might find you enjoy the... experience."

Finally, it was the villain's turn to smirk--although flustered, it was still cheeky. "Only if y-you'd enjoy it with me?"

[conchcronch]

Sword Swallower - Part 3

LA!BuggyxYou

When the door to his bedroom is finally closed Buggy intends to make full use of you in case he doesn’t get another chance.

NSFW under cut

The moment the door to his bedroom slams and locks behind you, you toss aside the coat he had all but insisted you wear for the very short walk from his office to his bedroom. You turn to him just in time to watch the open vest he had thrown on slip off his shoulders. He casts a glance at you as he fights with the button of his tented pants. His movements falter as he sees you fully bare for the first time. Giving you the chance to turn him around and push him back onto his bed. Your hands are on the button he’d been struggling with, pulling his pants open with ease before helping him pull them off. Just as he took you in, you stand over him, raking your eyes along his form in its full glory.

In your line of work everyone has scars. You couldn’t remember the last partner you have had that wasn’t positively littered with scrapes, cuts, and scars. But not Buggy. He hadn’t felt a blade since he was young, so long ago he swore he forgot what it felt like. His skin was completely bare, no scar, a blank slate. Even as you run your hands along his torso, feeling the lean muscles tense under his skin as though he hadn’t been touched before, the smooth skin felt almost wrong. There was a comfortable silence between you both as you stood between his legs, bent over him enjoying the way it felt to touch him while he enjoyed the way it felt to be touched for the first time in much longer than he would ever admit.

When the heat between your legs became too much to ignore, you straddled his lap, both of you whining at the feeling of your wet entrance rubbing against his neglected member. He sits up to wrap his arms around you, supporting you as you try to position yourself so he can slide inside. He holds you close as he rearranges the two of you so his back is pressed against the pillow littered headboard.

“You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted this,” He whispers into your neck between kisses, his arms tightening around you.

“Why didn’t you say something?” You say into his shoulder, moving your hips so the head of his cock teases your clit, making your stomach tense.

“Too much to lose.” He loosened his grip, using one hand to position his cock right at your entrance, the other pushing your hip down slowly.

You’ve grown accustomed to exaggerating your sounds from years of underwhelming and selfish flings. So you’re caught off guard when a high pitched whine slips past your lips as you slowly lower onto him. Buggy presses his face into your chest, his mouth hanging open and hot breath coming out in puffs against your sternum. Once you were sitting on his lap with him fully inside of you, he made no movement to thrust or grind against you. Instead he presses hot, open mouth kisses along your collarbone, up the center of your neck, smiling to himself when he feels you swallow dryly. “Doing alright, Sweets?” His lips moved against your cheek as he spoke, his stubble scratching you. You nod, trying to swallow away the sounds that you know will burst out as soon as you attempt to speak.

”Y-yeah, just…” Your voice fades when you slowly pull yourself up off his length, enjoying the way it drags against your walls, you stop just before the head slips past your ring muscle. His pupils are blown out and his lips parted, his hair tie is barely hanging onto all the long blue locks. As you lower yourself back onto him, you glide a hand through his hair, pulling the hair tie out as you go. Smiling as his mane frames his face, a few pieces falling in front of his eyes only to be flicked away by the hand that’s supporting him. You card your fingers through his soft hair, getting lost in the way it so easily wraps around your long fingers. He leans into you, resting his head against your chest, both hands wrapping loosely around your hips, hands idly playing with the meat of your ass.

“You’re killing me,” He whines into you, moving his head to catch a nipple between his lips in hopes of silently encouraging you to move even just a touch.

“Aw, do you not like it when you’re being teased?” You muse, a smile across your lips as you take more of his hair in your hand, being sure to scratch his scalp gently with your nails.

“It’s not fair.” He says, releasing your nipple with a loud pop. His pleading eyes meet your gaze and you can’t help but bring your free hand to his chin, pulling his lips up to meet yours. He moans feebly into your mouth, nearly crying when you finally grind against him.

“Not so funny when it happens to you, hm?” You tease, pulling your lips back just enough to get the words out. Your grip on his hair tightens as you pull it back sharply, not enough to pull hair out but enough that a beautiful moan spills from his lips. You let go of his blue locks, moving your hand to his bare chest to push him back against the headboard. “Need you, Bugs,” You sigh, neediness finally getting the better of you.

”Oh yeah, you need me huh?” He asks, a smile on his lips that were once covered in red but had long since been smeared between your legs. You nod as you start fucking yourself on him. You feel yourself start to get close, you knew you’d be there if you touched yourself but you weren’t ready for this to be over yet. His hand cups your cheek for a second before leading you down towards his lips, “I don’t think I believe you.” Before you have time to react, he uses the hand that’s on your cheek to push you over onto the bed, cock slipping out.

“Bu-“ Before you can get up, he’s off the bed. He pulls you by the ankle to the edge of the bed, one leg over his shoulder while the other dangles off the bed. He’s quick to push back inside you before bending over you so your thigh is pressed to your breast.

“Damn, you’re flexible,” He puts all his weight onto you, the burn in your tendon is dwarfed by the pleasure that overtakes you.

“Hidden t-talent I guess,” You breathe out, trying to keep your composure so he doesn’t know how close you are, knowing he’ll turn all his attention to getting you there when really you just want to enjoy this game of cat and mouse a bit longer.

“Sword swallower and contortionist, I hit the jackpot.” You can tell his composure is wavering, his hips are struggling to maintain a steady rhythm. You give in, it’s becoming too much to keep the moans at bay.

”B-Bugs,” You sigh, encouraging his hips to pick up pace. He draws you into a sloppy kiss, your knee grazing your cheek with every thrust. You feel him shift his weight quickly before you feel a phantom of body heat near your neglected clit. You unconsciously buck your hips, searching for his hand that you know is there just out of reach.

“What are you doing, my star?” You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s smirking. “What do you want?” His thrusts somehow get deeper, making it hard for you to form proper sentences so all you can really respond with is a pitiful whine. ”Hm what was that?” You don’t know how, but you’ll get him back for this. You move your hand from above you and slide it along your body until you find your clit, even just the lightest pressure makes you furrow your brow and eyes flutter closed. He let you enjoy it for a moment, watching as you catch your lower lip between your teeth.

There is a part of him that entertains the idea of just letting you keep it up and focus on his own pleasure, and maybe if it were anyone else that’s what he would do. But not you. He’s determined to get you to cum on his dick with his own hand if it’s the last thing he ever does. He uses his hand that had been toying with you to tightly grab your wrist, his thrusts slowing to a painful stop. He watches in amusement as your eyes shoot open, burning with someone who just had their orgasm ruined.

”What the fuck, I was almost there!” You try to sound angry but instead just end up whining.

“I know you were,” He pins your arm over your head and pushes your leg flush against you so he can whisper in your ear. “I want to be the one who makes you cum.” You wish you had been able to hold back the needy moan that you responded with. When he feels your arm relax, he trusts you enough to let go, leaning back and gently taking your leg off his shoulder, pressing kisses to it until it leaves his hand.

“Bugs…” You reach a hand forward in a weird moment of intimacy after he had whispered the sluttiest thing in your ear. “C-can I be on top?” He looks like he’s about to say something but opts to just nod, pulling out of you and stepping around the bed to lay down on the side he normally sleeps on. You roll over, pushing yourself up onto all fours, not fully expecting how weak your legs would be but still managing to straddle him. Before you can start to fuck yourself on him he draws you down for another kiss. This time it’s not nearly as sloppy as the past ones have been, this time it’s gentle. One hand on your cheek and the other on your neck with his thumb under your jaw.

“I don’t want this to be a one time thing,” His voice is unsteady but his words are sure. “But I also don’t want to fuck this up.” You pull back enough to look at him, seeing his eyes search yours for any hint as to what you’re thinking. “If you want this to be a one off I’ll go with that, if you want this to be a friends with benefits thing that’s fine, but I have to be honest with you,” He pauses, giving you space to stop him if you want but when you didn’t he kept going, “I’ve loved you for years.”

As you kiss, his hands run along your sides, helping him mentally map every curve of your body, just in case this is the first and last time he sees you like this. As his hands glide from your hips around to the small of your back and finally grabbing the meat of your ass he guides you to pull off his cock. It’s as though you were in your own world, caught up in the way his lips and hands felt against your skin. The feeling of him pulling out of you caught you off guard, a whine falling from your parted lips. He presses his lips to yours again, shushing you as he stills your hips before you could lower them back down onto him. “I just want to savor this while I can,” He says between kisses, his hands slowly pushing your hips back down to take all of him, ensuring you feel every single inch as he re-enters you.

“Buggy,” You breathe, your mind struggling to put thoughts into words. He hums in acknowledgment. “I can’t take this much longer,” Your words are slow and punctuated by whines and puffs of frustrated air as he continues setting the pace.

“Oh, I think you can.” He drags his lips along your cheek as your head slides to rest on his shoulder, his scent filling your every inhale as his arms abandon your ass and opt to wrap around your body, forcing you flush against him again.

You shake your head, a useless whine is the only sound you can make in your current, cock drunk state. “I can’t,” You barely choke out as he slowly thrusts in and out of you, the sound of your soaked pussy the loudest sound in the room, possibly on the whole ship.

“Tell me what you want, my star.” You rub your face into his skin, hoping that he’ll get the message. But he knows what you want, he knows exactly what you want. But he wants to hear you ask for it, beg for it. When you don’t say anything he stills his hips so only the head of his cock is inside of you. “I can stay like this all night.” That’s a lie, he’s barely able to stop himself from cumming every single time he bottoms out, but he’ll hold out if it means you get needy like this.

“I want you,” Is all you can manage to get out.

“You have me.” You groan, the burning between your legs getting white hot the longer he waits.

