#the only way i can move on is to despise you

[jjunberry]

❝ forever with me ❞

synopsis ⟢ can't promise that things won't be broken but i swear that i will never leave,please stay forever with me…when you’re forced to sit next to the one person you despise the most during a road trip, things get tense as emotions are at an all time high.

pairing ⟢ nishimura riki x fem!reader

genre ⟢ enemies to lovers, forced proximity, non-idol au, slice of life, angst, fluff

warnings ⟢ arguments, cursing, niki & reader being assholes, jungwon and jake playing cupid??

wc ⟢2.2k mlist ⟢

your eyebrows furrowed at jungwon, who stood across from you. “you have got to be kidding me,” your arms crossed. he smiled sheepishly, “i’m sorry but this year, it’s your turn for the back seat.” the back seat which you’ve always avoided since every year niki sat back there. “jungwon, this trip is a four hour drive, you want me to sit next to him for four hours?” jungwon sighed at your question. “with the drivers rotating, you two don’t drive so it’s easier this way.” curse you for not having your drivers license.

“i am not happy about this,” your arms crossed as you plopped down on your couch. jungwon sat next to you, resting his head on your shoulder. “it’s only for the ride there, you can manage yeah? just take your headphones.” you sighed and nodded, “i’m only doing this for you and the others, don’t expect a peep out of me.” jungwon smiled at your words, knowing there was no way you’d keep quiet against niki.

the days leading up to the road trip, you tried your hardest to avoid niki. key word tried, he always finds a way to get under your skin. whether its taking your seat while out to eat, or cutting you off in line at the mall. it never failed to get a rise out of you. the boys could practically predict what the two of you’d say to each other.

“at least say excuse me, you gremlin,” jake mocked you. “move, you always take to long anyway,” sunoo was quick to mock niki’s response. they of course never did this in front of you two, afraid of even more warfare. despite how funny the arguments could be, they also got quite annoying. the constant bickering was enough to have the group want to rip their hair out.

niki was in no better spirits about having to share his precious back seat with you. he barely liked to share with the guys but to have you back there? the boy wanted to just unpack and not even go. “it’s not that bad,” jake said watching niki angrily shove the remaining items he had into his bag. “it is that bad actually, she’s insufferable. how can i sit next to her for four hours?” niki looked at jake with furious eyes. “look if you drove then maybe you’d be better off, but it’s easier this way”, jake shrugged. niki seriously needed to get his license, he rolled his eyes. “see you in the morning man, just take your headphones and ignore her i guess”, he patted niki’s shoulder before leaving.

you were the last stop before they could go on the road. niki was already annoyed. he only had his wired headphones, the car they rented had a small back seat, so he’d be even closer to you then he wanted to be. he rolled his eyes watching you stumble to the car with your bags. his eyes followed jungwon who jumped out to help you. the trunk opened and jungwon placed your bag in the back, handing you your smaller one. “thank you wonnie,” you grinned, hugging him. “you’re welcome.” he opened the sliding door to let you in.

in the second row sat, jay and jake. the middle was occupied by sunoo and sunghoon. heeseung was driving and jungwon had the passenger seat. “hi everyone,” you greeted them before climbing into the very back seat. niki furrowed his eyebrows when you finally sat down, your shoulder brushing his slightly.

with the reduced space, your legs and shoulders were touching his. niki began bouncing his leg, the annoyance of sitting next to you already bothering him. you looked at him, you wanted to scold him for bouncing his leg, but you remained calm for everyone’s sake. once heeseung checked that everyone was ready he began driving.

everyone was conversing amongst themselves, you tried to occupy yourself on your phone, by looking out the window. niki was like a statue next to you, besides his leg that was still bouncing. you leaned up, propping your head on the back of the middle row seat. “hi,” sunoo giggled seeing your head pop up between himself and sunghoon. “hi,” you grinned.

he motioned with his head, “doing okay back there?” you sighed,” i guess so,” niki let out a groan shifting away from you causing you to fall back from the seat. “stop leaning against me,” niki snapped. “spoke to soon,” you whispered to sunoo before returning to your seat. “sorry jeez,” you scoffed, leaning away from him as far as you could. niki rolled his eyes at you.

a few minutes had passed, you subconsciously began tapping your fingers against your leg. to whatever beat you had in your head, niki clenched his jaw at the rhythmic pattern. it was unbelievably irritating, “can you not?” he asked. you turned to him confused, “what?” he rolled his eyes, “stop tapping your fingers it’s annoying.” you narrowed your eyes at him, “yeah? well so are you bouncing your leg but i didn’t say anything.”

he rolled his eyes and stilled his leg, you smirked slightly before stopping the tapping. you laid your head against the window, feeling sleepy. however the small bumps the car hit were uncomfortable. your smaller bag only had a few things in it, not holding the small stuffed animal you were looking for. it was a small bear, you’ve had since childhood you literally always bring with you. turning so you could reach in the trunk, your body kept bumping into niki. the boy groaned, “what are you doing now? can’t you just sit still?,” he tried to scoot away from you. “i was looking for something,” you grumbled clutching the bear and turning to sit back down. “seriously?” niki noticed the bear you were now holding.

“that could of waited,” he snapped. “i’m going to use him as a pillow, it’s..you know what, i don’t have to explain myself to you.” you placed the bear in a spot to cushion your head. niki scoffed and adjusted in his spot. his leg pushing into yours, “could you maybe not be a dude and save me some room,” you asked pushing his leg back over with yours. “i can’t help it,” his eyes rolled. that’s all his eyes ever did when he looked at you. “we have to stop for gas, if anyone wants snacks or to stretch their legs,” heeseung spoke. once he pulled into the gas station everyone piled out of the car. your arms stretched above your head, a soft groan falling from your lips. goosebumps covered your skin as a chill breeze went by. “can i borrow a hoodie, anyone?” you spoke. they all nodded saying to just grab one from the back. opening the trunk you dug through the bags until you came across what you were looking for. pulling out a large gray zip up hoodie, you smiled once the sleeves covered your cold arms. jungwon came bouncing out of the gas station with a bag full of snacks. “here y/n,” he said, handing you a bag of skittles and a bottle of sprite. “thank you wonnie,” he smiled and got into the passenger seat.

you dreaded sitting next to him again, but everyone was ready to get back on the road. niki had his head turned away from you when you got in. your chest tightened but you refused to let him get to you. “can you scooch over a little bit?,” you asked, squeezing into your seat. his leg was partially on your side. he let out a scoff before pulling leg closer to his side. taking your seat, you pulled your hood up and leaned against the window. niki’s eyes drifted to the hoodie you were wearing, his hoodie. he felt his heart pounding against his chest, you looked so good in his clothes. sunoo turned towards you, holding out his bag of gummie worms, “want some?” you nodded reaching into the bag and grabbing two. “thank you,” you grinned.

niki was silent, a storm was brewing inside him. he didn’t think it was fair that you got along so well with the boys. why couldn’t you get along with him like that? why did you two hate each other so much? truth is neither of you could pinpoint any moment that could of caused the mutual feeling of hate between you both. “riki would you like a gummie worm?” sunoo asked holding the bag out to him. niki looked at it seeing no blue left, then he noticed the blue gummie worm in your hand. “no someone already took the last good flavor,” he huffed. your eyebrows furrowed and you handed the gummie worm to him, “here,” his eyes widened as he stared at it. part of him wanted to take it, he didn’t know what caused him not to. “i don’t want it after you’ve had it in your hand,” he grabbed a red one from sunoo before turning to ignore the both of you.

sunoo turned back around to ignore the brewing argument, but you shrugged and said nothing. trying your best to not fight with him.

it wasn’t long before another fight broke out. the bouncing of his leg? a fight. the tapping of your nails? a fight. sunoo pointing out you were wearing niki’s hoodie? a fight. “y/n isn’t that riki’s?,” sunoo pointed towards the gray hoodie on your body. you looked towards the hoodie and shrugged, “yeah i guess so i just grabbed one,” your eyes quickly glanced at niki who had a scowl on his face. “maybe ask before wearing someone else's clothes,” his voice was cold.

“but i did, i asked to borrow a hoodie.” you were quick to defend yourself. “well you didn’t ask to borrow mine so why are you wearing it?” his eyebrows were furrowed. you turned towards niki, angry. “why are you so upset about it? it’s just a hoodie, i’ll take it off. i’m trying to be nice but you’re being a prick,” your hands reached for the zipper pulling it off and tossing it towards him.

your perfume filled his senses as he folded the hoodie and set it beside him. his heart was racing for many different reasons, the glances from the boys made him more angry. “no one wants you here anyway, so of course i’m being a prick,” niki seethed. “i’ll have you know the boys want me here, otherwise i wouldn’t of been invited,” niki laughed. “you’re only here because they pity you, because you cling to them—to everyone like an abandoned puppy. nobody wants you here.”

it felt like your heart stopped. “riki that’s not true,” sunoo spoke up. you drown them out turning towards the window ignoring the boys attempts to speak to you, ignoring niki’s longing glance. his own heart wrenching as he caught sight of the tears welling in your waterline. he put his headphones in and turned towards his window. the familiar sounds of his alternative playlist playing. his leg continued to bounce yet this time you were dead silent. ignoring him all together, he hated to admit it but he missed the attention.

what felt like hours passed before niki couldn’t take it anymore. he plucked one of his earbuds out, handing it to you. you looked at the earbud, then up at him. he wasn’t looking at you, but the thought of hearing music was better than whatever silence your latest fight had caused. swallowing the lump in your throat, you placed the earbud in your ear.

the familiar lyrics of ‘if i’m james dean, you’re audrey hepburn’ filled your ears. your eyes widened not expecting niki to share the same music taste as you. taking the risk you scooted closer to him, to shorten the length of the headphone wire. he let out a deep breath, relaxing his body resting closer to yours.

niki took the peace between you as his chance to apologize. the car intensely quiet, he didn’t trust his voice to come out as a whisper. niki’s hand wrapped softly around your wrist, pulling your arm towards him. he waited to see if you’d pull away, when you didn’t he took a breath. using his finger he carefully spelled out ‘i’m sorry. your breath was caught in your throat, as your heart was hammering against your chest. niki stopped spelling but his hand remain on your wrist, his fingers itching to lace with yours.

taking a chance you opened your hand, palm up. niki was quick to lace his fingers in yours. the song continues between the two of you. sealing your feelings for each other. you leaned your head against his shoulder, your body relaxing against his. niki sighed contently resting his head on yours, his hand holding yours like you’d disappear if he let go.

your relationship was far from mended, the two of you were content with the comforting silence you created. the music and movement of the car was enough to lull both of you to sleep.

in the front seat jake and jungwon shared a knowing look, jungwon grinning knowing he purposely took your headphones. jake smirked knowing their plan worked, and they’re friendcation would be peaceful afterall.

author’s note: eeeek my first riki fic 🥳 hope you all enjoyed it ♡!!

taglist: @jjunieworld @304files @babymochibeargyu @miaroseindreamland @seuliecore @seobluv @ray0magdalene @mimisxs @ppeachyttae @capri-cuntz @eneiyri @50-husbands @riksaes @imma-jiki @luvvhaos (if your name is bold i couldn’t tag you)

love , echo ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

© jjunberry - all rights reserved. please do not repost on any social media sites, translate, or modify any of my works.

[olenvasynyt]

Top 3 most controversial acotar takes/opinions, now☄️

Uh nooooo only my top three? Alrighty. These are going to be very harsh:

1. I have read the ACOTAR series at least 3 times since 2021 and I very often skim chapters every week for posts and videos. And I will be fully honest, I never want to reread the series ever again because of Feyre. I dislike her biases, her hypocrisy, her habit of ignoring other people’s POVs and the mistakes she’s made. I hate her excuses and her blindness and selfishness and how she treats everyone who is not in the IC. I hate how she treats Tamlin and Lucien. I physically cannot reread ACOWAR without flinching at all of the stuff she does, ESPECIALLY her taking down Spring out of revenge. I do not like her as an FMC and I’m glad we have moved past her story and onto other characters.

2. I think the fanbase’s hatred for Tamlin is so extreme and it is heavily influenced by Feyre’s own biases, as well as stupid memes on tiktok. If you take a second to look at the story from Tamlin’s perspective, you can easily understand his actions. With Hybern, EVERYONE FORGETS THAT 1. He was not part of the Archeron Sister’s kidnapping, that was Ianthe. It’s literally explained by Hybern in the book. And 2. He was playing as a double agent, which is hinted at many many times and it is something we later discover. I would go into it more but I feel like that’s its own post that many people have made before.

3. I don’t think SJM is the best writer. I know writers can retcon, especially in huge series like this, but she uses retconning as a crutch, and it’s very frustrating. She has so many inconsistencies and plot holes and inconveniences that personally bother me. I think her world building in ACOTAR is so flat and not thought out at all, and her magic system is even worse. Most of her villains, not just in ACOTAR but in her other series, are not that good idk. She also has a habit of the typical villain monologue that I am getting so sick of and I literally skip the part of the human queen during the Blood Rite because I think it’s so badly written 😭😂

And here’s some random ones just for fun with no to little explanation (I couldn’t do just 3 LMAO sorry)

4. ACOTAR would be better in 3rd POV limited and we can still get the mystery of the world, Feyre’s biases, etc. A lot of problems I have would be solved if we got the POVs of other characters

5. I would like Rhys so much more if he was revealed to be a villain

6. Lucien is one of the only characters I genuinely enjoy, and I’m holding out for him. If he did not exist, I would not be reading ACOTAR at all

7. The IC are awful for how they treat Nesta and I DESPISE THE “intervention” they put her through. It was not a real intervention and readers should not try to defend it in that way

8. This fanbase is filled with too many straight normies who have never experienced a fanbase before and refuse to broaden their minds and think beyond canon. Tamsand would be the most popular ship in any other fanbase. There would be more sexuality and gender headcanons. Trans headcanons, trans fanfics, m-preg fanfics, etc etc. But I guess this is a very popular fantasy romance so I get why those aren’t popular but I should not have to explain why it’s okay to ship ships that aren’t canon, and why people often insert their heteronormative fantasies in queer ships (looking at you Azris)

[gl8m]

im so fucking sad

[kitasuno]

dating the love and deepspace boys | domestic moments

featuring: rafayel, xavier, and zayne x gn!reader

(´• ω •`) ♡ modern au! can you guys tell raf is my favorite..?

rafayel

a year younger than you. lies to everyone (including you) that he’s actually two years your senior. you only found out he was younger than you when you met his parents, who have his birth certificate framed. 

hates cats. despises them. they fill him with rage (fear). says he’s allergic (he’s lying).

“oh shit raf, this sucks! i guess you can’t move in with me.. i have cats”

“...you have cats?”

“yeah. 3.”

“i’m not allergic. i can move in tonight.”

chronically online. minoring in marine biology and majoring in annoying you. texts you over 200 times a day and if you don’t respond, he’s faking a horrible chronic illness. again. it’s amnesia on wednesdays, appendicitis on thursdays, chronic migraines on fridays… etc..

he has 2 followers on his private twitter. you and thomas. 

over 700k followers on instagram for some reason? he sells paintings on depop (he says it's depop but you’re convinced he sells them for heinous prices on the black market) 

cooks on occasion? has an apron that says kiss me im irish (he's not irish?) made you a tuna cupcake once?? 

pescatarian. not in the vegan/vegetarian way where he refuses to eat red meat but because he’s absolutely feral over fish. (is this cannibalism? he says its not)

lives in a 2 bedroom apartment with you but doesn’t use his bedroom. says your bed is comfier. turned his bedroom into a painting studio (IT’S for the black market you say!!) and sleeps with you. 

“raf,” you sigh. “don’t you have.. homework or something?” 

he sits between your legs, back against your chest as he scrolls through his phone. 

“yeah,” he says. you flick the back of his head because you know he’s smirking. “it’s called assignment: you. due in two minutes.” 

with his free hand, he reaches back mindlessly to grab yours. you sigh, fingers intertwining with his, a reflex as he leans his head back. his eyes meet yours and you can’t help but laugh. 

“well?” you ask, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he squeezes your hand. “what are the assignment details?” 

he chews on the bottom of his lip as he thinks, humming while his eyes wander across your face. he swings your interlocked hands in circles. it’s raining outside, the heater is on, and rafayel is warm like hot chocolate. 

“what?” he says, his cheeks a tinge pink. “you’re looking at me like that again.” a pause. he turns, his head now buried in your chest.

“just studying my homework.” you say, hands instinctively wrapping around his back. the laundry machine is running in the background, rain is falling against the window, and you faintly hear your rice cooker dinging in the kitchen. home, you think, is with rafayel.

“i can hear your heartbeat.” he says, voice muffled. “it’s super fast. you like me or something?” 

“i really like you.” you say, without skipping a beat. rafayel groans into your chest, sighing in discontent. 

“no fair. i’m supposed to be the flirter.” 

you press a kiss onto the top of his head and you feel his body melt into yours. the two of you fall into a warm silence, his breath steady as he traces paintings into your neck. 

“raf?” you mumble, eyes drooping. he hums in response. “did you pass your assignment?” 

he smiles. “with flying colors.” 

xavier

chronic napper. (yapper?) 

has 100 late assignments. failing all of his classes yet got into the top university in your country because he got a perfect score on his entrance exams. you thought he was a nepo baby (turns out he’s just.. smart?)

his procrastination rubs off on you… he is the WORST distraction and he knows it. so smug about it and uses it to his own advantage. will perch on top of you when you’re studying and kiss down your neck until you go to sleep with him. 

lives in the apartment on top of yours but is at your house most days, if not all. you ask him to move in.

“am i not already.. living with you?” 

“don’t you still have your apartment, though?”

“yeah..?”

 is that good for the economy?? is it financially smart? not at all, but he’s too lazy to move out and put his apartment up for lease. 

xavier sleeps with his legs entangled with yours and his arms wrapped tightly around your chest. the air conditioning hums in the background as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, dimming the brightness as you hear xavier stir. 

“sorry xav, did i wake you up?” you ask. he doesn’t respond, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he glares at your phone. 

“xavier?” you question, swallowing a laugh at his ruffled hair and disheveled clothes. 

“phone down.” he says, voice raspy with sleep and an octave lower than usual. you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“can i get a pretty please in this economy?” 

xavier’s eyes narrow as he snatches your phone away, snoozing the device and placing it on the nightstand next to you. his lips ghost your neck, pressing kisses against your skin as he mumbles incoherently in the dark of your bedroom. 

“xavier-” you breathe, giggling at the sensation. “that tickles!” 

he nips at your neck. 

“bedtime. now.” 

zayne

3 years older than you 

he literally has his whole life together at 27 which scares you so much

“my credit card is your credit card” typa boyfriend

cooks. cleans. has a 9-5. you’re interning at the hospital that he works at (he’s head doctor!!)

you’re just a sweet little intern and zayne is the big bad monster!! everyone at work thinks he hates you because he’s extra strict on you. doesn’t give you any special treatment, ‘ignores’ you most days (but also slips meals into your locker and hands you heat packs on cold days in the hospital)

no one knows he’s dating you until one day someone sees you leaving in zaynes car. 

“oh, you carpool with doctor zayne?”

“huh? no, we live together.”

“you WHAT???”

he’s a virgo……. erm……

the two of you get ready together in the morning. his guard is down when he’s sleepy and he’ll cling to you as he brushes his teeth and does his hair.

you wake up to the cold night breeze, blinking the sleep out of your eyes and shivering as you scan your surroundings. you yelp as you meet the attentive gaze of your boyfriend. 

“huh? whuh? huh?” you splutter, squirming as zayne holds you tighter. he’s carrying you bridal style in his arms, his jacket around your shoulders as the two of you walk to his car. you see the bright lights of akso hospital fading away behind the two of you. 

“it’s two am,” he says calmly, placing you down gently as he opens your car door for you. “you waited for my shift to end. again.” 

you smile bashfully, rubbing the back of your head. “well, i didn’t wanna just leave you!” 

zayne clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed but gaze warm. he guides you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt in place. 

“you can nap on the way home,” he says, closing the door and sliding into his side of the car. 

the heater’s on already- courtesy of his super expensive electric car. he fastens his own seatbelt and hands you a hot tea and bread from the hospital vending machine. 

“drink up. doctor’s orders.” 

you grin before he leans over to press a kiss on your lips. 

“thank you for waiting for me.”

[homunculus-argument]

My biggest problem as a person is that I get personally offended when someone misunderstands me and corrects me about something they thought I was being wrong about. Like if I say "that road can only be passed on motored vehicles", and someone corrects me by saying "no, it's only passable with cars, trucks, motorcycles and motorbikes." And when I ask them what the fuck did they think I said, they clarify that one can't go trough with on just any motored vehicle, like a snow sled or a motor boat, it has to be a land vehicle that can move on asphalt.

Well yes, sure, one cannot travel on that particular road on a fucking motorboat, but I wasn't saying "literally every possible vehicle that has an enginge", I meant "motored vehicles" in contrast to non-motor land vehicles, such as a bicycle or a horse. And the only reason that anyone would interpret me any other way than that is either because

They feel the need to go out of their way to disagree with me about everything because they despise me and feel like it's paramount to make sure that I know that they do.

They genuinely believe that I wouldn't know that you can't drive on an asphalt road on a motor boat because they think that I am that fucking stupid.

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | Joel Miller x reader — Series Masterlist (part i)

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | Moving in with you soon-to-be stepfather is the least of your concerns while under the unfavorable regime of your mother—but then there's Joel, Tommy's brother, who always know just how to soothes your worries.

author's note | this was originally supposed to be a tommy x reader idea that morphed into joel and here we are. special thanks to @chaotic-mystery and @swiftispunk for lending me their beautiful minds and helping this make more sense <3

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE - this is very loosely stepcest, so if that's not your thing, ignore. that's the only warning i'm giving on that, additional warnings: no outbreak, step-uncle!joel, age gap (20/late 40s), religious trauma, parental trauma (mentally, with one instance of physical), und*rage drinking, contradiction all over the place, joel is a broke man who makes horrible decisions, reckless behavior for reader, mast*rbation, voyeurism, one-sided flirting, joel can keep your secrets <3

word count —9.2k

PART TWO, PART THREE (tbd)

“Married?”

