twwcs

[twwcs]

When I was 13 years old and curious about sex and love, I asked my mom if she had had sex before marrying my father (of whom she is still married to, and has been since before I was born). She said that that wasn’t really a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. I said ‘sure it is, you’ve either had sex before him, or you haven’t’. She brought me onto the couch and sat me down and told me about the boy she liked when she was young and how one night she snuck into his house while his parents were gone and they were kissing and he said they should have sex and she said that she wanted to save sex for marriage and he laughed and basically took all her clothes off and he raped her and as my mom was telling the story she cried and this was the second time I had ever seen my mom cry. She was 12 when it happened.

In grade 8 I got a call from my friend in the middle of the night and she was drunk in the park crying and told me that she went out that night with some other friends and they drank a little and her guy “friend” starting flirting and yes she laughed at first but then he tried to pull her shirt over her head and she pulled away and he ripped her shirt and it was her favourite shirt and then he pushed her to her knees and HIS BEST FRIEND HELD HER JAW OPEN WHILE HE FACE FUCKED HER. And so I went to the park and picked her up and took her home and slept in her bed with her except we didn’t sleep because she just cried and her mouth bled and this was four years ago but I still have to be the one to bring her items to the till it the cashier is a man, and she still has anxiety attacks and she’ll get a rash all over her body and I just want to kill those boys but instead they are still walking around. And I’m in the bathroom with her, dabbing at her skin with a warm cloth until it returns to its regular colour.

And in grade 9 one of my closest friends was kinda seeing this boy and so they hung out one night and then she said that she really had to be getting back home and he said that she wasn’t going anywhere until she gave him what he wanted and he parked the car and took off her clothes and she said no and he ignored her and so she laid in the backseat totally limp and just cried and it wasn’t even sex, he just masterbated by using her body instead of his hand and she came to school the next day with vodka in her water bottle and she drank all day and I had to fight her to get the alcohol away from her and she just cried and threw up and I skipped class while I held her hair back and that same boy texted me a month later, asking if I ever wanted to hangout sometime.

And in that same year my very best friend who has never even kissed a boy, confessed to me that when she was 9 years old, her 12 year old cousin made her give him a hand job and he told her that was what cousins do and he gave her a chocolate bar afterwards and she told me that he probably doesn’t even remember it but that it’s something that she’ll never have the luxury of forgetting.

And in grade 10 I knew a girl who invited her best friend over to watch Disney movies and then he started to put his hands down her pants and she said no but she is 130lbs and he is 220lbs and he called her a tease while she tried to fight him but he used one hand to hold her down, and the other to put inside of her and i was the one to push her inside of a classroom and stand in front of her while calling the police when he showed up at our school looking for her and she was so damn scared.

And a few months later I skipped class and was in the car with a guy who i had had unprotected sex with in the past while under the influence of cocaine but this time I was sober and I insisted we use a condom but he told me he couldn’t feel anything while the condom was on so he ripped it off and I said I refused to have unprotected sex again and so he just grabbed me and forced himself into my mouth and I was crying and he pulled me onto him and I just came saying “stop” over and over like a broken record but he must’ve heard something different because he went until he came and I just sat naked in the backseat while he drove me back to the school and said “we should do this again sometime”. And I had five showers that night and I scratched at my skin so hard to try and rip his fingerprints off of me, I still have the scars.

And I found out soon afterwards that that same guy had raped a classmate of mine, 5 months earlier and she told me about how he brought her McDonald’s first, and how he said they could take things slow and she told me about how he didn’t listen to her either. And he goes to our school and so after she told me about her incident and I told her about mine, we decided to report it to the police and the trial is currently still going on and he told people about it, except in his version we are just “asking for attention” and all his friends talk about how bad they feel for him. As if HE is the one that still wakes up screaming. As if HE felt like his skin no longer was beautiful, no longer belonged to him. And I held her in my arms as she bawled after giving the police her statement. And she did the same for me.

And I met a woman a year ago in a paint store and she had a service dog and I asked what the dog was for and it turns out that she had been so brutally raped and abused in her life, that the dog is literally trained to keep men away from her.

And I’m so FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF THIS WORLD WE ARE LIVING IN. How many rape victims eyes have I already looked into? How many more will I? And how many more friends will I hold while they shake? Because I don’t know how many more I can take. And who the fuck still has the nerve to make rape jokes? And… Something just has to change. Please, someone just start being that change.

-16 year old girl

[twwcs]

cw: monsterfucking, research lab, minotaur

Imagine you work in a monster research lab and you're on the night shift so you're left alone with the minotaur they've got locked up. He aggressive, but you're sure you know how to help him calm down.

The security camera in the corner hasn't worked for years and you hope they haven't finally decided to fix it. You take of your coat, telling the minotaur you can help him, you receive a grunt in response. You unbutton your shirt which gets him stirring; he's calm now but eagerly watching you. You've had a sick fascination with monsters since you were young; this is the real reason you took the job. You drop your skirt and, having not worn panties, you bend over in front of the cage. With your pussy on display, two large hands reach out and grab a hold of your thighs, all but pinning you to bars. With nowhere you can possibly go, the Minotaur starts to fuck your cunt.

You commit the feeling to memory; how big it is, how your poor helpless cunt stretches around it, how much it cums. All so you can add to your personal research. You moan out as the minotaur ruins your pussy with his heavy cock. Your feet aren't even on the floor anymore with the minotaur reaching up and using you like a fleshlight. The feeling of a notorious monster using your cunt for pleasure has you twitching and shaking long after you cum. The Minotaur pumps his load into you, then slumps back into his cell, with the promise that he'll be calmer for your team as long as you let him do that again.

You hear snarling from another cell in the room and look to see a pretty werewolf girl with her face pressed against the bars. Her tongue stretches out, willing you to let her clean you up.

[twwcs]

I miss him your honor, it’s not even funny, just get my man home this instant!! :(

jonathan levy- red flags

Summary: Jonathan airbnb's his old house to get kinky with you, but it turns into more than just sex.

:: note: this is another version of The House. I had so many ideas on where to take that story, that I decided to write another one out. ::

Contents: 18+ nsfw, fem reader (more experienced than Jonathan), restraints, whipping, p in v, established sexual relationship, talking about feelings, no second wife and baby for our man, ~4.7k

-----

Many, many things about your hookups with Jonathan Levy are red flags.

He’s an asthmatic who smokes when he's stressed.

Weekends without his daughter, he drinks too much.

His ex-wife had cheated on him when they were married, but she occasionally crooks her finger and he still goes to her. A shoulder to cry on. Probably, more than that.

Sometimes he’s so desperate when he has sex with you, that he keeps fucking you even after he comes. Forcing himself to get hard and go again. Like he needs the punishment, and the punishment turns him on all over.

But tonight, this isn’t a red flag.

This is your brain in a safety vest, with flashlights and a megaphone: get out while you still can.

But as usual, your survival instincts have nothing on the way Jonathan makes you feel.

As soon as the front door closes, he backs you up against it, his fingers already up your skirt and pulling down your tights and underwear as you unbutton his shirt.

You catch sight of the staircase and something in your brain clicks.

You remember seeing it in Ava’s baby photos.

This isn’t just a weekend away. Not just any Airbnb. This is the house he used to live in with his ex-wife.

You push him off of you and start to pull your outfit back in place.

“What?” He braces his arms on the door, one on either side of you. He’s still so close his beard brushes your face.

“I recognize this house from the pictures of Ava in your living room. I know we’re not romantic about how we fuck, but this is really messed up.”

He sighs impatiently, slides one of his hands around your waist to stop you from picking up your bag and leaving. “What difference does it make to you? You don’t have to do anything. Well, you have to do one thing. But I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

He rubs his nose along your face. The cold frames of his glasses hit your cheeks.

“I said no, Jonathan,” you say stubbornly. “Even I have limits.”

“No, you fucking don’t and we both know it.” He says it calmly, very matter-of-fact. Which is irritating because you know he’s right. Yes, you have hard limits, but Jonathan Levy never gets anywhere near them. Deep down, he doesn’t want to hurt or be hurt.

His eyes are almost black as they bore into yours.

You lean back against the door. “I don’t think I can sleep here.”

Jonathan’s body pushes hard against yours. “I wasn’t going to let you sleep anyway.”

“Jonathan,” you warn him.

“What? We get rough all the time,” he says sucking hard on the skin of your neck, his beard scraping your skin. “You let me do whatever I want to your body.”

He presses his forehead against yours and takes a breath.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks. His hands relax around you.

You get the feeling he means more than just the way he’s trying to devour you in the foyer.

The last couple of times you’d hooked up, more of your actual lives had bled into the night. You’d talked about your days before jumping into bed. When he’d asked you not to spend the night because of Ava coming home early in the morning, you’d seen a flash of guilt in his eyes.

He’d wanted you to stay. And if he’d asked, you might’ve said yes.

But there’s no future with Jonathan Levy. Not for you.

He’s built for it, yes. He has father and husband written all over him. Some other woman, someday soon, will get those things.

You get what’s left.

His desperation. His need. His dominance.

And this.

He has to know there’s no healing in this house.

You can’t deny him the chance to make good memories, though, not after the glimpses of his old life that you’d gotten.

One where he and his ex-wife had thought they were happy. In hindsight, they’d been trapped.

You like that Jonathan feels comfortable enough to show you a different side of himself. To lean into his sexual instincts. Be free.

You kiss him, try not to make it sweet. He hums against your mouth and kisses you back, both of you melting against each other.

He’s smiling when he pulls away.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand.

He walks around the ground level of the house. You take it all in quietly as he holds your hand tightly.

“They changed things,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m surprised by that. Maybe the realtor told them the place had bad energy from the previous occupants.”

“Maybe bad feng shui tanked your marriage.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Mental feng shui maybe.”

You stand in the dining room, Jonathan’s eyes darting around at the space. Like he’s mentally overlaying the old house with the new one.

He lingers in the kitchen, running his fingers over the stove and countertops.

“Ava ate her first solid food here,” he says with a smile, his hand in the sink. “She went through this phase where she wouldn’t sit in her high chair so I used to plop her down in the sink instead to feed her.”

Jonathan smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The look fades quickly.

“This is where Mira told me she didn’t want to sign our divorce papers because she wanted to get back together,” he says, a hard edge in his voice. “I was delusional for thinking she’d ever let me go. Nothing’s ever clean with her.”

