#Palm Readings in London

[jorichingsuk]

Details Presentation Africa Strong Spiritual Healer

Africa Strong Spiritual Healer was founded by Professor Kebou Fakole, a serious international African medium and spiritual healer. Gifted with strong spiritual powers that he inherited from his grandfather, he is here to serve humanity by resolving the problems and evils that affect our daily lives.

216 Lewisham Road,London,SE13 7LD

fakole.mamadou@gmail.com

07983 871142

[suguann]

He has a feeling that the new girl running the front desk at the gym is going to be a problem—a distraction disguised in a gym uniform polo and khaki pants.

It starts with you smiling too brightly as he walks in one morning, all teeth and that little twinkle in your eye that feels like trouble when you scan his membership card.

“Good morning, Mr. Riley.” 

“It’s just Simon,” he tells you as he takes his card off the counter. 

The following day, it’s the same, except Johnny is there to make it worse.

He nudges Simon with his elbow. “She’s kinda pretty, huh?”

“Say it any louder, and she’ll hear you, mate,” he grumbles.

Simon’s not blind; of course, he knows you’re pretty, but he doesn’t have time to commit to anything outside of work—even if you smile at him like you’re happy to see him and how he’ll think about it later: on missions, at his desk, during morning runs. His head is nothing short of woven webs with thoughts of you stuck in the middle.

Honestly, it’s that you—

(You try to make small talk with him every morning, and Simon is starting to think it’s just for him because on the days he doesn’t come alone, you merely scan his card and go back to reading the open paperback book on the desk.)

It’s weird because it’s almost like you—

(He bumps into you at the supermarket and makes a dumb joke about carrots that makes you laugh. It makes him a little tongue-tied and awkward afterward because he realizes he hasn’t talked to a woman outside of only wanting a quick fuck in a really long time, but more importantly, he wants to hear it again. 

Instead, he tosses potatoes in his cart and walks away.)

He tells himself it means nothing, or not how Simon wants it to.

You’re just…he’s not even sure; acquaintances? Maybe more than that, but less than friends. Somewhere in that odd in-between phase where he only knows bits and pieces but not the whole picture.

Sometimes, he wishes—

(Simon doesn’t know what he’s doing the first time he invites you to meet the guys from work on a night out. He’s dated around a few times and had his fair share of hook-ups, but this isn’t like that. His palms are sweaty, more than usual, and no amount of wiping them on the thighs of his jeans keeps them dry.

Then you walk into the bar in a dress that’s probably too light for early spring in London—even though he stares appreciatively at the long expanse of your legs as you walk up to the table—and he wishes he wasn’t introducing you as his friend.)

But you—

(A new development happens after you slip him your phone number on one of the gym’s business cards—it’s weird that we don’t have each other’s numbers, so message me sometime or whatever—and he messages you ‘hey’ right before he leaves for a mission a few days later. 

It slowly shifts and changes over time.

You start sending him texts in the morning. Never an actual good morning text, but of the dogs you take on walks, the sunrise, the new flower box in your window. Somehow, it’s better.)

You really are—

(His house feels too hot, and he’s distracted from the movie by how close you are, how your leg drapes over his under the blanket, fingers fisting into his sweater at his stomach that clenches. An ache that grows, throbbing, spreading from his abdomen to his groin.

It feels monumental—something more than the gentle touch to the elbow to squeeze by each other in his entryway earlier or giving you his jacket that night at the bar—a tilt of the axis that makes the messy pieces fall neatly into place. 

He must be staring because you glance up at him, smiling, and the sound from the TV turns into white noise in the background.

“Can I…would you—fucking hell,” Simon runs a hand through his hair. “Can I kiss you?”

When your lips press against his, and his hands are pulling you onto his lap, where you settle hotly against his dick tenting in his jeans, he wonders why neither of you has done this before. Just kissing—him licking the seam of your mouth, and you panting his name.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you mumble, lips brushing his.

“Me too,” and he fists his hand into the hair at your nape and pulls you back to his mouth.)

“I knew you’d be trouble,” he tells you one day, glaring at the bloke further down the bar who tried making a swipe at your ass before Simon showed up, towering over his shoulder with your fruity cocktail in hand.

“Oh, yeah?” you giggle, leaning into his side.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth quirk, though he hides it when he presses a kiss against your temple. “A real pain in my ass, love.”

“But yours.”

This time, he does smile. “Yes, but mine.”

Masterlist

[panditsairamguru]

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[astroravi]

[astrologersurya]

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[littlemissrbf]

Viktor (Arcane) Headcannons

(This is pure drabble that I had to get off my mind)

Viktor's version of "Girl Dinner" is literally just some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.

His handwriting is either the neatest, most elegant handwriting you've ever seen, or absolute fucking chicken scratch. (There is no in between)

On your desk is a lovely hand-written note he had given you, written neatly in cursive and signed at the end with his name and a little heart... and on his desk there is about twenty pages of calculations and notes written in the most God-awful penmanship possible, that it is practically illegible to literally everyone but himself.

Viktor is absolutely horrified of spiders and yet he is absolutely against killing spiders. He's a firm believer in catching and releasing... but he also doesn't want to be the one who has to actually catch the spider

Viktor's go-to cafe/home drink is a London Fog (basically some earl grey tea w/ steamed milk and sweetener / can also be enjoyed iced)

Viktor's go-to study/work drink is the strongest shit you can brew in a coffee machine with enough milk and sugar to mask the bitter taste.

The most creative way he gets you to hold his hand is by holding out his closed fist as if he was handing you something and sweetly asking you to "hold this for me, please". The second you hold your outstretched palm under his, he interlaces your fingers and goes on walking as if nothing happened.

He is not above saying his hands are cold just to feel your soft hands surrounding his own as you try to warm him up. he's "freezing" in the middle of summer.

He 100% uses his cane to reach stuff on shelves

Viktor probably goes through 3-5 books a month depending on how busy he is. His favorite genres are science fiction (wow what a shocker) and mystery, he loves trying to figure out the plot twist before he gets to the end.

Viktor read "Little Women", at your request, and was absolutely devastated when Beth died.

I'm 99.9% sure that Viktor has some obscure allergy to the most random food like strawberries or graham crackers.

(Authors Note: Thank you guys so much for reading I hope you enjoyed these random hcs that I made to distract myself from the fact that S2 is coming out soon and our boy is not coming out untraumatized.)

[pasukiyo]

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING

remus lupin x f!reader word count; 2,224 summary; even just the smallest things remus lupin did was enough to have your belly full with butterflies. you trace it all back at three thirty a.m. to find that something that night turned in your heart...

 “I don’t understand how you can call yourself a bookworm yet, you haven’t read a single Jane Austen book.”

 Remus casted his gaze to the ground beneath their feet and smiled sheepishly, tucking his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Does that discount my self-proclaimed ‘bookworm’ title?” He asked and she huffed, rubbing her palm up and down the expanse of her opposite arm when London’s autumn breeze snuck like a phantom beneath her coat. 

 “Perhaps,” she replied as Remus closed the small distance between them. “You should at least…” she trailed off when his arm slithered its way around hers and warmth pooled in her cheeks when he guided her hand in his coat pocket. She blinked a glance his way to find he already stared, waiting expectantly for the rest of her answer. 

 How could he be so casual while touching her like so?

 “…read Pride and Prejudice,” she managed to breathe through a shiver, his hand wrapped so tenderly around hers turning her brain to mush, a cocoon erupting somewhere deep in her belly, the warm, fluttery feeling of butterflies in her stomach making her feel light, airy. Remus said nothing, only simply gazed at her with a sentiment so warm and earth-shattering, she wondered if she’d melt and ooze like magma right there on the pavement in the midst of fall. 

 “Yeah?” He spoke and she turned away, willing herself to breathe. She hummed, nodding. “It’s a classic,” she replied, cursing her voice for sounding so meek. A lump had appeared in her throat and she forced it back down to her belly. 

 “Is it your favorite?” Remus asked, a gentle tug of his hand on hers to guide her around the corner. Her lips parted in a gasp at the subtlest of dominance, her heartbeat thundering so loud in her chest, she could hear it in her eardrums. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Remus’s face, wondering if he could hear it too. She swallowed again, “well, no. If I had to choose a favorite by Jane Austen, I’d have to go with Emma.”

 “Then why Pride and Prejudice?” He questioned and Merlin, it was such a simple inquiry, but even the mere notion that he was interested in what she was interested in made her feel like she’d catch on fire any moment now. Her palms suddenly felt clammy and she flushed, desperately hoping he could not feel the sweat that was surely beading them. 

 “Because I think it is the best introduction to her writing and style,” she answered as they neared her flat, dread already beginning to lace her bones like a poison. How foolish she’d become for Remus Lupin, how desperate she’d become to always have him in her sight.

 The longer she spent with Remus Lupin, the more she was beginning to realize that she craved spending time with him, craved their conversations, even their debates over books, whether coffee or tea was better. She loved when they’d stare at the stars at night, listening as he told her each and every single constellation’s story, when he laughed at her jokes and brushed her hair over her ear and told her she was brighter than any star in the entire sky. 

 “Is that right?” Remus’s voice sliced through the syrupy mush of her brain and she blinked, clearing her throat and nodding. “Yes,” she hummed. “And if you read it, I’ll let you borrow my heavily annotated copy of Emma.”

 Remus’s lips parted in a devastating smile that she had to tear her gaze away from before she quite literally turned to putty in the palm of his hand. She nodded, brushing an astray strand of hair behind her ear with the hand not in the pocket of Remus’s coat as they approached her flat building. Disappointment struck like an earthquake in her bones and she deflated as she forced herself to pull her hand away from his, lacing her fingers in front of her hips as she turned to face him. 

 “I must get to reading then,” he said and the corners of her lips twitched. “Glad to hear it,” she said in hardly a murmur. For a moment, a silence fell upon them, neither seemingly wanting to find a reason for the evening to end. 

 Eventually, she willed her eyes to find his, no matter how much his gaze made her want to draw herself into him, deep enough that she’d never be able to be pried away. 

 “I… had a really good time with you today, Remus,” she said, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. His smile only grew at that, a blush creeping onto his face, a light pink to contrast the fading red of his scars. “And I as well,” he replied before his eyes widened, as if remembering something he’d almost forgotten. “I almost forgot.”

 She blinked, watching as he rummaged through the pocket on the inside of his coat, revealing a small, light pink bouquet to match the blush on his cheeks. The flowers were a bit wilted, more than likely from being stuffed inside his pocket for too long. The dusty pink on his cheeks deepened into a rosy color, his smile sheepish as he held it out towards her. 

 “It’s a bit… well,” he tittered as she reached for the stems, the brief brush of their fingers igniting a spark, a ray of electricity surging through her veins. Her face was so hot now, she was certain she’d be reduced to an oozing stream of lava any second now. “Been in my pocket all day.”

 A laugh tumbled from her lips as she brushed the pad of her forefinger across one of the soft, pink petals, holding the bouquet close to her chest. 

 “They’re beautiful, Remus,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

 Remus stuffed his hands back in the pockets of his jeans again, kicking rocks around on the pavement. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl,” he said after a moment, as if he’d been mustering the courage to speak in the first place. “Seems only fair.”

 Her lips parted, unable to breathe for a moment, her heart beating so fast now, it was a miracle it hadn’t leaped out of her chest by now. She wasn’t even sure what to even say, what to do— Remus Lupin thought she was beautiful. 

 What was she even supposed to do with herself now?

 “Remus, I…” she trailed off, unsure what to say. Remus’s gaze lifted from the ground, surging into hers and her heart skipped a few beats, her stomach doing a couple of somersaults. She knew she’d never before felt the way she did now, never felt so tender, so warm, so foolish, enough that she felt like she could break into a dance right now without a single care in the world. 

 She realized she felt this way every time she was with Remus Lupin, like she could dance, sing, scream into the night without a mere thought. She felt like nothing else mattered, as if every idiotic thing she did no longer mattered when she was with him. She didn’t recognize herself when she was with Remus and she realized that it was because of him that she was becoming someone entirely brand new. 

 Somewhere deep down in her heart, she knew this change was meant to be. 

 “…I want to see you again,” she spoke breathlessly, chasing air back into her lungs with a rather large inhale. The warmth of the smile Remus gave her was enough to challenge the sun itself, even on its brightest day in the midst of summer. Truly earth-shattering a thing, Remus Lupin was. 

 “Of course,” he said, stepping in closer, leaning down until his lips could press against the apple of her cheek. She blinked, pressing her lips together to stifle her gasp as he ruffled the hair atop of her head, pulling away. “I want to see you again too. And that’s a promise.”

 She was frozen, turned to a statue by Remus’s lips like staring into Medusa’s eyes had done to people in the myths. She hardly remembered saying their goodbyes, watching as he disappeared further down the lamp lit street, hardly remembering her feet whisking her way up into her flat. 

 She hardly remembered unlocking the door, closing it behind her and locking it again. Hardly remembered putting the light pink bouquet in a vase, hardly even remembered getting herself ready for bed. 

 But she did remember lying awake that night. She remembered tossing and turning, staring into the darkness of her ceiling, turning to face the buildings on the other side of the street from her window, the moon peeking its head over the rooftops. She remembered watching it as if it were an old friend as it disappeared over the top of her window, remembering every ticking of the clock on the other side of the room. 

 Never once did her thoughts stray from Remus Lupin. She still remembered the first day they met, the first time she saw him in the park, sitting on the bench where the primroses grew, holding a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She remembered him looking up and catching her eye, remembering how neither one of them seemed to be able to look away. 

 She was so bewildered, hardly believing she’d been able to catch his eye in the way that she did. She couldn’t believe that he wanted to talk to her, that he said that he wanted to see her again. She remembered the beating of her heart then, every single time he looked at her, talked to her, smiled at her. 

 She remembered their first date, when he took her stargazing, which she still was convinced was only so he could tell her about the constellations. He seemed so passionate then and she was so entranced, enthralled with the way he spoke. She still remembered the way her heart beat and fluttered around her chest when she felt his fingertips brush against her ear when he swiped away her hair, the way her eyes flickered to his lips when he tenderly told her she was brighter than any star.

 She sighed— how she regretted not listening to that voice inside of her head that told her to kiss him. 

 She could still feel the shape of Remus’s lips on her cheek from when he kissed her there earlier. His kiss haunted her, lingering like a phantom on her skin. 

 Remus Lupin haunted her, bewitched her as if he’d cast her under some sort of spell, until her every thought was of him. 

 She glanced over at the clock, just barely making out the time.

 Three thirty.

 Something began to shift from within and she sat up with a gasp at the realization that indeed, she was irrevocably, hopelessly, undoubtedly in love with Remus Lupin. 

 She practically leaped from her bed, uncertain what she was doing, unable to control herself. It seemed like foolish things were all she could do since she met Remus, such as picking up the phone, dialing in his phone, anxiously twirling the cord around her forefinger. 

 For Merlin’s sake, it was three thirty in the morning, why was she calling him?

 The phone rang for a few moments and she sighed— why did she expect him to pick up? He was asleep, she shouldn’t be bothering him like this—

 “Hello?”

 Remus’s groggy voice whispered through the receiver and her breathing hitched at the base of her throat. He picked up? 

 Her lips parted with the intent to speak but nothing came out— what was she even going to say?

 “Hello?” Remus said again, yawning. 

 She squeezed her eyelids shut, willing herself to just speak. 

 “Well… I’ll be hanging up now…”

 “I’m in love with you.”

 Silence. 

 For a moment, she wondered if he really had hung up, a flush warming her cheeks. She was about to put the phone down, to trudge back to her bed and wallow in the depths of her own despair, until he softly whispered her name, so faint, she almost didn’t quite catch it. 

 “Remus,” she whispered back, her vision glossing over with the bitter sting of tears. She crossed an arm over her chest, the heel of the hand not wrapped around the phone digging into her brow. “I’m sorry for waking you, I just… I just…”

 “You’re in love with me,” he said, repeating it as if to confirm it was real, as if he weren’t still sleeping and this wasn’t all just some cruel dream he’d be waking from. She sniffed, nodding, “I’m in love with you. And I wish you were here right now.”

 Another silence. 

 Her heart did a waltz around her chest even despite the anxiety bubbling like acid in her throat. Would he reject her? Did she read him wrong? Maybe she was really a fool after all, for thinking that he would love her back, that he would feel the same way she did. Perhaps this would be the last time she’d ever hear from him, perhaps she’d never see Remus Lupin ever again and will forever be haunted by what could’ve—

 “I’m in love with you too.”

 She blinked, speechless. 

  "I can be at your flat in ten minutes if I run.”

a/n; a little rushed but i've always thought this song was just so remus coded :( i'm seeing laufey for the second time next week and i'm really hoping she performs this one! she didn't perform it for the u.s. bewitched tour and i'm still so salty 😭 hopefully there's other lauvers reading this and if not, i encourage you all to listen to the song that inspired this fic!

🎀 if you enjoyed this one, i would appreciate a reblog or even just a reply to let me know! thank you so much for reading! 🫶

TAGLIST

@pinktreee

@jxxey3

@iamthejam

@strangerfromketterdam

@burns-in-the-sun

@cancelledkaley

[norrizzandpia]

My Name (LN4)

Summary: Y/n and Lando have a painful past together. When they go their separate ways and are left to pick up the pieces, Lando realizes he can no longer hear the woman he loved’s name without feeling deeply ashamed.

Warnings: this is the most angsty thing i ever written. TOXIC!LANDO TO THE MAX, lots of language, insinuations to sex, this is absolutely horrific i am so sorry its very painful and sad NO HAPPY ENDING (word count is a little over 4k)

Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?

Some people had chapters they could never bring themselves to read out loud. Lando’s painfully silent chapter was Y/n. His nights were swallowed whole by the looks on her face when he let her down once more, the moment when she first thought he didn’t care about her in the way she did. Y/n was a recurring nightmare and a sobering remembrance for him.

FIVE YEARS PRIOR

“Lando, I have someone I want you to meet.” Max murmured to him as they glided through the crowd of rich sponsors. His best friend giggled under his breath as the groups separated like a sea, revealing the most beautiful woman.

From the moment he saw her, Lando knew he had to have her, “Please tell me it’s her.”

Max shook his head, his body lighting up as Y/n smiled at him and hugged him tightly. The two turned to the racer, still grinning, “This is Y/n. Friend from London.”

Lando thought she was perfect, down to the teeth peeking behind her upturned lips. His hand extended out for her hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

”You as well.” Her voice was sultry, soft. Her hand fit right in the palm of his. Her body drawn to him, his to hers. Lando wanted her in his bed yesterday.

Sensing some sort of tension, knowing it was sexual, Max slid from the grasp of Y/n. He clipped his head down as a form of goodbye before leaving the two to turn from strangers to friends, maybe more in store.

The beginning of Lando’s favorite part of his life and the downfall of whoever he was before he met her.

TWO MONTHS LATER

Whether it was because of her overwhelming, albeit attractive, confidence or the fact that she was Max’s friend, Lando didn’t ask Y/n out right away. Instead, he tiptoed around her, so did she, but he only stopped when picturing her all the time got to be boring. She only stopped when he showed up at her door with flowers, ready for their date.

“I love pink roses.” She smiled, lightly taking the bouquet from his hands and disappearing into her apartment.

He closed the door when he stepped in to follow her. His feet took him to her kitchen, where she leaned over the counter and filled a vase. His eyes bounced around the walls, peeking out into the living room to see heaps and blankets and pillows.

His hands in his pockets, “I hoped you would.”

She thought it was supposed to be a romantic gesture. Lando’s hands were touching the curve of her waist before he finished his sentence, his mouth next to her ear, “I’m glad you do.”

She made the mistake of turning around, part of her would later wonder if that was giving him the wrong idea.

Still, his lips met hers in a heated kiss, his body pushing hers further into the hard granite. She had been attracted to him from the start, gotten to know him over the two months he hadn’t actively tried to pursue her. She really liked him. That was the reasoning which led herself to being wrapped up in sheets with him a half hour later.

They never made it to that first date.

PRESENT

Lando’s eyes burned with all the flashing lights. Even after a race win, the joy could never subside the anxiety he got from all the press.

The first reporter, her name tag reading Clara, beamed at him. It reminded him of Y/n’s perfect teeth.

“Congratulations, Lando, on an incredible race! How are you feeling right now?” She spoke quickly. She pushed her microphone into his face.

His hands gripped the railing in front of him, “Amazing! This feeling will never get old.”

Her face dropped slightly as she glanced behind her, to the cameraman he presumed, “We would love to talk more about your stellar race, but we do want to ask for your thoughts on the allegations surrounding Y/n Y/l/n over hostile workplace behavior.”

His heart squeezed. He wished people knew her. Not the girl he ruined, but the woman he knew she still was deep down, past all the things that happened between them. His cheeks flushed, “Y/n is an amazing person. She has a kind heart. I just hope people can see that.”