There’s the wiggle of your mother’s fingers, the shine of the small diamond under the natural light streaming through the window to your shared two bedroom apartment—being twenty and still living your mother wasn’t ideal, but it was all you could manage at the moment. You force a grin and take her hand, examining the jewelry.

Tommy had actually talked to you weeks ago, a prerequisite to going through with the whole ordeal, making sure that it was okay with you. It wasn’t that you minded Tommy, he was a good man—too goddamn good for your mother, who always seemed to find a way to ruin something. Everything. You wanted to warn him, but even as much as you despise your mother on most days, he made her happy.

“It’s been a year,” You comment offhandedly, “you’re sure he’s the one?”

She snatches her hand away with a bitter gaze and fiddles with the engagement ring, pacing her way around your shared living room.

“Can’t you just be happy?” She pleads, so petulant and whiney. Like a child, “For once?”

You shrug, “I like Tommy, he’s a good guy. It’s just—he’s the only man you’ve dated since…”

“Baby, I know what I’m doing.”

Your eyes flick up under a lazy gaze, seemingly unconvinced. But, you mask it well.

“So, are you going to elope then?”

She shakes her head, suddenly shaking with a subtle excitement that has her bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“No, honey—we’ll be planning a wedding. Small, of course. You know Tommy doesn’t have much family.”

Just a brother, whom you’d never met. You never heard about anyone else.

“And—“

That’s a tone you don’t like.

Anticipation. Hesitation.

“We’ve been looking for a house.”

“Oh?”

So, she was kicking you to the curb. Time to leave the nest, grow up—blah blah. 

But, she continues.

“And in the meantime, we’re going to move into Tommy’s childhood home!” 

You cringe externally at the excitement, “What’s wrong with our place?”

“We’re gonna be saving every penny we can, cutting costs where it seems easier. Joel is offering to let us live there for the time being rent-free, given we take care of the place.”

Joel. You knew a name. Not a face. A personality. Only that he was Tommy’s older brother. Worked with him, spent weekends with him. That was it. He seemed like a lonely man from a distance.

“So, you’ll do just that,” She remarks, a definitive look that allows no argument, “we’ll be out of here by the end of the month.”

“That’s next week, mom—“

“Then, I suggest you get to packin’.”

Unbelievable.

“You can’t be serious—I don’t even know him. Do you? Have you even met him?”

“Once or twice,” She shrugs casually, “He’s a private man, but he’s nice enough. I’m not questionin’ it, honey. Tommy is a good man, I can assume Joel is, too.”

Your mother spots the disdain the moment it crosses your face, a finger held up in reprimand.

“You are as ungrateful as they come,” She bickers and then follows the shame, “what would he say?”

Your eyes drag up toward the ceiling, feeling the echo of a scripture you’ve heard time and time again—different words, same meaning, “Thou shalt love thy—“

“—neighbor as thyself,” Your mom finishes, a prosperous grin on her face, “Go on, wash up before bed.”

Even as you graduated and started college, still living under the conveniences of your mother, she felt the need to guide and protect, preaching whatever bullshit she’s swallowed down the past twenty years of your life.

She wasn’t like this before, in fact, it was strikingly opposite. But, she’d had you young, regretted her choices, and while trying to be a good mom had found something to cling to, to help guide her back to some semblance of sanity and safety. 

Unluckily for you, it means years and years of strict teaching and rules that made no sense to you now. Hell, they had stopped making since long before that, given the way your mom has relaxed on her morals since she met Tommy, a man that was nowhere near religion or under the constant fear of something other.

You questioned it everyday—tried to fight it, but then the guilt creeped in.

It was your own mother’s doing; a rigorous and methodically set out schedule when you were young, everything followed by prayer or reminders from your mother. He’s always watching. As you grew older, into your body and started to question—it was never outwardly, but your mother took notice and found that shaming you for your inherent provactiveness was easier than guidance. In fact, punishment was an even easier route, most of the time.

“They’re having a cookout tomorrow,” She calls over her shoulder as you depart quietly to your room, somehow more exhausted from a five minute conversation with her than anything else you’ve done all day, “so, best behavior, alright?”

You don’t even try to hide the roll of your eyes that time, sighing softly and answering with a tired, “Yes, of course.”

It would have been hard to predict how that day would change the trajectory of your life completely.

—

The house is beautiful, really. Deep in the back of a suburban neighborhood, right in the middle of Austin. It was lively—kids playing, neighbors conversing over gates from their lawns, music blaring through the streets. 

But frankly, it was fucking weird.

You're halfway up the driveway when Tommy opens the door, spots your mother first and swoops her up into a hug that lifts her off her feet, a squeal escaping her.

When it’s your turn, it’s a gentle but quick hug. An even softer pat on the back as he welcomes you in.

Welcoming you to what would soon be home. 

Temporarily, at least.

“Come on,” He calls back toward you both with a nod of his head, “we just got finished on the grill and the game is about to hit kickoff, y’all are just in time.”

You step past the threshold, enveloped in the homey smell of vanilla and citrus, something a little savory—which you assumed was the food, and some of the scent from fresh cut lawns from the neighborhood seeping in through the open windows. 

Tommy’s closing the door behind you before he comes around your side, yelling out with his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Joel, get ‘yer ass in here!” Tommy yells, slightly jarring as you flinch at the loud sound. Tommy seems to notice and offers an apology with a kind rub of his hand against your shoulder, “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. He’s hard of hearing—“

“I’m not,” The man grumbles as he rounds the corner from outside, walking through the sliding door with a tray of freshly cooked patties lined up in rows, “my hearin’ is perfectly fuckin’ fine.”

Tommy seems careless to dismiss it as your mother offers Joel a polite greeting which he returns with what you can immediately spot is a forced smile. Then, Tommy introduces you. Your smile is just as forced, but out of the inherent nervousness of the situation, offering a small wave that Joel returns with a nod.

“Food’s done,” Joel offers as a change of subject, “game’s starting so—“ He waves vaguely at the array of food, “have at it, I guess.”

“Did you wanna say grace, baby?” Tommy asks, looking over at your mother.

“No—no, I’m sure you and Joel don’t do that,” Your mom looks at you, rubbing a surprisingly gentle touch over your cheek, squeezing gently, “We can say it to ourselves right, sweetie?”

Your eyes avert toward Joel who looks more uncomfortable now then when you walked in. You nod regardless, shrugging away from your mother’s touch. She doesn’t argue and returns her attention toward Tommy, thankfully.

You move curiously, examine the different toppings and add-ons, sides, and different treats. It was far more than you were used to—a nice change to your mothers botched box dinners and takeout ordering that always ended up wrong. 

Joel moves mechanically, eyes on the screen as he slaps his burger together, sliding you the bag of buns like clockwork, almost as if he sensed it. It was the only tangible acknowledgment he’s made aside from the nod. But, beyond that—it was silence.

He was an odd man. Quiet, reserved—part of you understood. It was uncharted territory, two mostly strangers in his home. You’d be a little annoyed too.

But, you remember your mother’s words. So, you make an attempt.

His hip is digging into the counter at the edge of his kitchen as he holds the plate to his chest and eats his burger, messily and starved, scarfing it down in very few bites. He catches you staring at him curiously, shamefully taking the first small bite of your own burger. He doesn’t react at you, but he does consciously wipe the mess of grease around his mouth as he sets his plate down, aiming to set himself up with another burger.

“It’s nice,” You say suddenly, the lack of elaboration apparent and Joel raises his eyebrows in unison, “—your house, it’s…nice.”

Above the low rumble of music playing on the radio—something you can determine is a rock song, of what band or song name you have no idea, and the sudden voice of Tommy yelling over a fumbled pass, which Joel also echoes his frustration with as he catches the screen over your shoulder. You jump, turning over your shoulder to look. 

Joel seems to notice the way you startle, “‘M sorry,” He apologies kindly, “and…thank you.”

It was hard to settle and feel comfortable, knowing that normally, in any other situation, your mom would be judging them—the music, the course language, the entertainment of boys throwing a ball around and tackling each other. It wasn’t in her taste or her faith to condone such things. 

But suddenly, with Tommy, none of it mattered. It was jarring, to say the least.

Joel leaves you after that, taking a seat on the separate recliner from the couch your mother was sharing with Tommy, somehow entranced in the game and Tommy’s answers to her questions. Everything was overwhelming and in the midst of another yelling match at the screen with your eyes locked on the sight as you blindly walked backwards into the counter behind you, you felt your elbow hit a can and suddenly the liquid was spilling over your feet.

You yelp in surprise, catching only the attention of Joel. You scramble, picking up the can before sliding it into the sink, stepping out of your now ruined sandals and feeling suddenly overwhelmed by everything—the noise, the smelly, sticky mess of liquid all over you and your clothes.

Joel’s footsteps are heavy but swift, his plate sliding over the island as he rips off a wad of paper towels over your head and turns on the faucet, “That’s my bad—forgot my beer was there,” You look up at him wide-eyed, feeling him guide your hands under the stream to wash away the mess, “you alright?”

It feels like someone was twisting your gut in their grip—you’ve never heard those words aimed your way before and the anxiety engulfs you. Joel was already crouching down by then, scooping your ruined sandals into his hand and nodding toward the backdoor, “We can wash these off and leave ‘em outside to dry.”

You nod dumbly, watching him run them under the water, but his eyes examine you closely and the quick rise and fall of your chest, “You can follow me outside, if you’re needin’ a break.”

Again you nod, but you’re sure that time. You step over the small puddle on the floor and your face scrunches up in disgust, sensing the presence of your mother as she comes into view.

“Oh, honey—you made a mess.”

“She’s alright,” Joel stresses, “I left my beer there, s’nothing some napkins and water can’t clean up.”

There’s a silent reprimand behind her eyes, something you would hear about later or something she was storing for another time, “C’mon,” Joel’s voice saves you and you follow, shying away from the piercing look of your mother, feeling the wave of relief after Joel closed the backdoor behind you.

“Accidents happen,” Joel offers as a reminder and a sense of comfort, placing your sandals on the concrete as he reaches for the hose, turning the spout and watching as it sputtered out slowly before it steadies and he spray them down before catching your feet, washing away the foamy liquid.

You jump slightly, mostly from the change in temperature against the humid, sticky heat of the sun as it beats down over the house, “You got that look,” Joel says offhandedly, reaching over to turn off the spigot and wrap the hose up.

You glance up at him, stepping out of the puddle of water, “What look?”

“Like someone stuck you in a cage full of bears and you ain’t got a clue how to respond,” The comparison makes you laugh, not because it was ridiculous, but because it was true. “I got—I got a place you can sit for a while, if you need the silence?”

There’s a weight lifting off your chest, one you hadn’t realized was there until he says the words.

You nod and Joel crooks a couple fingers your way, beckoning you to follow. 

Joel leads you back into the house, but takes a sharp right to the set of double doors leading to a separate room—bookshelves and stacks of unorganized papers, a desk cluttered with random items and an old desktop, an even dustier radio stuffed away in a corner.

“It’s my office, don’t use it much anymore,” Joel explains, but taps at the open double doors, “but it’s a good place to block out noise, if ‘ya need a minute.”

You step past him curiously, leaving a trail of wet footsteps that Joel would eventually clean up later. It was cluttered in the room but somehow brought a sense of comfort, clearly a place that Joel seeked out himself from time to time.

“There’s books, magazines—feel free to use the computer,” Joel waves vaguely, “although, I dunno how well it works, haven’t turned that thing on in ages.”

“Thank you,” You tell him sincerely, watching him nod as he closed the doors behind him and gave you free roam to look around, be curious.

And naturally, you were.

He had a large collection of music—CDs and cassettes, a shelf full of vinyl albums. Books, tons—something you assumed he’s collected naturally over the years. Most of it seemed fairly boring, non-fiction books on various topics; how-tos and instructional guides, nothing exciting. Your gaze tracks to his desk, running your fingers along the chair before you’re pulling it out and taking a seat, the plastic creaking with age.

You press a key on the keyboard but the computer refuses to come to life—you chew at the inside of your cheek, looking around at the pattern of squares on the wall, like missing pieces plucked from the wall—like dust collecting around picture frames that were no longer there. Your fingers dance along a drawer, twirling in your seat as you pulled at the handle and find a drawer full of thick files. But, on the top, a book with a sticky note is sitting alone, completely out of place.

Leave it, you tell yourself. 

Still, your fingers reach for it.

It’s a thick book, a soft-matte touch from cover to cover. It was mostly unsuspecting, a plain cover of a mirrored forest, the post-it stuck over the title but you’re too scared to remove it. You flip it over, reading over the summary on the back. The summary is dull, unsuspecting, but as you flip through the book, skimming from chapter to chapter you realize it is not that.

And to be fair, you knew this type of genre was something people were interested in, never laying eyes on it yourself. But, to see it stuffed away in the desk of one Joel Miller, is a fair surprise—you examine the text, hanging on every word as you delve deep, deep; into a scene of voyeurism amongst a group. Somewhere between that and the next chapter you get lost, only resurfacing when you hear a knock at the glass door to the room.

The book snaps shut as you spot Joel, who’s peeking his head in with an emotionless gaze. He could just be checking to make sure you’re not snooping too deep, but then he’s walking toward you at a leisurely pace, a fresh beer in his hand as he squints, looking at the book in your hand.

He plucks at the post-it and chuckles slightly.

“Forgot that thing was in there,” He tells you, “Tommy bought that—year ago, I think? One of his stupid gag gifts.”

“You’ve never read it?”

Joel shakes his head, lips pulled in a tight line of indifference as he sipped at his drink.

“If you like it, you can take it with you.”

And then he realizes his misstep, your eyes meeting awkwardly.

“I mean, I’ll be here permanently come Sunday, so—”

Joel smiles slightly, a subtle quirk of his lip, “Well, least I know you’ll bring it back.”

You follow his movement, his fingers gripping the aluminum can and the perspiration from the can wetting his fingers, sweating down his wrist and you subconsciously lick your lips before your teeth are dragging, digging into the flesh of it. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement and Joel catches you, your intrigued gaze and volleys it with a question.

“Did you want a sip?” He says, mostly as a joke.

He remembers the time Sarah had come to him, piling onto his lap and with her constant stream of questions—he’d let her have the tiniest sip as she kept pressing on it and Joel knew there was no use in fighting the steadfast energy of an eight year old.

She hated it, immediately retching in disgust. Joel gave her a chuckled “I told ya so, kiddo.”

This was different, though. 

“I’m not twenty one,” You counter, mouth quivering down into a slight frown and your shoulders shrugging instinctively, “and my mother would kill me.”

But, you want to—not even driven by an act of rebellion. It was genuine curiosity.

Joel tilts his body, peeks around the corner and spots the pair still sat on the couch.

“What she doesn't know won’t hurt her,” Joel crosses that line for you, your hands cupping around his larger one as he guides it to your mouth, “s’not like you’re gonna go get piss drunk, right?”

You giggle softly at that, lips pressing into the can as he tilts it into your mouth. The vision of him is…overwhelming. Stood over you in the mostly unlit room, barefoot and jeans rubbing at the top of his feet, dark cotton shirt pulling over his shoulders and a few weeks of facial hair unkempt and outgrown. 

If your mother were to see, it would have been you.

Your fault. And again, maybe it was.

But Joel, he towers. You’re nearly eye-level with his waist but admittedly, they never leave his face. You sip gingerly, fingers curling around his own as you tip your head back and consume more, until your cheeks are puffing out with the liquid and you swallow, immediately grimacing at the taste as you pull away, sputtering out a soft cough as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Joel defends, not even bothering to wipe the rim as he takes another sip, somehow finding that more intimate than any of what had just happened between you both.

Neither of you say anything and you shake your head, fingers curling around the book in your lap.

“I’ll take your word for it,” You nod, but Joel can see the disgust for it on your face.

“Go on, take the book home,” Joel offers, “ain’t gonna be missed ‘round here.”

You smile sweetly, licking over your lips and tasting the remnants of the alcohol, a sign of sin amongst the many you had just committed, but the lack of guilt was startling. You couldn’t even begin to care.

When you leave, the book is tucked away in your bag and hidden. Joel is already cleaning up by the time your mother is rushing after you out the door and to the car, leaving a curious Tommy to linger around, helping Joel sparsely before he’s bugging Joel for a lighter.

Joel had quit smoking long ago, but still had a few lighters tucked away in his study.

Tommy searches around aimlessly, sifting through cups and drawers until he’s pulling open one, pausing, calling over to Joel curiously.

“You finally put up that book I gave you a goddamn century ago?”

His answer is your name as he turns the faucet off, wiping off the final dish.

“She seemed interested so I let her borrow it,” He calls over to Tommy, who’s leaning up with a wide-eyed but amused expression—it was clear that his brother was sometimes just as oblivious as him.

“Joel, you never read the damn book, did you?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Tommy makes a face, a smug smile fading in for a brief moment.

“Tommy, what was the book about?”

Tommy eventually finds the lighter, snatching it up with a ‘aha!’, trailing back over to Joel before he finally answers him.

“Thought I’d spice up your nightly reading, brother.” 

Joel can piece his words together; the innate smugness and tone that was edging toward a full-on chuckle, it wasn’t an appropriate piece. And given the stuff he did know of your mother, the worst choice of a genre for you to sneak home with.

“Did I do a bad thing?” Joel asks, “I mean, that girl is an adult—”

“Twenty, yeah. But, her mom—”

“Your fiance,” Joel clarifies, “she’ll be your step-daughter soon too, you realize that?”

“She can be a little—”

“Judgemental?” Joel finishes for him, drying his hands off with a dish towel before it toward the empty counter, “Freakish? She’s got your ass goin’ to church every Sunday, ain’t seen that before.”

Joel sighs, a clipped noise as he scratches at his forehead.

“I’m not judging, I swear. But, her moving here—I’m not feedin’ into that whole schtick.”

Tommy holds his hands up in defense, “She knows—”

“I fuckin’ hope so.”

—

The vision of the scene is imagined under the safety of your room that night, squinting to read the text under the dim light of your bedside lamp, words amongst feelings that weren’t foreign but often weren’t welcomed. You’ve had boyfriends and kisses, experiences like any other girl has, but you’ve shoved it away for far too long—it was years of high school, shying away from boys and girls only to finally find the freedom to branch out in college, but under the constant reminder of you mother’s generosity to allow you to finish schooling without the stress of work or the responsibility of earning your keep. He’ll guide you, she’d always remind you. A constant reminder that you were under his watch, more of a threat than anything. And your mother knew that.

The hand tucked under your chin switches to the other, your now free hand trailing down your chest and under the sheets, slipping past the snug waistband of your underwear. The scene was vivid, descriptive as the man pulled the female characters legs apart, exposing her, doting her with the kind of words that made your stomach swirl and your gut twist, dragging your middle finger down the center of your pussy and sighing at the slick that was already there, gathering up the wetness until you could guide it over your clit in quick, hurried circles.

You snap the book shut, biting on the corner of your pillow as you squeeze at the squishy fabric, squirming under the feeling of your impending orgasm, muffled moans slipping from your stuffed mouth as you feel it crash over you in a wave, eyes squeezing shut so tight you start to see the light. 

The comedown is slow, rolling over onto your back and silently slipping the book under your pillow and the guilt you usually feel is filled with nothing. You were empty, thoughts filling with vague images of someone, a man—faceless, but if you dug hard enough you’d know. 

So, you do. 

And with his face comes something you felt so often but pushed away.

Desire.

And for the one person you know you shouldn’t. 

—

The move takes place a few days later, endless hours spent packing boxes and putting the rest away in storage, several trips back and forth from the apartment to Joel’s house.

You often had to remind yourself it wasn’t Tommy’s. It was Joel’s—but Tommy was his brother and he wasn’t going to turn him away, so if there was anyone to respect, it was Joel.

The house had three bedrooms; Joel’s, the one Tommy and your mother would share, and the room with a door painted purple and covered in various things. Butterflies, flowers—it was off-limits and you didn’t attempt to make anyone budge on that matter. It was a sore spot for both of the Miller brother’s and when Joel offers up the attic, you’re quick to take it.

He’d even taken the time to make it somewhat liveable. A fresh coat of white paint, storage for clothes and some of your belongings you’d decided to bring along, a space for your bed and plenty of the furniture you couldn’t part with. Besides, it was nice having a level away from everyone else.

“The ladder does get stuck from time to time,” Joel admits as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you look around curiously, “so, just give a holler. Hopefully one of us’ll be home if that happens.”

You laugh softly, dropping your bag to the floor and crouching, unzipping it and reaching in for a very specific item, pressing it into Joel’s hands as he’s expecting. His fingers curl around the side of the book and there’s an unspoken tension that fades as he speaks.

“Our secret, alright?” Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours, waiting for the confirmation of a nod.

You nod meekly, “She’d kill me, you know? I mean, not physically, but I’m sure she’d have an opinion on it.”

Joel nods in understanding, “Like I said, our secret.”

And given how rough the day was on everyone and once your bed was finally assembled in your room, you find yourself passing out without a moment of idle thinking, the exhaustion taking you the moment your body hits the sheets.

You wake up when the day has already gone, crickets chirping outside and the distant buzz of street lights outside the window above your bed. It’s dead silent in the house otherwise, aside from the hum of the central air and fan tucked in the corner of the room. You roll over and tap at your phone. It was a few minutes from midnight, one day fading into the next without waiting for you to catch up.