“Not what I meant.” He laughs, low and gravely, nothing like his normal laugh, this one is saved just for you in moments like this.

“Remember, I’m just here to give you a good time so the least you can do is tell me what you want me to do,” His voice is playful so you can tell that’s not how he actually feels but you sigh all the same. You push yourself up slowly, your hands on his chest for support. As you finally sit up and look down at him you can finally see him again. His eyes are glassy and his lips are no longer the painted red they had been when you first walked into his study, the only makeup that managed to outlast the night’s activities are the crossbones on his forehead, and even those are starting to smudge. His neck is covered in hickies and smudges of the red makeup that you’re sure is all over your own lips. He looks like he’s about to say something smug but it turns into a gravely groan when you sit down fully on his cock. His hands run up your thighs, pads of his fingers pressing into your taut muscles before one lands on your hip while the other your clit.

You’re confident you could have cum without that, but as you wiggle your hips trying to angle his cock to hit the spongey point that was just to the right the slightest bit, you could feel your pleasure on its way to its peak. You lean your whole body back, bracing yourself with both hands on his thighs as you fucked yourself, completely unable to stop the words that were flowing from your lips. “F-fuck Bu-Bugs.”

“S-shit look at you-u,” He started to rub your clit in slow circles, the pace difficult to maintain while you were riding him, but he could tell by how your thighs were shaking that you were close. You were lost in your own pleasure, your pace erratic and difficult to keep, you could feel the burn in your thighs but for some reason you just couldn’t get there.

You were brought out of your haze by a hand around your throat, pulling you down. Your hands were on either side of his head, your eyes meeting and the hand still on your throat. He pulled you close by your neck, your noses touching “I want to watch you cum.”

That was it, the missing puzzle piece: permission. It only took a few more thrusts before you were there. You dropped your hips completely onto him, feeling him fully inside of you as a rush of warmth filled you completely. You barely notice the way his jaw went slack and his brows furrowed as his hips tried to thrust deeper into you. A long drawn out curse hisses through his teeth, his hips jerk in small shallow thrusts as he rode his high, sighing your name as he went limp against the pillows.

You could barely control your body when your orgasm was finally through. You fell forward, his cock still buried inside you as you laid on him, head nestled in the crook of his neck. Your breath was hard to catch, your heart trying to go back to its normal pace. You could feel his deep breaths raising and lowering your body, you squirm for a second trying to free your arms that were trapped between your chests. As you fidgeted, his hands grip your hips hard, forcing you to freeze the moment you heard him whine. He pulls your hips up enough that his softening cock slipped out, followed by his seed beginning to drip out of you and onto the comforter.

“I should g-“ You went to push yourself up off of him with the intention of cleaning yourself up but were stopped when his arms wrapped around you tightly.

”D-don’t go just yet,” His voice was gravelly, and when you briefly meet his gaze, his eyes were glazed over.

“Buggs the blankets-“ He shook his head, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t care.” You relax into his arms, trying to ignore the feeling between your legs and focus on the moment. ”Will you sleep here tonight?” Buggy asks softly, his lips moving against your hair.

“If you change the sheets, I will,” You retort, your face squished against his bare chest listening to his steady heartbeat.

“I can do that.” You sigh happily before pushing yourself up enough that his arms loosen, allowing you to sit up so you can get a good look at him. His hair is splayed out around him, this is the first time you’ve ever seen him fully without makeup, the crossbones on his forehead smeared off sometime in the last bit. He watches you examine him, following your gaze as it takes him in for all his beauty. He looks at you with nothing but love, true unbridled love. The way your hair frames your face as you stare down at him can only be described as angelic, the hickies and smears of grease paint along your breasts makes a warmth in his chest swell knowing that even when the paint is washed off those blooming marks will last at least a couple days. You lean down and press a chaste kiss to his lips, he wants to deepen it but he forces himself not to, knowing his poor body can’t take another round.

“Do you mind if I take a bath?” Your voice comes out soft as you bring a hand to the side of his face, unable to resist touching his pale skin.

“Not at all,” His eyes are locked onto yours, and even though your body is sore and you can feel his seed drying sticky on your thighs, you can’t convince yourself to get up. A soft smile graces his lips as soon as he realizes this. “You gonna’ go or are you just going to stare at me?” You smile back, feeling as though you could return his feelings but not wanting to voice them right now.

“Come with me?” He smiles fully as he huffs out a light laugh.

“Damn, Sweets, round two already?” If you asked, he could do it. Even though his body was sore and his eyelids were a struggle to keep open, if you wanted him right now he couldn’t deny you. Thankfully for his stamina, you shook your head smiling.

“I just want to be with you.” He wanted so badly to tell you in that moment how much he loves you, how glad he is that you both finally crossed that unspoken line, how long he had wanted to hear those words come out of your lips.

“You go start the bath, I’ll change the sheets and meet you in there, ‘kay?” You nod, pausing for a second while you debate your words before changing your mind and getting off the bed. You walk into his private washroom, turning the taps to the clawfoot tub to the perfect temperature, then pausing and readjusting them knowing he probably can’t stand the near boiling water that you prefer. You turn to the mirror, staring at yourself from hips up.

You’re not sure what you expected, you had to know his make-up would be all over you and you could see just from looking down how much was smeared between your thighs. But what you hadn’t expected was the number of hickies. From your navel all the way up to your neck was littered with these marks in varying degrees of deep red. As you looked yourself over you watched in the mirror as he walked into the room, hair pulled over one shoulder. He steps behind you, pressing himself against your back and wrapping his arms around your waist, hands on your lower belly. You loved the way he looks at you, with love and adoration and just a hint of lust, even after all that. “Buggy,” You can’t stop yourself, his name in your mouth feeling as natural as taking a breath. He hums against you, nuzzling his face into your neck and pressing small kisses to your pulse point. “I think-“ You take a deep breath, watching him closely in your reflection. Watching the way his eyes flutter closed as he trails kisses from your neck to your shoulder and back up. How, as your silence stretches on, his gaze flicks up to the reflection, his mossy green eyes meeting the reflection of your own. “I think I love you.”

You barely had enough time to overthink the words that somehow slipped from your lips before he turns you around so you were eye to eye, pressing you against the countertop. “You think, hm?” His smile was natural and free of any trepidation, nothing was holding him back, his feelings were finally reciprocated after all these years. His lips press against yours in possibly the most passionate kiss this entire evening. He pulls back much too soon for your liking, but when his forehead presses against yours you melt into his arms. “Well I know I love you.”

[yourpersonaljaskier]

Light streamed softly through the tree leaves, falling just in the pathway of Ren's eyes. He hadn't been asleep, instead relishing in the quiet of the night and the warm body pressed against his.

Martyn's face was tucked into his neck, breath tickling his skin. His arms were curled around Ren's middle, holding him tightly, as if he would disappear in the middle of the night. Ren's hand was half tangled in Martyn's hair, playing with the dying ends as he counted the still sleeping breaths of his paladin, his other resting comfortably on his waist. He knew Martyn like the back of his hand by now, knew the internal workings of his body and mind.

A particularly loud chirp of a bird roused the paladin, the trees rustling as the bird flitted by. Martyn groaned, tucking into Ren with a shift of his body. Ren laughed softly, pressing a loving kiss to his paladin's head. "Good morning," he greeted as Martyn stretched against him, lazily attempting to push himself further into Ren.

Martyn mumbled a reply, hands coming up to grab at the ends of his hair, fingers tangling with the locks. "S'not morning," he said clearer, moving his face away to look at Ren with an unimpressed look. "You let me sleep in, milord."

Ren could only smile with a shrug, a mischievous feeling rattling in his chest as Martyn groaned, tucking back into Ren. "I don't know why you're whining, man, you seem content," he teased as he moved his hand from Martyn's waist to his lower back, rubbing at his spine idly. "Besides, you earned it."

Martyn gave a half hearted grumble, melting with a sigh as Ren pressed another kiss to his head, shifting on their bedrolls. "You always say that," he mumbled, sleep pulling at him again. "We need to be moving, milord," he said, sounding as unconvinced as Ren felt.

"Do we? I don't know, dude, I'm quite happy here," he teased, words forming against Martyn's head as Ren pressed more kisses to his paladin, earning a delighted laugh. "You seem to be as well, you aren't in a hurry to get up," his finger gently poked Martyn's back, tapping his way up his spine. The smile that was pressed against his skin was intoxicating, hoping to engrave the feeling of Martyn's lips against his neck into his body, feel it forever.

Martyn pulled away, and Ren immediately yearned for his touch again, the warmth he left oh so familiar and achingly sweet. His paladin sat up and Ren followed suit, watching as he stretched fully, hands extending far beyond his head. His hair was a tangle, a loving mess from being pressed into the same position from hours on end, Ren's hands likely the reason for some of the tangles.

Ren reached out, smoothing Martyn's hair down in a gentle stroke. Martyn leaned into his touch, relishing in the closeness, even if they were still touching. "Did you sleep well?" Ren asked, nervousness suddenly on his lips as Martyn looked at him, a loving smile on his lips. "You didn't move a lot, so I hope you did."

Martyn laughed softly, his hands coming up to cradle Ren's face, hands gentle, worshipping. "I slept fine," he breathed, a soft flush spreading across his skin as he glanced at Ren's lips then back up. Ren felt like he was on fire once more, his body flushing with a heat that suddenly felt alien. He wanted more of it.

Martyn's fingers gently rubbed his cheek bones, brushing just under his eyes before Martyn leaned in, nose brushing against Ren's. "I slept more than fine, actually," he mumbled, breath mingling with Ren's. His mouth was suddenly so dry, and he tilted his head just slightly, catching Martyn's lips with his.