He doesn’t look sad or angry. His dark eyes are, honestly, a little lost.

You’ve never met her, but you don’t have to. You hate her.

Not that Jonathan’s perfect. He’s flawed in ways that shock you sometimes. He assumes you agree with him without asking you. For awhile he was unbearable because he’d been in therapy and couldn’t stop talking about it. He’d rather have petty arguments with his mother than set boundaries.

But for all his flaws, the one thing you admire about Jonathan is that he’s willing to learn. To try and be better.

Like with sex.

The first time you’d slept with Jonathan, it was… good.

It was fine.

Okay. It wasn’t fine.

It was bad.

He’d laid on top you and pushed himself in and out as if that was all there was to sex. Sure, he’d kissed your neck and played with your nipples. You could tell he was horny, that he wanted you, but there was no passion in it.

But the way he’d come onto you when you’d met, it had to be there somewhere. You were sure of it.

So, you’d teased it out of him. Shown him how to like sex, how to be more active.

You’d kissed him, sucking on his lips. You’d wrapped one of your legs higher on his back, so you could take him deeper. One of your hands had found his balls, gently played with them, then his nipples, then grabbing onto his ass to pull him toward you.

The second you’d started dirty talking to him, he came so hard, he’d almost cracked your headboard holding onto it.

Neither of you had looked back.

You’d started hooking up at least once a week, for months now.

Jonathan had taken to dirty sex like, well, like it was the kind of sex he should’ve been having all along.

He said he was always afraid to touch Mira. She’d get a look on her face like she didn’t want his hands on her. That he’d always waited for her to tell him what to do in bed because she got impatient. Then she’d complain he didn’t initiate things.

And even though you usually take more of a dominant role in sex, with Jonathan, it felt good to do the opposite. To feel him let his sexuality off the leash. To let it wash over you.

Once he’d given himself permission to try things, his sex drive matched yours. Which, honestly, was almost impossible to find in a man.

Yes, he was hard on you sometimes, in bed and out of it. But he never degraded you about any of it. As if accepting you had made him learn to accept himself.

It’s why you don’t want to let him go.

Something about being in his old house, though, feels like a natural ending.

You’d thought for awhile now that you should break it off with him. Let him find some nice woman to settle down with. And you can be someone else’s sexual menace.

You try not to think about how sad that makes you.

By the time you and Jonathan circle back to the staircase, you can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

You reach over and slap his ass. “So, where do you want to-“

“The bedroom,” he says immediately. “Upstairs. That’ll be the most difficult one.”

“It’s not a test, Jonathan.”

He pulls you across the room and toward the stairs. “For you it isn’t.” His hand wanders down your back and cups you, through your skirt, the tips of his fingers finding you with practiced ease.

Your breath catches. Your gaze flicks to the front door.

Get out while you still can.

You let Jonathan lead you upstairs.

*****

He brought the restraints.

“You or me?” you ask.

“You.” He finishes taking them out of his bag, pushing a hand through the mess of black and gray curls. “Please.”

You poke around a little bit. The owners did a good job of clearing their personal effects out of the room, locking them in the closet. You kick the welcome binder under the bed, unread, then get a half a glass of water from the bathroom, do a little bit of stretching. You undress in the bathroom and leave your clothes in a neat pile on the counter.

Jonathan’s finished hooking the cuffs up to the bed frame when you re-enter. He gives your naked body a long, hungry look. He’s in a black t-shirt and soft pants.

You can always tell the kind of mood Jonathan’s in by his clothes. His cardigans and flannels are for comfy, happy times. His suits make him feel secure and confident. His all-black outfits are for his darker moods.

“Can I use this tonight?” Jonathan takes a short, braided leather whip out of his bag. “I won’t gag you, so you can tell me Red anytime.”

The whip is something you’d brought into sex. Usually he prefers to be the one getting whipped, but tonight isn’t like most nights.

“Sure.” You get on the bed.

You lay out spread-eagle and face down. Jonathan starts to cuff your left wrist, but he hesitates. Instead, his hand lays on your head instead. He bends down and kisses you.

There’s a shadow in his brown eyes. You’re not sure anymore that this is entirely about his ex.

“Jonathan,” you start to say, but he shakes his head.

“Just because I’m not gagging you, doesn’t mean you can speak.” He goes back to securing you to the bed and you go silent.

When you’d started introducing Jonathan to this kind of play, you’d told him the reasons didn’t matter, as long as they weren’t mean-spirited. That was important to you. Wanting to hurt and cause pain was okay, as long as it was ultimately about pleasure.

Jonathan’s not cruel, but you know he could be, if he wanted to. The cycle he’s in with his ex-wife certainly is.

Maybe that’s why you have to break things off with him. You don’t mind fucked up sex. But you don’t fuck with negative feelings. You don’t want to be heartbroken. That’s the kind of pain you wouldn’t recover from.

Jonathan stays dressed, and he starts slowly. Just rubbing his hands up and down your body. Almost like a massage. Your body warms, trembles. He squeezes your ass, but doesn’t touch you where you need him to.

The light flick of the whip is like a kiss. Doesn’t even leave a mark.

At first.

But the first real crack on your skin makes you grip the restraints. Your muscles go taut.

Jonathan gives you a second, but doesn’t comfort you yet.

He keeps going. Two. Three. Four. Five.

A little harder than he’s ever done before. You grit your teeth, knowing you should relax your muscles, but you can’t make your body comply.

It hurts. Not enough to tell him to stop, but almost there.

You’re more than warmed up when he lightly strokes your back, all the way down to between your legs. He sits on the bed, just playing with you.

Your skin still stings. You can feel the welts already forming.

He rolls his fingers over your clit, coaxing you to get wetter. He slides his fingers through, just barely pushing inside before he pulls away, bringing his fingers to your lips. He shoves his fingers in your mouth and you suck on them.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks.

“Yes,” you moan around his fingers.

He pulls back and gets off the bed. “No.”

The whip cracks down on your back. Jonathan pauses, giving you space to say the word.

You don’t. It feels so good, you don’t want to stop. You love that he’d been a faster learner about all of this.

It’s torture, though, that your legs are too spread for you to rub your thighs together. That he wets the tip of the whip in your cunt before he slowly, steadily, whips up and down your back. He spreads out the pain, like you’d taught him. But the neat up-and-down of it is very Jonathan.

You’re both out of breath when he stops again. You’re on the verge of needing him to slow down.

Jonathan’s so good at reading you, he already knows. He makes sure your eyes are open and watching as he tosses the whip aside.

Part of you wishes you weren’t so perfectly in sync in with each other. Excited to try new things, or just have vanilla sex. It all should’ve burned itself out by now. The thrill should be gone.

You knew you’d have feelings, but whatever’s tickling at the gates of your heart? It’s a no-go, especially with Jonathan.

“Do you need me to free you?” he asks as he takes his black t-shirt off, the muscles of his biceps and shoulders stretching and drawing your gaze.

“No,” you say. “I’m good.”

“Yes, you certainly were,” Jonathan smiles. He knows you love it when he praises you.

He undoes he pants and gets undressed the rest of the way. His divorce made him thin out, from stress. He’s started to fill out a little bit again, around his hips and stomach. He looks more comfortable this way.

Jonathan undoes just your ankles, briefly rubbing them before guiding your legs to bend up under you, so you can lift your hips a little for him. He leaves your arms, though.

He smacks both of your ass cheeks with his right hand in turn. Jonathan massages away the sting right away.

You hold onto the rope of the restraints, bracing yourself as Jonathan lines up his cock and slowly pushes in with a groan.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says, all the way in to the base.

He pulls your hips so he’s as deep as he can possibly go and you inhale sharply through your nose. He doesn’t have the longest cock you’ve ever had, but he’s thick. The soft and hard of him makes you feel like you’re in heat. You need him more than should be possible. It takes a second for you body to stretch to his girth and waiting makes you itchy, even though he’s doing it for your benefit.

You push back on him and he hits your ass again.

“No,” he says firmly.

Your cunt trembles around him. It’s impossible for you not to squeeze him. The way he fills you feels so good.

“Jonathan,” you moan in frustration.

He pulls out of you swiftly, just to torture you.

“Look back at me,” he says.

You try to pull yourself together before you turn your head. God, you want him so much.

His curly hair is falling forward onto his face. He pushes up his glasses. He keeps them on sometimes, so he can see you clearly. Not just for the subtle signals that he needs to slow down or stop, but just because he likes to see you wince, how your lips shake, how your hands tighten around the sheets.

He’s still knelt behind you and you can’t see his lower body. You can hear that his hand is working his cock, though.

“Beg for it,” he says.

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off.

Then again, that’s the point of isn’t it? To do what he wants, what he needs, because ultimately, he’s making it all that much better for you in the end. That’s the part of this that Jonathan had innately understood.

He’s the one in control, but you’re the one who feels more pleasure from it.

“Please fuck me.” Even to your ears, you sound breathless and desperate.

“Not good enough,” Jonathan says quietly, his face serious and dark.

His hand curls around your thigh. His warm palm strokes up and down. His fingers are light. It makes you shiver.

“Please, I’m begging you.” Your neck is tired so you let your head drop back down. Your forehead rests against the mattress. “I need you so much.”

Jonathan runs his hand over the curve of your ass and up your spine. A thin bead of moisture runs down your inner thigh. You’re going to scream. You’re going to lose it.

“Tell me exactly what you want from me,” he says, the steadiness in his voice grounding you again.

The room is quiet, just the sound of your shaky breath.

“I want you to put your cock in me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think or talk.” Your voice rises slightly as it all pours out of you. “I want you to wreck me and come in me. Please, please fill me up.” You whimper quietly. “Please, Jonathan.”

He pushes back inside and you let out a whimper, your entire body tenses and shudders.

Jonathan kisses your spine, the back of your shoulders. His hands rest on your hips, like he knows your body is weak and desperate. And it feels just as good as you need it to. Slow at first, gradually building faster and harder. His thick fingers dig into your skin as he fucks you, the sound of it filling the room. Not that you can hear it because you’re moaning into the bed, letting him set the pace, concentrating on how good every nerve ending in your body feels.