You rise groggily and rub at your tired eyes, placing your feet on the hardwood floor before deciding to take a walk down to the kitchen, feeling the dryness of your mouth as you licked at your lips. You’re careful as you open the entrance to the attic and lower the ladder, careful and quiet footsteps as you make your way down and close it, surprised at the growing hum and voices coming from the living room.

You edge close, soft and gentle footsteps as you pry the cabinet open and reach for a clean glass and turn on the faucet, filling it up halfway with water—that’s when you hear the hmph that warns you that you weren’t alone, spotting Joel turning over his shoulder to look at you. 

He seemed half-asleep too and you suspect he fell asleep on the couch, insomnia or exhaustion getting the better of him, you offer a quiet apology as you sip at the water.

“You’re alright,” He assures, rubbing two hands over his face and through his grown out locks, curling around the side of his neck and around his ears, “I was heading to bed anyways.”

Unlikely, you think. 

“What are you watching?” You speak softly, arms crossed your chest as the glass cup dangles from your fingertips, bare thighs pressing against the edge of the couch and Joel adjusts slightly, subconsciously making room for you. 

“Dawn of the Wolf,” Joel answers through a long yawn, “you seen it before?”

You tilt your head with a raised eyebrow, “Joel, come on—”

“Right,” He chuckles tiredly, “It’s some cheesy action movie I’ve seen a thousand times, it’s a—sometimes I just throw it on for background noise, hate sleepin’ in silence, you know?”

“Could you make it a thousand and one?” You ask curiously.

The bed he was heading toward was suddenly forgotten, watching as you eagerly climbed over the side of the couch and curled up on your own cushion, smiling slightly as he reached for the remote and started the movie over.

“Were you actually heading to bed?” You ask as the opening credits begin to play, “Because, if you were I won’t be offended—”

“I mean, I could. Probably need to, the havoc this couch does on my back.”

You offer a kind but lazy smile, half of your mouth arching up, “Besides, I’d ask way too many questions.”

Joel never does move, though. Almost like he’s resigned himself to that position until the movie was over, watching you occasionally with that familiar glaze over your eyes. It was the last movie he’d watched with Sarah before she passed, a few weeks shy of her fifteenth birthday.

By now, it was more of a foolproof method to help him sleep.

It was mostly poorly choreographed fight scenes and a dialogue heavy relationship between the two main characters that progressed unrealistically fast, forcing a laugh behind your palm after the male character professed his love after two days of knowing the other character and even Joel shakes his head at that. But, as the penultimate point of the movie comes, it hits a peak.

They’re sitting around a fire, obvious and unspoken tension lingering that snaps in an instant, one touch on the other and they’re on each other—Joel leans forward, reaching for the remote to skip past the scene, “No, don’t,” You tell him gently, your hand pressing against his palm.

The remote loosens in Joel’s grip and he settles, feet crossed over the coffee table.

Your head tilts, “It doesn’t even come across real,” You comment, “or believable, I guess.”

The sex—or lack thereof, a swarm of lust-filled gazes and strategically placed camera angles. It was mostly heavy pants and moans and Joel coughs into his balled fist to break the silence. You snicker softly and pull your legs up near your chest, head resting against your hand as you watch.

“Probably because it doesn’t work like that,” Joel comments after a while, pulling your attention to him suddenly, “sometimes it’s just—”

“Fucking,” You answer crudely, “for the sake of fucking.”

Joel looks like he wants to keel over, his face contouring in surprise as the words slip past your lips. It’s a sight, a matching set of pajamas he’s sure your mother gifted you, covered in some pattern that mimics the innocence that lies within you, a soft pastel color on satin fabric and that definitive cross that dangled at the center of your neck, slipping just between the press of your breasts—and yet, here you were, speaking to him like sin incarnate. 

“What?” It was amusing, in a way, “I got a strict mom, doesn’t make me a total prude.”

“Okay,” Joel feels the line drawing itself in the sand, or in this case, the middle of the couch, “you’re right—but we can move on from that.”

You offer a soft hum of acknowledgement, smiling at the way Joel continues to shake his head, biting back his own amusement in response.

Somewhere between there and the end of the movie, you both end up asleep on the couch, your feet tucked away in Joel’s lap and his hand resting over your ankles. It was easier falling asleep knowing Joel was near, oddly enough.

—

Things are set into motion very quickly after the first couple days. With wedding planning in full swing and your mother returning to her night shifts at the hospital, it was a sudden newfound freedom that you’d never experienced. Tommy and Joel were gone often too, sometimes for days at a time to work on site, only popping in every so often for little things. Showers, food, before they were back out for another twelve or so hours.

And with your semester of college over, you were left with the void of summer to fill up your time. It does take some convincing, but eventually your mother isn’t hovering as hard. Truthfully, you could thank Tommy for some of that.

“She’s not even a teenager anymore, she’ll be alright.”

It didn’t ease any of the restrictions she put on you in the past and it didn’t make you feel any better for feeling like you had to lie, hide—doing normal things that even if she did as a young girl, would find any reason to shame you over.

But, you were thankful with her infatuation over Tommy because it gave you a break.

Late nights at the beach with friends or last minute trips to the drive-in, it was a sorrowful peek at what you could have had for years, but only had the luxury of exploring recently, somehow always ten steps behind, still feeling that familiar strum of nervousness run through your body at the sight of a crush, somehow even more unavoidable now.

And Joel, well he hasn’t helped either.

Eventually, his own curiosity gets the better of him and he does read the book. His reader’s perched on his nose as he leaned back in the recliner, knowing that if he’s caught onto your schedule well-enough, you’d find yourself downstairs within the next few minutes.

You blamed the insomnia, but you always liked Joel’s company. At night, without the scrutinizing gaze of your mother when she was around, it was easier. 

You’re spreading peanut butter on a plate of sloppily sliced apples when you hear Joel flipping through the page of a book, the cover obscured by the knee he had propped up to lean it on.

“Anything interesting?” You ask casually, screwing the top back on the jar of peanut butter and leaning up on your toes to return it to the top shelf, ignorant to the eyes that catch your backside and the stretch of your top as it exposed your ass and the small piece of your underwear that peaked over the waistband of your shorts. 

You could blame it on the heat and that was partly the reason, but Joel notices the longer you settle in, the more comfortable you get, the conservativeness becomes less and less. It was subtle, shirt pulling up over your midriff or the collar of your shirt dipping a little lower than usual.

This time it was the shorts that hugged your ass and gave him an idea of every curve your body had been hiding and he felt his throat closing up at the thought, clearing it instinctively.

Joel sips on his beer, nursing it more like, as he shrugs and flips to the next page.

You’re curious, sliding the plate into your palm and making your way toward him, finger sliding over the cover and lifting it. Joel doesn’t stop you, but he rolls his eyes at the grin that breaks out on your face, tongue pressing into your cheek and you know–he knows.

“Good, isn’t it?” 

If he only knew how many times you found yourself knuckle deep inside of your cunt with a whisper of a sigh on your lips, shame for the obscure pictures of the characters slowly morphing into him—it wasn’t like you had tried for that, your own subconscious betraying you. 

Something in the bridge of your words and the look on your face has him pushing his glasses up his forehead and into his hair, swiping an apple off your plate and into the thick peanut butter before he’s shoving the fruit into his mouth and biting into it with a loud crunch.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” You smirk, walking backwards slowly until your calves hit the couch and you took a seat, turning it to a random channel playing some televised drama, legs stretched out in front of you and the gentle slope of your shoulders on display as you shoved the apple slice past your lips, licking up the remnants of peanut butter on your finger and Joel almost forgets what he’s doing, feeling the book slip from his hands and hit the glass bottle still half full, sending it pooling into his lap and you look over with a tickled expression. “Too much, I guess?”

“You’re a little shit, you know,” Joel comments as he tosses the book aside and departs quietly, bedroom door shutting behind him as he turns in for the night. There wasn’t an ounce of bite in his tone.

Joel doesn’t know what he expected of you—maybe something more docile, but you were anything but as time grew on and you realized that under the obvious distraction that your mother was dealing with, you found yourself pushing that line more and more.

There’s a particular night when an argument with your mother ends up with Tommy and Joel getting caught in the blowback of it, leaving both of the men at a loss for words. It was the first time they had seen the real, full extent of a meltdown from your mother. Tommy had seen glimpses, blips—but, Joel. It was a first.

It started over a simple question, harmless.

“It’s one dinner—I’ll be there and back before midnight. I don’t see the big deal?”

“Big deal? Honey, we’ve got plans tomorrow. Dress shopping, cake tasting—I was cooking a nice dinner tonight that we could all enjoy, as a family. Seein’ as we’re all somehow, by the grace of god, under this damn roof at the same time for once. And you leavin’ looking like that? I don’t think so.”

Family. Joel seems to find distaste in the word, his eyes flicking toward his brother briefly. He doesn’t understand her final point either, jean shorts and a tank top in the humid Austin heat in the middle of June seemed like a perfectly reasonable option, but it clearly struck a nerve.

“I don’t even know why I’m asking,” You counter, “I mean, this is Joel’s house, after all. Shouldn’t I ask him for permission?” You turn to him, a low blow at your mother, “Joel, do you care if I—”

Joel hesitates for half a second and you thought he might answer.

A sharp, but swift blow to your cheek has you stopping cold, eyes pulling up to anywhere but your mother and of course, they land on Joel who’s jaw is clenched so tight you think it might snap, matching Tommy’s shocked expression but Joel's was laced with an undertone of rage, simmering slowly.

There was nothing but silence, shoving past her with a charge of your shoulder and then past Tommy who has just enough time to side-step and catch your mother as she turns after you, the realization of her actions settling with her, her open hand balling into a closed fist before she drops it.

Joel was quickly discovering that this living situation was a lot more than he’d bargained for.

–

Tommy had taken your mother out for the night, rented out a hotel after dinner and allowed her the space to cool down but Joel had stayed up, mostly in anticipation that you had forgotten the spare key he’d given you in the quick flee, walking halfway down the block and then some, desperately waiting for your friends to swoop in and save you.

It was just supposed to be dinner at the local diner in town, but catching up with a classmate you hadn’t seen in weeks quickly turned into a night drive that reached well past midnight, eventually pulling out front of Joel’s house, receiving the less than gentle kiss the boy had been building up to all night.

Joel hears the low roar of the engine outside of his house, lowering the volume on the television as he walked toward the door and glanced through the window, fingers curling the small curtain that covered it and there’s a moment where he decides—do something or do nothing, but even then he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

Not as you lean over the console of the car and into the lap of the faceless person in the driver’s seat, his hand all over you—Joel knows, you’re hoping that your mother would catch, that she’d end up more furious than she was earlier and then some.

The horn beeps as you fumble inside the car, the heat of the moment broken as your back dug into the steering wheel and his breath was hot against your neck and suddenly you wanted nothing to do with this, watching the glow of television through the front window of Joel’s home, knowing he was awake.

There’s a shadow that crosses the window and confirms your suspicion—you weren’t ever truly free, there was always someone watching. Joel seemed like the likely suspect and that was worse than your mother when you actually took the time to think it over.

The departure is quick, shoes scuffing against the pavement as you meet the front door, jiggling with the doorknob before it’s being opened from the other side.

Joel’s eyes follow you as you walk inside, toeing your shoes off near the door and finding that you don’t even have the energy to make a remark at him, nothing funny, nothing snide. You look over your shoulder briefly and find him watching, not so much staring, but he was following your movements. You’re right around the corner as he finally speaks and you stop, closing your eyes as you take a slow, deep breath.

“She’s not home,” He informs you, “left with Tommy about an hour ago.”

It was unwanted information, unneeded. You mumble an acknowledgement but he’s speaking again when he notices you move, forcing you to turn on your heels and look at him.

“Are you doin’ it to piss her off?” Joel asks. His intention was unclear, whether he was trying to get under your skin or not, but with the rage still lurking in the back of your mind, it takes on a mind of its own.

“What do you care, Joel?”

“She ain’t my favorite person, I think you know that. But, if she’d caught you just know, she’d have your ass—”

“She didn’t,” You retorted. It’s the first time you see Joel frustrated, his brow creasing and the hands at his side slide into his pocket.

“You’re actin’ out,” Joel concludes and there’s a squint of your eyes as they narrow that tells Joel he’s right, “and under my roof—”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s about,” You tell him, arms crossing over your chest as you step toward him, floorboards creaking under bare feet as you approach him, “what—are you gonna punish me then?”

“Not my business,” Joel tells you, “I ain’t like your mother. But you keep doing this, actin’ out. Something bad is gonna happen soon enough.”

“Then—what?” You ask, trying to surmise a path to both please him and shut him up—unfortunately for him, you know just how, “Would you rather me act out with you?”

“Now, that ain’t what I—“

“Make sense, don’t it? My mother would be so grateful you’re keeping your eyes on me, watching after her little girl.”

“I suggest you tone it down,” His voice is different—nothing you’ve heard before and it should scare you, but it doesn’t.

“Or what?” You retort carelessly, “You’ll do it for me?”

There was that face again, jaw clenched. His gaze never left yours, only following you as you grew closer.

“You can teach me all the stuff I’ve missed out on,” You smile slightly, “I mean, you’ve done alright so far.”

He says your name and for a moment, it scares you. But, it was a warning—don’t cross that line, don’t blur it.

“I’m messing with you, Joel.” 

It’s a believable lie, one you can even convince yourself of.

His breath hitches slightly, breathing out through his nose as he nods at your response, “Just, be smarter. Alright?”

Your aggressive approach breaks, offering a sweeter smile as you back away, hands falling to your side. He can see the smear of your gloss at the corner of your mouth, half-tempted to swipe it away and clean you up.

“I will,” You appease, “can I go up to my room now?”

Joel offers a lazy glare of dissonance, not giving you an answer before he’s brushing by, off to his office that you hadn’t been able to spend much time in since the cookout. 

If he could be stubborn, so could you.

—

The tension between your mother doesn’t settle, but she does attempt to be civil. You often thwart off any attempt at a conversation that would lead into anything other than necessary communication. It feels wrong, you know it is—but you couldn’t bear the thought of trying to explain to your mother how you were beginning to believe her so-called beliefs were a complete joke, pushing an insane and untenable rhetoric on you.

Joel isn’t as warm either, keeping his distance beyond the night you had lost your footing with him and slipped, offering him an opening that would lead you both down a dangerous path. It had mostly been a joke but you could never admit to yourself how badly you wanted him to agree. The idea of it.

There is a point where under almost constant supervision of one of them, all of them flitting out of the house at some time or another, that you find a window (figuratively and physically) to sneak out of, preparing yourself for a night that your mother would have shamed you about until you found yourself six feet under. It was hypocrisy, actually–knowing your mother was doing similar things at an even younger age, with much less mindful thinking. 

And you might have pushed it a little too hard when you reach the front door that night, the floor spinning as you fumbled with the lock again—though, of course, Joel was saving the day.

“Do you ever sleep?” You gripe, eyes squinting as you stumble inside and out of your shoes with a wobbly wave of your arms, reaching out blindly for anything but finding nothing, almost tumblring over the motion but Joel is catching your arm silently, holding you upright. 

He knows that smell, you reek of sweet alcohol and cheap booze.

“I was makin’ sure you got home,” Joel admits, “that a crime?”

“Yes,” You slur softly, “and crime—” You giggle slightly, stumbling closer and pressing your hand into his chest to steady yourself, “means punishment.”

Joel looks down carefully, watching your fingers curl over the collar of his shirt and the sensation of your body, warm and so soft as it pressed against his own.

“Unless, you’d rather punish me,” You offer, the deep buzz of alcohol inflicting your mind and thought process as you pull at his shirt, feeling the stitching rip slightly under your grip and you make a delighted noise, instantly leaning forward to press your lips to his neck.

Joel should’ve pulled you away minutes ago, but again, he’d allowed it to go a step too far.

A step closer to breaking—closer to complete corruption.

Joel wraps his hand around the back of your neck and squeezes, pulling you back easily despite your desperate grip, eyes blown out and wide as you peer up at him, so dazed he isn’t even sure it’s you talking.

“You can,” You admit, mouth parting open as you lick your lips, “I want you too, Joel.”

Joel’s nostrils flare as he forces your hands away more sternly, throwing them at your side until the dejected look forms on your face, stumbling back sadly.

“You need to sleep this off,” Joel tells you

But, you already have the idea in mind as you shove him away, stepping around him awkwardly until you can reach the couch, your limbs falling lazily against the cushion as you curl up, hazy gaze meeting his one final time before you eyes close and for once, Joel fides security in his room and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart—a mix of worry and guilt, knowing if he’d had enough alcohol and inhibition in his system he wouldn’t be as strong, given so easily into that temptation as you had.

But, if routine proved you right, it wouldn't be the last time you’d speak to him that night.

—

Joel was a creature of habit.

The nights that he is able to sleep have been few and far between and he can hear you moving around upstairs, early hours of the morning when he’s in and out of an exhausted daze and in your own similar nature, he hears it. There’s a creak and slow footsteps that traverse the floor above him, but there was no world where he could face you right now. He’s not sure when you decided to move upstairs that night, a curious but lucrative thought in the back of his mind.

Do you remember?

He spends the last hour flexing his achy fingers to distract him from the subtle ache in his pants.

Joel wasn’t a father anymore, the part of him was buried away and long-forgotten, the pieces of that part of him dissolved away through the years of tears and alcohol and constant repression. 

Watching after her little girl.

It’s asinine, knowing you were anything but. He had no intentions of being that sort of figure over you, you didn’t need watching—or guidance from him, even. A protector? Maybe, but that wasn’t his job either.

Keeping your eyes on me.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, in fact. And as the realization clicks, he knows he’s fucked.

He’s barricading himself in the bathroom before he puts himself through the suffering of another nightly conversation with you, especially after how things had left off hours before, turning on the shower in a hurry as he hears the latch to the attic release and your impending arrival.

He strips, pulling his shirt up from the center of his back and over his shoulders, working hastily at his jeans and climbing into the shower, palms pressed against the tile wall in front of him as the stinging, hot water hits his back and soothes the soreness that lingering in his joints. It did nothing for his cock which had gone from half-hard in his jeans to standing proud, insistently.

He couldn’t ignore it—and he knows under the safety of the constant stream of water, muffling out the ragged sigh that escapes his lips as he fists his cock in a tight grip—he hasn’t ached like this in years, knowing he was well past his prime, in his mind. 

Unfortunately, the unraveling of it all would come down to the slippery lock on the bathroom door. It only stuck half of the time, eventually worming its way out of place and leaving the steam to slip through the cracks, but Joel is oblivious.

You find your footing as you step off the ladder, still reeling from your drunken stupor as you make your way down the hall, spotting the faint flickering of a light from the bathroom that told you Joel still hadn’t changed that lightbulb, but also that he was in there—it couldn’t be anyone else. You only vaguely remember your actions from earlier, but you didn’t forget the look on his face—the frustration. The want. Your footsteps are quiet, praying feverishly that they wouldn’t creak under the pressure of your feet as you peek your head into the crack, eyes scanning the mirror placed over the sink and suddenly, they stop.

Freeze, more like.

The shower curtain is shifted back just enough that you catch the front of his chest, so broad that it doesn’t even capture the full width of him, muscles in his shoulders straining as your eyes follow the length of his arm and down, until your eyes connect with the sight of his cock, fisted in his hand as he jerked himself earnestly, unabashedly with impatience. His head is hung too, water damping his hair over his forehead and obscuring his face.

You can hear him, though. God, you could fucking hear him.

His knuckles curl into the tile wall where his other hand still rest, balling into a fist as he punched it out of frustration, grunting with how tightly he was squeezing himself and the pace at which he was fucking his fist. 

It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen such a sight, but with Joel it was bigger, intimidating—in every sense of the word.

His cock, for one, was larger than any you’ve seen before.

And with shame, your mouth watered at the sight. 

His groans, a gentle guh that sounds like a prayer of something else but is strangled, his movements becoming jerky as his speech becomes slightly clearer, “God—fuckin’,” He heaves, the sound of wet skin and water under the speed of his movement, “—girl, always testin’ me.”

You swallow at the mention, fingers curling dangerously around the door frame—one misstep, one slip and you’d swing that door right open, revealing yourself. 

He leans his head up suddenly, eyes closed as his arm works furiously. Your ears are locked on his face now and you see the way his lips form around your name as he utters it, so quiet you barely hear it but it was you. There was no mistaking that.

He comes a few moments later, his thumb rubbing over the tip of his cock and circling as he shot his load into his palm, knowing that he could make a mess if he wanted to but decided not to, using his slick covered hand to drag over his cock a few more times as it softened in his hand.

Fortunately, you’re long gone by the time he’s reaching for a towel, back upstairs like you’d never even been there in the first place.

There was no denying it now, though. It wasn’t in your head—the temptation was real, tangible, and just within reach. 

Because with that temptation came doubt, followed by mistakes.

And really, you wish you were strong enough to resist.

Unfortunately, you weren’t. So, you plan. 

He was already a broken man, but you needed him shattered.

-

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[thewisecheerio]

Messmer's actually terrible at his job. (affectionate)

Messmer is a fascinating villain, because he is strangely compassionate. I would go so far as to argue that this same compassion that is so at odds with his villainy is the very thing that drove him to become that villain in the first place. Hang with me; this is a long post.

Spoilers for Elden Ring DLC. Obviously.

Messmer tells us himself that his purpose is to purge all those stripped of the grace of gold. "Yet...my purpose standeth unchanged. Those stripped of grace of gold shall all meet death...in the embrace of Messmer's flame." We can piece together who gave him this genocidal purpose from his armor set's description, which tells us directly that he's working on his mother's behalf *and also* taking all the blame for it.

So he's playing war criminal on Marika's behalf. And I do mean playing. I'm not downplaying the fact that he is a war criminal; he has murdered on entire people. But here's the thing: he's *terrible* at playing the sole part of the spiteful, hateful overlord. He's *awful* at reveling in war and its victories.

