#(has suffered through wished you were dead) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

celestie0 · 8 days ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch9. counting sheep

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 9/x

ᰔ words. 20k

a/n. hellooo my lovely ihm readers!! thank you so much for tuning into another chapter of ihm :'') it means sm to me. as always i don't have much to say here lol but i'll see you at the bottom for some notes!!! hope you enjoyy. apologies for any typos or mistakes i was in a bit of a rush editing this lol

nav. masterlist

Counting sheep.

It was the only thing that helps you sleep now.

For as long as you can remember, it was how you ended every night.

You’re not exactly sure when the habit started. Was it when you graduated nursing school and began to work the night shift? And you were awake at 3am, feeling stranded at sea in your own home on your days off, with 15mg of melatonin in your bloodstream yet it still was never enough to put your thoughts at ease or your bones to rest.

Or was it ever since your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? How about cancer? Was that when it became too terrifying to close your eyes at night because you feared you’d miss something that wasn’t meant to be missed?

There are days where you do feel tired. You feel sluggish, wearisome, somewhat feverish. Tonight was one of those nights. Wearing a white lace nightgown, one far too big on you as the hem drags across the fabric of the upstairs loft, you cross your arms across your chest to keep yourself warm as your fingers soothingly rub the taut skin over your elbows.

It was the dead of night, no light other than the pale moon casting its glow onto the surface beneath your feet through the windows as you put one step in front of the other, meandering towards the master bedroom.

Gojo isn’t home tonight. He’s away for the weekend for some conference for work that his brokerage firm sent him on. Something about new foreign sales techniques and investment strategies. He shared the brochure with you so that you didn’t have to ask too many questions, but you would’ve preferred the conversation with him over lines of text to read. Two months ago, you would’ve preferred the former. It’s funny how fast things can change.

You almost wish you worked every night. At least when you’re at the emergency department, you’re surrounded by life, even in the face of death. There’s fluorescent lighting above you, the beeping noises of machinery, the airy sound of the overhead announcements at every hospitalist callback, code call, and triage update. Your coworkers were there along with you, that sense of camaraderie making it easier on you.

But on your nights off, you often find yourself wafting around the halls and rooms of the house, almost like a ghost haunting every corner, finally coming out of hiding in the safety of silence. There are nights where you do this for hours. Seriously, hours. Until your calves hurt and you’re starving but can’t bring yourself to do anything other than the routine foot in front of the other.

You finally push into the master bedroom with a weak palm on the door, the inside air chilly to your senses, and you figure that you’re not truly a ghost if you know what cold feels like.

The bed is neatly made up, as Gojo had tidied it up before he left, and as it always is in the hours where he’s not resting in it. You wonder if he sets it up right after waking up, if it’s some sort of ritual for him.

Without thinking, without glancing at any other corner of the room as if you’d find something waiting in one of them that would frighten you, you slip into the heavy covers that are foreign to you, but the familiar scent of him envelopes you in its entirety, relaxing every bone in your body.

The warmth is welcome. Head heavy on the pillow, you close your eyes.

You wonder what sort of sights your mother is seeing right now. Is she also asleep? Is she peacefully dreaming? You wonder if she remembers you in her dreams, at the very least.

One sheep, two sheep.

You wonder what sort of sights Choso sees right now. You’re scared to find out. He would always be a phone call away for you on nights like this, where you couldn’t sleep. And on some, he would be right there with you. How does he spend these hours of the night now if not to comfort you? Does he feel it as less of a burden now?

Three sheep, four sheep, five.

You wonder what sort of sights Gojo is seeing right now. And when you can’t picture anything at all, besides the dusty fan of a hotel room hanging from the ceiling, you realize you don’t know him. Even laying in his bed, surrounded by the ghost of his presence, surrounded by the proof of his life in this room, you realize you don’t even know what his favorite color is or how he likes his eggs in the morning. Or if he ever thinks of you sometimes, too.

Six sheep, seven. Eight. Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve sheep.

You’ll be better tomorrow.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen sheep.

Happier. You’ll be happier.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Tomorrow will be better.

Nineteen, twenty.

Tomorrow, you’ll be a better person.

Twenty one, twenty two.

Someone new.

Someone you’re happy to be.

Twenty three.

It’s a promise.

——————

“Hey. Did you sleep in my bed while I was gone?��

You glance up from where you’re leaning your hip against the kitchen island, completing this morning’s crossword puzzle because of course Gojo is the only person in the neighborhood that actually picks the newspaper up from his driveway.

“Five letter word for communications device? Any ideas?”

“Phone. Now answer me.”

“Mmm….nope, starts with an r.” You tap the eraser end of the pencil to your bottom lip, deep in thought.

“Radio.”

“Oh! Thank you,” you say before you set the paper down on the table and scribble in the letters. “And no, I didn’t. It’s the same way you left it, no?”

“I always tuck the corners.”

“Of fucking course you do.”

He sighs, turning around to face you, leaning back on the kitchen island as his espresso machine rumbles quietly before slowly dripping out a shot. “Just be honest with me, y/n. Because if it wasn’t you, I’m going to need to get cameras installed everywhere around the house.”

You sigh. “Yes…I slept in your bed.”

“How come?”

“Change of scenery.”

“Really? That’s it?”

You let out a slow exhale.

You know what sucked about having slept in Gojo’s bed?

Is that you slept like a baby.

For the first time in such a long time, you slept just fine.

And the slightest dusting of a blush brushes across your cheeks when you realize it’s probably because the scent of him on those sheets was in some way comforting to you.

You wish you could write it off as some weird pheromone biological response,

But you had a professor in college who told you that humans have no such thing as pheromonal responses.

You simply like the way he smells.

You glance up at him again. He’s stirring something into his cup of coffee now.

“I don’t know. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately,” you say, and by lately, you mean years, “and just…felt like trying something different would help.”

“And did it?”

“What?”

“Did sleeping in my bed help?”

Your eyes widen, not expecting the direct question.

“I–...” you start, “...yes, actually. It helped a lot.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Just sleep in the master then.”

“What–...but–”

“I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s all the same to me.”

You blink at him, confused because you thought he meant sleep…together. As in, in the same bed. And even if that wasn’t exactly what he meant, he still one-hundred percent would’ve at least tried to tease you about it. So you’re surprised that he didn’t.

You straighten your spine up, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, contemplating his words and his offer, and push your hand into your hair and scratch at your scalp. And scratch. And scratch a little bit more.

Gojo watches you the whole time.

“Uh,” he starts, “I mean this in the nicest way possible…but don’t you think you should wash your hair? It looks a little…”

“Mm?” you look at him, wide-eyed, “a little what?” You ask with innocence as you continue to scratch your scalp.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

He sighs. “It looks a little greasy.”

A soft, offended gasp leaves your lips.

“Wh—......What?!?!?”

You hate him with a burning passion (most of the time), yes, it’s true.

But, and it’s torturous to admit this to yourself, he’s right.

You do have a tendency, and a somewhat misfortunate habit, of neglecting washing your hair when you’re busy.

You’ve worked five night shifts this week, ran back and forth between your mom’s hospice because she had a UTI and became septic again, you’ve been running around trying to get everything in order in your house so that you can sell it as soon as possible, and every night when you get home, you sit down at your desk only to be reminded of how much debt you’re in. You’ve barely had enough time to think about yourself, and although you never neglect a daily shower, it’s possible that you may have forgotten to wash your hair while you’re in there.

You let out a huff of hair, narrowing a glare at Gojo before crossing your arms across your chest. “I seriously cannot believe you’re insinuating that I look ugly.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” he says, setting his mug down in order to put his hands out in front of him in vindication, “I never said you were ugly.”

“You just said my hair looks greasy.”

“You still look nice, just…. a little greasy. Like a french fry. But who doesn’t love french fries?”

“Satoru!”

“I’m joking,” he laughs, “well, not about your hair being greasy. But, what I’m saying is, you still look hot. In your own…weird way.”

“I seriously want to slap you.”

He crosses the distance between the two of you in one stride to where he’s now standing in front of you, and you blink up at him in a panic when his hands slide across the island countertop on either side of you, caging you into it.

“Go ahead,” he says with a boyish grin on his face, dangerously close to you as his gaze flickers down to your lips.

“Has this weird attraction of yours towards me only begun simply because I threaten to physically injure you all the time?” you ask him, narrowing your gaze further as you look up into piercing blue eyes that look darker to you somehow, more dilated.

“No, I’ve always thought you were hot,” he says, his gaze moving up to make eye contact with you, as if he really wants you to know he’s being honest, “since the day I met you.”

Your heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute in your chest. “Then why do you always roast the hell out of me?”

“Because I like to,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips again, and this time his tongue passes over his own, “and because I know you can take it.” He leans further into you, that scent of his that you like so much sending your head into a dizzy haze to where you can’t even think, the heat from his body felt against your own. “Not a lot of women can.”

Your blush doesn’t just reach your cheeks, it’s a heat that you feel spread across your entire body. “Th–...That’s offensive to women.”

He tilts his head at you, now studying the slight sheen to your lips. “Can we just skip the part where you rant about the patriarchy so I can kiss you already?”

You push your palm up against his chin, entirely swerving the kiss, making sure his face is looking straight up towards the sky so he knows exactly where you’re going to send him if he ever calls you a french fry ever again, and then say, “go fuck yourself.”

“What–”

You duck underneath his arm that was still caging you into the kitchen counter, swiftly moving past him as he stays still in his confining position, blinking at you with dumb blue eyes as you stomp across the living room towards the front entrance.

“I’m leaving,” you shout out, “and I’m taking your car,” you grab his keys, “And I’m–” You see his wallet at the foyer table, flip it open, and pull out some bills, “and I’m taking a hundred-and-twenty bucks. Don’t ask questions.” And before you could even give him a chance to verbally express any confusion, you’re out the door, and slamming it shut behind you.

——————

“Hana, please, I’m begging you. I’ll even pay for brunch!” you say into the receiver of your phone as you stroll the ashy paved sidewalks of Dayton county’s downtown during a rather busy Saturday afternoon. “Your French boyfriend’s uncircumcised penis can’t be that fuckin’ good for you to blow me off like this when we’ve had these plans for weeks!”

You hush your voice towards the end of the sentence because you remember that you are quite literally in public.

“I know, I know, I’m so, so, so sorry,” Hana’s voice comes off somewhat distant in the phone, “he just looks so pale, and he’s been running an insane fever, I’d hate to leave him like this.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever happened to hoes before sexy Frenchmen, I’ll never know,” you sigh into the phone and then hang up on her, but right as you pull the phone from your ear, you trip over a crookedly lined cement panel on the ground, gasping as you stumble forward, barely able to steady your feet but at the expense of your phone slipping out of your hand and devastatingly towards the hard, rocky ground–

Before it gets caught about six inches above the surface by a rather large, masculine hand.

You blink at the sight, then trace the hand up into the arm, and eventually up into the face of the person that was sitting at this outdoor cafe’s table, and just so happened to have enough arm wingspan to prevent you from having to sell your kidney in order to buy a new phone.

He blinks at you with deep purple eyes, his lashes splaying over his upper cheeks as he glances down at your phone again, as if he himself is surprised by his own reflexes, before his gaze flickers up to yours again.

You straighten your spine, now looking down at him. He looks painfully familiar. Glossy long black hair underneath a sun high in the sky, half of it tied up and out of his face, but with some strands that have escaped the confinement, tendrils that frame his sharp jaw and complement his complexion. He sits cross-legged, dressed in all black with some sort of sophistication that makes him easily look like an outcast in a run-down town like this, but he doesn’t seem to even remotely hide the fact that he doesn’t belong.

And that’s when you remember.

That he doesn’t belong here.

“Ah! It’s you,” you exclaim.

His eyes widen slightly as the recognition of you flashes across his face as well.

“The mysterious man who drinks pulp-free orange juice made for kids,” you continue.

He blinks a couple times before his face relaxes into an easy smile. “Weren’t you eyeing the same carton?”

“That–” you stutter, “……...it’s very possible.”

He lets out a short exhale through his nose, somewhat reminiscent of a laugh.

“Here,” the man says, stretching his arm out towards you to hand you your phone, “I would really put a case on that, though.”

You take the device from him somewhat hesitantly, the pads of your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. You notice he doesn’t really let go of the phone until he’s sure that it’s in your hand.

“I know…” you say, assessing your phone for scratches, which you hope he doesn’t take as an insult to the efficacy of his reflexes, “they’re just kind of expensive,” you blurt out, immediately regretting it. Because what kind of cheap-ass do you look like, now?

“More expensive than having to get a new phone?” he questions.

“That’s fair. Although, I don’t enjoy being lectured about the wellbeing of my belongings by strangers,” you say.

“Sit, then,” he offers, gesturing to the chair in front of him across the grated black round cafe table, “let’s get acquainted.”

Slightly stunned by the proposal, yet weirdly inclined to oblige, you breathe in deeply, and then let the air out slowly as you slip into the chair across from him. Well, your plans got cancelled anyways, might as well take this opportunity to better understand this mysterious entity that has arrived in your town.

“I’m Suguru,” he says, extending his hand out to shake, and you accept it, “Suguru Geto.” The handshake is firm but you can’t help but notice that his hand feels cold to the touch.

“I’m y/n,” you say, “it’s nice to meet you. Well, formally, I guess.”

He presses his lips into a thin smile. “Likewise.” He leans forward a little, uncrossing his legs, then points towards the inside of the cafe. “Want a coffee? On me.”

“You know what, yes. I’ll have an iced vanilla latte,” you say.

It was at least somewhat of a courtesy that you ordered a quick drink to make, and one that was cheap. It really shouldn’t matter, since you would’ve just used one of the twenties that you stole out of Gojo’s wallet before you left, but it was merely a polite gesture, anyways.

“So, y/n, do you live nearby?” he asks as he takes a sip of whatever he was drinking, all you know is that he ordered it hot.

“Yes, just a few miles away,” you say, “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Yup! Dayton county, born and raised,” you chirp.

“Hmm,” he hums pleasantly, “don’t tell me you’ve lived in the same house your whole life too.”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

He laughs. “You’ll have to show me around town.”

You tilt your head at him. “You’re just visiting, right? From…” You search your mind for the memory, or if he had ever told you at all.

“New York,” he says before taking another sip. You entertain a sip from your own coffee too, wanting to match his pace.

“Oh, right, and were you able to visit those old friends you were here for?” you ask him, the memory of the conversation coming back to you somewhat.

“Ah, not really. I’m…well, I guess I’m searching for someone.”

“Searching for someone?” you snort, “what are you, Christopher Columbus? It’s the 21st century, you can’t just call them?”

He laughs again, fuller this time, coming from his chest. It’s a smooth sound, stable and sturdy. “You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.”

“Oh, I–...” you blink at him, your shoulders dropping slightly, “...I just like to get to the point.”

He laughs again, more of a close-mouthed chuckle as he glances down through the grates of the table’s surface towards the ground.

“What?” you ask, somewhat impatiently.

He shakes his head, the motion swaying some of the tendrils of dark hair that frame his face, and he brings his cup of coffee to his lips again. “Oh, nothing,” he says softly before taking a sip, “you just remind me of someone I know.”

You swallow gently, the furrow to your brow relaxing slightly. His eyes don’t meet yours, just continue to cast his gaze at the ground, but he has a rather melancholic look on his face. You love to get answers, and you love to be nosey, but you also know when a question shouldn’t be asked.

“As for why I don’t just call them,” he says suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair, crossing his legs, pushing his shoulders back and settling into his chair more, “I don’t really think they want anything to do with me anymore.” He answers candidly.

“Why look for them then?”

His gaze flickers up towards you. “y/n, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can change?”

“That’s a rather cryptic question to change the topic of conversation to.”

“Just humor me for now.”

“Well, I think it goes without saying. Of course people can change.”

“Right?” he says, as if he didn’t ask the question out of skepticism, but rather to affirm his own belief. “Well, anyways, let’s just say I’m here to make amends. Tie up loose ends.”

Closure. This man wants closure.

“I don’t necessarily want to bore you with the details,” he says, “but it’s likely I won’t be leaving town until my business here is resolved.”

“What if it takes forever?”

“It won’t,” he says.

“But what if?”

As his eyes bore into you, they look muddy. Less of that purple-ish hue that you see when light reflects off of his pupils, and you notice that it has nothing to do with the light, but rather the yellow that has sunk into the irises of his eyes.

“It won’t,” he says, barely above a whisper, his smile dampening as he sees right through you.

You feel the need to change the subject.

“You know,” you say, “you’re, like, the fourth person I’ve met in the past couple of years that has come here from New York City. What’s up with that?”

“There’s a mass exodus,” he says, “out of there.”

“Really?”

“No. My lame attempt at a joke.”

“Oh,” you say dryly, “let’s, um, let’s not attempt those anymore.”

He smiles at you, like he knew that would be your exact reaction to a sloppy joke thrown into the song and dance of a first-time conversation. You dislike how well he reads you.

He leans forward on the table, setting his elbows up onto it, gaze boring into yours. “Not a huge fan of pulp-free, by the way. Just thought I’d try it.”

“So you like it with the pulp?” you ask.

He nods his head.

“I knew it. I knew you were a sociopath. Totally have the face for it.”

You find a strange pleasure in your ribs at the genuine laugh that evokes out of him.

——————

You let out a soft sigh of relief as you stroll down the streets of downtown, swinging the bag you were carrying around with the rather jovial pep to your step. You’ve been needing new shoes for a very long time, especially since being on your feet for twelve hours straight during shifts does hardly anything good for your early onset plantar fasciitis. And with the little pocket change you stole from Gojo, you now had a new pair of New Balances as well as…..four dollars and fifty-two cents left in your pocket.

It’s a bit of a windy but rather sunny day, the breeze rustling the branches of the trees that lace the otherwise nicer part of town. The part that houses all domestic tourism, likely a grand total of fifty people a year if the county was lucky. It was safe to say Dayton Council doesn’t place a lot of emphasis on hospitality towards outsiders, or tax dollars for that matter, but if you were to ever show someone new around the place, it would be to this particular more well-kept street downtown.

As you walk past a coffee shop, you catch a waft of jalapeno cream cheese bagel, the fresh scent of carbohydrates rousing a grumble from the pit of your stomach, making you aware of the fact that you were hungry. Despite the fact that you just recently parted ways from the mysterious Pulp-Free Orange Juice man hardly an hour ago, and that lemon loaf you ended up getting on your way out was still metabolizing in your bloodstream. But you realized you still wouldn’t be opposed to a cream cheese bagel at the moment.

The jingle of the little bells above the cafe’s entrance ring in your ear as you step inside, the A/C unit blowing a harsh puff down on you as it attempts to keep the heat of late August away from the cool interior. The place didn’t appear busy, but as you approached the register to place an order, a woman who was standing in line caught your eye.

She was dressed in a black suit from head to toe, with a feminine flare at the seams of her sleeves and silver silk lines running down her pants, elongating what was a very flattering figure, making her appear taller than the lift that the three inch heels of her shoes already do. And a closer look has you realize they’re Louboutins. She was easily taller than you, even without the heels. Her shoulders appear angular from the blazer of her suit, but you can tell they’re frail underneath the fabric. She has pin-straight mid-length hair that falls just past the curve of them. The ends of her hair look healthy, as if freshly cut, and she lifts her hand to toss some of it back with a delicate flick of her wrist, the gold-plating of her small watch catching your eyes. Her gaze is set upwards towards the menu, a small crinkle to her brow as she studies the words. Sophisticated and feminine were the words that came to mind as you looked at her. But the more you stare…the more you trace the feline lift of her eyes…the more you notice the slight pout of her lips…you just swear that you know her from somewhere. But–...but where?

“Excuse me, are you waiting in line?” some dude from behind you calls out.

“Ah.” You glance over your shoulder at him, “no, sorry, go ahead.” You step aside for the guy to get into line, directly behind the woman in the suit.

After taking a couple of seconds to look at the menu, you decide on what you had already decided on before you had even entered the premises–a jalapeno cream cheese bagel. You wonder if you should get something to drink too, but wait patiently in line as the old couple at the register finish ordering.

The guy who had lined up just ahead of you had sparked up a conversation with the woman in the suit. You can tell he’s trying to make friendly, if not flirty, conversation with her, and you roll your eyes. Really? Dude’s ass-crack is peeping out from the low hang of his washed out blue jeans, and his turned-backwards baseball cap on his head makes him look like that creepy middle aged guy that loiters around a skate park to sell some kids some crappy weed. What on God’s Green Earth has given him the bravado to flirt with a woman like that? Out of his league wasn’t enough to admonish the audacity. But you witness the disaster regardless.

“You from ‘round here?” you can hear him ask her.

She doesn’t even turn a single degree to look at him, just continues to stare forward with her hands folded in front of her, a chic black clutch dangling from her shoulder. “Ahh, no, just visiting.” Her voice is soothing, a little soft, one that makes it hard to eavesdrop, but you were determined.

The man looks over his shoulder behind himself towards a group of guys seated at one of the tables, and he flashes them a grin, before he turns back forward and takes a step towards the woman.

“Damn, they’re takin’ kinda long, huh?” he says to her, directly behind her ear.

“I suppose,” she says, shifting her feet forward a little to create distance.

“Well, I always say the wait’s better with a pretty view,” the dude practically purrs, dipping his nose towards the crown of her head, but far enough to where she wouldn’t get a sense of just how close he was to her. “Which is you, by the way. If it wasn’t already obvious.”

You see her shoulders rise and drop with the sigh she releases before she shifts her weight towards her right leg, crossing her left one over the other, balancing on one heel as she attempts to contain her composure. Your blood starts to boil on her behalf.

You hear the table of men off to the side laughing loudly in witness. As if in slow motion, the man’s hand lifts from his side and reaches out to grab her by the waist, “c’mon sweetheart, gimme something to work with here–”

Before you can even step in to yank him off of her, to your surprise, and likely the surprise of everyone else in the cafe, the woman elbows the man in his ribcage, making him recoil with a hurt gasp backwards, and then she swiftly spins on her heel, lifting her leg to kick the dude straight in the face, the pointy toe of her shoe digging straight into his cheek before she sends him flying off towards the left and crashing right into the table of men that had been watching this entire time.

You blink in awe, staring at the woman who gently places her foot back down onto the ground with a level of balance only a ballerina would possess, and she dusts off her hands with a disappointed look on her face. Then she turns back around to continue looking up at the menu as if the whole cafe wasn’t staring at her.

You hear the growl of one of the other men at the table, offended by the emasculation his buddy just faced, and he lunges towards the woman while her back is facing him, and in a moment of no higher-thinking, you lift your bag of New Balances and swing it so that it smacks the guy right across the face to attempt stopping him from getting any further. But all it does is smack against his cheek rather ungracefully, and then now he’s glaring at you instead.

“Uh-oh,” you say, sheepishly staring up at this tall, burly, bald man that looks like he could powder steel to dust if he wanted to.

He makes a move to grab your shoulder, and you can see the woman in your periphery reach out to try to pull you away from him, but then you remember–

You’re an ED nurse.

How many times have you had to tackle a patient because security wasn’t doing their job?

How many times have you had to roll over a patient by yourself because the techs were too busy playing hooky in the break room?

You pull your fist backwards, winding up a punch with a white-knuckled grip, fingernails digging into the skin of your palm, and it all happens in slow-motion–the moment where you slam your knuckles right into the man’s jaw with all the force you can muster, and it seems enough to where you knock out a tooth and mutilate the cartilage of the bridge of his nose.

“Oh–” you stutter, blinking with wide eyes as the man entirely recoils, hunching over, screaming a strain of profanities to himself as he holds his nose which was now bleeding all over the cafe’s floors. You glance at your hand and see blood on it as well, then up at the woman who was now staring at you with wide eyes too. Along with the rest of the cafe.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the man screams over and over again, and when he lifts his head to look at you, he’s crying. Straight up tears streaming down his face with a quivering lip.

Another one of the men lunges towards you to avenge the second man who was trying to avenge the first man, and this time, you flinch backwards, tripping slightly over your ankle, giving the man enough time to almost grab your arm but in the blink of an eye, you see the woman step in front of you and she knees him straight in the sternum, making him fall backwards.

It’s at this point where the rest of the residents in the cafe finally intervene, grabbing and pinning down all of the men in the midst of this cafe altercation, so that they can’t try to hurt the two of you anymore.

You turn to the woman, eyes wide, ears ringing slightly from the adrenaline, and then you say– “thank you.”

“Gosh, no, thank you,” she says with a small laugh, politely shaking her hand in front of her as if your gratitude was the last thing necessary.

“No but seriously,” you say to her, blinking with wide eyes in awe as the chaos of pinning the men down in the background continued, hearing people shout threats to call the police, “I mean, your reflexes–...and that crazy kick! That was black-belt level of self defense.”

“Ahhh thank you,” she says, hanging her head a little in modesty before nodding, and you notice not a single one of her hairs is out of place, “I am actually a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”

“Wow,” you say, “that’s really amazing.��

She smiles at you, then neatly tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

And she still looks so familiar.

So uncannily familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it.

Never someone you’ve met…but just someone you know somehow.

Like you’ve seen her somewhere.

But the feeling in the pit of your stomach was an unwelcome one, and not a curious one.

“Is your hand okay?” she asks you, her brows furrowing with worry as she glances down at it. You see the men being carried outside the cafe by a bunch of the other patrons.

“Oh! Yes. It’s the other guy’s blood, not mine.”

She grins at you. “You’re the cool one.” She glances over to the right at the register where the guy who was manning it was staring at her in awe. “Here, hold on one sec.” She then crosses the distance with flawless balance on her heels and a swaying set of silky hair as she makes her way up to it.

You awkwardly stand where you are before she comes back out with a small cup of water and some napkins. She grabs your hand in hers and gently starts dabbing a wet napkin to your hand to wipe the blood off of it. The gesture is somewhat tender to you with the way that she takes care in doing so. Gentle swipes of wet napkin over the valleys of bone, meticulous enough to where no red pigment dares to threaten the pearly french manicure that adorns her nails. When she’s close to you, you catch a waft of the delicate lavender perfume on her clothes.

“There! Lovely, all better,” she says, then reaches into her purse for some hand sanitizer. “But seriously, thank you,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting that other guy to lunge at me. If it wasn’t for you, that would’ve ended badly.”

“Oh, of course,” you say, “it was actually really satisfying getting to punch the shit out of someone.”

She laughs. It’s contained. “I’m glad.”

“Excuse me, ladies?” a voice towards the right calls out, and you both turn your heads to see a police officer standing there. And when he makes eye contact with you, your eyes widen. “Oh. It’s y/n.”

“Ah,” you say to him, “Leon.”

Leon was Choso’s patrol partner for most shifts, and his right-hand-man more or less. They were good friends, and have been coworkers for the past three years or so. Given you were Choso’s girlfriend for the entirety of his career as a cop so far, you’ve gotten to know a lot of his fellow deputies. From being his plus-one at Christmas parties, and BBQ picnics, and dropping into the Police Department for lunch with him on his grueling weekend shifts. Y’know. The typical girlfriend stuff.

“You’re the one that punched that guy?” Leon says with disbelief as he points his thumb over this shoulder behind him. You glance through the glass panes of the cafe and see a police car outside and another cop placing those men in handcuffs.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Damn. Would hate to see what the place looked like when Choso dumped you.”

“I’m the one that dumped him!!!!” you shout a little too loudly to vindicate yourself.

He pulls a spiral notebook out of the velcro pocket of his black vest, then clicks the pen to his chest before placing his wrist on the paper. You’re almost surprised he knows how to read and write.

“I’m going to need some testimony from you two,” he says.

The woman’s phone starts ringing in her pocket, and she says softly, “yes, just excuse me for one moment,” before she steps off to the side to take the call.

Leon glances at her over his shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Huh?

He jerks his chin towards her general direction.

“The woman you’re with. She single?”

You roll your eyes. “Out. Of. Your. League. Seriously! What the fuck is up with you penis-havers?!”

You didn’t understand why you were being particularly protective over this woman against the sloppy men of your hometown, but it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You’ve spent most of your life knowing that you live in one of the most forgettable, unsophisticated, lame and unheard of places in the entire country. You felt it was a duty to at least protect the visitors to this town against any of its regular bullshittery, including its residents, of whom you know very well.

Leon sighs, as if this behavior from you was no surprise, likely because it wasn’t, and then he presses his pen to paper again. “Alright. Just give me the story.”

You finishing recounting the incident to Leon, and when the woman comes back, she finishes telling her side as well, then Leon walks the two of you outside to get assessed for any injuries by the paramedic he brought with him on stand-by, and aside from a small band-aid the paramedic places over your knuckle, the two of you had left unscathed, and then the place becomes vacant of any lawful authorities.

“Um,” the woman says, wincing a little, then points towards the ice cream shop next to the cafe. “Please? As a thanks? I feel bad.”

You give her a soft smile. “Sure.”

The two of you entered the store, and you stand near the back of the store as the man behind the glass scoops together two cones of ice cream for the woman, and even though she tried to pay for them, she ended up getting them for free by the starry-eyed college student working behind the counter. Pretty privilege, you thought to yourself.

“Here,” she says, “this one is yours.” And she extends her arm out to give you your ice cream cone as the two of you leave the store.

“Ah! Thank you,” you say, graciously accepting it, somewhat awkwardly, but it felt like a reward.

“It’s dripping,” she says, voice soft in a slight panic as she sees that her cone is dripping too.

You both lick off whatever cream was threatening to roll down into your hands, and just as you taste sweet sugar on your tongue, you hear a loud engine rumble next to you, along with the crunch of tires underneath rough road as a man in a truck drives by the curb, rolling his window down to yell, “DAAAAAAAMNNNN SLUTS!!!!! Y’all make that ice cream look gooooooood, fuck!”

Your jaw drops. Pure rage fills your every bone and you start chasing the car down the road, yelling “IT’LL LOOK EVEN BETTER SHOVED UP YOUR FUCKING NOSE YOU DIRTY FUCKING FREAK!!!”, then hurl the ice cream cone at his car, aim perfectly hitting his passenger side mirror, covering it in vanilla, before the cone bounces off, falls to the ground, and you hear the kick of his engine again as he speeds away.

You’re huffing and puffing, panting even, as you stand at the edge of the curb and notice that there are quite a few townsfolk staring at you with amused looks and wide eyes.

The woman in the suit appears in your periphery, and she’s laughing. “You’re so–” she’s hunching over a little now, “you’re so funny, oh my god.” The laugh was hearty, full of spirit, unlike the prim and curated one she has given you so far.

You exhale a puff of air and stand up straight. “I’m so sorry. Some of the men in this town are so degenerate and fucked in the brain.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” she says, letting out some more laughs as she swipes under her eye to collect a laughter-induced tear from the corner of it, and she checks her finger for any smudge of makeup underneath it before she smiles and gleefully swats a hand at you. “I’m used to catcalling.”

You blink at her.

“Oh! I mean–...because I’m from the city!” she clarifies, suddenly stiffening. “Gosh, not because I’m beautiful. I just realized that was a little self-centered to say…And now I feel self centered again for clarifying that it wasn’t self centered. Oh gosh. I promise that I am not self centered.” She lets out an awkward laugh then tosses her hair over her shoulder rather elegantly.

You awkwardly smile at her. “No, um, I mean, I don’t think it was self-centered to say. And besides, you are very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she smiles. It’s a pretty one, rounding out her eyes into crescents. “You as well.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Ah, I just realized I never introduced myself. I’m Sylvie,” she says, stretching her hand out for you to shake it. You’re a little surprised by the gesture but you accept it. She gently squeezes your hand. “And you?”

“y/n,” you say.

As a group of men walk by down the street, you notice that a few of them glance Sylvie’s way, gazes lingering for a moment, but she doesn’t seem privy to it at all, even when those gazes turn into blatant staring before they’re no longer in proximity to stare for any longer. And you can see why. She’s insanely pretty, and in that way where it’s something she was simply born with and never taught to question. Classically beautiful, rather than the trendy or posed kind. And the men in this town aren’t exactly used to seeing a woman like her in a place like this. Like locals who can sniff an outsider from a mile away. Or a vintage birkin. Like the one hung over her shoulder.

“Would you like to sit down?” she asks.

You blink at her. “Sure.”

For the second time today, you find yourself sitting across a stranger in outdoor shop seating on a rather sunny Saturday afternoon. The person that is seated across from you also feels familiar to you in the same way that Mysterious Pulp-Free OJ man did to you as well, but you still can’t quite place where you’ve seen her before.

She uses a spoon to scoop up the ice cream from her cone, bringing it to her lips, somewhat dainty when she pulls the spoon out of her mouth, now clean of any cream. “So, y/n, what do you do for work?” she asks you, eyes flitting up to yours.

“I’m a nurse,” you tell her simply, “what about you?”

“I’m in investment property management for high-profile clients.”

You blink at her, gently scooping up some ice cream from your cup. “Oh.” It sounded like an elevator pitch that rolls off her tongue with the ease of a million past recitations. “Kinda like real estate?”

“Yes, I mean, my line of work is a little adjacent to that, but yeah! I started off in general real estate and then moved into more of the investment property space as opposed to primary residence.”

You nod slowly, wondering if she always speaks about her job with buzz words like she’s constantly at a job interview. “My husb–...uh, my neighbor is a realtor,” you say in an attempt to connect.

“Oh!” she chirps, tilting her head at you, “that’s interesting.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m actually here because I heard there was a bit of a realtor shortage in the area.”

“Oh? So you’re looking to move here?”

“Ahh, maybe.”

“I see. Just a heads up, you won’t find any high-profile clients here. The last celebrity that visited this town was Adam Sandler, and he was only here because he got lost on his way to Seattle.” You wave your spoon around in the air. “I only know that because the local news covered it for like a week.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I’m…I’m still thinking. Still deciding. It’s nice being in New York, but…” She glances off towards the street in thought, her eyes lidding ever so slightly, lashes briefly dusting her high cheeks, “there’s a future for me here in this town.”

“Mm,” you hum before placing your spoon on your tongue, briefly questioning why someone would choose a small town like this over one of the biggest metropolitan cities in the country, especially when she looks and acts and talks like a city girl through and through, but you suppose to each their own. “You know, you’re the second person I’ve met today that’s visiting here from New York. Strange phenomenon.” Maybe there really is a mass exodus as Mr. Pulp-Free OJ so poorly joked about.

Her interest is piqued. “Oh, really? Who was the other person?”

“Well, I originally met the guy at a grocery store. But I ran into him again today and actually had a chat with him, but now he’s only become even more mysterious to me than the first time I met him.” You sigh. “He’s kinda hot, though. And by ‘kinda’, I mean really.”

“Ohhh,” she coos, setting her napkin down on the table and setting her chin in the palm of her hand held up by her elbow, “if you’re single, you should ask him out the next time you see him.”

You let out a girlish laugh, shaking your head somewhat bashfully as your gaze flits downward, like you’re a teenager talking about boys with your friends at a sleepover. Sylvie’s eyes twinkle at hearing the sound. “Maybe I will.”

Your eyes flit up to the sky briefly.

Are you single? I mean, you are fake-married. But what does that mean if you were to hit it off with someone while you were in this diplomatic arrangement? Is there exclusivity in this situation? Or was there room to see other people? You have no idea. And you don’t really know how Gojo would feel about it, either.

You two continue to chat, suddenly moving into a conversation about how shitty of an ex-boyfriend Choso was, and Sylvie is entirely enthralled by all the drama, but you realize she doesn’t really give up much info of her own. Nothing above the surface level & vague “one of my friends” this or “hahaha same” that. But either way, you kind of feel like you’ve made a new friend today, and the feeling is nice.

As you listen to Sylvie talk about what the weather's like in New York City, you twirl your hair around your finger, and then Gojo’s words from earlier this morning flash through your mind, making you instantly grimace with anger.

Sylvie blinks at you. “Oh, sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you quickly clarify, “sorry, I was just thinking about my hair.”

“Your…hair?”

You sigh. “Yes.”

“What about it?” She tilts her head. “Looking to get it cut?”

“Well, yes, that too, but also–” You pause. She’s a woman. Surely she could at least relate to the feeling of forgetting to wash your hair every now and then, and then feeling somewhat embarrassed by it. But given that her own hair looks like she just stepped out of a salon, along with every other inch of her body looking prim and perfect, you become more and more doubtful as the seconds pass that she could relate to you on that front at all. But you decide to give it a shot, anyways. Friendships are built on vulnerability, are they not? “I’m just a bit bothered by something my…neighbor said to me this morning.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“He said my hair looks greasy. Like a french fry.”

“Seriously?” she says with disbelief, “what a jerk!”

Your face lights up and you lean forwards towards her, delighted in for once finally sharing in the same distaste for Gojo that no one else seem to have. “I know, right?! Like, what the actual fuck.”

She shakes her head. “Men.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What?”

“Shall we go get you that haircut?”

You blink at her. “R…Right now?”

“Yes!” she chirps. “What better thing to do on a Saturday than a haircut and a fresh blowout?”

There’s a feeling that swells in your chest. It’s a mixture of excitement and a mixture of fear. Where you’re thrilled to indulge in some of the finer things in life, but also worried that you’ve never come to deserve any of it.

“Come onnnnn, y/n,” Sylvie says as she leans further onto the table, both of her elbows on the surface with her hand folded over the knuckles of the other, both holding her chin up as she narrows those sharp eyes at you. “I can tell that you want to.”

You breathe in deep, then let it out slowly.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

——————

The golf course was the kind of place that almost felt sterile in its perfection. One thing about a small semi-suburban town bordered by rural farmland properties was that they got their golf courses right. Lush green rolled out onto the hills in laminar waves, trimmed and tamed along its borders. Instead of metal fences that gate the area, there were pine trees that lined the edges, and made the place feel more natural.

Gojo adjusted the glove on his left hand, more for performance than any real need, and he squinted his eyes out into the green hilly distance. The visor of his hat was barely sufficient to block the rays of sunshine, and he tucks the handle of his golf club under his arm so that he can lift his hat off and push back some of his hair that had escaped from it.

Choso stood a few feet away, watching him. His posture was rigid, entirely contrary to Gojo’s lax state, and he had his arms crossed, hands tucked underneath his armpits as if he was still on duty and in uniform. Gojo shifts a glance his way, and he’s not sure what sort of intel Choso intends to collect with a glare like that.

Gojo steps up to the ball, exhales a puff of air, draws his club back, and swings. The ball shoots off in a clean arc, and he watches its trajectory, but barely looks where it lands before he turns his back to it and stretches his neck from side to side.

“You always swing like you’re tryna impress someone?” Choso asks.