He prayed that Clara would drop the subject. Lando would kill to clear Y/n’s name for her, maybe that would makeup for all the pain he caused, but she would never give him the light of day, even for that. People associated him with her and it tore at his insides. There wasn’t a day that went by that the taste of her name in his mouth didn’t feel like a type of betrayal.

Clara’s eyebrows moved up, “So, you think the allegations are false?”

He huffed, “I’m not speaking about the allegations. I’m simply speaking about the woman I knew.”

Whoever she was now, he didn’t know enough to comment.

FOUR YEARS PRIOR

“That was great.” Lando breathed, his chest rising and falling quickly from beside her.

She laughed, “Happy for you.”

His body turned to the side, his head propped up by his arm, “It was nice having you here.”

She was quiet for a moment, trying to decipher what that sentence implied. She thought she knew, she just didn’t want to face it.

Y/n’s hand traced his arm, “It was a good time.”

Lando pulled away from her, slipping from bed and pulling his pants back on. Loud and clear, she thought.

Still, she tried. Pathetically. Her shirt slid over her body as she grumbled, “Do you wanna go get some food?”

From her view of his back, she saw him tense, “Uh, I can’t, Y/n. Sorry. I’m super busy right now.”

She sighed softly, too quiet for him to hear. He turned around, fully dressed now. She stood, shirt and underwear on with no towel to clean herself. Completely rejected. A small piece of her heart chipped away.

She nodded, “Okay, yeah, no problem. I get it.”

He rushed out of the room, “Yeah, thanks! Feel free to let yourself out! I’ve got some errands to run!”

The door slammed shut immediately after. She took a moment in the silence to gather her messy mind. Maybe he was genuinely busy. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way. He said it was nice having her there.

He couldn’t have meant this in a mean way.

Like any girl in love with someone they thought they were too unworthy of having, the excuses began.

ONE MONTH LATER

Deja Vu flooded Y/n’s senses as Lando rolled off her body. The sinking feeling that her time with him was over mixed with the familiarity and it proved to be a horrific experience.

Her hand reached out to grab her pants that had been discarded on the floor when his voice rang out.

“Do you wanna go get food?” He asked, head turning to look at her as if it was the most regular thing.

Her hand stopped just above her jeans, “What?”

Lando sat up from bed, no longer in a rush to throw his clothes on, “Do you want to go get food with me?”

Some place within herself ridiculed her for nodding her head so eagerly. It was beginning to feel like she was trying to earn his love.

His hand around her waist moved to link in her palm and she finally felt like something to him. When he sat across from her at the quiet and secluded diner they found five minutes after leaving his apartment, his eyes bore into hers. He studied her like a thing he loved.

Maybe he finally did.

PRESENT

When Lando closed the door to Max’s apartment, he was met with hushed and frantic whispers. He walked slowly down the hall toward his best friend’s voice, clearly in distress.

“Y/n, I don’t understand that can’t be true. You’re not that person.” He gave, hand clutching his phone.

Lando heard murmurs on the other line before Max was cutting her off, “No, I don’t care how much you’ve changed over the years. I know you and I know you aren’t the person these people are saying you are. You wouldn’t scream at people because they got your coffee order wrong. You wouldn’t fire people over one small mistake. You wouldn’t humiliate others publicly to make some sort of statement. You just aren’t that person.”

More murmurs before Max’s interruption, “No! I know you know ‘this is how you run a business’ is such a bullshit excuse. If this is you, then please let me know where Y/n is because I know for fucks sake this isn’t it.”

The responses on the other line jumped in volume, Lando being able to make out some of the words. Y/n was yelling, truly yelling. Telling Max that he wasn’t a good friend, not supporting her through whatever was being alleged.

Lando’s ears rang. This wasn’t her, he knew that. Everybody knew that. She was a bright spirit, she wasn’t now. She was a hollowed out version of who she used to be and Lando knew he had taken every bit of it. He held what she once was in his hands and this was her trying to move on without it.

He wanted to give it back to her somehow, revive the life she once led, but he was so ashamed to show his face to her. He knew it would only be met with an anger he wouldn’t be able to forget.

He couldn’t hear anymore of her turmoil. Too many memories were being brought to the forefront of his mind. Maybe it was selfish, he had proven to be on many occasions, but he stepped into the room.

“Lando’s here. I have to go.” Max rushed.

The line clipped before he could even get his full sentence out.

Max stared at his phone for a moment, studying the contact picture he hadn’t changed for years. Standing off to the side, Lando could make out Y/n’s smile, her perfect teeth, and lightness in her eyes. It was a living testimony of someone that was no longer there. Someone who had lost themselves in it all. He knew it because he had gone through it. In the midst of Y/n, Lando had lost sight of himself. Part of him wanted to blame his behavior toward her on that, but there was no excuse. He had to live with the knowledge he was capable of causing such psychological damage on someone else. Someone he loved. A personal, endless hell.

Max sighed, “Hey, mate.”

It was quiet, exhausted and Lando knew Max didn’t want to talk about it, but something in him urged to hear, “That was her?”

Max nodded, “Uh, yeah. She’s just trying to fight the allegations right now.”

Lando set the takeout down on the desk, “I assume it’s not going well?”

Something switched in Max, his eyes turned cold, “No, Lando, it’s not going well. And, frankly, I don’t know why you’re even going here with me right now”

Lando put his hands on his hips with his eyebrows furrowed, “Going where with you?”

Max’s fists curled, “I forgave you for the way you treated her, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a sore spot. She’s lashing out at people, ruining her reputation, because you put her through a shit show. I’m not saying this is wholly your fault, but you had such a major fucking role in it and, to be honest, sometimes I can’t fucking look at you without seeing her and everything she has to go through on top of all the shit you did. You don't have the right, in my mind, to ask me about her.”

”I’m not trying to start anything. I still care about her.” Lando said, hands turning upwards as if he was lost.

Max scoffed, “Care about her? Fuck you! Care about her, my ass. You used her, Lando! You took and then you gave, you took and then you gave. Such a twisted cycle that she never even asked for, looked for, deserved. You have no right to sit here and say you care about her. I care about her.”

The two friends had had such a hard time finding a peaceful ground in the moments after Y/n and Lando’s blow up. Max was protective over her. He entrusted Lando with her and Lando had thrown her back in his face like she wasn’t someone to be cherished. Part of him would never forgive Lando for that.

They wondered if that would be the final straw.

Lando breathed out, “I think you need some space. I’ll leave and if you want to talk things out later, call me. I don’t want to push something with you that you don’t want anymore.”

He turned around, prepared to walk out, but Max whispered, “Like you did with Y/n?”

The McLaren Driver spun around, “What?”

Max’s arms crossed in front of his chest, “You heard me.”

The fire in Max’s eyes masked pain, Lando knew that because he had lived it. Max didn’t want to fight him, he wanted this battle to be over. In a moment of growth, Lando set aside the anger in his own head and walked out the door. Hoping for a day where Max could look at him and see something other than the one moment in his life where he ruined something so perfectly his.

TWO YEARS PRIOR

Lando had DNF’d. Max and Y/n watched on as he took his gloves off, forcefully throwing them to the ground in frustration. A worker coaxed him into the car waiting to take him back to the garage, Lando shrugging him off and throwing himself into the backseat.

Andrea’s fist collided with the table he was sitting in front of and Jon ripped his headset off. Lando had been so close to securing a win, but one wrong swerve and he had gone spinning off the track with no opportunity of recovery.

Lando’s return was quick, his body storming through the room and darting up the stairs to privacy. Y/n and Max just glanced at each other, both knowing how he got with these things. Part of her wanted to go up there, hug him and tell him how amazing he was, but she also knew he needed time to be alone. Process things. She just wanted the best for him.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Lan <3

Come up to my room?

She smiled. Lando hadn’t opened up to her that much over the year and a half they had been fooling around, whatever you wanted to call it, but she had always wanted him to. She had tried to ask him about family life, stressors he was dealing with, and he would answer, but it was brief and then his lips were on hers again.

Maybe he had finally come around to letting her in like she had him.

Y/n Y/l/n

Coming xx

When she got to his room, her knuckle hit the door once before it was flying open and he was pulling her in. She laughed as he kissed her, thinking it was meaningless. But, when his hands tried to pull her shirt off, she pulled back.

She cocked her head, “What’re you doing?”

Lando stopped, “Fucking you?”

Her heart dipped down, “What?”

He looked at her like nothing was wrong. Did this mean nothing to him?

”Lando, don’t you wanna talk about what just happened?” She tried, but he just kept playing with the hem of her clothes.

He nodded and her confusion almost subsided. Almost, “Yeah, with some kisses and an orgasm.”

His lips met her neck and a slimy feeling washed over her body. The first time she felt self-hatred in the presence of him. What was she doing?

Y/n pushed him off, “No, I don’t want to have sex right now, Lan.”

His hip popped out and he stared at her, “Why?”

She shrugged, “Because I don’t. That should be enough.”

He looked at her as if he expected sex. Like her rejection was some sort of betrayal. He didn’t just appreciate being with her?

Lando groaned, “Ugh, whatever. Okay. I have to get changed so I can go to the debrief.”

For once, she didn’t try to argue to stay. Something didn’t feel right about his hands on her anymore.

Something wasn’t kind about their situation anymore and it wasn’t the love she knew she had for him.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Y/n Y/l/n

Can I come over? We need to talk.

Lan <3

Sure

She walked into his apartment with hesitation. What she had identified as a comfortable space no longer felt that way. Now, she stood in the foyer as if she didn’t know the layout like the back of her hand.

Lando looked at her expectantly. It mirrored the way he had eyed her that afternoon in his driver’s room. She hated it.

“We need to talk about what we are.”

Lando’s eyes bulged, “Why? There’s nothing to talk about. We both know what we are.”

Y/n shook her head, “Well, I don’t. I thought I did, but I’m starting to think I’ve been a little naive.”

Naive? That was not a word Lando would choose to describe Y/n. Gullible, maybe, but naive? No. She wasn’t that.

He led her to the living room, hand falling around her waist and lips pecking her neck out of habit when they fell onto the couch. She pulled away, “Stop, Lando.”

The softness in her voice, the way it sounded broken down, made him search her face for answers.

He got them when she began speaking, “Lando, for the past year and a half, I have done everything a girlfriend would do. I have cooked for you, run out to complete errands so you weren’t stressed, come to your house at night when you couldn’t sleep, stopped seeing other men because I felt tied to you exclusively, loved you. You have done none of that. I’ve gotten flowers, but that’s rare and I’ve gotten gifts, but it’s been for my birthday and weeks late. I give you everything I have. I give you my time, my energy, my body, my feelings, everything. You’ve given me on and off moments where you treat me with some level of respect, but I have never gotten the amount I deserve. I can’t keep doing this when all I feel like is a random fling.”

Lando stuttered. He knew this was coming. He knew the way he had been treating her, giving her things occasionally so they would hold more value and pulling back when he felt like it, would catch up to him. But, to think she was in love with him and expected the same from him, was not something he was prepared for. He was speechless as he looked at her. What was he supposed to say? She was a fling.

The moment that would haunt him everywhere he went: the small drop in her face when she realized he wasn’t fighting her. The knowledge that what she had felt all along was what she had been.

She deserved more.

She stood from the couch, “Oh my god.”

Lando stood with her, “Y/n, I am so sorry. I-”

She slapped him across the face, “Who do you think you are? Giving me flowers, taking me out to dinner, giving me a taste of what it’s like to be treated with dignity by you just so you could keep stringing me along. You manipulative piece of shit!”

The anger in her eyes mirrored Max’s whenever he got mad. He worried that would be burned into his brain every time he looked his best friend’s way.

Lando grabbed her wrist when she turned around, spinning her back, “Y/n, you have no idea. I didn’t mean for it to be this way. I’ve always wanted you. I want you.”

She pushed him away, “Want me how? Want me for my body? Want me for sex? Want me for some fucking orgasms? Is that what you’ve reduced me to?”

He tried to find the right words. There were none. “I thought we were having fun! I didn’t know you were falling for me.”

She rushed into the kitchen, grabbing her purse while yelling, “What’d you think I was doing sticking around all this time? For the sex? You’re good in bed, but not that fucking good. You’re a sick fuck.”

She reached the door and he stood in front of it, forcing himself to memorize the fury that was slowly fading away to deep sadness, “Y/n, I care about you. I don’t know how I feel about you, but I know it’s more than a fling.”

Lando waited for her reply, but she just smacked his shoulder and began to cry, “Don’t say that! That’s so fucking unfair! I’ve been in love with you for a year and you don’t even have your feelings figured out for me? You’ve been fucking me for almost two years and you have no clue if you hate me or you love me? Grow up!”

Her tears bled through the fabric of her shirt as she stared up at him. The deep color of her eyes was magnified by the glossiness. He loved her eyes. Did that mean he loved her? He was furiously trying to sort out the feelings he knew he had for her in the short amount of time he had. He didn’t want her to leave. Was that cruel?

In his silence, she found everything she needed. Pushing past him, Y/n ripped the door open. Her face turned back to him, a version he didn’t recognize, and she whispered, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Her parting words struck his soul, so raw and real. He knew that was what she wanted him to remember if he chose to block the entire conversation from his mind.

No matter how hard he would try, Lando would come to find he would never be able to forget the blip in his life. Her fast pulse under his fingers when he grabbed her wrist to the way she condemned him, it was all there. Lingering and plotting to remind him of their presence when the syllables of her name were uttered.

Maybe he did love her, he was starting to realize that, but that would never matter now.

”You should be ashamed of yourself.”

PRESENT

Lando moved the oatmeal around in his bowl as he scrolled through his Instagram feed. His TV played some random news station in the background in the living room, one he was half listening to. But, the moment the anchor spoke her name, Lando was dropping his phone and bringing his full attention to the screen.

A picture of her popped up, a headline below and one Lando couldn’t bring himself to read. He was too enthralled with her picture, remembering the times she used to smile at him that way.

”Y/n Y/l/n has officially stepped down from her CEO position at her famous boutique. She and her team released a statement this morning, apologizing for the strain she put on employees and other board members these past two years. She explains in the statement that there is no excuse for her actions, but she is heavily remorseful for them. She promises to work further on herself out of respect for the people she affected, changing her ways. She also briefly mentioned in the statement that she will be paying thousands of dollars to each employee she fired under wrongful termination. Y/n explains that the business has always meant the world to her and it is painful to let it go, put it in the hands of someone else, but she knows this is for the best. She wishes the business and all employees a more positive life after having impacted their’s negatively for so long.”

Lando stood in his living room, hands by his sides, as he read the screenshot posted on the TV. His hands shook and his palms sweat, tears pricking his eyes.

She loved that job.

This was his fault, no matter how much he tried to say her actions were under her control. It hit him fully then and there. Y/n changed him for the better, taught him how to treat someone you love, and he ruined her. He took the perfect girl with the perfect teeth, perfect hair, beautiful smile, and twisted her insides into someone who lived with rage. She never knew rage until him. He introduced it to her.

Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?

A/N: sorry pookies sending all my love after this bc it broke ME idk how yall are doing

TAGS: @jehun

[whereforarthur]

Being Stuck in an Elevator Never Looked so Good?

Pairing: ArthurTv x Fan!Reader

Summary: Getting trapped in an elevator with your favorite YouTuber, was not what you had planned for today

Word Count: 4.2k

Rating: PG-13

Category: Fluff/ Light Smut

*****

My heart and the elevator, a plummet inside a plummet. -Jonathan Lethem

Y/n stepped into the elevator, her heart racing from the brisk London jog she'd just finished. She was the picture of casual athleticism in her sweat-dampened tee and leggings, the chilly air conditioning giving her a welcome respite from the city's heat. As the doors closed with a soft ding, she took a deep breath and glanced at the mirrored walls, checking her ponytail. It was a habit she had, a silent pep talk before facing the world after a run. The elevator ascended, the mechanical whirring a familiar lullaby to her ears.

Suddenly, the dinging halted mid-tone, and the elevator jolted to a stop. Y/n's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. Panic surged through her, a sudden and unwelcome guest. She fumbled for her phone, her trembling fingers finally locating the screen, which illuminated her surroundings with a cold, blue light. The elevator was eerily silent now, save for the sound of her own shallow breaths echoing in the confined space. She tapped the emergency call button, her voice shaky as she reported the situation. The voice on the other end was calm, assuring her help was on the way.

As the minutes stretched into an uncomfortable silence, she heard a soft sigh from the corner opposite her. She looked up, and there he was—Arthur, the YouTuber she'd been obsessing over for months. The light from her phone cast an ethereal glow on his features, highlighting his sharp jawline and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked just as surprised as she felt, his hair a bit more disheveled than in his videos. "Well, this is a bit awkward," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Y/n's brain scrambled to process the situation. This was surreal—trapped in a tiny elevator with the person she'd watched countless times on her laptop screen. She managed a shaky laugh, her cheeks flushing with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. "Yeah, you could say that," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. The elevator's emergency light flickered on, casting a faint glow and revealing more of Arthur's presence. He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, casually slouching in a way that made him seem both approachable and incredibly out of place in the stark, metal box.

"Did you know," Arthur began, his voice smooth and even, "that the chances of getting stuck in an elevator are about one in ten thousand?" The tension in the air eased slightly as he spoke, his tone filled with a mild amusement that was oddly comforting. "I read that somewhere. I guess we're both just really lucky today, huh?" Y/n couldn't help but chuckle nervously, her eyes flicking to his. She hadn't expected him to be so...normal. So chatty.

He took a step closer, the light from her phone casting a dance of shadows across his face. "Or maybe we're just part of a statistical anomaly," he continued, his smile growing. "You know, like the one where you're more likely to be struck by lightning than to win the lottery, but people still buy tickets every week."

Y/n felt a spark of connection, the kind that ignites in the most unexpected of places. She nodded, her voice finding a bit more of its usual lilt. "I suppose we could be the unlucky winners of the 'Elevator Entrapment Lottery'."

Arthur's laugh filled the small space, warming it up like a cup of tea on a cold winter's day. "Exactly! I'm Arthur, by the way," he said, extending his hand. Y/n took it, feeling the warmth of his palm and the strength of his grip. His handshake was firm, yet gentle, like he was reassuring her without saying a word.

"I'm Y/n," she replied, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. She couldn't believe she was actually talking to him, her crush, in such a bizarre setting. "So, what brings you here?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation going despite the awkwardness.

"I had a meeting with a producer," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the elevator's control panel as if looking for an escape. "And you? You don't exactly look like you're dressed for a meeting."

Y/n chuckled, feeling a little less star-struck. "Just finished a run. I was heading to grab a shower before I met up with some friends." She paused, realizing she was still holding his hand. She gently pulled away, her cheeks burning. "Sorry, I just...you know, with the shock and all..."

Arthur waved it off, his smile genuine. "No worries. I've had worse starts to my day." He leaned back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. "So, Y/n, what do you do when you're not getting stuck in elevators?"

Inwardly, Arthur couldn't believe his luck—or perhaps misfortune, depending on how he looked at it. He'd always been a bit awkward around girls, especially attractive ones. He felt his heart racing faster than it had been during his last marathon livestream. She was beautiful, with her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled even in the dim light. He hoped she couldn't hear the pounding in his chest. He'd always imagined meeting someone like her under more...glamorous circumstances.

"Oh, I'm just a university student," Y/n said, her voice filled with the confidence of someone who knew their own worth. "Studying film theory. I'm actually a big fan of your channel," she added with a shy smile. Arthur's stomach did a flip-flop. A fan? Here? Now? The universe had a peculiar sense of humor.

"Really?" Arthur asked, genuinely surprised. "What do you like about it?" He leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued.

"Well," Y/n began, her voice gaining confidence, "I love how you dissect the dynamics of the couples. You make it seem like a science, but with all the drama and emotions thrown in. It's like watching a reality TV show with a psychologist's commentary."

Arthur's eyes lit up, his chest swelling with pride. "That's exactly what I aim for," he said, his voice earnest. "I mean, we all love love, but it's fascinating to see how different people navigate it. Plus, the occasional drama is just...delicious."

Y/n felt her cheeks heat up, and she ducked her head slightly. "And it doesn't hurt that you're, you know, attractive," she mumbled, immediately regretting her words. She cringed internally, expecting a cold shoulder or a brush-off. Instead, Arthur chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Well, thank you," he said, his voice warm. "But I'm just a guy with a camera and too many opinions."

The conversation flowed easily between them, their shared love for analyzing relationships and storytelling providing a natural bridge. They talked about their favorite movies, books, and even swapped a few funny dating horror stories. Y/n found herself relaxing in Arthur's company, his charm and wit drawing her in. She'd always thought he was handsome, but the way he listened, really listened, made him even more appealing.