It was electrifying, as always. The quiet that suddenly soothed over his mind, the flush that spread with purpose, the excited, flustered buzz of butterflies against his belly as he gently held Martyn's wrists. Martyn was solid against him, a gentle lull against the flames that threatened to swallow him whole once more.

They broke apart for a moment, only for Ren to lean back in. Kiss after kiss was pressed against Martyn's lips and then skin, love brimming between them like an overflowing cup. Ren didn't mind if it was too much, he'll wipe it up and reuse it all, over and over and over, if Martyn asked him to. Devotion shifted against him.

It should be the other way around, but as Martyn laughed at the kisses peppering his face, Ren didn't want anything to change, happy to worship the one meant to worship him instead.

-----

@liloinkoink Something happened here (Titled Devotion of a God)

[meownotgood]

Yayyy, could I request a simple, soft fluffy fic of Aki just being a big ol softy/simp for reader? I understand if this isn't your tea, but whether you do or not, thank you for all this content!

softcore. / hayakawa aki x gn!reader, fluff, established relationship

my first suggestion ^^ tysm for requesting! hope you like it!

It's no secret that Aki is a little bit obsessed with you. Every morning, he brushes his teeth hip to hip beside you, makes you whatever you want for breakfast, and kisses you deeply before he leaves for work. When his lips finally pull away from yours, his gaze is half-lidded and soft, and he can't help himself from kissing you again and again. Just one more won't hurt. Okay, one more after this one. The only reason he stops is because he's already running two minutes late. 

He runs ahead to hold the door open for you everywhere you go, he stares at you adoringly to a degree noticeable by anyone, and he holds your hand tight so you don't lose him in a crowd. His hands manage to find yours anywhere they can, really. Under the table when you both go out to eat, or intertwined with yours as you both drift off to sleep. And Aki knows all of your preferences, down to the very last detail; he'd never forget.

You like your coffee with whipped cream and exactly one and a half pumps of caramel. 

I made something new for dinner tonight, but I took out the onions on half 'cause I know you don't like them. 

He doesn't smoke whenever you're around. If you're tired, he'll offer to carry you. If you're cold, he'll give you his jacket, and if you're hot, he'll take out his hair tie and tie up your hair with it. He gives you his seat on the train, he buys you anything you say you need or even mention, and… Okay, scratch that, maybe Aki is a lot obsessed with you. But how could he not be? You mean everything to him, more than what the stars mean to the sky, or what the waves mean to the ocean. Aki absolutely adores you. 

He's memorized your phone number, too. He doesn't have to think about it anymore when he spins the rotary to dial it. His finger nervously twirls around the phone cord as he waits for you to pick up, and when you answer with a, "Hello?" Aki immediately feels all his stress melt away to the sound of your voice. 

Hey… I can't sleep. I miss you. Can I come over? 

Of course, the answer is yes. So, in a moment of pure tranquility and tenderness and just the two of you, here Aki is. He lays with his head in your lap, staring up at you, dark hair fanned out over your legs and messy as you play with it because he loves the way you run your fingers through. And although Aki tries (and usually fails) to be subtle with you in public, when it's just the two of you, it's a completely different story. 

"You're so pretty like this, you know that? I love your eyes. They're such a beautiful color," He says, his hand reaching up, knuckles gently brushing across your cheek. There's a slight smile on his face, framed by pink blush. "You're always so pretty, God. I can't believe you're mine." 

You giggle, your hand tracing to his jaw, then up to push his hair behind his ears. The television is on, flashing idly as it plays the kind of shitty programs that only come on late at night, when everyone is supposed to be sleeping. It's dull background noise. Neither of you are paying attention to it anymore. Your focus is fully on each other. 

"I missed you all day. I couldn't stop thinking about you." Aki continues. His voice is quiet and smooth, deep tone resonating and familiar. Compared to how he talks with others, he always seems to speak to you much kinder, much more delicately, as if he's speaking from his heart, yet is careful with his words. 

"I missed you too." 

Your hand finds his ear and you fiddle with his piercing. His palm glides up over your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and when he notices, he asks you, "Do you like them?" 

You roll the earring between your fingers. "Your earrings? They're handsome. These ones are new, aren't they?" 

"Yeah. Do you want them?" 

"Huh?" 

You're hardly given any time to process what he said before Aki is sitting up, getting comfy beside you on the couch while he reaches to take off his earrings. "We can trade," He says with a nod, "Here, hold still. Let me take yours off." 

Aki leans in, warm hands brushing against your face as he carefully removes your earrings while holding his own in his palm. It's funny, even though you and Aki are practically inseparable, there's still something so intimate about how close he is right now, and how he's extra careful to take your earrings off and hold them so he doesn't lose them, while replacing them with his own. 

You can smell the lingering scent of his cigarettes and cologne, hear his deep and relaxed breathing. When Aki leans back to put your earrings on himself, he admires his work with a grin. He was secretly hoping you'd bring it up so he could give this pair to you. 

"Yeah, those look great on you." Aki affirms, and you laugh when he finishes putting your earrings in. 

"Aki, I wear those earrings all the time. Your co-workers are gonna know they're mine if you wear them tomorrow." 

"So? What if I want them to know?" 

You can't argue with that, and anything you were hoping to respond with dies out when Aki holds your chin between his thumb and index finger. There's a short pause, more of the television humming, and Aki takes a shaky breath in before he asks, "Can I kiss you?" 

He doesn't have to ask, really, he doesn't. But he always does. Teasing him a little, you reply, "Didn't we kiss for hours earlier?" 

It's true, when he first got here, your lips were on his for what must have been hours as you kissed to make up for lost time. Lazy and slow, murmuring I love you and I missed you in between each one, his mouth immediately finding your cheeks and your neck when you need a moment to catch your breath. And even still, you didn't have enough of him, and he certainly didn't have enough of you. 

"Just one more won't hurt, right?" 

[koulakoukoula2003]

Overwhelmed (Yandere!Levi Ackerman x Reader) Pt. 1

Pairing: Yandere!Levi Ackerman x Reader Genre: Yandere!Levi, yandere themes, so much smutty smut TW: NSFW, MDNI, ROUGH SEX, possibly babytrapping LMFAO (idk we'll see in the sequel), MAJOR WARNINGS FOR DUBCON, uhm yandere behaviour, reader has low self-esteem but don't we all, creampie, vaginal sex, Levi fucks you like an animal against his desk basically, + Levi's obsessed with you uwu + DARK INNER MONOLOGUE OK? A/N: IDK WHAT THIS IS I JUST KNOW THAT I'M HORNY LMFAO pls heed the warnings and uh pls enjoy (will probably get a part 2 if you guys beg for it) Part 1 >>> Part 2 >>> Part 3

There's a difference between wanting someone and loving someone. Love and obsession are two entirely different things. For you and your Captain, it started innocent.

He had almost fooled you that he loved you. You were convinced he did, and how could you not? When he jumped in to save you from every reckless move, every hopeless attack you made against titans that you wouldn't stand a chance against.

How he punished you afterward. After getting back from such expeditions, he'd make sure to get it through your thick head that you're his. You're all his and you have no right to throw yourself in death's way while you belonged to him.

You were such a pretty thing. Always so willing. So pliant and submissive and bending to his will without any effort on his part.

And here you were now, his hot breath fanned to your ear, his cock buried deep inside your dripping cunt, and his arms around you. You were utterly naked, he stripped you off your clothes the second you walked into his office after he called for you. And now you were here, back against his chest, his rapid breaths on your ear as he fucked you like a dog on a rut. Cock pressing so deep in that position it had your eyes watering. Pretty tears ran down your cheeks but he licked them away.

He always tasted your tears. There was something so salty and sweet about them. There was something so melodious about your sounds. Sounds of pain, sounds of pleasure, the screams of you being overwhelmed by him. He wrapped a hand around your throat, forcing your head back against his shoulder. His cock was hitting painfully against your cervix but the fast rubs on your clit had you stuck on the thin line between pleasure and pain. You didn't mind. You'd take anything he gave you.

"You're mine." He growled against your ear. His fingers tightened around your throat. His thrusts were fast and animalistic. There was nothing normal about the way he was handling you. He was rough, fucking your hole like fleshlight, biting on the back of your shoulder till he was tearing your skin between his teeth. "You're all mine, understand?!"

His thrusts were relentless. There was no way you could respond while he was fucking you like an animal. His fingers rubbed your clit furiously and you threw your head back. You screamed at the top of your lungs and he didn't even make an effort to stop you. He wanted the entire HQ to hear you. He wanted everyone to know you were his bitch. You were his fuckdoll, his pretty little girl. His willing fucktoy, always ready to drop on your knees to please him.

You came so hard. The forced orgasm took a toll on your body. It had you slamming back down on his desk. Your erratic breaths fanned the smooth surface of the wooden furniture. You were utterly naked, but he was still fully clothed. He hadn't even taken his black suit jacket off.

He stopped thrusting. Still buried to the hilt inside of you, cock throbbing so deep, you had caught a glimpse of it bulging in your stomach more than once tonight. Your legs shook. You would have collapsed on the floor if it wasn't for his desk.

A searing spank laid across your already reddened buttcheeks and you cried out. The palm of his hand was so beautifully imprinted on your skin in deep red. Idly he wondered how much more perfect it'd be if instead of red, it was a deep purple. How many spanks would that take? He would definitely try it one day. But maybe not today. You were close to your limits. He coaxed you into five orgasms already. Your pretty pussy was pink and used and your naked body was covered in a thin sheet of sweat. His own sweat dripped from his raven bangs.

He finally released the knot of his ascot from around his neck. He hadn't even noticed it was bothering him until now. He finally took off his jacket, tossing it aside on a chair. He balled up the white fabric of the ascot and he forced it inside your mouth, restricting your sounds, your fast breathing.