“Am I? That felt pretty relaxed to me.”

“Explains the finish.”

“Bummer. Still ahead, though.”

Choso grumbles something underneath his breath that Gojo doesn’t quite catch, then steps up to his ball, his shoulders stiff as he lets out some disgruntled noise as if the ball personally offended him by its existence.

He tightens his grip around the club, flexing his hands open and close a few times, shuffles his feet as he gets into stance, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Definitely more practiced and curated than whatever Gojo was used to seeing out on the field, and a lot less leisurely chatty. He lines his shot up in silence, head down, eyes forward, and then swings.

The ball takes off, high and fast, but veers slightly right on the descent. It lands with a solid thud in the rough, not far off the fairway, but certainly further than Choso probably wanted.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, at least not at first. He’s still watching the ball settle into the grass, arms folded, a sorely pleased smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Not bad but,” he says, “a little stiff.”

“Shut up.”

“You wanna drive this time?” Gojo asks, but is tossing the keys to Choso before he can even respond with—

“Fine.”

As the game goes on, and the heat starts to get to the both of them, conversation begins to fray open a bit more than it was at the beginning. A lot of it was just Choso quizzing the hell out of Gojo regarding his new wife, as if him not knowing what your favorite color is would be anything intensely incriminating in court. But even if it was, it’s fine, because he did end up knowing what your favorite color was. And also when your birthday is. And, surprisingly, which middle school you went to (your mother once showed him your 7th grade portrait on the fridge when he went over to fix the A/C).

“I just don’t get it. I mean, she hated you,” Choso says as Gojo walks up to his ball, “seriously. You know how many times I heard her cuss out your entire ancestry over that boat you leave out on your driveway? Like, I’m pretty sure she’s cast some nasty ass spell on you by now.” Gojo tightens his glove with his teeth and then grips the handle before drawing his club back in preparation to swing as Choso keeps talking. “She told me that she thinks you’re pretentious, and obnoxious, and self-absorbed, and difficult, and entitled, and sleazy, and—”

“Okay, man, I get it,” Gojo grumbles, trying to sound detached from the insults and your poor opinion of him, but when he swings, it’s way too flat.

“Damn, what the hell was that?” Choso asks, raising a hand up over his eyes to watch the arc of Gojo’s ball in disappointment. About a half hour ago, the two men would’ve taken great satisfaction in seeing the other completely shank a shot. But now, they’re rooting for at least some good competition.

Gojo sighs with irritation, then makes an excuse. “Something in my eye.”

He wonders for a moment if he should just fess up. Tell Choso, yes, the marriage is a scam. Was it not incredibly obvious for all the aforementioned reasons? But also, to urge Choso to just leave it alone. To not let some blinded rage get in the way of this little marriage scheme because, ultimately, it really benefited your financial situation. There’s no way Choso would be that petty about your alleged and swift moving on from him to where he’d genuinely put you in any real legal danger, right?

But he keeps his mouth shut, as his gut instinct insists.

“We—” He starts, unsure of how to continue, but he felt like he needed to at least address it. “We’ve got that whole, you know, opposites attract thing.”

Choso squints his eyes at Gojo, then his shoulders slump before walking up to his ball.

“What?” Gojo asks.

“Nothing,” Choso says, his tone even as he shuffles his feet apart to get into a swinging stance. “Opposites attract.” He echoes Gojo’s words. “She always used to tell me she hated that kinda stuff.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything in response, just watches as Choso’s eyes flicker with something heavy, maybe confusion or regret or irritation, but he shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of it. Gojo clears his throat, a question formulating in his head that he wants to ask so bad, but tries to stall it by poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek, until Choso draws the club back to swing, and there’s this weird strain he feels in his chest when he finally decides to just blurt it out and ask the guy—

“Are you still in love with her?”

The choke in Choso’s form would’ve been visible from a mile away, but he carries through the swing on pure momentum alone, hurling the ball up into the air along with a stunted patch of dirt and grass which cuts the trajectory short by about half of what he was likely aiming for it to be, and he watches with a frozen frame as it lands disgracefully on sand.

Gojo blinks ahead at it.

“Damn,” he says, “that’s gotta be one of the worst shots I’ve ever seen.”

Choso huffs an exhale, his shoulders sulking as he stares ahead into the grassy hills. Gojo glances at the back of his head, and lets out a sigh after a voice in his head tells him to just drop it.

He ruffles in his pocket for the golf cart keys, but then stares up at the distance between them and their rather disappointing shots. “Let’s just walk this one.”

Choso nods.

The heat is borderline sweltering, evident in the way Choso’s wiping the sweat off his forehead with the ball of his shoulder and Gojo’s tugging at the collar of his polo to get a bit of breeze onto his chest. And there was a weird sense of solidarity in their decision to torture themselves with eachother’s company over a game of golf. It was a bit humbling, too.

“How did the two of you meet?” Gojo asks Choso as they make their way up a hill.

“She didn’t tell you?” Choso asks, offended, as if he’s surprised that he wasn’t a topic of their pillow talk.

“Nope,” Gojo says, probably because there was no real pillow talk. You two quite literally sleep in different bedrooms.

Choso sighs, a little out of breath when he responds. “We met in college. I was also a nursing major, until I flunked out of organic chemistry. So I dropped out and went to the Police Academy. We stayed together, though.”

“Ah,” Gojo responds.

“Y’know,” Choso randomly speaks up, “I would think she cheated on me.” He wipes at a bead of sweat that perspirates on his chin. “With the way the two of you got married so fast after we broke up.”

Gojo’s brow furrows as he just stares straight ahead, despite Choso layering a testing glance his way, to see his reaction to that statement, and see if it was in any way incriminating. “Nah,” Gojo says, “she’s not the type to do something like that.”

He can see in his periphery that Choso raised a brow at that. “That’s the testament? A personality trait? And not a first-hand account from you?”

It irritates Gojo. The assumption that you would do something like that. And he knows Choso wants to hear it from Gojo himself—the reassurance that he wasn’t messing around with his girlfriend while they were still together, ironically as if they were in some alternate universe where this marriage was anything other than business…but instead, he doubles down.

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s just not that kind of person.”

——————

“Alrighty,” the hairstylist behind your chair says to you as he drags the wet ends of your hair to the front of your shoulders, eyeing them in the mirror. He ruffles up some of the overgrown layers in the back, the scent of sweet apple arousing your senses as you revel in the pleasure of the cleanest your scalp has ever felt in probably ever given the intensity in which the hairstylist scrubbed it out when he was washing it.

You have never been to a wet salon. Ever. You had always just resorted to SuperCuts or anything that was less than a twenty-minute wait and a twenty-dollar bill. But when Sylvie told you she did a drive-by of this place on her way to Dayton County from the SeaTac airport, she had sworn one of her high-class celebrity clients had endorsed it to her once and so she really wanted to go. You were reluctant, probably because just stepping inside the place already made you feel like you owed them some money, given the sheer luxury that surrounded you, but it was okay. I mean, how much could a single haircut cost?

“So, what are we doing today?” the hairstylist asks as he continues to pointlessly ruffle up your wet hair. He had silver grey hair and was wearing a rather tight grey vest with a turtle neck snug to his skin layered underneath, with matching grey trousers. He smelled just as expensive as the products he put in your hair to get the oil out of it. You no longer felt like a French Fry. You felt like some crisp iceberg lettuce.

You open your mouth to answer him, but Sylvie cuts you off first.

“Ray, if you could just fix up the layers,” she says, speaking to him as if he were a lifelong friend despite the fact that she had also just met him, but the man seems to be thrilled by the friendliness from her, “and maybe some curtain bangs? Have them end here though, I think that would flatter her face.” She pulls some of your strands forward onto your face, and they tickle your nose.

You’ve never known what specifically flatters your face shape. You have been getting the same exact haircut since you were just a wee little lad. It was the one your mother used to do for you out in the backyard as you sat on a stool and felt the crunch of her scissors behind you while locks fell to the concrete of the patio. There was no further style or personality you asked of any of the hairdressers in your adulthood life, but only the small desire that they wouldn’t change too much about the shape your mother always left your hair in. It was just another small way that you felt you could cling onto the happy memories you have of her.

But you couldn’t even dwell on the sentiment for longer than two seconds before Ray was taking Sylvie’s suggestions and instruction to heart, immediately snipping away at your hair. He was sectioning your hair out into such small layers, almost microscopic, as if he didn’t want more than 100 strands in each before he made them all subject to his shears, and the process felt like hours. You couldn’t always see Sylvie in the mirror because Ray would often flip your hair over and into your face, but when you could peak at her through the strands of your hair, you could see she was watching Ray’s every move with her arms crossed over her chest as if you were some sculpture she couldn’t bear to see ruined.

By the time Ray gets around to cutting your curtain bangs, you feel like an entirely different person. Your hair was still a little damp from the wash, but you could already see the gorgeous shape in which your hair was sitting in. The layers were stunning. And you could only imagine what it would look like once he–

“Alrighty, let’s blow this out,” Ray says, grabbing a round brush and a precision hair dryer.

You could’ve fallen asleep in the chair, despite the loud volume of the hair dryer, from how lovely the gentle tug of each section of your hair against the brush felt as Ray continued to create tension throughout the strands of your freshly-cut hair. He curled the ends gently, slightly inwards, setting them with spray, all the way up to the fringe of your hair which he corrected with a hair straightener so that it all sits smoothly. And then, he turns you in the chair to face the mirror, and you’re shocked.

You seriously could not have imagined yourself looking the way you do right now. Your hair was stunning, each layer had personality, with the soft curls that have now gently fallen out but in a way that felt intentional, voluminous and alluring. You touch the ends of your hair and they feel so ridiculously soft, and pillowy, and smell so nice. And Sylvie was right. The curtain bangs at that specific length entirely flattered your face, and it almost made you look more youthful. After years and years and years of working nights, stressing out over bills, taking care of your sick mother, and having hardly any time to take care of yourself, you didn’t even know you still had the capacity to look this…pretty?

“Wow, stunning,” Sylvie says with a smile, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “You’re a wizard, Ray.”

Ray helps you out of your seat, the three of you making smalltalk as he walks you over to the lady running the register. She asks Ray some questions about which tools he used and which products he applied, and then Ray leaves the three of you to it as he goes to clean up his station. You’re staring at the lady at the register in slight anticipation, but it was hard to stay anxious about the bill when you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror hung up on the wall behind the register.

“Alright, that’ll be three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars,” the lady says, not even lifting her eyes once to tell you the damage as she continues to type away with long acrylics on the keyboard in front of her.

Your gaze is RIPPED away from your reflection in front of you,

And you guffaw at the register lady.

“I–...I’m–…excuse me?!” you exclaim.

Sylvie tilts her head at you, as if the cost was no surprise to her.

“T-Three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars for a haircut?” you exhale in disbelief, “I–oh my god, I cannot afford that!”

The lady behind the register nods her head slowly. “No worries! We have a six month financing plan with a low APR.”

You cannot fathom that there are people out there who would finance a haircut.

“That…I can’t do that, I’m sorry.” God knows what your credit score looks like right now with all of your unpaid debt. And you don’t want to face the humiliation of getting rejected from a three-hundred-dollar loan in front of Sylvie. “I, um, you know what? I’ll pay it back with hard work. I’ll—um, I actually make for a really great receptionist, and social media advertiser, and I used to cut a little bit of hair in college, and I could—”

Sylvie lets out a laugh from beside you. “Oh my gosh, y/n, you’re hilarious. It’s fine. I’ll pay for it!”

You blink at her. “I–...I’m sorry, what?”

She takes a step towards the register and pulls her black credit card out of her wallet. “I said that I’ll pay for it.” She inserts her chip into the machine.

“But–...I can’t accept that–”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” she says, “I have a feeling we’ll be friends, so, we’ll just open up a friendship tab!”

You look at her with an equal amount of worry because you’re not going to be able to pay it forward anytime in the near future.

She smiles at you. “Or…just let me do something nice for you. No questions asked. As a thanks for what you did back in the cafe.” She pulls her credit card out from the machine. “And in fairness, I am the one who dragged you to this salon.” She tucks her card back in her wallet. “Let’s leave now? I’m starving.”

“I–...” you almost feel like you could cry from the kindness, “...sure.”

She gives you a smile, hooks her arm around yours, and pulls you towards her, and then you both head out onto the street with in-tune gleeful laughter in the air.

“Any good patisseries in the area?” Sylvie asks, stumbling a little, taking you along with the sway of her body as she continues to anchor you to her by her hold of your arm, but she continues to strut forward down the street as you attempt to catch up. And you realize maybe there’s a bit of strategy to a stride like this, given the speed is just enough to cause a gentle breeze to tousle the curls of your hair, making you feel like a supermodel with a fan pointed right at you. Walk at this speed more often, you make a mental note to yourself.

You glance up at the sky. Patisserie was quite the word, like something Hana would say to pretend she knows a lick of French after two months of her little fling with Jean Pierre, of whom is currently white with a fever back at her place. Normally, you would offer a belittling snort at the pretentious noun, but you find yourself matching Sylvie’s level. “There’s a suuuuuper cute one on Wisteria Street. Doucers de France!” you exclaim, and Sylvie laughs, picking up the pep to her walk as you do the same.

As you two stroll down the streets of downtown, engaging in nonsensical chatter, you’ve noticed you’re getting stared at a lot, mostly by men, and it’s starting to make you suspicious.

You turn to Sylvie, “Do I have something on my face?”

“Hm?” She tilts her head at you. “No?”

“Weird, I feel like a lot of people have been staring at me.”

“Because you look gorgeous with your new hair, silly!”

“Hmnnn???” you furrow your brow at her, but lift your gaze up to glance at two men who were walking by, both of whom had their gazes locked directly on you, even as you stared them down, all the way down the curb until they both ran into a trashcan.

Sylvie laughs, covering her mouth with a hand. “See?”

“Interesting…” you say, tucking soft strands behind your ear, “hm.” You push your shoulders back a little and toss some hair over your shoulders in a new-found confidence.

Sylvie is privy to the attitude shift, and squeezes your arm tighter, “shall we continue to Doucers de France?”

“Why yes. Yes we shall.”

The power you felt you held, courtesy of the hair on your head, was unmatched. You haven’t felt this hunted down by stares since you were in your early twenties club era. In a sense, you felt you had gained your novelty back. And you were eating it up. Well, eating up the opportunity to glare down men who stare with no shame. But at least you had quite a substantial amount of them to indignantly dissolve with a well-practiced glare. Like some game of pacman strolling down 183rd Street.

As you two approach the cafe, you nearly run into a cop that circles around the alleyway in front of the block, and the two of you come to an abrupt halt. When you glance at the cop’s face, you realize it’s Leon again, except this time he has a coffee and a sourdough donut in his hand.

“Hello again, ladies,” he says with a gaze towards Sylvie, and when his gaze shifts to you, he says, “woah.”

“What?”

“You look real nice, y/n. How come you don’t wear your hair like that more often?”

“Time and resources, mainly.”

“I see,” he says as he one-ups you with his eyes, makes some linear conclusion in his head by the state of your appearance, then leans against the brick wall. “Hey, listen, so, I know you and Choso have some crazy history, but,” he runs a hand through his hair in a way that he clearly thinks is enticing, “do you think he’d be okay if we…” He points back and forth to gesture between the two of you.

Sylvie lets out a short exhale of a laugh through her nose and glances down towards the ground, and you narrow your eyes at the cop in front of you with disgust before you hold up a hand in front of his face. “Your desperation to get laid is so very entirely unsexy to me, so shut it.” And at your words, Sylvie lets out a more audible laugh, and it’s your turn to wrap your arm around hers and pull her towards you as you two strut past a wide-eyed, indignant Leon who seems more confused than offended by your words.

Once Sylvie’s giggling fit has calmed down, she manages to say, “seriously, you’re so funny, y/n.”

“Mm?” you hum, slowing down in pace a little when you see she’s having a hard time keeping up, either because of her heels or the laughter-induced intoxication she seems to possess now, a type of giddiness that was starting to rub off on you too.

“Ahh, I don’t know, I just love the way you say exactly what you’re thinking,” she smiles, “I wish I could do that.”

Your mind flashes back to what Pulp-Free OJ man said to you earlier today. You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.

“Is…” you start, suddenly feeling slightly self conscious, and you gently tuck some strands behind your ear as if to preserve some femininity in the face of this so-called brazenness of yours, “is that a bad thing?”

“Nooooo,” she coos, like she can tell you’re taking it the wrong way, “it’s fun! It’s entertaining. It’s refreshing.” She pulls you along with her to start walking. “Makes you seem kinda foxy. Which is an attractive thing.”

“Oh.”

She smiles, something that looks a little foxy herself, and glances at you as her sleek hair flares with the wind of her pace, “Maybe we should go see if we can find that hot mysterious New York man and you can ask him out on a daaaaaaateee.” She nudges your arm with her elbow teasingly.

Your cheeks feel slightly flush at her words, and you blink at her a couple of times in consideration, but seeing how round her face is from pure glee, you’d feel awkward to show too much hesitation towards the idea of a good time, and so your shoulders settle down and your expression softens, before you return her smile and say, “mm, maybe.”

——————

“I’ve learned,” Gojo says, sitting back in his chair as he sets his feet up on the cushion in front of him, picking his bottle of beer up off the outdoor patio table in front of the country club’s recreational bar, “in my experience with women, that’s it’s better to just be honest about where you’re going or what you’re doing and let her be mad,” he sloshes the beer around by the bottleneck, “than to lie to her about it and then she finds out later and she gets pissed off more reasons than one.”

“Reaaaalllyyyyy???” Choso slurs from next to him, leaning over the frosty glass surface underneath the overhead umbrella tent of the table, “I dunno man. I’ve lied to a lot of past girlfriends and I hev–nev–... ‘scuse me, have never gotten in trouble for it.”

“Seriously?” Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the blue sky in thought. “Shit. Maybe I’m just a bad liar then.”

Choso snorts and tips the top of his bottle towards Gojo like a salute. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” And then he takes a swig.

Something bothers Gojo, and his brow furrows before glancing over to the man next to him. “Wait. Why’d you lie to them so much anyway? Is it pathological?”

Choso shakes his head, tendrils of his hair that were stuck to his forehead still slick by the sweat from the earlier sun out in the grass. His head tilts off to the side a little in a daze before he casts his gaze off towards the golf course. “Nah, nah, nah. Just the usual stuff, yaknow? ‘Cause, like, she doesn’t need to know I blew off going to brunch with her and her mom on a Sunday because I wanted to go check out McClarens at the auto strip instead. ‘Cause who’s that gonna help?” He swipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. “Instead I just tell her I took her car to get a much needed oil change. And then bam. She thinks I’m a man who knows my priorities, I'm living within my means, and I’m helpful.” Choso snaps his fingers at Gojo. “She wins, I win.”

Gojo narrows his eyes at him. “A McClaren? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Choso groans, slumping in his chair, his arms dangling over the rests as he peers up at the sky past the visor of his hat, bottle of beer threatening to slip down the loose grip of his hand. “When I was twenty, I thought I’d be rich by the time I was twenty-five. I’m thirty-one now, and I still drive a Honda Civic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a Honda Civic, man.”

Choso sits up suddenly in his chair, leaning to the side towards Gojo as he squints at him. Gojo keeps his gaze set forward, taking a reasonable drink of burnt amber as he anticipates being asked some sort of intrusive question.

“Well, what about you?” Choso asks. “You’ve got a boat, a couple of nice cars. I’ve seen the suits you wear–they’re not off-the-rack. What are you doing out here in bumfuck nowhere?”

The convoluted question starts to weigh heavy on Gojo’s tipsy mind, and he’s running out of the ability to navigate it, even though he’s the one that suggested three bottles of beer at 1pm on a Saturday on an empty stomach after two hours of golfing out in the sun, as if heat-soaked lethargy wasn’t enough. Sometimes he forgets he’s not twenty-two anymore, and there are certain things his body just can’t seem to handle at this age.

“I used to work in downtown Manhattan,” Gojo says, slightly deflecting the question, “I moved here about a year ago.”

“Yeahhhhhh, I remember when you moved here,” Choso says, slumping back into his lawn chair, “I fuckin’ hated you.”

Gojo glances over at him and quirks a brow. “Huh? Why?”

“Good-lookin’ guy moving in right next door to my girlfriend?” Choso says, “terrifying. But at least she hated you, too. Well, until she married you. And I still don’t know what the fuck you did to accomplish that, but fuck you anyways.” He holds a middle finger up at him, and then sets his bottle of beer down onto the glass tablet to hold the other one up as well. As if he at least still had the decency to know he wouldn’t have the dexterity to multi-task a grip and a flip-off at the same time.

Gojo’s gaze dampens slightly, even at the hostility from Choso. It dips to where he’s glancing at the hot pavement in front of the two of them, right where the grass is pristinely cut at the border. He wonders if Choso truly believes that this whole marriage thing is real, or if he was just pretending. But why? Why would he pretend to this extent? It doesn’t make sense. But it has to look strange from the outside, right? He breaks up with his girlfriend of seven years, and then three weeks later, she gets married to her next-door-neighbor? Someone who she allegedly hates. At least Gojo hopes it’s only alleged. But that’s a discussion for another time.

Point is, there’s no way that Choso believes all of this. There’s just no way. But at the same time, he acts the part so convincingly like he does. Like he’s really distraught over his ex-girlfriend moving on with the guy sitting next to him. And if he really was distraught about it, then why the hell is Gojo the one that is sitting right next to him? Choso’s a cop. He could easily shoot Gojo if he wanted to. At the very least, that would make things a bit more interesting.

Gojo opens his mouth to speak, but Choso cuts him off,

“Why did you move out here, though?”

Gojo glances down at his hand that’s been turning the glass bottle of beer at the base as it sits on the table. He breathes in deep, catching the scent of lavender in the distance, a fragrance he finds a little too familiar, then exhales slowly.

Not a great liar, but he can manage a half-truth.

“To be closer to my family,” he says.

The heat begins to slowly dwindle in the late afternoon in passing, despite the fact that it was still a ridiculously sunny day, and it only takes one more beer from Choso before he’s got an even looser mouth and is practically trauma dumping all of the absolutely insane cop cases he’s had to deal with within the past few years, ranging from having to track down the hyena that escaped from the local zoo, to closing out a twenty year cold kidnapping case. There’s a comfort at the base of Gojo’s ribs when he realizes the biggest emergency he’ll ever face at his job is…running out of Open House flyers.

“That’s something I—” Choso takes a pause to make sure he doesn’t slur his words, “loved about dating y/n. I ever had a crazy story? Oh trrruuussttt me she had a crazier one from the hospital.” He shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s reminiscing on all of them. “And y’know, she’s stone cold emotionally so she would share it all without a bat of an eye, too.” He pretends to shiver. “She scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Really? I thought all of that was a defense tactic or something.” Gojo feels strange talking about you in the absence of you but he wasn’t above the buzz of a few beers either.

Choso raises an eyebrow at him mid-sip. “Huh?”

“Like, you know, she’s got a lot of stuff going on…but has a hard time talking about it…so she deflects. Or acts tough to get through it.”

Choso’s eyes widen briefly, but then he starts to shake his head vehemently in denial. “Nahhh that’s just her personality. She just doesn’t really care about most things, especially the sappy and sentimental stuff. She’s very practical. That’s why dating her was so easy when things were right between us. I didn’t have to overthink things. Like flowers or spontaneous dates or cheesy compliments and whatnot.” Choso shudders at the thought. “Because I guarantee you she’d just be bored by it.”

Gojo shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a little concerned about the derailment of this conversation, and he wonders if Choso’s had a few too many from how detached he seems to speak about you. Didn’t you guys date for seven years? He doesn’t exactly know the details since you refused to tell him, and he wouldn’t feel right getting that story from Choso instead, but his curiosity is really starting to itch at him. He barely knows you in comparison to Choso, but he knows that everything Choso is saying about you is just plain wrong. Sure, you seem to be generally irritated and weary by most things in life, but he knows it’s not because that’s just how you are as a person. It’s because of what you’ve been through as a person.

He thinks about the look on your face when you ran out of your mother’s hospice room, tears streaming dow your cheeks, at the mere mention of someone promising to look after you. And he’s supposed to believe that you don’t care about sentiments? Or that you aren’t hoping to have a shoulder to lean on?

But, who knows, maybe Gojo is overestimating how well he thinks he knows you. At least, that sounds like something you’d say to him with a look of irritation across your face if you heard what he was thinking right now.

But he hates that Choso’s making him question it—this idea he has of you. It’s that same I know her…don’t I? dilemma he feels the entire time he’s talking to your ex. He's not thrilled by the idea that he could be projecting a softer version of you that doesn’t exist just because he hopes that it does.

“Wait, hold up, you’re married to her. And you don’t know this about her?” Choso remarks as he sits up in his chair.

Gojo brings his bottle of beer to his mouth. “Just doesn’t sound like the version of her that I know.”

“That’s suspicious,” Choso says, swirling around the bottle in his hand as he stares out onto the grass.

Gojo sighs. “People can change in short periods of time. I’ve always been surprised by it, too.”

“Yeah?” Choso responds, intrigued by the statement. “You’ve got any insane emotional baggage you’d like to share?”

Gojo sets his bottle of beer down on the table, and watches as a cold droplet of water makes its way down the condensing surface. “Can’t say I want to share any of it.”

“That’s fair. I’m just glad I know that you do have some. Makes me feel better.”

“Hm,” Gojo hums the acknowledgement.

“You know a lot of these guys?” Choso asks, pointing his index finger to a group of men walking to their golf cart in the distance, his other four fingers wrapped around his drink. “You kept getting stopped between shots.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah. A lot of them are clients of mine. Or their ex-wives are.”

Choso rolls his eyes. “Self-important pricks. I don’t know how you deal.”

“My client base in New York was way worse than this.”

“Really?” Choso asks, turning his torso to look at Gojo.

“Mhm,” Gojo affirms before taking a swig, “I made better money out there, though.” Not that it bothered him much. He’d rather be homeless in Dayton County than spend another day in that city.

“Huh,” Choso huffs in consideration, “I still think it’s really strange you moved to Dayton County from New York City.”

“What’s that phrase?” Gojo says, glancing up towards the blue sky. “You’ve gotta leave the city to love the city, or something like that.”

“Well go back to the fuckin’ city and leave my girl while you’re at it,” Choso drawls, unable to fight the drag of his words this time, or keep his head up straight, really. And it occurs to Gojo that Choso’s not a very responsible drinker.

“If anything, I’d take her with me,” Gojo says, almost like he can’t help pissing Choso off.

“Fuck you. Hope that spell she cast on you bites you when you least expect it.”

“Shit. I hope so too.”

Choso is decent enough to nod a salute at that, and the two move to clink the neck of their beer bottles together, but just before contact, Choso says—

“May divorce be with you, dude.”

And Gojo curves his bottle away from contact at the last second, leaving Choso hanging, then brings it to his mouth to tip it back until it’s empty.

——————

By the time you come home from your many morning escapades, it’s close to late afternoon, and you notice your car is parked inside Gojo’s garage, as opposed to parked out on the street where you had left it earlier.

You walk inside the house to find Gojo standing at the foyer table, looking through piles of mail. It mildly annoys you that he doesn’t even so much as lift his gaze from all the paper to look at you when you close the front door behind you.

“Hey, why did you move my car into your garage?” you asked.

“I just washed it, and it’s supposed to rain overnight,” he says, ripping up one of the bills before tossing it into a pile of other shredded paper.

Your eyes widen slightly. You had been wanting to get around to washing your car for weeks, it had been, admittedly, quite dirty on the outside. But it was just one of those things that kept getting away from you…and away from you…and away from you…

“You didn’t have to do that…” you mumble, slipping your shoes off at the door.

“Yeah, I know, but–” He finally lifts his gaze off of light blue paper and drifts it over to you, and when he doesn’t finish his sentence, you glance up at him too, only to find he’s staring at you with wide eyes.

You blink back at him, wiping your cheek gently with your hand as some reflex, and then pet down the hair at the top of your head with self consciousness. “W-What?” Forgive yourself for being fussy with your appearance around him now given he literally called you a French Fry this morning.

He’s still staring at you, big blue eyes blinking with no particular rhythm, just pure surprise, and his mouth is even slightly agape.

“What?” You practically snap at him.

You see his chest sink with the exhale he releases. “Nice hair,” he says finally.

“Oh.” You totally forgot about that. “Thank you,” you say, scooping all of it to the front of one of your shoulders, twirling the delicately curled ends around a finger, “just, uh…took a quick trip to the salon today…” you continue to twirl it, “in which they gave me a quick little style…of which costed a very reasonable amount.”

He snorts. “I’m not even gonna ask.”

“Three-hundred-and-seventy-two bucks.”

“What. The. Fuck?”

“Mhm,” you cross your arms over your chest.

“Where did you even get that kinda money?” he asks with disbelief.

“That’s irrelevant,” you quickly deflect, and even though you weren’t the one that paid for it, you were still going to give him hell for it, “this should teach you not to comment about people’s appearances. I was so distraught by your rude comment this morning that I ran to the nearest wet salon and ended up being scammed into this hairstyle because of you.”

“Okay well you look hot as fuck so the only thing I’ve learned from this is that bullying works.”

“You will not be getting out of this by complimenting me, mister!!!”

The corner of Gojo’s mouth ticks up slightly, and to provide some insight into his perspective, he was simply too distracted by how nice you looked and your choice to call him mister to really focus on anything else. As much as he should probably repent for admitting it, he liked pissing you off sometimes, purely because he likes how prissy and most of all hot you were when you looked at him like you wanted to choke him to death. But he’s also not sure if you really would strangle him in his sleep, and since he can’t necessarily put you above it, a shiver runs down his spine to where he figures he probably shouldn’t push it.

“Understood. No more calling you greasy,” he says, and holds his palm up to swear on it.

You roll your eyes, but it still feels like an acceptance of the promise, until your gaze hardens with a different type of annoyance. “And where have you been all day?” you ask, trying to suppress the irritation in your voice, tapping your foot on the wood with impatience, “with Choso, I presume?”

He had half hoped you forgot about his admission to you about his plans for this weekend.

“Yes,” he sighs, “I was.” And with the same demeanor of a dog guilty of tearing up a couch while its owner was away from home, he continues, “we went golfing.”

You breathe in deep, and exhale with shaky rage.

You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this.

“Screw you,” you say, and then brush past him, storm up the stairs to the master bedroom, and then slam the door behind you.

——————

It’s rare that Gojo will go for a late night run. He really prefers the mornings—rise of dawn, that crisp fresh air, sparkle of dew in the front of his lawn from the sprinkler spray of the night before, bonus points if he got around to mowing the lawn and it ends up looking neater because of it. There’s also just the right amount of people out on the sidewalks, and they’re usually elderly couples or other fellow morning runners like him, and in his experience, those sorts of people tend to be the friendliest. The weather’s best at that time, too. Feel a little bit of heat on your back to help warm you up but it’s not any sort of abrasive kind that would have you itching to get rid of layers that you don’t have. And maybe, as with most things in life, the ego was involved. Waking up at 5am to go for a run? It just screamed put-together, and more often than not, tended to set the day up for success.

But instead, tonight, he finds himself outside in the pitch black, past 10pm actually, for his second jog of the day. Clad in black sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, it felt unnecessarily incognito but he can’t lie that it felt nice to run without feeling like a single soul is around you.

And also, it was strange. This feeling that something was calling him into the night. He’s not incredibly superstitious, but he definitely felt thickness in the air.

About a mile into his run, he turns a corner of the park, onto a slimmer brick-laid road surrounded by hundreds of trees that cut visibility of the parameters to a fraction, and slows down to a stop. He checks his Apple watch for the time, but when the small screen of it doesn’t light up, he’s annoyed.

Through barely bated breath, he grumbles as he pulls on the strap and says, “did I not charge this thing?”

After a few more seconds of messing with it, he sighs and shrugs, figures he’ll just run laps around the park and head back the same way he came, but when he jogs forward for less than three seconds, his feet come to a halt.

But it’s a quicker one, a more alarmed stop.

Because he sees a figure looming off to the side within the trees.

He huffs a breath, cranes his neck towards what almost looks like a statue in his periphery, until he confirms that it’s a person, and the recognition of who it is draws all the color out from his face, and rounds his eyes wide with pure shock.

He isn’t even given the courtesy of a few moments before he hears the most painfully familiar voice say—

“Hey.”

Gojo nearly feels his heart stop—no, sink—he feels his heart sink in his chest with a feeling he can’t discern. It’s a mixture of a lot of feelings, actually. Surprise, anger, confusion, disbelief. He just stands there, his chest swelling with faster breaths than when he was running, as he stares at the brooding figure in front of him.

Eventually the shock tapers off, and his shoulders drop, and he presses his lips into a thin line before exhaling slowly through his nose. His brow furrows, eyes squinting slightly to verify once and for all that the person in front of him is really who he thinks it is, and he finds that he’s not mistaken.

The figure steps out from near the trees and into the light, and Gojo acknowledges him with a simple say of his name.

“Suguru.”

The dark-haired man smiles in response to his name, it’s a forced one, one that Gojo would argue is borderline sinister but he knows that it’s not. It’s just the way he’s learned to see it now.

“It’s been a while,” Suguru says, stopping his movements to get closer when he’s satisfied with the distance.

Gojo swallows hard. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Suguru nods. “Thought I’d go for a late night stroll.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now.”

Suguru’s smile drops into a frown, acknowledging the hostility, and Gojo finds that he’s clenching fists at his sides.

Suguru sighs. “I understand the last time we saw each other, it was under unsavory circumstances, but I hope you’ll forgive me for showing up like th—”

“Just tell me what you want.”

To justify Gojo’s short temper towards the man across from him to any spectator witnessing this would require a hell of an explanation, one that doesn’t just date back to a year ago, or a few years ago, a decade ago or even two. It wouldn’t be enough, not unless he started from the beginning. But he doesn’t want to give it the time of day. He doesn’t even want to give it any more than the short-tempered rage he’s been offering so far.

Suguru hangs his head a little, studying the brick underneath him, then glances up again. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Make amends?” Gojo finds himself mocking those words the second he hears them. “Who the fuck asked for that?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be happy that I showed up like this—”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“But—” Suguru sighs again, and it makes Gojo’s skin crawl. The way he acts like the inconvenience of him showing up was anything other than his own fault. “I mean it. I really am here to make things right.”

“What makes you think flying all the way here and showing your face to me was going to make things right?” Gojo snarled.

“When you left,” he says, “it was so abrupt. I had expected you to be angry. To cuss me out, yell at me, punch me in the face, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you pulled out a gun.”

It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time.

“I’m not saying that I know what you need to move on from this,” Suguru continues, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man even further, “but I thought I’d at least give you the chance. The chance to get your frustrations out.”

Gojo quirks an irritated brow.

“A pass to punch the shit out of me with no consequence or witness,” Suguru says, and the words made Gojo feel like he was some pity project.

“You…” Gojo trails off, more with confusion this time rather than anger, “…want me to punch you?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Suguru says, “ever since that night. But you held back.”

“What I want is for you to never show your face to me ever again.”

“And I won’t,” he says, “I promise. I promise that after today, it’s done.” He takes a step forward. “But that’s why I offer this closure to you. Because—” He hesitates. “It’ll be the last time you have the chance.”

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly when Suguru steps into the light, illuminating some of his features, and it’s the first time he sees his old best friend fully in the flesh ever since that night. He noticed what used to be evenly toned olive skin now has a sandalwood tint, a hue that matches the dull one in the whites of his eyes, yet the bloodshot to them still shows through. He’s lost weight, with sunken cheekbones, there’s exhaustion visible all over his face. It was like Gojo was cognitively cleansed of the memory he had retained of him since the last time he saw him, now replaced with the version in front of him.

It’ll be the last time you have the chance.

All this nonsense about finally honoring Gojo’s wish to stay the fuck away from him,

It felt like a red herring to that statement.

What kind of cryptic bullshit was he alluding to?

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” Gojo says, “but I’m not going to punch you. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly, as if surprised by the restraint, before he relaxes and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It was too pleased of an expression for Gojo’s liking, that is until it morphs into something eerily fake when that smile only widens and he takes a step towards him.

“And if I told you I don’t regret any of it?” Suguru says, and Gojo can physically feel the muscle in his jaw tic with rage, “if I told you I stand here in front of you with no remorse at all?” He continues to take steps towards Gojo in provocation, less than three feet away now, and Gojo’s hands further condense into white-knuckled fists when Suguru makes his final stride and is now right in front of Gojo, “if I told you that I enjoyed every,” he sneeringly enunciates each word, “Single. Second of it?”

The sound of knuckle harshly colliding with bone reverberates down through the echoing pavement of the park, which was the medium for the sting of Gojo’s fist released through his best friend’s jaw, cracked so hard that the dark-haired man entirely recoils from the blow, hurled off to the side out onto an out-stretched hand to brace fall onto brick ground.

Gojo’s breathing heavy, fast, stuck still in the aftermath, his vision almost spotted white with pure rage, and yet of all the feelings coursing through his body, the most physical one of all—the one centered to the rounded bones of his knuckles—only felt numb. And soon, every other emotion followed.

Suguru exhales a shaky laugh, stumbling slightly on the ground before he pushes himself up and back onto his feet. “Wow,” he breathes out, brushing tendrils of his hair out from his face, rubbing the back of his hand down the line of his red jaw, dabbing at the blood dripping from his nose and the top gums of his mouth, and he pulls his hand away to take a look at the red pigment dipping into the valleys of his trembling hand. “Honestly, I thought I could handle provoking a couple more out of you, but,” he lets out a half-stunned laugh, “I think we’ll have to leave it at one.”

Gojo watches as Suguru tips his head back and shakes his head, that same borderline amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his shoulders slump. There was no glory in the sight, nor the feeling. No satisfaction. No release or closure. For fucks sake, he just felt worse. He felt even worse now than he did a minute ago when he wasn’t staring at Suguru’s bloody face.

He just felt numb.

“I really am sorry, Satoru,” Suguru breathes out as he tips his head back, sniffles viscous blood, and wipes away whatever had already dried above his lip, “for everything. And I hope that—” He takes a deep breath, “whatever life you build for yourself from here on out is better than the one I took from you.” He tightly shuts his eyes close. “That’s the only thing that will bring me peace in all of this.”

Gojo hears the words, but he doesn’t feel them. It’s that same dull ache throughout his body, the same one that haunts him in those moments when the nights are too still, and the mornings are too quiet. Mostly numbness, with the slightest tracing of pain as if to remind him that he was still alive.