Jonathan’s hand slides down between your legs. You’re so wet his fingers slip away, but he finds his way to your clit, rubbing tight little circles as his beard and tongue and lips scrape against your back. He fucks into you deeper, all the way until he’s pushed against you over and over again, and you scream into the mattress, coming apart so hard your nails hurt from digging into the sheets. Your legs give out, but Jonathan keeps fucking you through it, laying prone on top of you. You turn your head, still moaning and shaking as Jonathan shudders. His body goes taut, as flush against you as he can be, molded against you as he comes.

You can tell he’s as tired as you are, but he drags his body up the bed to undo the restraints. He rubs your wrists, leaning back against the headboard with his eyes closed.

You just lie there for awhile, recovering. You roll on your back eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

To your surprise, Jonathan pulls you into his arms. Half-way kind of, just leaned against him in bed.

“You’re not going to shower?” you ask. Your heartbeat starts to slow as you hear Jonathan’s do the same.

“In a bit.” He plants a kiss on your head, then his bearded cheek rests there. “You’re breaking things off with me, aren’t you?”

His words are half-smushed and quiet. You want to tell him it’s not like that, not what he thinks. It is, though.

Jonathan sighs and says, “after my first marriage, I can tell when a woman’s pulling away from me.”

“It’s for the better,” you say, sitting up so you can talk to him face to face.

“Ah, for the better,” he says with breathy sarcasm.

“It is,” you insist. “You and I, we’re this.”

You lift the empty restraint and let it fall back on the bed.

Jonathan pushes it away so it falls off the side of the bed. “Just because you’re the one who brought me into all of this, doesn’t mean you know everything.”

That bossy tone shouldn’t be attractive, but on him, it is.

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t know how to incorporate all of this bedroom, kinky shit into everyday life. But, I can teach Ava that she has to knock on the bedroom door first. I can buy a dresser that locks so we can put our stuff away when we’re not using it. I think she’d like you, actually. Ava. I can see it in my head.”

You don’t know what shocks you more, that he’s thought about how to live with you, or that you’re actually considering it.

Jonathan’s big, brown eyes bore into yours. “Just so you know. I do, in fact, see the irony of bringing you to this house, just to tell you that I can’t lose you. It’s famously where I come to lose a woman I care about.”

You laugh, can’t help it. He has such a silly, self-aware grin. He pushes back his curly hair and rubs the side of his pointer finger over his lips.

“Going from just sex to… more, isn’t as easy as one conversation,” you say. “We haven’t even talked about not seeing other people.”

Jonathan’s gaze sharpens. He looks a little hurt. “You’re sleeping with other people?”

“No, you are.”

“What?” He pushes up his glasses.

“Your ex.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters with an exhausted laugh. His face is enough to tell you that he’s not lying. “Trust me. She gives me erectile dysfunction just by looking in my direction. We're not having sex.”

You lean back slightly so you can see him. Your body starts to cool and Jonathan helps you pull the blanket up to cover both of you while you talk.

“I believe you, but you see her for more than just handing off Ava,” you say.

He nods regretfully. “Yeah. I do. But if I tell you about it, I know what it looks like.”

“That’s not reassuring, but lay it on me anyway.”

He smiles loosely. “Honestly? She broke up with her boyfriend and for a few weeks now, she’s been hinting that if I wanted to, you know,” he gestures with his hand. “And no, I don’t. But it feels really good that she wants me, even though she can’t have me.”

You understand why he didn’t tell you. It does make him look like an asshole. You can’t blame him, though, for giving into that feeling of the person who rejected you, wanting you back again.

“I stay for a cup of coffee, or some excuse about Ava forgot a stuffie or book or something. I try not to be rude, but a few days ago I told her it has to stop.” His hand reaches for yours under the covers. He holds on tightly. His eyebrows furrow, that handsome serious look that makes your heart kick extra hard in your chest. “She’s the one who told me that our old house was a vacation rental now.”

“She wanted to come here with you? The balls on that woman.”

“I told her no. And it made me think about us. Made me realize talking to Mira is keeping me connected to her in an unconscious way. I don’t want that anymore. So, I brought you here instead.” He leans in closer to you, his beard almost touching your face. His fingers trace your cheekbone and ear, down the slop of your jaw and neck. “Was I too hard on you earlier? When we got here, or just now?”

You fight back a smile. “I’ve told you about some of the shit I’ve gotten up to. No, you weren’t too hard on me.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean physically. I know when it comes to sex, I couldn’t come up with anything that would shock you. I mean emotionally. I was kind of pissed when we got here tonight.”

“I can’t blame you for that. I was thinking tonight would be the last time for us, and I’m sure you sensed it.” Your grab his hand and curl your fingers around his. “This wasn’t supposed to be messy.”

“Oh, I never promised that,” Jonathan chuckles. “I knew almost immediately, the first time we had sex, I’d been fooling myself. Pretending I was letting my dick do all the thinking. I’m not that kind of man. I just thought you probably didn’t see yourself with a boring professor dad for the long term. So, I went along with the casual thing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You sit up straighter. “You being a boring professor dad is literally the hottest thing about you.”

Jonathan looks skeptical. “So why're you so surprised I want this to be a real relationship?”

“I know you want a real relationship, Jonathan. I just didn’t think it would be with me,” you admit, knowing how pathetic is sounds.

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “You thought I only wanted you for sex? You think I’d do any of this tying up and impact stuff with someone I didn’t love?”

He lays a hand on his chest, his eyes closing. He looks uncomfortable, pained. It’s obvious he didn’t mean to say ‘love’ out loud, for you to hear.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you say quickly. “Unless you don’t mean it.”

“I definitely mean it, that’s the problem,” he smiles softly, his heavy eyelids blinking open again. “I thought you’d be way to adventurous to settle for someone like me.”

“Settle? Jonathan, you wouldn’t be settling. Exactly the opposite. You’re so far out of my league it’s not even funny,” you almost sag against him. “You had a successful marriage, you’re a dad, you have a really solid career. The sex is the easy part.”

“Not to me,” he says, sounding more confident. “You know how to recognize emotions, how to identify them so fast. I tangle myself up in knots wondering if I’m irritated from something that happened yesterday, or I’m just dehydrated.”

Your fingers trace down his smooth sternum and stomach. It sounds too optimistic to say all of the weaknesses you both have are actually strengths. In a way, though, all your weaknesses line up. The kind of relationship where you could balance each other out.

“It wouldn’t be boring, that’s for sure,” you say after awhile.

You hear Jonathan’s breath catch.

“And really,” you keep thinking out loud, “I haven’t wanted to admit it, but we see a lot of each other. We talk a lot. You’re the first person I want to text whenever something interesting happens.”

“I want to do that too,” he says excitedly. “I made Ava this really nice dinner the other night and I got the urge to send you a photo. But then I didn’t want you think I was weird.”

“I love pictures of food,” you remind him.

“Well, next time, I’ll know it’s safe to send,” he laughs.

Those red flags you’d sensed when you got here tonight; you realize what they really were. Your heart telling you not to let this man go. Not to push him out of your life when all he wants is to be with you.

“And you’re staying the night at my house this week.” He pulls you closer in bed, his big feet rubbing against yours.

“Okay,” you agree. “Maybe we could cook dinner together.”

“I would love that,” he says.

It reminds both of you that he’d said he loved you before, accidentally. But, it feels better to not bring it up right away. He’ll say it again, when he’s ready. And you know already you’ll say it back.

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[twwcs]

Thinking about him.. jonathan please come home

At This Hour

Jonathan Levy x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 24: On the counter

Summary: You look after Ava while Jonathan goes out on a date.

A/N: Thank you so much @thexsanctuaryx for betaing and being so lovely! <3

Warnings: neighbour!reader, mentions of the reader liking horror films/Terrifier, reader also has a cat, p in v sex, cream pie, fingering, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 2554

Jonathan knows he shouldn’t be doing this. But he just can’t help himself. 

The date had been a bad one, pointless in fact. He should have ducked out after the first ten minutes, no five. 

But he’d stayed and now it was nearly twelve fucking am by the time he got home. He should really go to bed. Get some sleep. 

Instead, he was talking to you, and drinking coffee. Oh, three am him was going to be pissed.

“I’m sorry I kept you so late,” Jonathan pushes his glasses higher. “Please, you got to let me give you some money.”

You shake your head, raising your hand, “Oh, no, no, no, you letting me pinch your netflix and amazon password for the last four months is more than enough.”

He chuckles, fiddling with his mug, “Yeah, but that’s just being neighbourly.” 

You scoff. “It is not, Jonathan.” 

Your friendship had started about seven months ago, when Jonathan had taken in a grand total of eight parcels from fedex on your, and your roommates, behalf in one day.

After collecting them, you’d apologised profusely, and baked him a banana cake. Panicking when you gave it to him that a, you didn’t actually know if he was allergic to anything, and b, that he actually liked bananas. 

Luckily he did.

Your friendship had grown when his car wouldn’t start one morning, and you’d given him a lift to work on your moped and picked him up after. Plus you’d got your friend’s cousin’s, uncle’s ex-colleague to have a look at his car and sort out the problem. 

He’d bought you lunch and looked after your cat if you had to go out of town. You watched his daughter if he had to work late on the days he had her. 

Originally, this hadn’t been his weekend to have Ava, hence why he had a date. A very, very bad date. 

“Come on,” he smiled at you, that horrible brilliantly blinding smile that leaves you weak at the knees, “usually you’re just with her for what, forty five minutes? An hour, this was nearly four.” 

You giggle, “I can’t believe you didn’t just politely leave.”

“I am a man of faults.” 

You laugh harder, “Look, I like Ava, we watched a series of R rated horror films and I made sure she ate her weight in sugar without brushing her teeth.” 

He grins. “I’m sure I would have had a better time with you guys here.”

You shrug, “Well, you can join us next time. We’re going to watch Terrifier.” You tease.

“Ugh,” he shudders, “Don’t tell me you like those kinds of films?” 

You can’t stop from smiling at his dramatic reaction. “What? You don’t?” 

He pulls a face and you giggle.

“They’re fun!”

“They are not.” He takes a sip of his cooling coffee, trying to nurse it as long as he could.

“They are.”

“All blood and guts.” He screws up his face, putting it on a bit for you.

“But the prosthetics! Plus it’s not real.” You say playfully. 