He leaned down, still wearing his white shirt. His chest met your back and he kissed all over the purple bruises he had left on your shoulders with his teeth. He wrapped his arm around you, feeling himself in your belly and then slipping down. You were so sensitive, a single swipe of his fingers on your clit had you mewling against the cloth forced in your mouth.

"So wet..." he groaned in your ear. He caught your hair, pulling them out of your face, to reveal your pretty eyes. Beautiful tears had left trails on your cheeks. He kissed them away and you melted.

No matter how hard he used you, you loved it. Every time he touched you, kissed you, held you, you were melting. You knew you were instantly going to forgive everything he did to you because your heart ached for him. You loved him.

But you had no idea what he felt for you. You just knew he went mad without you. One time, he hadn't seen you for an entire day and he almost choked to death two cadets whilst looking for you. Maybe he didn't love you. Maybe he was just obsessed with you.

That was good enough for a nobody like you.

You tried to speak his name but the cloth inside your mouth was muffling you. He pulled it out and you coughed. You breathed hard and your hand struggled to reach back for him.

"Levi..." it came so desperate and pathetic and needy. His cock twitched inside of you. Your hand finally managed to reach for his hair, burying your fingers into them, bringing him down to you closer.

Closer still, please.

"What is it, y/n? Use your words." His voice was deep and breathless and so very soothing, it made your chest tingle.

"Need you..." you licked your lips "...'m yours. I'm all yours, I love you s' much, kiss me please..."

Fuck, you had no idea what you were doing to him when you said things like that. You loved him? You really did? After treating you like this? Was there really someone in his life who could love a bastard like him? An ugly, ruthless midget who lacked all meaning of gentleness and tenderness? Who had no idea how to handle you? How to love you back? Everyone he ever loved, died on him so fast, were you going to be one of them?

No, he wasn't going to tell you he loved you. He was never going to say it because one moment he might say it and the next you're going to die and he would've lost everything.

So, no, he wasn't going to love you. He wasn't going to make love to you because he didn't even know how. Sex was a mere need for him. A disgusting, primal need that he couldn't get rid of and he wished he could. But you satisfied all his needs. You took everything he gave you. Spanking, bondage, pain, degradation. You satisfied that dark, sadistic side of him and you were always so willing to let him push you to your limits.

You had seen that side of him that would have made anyone else run away, screaming in terror, but instead, you even loved him for it.

You were capable of loving him.

He pulled out of you and he flipped you around pulling you off the desk. Your legs almost gave up on you and you almost crushed on the floor but he caught you. He wrapped his arms around you and picked you up bridal style with impressive ease. He was so strong. Always so strong, he could manhandle you and break your body in two before you'd even have the chance to scream for help.

Maybe you'd even just let him.

He took you to his bed and lied you down and took off his shirt and the annoying pants.

He climbed back on top of you, easing his cock inside you again and you gasped. He took your lips in his own and that's when he started fucking you and kissing you like he loved you. He didn't say a word though. There was never any confession. It was just that sloppy kiss that you could have never guessed a clean freak like your Captain would engage in.

You could taste the afternoon tea he had on his tongue. You could smell him, something herbal and detergents and the cleanliness of his impossibly clean bedsheets. You buried your fingers in his sweaty hair and you clutched on him. So desperate and needy.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you.

He began thrusting again. He didn't even start slow. Slow and intimate sex was something he didn't know how to do. You would have to show him one day if he let you, but for now, you let him fuck you to oblivion while he swallowed your screams off your lips.

His hips slammed against yours and he pulled your legs to his shoulders, forcing you into a mating press. He folded your entire body in half, getting deeper, threatening to break deep into your womb. You screamed and shut your eyes and threw your head back and your entire body shook.

"Just a little more..." He panted into your chest, biting down on your skin. His thrusts, relentless. "...take it for me, y/n, take it... You're mine... all mine..."

He was babbling now incoherently and you knew he was close. Thrusts wild and uneven and cock hitting so deep you could feel him in your throat. His hand dropped down on your clit and you came in an instant. You didn't even get the time to warn him. You screamed and squirted all over his cock and his eyes widened.

"Fuck!" It only urged him to fuck you harder and harder until he came inside you.

Your belly felt so warm and bloated. He fucked you through it, making sure you didn't waste a single drop. You would look so beautiful all stuffed with his kids. His wife. His one and only. No one else for him. He loved you so madly.

He wanted you to abandon everything for him. He wanted you to resign as a soldier. He wanted you to get you a home, give you a family, keep you safe there.

He pulled his face from your neck, realising you had passed out. Your body limp beneath him. Your hands limp around him. Instinctively he checked for your pulse but you were breathing rhythmically. You were alive. You were okay.

He sighed in relief and kissed your parted lips. He licked clean that drop of spit that had started to roll down your lips. He kissed you all over.

He cleaned you and groomed you like a pup. He settled you properly on the bed, in the nightgown you kept around his quarters for nights like this.

He lied beside you and held you all night, unable to fall asleep. He could never sleep when you were sleeping beside him. He watched you because you were so beautiful. He had paperwork to take care of but he found himself unable to move.

You were so beautiful, all he did was stare at you while you slept. Others would've been terrified at the thought of being stared at, but not you. Not you. You were his.

He was already planning of forging a resignation paper. He had learned your handwriting, your signature. He had learned everything about you.

It was for the best. He'd keep you safe that way. You were the only one he had left.

His arms tightened around you impossibly and he buried his face in your hair shutting his eyes, drawing in your scent.

He was going to keep you safe.

[delinquentfiction]

A Night of Pampering With Vil

Content: Vil x Reader, fluff, spa day, romantic, kisses, pet names (Darling, Kitten, Petal, Dear), no use of y/n

Tw: None

Word count: 1140

You knocked politely on the imposing dorm door, practically vibrating with excitement. Today was a self-care Saturday, as Vil had dubbed your regular bonding sessions of indulgent relaxation. And you were more than ready to soak in his pampering aura.

"Come in darling, I'm just finishing up in here!" Vil called melodically.

Pushing open the door, you were immediately greeted by a heavenly aroma of rose scent wafting through the lavish lounge area. Soft classical music floated through hidden speakers, soothing your soul. But your attention was stolen by Vil emerging from his spacious bathroom, clad in a silky robe with damp hair tousled fetchingly.

How Neige was considered more beautiful than him you couldn’t figure, especially in moments like this. Fuck, the man looked like he was sculpted by the angels themselves. You hated how sometimes the blonde watching his figure so closely meant that you had to give up some simple pleasures, especially in the beginning, but clearly the work works out. If only the french fries and small bags of chips you would sneak didn’t taste so good. If only they didn’t taste better when you sneak them.

"Come here kitten, let me get a look at that lovely face of yours." He cooed, taking your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger to tilt your visage this way and that under scrutinizing eyes.

Vil hummed in approval. "Good, no unsightly blemishes to speak of. Now, have a seat and I'll fetch my supplies."

You giggled, obediently perching on the plush chaise lounge. Moments later Vil reappeared with an armful of ornate bottles and tubs, laying them out ceremoniously on the coffee table before you. His nimble fingers got to work smoothing aromatic creams and serum into your skin, massaging deftly. You melted into his touch with a contented sigh.

Next came a clay mask infused with calming scents, mixed fresh for optimal potency. Vil expertly applied the cool mixture, sculpting it to your features in sweeping strokes. Gingerly tapping your nose, he winked. "All done darling, now just ten minutes for it to work its magic. We'll chat and sip tea, yes?"

Vil set about preparing a luxurious pot of rooibos with honey, chatting idly about the latest campus gossip during the wait. Before long he proclaimed your mask fully cured, carefully peeling it away to reveal radiant skin beneath. You gasped - already you felt rejuvenated on a deep level.

"Simply stunning, as I knew you would be, my petal." Vil praised, cupping your chin affectionately.

A brush of his thumb along your lower lip set your heart skipping, though the moment passed as he began applying rich lotions to lock in moisture. With finishing spritzes of setting mist, you were left the picture of pampered bliss.

"Now for the pièce de résistance!" Vil declared dramatically, rising in a flourish.

He returned promptly with an armful of silky fabrics, laying them out like pieces of a puzzle atop his sumptuous canopy bed. Selecting two options, he held them up for your inspection. "The emerald shall bring out the gorgeous azure of your eyes darling, but the rose quartz may better suit your rosy complexion. Decisions, decisions..."

You considered briefly before gesturing to the rose, touched by his care in selecting colors flattering your features. Vil beamed, gathering the garment to hold against your form appraisingly.

"Exquisite choice as always, now let's get you dressed." He hummed, helping you slip into the floating silk robe and sneaking a delicate kiss on your shoulder. It was light, but you felt it and it caused a slight heat to grow on your cheeks. With nimble fingers he tied the sash, smoothing the fine material over your shoulders. "Gorgeous, simply gorgeous, my petal."

Stepping back, Vil admired his handiwork before setting to styling your hair. Gentle brushes and delicate braids worked your locks into an elaborate updo, stray curls artfully framing your face. Finally, he applied the barest touches of makeup to accentuate your natural beauty - pink balm to plump your lips, wisps of shadow to make your eyes pop.

Spinning you to face the full length mirror with a flourish, Vil gazed proudly over your shoulder at the vision before you both. "My dear, you take my breath away. Come, let's bask in the glow of your allure together, shall we?"

His arm settled around your waist, pulling your back against his robust chest as you admired your reflection. With his chiselled jawline dusted pink and lustrous hair tousled roguishly, Vil was quite the statuesque specimen himself. Turning in his hold, you wrapped your arms around his neck in thanks.

Vil murmured your name affectionately, leaning in to brush featherlight kisses across your forehead, cheeks and nose until you were both breathless with giggles. His arms tightened around your waist, looking deeply into your eyes as if searching for something. Your breath hitched under the intensity of his gaze.