“Whatever, man,” Gojo mutters, not even able to lift his gaze to look at the person he once called his best friend as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and his voice is a broken shudder when he speaks again, “whatever.”

He turns on his heel, away from this scene he can’t bear witness to anymore, and he feels as if there are anchors tied to his ankles as he drags his feet away. And away. And away. And away. And away. He couldn’t tell you for how long or how far he just dragged the soles of his shoes across brick, then concrete, then gravel, then grass. It could’ve been two minutes, it could’ve been two hours, but it couldn’t have felt any more torturous. And the whole time, he feels that enigma that he left behind at the park behind him, somewhere in the distance.

The same one he desperately tries to ignore,

One he desperately wants to hate,

One he desperately wants to despise with all his being,

But he just can’t.

——————

The clock strikes midnight as you pace around the floor of the master bedroom, the hem of your floor-length satin nightgown brushing across the flooring with each back-and-forth pivot and stride that you make, and you switch between irritatingly tucking your hair behind your ears and crossing your arms across your chest and letting out annoyed puffs of air at every other minute as your mind races an hour a minute.

You’ve been trapped up here (by your own doing) like some princess in a tower ever since Gojo admitted to you that he hung out with Choso today, just bubbling with a sense of rage that you so badly want to unleash on him but when you stepped out of the room a couple hours ago, you realized he wasn’t home, and his Apple watch was missing from the little paper crochet bowl on the foyer table, so you assumed he had went for a run. As for why he still isn’t home, you don’t know, but you feel like you simply cannot be put to rest until you tell his ear off about something as a way to release your frustration.

You know that Gojo is a social whore. And that he likes to be liked. Perhaps you just can’t relate, because you’ve never extended yourself so far to be liked by the likes of strangers. Sure, when you’re committed to having a person in your life, you do what you can to make them pleased by you, but people who you don’t even really know? Why on Earth would you choose them over yourself?

And so your lack of sympathy towards Gojo’s desire to be buddy-buddy, friendly-friendly, and innately curious about the people around him is foundational to your rage at the moment.

Why does he need to be friends with your freakin’ ex??? Is his desire to be liked by everyone he comes across really THAT large???

And, in a thought that makes you a little sad, you ask yourself—

Why can’t he add you to that list of people to please?

You stop pacing the room with the sobering thought, and glance over at the reflection of yourself in the window. You hate how defeated you look.

You know that you give him a hard time. You’re snarky and defensive and lose your temper with him perhaps a little too fast. And also fail to show any real gratitude for most things he has done for you. But it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help acting that way around him. And maybe it’s because you know, you just know, that if you ever harbor any semblance of affection for him, and he decides to never return any of it at all, you would be ruined. It would ruin you.

He just has that effect on people,

And you just didn’t want to admit that you wouldn’t be any sort of exception.

You let out a frustrated noise from your throat and plop down on the bed.

Ew, gross. Feelings? Were you trying to gaslight yourself into thinking that you would have feelings for him if your stubborn heart gave you the chance?

As if.

It’s so silly to even picture.

…Or was it?

You don’t know.

You just don’t know.

It’s too many emotions, all at once, and as per usual, the anger is the one that decides to stick around, and you hop back up onto your feet.

“Frickin’ golfing…” You mumble to yourself, “they went golfing together…” You pace to the foot of the bed and then up to the headboard, “I bet they talked shit about me too…”

You hear some noises downstairs, gasp a little and run out into the hallway and peer over the staircase railing to see some mysteriously dressed man at the front entrance close the door behind him. You can’t see his face since he was dressed in a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head, but when the man pulls his sleeve back and releases the strap of his watch, you realize it’s Gojo.

Well, that was a relief. But also, eye roll, it’s Gojo. Perhaps a serial killer would’ve been more preferable.

You quickly run back into the master bedroom, push the door wide open in the process, turn on your heel so that you have a perfect view of the entrance, and cross your arms over your chest. Tapping your foot impatiently, you try to display the most annoyed expression you can manage, and you hear the third to last creak of the stairs as you see Gojo make it to the second floor and into the loft, then approaches the master bedroom.

“Good, you’re home,” you say to him with your gaze narrow in a glare, and you try to think of ways to chastise him for his actions but the best punishment you can come up with is a list of annoying housekeeping tasks, “as soon as possible, I’m going to need you to mow the lawn,” you list them off with the fingers of your hand, “fix the leaking fridge again, install that shelf in the kitchen that you promised me you’d do over two weeks ago, fix the tilted leg of the dining table, finish the—”

You didn’t notice in your yapping that he was closing distance towards you, his expression hard to read under his hood and the fringe of his hair, but before you could tell him about the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, you feel his arms slip past your waist, crossing behind you, and he pulls you in towards him.

“Eh?” you squeak out in surprise, tripping slightly over the hem of your nightgown and straight towards his chest, your cheek pressing against the soft cotton of his hoodie, and you feel him tuck your head underneath his chin in an embrace.

There’s just a brief moment of silence as you stand still in his arms amid moonlight shining through the windows of the room, and when he seems to realize that you aren’t going to push him away, he breathes a sigh of relief and pulls you in tighter, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head.

“Satoru—” you try to protest.

“You can hate me in the morning,” he says into your hair, his voice deep near your ear as you feel the rumble of it in his chest, “but just let me hold you for now.”

Your arms, that had been otherwise stiffly raised as if to not want to make contact with him, relax slowly as they drop, and a small puff of air leaves your lips.

He sounds exhausted, numb, drained. There was no mirth, or ignorance, or sarcasm or amusement in his voice like you were so used to hearing.

You lift your arms once again, meekly swallowing, and this time, you gently wrap them around his torso, and press your cheek against his chest even more as you settle yourself into him. He smelled so nice, that same scent of his that was so comforting to you, one that could soothe you to sleep. And you feel his heartbeat in his chest, and how it seems to be faster now than it was just one second before.

He shakily releases a breath when you hug him back, and if you thought he was holding onto you tighter before, you realize that it wasn’t enough for him. He holds you to him so closely to where you can’t even move, like you were a real life teddy bear for him, and the warmth of his body makes you realize how painfully human he is.

You lift your cheek away from his chest, the movement making him pull his chin away from the top of yours, and you crane your neck up to look at him, and he looks down at you too. Beautiful blue eyes meet your gaze, dull in the nighttime compared to the daylight, but still sparkling. You swear there were constellations in those eyes, millions of stars, and gazing into them was enough to take your breath away.

You can see that his chest is heaving slightly as he looks at you, and your eyes lid gently, maybe in a daze or maybe it was the softness of the moment that was gently lulling you closer to sleep. He releases an arm from your waist, his hand lifting to your forehead where he gently brushes some of your hair out of your face in a movement so tender it sends a shiver through your body, and with a strong arm still anchoring your waist, he slowly walks you backwards, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it together in a clumsy tangle. His hands catch himself on either side of you as he holds himself up, hovering over you, and you bring your balled up hands to your heart to see if you can quiet the pace in which it’s beating.

Gojo’s eyes dart across your face, his brow furrowing deeply as if he’s caught in a thought—or maybe a million. It flickers across his expression, whatever the emotion was. Considering…questioning…maybe even afraid. You feel as if you can’t breathe under the weight of his thoughts.

But then he exhales. Runs a hand down his face. Whatever thought he was mulling over, he just lets it go. Drags it away with the rough of his palm and the tight shut of his eyes, before he disappears from your sight when he falls onto his back on the bed with a small grunt next to you, then stares up at the ceiling.

You blink at the ceiling now, too, a little stunned to even move or think or breathe or exist. And you feel like this moment, whatever it was, was over.

But then his hand finds your waist, palm smoothing over satin before you feel his arm curl around you, the weight of his muscle against your skin as he gently pulls you toward him and nestled up against him, your back to his chest on soft linen sheets. Firm and certain, that was the way he held you to him, and his nose nuzzles at the soft hair tucked behind your ear.

He says nothing. He almost doesn’t need to. Because you understand.

You’ll hate him in the morning. The anger tax is what you’ll call it. He’ll pay interest. But for now, you just let him hold you.

And for once, you don’t have to count sheep to fall asleep.

[end of ch9. 'counting sheep']

song of the chapter: 'quiet, the winter harbor' by mazzy star

a/n. ahhhh thank u so very much for reading :'') i truly hope you enjoyed this chapter!! it was kind of intense to write bc of all the split scenes and also all the character dynamics being explored. lot of hmm i guess nuances to juggle?? also this is the longest chapter of anything i've ever posted...so much for trying to make these chapters smaller hahah. but i loved writing the little scene in the end……….i just wanna be held by gojo until i fall sleep how hard is that to ask big shout out to my ihm beta readers leni n josie for helping me out with parts of this chapter n giving me some wonderful suggestions <3 i really appreciate and adore you guys. ahhhh ihm is 100k+ words now!!! that’s crazy!!! yippeeeeeeee also, i did mention this briefly in another post, but because of the length of ihm, i'm planning to split it into "seasons"! so the next chapter (ch10) will be the last chapter for this first part of the series, where i'll put the fic on a bit of a break as i focus more on kinda wrapping up kickoff, before i start the second part of ihm. i anticipate there will be three total parts! and i'll make a new masterlist for each of the new seasons. idk i just feel like it's kinda better to consolidate the chapters like this, so yea! hope to see you in the next oneee!! tysm to everyone who supports my fics w likes, reblogs, n comments <3 it truly means a lot to me

➸ take me to chapter ten!

taglist is open || please comment under this post to be added. if you're unsure if you're already on the taglist or will be tagged in future chapters, feel free to comment here n i'll make sure to add you! also please make sure you adjust your settings if needed so that i can tag you. let me know whenever your taglist preferences change.

🏷️: @sashisuslover @pickuptruck01 @um-no-ok @fanficgirlboss @chiyokoemilia

@sorilyae @akariro @mya1112 @angrygojoluvr @ducky1232

@bloopsstuff @fiftyfeetstrawberryparfait @4y3sh4 @tw0fvced @hellicify

@septemberctdfics @lumi-3 @asimpinamillion @disappointedpeaches @soupkuna

@kakarikhoe @astrokenny @samistars @imasexy-buffalo @toffeebrat

@cactisjuice @satorugirlie @suguruslovedoll @lavender-hvze @angelicscribe

@blueberry19000 @erencvlt @nappingmoon @heiejdhdh @ariasnoodles

@readerg77 @coolwitchtree @tofumiao @joemama-2 @sxnkuna

@crematedstar @celestialforce @jaegersity @gojodickbig @electrckchild

@sexys-archives @manhattanstrawberry @tvdumarvelhpsimp @mtsyik @mrswanggae

note. i'd recommend subscribing to the fic on my ao3 so you can get email notifs as well if you'd like! ; please do not ask me for updates or ask me when i am going to next update (read rules)!

840 notes · View notes

flwrkid14 · 3 months ago

Text

Tim Drake Makes Horrible Life Decisions, and Gotham Suffers for It

So, picture this: you’re Damian Wayne. You’re in Gotham. You’re minding your own business, probably threatening someone, when suddenly—

Tim. Drake. Walks. Through. The. Door.

Which is crazy, because no one has seen him in almost a year. This man disappeared off the face of the earth after claiming their father was still alive (which, now they know he was right, but that doesn't mean he didn't sound insane at the time), and now, out of absolutely nowhere, he waltzes back in like nothing happened.

Which, okay, yay! They got the coordinates and were able to bring Bruce back! That's great! But instead of calling or even warning anyone that he was, in fact, still alive and making very questionable life choices, Tim just shows up at the Manor’s front door looking incredibly smug, dressed in some League-adjacent gear, and—oh yeah—carrying a mostly-conscious, Lazarus-green-glowing, very familiar-looking boy over his shoulder.

Cue everyone just staring.

And then:

"Hey guys," Tim says, completely casual. "This is Danyal. Damian’s clone. Also, my boyfriend. Try to be nice."

And that’s when Damian seriously considers violence.

Because, of course, the League of Assassins—those bastards—decided that when he was no longer fit to be the next Demon’s Head, they’d just cook up a clone. Enter Danyal, who apparently didn't last as long as they had hoped.

But the thing about throwing a perfectly good clone into the Lazarus Pit is that sometimes, instead of reviving someone the normal way, you accidentally create a half-ghost with existential issues and a penchant for property destruction.

Now, there’s a lot more to unpack here. But let’s break it down:

Tim is alive. No one even gets the chance to yell at him for ghosting (ha) them for nearly a year before—

He apparently blew up the league of assassins??? Which is the only acceptable reaction to discovering your feral ex-grandfather made a spare Damian, but still, a little warning would’ve been nice.

Tim kidnapped him. And then—because Tim is Tim—

Proceeded to date him.

Absolutely no one knows how to respond to this.

Jason is laughing his ass off. He thinks this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened. (He also immediately gives Danyal a noogie, because apparently all versions of Damian need to be bullied at least a little.)

Dick is concerned but also so relieved Tim is alive that he doesn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him.

Stephanie, Duke and Cass are just watching this play out like it's the best drama they've ever seen.

Alfred is probably the only one handling this with dignity. (Barely.)

Bruce looks at his returned son, then at the glowing clone, then back at Tim, and just sighs, because, honestly? He’s too tired for this.

Meanwhile, Damian—who has officially hit his limit and is barely recovering from his urge of violence—is just staring. Trying to process the fact that:

He has a clone.

That clone is now his older brother’s boyfriend.

Tim—who he hasn’t seen in a year—showed up out of nowhere, without warning, to drop this information on him like it’s normal.

"You kidnapped my clone." "Rescued," Tim corrects. "You kidnapped him, blew up the League, and then proceeded to date him." "What can I say? I’m efficient."

"I WAS GONE FOR A YEAR." Bruce finally explodes. "A YEAR. I COME BACK, AND NOW TIM HAS A CLONE OF DAMIAN AS HIS—HIS BOYFRIEND?!*"

"We prefer ‘genetic anomaly turned incredibly attractive disaster. Plus, a lot can happen in a year," Tim says, like that helps.

Danyal, barely recovering from the loopiness of the Lazarus Pit and sudden existential crisis, gives a lazy little wave. "Hi."

Now Gotham has two Damians (one ghostly and feral, the other just regular feral), Ra’s al Ghul has no viable heirs, and Bruce? Bruce wishes he were still dead.

Tim, meanwhile, is just happy his boyfriend’s getting some quality bonding time with his genetic source material.

The family cannot handle this.

#tim drake #danyal is danny fenton in case u didn't know #danny fenton #brain dead #dead tired #batfam #dc x dp #damian wayne #tim has a type and its people who should not exist

1K notes · View notes

frostiexavier · 3 months ago

Text

⎯⎯ ୨ campus confession ୧ ⎯⎯

☆ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | 18+ only ☆

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

ੈ♡˳ summary: You tag along with Caleb for the weekend to help him settle in at the DAA. He is super excited to show you around campus and introduce you to his friend. But this weekend doesn’t go as either of you had planned.

ੈ♡˳ warnings: fem! reader x caleb, fluff, smut, praise, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), i think thats it, very fluffy end, oh also angry reader tehe

ੈ♡˳ word count: 10.1k (sorry its kinda long)

“I will be there in 5 minutes to pick you up, pipsqueak. I can’t wait to see you!”, Caleb exclaimed excitedly over the phone.

“Me too! Text me when you get here and I will make my way down to the car!”, you said both excited and in a hurry. Trying to finish packing before Caleb arrives.

“10-4, see you then”, he replies and you end the call, tossing your phone into your pocket.

“Okay, keys, wallet, phone, toiletries, clothes, ugh but I’m forgetting something”, you try to think while you scramble through your backpack to triple check you have everything. A sudden knock on the door stops your commotion.

You move to the front door and open it to find Caleb standing there. Leaning against the door frame like he has been waiting there for an hour when it's only been 10 seconds. He is wearing the t-shirt you bought him last time you were together and a pair of blue jeans. The shirt makes his biceps pop, which makes your heart flutter. You knew he would wear it, which is why you bought it for him.

You and Caleb have been inseparable since you were kids when Gran took you both in. Even though people would call you siblings, you never saw Caleb in that way. Ever since you met Caleb you have always had a secret crush on him, He would always get attention from girls at school and it made you slightly jealous. But when guys were interested in you, he would always play the protective older brother role and tell you that those guys had bad intentions. You weren’t interested in anyone else anyways but it made it even harder for you to move on from your crush. Even now when you are both heading off to college, he made you promise to tell him if you liked someone so he could approve of the guy. You love him for being protective of you but you wish he would take the hint.

“I told you to text me”, you sigh and let him walk past you into your apartment.

“I did, but figured you were trying to pack in a hurry”, he says, looking at all the stuff that was just neatly packed in your backpack a disarray on the couch.

“You procrastinator”, he smirks and turns to you with his arms folded in front of him.

“Don’t look at me like that, I was totally ready to go but I feel like I am forgetting something”, you say, scratching your head and sighing.

“Phone charger?”, he smugly asks, placing his hands on his hips.

“ Oh my god Caleb, that's it!”, you say and quickly run into your room to grab your phone charger from the outlet behind your nightstand. You quickly make your way back to Caleb.

“You were right!”, you say as you start to repack your stuff.

“You always forget it and end up stealing mine. Remember in middle school you forgot to pack it for our school trip and my phone suffered; it was dead the entire time.”, he chuckles as he joins in helping you repack your things.

“You didn’t need your phone, the trip was so fun that your mobile games would have taken away from your free time”, you say zipping your backpack closed and Caleb helps you put it on.

“Yeah but it would have been nice to take some photos of the trip. I only have the ones you sent me, and they are all pictures of me”, he replies, grabbing your baseball cap he gifted you a few years ago and placing it on your head; adjusting it to his liking.

“You should be happy I took photos of you. You have memories to look back on now. I could have been mean and not have taken any pictures of you at all”, you retort sticking your tongue out at him. He chuckles at your playfulness.

“Okay pipsqueak, but I didn’t get to take any of you”, he states, making his way to the front of your apartment door, carrying most of your things for you.

“Well you saved me from forgetting my charger this time; your phone won’t suffer so you can take all the pictures you want. With my approval of course, I won’t let you keep ugly pictures of me to hold as blackmail”, you state, locking your door and walking down the hallway with him. Reaching the elevator and taking it to the first floor.

He giggles and replies, “Oh pipsqueak, I already have a whole album on my phone of embarrassing pictures to blackmail you with. You have yet to cross me but when the day comes, you will have to beg me not to post them.” He leans toward your face and sticks his tongue out at you, mocking your teasing from earlier. Before you could respond,the elevator door opens and Caleb makes his way to his car. He places your things in his trunk as you make your way to the passenger seat.

“You aren’t the only one that keeps embarrassing pictures, tough guy. You better watch yourself too”, you remark at him as he gets into the car and buckles his seat belt. You take the hairbow from around your wrist and look in the cars built-in shade mirror to put your hair up into a messy bun.

“Okay let’s call it a truce, by the way, is this what they call a passenger princess?”, he laughs as you place the blanket you brought with you over your lap. You also have a cup already placed in one of the holders in the console of his car.

“I’m just getting comfortable. Why? Do I look like a princess?”, you say, leaning toward him and batting your eyelashes.

He leans towards you, mere inches away from your face and replies, “More like a passenger pipsqueak”. Your smile quickly turns into an annoyed expression and you flick his forehead.

“Ouch, hey that hurt”, he chuckles and flicks your forehead afterwards but not with as much force.

“Okay let’s go before we end up with bruises on our foreheads”, you laugh as you check the spot where he flicked you in the mirror.

“Alright, buckle up miss princess”, he replies, putting his sunglasses on and starts the car. He checks his mirrors and places his hand behind your seat looking over his shoulder to back out of the parking space. You loved when he did this, you always got a whiff of his cologne. You looked over to see the muscles in his neck extending.

After backing up he glances over at you and smirks before putting his attention back to the road and placing the car in drive. You can’t help but blush as he places one hand on the steering wheel and leaves one hand on the gear shift.

During the 3 hour car ride you and Caleb shared things about what is going on in your lives. You told him about how you will apply to the hunters association after college ends and all the training hunters have to do to keep up stamina. He listens intently to every detail and smiles as you talk about your dreams. As the hours go by and road trip games become boring, you finally arrive at the DAA. The campus was a lot bigger than you imagined, the dorms almost look like skyscrapers you would see in a big city. There was a runway with multiple jets and planes, to practice flying with you could only imagine.

“Woah”, you say astounded at the view before you.

“Pretty cool right?”, he says, parking the car in his designated student spot while tipping his sunglasses down to look at the runway.

“You should have become a fighter pilot like me so we could have gone to school together”, he says, directing his attention towards you now.

“No, I prefer the ground”, you laugh and unbuckle your seatbelt to exit the car.

He gets out of the car too and starts to grab your things. You are left carrying only the backpack on your back because he insists on carrying everything else.

“Follow me pipsqueak”, he says gesturing with his head to go with him.

“By the way, where will I be staying? You got me a visitor room right?”, you ask him and he chuckles softly in response.

“Visitor room? No, you’ll be staying in my dorm. I requested a single but they ran out so they gave me a double bed all to myself. I think I lucked out honestly. So I thought why waste the money on a visitor room”, he says walking to the front of the skyscraper-like building. The silver paneled windows and the sleekness of the architecture almost blinds you. You don’t know how he got lucky with a double bed by himself but you are just happy to be staying with him.

You walk in and the lobby was very modern. Everything looks grey with either black or white accents. People are studying with laptops and coffees within arms reach. The lobby is huge and Caleb doesn’t stop to make time to admire it, he makes a beeline for the elevators.

He presses the elevator button to go up. While waiting he takes his sunglasses off and hooks them to the front of his shirt. Still holding all of your luggage in his hand he waits for you to go into the elevator first once one opens up.

“Ladies first”, he gestures, making sure the doors don’t close on you while you get in. It's just the two of you in the elevator as he makes sure to press the “door close” button before anyone else could get in with you.

“What floor is your dorm on?”, you ask and he replies by pressing the button to the 14th floor.

“There are 50 floors?”, you say astonished, this building really was big. He looks over at you and loves how you are so easily amused.

“There is also a pool, game room, movie room, snack bar and other things like that. We can check them out later if you want”, he smiles at you as you turn and nod excitedly. Before you could say anything else the door opens and you let Caleb out first so you can follow him to his dorm.

“Here we are 14-12”, he says pressing his finger to the door handle, it automatically opens. He pushes the door open for you to go in first and you are astounded once again. The dorm is huge, it has a big kitchen and living area. You immediately walk in and examine the area, Caleb already has a few things set up but moving boxes are spread across the room still taped and all.

Caleb sets your things down on the sofa and stops to look at you admiring the place.

“Well whatcha think?”, he asks, placing both of his hands on his hips, head tilted to the side waiting for a response.

“It's huge Caleb, how are you affording this?” you ask him while touching the marbled kitchen counter.

“I told you pipsqueak, workin’ hard in school pays off, I got scholarships and I don’t have to pay a thing”, he crosses his arms, feeling proud of himself and he looks around his new place.

“Well you deserve it then I suppose. So what are we doing first?”, you ask him, looking around at all the unopened boxes.

“Why don’t you get settled, put your things up and I will look and see what we can tackle first yeah?”, he says, picking your things back up and heading to a bedroom.

He opens the door and places your things on the bed but to your surprise there are two beds in the room. They are exactly opposite of each other, making them parallel. The other is neatly made with dark blue sheets and a matching duvet.

“Uh Caleb, why are there two beds in here? Where is your room?”, you ask him and he turns around confused at your question.

“What do you mean? I told you I had a double bed room.”, he states nonchalantly.

“I thought you meant like a 2 bedroom dorm. We can’t both sleep in here. What if I need to change or something? Plus you snore so bad, I can always hear you on the other side of the wall at home”, you say in frustration. He blinks a couple times and pulls something out of his bedside table.

“Got it covered! If you need to change I will just leave. The bathroom also isn’t attached to the room so you can get ready and everything in there. Why are you freaking out, it's not like we haven’t lived together before”, he says, holding nasal strips and rustling your hair. He throws the strips back onto the side table and goes to exit the room.

Before he leaves he turns to you and says, “I’ll give you some privacy to put your things away, you can put your stuff in the other dresser. Come out here when you are ready.” He proceeds to leave the room. You can’t believe he would be okay with sharing a room like this. I mean, you did live together but never shared a room until now. A part of you is excited but nervous. You push your nerves aside and decide to unpack.

After putting all your things away in the dresser you head to the bathroom. After turning on the light you notice he has made space for you to put your things on the counter. Your heart melted thinking about him preparing for your arrival, making sure you had space to put your things. But Caleb is just like that, he would do that for anyone because he is too nice.

To your surprise, Caleb has eliminated over half of the boxes already. All the kitchen stuff was put away along with his toiletries and living room things. Leaving only his stuff for his bedroom.

“Caleb, I was going to help you. Why did you do it all already? That was the whole point of me coming here.”, you ask him with a slight chuckle.

“Well I don’t want you to spend your whole time here just helping me unbox stuff. Come on, you can help me hang up my clothes in the closet”, he says while grabbing two boxes and taking them to his bedroom. You follow behind him like an excited puppy.

He places the boxes on his bed and rips them open with his bare hands, making the tape snap in half. He grunts then lets out a sigh when he does the second one. You can’t help but admire his strength and the way his arms flexed so naturally while opening the boxes.

“He thinks of you as a sister, stop thinking these things.”, your subconscious reminds you. You mentally try to push your thoughts away when Caleb snaps you out of them.

“Where did you go, pipsqueak? Start hangin’”, he states while handing you a hanger and a shirt.

You and Caleb quickly get the closet finished and he places his jeans, socks and intimates in his dresser.

“All done, now we can just hang out all weekend”, he smiles and places a hand on his hip.

“So basically you didn’t need my help at all”, you retorted and sit, on “your” bed.

He sits across from you on his bed and says, “Well if I asked you to just come out with me you would refuse so I had to come up with an excuse. You can’t deny me when I need help.” He smirks and places his hands behind him on the mattress as he leans back. His motion automatically makes his legs spread wider.

You roll your eyes but then suddenly remember something.

“I almost forgot, I got you a move-in day slash yay you got into college gift”, you say excitedly and start to dig in your backpack beside you.

“Oh? Let me guess, it's those apple candies that I love huh?”, he says leaning forward trying to peek into your backpack.

“Noooo, now close your eyes and NO peeking”, you say and he throws his hands up in defense.

“Alright alright”, he laughs and closes his eyes, placing his hands on either side of him on the mattress and leaning forward.

You dig some more in your bag and pull out a small box. You open it and pull out the necklace you bought him. A dog tag that says “When U come back” with a little apple charm attached to it. You smile and get up and move closer to him.

You lean down slightly to put the necklace on him. His eyes remain closed as you take a moment to admire his features. His face has the faintest of freckles and perfectly shaped eyebrows. His lips formed into a slight smile but also relaxed at the same time. You swallow and focus on putting the necklace around him. When he feels the weight of the dog tag on his chest he raises an eyebrow.

“Okay open your eyes”, you say just above a whisper. You are nervous, hoping he likes it.

He looks down and holds the dog tag in his hand examining it. He smiles to himself.

“I got a dog tag because I heard a lot of flight pilots wear them but I wanted to add something personal”, you say fidgeting with your hands.

“I love it, and it's your style too”, he smiles then looks up at you. He suddenly stands up, giving you barely any time to back up. He then pulls you into a hug.

“It’s perfect, thank you y/n”, he says into your hair. You hug his big figure back and smile.

“You’re welcome Caleb”, you say into his shoulder. The hug lasts a few seconds longer, then he pulls away.

“Alright, let’s go, my friend is excited to meet you!”, he says, grabbing his wallet and phone.

“You mean guy friend? Why do you never have friends that are girls, I never get to make new girl friend. You don’t have a girlfriend either.”, you say, pressing to see what he says.

“Girls just don’t interest me right now, just want to focus on becoming a pilot ya know? I’ll let you know if I ever get a girlfriend. Plus I have you, you’re all I need pipsqueak.”, he says laughing and rustling your hair again. There he goes, giving the same response as always and treating you like a little kid again.

“Come on, grab your things. Let’s go”, he smiles and makes his way to the dorm's front door. You pout and fix your hair from where he messed it up. You grab your backpack and your phone and follow Caleb.

The walk down to the lobby was quiet, not many words exchanged between each other. You catch Caleb looking at his necklace again, he must like it.

Once you reach the lobby Caleb walks to a table with one guy sitting with his attention on his phone until he sees Caleb in his sight. He waves Caleb down and you follow him to the table, the guy looks very familiar.

“Hey y/n, long time no see!”, the male gets up from his seat.

“Gideon! Oh my goodness, how have you been?”, you smile and he goes to give you a light hug. You hug him back and he scans you quickly.

“I’ve been good, I haven’t seen you in forever! How are you?”, he smiles. Gideon has definitely changed since you last saw him. He is much taller than he was in middle school, and he was even tall back then. He definitely has built some muscle, not as much as Caleb though. He is wearing a black t-shirt with a blue and white jacket and some black jeans.

“I’ve been good, currently trying to get into the hunter’s association to start training and taking classes”, you tell him.

“Oh right you did want to become a hunter, you’re all grown up now”, he smiles at your dedication.

“So are you, look at your muscles dude”, you say pointing out his huge figure.

“Yeah I’ve been working out, trying to get ready for training. Wanna feel?”, he pulls his arm out of his jacket sleeve and flexes his arm. You reach out to touch his arm when Caleb grabs your hand.

“You reunite and the first thing you wanna do is touch his arm?” Caleb scoffs. You wiggle your hand out of his reach and reach your hand out to touch Gideons flexed arm.

“He offered.”, you retorted back at Caleb.

“Gideon, you are ripped”, you say, not believing how much he has changed.

“Thanks, I worked hard for it. But look at you, you grew into your features too. You’re so pretty”, he smiles putting his arm back in his jacket.

“Thank you”, you look down at the ground, feeling slightly bashful. You don’t get called pretty often, especially with Caleb around. It was nice to hear that from someone other than Gran.

“Are you two done flirting so we can go to the game room?”Caleb asks with arms crossed at his chest and tapping his foot, looking annoyed.

“Sorry, let's go!”,Gideon exclaims as you follow behind him. Caleb follows you both like a lone puppy.

You walk into the game room and there are so many things to do. It's set up like an arcade but they also have a pool table, ping-pong, table air hockey and more! You and Gideon start playing air hockey immediately. You are stunned at the amazing game room they have access to on campus.

You and Gideon have played a few games when you decide Caleb should have a turn. You hand Caleb the mini air hockey mallet and he turns his head away.

“You guys can keep playing, I’m going to go over there and shoot some hoops”, he says referring to the mini basketball game in the back of the room.

What’s his problem? You brush it off and continue playing with Gideon.

“Alright I’ll start”, he says and starts a new game. After hitting the puck back and forth a few times Gideon breaks the silence.

“So how are things with you and Caleb?”, he asks, continuing to pass the puck avoiding letting you get it in his goal.

“Fine I guess, what do you mean?”, you ask him, trying to figure out a strategy to get the puck in his goal and not yours.

“You guys are together aren’t you?”, he asks.

You immediately stop your movements and look at Gideon. He takes the moment to hit the puck into your goal, earning a point.

“Did he say that?”, you ask him seriously, Gideon catches on to your mood shift and sets his mallet down.

“Uh, well the way he talks about you I just figured. I guess I just assumed”, he says scratching the back of his head.

You turn your focus to Caleb who is shooting basketballs into the basket without missing a single one, His back flexing each time he throws one.

“No we're not, he sees me as a little sister”, you scoff and pick up your mallet again, looking away from Caleb.

“Are you sure about that? Maybe you should ask him”, he says, continuing to play the game.

You drop the topic not wanting to force him into an uncomfortable conversation. What did he mean by that? What does Caleb say when you aren’t around?

Another hour passes by and you all decide to call it a night. You said goodbye to Gideon and walked back to the dorm with Caleb without a word from him.

“Caleb are you okay? You’ve been really quiet”, you ask him.

“Yeah sorry, just tired from shooting hoops. You want something to eat? I can make you something”, he says but avoids eye contact with you. You try not to think too much about it and decide to let it go.

He made you all your favorite foods and his mood started to improve. You both talked about how his life will change now while he is away from home and how it will be weird not to see each other all the time; since he won’t be in linkon anymore.

“Alright go change and I’ll clean up here”, he says and you nod while getting up from your chair.

You head to the bedroom first to grab a pair of pajamas and stop in your tracks to see a photo of you and Caleb framed and sitting on his nightstand. It's obviously a silly picture but it warms your heart to see he cares enough to display it. You smile to yourself and make your way to the bathroom, you see Caleb doing the dishes as you walk by.

You start to change into your silk matching pj set. Pink shorts and pink button up top, you instinctively start to take your bra off like you normally do but stop yourself.

“It’s probably not appropriate to do that with Caleb in the same room.”, you thought to yourself.

You keep your bra on and just put the pj shirt on over it. You put your hair into a messy bun and brush your teeth. You wipe today’s makeup off and decide to head to bed. Once you exit the bathroom Caleb is not in the kitchen anymore. You head toward the bedroom and Caleb is sitting on his bed, phone in hand with grey sweatpants on and the shirt he wore from today still on.

After entering the room his attention turns to you, he pauses before he speaks.

He clears his throat and asks, “Are you going to be comfortable like that?”

“Huh?”, you ask softly and almost innocently. He looks away for a second, debating on whether he should ask. You realize what he means, he is referring to your bra.

“I just feel like I should keep it on, just for the weekend”, you say as you sit across from him on your bed in a criss-cross applesauce position.

“Don’t feel like you have to because of me. If you are uncomfortable I can face the wall or even go sleep on the couch”, he says standing up moving to grab his pillow and blanket.

“No no Caleb, you don’t have to sleep on the couch. I just didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable if I didn’t wear one”, you say while looking at your fingers, avoiding his gaze.

“Come on pipsqueak it isn’t like I haven’t seen you stumble around our old house without one on before when you're half asleep in the morning. You would always come to get breakfast barely dressed while brushing your teeth”, he nervously chuckles.

“I sleep without my shirt on”, he says pulling his favorite shirt from the back collar over his head ruffling his hair a bit. You try not to stare at his finely toned body and look only at his face.

“See it's not weird or uncomfortable, just like old times. You’ve seen me without my shirt plenty of times”, he laughs and makes a silly face. He is trying to lighten the mood but all it does is piss you off.

It's not his fault he doesn’t have feelings for you. But it’s not your fault you have feelings for him either. This whole day has been a struggle to get through. Especially after what Gideon said, and he is still treating you like a little kid, you are sick of it.

“Fine then, i’ll take it off since it doesn’t bother you”, you say standing up and pulling your arms into your pajamas shirt to take it off underneath your shirt. You want to prove a point but you don’t want to show him anything.

“Wait, you can go to the bathroom if you want to change or wait and I’ll-”, he says frantically to try and stop you but you cut him off.

“Why? You said it's not weird. Just like old times”, you retort, acting like it's no big deal. You finally get your bra off and dangle it in your hand in front of his view.

“You’re right, much more comfortable. I’m gonna go to sleep now, goodnight Caleb”, you say and turn toward your bed and pull the covers over your body while facing the wall.

“Night pipsqueak”, he says in a soft tone. That fucking pipsqueak nickname, makes you more furious. He gets up and turns off the light but to your surprise he starts to leave.

“Why are you leaving?”, you ask him, in a somewhat sassy tone.

“Uh- I forgot to take a shower today, so I’m going to go take a quick one. You can go ahead and sleep, I'll be back, promise”, he smiles and closes the door to the bedroom.

You mentally roll your eyes and a few minutes later you can hear the shower head turn on. You are mentally struggling with all this. You shouldn’t be pissed off because Caleb is just being his sweet self and wants you to be comfortable but that's also what pisses you off. You want him to see you as a woman not a little girl. You want him to see you as you see him. Caleb is a man now; he’s not that little boy from your childhood anymore. You just wish he felt the same way about you.

The words Gideon said earlier are also haunting your brain. What did he mean by that? He thought we were together because of what he said? What is he saying about you? To be fair, people in highschool always thought you were a couple but then realized you lived together like siblings then brushed it off as him just being a protective older brother. You remember girls would swarm you to give him confession letters and gifts. That thought was just pissing you off more. You decide to try to get some rest to relieve the stress and frustration. Listening to the shower and pretending its gentle rain outside, helping you drift off into slumber.

THE NEXT DAY

You wake up to the sun peeking through the window, shining right in your face. You scrunch your face as you slowly sit upright. You look over to see Caleb's bed made and him nowhere to be found. You sigh and decide to get changed in the bedroom, making sure to lock the door for Caleb's sake.

After deciding on your outfit of a cute white cami crop top, a yellow cardigan and a light wash denim mini skirt you leave the room. You make your way to the living area and to your surprise Caleb is asleep on the couch with a couch pillow and a blanket on top of him, with his shirt on.

You make your way to where you are standing in front of him and scoff. Your mood is already in a sour state. You look at him for a second and flick his head.

“Ow-“, he says in his deep morning voice, taking a second to realize you were standing in front of him.

“Oh, mornin’ pipsqueak”, his yawn turning into a small smile while he looks up at you.

“Why didn’t you sleep in your room last night?”, you ask, getting straight to the point. He slowly sits up before answering your question.

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep so I came out here and watched some TV, must have fallen asleep on the couch. Whoopsie”, he says, rubbing his eyes and then stretching. It’s hard to be annoyed with him when he looks this cute in the morning.

“Weren’t you going to show me around campus today?”, you asked him.

“Oh yeah, let me get changed real fast then we will go”, he jolts up and jogs to his room. You wait on the couch while he gets changed. A few minutes pass and he emerges from his room wearing blue jeans, a white muscle shirt and a black baseball cap. Sunglasses and phone in hand with the necklace you got him still around his neck.

“You ready?”, he asks and you nod in agreement. You honestly are excited about the little tour because this campus is amazing.

You both decide to walk around instead of driving to get the full student experience. He shows you the cute park with a small fountain placed in the middle of campus. He proceeds to show you the runway you admired yesterday and even lets you get into one of the jets. Him sitting in the pilot seat and you as the co-pilot. He shows you the infamous movie room, it looked like a legit movie theater with a popcorn stand and everything. He takes you around campus all day but not without taking some selfies and cute pictures of each other in all the locations.

“You want to eat at the cafeteria? I’m starvin’”, he asks and you agree, all the walking has made you both super hungry.

You both walk into the cafeteria and grab a table. You sit down and Caleb hands you his phone.

“Here, pick out some cute pics we took so I can post them. I know you like to pick them out yourself. I am going to order for us”, he says before he quickly makes his way to the lunch line.