Why? Empathy.

Messmer is strangely empathic for what could have otherwise been a cut-and-dry villain:

1. His relationship with Gaius, an Albinauric: We learn from Gaius's Remembrance that he was Messmer's bestie. We also know that Gaius was an Albinauric both from his armor as well as the location "Albinauric's Hut" in the direction he comes from at the beginning of his fight. Albinaurics are despised by the Golden Order, but Messmer didn't seem to care. In fact, he cared so little that he gave Gaius command of either a huge chunk or perhaps his entire army, second only to him. And what is given as the basis of this friendship? The fact that they were "both cursed from birth", i.e. a mutual understanding of what it is to be despised. They're trauma bonded because they have empathy for each other's predicament.

2. His relationship with the Jar people: Even though the Jar people were used as weapons of war against his own people, he doesn't seem to resent them. How do we know? There is a hospital where the Jars and their innards are being cared for in the Storehouse, a stone's throw away from where Messmer spends all his time. There are even a few baby Jars running around in it. Strange thing to do to what is essentially an enemy of your people, unless you consider them to also be victims of the same conflict.

3. His relationship with his soldiers: Messmer shares his own flame with his army. Yeah, that absolutely could be interpreted as a utilitarian move for the sake of war. Power up the troops, boost your chance at victory. But it's a strange choice when he could have just armed them in the traditional way of handing them sharp, pointy objects and pointing in the desired direction of stabbing. Instead, arming your soldiers with your own power could also be interpreted as something you do when you care about their survival and are potentially working directly with them to ensure it.

4. The mourning of people who betray him: Speaking of his soldiers, Messmer gets betrayed by at least a few of them. We learn this from the ashes of Andreas and Huw. Huw's ashes further tell us that Messmer *mourned their loss* as brothers-in-arms. Weird thing to do to someone who has betrayed you, unless you care very deeply about them to begin with.

5. The implications of the Storehouse: Even though he is actively genociding Hornsent on Marika's orders, he somehow has preserved an entire library of their history. At first, I thought this was maybe just British Museum vibes: steal all the artifacts and refuse to give them back. (And that could still be a correct interpretation.) But in context of the rest of these points, if you're truly hellbent on erasing a culture, why would you bother to preserve any of it? Would you not burn the libraries along with the people? It's a fairly common thing to do in our world's wars--destroy the art and history to ensure full erasure. And yet, it seems he can't even bring himself to avoid some small amount of sympathy for the people he was explicitly tasked with killing. If you really *think* about the basis for his sympathy for Marika, this does make a lot of sense. Messmer is following Marika's orders because he knows about what the Hornsent did to the Shaman. Wouldn't it then also be the case that once Marika's reign became nothing but genocide, i.e. an exact reversal of what was done to her people, he would have the same kind of sympathy for them? Perhaps this is a form of harm reduction in the only way he could square with what he thinks is his purpose.

6. His own self-hatred: Messmer despises his own flames, which we learn from the Messmer's Orb description. If you were happy to be Doing a Genocide, would you not celebrate your weapons of war? Wouldn't you take pride in them as tools of power? Unless, of course, you're not actually as happy as we think and maybe having regrets and come to be filled with severe self-hatred. Woops.

So then, if Messmer is this guy running around with a lot of Big Feelings (and probably a deep need for a Prozac prescription), why does he even agree to this genocide in the first place? Isn't that an *odd* choice for someone who seems to care pretty deeply about people, even people despised by his family's governing order? Why does he carry out these orders even to the point of developing a deep self-hatred?

This is where Messmer's sympathy, one of his best aspects, also becomes his fatal flaw.

I mentioned above in 5 that Messmer has access to information about both sides of this conflict. As much as he might have sympathy for everyone around him--including weapons used against the Shaman like the Jars--that means he *also* has sympathy for the Shaman. So if you have sympathy for the other side and sympathy for your side, and you are raised by your own side, then what is the natural outcome? Your side wins. If you must choose a side, then you fight on behalf of Child Soldier Fostering Mother Marika. She raised you, after all. It's inevitable.

In the end, that same sympathy he seems to extend to others also is what causes him to do war crimes. Out of an abundance of sympathy for what happened to the Shamans, he agrees to take up arms.

At the end of the day, he's still a villain that needs to be stopped so that he'll stop oppressing an entire people on behalf of his mother's misguided attempts at revenge. But making his reasoning to agree to become that villain in the first place *empathy* of all things? Fascinating.

[jukeboxsweethearttt]

OlderSugarDaddyBoyfriend!Rafe Headcannons💋

inspired by @starfxkr ‘s SugarDaddy!Rafe

song in mind

SFW

• He has 3 daughters and they’re just happy their dad and mom aren’t in that toxic ass marriage anymore but that’s the only reason they tolerate you being that much younger than their dad.

• His oldest daughter is 5 years older than you, His middle is the same age as you and his youngest is three years younger than you.

• He’s 52 while you’re 21 so you have a 31 year age gap;)

• I imagine you living in like New York or New Jersey and he met you on a business trip while he was still married to his wife.

• The two of you were messing around for 3 months before his wife filed for divorce (she was having a 4 year long affair with Rafe’s business partner but we’ll talk about her more later)

• The day before the two of you met your parents threatened to cut you off and make you get a job after you got into a fight at the club with a girl and they had to bail you out of jail.

• But luckily for you, you met Rafe and you’ll never have to work again;)

• Moves you into his house 4 months after his divorce is finalized (his youngest daughter still lives with him because she wouldn’t stay with her mom either way)

• The old ladies who thought they would have a chance with Rafe after the divorce despise you.

• His nicknames for you: Bunny,Minx,Princess and Your actual name he’s not big on nicknames

• Your nicknames for him: Daddy Or Old man no in between :)

NSFW

• You would think him being a old man would effect his stamina but hadn’t so much of gave him a handjob for years before their divorce so he uses all that pent up “aggression” and it matches your young hyper sexualness

• Never uses protection because you claim “he’s an old man with no more swimmers.” and you live by that until you end up pregnant… Twice and his daughters are lowkey pissed

• He’s so old and matured so I know he gives THE BEST head and doesn’t expect anything in return like the boys your age do

• He wasn’t a big fan of PDA when he was with his wife but he loves when you shove your tongue down his throat in public to make people uncomfortable

• Idk something is telling me he likesfeet like he loves missionary because he’s still an old man so he loves sticking your big toe in his mouth and sucking it while he gives you deep strokes.

• 9 inches , cut subtle curve to the left , peachy pink tip with a tan ish base, full this just has the perfect amount of girth bigger than any one you’ve been with younger than him

That’s all I can think of for now!! If you have any suggestions on what I should write about him plz send an ask!!💋💋💋

[jamminvroomvroom]

congrats on 5k queen! you’re writing is so brilliant beyond belief and you deserve all the love and support this site has to offer. can i request lando+angsty smut (the best combo)…prompts along the lines of “i don’t think im ever going to love anyone the way i love you”//“i don’t think i want to love anyone else”

how did it end?

ln x famous fem!reader

in which it ends, until…

i love this fic with my whole heart. thank u sm for this request, anon, and for being so absolutely for gorgeous and kind <3 kicking off the 5k celebration with a big, sad, sexy bang! lemme know what you think, hugs n kisses

songs to set the mood: how did it end? by taylor swift

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst angst angst, fluff, happy ending! exes to lovers, just. a lot going on. sad!lando, sad!everyone, so many feels, r is a big deal model, alcohol consumption, mentions of smoking

4.1k words

one gasp, and then…

“how did it end?” the woman strokes your arm, soothing, tentative.

you don’t know her all that well, she’s signed to the same agency as you, you see her in the halls sometimes and sit next to her in makeup chairs.

you stare blankly at her, registering. news travels fast apparently.

you smile, small, fake, tilting your head to the side. you mumble something about different schedules, timezones, right person, wrong time. she watches your face intently, with sympathy. you want to throttle her. she’s being kind and you despise her for it right now.

“i won’t tell anyone.” she affirms, her fingers still smoothing over the skin of your arm.

yes you will, you think. all of her friends, the rest of the building will know exactly what you’ve told her by the time you get to your meeting. you don’t begrudge her, though, that’s the nature of the industry.

“well, it was good to see you.” you nod, even go in for a quick hug, and then you speed away, beelining for the elevator. the ride is short, your managers office somewhere on the third floor and you shuffle down the corridor, ready to be informed of what your life will look like for the next three months.

fittings, shoots, paris trip.

mhm.

swimwear season, charlotte tilbury, meeting with the vogue journalist.

cool.

week off, few days in london, monaco grand prix.

no.

“what? no.” you splutter. out of habit, you reach for a necklace, frown when you realise it’s no longer there.

“what do you mean, no?” she narrows her eyes at you.

“i can’t go to the race. no.”

“girl, i love you, but did i ask?”

“you know i can’t-“

“you won’t have to see him.” she reasons.

“but what if i do? he’s obviously gonna be there, and the events before and after- no. no.”

“lando norris is not gonna be the end of you.”

you stifle a laugh, one that sounds more like a strangled cry.

what if he already was?

-

look who we ran into at the shops,

walking in circles like he was lost

lando stares at the shampoo.

specifically, the one you use. used. he can’t be too sure anymore, he supposes.

he’d popped out for a loaf of bread, about an hour ago. he didn’t want to acknowledge how long he’d been staring at the women’s toiletries section.

you seemed to live on, everywhere. lando could see you in his apartment, the passenger seat of his car, the back of the garage. even the fucking supermarket wasn’t safe. you were very much alive, moving on with life, and yet you haunted him like he’d killed you himself.

perhaps he had, in a way.

the basket grazes the outside of his leg.

that’s the shower gel he’d buy for you, the one you only used when you stayed with him in monaco.

there’s the tampons you asked him to buy, crying back at home on your- his bed.

oh, and there’s the shampoo that you made him buy, the one that you told him made his curls feel extra fluffy when he was between your legs-

“lando?” a voice calls, drawing lando out of the mist.

“oh, alex. hey.” lando croaks. he hasn’t noticed the lump in his throat until now. he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“what you doing, mate?” alex asks, eyebrows furrowed. he scans lando’s face, puffy eyes, watery.

“shopping.”

“for women’s shampoo?”

“no, no, just… looking.” lando stutters.

“when was the last time you slept?” alex’s voice is laced with concern, apprehensive. he doesn’t know what to say to his heartbroken friend.

lando smiles weakly.

“i’ve been sleeping.”

alex sighs.

“okay, when was the last time you slept properly, then?”

lando’s shoulders visibly sag.

“about a month ago.”

-

we hereby conduct this post-mortem

“we can’t do this anymore.”

the words fall from your lips in a whisper, but they reach him like you’ve screamed them at him. he sits opposite you, in the arm chair, so far away, only a metre or so.

“i know.” lando breathes shakily.

“i don’t want this but…”

“yeah.”

it’s been such a good year. you’re in love. it’s not enough. there’s too much distance, too many outsider opinions, too much longing for someone who’s on the other side of the world.

he’ll be in london. you’ll be in brazil.

he’ll be in australia. you’ll be in amsterdam.

it’s too much.

“i love you, though.” you remind him meekly.

“don’t know how to not love you.” he sniffles.

your heart shatters, the pieces flying over the room, spilling across the floor. they mix with the splinters of his, painting the room red. all you feel is blue.

you cry in his arms when he takes you to bed, his own tears spilling over your collar bone when he buries his head in your neck, licks over the marks he’s left there. to remember me by, he’d muttered dryly.

when you’re both finished, he lays there for a moment, still on top of you. damp with sweat and tears, the taste of one another still lingering on your tongues.

“how is it possible that i miss you already?” he pants, lips grazing just below your ear.

“i get it, lan. i’ve been missing you for a while.”

you’re gone when he wakes up.

and so, a touch that was my birthright became foreign

-

come one, come all

it’s happening again

the empathetic hunger descends

there are about six cameras pointed at you when he asks the dreaded question.

you’re in new york, sat on a talk show hosts sofa, lit by stage lights and his inquisitive eyes. two hundred people sit in the audience, on the edge of their seats waiting for you to spill your secrets.

“so, what happened there, with lando?”

you plaster on the fakest smile to date, crossing your legs anxiously.

“we’re both just so busy, you know? he’s doing amazing things in f1 and i’m all over the place with work.”

“we love both of you over here, it was sad to hear.” he sympathises, adjusting his tie and leaning back in his chair. his fingers drum over the wood of his desk, waiting for more.

vultures. everyone is a vulture.

“and we still have a lot of love for each other. he’s a wonderful person.”

there are tears in your eyes and bile rising rapidly in your throat when you shake hands with the crew, the host, and retreat to your dressing room. you stumble into the en-suite and throw up. then, you fall onto the sofa and cry. you fix your makeup at godspeed and reply to the text from your team, inviting you to drinks at some rooftop bar, promising to meet them there. you punctuate the text with one too many exclamation marks, feigning excitement.

“we still have a lot of love for each other.”

translation: i can’t understand: how did it end?

-

lando watches your interview. of course he does. he watches everything that you do, watches the way you set the world on fire.

he can’t help himself where you’re concerned, like an addict craving the next hit. you look so pretty on tv, glowing. you look fine.

god, why do you look fine?

he hates himself for hating just how fine you look. he is not fine.

“he’s a wonderful person.”

your words ring in his ears. they anger him, because if he’s oh-so-wonderful, why aren’t you here? why isn’t he there with you, waiting backstage? why can’t you just hate him? why can’t he just hate you? maybe you will, if he shows you just how not wonderful he can be.

he gets drunk that night. forces max to hit the clubs with him. sticks his tongue down a pliant woman’s throat. doesn’t ask her name. let’s her invite him back to her place. it has to be her place, he can’t fuck someone else in your bed, the one you used to share. he leaves minutes after he’s pulled out. he’s sure she’s lovely, too good for him and his bitter fucking heart. he feels utterly disgusting.

lando goes home, scrubs his skin red, and then does it again. he doesn’t go to sleep, watches from his balcony as the sun begins to rise over the sea. he hikes to the highest point he can reach in monaco, where it’s quiet and there’s no one to judge him, or worse, sympathise with him.

he stands at the edge of the cliff. screams once, twice. he sits on a rock, and lets himself cry.

the deflation of our dreaming

leaving me bereft and reeling

my beloved ghost and me

sitting in a tree

d-y-i-n-g

-

your stylist is plying you with options.

you can wear the denim with the cream OR you could do the red and white? or we can go full glam! or! or! or! we could-

you drown her out. you don’t give a fuck. not a single one.

what you wear to the monaco grand prix is quite literally the least of the your problems. your biggest problem, of course, is that you have to go to the fucking thing.

visibility is important, get people talking! the words of your manager ring in your ears until you have a dull migraine brewing behind your ears.

you leave the fitting not entirely sure what you’re wearing, but your stylist will be sending the clothes over so you can pack.

when you land in all too familiar nice, there are cameras. when you get to the hotel in monaco, you and lando are already trending on twitter. well, at least he knows you’re coming. when you’re getting your makeup done before your first event, you get a text.

i’ll try and keep my distance.

try.

try is such an interesting word. the fact that he has to try to stay away makes your belly flutter with embarrassing, self loathing butterflies. don’t try too hard, you want to respond. you don’t.

should’ve told you i’d be here you shoot back.

you think i didn’t already know?

of course he knew. he’d probably asked god knows how many brands to invite you. you try and feign an illness but your team drag you kicking and screaming to the event.

-

there are no two ways about it: you’re drunk, on a tuesday night, somewhere in the principality. a few cocktails with a jewellery brand turned into a night on the town, bar hopping with people you hardly knew and barely recognised.

you’re shaking your ass in jimmy’z, pretending to have fun when you see him.

lando stands at the bar, watching you, jaw tensed, eyes solemn. you exit the club faster that his car down a back straight, stumbling into the smoking area. you bum a cigarette from a guy who tries really hard to convince you that he’s the son of a british lord, and sink into the corner, ignoring the people recording you.

depressed model shame smokes outside monaco club because she is fucking pathetic, the headlines will read.

“thought you quit that shit.” his voice washes over your body like you’ve been set on fire, smooth tone, ambiguous accent making you ache.

“i did but then i got forced to come to monaco, so.” you shrug.

“forced?”

“‘m here for work.” you sigh.

“i guess i am too.” he mumbles. you raise an eyebrow.

“you live here, lan.” you tease. lan rolls off of your tongue too sweetly.

“doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

how can it, without you? he wants to scream at you. he can’t, you don’t deserve it.

“how are you?”

you want to touch him.

“shit.”

he needs a taste.

“yeah.”

you put your cigarette out. it tastes like shit, half smoked.

you stand there, stare at each other.

take me home, you want to beg.

come home, he clenches his fists, trying not to grab you and remind you how you’ll always be his, right here, up against the side of the club.

“good luck, if i don’t see you.” you whisper. you linger, praying that he’ll beg you to stay so that you can crumble into his arms, without having to make the first move.

lando ponders his options. his head and his heart wage a war.

logic wins, unfortunately.

“thank you.”

you take that as your queue to get the fuck out of there, and disappear into the night.

-

it’s raining on sunday. the dreary weather seems to perfectly sum up what has been the worst week of your life.

you’ve seen your ex boyfriend more times than you can count, ended up with about four hangovers as a result, and with a pounding head, you have to sit in the paddock club and wait for the sound of engines to split your head in half. it was your own doing, so you’d suck it up, recognising that you were a disgustingly privileged bitch, and there are people who would sell their kidneys to do what you’re complaining about.

you never complain, not usually. but your heart hurts and your body hearts and your mind hurts and it’s just not fair. lando is gorgeous, and you miss him so badly, and your shoes are digging in. who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to wear heels to an f1 race?

you see him before the race, mouth good luck from afar. he winks. it’s something you used to do before every race. old habits die screaming.

the rain falls harder, the track slick. you say a prayer and take your seat.

“norris has this in the bag, he’s bloody good in the wet.” you hear some old guy say behind you. you are cursed with the knowledge of just how good in the wet he is, and you end up flushed.

he wins. his second one in three races. you pray that no one notices the way you weep. everyone notices.

you make a mistake and rush for the podium, your pass giving you access. he graces the top step and you sob, grinning like a fool, soaked through with rain. the anthem plays, the champagne pops. he finds your eyes in the crowd. your hair falls, stringy and curled, mascara smudged. you are the most breathtaking sight. he stands still, washed with an onslaught of champagne, watching you like he’s scared to take his eyes off of you. his boyish grin and hopeful eyes render you weak - you’re there for him, after all - and he can’t help but bask in that little fact.

dangerous territory. you break, and disappear.

-

say it once again with feeling…

the photographers barely get a second to snap a picture of the top three, because lando is gone. he takes the stairs two at a time, descending from the podium and throwing his pirelli cap and a shaky apology at his pr rep. the adrenaline spike makes his blood rush; he needs to find you and stop you and tell you that he will never be able to stop loving you.

the exit is the natural assumption, and he nearly slips a thousand times as he sprints through the paddock. the ground is wet, but he figures that if his car made it, so can he. the gates are in sight, and so are you, your clothes sticking to your shivering frame.

he calls your name, thunderously travelling towards you, his voice hitting your ears like a sonic boom. you freeze, turn slowly until your facing him. the rain splashes around you, not letting up.

you’re within his reach, and he pulls you in, hugging you tight. you melt into him, clinging like he’s a life force. he inhales you, your scent that he’s missed so horrifically. you crumble, and so does he, pieced back together as one.

“i can’t do this, i can’t.” he kisses the words into the cold skin of your neck.

“no, neither can i.” you choke wetly with emotion.

“miss you too much. it’s too hard, it’s stupid, it’s-“

“wrong. it’s wrong. ‘m sorry.” your breath fans his face, breathing life into him, life that he’d lost four months ago.

he grabs your shoulders, lowering so that his eyes are level with yours. his curls fall over his eyes, sodden from the rain.

“i don’t think, no, i know: i’m never gonna love anyone the way i love you.” lando speaks slow, convincing. your chest is tight.

“i don’t want to love anyone else.” you croak, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe.

“come back to me.” he mutters, pleading.

“don’t think i ever left.” you breathe, hushed.

your lips slot over his easily, it’s like breathing. the kiss is messy, helpless, and he engulfs you whole, his body wrapping around yours like a blanket. you latch onto his race-suit, drawing him in, and then you both seem to remember where you are.

lando norris caught kissing ex like horny teenager in monaco paddock!

you pull away with breathless chuckle. the air is fresh, and you feel alive. he steals another peck.

“wait for me at home. i’ll be quick.” his hand finds you ass, just for a second and you scold him playfully.

home.

yeah, home.

“don’t make me wait.” you grin.

his brain short circuits.

“do you still have your key?” he splutters, refocusing.

you scoff. “never took it off the chain.”

-

you pace the apartment, taking in the space. it hasn’t changed, but it’s messier, a visual representation of lando since you left. the pit of your belly swirls with anxiety, anticipation. he’ll be back soon, and he’ll kiss you, make love to you, remind you that you’re home and that it’d be stupid to leave again.

you’re still damp from the rain, shedding layers until you’re left in your vest and jeans, ridiculous heels kicked off by the door, your jacket airing over the back of a chair.

he hasn’t taken down the pictures of you together. he hasn’t moved your ugly collection of magnets from the fridge. he hasn’t changed the blinds that you chose, but he didn’t really like. your candles sit on the bookshelf half burned, the teddy he’d won you at a fair sits neatly on the sofa. the L pendant and it’s chain is strewn over the coffee table, right where you left it the morning after it ended. your breathing is heavy.

the front door opens behind you.

you don’t move, your eyes still fixed on the silver chain, overwhelmed by how empty your neck feels all of the sudden. he comes up behind you, his head resting on your shoulder, arms finding home around your waist. you often used to find yourselves in this exact position; while you brushed your teeth, made coffee. the room is deathly silent, breathing and the distant buzz of post race festivities the only thing you can hear. lando follows your gaze.