But the moment passed as Vil reclined gracefully against mountains of satin pillows, patting the space beside him invitingly. You readily cuddled into his side with a contented sigh, idly tracing patterns on his chest through the gauzy robe as relaxing melodies washed over you both once more. The blonde at one point delicately holds your cheek and stares into your eyes once more, however he didn’t seem to be looking for something. He seemed to have found it and leaned down while you allowed your eyes to flutter closed and the warmth of his lips met yours for a good minute or so before breaking the contact. You shyly smile at him before hiding your face back in his robe. The heat in your face was sustained by his larger hand tangling its fingers with your own.

You felt his chest rise and slightly hum as he spoke once more, “My petal, your newly found radiance and confidence over time together has seemed to captivate even myself. Might I have the honor of courting you properly?”

If you had given a verbal response, you think you would just end up shouting the answer. So instead, you nod, a big smile creeping onto your face. He lifted the hand he had been holding and placed a kiss on the back of it. You could feel his smile against your now softer skin. “Wonderful, my dear. Now get some beauty rest so you don’t get demoted to potato again.”

Hours passed by like this, basking in each other's company as the sunlight slowly waned outside. Such pampering self-care sessions had become the highlight of your weeks spent amidst the hustle of school. But nestled securely in Vil's capable arms while his digits toyed with your hair, you thought maybe you found something even more soothing than any skincare ritual or carefully crafted ensemble. For here, you felt beautiful inside and out.

[mightymizora]

Firelight (Tav/Gale)

(E rating, strap sucking fun)

Read on Ao3

“Gods, you look so beautiful.”

He picked this one out himself in Aurora’s, an adorable and quaint little shop that they had frequented a couple of times since she moved in. He’d got that look in his eyes the moment he saw it, a soft glazed expression and a faint blush at the top of his cheeks as his eyes darted over to her and she knew he was imagining what she would look like in it.

It’s not something she would have chosen, but she has to admit it is a beautiful item. Expertly carved with a slight bend, there is a beautifully rendered head and a gentle carved seam of decoration that is a far cry from the makeshift stuffed leathers she has used over the years. And it’s… well. It’s quite large, at least sat flush to her narrow hips, and she can feel the weight of it in her harness as she walks over to the chair by the fire. His eyes follow her, and he comes to his knees before her as she gets comfortable on the edge of her seat.

He reaches up, fingers gently tracing her body along the edge of the simple open shirt she has left on, skirting around her waist and up to the edge of her breast before she gently takes his hand and kisses the tip of her fingers.

“You’ll need to control yourself, Gale.”

“Yes, of course. Apologies, but the way the fire is on your skin, I… I quite forget myself.”

She lifts her foot and places it on his shoulder, and he turns his head to kiss the arch of it and run his tongue along in a moment of visible hunger before sucking gently on her toe, looking at her with the reflection of the fire in his eyes.

“That tongue of yours…”

“I can’t help it.”

He kisses up her short calf, the inside of her knee, up the tenderest flesh of her thigh as she settles one knee over the leg of the chair and idly runs her hand over the beautiful artistry of her new cock, enjoying the gentle ridges, the smooth head as his mouth finds her fingers on it and starts to suck at them.

She moves her hand from his mouth into his hair and guides him.

“Maybe we should keep this on display when we’re done,” she tells him as his mouth sinks down, circling the head before bobbing down once, twice, and taking it in fully. She can feel his nose pressing against her, and can’t help but think of what it will feel like later, to have him buried in her hair after she has fucked him. “Have it where we can see it. Where I can recall how pretty you look with your mouth full.”

He moans deeply, one hand pressed into the flesh of her thigh, his thumb on the edge of her harness. She knows where his other hand is as she sees the flex in the top of his arm. It is gentle, not the quick sharp movements of him taking his own pleasure, but the erratic, unconscious push of his palm against the fabric of his trousers.

He is already so desperate.

She wraps her fingers in his hair tighter, but lets him set his own pace.

“Would you like that, my love?” she asks him as he works his mouth over her, long trails of spit gathering at the base as his mouth moves to suck at the tip. “Putting it in pride of place. Right in your eyeline in the office, so you can remember how I take my pleasure from you. Would you be able to control yourself?”

He looks up at her with soft wet eyes as his pace increases, those eyes that tell her everything she needs to know even if he cannot answer. She bucks softly as he takes her in again, smiling as he mirrors it, his hips rising to meet his hand as his moans come thick and fast.

“Could you control yourself, thinking of me fucking your mouth like this?”

Her voice sounds hard as her hand tightens in his hair, as she feels her wetness against the chair, as she watches him take it harder, tears in his eyes as he looks up at her pleading, his beautiful eyes rolling back as his thrusts against his palm stutter and she rides his face through the guttural cry that is muted by his full mouth.

He pulls off slowly, leaving a long line of spittle as he collapses against her.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against her thigh, his eyes cloudy and glazed as he looks up at her. ��I’m sorry I couldn’t-”

“No apologies,” she says as she runs her thumb against his swollen lips. “We have all day. When you’re ready, you’re going to get yourself all cleaned up for me, and then you’ll take yourself to the bedroom and be ready for me when I decide it’s time to fuck you. To stand behind you and drive you into the bed until you sob. And you’ll wait there until I am, and stay nice and still and not touch yourself. Isn’t that right?”

He nods softly, kissing the inside of her thigh so gently it makes her throb. But she is patient. It will be worth the wait, to see him come undone on her cock again at least once, to make his beautiful body tremble, blushing and goosefleshed before his tongue and hands even make it to her cunt.

“Good boy,” she tells him, and he moans softly in gratitude against her skin.

[sotvtaughtmehowtofeel]

Read to me

Joel was lying on the couch, one foot flat on the floor, one arm up, wrist resting on his forehead. His other hand propped open the book he was reading on his chest.

The front door swung open, and he glanced over at Ellie as she trudged into the room. She didn’t slow her step as she dropped her backpack off her shoulder and kicked her shoes off on the way to the couch. Joel moved his book out of the way just in time, grunting as she collapsed onto him.

“Rough day?” he asked, lowering his free arm to hold her and repositioning to get more comfortable. He traced circles over her shoulder as she nodded her head against his chest, her face pressed fully into his shirt.

Joel laid his book on the floor and closed his other arm around her, giving her a squeeze.

“Why are there other people here?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

Joel chuckled, moving one hand up to her hair, smoothing the top of her ponytail. “Sometimes I wonder that myself.”

She wrapped her arm around his middle, idly picking at his shirt. “Can we go live on our own in a cabin? Like those thousand-year-olds?”

He nodded, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “I could build a cabin.”

Ellie shifted, peeking with one eye to look up at him. “Can we get a puppy?”

“Absolutely. You’ll have to walk her.”

“’Cause you’re too old?” He could hear her smile, even though her face was still hidden in his shirt.

He scoffed, looking down at her. “’Cause I’ll be building the cabin.”

She finally pulled away from him, one of his arms sliding off her as she scooted to snuggle in between his side and the couch cushion. He pulled her closer to him with the arm still around her, rubbing gentle circles into her arm. She settled back down with her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with a sly smile growing on her face. “You’re still building? How long is this gonna take?”

He gave her an exaggerated frown. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly. “It’d go faster if you’d help.”

She grinned. “But I have to walk the dog!”

He nodded, conceding her point.

She reached out, taking his free hand and intertwining her fingers with his. His thumb traced each of her fingers in turn while her thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of his hand. “Can the baby come too?”

Joel chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through Ellie, making her smile. “I don’t think Tommy and Maria would like that much.”

Ellie looked up at him with wide hopeful eyes asking a silent question.

He smiled fondly at her. “Maybe I could build them a cabin too.”

She smiled, but then shook her head sighing. “You’re gonna have a lot of work to do. I’m barely gonna see you.”

“You’ll be walking the dog and babysitting.”

She scrunched her nose. “Maybe it’d be best to just stay here. Home.”

He gave her a slight squeeze, turning to kiss the top of her head.

She lifted her head slightly, looking over him and the edge of the couch. “What do you have over there?” She settled her head back on his shoulder, releasing his hand so he could reach down to pick up the book and show it to her.

She closed her eyes, nuzzling her face into his neck. “Read to me?”

Joel smiled down at her softly, opening the book. “Sure, babygirl.”

[happy-beeeps]

Rain or Shine

@clonexreaderbingo

Pairing: Hunter x reader

WC: 2.4K

Warnings: none!

Prompt: storm

Summary: Hunter’s senses have him especially sensitive to storms. You on the other hand have grown to love them, so you show him one of your favorite tricks to enjoying the rain.

A/N: MY FIRST HUNTER FIC which is so surprising because I am in love with this man. I will be writing plenty more for him and EEEEEEP first bingo fic I’m so excited!!!!

It’s the kind of rain that shakes the Marauder with each crack of thunder, the kind that sends bright white light into the hull of the ship. You’re keeping Omega company in her makeshift room, her head laying comfortably across your chest as she squeezes you tighter with every blast. Your hands dance idly in her hair, and you remember the way your own mother used to soothe you when you were young.

“I was afraid of storms too when I was young,” you croon, hands smoothing out the tufts of blonde.

She yawns, sinking further into you at your words. “I'm not afraid, we had storms on Kamino all the time.”

“Mmm. Still, when I was afraid, she would sit with me and watch the rain tap on the window. She’d tell me it was the sky’s way of saying hello. And we’d have a special routine to keep the storm away.”

She’s silent for a moment, then asks quietly, “How do we keep them away?”

“We would count between each thunder crack, each second was klick away, would you like to try?”