Before you can say anything he is gone. You decide to scroll through the photos you guys took together today.

You smile as you send a few to yourself. He looks so adorable today and you both look so well together, especially the selfies were admirable. You exit out of the main album and scroll and see an album listed “her”’with a red heart emoji next to it . For a second your heart drops, was he lying about not having a girlfriend? Upon your better judgement you open the album and it's flooded with pictures of you.

The album has fairly normal pictures of you but when you press on one you see a small note section at the bottom. The first one saying, “she looked so pretty today”. You scroll left and the next one reads, “she doesn’t know how beautiful she is”. Many more photos like that with comments underneath them just as sweet. Your peeping gets cut short when Caleb walks back to the table and sets your tray of food in front of you.

“Bon-appetit”, he smiles at you but all you can do is stare at his phone.

“Whatcha lookin at?”, he asks and then sees what you have been doing. His eyes widen, like he has been caught. He looks at your face then back at his phone before he snatches it out of your hand and locks it.

“You shouldn’t snoop”, he says, frantically placing his phone face down on the table.

“What was that album supposed to be Caleb?”, you ask as he tries to ignore you by putting a fry in his mouth.

“It’s nothing pipsqueak, you better eat before your food gets cold”, he laughs it off and continues to eat his food.

You have reached your limit with him. You just want to go home, you are sick of the deflecting. You just want to leave all this confusion behind and get away from here.

“I’m not hungry anymore”, you say as you stand up to leave. Moving away from the table you head toward the exit.

“Wait, y/n”, Caleb shouts as people give him weird looks for shouting in the dining hall. He picks up the trays and throws the food away before running after you.

You make your way toward the dorm rooms and up to his dorm before Caleb can catch up to you. You were infuriated, walking at a fast pace.

You make it to his dorm but realize you have to wait for him to open the door. Suddenly the elevator doors ping and out comes an out of breath Caleb.

“Open the door”, you demand and he does without a question. He knows you are pissed now.

“I’m gonna pack my stuff and get a taxi to take me home. I’ll be out in 20 minutes”, you say to him making your way to the bedroom to grab your stuff.

He quickly follows behind you and shuts the door.

“Wait, I’m sorry I-. Are you mad about the photo album?”, he asks nervously. Putting his hands through his hair.

“No.”, you answer rather short. You grab your duffle bag and start to pack the things from the dresser into the bag.

“Then what's wrong? If it's something I did wrong I can fix it. Just please don’t go pipsqueak”, he says, his voice starting to break at this point. You pause your rage packing and turn to face him. His expression worried and eyes glossed over.

“It’s exactly that Caleb, it’s treating me like I’m still a little kid all the time. I just can’t take it anymore. You only see me as this helpless little sister figure that can’t protect herself. I am a grown woman now, I have feelings and I don’t like being treated like a child”, you confess to him. His face turns from worried into confused and flustered .

“I don’t understand what you mean?”, he says quietly, genuinely trying to piece it together.

“The nicknames, the head pats, the deflecting. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t see you as my little crush I had as a kid, I see you as a grown man who has this new life and I wish he would see me differently than the little kid from his childhood. I want him to see me as a woman. Then I saw those comments under those photos of me and I am so confused and frustrated. I don’t know what to do anymore so I have to leave.”, you finally confessed. You don’t have anything left in you, you have laid it out all on the line. You start to pack again and you get interrupted buy Caleb grabbing your wrist holding the clothes. There was no breaking free. He started to walk toward you, moving slowly until your back met the wall. You try not to gasp by the sudden contact.

Caleb placed both of his hands on either side of your head, his body towering over you as he looked down at the ground.

“You think you're frustrated? I have been in agony for years”, he replies back, his voice suddenly deeper than before. He finally looks up at you, meeting your gaze.

“Day after day I have had to push my thoughts and feelings away because I wanted to be a guy you could rely on. I wanted to be your rock, someone you could be comfortable around and trust. If I couldn’t have you, I could at least be that right?”, he says, breathing ragged and your heart starts to flutter.

“Caleb-“, you whisper but he moves in closer, his face just inches away from you.

“I tried to be the gentleman, pushing my thoughts and desires aside for you. Having to watch you everyday and pretend I didn’t see you in that way was the most painful thing that could ever happen to me. I thought moving here and going to college, not seeing you everyday would help me come to terms with it. Not seeing you everyday wouldn’t be as torturous.”, he says, you can’t believe what you are hearing.

“But now, now you want me to forget all of that. You want me to see you the way I have always seen you. Beautiful, smart, strong-willed, brave and incredibly stunning. I asked myself, what would you think of me? Would you leave me? Would you think I was a creep? Would you abandon me?”, he exclaims. You take your hand and place it on his cheek, his features softening a bit.

“What am I supposed to do now, hmm? Do we forget everything we said and go back to pretending? Or are you going to abandon me?”, he asks, genuinely he is terrified of your answer.

“I would never abandon you Caleb but I am done pretending”, you say looking into his eyes, the once soft purple color turned into a deep violet.

He takes a moment to look at you and then down at your lips then back up to your gaze.

“Y/n if we do anything there is no going back. No more pretending to be innocently tied to each other. I can’t go another second knowing what I know now. This is your out.”, he says looking at you with desperation. Hands that were once spread beside your face now clenched.

“I don’t want an out. I just want you, only you, it's always been you”, you place your hand from his cheek to behind his neck and play with the strands of hair there.

That's all it takes before he crashes his lips against yours. Moving his hands and wraps them arounds your waist, pulling you insanely close to his chest. His lips were exactly how you imagined it, soft with a hint of mint from his lip balm he always uses. His lips in perfect harmony with yours, he deepens the kiss, it feels desperate and hungry. He licks at your bottom lip to ask for permission to enter, which you grant him. He doesn’t come up for air once and walks backward until you both meet his bed as he sits down and pulls you into his lap, your thighs on either side of him.

You take the moment to pull away for a second trying to catch your breath.

“Sorry, I’ve just been waiting so long to do that, you have no idea.” he says, kissing your cheek and making his way down your jaw line.

“I think I could guess, since I’ve been waiting too”, you smile when you feel him smile against your skin between kisses. His mouth makes its way down your neck, basking in the feeling of him leaving marks behind you let out a soft moan.

After hearing your sounds he wants you to do it again and again and again. After his torture on your neck he licks a stripe from your sweet spot up to your ear where he gives it a little nibble.

“All this time wasted, when I could have been touching you like this”, he says breathlessly as he helps you lift your cami top off along with your cardigan.

You gasp at his words, after leaving you topless, you help him take his shirt off as well. He throws his hat across the room, leaving his top half with only his necklace on.

You take a moment to admire his figure and experimentally drag your index finger from his becks all the way down the middle of his toned abs and just below his belly button. His skin warm to the touch and his chest rising and falling rapidly. You see his bulge from his blue jeans, before you can reach for if he grabs your wrist.

“Pipsqueak, are you sure?”, he says looking at you one last time to get your consent. You think it's sweet how he keeps asking but you want him to pounce on you already.

“Yes, enough with the pipsqueak”, he tell him and he smirks.

“Okay baby”, he says as he grabs your cheek and merges your lips together once more. He grabs your back and switches positions to where you are lying underneath him on the mattress.

“You are so stunning”, he says, kissing your collarbone all the way to your shoulder. You have goose bumps all over your skin from his mouth. Moving your fingers through his hair you sigh. You can feel your arousal in your underwear starting to pool. You need him desperately.

“Caleb please, I need you”, you moan. Caleb moves back to your neck, licking and sucking at your sweet spot.

“I want to savor this moment, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance like this again”, he says against your skin. He moves away from your neck and looks into your eyes and then to your chest.

You grab one of his hands and place it over your still covered breasts and squeeze his hand giving him the okay to touch you.

He reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra after a few seconds and throws it across the room somewhere. He focuses back on your chest. Giving one of your breasts a gentle squeeze. The feeling of his big hands kneading, earning a little whimper from you. Your breasts fitting perfectly in his hands he starts to knead the neglected one. Your hand finds place in his soft hair once again as he kisses his way down from your chest to your abdomen to the area just above where you need him most.

He settles himself between your thighs once he lets go of your breasts. Pinching your nipples before letting go, causing you to gasp.

He looks up at you from his position looking for approval.

“Caleb, I haven’t done this before. I’m a little embarrassed”, you confess, you know you can tell him anything but this is all new to you. This is the most intimate you have ever been with anyone. But he knew this, this was his first time too.

“Don’t worry, we can stop if you want to, just tell me at any time, okay? Don’t be afraid to speak up, you trust me right?”, he asks you, eyes peering up at you from the waistband on your denim skirt.

“Yes Caleb, I trust you. Please touch me, do anything”, you beg him, squeezing his hand.

“Don't worry, I’ll make you feel good baby girl”, he says while unbuttoning and unzipping your skirt. He slowly drags it down your legs along with your panties in one motion.

The hot environment hitting your now completely bare body and Caleb pauses to admire you.

He scans you entirely, making you bashful and wanting to hide yourself. You go to close your legs but Caleb puts his hands on your knees and spreads them back open.

“Don’t get all shy on me now. Let me take in all of you”, he says as he is trying to process seeing you bare for the first time, all for him. This makes his dick twitch in his pants and he grunts trying to calm himself down. He wouldn’t live it down if he came in his pants before he had the chance to feel you around him.

He positions himself between your legs once again, Kissing from your knees and slowly up to your inner thighs.

The anticipation is killing you, you need him to touch you, to do anything.

“Please Caleb, need you so bad”, you beg and make eye contact with him.

He wastes no more time and gives your inner thigh one last kiss. He positions your thighs on his shoulders and leans down, placing a gentle kiss to your clit.

You gasp finally feeling the contact you have been craving. He has barely done anything but you tug on his hair because of how good it felt.

He groans and lets his tongue explore your heat. Licking and sucking between your folds and going back up to your clit to give it a gentle suck.

You try to close your legs around his head because of how intense the pleasure is but his strong arms keep them spread open for him.

“Oh my god Caleb-“, you moan a bit louder as you move your hands in his hair. Trying to find leverage of some sort.

His tongue works its way to your hole, thrusting in a few times, making your arousal pool out of you. You are unbelievably wet and his warm slick tongue is making a mess of you.

“Ugh more, more please Caleb”, you moan out. He moves his mouth backup to wrap his lips around your clit to give it another suck while he inserts an index finger into you. Your body jolts up from the mattress causing your back to arch and your nails to dig into his sheets.

“Fuck, don’t stop”, you moan and tug at his hair again, He moans against you causing a vibration on your clit and making you lose your mind.

He starts to kitty lick your clit while he inserts a second finger, making sure to do a scissoring motion to help stretch you out for him.

The feeling is new but feels so so good. You close your eyes and start to grind into Calebs face. He moans into your heat again and you are almost to your limit.

“I’m gonna cum”, you warn him. He sucks on your clit again and moves his fingers in and out of you at a faster pace.

“It’s okay baby, cum for me”, Caleb says against you, giving your clit a few more licks before sucking it harshly one more time.

You moan loudly as you come undone on his face. Caleb doesn’t stop and works you through your orgasm. Making sure to relish in your taste before you come down and he pulls away.

He positions himself over you again looking down at your fucked out face.

“Was that okay?”, he asks, remains of your orgasm still on his chin. You take a moment to wipe it off of his face and pull at his necklace so he leans down to kiss you. Your lips move more in sync together, this kiss filled with more passion.

You break away and say, “it was perfect, but I need you inside of me.”

Caleb stands up and pulls down his jeans and boxers. His length fully hardened to the point you think it's probably hurting him. His dick super red with veins popped out along it. He ignores your gaze on his dick when he realizes something.

“Y/n I don’t have a condom. I don’t keep them because I don’t need them but now..”, he trails off.

“It’s okay, we can do it without one. I have an IUD for my periods remember and we are each other's firsts so”, you mention to him.

“You’re right..oh fuck”, he sighs realizing his first time with you will be raw.

He moves back on top of you and locks his lips with yours again, lowering himself to where his dick is settled on your folds. He takes the base of his cock and drags it into your folds collecting your arousal and slick from your previous orgasm to lubricate himself.

“Y/n I don’t think I’ll last long. You feel so good”, he says gripping the sheets beside your head.

“It’s okay, I won’t either”, you giggle and he slightly chuckles into your neck.

“One second, lift your hips up”, he says as he grabs a pillow from beside your head and places it underneath your hips.

“I heard this will make you feel better and hopefully not hurt as much. I prepped you so it shouldn’t feel as painful as it would without it”, he says going back to rubbing himself between your folds, his tip touching your clit making you moan into his mouth.

“When did you learn all this?”, you ask him, feeling him align his tip to your entrance.

“Online, I wanted to be prepared if the day were to ever come, I just didn’t think this would actually happen”,he states, giving his length a few pumps.

“Please Caleb, need you”, you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’m gonna go slow, tell me at any point if it hurts too much and I’ll stop alright?”, he asks. You nod but he doesn't do anything yet.

“I need to hear you say it y/n”, he states firmly.

“Yes Caleb”, you say while kissing his cheek.

He smiles, “good girl”.

You feel him slowly push his tip in, causing both of you to groan.

“Fuuck”, he drags out his moan, burying his head into your neck.

“Keep going”, you moan and he starts to move inside of you, taking him in inch by inch.

“You are doing so good, my good girl”, he says, kissing your neck.

You wrap your legs around his waist causing him to slip into you completely. Burying himself inside and his tip touching your cervix.

“Y/n”, he moans into your ear. You can’t believe how deep he is inside of you, You can feel every vein of his dick sitting snugly in your core.

“You okay?”, he manages to slip out between moans.

“Yes, you can move now”, the stretch was just uncomfortable at first but now seems okay.

He waits for a few more seconds, he pulls out and gives a slow thrust back in. Causing you both to moan.

“Oh fuck y/n, you’re so tight”, he moans right next to your ear. You slightly scratch at his back causing him to whimper.

“Faster, I can take it”, you urge him on. He lifts his head and gives your forehead a kiss.

He begins to move his hips faster and a bit harder. Both of your bodies are moving along with your hips.

“yes, oh my god don’t stop”, you palm at his back, reaching for something to hold onto.

“You feel so good baby, squeezing around me like this. Had to take a cold shower last night because of you; after that little stunt you pulled. I have to admit, you’re so sexy when you’re mad”, he begins to thrust faster, getting a rhythm down. You squeeze around him again, earning a groan from him.

“How am I not supposed to see you everyday after this huh? I need you by my side, every minute of every day. It’s like I crave you.”, he says grinding his hips so deep he finds your g-spot. You practically scream his name. He smirks and starts angling himself in that spot so he can hit it everytime, making your vision blurry.

“And now that I finally got a taste, I don’t think I can stop”, he looks into your eyes as he fucks you into the mattress. Bed squeaking and the echoes of where your bodies are connected make your cheeks blush.

“I’m cumming, I-I’m cumming Caleb” you gasp, unable to tell what's reality anymore as he continues to tell you sweet nothings.

“Cum for me baby, wanna feel you come undone around me. Let me see how beautiful you are when you cum, just for me, only for me”, he says kissing your ear.

That's all it took for you to cum around him. Your body shaking from the intensity, scratching Caleb's back, definitely leaving marks all over. Caleb kisses and fucks you through your orgasm and pauses his thrusts when he cums.

He watches you come undone and he shoots his seed into you while you contract consistently around him. Throwing his head back as he has the most euphoric moment in his life, and sharing it with you.

After a few final thrusts back into you, milking him for all he’s got; Caleb practically collapses on top of you.

You both are dripping sweat, you can feel how wet his hair is as his head is resting on your chest. You both stay silent but it's a comfortable silence. You play with a few strands of his hair and rub the back of his neck.

“I love you”, you hear him say just above a whisper. You’re heart melting hearing him say it in a romantic way for the first time. He raises his head to look up at you.

“I mean it y/n, I love you so much. I have loved you for so long, I can’t even remember anything before you”, he confesses. You stroke his face and he leans into your palm.

“I love you too. More than you’ll ever know”, you reply. He leans in to kiss you and this one felt different. It was soft but had a meaning behind it, feeling loved by him.You break away and you both let out a giggle.

“We should probably get cleaned up. You wanna take a shower with me?”, he asks you with his eyes focusing on yours. He looks like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.

“I guess as long as you won’t be weird about it”, you tease him.

“Y/n, I literally was inside you 2 minutes ago, I think we are past that now dontcha think?”, he laughs. You swat at his shoulder but he grabs your hand and places a kiss on the inside of your palm.

“Come on, let’s get you all cleaned up”, he says, getting off of you and holding out his hand. You take it but immediately get swept off your feet.

“Caleb!”, you shout and he laughs, he is holding you bridal style and starts to carry you to the bathroom.

“I don’t want you to have to walk until you are clean. Now hop in, I will get some towels ready for us”, he states letting you get warm under the water as you step past the glass door and into the shower.

He quickly joins you after setting out a change of clothes and towels for each of you for when you get out. When he steps in he immediately starts to help you by washing your hair, applying shampoo and conditioner and even lathering your body with soap. He takes a washcloth and helps you clean between your legs and your inner thighs. You do all the same things but repeat it to him. He leans down so you can lather his scalp with conditioner. After you both are clean he helps dry you off with a towel and wraps your hair in another one.

You both get changed into your pajamas and he offers to blow dry your hair, like he always does.

He admits to you that he used to love it because it was the only thing he could do to get close to you.

After finally getting comfortable you both head back to his bedroom.

“Oh, I should probably put my sheets in the washer downstairs”, he says as he pauses mid step.

“Ah, I’ll do it tomorrow, if they stain then they stain” he laughs.

“Caleb oh my god, you need to go wash them”, you tell him.

“No, it's too far and I wanna lay here with you anyways.”, he says gesturing for you to lay down in “your” bed first.

You get in and lay down and caleb joins you soon after. He lays down facing you as he wraps his arms around your figure and looks down at you.

“So this may be silly but I feel I still need to ask”, he chuckles as he puts a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“What is it?”, you question him, butterflies going crazy in your stomach having him hold you like this.

“Can I be your boyfriend?”, he asks you softly.

“Caleb, I feel like that was pretty obvious”, you giggle at his soft face.

“I know it's silly but can you just say it”, he asks again. Him wanting reassurance from you.

“Yes Caleb, you can be my boyfriend”,you say as you hide your face in his chest.

“Am I still dreaming? Pinch me please”, he says and you pinch his nose in response.

“Ouch, that actually hurt pipsqueak. Oh wait, can I not call you that anymore?”, he asks with a little bit of sadness in his voice.

“You can’t call me that on dates or in the bedroom, other than that it’s still okay. But no head pats, I don’t want to be treated like a kid anymore”, you say firmly.

“That's going to be a hard habit to break.”, he says while rubbing his temple.

“Everytime you have the urge to do it, replace it with this”, you suggest as you lean up and kiss his soft lips. The peck doesn’t last very long and when you pull away Caleb’s cheeks are left with a tint of pink.

“I could get used to that”, he says and leans in to give you another peck.

The night ends with you both falling asleep in each other's arms. Except Caleb forgot to put a nasal strip on so you got to hear his snoring all throughout the night.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

a/n: hi, i think i like this one waaaaayy better than the previous zayne one. what did you guys think? I think I did well encapsulating his character :) Sylus next perhaps??

#love and deep space #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace #lnds caleb #caleb x you #caleb smut #caleb x y/n #caleb x fem reader #caleb

419 notes · View notes

nicksolemnlyswears · 3 months ago

Text

FORGED UNDER FIRE

THE UNPLEASANTRIES OF A SURPRISE

blurb: the sorrengail siblings reunite...what starts as a joyous surprise turns into an unpleasant moment as the realization of what brennan did sinks in

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: nothing crazy, some violence and cursing, iron flame spoilers

a/n: hello, hello! sorry it took me a couple weeks to update, i've been studying for an exam and i was also catching up with some of my other writing. i had a long fic to update and a marcus acacius oneshot to write for a challenge but that is done!

i'm back and i hope you enjoy this part of forged under fire. it's not that long but it captures the essence of what needs to be said. you can now find a more detailed masterlist of this series on my main masterlist under fourth wing!

enjoy and let me know what you think at the end!

At the mention of a riot, Brennan sprung into action, calling out orders to the cadets under his care and the guards under his command. He knew the time would come when the Navarrians would find them, but he didn't expect it to be so soon.

Brennan curses when Violet speeds past him, running towards the courtyard and calling her dragon. He wishes to follow, but he has a protocol and orders to give. If it were up to him, he'd be following her and calling Marbh to meet him in the courtyard ready to battle.

"It is not a riot. More are coming to join us, forty of them. Teine leads them," Marbh tells him through his link.

"Mira?" Brennan whispers, the corner of his lips turning into a smile. The arrival of his sister is a welcomed surprise.

With a string of new orders and the reassurance they won't go into battle any time soon, he follows after Violet. He's excited to see Mira, his younger sister who he shared a childhood with. At one point, she was his best friend.

The two bickered more than acceptable, but it was part of their dynamic. At the end of the day, Mira and Brennan were each other's biggest supporters.

Brennan smiles when he steps outside, spotting his sisters together. He hurries down the steps, eager to join them and have a proper family reunion.

Teine has put a considerable amount between him and Tairn, considering the bigger dragon had his jaw around his neck not long ago.

Mira falters at the sight of Brennan. Her face pales as her brother, who was supposed to be dead, gets closer. The image of him is clearer and clearer. The sleep deprivation must be getting to her because it simply can't be him.

"Hey, Mira," he says as he approaches, preparing to give Mira the biggest hug.

His voice just about confirms his status as alive and breathing. Her older brother is alive. Her partner in crime.

Deep inside, she's elated that he's alive, that she didn't lose him, but there are layers of anger and resentment to sort through. He's alive, but at what cost?

Memories of her grieving and burning his belongings flash through her mind. Her mother's distance, her father's death, her sister-in-law's suffering, and her nephew growing up without a father figure. They all dealt with his death while he was hiding.

Without much thought, she allows that anger to flow straight through her as she lifts her fist and swings. A satisfying crunch and blood pouring from Brennan's nose lets her know she hit true. It's not the first time she's broken his nose, and it certainly won't be the last.

Violet guides them inside in a flurry, shooting orders left and right. Brennan clutches his nose with a handkerchief as blood pours down his face while Mira glares at him and everyone who tries to touch her.

Once they are alone, an argument ensues between the three siblings. Different questions arise about Brennan faking his death, the rebellion Violet is seemingly leading and their status as family. Violet may have forgiven Brennan, but his betrayal is too fresh for Mira.

It is chaotic and messy, but it describes the Sorrengails perfectly.

Xaden joins them in the office, watching amusedly at how they argue. Perhaps it's for the best he doesn't have siblings. The resemblance between them can be seen perfectly in how their mannerisms overlap and mimic each other.

The room turns quiet at Violet's order. The siblings all stare at each other. Mira ignores the fact that Violet has more guts than she used to. They've changed so much over the years, yet they are the same.

"How is she?" Brennan breaks the silence to ask about his wife. The last time Violet was here, he didn't get the chance. They were in and out in a hurry.

Not a day goes by when he doesn't think about you. Leaving you is his biggest regret. Your relationship was a pillar that kept him strong for so long. You often discredited yourself by thinking you needed him more than he needed you. You were wrong. Brennan needed you just as much.

The moment his signet manifested he stopped being Brennan. All they saw were his healing abilities and how they could use him in their battles. He loves his signet, but it felt dehumanizing when all they saw was a tool.

Except you always saw him as Brennan. You never asked to be healed by him. You’d rather bandage your injuries and deal with the pain. He never let you. If there’s anyone he’ll heal without protest, it’ll be his family.

"Who?" Mira asks, crossing her arms and raising a judgemental eyebrow at him. She knows exactly who he's asking about.

Brennan rolls his eyes, "My wife. How is she?" He asks directly at Violet this time. Reasoning with Mira will be impossible when she's in a mood.

Violet's expression softens, but before she can answer, Mira interjects, "Your wife? You don't have a wife, do you, Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh? Brennan Sorrengail had a wife, but he's dead."

Mira sneers at Brennan her anger eating at her fervently. She doesn't understand how Violet forgave him so easily. Doesn't she realize the gravity of what their brother has done?

"Mira, come on! Enough of this." Brennan pleads, driving his hand through his hair. A sign he's stressed out by the situation.

There were so many times he wanted to reach out to his family. To tell them he was alive and well and that he missed them. It was not realistic when telling them would've endangered them further.

Navarre doesn't want its citizens to know about the venin and what's going on outside the borders. Telling them could've led them to be charged with treason. That is, if Lilith Sorrengail admitted to the information she kept secret.

"You really want to know? Fine, she's dead, Brennan!" Mira exclaims, giving her back to him.

"What?" Brennan pales and falls back on his seat, burying his head in his palms. It can't be. You can't be dead. His heart pounds in his chest at Mira's words, the world spinning around him. The one thing he always counted on was you outliving him by staying safe within Navarre's wards.

"Dead to you! You lost the right to know when you faked your death," Mira says, spinning back around to stare accusingly at him. Maybe that will give him some idea of how they felt when he faked his death.

Violet and Xaden stare at the pair with wide eyes. That was cruel even for Mira.

"Fucks sake, if you think leaving her, leaving any of you, was easy, then you're wrong. I know you're upset, but I had to do this. I couldn't ignore the threats outside of Navarre. Threats our parents were hiding," Brennan shouts back, his chair tumbling to the ground as he stands.

His face matches Mira's as they glare at each other and share the same flushed complexion. It reminds Violet of the good old days when they'd argue about the smallest things.

"You didn't stop to think about me or Violet? You were my brother Brennan, my best friend!" Mira yells, pointing at him accusingly, "And then you try to hug me like everything is okay? This is all levels of fucked up."

Brennan sighs in defeat. "I really am sorry."

Mira looks down and says, "You didn't just leave us. You made us believe you were dead and that we'd never see you again. We mourned you: Dad, Mom, Violet, your wife, and the worst part of it all is--"

She almost told Brennan about his son but couldn't tell him. Mira can't bring herself to tell him about the best thing that happened to their family since he 'died.' It's not her call, and it's not like he deserves to know, either. He gave up that right when he chose to fake his death.

Brennan waits for her to finish her sentence, expecting a string of words to pour more salt into the wound.

"You don't really realize everything you've given up," Mira says ominously, standing across from her brother, no longer pointing fingers or looking to argue. Mira is tired. It's been a long day.

"Will you hate me forever?" Brennan asks her.

Mira smiles sadly, "I don't hate you, Brennan. I love you, but this hurt more than you can imagine."

Brennan opens his mouth to apologize once more, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, a word?" One of the Aretian soldiers asks. Brennan nods, telling him to wait outside.

"I hope you know I really am sorry. I hope we can work through this because I missed my best friend." With that, he steps outside the room, Xaden following him.

Brennan is sorry, but he doesn't regret it. It was a sacrifice he had to make. He's hopeful Mira will come around and understand his intentions were good.

"You didn't tell him," Violet speaks softly, glancing at the closed door.

"Neither did you," Mira rolls her eyes, leaning back against a desk, "Not like it matters, he'll find out very soon."

"What do you mean?" Violet asks instantly.

"Because she's coming here," Mira says, playing with a paperweight, "Mom convinced her it's for the best, but she had to go get Benny before coming."

Lilith Sorrengail gave the riders a choice. They could stay in Navarre or join the rebellion. You chose to stay with her, not because you believed in Navarre but because you owed Lilith a lot. She deserved to have someone in her corner. So, it came as a surprise when she insisted on you joining Mira.

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"I'm not worried about Brennan. I'm worried she'll lose her shit and make Calliss eat Brennan," Mira responds with a smile at the imagery she's made up in her head.

"He'd deserve it," Violet laughs, knowing Calliss won't eat Brennan. "On the bright side, I'm excited to see the little bugger."

Little Bennett and Violet share a close relationship. Violet looked after him constantly, and Benny became attached to his aunt. She missed him most when she left for Basgiath.

"You can't be his favorite forever," Mira chimes, determined to take the title from her sister.

Violet laughs, and Mira joins her. It's crazy to think their family will be together soon. That is, if you don't murder Brennan first.

oop were getting closer to readers reunion with brennan! ain't that exciting! for the next one i think i'm bringing it back to when brennan and reader were in basgiath. i want to talk a bit about her signet so yes!

let me know in the comments or in my asks if there's a specific bit between them you'd like to see! i don't know if this is dragging for you guys, i personally love it but if you'd like me to just write them meeting up then let me know too.

tag list (if you'd like to added to future parts let me know!) : @berry-marys @cherubinn7 @ladynyx91 @kylaisra @detectivehailey @liahaslosthermind @thebreadisthetruevillian @bbkissme99 @honethatty12 @sunny1616 @akshstudios @yadirrez @xoxomoonlightbabe @jaynawayna @littlepippilongstocking @itsmytimetoodream @honethatty12 @poseidont @lveegsoi @cheappremingerfromdelululand @tattee-18 @bxm-2121 @hannahjsworld @holb32 @hannah-schooler

#fanfiction #nicksolemnlyswears #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #forged under fire #fourth wing #iron flame #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail #violet sorrengail #mira sorrengail #xaden riorson #onyx storm #fanfic #oneshot

371 notes · View notes

nebulablakemurphy · 2 months ago

Text

The Star-Crossed Lovers Of District 12 (Part 3)

Haymitch Abernathy x Wife!reader

Summary: Y/N continues trying to find balance in her ‘new life’ while grappling with the loss of her memories. Implied sexual content and past sexual trauma. SoTR Spoilers!

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

Y/N spends her days going through the motions and her nights running from dreams of loved ones past.

“I can’t do this anymore, Haymitch.” She wails, pressed tightly to his chest. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re ok,” Haymitch whispers, worry seeping into his own voice. “Shh.”

“Please help me.”

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.” Haymitch brushes his lips against her forehead. “I’ll help you, I’ll help you.”

Y/N paws at him, clinging to something that is real.

“You need to sleep, angel.” Haymitch gentles her back beneath the covers.

“I can’t, I can’t.” Y/N’s sobs are muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Shhh,” he hushes her. “In the morning we’ll go down to see Dr. Aurelius and get something to help you sleep.”

Her head pounds, pain radiating down her neck as she cries herself to sleep.

There’s nothing Haymitch can do but hold her. Whispering that she is safe and loved. They’ll figure this out. Massaging the back of her aching skull and wishing the pain away.

————————————————————————

Dr. Aurelius is not expecting to find Y/N in the hospital wing, Haymitch in tow, before first meal. “Good morning.”

“We need just a minute,” Haymitch says. Shooting Katniss a smile, to ease her concerned eyes, through the doorway of her room.

“Y/N.” She croaks out, anyway.

Y/N gives Haymitch’s back a pat before excusing herself. “Hi, honey. How are you feeling?”

“Good.” The neck brace is long gone. “They’re releasing me tomorrow.”

Has it been that long? “Just in time for the wedding.”

“I think it was intentional, they’re gonna broadcast it and they want Snow to see us there.”

“I’m sure we can manage that.” Y/N grins.

“Are you here to see Peeta?”

“I’m actually here to see Dr. Aurelius. I’m still having some issues.” Y/N lifts a shoulder, “I won’t be much good to anyone in a state of psychosis so-”

“Good call.” Katniss deadpans.

“I can come tomorrow though, what time do you get released?”

The corner of the girl’s mouth twitches, “they said in the morning.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow morning,” Y/N nods.

“And when you see Peeta, can you tell him that I…” Katniss breaks off, defeated.

“We’re working hard to get Peeta back to his old self. He’s responding really well to our sessions together. But it’s going to take time.” Y/N reminds her, “there’s layers to it, because of the fear conditioning.”

“Did they- do you remember if-” Katniss forces the words past her lips. “Did they torture you?”

“Once.” Y/N admits, softly. “I haven’t told Haymitch, he’s suffered enough.”

Katniss lowers her gaze, bobbing her head once in understanding.

“I realized what they were doing, how they wanted to twist and play with my mind. I knew I’d be better off dead.”

Katniss blanches.

“That was one time with trackerjacker venom. Peeta was there for months.” That poor, sweet, tortured soul. “He’s come a long way.”

————————————————————————-

Haymitch settles Y/N in Aurelius’ office, prepared to leave but she’s got a death grip on his hand. He stands beside her chair somewhat awkwardly.

“Please, sit.” The doctor motions to a second chair, a few feet away.

“I’ll stand.”

“As you wish.” Aurelius sighs, “what brings you in today?” It’s not their weekly session.

“It’s getting worse.” Y/N tells him, “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. My head hurts all the time. Nothing works.”

“We’re more than willing to prescribe a higher dose of morphling, but you’ve always been adamant about keeping all medications to the bare minimum.” Dr. Aurelius flips through the notes on her chart.

Y/N scrubs a hand across her forehead, “I’m still adamant. Is there nothing else we could try?”

“If I may be so bold, according to both of your accounts, prior to Y/N’s injury, physical intimacy was often used as a form of comfort and co-regulation. I would go as far as to call it psychological pain management.”

“You think sex’ll do it?” Haymitch chortles.

“Well we have to try something,” Y/N blinks up at him.

Haymitch shakes his head.

“But if that’s off the table for you, I understand.”

“I would do more for you and worse,” Haymitch grumbles. “I just don’t want to cross a line that screws up your head worse than it already is. That’s my only concern.”

“I worry about that too.” Y/N nods. “Not my head, but yours. I can’t imagine being on your side of things.” Are you in more pain than Katniss?

“Don’t worry about me, angel.”

“All I do is worry about you, because I care about you. I don’t want to lose you or hurt you in someway I don’t understand, because I tried to bash my own skull in.”

Haymitch kneels, meeting her at eye level. “You never have to worry about that. What we have, is something I never thought I could have with anyone.” Not after Lenore Dove. “You couldn’t mess it up anymore than I could, and lord knows we both did our damndest.”

Y/N rests her hand against his cheek.

“There is nothing you could say or do to change the way I feel about you. I won’t leave you alone in this.”

“Because you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours.”

Haymitch nods, “you remember that?”

“I want to remember more.” Y/N’s glossy eyes search his.

“You will,” Haymitch turns his face into her hand, kissing her palm. “You will. We have time.”

————————————————————————

When Haymitch wakes it is not to Y/N screaming, but to a hissing in his ear. “Haymitch.”

“Shhh, she’s finally sleeping.”

“Why do you think I’m yelling directly into your ear?” Madge barks.

“Madge?” Haymitch pulls the top sheet up higher around Y/N’s shoulder.

“You asked me to watch the baby so you could do this?!?” She scolds, in a whisper, “I thought you were taking her to see the doctor.”

“I did take her to the doctor and he suggested it.” Haymitch informs her.

Madge gags.

“It’s called ‘co-regulating.’”

“That’s worse somehow.”

“Listen, if it works; it works.”

Silence as Madge contemplates her next move, “I’m going to pick your children up from school in an hour, they can hang out with me for the night so she can get some rest.”

“Thank you, Madge. Best sister-in-law ever.”

“You’re welcome.” Madge storms out of the room.

————————————————————————

By the next morning Madge is in a much better mood.

Y/N looks like herself again, coming to collect the children early. “We’re going to meet Katniss, they’re discharging her from the hospital.”

“Where’s Haymitch?” Madge wonders.

“He went down to see Peeta. He told me you got into it yesterday, by the way.”

“I just want to make sure you’re ok. That’s all I care about.”

“I am,” Y/N nods. “If I’d known it was such an easy fix I would’ve-”

Madge holds a hand over her sister’s mouth, “do not finish that sentence. Ever. I’m begging you.”

Y/N laughs, moving her hand away. “Ok, ok. We’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you at the wedding, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Madge shifts between feet. “Pollux asked me to go with him.”

Y/N smiles and nods. Pollux? “I should know who that is.”

“I can reintroduce you later, but you used to work together shooting propos, before the accident.”

“I’d like that,” Y/N taps her younger sister’s chin. “See you later, Madge Pie.”

“I’m really glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you for all your help, couldn’t do this without you.”

“You’re welcome,” Madge waves her off, “and I know.”

————————————————————————-

Annie is a vision in her white gown. Finnick cleans up nice too.

Y/N and Haymitch have a perfect view of the ceremony. Everest and Arista are a few rows up with Prim and the other kids.

Daisy prefers Y/N over anyone, and at almost six months old, she doesn’t really give a shit about the wedding. Content to be in her mother’s arms.

Annie’s dress is beautiful.

Annie’s dress is…

Annie’s dress…

Annie’s dress is different than mine.

She wants to be in it.

My dress is a prison.

‘I’m going to unzip your dress.’

Her mind is warping it, twisting it into something awful. She tightens her hold on Daisy as the floor falls away beneath her, with only Haymitch keeping her upright. “They put Katniss in my dress.”

“You’re ok,” he murmurs.

Her breath comes in short, unsteady bursts. “You know what happens in that dress.”

Of all the things to remember… Why this? “You’re not there anymore.” Not in that dress, not in that room. “You’re not there. Katniss is fine. The dress is gone.”

‘Just a little pinch.’

The scene plays out before her, in its entirety. She’s trembling; all but panting. Haymitch doesn’t move, doesn’t draw any unnecessary attention, he just holds her. He’s always holding her. Making sure it doesn’t hurt. Kissing it better when it does.

“Can’t take me anywhere, huh?” Y/N attempts a jest.

“Just breathe.” Haymitch sighs, “you don’t need to laugh it off. Not with me.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, Haymitch.”

“You won’t.” Haymitch whispers.

“I made your life hell. Snow was always punishing us; hurting me to hurt you.”

“That was not your fault.” Haymitch insists, “he had it out for me long before you.”

“Because you…” I want to break the board. “You tried to break the board.”

#haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #thg haymitch #the star crossed lovers of district 12

328 notes · View notes

ladyfocalors · 2 months ago

Text

Rivalry

summary: After Grim loudly claims that you’re "the only one allowed to be my hench-human forever" in front of Ace and Deuce. Deuce takes it very seriously. He’s suddenly determined to prove he’s the better choice to be your number one by showing it to you through various means. And now you have a love struck Heartslabyul student and a jealous cat monster fighting for your attention.

pairing: deuce spade x gn!reader

warnings: very dialogue heavy, the usual stupidity that comes with heartshackle.

word count: 1.6k

Lunch had started like any other day. You, Grim, Ace, and Deuce were crowded around a table, eating and chatting between bites. Grim, as usual, was stealing from your plate despite having his own food.

"Ugh," Ace groaned. "Pairing us up for alchemy project without even letting us choose? That's unfair!"

"It's Crewel," you said.