“kept it. knew that one day, you’d come back for it.”

“i came back for you.”

“and that necklace will stay with you when i can’t be there.”

you nod. he kisses your neck.

“missed you so bad.” you gasp. he licks your skin, bites down softly.

you spin in his arms, his hands pawing at your hips and everything blurs when he kisses you.

-

shaky fingers work over zippers, buttons, clasps, and then you’re both bare. you sink into the mattress that you missed so much, his body moulded with yours when you both tumble into the sheets. this is messy and frantic, utterly lovestruck. the lightning strike of his touch has you keening, sweating beneath him already.

“missed you. missed this.”

“do something, lan.” you cry, quiet against his shoulder.

“missed my perfect girl.” he grunts, lips working your chest while his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps over your inner thigh.

“please.” you sigh when his fingers dip between your folds, sliding over your wet flesh. his lip catches between his teeth, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you.

he thumbs at your clit, stroking over you in slow, firm swipes, and then he’s sinking a digit into you, slow and steady. your toes curl, tears pricking your eyes at the intrusion, but you don’t have much of a chance to adjust, a second finger joining the first. he fucks you full, the stretch of just two fingers making you whine, one hand threading into the sheets while the other slams over your mouth. you want to hide, the pleasure rendering you a mess across the pale grey linen.

“no, let me look at you.” lando rasps, spare hand tugging at your wrist. you whine, writhing when he curls his fingers. “why are you hiding?”

you can’t hold back the choked cry that sounds from the back of your throat, his palm bumping your clit as he grinds his fingers deep.

“gone shy on me, baby? where’s my good girl gone?” lando coos, moving so that he’s leaning over you. the angle change sends your legs flying, kicking out at the sweet torture. “‘s because you haven’t been fucked right in so long, hm? can’t remember how to behave?” he’s smirking down at you, scanning the changing lines of your face.

“need it, need-“ you stutter, the words dying on your tongue.

“words, pretty girl, words.” lando encourages, false sympathy dripping from his tongue.

“need to cum, want you to make me…” you trail off.

“was that so hard?” he tuts, and everything speeds up.

the sound of him working you so sweetly makes you shake, your thighs clenching tight around his hand. the wet squelch hits your ears and you blush, cheeks coloured deep with embarrassment, awe, desperation.

your mouth drops open, screaming silently when it hits, your thighs slick. you drip down his wrist, his hand covered in your release.

“there’s my girl.” lando sighs, diving down to kiss you hard.

you can feel the damp press of his fingers as they dig into your thighs and you squirm beneath him, finding your way into his mouth.

“fuck me.” you slur, teeth knocking with his. he swallows you whole, groaning into your mouth.

“not so shy now, hm? been dreaming of hearing you beg for it.” lando shudders, shifting between your legs.

you can feel the press of him, thick against your cunt and you wiggle your hips, pushing to meet him halfway. the stretch burns deliciously, and you grab at his shoulders, dragging him in.

“fuck, baby.” he breathes, sinking into you slowly. “feel like heaven.” disbelief coats his voice, like he can’t reconcile that this is real; you’re back here, his, in the bed you were always supposed to share.

“it’s so good. feel so good for me, lan.” you whisper, lacing your fingers through his hair.

“love you so much.” he kisses you like he means it, rocking into you with purpose.

“can’t believe i lived without this.”

“can’t believe you’re all mine.”

the release builds, every thrust reminding you of what you could have lost for good. there was no lack of love, in fact you were starting to wonder if you had loved each other too much before.

“never losing you again. can’t live without you. my beautiful girl.”

your tummy grows tight, and he finds your clit when he feels you clamp down on him. he pulls you through the pleasure, guides you to your orgasm and you blindly follow him. you’d follow him anywhere, you decide.

you tell him you love him when you let go, spilling all around him, warm. he’s panting, kisses your forehead gently. he rolls off of you, and you feel the slow drip instantly, but you curl into his side and he wraps around you.

home.

“promise me something.” he whispers. you feel the way he shakily inhales.

“hm?”

“don’t leave again. you belong here, too. with me.”

your eyes are watery.

“i’m staying. ‘m yours.”

“about that…”

lando springs from the bed, naked, disappearing from the room. you watch, confused, cold all of the sudden.

you can hear his footsteps padding through the hallway, and then he’s back, his figure in the hallway. he runs, jumps, lands gracelessly next to you. endeared, you laugh softly.

“sit up.”

you do, leaning up to sit next to him. his fingers skim your shoulder, pushing your hair out of the way. cool metal dances over your skin.

“back where it belongs.” lando smiles at you, eyes wide and stunning.

you toy with the L. something heals in your chest, right around where your heart is.

“the sweetest boy.” you shake your head in disbelief, grin up at him like a fool.

“bath?”

“you know me so well, noz.”

come one, come all

it’s happening again

-

oh, my heart. there is something deeply wrong with me

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne

[strawberrynull]

please can you write niki with a noona gf !! and he tries his hardest to impress her and let her see him as a big boy now ^.^

fluff or suggestive, i dont mind ❤️❤️ thankss

──⯎ ˙ 💋 ̟ noona!

엔하이픈 | Enhypen | Nishimura Riki

──Pairing: bf!niki x afab!reader

──Genre: fluff, angst

──Synopsis: Poor Niki despises being treated like a baby by his girlfriend who is only slightly older than him. He decides to try to prove to her that hes not a baby

──Warnings: cursing, established relationship, kissing, making out, skinship, hickeys

──A/N: guys im working on making a taglist so if u wanna be added pls message me or comment or sum so ik to add you

masterlist

"Hi baby. How was your day?" you ask your boyfriend, reaching up to cup his cheeks as you kiss his forehead. Niki's smile faded slightly upon hearing your name for him. Truthfully, calling him baby made him feel like a baby. Babe was fine but calling him baby just seemed to upset him. Sometimes you would take it a step further just to make him more upset by calling him 'baby boy' which was so much worse.

"It was uh... fine I guess." He shrugged, clenching his teeth slightly when you ran your fingers through his dark hair. You were already treating him like a fragile being as soon as he had gotten home. This severely pissed him off. Not to the extent that he would get mad at you though. He had never yelled at you or anything like that. Usually when he was mad he would just walk away and sulk.

"You seem a little out of it. Did something happen?" you asked genuinely, sticking your bottom lip out to form a small pout.

"Just tired." Niki mummbled briefly, not stopping to look at you. He slipped out of your embrace and made his way to sit on the couch. You followed him to the living room of your shared apartment. His expression and demeanor told you to fuck off but sometimes you didn't know when to stop. You took a seat next to him so you could continue to run your fingers through his dark locks. He groaned in annoyance, jerking his head away from you.

"Yah, why are you so cranky? Got a stick up your ass or sum'?" You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest with a scowl.

Niki really did like when you played with his hair. Though, right now he had to resist it. He had to get you to realize he didn't want to be treated like a little baby. He wanted to be treated like an adult. He wanted you to think of him as your super hot boyfriend instead of your baby boy. It was no easy task trying to look all tough in front of you when you were so sweet to Niki.

In a sudden swift move, Niki stood from the couch and turned to go to his room. You reached a hand out to attempt to stop him but it was pointless. He had already made up his mind to leave. There was no stopping him once his mind was made.

"Yah! Where do you think you're going?" you yelled to him, hoping he would stop and come back. Though you knew he wouldn't.

Your boyfriend stopped with a heavy sigh. He turned around to face you. "I don't want to be treated like a baby by you."

"But Ki, you're myyyyyy baby~" you coo, clearly not making the situation any better as Niki shuts the door to his bedroom. You hear a small click and you know he's locked the door too. You throw your head back in frustration eliciting a long sigh.

After a while you start to worry that your boyfriend is genuinely mad. 20 had passed by and he has yet to leave his room. Neither have you heard any noise from his room. You grumble as you push yourself off the couch and trudge over to his bedroom door. Knocking softly, you press an ear to the door. When you hear nothing on the other side, you decide to knock again. This time you hear shuffling which you assume is Niki getting up from his bed. But instead of him opening the door, you hear his gaming chair squeak.

"Come on. You know I don't actually think you're a baby, Riki." You groan, sitting down against his door. You cross your arms over your chest. "Please come back out."

Nothing but silence is heard from his room. You know damn well that he's not actually playing games and ignoring you. When he's mad, he'll pretend to be busy but he'll really just sit there trying to resist coming out of his room to kiss you.

"Say that you won't treat me like a baby anymore." you can tell by the sound of his voice that he's pouting. It makes you giggle.

"Is that all its going to take to get you to come out of your room?"

"You have to promise!" He yells back. You begin to feel bad. You can tell that he's serious that he doesn't want to be treated like a baby. He's so cute and pretty though that sometimes you can't help it. Sometimes you have to give things up for the greater good. And in this case, your boyfriend wasn't coming back out unless you gave up the baby-talk and pampering.

"Alright, Niki, I promise. I'll stop treating you like a baby." Upon hearing your promise, the door opens slightly. You look up to see your pretty boyfriend. He looks down at your sitting figure with a slight pout. Still so cute.

"Hi pretty boy." You stand from your spot on the floor. Niki opens the door wider and stands to the side, signaling for you to come in. You do just that. You step into his room which was dark from the lights being off and the windows being covered by the curtains.

Once you're fully inside the room, the door shuts behind you. Niki's hands find their way to your hips and he pushes you until your back hits the door. Heat rises to your cheeks when you realize why he's acting this way. He really does want to be treated like an adult.

He brought a hand up to cup your cheek before crashing his lips onto yours. You give a muffled gasp at his sudden action. Your hands quickly found the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Your lips seemed to mold together perfectly as if the two of you were made for each other. It may seem like he's being unnecessarily rough in him movements but his kisses are gentle as his thumb rubs circles on your cheek. Your heart flutters at the softness of his touch. You know that he could never bring himself to be rough with you.

Though, he still didn't seem satisfied. The hand that was once on your waist had snaked to the small of your back. He pulled you toward him until your bodies were flush against each other. His lips moved down to kiss your neck, setting warmth to every part of your skin he touches. Your fingers played with his hair while he bit the soft skin of your neck then soothed the mark with his tongue. Unbeknownst to you, he was melting under your touch even more than you, feeling you play with his hair. Of course he was whipped for you. He continued to leave marks on your neck and shoulders until he was satisfied with his work. He pulled away to look at you like you were like his own personal canvas.

"Ki, I-"

"I told you not to treat me like a baby." He deadpanned with a cold harsh glare as his fingers held your chin. His face moved close to yours, his lips hovering next to your ear. His voice caused a chill to run down your spine. "I'm not going to let that happen again, yeah?"

His fingers slid down to wrap around your throat, squeezing gently. You gasped slightly at his change in attitude. He had never once acted this way. Every new action was a surprise to you. His lips found themselves back on yours like a magnet. The pressure on your throat made your head spin. Niki could tell he was getting the reaction he wanted. It made his mind fuzzy seeing you like this.

Niki removed his lips from yours which were now swollen and red. He released his grip on your throat and brought a finger up to swipe your bottom lip. He chucked watching you gasp for air.

"Am I still a baby to you?" he asked, causing you to shake your head frantically. As cute as he was, you had to admit, he was so ungodly hot too. And, god, was that hot. "Good." Niki turned and walked away from you, leaving you confused.

"Niki, what was that-"

"Go away, I'm embarrassed." he whined, plopping onto the bed and throwing a blanket over himself and hiding his face. You burst out in a fit of laughter. He really was too adorable. "Shut up!" He sat up wielding a pillow which he threw full force at you, sending you landing on your ass. You sat on the floor laughing at how cute your boyfriend was.

© strawberrynull, 2024. Do not copy my work. Please DM for permission before translating or reuploading. Thank You

[helenanell]

A Breath of Life || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Part Two

Pairing(s) : Reader x Patrick – Reader x Art – Reader x Tashi (sort of.) 

CW: MDNI - 18+ : smut, rough / manhandling. Infidelity. Angst. A lot of yearning. (They all want each other, badly.) Manipulative behaviour. Minor spoilers for the film.

Notes: Female Reader (AFAB Reader) - Absolutely no use of y/n, (because I despise it, sorry)

Wordcount: 9.7K

Summary: You met Tashi in your final year of high school and were more than happy to have lost a tennis match against her. Afterwards, the two of you become inseparable and you find yourself feeling for her in a way that you don’t quite understand.And then things get even more complicated when Patrick and Art burst into your lives. As the years pass, desire, love and hatred all get tangled together...and so do the four of you.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

The idea of meeting Tashi Duncan had been much more intimidating than the actual event itself. It was an odd thing, to idolise someone who was the exact same age as you—a girl not yet out of high school and still so chronically unsure of herself and the world—but it was impossible not to. 

You had watched every single match of hers that you could, staring for so long at the way she moved, that you were left with the afterimage of her burned into your eyes: She was in your thoughts constantly and always waiting behind your eyes when you closed them hoping for sleep. 

You were brilliant at tennis, you knew that you were. But Tashi played like it was the only way she could take oxygen into her lungs; each serve and shot an inhalation and exhalation. You understood, because you felt something similar.

For a long time, you had been ignored or dismissed in every aspect of your life, by everyone. But then you had found tennis, and you were really fucking great at it. 

 Tennis saved your life by making you undeniably tangible. Your existence could not be disputed when someone had to react to your movements, to receive something you had offered. 

It was no wonder then, that for as long a match lasted you were unhealthily obsessed with whoever it was that you were playing against. They made you real. 

But then you played Tashi. You had lost, of course, but it had been a close match, neither of you dominating for long before the other gained the upper hand once more. The gasps from the crowd had been the swelling of some great tide, breaking against your flesh and reinvigorating you like freezing water. 

Once it was over, you felt bereft of something vital. You felt as though you had slipped back into non-existence, only this time it was worse than ever, because your connection to Tashi Duncan was gone. 

But your body remembered. It ached and throbbed, rebelling at all you had put it through- no. All Tashi had put it through. You were desperate to feel it again. 

And your prayer was answered. 

She appeared before you like an angel.

Tashi jogged over to you as you gathered your things after the match, flushed and with beads of sweat glistening on her skin like crystals. And her eyes…they had been wide and dark and enrapturing. And then she had said the words that would change the trajectory of your life: 

“So, when can I play you again?”

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Ruah is the Hebrew word that means God’s spirit, but it is also breath or air and is widely understood to be God’s presence in the world. 

You couldn’t remember when you had learnt the word, but you knew that in the Bible, God had created Adam by breathing life into him. Which was why, when anyone joked about Tashi Duncan being some kind of deity, you could not dispute it, because that is what she had done to you. 

Tashi had breathed life into you.

 Her presence in your life has allowed you to come alive even off the court: you finally felt like a real person. Thanks to her, you knew that when you put your racket down, you did not simply disappear. 

Tashi saw you, on and off the court, and you loved her for it.

But, by the time you were both accepted into Stanford, over a year after you’d first met, you still wouldn’t let yourself delve into that love, and work out the ways in which you felt it. Not only because, you’d only ever been drawn to guys in any romantic or sexual way, but also because you felt undeserving of her.

 How pathetic would it be for you, who crawled at your best friend’s feet, to look up and whimper out words of desire to her?

 You were blessed to have her in your life, let alone to be as close with her as you were. Love was so many disparate things; you could love her as a friend, and hold that carnal aspect deep down. Just having her in your life was more than enough. She was enough.

Or so you thought. 

At the party celebrating Tashi, the two of you had not yet left each other’s side. You were dancing together, close enough that you could feel the ecstasy of victory buzzing beneath her skin as she held your hands and pulled you close. Her hair was silken and flowing down her back and as you were tangled up with her, it tickled against your own exposed skin. 

“They’re still staring.” You whisper into her ear, laughing as she answers by twirling you around and then pulling you back in. 

You practically fall into one another, having to steady yourself by placing your hands on her hips, the beaded fabric of her dark blue dress digging into the palms of your hands. 

“Good.” Tashi answers, wrapping her arms around your shoulders.

She turns you enough that with your chin resting on her shoulder, you are looking right at the two boys who had been gawking all night. One dark haired with confidence coming off him in waves, the other more reserved, a different kind of potency bubbling beneath the surface.

The blonde’s eyes meet yours and he tilts his head, offering a delicate but untethering smile. 

“You’re going to have to talk to them.” You offer, still held in Tashi’s arms. “Otherwise they’re going to follow you around like lost puppies all night.”

You gasp and squirm away as your friend playfully pinches your side.

 “Do you really think they’re just looking at me?” Tashi questions incredulously.

You laugh at her shock. “Of course they are.” You say, gesturing up and down her form as she continues to sway to the music. 

“Oh my God!” Tashi exclaims, grabbing your hand and pulling you close again. “You’re such a fucking idiot! They’re looking at you, too!” 

You roll your eyes, but can’t help feeling a little buoyed at the prospect of being desired. “Yeah, right.”

Tashi shakes her head. “It’s a good thing you’re so oblivious, I like having you all to myself!”

Heat floods every part of you, acutely aware of the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, your skin uncomfortably warm. 

Only when the two of you have stopped dancing do they come over. 

Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig saunter needfully into your life and had you known then all that would ensue, you still would have welcomed their approach. 

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

The four of you had wandered down to the beach. 

Art and Patrick were sitting on deck chairs that sat side by side, their legs stretched out and their gazes lustful, both of them looking at Tashi who was perched on a rock opposite them. In that moment, the moon seemed made only for her, the silver light lining her form. 

You sit on the sand near her, your legs pulled up to your chest. The waves softly hit the beach behind you, lulling you into an even more incorporeal mindset. All that exists to you, is Tashi and the two boys who so clearly want her. 

Despite how desperately you want to engage in their conversation, you’re exhausted and distracted by the knowledge that your parents will already be looking for you. 

You’ve rested your chin on your knees, your eyes drooping shut, when a voice calls out to you. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

 Art is crouching beside you, his hand on your back, his knees sinking into the sand, shifting the surface beneath you. You jolt at the contact, scrambling to your feet as Tashi chuckles.

 Patrick’s gaze flits between you and Art and then over to your best friend, his cheeks dimpled with a smirk. 

“I’m fine.” You reassure with a shaky smile, brushing sand off the back of your dress. “I should go though, my parents will be waiting.” 

“You can’t leave!” Patrick protests playfully, placing a hand to his chest. “You’ll break my heart.”

You grin, spurred on by his own smile and shrug. “And why should I care about that?”

Patrick’s mouth drops open in feigned hurt as Art chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets and stepping away from you. 

You turn to Tashi, meaning to say goodbye, but she’s already up and hugging you. She often kisses your cheek as a form of goodbye, but this time she gets so close that her lips tease the corner of your mouth as hers make contact. You are electrified by it.

You know that she isn’t doing it for you, which is confirmed when she pulls away with her eyes flitting giddily between Art and Patrick who have both gone utterly still as they watched the display. 

 Despite the jealous ache that blooms, you play into it, because another part of you is excited at the thought of working the two boys up. You pull Tashi back into a hug, your hands resting dangerously low on her back as you squeeze her. She giggles into your ear. 

“You already have them wrapped around your little finger.” You say it quietly, but loud enough that you know the boys will hear. 

Over Tashi’s shoulder, you see Patrick smirk again and Art runs his thumb over his his bottom lip with a small smile on his face.

When you do finally pull away, Tashi smacks you on the ass. 

“It was great to meet to you!” Art shouts after you. 

“I miss you already!” Is Patrick’s shouted offering.

You just shake your head and continue on your path away from the beach.

Unbeknownst to you, three sets of eyes follow you until you’ve disappeared from view.

When you get home, you still feel the touch of Tashi all over you. But when your hand dips under the covers, something has changed. Because when you close your eyes, it’s not just Tashi you see. Instead, multiple people are fighting for dominance in your midnight fantasy:

You see Patrick’s licentious smirk.

You see Art’s coy smile. 

They’ve both invaded your mind, corrupted your thoughts that for a year had been so gloriously void of anything but Tashi.

And from that moment, you know part of you will always hate them. For so long, even knowing you can’t have her, all you’ve needed to sate yourself are thoughts of Tashi. But they’ve changed that.

You hate Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson because they’ve made you want more. You want….one of them. You don't know why and you also don’t know which one of them it is. 

But what is clear to you, is that a new itch has arisen within you, and it comes with panic, because unlike with Tashi, you’re certain there’s a possibility that one of them might actually want to scratch the itch for you.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Had he known how furious you were going to be with him when you arrived, you doubted Art would have been so eager to invite you to have lunch with him in the cafeteria. 

Even when you slam your tray down and drop into the seat opposite him, he still looks happy to see you. He always did. It was infuriating.

“What are you playing at, Art?” You struggle to keep your volume down. You hadn’t wanted to yell at someone in a long time, but he had managed it.

Concern flashes in his eyes, but his lips press together in a way that tells you he knows exactly what you’re referring to. And yet he still asks:

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re fucking with Tashi’s head.”

“I would never do that.”

You scoff, stabbing the flimsy plastic fork into your salad. “Except you are, and I know that you’re doing it on purpose.”

Art pushes his own tray to the side and settles his elbow onto the table, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, how’d you figure?”

“Why else would you tell her that Patrick doesn’t love her?”

“Because I don’t think he does. Do you?”

You ignore his question, instead opting to pick up your apple and throw it at his head, hard. He catches it, that damnable little smile still on his face. 

“For fuck sake, Art!” You erupt. “She needs to keep her head on straight. Don’t upset her just because you want her for yourself!”

He tilts his head, blue eyes sparkling as he takes a large bite out of the apple. He chews for a bit before holding it back out to you, speaking through a mouthful:

 “You should have the rest of this, you haven’t been eating enough.”