She nods, and the two of you stay like that for a while, counting down how far the storms have shifted and where they stay. It works like a charm of course, and the idle counting has the added benefit of lulling the girl to sleep, and you carefully shift her back in bed before exiting the space, carefully climbing down the ladder. The Marauder is silent now, save for the sounds of the storm. In the time you’ve spent soothing Omega, the rest of the Batch must have gone to sleep, save for Tech, who you join in the cockpit for a moment.

“Any chance of us getting takeoff?”

“Negative. The storm cell is only building in power, we will be spending the night here.”

You nod, then pull your knees up to your chest, noting the absence of his brother, your Hunter. “Has Hunter gone to sleep? I’m surprised he didn’t stop to say goodnight to me or Meg.”

“That is because he has not gone to sleep. Hunter does not enjoy the sound of storms, the vibrations and loud noise disrupts his senses, I suspect he is either in your shared quarters, though on one occasion he could be found in the lower cargo hold, if the sound travels too loud.”

You sigh, happy that he hasn’t abandoned your favorite nightly ritual of saying goodnight to Omega as a unit, then coming back to bed together to whisper sweet nothings, but also worried about his discomfort. You pat Tech on the shoulder in a way that serves as a verbal goodnight, and leave him to his devices in the cockpit.

Hunter tries his best to behave normally when you find him in your quarters, but the small metal space acts more like a tin can, it only amplifies each noise coming from the outside. He’s sitting upright as he can in bed when you join him, bandana still on, as if he hasn’t fully prepared to undress.

“I was worried you’d forgotten about us.” You chide as you dip into your bed. You’re careful not to touch him without his invitation, you’re not sure how sensitive he is right now.

He leans his body closer to you, opening an arm and inviting you in. “Forget about my two favorite girls? Not likely.” There’s a beat and a crack of thunder, and his breath comes out shaky and ragged. “How is she?”

“She’s asleep now, she’s afraid of thunderstorms, can you believe it? A Kaminoan who doesn’t like the rain.”

He laughs, then pulls you in closer to his chest, and you use the proximity as an excuse to reach up and untie his bandana, knotting your hands in the tender flesh of his scalp. He groans in thanks, and you’ve nearly successfully distracted him from the sensory overload that you can only imagine the repetitive tat tat tat of the rain on ship must be, when a lightning strike nearby sends the ship rattling. He hisses, the vibrations surely sending shockwaves up his spine.

“You know, a little birdy told me she might be the only stowaway who doesn’t like the rain.”

“Gotta… stop… talking… Tech.” He grits out as the rain increases in pressure, the sound building up louder. You’ve responded accordingly, begrudgingly backing off of him to give him the space you’re sure he needs.

“How can I help?”

“Just you being here helps me, you know that.” He reaches out to place a ground grasp on your leg, and rubs it soothingly, though you aren’t sure if it’s more for himself or you. “How come you like storms so much?”

You shrug, arms crossing over your chest as you turn to face him. He’s hard to make out in the lowlight, but you can see the tension in his jawbone. Your heart aches for him in these moments. Sure, his heightened senses were a survival skill, and they made him a more than adept partner, but moments like now, when they caused him so much pain? You wished you could just take it all away. “I don’t know, it reminds me of home I think. I used to be so afraid of the storms, and my mother tried everything to make me feel better.”

Hunter snorts, “hard to imagine you being afraid of anything.”

“Please, growing up on a farm there’s plenty to be afraid of.” You move off the bed then, getting an idea as you reminisce on your childhood. “My mother tried it all, we’d read, she’d sing songs, we’d count. It all worked to soothe me, but it never stopped making me afraid, you know?” You turn around to face him again and reach out your hands, sending your chin down to coax him forward.

“It’s not that I’m scared, you know that, right?”

“Course I do. Big bad Hunter isn’t scared of anything.” You pull him up and gently caress his jaw in your hands, fingertips tracing over the pretty inked spots before ghosting his lips with a kiss. “Do you trust me?”

“Course. With everything.”

You smile at the sentiment, he’s always so open with you, so soft. You lead him down the hallway, towards the ramp, and you’re happy now to realize you’ve both discarded your shoes, though you’re suddenly a little worried about your thin, white night dress. You press the few buttons that lower the ramp and it begins to move, sending a warm, wet blast of air up into the ship as it drops. You’ve been sent to a tropical system, and Tech has landed the ship in a small patch of land not horribly far from a village. The area is thick with vegetation, and even before the rain started you couldn’t help but feel as if you could feel the water in the air. Now, with the storm, it’s as if the air is made of soup.

Hunter follows you cautiously, eyes skeptical as you lead him out carefully into the rain. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if he’s preparing for something uncomfortable, and you’ve led him just below the ramp before closing it back up again. The inside of the ship is dark, meaning Tech has since retired to his quarters and is probably goggles deep in the holonovel you lent him, leaving you and Hunter alone to conduct your excitement.

“When I was a little girl, my mother took me out into a storm when I was just too afraid to sleep.” The wind is light, and it sends your and Hunter’s hair flying in a myriad of directions. You can feel your clothes start to dampen as you stay out here, but you can’t shake how soothing it feels, how refreshing the rain is. “I wasn’t afraid of the rain, you see. It was the noise I didn’t like. When you’re out in the rain, it’s actually really quiet. It’s the house that makes all the noise.” She was right, naturally, and you ended up sitting out in that rain for close to two hours playing, you remember her chasing you all across the pastures and fields. You’d woken up sick, but it had all been worth it. It’s a fond memory, and you think perhaps it’s why you like the rain so much now.

Hunter cracks open an eye, looks around, and opens the second. He breaths in, the way he does when he’s listening, and exhales something from deep within his chest. Like he’s actually relaxing. “It’s not as bad, actually being out in it.”

“I know. I am almost always right.” You sidle up to his side and wrap your arms around his waist, enjoying the moment just being in the rain, slowly getting soaked together. It’s going to take you days to feel clean after this, what with the Marauder’s sonic shower, but you don’t really mind. It’s so refreshing, so rejuvenating. The feeling of newly formed mud between your toes has you feeling like a child again and you don’t know why, but you act on it. Breaking you and Hunter out of your trance, you take off, running through the clearing before turning over your shoulder, “come and get me, sergeant.”

He takes off with a grin and starts the chase. You’re fast, years spent running across farmland and then again through battlefields to administer aid have made your legs strong, but Hunter is stronger. He’s on you in moments, grabbing your waist from behind before spinning you to face him. You’re both laughing as you look at him, and you wrap your legs around his waist, his arms supporting the rest of your weight securely.

“You’re fast, but I’m faster verd’ika” he grins, and his hands are in your hair. You’re both soaked to the bone now, and you can tell by the way his eyes roam your form that your dress has turned entirely sheer with the rain, but you can’t help but conduct your own visual exploration of the way his blacks (and his hair) cling to his skin, giving you an even more intimate look at areas you’ve surely seen before. He must be doing the same thing, because it’s his voice that breaks the silence first. “You’re beautiful cyare.”

“Mmm,” you smile, running an affectionate hand along his cheek tracing the outline of his tattoos, his hands still placed firmly beneath your thighs. “Gotta compete with you, pretty boy.” He laughs, but his lips are on yours in a minute in a kiss that’s both longing and passionate, fueled by something carnal and pure. He’s such a complexity, your Hunter, always straddling both sides of a situation. You suspect it has something to do with bearing the weight of leadership, and now something akin to fatherhood.

He pulls away and rests his forehead on yours, breathing softly. “Thank you for this, by the way.”

“Anytime. I’m always happy to sit with you. Rain or shine.”

He snorts, and the two of you rest in that moment again, you so secure in his arms. You’re certain you’ll wake up with a cold, you know it, but that doesn’t matter to you in this moment. It lingers, that feeling of security, before a crack of thunder has the trance broken, and the childish flame reignited in your soul. You wriggle free of his grasp and drop down to the squishy earth, and make to run from him again. “Oh no you don’t,” he starts, grinning wickedly, and goes to pull you in close, what he doesn’t account for though, is the slip of the mud on your feet, and his quick motion has you losing your footing and tumbling into the wet earth. The other thing he fails to think of, is your grip on his arm, as he falls beside you. This is how the two of you find yourselves here, caked in mud and breaking with laughter. He helps you up and then carries you back to the ship, as the two of you (unsuccessfully) quietly navigate back to your quarters in a fit of giggles.

The night ends with the two of you trying to squeeze into the tiny sonic shower, and both of your mud caked clothes being long forgotten on the floor.

When you awake the next morning to the sound of birds chirping, the two of you are less person and more tangled pile of limbs, each trying their best to hide their sniffles. No matter, you’ve got a long journey back to Ord Mantell and nothing to do, and you’re happy to stay in bed together the rest of the day, staring into each other's eyes. In fact, the two of you are getting a head start when you hear a low gasp and a thud (you imagine it to be a datapad) before Tech’s indignant, and accusatory, voice moves close to the door of your quarters. “what pray tell have done to my ship!?”

The night comes back in flashes to the both of you. The discarded clothes, the giggling, the kisses en route to the shower, the mud-

Oh. The mud.

The two of you dress quickly and step outside, and you have to bring your hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. There, from the ramp to your quarters to the fresher, is a tell tale trail of two sets of muddy footprints. Hunter opens his mouth to apologize to Tech but his younger brother simply holds up a hand and walks away, massaging his temples as he does. Hunter moves to sneak a hand around your waist, kissing your temple and whispering in your ear as the two of you watch Wrecker point and laugh at the footprints on the floor.

“I love you.”

[tuliptired]

He's Good People Ch.2

Chapter 2: We Could Steal Time, for Just One Day (We Can be Heroes)

Pairing(s): Gn!reader/Ray, Gn!reader/Egon, Gn!reader/Winston

Summary: (Egon centric) You get to spend most of the day with the quiet scientist, as per his out of character invitations.

Warnings: talk of having a baby, though reader biology is never specified

Thank you for all the support so far!

read it on Ao3!