*****

As the minutes ticked by, the elevator grew warmer. Y/n could feel the heat prickling her skin, the sweat from her run now mixing with a nervous sheen. She pushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead and took a step closer to Arthur, unconsciously seeking shade from the tiny beam of light coming from her phone. "It's getting a bit toasty in here," she said, her voice a little breathless.

Arthur nodded, his eyes flicking to her gym attire. "You're probably overdressed for this sauna we've found ourselves in," he said with a smirk. Without warning, he pulled off his shirt, revealing a set of toned abs that looked like they'd been chiseled by a Greek god. The air in the elevator seemed to thicken, charged with a sudden tension that had nothing to do with their predicament.

Y/n's eyes widened, and she couldn't help but stare for a moment before averting her gaze. "Sorry," Arthur said, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice. "It's just, I run hot."

Inwardly, Y/n was screaming. It was one thing to fawn over him on her laptop screen, his shirtless form a pixelated fantasy she could control with the click of a button, but this was real life. He was right there, his bare skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, his muscles rippling in the weak light. She felt a sudden and intense urge to reach out and touch him, to see if he was as solid as he looked. But she resisted, folding her arms over her chest instead and focusing on the cold metal of the elevator wall.

"It's okay," she said, her voice a little too high. "I mean, it's not like we're strangers anymore, right?" She forced a laugh, trying to play it cool. "And I guess we're both stuck here, so..."

Arthur looked over at her, his eyes lingering for a moment on her form in the tank top and workout shorts. The fabric clung to her in all the right places, revealing the athletic figure she'd worked hard to maintain. He swallowed, feeling his own body respond to the sight. He'd always prided himself on being professional, on keeping his personal and online lives separate, but here he was, stuck in a tiny space with a fan who was also, unfortunately, incredibly attractive.

The elevator groaned, the sound cutting through their conversation like a knife. They both jumped, the sudden noise a stark reminder of their situation. "Looks like we're going nowhere fast," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice light.

Y/n nodded, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and fear. "I hope they hurry," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

"Don't worry," Arthur said, his tone reassuring. "We've got each other for company. Could be worse, right?"

Y/n's heart raced as she tried to convince herself that he didn't feel the electricity zipping through the air. She took a deep breath, her eyes lingering on the shadows that played across his bare chest. The urge to lean in, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, was overwhelming. She bit her bottom lip, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. He was just a YouTuber, she reminded herself, not some sort of superhero here to sweep her off her feet—even if he did have the body of one.

"You know," Arthur said, breaking the tension with a lopsided grin, "I've always wondered what people do when they're stuck in elevators. It's like a trope in movies, right?"

Y/n's cheeks burned, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was hinting at something. "Yeah," she murmured, her eyes darting to his. "They usually fuck." The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she immediately wished she could take them back.

Arthur's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that what you had in mind?" he teased, his voice low and intimate. Y/n's heart skipped a beat, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. It was one thing to fantasize about him in the privacy of her own room, but to have him flirt with her in real life? Her brain was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, and she had no idea how to respond.

But before she could even attempt to form a coherent thought, Arthur's expression shifted, the teasing glint in his eye giving way to something more serious. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice sincere. "That was unprofessional of me. You're a fan, and I shouldn't—"

Y/n held up a hand, cutting him off. "It's okay," she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just as much to blame for the awkwardness here." She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "But...if you weren't, you know, Arthur from YouTube, and we were just two people stuck in an elevator...would you have made that joke?"

Arthur studied her for a moment, his gaze intense in the dim light. "If we weren't who we are," he said slowly, "and we were just two people, I might have been flirting for real."

Y/n's heart stuttered in her chest, her eyes locked on his. "Might have been?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur's expression grew serious, his eyes searching hers. "Maybe it wasn't a joke," he said, taking a step closer. "Maybe I was just testing the waters."

Y/n's pulse quickened, her breath hitching as Arthur's hand reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was feather-light, sending a shiver down her spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation before looking back up at him. "What does that mean?" she whispered.

Arthur leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek. "It means," he murmured, "that I've noticed you're not just any fan." He paused, his hand lingering near her face. "You're someone I could see myself getting to know outside of this metal cage."

Y/n's eyes fluttered shut, her heart racing. She'd never been so close to Arthur, never felt his breath on her skin. When she opened her eyes, she found him looking at her with an intensity that stole her words. The elevator's emergency light flickered again, casting his features in a strobe of shadows and light. She stepped closer, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

"Really?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Because I've thought about you a lot, too." It was out before she could think better of it, but the words felt right, like they'd been waiting for this moment.

Arthur leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. "In what ways?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through her very core.

Y/n felt her cheeks flush even hotter, but she met his gaze with determination. "I mean, I've wondered what it would be like to talk to you," she said, her voice a little shaky. "To see if you're as charming in person as you are on screen."

Arthur's smile grew, a playful glint in his eye. "And?"

Y/n took a deep breath, her heart pounding. "Well, you're definitely more charming in person," she admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "But I've also thought about other things."

Arthur's grin grew, his eyes never leaving hers. "Such as?"

Y/n's heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her fingertips. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "I've, uh, wondered what your lips would feel like," she blurted out, her cheeks aflame.

Arthur's eyes widened, and for a moment, she was sure she'd made a terrible mistake. But then his smile grew, and he leaned in even closer, his toned body mere inches from hers. "Is that so?" he whispered, his voice a delicious caress.

Y/n nodded, unable to look away from the heat in his gaze. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, could almost taste the anticipation on the air. "Yes," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Arthur's hand reached out, his thumb ghosting over her lower lip. "Well, then," he said, his voice a whisper that seemed to resonate through her entire body, "we should probably test that theory."

Y/n's eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her heart racing so fast she could feel it in her ears. His hand cupped her cheek, his eyes never leaving hers as he closed the gap between them. Their lips met, and it was nothing like she'd ever imagined. It was soft and gentle, yet filled with a passion that seemed to ignite the very air around them. The metal walls of the elevator disappeared, replaced by the intoxicating scent of him, the heat of his body, and the feeling of his skin against hers.

*****

The world outside the elevator ceased to exist as they kissed, each one deeper and more intense than the last. Arthur's free hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer as if he could somehow absorb her into himself. Y/n's hands tentatively found their way to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart mirroring her own. The moment was surreal, a dream come true in the most unexpected of places.

As their kiss grew more urgent, the elevator gave a sudden jolt, startling them apart. The lights flickered back on, and the mechanical sounds of the elevator resuming its ascent filled the space. They both looked at each other, eyes wide with shock and excitement. "Well," Arthur said, his voice husky, "that was unexpected."

Y/n couldn't agree more. She felt like she was floating, her knees wobbly and her heart racing. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "But not entirely unwelcome."

The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival at the next floor. The doors slid open, and the cool air from the hallway rushed in, a stark contrast to the heat between them. Arthur's hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing small circles that sent shivers down her spine. "I guess we should get out of here before someone sees us," he said, his voice tinged with regret.

Y/n nodded, her legs feeling like jelly as she stepped out of the elevator. Arthur followed, his eyes never leaving hers as they moved into the corridor. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the promise of more than just a kiss in those warm brown depths. As they made their way to the elevator's control panel, she heard a crackling sound over the intercom.

"Ah, looks like you two had quite the moment there," the operator's voice chuckled, the sound echoing through the small space. Y/n's cheeks went from pink to scarlet, and she buried her face in her hands, mortified.

Arthur's eyes widened, and he looked at her with a mix of amusement and concern. "Is that true?" he whispered, his hand reaching out to gently touch her elbow.

Y/n nodded, her cheeks feeling like they were on fire. "I think he heard everything," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Arthur chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a thrill through her. "Well, in that case," he said, leaning closer to the intercom, "I suppose I should ask you out, then." His eyes twinkled with mischief, and she could see the corners of his mouth curve up in a grin.

The operator's laugh crackled over the speaker. "That's the spirit, son!" he exclaimed. "Now don't let me interrupt your romantic rescue!"

Y/n peeked through her fingers, her cheeks burning as Arthur's grin grew wider. "I'm holding you to that," she said, her voice muffled by her palms.

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling through the elevator like a gentle earthquake. He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "We're not done yet."

With a swift movement, he pulled his shirt back on, the fabric whispering against his skin. Y/n couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the loss of the view, but the promise in his eyes was more than enough to keep her excitement alight. They stepped out into the hallway, the cold air a stark contrast to the warmth of their shared moment.

Arthur took out his phone, his thumbs dancing over the screen as he saved her number with a grin. "There," he said, holding up the device to show her. "Now I can officially say I know a film theory student who can appreciate a good plot twist."

Y/n laughed, feeling a little more at ease now that they had some semblance of normalcy back. "And I can say I've been kissed by ArthurTv," she teased, her voice still a little shaky from the excitement.

Arthur's smile grew, but there was a hint of seriousness in his eyes. "Just maybe don't go telling people that part," he said, a little too casually. "I don't want to start any rumors."

Y/n nodded, feeling the weight of his words. She knew he was right; the last thing either of them needed was for their impromptu elevator romance to become fodder for the tabloids. "Your secret's safe with me," she assured him, her voice still a little breathless.

*****

They walked down the hallway, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. Y/n couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that their time in the elevator was over. It had been like a bubble, a private little world where she could be herself without the pressure of the outside. But the thrill of their shared secret was almost as exhilarating as the kiss itself.

As they approached her apartment door, Arthur's hand brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her. She looked up at him, her heart racing. "Thank you," she said, her voice a little shaky. "For making this...less terrible."

He chuckled, his eyes warm. "My pleasure," he replied, leaning against the wall. "But now that we're out, I guess we should get back to reality."

Y/n nodded, her hand resting on the doorknob. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice a little sad. "But I'm not sure I'm ready for reality yet."

Arthur stepped closer, his hand covering hers on the knob. "Well, how about we make a deal?" he suggested, his eyes searching hers. "We'll keep this between us, for now. Just two people who got stuck in an elevator and had a bit of an adventure."

Y/n felt a thrill run through her at the thought of their secret, the excitement of something just for them. "Okay," she agreed, her voice a whisper. "But just one more kiss, to remember it by."

Arthur's smile grew, and he leaned in, his hand cupping her cheek once more. Their lips met again, the kiss slower this time, more deliberate. It was like they were trying to memorize every detail of each other, to burn the moment into their memories. Y/n could feel the warmth of his skin, the gentle scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingled with hers. It was a kiss that promised more than just friendship, more than just a passing encounter.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/n felt a little dizzy, her heart racing. "I'll hold you to that date," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Arthur's eyes searched hers, the intensity of his gaze making her knees feel like they might give out. "You better," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I don't want to be the guy who leaves a girl hanging, especially not one who's seen me half-dressed."

With one last smile, Y/n turned the doorknob and slipped into her apartment, the cool air of her home a stark contrast to the heat of Arthur's presence. She watched him disappear down the hallway, his form swallowed by the shadows. As she closed the door, she could still feel the imprint of his hand on her cheek, the taste of his kiss lingering on her lips.

Her mind raced with thoughts of their encounter, the way his eyes had lit up when she'd confessed her interest, the thrill of his touch. It was as if she'd stepped into one of the movies she studied, a chance meeting with a dashing hero that led to a passionate embrace. But this was real life, and she was still Y/n, the university student with the crush on the YouTube star.

Arthur walked down the hallway, his hand still tingling from where it had held hers. He couldn't believe he'd kissed a fan—let alone one as beautiful and intriguing as she was. He'd always tried to keep his personal life separate from his online persona, but something about her had made him throw caution to the wind.

Y/n watched Arthur retreat, his form growing smaller and smaller until he was just a memory in the corridor. Her heart raced with the excitement of what had just happened, the impossibility of it all. She'd never imagined her crush on him could lead to something real.

*****

Taglist~

@gvf23

[mead-iocre]

Our New Normal Pt. 2 | Leah Williamson x Reader

Our New Normal 2/4 (read pt 1 here)

“The next station is London Euston, where this train terminates. Please ensure you have all your belongs with you when you leave the train”

You pull out your AirPods from your ears and slot them back into it’s case. The train journey was pretty pleasant. Interestingly, the First Class cabin was quieter than usual, with less fellow travellers in this trip than usual.

You grab your hand mirror from your bag,  checking your appearance and fidgeting around with your hair; making sure to retouch your lipstick and spritz a little perfume. You rarely wore makeup when it wasn’t necessary, but for some reason you wanted to make the extra effort to make yourself look slightly more put together when Leah picks you up tonight. Usually, the Arsenal defender only ever saw you in sweatpants and a hoodie, thick rim glasses instead of contact lenses, and with your hair tied up in a loose ponytail. 

For the first time, in a very long time, you were nervous to see your best mate. That wasn't normal at all.

The first thing Leah spots is your familiar silver rimowa suitcase– in fact, it was hers first. When the wheels of your well-loved and well-traveled suitcase decided to break during one of your visits to London, Leah insisted that you take one of her many suitcases that she had stowed away. The blonde never ended up asking for it back so you’ve kept it ever since, and use it every time you take your little trips. 

Leah’s eyes trail upwards until they meet yours. She cocks one eyebrow at the slight difference in your appearance. To her, you were always beautiful but there was something about you right then that seemed different– like you were currently going through a big lifestyle change and the subtle difference in your appearance reflected that. In her mind, the defender chalked it up to you preparing for your transfer to your new club. It wasn't something she liked to think about often as you still had not told her where you were moving to. She just hoped that wherever you moved to, it won't be too far from her.

Leah watched from the distance as your eyes scanned the busy station, trying to find her. She grinned as she sees you weave your fingers through your hair to push it back, a long-time habit of yours that Leah found very, very charming.

Eventually her time to admire you from afar gets cut short when your eyes finally meet hers. You both grin at each other from across the arrivals area of the station before simultaneously making your way towards each other, skilfully dodging other people along the way. 

Leah is the one that closes the distance between the two of you, her arms wrapping themselves around your waist; meanwhile yours found purchase around her shoulders. For a moment, all you see is her strawberry blonde hair as she tucks her face into your neck. 

“Hiya, beautiful” She mumbles against your neck. You can feel the light press of her lips as they move against your skin causing you to giggle slightly at the feeling.

You’ve missed her a lot. 

This was normal.

It was normal to miss you friend this much.

“Hi, Lee” You say softly against her ear. This is what you’ve been craving for weeks now– Leah and her hugs. No matter how long you both were apart, there was nothing awkward about the first hug when you are both reunited. It’s instinctual, it’s comfort, and it’s home. You step closer to her, minimising whatever little space there was left between your bodies, and wrap your arms tighter around her neck. 

Home.

“I’ve missed you, baby” A moment later Leah moves to break the hug, her arms gliding across your lower back, both palms pressing against you until they settle comfortably on your hips. She reaches up to cup one side of your face, tilting it to the side, before her lips land sweetly on your cheek. When she pulls away so you are both finally seeing eye to eye, there’s that familiar grin on her face. You couldn’t help but mirror it back with a big smile of your own. 

“I missed you too” You mumble back, blushing slightly at the intensity of her stare.

You’ve nagged her in the past for her staring habit, and all she did was quip back saying she’s “making sure all your cute freckles are still there”

“Right. Let’s get a move on then” Without even waiting for your reply, the defender has one hand over the handle of your suitcase and the other tugging you along behind her.

You both walk outside towards the parking lot, the chill of the London air feels all too familiar lately, until you stop by her car. The blonde unlocks her car, opens the passenger door, and ushers you inside before jogging to the boot of her car to stow away your luggage. 

Leah turns on the ignition and then presses a button on the console of the car to turn the heater on. You can barely make out the details of the other cars outside in the parking lot due to the chill fogging up the windows, barely being able to make out passer-buyers exhaling fogs of cold air as they chat to one another. She glances over to you, noticing that you’ve got your arms crossed, hands tucked under the cuffs of your long wool jacket. 

“Cold?” She reaches a hand over to gently push back the strands of hair that have fallen over your face. Her hand lingers by your cheek, a frown already forming on her face.

This is normal.

Leah knows you don’t like the cold. Unlike those who look forward to “sweater-weather” and pumpkin spice lattes, you hate the autumn and winter months. You preferred the warmer months when you can sunbathe and wear tank tops all day. “Sorry baby, I should’ve warmed the car up for you earlier”

You smile at her. This is why it was inevitable that you grew feelings her. She’s the kind of person that would go above and beyond for others. Your close friends and teammates would tease you, often jokingly complaining that Leah is spoils you too much and gives you the “princess treatment” even in simple chores. It made you wonder if this dynamic was going to change once you became teammates for the same club.

“It’s fine, Lee. I’ll warm up in a bit” 

Your answer doesn’t seem to satisfy the Arsenal defender because she immediately shrugs off her own black puffer and places it over your body. You were about to nag the blonde about how now she’ll be the one freezing her socks off, but she shut your protests up with a quick stern look in your direction. You figured there was no point arguing with her when you’ve got a surprise for her later on, so you reluctantly accepted her coat.

Speaking of surprises, you were starting to feel nervous. You have never hid anything from your best friend, especially not something as big as this, and you can’t help but overthink about what might happen after tonight. Part of you knows that Leah will most likely be ecstatic over your transfer, but a smaller, more pessimistic part of your brain was worried that Leah would hate being around you even more; or perhaps she might get sick of being around you constantly.

You were great teammates for England, but international camp never lasted long enough to really test how well you can communicate your feelings, and how you can deal with arguments. Sure, you’ve had a few disagreements here and there but you both always resolved it quickly due to the looming threat of having to say goodbye to one another once camp was over once again. You were worried that being together more often would strain your relationship considering you were both complete opposites when it came to how you expressed your feelings.

Leah was a very confrontational person and she does not hesitate to tell people exactly how she feels. On the pitch, she has no problem arguing with the ref whenever she disagreed with a call, and she was exactly the same off the pitch. You, on the other hand, preferred to bottle up your feelings until you eventually break. The few arguments you’ve had with Leah often resulted in you leaving the room to clear your head, and the blonde giving you the time and space to think things through.

Afterwards, when you did resolve everything, Leah often expressed how she wished you would stay and talk to her instead of running out. She said it nicely, comfortingly, but you knew a part of her was frustrated at the way you sometimes handled things. You never got a chance to resolve this issue or compromise because by then it would be time to say goodbye again– whether its because England camp has ended or you were due to separate and go back to your respective clubs. Being teammates for country and now club would mean that you both will have these issues more frequently, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for that. 

The sudden change in your behaviour did not go unnoticed by the Arsenal defender. Leah watches as you adjust her jacket around you, the oversized puffer jacket completely engulfing you with only the lower part of your legs and your head visible. She watches as you fidget and fuss over the jacket in your lap, a nervous habit that she is very familiar with. She can tell you probably had a lot going on and she figured it was partly due to the looming deadline of the transfer window. She knows you well enough to know that the only way you will open up is if you are given the time and space to do so. Leah isn’t usually a patient person, but for you she can be. 

She watches you silently for another moment. She swears she felt her heart skip a beat when you try and cocoon yourself further into her jacket, your eyes closed, mouth curved up into a satisfied smile– probably happy with the warmth you were now swaddled in. You didn’t know it but if you wanted her to, Leah would’ve tried to somehow turn winter into summer if it meant seeing you this happy. For now she’s just glad that her puffer jacket can offer you some warmth in the meantime. 

Soon enough, Leah was driving the both of you out of the station’s car park, the navigation flashing the directions to her flat. Usually, the blonde would be blasting music in the car, sharing all the new songs she added to her playlist recently, but she must’ve noticed how tired you are because instead of the normal r&b tunes filling the car, the blonde has turned down the volume until you can barely hear the instrumentals of the song currently playing. 

“Just sleep, y/n” You force your eyes open at Leah’s words, trying to blink the sleep away. You had been trying to stay awake, feeling bad about not being a more entertaining passenger on the long drive back to her flat, but the equal amounts of stress and excitement over the last couple of weeks seem to be catching up to you now. 

As your hand reaches up to try and rub the sleepiness away from your eyes, the defender’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist before you can do so. “Don’t rub your eyes, baby. Remember that tiktok video I sent you?”

The eye roll that follows cannot be helped. Leah had sent you a tiktok video a few days ago about the potential dangers that rubbing your eyes constantly can do– something about weakening or distorting your cornea– but that’s in extreme cases. Why that tiktok video was even on her 'for you page', you didn't want to know.  

“One little eye rub won’t damage my eyes, Lee” 

“And let’s keep it that way, yeah?” You catch her smirk illuminated by the streetlights, already anticipating whatever cocky, unhinged thing that will come out of her mouth next.  “Or else you’d miss seeing my pretty face”

You scoff, clutching her jacket tighter around you. One advantage of Leah driving you around is that it gives you the opportunity to look at your best friend, the woman you were in love with, without care.