“Freaky.” He shakes his head. “Too much for my old heart.” 

You snort. “Jonathan.”

“What?” He smiles.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” 

“You just want me to tell you how young you are.” You rest your chin on your hand as you look at him.

He pauses and then nods rapidly, “I do actually, and you have to, it’s the social contract.” 

You giggle, “Well, I’m not.” 

“That's unfair.” He says in mock outrage, making you laugh harder. 

“Fine,” you hold up your hands, “You’re very handsome.” 

He pauses, looking at you for a moment. “I said you had to tell me I was young, not beautiful.” He teases, expecting you to throw a comment back at him immediately. 

But instead, you pause. For a moment, it’s almost funny how you freeze. 

“I…” You swallow, your mouth dry. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“It’s okay,” he quickly covers, “I’m just teasing, it’s fine.” 

You smile weakly, your skin burning. You get up quickly, nearly knocking your mug over in the process. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Sorry, I, erm,” you pick up your mug, and then his, “Let me, erm, I’ll put them in the dishwasher.” 

You turn before he even has a chance to say anything, rushing over to the other side of the kitchen, putting the mugs on the counter.

Jonathan stands quickly, calling your name, “Hey, it’s fine, really. Don’t worry,” anxiety cuts into his chest, leaving his ribs bare. He walks behind you, accidentally bumping into you as you turn. 

“Sorry,” he grabs your arm to steady you and himself, his heart thudding so hard in his temples he’s sure he’s going to burst a blood vessel. 

You glance at his eyes nervously, breathing hard. “I…”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He says softly. He should put his hand down, stop touching your arm. “I was just teasing.” 

You nod, “I know, I… I’m sorry.” Your insides squirm a little, trying to find a way out to escape this awkwardness. 

“Don’t be,” he breathes, leaning a fraction closer. “It’s always nice when someone beautiful calls you handsome.”

Your brain glitches, static for a moment, rebooting.  

“Beautiful?” You repeat.

“Beautiful.” His mouth says before he has any say in the matter. “And kind, and funny, and wond-”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you and kissing him deeply. He groans into your mouth, pressing you back against the counter.

It takes him a moment to catch up with his body, to figure out this is actually real, not some well used fantasy he plays out behind his eyes in the shower. 

You pull lightly at his hair, moaning softly when he licks into your mouth and pushes his legs between yours. He rocks against you, his cock quickly hardening in his trousers as he presses against the seam of your jeans. 

Part of him wants to pull back, to not push things, to not rush. But the much louder voice in his head laments at how long he’s been holding back, how long he’s been thinking of you while touching himself with a lubed hand. 

You gasp as he kisses along your jaw, his beard tickling your skin as he sucks at your pulse point greedily. God, if he could just get you to make that noise one more time.

“Jonathan,” you moan softly, pressing yourself closer to him and pulling on his shoulders, needing to rid the fraction of space between you.

He growls, nipping at your neck and nearly coming on the spot when he hears how needily you call his name. “Can I take these off?” His words are nearly lost with how he sucks on your skin, barely able to move his mouth back more than a centimetre. He pulls at your top, your trousers and you nod hastily. 

His groan at your confirmation makes you shiver. He practically tears your clothing from you, pushing and pulling the material away as if it personally offended him, before he hikes your right leg up around his waist and urges you up onto the counter. 

He sucks your breasts into his mouth greedily, quickly going from one to another, like a child in a toy store unable to choose his favourite. While he presses his thumb to your clit and strokes his fore and middle fingers through your folds. 

He groans deeply at the wetness he finds, rocking against you as he pushes inside. 

You gasp, biting down on your lip to keep yourself vaguely quiet as you cling onto his shoulders with one hand and the counter with the other. 

He strokes gently, pressing rhythmically against your walls as he toys with your clit and you sob, practically clinging onto him for dear life.

Pleasure builds dizzyingly fast in your belly, threatening to pull you down with every stroke. You moan in his ear, lightheaded, just about gathering yourself together to whimper his name. You weren’t prepared for this utter onslaught, for him to be so determined to pull you apart piece by piece. 

Spikes of sensation buzz along your skin, twisting and building. 

“You’re going to make me come,” you sob, shocked at how quickly your body is ready to fall apart. 

“Fuck yes,” he growls, sinking his teeth into your collar bone before he licks up your neck back to your lips. It’s hot and wet and messy, his tongue in your mouth to quiet your sobs  as you pulse and gasp, coming violently around his fingers. 

You shake in his grip, breaking the kiss to bury your face in his shoulder. He works you through it, stroking and pumping until you feel like liquid in his hands. 

“God,” he groans, kissing your forehead and breathing hard. He takes his fingers out of you slowly and shoves them in his mouth, moaning wantonly at the taste. 

When you manage to pull back a fraction to look at him, you can see his glasses have steamed up. You giggle and he grins around his fingers, taking them out with a pop to kiss you. 

You run your hands through his hair, shivering as he presses close once more. 

“Do you?” He starts at the same moment you speak - “Can I?”

He chuckles, nodding for you to go first. 

“Take these off.” You mutter, pulling at his jumper. He moves back a fraction, letting you pull it over his head and snorting when his glasses get caught in the neckline. He whips them off, placing them on the side, his curls wild. 

Jonathan bites his lip as you unbuckle his jeans, helping you by undoing his fly.

“Can I fuck you?” He groans, kissing your cheek and jaw, each glide of his tongue makes your body sing. 

“Please.” 

He growls, barely pushing his jeans and boxers down his thighs before he’s taking his heavy cock in hand and pumping himself a few times. 

You take a cheeky look down and bite your lip. 

He grins, “Like what you see?” 

The line would make you giggle in any other situation, but now your mouth is watering. You nod rapidly. 

“Oh,” he chuckles, spitting in his hand, “So that’s what makes you lost for words, I get it.” He smears his saliva over the head of his cock before he presses closer, guiding the tip to your folds. 

“You’re really-” You whine, gasping as he notches at your entrance and just glides inside. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body bucking unthinkingly as he pushes deeper. 

He groans deeply, sighing like this is his first drink of water after a long hot day. He slides his hands to your inner thighs, spreading you wider as he eases in.

“Jonathan,” you gasp.

“I know, I know, fuck, you’re so tight.” He lightly rocks his hip, sheathing himself in the last few inches. 

You whine, licking into his mouth when he kisses you hungrily. He thrusts experimentally, easing out a fraction before he pushes back in. 

“How do you like it?” He mutters against your lips, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself back. 

“I don’t mind,” you manage to say, your voice barely there. 

He snorts, moving one of your legs to wrap around his waist again as he takes hold of your hips in a firm grip. “Tell me if you want something.” He groans, pulling out and then plunging back in. “Want to make you come again.” 

You nearly shriek, throwing your head back and managing, somehow, to keep your voice muffled as he sets a brutal pace. 

He bucks into you rapidly, shaking the cutlery on the drainer by the sink with every deep thrust. The toaster jumps with every buck of his hips into yours. The sound of your slick echoing as you coat his cock.

“You look so fucking hot when you come,” he groans. “So fucking wet.” He pounds into you, sweat beading in his hairline, the way you grab at him and whine setting his blood ablaze. 

His pubic bone smacks against your clit with every thrust, his cock rolling against your walls and pushing impossibly deeper. 

Something in you wants to break, needs to snap and flood out as he keeps rhythm, your body moving in time with his desperately. 

You bite at his neck, sucking a love bite into his skin and shivering when he tenses and growls. He pulls you back a fraction with one hand on your jaw, his eyes so dark, and licks into your mouth like you hold the secrets of the universe. 

You whimper, so needy for anything he’ll give - and he’ll give you everything. 

Pleasure pulses in your core, makes your pussy flutter and you’re so close you can taste the sweetness on your tongue. 

“Jonathan!”

“You gonna come on my cock? Gonna make a nice creamy mess?” He groans, his balls tightening. “Want to feel you, please.” 

You gasp, sobbing silently as your orgasm is ripped from you. Pleasure explodes along your nerves, wiping out any other thought as he drowns you and revives you in the same instant. 

“Shit.” Jonathan’s hips stutter, his mouth open as your walls squeeze and suck him deeper, milking him for every single drop. He comes with a deep groan, emptying rope after rope of hot, thick cum inside. 

He clings onto you as he finishes, hazy for a moment with the strength of his orgasm. 

You breathe hard, he can feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest. 

Lightly he sucks on your neck, licking the salt from your skin. He kisses your temple. “You okay?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk for a week.” You tease, exhausted, and he chuckles.

“I’ll wait on you hand and foot while you recover.” He smiles when you look up at him, stroking your cheek as he kisses you softly, reverently. 

“Honestly, was that alright?” He mutters, a pang of worry settling under his ribs.

You snort, and kiss him deeply, stroking your fingers through his beard. “Fucking amazing.” 

He grins. “Do you want to do it again sometime? Maybe in a bed after I’ve bought you dinner? I’ll even watch that Terrifier film with you.” 

You giggle and nod. “I’d like that.” 

He tries to help you down, but you end up helping him. His jeans have twisted around his calves and he nearly falls to a heap on the floor. 

“My hero,” he mutters as you pull them off and kiss his thigh. “We’re lucky Ava didn’t wake up when we were… can you imagine me falling over is the thing that actually wakes her? She’ll need therapy for years after seeing her dad naked on the kitchen floor with his jeans around his ankles.”

You clap your hand over your mouth to stop your fit of laughter and he grins as he helps you back to your feet.

“I love hearing you laugh.” He lightly touches your cheek. “Do you want to take a shower?” He gives you a cheeky smile. “With me? You can stay over… if you want, I mean. No pressure.” 

You smile and nod. “I’d like a shower. With you. And sleep over.” 

He grins, wrapping his arms around you. 

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[twwcs]

anselm vogelweide- the meeting

Summary: Your upstart crime business leads to a formal meeting with Anselm. Will you become enemies or something else entirely? (gender neutral reader, talk of murder, marriage, and crime, ~2.3k)

7 of 9 fics I wrote for @the-oscar-isaac-collective Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine

-----

You’ve never considered yourself a criminal. Then again, you hadn’t known that crime was an option.

By the time you’d realized that your former employer had you cooking the books to cover for his illegal gambling business, it was too late. You were already married to him.

You’d realized very quickly that he was an idiot. You could do better.