 There was a soft light hitting your eye, lulling you back awake. You were safe, in your own bed, in your own house, about to go to work.

Oh. These aren’t your sheets. This was not your house. You sat up. Ray was still asleep, curled up in extra blankets beside you. You looked around, Peter and Winston were motionless, the clock reading 7:22. Egon’s bed was empty.

Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours. Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours in houses that weren’t yours. Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours in houses that weren’t yours that belonged to some men you had only just met. And you don’t wear their spare clothes, and sleep in close enough proximity that you can hear their snores catch in their throats. You ran a hand over your face. It all felt so shameless. Not respectable. What were you doing?

The door opened softly and Egon stepped in, holding a stained piece of fabric. He appeared to have showered and dressed in the earlier hours of the morning, and he pulled a drawer open for a new tie. You felt awkward in his space, as he went about his business. Thankfully, he broke the silence.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning…sorry, Ray told me I could sleep in here.” You unconsciously pulled the sheets over yourself, despite the fact your body was fully covered in baggy sleepwear built for the physique of a 50 year old firefighter.

“I don’t mind.” He pulled a tie out and examined it.

“You didn’t sleep?” You ask idly. His fingers made ease of the garment, smoothing it out.

“I’m fine.” He looked over at the sleeping forms of his friends, dead to the world. “They won’t be up for a while. It’s a Sunday.” He paused for a bit, pondering something, shutting the drawer.

“Would you like breakfast?” The question takes you by surprise, but the emptiness in your stomach is starting to ache.

“If it’s not too much trouble.” He freezes up, as if he didn’t expect your answer. He blinks, gears turning, the offer coming out beyond his own volition. Egon shakes his head slightly, as if wiping a thought away. He and Ray had habits of doing that, you noticed.

“None at all.” He starts out the room. When he reaches the kitchen space, he stands there for a moment, hands at his sides. Robotically, he pulls out eggs, butter, sugar, and a few other things from the fridge, managing to lay them all out methodically, in an organized chaos.

You feel a bit rude, just standing there. “Is there any way I could help?” You unconsciously roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt.

Egon keeps working, mixing something intently. “No.” You blink. Hesitantly, you move to sit at the table somehow feeling a little ruder. As Egon notices you pulling a chair out slowly so as to not disturb him, he sighs, slowing his work.

“Not because I think you’d be inadequate. I just have a system.” He lit a pan on the stove, pouring a small amount of oil into it.

“A system for pancakes?” 

“Mrs.Stantz taught me how to make them in graduate school.”

You got a little thrown at that. “Mrs…Stantz?”

A silence. His arms are suspended in the air, batter flowing into the hot pan. “Ray’s mother.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He held one.

“Your parents never taught you to cook?” You try to alleviate some of the palpable tension still in the air.

“My parents were fans of quark on their gruel,” is all he said. “But. The Stantz family was different. They…put sugar in their coffee. Had big ‘sundee’ dinners.”

He seemed to think hard before speaking again, measuring each word like they could betray him. “Mrs. Stantz told me that…cooking for others was a way of saying you wanted them to live.”

That’s why he offered. You could smile at that. In the short time you knew him, you’d gathered that he didn’t seem as skilled as his friends in the ways of sociability. You really didn’t know him as well as you’d liked- he hadn’t shown you much, but you could appreciate the gesture. 

“Thank you, Dr. Spengler.” He stilled again, ever so slightly. You hadn’t noticed until then that the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Maybe you ought to call him that more often? If you planned on sticking around. You didn’t know what your plan was anymore

There was a comfortable silence as he continued to work, diligently managing pancakes in one pan, potatoes and eggs in another. After a while, he pulls a small container out from the back of the fridge. 

“Do you feel strongly about mushrooms?”

“Do you want me to?” 

“These are top shelf. The Hennessy of the mycology world.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Eventually, he was plating food for the two of you, potatoes and eggs (with Hennessy mushrooms) on one half, steaming pancakes on the other. Before you could smile and thank him, he stops you.

Swirling around a small pitcher one final time, he carefully crouches at the front of the table. A light, yellowish liquid pours out of it and slathers onto the pastry, making you unknowingly drool.

With delicate precision, he adds a heap to his own. When he decides it's enough, he takes a seat, gesturing for you to start. You take a bite and…

Good god, this was the best thing you’ve ever tasted. The pancakes were cooked thoroughly, the texture of it all feeling like clouds in love on your tongue. The mysterious syrup was the best part- it was homely, and almost like a candy that melted down your throat. You stared up at Egon in disbelief as you swallowed.

“Holy cow” 

‘More or less. Buttermilk syrup”

It's safe to say you dug in, making quick work of the stack that was once on your plate. Wiping your mouth, you had to sing his praises. He had the slightest hint of an indulgent smile, watching you eat. One of pride, maybe?

 “These are incredible, Dr. Spengler. What do I have to do to get Ray to give me the recipe?” You asked earnestly. To that, his smile quickly fell, and he hastily dismissed the idea.

“Don’t bother. His mother says I’m the only one who can replicate them.” He speaks as if you’re discussing nuclear codes. “Besides, I’ve got it memorized.”

“Are you willing to share?”

“I’d have to kill you.”

You made pleasant conversation for a while, even after both your plates had been cleared. Nursing a pot of coffee, he recalled something. 

“Your bag ended up in the laundry chute. Here.” But he misjudges how secure the latch was- and as he holds on to the wrong part the contents spill onto the table. The worn, brown bag of candy from the day prior rips, and Crunch Bars, hard candies, and fruit chews tumble out in front of you. Embarrassment engulfs you as you apologize, just short of lunging over the table to clean up the mess, detesting how weird you must look carrying around a bag that had nothing but sweets. 

He helps you rather the treats up wordlessly, before handing you one of the many blue wrapped chocolate bars.

“Would it be optimal to keep candies in my flight suit?” He voiced.

“Don’t patronize me,” your face burns still, your hands crumpling up the paper packaging.

“I’m serious. It would keep my blood sugars high.”

“Go for it, Dr. Spengler.” You grinned, sliding him a Crunch Bar. Something twinkled behind his eyes. Was this the first time you noticed that he and his arms looked strong, under all that clothing?

“Hey noise machines. You woke us up.” Peter stands in the doorway, Winston and Ray behind him sleepily.

“Sorry,” you pardoned yourself. Like a pack of bears, the men made their way to search for the delightful smell that was wafting towards them from down the hallway.

“Don’t be. I’ve never heard the professor talk so much so early,” Winston yawned.

“Hey! You left us with the dishes!” Ray whined, holding up the dirtied mixing bowls and oily skillet. 

“There’s raisin bran in the pantry.” Egon conducted you out of the room. He had you follow him back to the bedroom, stopping at the door to think to himself. You were used to it at this point. He emerged, with a light blue sweater and an unworn pair of track pants. 

“I’m assuming you’d like to shower now. Here’s a change of clothes-” His voice got a bit worried at the end as you thumbed through the garments, musing at a dark blue fabric sandwiched between what he had handed you.

He couldn’t meet your eyes, his pupils darting in different directions. He fumbled with his folded hands. “They’ve never been worn. It was either those or long johns.” He shuffles past you, in a hurry to leave you be.

Opening up the pile, you see a dark blue pair of boxers, making your face ignite with embarrassment. It's the thought that counts?

“Dr. Spengler!” You call over your shoulder.

He’s halfway down the hall. “...Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He nods, and disappears into the corridors of the firehouse.

The showers are in one large bathroom, reminiscent of a locker room. A wall of sinks and mirrors, opposite a wall of spacious shower space, where curtains separate each showerhead. Well, you´re already there. There's a small bottle of coconut body wash staring you down as you do your business. Of course a little bit wouldn't be missed right? It's a lot more liquid than you expected- and that ´little bit´ went a long way. As you exit the shower careful not to slip on the slick tile, the coconut scent wafts into your nose pleasantly.

You stared at the pile of clothes neatly folded on a bench, like it's a dragon to be slain. In a way, it was. You pulled on the boxers- they fit better than you thought. Ignoring how the image in the mirror made you feel. As your skin still dried, you felt the blue sweater in your hands. The knitwear was delicate in your palms, the yarn a bit worn. It felt more personal than the spare loungewear left in the basement. It felt like a person. 

 It was fairly large, dwarfing your body. The fibers carried a similar coconut and sandalwood smell that the soap had, making your body feel protected. There were the sweatpants, too, but whatever. They weren't like this. 

You left your pajamas in a neat pile as you dropped it down one of the laundry chutes, hoping your undergarments didn´t tumble out into the open. As you crept down the stairs, Janine was working at her desk while Winston gave Ray a hand repairing the Ecto-1. You sat with her for most of the morning, as she insisted on your presence as she handled clerical work and gossipped simultaneously. The 2 men listened to your conversations fondly. 

“You smell nice,” Janine commented questioningly.

It was around 12 when a woman walked into the firehouse holding a baby, greeted by Ray and Winston while they worked on the underside of the car. Winston seemed a little less enthusiastic as he held the bright hot flashlight.

"Hi Dana. This is Peter´s keeper,” Janine filled you in. The woman, Dana, gave you a kind smile. "The little bald one is Oscar."

The baby sat patiently, if not curiously, in her arms, a hand in his mouth. Dana joked at him to say hi, and he blew a small raspberry in response.

“He's adorable," you cooed, letting instincts take over as he reached out for your finger, which you gave to him. "How old?”

"10 months, and already very handsy." Dana bounced him in her arms as he tried to replace the hand in his mouth with your own. "Is Peter around?

"Somewhere." Janine yelled for him, and he beckoned for her to give him a second. Egon emerged at that point, wondering what all the noise was. His features relaxed at the sight of the infant.