The defender was a great driver, both hands always clutching the wheel, and always focused on the road. That meant you can stare at her without having to gaze into those blue eyes. A familiar shade of forget-me-not blues, unusually soft in the morning light, but can also reflect the deepest depths of the ocean when her emotions get the best of her. They say the eyes are the windows into the soul, and this woman was proof of that. She wore her emotions in her pretty blues, and sometimes you swore she felt the same scary, overwhelming emotions you had begun to feel for her. 

But that’s why sometimes you find it hard to stare into her eyes, fearing that that unnamed emotion in her eyes– the one that you so badly want to believe might be adoration, or care, or love– might be gone one day. 

“Piss off, Lee” Damn her and her caring nature.

The blonde risks a quick glance at you causing your breath to catch in your throat. All of a sudden, you feel a lot less sleepy and more aware of your rapidly beating heart. 

“Take a nap, baby. I’ll wake you up when we stop at the gas station” Leah turns her head back to the road for a second, surveying the road ahead of her, before those pretty blues find their way back to you.

“Give your eyes a break for a bit. Wouldn’t want you to get tired of looking at me”

You giggle at that. As if.

“I’ll never get tired of looking at you, Leah” You cheesed out– partly jokingly, but mainly because it’s true. You hope your tone disguises that last bit though. 

That being said, a short nap was beginning to sound very inviting. No sooner than later, you’ve allowed the familiar scent of her that lingers from her jacket, the music barely an audible hum, and the streetlights fading into a blur lull you to sleep. 

Already halfway asleep, you miss the blonde’s quiet “same here, baby” whispered aloud for only her ears to hear. 

——————————————

An hour or so passes and you were still fast asleep. Stopping in front of a red light, the defender takes the opportunity to spare a glance towards your sleeping form beside her. She can’t stop the corners of her lips from turning up at the sight of you, a mere puffy marshmallow lump in her passenger seat. Unable to help herself, she reaches over and lightly caresses your face with her thumb. My sleepy girl 

Soon enough it was time for a petrol station stop. Leah pulls up to a petrol station with its bright lights flickering atop a weathered sign. The cold air was tinged with the faint scent of gasoline, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the attached convenience shop. The defender unbuckles her seatbelt before reaching over towards you. Her hand finds it way under her jacket– your blanket– before she finds your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

When you start to stir, Leah runs a hand through your hair in the attempts of taming the bird’s nest-like mess that sits on top of your head. When your eyes finally open, the first thing you see is Leah already grinning at you. You feel your breath catch, like it normally does whenever the pretty blonde is looking at you like that. You silently hope that the inside of the car is dark enough that she can’t see the blush painting your cheeks. 

“Hiya. Had a good nap, yeah?” The grinning defender is still staring at you, so naturally you playfully push her face away with a palm to her cheek. 

“Don’t need your ugly mug to be the first thing I see, Lee” 

Leah laughs loudly at that. Head thrown back, mouth wide open in glee, blonde hair cascading down in loose waves that was probably the result of being put up in a Leah-style “bun” earlier that day. 

“Oi! I’ve been so good to you the entire evening– even letting you sleep and snore in my car– and this is how you repay me?” 

You let out an exaggerated gasp and look at her, unable to stop the grin that is already growing on your face. “I do not snore!” 

“Like a new born piglet, baby” 

Before you could retort, the blonde leans forward in her seat over the console and sneaks a quick kiss to your forehead. This was normal, Leah was usually so generous with her kisses for some reason, but that didn’t mean your heart didn’t flutter every time she laid one on you. “You’re cute, y/n”

You swear your heart skips a beat. Is that normal? 

“I’ve got to get petrol. There’s a shop over there, so why don’t you grab something to eat while I do this?”

You glance over at the convenience store, the promises of hot food and maybe something sweet to satisfy your cravings lately already luring you inside. You turn back to the blonde and nod, handing her back her black puffer jacket which you had essentially held hostage the entire drive. You unbuckle your seatbelt and quickly throw your hair into a loose ponytail, silently bracing yourself for the cold ahead.

Just as you were about to push the car door open, Leah pulls you back with a hand on your arm, and the next thing you know your vision is partially obstructed by a wool beanie placed on your head. “Stay warm, baby” 

Before you could thank her, the blonde has already opened the door on her side of the car and has stood up to shrug her jacket on. She gives you a quick wink before she disappears from your view, making her way to the petrol machine.

You hastily make your way inside the store, grateful for the sudden warmth it provided against the harsh cold from outside. You scan the shop and make a beeline towards the hot food section, and pick up a sausage roll. You scan the rest of the options before picking up the potato wedges for a certain blonde in mind who happens to have the food palette of a 2 year old. You walk around the store for a few more moments, picking up a bottle of Sprite, Diet Coke, a pack of hand-warmers, and two packs of prawn cocktail crisps before heading to the counter to pay. You hear the sound of the automatic doors sliding opening, the wind outside shrilling loudly in your ears, before the doors slide closed again.  

As you reach into your coat to pull out your card to pay, a familiar hand reaches around you and taps their phone against the card reader.

“Leah.” You mutter sternly, eyes narrowed at the blonde who now stood beside you. 

“Perks of having Apple Pay, baby. You would know if you actually bothered to set it up” The defender grabs the bag with your food, throwing a quick ‘thank you’ to the nice man behind the till. She grabs one of your hands in hers and pulls you towards the doors. 

“Brace yourself” Is the only warning you get before Leah pulls you through the doors and out into the cold once again. The cold is harsh against your cheeks, and you find yourself pressing yourself into the blonde’s side. She wraps an arm around you, steering you to her car. She quickly unlocks your car door first, and out of habit holds a hand out above your head so you don’t bump your head into the roof of the car. 

You both settle inside her car and buckle your seatbelts. Leah shrugs her jacket off of her shoulders and places it over your lap. “Use that. You clearly need that more than I do, Rudolph”

She quickly glances over to you, chuckling at the unamused expression on your face as she backs the car out of the petrol station. This time, you were adamant that you will sit through the rest of drive to the blonde's flat, and you did. You and Leah took turns choosing the songs to play, both of you shouting the familiar lyrics from the top of your lungs.

From the corner of your eye, you see Leah take one of her hands off the wheel and flex it open and closed repeatedly. You reckon she must be feeling cold, especially considering you’ve got her puffer blanketing you in its warmth. “Cold, Lee?”

“Hmm? ’m fine, baby. The car will warm me up soon”

You were about to argue back when you remember that you had bought a pack of hand warmers earlier. Reaching into the plastic bag, you search through it and grab the pack, ripping it open and holding one out to your blonde driver. She glances at it briefly, before she shakes her head, both hands still on the wheel. 

“I’m fine, Y/N. You need it more than I do.” 

“I’ve got another one here. It comes in a pack of two” You reach back into the bag to show her the other hand warmer. She glances towards you briefly.

“I’ll put this one under my hoodie, and you can hold onto this one” Leah watches from the corner of her eye as you open your jacket and tuck one of the hand warmers, sandwiching it in between the layers of your undershirt and your hoodie. You settle more comfortably in your seat as you feel the growing warmth spreading from the heat pack. 

“Here’s yours. Your hands are definitely cold”

“I don’t–“ 

“Don’t be so bloody stubborn, Leah.”

“Well don’t be so bloody annoying then, Y/N”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You wouldn’t be surprised if grey hairs started sprouting soon. Among all the people you could fall in love with, you somehow fell for the most stubborn woman on this planet– and you still have about an hour left of this drive. 

But you know deep down there’s also no one else you’d rather be stuck anywhere with.

“Give me your hand, Leah” You stretch a hand towards her over the middle console, palm up. She glances at it briefly, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t question you. 

The blonde took the hand nearest to you off the steering wheel and places her hand on top of yours. You gave it a squeeze, flinching slightly at the cold palm, and muttering “Your hands are fucking freezing, Lee” 

You take the hand warmer that was supposed to be for her and place it between your interlocked hands. In front of a red light, the defender beside you turns to look at both of your hands, clasped tightly together in the center console of her car. When it came to physical affection, you rarely gave it away freely. Leah was the more affectionate one between the two of you, so seeing you initiate it was a surprise to her. She knows that the warmth that she feels wasn’t coming from just the hand warmers that both of you are sharing. 

The rest of the drive was fairly quiet. Instead of the loud, boisterous music that was blasting from the car speakers earlier, the only sounds inside the car was coming from the gentle hum of the engine. You and Leah held hands for pretty much the rest of the drive, Leah only breaking your connection when she needed to turn the wheel.

“One second, baby” The blonde would say whenever she needed to make a sharp turn, her hand untangling from yours for a moment to grab the steering wheel firmly with both hands. Not a moment too soon, her hand would instinctively seek out yours from where it sits patiently waiting by the center console. Your fingers would intertwine with hers, and all was right in the world again. 

The hand warmer, which now no longer emitted any heat, was promptly tossed aside earlier. You and Leah were palm to palm, the only source of warmth against the biting cold outside was the one exchanged between your hands. The rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers matched the soft patter of raindrops, as if the evening itself conspired to provide a soothing backdrop for the last leg of your drive. 

——————————————

Soon enough the car was pulling up into the parking lot of Leah’s flat. The familiar building came into view, nestled in a quiet corner of town. The glow from the light inside some of the windows hint at the warmth within, promising respite from the biting cold of the outside. You couldn’t wait to be reunited with Leah’s warm and cosy guest bedroom, which had essentially become your home away from home during your frequent visits to London. After locking her car and making sure she didn't forget anything, Leah grabbed your gloved hand to guide you towards the entrance of her flat with one hand, whilst the other hand pulled your suitcase behind her. 

The elevator ride up to her floor was quiet, but it was the comfortable silence kind. You both were stood side by side, one gloved hand interlocked with a bare one, the only noise in the elevator came from the subtle hum of the elevator tune. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you had to break the news of your transfer to the defender.

Part of you was relieved that you can finally put an end to this whole charade, but another part of you was worried that she might feel hurt over the fact that you kept such a big thing from her. Leah was someone that valued trust and communication, and while your feelings for her could warrant an exemption, keeping something like this was a big deal. You’ve had to lie to her a few times over the past few weeks, cancelling meet ups and declining calls, using football and a busy schedule as an excuse to escape her nagging questions over your transfer. You were worried that she might feel hurt that you were essentially lying to her. 

Then there was also the bit about how this transfer might change your relationship with the blonde. Sure, she could be happy about your move to Arsenal and the fact that you were both teammates now, but what if in a few months she’ll eventually get tired of having you around constantly. Maybe she might get tired of you always being around her– not just during England camp but now at the same club. One perk about being in separate clubs was it allowed time apart and your feelings for Leah “cool down”– or at least you hoped it would. But then one meet up with her and your heart was rapidly beating against your chest again.

Part of you was also worried that the only reason why you and Leah stayed friends for this long was because being apart from each other and being at separate clubs gave you so much to talk about once you were together. You feared that the only reason why your friendship stood the test of time was because the time apart added to the excitement of being together again eventually. Conversations and face-time calls were endless and exciting because the two of you made sure to share all the mundane and the ordinary with each other because the other wasn’t there to experience it. Now that the both of you will be together more often, you were worried that that excitement and that spark will eventually fizzle out.

They always say “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and for a long time you were okay with it, but what happens now? 

First of all, thank you for all the love and support for the first part of this fic. I hope you know I much I appreciated all the reblogs, likes and comments <333

Secondly, I know I said I would get the second part of this fic up last week but whilst I was doing my final reading before posting it, I ended up not like the direction the fic was going, so I redid the entire thing lol

I like this one a lot better and I hope you do too (also, note I added 1 more part to this so it is now a 4 part fic)

Hope you're looking forward to the next bit– I know I am!

The weather lately has been sunny and bright skies on my side of the world. Sending you a little slice of sunshine :)

-- kisses, butter.

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

[hatsukeii]

think fast / childhood bsf!tsukshima kei x reader

genre(s): childhood best friends x soulmates???? past lives and normal people by sally rooney coded im a sally rooney MEATRIDER!! angsty, gut-wrenching longing, bittersweet / hopeful ending so it's not all bad!! nostalgia is going to carry this fic so hard it's going to be a fun, fun time...

warning(s): eventual smut!! all characters are aged up to 21!!MDNI (at least up until the observatory)!! unprotected sex here remember to wrap it before you tap it!! (sorry kids), female leaning anatomy because smut but pronouns are gn all throughout and honestly you could read it as gn anyways:)) dead dad warning (my dad is NOT dead this was just convenient to kick off the thing), i fw the timeline of the world??? pretend flip phones were still in use in like 2012 or something idk

wc: ~6.3k

tldr; time has a way of reminding Kei of its presence, and its escape. you are the reminder it has been sending to him for six years.

Fate: A power believed to cause and control all events, so that one cannot change or determine the way things will happen. 

It is a sunny afternoon when you step foot into Sendai, Miyagi. A beautiful day of golden warmth beaming onto petals of pink, red, and white, wrapped in coffee-stained newspapers and tied together with a spool of twine. The bouquet lies on browning grass, a contemptible reminder of the time that has passed since your last appearance here, six years ago, and you crouch down to the ground. Now face to face with the engraving of a full name on a slab of polished granite, you hesitate. Your father lived in a language that you can no longer speak, died in a country you no longer call your home. When you whisper blessings and apologies at the gravestone in broken Japanese and slurred syllables, you sound like a stranger. A stranger who sits in a graveyard at noon, with nothing but a bouquet from the nearby florist in hand, and a promise, stuttered out in half-decent Japanese, to return again the next year. 

When a second bouquet falls to the ground behind you, and you turn around, Tsukishima Kei thinks this is what English speakers like you would call fate. He’s a little taller now, and bulkier too, and you have to crane your head higher than you remember just to meet his eyes. You don’t recognise the glasses he dons anymore, the black rectangles from his teenage years swapped out for rounded squares and silver frames. But he has a towel in his hand, a towel that has his initials poorly stitched into the corner with red string. You wonder if the matching one he made you, eleven years ago, is collecting dust somewhere in your dormitory, halfway across the world. 

“You’re back.”

“It’s been a while, Kei.”

You can no longer differentiate Japanese syllables clearly, and your statement jumbles into nonsense in your head. Kei hears the English woven into your accent in the way you roll your tongue like foreigners do, and in the odd intonations that don’t exist in your mother tongue. You don’t even remember your father’s dislike for white flowers. London has truly done a number on you. 

“Why? Why now?”

You bite your nail, a persistent habit that Kei frowns at. He picks up his flowers, and steps towards the gravestone, just close enough for your knee to brush against him for a moment. The bouquet in his hand is wrapped in plastic and filled with red and pink, the white from your own sticking out like a sore thumb when he places his flowers gently on the grass beside yours. He tosses the towel in his hand, opening it up against his palm, and you take it from him. If you cannot get the language right, or the flowers, this is the least you can do. Cobwebs stick to the fabric as you sweep at the granite slab, watching soot and dust fall to the grass. The curves and dips of the gravestone are familiar once again, and you dig the towel into every nook and cranny. You feel Kei’s body shift, before his knee is touching yours and his face is finally level with your peripheral vision. He glances at you, waiting. His knees bounce in anticipation. 

“Never had the chance, college has been a lot.”

Your phone rings as you finish cleaning. The ringtone is familiar, unchanged from when you used to have a flip phone, in fact. Kei hums along to the jingle for the four seconds that the call is left unanswered, before it cuts off into a flurry of English. He catches something about research, and a thesis, his shabby English unable to fill in any more than that. He’s never known you were interested in research, let alone what it is that you’re researching. All he’s known is your aspiration of becoming a librarian when you were six, and his promise to borrow books from you for the museum that he swore he would one day work at. Now, he works at the museum, sorts antique scripts and yellowed books into cabinets and display shelves. He does not borrow books from you. Now, you talk, but nothing makes sense to him.

You end the call, mumbling foreign curses as you shove your phone back into your pocket. Clicking your tongue, you turn to Kei, who stares at the flowers on the ground. He pushes his glasses up when they slide down his nose, and you resist the familiar urge to nag him about buying the right frames for his face. 

“Yeah, college has been mostly phone calls like that.”

He nods, a half-hearted chuckle huffing from his nose. He’s forgotten what it’s like to sit at a graveyard with somebody else, the annual reminder of a lonely death replaced by another this year as you dust off his towel, and drop it onto his thigh. He swipes it from his leg, folding it into quarters and sliding it into his pocket. 

“So you choose to come now, without a word? Not even a heads up? Six years after leaving?” Kei’s voice rises at each question, the same way it did six years ago when you broke the news of leaving Japan to him. This hurts him to ask, that much you can still recognise.

“I would have come sooner if I had the chance. I’ve missed everyone so much.”

You pluck a petal from a white flower in your bouquet, then another, until all that remains is the naked bulb, and scatter them onto the ground beside you. Perhaps the next person that’s been buried under six feet of dirt used to have a liking for them. Kei remains unmoving, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. His knee stops bouncing. 

“How long will you stay for?”

“Today, then Friday and Saturday too. Flight back is Sunday night.”

Six years of waiting, and this is what it amounts to. A weekend and a bit. Despite that, Kei still thinks this must be fate, in all the languages that it exists in. Six years of life, and love, and hurt, all to be condensed into four measly days. Yet as Kei pushes himself off the ground, dusting his trousers off, he still thinks that this unlikely, yet conveniently timed visit must be the answer to his pleas for your return. That this must be some heavenly reward, good karma for visiting your father’s grave annually on your behalf. You watch him turn to leave, and he calls out to you as he walks away from your father’s grave. 

“Everyone’s at Hinata’s old place tomorrow. You should come by if you can.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Change: to replace (something) with something else, especially something of the same kind that is newer or better; substitute one thing for (another).

All it takes is one coincidental exchange of panicked glances at the first throw up of the night for you and Kei to leave together. Hinata slurs a drunken farewell, tries to embrace you as you slip your sneakers on at the door, and you make a note to yourself that you really do not miss most of the people here, spare for the volleyball team. Kei waits at the door, holding it open for when you finally shake Hinata off of your back, and step through. The night is chilly, the warmth in your skin from the indoor heating system emanating into the midnight air. You kick rocks along the pavement as you walk, scattering pigeons that remain awake and active at this time, and Kei smiles at your antics. You still hate birds, and you still remember the trick he taught you when you were nine for chasing away pigeons that flocked around you for food. 

“Who are you staying with?”

“My mom’s.”

The road leads the two of you to a high school. Kei has not come back to Karasuno since graduation. You squint in the dark, scanning the school, and you don’t recognise the new building that stands in place of the old auditorium. He watches you crouch at the plaque next to the front gate, tracing the letters engraved on it with the pad of your thumb. Some part of him blames Karasuno for being a bad place to you, the other parts blame himself for not being good enough to outweigh it.

“It’s changed.”

“Everything has.”

You rattle the locked entrance, the chain and padlock hitting against cold metal. It won’t open, so you look up through the gap of the gate. Six years ago, on that rooftop, was where you stood over a cold lunch box and emptied convenience store drinks, back against the wire fence, saying to Kei, I’m leaving tomorrow. On that day, you had packed yakisoba for his lunch, and nothing for yourself. He could barely respond to your announcement, only dropping his chopsticks and asking you, why? You told him something along the lines of being an expat, and a better school for what you wanted, all in the fluent Japanese you once spoke. Nothing made sense to him anyways. 

When you turn back to him, his hands are in the pockets of his jacket, and his nose is red from the cold air. You stand beside him, staring aimlessly at Karasuno from outside its barriers. 

“Do you still play volleyball?” 

“Yeah, Sendai Frogs.”

You hum, and then wonder why you only asked tonight, and why you’re surprised. He shrugs, clouds of white puffing from his mouth when he breathes out. He tries to blow a wisp of hair away from his face, and you suddenly realise that his hair has grown too, along with his height. It fails, and he tries again. You reach up to swipe at his bangs, before running your fingers backwards through his hair. It parts itself as you lift your hands from his head, and falls into place neatly. A cold breeze whizzes by, and undoes your work, sending strands of gold into his face once again. You snicker a little.

“You know, you could ask my mom to trim it for you like she used to.”

“Nah, I prefer this.”

It isn’t until you turn to look at him properly that you see how much time has passed. He likes his hair longer these days, the choppy hairdo of his teenage years now nothing but an old preference, and you wonder if he is still a loyal customer of your mother’s salon. When he pulls his hands from his pockets and blows hot air into them, calluses line the bases of his fingers, the blisters of his high school years hardened by trials of time and effort. There are bags under his eyes, eyes that are now a little rounder, and softer too. When he speaks, monotone and tired, you realise his snarkiness has dissipated into general frustration. You stare until his eyes dart to you, and turn away quickly, ashamed. Leaving Karasuno has taken your hand and led you to a purpose that you never knew you were capable of. You wonder what the hell it has done to Tsukishima Kei. 