“Fuck you!” You snatch it from his hand and shift in your seat, easily throwing it and landing it right in a nearby trashcan.

“Well that was a waste of perfectly good fruit.” Art licks some residue off his thumb and then leans across the table. 

You fail to snatch your wrist away before he grabs it. He’s gentle but firm, and as his thumb rubs along your pulse point, you feel the residual moisture from his own mouth he’d left behind, transferring to your skin.

“You don’t have to fight this hard to protect her,” Art presses. “She’s a grown woman.”

“She’s my best friend and I don’t want you to hurt her.” 

Art’s thumb stills, but he tugs your wrist a little closer. “Do you really think I could?” 

You scowl, pulling free of his hold. “You know, the way you and Patrick worship her isn’t the compliment that you both seem to think it is. You’re putting her up on a pedestal, practically deifying her, but she’s not invulnerable. She feels more strongly than anyone I’ve ever known and tennis is her life. If you get in her head and fuck up her game, It will break her and then I will break your fucking hands.”

This time when he’s smiles, it’s rife with fondness for you and it makes you want to punch him for the fluttering it causes in your stomach.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He says simply.

“What?”

“Do you think Patrick loves her?” Art repeats patiently. 

“Do you love her, Art?” 

“Can you please just answer my question?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not even sure I would know love if I saw it. All I do know, is that you both lust after her and definitely for each other too, even if you’ll never admit it. You’re all totally fucked.”

Art’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking, but instead of irritation or anger at your outburst, his gaze softens. When he speaks, it is soft and achingly tender:

“You do know love. Because you love Tashi.” 

You let out an embittered laugh. “Of course I do. I tell her all the time.”

“But she doesn’t love you, not in the same way.”

You really didn’t know if he intended for that to sting, especially not with how gently he’d said it, but if he had, he’d failed. You came to accept that fact a long while ago, and while you would always want Tashi in some respect, it was not the all consuming desire it had been. The lust was gone. She was important to you. She was your best friend and you wanted to protect her. 

Unfortunately, the two men you wanted to protect her from, were the ones who had usurped her as objects of desire in your mind.

“Are you trying to find yourself a catchphrase before you go pro?” You sneer at Art. “I’m not sure how great that would look on a billboard for Adidas.”

“You deserve to be loved.” 

You had picked up your cup to take a drink of water, but upon hearing his words, you slam it down again and rise to your feet. He tracks your every move, as calm as ever.

 “I can’t talk to you right now, Art. You’re being cruel.”

You storm away from the table, only making it a few steps before you hear the scrape of his chair against the floor as he rushes to follow you.

 You’ve only just pushed open the door when he crowds up behind you. 

Art’s hand lands on your back as he guides you outside, his other hand rests on your arm and even after he turns you to face him, his touch remains.

 His hand is wrapped lightly around your arm, the other keeping you close- his palm pressed against your lower back. Anyone watching would think he was drawing you into an embrace. You almost shudder at the contact.

 Patrick has always been handsy, touching and caressing you under the guise of teasing, but Art has always moved around you as though you’ll disintegrate at the lightest touch. The way he’d held your wrist back in the dining hall and how he cradles you now, is the most he’s ever touched you.

 Your chest heaves as your flesh tingles.

Art’s head drops, his eyes on his own hand on your arm, as if he can’t understand why he’s holding you. His voice is strained:

“Patrick isn’t good for her.”

And just like that, you’re slammed mercilessly back down to earth. 

Art wasn’t touching you with tenderness or affection, you were just someone he was holding in place so that you had to hear him out. So you had to hear how much he wanted Tashi. 

“Oh, but I deserve to be thrown at him as a distraction so that you can have her?” You snap at him, more hurt than you’ll ever admit.

“You deserve whatever it is that you actually want.” 

Art sounds frustrated now, not at you…but perhaps at what he knows you won’t say. You do want Patrick. But you also want him. You had just never considered that he knew that.

But that’s not what you say. Instead you say–

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Do you want to know why he isn’t good for her?” Art presses, entirely unaffected by your fury.

“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

The hand on your back pulls you a little closer, one errant blonde curl falls down from his forehead and brushes your temple. His breath is hot against your cheek. 

“Patrick’s not good for her-“ Art begins, his tone becoming embittered. “Because he wants you. He always has.” 

You rip free from Art’s grip with such force that the friction of it burns, his fingerprints leaving red marks on your arm. “You are unbelievable!” 

“I’m not lying. You know I wouldn’t, not to you.”

“You will say anything to have her won’t you?” You laugh nastily. “What’s the plan, Art? Do you think that I’ll try and seduce Patrick away from her now, leaving a space open for you to swoop in?” 

“Ask me how I know.”

“No.” You spit back at him. 

But you don’t move. 

Your body waits for words that your mind doesn’t think it can handle hearing. Something feels so close to breaking and you can’t help but feel like it’s to do with whatever force binds the four of you together. 

Art steps forward, closing the distance again, he raises his hands and rests them on either side of your neck, his thumbs pressing onto where your pulse is ratcheting beneath your fragile skin. 

“I know he wants you, because the night after he won our match- when he won Tashi’s number- he told me that I should fuck you.”

“Art.” You warn, frustrated tears bringing horrible pressure behind your eyes.

A small group comes out of the dining hall and have to split down the middle, because neither of you move a muscle. Art’s hold tightens, like he’s trying to leave a permanent imprint behind without it hurting you. 

He whispers now. “Patrick told me to fuck you. And I know him. He said that because when he couldn't have you, it excited him to think that I would. That I'd tell him about sleeping with you.”

“That was such a long time ago.” You say shakily, coming completely unmoored.

But Art won’t let it go.

“He still looks at you the same way, and that’s not fair to Tashi. You want to protect her, right? Well what will it do her when she finally notices the way her boyfriend is constantly eye-fucking her best friend?”

You hit out against his chest with a closed fist. The shock more than the force makes him stagger back. 

“You are so fucked in the head! You and Patrick are both pathetic little leeches who want the same girl, but can’t cope with the way it’s made them realise that they also want each other. You know what? I actually think so much would be solved, if you and Patrick just fucked each other!”

You start to back away and Art darts forward, trying to grab you again, but you smack his hand away and turn your back.

“Leave me alone, Art! And leave me out of your shit!”

He calls out your name with ragged desperation, but he does not follow. And even though he’s truly made your skin crawl, something about that makes you even more furious. 

Why won’t he follow you? 

Why do you still want him to?

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

You hadn’t spoken to any of them since your argument with Art. 

You couldn’t cope with the realisation that if any of them ever did feel any desire for you, it was only because they saw you as some sort of vessel through which they could access parts of the person that they truly wanted.  

You couldn’t even be said to exist in Tashi’s shadow anymore, you had simply been subsumed by it. Those two men, who you both despised and wanted desperately, would never see you, not really. To them, you were just part of her. But you would not let them ruin your friendship with Tashi. You just wouldn’t.

You knew when you arrived to watch her match that something wasn’t right. She was upset. You could see it in all the minutiae of her: in the way she took off her hoodie, in the way she picked up her racket. Something was really wrong. 

You walk through the stands until you come across Art. 

There are two free spaces to the right of him, so you sit down on the one furthest away, leaving a gap in the middle for Patrick to take up when he arrives. But then time passes and the match approaches and he still hasn’t materialised. 

You feel Art staring long before he makes his move. The air shifts as he shuffles over into the seat directly beside you.

“That seat is taken.” You intone harshly. Your eyes are fixed on Tashi as she prepares. 

“If it was, I wouldn’t have been able to sit in it.” 

“Sorry, I should have been clearer. I don’t want you anywhere near me, so I want Patrick to sit there instead of you.”

Your name is a tentative as he speaks it. “Will you please look at me? I can’t handle you not looking at me.”

Your gaze remains set on Tashi, she looks up and finds you in the crowd. The furious divot between her brow eases for a moment before her eyes snag on the way that Art is leaning into you. She turns her back on the entire crowd, but you know the gesture is meant for you alone. 

Fuck. What the hell had happened overnight? If it was Art’s meddling, you’d kill him. 

“The match is about to start.” You say coldly. 

 Art’s hand lands on your knee, but when you flinch, he immediately pulls it away. 

“I know I hurt you and I’m sorry. I- I need you to forgive me.”

You grit your teeth at his audacity. “Why do you need me to, Art?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you not being in my li-“

The match begins and Art never gets to finish his sentence. 

In fact, you don’t speak to him properly for almost a decade after that. Because Tashi gets hurt. Her sporting career ends in the blink of an eye and takes your friendship with it.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Both you and Art had sprinted down onto the court, your heart breaking in your chest as you fell to your knees beside your best friend, tears gathering in her eyes as she whimpered in pain. 

What had hurt the most though, was the way Tashi had shoved your hand away when you had tried to comfort her.

“Don’t touch me!” She had barked on a ragged breath. “Get away from me. Get away!” 

The hatred had dripped from her words and landed on you like a corrosive liquid. And as it had burned down to the bone, you had looked at Art and the apologetic agony with which he’d regarded you—even as he’d cradled Tashi’s head in his hands—told you what he’d done.  

He’d not only told you about Patrick’s supposed lust for you, but he’d also told Tashi. He had told her that even after her now boyfriend had won her number, he’d apparently been thinking about fucking you. Art had also definitely shared his little insight that Patrick didn’t love her either, which you quickly worked out had contributed to his absence.

So Art got what he wanted: he finally had his hands on Tashi and he’d done it by carving you and Patrick away. 

Art Donaldson was an attentive, gentle, even needy man, but you had been so stupid to think that meant he couldn’t also be calculated and cruel. Because of course he was. What else could win the heart of Tashi Duncan but brutal passion? It was part of what she loved about tennis: the unforgiving force of hits that once you met them, somehow felt like affection.

When Patrick had tracked an injured Tashi down, still waiting to be taken to hospital, he had been ordered away by both her and Art.

You knew that because he’d just told you. It was the first thing he’d said to you when you’d let him into your room fifteen minutes earlier.

Now, you were both sitting on the scratchy carpet of your dorm, passing a bottle of vodka between the two of you. 

You felt bereft. Your body wracked with sympathetic pain for the grief in your mind. You’d lost Tashi today, you knew that. And the man that had caused it, was a man you’d spent years yearning for. 

Art hadn’t only taken Tashi from you, but he’d violently ripped himself away too.

“Art wasn’t lying.” Patrick grumbles after taking another hearty gulp of vodka. 

“Please, don’t.” You beg wearily, taking the vodka from his outstretched hand and pressing it to your lips. Not even the burn of the spirit going down your throat registers.

“I wanted- want, both of you. You and Tashi.” 

He isn’t drunk, only tipsy, but he’s getting there, and his words are sluggish, laced with fury. 

“Shut up, Patrick.”

You fall down onto your back, resting the vodka bottle on your stomach, holding it by the neck as you stare up at the ceiling. 

Patrick has been sitting opposite you, but he moves languidly forward, crawling up over your body. He braces one knee beside your hip as the other slots between your legs. 

You blink up at him as one of his hands rests beside your head and the other falls over your own where it still holds the vodka bottle. You let him take it from you, placing it beside your body before the hand then moves to rest on the other side of your head. 

You’re now trapped beneath him, his lithe body hovering just above yours.

When he leans in, his alcoholic breath almost sears your skin as his lips brushed the shell of your ear. 

“Sometimes, when we were fucking I would imagine that you were with us.” Patrick’s teeth nip at your ear. “I asked her once, you know, and she slapped me. Called me a pig. I think she was just mad because she liked having you to herself. You were such a devoted acolyte, kissing the ground she walked on—“

Fury bursts within you like a solar flare, red-hot and ruinous. He was talking about her in the past tense, as if she was dead to both of you already.

Art groans in pain when you knee him in the balls. You use the chance to shove him off you and he falls to the side, knocking the bottle of vodka over. 

As you stand up, you feel the alcohol seeping into the carpet at your feet. 

“You are a pig.” You hiss down at him.

 It’s your room, but you find yourself storming towards the door. 

You don’t get far before Patrick recovers, clambering to his feet and easily closing the distance with his long legs. 

You groan in frustration as he presses you into the door, one hand above your head and the other wrapping around your torso, his fingers dangerously close to brushing your breasts over your tank top. 

“If I’m a pig, why did you let me in?” He pressed his face into your neck and breathes you in.

 Some of the vodka has evidently soaked into his shirt, because the scent seizes you with the same violence with which he had. It’s a secondary intoxication. 

You words come out weakly, and you hate that it’s because you’re using so much energy fighting the urge to press back into him:

“I felt sorry for you.”

Patrick laughs. 

The smug bastard actually laughs right into your skin, the vibrations travelling all the way down to where your body has begun to ache the most. 

“Oh, sure.” He coos patronisingly. “It definitely wasn’t because you’ve wanted to fuck me for years.”

You should fight him, but you don’t want to. 

You should protest when the hand that he has pressed to the door moves to pull down one of the straps of your tank top. But you simply don’t want to.  You want him. 

Art had been right about both of you.

No sooner has the thin strip of fabric been removed from your shoulder, than Patrick is clamping his teeth down on the exposed flesh. You yelp in surprise, the pain a burst of sordid pleasure. 

Patrick laughs again, the hand he has pressed to your stomach pulling you flush against him. You can feel his need for you pressing into your backside, but in case you had somehow missed it, he bucks his hips up into you. 

You gasp and he laughs again, his tongue now running over the aggravated skin where his teeth have left a dent.

“We both know what this is.” He goads.

“And what is it?” You ask teasingly, your head now thrown back and resting against his chest. He groans into your neck as you grind yourself back onto him. 

“Inevitable.”

“Are you just doing this to get back at them?” You ask, not daring to speak their names. 

An angry grumble you can’t quite make sense of tears out of Patrick’s throat just before he is forcefully spinning you around. 

You get barely a glimpse of his feral smirk before he is easily picking you up again and throwing you over his shoulder. The slap he delivers to your ass is punishing and stings furiously as he practically throws you down onto the carpet.

The bed is right next to you, but the asshole apparently wants you on the scratchy carpet and with a wet patch where the vodka has soaked in.

“I’m doing this, because I have wanted to fuck you, from the moment I saw you dancing at that party.”

 You’ve barely got your breath back after being thrown about, when he is grabbing your calf and yanking you down so that you’re laying completely flat beneath him. 

“But you only ever pursued Tash-“ 

He cuts you off from saying her name by leaning down and pressing his mouth to your still clothed breast. His tongue swirls over the fabric, your nipple growing pert. 

When his knee presses up between your legs, parting them forcefully, your head falls back, strands of your hair wetted by the spilt alcohol. 

When Patrick bites down on your chest far too hard, your hand instinctively comes up to slap the side of his head.

 You’re so shocked by your own burst of violence that you go still at exactly the same time as Patrick, both of you breathing furiously. When he does peer up at you, his dark curls slick against his increasingly sweaty forehead, menace dances in his eyes. 

“Do that again.” 

You wish you could have feigned confusion or indignation for even a moment, but your blood is pumping to all the right places to urge you to make terrible, delightful decisions.

 Your second slap connects cleanly with his cheek, your palm tingling with the force as his head spins to the side. 

Your handprint is already a pink mark on his skin when he wraps his arms around your torso, lifting you up just enough so that he can pull your tank top off and throw it to the side. Your chest is left bare to him and he wastes no time before peppering kisses to your sternum, to your breasts and your neck, his arms still wrapped around you, his nails digging into your back. 

The throbbing ache between your legs becomes far too much to bear, so you curl your fingers into his hair and forcefully tug him away from your chest- a bead of saliva stretching between your flushed skin to his swollen lips. 

You lean your head forward, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and biting, pulling at it until he groans pathetically. You let him go, beyond pleased when you don’t have to tell him what you want next. 

You don’t want to wait any longer. You haven’t slept with anyone since you met him and Art. 

Art.

 Is it wrong that as Patrick pushes your back into the carpet and pulls down your sweatpants and underwear in one clean tug, that you close your eyes and briefly imagine that it’s Art instead?

You might have found an answer if you had more time, but when you open your eyes, Patrick is over you, his shorts and boxers already discarded alongside your clothes. His shirt is still on, but neither of you have the patience for the second or so it would take to get it off him. 

Patrick smirks down at you before pressing two of his fingers into your mouth, you open gladly, your eyes locked onto each other as he swirls them around. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his fingers out, and then licks his own hand, mixing himself with you. 

He swipes his wet hand over your already slick core a few times before he’s pressing himself inside of you. Your arms curl around his neck as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Fuck.” He groans, his tongue licking up the side of your neck as his hips begin to move. 

“Patrick.” You plead, your fingers digging into the nape of his neck. 

He knows what you want, nipping at your neck before he is driving into you with bruising force. 

In that moment, as you’re joined in the way you’ve wanted since the moment you’ve set eyes on him, you realise thar Tashi isn’t the only person that can make you feel real. 

As Patrick drives into you–his lips and teeth leaving marks on your flesh that will be wine-dark by morning, and the horrible fabric beneath you leaving carpet burn on your back– you finally know more than tennis can make you feel alive. 

The sex is forceful and punishing, but fuelled by a genuine passion. Nothing but your intermingled breaths and the sound of your joined bodies fills the room. 

If the two of you hadn’t been so lost to your pleasure, you might have heard Art knocking on your door. But you didn’t. 

He did however hear the two of you, so he walked away. 

You wouldn’t speak to him or Tashi again for over ten years.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

You weren’t in New Rochelle to compete. You didn’t need to. You were on the top of your game, ranked the third best female player in the world. 

No, you were in New York because despite your better judgement-- and the many years that had passed since you’d last seen him--when Patrick Zweig had called you, you’d answered. 

You hadn’t heard his voice since you had told him that for your own sanity, you couldn’t see him anymore.

For the two years you had been together after Tashi had banished you both from her life, you had let Patrick consume you. And you had never played tennis so poorly in your life. 

You hated what that said about you, that you had willingly discarded someone you had genuinely cared for to improve your ability to hit a ball. But hitting that ball was what kept you alive, not him. 

Not only that, it hadn’t taken you long to realise that you didn’t love Patrick enough to let him affect your career.

And yet when he had called, you’d answered. And when he’d told you that Art Donaldson had entered the Challenger as a wildcard, you both knew that you would come. 

From the moment you had booked the flight, to the first step you’d taken into the hotel, you had lied to yourself that you were only coming for the closure that you hadn’t received as a twenty year old. 

But when you stepped into the hotel lobby and saw Tashi disappearing into the nearby elevator, your self-deception shattered. 

You were here because still, after all the time that had passed, you ached for the way that you had felt when she had been in your life. You missed her. And you had missed Art. 

It was a sickening truth of your life, that while no one had fucked with your head or upset you as much as Art had ended up doing, no one else had ever been so attentive to you either. 

Art had watched you—watched out for you—even when you weren’t playing tennis. In fact, in moments of utter stillness, when you had been doing nothing even remotely remarkable, was when you had always caught him staring. He never shied away, or broke his gaze when he was caught, he’d just smiled as if he wanted you to know he would never feel shame for being found looking at you. 

And that had not changed.

You have been sitting at the hotel bar for ten minutes, feeling sorry for yourself and nursing the same glass of gin and tonic, when you feel someone looking at you. 

You turn your head cautiously, your shoulders sagging as your eyes meet Art’s. He’s sitting on one of the small leather couches tucked into the far corner of the darkened room. 

It had been an inevitability, but things would have been so much easier if you never came across him. 

You know you shouldn’t move- part of you had come for closure and you could get that just by watching him compete tomorrow, so you don’t need to talk to him. 

But then Art tilts his head and smiles at you like no time has passed and pats his hand on the unoccupied space beside him on the couch. 

You get down off the barstool.

 As you approach, he watches unflinchingly.

The last time you had heard Art’s voice, was when Tashi had suffered her injury and he’d been permitted to stay by her side when she had ordered you away.

And yet even after so much time, when he greets you with a quiet ‘hello’, the pathetic girl who had pined after him returns.

You don’t respond as you come to a stop right in front of him, the tips of your heels right against the toes of his shoes, but you make no move to sit down. 

It’s of course not the first time you’ve seen him since college, or been at the same event, or even in the same room- you’re both highly successful tennis players, you couldn’t help but overlap sometimes. But neither of you have ever allowed yourselves to get close, or to even speak. 

It has been over ten years of your eyes connecting through crowds and across rooms that felt much larger than they were, simply because there was distance between the two of you within them. 

Art sits forward, his forearms resting on his knees. He’s fiddling with his wedding ring and you can’t bear to look at the familiar way his fingers carry out the gesture. 

When he looks up at you, it's so open and wanting that you almost turn right back around. But then you hear his voice again.

“Can I ask you to sit with me?” 

“I don’t know Art, can you?” 

He smiles, sighing softly as he runs his hand through his hair. It’s short- much shorter than the curls he’d had at college. You like it. It suits him. 

You shift on your feet, crossing your arms across your chest to cover up your nerves. Perhaps you can protect yourself if you look like you’re closed off from him and from…whatever this interaction is about to be. 

Art doesn’t say anything else, but he surprises you by rising to his feet. You stagger back, but his hand reaches out and lands on your side to steady.

His touch lingers for a moment too long, but he does eventually pull it away.

 But he’s still close, too close.

Your hands have fallen to your sides, so it is too easy for Art to reach out and brush his fingers against yours. He doesn’t intertwine them, but he’s doing enough to let you know that it’s what he wants to do. 

He whispers your name. “Will you please sit with me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Art.” 

“When have you ever known me to have one of those?” 

You smile ruefully, but take a step back. His hand chases you, his fingers brushing against yours again as he tries to take your hand. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve known anything about you.” You say, hating how sad it sounds. 

You should be angry at least. His meddling and his desire for Tashi is what ripped you all apart. And he has her now. They have a daughter together.

He doesn't get to ask you for anything, not even if it’s just to sit with him. 