Had been doing better for about five years now. Growing your client list and finalizing your divorce from that small-time blowhard who had no interest in the subtlety and delicacy that your business required.

The only problem was Anselm Vogelweide, a big-time blowhard, who stood in the way of your expansion.

He owned or protected most of the businesses on your end of town. No one lifted a finger without notifying one of his middlemen.

Tired of trying to go around him, you’d decided to bite the bullet (hopefully not in a literal sense), and sit down to talk.

You invited Anselm to a meeting on neutral ground. A Viennese- style coffee house on the edge of the city.

Maybe he’d find the location charming. Maybe he’d find you charming and just give you what you wanted.

But from what you’ve heard of him, you don’t hold out much hope. His reputation is outrageous.

He’s ruthless, not even his blood relatives are above deadly consequences. He has a bit of a gambling habit, but makes enough money from his legitimate and illegitimate businesses to stay filthy rich and above the law. The kind of position you aspire to.

Anselm leaves his bodyguards outside the cafe and you signal the guy behind the counter to start your coffees.

Anselm smiles at you from behind his beautifully distracting beard, like a hunter who isn’t sure if what he’s stalking is prey or fellow predator. He shakes your hand firmly, lingering and making your palm tingle where it rests warmly against his.

It’s difficult to look him in the eyes at first. There’s a yellow tint to his glasses, but his eyes are deep, dark pools that draw you in, captivating you.

His posture is confident, arrogant, and with an air of boredom you’re sure is fake. It’s impressive all the same.

His aura reads clearly: power.

You can’t hope to meet him on that front. He owns entire corporations, entire criminal enterprises, actual castles, and probably politicians in every state.

Instead of power, you try to convey simply that you won’t take any bullshit.

The waiter comes by with two wide, white porcelain cups as Anselm sits.

“Wiener melange,” Anselm says as he looks at the drinks, his smile turning from polite to almost friendly. “How civil.”

“Did you not expect that from me?” You ask, picking up the little spoon to give the coffee and milk froth a stir.

Anselm looks you slowly up and down. “I tend not to believe rumors and hearsay. Being the victim of such slander many times myself, I’d like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

Not from what you’ve heard. You believe every rumor you’ve ever heard about him.

He lays a hand over his tie, a dark silver fabric that has a rusty fleck of something near the bottom. You wonder if it’s blood.

“So, my dear,” Anselm says evenly, sipping his coffee, “I suspect you’re here to offer me something that I have no interest in. To help you with something I care nothing for.”

You almost smirk. “You’re not much for negotiation, are you?”

Anselm shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t like to waste my time mincing words. As you know, my business interests are very demanding. The little free time I have, I like to spend doing exactly as I wish. I like people to respect my time. Our meeting happens to be on the way to my tailor’s shop, for example. I like to be efficient.”

“For someone who doesn’t like to mince words, you sure use a lot of them.” You nod to the barista for another round of coffee. You’d downed your first one out of sheer nerves.

Anselm tilts his head slightly at you, giving you a better view of the curve of his hair. A neatly parted mass of curls you would love to get your fingers through. He watches you watching him for a moment.

“I’ll make you an offer. No negotiating. Accept, and perhaps we could spend the rest of this meeting getting to know each other better,” he says.

“Professionally or personally?” You ask.

The barista sets down two more large, foamy cups of coffee with milk and clears your empties.

“You don’t mince words either,” Anselm says with an approving smile. “Do you know why I accepted your invitation here today?”

You say nothing. You had wondered, actually. You’d expected he’d send a lackey to talk to you, try to scare you. A man like Anselm probably has layers of people between himself and the finer points of the crimes he commits.

You’d been floored when Anselm’s assistant had confirmed that the man himself would be meeting you.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and reaches inside smoothly. Your eyes widen. He pulls out a matte black handgun. It looks fairly large caliber, completely terrifying, and completely at home in his hand.

Anselm sets it on the table, the barrel parallel to you, the intimidating end off to the side.

“I was going to kill you,” Anselm says, as if he’s mentioning that he hit traffic on the way here. “You’ve caused me considerable delays with your meddling and petty instigations. I’ve little patience for such things.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I heard you like to take the easy way out of your problems.”

The corners of his lips tip up at your barb. His gaze sharpens respectfully.

“So, I came prepared for that,” you say.

His smile only widens as you reach below the table, a crisp rip of duct tape as you retrieve the gun you’d stowed under there. The business end had been pointing at Anselm, but as you set it on the table, you set yours down in the same neutral position as his.

Anselm chuckles. “You do know that I own this coffee house, yes?”

You nod. “But do you know that the barista is my second cousin? He let me in early to set things up.”

Anselm’s eyes narrow, but his gaze is wicked, and very approving.

“My God you are something else,” he says. “Do you have any idea the chaos you would cause if I died today?”

“Some say chaos, some might call it a power vacuum,” you say with a smile. “And if someone has to step into that vacuum, well, I would humbly accept. After all, I’d be the one standing over your dead body.”

Anselm laughs, almost gleefully. Like he’s having the time of his life. It draws a genuine smile out of you.

He leans forward slightly in his chair. He licks his lips, thinking.

“Ambition. A language I understand well. A worthy opponent deserves more leeway than the average imbecile. What terms do you propose?” Anselm asks, his tone warmer now. More inviting.

You breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

Obviously, you’d never wanted to kill Anselm Vogelweide. You get the feeling it might affect global stock markets. No use ruling a gigantic crime syndicate if there’s no money in it.

Also, now that you’ve met him personally, you see that it would be a terrible waste to kill a man like him. There might be no one more intriguing in the entire world.

You sip your coffee.

“I started very small, Mr. Vogelweide. I’m still small. Everyone is compared to you. The way I see it, I either make peace with my tiny portion of local gambling and general racketeering, or I come work for you.”

Anselm’s eyes light up. “I wouldn’t expect someone as ambitious as you to put yourself so willingly under my thumb.”

You look at his hands, clasped on top of the table. Tan skin, thick fingers, and neatly trimmed nails. His left hand is scarred.

“It might not be so bad under there,” you say, looking him over.

“Call me Anselm, please.” He makes a small, growly noise in his throat that makes your mouth go dry. “Naughty in every way, aren’t you? Highly intelligent. Budding criminal. Resourceful. Gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

Anselm grins, playful. “Don’t insult us both by implying you wouldn’t offer yourself up as part of the negotiations. Perhaps an added bonus.”

You fold your arms. “That’s very conceited of you.”

He leans back in his chair, letting you get a good look at him. “I have every right to be. I believe you like that about me. And I admit that I’m charmed by how boldly you overstep your bounds.”

“Yeah, I’m not big on boundaries,” you admit. “They tend to be set up by old guys desperate to hold onto their crumbling power structures.”

He lets the insult slide by him with a smile. “I’m younger than I look. Still older than you, though. Experienced enough to read subtext, grasp the bigger picture.”

“Anselm,” you say, trying out his name. It gives you a thrill to say it. You unfold your arms, try to act relaxed. “I’m not playing games. I promise. I would be an asset to your organization. I’m not doing any scheming beyond securing my own future.”

He leans forward, lets his arms rest on the table, further than before. The tips of his fingers brush against your hands.

“You think I have no interest in your future?” Anselm asks, his dark eyes staring into you.

You desperately want a sip of coffee, anything that might help you regain focus. He’s making your usually sharp, goal-centered vision, blur at the edges. He’s softening you up.

At the same time, you don’t want to pull away from his touch. His fingers run up your hands, not holding, just resting.

“We’re still talking business, right?” You ask.

“Are we? My dear, I thought we were flirting.”

You look down at the guns on the table. “With loaded weapons?”

“Yes, it’s what you might call my ‘A’ game.”

You smile, despite yourself. “You said you came here to kill me.”

“That was before I knew you. You’ll forgive me for mistaking you for a grubby small-time accountant with delusions of grandeur. Leaving you bleeding out on the floor does nothing for me. You seem very useful. For all sorts of things, perhaps.”

You clear your throat. “Your ‘A’ game might need a little work, Anselm.”

“I come on strong, I know. But like I said, I don’t mince words.” His hands retreat and he sips his coffee. “You may work for me, apprentice under the woman who handles my local financial affairs. We’ll reassess in a year.

“During that year, you’ll have dinner with me on Thursday nights. Let’s say, six pm for cocktails, dinner at seven thirty. And a few hours of your time on another day. We’ll do whatever you wish. Within reason of course.”

“Of course. Keep it reasonable,” you mutter sarcastically. Anselm sips his coffee, calm and confident as you consider his offer. Your mind tries to sort through it.

Working for him is one thing. What he’s asking for though, is way beyond business. It’s a good set-up, though. You haven’t been interested in a man for a long time. It’s very tempting.

“Yes to the job offer. Reassess in six months,” you counter. “And no to the rest of it.”

Anselm is visibly disappointed. He sets his coffee cup down with a slight snap.

He reaches for his gun. Every horrible thing you’ve heard about him echoes in your brain. You start to reach for your own when you see that Anselm is simply putting his gun back inside the holster he wears under his jacket.

You pull your hand back into your lap.

“I wouldn’t kill you simply because you’re not interested in me,” Anselm says dryly. “I’m not a monster.”

“I’m not not interested,” you say, hoping he doesn’t get up and leave before you have a chance to explain. “Mixing business and romance is what got me into this line of work in the first place. It worked out alright for me once, but I don’t think my luck would hold out a second time. I promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

“And you wouldn’t be,” Anselm says with a grin. “I’m not a mistake. Besides, you don’t strike me as someone who makes decisions based on fear.”

You prickle a little at that. He’s goading you on purpose, but he’s not wrong.

It won’t do any good to pretend that things are strictly business, not with the way you already feel like you and Anselm are two magnets stuck together by natural forces beyond your control.

You’re stubborn. Not stupid.

“So, what do you say, my dear?” Anselm asks, finishing his coffee.

You pick up your own gun, removing the tape and balling it up in your hand.

“Do I have to come armed every time we go out on a date?”You ask.

Anselm makes a thinking face, one brow cocked, bottom lip pouting out slightly. His beard moves back and forth before he answers. “No, you don’t have to come armed.”

“Will you be?”

“Naturally.”

“Then so will I.”

Anselm nods.

You nod back.