“It looks good.”

He breathes in sharply, then exhales with a huff, shoulders relaxing as he stuffs his hands back into his pockets. You suddenly realise that your fingers have gone numb from the cold of the night, fingertips tingling like a million frost-bitten needles poking into your skin. You also stuff your hands into your pockets, rubbing your fingers against each other to generate some heat. Then, Kei’s looping his arm around yours, and pulling you away from Karasuno High School. He keeps on his straight path, and you stumble along behind his leaping steps. When you round a corner, the night breeze grows into something less imperturbable, and more vicious, pushing the two of you forward from behind in slashes of cold. The sea is near. 

“Is this the beach we used to go to?”

“You still remember it.”

He drags you down a flight of stairs to Fukanuma Beach, and the misty sea air rushes to your head. When he leads you to the shoreline, you hesitate. The sea has been off limits since the two of you were five, a regulation put in place in remembrance of the Great Sendai Earthquake. An earthquake that saw Kei and yourself hunched beneath the same table in the middle of class, huddled next to each other as you cried for your parents. Now, in your final years of college, as the water slips beneath the soles of his shoes, pushing and receding in layers of aqua and bubbles of white, it seems that time has slipped by just as easily too. Time, that saw the fading of the earthquake’s devastation, despite the loss of thousands, including your father. Time, that frayed the string connecting yourself to Kei as you moved through life halfway across the world from Japan. Time, that passes through you like sand spilling between your fingers on a beach you once thought you knew, but has changed like the unprohibited water that seems to push further up into the shore at each tidal wave. 

“They lifted the ban?”

“A few months ago, yeah.”

You step into the next wave that fizzles into foam, and the water crashes into the toe of your shoes. Crouching, you push mounds of wet sand into a cylinder, flattening the top and pushing divots in equal intervals. Kei joins, moulding shorter ones beside your own and drawing windows into the side. You finish, and he stands, smiling at the creation. You cover the top, afraid he will stomp on it, a trademark of Kei’s whenever you built sandcastles with him in childhood. Instead, he laughs, and walks further into the water. When you get up to join him, the hems of his trousers are soaked, shoes also covered in a sheen of wetness. You hop over the castle, and the next wave that comes sends its foundations crumbling back into the sea. 

“We used to do that. You’d destroy it every time.”

Kei chuckles, and looks back to see the half destroyed castle. Clicking his tongue, he returns to the rubble, and you watch his hands push mounds of sand towards what is left standing. 

“I’d always build a better one for you afterwards though.”

He dusts his hands off when he finishes, and the waves fizzle out just before they hit the two-tiered sandcastle. You sniff, holding your arms close to your chest. When Kei looks up, he feels like the summer of being seven years old again, smiling at you with his missing front tooth when you sniffle and laugh at the improved castle he’s put together for you. Now, it is winter. He only grins with the corners of his lips. You only sniff because it’s cold. 

“Kei.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s really been a while. How have you been?”

He steps over the castle towards you, careful not to break it. Your hair blows in your face from the beach breeze and your eyes squint from the sand that flies into the air, and Kei takes it all in when you’re face to face with him. When he opens his mouth, some selfish part of him thinks about casting his words into shackles of regret, so heavy that they weigh you down and keep you in Japan, in Sendai, on this beach, somewhere close to him.

“Do you want to stay the night? Like you used to?”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Nostalgia: A sentimental longing, or wistful yearning for a return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.

Kei does not take you to his family house. He leads you up stairs that make no sense, and hallways that stretch on forever, until you finally reach his flat. He wipes his shoes on the doormat, throws his keys into a glass bowl upon entry, and hangs his jacket on a hook mounted to his front door instead of the coathanger that used to stand beside it. You look around, searching for the shells you once collected in a jar for his tenth birthday. When your eyes land on a jar filled with conches and cowries, you let go of a breath you were unaware of holding. They sit on the top of his bookshelf, above textbooks and file organisers. A knot forms in your throat at the realisation that the jar sits alone in its compartment, with nothing beside it. You’ve done the same to the jazz vinyl Kei gifted you at the airport before your departure. You don’t realise that he’s disappeared somewhere as you stare at the shells, until a shirt and a pair of shorts are thrown into your chest. He stands at the entrance to a hallway, donning sweatpants and an old hoodie, one that’s clearly a size too small. The pocket is lousily sewn on, a result of a mishap that occurred when you had borrowed it once. He doesn’t know that you spent the night learning to sew fabric just to fix it.

“Change. It’ll be more comfortable.”

You scurry through the hallway to his bathroom, pulling the shirt and shorts on hastily, before balling up your clothes and returning to the living room. Kei sits at his couch, now bound in leather instead of fabric, and clicks at the television. You join beside him, legs splaying across his own subconsciously. He doesn’t move. He stops at a movie, one you’ve seen hundreds of times before at his old house. It drones on in the background as he watches in silence, his arms now draped over your knees. The first time he watched this movie, it was in his old home, cross-legged on the carpeted ground with you on the couch behind him. Your hands used to press into his shoulders from above, shake them whenever your favourite scenes came on, squeeze them when you laughed until tears rolled from your eyes. Now that his new flat lacks a rug, he’s willing to settle with your legs on his own. Flashing lights illuminate the dark room in sequences that you can still recall perfectly from memory. He watches the movie. You watch him. 

“Have you been doing good, Kei?”

Turning to you, he pushes his glasses up into his hair, leaning further back. You shuffle closer, legs bending as your shoulder digs into the leather couch. A strand of blond falls into his face, and you lift his glasses to tuck it back, before smoothing your hands over his mess of hair, combing and pushing with your fingertips.The words from the television melt into gibberish when he hums in satisfaction, what is unspoken between you two is more glaring than ever.

“I’ve been okay.” He cuts off, then finds himself thinking of what to tell you first, amongst the recollections of life that rush through his head. “Started working at the museum a couple years ago.” He wishes that you still remember the building, where the marble floors squeaked beneath your slippers, and glass panels lined the walls, hiding away treasures and artefacts that have withstood centuries, maybe even eons of erosion and weathering.

You nod, mind filling with the many museum visits you had with him there. He’s always liked the dinosaurs more than the shells. When you breathe out a chuckle, he knows you’re recalling the time he almost pissed himself at a life-sized, moving tyrannosaurus rex model. 

“What about you?”

“Research. I’ve been doing research about…” you sign in the air, searching for the Japanese words that have slipped from your mind. Surrendering, you whip your phone out, searching for a translation. 

“Archaeology?”

“Yeah, that. No more librarian dreams for me. More dinosaurs, though.”

A smile finds its way onto Kei’s face, one that softens his cheeks and flattens his eyes into crescents. He wonders if amongst the silver plaques and digital displays, your work is engraved in there somewhere. If each time he explains something to some bright-eyed child, who scuttles around the museum as you and him once did, he is unknowingly speaking in your language, translated until he can decipher the thoughts that run through your mind in your research, your memories, your dreams too. 

“Maybe it’s in the museum somewhere. I’m willing to bet.”

“I hope it is.”

Your conversation fizzles back into silence, and the characters on the television do too. The two on the screen sit in a field, mere inches apart. The two of you look at each other, your knees now leaned into Kei’s chest and one of his arms draped along the back of the couch. When he pulls his glasses back to his eyes, and studies you all over again, it hits him that you really haven’t changed all that much, even after your six year separation. Six years older, with the exhaustion of a functioning adult, but you still gnaw on your cheeks, and tilt your head as you ask questions. Six years apart, and you are still you, who taught him to build sandcastles, and introduced him to his favourite movie, and fixed his hair whenever it stuck up in stubborn peaks of gold. When you let your eyes close, and drop your head onto his shoulder, you wait for lost time to tick backwards, until you’re on the rooftop with him once again. In this version of time, you blush when you tell him that you’ve chosen to stay in Japan instead. Pushing your head further into the crook of his neck, Kei’s chin reaches over to rest on the top of your crown. The credits of the movie roll in the background, and you mumble into the skin of his pulse. 

“Can you take me there? I’ve missed it.” Your words send vibrations down his spine, sending his head into a frenzy as he pushes his hands against the couch harder. 

“The museum?” It will be closed for the weekend, but Kei nods anyway. He’s sure he can find his way in through the back. Maybe he’ll take you to the fossils again, let you run your fingers along smooth amber and stone engravings. Perhaps he could show you the new exhibitions, ones that you won’t miss this time, as you have for the past six years. For now, he thinks he will let you sleep on his shoulder, listen to your soft snores, tremble at every hot breath that fans onto his neck. 

The credits roll to the end, and come to a stop. Kei removes his arm from the couch to grab the remote from his coffee table. He rewinds the movie to the start.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

思慕 [しぼ, shibo]: yearning; deep longing, especially when accompanied by tenderness or sadness.

On the final night of your stay, you learn that Kei still giggles when he breaks rules, as he drags you through the back entrance of the closed museum. He maneuvers through hallways of antique paintings and repurposed junk, slips into dark stairwells illuminated by the flashlight of his phone, traps your wrist between his fingers and chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he takes you higher, and higher, and higher. You’ve lost count of how many flights of stairs have gone by when he taps his keycard against a sensor by a backdoor, and pushes it open. The museum observatory, once a mess of bamboo scaffolding and green covers, now allows silver moonlight through its glass dome, boasting billions of iridescent stars nestled in a blanket of hazy midnight. A decade of your anticipation has resulted in a circular space, hundreds of plush recliners lining the circumference of the room, and you wonder how many eyes have watched the stars from those seats before you ever had the chance to. When Kei leads you further into the observatory, you step foot onto the north star plastered on the ground in the centre of the room, where nothing but a telescope remains in a ten-foot radius. He takes a spot on the ground, back pressed against the cushioned edge of a seat.

“I figured this is the best spot. Better than any of the seats, actually.” He plants his feet on the ground, bending his knees and spreading them just wide enough for you to sit in between. You cross your legs, wagging them up and down as your hands hold your shins, and he lowers his legs, stretching them out in front of him. Leaning back, your spine hits a spot between his ribs, the same way it did when you were thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, staring at stars from the grass of his backyard. You pity the visitors that have yet to discover the simplicity of stargazing from the ground, hands pushed into the ground for stability, dirt and moisture seeping into the fabric of clothing. Pushing further into him, his breathing is heavy against your back, chest rising in rhythmic ups and downs. For what feels like hours, you sit in silence, eyes trained on your fingers that pick and fiddle. At the realisation that you haven’t looked at the stars in years, something bubbles in your stomach, pervasive, relentless. When you finally loll your head backwards to fall on his shoulder, and the tip of Kei’s nose grazes your cheekbone, you wonder how long he has not looked at the stars for as well. 

“Why’d you stop calling?” His sudden question sends a haze rushing into your head.

You swallow thickly. If the passage of time were a sin, you’d burden it with all your explanations. Telling him that now would seem like some lousy excuse.

“It stopped going to your line a year after I left.” You pause, searching for the right words to use amidst the sea of Japanese and English that you must now sort out. “I only stopped trying after another month, the voicemail just said your number was no longer in use.” 

Kei wishes he could dig his fingers into his chest and rip his heart out. If only he hadn’t stupidly broken his phone that night, five years ago during volleyball practice. If only he had checked his pockets before entering the court, just as he has done hundreds of times before. If only he had this, if only he had that, he might just torment himself for the rest of his life. His breath hitches, shoulder freezing rigid. Time does not differentiate between the knowing and oblivious. It slips and leaks beneath the noses of all that it encompasses, and it is but the cautious few that know to grab it, and join in on its journey. He knows now that he is not one of them, not after he’s cursed at the passage of time over and over and over for his own blunder.

“I broke my phone in a game. Got a new one so the number changed as well, fuck me.”

You laugh dryly into the empty observatory. The occasional twinkling of the stars above do nothing to make his explanation any easier. You think you’ll blame it all on doomed fate that you’ve spent five years trying to find somebody that felt the same as Kei did, to no avail. Blame it on cursed luck that you’ve clawed and grabbed at anything familiar enough, archaeology, jazz vinyls, old DVDs of the movie shared between two, all to remind yourself that he too, was once within grasp. You say nothing, because you don’t see a reason to. Instead, you push your head into his neck, drown in the scent of his cologne, ease yourself into his now grown body. You don’t see him wipe a hand across his mouth, then rub his eyes with pinched fingers. 

When Kei decides to speak again, it is what feels like another hour later. He’s readjusted his posture about fifty times by now, arms removed from the ground and draped over your shoulders. The sensation of your hair against his skin is suddenly more prominent than ever when your hands find his own, holding them closer to yourself.

“If I didn’t find you at the grave, would you have looked for me?” His question is heavy, weighing his chest down as the words leave his throat in a hesitant cluster. You turn to look at him, and your eyes linger on his own when you squeeze his hands once, twice, then a third time. 

“I’ve been looking for five years. Nobody else could take me home.” Your heart rushes to your mouth at your confession, and the bob of Kei’s throat does not go unnoticed. One of his hands comes up to hold your shoulder, pushing it towards himself until your body twists, rubbing against his. You let go of him, pressing your fingers into the ground between his legs instead, and he breathes out shakily, his windpipe suddenly cleared of its uncertainty.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, I am.”

His fingers slide down to grab your wrist, before going numb completely. His unoccupied hand peels itself from the floor and settles on the side of your waist. Your mouth goes dry when Kei breathes, hot and heavy, his eyes travelling to every inch of you. A bout of heat rushes from his chest to his head, and his legs, and his arms too. The air between the two of you is thick, and it sends your head into a feverish blur. The ground collapses beneath your knees as they shift to press into the floor, and you come face to face with Tsukishima Kei, who prefers his hair parted in bangs on the sides of his face, and wears silver frames instead of black ones. Tsukishima Kei, who has been visiting your father’s grave on your behalf for six years, and still plays volleyball even in his adulthood. Tsukishima Kei, whose eyes are finally finished with their ventures across your figure, that is pushed up against him on the ground of an observatory, and is learning whatever he can about you when his fingers tighten around your wrists and he kisses you without a warning. 

Once, at the young, innocent age of seven, Tsukishima Kei kissed you in this museum. You had run a little too fast, stepped on your loose laces and fallen onto the ground face first. You sulked at a bench facing some random painting of melting clocks, red dots scattered across a purple patch right beneath your eye. When he kneeled in front of you to grab your face, and pressed his lips onto the bruise for a fraction of a second, he must have kissed the pain away, mending the leaking capillaries beneath your skin as he separated from your cheeks with a pop. Now, he pulls against your wrists to push himself closer, traps you in the embrace of his legs around the back of your thighs, wheezes and stutters against your lips at the lack of oxygen in his lungs. His head is running in circles instead of straight paths, and everything is spinning. When your hands reach to grab at his shirt, and palm at his chest, he pulls away only to rip his glasses off and toss them to the ground. Beneath the glow of the moon from above, everything but your flushed cheeks and swollen lips is a blur. You take half a breath in, before it is interrupted by Kei’s palms pulling you in by the sides of your neck, and his mouth on yours again. At seven years old, he ripped bruising pain away from your face with a kiss. At twenty-one, he forces his pain, and grief, and regret rushing into your heart by pushing himself against you, fingers tangling themselves into your hair as he kisses you, desperate, almost distressed. Every tug at your lips is a confession left unspoken, every time Kei opens his mouth apologies spill out into you in choked groans and sighs. At the sensation of his hand leaving your neck, your arm searches for him aimlessly, before he’s palming at you through your pants. He swallows your sudden gasp, and your fingers grip his wrist until your knuckles go white. 

“Did you ever like me?” You can do nothing but choke out a question against his lips, one you’ve pondered about, day in and day out, since your departure from Japan.

By the way that Kei nods frantically, you’re certain that this is what six years of separation has amounted to. 

Sparing no time, your fingers tug at the hem of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to release himself from the fabric constraints. He does the same, hands roaming until they find the waistband of your pants to push them down, fingers tugging your underwear to the side with a flick. He grabs you by the waist beneath your shirt, yanks your body towards him until something feels right and he can’t help but let out a trembling sigh into your shoulder. And when you finally begin to sink yourself onto him, agonisingly slow, you wish that you had never left Japan in the first place. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you wish that you could spend the rest of your life in this observatory with Kei, your hands wrapped around the back of his sweat-slicked neck. 

When he pulls you down to push further, more pervasively, you fall into him, head hanging over his shoulder and arms squeezing around his neck. His inexperienced hands rock you back and forth against his hips, pulling a flurry of gasps and moans from your throat. He lets himself learn how you taste when his teeth tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it down to expose your bare shoulder. His lips latch onto your collarbone, biting and sucking a trail of red marks up to the side of your neck. You shudder at his advances, and he studies the way your walls flutter around him, the erratic pulses that draw stars around his head, how your nails dig into his shoulders, and send his mind into a senseless orbit. 

When he pushes and pulls at you a little harder, you whimper his name into his ear, reduced to nothing but a babbling mess that nibbles at his neck and kisses up his jaw feverishly. First friend, first kiss, first love. The notion that this is another first that Tsukishima Kei has brought upon you sends your mind spiralling. He should have been your first prom date, first roommate, first dance too. If only you hadn’t left him first. You push your head off his shoulder, hands moving to hold his face instead. A wave of pleasure washes over you when his palm presses against your stomach, and you hang your head low again, a shaky sigh released from your chest. 

When you look up, there are tears in Kei’s eyes. He rolls his head back onto the plush seat behind him, hands lifting you off himself fully, just to push you back onto him again. You collapse into his body, palms pressing against his heaving chest. 

“I- fuck! I fucking loved you! I still do!” He speaks it into the glass ceiling as one hand reaches for his face. He wipes his palm across his eyes, only for more tears to form. They are uncontrollable, relentless as he turns his head away from you. He isn’t sure how he will live again tomorrow, not when he’s finally come to a reckoning with the pang in his chest at every thought of you. He thinks he could die the second you step onto that flight back to London, ripped away from him once again. The reality that he cannot stay buried inside you for any longer than the next couple of minutes haunts him to no end, the idea of being separated from you a second time unbearable to even imagine. When he turns back to see you, head on his chest and fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, he decides that reality can wait until he’s finished with you. 

“I love you too- shit, Kei! I never stopped!”

You rut against his hips senselessly now, chasing some unfamiliar high as your vision fades to black and you scream his name until your throat goes hoarse. Kei barely gives you time to breathe, before he’s coming undone from right beneath you, shuddering and groaning as you relax against his body and go limp. He holds you against him, one hand pushing your head against his chest and the other wrapped around your back. He tucks your damp hair behind your ears, places kisses along your temple so he can hear the hums of satisfaction that sound from your curled lips. 

“Can you stay forever?” He mumbles into your hair, and you turn to press your ear against his chest. His heart pounds as he pushes his cheek into the crown of your head, and your hands crawl up his chest to wrap around his neck. When he looks up through the glass ceiling, the stars have not moved one bit.

“I’ll find you again, wherever you are.”

Time may slip away from Tsukishima Kei like petals that fall off the buds of flowers, water that seeps beneath the soles of his sneakers, stardust that hovers above the atmosphere. Yet he has learned that it has a way of always coming back to remind him of its presence, and its escape. You are the reminder that it has been sending to him for six years.

author's note:

ERM! never writing nsfw again that's for sure but this piece defs had some stuff that i was very, VERY proud of coming up with!! sorry to my minor moots who probably won't read this in its entirety bc of the big MDNI warning... but I honestly don't know how to feel about this piece as a whole... i was super excited to write it but i think i got a little impatient towards the end esp since im always writing at like 3am LOL but i hope you guys liked it anyways!!! i tried really hard to make the dynamic work and i hope it did!!!!!

also ps they exchange numbers again js a little extra bonus that i didn’t get to put into the actual thing

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @chuuya-brainrot @akaakeis @laughingfcx @writingsofanomnivore @t0rchknight @bailey-reeds @wyrcan @hiraethwa @fiannee @catsoupki @anonymity-222 @wishi-selfships @kuroppiii

ok love u guys thank u for being patient

[berberriescorner]

The Sweetest Chaos

Characters: Dad(Husband)!Rio x Black!Reader.

Summary: Rio and the reader navigate the delightful chaos of family life while juggling six kids, a doctor's appointment, and grocery shopping. Through tender moments and playful banter, the couple's love shines amidst the everyday challenges of parenting, showcasing the beautiful messiness of their unconventional family.

Warnings: Mild language. Family dynamics and parenting themes. Situations involving children and chaos😆. Light humor and romantic moments🥰. Some references to past relationships/blended family dynamics. In other words, nothing serious😆.

Author’s Note: So, it’s ya girl’s birthday tomorrow and I wanted to treat my babies. Let’s celebrate with some much-needed Dad(Husband)!Rio. We’ll treat this as if it’s a birthday cake and I’m sharing the deliciousness with my lovelies, my babies🥰💜. I missed you all🥹🫶🏾. Also, no pressure, but to know me, is to know I love books. If anyone is interested in sending your girl some birthday book mail–hit my inbox and I’ll share my Amazon Bookish Wishlist with you🤓📖. Word Count: 1,100+.