"Seriously, we're the ones who have to suffer." he huffed, "What if we get stuck with some lazy bum who expects us to do all the work?"

You wanted to comment that knowing Ace's grade in alchemy, he would be the one to drag his partner down but you instead settled on a shrug and said, "It's supposed to teach us teamwork."

Ace scoffed. "More like it's teaching me how to carry someone's dead weight. What about you guys? Who'd you get?"

"I got some guy from Pomefiore," you answered, poking at your food. "He seems nice enough."

"Eh, how lucky," Ace mused. Then, he turned to Deuce. "And you?"

Deuce, who had been oddly quiet, frowned slightly. "Some student from Ignihyde. He barely talks."

"Yikes." Ace shook his head. "Bet you wish you had a better partner, huh? If you could pick anyone, who would it be?"

Deuce hesitated. He looked at his plate, thinking for a long moment. Then, as if the answer had been obvious all along, he turned to you.

"The Prefect, probably."

You blinked in surprise. "Me?"

Deuce nodded.

"You're reliable. You actually try to get things done instead of slacking off. If I had to do a project with anyone, I'd want someone I can count on."

You laughed, a little flustered. "That's a nice compliment, thank you."

Before the conversation could continue, Grim suddenly slammed his paws onto the table, nearly knocking over your glass of water.

"NO WAY!" he barked, fur bristling. "No one gets to be their number one but me!"

Ace burst into laughter. "What!?"

Grim turned to you, puffing out his chest. "You're the only one allowed to be my hench-human forever!"

Silence followed his statement.

Ace recovered first, snorting. "Whoa, where's this coming from? Who's trying to steal your 'hench-human,' furball?"

Grim scoffs. "No one! I'm just sayin' you two dunces don't stand a chance."

"Grim. This is not a competition." you sighed.

"But we're a team!"

There was no arguing with him when he got like this. "Sure, Grim. Whatever you say."

Satisfied, Grim went back to eating, clearly believing the discussion was over.

But…

"So, you're saying anyone who wants to be their number one has to prove they're better than you?" Deuce asked, his expression serious. Something about the way he said it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Grim scoffed. "No one's gonna do that 'cause no one's better than me!"

Deuce frowned, but his expression quickly turned determined. You didn't like that look.

"Alright," he said, clenching a fist. "Challenge accepted."

You stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"I'll prove I'm the better choice to be your number one!" Deuce declared, eyes burning with conviction.

Grim shot up. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?!"

"No! You two are not doing this!" you raised your hand to grab their attention, but your words fell into deaf ears as Grim and Deuce had a stare-down.

You let out a sigh for the nth time that day.

Deuce and Grim were not lying when they took 'being your number one' as a competition. The very next morning you had to deal with them.

Deuce was already at your side, reaching for your bag.

"I'll carry that."

"Deuce, I can carry my own bag."

"But I should do it," he insisted. "A good partner helps out however they can."

Before you could protest, Grim leapt onto your shoulder.

"Well, I help out by keeping 'em company! Try beatin' that!"

Deuce frowned, considering something. Then, his eyes brightened with realization.

"I could walk them to class every day."

Grim gasped in offence. "I already do that!"

"Yeah, but I'll make sure they actually get there instead of wandering off and getting roped into trouble."

"Myah! No, I don't wander!"

"Okay!" You stepped between them before a fight broke out. "That's enough!"

The two of them turned to you expectantly.

You exhaled through your nose. "Look. I appreciate the thought, really. But I don't need to be walked to class. I don't need someone carrying my stuff. And I definitely don't need you two constantly trying to one-up each other!"

There was a long pause.

"... So what you're saying is," Deuce began, rubbing his chin, "I need to do more than just carrying things?"

Grim's ears flattened. "That's not what they said!"

Ace smirked, seemingly enjoying the scene. "Wow, Prefect, tough crowd today."

I need new friends, was the only thought that occupied your mind all the way to your class.

When lunchtime rolled around, you expected to enjoy a quiet meal. If anything went wrong, Riddle would definitely collar both Grim and Deuce. So, you were not worried about anything actually going wrong.

Unfortunately (well, fortunately, but Grim got involved) Deuce had gone ahead and brought you lunch.

"Here," he says, setting your food in front of you before sitting down. "You like this stuff, right?"

You blinked. "Yeah, but…"

"What do you think you're doin'?" Grim butt in.

"Just helping them out." Deuce frowned.

"Oh yeah?" Grim huffed. "Well, I always share my food with them!"

Which was the biggest lie anyone would ever hear from Grim. You had to fight him off every time his paw would reach for your food.

You turned to stare at Grim. "Grim. You literally steal food from my plate."

"Myah! It's called sharing!" he insisted, crossing his little arms, then turned to Deuce. "Besides, what makes you think the hench-human wants you buyin' their food, huh?"

Deuce stiffened, suddenly looking uncertain. "I mean… I just thought–"

"Hey, if you're bringing people lunch, I wouldn't mind one too," Ace cut in, grinning as he reached for your plate.

"This isn't for you," Deuce smacked his hand away without hesitation.

"Ooh, I see how it is," Ace snickered.

"There's nothing to see," Deuce said quickly, ears turning pink.

You sighed, shaking your head. "Deuce, I appreciate it, but you don't have to bring me lunch."

"I wanted to," he said, stubborn as ever. His eyes were set with the same determination he had when he swore to be your number one.

"Then I should be the one doin' it!" Grim declared, puffing out his chest.

You shot him a look. "Grim, you steal my food."

"You're missing the point!" he said, scrambling for some sort of rebuttal. "I don't need to bring lunch to be the best! I got charm! And loyalty! And–" He trailed off, ears flicking as he struggled to think of more reasons. Finally, he threw his paws up in frustration. "And I am the Great Grim! And I don't see you tryin' to be a better number one than me!"

"Because I don't just say it. I prove it." Deuce said in a smug tone.

Grim slammed his paws on the table. "Fine! I'll prove it, too!"

Deuce met his challenge head-on, slamming his own hands on the table. "Fine!"

"Keep this up and Riddle will come here and collar both of you," you grumbled, which shut both of the idiots up.

"What are you doing, Deuce?" you asked the boy with a toolbox in your dorm. Something always kept happening, and you were on your last straw.

He cleared his throat. "I noticed your door's been sticking out, so I thought I'd fix it."

You blinked at him. "Deuce. That's… actually really nice."

You barely had time to be touched by the gesture before a blur of gray fur shot past you.

"OH, NO YOU DON'T!"

Grim skidded to a halt in front of the door, standing his ground like a knight protecting their master.

"I already fixed it!"

Deuce frowned. "You did?"

"Yeah! Used my claws to pry it loose!"

You slapped a hand to your forehead. "Grim, that's not fixing it–"

"But I did it for you!"

Deuce narrowed his eyes. "I can actually fix it. Properly."

"Like I'd let you take my job!" Grim's fur stood on their end.

And then they started arguing again. Right outside the door.

It took forever to separate them, and by the time you did, you had enough.

You planted your hands on your hips. "That's it! I am done with this stupid competition! Stop this nonsense!"

Deuce and Grim froze.

Grim blinked up at you. "Huh?"

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. "Look. I get it. You both want to be my 'number one', but you don't have to prove anything to me."

Deuce bit his lip, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're both important to me," you continued. "And I don't need ridiculous competitions or going out of your way to do things for me to prove that. Just be yourselves."

There was a beat of silence. Then Grim huffed, crossing his little arms. "Fine. But I still say I'm your number one."

"Grim." You glared.

"What? You said I don't have to prove anything!"

Deuce let out a quiet chuckle.

You turned to him, exhausted. "And you. Are we done with this?"

A faint pink dusted his cheeks. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Good."

You closed the door behind you, rubbing your temples. You couldn’t help but think about how much energy had been wasted on this ridiculous competition. You had things to do. Assignments to finish, a half-broken dorm to manage, and you had to handle the biggest troublemaker in NRC.

As you sighed, relieved the ordeal was over, Deuce hesitated before speaking.

"But if I did have to prove something, it wouldn’t just be about being your number one." He swallowed, his usual determination wavering. "I… I like you." His face was burning now. "Not just as a friend. I– I wanted to show you that."

Grim gagged. You ignored Grim, meeting Deuce’s nervous gaze. Then, you smiled. "You didn’t have to prove anything for that, either."

His eyes widened, then softened, lips curving into a grin.

#[𓇼] The Steambird's latest #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #deuce spade #deuce spade x reader #twst deuce

301 notes · View notes

kooyabooya · 7 months ago

Text

SPECTRE

giselle x m reader

32k words

part one of silken promises

This astonishing thing about fate you realize - probably, is that it doesn’t have a solid line on the end of a paper for you to sign off on. And honestly, if that were to be the case, you’d wipe off the ink immediately after; call the offer off and hide under the flashing lights, waiting to reap you of your secrets.

In pure and utter laziness, you’re saying: “Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.”

Giselle twists her face to you with a raised eyebrow, clearly insulted.

“Sure, the simple life of having a house outside of town and in the woods sounds nice and all, maybe some kids to fill the empty space between the rooms, but I just thought that we would have-”

She flicks away her cigarette. “It’s an arranged marriage, you dumbass. They wouldn’t care how we thought it’d go either way.”

The conclusions were already drawn up, and agreements were already in place. You have your reasons for stalling the talks. She tells you that the deal’s ludicrous; you consider it to be archaic - as a counterargument, you think, and holds your point there.

“Now that you’ve signed the damn papers finally,” Giselle proposes, “How do you want to go about this?” She asks, already wondering what will make the two of you being ‘officially’ together.

Your answer didn’t matter to your parents nor hers, but just with Giselle and Giselle only. She sees this forced entanglement to be a matter of principle; to appeal the masses, and suffer the flack in the latter later. You see it as your own life being sealed away, without fully grasping your head at the fact of what you’re getting yourself into.

–

To address the armageddon of narratives bouncing around and between the headlines capped in bold fonts through the phone screen, this is what you know:

You’ve got a stake in the family business - a rough, sizable percentage in the double digits if you want to consider it comfy but - no point in disputing the diluted shares over your father’s dead body. He’s overseen the company’s growth from when you were in diapers, blindly convincing you on a dare to work alongside him; law and business degree aside, you wished that you’d focused on writing, or architecture. You’re not so entirely sure yourself, but your luck in being born into a family that’s made themselves well off two to three decades away from retiring and enjoying the tempting pastures that life has to offer; it’ll happen soon, but needless to say: you’re rich, and pretty famous.

There’s this new family merging into the family business group: the Uchinagas. At first glance, the family is like yours, probably placed on the other side of the coin. The father’s been a longtime friend with your father since college, starting up various start-up projects before eventually parting ways to build their own business to high degrees of success. The same could also be said for the mother: knee-deep in the fashion industry with connections and almost every top model that she could ever call in her contact list, and your mother’s got her nose in some brands that crossover with her mutuals. Then, there’s the daughter.

On another refresh and through a different outlet of news on your phone, you see this one website was claiming that the Uchinaga’s are a bright new addition to the family business, a cover photo capturing you and her standing side by side for a gala event that was hosted by her family. Her birthday party, as a matter of fact.

Right off the bat, she looks amazing in the photo, there’s no denying that. It’s got everything within the lines of glitz and glamor, considering the amount of effort that they’ve put in towards the party held in their backyard, let alone the sizable guest list (that you had no idea of making it in, but it’s written in ink); Giselle Uchinaga’s shoulder brushes against yours - drinking in the moment - where all the eyes, cameras, and lights are solely on her, and you also arm your look of genuine admiration to her at the side.

Her hair is in these embered, wavy locks, resting right beside the bust of her off-white dress, wrists and neck shining with the most expensive jewelry that could ever be gifted to her. More of the pictures from her birthday celebration actually make it into the article, building a profile for the hottest global ‘it girl’ that’s got nearly all the rich guys or guys with notable profiles fawning over her when she’s in close proximity. She seems very camera shy at times, and that’s apparent when your shoulder shields half of her face when you’re beaming the widest smirk that you could wear. In a way, this still serves as a clear foreshadowing that’s yet to be foreseen, since the posse that you two possess almost candidly appears that way: a wedding celebration, or a grand coronation of something bigger, like royalty.

(It’s a pairing that the people realize that it’s the kind of pairing that wasn’t wanted, but needed.)

The pictures from the party continue to get swiped across the screen. And you can kind of see what everyone’s been talking about.

Sure, there’s the shared history of attending the same law school together, taking the same classes, meeting in various events with the respective families in different showcases and brand engagements. Sharing a few words with each other but never really escalating above that imaginary barrier that you’ve falsely put up in your mind to make sure that you’re not thinking about the different kinds of ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s’.

You and Giselle aren’t exactly friends, just mere acquaintances - to better the title between you two at best.

(You’ve played it safe, however: away from the tabloids, not getting yourself into any kind of trouble whether it’s outside of office hours or in various business dealings that you were tasked with. Needless to say, you’ve got it easy; while the same can’t really be said for Giselle, who’s always getting herself into trouble. She’s no stranger to scandals, let alone having her name and face on the front page of a newspaper or the first thing you see starting up your computer in the mornings. Always involved in some form of drama that gets twisted by the journalists, some of them wanting to taint the image of not only her’s, but the family’s as well.

Aside from that infamous picture of you and her together at the birthday party, there’s also one other article from a shady news source that only focuses on the worst in celebrities. She’s managed to put herself right into the primed position - where she’s getting busy with someone she met from the nightclub on a whim, fingers twiddling with the belt buckle of said lucky contestant, while his hands are about to get busy, pressing deeper into the mix of fabric harboring the skin of her hips. Everyone within the first five seconds of seeing that picture can immediately put two and two together - write up different points of commentary and subtext between the lines; but the words, especially the ones that are created soon after - it sparks a supernova of sorts in the media.)

But you switch to the original tab and scroll back up to the photo from the birthday party, just to get a good look at it. A double take with the provided optics. You can see why people are in awe between you two. It’s laughable that people online are calling for this waiting ship to sail.

So much for saying that you and Giselle are just ‘mere acquaintances’ to each other, but you’ll let the rumors curdle in speculation.

–

This merger, however, was supposed to be seen with a positive outlook in mind.

It was supposed to be seen as a healthy, mutual relationship between the two parties of your family and Giselle’s family, along with the deeply rooted rapport lying underneath the professional connection. It was supposed to be a step towards something great; not only for the business, but the image of all companies involved to gain a massive boost in profits from the public.

Doesn’t help with the fact that there were some ambitious individuals in the field of journalism who were willing to undermine this special moment, threatening to expose a scam that involved your father and Giselle’s father in a business venture gone bad years ago. Murky details aside, but we’ll just say that there’s blood on someone’s hands. No amount of money bribed could ever sway those guys to walk away from a story that will create shockwaves throughout the industry - if it did get out.

Luckily, they agreed to the hush-money settlement, with some persuasive (and questionable methods, but you couldn’t care fuck all about their overall condition physically) methods from your family’s legal team, but that incident was just the sole catalyst for more people to start sniffing around the business. The questions keep coming in, and the news are always hungry for a story born out of blood.

So.

There was an agreement that’s nearly set in stone. An agreement without you or Giselle knowing of the deal in the first place: to have you and her to be used by the family as trojan horses - as scapegoats - to veer the burning spotlight away from the anticipating merger and have it focus on the forced relationship fabricated between you two.

The announcement has still yet to be made, the primary reason is because you were reluctant to show up to the three meetings prior with Giselle’s family to discuss terms and conditions, but she’s also done the same in not being in attendance. A form of protest that you didn’t even get in contact with her to do, but you’re also content that she’s on the same page as you.

Albeit this was a clear non-verbal middle finger to both your parents and Giselle’s, you’d do everything you can to drag out the talks for as long as you could. This proved to be effective, until your father started to meddle with your personal stake of the company, intimidating you to reconsider the offer; or else your piece of the business, the one that you’ve created from the ground up, was absorbed back to his control.

You’re fighting a battle that you cannot win. Not when you’re cornered and bottlenecked to the point where it feels like you’ve got no way out.

At least you’re not alone on your side.

–

“The Uchinaga’s are waiting,” someone says to you. Your eyes fixated on the monitor and the packet on your desk being skimmed through with a twirl to your pen, “Should I let them know that you’ll head over in a minute or two? Sir?”

Then it hits you when you look up. The deadline. This arrangement was the last round of talks before the final decision could be drawn up, regardless if you put in your own word or not. It’s a little late in the morning, and you’ve got yourself knee-deep in paperwork. What’s even the point of showing up to the meeting if you haven’t been to them for the past couple weeks?

“My bad, Winter,” you say to your secretary, dropping whatever you were doing at your desk to prepare yourself, listening to the clicks of heels along the floor as Winter helps you put on your jacket, following her out of your office, “I completely forgot that the meeting was today. I owe you for that.”

“You can save it for after when you get out of your own little pickle,” Winter tuts, sitting back down at her desk right outside the main walkway. “May I remind you that you’re also the one that got into this mess in the first place?”

“Do you really have to remind me with that question every time these meetings are about to happen?”

“What? It's a good starting point in conversation.” Winter answers, looking over along with you to the increase of people pooling through the main entrance past the elevators. “Look at that,” she says, raising her eyebrows when you're doing the double take, “And so the hurricane comes crashing in.”

Even from a distance, you can still single out Giselle and her parents as they walk more into the floor of your office. The visuals are still insane to see; not a flaw to be noticed from any of the three. It’s a little bit frightening. Giselle takes her place right behind her father and mother, as if they too, were her own line of defense, protecting her like some prize that was worth attaining, diverting some of the attention towards her in a different direction. The surrounding office workers take a pause to look, watch as they meet your parents, exchange greetings and the usual niceties since it’s second nature. Your mother looks at your father, assuming that the inquiry was about your presence, and your father actually flashes his eyes in your direction, telling you from afar: We’re expecting you to be here. Don’t be stupid and make us wait here all day.

As much as you’d want to refuse with a simple turn the other cheek, you know that today was not that day to do that. Not anymore. With a simple nod, you comply with your father’s demands, and he nods too. He then motions your mother, along with Giselle and her family inside the assigned room set up for the gathering, looking back to ensure that you won’t be long behind.

“Are you busy?” you ask Winter, surprising her with the sudden question that makes her tense up in her seat, “Normally you’re not busy since you’ve done the stuff that I’ve asked you to. So I’m just gonna assume that’s a yes.”

“How’d ya know? What are you, some kind of mind reader?” She laughs, hands up to emphasize the sarcastic propositions, “Who do you think you are, me?”

You shake your head, nicking it to the side to signal your request, “I’m not even gonna answer that. Just walk with me.”

Winter obeys, immediately standing up and rounding her desk to be at your right hand side, bearing down the pathway to the main conference room where the meeting was happening. “I gotta ask: Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Haven’t had an idea in the slightest.” You answer, speeding up your pace by one or two bigger steps in your stride. “Remember that preliminary assessment we had on Giselle? Why don’t you run that by me–”

Winter clicks her tongue, mind already fast enough to pick up on what you were asking: “Giselle is the only child of the Uchinaga family. She graduated top of her class with a degree in law at your alma mater, also has degrees in finance and business. She’s got praises from well-known individuals to be the poster child with her line of work. Oh hey, that really reminds me of someone else now that I think about it-”

“You smartass.” you smirk at the hidden verbal jab thrown at you, walking past the cubicles and heading right up the walkway, “Keep going.”

“She’s got herself in business and ambassador deals with brands that upped the stock prices for posters, billboards, social media posts, selfies with fans, daily engagements and appearances, etcetera etcetera- you name it.” Winter continues with the mini info exposition dump, matching your stride. “Every picture or tag that has her face or name plastered and attached is never ignored. Not to mention she’s-”

“I need to hear what matters, Wint.”

“She’s also a bit cynical, blowhard, a pretty pick-me girl, uncrowned royalty, someone that’s a bit reckless and in for the thrill of trouble. A bit spoiled with her things, I think. Bratty might also be another term thrown up in the air. Presents the refined etiquette when it matters, but in most cases, she doesn’t really care.” Winter muses, listing all of the different characteristics with her dainty fingers, “Is that too much, or can I add more?”

You stop at the door of the conference room. Behind it was your parents and Giselle’s, along with some considerable figures orchestrating the deal along with them, waiting for your arrival to commence the meeting. Right when you were about to enter, you bridge your eyebrows together towards Winter, nearly appalled at all the things she’s mentioned about the girl you’re being paired with, “Are you sure that’s what you assessed, or is what you’re saying about her just out of spite?”

Winter cocks her head, rolls her eyes up to where the eyelids rest at the top, “If you wanted me to be nicer, why didn’t you say so?”

(You know that Giselle’s got some good graces in her heart - but she’s not perfect, clearly - she’s on the same boat as you: a little problematic with a thing or two that’s worth hiding.)

“Just wanted to see what was your personal angle about Giselle, that’s all. Nothing too deep.”

“Among other things,” Winter breathes, stopping herself with a hand on her hip, “I think she’s amazing, aside from everything I just said about her,” she concedes soon after, sighing, “Most people with a status would kill to be in your position right now, even if they knew what was happening behind the scenes or not.”

“Are you telling me that there’s benefits to this?”

“Giselle’s a heartthrob.” Winter puts it simply. “Play your cards right with this deal, and who knows what might happen.”

Winter then walks away, walking backwards while maintaining eye contact with your widened eyes. There’s something in the back of your head that wants to admit some form of defeat, finding comfort that there’s a possible silver lining in a connection with Giselle. You don’t hate the girl. No. That would be too harsh - a spectre manifested deep within your mind out of uncertainties that would prove to be your own demise in the false name of love.

Love. You’re thinking as your fingers grip the door handle. That’s a little bit out of your lineage anyway - but what’s the worst that could happen?

–

Giselle, her parents, along with a few people that were comprised to be the additional handlers on the team are all seated around the table, binders and folders with various contracts - revised and refurbished - covering all the necessary details and crooks within the lines; you remember hearing the talks having orderly returns in terms of feedback, assuring that everything would cover the shady deal story from ever breaking out. You’re getting the proper representation, but still feel like you don’t have a say in this.

(But like you realized earlier: you’re not the only one, remember? You’re content that there’s at least one more person, other than yourself, who can share your hidden levels of pent up frustration - and she’s sitting right across from you.)

And even with the substantial profile, the aristocracy between these men and women wearing designer suits and pretty dresses, it still fills your mind with unease that there’s this tug-of-war, a dispute over control. You’ve got your own life to seize, and you definitely know that better than anyone else here sitting in this room with you.

But the press will love this, Giselle’s parents are explaining, but you and Giselle both have your tongues tied to the top of your throats - publicists and others managing your loose ends jotting down notes to make sure nothing is left unkempt. Giselle sits on the opposite end of the table, in between her parents mirrored to your format. She’s emitting this sense of tiredness, laid back and disconnected, like she was dragged to be here. Her eyes make contact with yours before darting away to a corner up on the ceiling or towards the window, while you twiddle your fingers in circles. The sigh that leaves your lips only exemplifies the boredom evermore.

“Is there a problem here?” Giselle's mother asks, laced with a tinge of annoyance - almost like you’re taking this as a complete joke, for what it’s worth. “I’d like to remind you of the fact that you and our daughter are the sole reason that there hasn’t been any motion moved forward with this plan in the first place.”

This is where one of your core flaws come to light: the absolute sense of unbotheredness that you bear in your demeanor. It’s not that you’re far-removed from things that you have no control over, it’s the notion that when it does get out of your hands, there isn’t really any effort coming from you to do something about it.

Your gaze returns to Giselle, who looks at you dead in the eyes, slightly pressed and on edge. She’s telling you with her irises that she would rather break that window five feet away from you, take a leap of faith, but instead she remains sitting still - looking over to her mother again who’s clearly unimpressed with your present attitude.

“Not at all,” you answer, a wave of the hand to double down on the sly smirk spread across your face, “I just hope that we’re not here for long so that I can agree to your terms and sign the damn contract. Is that not what we’re here for?”

Giselle’s father looks over to his wife, the people around the room also exchanging murmurs as to what just occurred. Your parents are also aren’t willing to even look at you for a second, shifting their attention to a hand or random page on the docket, discreetly sighing before your mother puts a hand on your shoulder to dial it back. Please, she’s telling you. Don’t make this any harder than it already is for us.

But Giselle’s mother stifles a laugh, one filled with languor and regalness as she turns her cheek the other way to hide her visible amusement. To be fair, she’s not the one that’s getting shoved into the deep end playing a cover up story; she’s got other things to divert her focus on, no worries filling up her head because she knows the endgame already. You’ve dealt with people like her before - to no avail, putting up with their tangents of how people in a lower step than them can’t really see eye to eye with those who are in the upper realms of society.

You’re wondering too, if Giselle is like that - god forbid if that’s the case, but only time will tell.

“Alright,” Giselle’s father says, easing the tension with a cleared throat once the laughs subside. “I don’t see why we can’t get straight to the point then: Why haven’t you signed the marriage license agreement?”

The answer has been pretty simple and straightforward up to this point, and you gave it to them the same way you’ve always had: “I still need time to think it through.”

“Think it through?” mocks Giselle’s mother, “What’s there for you to think through? You’ll marry our daughter while our family merges into your family’s business group. While that also takes care of the other ‘incident’, you’ll also get our unwavering support going forward.”

No doubt that you’ll get the benefits and the support, but if you’re really being honest with yourself: you’re just a simple guy when dancing with the idea of love. You’d rather tie the knot with someone that you have a genuine connection with that isn’t Giselle. It might be selfish for you to think that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless.

“It’s not that I have some sort of connection with Giselle,” you say, flipping fast to the end of the page where the blank line is still waiting to be written in ink, “I just think that it’s not fair or right for you to force us into this position; to be married, but not in love.”

“Love? You don’t think that you could be in love with my daughter?”

“Mrs. Uchinaga, perhaps my words weren’t as-”

Giselle’s mother grabs her daughter’s hands, delicate and precious as if she’s encased in marble. “Play your words carefully and wisely, young man,” coy smile armed and ready to fire, “I’ll have you know that she’s got more options in the list to choose other than you. I really hope you reconsider.”

“If I sign this contract, will you be satisfied for us to submit to your archaic idea?”

The question drops out of thin air, with silence filling up the room again. Giselle’s parents just stare in awe while you have the pen in your hand, putting your name down in cursive across separate documents. Your mother looks over your arm while your father raises his palm up to the ceiling, a smirk at the corner of his lip with an eyebrow raised. He’s probably saying, see? I told you guys that he’ll come around. Now we can discuss the other matters that need to be taken care of.

You exhale as the pen hits the desk. A relief of unnecessary stress lifted off your shoulders while Giselle and her parents look at you in genuine surprise.

“Okay,” you sigh, scanning everyone’s faces on the opposite end of the conference table. “Do you mind if I get some fresh air while you guys sort out the rest of the deal?”

–

Had it been any other meeting that you attended, you’d power yourself through and stay inside to discuss the final details and clauses, but your parents and Giselle’s parents both agreed that you could stand outside on the balcony while they shackle both of your names down to the legally binding contracts.

A ‘cathartic’ experience could also be one word to describe the thirty to forty-five minutes sitting in that room, hand quick to the pocket of your pants where your nearly cleaned out pack of cigarettes were. There were more ideal ways to relieve your stress that doesn’t involve in deteriorating your overall health, but your ears close in on the rough click of the lighter-

“Didn’t know that you were the smoking type of person.”

That moment right there. That’s what gets your attention; right when you least expect it and with your guard down.

At the turn of the head, there’s this flash of these bright, heavenly, light coffee brown locks. Her jewelry is also another point of interest, illuminating and highlighting the points in her neck and wrists where the sunlight will bounce right off of them. It’s like watching a firework pop up from two feet away, blinding you with this sort of simple elegance that compliments her cool, balmy expression.

“Do you normally come out here during the day on your breaks?” She asks, approaching closer to you while you’re indulging the rolled up piece of small paper captured between your teeth. “I mean, your parents aren’t exactly responsible for you but-”

“It’s already a bad first impression right off the bat. I know,” you tell Giselle, handing over your half-burnt cigarette, to which she takes from you as a surprise when she turns her profile out to the skyline and huffs out the smoky curls trailing from her lips. “Though, who’s gonna judge what you and I do in our spare time?”

“You have a fair point,” says Giselle, wrist slacked as she watches the embers at the end glow in a fading orange, “Can’t keep troublemakers like us in one place. And I still can’t believe that I had to be at this stupid meeting anyway. Like-”

“I mean, what did you think was gonna happen?” you ask, scoffing as you lean the side of your body to the paned glass on the balcony, “I’m curious to hear your side of the story.”

Giselle brings the cigarette to her pouty lips again. You watch as her eyelids flutter shut when she hollows her cheeks slightly for the inhale, tilt her head down a bit over the balcony where she has the streets of the city in her view. Her side profile is flawless, to say the least, until you notice a small string of hickey’s blooming on the bridge of her collarbone - it’s a mental note to keep to yourself - also not your place to ask, but you can assess early on what kind of girl she is.

The exhale she lets out is exaggerated, then the stream of smoke follows through soon after.

“Nothing but complete bullshit, if you ask me.” She answers, tapping the ends off the edge while examining, “What about you? Since it looks like you’re the one who’s holding the end of the deal for God knows why.”

She’s right in that regard, and you’re not denying it.

“Among other things, I just didn’t show up. And neither did you.” The hand behind your head softens the guilt - but not by much.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.”

–

The remaining details and clauses along with the marriage are finally set, with a schedule also talked about once you and Giselle head back inside.

But there’s nothing really significant that gets mentioned regarding who will be responsible for what, and the fact that you and her aren’t even giving a single fragment of attention to your parents, solidifies that.

“The job’s simple as it is, isn’t it?” You’re rolling your eyes while asking, “All we have to do is just pose like a married couple and look pretty?”

Giselle snorts, gratefully falling into the mere folly of the idea. “Didn’t think we’d be in this position, but I’m behind it.”

–

Here’s the thing about the whole idea, anyway. It never goes according to the original plan.

It’s out of your hands though, and it’s neither yours or Giselle’s fault to put the blame on the aspect of control and logistics:

“Mrs. Uchinaga. What can I do for you?” you greet Giselle’s mother at the desk of your secretary, interrupting their super-important gossip session in the opening hours of the usual workday. “I wasn’t expecting you to be back so soon, let alone have an opening for you in my schedule-”

“I’m just dropping by, don’t worry,” reassures Giselle’s mother, holding the button of her coat when you stop your bearings right in front of her and Winter. “I was just leaving, but not to inform you about your appointment.”

“Appointment? For what, exactly?”

“Your marriage in court.” Giselle’s mother sighs, with a flash of your eyes towards Winter, who looked completely out of the loop as well with the sudden news being dropped like a fresh bomb in water. “I had the date moved up because of some personal reasons, which I hope you don’t mind. Giselle was supposed to tell you, but I caught her out late at night, so here I am.”

“But-”

“I’ve left the note with your secretary,” she continues, beginning to depart from the desk. “It’s not a good look for you to be late to your own wedding now, is it?”

You only get the last flashes of her flowing hair as she reaches the other end of the walkway, mind still processing everything that just happened in the last minute or so. Turning to Winter, “Did you know about this? Or did she just-”

“I’m just as shocked as you.” Winter responds, an outreached hand with a simple note in her fingers, taking it and opening up the contents which confirms your suspicions. She then leans forward with the tilt of her head, “Am I invited to your ceremony? Hm?”

“I don’t need to answer that.” You tell Winter, crumpling up the court order redecorated into an invitation. “Just clear my schedule for lunch. I’ll be having it with Giselle today.”

“Hitting it off right from the jump, are we?”

“I’m gonna fire you if you don’t shut up.”

–

You’re hoping that this would be the first and only time you’d ever set a foot inside a courthouse.

Luckily, it isn’t too busy for anyone to really notice as to why you’re here. Just fulfilling your civic duties as a law-abiding citizen as a plausible reason; with the company of your family, your soon-to-be wife, and along with her family, everything about today might go well for you - keep wiping the sweaty palm along your slacks, you’ll do great, just trust me.

Right when the ceremony is about to start, your father walks up to you, doing some last minute checks along your outfit; patting down and fixing any loose crinkle or slant along your suit, goes a bit too tight on the necktie, making you pull the collar a bit so that you could breathe.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve thrown me into?” You ask your father, watching him get one good look at you before nodding in content.

“You know the story well enough, kid,” he answers, and you smirk at the subtle appreciation of honesty that your father has for himself. The no-nonsense type of deal, giving it to you straight - it’s how he made you the way you are, and you’re thankful for that. “I know that you can hold your own, so be proud.”

He gives a thumbs up from his seat as the doors open at the end of the room, welcoming Giselle. Her dress was simple, a floral pattern scattered across the cloth that radiated in this off-white tone, hugging every curve of her body (and her legs are just- okay, really? At a time like this?) as she finally reached the makeshift archway.

She locks eyes with you, light makeup and everything. Everything that’s framed on her face just leaks out perfection, it’s captivating. From the tilt of her lips, to how her long lashes bat towards you, the tilt of her chin when she slightly looks up to compensate for the height difference. It isn’t so bad after all: realizing how Giselle Uchinaga leaves quite the apprehension on you, all five-five of her to be exact.

“You look good,” you tell her in lieu of a hello, palms up to where her hands meet in the middle, taking yours as the small crowd of various family and team members take their seats, letting you two take the stage from this point on.

“Why thank you,” says Giselle, hiding the small blush breaking through cheeks as her fingers cling onto yours, voice gentle as you’re smiling along with her too. “I didn’t have time to prepare, so-”

“I didn’t have time either, so that makes us even.”

Giselle giggles a bit, holding herself back with a turn of her head near the wall. You decide you like that about her, but she pulls her composure back once the officiant finally gets the procession going. Everything that’s done in a wedding ceremony, regardless if it’s traditional or in court, it just ends up with endless words being stretched out for miles and miles, preaching about the joy of unity between two people. The idea alone is a beautiful tale to tell, but when it comes to the whole experience itself, it doesn't really translate the same way.

You remember upon arriving that Giselle was going to be the first in saying the vows. Not that you were complaining, of course, mostly because you were gazing into the universe hidden behind her eyes to not even hear your name from the officiant, but she answers I do, which doesn’t cause a hitch at all.

And what feels like forever, finally turns to the moment that everyone in the room was waiting for:

“Do you take Giselle Uchinaga to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The officiant asks.

“I do.”

Here is where you’re having second thoughts - for just a brief moment, not too long - how Giselle’s eyes know exactly what your worry was in that instant, telling you that it’s okay. It’ll be something that gets talked about after, no doubt a good laugh to come out of it, but if you’re gonna jump down into this sort of new hell, it’s a relief that Giselle is the one to jump down with you.

A close of the book: “You may kiss the bride.” The officiant says, and you do.

The angle where you take your mouth into hers is something worth swooning over. A proper lock where you’re tugging Giselle’s bottom lip slightly, slipping a bit of your tongue into her mouth that makes her grip on the back of your neck a bit tighter. She helps along with a raise of her leg with your hand, leaning her back until she presses a fingernail down into your skin, signifying a pause, returning back to the roaring cheers and applause from your inner circle watching from the seats.

You pull her back while her hands are loosely corralled to your collarbones, taking a note of how her perfect lips mesh with yours, how small her waist fits into your arms, nicking your forehead into hers, eliciting a laugh while looking left towards your parents.

“Hopefully I wasn’t a terrible kisser,” you mumble, parting a wisp of hair away from Giselle’s eye. “That was good, right?”

Giselle blinks again a few more times, watching your finger treat her cheekbone. “A bit of an impromptu, but we can practice that more if you want.”

You’re not opposed to the proposition already.

–

Another perk, or incentive - a benefit if you will, comes in the form of your living situation from your family estate to a proper loft settled into the heart of downtown. This also means that the commute to work won’t be much of a hassle - and you can most definitely dabble with the suggestion of sleeping in a little bit more, since you are your own boss, duh.

Just when you think that the issue of how your personal belongings would be moved over to the new place, your parents and Giselle’s had already taken the liberty of sorting that out for you two. The only thing that’s the main priority now is filling up the fridge with some of the essential goods from the market, along with some of the utensils, all in one trip up the complex.

“Do you think-” you’re huffing, fixing your grip on the paper bags brandished across your forearm, looking over as Giselle fiddles with the keypad of the lock, inputting the wrong passcode for the second time now, “-you can open a little bit faster? My arm is killing me.”

“Shut your whining,” Giselle replies back, getting the passcode right and swinging the door open, welcoming you and her into the relatively new space that you’ve only had for five or six days since the court wedding. Life moves a bit fast, but you’ll have a laugh to yourself when everything gets settled. “There, just set the bags down on the counter, I’ll sort them once we take a breather.”

The city lights shimmer in the open paned windows past the living area, given the fact that the clock on the wall adjacent to the glass tells you that it’s 8 pm, and taken into account of the two boxes brought in by your mom which had some of the last few things from your room - which you’ll get to later once the shoes are off and not on the walnut flooring.

“So,” Giselle’s beginning to say, the paper ruffling on the marble of the counter, “Just so that we’re clear again, we’re-

“Living in our separate rooms, like you requested.” You answer, circling around the kitchen island as Giselle hops up on the countertop, dangling her legs while she treats herself with a bowl full of grapes. “When we have guests over, we’ll use your room as the shared one.”

“Cool.” She happily bobs her head, popping a grape between her lips before sucking it in the second after. “And it’s not because my room is the bigger one.”

“Of course not,” you say, assessing the open space again before you fish another grape for yourself.

“Before we do our own things,” she starts again, fingers in her handbag, taking out a small box encased in leather. You could already tell what it is from the crimson shade protecting the contents inside - it could be anything inside you think, let the mind imagine all of the wonderful possibilities with the intention as a gift. “My mom wanted us to have this, for added insurance.”

When she opens the box, it reveals a silver pair of couples rings. The rigid pattern molded across the metal in two different sizes - had that not been obvious enough for who’s going to wear them.

You pull Giselle’s ring out first, take her left ring finger, and nestle that where it belongs. She does the same for your finger, watching as her eyes concentrate on her fingers grazing across the knuckle as she twists the ring a bit in place, to add some security in the placement.

“Looks cute,” you assess, matching your left hand with Giselle’s, watching the ring shimmer below the overhanging light. “Didn’t think your mom would be good with jewelry, but I hold my doubts back.”