You can’t trust yourself to sit next to him. 

“You do know me. Time can’t change that.” He insists, quietly but firmly. 

You scoff nastily. “I knew Art Donaldson when he was in college. The world famous tennis player who does AD campaigns for sports cars with his wife, is a stranger to me.” 

“Yeah.” Art laughs darkly. “He’s a stranger to me too.” 

You frown at him, growing angry. He seems exhausted and down-trodden. He’s clearly hurting and you hate that you know that—you hate that you‘d been able to tell that even from across the bar—because it means that he’s right: you do still know him. 

“It’s late, Art. You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

You turn away from him and while he doesn’t reach for you this time, he does call out. You keep you back to him as he asks his question. 

“Who do you want to win, me or Patrick?” 

“Tennis can’t decide a victor between the two of you, Art. It’s never been able to.”

When you walk to the elevator, you feel a physical strain as you stop yourself from looking back at him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

You were right, tennis couldn’t decide on a winner: it was as fickle and incomprehensible as the human heart. Which was fitting, seeing as Tashi had always described tennis as a relationship. 

You had sat only two places away from her during Patrick and Art’s match, and you know she had seen you. But there had been no reaction, her face had been impassive and set on the court, her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. 

Now, the match was long over and a result had been given. And yet there hadn’t been a victory for anyone. Just like you knew there wouldn’t be.

Something had happened on that court between the two men, some silent, inexplicable exchange that had altered the very fabric of them.

This time, when Art knocks on your door, not only do you hear it, but you answer. 

You feel almost shocked when you pull open the door to reveal him, dressed in a grey t-shirt and flannel pyjama trousers. You’re surprised at the sight as if you hadn’t known he was coming- as if you hadn’t readily offered up your room number when he had messaged and asked for it.

You’re also somehow certain that Patrick had given him your number, but you didn’t want to dwell on what sort of exchange had led to him handing it over.

Without a word, you step away from the door, self-consciously tightening the cord that holds the silk robe around your body. You stop and face the windows.

The curtains are drawn, by you stare forward as though the whole skyline is on display to you. 

The door to your room clicks shut.

You hear Art take off his shoes before his feet are padding towards you. 

When his arms wrap around your waist, you close your eyes and savour the sensation. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, so you lift a hand and rest it on the side of his head. 

“I want to retire at the end of this year.” He says and you can feel his exhaustion in the slow breaths that coast over your neck. 

“So retire.” You answer softly, your eyes still on the curtains. “You’re tired.”

You know you don’t need to clarify. Thanks to the grateful press of his lips against your neck, you know he understands what you mean. 

Art is weary of all that he has to be when he’s playing tennis; he’s tired of the effort it takes to play the sport for not just him, but for Tashi too. His wife has been living vicariously through him. He’s been living for two people, taking the strain of two professional athletes combined. 

You know there had never been any point in competing with Art or Patrick, because Tashi would always love tennis the most. 

A shiver wracks your body as Art’s hand reaches for the bow that’s keeping your otherwise bare body concealed from him.

 “Can I?” His request is whined into your hair as he presses his face into the back of your head. 

Instead of answering verbally, you nudge his hand away and untie the robe yourself. Then, you take hold of both of his wrists and guide his hands onto your skin. You let out a sigh of relief when Art finally touches you the way you want him to. 

Your hands are still on him as his fingers move to cup your breasts, but he is the one guiding his movements now. He squeezes, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. 

“Art.” You rasp, pressing back into him wantonly. 

“Can I have you?” He asks, pressing open mouthed, hot kisses to your neck as he palms your breasts. “Please, let me have you.” 

“Stop fucking asking me and just do it.” 

You feel him grin against your neck just before he backs away, pulling back your robe and tugging it from your body.

The fabric has barely had time to pool at your feet when he’s grabbing you by the hips, his fingers digging in as he turns you. 

When Art’s lips finally claim yours, you moan unashamedly. His kiss is gentle but assured, you struggle for breath as he refuses to release you. Then, his hands are cupping your ass and he’s lifting you up. 

With his lips still moving hungrily against yours, Art settles you onto the edge of the bed. When he draws back, your lips chase after him and he smiles, grasping your face in his hands and giving you one more brief but searing kiss before he’s dropping to the ground.

 His hands press into your knees, forcing them apart as he begins to kiss and lick up your inner thighs. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching where his mouth ravenously meets your flesh, tracing his path as he works his way closer to where you want him most.

When he reaches the top of your thigh, Art peers up at you through his long eyelashes, already looking drunk on you as he presses another kiss to your burning skin. 

“Lay back.” He instructs gently. 

But you’re too transfixed to listen- too desperate to see the moment his lips land on your core to look away.

He smiles at the realisation, delighting in your shudder as his tongue darts out and licks a line up your centre. 

“Oh my- fuck!” Your head falls back, already lost in the feeling of his mouth's devoted ministrations. 

As Art pleasures you, one of his hands skates up your stomach and gently presses down, asking rather than forcing you to lay back. This time you oblige, your eyes closed as your hands fist in the sheets. 

“You deserve so much more than I can give you.” 

You smile to yourself. Only Art could grovel as he gives so much pleasure.

Tightness begins to coil in your lower belly, but the moment he adds a teasing finger to his tongue’s movements, you realise you can’t wait. 

“Art- stop.” You gasp out, sitting up and resting your hands on his head. 

He halts immediately but doesn’t remove himself from between your legs. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, his hands rubbing soothingly along your thighs. 

“It’s not enough.” You say, tugging on his hair, trying to get him to come to you. “I need you.” 

Art doesn’t have to be asked twice, but he also doesn’t rush. He presses one last kiss to your now very sensitive folds before he’s climbing over you. 

You shuffle back, settling yourself onto the middle of the bed and even as Art takes off his clothes, he watches you. It’s as if he’s afraid that you’ll disappear if he so much as blinks. 

Now completely naked, he lays himself over you, his arms braced beside your head. He positions himself so carefully thar it’s almost as though he’s trying to fit himself to the shape of you- every divot and curve perfectly aligned sp that you’ll be fused together forever. 

As Art sweeps hair out from your face, his blue eyes bore down into you with an adoring intensity. 

You smile up at him and he rewards you by cradling your face in his hands, he lowers his head, his nose brushing yours as he gently takes your lower lip between his teeth.

Only when you understand what he wants and you open your mouth, does he kiss you again, his tongue delving in deeply.

As he seeks to consume you, your hands run down his back, squeezing his sides with your thighs. 

Art’s still kissing you as one of your hands reaches the curve of his arse, you dig your nails in and he jolts, his mouth moving away from yours and travelling down your neck. 

Tentatively, you move one hand around and down between his legs and when your hand wraps around him, he falters, his kisses stopping. 

“Is this alright?” 

Art moves again, licking the sweat slick expanse of skin between your breasts.

“Anything you do will be alright.” He assures, his lips brushing a nipple and making your back arch. 

“Do you want to have sex, Art?” You ask, barely restraining yourself.

His breaths are hot against your sensitive breasts when he answers. “Please.”

It is a joint effort as he slides inside of you. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he presses kisses into yours.

Art groans as he begins to move achingly slowly, his hips rolling over yours with precision. 

You're happy like that for a few minutes, both of you revelling in your closeness after years subjected to absent desire for one another. But eventually, you want more.

You yearn for more force and luckily as you buck up into him, Art gets the message.

 As one of his hands moves behind your head, cradling it so that he can keep kissing you, the other wraps around your thigh, and pulls your leg higher over his hip, allowing himself to get even deeper. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He says in-between sloppy kisses, moving rapidly as you moan and whine. “You’ve always been so beautiful.”

Even with him inside you, making you feel more desired than anyone ever has, your mind drifts to that first night you had met him. The first night you had met Patrick. 

“You stared at Tashi.” You say.

You aren’t accusatory or upset, if anything the acknowledgement if it turns you on more. All four of you have always had a desire for the other, and it feels powerful to finally acknowledge it.

“-That night on the beach, you couldn't take your eyes off her. Neither of you could.” 

“I wanted you.” Art asserts with a particularly powerful thrust. “I- I wanted you so badly, but you went home.”

You nod, pulling him in for another kiss as you meet his thrusts. 

You understand his thinking. You’d often wondered how things might have changed had you not gone home early that night. If you’d stayed on the beach and then gone to their hotel room along with Tashi. 

Entirely content with just moving as one, you both fall silent and somehow Art curls over you even more tightly, like he wants his whole body to hide yours from the world. 

After you’ve both found your release he takes you into the shower and cleans himself off of your sensitive skin, each swipe of the washcloth accompanied by a kiss.

It ends up being time wasted though, because when you return to the bed, he takes you twice more.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

You wake up with Art’s head resting on your bare chest. He’s laying on his side, one arm stretched out on the pillow above your head and his other hand resting on your hip. 

You’re sore in the most pleasant of ways as you sit up. You try to move slowly but Art stirs anyway, his head turning to press open mouthed kisses to your sternum. 

You rest your hand on his cheek, meaning to guide him away, but he moves so that he can kiss the palm of your hand instead. 

It’s only when you sigh into his touch, his eyes still closed as his other hand delves between your legs, that you realise why you had woken up int he first place. 

Someone was knocking on your door. 

And then you hear her voice. 

Tashi is calling out your name, sounding almost panicked.

 “Please, open the door, I know you’re in there.”

This time when you push Patrick away, he obliges, but far less quickly than you would have liked.

 In the time it takes for you to throw on your silk robe and gather up all of his clothes from the floor, he has barely got himself to stand up. He’s naked and blinking sleepily at you. 

When you shove the bundle of his clothes into his arms, he rushes to press a passionate kiss to your lips, holding the back of your head with his free hand.

You aren’t sure you want to know whether he’s truly still half asleep and genuinely hasn’t realised what is happening, or if he just doesn’t care that his wife is outside the door.

Flushed but furious at his casual demeanour, you push Art into the bathroom and close the door, just as Tashi knocks again.

 The repeated request for you to come to the door tumbles from her lips like a prayer.

You brace your hand against the door as you draw in a fortifying breath and smooth out your hair. You swear you can feel her through the door. 

The moment you open the door, Tashi is bursting in and closing it behind her. You step back, waiting for her to make the first move, for her to shout of attack or go charging into the bathroom. But she does none of those things. 

Instead, Tashi pulls you into a crushing hug. You go still, shocked but healed by it at the same time.

She pulls back, taking your face in her hands.

 “You’re a phenomenal tennis player.” Tashi says it rapturously. 

If you weren’t burning up at the feel of her hands on you, you might have laughed at how ridiculously perfect it was that those were her first words to you after over a decade. 

Tashi communicated and connected through tennis. She loved through tennis.

All you can muster is a very sincere: “Thank you.”

Tashi brushes your hair out of your face, tucking a stray piece behind your ear. You find your hands lifting, resting atop hers where they hold your cheeks.

“You need to let me coach you.” Tashi demands almost possessively.

“I have a coach.”

“They’re not me.”

“No, they’re not.”

And just like that, you were snared again. 

You had gone years without any of them, and with one word, you had allowed all three of them back into your life.

 Only this time, you know it might actually kill you if any of them leave. And perhaps it would kill them too. 

Only time would tell.

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: You are forced to marry General Marcus Acacius to save your brother.]

Forced marriage, smut

(I know nothing about his character in this movie so bear with me, this is probably all inaccurate but I hope you enjoy it!)

“You will make a beautiful wife” he whispered before he abruptly put his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. You gasped as your body roughly slammed into his unexpectedly.

“You look at me when I speak to you” he demanded. You looked up at him noticing his eyes soften when he realized the fear in yours.

Henry and you were not close siblings, the hate you had for your older brother was an understatement. A gladiator who was wanted dead by many…you didn’t blame them. You never understood how he could become a gladiator after your father was murdered by one. You despised those deadly fights. You heard the rumors about your brother and things he had done which is why you chose to stay away from him….that was until he came to find you.

Being dragged into a carriage you were forcibly taken somewhere by your brother and two other men. Struggling to break free from his hold you screamed in frustration as he pulled you out of the carriage and dragged you into a place you had never been.

“What are you doing?!” You screamed attempting to pull your wrist away as he continued to pull you along.

“This is where you will stay now” he explained.

“What?” You asked in confusion before he turned to you.

“They want me dead. You’re the only thing that can save me from it. You’ll submit yourself as a wife-“

“No! No! Henry please” you screamed realizing what he was doing, realizing what his plan was.

“You will submit yourself to General Marcus Acacius. It has to be done” you stood in shock at the mention of his name.

“You are absolutely insane-“

“Shut up” he snapped.

“You know who this man is! You know what he’s responsible for!” You screamed as your brother simply ignored you.

“Henry please, whatever it is we can work something out-“

“The deal is done!” He yelled loudly just as the door opened. Quickly he stood straight and forced you to turn as you held in your tears.

General Marcus Acacius had arrived.

The man who was responsible for your father’s death.

Wearing a red and gold like cape you could feel the intimidation from his presence just as he laid eyes on you for the first time. Quickly looking away from him he made his way to your brother. He stood before Henry and with the corner of your eye you could see him look at you.

“So this is whom you’ve bought for me”

“Yes General, she is my younger sister. She now belongs to you” your heart dropping at your brother’s words.

“Very well. You may go” Henry turned to you once more before leaving the room, leaving you alone with Marcus.

Nervously you swallowed as he slowly walked towards you. You couldn’t look at him, you refused to. Standing right before you, his eyes analyzed every part of you when he noticed a single tear rolling down your cheek. Just as he lifted his hand close to your face you flinched, he didn’t move for a moment before gently brushing away your tear with his thumb. General Marcus had no idea what pain he had caused you, he did not know how you felt about him.

“My future wife” he spoke low watching as your chest rose and fell with each breath you took. He took another step closer towering over you as you almost stumbled back.

“You will make a beautiful wife” he whispered before he abruptly put his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. You gasped as your body roughly slammed into his unexpectedly.

“You look at me when I speak to you” he demanded. You looked up at him noticing his eyes soften when he realized the fear in yours.

“I’m..sorry General” for the first time he heard your voice. He didn’t let you go, his hold on you still firm before he slowly raised his hand and gently caressed your face.

“You will be taken care of. Protected by all means.”

“Yes, General” you responded obediently.

“Marcus” he corrected you before releasing you and taking a step back.

“I will have your room prepped. We are to be married before the day ends tomorrow-“

“Tomorrow?” you whispered slightly shocked.

“If you need anything please do not be afraid to ring for my servants. They are now yours as they are mine. You will be taken to your room shortly.” And with that Marcus left the room leaving you confused.

Married tomorrow? This couldn’t be happening…not like this.

After being escorted to your room and being sure you were left alone you began to pace back and forth thinking of a plan. Panic rising through you at the thought of marrying the man responsible for your pain. You had to find a way out of this even if it cost your brother his life. He didn’t deserve to live, he wasn’t a good man. Being a wife to General Marcus Acacius? Absolutely not. How dare he forcibly submit you to him…how dare he…

Looking out your window you spotted several guards monitoring the premises in the front. There had to be a way out in the back and you had to find it fast.

Silently leaving your room you looked in every direction making sure Marcus or any of the servants wouldn’t appear. Hell you had no idea your way around this damn place but you were determined to figure it out. Hearing a voice not too far you quickly froze against the wall until you heard their footsteps walk in the opposite direction. Running down the dark hallway you finally came across a large door, you were sure it led to the outside. Risking it all you quietly pulled it open to see Marcus himself in a dark room turning to you with a glass in hand.

“What do we have here?” He placed his glass down as your lips parted taking a step back.

“I um-I was just-“ you couldn’t find the words as he walked towards you, his arm reaching behind you to close the door. The flicker of the candle hanging off the wall reflecting off his eyes as he leaned closer.

“You were what?”

“I um…I was-“ your heart racing as you struggled to make up an excuse but what good was it in doing so.

“I…I can’t marry you” you blurt out as he furrowed his brows.

“Excuse me?” He took another step forward as you anxiously stepped back against the door.

“I can’t I-“

“You were trying to leave” he spoke low with a tone of realization before he turned away from you.

“I’m sorry Marcus, it’s just-“

“Do you have any idea the possible dangers you could’ve come across walking out of here on your own?!” He unexpectedly yelled loudly as he turned back to you. His response confusing you at the fact that he even seemed concerned. Yet as concerned as he may have seemed the anger was clear.

“Do you?” His jaw clenched as he looked down at you waiting for a response.

“No” you whispered.

“My future wife is to not walk freely outside the premises after the sun sets. Is that understood?”

“But-“

“Is it?” He hissed.

“I…I don’t think you heard me…-“ you spoke hesitantly shocking yourself that you even said anything at all.

“I..I can’t do this. I won’t be your future wife-“ before you could even finish your sentence he grabbed your arm pulling you to him.

“I’m afraid you don’t get to make that decision”

“It’s not fair” you whispered.

“Would you rather me leave you without protection, as I know your brother did not offer you such-“

“The only protection I need is from what’s in here” you responded in fear yet you spoke your truth. He looked at you rather puzzled yet didn’t move away.

“I beg your pardon, my dear”

“You’re a murderer” you whispered as tears began to flow.

“You think I would hurt my wife, the woman who will bear my children” he whispered in disbelief as bis nostrils flared.

“Let go of me” you attempted to pull away but his grasp tightened.

“I will not have your children!” You screamed.

“You’re a murderer! It was your fault! It was all your fault-“

“What was my fault?!” He yelled in frustration.

“Your invasion! It..it led to my father being killed, my brother leaving me…I had no one else..no one. You took them away” you cried as his eyes changed. You cried knowing whatever may have happened wasn’t going to change a thing. Marcus stood silent as he slowly released your arm, guilt in his eyes as he remembered what was done.

“I’m sorry for what you lost but I refuse to leave you without protection. I will see you in the morning, I trust you know your way back to your room” Marcus left you alone in tears as you slid down to the floor in disbelief. You couldn’t believe this is what your life had become.

Marcus angrily paced to his master room, slamming the door shut. Angry at himself with regret for all he had done, angry at himself for decisions he was not proud of and could never take back.

The next day Marcus stood beside you dressed in white and gold. A golden crown placed around his head as one was placed on yours after saying your “I dos”. You hadn’t looked at him once, you kept a straight face in front of a crowd of people you had never seen. Marcus reached his arm out to you as you silently took hold of it walking beside him. With a smile he greeted and thanked everyone hiding his true troubled feelings. You dreaded thinking of what was to come that night knowing you would have to be intimate with Marcus. Feeling defeated you showed no emotion, simply staying beside him as strangers congratulated you.

That night you were escorted to his master room where you found yourself alone. Observing the detail in the room you slowly walked closer to the king size bed with satin covers just as you heard the door open.

Marcus stood by the door closing it behind him as he watched you anxiously await him.

You looked like a goddess standing before him,

he couldn’t help but admire your beauty as much as you may have hated him. Slowly he moved closer to you as you took a deep breath simply wanting to get this over with. Unexpectedly you began undressing yourself letting your dress fall to the ground revealing your bare naked body to him. His eyes instantly falling to your breasts down to your womanhood, he pressed his lips together as if he was trying to compose himself. He knew you had never been touched by another. He was hard and eager to feel you, his fingers gently brushing up your waist as he took in the sight before him.

“You are my wife” he whispered before looking up at you.

“But I refuse to have you this way” his words shocked you.

“But…we’re supposed to…” you whispered.

“Not when my wife holds such hatred for me” he stepped a foot closer.

“In your eyes I am not a good man but I would never force my wife into bed.” he turned away leaving you shocked and confused as you quickly grabbed a robe that lay on a chair beside you.

“Marcus wait!” You rushed after him.

“Where are you going?”

“I have arranged to stay in the guest room-“

“People will know” you responded worriedly.

“It’s just for a few days. I know this all happened rather quickly, I just wanted to give you some time. I never meant to hurt you or your family. It was out of my control….I hope one day you can forgive me.” And with that Marcus left the room.

That night you found yourself with conflicting feelings, conflicting thoughts. General Marcus Acacius was not acting like the man you expected him to be, he was not acting like the man you had hated all along.

In the morning you were greeted by him having breakfast with bowls of fruit placed before him.

“Please” he pointed at the chair across from him.

“Join me” he watched as you sat down while looking at all the fresh fruit available.

“Which one is your favorite?” He asked making you look up.

“Um…strawberries” you responded softly. He delicately slid the bowl to you making you smile, something he realized he had never seen.

“Marcus” you whispered.

“Thank you…for last night.” Just as he was to respond one of the servants came in letting him know a man he had been waiting for arrived. Marcus stood up but before leaving your sight he leaned in towards you across the table with sincere eyes.

“There is nothing for you to thank me for.”

Days went by as you adjusted to your new life, your new routine along with your new confused feelings and thoughts.

You found yourself unexpectedly nervous with Marcus going to the arena. Never had you witnessed a fight with your own eyes but you always heard how brutal they could be. Of course being his wife you had a front row seat to witness it all and you didn’t know how you felt about it.

Sitting in a chair beside a few others you watched as Marcus showed himself to the crowd whom cheered loudly. You could feel your heart beating hard in your chest as his challenger came out. Marcus pulled out his sword, turned in your direction and looked you in your eyes before he began to fight. It felt as if you were holding your breath as the crowd roared with excitement. You couldn’t stand watching but you also couldn’t take your eyes away. The swords clashing together loudly until the man slid his sword against your husband’s arm. Blood instantly dripping to the ground as you stood up and gasped. The fight only getting bloodier as you continued to watch wishing it would end until Marcus suddenly drove his sword into the man’s throat. Covering your lips in shock you watched as the man fell to the ground as everyone cheered.

Just like that, your husband remained victorious.

Running downstairs to meet him inside you noticed just how bloodier he was as he got closer.

“Oh my God..” you whispered practically running to him.