Music Inspo💜:

The minivan, lovingly nicknamed "The Chaos Chariot" by Rio himself, rumbled to a stop outside Dr. Patel's office. Six sets of eyes, ranging from wide and curious to sleepily blinking, stared back at you. Rio, the perfect picture of calm and confidence, swaggered to the driver's side. His eyes met yours and deep chocolate orbs accompanied by a sexy smirk admired you for a moment. He watched you look down shyly and squirm, as you pretended to rummage through your purse. He loved that even after years of being together, he still gave you butterflies. 

He chuckled lightly and opened your door, greeting you in that sexy rasp, “Hey, mama.” Rio palmed your thigh, giving your lips a light peck. “Let me get that for you,” he gestured toward the diaper bag and matching mommy satchel. You handed him both, eyes sparkling with a hint of laughter as he slung them onto his shoulder. 

He grabbed your hand helping you down from the minivan. Rio bent at the waist to connect his lips with yours once more, pulling back you felt his breath fan over your lips as he spoke, “Go get checked in. I got my little goons, mama.” Still wrapped up in his scent and husky tone, you slowly nodded and turned to head inside. Your husband took a deep breath, preparing himself for the madness. His fingers clutched the back door handle, as he slid it open, "Alright, mis bebes, mi vida, let's get this done."

Bless her eternally optimistic soul, Dr. Patel greeted you with a bright smile that could rival the sleekness and shine of Rio's meticulously maintained Mercedes (parked discreetly a few blocks away). Wrangling six kids into the waiting room was an art form you mastered over the years. Eight-year-old Amina, currently sporting a head of questionable purple hair dye courtesy of her older sister Marianna, who didn’t ask permission and in turn, was grounded until further notice, was a whirlwind of boundless energy. Thankfully, baby Luca, still blissfully oblivious to the world, slept peacefully in your carrier.

While you negotiated a temporary peace treaty between Amina and the boy who "stole" London’s toy car (spoiler alert, it was under the couch), Rio watched Marcus, his son from a previous relationship. Unlike the teenage angst you sometimes expected, Marcus was a quiet, sweet, and helpful teenager. Today, he sat patiently reading a book, occasionally glancing up to offer a reassuring smile to his younger siblings.

Dr. Patel, used to the organized crazy of your family, efficiently ushered you in one by one. Marcus, ever the responsible one, volunteered to go first with Ravi, distracting the rambunctious toddler with a game of peek-a-boo while you wrestled London out of her shoes. Rio, his usual relaxed self, watched the interaction with a hint of pride softening his features. Later, during Luca's checkup, Rio's stoicism melted away as the doctor cooed over his chubby cheeks. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a sight rarely seen outside your home. Each child took their turn being looked over, some receiving mandatory vaccinations. Every child was showered in praise. You were fairly certain Dr. Patel had a soft spot for all of your children. Who could resist those sweet little faces?

Grocery shopping was a logistical nightmare but you were a seasoned veteran. Your meticulously planned list, organized by category in your notes app, was your weapon against the grocery store's mayhem. Rio, channeling his inner strategist, divided the aisles and troops. 

"Baby, that’s way too many boxes of cereal," you insisted, raising an eyebrow at Rio as he tossed them into the cart with a wink.

"Just keeping the snack acquisition specialist happy, darlin’," he replied, his voice a low rumble that sent a delicious shiver down your spine despite the fluorescent lighting and screaming children. Marianna, ever-observant, wrinkled her nose.

"Eww, gross! Do you two have to be so lovey in public?" she complained.

Rio chuckled a deep sound that made your heart skip a beat. "Just making sure your mama knows she's appreciated, princess," he countered, leaning down to kiss your forehead. Amina along with London, never ones to miss out on the action, squealed and demanded a forehead kiss too. He obliged, and you rolled your eyes playfully at the interaction.

Marianna, the self-proclaimed "snack-quisition specialist," continued to navigate the chip aisle with laser focus. Marcus, ever the team player, tackled the produce section with military precision, carefully selecting the ripest fruits and vegetables. Meanwhile, you kept a watchful eye on Ravi, who toddled around like a gleeful wrecking ball, occasionally attempting to "accidentally" knock over displays with a mischievous giggle.

The checkout line stretched into eternity. Baby Luca, your newest addition, decided this was the perfect moment to unleash his lungs. The symphony of cries, bickering over candy bars, and Rio's muttered threats to ditch the entire cart made heads turn. “Mama, you’re worn out. Y’all can just go wait in the car. I’ll bring the groceries.” Just as you were about to melt into a puddle of exhaustion and accept, a warm hand reached for yours. It was Marcus, his usual shy smile replaced with a determined glint.

"Here you go, baby bro," he said, handing a bottle to Luca, who instantly quieted down. Your eyes filled with thanks and a bit of shock. Marcus shrugged his shoulders and continued, “I packed an extra bottle just in case. You looked busy running around, getting us all together. I figured it wouldn’t hurt, ma.” You smiled, fighting back tears. Marcus’ attention shifted toward Rio who was making a beeline for Ravi, who had slipped through his legs and tried to wander off. The eldest child chuckled, shuffling over to his dad, who was battling the wiggling toddler. “Here, Pops,” he assisted, handing a juice box to Ravi. With juice in his grasp, he stopped fighting his father and was mesmerized by the colorful packaging. A wave of warmth washed over you. These moments, fleeting and unexpected, were the glue that held your crazy, chaotic family together.

With the shopping complete, you piled back into the minivan, the air thick with the sweet smell of victory (and possibly a rogue diaper). Rio insisted on taking half the gang in his vehicle. “Maybe you can get a little peace, mama. I’m leaving the two oldest and baby Luca with you. I’ll take the ones that be wilding the most,” he insisted, as he referred to the middle children.

“They get it from you,” you joked, unable to stifle a giggle. 

As Rio weaved through traffic, the setting sun casting an orange glow on his face, he knew this wasn’t the life he imagined. But each of your faces popped into his mind and his heart warmed with a mix of love and joy.” In the quiet moments between grocery meltdowns and doctor's appointments, there was a love so fierce, so unexpected, it warmed even the most guarded corners of Rio's heart.

Hope you enjoyed it my sweet, beautiful lovelies. Please be sure to reblog and comment💜. Oh yeah and…

😆😂🤣😁.

Tagging some of my lovelies:

@darqchilddaydreamz @astoldbychae @percosim @thirtysomethinganduncensored @ravennaortiz @amorestevens @abcdestinyyyy @jannavaire @novaniskye @nobodygetsza @bisexuallyattractivebitch @1andonlytashae @rio-reid-whoreee @lovedlover @sunshine-flower @realhotgurlshit @thebumbqueen @blowmymbackout @tashawar @captainwithoutmakingitlove @kinkiicoils @theegoddessofmelanin @beachyserasims @tbmotw @wroteitbutneverwatchedit @speckldsimblr @prettyyybrownroundd @onherereading @undevidedattentionsblog @starrynite7114

[writers-hes]

In the Bleak Midwinter

SYNOPSIS: You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn't realize that war could change you both. (angst, abuse, canon-typical themes, death, war, MDNI, mature themes) AN: Don’t look at the comments / reblogs if you don’t want spoilers!! But please discuss what you think once you’re done reading 🤍

Toy Horses Outside the Brothel | Tommy Shelby x Reader | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

PROTECTION SERIES TAGLIST | PROTECTION MASTERLIST navigation

“So fucking close…” he whispers to himself, inhaling. He turns around and looks up, maybe he could conjure you right now. One last time before he died. “Oh and there’s a woman…a woman who I love and I got close. Nearly got fucking everything!” he shouts. “Oh, what the fuck. Get it done, boys,” he tells them. He kneels before the man. 

“In the bleak midwinter…” Tommy says to himself, voice raspy and tired. “In the bleak midwinter…” he whispers to himself, his body shaking. He didn’t know where he was. He just knew that he was going to get killed today. The hole on the ground is where he’ll be buried and he never got the chance to be with you. “In the bleak…in—“

He couldn’t die today. Dread fills his body. You were still at the tracks with Simon. This wasn’t a part of the plan. He was supposed to kill Simon. He was supposed to have fun while doing it while you sat, unaware with Alfie Solomons in the private room. Sweat trickles on his face, and he closes his eyes. The blood on his forehead had dried up and his heart was beating wildly in his chest. He couldn’t believe that the last thing he ever did on this fucking ground was smoke a cigarette. So close. So close…so fucking close. 

The sound of a gun going off echoes in the vast field and he finds himself inside the hole. He stays there, appalled. 

“Get out of the grave, tinker! Be on your fucking way!”

He stumbles out, unbalanced. Shock was still inside his body. He trips and lands on his face, his palms on the wet ground and he screams. So fucking close. He shakes his head, standing up and sobbing as he did so, on the way home…on the way to you. 

He pours himself a glass of Irish whisky. He’s got some ideas for the future of the company…and also, he’s planning on getting something. 

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron…

BIRMINGHAM, 1922

Tommy couldn’t believe his fucking luck. How many times does he have to wait for things to finally fucking settle? How many more years should he wait for you? He didn’t mind—how could he ever mind when it came to you? 

He couldn’t forget the relief that washed over him when Alfie called him to say that the job’s been done. He was supposed to get the locket in his office and go to the tracks but Alfie stopped him. 

“Y/N killed Simon Coventry,” Alfie said. “Shot him dead like…mush, bone, mush. Saw her checking for his heartbeat after. I told her not to cry over spilled milk,” he snickers. “Do you get it, mate? Spilled milk?”

He tells Tommy about how shaken you were after the police investigation…how you kept it to yourself until the last officer went out. You were wailing and stuttering ‘he’s dead’ over and over. Alfie told him that he will get one of his men to send the gun to his office for safekeeping. Tommy knew that he should give you some time but he couldn’t wait anymore. He knew that you sold your London mansion and lived in Birmingham now. He knew that you bought the mansion with the garden; the one where you both used to frequent in as kids. He knew that all because he had some of the Blinders guard the property from afar. He knew that all because he passed by the house to get a glimpse of you but the house was quiet, eerie, and lacked life. Polly nor Ada couldn’t get in yet. It all happened too much…too fast…in a span of years, to have Simon dead at the sound of a gun was shocking. 

It’s been a year and he couldn’t believe he waited that long to come visit you when he knows you the most. He shakes with anticipation everyday. He was looking forward to seeing you last year, to finally telling you all about his love for you. Maybe it was him who needed you more because you made your own world without him, but he couldn’t give a fuck anymore. You’ve both been apart for what felt like decades and he will burn the world if he’s apart from you for a day more. 

It was raining and he drove to your house in his black car. The mansion with a garden. How foolish you both were when you dreamed those dreams. Life was never that easy. Blood was shed, lives were taken for his ambition. It didn’t matter right now. Not in this second. The rain just gets stronger. He forgot his umbrella but it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered right now. He could see your figure from the back of the house looking through the French windows of your new home. Funny, you both got what you wanted. He got the Arrow House and you had this manor but they were both so fucking lifeless. He imagined a different house. He imagined a house with kids, with you during the war. He was looking at you and frowned when he saw you leave. Should he knock at the door? Should he just go back? Did you even want to see him?

Drops of rain wet his coat and he removed his Peaky hat, tossing it away to fix his hair. He should’ve gotten an umbrella. His shoes slosh with every step and the chill eats away his bones but he will be warm soon.  

Thunder wakes the Birmingham sky and he sees you…a few metres away from him in your dress. 

“Tommy!” you called, an umbrella in your hand. You rushed towards him to give him shelter from the rain. The mud from the grass made your bare feet wet but you didn’t care. Tommy was here…he was finally here. He meets you halfway, underneath your black umbrella. He smiles, chest against yours. 

“We can’t fit,” he chuckled, a glimmer of the youth that you used to see in his eyes appearing. “Y/N,”

“Tommy,” you replied, a bashful smile on your face. “Let’s go inside,” you tell him but he holds your arm to keep you from leaving. “Tom?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his hand coming up to touch your face but he wasn’t sure. Was it alright to touch you now? “I—I,” he tries to think of words to say, every single emotion getting trapped in his throat. He coughs, shaking his head. “I miss you,”

A single tear trails down your cheek and you wipe it away. 

“Looks like the world is finally quiet,” you replied, smiling at him. “I’ve missed you too, Tom,” you chuckled, laying your head on his chest. “I’ve missed you so, so, so much,”

He nods, wrapping his arms around you. You look at him again, a small smile on your face. 

“Did you know that…that—“ he coughs. Fuck.

“Tommy?”

“I’ve always thought of ways to tell you this back in the war and I just—I guess the delays and everything and fuck, love. I’ve loved you since we played with your toy horses outside the brothel,” he breathes out. “And I’m sorry, so, so fucking sorry that it took me so long to tell you. That you had to go through all that because you thought that I didn’t love you when I did. I’ve loved you since then and I still love you now. I love you and I just hope that I’m not too late because God, Y/N. You were the one who saved me..who protected me all these years and I can’t lose you again,” he tells you, his hands cradling your face. “I thought…I thought I was going to die when Sabini’s men took me, Y/N and all I could think of was you. How were you? Were you free? You were the only one in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I love you, Y/N. I love you so, so much,” he adds tenderly, his forehead against yours. You were smiling at him, tears streaming down your face. Tommy loves you. Tommy loves you. 

“I love you too, Tommy,” you whispered. “I’ve loved you all this time. I can’t believe we’re finally here,” you smiled at him. Tommy throws away the umbrella in your hand. He takes your chin with his fingers gently. Tommy could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He knew that if he'd kiss you now, he’d dream of your beautiful face and soft lips forever. With bated breath, he takes in your expressions, trying to look for any signs of doubt but he couldn’t see it. Is this how it’s like to kiss the face of an angel? He licks his lips and then…and then, he kisses you. He was reborn. His reincarnation was complete. Earthly lifetimes before this had nothing on the life that he will build with you. He loves you. You love him. Tommy kisses you with years of passion and tenderness in his heart. The crease on his brows melts away and your whimpering sounded like God whispering to his ear. Nevermind the rain, nevermind everything. You were here and so was he. 

-

Tommy’s been staying over at your house ever since you professed your love for each other. He’d leave in the morning to attend to some business and then come back in the afternoon, shedding layers of today’s work into your arms. 

“How are you so beautiful?” he asks in hushed tones. His finger trails down your cheek gently. “I love you,”

“Tommy,” you chuckled. “You’ve been showering me with praise.”

“I’ve been waiting all my life to say these things to you, love. I’ll make up for those lost years everyday.” 

“I love you, Tommy,” you told him, rising from your position to kiss his cheek. “I don’t think I can love anyone else as much as I love you,”

“Pol knows about us,” he whispers. “I think John and Arthur are wondering where I’m always off to because they never see me home,”

“Nothing escapes past her,” you told him. “I miss her…I still can’t believe she intercepted those letters. I don’t know…I can’t hold a grudge against her but I can’t…”

“It’s alright. I understand,” he replied. “Took me a while to get over it too because…because if she didn’t, we’d have all of this earlier,”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you loved me before?”

“I wanted to tell you before I left but I can’t make you wait for me that long. I knew I was coming back to you but what if I couldn’t?” he asked. He holds your body closer to him. The hushed tones that you spoke in made the bedroom so homey, comfortable, and nice. His chin falls on the top of your head. “Why didn’t you tell me that you loved me?”

“I didn’t want you to love me,” you told him. “I was a prostitute, Tom and I…I don’t want to love you when I can’t give you all of me,” you whispered.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I would have done something to make sure that you wouldn’t have to do any of that.” he said. He takes your fingers into his, weaving his with yours. 

-

“Are you off to see Y/N again?” Polly asked, sipping on her tea while she watched her nephew fix his coat. Tommy patted himself down, making sure that everything was in place. 

“Of course, Pol,” he smiles. “Off to see my woman,”

“Can…can you tell her that she’s invited for Sunday’s dinner?” Polly asked, wiping her worries away by rubbing her hands. “I’ve missed her. The family misses her,”

“I’ll try to,” Tommy replied. “But don’t expect anything, Pol,”

“Of course,” she replied. Her lips pursed together. “I wanted to tell her about…how sorry I am for the things I’ve done. It should have been your decision to stay in touch and not mine, no matter how much I justify it. I—I feel as though it was my fault for putting her through all of that, Tom,”

“Thank you, Pol,” Tommy nodded. 

“What has she been up to these days?” she asked.

“Fixing her estate and her properties,” he replied. “She’s been mostly cooped inside the house,” Polly only nods to herself, unsure of what to say. Tommy leaves with a click of his tongue. 

When he arrived at your house, you were in your office, sorting through some of the documents Simon left you. You look up at him from where you were sitting with a smile and he takes that as a sign to come closer. He kisses your shoulder lightly before reading over the documents. 

“You want to rest?” he asked, voice husky. He puts his hands on your shoulders and massages you gently. 

“Thanks, Tommy,”

“Polly’s inviting you to come to Sunday’s dinner,” he says. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to nor do you have to answer now. Ada’s gonna be there along with Karl. John and the kids…Arthur and Finn. Pol and then, me,”

Tommy kisses the top of your head, watching you sort through the papers. 

“Can I…can I think about it?” you asked him. You could see how important it is to him but you couldn’t agree just because he’s Tommy. It didn’t work that way anymore. He hums, satisfied with your reply before sitting on the chair adjacent to the table. 

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked. 

“Just…some of his unsettled accounts,” you sighed. “I want them paid to avoid issues,” you told him. He takes a document and reads it over. Oh. “I want to start a foundation for children or at least, fund an orphanage and a school,” 

“Do it,” he tells you. “Simon has left a considerable amount of properties to last generations.”

“What time should I go to Arrow House for Sunday’s dinner?” you asked. Tommy halts and looks at you with a grateful smile. 

“I’ll come get you,” he says, kissing your cheek. “Thank you. I know it’s not easy,” he tells you. You only nod, if Tommy can look at you like that again, then a thousand awkward dinners don’t mean a thing. 

-

Sunday comes and you stand at the door of Arrow House with his hand on your back. He could see you fumble nervously. You almost looked shy. An amused smile graces his face. Why would you be so shy when you’ve told John off multiple times? You helped raise Finn. Ada basically considers you as a sister. You were the only person that Arthur respects. Polly thinks of you as her daughter. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, his raspy voice coating you like honey. You nod and he chuckles, opening the door to his mansion.

The Shelbys were everywhere. Ada was running after Karl and John’s kids. Arthur was laughing at something that John probably said. Polly was nowhere to be found, probably fussing in the kitchen. 

“See? It’s like you never left,” he comforts you. He knows better than to have the attention all on you so he tries to slip past everyone without being noticed. Still, your arrival was much awaited and soon enough, you were engulfed in strong arms.

“Y/N!” John greets, hugging you tighter. “Oh, everyone! Y/N’s here!” he announces and you chuckle. 

“John…” Tommy warns but before his little brother can let you go, Arthur slings an arm around your shoulder. 

“How are you, dove?” he asked. 

“I’ve been well,” you replied. Ada comes next, shooing her brothers away to have you all to herself. 

“Y/N. It’s been so long since we last saw each other. You loom as radiant as ever! I hope my idiot brother’s treating you well, hm?” she asked, pointedly looking at an amused Tommy who was leaning by the fireplace. “Seriously, how are you? Are you doing well?” she asks in a  more serious tone.

“I am,” you replied. “Sorry it took me a year to recover,” you replied. 

“We understand, Y/N. We could’ve waited longer but Tommy here couldn’t. He was so fidgety!” she chuckled. “Basically pissed on everyone for a whole year! He almost got in a brawl with Arthur. That’s how miserable Tommy was but then again, you’ve never really seen Tommy being aggressive,”

“I haven’t,” you replied. Honestly, you were so glad that Tommy kept his gang and violence from you. You’ve never seen him land a punch even though you knew that he slept beside a gun. 

“Thank you for coming, though,” Ada says. “We all missed you and we wanted to come visit you but Tommy warned us to give you time and space until you’re ready after what happened,”

“You know that I’m always happy to be here. Everything was just too much at so little time, Ada,” you replied. “I’m sorry if I ever made it seem like I didn’t want you to be with me when I moved back here. I needed room to grow and heal,”

“You don’t have to apologise, Y/N. In any case, I actually feel quite guilty for the things that I allowed myself to put you through. All of us played a part in your marriage with Simon Coventry. I just…if you’re being forced or if there’s an inkling that you don’t want to be with Tommy—“

“Ada!” you laughed lightly. It puts a smile on her face. How long has it been since you laughed like that? “I’m alright. I love Tommy and I love your family. There’s not a day that I don’t want to see him. I’m always looking forward to his visits and when he can't, I still do the same anyway.” you told her. 