Giselle stifles a chuckle, hitting your shoulder while hunching over, tapping your arm again before sitting upright. Her hair curtains a little more than half of your neck, a quick whiff of that oceanic scent from her body wash; but she pulls just a bit to where she has this glow emitting in her wicked smile. It’s almost worth falling for - the domesticity - you’ve got your keepsakes and Giselle’s got hers, in spaces big and small where it feels like they belong. There’s also that luck of moving things fast (maybe too fast, you’re also realizing, but given the circumstance, it’s for good reason) and the telltale of it all is something literally ripped out in multiple pages of a book. You and Giselle will occupy this space for as long as you need to, and who knows what that trail might lead to - it’ll be a bridge to cross once you get to it.

“Gotta have the appearance before you act the part,” tuts Giselle, letting her left wrist go slack, lightly resting her chin on the top of her hand. “We’ve checked off one box already, but for the other?”

“So you're saying that we should practice that more?”

“If you’re willing, then yes.”

It’s something you’re not willing to fight against, the way the balls of your feet elevate your heels off the floor, tilting your head and to the side when your lips lightly press against Giselle’s. She tastes sweet, how gentle she is when her hands wrap around your neck, pulling you, eyelashes fluttering in this twitching motion when you move up, deeper into her mouth, not ever wanting to part from them in the first place, but you yield for now.

Giselle pulls herself away, fingertips lightly gripping on the felt of your cardigan, exhaling as you lick your lips, savoring the sense a bit longer. “How was that?” she asks, your hands resting to the sides of her thighs, “You still feel uncomfortable?”

“That’s not exactly the word I would use,” you remark, but you might be falling apart already.

–

Not long after the last meeting with the families - give it about two or three weeks, maybe more - you’re not entirely sure at this point, the announcement regarding the arranged marriage set between you and Giselle gets out into the open world. Confirming the supposed relationship while also steering the rumors about the fraud case between both of your families away from the spotlight, just as they wanted.

The impressions and engagements from the various article posts say a bunch of good things in high regard between you two. Most of the comments you’re seeing and hearing are raving all over you and your new fiancė, claiming that there’s a lot to be expected in how your appearance in the public will change overall going forward.

You’ve got yourself involved with various testimonials and meet-and-greets, preaching about the value of success, with the occasional questionnaire at the end of every one of them. Some people ask about you, which you have no issue answering. While others ask about your love life (for fanservice, you assume, and something that makes all the girls crazy), to which you share your praises about Giselle; spewing all the good parts about her while holding yourself back from spilling too much, forcing a gushy expression to sell the act, but everyone adores it apparently.

(You never forget to give thanks for how people can be swayed into falsely believing anything that they read on paper or on their phones. A tragedy in itself, but when you’re high up on the pyramid of society-

“If only they knew the truth,” you’re telling her over the phone in the car, shaking your head at the tinted window after noticing all the people who came to the event - waving and screaming as you’re being escorted off the premises, seeing a picture on your phone of yourself hiding your face when they put a picture of Giselle on the big screen, scoffing as you get a closer look at it.

“Just be glad that they’re loving the news.” Giselle tells you, softly laughing on her end. “Because that shows proof that the whole idea of us is working.”

You’re probably wondering how long you can keep this facade up with her as the car continues to roll away.)

–

“I have a thing for you,” Winter declares in another way of saying ‘good morning’, looking up with a small scowl to her face as you closely approach her desk, “Your tie is also crooked, so unprofessional.”

“Wow, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious,” you reply, “I was just about to fix it.”

“It’s called an observation, genius,” retorts Winter, twisting her chair left towards you resting your elbows on the desk, “Rough night?”

“I guess you could say.”

Winter chuckles, types a few words on the keyboard, hits enter. “Do I really want to know?”

“You don’t.”

“That I can accept. And oh- by the way, Giselle actually dropped by just ten minutes ago,” she adds on, placing an envelope next to your arm. “I think that’s the event happening tomorrow night.”

“What event?”

“Some party that both her and your parents are putting together. I don’t know, I’m just the messenger here.”

You rip the seal open and flip up half of the paper, which turns out to be an invite - or notice - for the obligatory gathering. Meeting with the extended family past the in-laws, all together for one big dinner and mixer. The preliminary plan right off the bat was to stay and indulge a bit, get acquainted with some of the other figures that Giselle is familiar with, then eventually leave the place and never come back for the rest of the night.

(Part of you wants to tear up the paper and bolt straight to the nearest window.)

–

“Our car’s already outside the lobby,” Giselle tells you the next day, a simple black gown with an opening to the side where some of her leg sticks out. “And I also have your watch if you’re still looking for it.” The bluntness is already enough as it continues to add in her paradigms of sayings.

“I’ve been ready,” you muse, stopping short by Giselle as she treats a hand to the collar of your shirt, you yourself patting down the jacket until she steps away; the blinking doesn’t stop however - seeing the prettiest features of her face up close. From those sly eyes, feathery lashes, even the dead expression shifts something in your composure.

She hands you back your watch which clicks around your wrist in no time. You raise it up after with your ring in view - it’s Checkov’s gun, a necessary tool for the appearance, a staple in the new look. Not to mention that it shines well along with the fanciness of your appearance and Giselle’s when she puts her hand up to match. “Look at us, hm?”

“Ready for some madness?” you ask, elbow out for her to hook. “I already want to leave.”

“Leave as in leave our place or leave from the party?”

Giselle gives you this look of genuine concern, causing you to look away with flared nostrils and a smirk painted across your lips.

“I was hoping that you’d get the joke,” you sigh looking down, and open the front door on the way out.

–

Once the sunset disappears into the horizon and the shroud of nightfall takes its place, you’re fighting every single urge in your body to look at the hands of your watch - strategizing the proper time frame to sweep Giselle from whatever conversation she’s got herself into with people that look like they’ve got enough money to hideaway on an island for the rest of their lives, a big circle in the sense of community, but also a really small bubble.

Anyway,

The rundown of the current party for you right now: everything’s relatively tame with the people that you’ve been talking to. Some of which you haven’t seen since grad school. You get pats on the shoulder, get a glass raised for your biggest score that you’ve ever hit in your life marrying Giselle. While you’ve got the feel-pretty-good face while nursing a mojito down, because you deserve it, it’s been a long week as it is.

So you talk - and keep talking, get some more drinks (but just enough for your own alcohol tolerance), grab a few bites from the provided food thanks to the insane catering service brought in by your parents. A few members of the press got inside access to this event, with the agreement that nothing was to be overshared. Aside from all the bright lights and nicely fitted outfits everyone’s got going on across the pad, it’s almost like they’re a part of the group too.

Word gets round the different pods of groups; your name getting bounced around with Giselle’s, but a lean of the ear and a side eye is all you give them. You’d assume that it’s in good faith, cocking your head back over to see Giselle at a bar on the other side - upper body leaned over the counter, sharing a laugh with someone, but her body language tells a different tale entirely.

It’s something not worth thinking twice the way your feet move at their own volition.

A closer look the more you maintain your heading: she’s got a hand stacked to his arm, the angle her body is facing appears to show more cleavage, leaning over to stick the round part of her ass some more, the wistful gaze she’s giving this person also puts a dirty look on your face. She’s gone way too far.

“Hey,” you greet, nose buried into her hair before you pull yourself back, giving the guy a quick look then back at Giselle. “Everything okay?”

Giselle nods, “Just conversing. Sorry.” She’s got her hand over yours, showing the glint of the rings towards the guy, and he gets the hint - walking away with a string of apologies spilling out of his mouth. “What the hell was that for?”

“I think we can take this discussion inside.” you say, and you grab her hand instinctively.

–

Aside from the liveliness happening right outside the doors, you’re sheltering yourself away deeper and deeper into the walls of this massive estate. Just down a few steps, into the hallway. You don’t even live here, not anymore at least. But anywhere far away until the crowd noise and music is nearly diminished. Giselle gets rid of your grip on her wrist, and the faint vibrations of the bass match with your heart, between your ears.

Her guard is slightly up, and she didn’t even have that much to drink:

“Wanna tell me what the fuck was your problem back up there?” Giselle asks, backpedaling away until her posterior taps the wall. The overhanging dim light in the hall makes her smaller. “I didn’t even do anything wrong, I swear.”

“You think?”

“No!” She softly exclaims, letting her shoulders drop while she racks her head about. “I couldn’t stand being with those girls earlier when we walked in, talking about all of my-” Her breath gets trapped between her lips, frozen still, as if she completely lost her train of thought right then and there.

“Your problems?”

She winces a bit, as if the word was a rough tear on an old wound. “Yes.”

“You could’ve,” you’re trying to say, stepping closer with a hand to the side of her head, looking up to the staircase where there’s an influx of laughter at the top steps, “Said something earlier, to me.”

The next revelation that follows hits you right on the nail, to the top of your head.

“I wanted to come to you.”

It’s a sinking ship; a capsize happening in full effect.

“So why didn’t you?”

In the low highlights of fluorescent purple mixed with darkness, you meet her eyes when they shine every few seconds. A thought is there, you can tell from her gaze alone. But this was just a part to play; you remember suddenly too, why was this going to be an instance where you’re worked up over nothing?

Deafening silence builds between the space of your bodies. A momentary time to reflect.

“I just didn’t,” is all she answers with, and her eyes go wide, hand to your tie, fiddling away. “I should’ve, but-”

“You didn’t.”

It could’ve been anyone else to be with her. It could’ve been someone other than you standing where you are right now. But you’re holding your breath, endlessly wondering why if at all-

“I’m glad that you did anyway.”

Everything gets thrown off the table when you have Giselle’s face in your hands, kissing away to your heart’s content. You ask questions later; the only thing that matters now is how you’re bruising up her face with yours, press into her lips, her cheeks, her nose, tilt her chin up with one wrist meshed into the wall, she’s twisting and tensing, returning the pressure and indirectly asking for more, her grip is getting greedy, greedier.

You’ve got a hold, and she’s got one on you. Her arms corral you, her leg hiked up by your hand, running upwards on her thigh. A small pocket forms between your lips and hers, and she inhales, nearly floating on air.

(This is a litmus test, a dry run, an improv - you don’t know how far the limit is but this is essentially a leap of faith. How far can you fall from grace in the short span of time spent with someone like her?)

But you hold back; not in nervousness, no, though her lidded eyes are in view while your breath weighs heavy. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, what she’s feeling. You’re also in the same boat as her; a finger to her jaw, her bottom lip, a potential claim waiting to be traced by you. It’s only natural for your hands to shift their way down to her hips, anchoring her in place with the wall, twisting her body as she patches a hot kiss to your cheek, the line of your chin, whimpering mindlessly as her dress rumples up between your fingertips-

“Watch yourself,” you mumble in her lips, get a quick hiccup out that makes her giggle - catching her open mouth again to keep her quiet, the hands also aren’t helping when they sift down lower to her ass, a grasp where she accepts it wholeheartedly, nodding away like yes, this is good, love it when you touch me like this, I know you want more.

The shared stumbles you and her take scaffold into this gentle slope, hobbling down the walkway as she figuratively and literally can’t keep her hands off of you, keeping herself close to where any second apart would pretty much kill her. An arm from you keeps her in check while the other is searching for an opening, a passage, a temporary asylum where you and her can harbor for a bit, away from the noise.

“Come on,” Giselle grits, her breath shaky and stuttery. “Don’t keep me waiting. I swear to fucking god. Don’t you dare make me wait.”

That ups the ante a bit, kissing as it’s the equivalent to drinking water. You and her are shuffling down the hallway, playing a little lottery game of opening doors that lead to somewhere safe, and a stroke of luck strikes after two or three attempts. It's a bit murky with all the alcohol in your system, but the tolerance is still there.

“What do you want?” you ask, the line coming off as a mere mutter when you take the space broadened by the tilt of her neck upwards, a lick as she burrows herself into your collarbone, seething at the teeth. “Tell me. Please, I’ll do it. I promise. Anything you want.”

“You,” she says, biting the sensitive skin of your throat that only makes the grasp of her waist even tighter. “I just want you. Nothing more.”

Giselle pleads, and she begs. Even when her back is against the closed door of one of the guest rooms. You’re not worried if someone will come looking for you. This shouldn’t take long, but it should also last forever.

“I’ll treat you right,” you tell her, and it’s an act you’ll double down on. She knows how good you’ve been. You can see it in the way her body relaxes, letting you have free reign for as long as she lets you. Even as you’re kissing her again, her hand’s already quick on the gun, bringing it down to her hiked dress, past lace she’s hidden under your nose cast aside for your fingers to dip down into her slick, and her mouth goes slack suddenly, spreading her apart, chest fluttering to the peak. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You can feel her, yeah. There’s no point in denying, if at all.

“-s’more than that, remember?” she barely spits, voice tethered, and the gratitude she has in the way her hand is literally a death grip on yours, inching your digits as far as you could take them; it also doesn’t help how your thumb it lightly pressed into her clit, and she just falters on the wall, completely fucked out in tandem with some of the drinks too. “God, I can’t believe-”

You let her have this: the way that she’s fucking herself onto your fingers, the yelp of pain into a sound of relief when your teeth mold into her skin along the line of her collarbone and neck. She’s got a little bit more of her dress higher now, watching her eyes go from sweet - to something more primal, the want infecting every inch of her body and mind as she shakes herself down again. In a split-second, you’ve got her on the nearby vanity, leaning down to keep her quiet with your mouth, a handful of her dress in one of your hands; she’s shutting her legs together with a hand stuck, fingers fully covered in her slippery cunt, yelping out loud to the point where the palm has to come in play as another muzzle, her eyes are welling up in tears and her cheeks are in this perfect rose shade, pumping your fingertips well past her breaking point. A part of you gets worried, but the soothing smacks of your lips across her exposed chest and marked up neck serve as an act of amnesty for her poor body, and she’s still asking for more.

“Shh,” you whisper in comfort, and Giselle calms down for just a bit - but she stills every muscle and bone in her body when you find that one spot that drops her whole mouth wide open, holding her breath right in her chest and throat. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. I bet it feels amazing: having you like this.”

She bears no answer to your merciless teasing, and the only thing that you’re fixed on is the feeling of her sopping pussy stretching out around your fingers. You almost laugh at how her hips slightly buckle upwards, and the irregular breathing as she looks down to witness the damage.

“Please, please, please,” says Giselle. “You know what I want right now. Don’t fucking-”

You’re reminded again at how well she can leave quite the impression. A bit unbelievable that all five-five of her small fame set on the vanity still functions properly after you’ve fucked the daylights out of her for the time being: her hands quick to undo the belt buckle and button and zipper, palming your cock that sends all synapses and impulses towards one action, and the both of you know that it’s something that you need. Her dress gets removed off little by little and-

She wasn’t wearing a fucking bra underneath that dress. You’ll come back to that later.

The jacket goes, then the collared shirt gets unbuttoned. Giselle’s got her legs spread out wide along with her folds, a thick tip as the first point of contact, throbbing at how the fucking clamp gets you off guard, sliding more into the proper groove. Giselle eyes lose focus, fluttering shut with a delayed movement to them, blinking. Her cunt embracing you fully, warm and inviting; it’s a lifeline, a burning one, you’ve got yourself buried deep where breaking her down comes a lot more easier.

Her cries get through your ear canals, muttering nonsense even when you’ve got your lips on her again to shut her up. Fuck, she’s telling you, and you’ve got half the frame of mind to be with her on that.

“Holy s-” you huff, no point in stopping now, “Yeah, okay, you-you’re so, fuck.”

And when you do reach the base, sheathe yourself right at the hilt, this could be a culmination long awaited, but it’s right here, in this moment, where no one else is watching - let alone noticing where you two have gone, the strokes pick up a bit with Giselle’s breath in these staccatos with the thrusts you’re giving her, her head hits the mirror a bit, and a heel falls onto the floor.

“Fuck,” she groans again. “So-so fucking deep, ugh-”

“Oh you fucking know it,” you mutter again at the fine line of her throat, leaving another claim to the row of marks blossoming, unsure if this was what she wanted (but in truth, it’s exactly what it is.) “Relax baby, I know. Just be good for me, that’s all you have to do.”

She begs again. A quick please that gets silence with another harsh snap of your hips into her. You’ll take her. Tear her apart until the crimson is visible everywhere on her body. She’s got a hand to a singular tit, the rebound of these endless ripples on her hips and into the curves of her body. Looking at her will do damage to your brain, and listening was already bad enough as it is - the hisses, her moans, the praises showering you at how well your cock carves into her volcanic cunt-

You’re pulling yourself into this sort of flow state, kind of like zeroing in on a singular thing. Nothing else really mattered what was happening past this door, or what you’re thinking of doing come the next day. Giselle’s creaming cunt keeps you focused as she reaches out to lean your body forward again, lips forcing you to stay the course. As if the mere possibility of getting lost with her body was almost a one-hundred percent certainty.

“Christ,” says Giselle, back sliding down onto the counter as your fingers find a new hold into the crease where her hips and thighs meet, yanking her back as you meet her in the middle driving forward. It sends a shock up her spine, along with a forced yelp from her lips, gasping soon after you groan while steadying yourself again back into the consistent rhythm you’ve built. “So good, so-so good.”

“Wanted me to knock some sense into you huh?” You’re grinning as Giselle’s eyes roll back, borderline sobbing; the fucking too much to bear that she’ll give you an earful about it once all of this is done. But when her eyes look up it’s an expression that’ll be something worthy of a taunt or pretense for the next time: determination, and you might be done for. Her glint in those watered-brown eyes of hers are filled with satisfaction as they disappear underneath the eyelid again. “Was that the problem all along? What other issues do you fucking have as baggage, hm?”

“Not your business right now,” she shrieks a bit when your cock carves a bit deeper into her. “Jesus,” her ankle gets taut around the small of your back, pussy clamping hard around your cock, pausing your strokes in line with the heavy breathing. “It’s just- your cock, I can’t bel- ugh, it’s too- mmm, god.”

When you’ve got her past the edge, it’s a beautiful sight to see, watching her orgasm front and center. It’s in the rolled back eyes, the bright flush of pink spread across her face.

“There we go, Gis,” you say to her as her walls respond to the bodily reflex of your cock twitching inside of her. “Good girl, breathe for me. You naughty little-”

She grabs onto your hand while her teeth hold themselves captive in her mouth, muscles along her waist tensing until she leaks out a clear yell, “Fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck your mouth, your fucking co- God, I hate how good you are at this, it’s infuri-”

You muffle her with the necktie, and a pinch of her clit while your cock bottoms out in her momentarily sedates the screaming.

“Too fucking loud,” you spit, watching her whimper away with the article trapped on top of her mouth: “Is my cock not enough for you to shut up?”

She couldn’t give any care for the questions - granted that they are rhetorical. But her pussy is still unbelievably tight around your cock still. She’s got some of her lower back rolled up, the slick spread across your hips and onto the vanity counter as well. Her heat is already addicting enough to where you only want more.

“Please, honey. Please keep going,” her voice is close to a siren’s call, laced with the begging, but your hands are a little faster than your mind, pulling her into you again, leaning down for another desperate kiss. You take and give, and you’ll let her have it. She’s gonna feel the soreness come tomorrow morning when you’ve carried her up the stairs and into her bed, watch her cling onto your arm or waist or the nape of your neck; get the grip of her in your fingers to a point where you’re pressing down so fucking hard that she’s gonna need a massage gun to better service her hands when she’s rubbing those hard-earned and sorry bruises across her hip bones and legs. A selfish thought consumes your brain; long-manifested from watching her at a distance with someone else that isn’t you-

“You’re mine,” you grit, biting into her skin. You simply can’t stop. “You’re all mine, oh god, baby, just-”

There’s really no other explanation to put in: filling her pussy endlessly as the back of her head hits the mirror, letting the clench of her walls around your shaft hold so tight to the point where you’ve got your fingers holding you true; in that dripping mess that keeps on leaking - hooking on one of her folds where she’s twitching again. Her entire body goes slack, a firm slap of her hand on the counter as her back arches upwards while you flinch at the pocket of air created in her cunt.

“No one else,” she says with a bit of a hitch, a winced noise followed by the crinkle across the bridge of her eyebrows, “you’ve always wondered why.” It’s a spontaneous confession, she’s too unsure if it’s her talking or the alcohol. “It’s just you.”

You get a bit sloppy with the snaps, fix her legs up to where the balls of her feet are pointing up to the ceiling - you kiss her calf and ankle, toss her other heel in a dark corner of the room. No surprise that you’re unsure too about the toss, but it’s worth going with the flow.

“Don’t do this to me,” you’re telling her, pleading, the sigh leaving your lips is almost pathetic. You’ve got your fingers right at her underboob, the dress rolled up to her waist where you hold yourself down with every motion, watching her uncovered tits ripple on the upstroke, putting your cock deep into her to the point she might go slack in her body. She gasps, an exhale of relief - and you could feel the meat of her calf tense along your shoulder; pressing her legs closer together - to wrap her around your cock tight. Tighter. The weight of your is unbearable for her as her back flushes across the table-

You get one good thrust in her again. Bottoming out, watching her keen at the thickness of it. Hold her there for a bit, listening to her steady stream of dry air, reveling in the slight throb your cock pulsates inside her cunt; you needed to take a quick breather, it’ll be too much if you get ahead of yourself-

She doesn’t seem to bother about your quick desire to stop, saying: “Go,” and, “Move for me.” Fucking hell, this front of her is going to be a nuisance. Her eyes roll back forward with the slimmest smile, slowly, cautiously-

“Do you always fuck your girls like this? Or am I just the lucky one who gets to see you this way?”

The grasp to her neck proves to be the sufficient answer you could give her.

Let alone the sound of the harsh crack of your hips slamming into the underside of her thighs.

“Oh god- baby, yes.” Even when her throat is wrapped around your fingers, the noise she makes and the words mold all around your digits. “Just like that.”

Another drag out of her wetness, and the pin drop inside her is a lot more forceful than the last. You’re pretty sure you could pick up the slight squelch her pussy makes around your cock.

“Jesus.” You’re saying, the simplicity alone is enough to not elaborate any further. “Giselle, your cunt, my goodness.”

Giselle nods, plummeting your mind deeper into her madness.

It won’t be any long now for her drink in the sight of you filling her up, your body bent over forward and buried between her tits, unwilling to look up at her small grin of satisfaction. And even when you do, just out of curiosity, she whimpers again once you’ve decided that the pace needed to be upped a bit faster; feel her quivering cunt collapsing around the length, watch her eyes go wide, match her parted lips and groans in the same volume as you hold her down - right where she belongs. A small intermission. A pause - spreading her wider, closing in the space between her legs again with your hips, and you pick up right where you left off into fucking her.

You’re being pulled in close again, a mandatory kiss where Giselle’s got her fingers into the line of your neck, slipping your tongue into the corner of your mouth. She laughs through her nose when you brush the tip of yours across her cheek, let her feel the crease in your eyebrows that gets tangled with her platinum shade hairs. Her lips taste like this mix of cider, with some additional drinks that she’s had in the past hour and a half or so, tongue licking away of all the sweat and slick spread across, hips moving on their own accord as you’re rebounding her back after every thrust.

“You feel so good.” That’s an admission that you’ll come back to every given time, slipping inside of Giselle’s pussy so easily. Consuming you. Safe to say that you’ve had your fair share of sexual experiences and escapades up till this point - some of which are more worthy of remembering than others, but for some reason this time is different, and you’re not so entirely sure as to why. “This fucking- ugh, your pussy is amazing.”

“Uh huh.” She simply nods, grazing her lips across your cheek and lips, lost in the movements, her throat bobbing down a swallow. Your grip loosens up a bit, tenderly, slowly dragging your cock out of her well-fucked pussy and watching the small slings of her slick form on her thighs and your hips. Her whole appearance is a battlefield personified: clean porcelain now tattered and stained with marks in a darker, rosy shade, her lipstick smeared at the corners, the fringes in her hair falling forward - curtaining her forehead just a bit, the glint in her eyes still shining in all of its glory, hiding behind her heavy eyelids in every languid blink as she rests her head on the mirror again for what might be the last time. “You’re-you’re gonna, you’re gonna make fucking cum.”

The reflexive clamp she has on your throbbing cock, brings you back to reality, drawing yourself back and pummeling deep into her creaming hole as you see the first hints of white splotches resting at the base when you coax the rhythm for a few seconds. It’s in the devil’s details, watching Giselle fall apart again right before your eyes, hands grasping and letting go bundles of your shirt as she spreads her legs even wider, holding her right at the divot of her hips and top of her legs; swollen pink pussy folds well wrapped around your shaft. She’s like a nice bundle of rope: unraveled, tattered, used.

“You’re getting so close,” she assesses, a teasing finger along the firm muscle of your stomach, clutching onto your shirt after. “I can feel you shaking.”

“Fuck-”

It comes in a shudder, when you’ve finally reached that high apex you’ve been working towards with her body, her cunt, her lips - sliding out of her with a hand fast around your shaft, fingers slipping a bit across the length as you leak out hot cum all over her hips. She’s gritting her teeth when you press her leg up a bit too high, the stretch of muscle a little bit too much as she’s shuddering at the feeling of your thick load hitting her flushed pink yet porcelain skin. A sigh of relief leaves her lips, loving everything about it; a bit shocked as you continue to pump out of your hand.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles, humming as her chest heaves in a decreasing pace, coming down, “You really just- wow, what a fucking mess you’ve made. Dirty boy.”

You pay half-attention to the taunt, doing everything in your power to lower your heart rate back to normal. The grip you have on your cock is a bit too tight, slapping the head on her clit, gets a soft ‘ah’ out of her, then she coos; grateful, satisfied.

“Can’t call me that with all the shit you said just now,” you tell her, thumb to her cheek, her bottom lip. She gives in so easily, a small peek into the neverending black hole she possesses with that look on her face, especially in her eyes, the way that your thumb slips into those plush lips of hers, sucking greedily, like she wants more out of you. The way the plane of her tongue brushes across the pad, how her cheeks hollow and suck as if it were your cock - oh, about that, that’s already a can of worms you’ll open up and uncover as a practicing theory, what will become of her after tonight - the different possibilities opening up as her eyelids flutter at your loving touch; the way she leans-

“Mmm,” she gives you, and her doe eyes give you this expression of neediness, the sparkles of lust still apparent in them, her tongue swirling as you try to fight the urge of catching your teeth with your bottom lip, wanting to do something about her slutty attitude. And the idea pops up in your head more quickly than expected.

Your hand retreats from her face, trails down to those perky breasts of hers, her sweaty abs, a quick hook onto the top of her thighs to pull her closer to you as she tries to sit up. Giselle laughs a bit as your cock lightly taps her pussy lips, making her suddenly tense up at the contact, humming after as she watches two of your fingers scoop up some of the filthy mess you’ve left all over her waist, rub it between your tips like it’s some sort of substance that’s unfamiliar, tap it against her lips as she opens up her mouth, following along to what you’re doing. She can be like this, which might be a good thing, and you’ll treat herself to the reward.

It’s in the way her cheeks flush again in the low light of the vanity. Your fingers in her mouth, holding, rubbing, cleaning off the sticky mess between your digits. Those plump, half open lips, you could see a bit of your cum on her tongue.

“Swallow,” you’re telling her, mind still trying to process the sight of her licking your load in between your fingers and knuckles. “All of it, Giselle. Swallow it all.”

She doesn’t say anything else after that, just being obedient to what you demanded of her to do.

Part of this feels right, but then at the same time it doesn’t.

Your hand trails the same pathway down, only this time stopping right at the side of her left breast, staying there. She offers up a hand for you to take, sitting her upright, lets her knees hang off the edge as you’re standing in between the pair of them still, stroking her thighs while you smother yourself back into her chest. This could be a moment of realization or regret, or that could just be your own mind playing the game of worrying too much over something that’s too little to be that big of a deal.

Giselle licks her lips, offers them to you, which you take - kissing her again. You could feel her jaw clench when you pull her by the side of her face, tongue slipping unconsciously back into her mouth, pressing and clashing with hers, inhaling the sweet stench of sex emitting from her body and yours too.

“You’re a mess,” she whispers, leaving a few strings of kisses across the lower half or your cheek, winces a bit when you pinch the side of her waist a bit too tightly, soreness still present. “How long have you been wanting to do that to me, mm?”

“Think we could save that for another time?” And you just happily play along to what she’s inquiring, voice low and inviting. “I’d rather worry about getting out of here first.”

You give Giselle a bit of space for her to rearrange her dress a bit, looking over your shoulder for that discarded heel in one of the dark corners; hand quick to her waist to lick and clean up the leaking mess while you swipe a piece of the bedsheets nearby to wipe down the mess on your waist and all over her cunt-

“Lend me your jacket.” She asks politely, finally standing up with a bit of a wobble in her legs. “It did get a little bit chilly when we walked on the way in.”

–

You see, nobody bats an eye or raises a brow in suspicion when you’ve managed to leave your family estate in record time.

As for those who did take notice, you simply told them that going home early was always the plan in the end. The valet who took care of your car at the front foyer also gave a look to you holding the door for Giselle; well, he could easily tell judging at the way your jacket was on her - heels in your hand as he could only assume one thing and one thing only. Kudos to him for keeping it on the low, in addition to the considerable tip you handed before driving away.

“Should’ve left a whole lot sooner,” she tells you, a bit of a harsh press on the brakes when you then stop at a t-junction.

She’s got the seat almost all the way back, her legs bunched up with your jacket now covering her front, fiddling with a finger between her lips as you alternate glances from her and the intersection. “That’s what I told you before we walked in earlier.”

To be fair, it isn’t your fault in the first place. All honesty aside, it was nice to spend some quality time with some old friends, play catchup and all. You could’ve stayed as long as you would’ve liked, stayed over for the night and just go back to your new home the next morning. Giselle would’ve been on board with the idea had you told her, but instead she had other things to set in motion.

“It’s events like these,” she breathes, “They’re always boring. So boring. It’s been that way with me since I was little.” The jacket falls a little below the shoulders, exposing her clavicles, and runs a hand over them as if she was doing some heavy lifting. Doesn’t help that her hair falls along with the piece, showing more of her pale, yet marked up neck.

“We’ve always crossed paths,” you say, slowly steering the car left and down the road. “I mean- I was literally with you at your birthday party, so of course I can relate to what you’re feeling.”

She looks left, then down at your hand resting on the gear shift, remembering the not-so-distant memory. “Yeah, I guess you can.”

“Hm?”

“Nobody else was appealing, when my parents were searching for someone that could be best suited to be my ‘husband’. All of the other considerable candidates never really made a case to be a worthy suitor in this absolute shitstorm.”

“Don’t you know it?”

Giselle chuckles again, the bright glow of the arrow signs reflecting off of the headlights, then fading away into the eventual darkness. Most of the ride has been filled with silence, with the low growl of the tires rolling against the pavement and the constant ambient whirring that the engine was emitting.

“So why me?” you ask, darting your eyes back from Giselle onto the road. “You could’ve gone with anyone else, but why choose me?”

“It was a simple decision,” she answers, shifting her body to the side with the seat belt loosening as you move through a few sequences of winding turns. “Most people aren’t very easy going when they warm up to me; but since I’ve known you for quite a bit, I thought it would feel just as natural since we’ve had that sort of-”

“Connection, huh?” you chuckle, putting the car in a lower gear when you reach a decline on the road. You give another look at her face shimmered in yellow, low eyelids and slightly parted lips as you and her examine each other’s features, nodding in agreement when nothing else is said.

Giselle then moves your hand over to her exposed thigh, letting it rest there as your thumb runs across the plush surface.

“I want another,” she says, clasping your hand on her leg, nails slightly digging into the skin of your wrist.

You snort in response, almost thrown off at the sudden request. “What do you mean, another?”

“You should know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’m following you on this.”

“Do you want me to put it in a way that makes you understand?” She asks, her voice teetering into a small smile, the blatant innuendo splayed across her face. The grip of your wrist in her hand grows a bit stiff, and yours holds steady on the underside of her thigh.

“How do you suppose that’ll go?” you ask, sliding your hand up into her more. “I can pick up on things pretty fast.”

“Pull the car over and I’ll give you the explanation.”

–

(Like you needed the necessary explanation.

All it took was a hand to your hardening crotch beneath your pants and before you know it, you’ve got the car off to the side of the road, not exactly secluded and discreet about the way that she’s bent over on the side of the car, hot breath fogging up the metal across the hood as she’s got other things to worry about in your cock filling her up again. Her dress is already back up to her waist as your slacks are slipping off the rim of your thighs. There’s also the occasional presence of some crickets sheltered away in the patches of grass, the slaps of your hips fucking into Giselle’s, turning your head in reflex when you hear an audible snap somewhere in the darkness - probably a fallen branch, or something like that.

It’s a bit hard to keep yourself composed when she’s cumming all over your cock again.

Her body goes limp, a hand is splayed on the headlight. You’re holding her by the breast, cream-slicked cock slipping inside her once more, ripping her open. She can’t even look back over her shoulder, the strained noises coming out of her keeps on filling your ears, throwing her lower half back into yours to make the blowback just as brutal. Every passing second underneath your pressure, she crumbles - well-worked and carnally raw.

“-s’deep. Fucking- bitch. Oh, darling - ah”

Your hands hold firm at her waist, driving in, watching as her ass perform this hypnotic ripple against your legs. She loves this, adores the fun of having a rough-fuck; unwilling to get enough of your cock sliding through her throbbing nerves when your shaft makes contact along the slick surface. The motion itself gets you lost endlessly, cupping her ass, pressing and grasping at the supple skin, leaning over when her back arches a bit, getting your face buried in the back of her head, flushing your hips into hers like it’s some long lost art piece. Like you realized just moments ago: she just can’t get enough, and neither can you. “Giselle,” you’re breathing, soft and gentle. She hushes you, lets the sopping wetness of her pussy speak for itself, grinding an angle at the hilt that makes your breath hitch.

Every plea, utterance, and worry that’s said after her exaggerated gasps when your cock slows its drag inside her walls, the declining rubs inside her cunt make her body convulse.

“You’re the fucking worst,” you tell her, and she nods with a smirk at the corner of her lip - an admission.

“Sounds just like me.” she says, all fucked out and gratified.)

–

The weekend passes, and the weekday rolls around again to take its place.

On most days, it’s a rinse and repeat: walk in, settle some deals, make some calls, sit through these boring ass meetings, toss the post-it notes stuck on your monitor by Winter in the trash can before your occasional smoke break, treat yourself to the catered lunch provided for the team members by the company. It’s relatively tame for the most part, and Giselle pops in the building every now and then in her family’s stead, making sure that the transition period in the merging process is going as smoothly as possible.

“She looks like she’s in good spirits,” Winter tells you when she sees you and Giselle wave goodbye to each other one afternoon outside your office, pen tapping on her pursed lips as you stop at the corner of her desk. “I’m surprised that she’s doing some work for her parents around here as well. Didn’t expect that.”

“Keeping me in check,” you say, closely observing the curve of her ass peeking around the fabric of her dress as it goes out of view past the corner and near the elevators. “It’s a transactional thing: ensuring that I’m doing my job just as much as she’s doing hers.”

“So, is it clicking between the two of you?” Winter asks, not even facing you.

“What do you mean?”

“I guess I meant that you’re holding up well after the whole arrangement?” Winter adds on, turning again fully invested, “Being forced into an arranged marriage. A loveless marriage would be a better term to coin it.”

“Well,” you try to answer, but your train of thought gets lost in your own head. “I feel like it’s a little bit out of convenience - letting my parents take advantage of a huge part of my life that I wanted to have control over. But we’re willing to make it work, I think.”

“Huh?”

“We have history, Winter.” The shake of your head makes your secretary laugh a bit, almost baffled at the declaration. “Who knows what happens from here on out. Besides, I might have a change of heart at some point, so have some hope.”

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” says Winter, tapping your hand resting on the railing of the cubicle. “You’ve got the ring on your finger to prove it, partially, but I’ll always love and support you in whatever you do with her.”

You wave a hand at her as you move away from her desk, a bit annoyed - still smiling.

“Do you wanna grab lunch with us whenever she drops by the floor again?” you ask, walking back to the open door of your office. “Offer stands on the table for the time being.”

Winter muses. Me? Third-wheeling? Pfft- low blow, boss. The mutter could be heard under your low chuckle. She raises a fist up in the air to celebrate, hides it away when you tell her to get back to work.

–

Giselle sends you a text two hours later in between breaks: Pick me up?

You’ve got roughly until five until you could clock out, but this report needs to be sent to your father before you leave. I could make a detour before we get some food later, but yeah. I can make that happen.

A smiling emoji. She sends. A bit vague, but you could tell that she’s ditzy on her end of the phone screen.

Almost done?

Some last minute submissions.

Nice.

Dinner somewhere?

You ask, you buy.

What about after?

I’ll pay you back when we get home.

(No point in asking how, she knows exactly how to go about that.)

–

It takes about one missed call followed up with a few more rings at the second time calling to the return, but Giselle answers with a whole-hearted laugh on her end.

“Sorry,” she greets after saying hello, “There’s been a change of plans. I’ll see you at home. Someone came to see me on my way out of the office and-”

There’s another laugh in the background. Sounds familiar, nearly cat-like and sly. A clear contrast to the gleaming tone Giselle has, radiating like the glare of the sun bouncing off the overhanging windows from the neighboring towers across the three-building campus.

“Darn,” you say, “And here I was actually getting excited to come see you.”

“We can move it to tomorrow, I should probably have you meet-” then the phone picks up a little shuffle of handlers, Giselle complaining a bit and suddenly, another feminine voice takes over the call - Sorry not sorry for stealing your girl. She’s been putting me off, but now she’s on my time. Hope you don’t mind.

“Wait,” you’re telling her again, confused, “Who’s your little girlfriend? She sounds cute as well.”

“You’ll see soon,” says Giselle, a bit airy. “A real dazzler, she’s absolutely perfect, a fucking bitch, but the complete package.” You’re thinking twice when there’s an audible smack of a pair of lips on her neck that makes her mewl on the microphone.

You’re rolling your eyes as you nestle in the backseat of the car, and say, “better play nice. I’ll see you later,” and then you end the call.

–

But you never really figure out this mystery woman is, who poached your wife right outside her office building. At least you’re thankful for the wonderful gentleman on Giselle’s detail bringing her back - in one piece, despite the disheveled appearance from the smeared lipstick to the waves of messy hair that would need to be tended to on her own terms. So, uh. You’ll ask for the debrief sometime in the morning.

–

Coffee grounds are getting brewed, and nothing fills up the apartment more than some homey jazz softly blasting from the speakers on the record player.

It’s an exceptionally slow kind of morning: the kind where you look at the alarm of your phone screen and just toss it off to the nightstand while muttering to yourself to stay in bed for five more minutes, and to be fair, maybe for the rest of the day.