"Hi, Egon." Dana greeted him, as he stood peering at the mother and her child.

"May I hold him?"

She blinked, a little dumbfounded. "I thought you said babies carried pathogens detrimental to your lymphatic system?" Oscar seemed very interested in him.

"Normally." He held his arms out, expectantly. Dana slowly concedes, and he takes the baby awkwardly. Oscar didn't seem to mind the weird angle, held almost like a freshly caught fish on his back. He kicked his feet and stretched his arms out, and Egon looked as if he was scared to move.

You laughed, though partially concerned for his stability. Babies got heavy fast. "Have you ever held a baby, Dr. Spengler?" You repositioned him so that he sat comfortably against Egon´s shoulder. "May I…?" You asked Dana, to which she nodded warmly.

Taking Oscar, you held him with ease, as he reached up to grab your nose. Bouncing him in your arms, he hit you on either side of your temples, exploring your face. "What´re you looking for?"

Unbeknownst to you, Egon was gazing at you playing with Oscar. So was Ray, across the garage. As you walked in a circle with him in your arms, Dana also watched on, amused.

"You're a parent?"

The question catches you off guard. “Oh, no. Not yet at least.”

“Waiting for ‘the one’” Janine cuts in, eyes not leaving her computer.

“Among other things.” Oscar plays with the collar of the sweater, tugging on it. Peter hopped off the last of the stairs then, exclaiming at the spectacle.

“You’ve got some hairless monster on you,” he feigns fear. Oscar looked at him once, before going back to your collar. 

Ray crosses to you both, cooing at the kid in your arms. Peter stopped him halfway there.

“Wash.”

Ray looked down at his motor-oil covered hands, and defeatedly sulked over to the garage sink. Peter turned to you, opening his mouth to say something, before snapping it closed. He narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at you.

“Is that Eges’?”

You look down. “Is it?”

Egon went rigid, as usual, and swallowed silently. “Today’s forecast predicted a cold front.”

“We’re in the middle of the warmest spring in a decade. Mr. Softy’s outside.”

“Inaccurate journalism, then.”

While Ray’s eyes turned into slits from the sink, Peter’s widened. He put a hand on Dana’s shoulder and steered her towards the door. “I’m gonna have a quick walk with my girl here.”

“I was only stopping by for-”

“A quick walk.”

Oscar looked confused at seeing his mother go. He balled his fists in the front of your shirt. “The baby?”

“Keep it,” Peter called over his shoulder before the door shut. 

As Winston packed up all the tools under the elevated vehicle and Ray vehemently turned the pipe off, the phone rang. Janine took it, listening with “uh-huh’s” occasionally, before scribbling down an address on a notepad.

“There’s a client at,” she ripped the paper out and held it out for Ray, “this address. Golf course- she says there’s a puppet ripping out the green.” His eyes grew to the size of saucers as he read it to himself.

“Man! Are you sure this isn’t out of our zoning?” He pleaded with the tiny woman.

“I don’t know, Mr. ‘We’re ready to believe you’.” Janine resumed her typing.

“The day barely started and we’re already driving 2 hours out the way,” he grumbled., “Isn’t it Peter and Egon’s turn?” 

“It’s not. Last month we went down to that beach in Jersey.”

Ray’s incredulous glower deepened. “And you got ice cream afterwards!”

“And we’re very sorry yours melted.”

 He muttered a few things, before surrendering and pulling on his flight suit, Winston behind him begrudgingly. They repacked the car, pulled out the garage, and they were off.

Peter and Dana still weren’t back, so you sat back in the chair at Janine’s side. Oscar reached out to grab her sleeve.

“I’m returning this later, he’ll stain it.” She rolled her chair an inch away, sharpening a pencil. 

He babbled at her. “Don’t worry about Janine. She’s mean and old.” He tried leaning out of your reach to touch her face, entranced by something, before you spun the chair around. “She’ll steal your youth, Oscar.”

He looked a little bored, as he hit your temples for the second time. His brow furrowed as much as a baby could manage, as he examined your face again. “What?” You asked. He looked sad, making small whimpers at you. You turned the chair around again, showing him Egon. “He looks constipated, Dr. Spengler.”

Oscar suddenly got very excited, bouncing up and down and grabbing the air. You laugh, using your foot to bring a wheeled-stool over, waving Egon along to sit. He sat, legs comically too large for the tiny chair.

“Sure, let’s have a meeting at Janine's desk,” the woman commented dryly.

Egon looked a little bemused as the boy exclaimed for him, sitting in your lap. You scooted closer to him, so much so that your knees touched and formed a bridge, his skin getting warmer as you did. You place Oscar on the ledge you created, and he eagerly leans into Egon. He reaches for his face like he did you and Janine, but falls onto his butt in the process. Egon’s stiffness is endearing. It’s like there was a baby bear on his lap rather than a baby child. Jeez, he’s gonna burst a blood vessel at this rate.

Putting him out of his misery, you lightly grab each of his hands, steadying them on each side of the sitting baby marveling at the man in front of him. Egon’s skin is still warm, even more so now, as you coax him to pick Oscar up. The backs, at least, were a little rough and worn, but you expected no more from a scientist. He was still a man, at the end of the day. You glanced up at his panicking face, and you didn’t know any better, you’d say his chest was rising and falling more than normal. You held Egon’s large hands under your own as you aided him in raising him to eye level.

You leaned to the right, keen on teasing his bewildered face from behind Oscar’s rear end. “Was that hard, Dr. Spengler?” Oscar starts gleefully hitting his temples as he did yours.

“Do you want to have a baby.”

Janine’s typing stops. Egon’s glasses go flying off his face and land behind you, as the baby in your hands erupts in a fit of giggles before you could say anything. His hands recoiled from yours like you were a burning stove as you gently set him down, back on your own lap.

Egon looks like his brain is short circuiting and melting out his ears, which, for all you know, it was. Even with his glasses off, his face never failed to absorb you. He definitely had the face to make a few college girls lose their humility. 

He remembered human interaction and cleared his throat. “What I meant was. Oscar has a larger than normal head and large eyes. He also has an upturned, small nose.” His tone regained the scientific timbre it normally had. “Many people of,” he fished for the words, “child-rearing-age find these features…’cute’.” Janine snorted a laugh, then got up to search for his discarded eyewear somewhere on the floor.

“He’s to die for, no doubt. I just…” he’s resided lying against your legs now, his wonder satisfied for one afternoon as he teethed on one of Egon’s fingers, “Unfortunately, it takes 2 to to make a baby. I’m not exactly properly equipped to complete that job on my own” You sighed. How was your life gonna go back to normal, once your apartment was safe again? You hate to admit, but that job was you at your peak. Janine pressed the eyeglasses into Egon’s palm.

The door opened then, and Peter entered with Dana in tow. She smirked at the sight of you and Egon, knee to knee with a baby in between you.

“How cute, we’ll call up JCPenney and they can take a family photo,” she took to teasing Egon as you handed her back her son.

He sat limply in her arms, about ready for a nap. “He’s delightful, Dana.”

“Makes you wanna have one?” Janine turns in her chair to face you.

At some point during the afternoon, Janine sighed heavily at the idea of running around and completing the list of errands she’d let fester over the week as you ate together upstairs. Egon was tinkering with something at the workspace near you when he spoke up.

“Do you want me to do it?” He put the contraption down on the desk.

“You would?” Janine let her head fall on the back of the couch, holding the list out to him.

“I might as well. I can’t focus today.” He folded the paper, placing it in the pocket of his coat. As he started down the steps, he slowed, and turned his head towards you.

“Y/N? Would you mind joining me? I don’t get to the store much.” You had no objections. After washing the last of the wares you both had dirtied, you dried your hands off on a teatowel before descending the stairs on Egon’s heels.

He held the door for you as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the humidity hit you like  a brick. It had been a pretty warm spring, but the recent light rain seemed to cool the earth off, just a bit. It was getting gray and wet outside the longer you walked, clouds ghosting over the sun every now and again. You both walked together in comfortable silence, in an arbitrary direction (you’ve never been shopping in this area), as gentle drops on your head slowly turned into genuine precipitation.

Before you could suggest turning back, or grabbing umbrellas, the rain above you suddenly stops. As you look up, he’s holding his overcoat above your head. Head and shoulders undoubtedly getting soaked. 

“There’s a bus stop down the block. We can catch it if we run.”

With that, you’re off. Running like little kids down a hill, you narrowly avoid deep puddles and streetlamps as you giggle uncontrollably. As your feet hit the sidewalk with every step, the petrichor in the air fills your lungs like it’s your soul. In a way, in your adrenaline rushed mind, you equate it with the man next to you. 

When you finally reach the stop, the bus is lurking from the end of the street. Doubled over, you catch your breath, the air now feeling like fire leaving your esophagus. But you laugh through it all. And the man who shielded you from the rain lets out a weak, barely there chuckle. You straighten to thank him, when you notice how bad mother nature got him. Egon’s usually pomaded, high and tamed hair had fallen out of place, curls now coming loose on his head. He looked wonderful, other than most of his upper body being stained by the sudden downpour.

You can’t speak, staring at him, at the almost Grecian picture in front of you. His lips were parted slightly as he regained his energy, almost curled in a simper as the strong hands you felt earlier wiped some of the dampness from his forehead. His tie was a sky blue, unlike the sky that had dominion over you now. And god, he looked nice in blue.

As he noticed your staring, an eyebrow quirked up, only slightly. There was nothing for you to do but laugh, leaning into the tall man in front of you. He was stiff at first, and confused, but he succumbed to it soon enough, holding you as well as he couldn’t hold himself back from the ridiculousness of it all. You both probably looked like idiots, losing your minds on the side of the street. But for the first time since yesterday, you were sure of something. If this was what it felt like to be an idiot with him, you never wanted to be smart again.