“That’s great,” she smiled. “I’m happy for you, Y/N. Tommy’s really lucky,”

You were so engrossed with your conversation with Ada that you didn’t see Polly approaching. It was Ada who called Polly over. Tension settles on your spine; creeping up like ice. Your throat dries and Ada coughs. 

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, smiling at you encouragingly before leaving. Polly walks towards you cautiously, scared that she’ll scare you. You smile at her tightly, your cheeks hurting from the control. 

“I…” you sighed, looking away. “I know that you want what is best for me but you didn’t have to intercept the letters,” you started. “I know that we didn’t know when Tommy’s coming back…or if he’s coming back and you wanted me to take the opportunity to–”

“Y/N,” she stops you, a soft hand on your crossed arms. “You don’t have to defend me. I’m so sorry for what happened and for what I did. I had no right to do what I did. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be happy…you’d–” she chokes. “I’m so sorry, my love,” she whispers, a stray tear on her face. She tries to shake it off. “I’m really sorry. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me someday,”

“But I forgive you, Pol,” you told her. “It was hard to do so and it’s harder to repair what we lost but you can’t blame yourself for the things that Simon did. We both didn’t know,” you told her. “Thank you for apologising and…thank you for always looking out for me,”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so, so, so sorry,” she cried. She could feel her throat tighten and her eyes glisten. You smiled at her. Maybe this was what you needed to finally close that part in your life.

The afternoon was filled with reunions and with warmth. A regular weekend at the Shelby’s, just like when you and Tommy were younger. Oh how you’ve missed them–how you’ve missed having a family. 

-

The night was quiet at the Arrow House. Everybody left at the sight of nightfall, dimming laughter filling the halls. You and Tommy were at the drawing room in the second storey of his mansion, looking at the cars that left one by one. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, his chin on the crook of your neck. He breathes in and kisses what he could kiss. 

“You alright?” he asked, pulling you closer. 

“Very,” you told him. “Made me realise how much I missed having your family around…I miss having a family,” 

“You are a part of us, you know that, right?” he asked.

“I know,” you replied, laying closer to him. 

“You can be a part of us. A real Shelby,” he whispers. “Y/N, look at me,” he asks of you, removing his hands gently and turning your around.

“Tommy?”

“Did you know Polly told me that only love can blind a man as powerful as me?” he asked. “I realised that wasn’t the case. It was you all along, love. My love for you is secondary. You’re the one who makes me weak, who makes me blind. I love you so much. I’ll burn the world if it means that you’re safe, you’re with me, and you’re happy. Y/N, do you want to be a Shelby?” he asked. He pulls out a ring from his bolster shakily. You’ve never seen him nervous. “I’ve held onto this for so long. This was the first thing I bought when I came back from war,” he says. The gold ring with a single diamond glimmers. “I thought of getting you something else…a bigger diamond, maybe but material things don’t matter to me anymore. The only thing I can promise is my love, my loyalty. I am the only thing I can promise you. I’m quite scared because if you’ll marry me, you’ll marry a man and you will marry a curse. I can’t…I can’t go on like this anymore. I can’t go on without you anymore. It’s selfish, I know but will you marry me, Y/N?” he asked. You stood there, dumbfounded. 

“Tommy–of course, I’ll marry you,” you replied, tears streaming down your face. “I’ve loved you for so long,” you chuckled, extending your hand towards his equally shaky ones. He puts the ring on your ring finger. It has always belonged to you. “I’ll marry you right now. Oh, Tom,” you cried, kissing him feverishly. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. Is this life even real?

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” he rasps and you nod. He holds your hand with his gentle ones and sits you on the bed. He smiles at you in the dimming light of his bedroom. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. He was afraid to see you disappear if he was too loud. “So beautiful for me,” he says, tucking a stray hair and kissing the spot under your ear. You hum, fishing for the buttons of his shirt and he chuckles, forcefully removing it from himself. 

“Tom,” you whispered, unbuttoning your dress. He nods, leaning on the headboard and letting you straddle him. The softness of your skin against his was sending him over the edge but he chooses to control himself. He lets your dress and brassiere fall on your shoulders, your breasts bare to him. He angles himself, taking a nipple in his mouth and licking it softly. You whimpered, the feeling of his mouth on one of the most sensitive parts of your body was something that you never thought was going to happen. 

“Is it alright if I bite?” he asked and you nodded. “Say it. Come on, love,”

“Do whatever you want to me, Tommy,” you mewled, hands massaging your silky breasts while he sucks on your nipple.

“Fuck, love,” He groans at your response, bucking his hips unexpectedly. “The things you do to a man, Y/N. The things you do to me,” his hands travel on your sides, goosebumps appearing from the softness of his touch. Tommy cups your heat through your underwear. “Remove your dress for me,”

You nod, the cold hitting you all at once when you raised yourself from him. He watches the fabric flow so softly until you are left with nothing but your underwear. 

“Remove that too,” he says, and you nodded. “You’re so obedient, Y/N,” he praises. “May I?” he asked and you nodded, a thick finger dipping in your wetness. You both moaned at the contact before he removed it slowly. You watched as he brought his finger up to his mouth, making a show of licking you off of him. “You’re so sweet,” 

“Tommy,” you whimpered. “Don’t tease me,” 

“Alright, alright,” he replied. You remove yourself from him, laying down on the bed with your legs spread wide. He can see your pussy glisten and he curses himself, removing his pants hastily before joining you. “Spit,” he orders you, his hand waiting expectedly by your mouth. You obliged and watched him jerk himself off. “Tell me what you want, Y/N,” he says. 

“Tommy–”

“Please,” he begs. “I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do it,”

“I want you to make love to me, Tommy,” you whimpered. “Please show me how much you love me,” 

“Oh, love,” he groans. Tommy comes towards you, so close, so warm. His hands found your knees and he caressed your knees. “You're so beautiful, darling,” 

“Tom,” you mewled. His prying fingers found your heat. He cups your mound and then parts your folds, rubbing them up and down. He smiles at you, leaning over your figure until his nose brushes yours. 

“Hey,” he tells you. He watches you closely and he wonders why he never had the courage to tell you how much he loved you earlier. The curve of your lips, the lashes on your eyes…he wanted to memorise every part of you and commemorate it. He leans down, his mouth on your mouth, kissing you so slowly. This is love, you thought. Tommy nudges your legs wider apart, his tip pressing into your wetness. “Fuck, love,” he rasps, rutting into your more roughly.

“I need you inside me, Tom,” you breathed. He nods, aligning himself on your wet slit. He feels the anticipation run through his veins. He never would have even dreamed of this. In a slow stroke, Tommy’s cock finds its way inside easily; years of longing, passion, and pent-up emotions seeping through your pores. 

“You’re, ugh—“ he groans. Fuck. “Don’t fucking move yet. I’ll—“

“Tom—“ you mewled, grinding on his pelvis in circles. You felt full; you felt complete. 

“Love, please,” he begs. “Let me…let me savour this. Want this to last,” He feels your body relax and he sighs. Really, if he decided to move now, he’s only going to embarrass himself. He curses to himself, ashamed that he had to pull himself back a little bit. “I’m going to move, yeah?” he asked and you could only nod. Tommy leans his figure over yours, his lips landing on your nipple. He licks on it lightly as he adjusts himself. He pulls out slowly, before going back in slowly. 

You both moan in unison. Tommy continues his movements while he sucked on your nipple. Your hands find their way to his hair, pulling it softly. 

“I love you, Tom,” you whimpered,feeling his cock rubbing inside. “I love you so much,”

“Mmm,” he only hums, his attention on your other nipple now. Your fingers find their way onto your clitoris and you rub circles on it while Tommy fucks you deeper. “Fuck,” he groans, breaking away from the comfort of your arms and leaning back. He removes your hand and raises one of your legs. You watched as Tommy fucks you faster, but now it was deeper and you felt more full because of your new position. “Oh, fuck,” he rasps, his thumb coming in contact with your clit.

“Tommy,” you moaned when you felt his rough thumb rubbing circles. “Fuck, I—“ 

“It’s alright, darling. I will take —good—care—of—you,” he said, thrusting harder into you to make his point. “You won’t have to worry about anything anymore. You have me…your Tommy,”

“My Tommy,” you whispered, as if it was a new concept when Tommy knew that he belonged to you from the very start. Still, hearing the words come from your mouth excites him. 

“Say it again,”

“My Tommy,” you repeated. “Fuck, Tommy,” you mewled, pinching your nipples together. 

“Fuck, you want me to fuck babies into you?” he asked, quickening his pace. 

“Yes, Tommy, please!” you whimpered. “Going to make you a daddy,”

“I’m going to make love to you everyday and cum inside your pretty pussy, yeah?” he rasps, his cock fucking your wet pussy harder. “Oh fuck,”

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, your wetness welcoming him with every thrust fills the room. You were both high, moans and grunts filling every crevice of the room. Tommy fucks you sloppier while your fingers play with your clit. 

“I’m close, ugh—Tommy,” you grunted. “Tom, Tom, Tommy,”

“Let go, love,” he whimpered. “Go on,” 

His words fuelled you and you released a high pitched moan as he felt your walls clench around him. The feeling of your pussy milking him sends him into overdrive and you feel it. You felt his warm cum coating your walls.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he moans, thrusting his hips into you even more to chase his orgasm. “I love you. I fucking love you,” he rasps, collapsing into you.

“I love you, Tommy,” you replied, playing with the soft tendrils of his hair. He lays there, unmoving, his softening cock still inside you. 

“Let’s stay like this forever,” he says, kissing your breast. 

“Alright,”

“Now, you’ve seen me,”

“And you’ve seen me,”

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1925

“Tom!” you shrieked, looking at the muddy footprints that stained your white carpet. Over the last few years, you both decided that it would be best to stay at your place instead of the Arrow House. You both agreed that it was too dark and too lonely. It was so unlike the lush gardens, the water fountain, and the scurrying feet of the maids in your house. Besides, Tommy liked it here better. It was brighter, happier, and his nephews and nieces loved to visit. 

“Oh no,” he hears a child say. “Oh, no, no, no,”

“Shh,” he crouches down to her height. “If we’re quiet, mum won’t see us,”

“Thomas Shelby! I told you to leave the boots outside whenever you’re out with the horses,” 

“Dad—I don’t want to get mummy mad,” she whispers. “Let’s say sorry,”

Tommy looks at his daughter with wonder in his eyes. He never knew he’d love someone else as much as he loves you.

“Alright,” he nods, bracing himself. “Come on,”

His daughter holds his hands and gets out of the hiding place. She immediately cowers behind her father when she sees the hand on your hip.

“It was dad’s fault!” you heard her say, running towards you and hugging your legs. “Daddy did it!”

You frowned at Tommy but he could see the smile that dared to crack. 

“Oh, bub. Where’s your loyalty to your old man, hmm?” he asked, a hand over his heart. “Darling, I must let you know that…” he trailed off kissing your cheek first. “Our daughter here is a natural,”

“Tommy…”

“I know, I know,” he soothed, massaging the crease between your eyebrows. “We’re sorry, right, bub?” he asked your little girl. She nodded, looking up at you. “Traitor,” Tommy whispers to himself before ruffling her hair. 

“Just don’t do it again, alright?” you asked him. 

BIRMINGHAM, 1913

“Do you think there’s a future where the two of us can be together?” Tommy asked. Upon seeing your panicked reaction, he coughs. “What I meant is…that we’ll still be like this,”

“Of course, we will,” you replied. “Only better…because by that time, we won’t have to worry about anything anymore because we’re together.”

“Really?”

“Of course, Tommy. You’re the most important person in my life. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you too,” you replied, looking at him, trying to look for his reaction. You looked away when you saw the ghost of a smile paint his features. He’s always been so handsome. 

“You won’t,” he replied, taking your hand to make that promise. “You won’t ever lose me,” he tells you. 

“I guess, I won’t.”

END A/N: I am so sorry for taking so long to upload this. I really am sorry. I'll be uploading a separate author's not soon. But for now, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. TAGLIST:  @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius​ @trixie23​ @everythingelseisextra​ @majesticcmey @liveat1am @dumb-wh @denabp16 @yvonna-chan @goldensunflowe-r @therosabel @hunnibearrr @dazecrea @daddyslittleattentionwhore @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @dang-shawty-okay @dasia21 @tsenthusiast1920 @aces-tattooartist @panda-luminary @ttaechi @spencerrxids @i-heart-food @fudge13 @affabletimelady @heartcereql @ce1iat @notalxx @1800-queen-trash @sweetwanderlust05 @globetrotter28 @thebestandworstdayofjune @reggxe-a @verreuckteli @vampireluck @zoexme @liter4ti @quixscentsposts @homosexualjohnwayne @charli123456789 @Maria_elizabeth21

[ghostofwriting]

in London: but in my mind I play it back

Rafe x Reader

Warnings: mentions of cheating

Note: Another random drabble idea that popped into my head. This can be read as a stand-alone but it is the same Rafe and Reader as in London: I break done cause you're not around I might continue doing angst drabbles for this and by that I mean I have one other idea rattling inside my brain for this universe.

Not KS related.

Word Count: 914

Summary: Rafe sees her for the first time in years. He learns something that shows him he needs to let go.

He didn’t want to wake up today. Something was telling him to stay in bed a little longer and take his time.

He’s older now, more disciplined. Even on his day off he has to be out of bed and doing something. Today it was going to the grocery store. 

He freezes when he sees her in the parking lot as he’s grabbing his reusable bags from the backseat of his truck. Her hair looks freshly cut and styled. The breeze makes her look like she’s just stepped out of a magazine shoot. 

She looks older,  grown up and just as beautiful as the last time he saw her. His breath is shallow as she turns around with the empty shopping cart ready to put it away. 

Their eyes meet for the first time in years. Hers go wide when she notices him. 

He didn’t want to wake up today. 

“Hey.” He says awkwardly. He’s fidgeting with the straps of the bags in his hand and bouncing from one foot to the other. 

“Hi.” She gives him a small wave, her body turned, slightly as she pushes the shopping cart into another one. 

“How are you? Been a long time.” He walks closer to her but keeps a good distance between them.

She bods agreeing with his statement, “I’m well! How have you been?” 

“Good, yeah, no I’ve been good.” Her body is still halfway turned to him. Showing him that she can’t stay for long. 

“You look good.” He has no filter when it comes to her. Wants to be polite and not tell her that he’s still in love with her. That he’ll probably never not be. 

“Thank you. You too.” She motions in the direction of her car, opening her mouth to say something but he cuts her off.

“Are you here to see family?” She doesn’t come to the outer banks anymore. No one ever sees her around. She lives in London. That’s all he knows. He thinks back to the days when he knew every little thing about her. The smell of her perfume, how many sugars she took in her coffee, the looks she gave him and the meanings behind every little micro expression. When she loved him.

“Uh-“ she swallows and smiles, “I’m here for my wedding.”

His mouth goes dry. His hands start to shake so he puts them in fists and digs his nails into his palm to stop the pain from spreading into his heart. She stares at him, a soft smile still on her lips. She’s so beautiful he could die right now and be content with it. Seeing her happy would be enough for him even if it’s not directed at him like it used to be. 

She’s getting married. The girl he gave a promise ring to in their last year of high school is getting married and it’s not to him. Because he fucked up. Because she stopped looking at him like that the minute he betrayed her. His heart aches. It tells him to do something. To tell her that he loves her, get on his knees, and beg her to run away with him. It screams at him to stop the wedding. To fight one more time and leave a fire in his wake so she has no choice but to follow. 

He can’t do that to her. He ruined her one too many times, he’s hurt her enough. She deserves better than him. She deserves to be happy. Deserves someone who didn’t sleep with her best friend. It hurts. It kills him to think this way. He wishes he could be the guy waiting on the other end of the aisle. He isn’t. Not in this life at least. He only has himself to blame. 

“Congratulations.” He tells her. His hands still in fists at his side. 

“Thank you!” She smiles wider, “It was nice to see you, I should get going.” She goes to turn around again but he can’t let her leave. Not yet. 

“Are you happy?” He swallows.

She nods at him, “so happy.” His heart leaps for her once more. 

“Good. Yeah, you deserve that.” 

“Thank you, Rafe.” He hasn’t heard her say his name without hostility in such a long time. He melts at the sound of it leaving her lips. 

He loves her. God does he love her. 

And he lost her. 

“Bye, Rafe.” She waves.

“Bye.” He whispers to himself, watching her walk away and get into her car. 

The next time he sees her, if he sees her, she’ll be married. The woman he loves will be gone. 

Anyone who knows him will know that after all these years he was still holding out hope. He thought that one day he would gather enough courage to go find her in London and make her believe him when he told her he had changed. He would fight for her and their love and he would be the one to get down on one knee and ask her for forever. 

He dreamed that they would bump into each other at the beach by Tannyhill because she would be drawn there by their memories and he would ask her to come inside and they would start their journey back to each other. 

She’s getting married. This weekend she’s getting married. 

That alone leaves him empty of all the hopes and dreams.

He lets go. 

He didn’t want to wake up today.

[reasonsforhope]

"Thousands of demonstrators converged opposite the White House on Saturday to call for an end to Israeli military action in Gaza, while children joined a pro-Palestinian march through central London as part of a global day of action against the longest and deadliest war between Israel and Palestinians in 75 years.

People in the U.S. capital held aloft signs questioning President Joe Biden’s viability as a presidential candidate because of his staunch support for Israel in the nearly 100-day war against Hamas. Some of the signs read: “No votes for Genocide Joe,” “Biden has blood on his hands” and “Let Gaza live.”

Vendors were also selling South African flags as protesters chanted slogans in support of the country whose accusations of genocide against Israel prompted the International Court of Justice in the Hague, Netherlands, to take up the case...

The plight of children in the Gaza Strip was the focus of the latest London march, symbolized by the appearance of Little Amal, a 3.5-meter (11.5-foot) puppet originally meant to highlight the suffering of Syrian refugees.

The puppet had become a human rights emblem during an 8,000-kilometer (4,970-mile) journey from the Turkish-Syrian border to Manchester in July 2001.

Nearly two-thirds of the 23,843 people killed during Israel’s campaign in Gaza have been women and children, according to the Health Ministry in the Hamas-run territory...

“On Saturday Amal walks for those most vulnerable and for their bravery and resilience,“ said Amir Nizar Zuabi, artistic director of The Walk Productions. “Amal is a child and a refugee and today in Gaza childhood is under attack, with an unfathomable number of children killed. Childhood itself is being targeted. That’s why we walk.”

London’s Metropolitan Police force said some 1,700 officers would be on duty for the march, including many from outside the capital...

The London march was one of several others being held in European cities including Paris, Rome, Milan and Dublin, where thousands also marched along the Irish capital’s main thoroughfare to protest Israel’s military operations in the Palestinian enclave.

Protesters waved Palestinian flags, held placards critical of the Irish, U.S. and Israeli governments and chanted, “Free, free Palestine.″

In Rome, hundreds of demonstrators descended on a boulevard near the famous Colosseum, with some carrying signs reading, “Stop Genocide.”

At one point during the protest, amid the din of sound effects mimicking exploding bombs, a number of demonstrators lied down in the street and pulled white sheets over themselves as if they were corpses, while others knelt beside them, their palms daubed in red paint.

Many hundreds of demonstrators gathered in Paris’ Republic square to set off on a march calling for an immediate cease-fire, an end to the war, a lifting of the blockade on Gaza and to impose sanctions on Israel. Marching protesters waved the Palestinian flag and held aloft placards and banners reading, “From Gaza to Paris. Resistance.”"

-via AP News, January 13, 2023

[astroboots]

Min Redux

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: Marc is possessed by a horny ancient sex spirit and refuses the help you're willingly offering. Sequel to Gift of Min but can be read as stand alone.

Content: sex pollen, restraints, Marc being a stubborn bastard.

Word count; 12,800 words (do not look at me)

ASTROBOOT’S MASTERLIST | MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST

There's a white, pot-bellied goose staring up at Marc expectantly with hunger. He ignores it, pretending he doesn't see it as he turns his head, eyes circling around the park.

If he ignores it, it will give up eventually.

"Oh hello there fella! You're a plump one aren't you?"

Marc resists the deeply ingrained urge to roll his eyes. Of course, Steven would acknowledge the animal.

“I think it wants us to feed it”, Steven says.

Marc hums in acknowledgment. He doesn't want to get into this right now. Doesn't want Steven distracted and excitedly buzz in their head with anecdotes about Geese and the bird wildlife in London when they're supposed to be on the lookout for their contact.

Flicking his wrist, Marc glares at his watch.

8:12am.

Twelve minutes late. You'd think Ancient Egyptian Deities would have some kind of culling process when picking their Avatars. Punctuality should be a bare minimum requirement.