“Are you alright?” You asked as you frantically looked at his arms searching for wounds until you found a large one along his arm.

“Yes, I’m-“

“Oh” you gasped looking at the wound as he watched you curiously not having expected you to be at his aid. Not expecting you to be filled with concern.

“It’s only a scratch” he assured you.

“A scratch?! You’re bleeding!” You looked up at him noticing the amused look in his eyes.

“What?” You took a step back composing yourself.

“You were afraid”

You stood silent for a moment realizing just how concerned you were from the moment the fight began. Your feelings were conflicted, why did you find yourself caring about a man you once hated?

“I’m not, I’m just-“

“You most certainly were” a grin appearing on his lips as he stepped forward.

“I’m not. We should get you cleaned up” you awkwardly reached for the towel and bowl of warm water that was left for him as he began to remove his armor. Silently he sat before you as you took the damp cloth and delicately began to clean off the blood on his arms.

“We should have that wrapped up” you spoke as you observed the wound not noticing the way he had been looking at you.

“Mhm” he agreed without taking his eyes off you. Taking it upon yourself you took some bandage and wrapped up his arm that best you could. Cleaning off the bloody cloth in the bowl you looked up and began to gently wipe his face. Your heart skipping a beat as his dark eyes distracted you. Slowly passing the cloth over his overhead feeling his curls brush against your skin you suddenly felt his hands grab your waist.

“Marcus..” you whispered knowing you would give in. He quickly stood up and pulled you in and before you knew it, his lips were locked with yours. Dropping the cloth on the floor behind him you wrapped your arms around him as he kissed you passionately. Moaning into his lips he carried you onto a table placing himself between your legs. You didn’t stop him as he caressed your face looking down at you. He knew you wanted him as much as he had been wanting you.

“What if someone comes in here?” You whispered as he leaned his forehead on yours.

“No one will” he assured you.

“Besides…you are my wife, I will have you wherever I please” he panted as he removed any clothing in his way and pushed your dress above your knees.

“But Marcus-“ you suddenly cried out as he pushed himself inside you. Grabbing onto him you panted as he held himself still. Looking into your eyes he watched as yours widened filled with shock and innocence.

“I’m sorry” he whispered roughly.

It hurt, of course it did. You had never even touched yourself to now have a man of his size break into you…yet you didn’t want him to stop. Pulling himself out he thrust his hips once again making you whimper.

“Do you want me to stop?” He whispered. You quickly shook your head pulling him closer.

“No, no, don’t. Please don’t” you practically begged brushing your lips against his as you spoke. He kissed you as he continued to move, his tongue swirling with yours as he felt your arousal with each stroke. You moaned as the pain slowly disappeared and was replaced with pleasure, he could feel it. A feeling you had never felt before, it was hard to contain yourself.

“Oh Marcus…” he kissed your neck as you rolled your eyes back. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, the pleasure built up in a way you didn’t expect.

“Marcus-“ you gasped.

“Mhm” he knew you were about to cum, he could feel it.

“Wait I-“

“No no, don’t fight it” he whispered. Something intense was happening and you didn’t think you could handle it.

“But it’s-“ you practically cried unable to speak.

“I know baby I’m right here,” he moved his hips faster feeling you tighten around him.

“I’m right here” he panted caressing your face, his thumb brushing across your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Let it go” he demanded when you moaned loudly as your body shook uncontrollably. He watched mesmerized as an orgasm took over you, your eyes in a trance. Feeling you cum all over his cock he could no longer compose himself. Just as your body relaxed he pushed in deeply releasing his warmth in you, a deep groan against your ear you felt his body collapse against you. Once he slid out you looked down and noticed blood on your dress.

“I’m bleeding” you looked up at him confused.

“It’s ok, it was your first time” he responded out of breath thinking of how he first entered you.

“I should’ve been more careful, I apologize”

“Don’t” you whispered as you slowly covered yourself. Marcus dressed himself and slowly helped you off the table.

“Will it always feel like this?” You asked looking up at him.

“No, I will be more careful next time you have my word-“

“No I meant…the way it felt after. Will it always feel that…good?”

He smirked looking down at you.

“What?” You raised a brow.

“I will make sure my wife always feels that way whenever I have her” he caressed your cheek with his thumb when you noticed his wound was bleeding again through the bandage.

“Marcus” you whispered brushing your fingers over his arm.

“Just a scratch. Come, help me patch it up in my room” he reached his hand out to you with a smile, you knew very well would continue in his room and with a smile you took his hand and walked along with him.

[just-zy]

Possessive

pairing: Wednesday Addams x Fem Reader!

summary: If being unattractive and boring were a choice, Wednesday would've taken those choices for the both of you when you started dating. But, can she really blame your admirers?

A/N: hi hello yes, I got motivation, then it's back to writers block.. this is rly short!! & this is kinda shitty btw but whtevr

Warnings!: literally none.. I think.. I hope.. Just inappropriate language! (?)

Masterlist

Territorial—that was what Wednesday is. Possessive of what's hers, you. But the world doesn't know about that little detail, now do they? As much as Wednesday would hate to admit it, she despises seeing someone talk to you with flirtatious glances and the intention to take you out on a date afterwards. You were hers and she was yours.

If she wasn't ready to tell the world that you were hers, then so be it, you waited just like you said you would. You were always careful whether it'd been in public or private every time the matter of being in a relationship was being questioned.

"Are you dating someone?"

"Are you single?"

And your answer would always end up being;

"Uh– I have my eyes on someone right now-"

Which goes straight out of their heads!

"Oh? So you're single.. Okay so, I was hoping..."

And so on. Wednesday didn't like that, not when they're continuously asking you. That's what had been happening ever since she said yes to you.

Due to this, you were still that single popular outcast everyone wanted.

★

"Wednesday come on– she was just confessing, it's not like I agreed to the terms of it, I just heard her out-" I pleaded while I chased after Wednesday, short legged people are literally faster than light.

Another day another confession. It's not like it was on purpose! Besides, I have a girlfriend!

"You barely acknowledged me when I passed by, why tail me now."

"You're not serious are you? I didn't want to be rude and just leave her while she confessed!"

"For this reason, you're saying you care more about her than you do, me." Wednesday's monotone voice laid no remorse, whatsoever.

"What! I didn't say that?!"

She halts in her tracks and stared me down.

"You implied it."

She opens the door to her room right after the intense eye contact she made with me. I had no time to react, she completely locked me out!

"Wednesday, please? Open the door."

I began knocking rapidly, leaning my face to the door, my temple making contact with the wooden door.

"Continue knocking and I'll knock all your teeth in, Y/L/N."

I swore my heart stopped beating for a second, I moved away from the door whilst hearing faint clicks of Wednesday's typewriter. I click my tongue in annoyance.

"Okay."

...

Nevertheless, the pain lingered with you, which proves just how much Wednesday means to you, you wanted to know what was going on with her life, all the time. Every time.

But, it seems the world only gave you a few hours of the day for you to spend with your girlfriend.

You roamed around the quad, feeling a little sleepy. So, you took the initiative to just lay down on the nearest tree and set a timer on your phone.

Your eyes were growing droopy and tired, a few minutes in the sun wouldn't hurt, right? Besides, what's bound to happen in 10 minutes?

.

Wednesday couldn't get you out of her head, it was like you were taunting her. She hoped you weren't too upset about her childish behaviour just a few moments ago. She was confident you'd be just behind the door waiting for her to open it, although.. The only thing was, you weren't there.

She hoped you weren't too agitated with her, now she's the one looking for you. Gosh, she just wants to hold you hostage with her in her duvet.

Searching for you wasn't hard, there you were, sound asleep by a tree, with the same girl heading your way–

That girl again? Can't she take a damn hint?

If Wednesday wasn't fuming earlier, well she was now. She wasted no time then began marching right towards to both of you.

"Hello."

You were a light sleeper, sometimes you were. Your subconscious lets you sleep soundly, occasionally.

"Uhm? Hi.."

"What's your business with Y/N?"

"Oh, I was just looking after her. She's out here in the sun, all alone–"

"But she's not, she's with me."

The girl snickered at her, as if mocking her.

"Finders keepers, loser." She sneered, in a way that shows that she was ridiculing Wednesday.

"Leave."

"Or what, Ghoul?"

"Or, I'd let my demonic girlfriend rip you to shreds."

That certainly had the girl look accurately close to Wednesday's skin color, her hooded eyes widening and her mouth flying wide open, with her creased eyebrows, was it out of realization or was it because she was horrified?

"You heard what my ghoul said, leave."

How unfortunate, she felt ashamed and left without a word. Wednesday likes being mysterious and secretive, but not about her relationship with you, not anymore anyways.

A/N: :)

[lqveharrington]

Fake-Love | C.S.

summary: a boy was bothering you, so you and Coriolanus take it into your own hands.

pairing: university!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

includes: a very unstable, toxic relationship between the two, (arranged marriage), making out, comments toward the reader’s body, implied sex (it isn’t written), mentions of murder

a/n: soooo, as i write for the Silver Roses & Fallen Snow series, i decided to write a billion one-shot for our favorite blond to keep the era for him alive so i can finish my series 🫡. also, the uniforms are based of the gilmore girls’ one, since they are in university now and not academy.

The arranged marriage between the Snows and the Edevanes were always doomed to happen. You were born the same year as Coriolanus, and your families were already close with each other.

It was just, you and Coriolanus despised one another.

The feeling was 100% mutual. The reasoning for such a feud was due to the never ending fight for the brightest student in the Capitol. During your years in Academy, it was a tie in every class. Of course, your hatred for one another was more tame.

It only really changed when Coriolanus came back from serving the Districts as a peacekeeper. There was something about his demeanor that was much different, plus the way he was built could have made you weak in the knees.

He joined University a little after it had started for your class, but that didn’t stop him from becoming the best. You were currently the top of your class in University, but that changed when he joined under Dr. Gaul. His jabs to your reputation were much stronger than in Academy. He would make comments about you when walking down the hall behind you, making sure you understood that he would do whatever it took to be back on top.

So, when your parents dropped the bomb on you that you were to be engaged to Coriolanus as soon as possible, your blood boiled at the male. You could not believe he stooped that low to get back at you.

And about a few weeks after the initial announcement, you and Coriolanus officially got engaged, becoming the sudden talk of the Capitol.

“How did you keep your dating life such a huge secret?” A reporter stuck their microphone up to your face as you and Coriolanus exited a car together.

“Well, we were just so love struck with one another that we didn’t want others to know.” Coriolanus smiled, answering the question for you.

His arm was looped around yours as you were guided into the University, answering all the questions being asked of you both. The moment you stepped inside the school grounds you let go of the male, dusting off your uniform’s plaid skirt.

“What time do your classes end?” He muttered toward you, adjusting his own uniform.

“I have study hall all day, I’ll be done whenever you are.” You state as you head for the library, ignoring the icy stare your fiancé was giving you.

Since Coriolanus studied under Dr. Gaul, you knew you would have to stay a lot longer in the University’s library than usual, but you did not necessarily care. You had textbook assignments due, and it was an opportunity to get everything done.

That was the goal until a first year at the University started bothering you.

“I told you, I’m busy.” You stand from your seat, furrowing your brows at the young male. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go find a book for my psychology lessons.”

“Aw, don’t be lame.” He inched toward you, grabbing your wrist. “Why don’t we have our own fun instead? I’m sure you’re just as beautiful underneath your skirt.”

Your eyes harden at his words and mess with your engagement ring, “You‘ll have to excuse me, I have to be somewhere.”

Swiftly, you weave through the different shelves full of books. You swore under your breath when you hear the footsteps of the male behind you, sharply turning into a more secluded space. To your surprise, you found Coriolanus pulling books from the Hunger Games previous years.

“What are you doing in here?” You question, quickly moving around to his left. “I thought Dr. Gaul needed you today?”

“She wanted me to understand the history of the previous games to help with the programming and DNA of new animals.” He mumbled, looking through a thick book from the first Hunger Games. “What are you doing?”

“This guy was hitting on me.” You shrug, meeting Coriolanus’ darkened eyes. “What?”

“What guy?” He placed the books down on a cart, grabbing your chin.

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I don’t know his name, but he’s a first year here. Why do you care so much?”

“Because, gorgeous, you’re my fiancée. Any guy who even looks your way that isn’t me is dead.” He backed you into the shelf, hand still tight on your chin. “Did he saying anything or touch you?”

“Yes.” You whisper, gaze dropping to his lips before back up to his darkened blue eyes. “He grabbed my wrist and said that ‘I’m probably just as beautiful underneath my skirt’.”

Coriolanus took his other hand and firmly placed it on your hip, eyes wandering your face. “I’ll kill him.”

You turn your head to the side as you heard footsteps nearing before Coriolanus slammed his lips onto yours, pulling your body close to his. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss without a care in the world.

“Mm, Coryo—“ You part, feeling your skirt hike up. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe.” He chuckles, shutting you up with a harder kiss, slipping his tongue through your parted mouth.

Coriolanus changes his hold on you, both hands now on your waist. You shift your hips, earning a quiet groan from the male. He retaliates by tracing a hand up to your throat, slightly squeezing it which earned a moan coming from you.

“Oh, so you’re just a whore.” The male scoffed from the front of the aisle, looking at the couple.

“Kill him?” You ask between kisses, tugging at his tie. Truly, you didn’t know he would take that request to heart as the male soon was deemed missing a day later. But for now, you were caught up in the heat.

Coriolanus grins, leaving one last kiss to your swollen lips. “He talks to my soon to be wife like that, it’ll be worse than a quick kill.”

read more about coriolanus snow here !!

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[6esiree]

𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮—𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐲?

Alastor is just unbearable throughout the entire month of October—a true menace, I daresay. Charlie can’t tell him much because, according to him, “It’s merely tradition to instill fear in the hearts of others during the spooky season.” However, she can kindly ask him to tone down his pranks after receiving various complaints from most of the residents, save for Niffty and…

You.

Charlie finds it strange that you haven’t reached out to her for help, especially after witnessing you bear the brunt of Alastor’s pranks. He doesn’t creep up on you with a simple ‘Boo!’ like the other residents—no, he terrorizes you, and he absolutely basks in the horrified screams he elicits from you, the sound of his gratified laughter resonating throughout the Hazbin Hotel.

While Alastor terrorizes you, he isn’t outright cruel to you… even though the fact that he’s targeting you at all is cruel in itself. He likes you, he just doesn’t know it, so after he’s received the reaction he’s come to unconsciously desire—your heart-rate picking up, your eyes glazing over with unshed tears, and your plush lips parting with a delicious cry that almost makes him sigh—

He comforts you.

“Oh, you poor, hapless soul,” Alastor lets out a static-like chuckle as he bends down and cups your face, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the sound of your breath audibly hitching. “But I just can’t help but mention that you would have made the perfect—and I mean perfect—victim while I was alive.”

You always assumed that Alastor despised you, but the first time he comforted you after you broke down over a particularly frightening prank, you began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something else motivating him… especially with the way his hands squeezes your cheeks before—slowly and gingerly—wiping away the tears pricking at your eyes as he stares down at you with an unreadable expression.

Anybody else would have felt patronized over such an act, but you can’t help but secretly enjoy the feeling of such a terrifying overlord looming over you in a rare display of tenderness, cradling you in his hands as if you were his most prized possession. And as he closes the gap between you and kisses your brow, the warmth of your skin transferring to his cold lips, you assume that’s what you are to him.

His prized possession…

…to instill fear within?

But only because he doesn’t know that he can elicit a similar response from you romantically or even… carnally. Still, Alastor has never dealt in such “needless” affairs, and it’s obvious in the way he moves down your face at a leisure pace, your body tensing up as his lips inch closer, and closer, and closer… until they’re hovering right above your trembling ones.

I say obvious because he doesn’t kiss you—the thought doesn’t even cross his mind. Kissing is reserved for lovers, and you’re not his lover. That doesn’t mean that he’s not entirely unaffected by the sensation of your hot breath mingling with his, his own heart-rate picking up; but of course, Alastor believes it’s just the adrenaline from yet another successful prank.

“Um, I’m glad that I was born a century later, then,” You tell him, a shiver wracking your spine as your lips practically move against his, cold but so, so soft… clearly untouched by others. “And honestly,” You shakily continue, trying to not give into the urge to peck him. “I’d much prefer getting scared than being a part of the long list of people you’ve killed and… perhaps even eaten.”

Another static-like chuckle graces your ears before he pulls away from you, your shoulders slumping in disappointment—but he assumes that you’re simply relieved. At least he gently boops your nose with a singular claw in a teasing manner, his eyes squinting in amusement as your face flares up. If there’s one thing Alastor’s certain about, it’s that he’ll never grow tired of (you)r reactions, gratification stirring in his core.

“Right you are, my dear,” Alastor hums, that transatlantic accent you’ve come to enjoy doing wonders to you. “Now, I think it’s time we head to bed,” He says as he stands up at his full height, offering a slender arm to you, “Here, take my arm—that is if you’d like me to walk you to your room, of course!”

And you do, wordlessly accepting his gesture by hooking your arm in his, a steady tune seeping past the same lips you almost kissed as you start down the hallway. The two of you are completely oblivious to the fact that Charlie watched the entire exchange from around the corner, whatever confusion she previously felt completely overtaken by a sort of understanding at why Alastor specifically targeted you… including your unwillingness to ask for help.

[ellabscrush]

— when i suck it, i look in your eyes

strap sucking w/college!ellie williams x fem reader

🇵🇸 boycott & ways you can help 🇵🇸

» cw; mdni, fem!reader, afab!reader dom!ellie, stubborn!reader, dirty talk, praising, finger sucking, breast play, no use of y/n

» sypnosis; your girlfriend has been studying for hours and you’re getting needy. knowing her weakness, she finally gives in and oh how she needed a distraction from her studies.

» a/n; hii, this is my first drabble, i’m nervous lol ᰔ hope you enjoy!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

“els i’m boredd,” you dragged your feet as you walk over to the couch where your girlfriend is typing on her keyboard like crazy.

ellie jumps, “uh… not done yet babe,” her eyes never leaving the screen.

you rolled your eyes.

you don’t know what’s gotten into you. you tried respecting her space because often times you would let your girlfriend come over to do her homework and enjoyed each other’s presence. it was chill. she would give you some sort of affection from time to time.

however, ellie has been sitting in the same spot for hours. no lunch break, bathroom break, or checking on her girlfriend break.. it was frustrating on your behalf. still watching her in silence as her eyes stare at the bright screen, you try again.

“so you’re just gonna write all day and not give me a kiss?” you teased, no answer from the brunette.

“ellie williams i’m talking to yo-“

“just give me five minutes fuck!” ellie snaps, cutting you off.

not only you hate it when ellie ignored you, but you absolutely despised yelling. even when you both know she doesn’t mean to. you weren’t mad cause that’s when you realized she was tensed and finally needed a break. you know exactly what she needs.

ellie closes her eyes, “s-sorry for yelling i didn’t mean to-“ she stammered.

you’ve had enough. you grabbed her laptop off her lap and adjusted yourself on hers. knowing her weakness, you lift up your shirt to expose your bare tits infront of her face. her expression had changed from confused to serious quickly.

“this is how i get your attention huh?” you smirked.

suddenly, ellie grabs your neck and both of your lips clashes to eachother, resulting in a sloppy make out while her other hand is firmly gripping onto your waist.

the kiss was fast, deep, and desperate. oh how much you missed her. she missed you even more.

“you know me so fucking well” she whispers in between, “and so fucking needy.”

you whimpered at her words, “very.”

your voice is like heaven in her ears. the kisses slowly went to your neck, and down to your breasts. ellie’s slender hands pushed your tits up, making you gasp because of how hard her grip was.

“f-fuck be gentle please..” you shut your eyes as she bites the living skin off your tits.

“shut the fuck up.” ellie hisses, slapping your tits.

the unexpected gesture made you turned on. your hips start to rock over her jeans, trying to find some friction. your girlfriend is just in cloud nine right now watching you crave for her attention.

your hips move faster, “baby.. need you so bad..” you cried.

ellie’s face lights up, she didn’t say a word but gently lifted you off her lap and disappeared in the bedroom to get a little surprise. she soon came back with your favorite dildo infront of your face, turned on just seeing this sight of ellie.

“on your knees,” ellie ordered, “since you’ve been pestering me all day i need you to be a good girl for me..”

she says as her thumb circles around your mouth, wanting to be let in your wet mouth. so you obeyed.

“mm, fuck” she chuckles, “you really wanted this huh?”

you nod with those fuck eyes of yours. you didn’t even realize it but your shirt was still lifted up, exposing your bare chest. ellie’s free hand starts massaging them as they are her little stress balls.

“want my cock in your mouth?” ellie whispers, “mmm y-yes,” you mumbled.

so desperate that you start stroking her strap, ellie was soaked in her boxers at this point.

ellie then took her thumb out and guided her strap into your mouth. grunting like she swore she could felt it. it was a sight. a sight where ellie pulled out her phone and started recording you sucking her cock in and out, whispering praises.

“good slut..”

“that’s my girl, go deeper for me..”

“want this cock in your tight cunt later..”

the room was filled with filthy lewd sounds like a porno , honestly it could be if ellie posted that video. but she would never. it was only hers to see.

your mouth was getting sore but ellie kept pushing you in more, making you choked a little bit. not only she loved hearing the sounds of your wet slick, she loved to hear you cry and gag on her strap.

muffled words coming out of mouth, ellie didn’t care what you were saying. you were just so pretty in her eyes, on your knees for her as you should be.

“mhmph, keep going.. faster” she whimpered, your mouth was gliding so easily on the silicone.

you took out the strap out of your mouth to show your girlfriend how much of a drooping mess your mouth made.

“i love you els.. i’m all yours,” you say as you were waiting for that affection you’ve been needing all day from her as well.

“love you so much pretty girl..” she whispers.

she was so glad you gave her that much needed break.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