“I think I’ll order another,” Anselm says, raising a finger at your cousin behind the coffee bar. “I must say, most of my family members are useless twats. At least yours can make coffee well.”

“He’s a cousin by marriage,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Most of my blood relatives are brain-dead sycophants. I told them all to stop bothering me or I’d put a bullet between their eyes.”

You hear Anselm laugh under his breath. “And have you?”

“Haven’t had to yet, but there’s always tomorrow, right?” You shrug.

Anselm laughs again, this time audible.

“What?” You ask.

“Just thinking, my dear. How I see myself in you,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “In more ways than one.”

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[twwcs]

my blog is a safe space for me. the rest of you are in danger i think

[twwcs]

Oscar Isaac talks Frankenstein for Variety

[twwcs]

I love themes of repression in horror

[twwcs]

Why was one direction buying a teenage girl

[twwcs]

It Isn't Worth A Centime

Club!Blue Jones x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist

Summary: You're finally let out, and you've got a job to do.

A/N: A huge thank you to the epic @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: Swearing, overuse of italics, sorry this is mainly just plot realated, I know what you're thinking, a plot? here?, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is so lovesick), not beta read, swearing, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books. Reader is a backup dancer that Blue has nicknamed Lion.

Word Count: 1477

It’s weird being out, free from the lockdown of Blue’s rooms.

As you’re walking around, you realise a part of you misses it. The looks the other dancers are giving you are uncanny. Intense. You know what they’re thinking, what they’re trying to work out. How are you still alive after stealing from Blue? How are you walking around seemingly without a scratch? 

You shiver. You didn’t think their gaze would be so heavy. 

Still, you had a job to do. 

It’s Trixie you find in the dressing rooms, even though it’s outside of performance hours. She’s stretching, bent to the side. The edge of her t-shirt sleeve has ridden up and you can just see the edge of her scar. The one Songbird told you Crystal gave her. 

She turns as you come in, not jumpy, but tense. Maybe she never lets her guard down now. You give her a small smile before you walk over to one of the mirrors. 

Trixie doesn’t hide her stare. But it’s not as uncomfortable as the others. 

“I thought you’d be in a ditch somewhere.” She says off-handedly, playing with her gold necklace as she does. The intricate ‘T’ catches the light as she fiddles with it. “Or with your legs broken.” It’s not unkind though; somehow it’s oddly endearing. 

You let out a small laugh. “I think that’s what most people around here thought too.” 

She moves to stand next to you, watching you with her large eyes and biting her lip. “You gotta tell me what happened.”

You didn’t think it was going to be this easy. Blue had told you they’d found no evidence on who had been trying to frame you, so he’d asked you to go out and tell the truth to the first dancer that asked you. Let it spread that it hasn’t worked. 

“Nothing really,” you shrug. “Blue knew I didn’t take the money.” You look over Trixie’s face, a slight twinge of apprehension burning along your veins. But her expression is just one of interest; there’s no malevolence there. 

“Because I was with him.” You add and she nods. 

“Fuck me.” Trixie crosses her arms and leans against one of the make-up tables. “Someone set you up?” 

You nod. “Pretty much.” 

“You know who?” 

You shake your head.

Trixie lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head as she looks to the side. She breathes in deeply before she looks back at you. “I can tell you. It was fucking Crystal.” 

You tense. This was it, some evidence, something. “Crystal?” 

She nods. “Had to fucking be. I’d bet my life on it. She’s…” Trixie snarls like there’s a sour taste in her mouth. “She’s unhinged.” 

Your shoulders slump ever so slightly. Hearsay. Nothing concrete. Still, it’s what your gut had told you in the beginning. 

“Songbird told me,” you swallow, second-guessing yourself midsentence. “That Crystal, that she’s the one who gave you the scar on your back?” 

Trixie nods. Her jaw set. “She did.” She shakes her head. “Sliced me with a broken bottle, with witnesses.” She laughs again bitterly. “But nothing came from it, just a slap on the wrist for her for being ‘clumsy’.” 

You pause, bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from asking, but the words fall out of your lips anyway. “Blue didn’t do anything?” 

Trixie shakes her head again, “Why would he? Crystal was his favourite at the time.” Her nose flares in disgust. “It was my word against hers.” 

“Even with the witnesses?” 

“She got to them beforehand… threatened them to keep quiet in that way she has.” She sighs. “Convinced me it was better to not go accusing her of anything.” 

She stares at you for a moment, a nervous energy rolling off her in waves. “But now that she’s not Queen Bee anymore, maybe-”

There’s a slam as the door opens and crashes into the wall behind you. You jump, but Trixie doesn’t. She snaps her mouth shut and stares venom as Crystal swans into the room. 

“Hi Trixie,” Crystal smiles sweetly as she sits at one of the makeup tables. She touches her hair, pretending to fix it before she turns and looks intently at you. “Hi Lion.” 

You nod and say nothing. 

There’s a beat of time where Crystal just observes you, her gaze running over you like ice water. “Surprised to see you around here actually.” 

“Are you?” Trixie cuts in before you even get a chance to open your mouth. 

Crystal looks at her from under her eyelashes. “Yeah. I heard Blue had done a number on her.” 

Trixie snorts humourlessly. 

Crystal turns her head back to you. “But you look… really well.” 

The weight of her attention is like a vice slowly tightening around your bones. You shrug, trying to cover your apprehension, your rapidly beating heart. “I’m fine.” 

Crystal’s eyes narrow and then she laughs, all pretend smiles. “Wow, you’re lucky. Blue’s done a lot worse to people who’ve done a lot less.” 

“Lion didn’t take the money.” Trixie snaps. “Blue knew that.” 

Crystal falters for a moment, a flash of rage passing behind her eyes. She quickly recovers, however, and ignores Trixie to focus completely on you. “He believed you?” 

“I was with him the whole day.” Somehow you keep your voice even, calm. “He knew I didn’t take it.” 

Crystal nods once, looking down for a moment. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, I mean, who would want to steal money and then hide it in Lion’s room?” Trixie hisses as she steps past Crystal. She snatches her bag from the side and gives you a small, friendly wave before she leaves. 

The door doesn’t slam as loudly when she closes it. 

“She hates me.” Crystal says and sighs. “Ever since I came here, didn’t like that I didn’t immediately bend the knee to her and swallow her bullshit.” She turns back to the mirror and continues to adjust her hair, but her gaze meets yours in the reflection. “You know she used to brand people with that fucking necklace of hers?” 

You don’t know what to say, so you just shake your head. 

Crystal laughs bitterly. “Hardly anyone is left from that time now… But when new dances started, she’d heat up that ‘T’ with a lighter and then,” she slaps her hands together, mimicking a hiss of burning skin. “Wherever she saw fit that wouldn’t get her in trouble. The soles of the feet usually, so you’d get fucking shit from Gorsky and Blue for fucking up a routine.” She sighs heavily before turning around to look at you fully. “I’m just gonna say this: I didn’t steal the takings and put them in your room.” Her eyes are piercing, like shards of broken glass ready to slice into your skin. 

Crystal stands, and you instinctively take a step back, looking at her hands, sure for a moment that she must have some kind of weapon. But they are empty. 

“I don’t trust people anymore, not after I’ve seen what goes on here. How many dancers get fucking bruised and battered and used up.” She steps closer, snake like. “And I don’t know who you are, Lion. A backup dancer with delusions of grandeur.” 

You bristle. 

“And I don’t fucking care. Cause I’m not going to get myself punished or kicked out for messing with you.”

You stay quiet, letting her say her piece. There was an itch in the back of your mind, a thought oh so crystal clear. She wanted you to argue back. She craved it. 

You wouldn’t give it to her. 

After a moment, she sighs heavily and sits back down, starts to apply powder to her skin. “Anyway, no ill will.” 

“No ill will.” You repeat, and let her decide if you are agreeing or not. 

.

As you’re walking back to Blue’s office, trying to shake the spider-web-like sensation Crystal has left on your skin, you run into Madam Gorski.

She looks annoyed, her lips pressed together in a thin line. However, her expression brightens when she sees you. 

“Ah, Lion.” She smiles, “Could you take these to Mr Jones for me?” She doesn’t wait for your answer, already handing you two folders. “He’s expecting them.” 

You nod. “Of course, Madam.” 

Gorski pauses, a little shocked. “Thank you, Lion.” She says, genuinely. “They’re erm, some of the architect’s notes and the surveyor’s. I would have taken them personally, but there’s been an issue with the physician for the physicals coming up.” 

You nod again. ‘The physicals’ took place every 12 weeks like clockwork, and consisted of three things. An STD test for girls ‘on the books’, a pregnancy test, and a contraceptive injection.  

“Well,” Gorski pauses, then shakes her head. “Thank you again.” 

It’s a little strange to be on the receiving end of her genuine praise. 

Thank you for reading!

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[twwcs]

i still think about the One Weekend series, i reread it yesterday and wanted to know if u would write more for anselm, nathan, and birdie? if not, just disregard this ask, but i'd love to see some fluff of them?

their dynamic reminds me of bjork's "venus as a boy" song. it's so them. the lyrics and the instrumentals.

it rlly doesn't have to be much but i can imagine all of the fluffy parts of that dynamic.

bath time, cooking dinner, what nickname would nathan give her?

cuddling on a snowy day, skincare routines, nap time, listening to music, hiking, a picnic, swimming, stargazing, watching the northern lights, getting lost outside together, birthdays, laundry, painting, cleaning, shopping, etc. etc.

again, don't worry if u don't want to write anything, but i also just wanted to drop in and let u know that i love ur stuff, i always look forward to new posts from you and i can't wait to read all of the stuff you write in the future!

Wowowowowowowowowow That song is dead on!!!! AAAAAHHHH!!!! Bjork vibes are impeccable for them! That’s amazing and holy shit thank you for sharing!!!!

Your words are very, very kind, and yes, of course I still think of them. They're a great trio!!!!! Here are four soft scenes:

-Scene 1: Hot Tub-

“You know, I don’t like 'birdie' for you,” Nathan says from the other end of the sunken hot tub.

He'd flown in for the weekend, surprising you by coming in extra early (knowing Anselm was away for the afternoon, the sneaky little devil). You’re both naked, out near the pool, up to your necks in boiling hot water and loving it.

“You’re not fragile,” he says.