While you’re waiting for the food on the cast iron to cool down, you indulge yourself to an article that covered a past press event that had you and Giselle both in attendance. Granted that it was one of her close friend’s fashion line releases in the form of a pop-up event Giselle insisted that you’d tag along just for the testy thrill. To get out of the office and breathe a little bit. C’mon, it’ll be fun.

There’s a thread of pictures you scroll by on your tablet of you and her taking in the moment of presentation; people absolutely losing their shit just by being and breathing the same air as you and her, nothing short of the love well received for the two of you. It’s seen in the details: you look up to the four levels above of people cheering both of your names, the next slide looking outward to a distant camera capturing the image. A few more following images show you laying your eyes on Giselle, from the embracing smile, her hand up in bright surprise, with another still showing her returning the same look she always does earnestly. But what the people don’t realize is that just before this showing, you and her had a small heated argument in the elevator minutes before stepping on stage; she came out of it clean while you’re the one with damage control - fixing up your collar and smearing some of the lipstick left on the single corner of your lip. The confused beam on your face sells the whole thing entirely.

The feed’s comments are still raving and fawning about this whole pairing, too. And it seems that isn’t going away anytime soon; even when the most liked comment says: “i bet they smile at each other when they fuck. God they’re so hot.”

<“you think their parents high-five each other whenever they see them together?”>

The list goes on, and one says: <“it’s still unbelievable that they’re actually together and omg i just can’t get over them!”>

Various comments are just filled with exclamation points and lovely emojis.

Another person also says a few swipes down: <“doesn’t seem convincing to me. almost as if they’re just showing for the title/label rather than out of genuine affection.”>

<“you’re right. also, where tf are their wedding pics?”>

See? It’s worth the subtle nod and the raise of impressive eyebrows to know that not everyone is fully onboard with the whole situation. You think, people can’t be easily swayed by what the media portrays, considering the fact that any shrivel of credibility is either legit or nothing but smoke.

Giselle then walks in from the hallway; encased in a linen robe, messy bedhead and with a lazy yawn. “You’re up early.”

“It’s almost ten.” You tell her. “I’m getting a late start to the morning.”

“Busy day?” asks Giselle, one eye open still when she rounds the kitchen island, puts her cheek against your shoulder, looking over to see your daily spontaneous read. “I was supposed to see someone later today.”

“Is it ‘your dazzler’ date from last night?” you address, towering over the top of Giselle’s head when she leans into you to see the assorted breakfast. “Looks to me like you had a little too much fun with her.”

“Not your business,” she replies, stealing a blueberry from your stack of pancakes. Not the ideal response from her - especially since she’s usually open and practically blunt with sharing bits of her life and adventures. “I saw those comments on that article you were looking at from our outing a while back and let me tell you: they’re right.”

“You think?”

“I know.” Her answer alone should serve all the truth as to what things are between you and her. The label of ‘husband and wife’ isn’t all extravagant fireworks and worth pulling the aged wines to swirl big glasses around over - let alone fooling nearly every person that follows your daily life into one big, misleading lie. When she settles into the high chair with a knee up, her sweater that isn’t exactly her’s and you know it, her pensive expression is far ahead of your thought process already.

“Do you think this whole marriage is out of convenience?”

She looks at you clearly baffled, eyes wide. “I- well, I was gonna ask you the same thing. What do you think?”

“I think your thoughts are more important than mine at the moment.”

Giselle leans forward with an elbow on the table, chin dipping low and heavy. “There’s something for our parents to gain from this. Some cover up; more money, more pull - blah blah blah blah blah. I think they just wanted us to get involved in some way, they’ve had the idea of us being set up since we were teenagers. The picture is one big fucking mess to me.”

“Well if you look at the comments, then-”

“We’ve already commensurated on that note, don’t you forget.” Giselle smirks, a faint fingertip tracing the inner part of her bottom lip. “A marriage out of convenience could also mean that we’re sex partners out of convenience. You’re not slick for ogling at me either, but what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna head to work,” you say with the shake of your head, “We can have a chat about this later.”

Giselle looks at you in a firm victory; the corner of her lip quirks when you pass by her while clearing your throat, avoiding her question for the time being.

–

Yet the question bounces around your mind all day while in the office later, trailing off in spaced daydreams of all the things Giselle as you sit at your desk.

(She has completely fucked you up.)

–

You’d expect for an easy walk-in past the door once the long day’s already passed. Nothing too exhausting: a few business calls here, an outing with a client from your father’s agenda, and just staying chained to your office chair for a majority of the time isn’t very grand, but it’s the usual work flow.

But to your surprise, somebody’s already made themselves at home.

A quick dig into the heels of your loafers next to the pair of heels and you settle your bearings towards the living room - lights on and everything, safe to assume that Giselle’s only been here for no longer than a few minutes (hinted by handbag resting on one of the high-rising seats next to the kitchen island). Exhaustion fills up your mind, weighed down by the assortment of your keys and watch in hand, which you toss into the designated bowl signifying your arrival and growing presence that gives off this small echo down the hallways (since you also know that Giselle likes to keep her door propped open for better airflow).

Entering to your right, you hear: “Hey, home already?” She meets you in the middle as you stop short before the couch, turning to see Giselle in her casual one piece dress, half of her hair present as she combs it down with her fingers, blinking dutifully. “I thought you’d be back later.”

“Well yeah. But I figured that I could use some of the downtime now,” you’re saying, fishing a pen out of your pocket, then your phone; both of which get tossed to the center portion of the furniture. You unbutton your cufflinks with a tilt in your head as Giselle slips out of her cropped coat, “I don’t have anything for the rest of the evening.”

“Really,” she replies, and the prose isn’t necessarily a question nor proposition when she says that single word - hands already working to the zipper on the back of her attire. “I was hoping that you did.”

The first few buttons on your shirt start to part, and Giselle carries forward out of her dress, the black lace underneath presented to you in all of its glory.

“And what would you do with your alone time had I not come home at all?” you ask, closing the distance between you and her. “I suppose you would’ve had another problem on your lap for me to deal with.”

“You still have to answer my question from this morning.”

When she gets both hands deep into the space of your collarbones, hopping up from the floor as you catch the underside of her thighs, holding her in place at the hip when you lightly press her into the nearby pillar of your foyer, it’s a bit laughable in your head as to how easy it is for her to fall into this sense of rhythm - much like a waltz even, lips fast to yours with the dirtiest and most insatiable smile she could ever pull on you. These habits, her issues, the livelihood that she lives by, it’s a tattering case to your own personal code in which you have no complaint or refute to bring up-

“Sex partners out of convenience?” You say to her as she’s left breathless under your pressing touch, warm mouth and hands claiming familiar territory. “Now what makes you think that’s the overall gist of what we’re doing here?”

Giselle raises an eyebrow, hides away as she leans down to kiss you again, wanting to let her current appearance and actions do the talking for her. She plays you like it’s some game; pushing your buttons in all the ways that she knows and likes - for you to treat her like an exploit and an advantage to get her point across. And maybe you realize again: that’s all that she’s ever good for.

You run a finger through the fabric of her panties: “Baby, you’re soaking wet.”

“Now you’re talking about my kind of discussion.”

–

With that said discussion, there’s a few laws of honesty drawn up in your head:

The first law: it’s the rush of dopamine to blame when you have Giselle’s slick soak your face and fingertips - how she groans and writhes into the mattress as your tongue licks up the mess left out of her cunt; the shade goes to a hotter pink as she grinds her hips against you, eyes opening wide and fluttering shut, clenching in the same way her teeth scrape together. Another implication could be seen in the way that your hands hold firm on her plush, thick, marked up ass; how she let you have control as you turn her head and bend her limbs in all the ways to get you off, hushing out these profane sayings and words to her as you work up to her second orgasm - or third (who’s really keeping track at this point, huh?) You like it when she asks to take a breather, have you walk away for a bit before she gets in this pouty fit, a mood that needs to be sated in cumming again, choke her moans out on the couch for a change of scenery. When she reluctantly admits - as three of your fingers slide into her tightness while your other hand is to the small of her back and your head is at the side of her face, buried in her hair and keeping her arched up, digging deeper.

The second law: you wouldn’t have to do anything to Giselle and she’d immediately pick up on what you want, the way her eyes would tell you to ‘just come fuck me already, you know you want to’ and the sheer glint beneath her irises sparkle a bit more when you’re teasing the clit as you settle into the seat.

“Y’know, I always wondered what your other fuckbuddies would think: if they saw you with me and how I’m handling you,” you start to say, eyes focusing and unfocusing in the valley of her breasts - red lines visible along the pale skin as your fingers slip along her thighs a bit - still covered in Giselle’s juices.

“Hmm,” she sighs out, lowering herself onto your lap and the hitch of breath apparent as she expected for you to get right down to business; but you’re not, and clearly that’s driving her up the wall. Listless words whispered out with little to no meaning. It’s in the wet blanket of her pussy, the stickiness dragging a torrid heat all over your bare cock.

“Too bad they don’t have that kind of luxury anymore.” you continue on your senseless rambling. “Considering that I’m the lucky one now, which to be honest, is kind of one of the best things I have against you.”

“What are you even saying?” Giselle questions, losing her train of thought with a good thrust upward, letting her grind down on your hips; holding her down at the top of her thighs as her hands find their place around the crook of your neck. “Just because I let my past flirts use me as- as some fucktoy? You have that as the idea against one of my many points of leverage, baby. God, you-”

“I get what they mean, if that’s what you’re selling,” you assume.

She swears.

“Imagine that, Giselle - with a body like yours, only used to be fucked. Sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.”

She elevates her hips for a slight second, hovering over your cockhead. The first few inches following your tip dips up into her cunt, the drenched, most prettiest pair of lips. You tilt your head back - watch the reaction on her face when you dial it back - the twitch in her shoulders and neck muscles as if she already was at that high again, the look on her face in nothing but positives and unbounded; and somewhere in her cerebral cortex, she should know that the moment you thrust up, she’d be a goner - that’s the effect your cock has on her, how she’d mindlessly fuck herself into using it, every opportunity presents a new suggestion, the intent of making her into a messy puddle of mush, a blithering wreck.

And it’s a form of entertainment in itself when the propositions are thrown up. In a rough write-up in paper and in the sketchbook in your head, the way that she looks in bed: her glistening pussy, dripping, and in a fucked-out mess. You keep dragging your cock through her swollen folds, stagnant, lethargic. You press on with the inquiries - asking, taunting - they’re never meant to be taken literally: “don’t you know that you can think of better ways to convince someone about something without putting your body and attitude to the equation?”

Her eyes open carefully, her grin tilts a bit, cheeks blushing, and the voice carrying the lump of air past her mouth gets winded: “wouldn’t have the slightest idea, honey.”

You could feel the warmth growing from her forearms as it nestled over your shoulders, fingers twitching for a proper hold, the press up of her thumbs raises your head to look up at her. She also tossed the idea to you when she visited your office earlier this week, the tempting proposition of just fucking her right then and there across your desk.

(It didn’t help in the way she presented it too:

“What would your other team members think?” she probes, the shiniest twinkle in her doe-eyes with the falsest naivety, “Hearing me getting fucked by you with the door wide open? Raise my skirt up for the easiest access you could ever have. Leave a few lipstick prints over your shirt so that everyone knows who you belong to?”

Blindsided or not, it sends a few synapses in your brain firing.)

So you’re playing the hard way, a clear contrast to how things unfolded last time, honestly - watching her do this little wiggle over your lap, eyes brimming with light. Her hips, and the little gut-punch movement of her stomach are slow, then pick up suddenly a second later, searching for something close to a rest but coming up empty. Your head dips back a bit to the crown of the couch when the sound of her whines hold steady, breathing cautiously when she fills the open space of your chest, panting into it.

Your grip on her waist when you bring your head forward again to kiss her left breast - catch a nipple between your teeth, nibbling, biting.

“Ow, ah-” she blurts, a pitiful chuckle following soon after. Maybe it’s in the double jeopardy - the way she gasps from the shackled chamber of her chest in this stuttering fashion and goes a little more frantically than normal when your thick tip rubs against the outright nub of her clit. She’s sensitive, and very fucking responsive. “Wow. Jesus.”

Giselle’s hot, pink, satin lips of her pretty, puffy little cunt, hovers right over it: dripping onto your hardened length as you dip your cockhead back in again, nearly there, the heavy weight of her sitting on your dick - but not quite yet, almost. She’s indecisive between grinding her bottom half on your cock, or getting more of your lips and fingers, could be both, anything would suffice for her. She isn’t really begging, per se, but you can just tell: all of the pretty little things that she wants, but can’t admit; the quiet please, I swear to God, why don’t you just stick it in me- or, the incoherent ‘more, baby, I can’t wait any longer, don’t make me- it’s so good - and you already know, you’ve heard it before, how badly she wants it when you let the pads of your fingertips deeper into the spots she loves and likes.

“You would lose it, so fast,” you start, a sigh of relief into the canal of Giselle’s ear, holding the bottom of her spine steady as your cock starts to stretch the drenched walls of her cunt and let her fall slowly - you could feel the tension in her thighs, her toes curl into the cushions. The sharp, high-pitched whine sounds broken.

She mutters a ‘please’ - and it rings so prettily, too.

“I really could let you just slide your perfect, sloppy cunt all over my cock. Be good for me. You wouldn’t even stop for a second, getting yourself off in an instant.”

Giselle’s eyes squeeze shut, nodding profusely, lips parted.

And in a way, christ, she could switch that look in her eyes from a flickering promise to a dwindling vortex instantaneously; the wide pupils she has that are near impossible to examine, the pretty mouth hung low a little past halfway, this magenta shade she emits and her head’s lolling. She’s getting more restless, hips moving shallow and not in the way that she wants them to. She knocks a bit of your forehead to your crown, a mix of a whimper and whisper of your name, and it’s a tempting beck and call to her.

It’s a little overdue for dinner and she’s fucking lost it, hips grinding with yours; the smooth, practied moves of her working cunt, hard, like she means it, like the need to cum for her has to be around something in the most vile ways - her whole face and neck and chest are flushed in this new shade of color and her eyes are hidden behind her eyelids, cock grinding hot between the space of her thighs. She’s squirming - coming apart and pleasing when she’s so out of control, only reduced to her barren sense. To the feeling, the fulfillment of your fingers - or the fine, hard line of your cock dragging along her wetness and thighs, at an angle that you’ve managed to hit a few times before.

“Just by thinking about it - it’s making you even more antsy,” you say delicately.

Giselle just blinks.

“You’ve managed to get me like this, using me to get yourself off whenever you fucking feel like it, right? Imagine. Anytime you just need it - in your office, in the kitchen, get a quick one out before we have a testimonial or showcase, don’t give any care for other people watching you get your pussy railed- stop, I know that look, fuck- it’s not gonna work on me.”

“Pretty good idea, right?” Giselle sputters out, panting, because you’re working deeper into that spot, you can tell - you can feel it. Her hands are clawing on your shoulders. “Just lift up my pretty dress or skirt and make a mess of me right there.”

“-be the problematic little bitch that everyone always talks about and has no other sensible thought because you enjoy it as it is.”

Giselle’s cunt tightens around your cock. You’re also pretty sure that there’s a hint of her squirting. Quite a bit. Dripping and molten-

“You-”

“Mhm?”

“Just- God, please. Want it - you, so fucking bad. Let me ride, I swear-” Giselle tells you, desperately - fucking sit there. She sounds so tenacious. Her hair a nice shade of brown, curtaining at the front of her cheek and a bit stuck to the side of her face.

There’s like this sheer sense of inevitability - you can see it in the way her body gives, the imaginary cloth around her body coming down. It’s in everything, the stimulation, the teasing - then there’s nothing, a clean slate. As if someone had all her thoughts on a small piece of paper: her arms go slack, a breath wriggles out of her esophagus. Her weight, yielding and bearable, easing herself down on top of you and the heatwave of her cunt snugs around your cock so perfectly, like it was meant to be there, where it always belongs. It also wouldn’t take long for her first fully-fledged orgasm to come in the form of a mixed gasped and whine: ugh, god, thank you - like the effort couldn't have been any easier.

Her head tilts back, and a smile slips out into something straight out of a lucid dream: falling, calling, chasing - until you realize it wasn't a dream at all.

And she’s keeping her upper body up with her dainty fingers, pulling herself back into you as her lips drag up into yours, thrusting up, slow and controlled. You feel it as Giselle clamps down again; that throbbing, quivering sensation before that tsunami of warmth captures you.

So you let her ride, in the way that she is. Her face is tucked to the top where your forehead and hairline meets, moaning for pretty much the entire time. “J’so fucking big, your cock inside me, fuck. I just move and it- god, it just rubs itself in every part of my pussy - yeah, okay, you did it again, so deep. Ugh. How do you do it?” Giselle sounds a bit on edge, frantic, talking complete gibberish - the heavy weight of her hips and ass presses onto your body and her nails mark up on your shoulders and sides as she keeps on riding through one orgasm onto the next, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and letting a series of sighs and slips out of her throat. These sweet, desperate, shameless cries and begs as she drops down, sucks you into her warmth.

“Honey, honey- so thick- like that, holy shit,” her pitch lines up to the tempo of her slaps.

“Look at that,” you mumble underneath her praises and heavy pants, the fast, jagged sounds - head nodding and shaking side to side furiously. She can’t even think straight to talk properly. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“God yes. Fuck yes, s’good-” Giselle moans, totally unchasted and debauched.

“And your pussy’s soaking up my cock again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” and most of her sentences are muddled in curses, the phonemes of her sounds morphing into one. Her eyelids are dropping low again, mouth curving to a close shape of an ‘o’ as your cock drives up against every sensitive part inside her, rubbing against the velvety folds. Digging, taking more.

Your voice comes as a hush following a groan. “Stretching out so well for me, taking it all in - isn’t that wonderful? Your needy little pussy, sliding up and down all over?”

Giselle’s trembling picks up where it left off, the noises curdle from the bottom of her throat, low and just flat out desperate. It’s in the responsiveness of her body, every single part of her thrust into chaos.

You could consider this to be a beneficiary: you being inside her. Giselle’s moaning out your name as she holds you close to your chest, burying your nose in between her tits like an offering, her body goes weak. She’s got her hair netted to the lines of her neck and chin; the pistoning of your cock upwards as the hinge in of her hips roll so she can cum all over your waist.

Giselle cums just like that. Again and again, totally impenitent.

The reaction on her face is one of pure bliss, full of relaxation; where everything working between the muscles and nerves go down for a second - her lips molding into a tiny fuck, holy fuck; the small uptick of her eyebrows as the aftershocks ripple through her hot cunt. An incredible sight, this thing.

“I guess that’s why you and I clicked so fast,” you note, a hand to the swell of her ass, the other on her hip. Every free curve of her figure invites the touch, how rough you can go, how far you could wreck her. It’s without any sense of remorse. You kiss the words right between her tits: “knowing that a special someone could ever make you feel like this, give wonders to you right where it’s needed, as if nothing else matters.”

“Stop- shut the fuck up,” and Giselle does the worst thing here, letting her upper half fall back outward, slips a hand behind and under to where your balls are, cradling them, the slightest cup of her fingers, it tenses up your thighs and the bottom of your spine and the grip in your fingernails creates this new line of light red across her hips.

“Gis-” you yelp on impulse, “holy shit, I-”

The angle is too much for her as she barely manages to keep herself upright, and then, “-fucker, that’s so deep. Do it again-”

“You’re something, baby. I can’t believe-”

She’s got a hand to the back of your head, thumb between your lips, moving her hips upward at the hilt that makes your cock twitch inside her. The giggle passing through your ears allures you towards a primal motive, a raw uncut want.

“Shh,” she coos.

“You-”

“This right here,” she says, “Could be our little secret. My little secret.”

“Giselle-”

“Hush, darling. And keep it that way.”

You grind, lift her up, and smack her back down. It’s the slap. The fucking moan. Her arms coil around your neck once more.

Taking in the makeshift taut of her waist. Growling, “fucking test me again, I dare you,” and Giselle gives nothing but an evil grin in good nature when she cups the side of your jaw to lift your gaze.

Her head knocks into yours and she cards her fingers through your hair, tugging away as you increase the pumps a little faster, harder. She’s trying to hold herself together with what little common sense she has left; in a bit of a disbelief, she tells you, off-the-cuff in the nook of her head, how you’ve put yourself far ahead than the past guys she’s fucked around with, the simplicity in her causalness as a royal gesture in itself.

“I guess you could say that,” you tell her, in the figures of semantics where you could take her literally.

A way to repay that said loyalty to her, would be fucking her tight little pussy until you’re dumping your cum inside her sopping cunt or painting all over her fucking waist, her ass, her face - an art piece curated by you out of ruination that wants to be flaunted and presented like it’s something that the people want. This woman with such grandness; this idol, showcased in the fanciest dresses and bows, to be showered in diamonds, to have anything she ever wanted worth purchasing be done with a wave of her finger.

Your cause is a bit different, lest not forget, but you’re complicit nonetheless - satisfying both parties of families to ensure that no one is left holding the bag in the event that they’re caught. But at least you can have a fill with an aching cunt between your legs, leaking all over your groin once the rush eventually dies down. Yeah, maybe you are right in this situation. “I’m the last one you’ll ever need.”

That cuts both ways, she tells you. A wicked smile is all she gives; she’s won.

You eventually snap, however, fucking Giselle on her hands and knees, flip her back around with her tits facing you again. You carry her back onto the pillar behind the couch for some more before moving to the bedroom, a little over a minute spent letting her reach that peak. Some fun gets thrown into the mix, pressing her front to the window as you carve your cock back up into her cunt. Your name keeps falling out of her mouth, obscene and maffled, over and over and over and over: fuck, you feel so good inside me, taking me so well, god, don’t stop, that feels so fucking good for you, doesn’t it? - she slams her ass back into you, face pressed against the glass, her breath fogging up a small portion of the pane. You take it back to the edge of her mattress where her ankles hook around your thighs and manage to dig her nails into the skin of your back. She acknowledges the small act of generosity, when you cum a little bit inside her pussy (to which you could admit that it’s one of the hottest things you can do to her, honestly), knowing that your cock fits so nice and snug into her cunt and fucks out all these dirty sounds that are some of the cutest things that she can sing out of her mouth; this little pussy messing you up as you tug yourself out of her properly-fucked cunt and leave the mess right where it stays. Where it should stay. That’s how this thing goes.

Giselle presses a nail into your hip, another bruise along with the scratches and bite marks that’ll show up tomorrow. You’ll look at it in the mirror at work sometime, just to think back.

Though she’s created an opportunity for herself where you have to answer whenever she’s around. No matter what the excuse may be, she’ll slither her way inside your office or at home, talk about something about the day, and you’ll try to stay on task or topic until the option to eat her out or fuck her till she can’t walk straight or maybe even both doesn’t seem too far off to pass time.

(She’ll ask: you mind doing a favor for me? Of course you have to say yes.

And it’s practically impossible to refuse anyway, since it’s not worth telling no when there’s advantages.)

–

Giselle is not perfect; despite what the media presents and what the people say portraying her to be.

She’s got a past, one of which she's not proud of. She has her shortcomings, her flaws, but she’s still human. You’ve assumed at first that there’s things about her to be accepting even with the stuff she’s got herself into. Giselle’s impetuous and a bit dense, but she’s also a strong thorn in points you hate to admit that she could have an upper hand on.

But even so-

Even so-

Despite her imperfections, she’s aware of them. She’s turned them into strengths that very few people can break down without effort backed behind it. You get one good look at her and it’s simple. Her grin with closed lips is wicked and unbeatable, and now that you’re with her in this mess of a marriage you can’t find anything that’s worth swaying you to think otherwise.

“What is it that you want from your family’s company?” she asks, her body melded one with the sheets as she lays on her stomach, feet sticking up with ankles crossed, face still fading from the hot blush of pink. “I mean, there isn’t really an incentive for us exclusively while they’re trying to make this story go away unnoticed.”

“If I knew everything. And I mean, everything, then I’d tell you. But I don’t.”

“So what, you don’t know what happens despite us being protected?”

“It may look like we’re safe,” you say, looking down and out the window again, holding yourself back from rambling even further. “But it’s only a matter of time until people start sniffing around places that they’re not supposed to.”

“They’re not gonna stop searching, hun.” Giselle presumes, “Not until they really figure out what’s going on behind the scenes. But where’s the exposure in that?”

“What makes this whole thing dangerous is that all it took for people to find this relationship believable was a good lie and a lot of money to twist the words in the press into reality.”

“Isn’t that a shame,” her voice trails off, head falling left to the nearby pillow resting on her arm. She keeps her eyes on you, rubbing up your shoulder from the amount of scratches and bite marks she’s left all over it, the skin still red to the touch. “Watching yourself settle as bits and pieces of your life start to wither away. No risk taken for the reward or consequence to follow. You’re so boring, but your cock, and the way that you fuck me deflates the whole argument entirely.”

“Amazing,” you deadpan, “That’s probably one of the nicest compliments you’ve ever given to me.”

Giselle rolls her eyes, holds back a laugh between her lips. “You’re so into me and you don’t even want to admit it. Where else would you get the ring on your finger from, hm? Let alone who?” The squint in your eyes proves that she’s winning this dispute. “Still got no answer for me, babe? Hmph. I guess you just solidified my thoughts just now.”

“You really are the worst pick for guys like me, aren’t you?” you ask, approaching closer to the bed as your kneecaps make contact to the edge, bending them until you’re crawling across the mattress.

She has an outreached hand to you; taking, pulling, inviting. “Who said I was a bad choice for you? Someone’s got to keep your mind off the deal for the time being.”

Before you even say anything else, you kiss her twice, and then some more. It’s a thing remotely close to yielding yourself to her - you pull the sheets from underneath her over, get your lips back on her neck again, and fuck her deep into the bed.

Some pressure is relieved off of your shoulders and head, and you wonder if she’s the one responsible for that.

–

Everything resumes as normal. Business stays busy, public engagements and appearances are still a regular occurrence every other day or so, and you’re ensuring that the tracks get covered up before anyone in the press starts to take notice. You’re not a bad person - and neither are your parents in this case, the needs of this cause will pay off in protecting your own life. Being a workaholic isn’t the healthiest way to go by, but in all fairness, you’re just doing your job.

Giselle also holds her end of the bargain; while you’re married to your work, she’s married to her blessing of wealth. When you’re swamped with paperworks and projects compounded with usual check-ins with her parents and yours about the investment failure cover-up, she seeks her own adventures elsewhere: getting herself into these entanglements with other guys at high-profile events, reining them in with her flirty charms and in return gets their dick stuck up inside her. She may be terrible at keeping faith in you when she does go out with her friends, but you know that she’ll always come back to you in the end.

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with the meeting?” Winter asks you one afternoon, sitting on the edge of your desk as she looks over one of your client’s portfolios to see if the numbers add up, “cause this does look finished, but I can set some time aside to run a final check before you send it over.”

For some reason, and only God really knows why, but you feel this sudden chill run down your neck as Giselle makes her way past the door into your office; her stride a little more pushy today than usual, and that spells only one thing: she’s aggravated.

“Sorry Winter, do you mind giving us the room?” she tells her, and it’s not a request. You nod your head as Winter immediately picks up on the sudden shift of tension in the air, swapping places as Giselle drops her handbag on the chair while darting a quick glance at Winter.

“The door, please. And you know what to say.” Winter closes the door on her way out while Giselle rounds the desk and settles herself into your lap. You remember her barging in when you had a meeting with one of your early acquisitions in the business, sitting in the same way that she is now for the entirety of that appointment.

“Cancel your meeting.” Giselle commands, fingers quick to the middle of your necktie.

“I can’t. It’s the new person my father just brought in yesterday.”

“I wasn’t asking. You promised.”

Her lips proved to be a suitable truth-serum to your inhibitions; and suddenly you completely forget what she was even complaining about earlier.

–

So you make good on your promise. You had to.

Giselle’s hand shoots up to her mouth, not doing much with the moans that leak out from the bottom of her wrist.

“Baby,” she coos, and you draw yourself back from between her thighs to swallow a bit, drink in the sight of how her face writhes in pleasure. You hate how pretty she is when she looks like this, eyes closed elegantly and mouth dropped in pure awe. She literally had her pussy eaten out by you in the morning, but it’s clear that she can’t get enough, and you’ll definitely do it again.

The pager on your desk starts to beep, and you don’t answer it; instead, you dip your tongue back into her leaking entrance. Her breath starts to stutter as the sides of her thighs start to press against your head. A spread of her lips between your fingers, and you slash up your tongue inside her walls again, hips bucking forward off the woodwork.

“You taste so fucking good, honey,” you praise, holding her down with the flex of your wrists and press of your fingers. Giselle shudders a bit as you shove your nose right up against her clit, let the vibration of your hums send shockwaves up her waist from within. Her hand tangled into your hair serves all the signs of her wanting, begging for more. When you ask, and it’s just out of plain fun when you do: “Wanna cum so badly on my face, don’t you? Soak your shit into my mouth and all over my chin? Tell me what you want. You haven’t had enough cock this week, haven’t you? Fucking filthy ass slut.”

Giselle, in the current state that she’s in, just sighs. If there’s anything that you’ve learned from all the times you’ve spent exploring her body, imploding her senses from within, she loves to be held down and fucked ruthlessly - but more than anything, she loves to be teased, to be degraded.

That stupid pager is still fucking ringing.

But you inhale the sweet aroma of her pussy, slide your tongue up those slutty, puffy folds, stop right at the clit, and you suck.

“Yes, yes- fuck, God yes, just like that,” she breathes out, pulling your head deeper into her cunt. She wants you to be cruel, to rip off that pencil skirt of hers, raise that dress shirt she stole from your wardrobe and put your cock inside her like she so undeservedly owes. Giselle’s eyebrows twist along with the lines of her face, squeezing your hand as she soaks more of herself onto your lips, the taste of her slick flowing down like water, lapping her up clean.

“Close,” she tells you, breaths becoming irregular as her voice goes up in familiar, ascending octaves. “God- keep going, yes, baby, I’m g- I’m gonna-”

You just hum, let the sweet venom of her release coat your taste buds - a delicacy that you’ll indulge in every time. You fail to let her go from your grasp, meeting her dreamy gaze, lashes gliding up and down gracefully, trying to conjure up some sort of thought. “Your cock,” she says, chest heaving. “Give it to me.”

It’s not worth denying the demand; and besides: you were never going to make it to that meeting anyway.

–

The workflow chokes up the rest of the week so much to the point where the days and nights start to blend together. You’re doing some nightly readings midway out on the couch until Giselle walks in with a robe encasing her nice figure - dropping the piece in front of you which makes you toss the tablet off to the side.

“A gift for you,” she says, a towel tending to her damp hair that wets the front of her shirt while you’re fixing up a quick meal of eggs on the stove, following you cumming inside of her and on her face not too long after that ends up staining her sheets. “For the race this upcoming weekend.”

You’re paying zero attention, focused on not letting the scrambled bits stick to the pan as she slithers a hand through the open space of your hand-to-hip, stealing a bite of the waffles you also made off to the side for more variety, watch as she fills up her cheeks with the food. The simplest of actions, she does with ease. But then you say: Race? You didn’t tell me you were into cars like that. If at all.

“Had I told you that I had a stake in a racing team, and you would’ve been instantly hard,” she deadpans, her stare flickering with a shake of her head. “Like I’ve told you before: I have my own interests.”

“Prove it.” you taunt.

Giselle then walks over to her handbag resting on one of the seats where she always leaves it for a quick grab of whatever, pulls out two special passes; the red lanyard with your picture and hers highlighted at the center with a barcode below it as well as the details of the event. The raise in your eyebrows indicate a hint of impressiveness and Giselle just tilts her head in victory, because she knows you’re not hard to convince.

“F1 passes, huh?” you muse, taking the one from her hand to further examine it, “Now how in the hell did you score these?”

“Courtesy of a friend,” replies Giselle, taking your pass back and into her handbag. “You probably know her, but if you don’t, I’d love for you to meet her.”

“Aren’t you excited.”

“What’s with that tone?”

“Tone?”

She sighs, chin lifted up as her hum rises in amusement, “It’s not like you to have my attitude suddenly, it actually fits you well.”

“I’m always like this,” you tell her.

“Right.”

“I’d be happy to pitch you as to why if you’re interested.”

“Save it,” Giselle tsks, flipping her towel forward from her shoulders. “Besides, it’s gonna be a fun weekend either way. And oh- happy birthday.”

–

Much like other events you’ve attended in the past, this one is certainly no exception. Stepping out of the car to be greeted with endless amounts of people stretched across the barriers outside the track, screaming your name and Giselle’s to offer a variety of things to sign: a hat, a bottle, a racing jersey, and some random person’s arm; a nice gesture to show, and it’s all in good fun.

The photo op’s are having a fucking field day with your appearance, cameras nearly floating across towards you walking to get their many mandatory snaps of the day. Hey, over here! Click! Click! Click! You and Giselle keep it casual in answering the questions also like how’s the morning going? Who do you think is gonna win the race today? Are you the special person that’s going to be waving the checkered flag or present the trophies to the top three racers later?

Click! And someone greets Giselle off to the side - probably someone running social media from one of the racing teams, you think. Her hair flows so coolly in the wind, walking in a fashion that pretty much trumps every other hot model you’ve seen at shows; the curves of her body sloping along her clothes. Her sunglasses only punctuate her cunty expression when she takes them off, earning a few gasps from other surrounding VIP members, which isn’t fair, but it serves you exactly right when her face lights up greeting the provider for your special passes.

She smiles so effortlessly. Her energy is infectious the more she steps into the paddock.

Everything is pretty much major brain overload, astounded at how everything is sleek inside the garage; tools hidden away in perfectly-fit drawers that literally look straight out of a sci-fi movie. The car alone is a sight to behold too; sure, the wheels aren’t on and they’re still doing some minor tweaks across the chassis, but the race engineer who bumps your shoulder puts you in a momentary conversation about how insane everything looks.

It wasn’t long until Giselle disappears from your view, only to return with a plus-one that irks your curiosity - laughing and sounding clearly in awe and excitement.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this charmer before,” Giselle introduces, hand tugging on your jacket so casually, pulling you closer. “Has a thing for cars, if that isn’t news to you already.”

“Looks familiar, but never up close.” Her mouth peers into this wide grin, lips coated with a light sanguine shade, the gloss almost shimmering. Your ears perch up to the tone of her voice, a sleek and piercing characteristic to notice, considering how dangerously familiar it sounded. She’s got a racing shirt on, despite her bottoms being baggy jeans. The temperature around the track was forecasted to be hot, and she’s wearing a simple dad cap to pool those flowing locks over her shoulders. Judging from the hoops hanging from her ears, you assume that she and Giselle are in the same lineage - since they’ve got so much money deep in their pockets to afford everything and all that jazz.

Yu Jimin takes your hand in hers, and asks something along the lines of: you’re into cars? Is this your first time in an F1 garage?

You laugh, and answer: I’ve dabbled here and there. Giselle didn’t tell me that she had a minority stake in something like this.

“She’s the one who gifted the passes,” Giselle supplies immediately, because apparently Karina should already have this as common knowledge.

“Never got to hear you two say thanks.” She blinks and smiles. You blank out for a second. Though it’s also interesting how her face is so molded in the right angles like she’d been carved to perfection in one take. Her figure is undoubtedly amazing, with a long waist and these wide hips. It’s a bit of seeing to actual believing - where you think that all women like Giselle had similar traits. You’re still unsure, however, but maybe that’s just the simple commonality women have when they’ve either got money or a status.

“Your wife here funds the team’s success,” Karina adds - looking over to see a handful of mechanics having a laugh about something with her racing teammate. “She’s the reason why I’m winning.”

“That so?” You fire back with pursed lips. “Hopefully her money’s put in good use.”

Karina laughs. “It has, believe me.”

Giselle, in this situation at least, the last person who takes charge of calling your shots. Or reading the room. You’re just keeping it casual, though, getting acquainted with someone new like it’s nothing wrong.

“How else could we have swayed you into signing that new deal?” Giselle presses her tongue up to the inside of her cheek - throws a side-eye at you. She’s reminiscing over a certain reference that you clearly have no idea of understanding.

“Didn’t think the figures would be that much,” ponders Karina.

“Need I mention you’re little ‘incident’ with the other-”

“Are you fucking crazy? I almost got crucified with the press if that story got out.” She leans closer to Giselle with her fingers covering her mouth. Her hair moves in these calm waves - laughing like there’s no care in the world for her actions.

So the two of them go at it a bit, trading moments and memories between them. Giselle’s attempt of pressing herself back onto your crotch serves as some sort of provocation rather than a distraction. You play it off with a hand to her midriff, pinching it slightly as a rebuttal, and a promise.

Aside from the ice breaking topics, you look over to see Karina’s personal performance coach, notifying her of the preparations of the race ahead. She hasn’t got much time, so she leaves the both of you off with this:

“Think I can find you guys once this race is finished?” A mechanical drill sounds off on the far end of the garage. Then, she glances in this devilish way that means she knows everything, Karina says: “I can have my guy grab you two back to the trailer.”

“You can make that work,” Giselle answers, rolling her head into the upper profile of your chest and smiling. “We’re your special guests for the day, so I expect the best hospitality.”

–

And, about the race later as you’re watching, Karina blows everyone else out of the competition. Her winning first place is an absolute certainty.

–

Once the champagne showers have died down and everything logistically in the press gets recorded and logged in after another successful race weekend, it didn’t take Karina that much longer to find you and Giselle hanging around the complementary areas, prompting that the celebrations outside the track can start a little bit later. Since the party was well going to be deep into the night somewhere in the city, the three of you actually never make it there on time.

Probably because your back to the door with a hand to the lock is preventing you from ever getting out; the two bodies of Karina and Giselle pinning you down the middle between the pair, a hand to your waist while the other is well worked around your cock. It also didn’t help that the lights were off, to give the impression that no one was inside - the worrying thought of someone knocking would suddenly be washed away when Giselle lowers her wet mouth all over you; a hand through her hair and a small shuffle of your feet as Karina smoothens your shirt, humming gleefully into your chest as the same feeling happens further down south.

“You love her mouth so much, hm?” Karina asks, the brim of her cap hitting your nose, tilting it upward to slide her tongue back between your lips. “She’s been telling me how much her jaw aches when it comes to blowing you.”