You tickle his leg with your foot. “Anselm doesn’t call me birdie because I have hollow bones. He says it’s because I rise above things in a way that he can’t, and because my presence is like a beautiful bird flying around in the sky. You can’t help but watch it.”

Nathan rolls his eyes. “Romance is just a fancy word for bullshit.”

“Fine. What would you call me?” you ask, trying not to sound sensitive, but Nathan swooping into a situation and thinking he can fix it even though it’s not even remotely broken, is so him.

Nathan pushes through the water. He sits right next to you, which is good because despite the heat, you like the solid, warm weight of him. Also, his glasses are off so they don’t steam up, and now that he’s close, he can see you.

He licks his lips, but before he can answer, you hear a gunshot.

Nathan jumps, startled, but you only turn your head.

“Anselm’s home,” you smile.

He has his gun pointed at the sky and he’s limping across the back patio.

“How dare you get started without me? You pompous, muscle-bound, prick.” Anselm straightens his suit jacket, then sets the handgun aside.

“You get her all the time. Can you blame me?” Nathan says, unoffended.

“Good afternoon, Birdie, dear,” Anselm kneels down and kisses you. His tie dips into the water. “Nathan.”

Anselm gestures his hand forward and Nathan obliges, leaning forward to kiss him hello. Nathan grabs Anselm’s tie and tugs.

“You have a lot of catching up to do,” Nathan says.

Anselm takes off his glasses, which are already fogging, and sets them next to Nathan’s on the side of the hot tub.

“Well then,” Anselm grins, “I shouldn’t waste time being mad.”

He swings his legs around, suit and shoes and everything, and hops down into the hot water.

-Scene 2: Stargazing-

You, Anselm, and Nathan are all outside, lying on a flannel blanket that you’d spread out on the back lawn.

You elbow Nathan to stop his snoring. He tends to get adorably sleepy after a full meal and a glass of wine.

“Hey, look, a shooting star,” you whisper.

“Make a wish,” Anselm nuzzles your neck.

“I don’t need to,” you smile. “I have everything I want.”

Nathan sighs. “I’m going back to sleep if all you two are going to do is canoodle and flirt.”

“Someone feels left out,” Anselm says in a sing-song voice.

You turn on your side, hands tucked under your face, to look at Nathan. He looks back at you from the corner of his eye, then gives in and reaches his arm out. You tuck into the crook of his shoulder and neck.

“What would you wish for?” you ask against the warmth of his skin. “And don’t tell me you don’t believe in it. Just play along. This is a romantic weekend, remember.”

You feel Nathan take a deep breath. He likes to argue. It’s foreplay to him. Still, it’s rare he takes time off from his work. And after your first visit to Nathan’s place, Anselm is wary of letting you go back. You’re always angling to get Nathan to come visit, though.

Not that you and Anselm and Nathan are together together. Another conversation for another day. But Nathan’s time is precious. That he chooses to spend it with you and Anselm is enough.

“I don’t have anything to wish for anything either,” Nathan says quietly.

You squeeze him hard, unable to stop a smile so big your face hurts.

“I would wish for an ice cream sundae,” Anselm says helpfully.

-Scene 3: A Hike-

Your arm is tucked into Anselm’s as you walk along the neatly groomed trail through the woods near the house. You have on your hiking boots and lightweight pants, a t-shirt and a backpack with a water bladder. Nathan is in his usual sneakers, gym shorts, and a zip-up hoodie. Anselm’s in a black suit with a silver and gold tie.

It’s your version of hiking.

“So how did you two meet?” you ask Anselm.

He gives you a cryptic smile. “Nathan, genius that he is, isn’t very good with financials.”

Eyes wide, you look at Nathan. “Please tell me you didn’t borrow money from a shady criminal organization to start Blue Book.”

Nathan thinks about it for a minute, then shrugs and stays mum.

“Two million to start,” Anselm elaborates. “As you know, I would never usually stake a stranger that much at the beginning of a business relationship, but I always sensed something special about our Nathan.”

Nathan picks up his pace, obviously embarrassed to be pleased about a compliment.

Anselm’s mustache twitches in glee. “He helped bring the Vogelweide family into the 21st century, and having such a large, high-profile project to funnel money through came in very handy. And Nathan and I found ourselves drawn to each other. One thing led to another.”

Nathan does a 180.

“No, no, no, that’s not how it fucking happened and you know it.” He pushes up his glasses. “The money part, yeah, that’s true. But one weekend, you asked me to stay here at the house and help you set up a Blue Book profile, walk you through the project. You knew what you were doing.”

“Anselm, you naughty boy. Seducing Nathan like that,” you say to Anselm.

“I only asked he stay the weekend. It isn’t my fault he was so charmed that he kept coming back again and again,” Anselm says smoothly, his dark eyes looking down at the cuticles of one hand through the yellowed lenses of his glasses. “Besides, we were only, as you might say ‘keeping it casual,’ until he sniffed out that I’d fallen hopelessly in love with you, my dear Birdie.”

You give Nathan a fake, snotty look. “Jealous much?”

Nathan almost smiles, a laugh escaping him as a little sniff through his nose. “More like I wanted to break whatever spell you had him under. Instead…”

The three of you pause. Nathan swallows like his mouth is dry and glued shut.

Anselm reaches out a hand and squeezes Nathan’s shoulder.

“Come now, Nathan, is it so hard to admit that you may be just a tiny bit fond of us?” Anselm asks in that tone of voice that says he’s teasing, but anxious to hear the truth.

Nathan pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looks down the path. “Sure. I’m fond of you.”

You and Anselm look at each other and smile. You both try to envelope Nathan into a Grumpy Hug Sandwich, but he waves his arms around, trying to avoid it.

Luckily, he’s outnumbered and you both squish him anyway.

-Scene 4: Happy Birthday-

Nathan wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin and sets it aside on the table after his five-course farewell dinner.

“Pretty good weekend,” he says. “Sorry I have to leave so early tomorrow. I’m testing some new shit all week and I need to start generating results right away, so I have enough data for phase two.”

“What’s phase two?” you ask. Not that you have any idea what he’s working on.

Nathan smiles, but it’s flat and plastic. “Phase two? The total destruction of civilization as we know it.”

You lean forward on the table. “I don’t buy it. You wouldn’t destroy civilization. If you did, you wouldn’t have any more weekends with us.”

“Here, here,” Anselm says as he wheels a cart in from the kitchen.

He has an adorable black maid’s apron on over his suit, complete with white lace and a matching cap nestled into his hair. The small, brass cart has a birthday cake on it.

“Alles gute zum Geburstag, Nathan,” Anselm smiles benevolently as the cart closes in on Nathan.

“Is that squeaking noise from the cart or your brace?” Nathan asks. “What the fuck is a ‘Geburstag?’”

You squeeze Nathan’s arm. “Happy Birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Nathan says, deadpan.

Anselm’s face falls dramatically. “But Birdie wrote your name on this cake herself, with her own loving hands. And she let me write a very naughty word across her chest with the rest of the gel icing, and then I licked it off.”

Nathan looks doubtfully at the cake, a circle with unlit candles and his name written very poorly on the top. It starts with a beautiful flourished ‘N’, but the ‘han’ at the end is kind of small and squished near the side.

He runs a hand over the short, bristly hairs on top of his head. “I hope it tastes better than it looks.”

“You’re so rude, I really ought to strap you to a chair and attach low-voltage, electric stimulating pads to your nipples and balls,” Anselm says with a sniff.

“How about we have cake instead?” you suggest.

Anselm takes a gun out from underneath his jacket.

“Anselm,” you say, your tone a low, warning. “Play nice.”

Nathan tenses for a moment. “You won’t shoot me.”

“Apologize to Birdie,” Anselm says, “and maybe you won’t get an extra hole in your crotch.”

"You're full of shit." Nathan leans back in his chair.

“Don’t push his buttons,” you say to Nathan. A losing battle. There’s nothing Nathan likes to do more.

“It’s my birthday, why the fuck should I apologize?” Nathan says, outraged.

You tilt your head. “You said it’s not your birthday.”

“It’s not, but if we’re going to pretend like it is, then I’m not apologizing ,” Nathan says.

“You’re both ridiculous.” You try very hard to keep from yelling, or laughing. The whole thing is absurd. "Maybe I should just go to bed alone."

Nathan turns in his chair to face you. “I’m sorry. Your cake is gorgeous. It’s the most perfect cake I’ve ever seen. It kicks every other cake’s ass. It belongs in a museum.”

You roll your eyes. “Satisfied, Anselm?”

He scratches his beard thoughtfully with his non-gun-holding hand. “I suppose.”

“Great,” you say dryly. “Cut the cake and I want an extra large slice.”

Anselm nods and pulls the trigger on the gun. You get halfway through your gasp when a flame comes out the other end. Anselm tips the gun toward the cake, lighting the candles with it.

Nathan laughs quietly, his muscled shoulders shaking as his fingers rub his eyes under his glasses.

Anselm blows out the flame at the end of the fake gun and tucks it back inside his jacket.

He picks up a dramatically large knife and with a huge smile, slices the cake into three, gigantic, perfectly even pieces.

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[twwcs]

basil stitt- alone together

Summary: Basil isn't happy that you were hired to clean his apartment, that is, until Rick the monkey plays matchmaker. (no warnings, really, just two lonely people finding each other, gender neutral reader, ~2.2k)

5 of 9 fics I wrote for @the-oscar-isaac-collectiveCoffee & Cream Digital Fanzine

-----

After 3 months of working for Basil Stitt, you’ve learned a few things.

1) He has a sweet tooth. 2) He doesn’t like you. 3) His stuffed monkey talks.

At first, you’d thought it was like a nanny cam. Basil’s parents had hired you to keep his apartment clean, and cook a few times a week.

You’d wondered if they were watching you, speaking to you through the stuffed monkey.

A few weeks in, after careful examination, you’d realized that it isn’t some kind of prank. It’s as obvious as it is strange.

Rick, the stuffed monkey, can talk. He has a low voice and a soothing, British accent. Sometimes he speaks in riddles, but you appreciate that he’s a deep thinker.

He makes up for the cold shoulder Basil gives you.

Basil shuts himself away when you come by, rotating through rooms so you can clean them. He never says hello. If you ever see him, he makes it clear that you aren’t welcome. Usually he just scowls, but a couple of times, you’ve had words with him.

For example, when you’d tried to introduce yourself, Basil had said nothing, turning his face away and ignoring your attempt at a handshake. You’d called him rude. He’d pointed to the front door and invited you to leave.

Another time he’d seen you looking in his garbage before you took it out to the trash chute. He’d yelled at you for being nosy.

He was right. But it still burned your ass that he’d caught you.

There’d been pillows stuffed in a garbage bag that looked like they had knife slashes in them. So, you’d taken them out of the bag to look.

You’d held them high so Basil could see his handiwork. “I’m nosy, but you did this. So, which is worse?”

Basil had been a man-about-town before he was struck by lightning, as Rick told it. Promotion after promotion at work. Wonderful girlfriend. All a bit hollow, but Basil liked it that way.

And then, as Rick had said, “time ticks forward, whether we stop to wind our pocket watches our not.”

The accident.

Basil had thought his life wasn’t worth living anymore, and then had felt called to a higher purpose. And now, he was very interested in watching Western movies, consuming pizza, and drinking vast quantities of red wine while sitting on his couch. He hid the containers so you didn’t report it to his parents.

You clean out the stash of empty wine bottles from beneath his couch cushions.

“This is insulting,” you say to Rick. “I’m not a snitch. His parents pay me to clean and cook, not to report back about him. He doesn’t have to hide anything. He doesn’t like that I’m in his apartment at all. I’m this close to quitting.”

“He thinks you don’t want to be here. He thinks the worst of himself, but all living creatures need to be seen.” Rick says. “Neither you nor Basil can do everything alone.”

You finish wiping down Basil’s coffee table. “I do just fine alone.”

“You do nothing but work. Would you not do better if you had someone to call your own? Try speaking to him about something you have in common. Perhaps candy. Basil is very fond of the jelly beans that you bring for him,” Rick says. “Also, I’m sitting on a hundred dollar bill. If you speak to Basil, consider it yours.”

You look at the stuffed monkey, roll your eyes and finish cleaning.

You pack up your supplies and check your watch. You have some time before you need to start dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs, enough for a few nights.

“Fine,” you say to Rick, picking him up and grabbing the money.

“Hey, aaaaaaaah,” Rick says as he tips over in your haste to set him back down.

“Sorry.” You set him upright.

The money goes into your back pocket and you walk upstairs to Basil’s bedroom.

“Hey, Basil,” you say, knocking on his door. “It’s me. Obviously. I’m the only one who comes over here, right?”

Silence.

“Well,” you continue speaking even though you have a knot in your stomach, “I was wondering if you wanted to change up the jelly bean flavors? The fancy ones that I bring for you?”

You hear a muffled voice.

“I can’t hear you through the door,” you say impatiently. “I’ve already seen your face a few times. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Shuffling and footsteps. The door cracks open. The right side of Basil’s face appears. Dark curly hair and one, beautiful eye.

“You can bring different flavors,” he says curtly.

You take out your phone. “They have a list on their website.”

You find it quickly and hand your phone to him. The door opens a little more so Basil can take it. You can see his nose now, most of his mouth.

You’ve always secretly thought he was handsome. Or he would be, if he stopped pouting.

His mom had told you not to mention anything about his appearance. He was understandably sensitive about it.

Basil scrolls through the list, not noticing that the door drifts open further and you can see his whole face now. It’s not the first time you’ve seen his lightning scar, the slight milkiness in his eye. But you’ve only seen it in passing.

This is different. You can see the beautiful, complicated pattern it makes on his skin. It looks healed, but darker and a bit red.

“Coffee jelly beans,” Basil mutters, reading your phone.

He’s frowning, but doesn’t sound angry, like you’ve heard before. It’s not a conversation, but it could be a start.

“They’re my favorite,” you say. “Better than chocolate covered espresso beans because they’re sweeter and, you know, you’re not just crunching down on a dry ass bean. They taste a little like the bag of Ethiopian coffee that I brought last week. Kind of fruity, in a good way.”

Basil hands you your phone back. “I haven’t tried it yet.”

Your eyes meet and your stomach jumps. Basil looks away, turning his head slightly so you can’t see his scars anymore.

“Why don’t we have a cup now? It’s early enough it won’t keep you from sleeping,” you say.

You turn and start downstairs. You keep talking, hoping to draw him down with you.

“I never had expensive, fancy coffee until I started working for you,” you say. “The place I get your coffee beans from smelled so good I had to try it. Now I’m addicted to it. So, now it’s like an extra five bucks three days a week when I come here. I can bring you a cup too, if you want.”

Your body relaxes when you hear Basil walk out of his room and down the stairs behind you.

“That would be nice,” he says cautiously, like he’s still suspicious of why you’re talking to him.

You glance at him with a half smile and head into his kitchen to brew the coffee in Basil’s machine. You can almost feel Rick staring at you from his perch on a low shelf in the living room. He’s so judgy, especially when he’s silent.

“Were you working today?” you ask, knowing Basil works remotely now.

“Yeah, but I usually get everything done by noon,” he says.

“Put in an extra scoop of grounds,” Rick says from the living room. “You both like strong coffee.”

You put another scoop in the filter basket.

Basil frowns at you. He looks at Rick.

“Done by noon sounds nice,” you say. “I have other clients that I clean for, and two other part time jobs.”

Basil opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it.

You put water in the machine and start it. You rinse out your travel mug from earlier and open the cabinet to get a regular one out.

“Basil is fond of the ‘Have a Nice Day’ mug,” Rick says.

You dig around until you find it in the cabinet and set it down.

Basil walks closer to you. He picks up the mug, his thumb running over the words pressed into the blue pottery.

“How did you know I like this one?” He glares at you.

“Oh,” you say with a smile, “just now, Rick told me. I thought you could hear him too.”

Basil sets the mug down so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter.

His hands grip your arms. Not enough to hurt, but it’s startling.

“You can hear Rick?” Basil says, a huge smile on his face. He laughs, overjoyed. “I thought I was the only one.”

You shake your head. “No, he keeps me company when I’m here.”

“He keeps me company when you’re not here,” Basil says. He lets you go. He rubs a hand over his chest, still smiling. “This is great. I’m not crazy.”

“Well, he’s a sentient, talking stuffed monkey with scars on his face like his owner. It’s possible we’re both crazy, but that wouldn’t bother me.”

“Yeah,” Basil agrees, his hands resting on his hips, “we’re not hurting anybody.”

The smell of coffee starts to fill the apartment.

Basil leans a hand on the counter. “Hey, I’m sorry about not being nicer, or friendlier. It’s just,” he waves a hand toward the left side of his face, “I kind of severed all human contact when I got this. I have a hard time talking to people now.”

The machine beeps to indicate it’s done. You take the carafe and pour two big cups.

“Your mom said you had a high-pressure job and a really beautiful girlfriend. You were going to buy a place in the Hamptons,” you say.

Basil takes the mug from you and inhales deeply. “I was on track to make VP at my company before I was thirty. Would’ve been a big deal.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. You blow on your coffee to cool it down.

“Me too,” Basil says. The unscarred side of his face scrunches up in thought. “Or, I don’t know, maybe not. If life wanted me to slow down, I wish it wouldn’t have struck my face with lightning to get the job done. But, I think there were signs before. I just ignored them.”

You nod. “I get that. Sometimes we have to be bonked over the head before we stop and pay attention.”

Rick clears his throat. You ignore him.

Basil sips his coffee. Then a second sip. “Wow, this is really good.”

“Sit down,” Rick’s deep voice says from the living room, “enjoy yourselves. Some things should be savored. The company of others, for example.”

“Okay, Rick, don’t make it weird,” Basil mumbles.

You walk with Basil over to his couch and sit down.

“So, uh,” Basil says as he sits next to you, “this is pretty awkward, but did Rick tell you anything about me? Like, what happened after the accident?”

You bite back a smile. “The thing with the wrecking the apartment and the slashed-open pillows I saw?”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t stabbed anything in a long time,” Basil reassures you, then realizes it’s probably not reassuring at all. “Now I made it weird. Sorry.”

You feel for him. Sympathy maybe, but it’s more like when you’re really getting to know someone. When you want them to like you because you already like them. Hoping you can let each other in.

“Processing trauma looks different for everyone. Your parents said you weren’t dangerous and you have a clean record,” you say. “And I take self-defense classes. There are a lot of bad people out there.”

Basil looks down into his coffee mug.

“I don’t think you’re one of them,” you say to him.

“I don’t think you are either,” Basil says. He sets the mug down and rubs his hands on his jeans. “Hey, if I order a pizza, would you maybe want to stay? Watch a movie? I’d take you out, but...”

He looks hopeful, almost like a puppy you’d see through the plate- glass window of a shop. You’ve always had a thing for underdogs.

“Yeah, I’ll stay. I’d much rather watch a movie here anyway. I’m not big on going out to busy places.” You look at Rick, “but I’m putting you upstairs. We don’t need a chaperone.”

Basil nods, agreeing. “I’ll put you in my bedroom and put on that documentary about the Hubble Space Telescope you like.”

“You’re both very rude,” Rick complains. “This entire thing was my doing, convincing Basil to speak to you, and you to speak to Basil. It’s taken me weeks to arrange.”

“Come on, Rick, no one wants a third wheel on a first date,” Basil says. He freezes, rubs a hand through the back of his curly hair. “I mean, not that it’s a date. It’s not. Or, maybe it’s like, a pre-date. Half a date?”

“We can call it a date,” you say.

“Cool.” Basil looks relieved. He smiles at you. It’s so sweet you almost want to hug him.

You’ve been avoiding each other for weeks. Maybe it isn’t that you don’t like each other. Maybe you’re both too used to being alone, not reaching out to anyone else for connection.

Rick’s right, though, life would be better with someone to call your own.

You and Basil could be a good fit. Two people, happy to be alone. Together.

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please lmk if you'd like to be removed- i promise not to take it personally!

[twwcs]

[twwcs]

Oscar Isaac as Nick Tosches in the upcoming movie "In The Hand Of Dante"

[twwcs]

OSCAR ISAAC as Dante Alighieri In the Hand of Dante

[twwcs]

[twwcs]

i mean this from the bottom of my heart: no one is impressed by your loud ass car. actually we talked about it and we all want you dead.