You try to look down, but Karina had other ideas. Ah ah ah, pretty boy. Keep your eyes only on me. If Karina’s lips were meant to spill out all of these subtle projections of sex, you’re able to deduce the fact that Giselle likes to be all talk - though she prefers to let her mouth serve a different purpose. She lets out a small gargle in her throat when her plump lips reach the base, the tip of her tongue swipes the point perpendicular where your length stems out from the root, feeling that twitch of your cock head hit the top of her mouth. All to play for when you’re losing focus, and then-

“Karina, your hat,” you stumble in your words, watch her flip the cap back around, “Shit, baby. The door too-“

“Shhh, relax,” she coos, hand ghosting over your face, the broad line of your shoulders. She kisses you with the cap facing backward. “Bet that feels really good for you, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck,” you barely manage. It’s a bit early for your voice to be this raked through the mud; though, the light depression of your lungs serves as an emphasis. ”She’s perfect.”

Giselle gently laughs, slightly hollowing out her cheeks some more. Slapping her plum, bottom lip with your tip, she flashes an innocent smile, sticking her tongue out just to push your urge further. “That isn’t news for anyone,” she yields, sliding her palm up the length. “Take my other boy-toys in the past. Ask them about anything, really. They’d all say the same thing: how I keep a hidden talent for sucking dick a personal secret of mine.” Karina provides a nod and a laugh, knowing that her saying goes both ways.

“Consider me shocked, then. You two are absolute freaks.”

“Okay,” Karina deadpans, and her expression goes calm, a lifted eyebrow in suspicion. She gets her hand to the back of Giselle’s head, pushing her back between your legs. Giselle takes you right back into the well of her mouth and picks up right where she left off, this smooth flow - in tandem with the friction of her fingers, as her lips take in the soaked inch or two of your cock, gagging a bit, fuck. Her eyes go wide, and then they close, braces herself with her hands on your thighs, pushing herself deeper until her lips finally reach the base; the head, and the rest of your shaft, into the velvety opening of her throat, willing to hang you for as long as you or her could possibly take.

Your palm slides down against the sliding door, and the impulsive shift of your hips forward comes as an act of desperation into that addicting rub in the big of her mouth.

Karina doubles down her efforts, kissing up your neck, your jaw; carrying your face with her dainty finger to the right to graze the tip of her nose against yours, feeling her hot breath touch your chin as she’s telling you all the right praises of how amazing you two look. She’s got a handful of Giselle’s hair in her hand, pulling her up and driving her back in, the subtle sighs and staggered breaths that gets overpowered by Giselle’s endless gagging, hands braced to your thighs as your hips work a bit to meet in the middle of her effort. This engulfing heat, rising up from waist, much like diving feet first into a bottomless hot spring - nerves going haywire from your spine, the muscles along your lower half constantly tensing as Giselle bottoms you out again, slathering your cock in her saliva as she chokes.

“Fuck her mouth again. I know you want to,” Karina says, pressing up her tits to the side of your chest, another lick of the end of your collarbone, it earns her another shallow ‘christ’ from you. “She’ll let you do anything,” and in a way, she isn’t wrong: “‘Cause I know that you’ll give her the promise of fucking her brains out after.”

So, all you had to do at this point: was follow and listen.

The constant deepthroating would make anyone go mad, really; have their balls burst in a matter of minutes. Karina takes this emphatic role of judge, jury, and executioner to a whole different implication, her hands and mouth an extension of the many things you want Giselle to be ruined by, and you’ll shower her some form of thanks for that.

And when Giselle does slide you out of her mouth, a trail of spit forming around the crown, twisting her hand languidly around you as she clears her throat. Right around that time, the three of you hear a knock on the door - probably Karina’s security detail, or someone else, there’s really no point in knowing. You and Karina look at each other to hear whatever the hell the guy outside was saying, but Karina has a finger between your lips as Giselle continues where she left off, giving your brain a dilemma on what - or who - to focus on.

“We should’ve left thirty minutes ago,” you confess - the honesty alone an antithesis to your level-headedness; a moment to reflect, at how pathetic you are - “how long are-”

Karina giggles, a cheeky grin to add: “we gonna take? Hopefully we’ll wrap you up soon, sweetie.”

You’re hoping to unravel in the next few minutes or so. Giselle’s mouth is not worth throwing up the curtain of ignorance, as she continues bob her head up and down the length - each knock of your cockhead to her uvula is flawless.

Karina on the other hand, does the least merciful act she could possibly do, considering how she’s a walking devil in broad daylight: sliding her hands across your chest as she sinks down to her knees at Giselle’s level, nose buried in the cuff of her ear as she grasps her boob while the motion of her head starts to match with Giselle’s tempo of gags. She pulls back, the cap nearly falling off the top of her head, draws her hair over her ears as she settles in with those quick licks at the base where Giselle struggled to reach and well - crap. Giselle drags the tip of her tongue over your head, Karina treating the underside before meeting her lips with hers. They both giggle at the first kiss - hot air over your cock right smack in the middle of that space. Indulging a bit more with their clashing tongue, wanting to get more of a savoring taste of cock. Of you. The inner cavity of your chest broadens up, drawing in a sharp inhale, and the heat of the trailer gets a bit sweltering. Okay, you might be sweating more than usual.

As if they’d rehearsed this before, the pair at your hips take turns with your cock, licking up the slick spit, your precum, all these wet kisses and heavy moans across the surface; they pull half of your shaft back into their mouths, drag your head to the inner part of their cheeks, slowly and gracefully taking you in, treating the areas where they’re not touched. “Mmm.” and “Hmph.” Karina is still laughing - fingers now tethered around the root of you and your balls while Giselle slacks her jaw a bit more, letting you fill the space of her throat as you’re holding yourself steady against the wall. The chinch of her shut eyes and eagerness to go past her personal threshold of taking you deep; and Karina has a hand to the back of her head, caressing her throat whispering these praises into her ear. Good girl, all the way into your throat. You know that he likes it so much. There there, keep choking on his cock - because it’s yours.

And when she does pull herself up and out, she’s coughing, eyelashes fluttering and eyes shimmering. They both look at you with their jaws hung, a small tug of a smile at the corners of their lips, tilting their heads up as you impulsively move your hips forward and back - slathering the belly of your cock with the pads of their tongues.

“You girls look so good like that,” you barely manage to say. Their swollen and plump mouths already serve as this new vehicle of addiction. “The sluttiest kinds are always the ones where you least expect it.”

Giselle breathes out this hearty laugh, shields her face with the back of her hand. Karina’s mouth then takes over for a bit, and you could feel her fingers start to press deeper into the skin of your thighs. “She’s a messy bitch. Believe me when I say this: she’s been dying to have a taste of you.”

“Not true,” Karina butts in, a trail of spit forming from her bottom lip when she kisses your soaked tip. “At least, that’s what she was trying to say, when I had her stuttering in her words with my mouth and fingers all up inside her. Came on my face a bit after - she’s the one who’s more dirty than me.”

“Didn’t you make a bet that you can make him cum faster than me?” Giselle inquires, doe eyes and with a hint of a taunt mixed in with her tone. “I could’ve sworn that you did.”

While she asks, Karina doubles down her efforts, taking you well into the column of her throat. You’ve got a hand through her hair, gripping to a point where the need for these two girls to fuck you senseless in the trailer takes over. The sense of control and liberation courses through like a reflex - a fight or flight response - you can’t let them have their way for too long, and it’s way too early to yield from their oral assault.

“He’ll be good for us, I’m sure.” Karina says, a bit quizzical at that too. Her hand is jerking around the base while Giselle takes the hint and slides her hand across the upper half of your shaft. “I’m sure this isn’t his first rodeo of letting two girls drop to their knees and have a little bit of fun for themselves, right?”

Yeah, the groan you give punctuates the point clearly: they broke you.

It didn’t take much long after that, when the both of them have an alternating cycle of hand to mouth and mouth to hand, working you up through these harsh sucks, the fierce licks across your slit, engulfing your balls and colliding their lips - trading off stares as they could tell in the way that your legs are shaking. They see this. They feel this. All this hard work was about to be paid off soon. Your hands are reaching out in desperation - the inevitability of it, the pulses and wires in your body already at the limit, pushing your buttons with the ever-concluding contraction of your muscles-

“Cum for us, baby,” Giselle murmurs. With her hand and Karina's wrapped true along with her desperate hums and moans across your shaft proves as the lethal combination, “all over our pretty little faces, okay? All over. Just let go and let us taste you, that’s all we want.”

They both look up at you, the image seared into your optics: your cock is practically magma in their hands, releasing in harsh jolts and jerks, every thread of your cum landing on their foreheads and on the slopes of their cheeks - blissed out and and job done. Giselle tilts her head back while Karina’s hand finds the bottom of her chin, lapping up the mess below her lip as you press your cock in between their faces again, the sounds of satisfaction humming low in their throats, and their congratulatory kiss comes as a celebration. Your head feels dizzy, chest cavity staggering with the inhales and exhales; you’re not even sure how you’re still standing at this point-

“Fucking look at that,” Karina sneers, fingers pressing into the skin of Giselle’s cheek - the other digging down her unbuttoned pants, assessing the damage as she kisses up along the side of her face, “She’s so wet for you, like the perfect girl she is, lapping up your hot mess to make up for being the filthiest, fucking, fine whore-”

“Mmmm- fuck,” Giselle just says, sucking harshly on your sensitive cockhead, retreating with a loud ‘pop’ as Karina scoops up the dribbles of cum on her fingertips, cleaning them up as the both of them soothe the fading ache in your thighs.

“You guys are the worst,” you breathe, head hitting the door to the closet as you’re fighting every urge to not melt right into the floor.

“He doesn’t mean that, right?” Karina asks, eyes pleading.

“Don’t worry,” Giselle adds, “He owes us more when we get back home.”

“Should we get out of here?” Karina prompts, wiggling her head back as Giselle matches the look from below. “Oh- and Giselle honey, you can’t clean yourself up.”

“What?! That was the deal? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Giselle asks in shock.

“It was better to see your reaction if you didn’t know; but now that you know, the forfeit still stands.”

These two are basically asking to get themselves trending on the headlines first thing tomorrow morning.

–

It’ll probably be ignored as you’re doing the daily checks of your meetings, reminders, or emails on your phone, but there’s a surfaced picture of you and Giselle seated together in one of the booths at the club you were initially going to. Karina managed to tag herself along despite not being on the exclusive guest list - though, she thanked Giselle for pulling some strings to get inside.

There isn’t much to recall from last night, however, aside from letting yourself unwind from the stresses and pressure of work. Karina and Giselle keep the conversation going over a few drinks - toying with the idea of leaving so that they could pick up on the fun you three did back at her trailer. A few laughs are shared here and there, you’re not so entirely sure, until you make the judgment call to leave and Karina manages to get her lips on you in the hall walking out.

“I’ve got the-” you say on your way into the bedroom when a pair of lacy panties latches onto your shoulder, looking up in confusion. “-coffee you asked for.”

Giselle’s laying on of the mattress, head at the edge, her tits just left barren and facing up to the open air. A ruffle in the sheets next to her occurs, and the person underneath does this mix of a yawn and giggle as the typical fringe of her messy bed head rests along the front of her chest. You’ve had your fair share of having a few triad’s in your lifetime, but it’s safe to say that this current lineup takes the cake.

“He’s cheating by the way,” Karina says, sitting upright as her breasts are revealed to you above the sheets; all marked up and tattered from last night’s fuckfest that move in this heavy and hypnotic way as she does this little wiggle with her upper body - like she’s pouting for an apology after committing a scandalous act. “Why does he get to put his underwear on?”

“I’m not walking around the house naked,” you rebuke, “It’s just weird.”

“But I do it all the time and he doesn’t complain,” Giselle says to her, flashing a look back at you as she watches you take a sip from her cup of coffee. “Breakfast still on the cards?”

“What do you have in mind?” you ask, walking up to the two fine girls taking refuge in your bed. “I can go out of my way and set an arrangement.”

Karina scoots up next to Giselle, laying in the same fashion as she’s doing, traces a line along the elastic of your boxers. Giselle bites her lip as she starts to palm the growing bulge pulsing between your legs. She asked for a cup of coffee, but it’s always better to chow down on something while she drinks; her personal preference, really.

“I think your coffee needs a little creamer, no?” Karina proposes, testing with a swift lick on the underside of your cock, snorting soon after.

“You’re really fucking weird,” Giselle tells her, and pulls the waistband down, springing your cock forward. “But I fucking love it”

–

Life, in every passing day and night amongst you two, starts to make sense. Giselle at first used to do things separately: the contrast of staying in different rooms, the deliverables and press engagements of her brands and investments, keeping the scheduling consistent without any changes unless she saw fit or just by feel. Her presence was an oddity let alone a fast flurry of complications falling onto your lap.

Now:

There’s a growing flow of comfort between the two of you. Always has been. With all the dates and hangouts and impromptu office visits, it would be basically impossible to not get acclimated in the short span of time. She’s gone from her bed to yours, her toothbrush in the same cup on the bathroom sink, there’s far less dishes to wash meal to meal, watches you work or even get some work done herself - leading to a familiar end of the night that becomes all the regular.

“You’re staying in tonight?” you ask, noticing a woozy Giselle bunched up in one of your shirts, leaning against your arm on the couch one late evening, a split-screen of a portfolio and the typical news articles that you have little to no care of skimming through on your laptop. “I thought you had something planned.”

“I did,” she admits in reply; her tone is lazy, dry, sleepy. As if this was the first time in a while where her social battery was depleted to zero.

You sigh, tilt your head over to the right side, and kiss the crown of her head. “Guess I should call it also a night, then.”

Giselle nods, eyelids slowly falling shut as you toss your laptop off to the side, pick her up in your arms, and start to make your way to settle back into your bed - playing the role perfectly and as authentically as you could create it.

–

Later that morning after, she plays the part so well:

“For me?” she asks, arms well wrapped around your waist as you’re tending to the first batch of pancakes. Her nose is buried into your shirt, never wanting to let the scent of you go to waste. “You might be the best husband ever, I fear.”

Your nose scrunches as she giggles, leaning your head down with a chaste kiss to her lips - pulling away with a hum, “Sweetie, I’d be terrified.”

–

“Your father’s calling,” Winter tells you while hanging her head along the door frame of your office, “He’s on line one.”

The lift of your eyebrows signifies that you got the message, and he doesn’t sound pleased when you pick up the phone saying: look, I’m all for the idea of getting all nice and cute and cozy with Giselle, but we need a little push from the both of you. I’ve got some figures in our board and investors that are catching wind of our past case. People like them aren’t easily swayed by the media, they’re smarter than that.

You knew what you were doing when you first made the company, dad.

And I know that you’re aware of Giselle’s previous activities? Do I need to remind you of who made the file for you to look at when we first set up this whole damn thing?

(Goes without saying, she was problematic. Keyword: was.)

What’s your point?

Don’t bullshit me with filling the blanks and details. You know. I’ve pitched you to her parents for a reason. You didn’t like the idea of sleeping with someone you aren’t familiar with; but now look at you, doing exactly that.

Creative writing can only serve so much purpose to the public.

All the more reason to use some money to twist a few words about you and that whore.

Dad-

Do the right thing, son. We’ve got you in a good position, now take advantage of it.

–

Staring out your window serves as a second viable option partial to marooning yourself on the balcony; taking some time aside to personally reflect on the state of your life, figure out what your next move is, etcetera etcetera. To be fair, you’ve got a good track record of not getting into trouble whatsoever. You’re clean - and sure, there’s a few hiccups here and there, but nothing too monumental to really derail your career and success.

All of this has been public from the start, you and Giselle. Ever since you two tied the knot, it’s been nothing short of coverage for the both of you, the usual freakouts people have when they see you or her doing the usual events or activities like everyone else. It’s in the recognition, the exposure. You’d honestly hoped that carrying on with your duties in the family business would be sufficient enough to satisfy the needs of the higher ups - all the while trying to keep what’s going on in the inner circle a secret.

Too bad that secret isn’t nicely kept under wraps, and you’re aware of this; you understand so much of the extent because there’s everything to lose since the microscope is so close. Even when you’ve parted Giselle’s legs and slid your hands up the sides of her waist, it’s the beauty in that risk - like the suggestion was already guaranteed from the start.

“What’d I tell you?” Giselle says to you, lounging on your couch in the office, rucking down her dress and combing her slightly tattered hair to the front, her toes in the pantyhose curled and spread soon after, the portion of the clothing at her inner thighs are torn through, looking out the window to see if anyone had noticed (but they heard it all already,) “They gave us a hand to play.”

“And you want us to play their game? It’s basically letting them call the shots if you ask me.”

“Hey,” she leans back to the head of the couch, lounges her legs a bit further out, “That’s my line.”

You scowl at her as she looks down with a subtle lip bite.

–

So there’s two incidents that follow:

The first one was out on a regular nightclub outing. Of all places, you let Giselle get the best of you in the bathroom stall, keeping your cock warm inside her as she’s itching for the filthy feeling at your hips. Doesn’t help the fact that other guys were coming in the restroom at a regular pace, not paying any sort of attention to the indecency they’re witnessing. They all look at you for a second, identify your face, and shake their head soon after.

“You two really couldn’t help each other to get a room, huh?” Someone asks, but you don’t bother answering other than a nod. He then turns his head to face the wall as he’s relieving himself with the urinal.

–

The second time, unsurprisingly, happens at work. Giselle was the first one out of the printing room, a stray hand trailing behind her with one of the associates in your team, with you following behind them. Some of the worker’s eyes fall between one of you three, and when you’re settling around Winter’s desk:

“Did you and Giselle just-”

“Winter,” you sigh, fixing the knot of your tie. “Just don’t.”

–

But there’s also the third time, where she calls you out of the blue when your father’s in the office for the day, debating: “Emerald green or Scarlet rose?”

Naively, you answer: “Just say green, sweetie.” Right after, Winter swoops in to pick you up before the meeting and Giselle ends the phone call, leaving you a bit confused as to what color scheme she was putting together for her outfit.

The vibrations of your phone thirty minutes into the meeting throws the overpassing voice into white noise as you get a closer look.

Green. Green. Green. It’s all you see. She’s wearing a lingerie set, there’s these pretty little bows tied up around her hair, and the unfortunate dress shirt stolen from your closet seals the whole look. A vixen is what she is. The plethora of photos and selfies sent show her laying across the bed, aiming at the mirror, her legs canvassing the comforter - one of them reveals her panties, and the fact there’s nothing in the fucking middle-

“You like?” She texts, but she adds on, “You come home in forty-five and you can take it off with your hands, any later than that and you’re doing it with your teeth.”

–

“You should take a break.” Giselle calls out to you one night, watching as you’re settled into your personal study, reading multiple screens of different reports about you and her. “It’s late anyway.”

You look up from your glasses, notice as Giselle’s standing on the doorframe, swirling a wine glass in her hand. And the thin layer of lace isn’t doing her any justice covering her figure. She’s got nothing underneath.

“Who are you to stop me?” you ask, the tablet in your hand falling onto the desk as you stretch in your seat, eyes focused on her as she starts to make her way towards you. The tongue captured between your teeth already starts a spur of ideas of how you’ll twist and bend her fragile body, rip the robe off of her shoulders as she’s light on her tiptoes. There’s also the effortless flow of her hair rising and falling with every step, and the bounce of her tits is too casual for someone like her. “Besides, I just felt like reading the assurance that we’re doing our job.”

She keeps swirling the wine, downs the last bits of it. The glass gets thrown somewhere across the room, and hits a random bookcase. There’s shards everywhere. Being mad at her right now is one thing, but you’re playing the long game as you swivel your chair towards her when she sets herself up on your desk, crosses her ankles together as she leans back and fiddles with the outlines of her robe.

“Are you drunk?” you ask her again, the fingers resting along your thigh starting to curl up in a short flare of anger. “We’ve only had that glass set for a week.”

“That should be the least of your problems.” Giselle refutes, shifting herself across the smooth woodwork. Until she’s rested over your thighs, a coy smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes stay trained on you as her forearms land on the bridge of your collarbones, fingers carding through the hair on the back of your head. You give a sign of impulse when you tug the underside of her knees closer to you, lean further back on the chair until she’s properly straddled, tilting herself down as the press of her lips start to fall across your neck. “Why’d you think I came to you in the first place?”

“You told me that you were going to bed early.”

“I was,” her voice trails off when she tilts your head up by the chin, gently leaving a peck of your lips once, twice, thrice. A thumb rubs the side of your cheek, and she pulls you back in again, the sharp inhale from your nose only boosts the confidence further. You could feel yourself sinking deeper into the seat, your stomach plummeting further down as your mind is trying to play defense and put up a response. But you’ve got your hands and lips full of her, and decide to plunge into that need she’s got you tethered to.

So you pull back, for a momentary second, and Giselle sees an opening where she fixes the sudden crookedness in your glasses, holding your face gently as she examines the slopes and lines of your expression. You’re still sitting there, breathless, gaze almost in this form of wonder as she admires from the high ground. “What changed your mind?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“Doesn’t really help my case in any way, if at all.” you concede, and Giselle starts to laugh a bit, knocking her head against yours which earns a soft ‘ow’ from your lips. “Okay, what is it that you want?”

“A lot of things, actually.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I’ve got a few ideas so far,” you say, blinking with a skeptical arch in your eyebrows. Giselle sighs a bit when your hands snake to her ass, fingertips pressing down as your hips produce the lightest, and slightest grind against your pants. The quick exhale and dip of her head proves as a sign of satisfaction. You’re on the right path. “Maybe my hands are thinking ahead of the curve here?”

Giselle tugs her hips forward, her fingers curl around your nape a little more desperately. The whine bubbling in her throat starts to collapse her whole facade, the pressure of your hands gripping tighter around the swell of her ass while your mouth canvasses her chest and collarbones, letting her take you deeper into her arms. “You’re brilliant when you’re speechless.”

She nods through it, knowing the whole truth.

“Want you-” she attempts to say, the breathiness of her words leaving her lips coming off as an uncertainty, “want you to tell me-” you’ve got her so close where the cornerstone of your hips holds her down, the inside of her thighs pressing on the outside of yours. There’s a clear wire being cut, the curtain raiser, the green light clicking in her head. She’s whittled down so fast and you’ve barely laid a finger on her sensitive parts. “What should I do?”

You push her back, watch as her eyes flick up in confusion, but her lips hang in limbo for a second before the next set of words leaving your mouth serves as the proper instruction: Move your hand down. She does. Slowly. Her right hand trails down her midsection so painstakingly slow - until she shifts her legs wider in the seat of your knees. You’re no help too; sliding your hand up her inner thigh as she finally reaches the region just above her clit, her finger taking the first move when she starts touching herself. Look at you, so needy. The wince she does lower your eyelids, that wave of lust consuming her little by little. Your thumbs rest nicely in the divot of her hips, grinding her back as you lean forward to rest your head right right where her heart is.

“Need a little help there?” You prompt, hand shifting over to where hers is between her legs, pushing her fingers along the glide of her leaking folds. Giselle’s breath is seeping out of the gritty cage of her teeth, driving herself insane with the way that you’re teasing her by her own hand. “It’s pretty how wet you are for me, I like that.”

Giselle’s eyes are hooded, the light in her irises fading as if there’s another entity taking control of her. “Want you to grab me. Fuck me. Make me yours.”

(She always wants a challenge, and you’re not getting it twisted here. But hey, when the opportunity persists-)

It’s a bit of a swift move when you lift her up from the chair and onto the chair. Different articles of pens and papers and other various amenities hit the floor, and there’s nobody else in this home besides you too. “When you put it like that, it already looks like that I’ve won.”

Giselle keeps on nodding, trying to keep her focus away from how your fingers slide into her aching cunt, laying her delicately across the smooth surface once she slips out of her thin robe. The anticipation. The thrill. All roads with her end in the same way of sorts. She tries to go on the offensive when she pulls you in for another desperate kiss, guiding her leg around the bend of your hip as the seat of your pants grinds against her aching heat.

Your hands are fast on the buckle, she’s playing the supporting role with the curls of her fingers abducting the waistband of your pants, sliding them down. A lick of your thumb is the apparent preamble, swiping up her pussy as it draws out a hushed gasp from her, the strain in your cock firing up all nerve impulses. Her eye contact with you goes away, as she anticipates the inevitable outcome; the way that your cockhead presses up against her entrance, the euphoric rush of her clamp when she softly chirps, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

She goes limp over your weight pressing down on her. That motion repeated, over and over: embedding your cock right into the heat of her lovely cunt. Her nails scrape along the skin of your arm, the length easing as you move deeper, sinking.

“-ere we go. Look at you, all dicked out of enjoyment, huh?” You rasp, the two senses of your sight and hearing focused on the way she writhes underneath you, her voice fading in and out of your ear canals. “Couldn’t have a proper good night’s sleep until I fucked you properly-”

“Hate it. I hate how hot you sound when you talk to me like that.”

You snap your hips, and the rebound of her tits wiggle across her chest.

“You’re gonna cum so fast. I can feel it,” you tell her, pushing yourself deeper into her cunt with these practiced strokes. “Fill you up so well that you’ll come back for more. Or maybe, I can take that away, and have you squirting all over my face to have the real deal later-”

“Please-”

“Hmm?” you coax, dragging yourself out and meticulously sliding back in, throwing her off of the typical rhythm that you always give her. “Use your words, honey. I didn’t quite hear you there.”

Her body jitters at your touch. She manages to get an elbow on the desk, the fringe of her hair falls forward onto her face - a sight that you’re so used to seeing no matter what time of the day it is. The words are a bit incoherent, barely mouthing them. You slap your hips up against the underside of her thighs to knock some sense into her, and her head bobbles back, waking her up.

“-take-”

She looks amazing. She feels amazing.

“Come take what’s yours,” she orders, huffing. The glint in her eyes makes the whole command an absolute guarantee; because she knows, and she’s programmed you long enough for you to cement that resolve in your head.

So it’s just like this: you’ll give it to her. Hard.

Because you’ve learned early on how easy it is to fuck Giselle like this - picking up on her little habits and through countless times before - you’ve got her wrapped so well around your cock, and she’s got you well wrapped around her finger. It’s a clear trade off, transactional. Your arm hooks under the small of her back as she digs her ankles around your waist, pumping into her at a fast pace to where she’s constantly leaking all over your cock with every passing second.

“God,” she giggles, and there’s the little slip-up of a sob falling soon after. It’s the bait and switch - how she finally got what she wanted, but the burying of your dick inside her baptizes that quick relief, only to be swept across the desk and find a new angle to put down, “fuck.”

“A little speechless, are ya?” You ask. The pressure closing in, enveloping. It’s in the length, your weight, the stretch, finally settling your fill. You’ll siphon the air right out of her lungs, leave her with the rest.

Her head falls slack: the beginning of her downfall; or yours, it’s all the same.

“Mhm.”

“Like this?” you ask again, arm teetering to her side, hand to the back of her neck. “A little more of what you can take?”

“S’good-”

“Again, baby.”

“You’re s’good, I love riling you up like this, irritating you to the point where you just have to fuck me. Please, ugh- keep going, god-” she tells you, her hand flies up when one of the strokes into her was a bit too much, and your monitor is one of the things that falls off the desk. You’ll worry about damage control later, all the while you’re using Giselle’s sopping cunt.

“See what happens when a pretty girl like you has nothing but issues? They don’t know how to handle themselves unless someone tells or shows them the right way,” you pant, grinding yourself down to the hilt, and you give her the generosity of gyrating her hips for her in circles.

Giselle closes her eyes, breathes in, and realizes.

You’re aware. Her brain is split up in two halves: frizzled and rapture, her tits are hypnotic in the way that they move with every piston your cock makes inside her. She isn’t moving her head much now, she looks up to the ceiling for something to keep her gaze on, but to no avail. Her hands don’t really know where they’re going at this point as it goes to your arms, then the desk, then wherever she could grab for a proper hold. She’s helpless; blowing her pussy out to smithereens where all of the obscene phrases and noises she’s letting out can be captured into these books on the shelves, a post-it note on your desk to have her play the beck and call to relieve your stresses with the simple clutch of her cunt. Her spine is basically ground zero at this point, tearing her apart nerve by nerve until she finally cums all over your waist.

You’ve got no right to be gentle with her. Not anymore.

Not when she’s inviting you in the way that she is. She’s glistening in sweat, smothering your cock in her cream, the slickness making the simple push in and pull out motion all the easier. You’ve reduced her well enough to just mere sounds and nods, bottoming her quivering cunt out as you rest your cheek well above the plush of her breast-

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whisper, snapping your hips forward with the little bend of your lower back. “I’ll let you have me. I know how bad you need it. God, baby. You’re beautiful. Whining nothing but nonsense just to get me to use this body. This pussy, fuck-”

“Uh huh,” she says, since the single utterances and mantras of ‘yeah’s’ can only say so much. She’s fogged up your mind, but also clears it in a sense. You have to fuck her. You’ve got to. “Don’t-” she sputters again, but the message was already registered in your head, voice cracking, “Don’t-”

Her hands slide up to the sides of your ribs, some part of hips aren’t even touching the desk anymore, and the angle where your cock carves it’s pathway into a deeper spot that she couldn’t even imagine you hitting - she fucking wails.

You don’t say anything. Hell, you can’t even afford to say anything. Giselle is so fucking shameless, it’s a bit pathetic. Every passing thrash her body makes against yours is like a panic mode - similar to a state of shock where the mind and muscles are in this disconnect, fighting each other over what is the best course of action. She keeps taking your cock so well, the shake in her thighs, it’s no different. The symphonic tone of her voice rising up in these octaves as the pace gets faster, erratic.

“Like that. Please, just like that- like that, like that, like that, oh fuck!” She’s shattered, much like the blowback from an explosion or shockwave. The yank you give her to her legs is nasty and mean. All bets are off the table, she’ll seal the deal in any way that you like. You’ve ruined her. She’s completely fucked - all these sharp noises and mewls and moans earning a rite of passage past those pretty lips of hers; fucking and pounding her sorry cunt as a means of shutting her up, which has worked countless times before, and it isn’t any different now.

“Baby, you’re amazing,” you praise, and the heat of your forehead meets hers. And you swear there’s a sudden shock happening between when you rock your cock down into her cunt at the same time during the contact.

Her brows collapse above her closed eyelids, and her stomach is so sucked in where you could see the bottom of her ribcage. You’ve got your fingers rested into the divots of her back, rutting your hips as your cock is well rested into her cunt clenched at the base, rubbing her clit - and she fucking keens. “Gonna cum all over your fucking cock,” she mutters, lip wobbling, “Keep going, I swear to-”

There’s no reproach. It’s got pleasure written all over your body and hers. The grip of her cunt over your cock, that vice - she puts your frame of mind on a pedestal that not a lot of people were able to put you on, so you do the next logical thing to fill that bucket of ego in your head: drive that aching cock so deep into her fucking cunt, fuck her hard and fast until she shrieks, keep pumping and pumping and pumping until that sopping cunt is nothing but mush. And when you do, you hold her down at the crease where her hips and legs meet, fucking your pusling load into that tight hole of hers. She screams at the spill, cooing soon after once her mind registers past the wreckage.

“So much. It’s so much. God, it’s so fucking much.”

Yeah. You know.

Giselle’s gravity has you so low, where you’ve rested well inside her, so close to where you can take it, feel it, that fucking suck of wetness where your cock shapes perfectly into her cunt. Marking the spot as yours. The soreness of it is downright disgusting. She thrives in the ache - the fine line met in the middle with your hips; maybe in a place deep within that no one else really sees, besides her. She can’t stop babbling the nonsense; so you just keep- you keep fucking into her. Until you finally stay as the pace fades.

When the thrums of your beating heart start to subside.

The ragged breathing you two profess is the only constant as your cock softens up inside her, pulling out as a few remnants of your cum leaks out of her thighs, dripping onto the desk, staining the stray paperworks caught in the crossfire.

She keeps on whimpering, even when you’re running your fingertips and lips over the valley of her figure. Her chest carries on with the rise and fall as you’re pulling the messy strands away from her face, lock your gaze onto hers; the mere intimacy of it not your typical craving or cup of tea, but the lazy and sweet smile she pulls earns a tilt of your head, and you keep on admiring.

“Umngh,” she finally says, worn-out and pliant.

“Tired?”

Giselle raises those lazy, doe eyes of hers, the flush of her cheeks still fresh to the image - almost feverish. Her mouth wobbles a bit, jaw dangling as she tries to find the right ways to move them like she normally does. But she nods. She nods and nods and nods.

You kiss her forehead, and tell her, “alright, I’ll carry you to bed.”

–

“Maybe if,” she’s telling you later, snuggled up against your side, finger tracing along your bare chest as you continue to let your eyes wander around the ceiling, “We could throw in the idea of leaving everything behind. Light the match. Elope. Get away from this circle so that it can just be us, only us.”

You shift a bit in your crater of the mattress, the low hum rumbling in pensiveness, “For once, I actually think we agree on something.”

Giselle moves up to leave a kiss to your chin, nestles her head back into the dip of your collarbone. “You just get me. It’s one of the few things I love about you.” She doesn’t say anything after that, drifting away into her eventual slumber.

(It gets you thinking, though. The potency to do exactly what she suggested: to create a whirlpool of shit that tanks the whole cover story plan into oblivion. You’re not feeling any sense of regret whatsoever, for the very few things that were handed to you while you worked hard to capture the rest.

You’ve always believed that things happen for a reason. And even as you’re aware of all the details and facts, you can’t help but feel left in the dark despite knowing that there’s a inkling of light to be seen at the end of the tunnel. All it takes for the tinderbox to ignite, is for someone to start the fire.

If Giselle was willing to start it, then you would be willing to also.)

–

To describe the current state of this whole situation with a single word, you’d draw it up to be content; comfortable felt too safe, and with that said notion of security it’s right there in the meaning, but falling short just a bit.

Chatter surrounding the family mergers does die down for a bit, and the media cycle’s attention goes towards other things. In layman’s terms: it’s a nice refreshing breath of fresh air. You’ve held your end of the deal for your parents, running the fake play much to the point that the chief editors got fed up with having their lens too close to you. They can’t scan nor decode from the stills and written reports alone, at least for now.

Giselle’s lounging on your couch in the office as per usual, heels off and legs folded nicely after coming from a breakfast outing with one of her tight-knit business partners, filling you in on the various discussions they had over a few cups of expensive espressos.

“You’ve got anything on your agenda still?” Giselle asks, rubbing over the touched-up polish on her nails, waiting for an answer.

“Just stepping out to get a drink for Winter,” you say, walking over to her with a hand in your pocket, the same head tilt you always give her to keep you grounded, “since I owe her.”

“Long?”

You shake your head, take her hand in yours and place a kiss to the three knuckles of her fingers, “No, it’s a quick run to the place right at the corner.”

Giselle nods soon after, “Okay, I’ll be here. I just have to make a quick phone call to someone.”

The swivel on your neck stays on her as the rest of your body is moving towards the door. She gives a longing look, one with a slight of visible confusion as she presses her phone to her ear, waiting for the line to connect at the other end. The arch of her eyebrows says ‘What?’ and you’re smirking like a carefree idiot, mouthing the old expressive phrase that sounds too cliché to even say aloud, but she tips her head down, sighing out an airy laugh to let you know she got the message.

“You idiot, I know. Now go.”

No bother in refusing, because that wavelength was already established from the start, and you move forward.

–

What happens next, will be a moment in time where the world stands still; for just a moment. It leaves everyone in shock as to the how’s and why’s, and some are rather more piqued at the aftermath than the cause.

(The cause itself is harmless at first, until the twist of time and circumstance finds some sinister way to turn it against you.)

You’re following the usual routine as always getting the occasional drink once in a while: walk out the main entrance of the building, get into your car, weave into traffic for about five or so minutes until your driver pulls over to the curb with the hazard lights on as you’re putting in the typical order of Winter’s go-to beverage: a simple iced americano with two packs of sugar to give the test a little more tackiness and bite that somehow does the trick in her productivity. She could’ve picked something more simpler, but it helps her get the job done.

The thing is, you never actually make it to the car in the first place. Rather, you’re stopping yourself right out the front door when a peculiar figure stands right at the bottom steps next to one of the neighboring railings. A girl; someone that you give a quick glance to and go on with your day. She’s got a small Versace handbag in her left hand, her right with a cigarette as she looks about done with the roll anyway, but holds it up once her eyes are dead set through her shades, examining.

Here’s where the disarm happens, and it’s so easy to fall into - because whether she’s five feet close or two hundred feet away, she’s got you right where she wants. “Funny. I was starting to think that your phone was broken.”

You look dead set at her face, confused. The voice alone pulls you in like a flood. No. No, there’s possibly no fucking way-

So you test: “Yiz?" You're pretty sure entirely, it's her. "Oh god, don’t tell me.”

Yizuho laughs softly, pulling her sunglasses away from her face, and the hair flip she does is subtle, but one where she’s done countless times, and every instance has the same effect on you. It’s lethal, captivating, attractive, downright beautiful - exuding all of the things that push the boundaries of traditional classiness. She looks down, flashes her eyes back up to yours; an inquisitive expression is painted across her face, “You know how much I hate that name. Jesus, you’re the worst.”

You’re not helping yourself, leaning a bit to the right with a hand in your pocket, lowering your guard. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine, you know this. Ningning.”

Ningning concedes, accepting your poor apology, looking off into the distance again - almost as if she was being followed like in those thriller movies where she would be the damsel in distress, coming to you for a sense of protection. She picks up fast after the niceties, “You got a minute to talk?”

“Not really. I’m on a schedule here.”

Getting sidetracked wasn’t in the cards for today, and you’re doing a decent job of neutralizing the conversation when you’re about to walk away. Only to be sucked in by Ningning’s voice again, a poor move on your behalf. “That’s the thing. It’s urgent.”

“Think we can arrange something for later this week?”

“I was hoping that you can talk now.”

Your feet freeze at the right time as two guys come up behind your flank, grabbing your arm and wrist as the metal grind almost sounds like the rip of a sheet of paper. Next thing you know, you’re handcuffed; and the only thing that your mind at that second was: shit, this is not good.

“Ning, what the fuck-”

“Retribution, sweetie,” she sneers, “It looks perfect on you.”

And it’s almost as if the universe decided to spin the wheel on you today, of all days, to take another turn in your fate; undermining nearly all of the good deeds you’ve done in your life up to this point. But that’s not the worst part, people take notice of the commotion, and start to close in on you four. They’ve got their phones out, recording, taking pictures; documenting the whole thing.

Ningning’s got her phone to her ear, most likely confirming with the person on the other end that the deal’s been done, and her screen is faced towards you as soon as she ends the call.

Make no fucking mistake, you’ll fight the world bare-handed to get to the bottom of this. Even if the first person you'd go for would be the contact on Ningning's phone whose name starts with the letter ‘G’.

#giselle smut #aespa smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader smut #giselle x male reader #aespa x male reader

1K notes · View notes