He leans back against the wooden slats of the park bench, hands shoved inside his field jacket against the chill of the London air as a woman with a stroller walks by nearly running over the goose in the process (to Steven's outrage). For the umpteenth time since he sat down, Marc's fingers trace the lining until he catches at the sharp edge of the small golden trinket box, just to make sure it's still there.

Gift of Min. A tiny trinket box that's been sealing away some sex-crazed sprite serving the Ancient God of Sex for decades. One that Steven managed to accidentally free with his uncanny puzzle solving skills in just under a minute, getting himself possessed in the process.

Marc's fingers clutch at the brass-metal, until it's digging into his palms as he squeezes down. Flashes of your bare skin underneath Steven's hands, and the soft curves of your naked form pressed underneath him, pushes to the surface of his mind.

Fuck, he shakes his head. No, his mind is not going there. He needs to stay here, in the present, find the other Avatar and hand this over so it's out of your lives for good.

Get rid of it so that what happened last week won't ever repeat itself. He won’t allow that to happen, won’t risk putting you in harm’s way again.

It's all so vivid and Marc has replayed the memory of it so many times, every detail of it. Every gasp, moan and whimper of your voice. The way your back arched from the floor, the way your mouth fell open. The way your eyes would roll back right before you came… repeatedly. He’s played it like a VHS tape on repeat until it’s been so worn out from replays that the image is filled with static and he almost can't tell anymore if it was entirely Steven's experience or his as well, trapped as he was in the mind space. 

Steven rutting into you mindlessly like an animal. Hips snapping against your soft plump thighs. Your legs squeezed tight around his hips, around his cock as you kept coming uncontrollably, again and again and–

"Marc Spector?"

With a jolt, Marc's pulled from his thoughts at the voice. Looking up, there's a man standing two feet away from him with a much too friendly smile on his face for someone that's—Marc flicks his watch—22 minutes late.

The man reaches out a hand in an inviting gesture to shake Marc's hand.

These Avatars always want to make pleasantries and be friends, like they're all part of the Mickey Mouse Club on account of their ostensible connection of being in indentured servitude to defunct Egyptian Gods.

Reluctantly, Marc relents, slipping one hand out of his pocket. The man's hand is bony, his grip tight like he's trying to assert dominance by crushing Marc's hand. Then he lets it go, the smile spreading even wider with that uncanny eager friendliness.

"I believe you have something for me?"

Standing up from the bench, Marc reaches into his pocket again and shoves it into the man's hand.

"Ah there it is. Gorgeous little thing isn't it?" Min’s avatar holds the box up in the daylight, inspecting it as if it were a diamond, then he tilts his head with a confused expression.

"Oh dear," he says.

At first, Marc misses the alarm in his voice, because the man practically sings out the words.

"What?" Marc asks. 

Instead of answering Marc, the man hums, turning the trinket box in his hand as if weighing the contents, his friendly smile fading into a slight frown.

"What is it?" Marc repeats, irritated this time.

"Well…" the man shifts the box into his other hand, repeating the same weighing motion. Then the man holds the box up to his ear, like he’s trying to hear the ocean in a seashell.

The Avatar’s inability to give a straight answer has Marc's patience balanced on a tenuous line that he can physically hear as it snaps.

"What is wrong," Marc repeats for a third time through gritted teeth.

"The seal's been opened."

There's a tension in Marc's jaw as he grinds down on his teeth. "There was an accident. Someone opened it. But I made sure to trap the sprite back inside."

"Well whatever you did, you didn't do a good enough job.” The man says it so matter-of-factly like it’s not even an insult, and Marc has to take a deep calming breath, his hand closing into a fist. 

“The puzzle sequence wasn't completed when you retrapped the spirit and thus not sealed. It must have escaped." This time, the man flips the panels in sequence of motion, in-out-up-up-down until Marc loses track. The gears in the box whir and the box opens-- and adrenaline ramps up in Marc as instincts have him backing away from the box, holding up an arm to shield his nose and mouth shut.

But there's nothing. No blue shiny smoke like last time.

It's empty.

“Wait so what does that mean?” you ask him, as you stab the fork into the thick double slice of french toast he’s made you. Double dipped in batter drowned in cinnamon sugar, just the way you like them.

Turning on the tap, Marc fills the kettle with water as he puts it on the stove to boil your morning tea.

Except it’s not morning anymore. It’s the afternoon now, almost 1pm. You slept through the whole of the morning, but considering the morning-afternoon-and parts of the evening you endured with Steven barely 48 hours ago, Marc is hardly going to begrudge you sleeping in.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marc says, hoping his reassurance will allay any worries you may have. Because you don’t have to worry. He’s going to fix it—fix everything—and keep you out of trouble this time.

But as he looks up at you, the frown that borders on a glare on your face tells him that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Shit, he’s doing that thing again isn’t he? The very thing you told him not to do after the post-possession talk.

His shoulders sag. He sighs in capitulation. Right. Communication. Tell you things.

“I have to find it again. This time I’ll have Steven seal it so it doesn’t escape.”

“It’s been days, it could be anywhere, did they tell you how to find it? Do we have some kind of magical ancient artifact compass?”

Marc’s shoulders tenses at your use of ‘we.’ There’s no ‘we’ here. He’s not getting you involved in this. He’s gonna catch it. Steven’s gonna seal it. That’s the plan.

“Marc?” You ask, but he pretends he doesn’t hear you as he moves to the cupboard, to find a teapot.

“Do we know how to find it?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer.

He pretends to busy himself, foregoing the perfectly good teapots he can use that sits in the front and pushes them aside as he continues to search the cupboard.

If he ignores you, you will give up eventually.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Jake’s (sarcastic) voice in his head. “Jefe, she’s not a Goose. Ignoring her isn’t going to cut it.”

“Stop pretending you’re looking for teapots and ignoring me. I’m just going to keep asking until you answer.”

Shit.

You’re so insistent. Worse than park geese. Worse than Steven and Jake combined.

“No compass,” Marc answers as he pulls out a random teapot in the furthest corner. Dusty from lack of use. He’s gonna have to clean this. With the way Steven cleans this apartment, it might be covered in asbestos for all he knows.

“The guy said it likes cramped small enclosed places. Tiny chests, jewelry boxes, tupperware. Anything that closes with a lid.”

“That hardly narrows it down in London!”

“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”

Turning on the tap, he runs the teapot under water in the sink, scrubbing the dust and grime. He lifts the lid but it’s been so long since it’s been used the pot is practically sealed shut from dirt, even as Marc pushes against the top.

He can hear you approaching from behind. “You won’t get it open that way,” you offer as you turn the tap and turn it as far as it goes for hot water. Then you take the pot from him, running the lid over the running water, gripping at the base and start to turn it until he can hear it give with a quiet ‘pop’.

“Tada!”

You’re grinning at your success, and Marc has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamper down his own smile at the sight of you. Because fuck, that gloating, I-know better-than-you smile, (which should be aggravating) is infectious.

“See! This is why you need me,” you sing-song, rubbing your success in his face as you lift the lid. He’s so distracted by your easy-smile and glow of schadenfreude he doesn’t pay attention to the quiet hiss of pressure that gives from the lid.

A tendril of blue-white fog rises up, reaching towards you. Before Marc fully processes what he’s doing, he’s already stepping forward into your space. One hand clasps at your wrist as he yanks you backwards and away from the kitchen.

Gotta fucking be kidding him. That fucking thing was hiding in the teapot all this time.

It hits him like a kick in the gut. It’s like swallowing live fire into his throat except it keeps burning all the way as it travels into his chest and digs into the inside of his stomach, settling into every inch of his flesh. It’s the feeling of downing a bottle of whiskey in one sitting with none of the side sickness and nausea that he has to swallow down. It burns and crackles inside his veins.

With the intensity of the heat as it bubbles in his blood, he had expected it to hurt. It doesn’t. Instead it’s molten and slow, oozing through his system like a heated haze. He feels heady as the sensation rushes through him from the curl of his toes to the tip of his nose until it has his scalp tingling. It’s pleasant. Euphoric even if he lets his mind linger on it. He doesn’t.

From a distance he thinks he can hear your voice, and buried underneath the fog, Steven’s concerned babbling. But it’s drowned out by the blood thrashing in his ears. He tries to find you, but his vision is swimming in front of him.

Then he hears it, you’re shouting his name. You sound so worried.

He can feel you. Soft and doting hands cupping his cheeks with a tender touch that has the heat in his stomach reach a boiling point, then you tilt his face upwards to meet your worried gaze.

It’s the same expression on your face when you were tending to Steven not two days ago. Heat spikes in his lower belly, his cock twitching against the constricted confines where it’s trapped under hard denim.

‘Need you’, a voice inside his head, neither Steven or Jake’s but entirely his own, calls out. ‘Want you’.

Flashes of you, your back arching from the floor, trapped underneath him as he thrusts into you invade his vision. The phantom sensation of your wet tightness wrapped around his cock shivers through him and the ache makes the length of him pressed hard against his boxers, twitch and leak against the soft fabric.

Fuck… He can’t put you through that again.

He can’t have you here.

"Leave," he grits out, scooting backwards, dragging himself away from you by the heel of his hands along the wooden floor.

"What?"

"You need to go. Leave!" He barks out.

He tries to get up but fuck, his legs have gone all wobbly like fucking Bambi, can't steady himself, and his faulty balance has you running forwards towards him. 

Marc throws out his hands, palms up as a signal for you to keep your distance.

"No! Don't get close to me. You need to go now."

He grabs at the side of one of the wooden shelves, as he steadies himself on his feet and props himself up, but fuck, everything is spinning. He feels like he's drunk, and he closes his eyes to make it stop.

"Marc," you say his name so softly, it makes the heat in his veins grow hotter. There's liquid fire pumping through his blood.

Even with his eyes closed, he sees you.

You underneath him, exhausted and fucked out. Swollen lips kissed raw and tender. Legs shiny and slick, with your come and his, as it drips over his cock in a shiny silvery thread and down the wooden floor below.

Shit! Shit! Stop, don't think of that.

His eyes fly open to the sight of you, the you in front of him right now, your pretty face mere inches from his. Lips so close he can practically fucking taste you already on his tongue from pure sense memory.

He's getting worse by the second. He's not sure how much longer he can keep his body in check. Every inch of him wants to touch you. Fingers itching to dig into your plump flesh. His cheeks tingle and all he wants is to have your thighs pressing down and enveloping his face. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and salivating at the thought of licking every inch of your soft skin, to have the familiar taste of you fill his mouth– fuck, he can’t– he needs something to restrain himself with as a precaution.

His eyes flicker to the bed, and of course, it's not there. Where is Steven's stupid ankle bracelet when it’s actually needed? 

Shit.

Wait, the cuffs. Jake keeps some cuffs here, where did he – his eyes roam the space, until he spots the shiny metal glinting from underneath Jake's cap that he's carelessly slung against the shelf behind him.

"I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. Let me help," you say and his eyes linger on your pouty lips, the way they open and close as you bite your lower lip in worry. He wants to sink his own teeth into them until you whine for him. Slip his aching cock between them, until his hard cock is enveloped by your softness.

He shakes his head, taking a step back as he looks around himself, planning his exit route. The front door is behind you, which means he'd have to get past you to get out.

Crap. Stubborn as you are, you'd try to block him in a heartbeat, and unless he's gonna tackle you (out of the question) this is going to get him nowhere.

"You can't help with this," he says, eyes continuing to scan the room until he spots the open door to the bathroom.

You frown, eyes narrowing in irritation. "I can actually. We've been here before Marc. I helped Steven remember?"

And fuck does he remember, can't forget. That's part of the problem.

Your hand reaches for him, fingertips brushing over his fisted knuckles, and the touch of it tingles with a burning ache.

"It'll feel better if you let me help you," you say.

Marc takes a step back, arm reaching behind him, until he feels the cold metal against his hand and grabs the cuff.

"I'm not going to do that to you," he says. Before you get a chance to respond, he's already turning around. He's leaping on his feet, darting to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.

His fingers are trembling, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he fumbles locking the door.

From behind the door he can hear your panicked voice calling for him.

"Marc? Marc!!"

The rickety panel door rattles and shakes against the frame with your effort to slide it open. “Marc, did you lock the door?! Marc!” 

You sound so worried, and a small pang digs under his skin when he hears you. 

It’s so stupid. He knows you’re safe, that the worry in your voice is meant for him, and yet every instinct in his body is screaming out for him to check on you and make sure you’re okay. He fights it. Eyes darting around the tiny confined space to search for something, anything, permanently affixed to the wall that he can cuff himself to. 

“Marc, open the door or I’m gonna kick this bloody thing down. I swear to god.”

Marc doesn’t have much to work with. There’s the toilet, the sink, with nothing he can attach the cuffs to, and the railing to the shower head that looks… flimsy at best. Still beggars can’t be choosers. 

Forcing his stupidly shaky hands to bring the cuffs to the shower, he tightens one end to his wrist until he can feel the sharp metal dig through his skin, hard enough that it’s probably going to cause the blood flow to constrict. 

Stupid, he’s so stupid, he knows better than this, but his coordination isn’t cooperating and if Marc is honest with himself, the blunt pain helps. 

Helps his mind to sharpen and to distract himself from the burning heat that’s riding him hard at the sound of your voice on the other end of the door calling his name. 

Helps him to shove down the pathetic need that sings in his vein to tear off the flimsy panel door and run into your arms and beg you to help him. 

Helps him find the will in himself to clasp the other end of the cuffs around the metal rod before it clicks satisfyingly to let him know the deed is done. 

Safe. the metal click tells him. You’re safe from him now. He couldn’t get his grubby hands on you even if his weak will breaks. 

The rattling of the door has stopped now. The room fills with silence and you’re no longer shouting for him. Marc turns back and sees the shadow of your feet under the spring as you walk away from the door. You’ve finally given up on him. 

Good. That’s good. 

You should get as far away from him as possible. With any luck, you’re already halfway down the stairs towards the tube.

He knows you’re pissed. Probably slamming the front door on your way out. But that’s ok. He’ll take your anger over your worry. He can deal with anger, knows how to handle it like an old shitty friend he wants to cut ties with but never can. What he can’t take is the way you sounded when you were calling for him. 

The worry. The care. You always care. And it’s wasted on him. All that’s ever earned you since you got involved with him is trouble. 

If you weren’t involved with him then you wouldn’t have been in their apartment that morning when Steven opened the stupid thing. If you weren’t there, Marc would’ve taken over, would’ve taken care of himself instead of — instead of– 

‘Steven, fuckfuck Steven–’ the phantom memory of your voice rings hauntingly sharp in his ears. Slurred and honeyed, the feel of you, slick and dripping between your thighs, clamping down tightly on his Steven’s cock. 

His whole body aches. Skin flushed and burning and his brain feels feverish and rubbed raw with heat at the fraying edges. 

A shower. A cold shower will help. 

Marc takes a shaky breath, as his fingers fumble with the taps. Turning the cold water as far as it goes. He thinks he’s prepared for it but he’s not. It’s a shock to the system. The cold water slams down on him with a heavy punch. Cold and piercing and bitter as it wraps all around his feverish skin and strangles his lungs with it. 

His eyes are closed, but instead of the blank darkness all he sees are your big eyes staring back up at him. Dazed and out of it, fuckdrunk, on him. 

His skin burns. Blood boiling inside his veins until it’s painful. The icy water is still pummelling down at him punishingly, and he’s grateful for it because he thinks he’s going to incinerate from the inside out if it wasn’t. His cock is hard and heavy against the clammy and cold wet denim that’s pressing up against his searing skin. It’s uncomfortable, painful. 

The memory of you refuses to leave him. The silky feel of you wet and hot and writhing on his painfully hard cock. Fuck, fuck, why does he do this to himself. One hand comes up to his face, and he scrubs it hard with the freezing water, rubbing his thumb into his eyes to help with the throbbing heat that’s growing at his temple. It doesn’t help. Can’t scrub out the image of you, mouth parted, head thrown back as you squirm on his cock, as you grind yourself on him and come… again, and again, and– again. His eyes slam open, until he’s staring at the grungy white tiles of the wall. 

There’s something inside his flesh, burrowing into his skin and veins. An infectious heat that slivers and crawls that drips with hunger and greed. Starved for touch and pleasure, it screams and it roars until it’s all Marc can feel too. He wants it, wants you, and nothing else will do. You and the warmth of your body and the way you always welcome him as you wrap yourself around him. 

Shit, he – fuck. fuckfuckfuck. 

He takes a long shuddery breath and it fogs against the cold of the room. He’s shivering but if it’s from the cold of the water stinging against his skin or the heat burning underneath it he doesn’t know anymore. Does it even matter? 

Everything feels raw and painful. Sore and tangled up inside him. He wants– fuck, no fucking stop. He needs to – 

“Marc.” He can hear it again. Your voice calling out his name. Not Steven’s name, his. It echoes and lingers in his mind, soft and sweet. The way it had been when he’d been the one fucking you into the bed between the soft sheets of their bed the night before the incident. 

The way you’d whimpered it, while your nails were digging crescent shaped marks into his skin that were still denting the back of his shoulders when he’d looked this morning. Tiny little marks that are evidence of your love for him. 

His stomach draws tight, hips hitching up without his permission, desperately searching for any friction… shit shit, it’s not enough and it’s too much, the sensation that spears through his stomach as his cock rubs against the hard seam of his jeans. Heat settles at the base of his spine and the sound that escapes him is pathetic. He’s not sure if it’s a gasp or a sob, but he grinds it down between his teeth, snuffing it out. 

Why is his brain trying to murder him like this? 

The heat (or the cold, he doesn’t know which anymore but it doesn’t matter, one of them) is making his mind fuzzy. The grout delineating the tiles in front of him is blurring together, and the room, Marc realizes, is starting to sway and swim. He draws in another breath into his chest, but there’s no oxygen in it. He tries again, and this time the sharp jagged breath hurts, like swallowing broken glass and needles. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. The body is panicking. 

Jake’s trying to push him for the front seat. Marc can feel it, an insistent presence that lingers at the edges of his mind, trying to gain and take hold. But Marc is much better at resisting him these days. Marc’s not going to let him. He doesn’t trust that Jake will be able to hold himself back when it comes to you. Doesn’t trust that the man won’t selfishly uncuff their body and run straight to where you are. His priorities are different from Marc. Jake’s prime concern is to always take care of their body first, everything else comes secondary to that man. Marc doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust him. Not with you. He can’t risk it. 

Alarm and anxiety blares bright in his veins, but he can take it. Can endure this. Can–

There’s a loud slam from behind him. 

“Marc, Jesus christ!” 

The sound of your voice makes him whip around. You’re standing in front of him, the bathroom door’s been shoved to the side, wide open, and you’re holding a butter knife in your one hand and what looks like the remnants of his dismantled door handle in your other. 

His heart flutters erratically, a pleasant warmth trickling into his chest. You’re here.

It lasts for a heartbeat and a half, until the realization hits him harder and colder than any ice water could have. You’re here. You’re actually here.  

There’s a concerned expression in your face as you take him in for a full second. Then you drop the items in your hand and rush forward to him until you’re standing under the shower with him. 

“The water is bloody freezing! Have you lost your mind?” You’re shoving past him to get to the tap and turn it off entirely, as you continue to scold him. “You’re going to get hypothermia”.

Your voice might be harsh, but your hands are soft and doting, palms cupping his cheeks, and your eyes are wide and worried in that way that makes everything inside him tighten. His skin tingles where your fingertips brush up against his cheekbones and it takes everything in him to not nuzzle his mouth against your wrists, chasing into your touch for more. 

“You feel like ice. We need to get you into bed, we need to–” your eyes stop at the shower rail and then trail downwards to his right hand that’s cuffed to it in disbelief. Then he hears you take a long exasperated inhale. “Of course, you did,” you murmur, “of course you’d cuff yourself to the damn shower. Where are the keys, Marc?”

His eyes flicker away from your face to stare at the tiles on his left as he grinds his mouth and jaw shut. 

You sigh, then you come closer. You’re crowding in on him, pressed tight to his chest, “fine, I’ll just look myself shall I?” You stand on your tiptoes to reach for the small shower shelf behind him, lifting a shampoo bottle to check if there’s a key underneath. 

Your hair tickles his nose and the familiar comforting smell of you surround him. You’re soft and warm, and amazing and he just wants to sink his teeth into your bare throat that’s inches from his jaw and bite into you like the sweetest and ripest fruit of Summer. 

You shift as you reach for the highest shelf, hips rubbing up against him where they’re slotted between his thighs and fuck–fuck– 

Sharp heat shoots through his stomach, white pleasure blinding and intense that rushes to his head and his knees want to fold under his weight. He groans at the touch and you freeze as he does. 

For a moment both of you are silent and still. The only thing Marc can hear is his own ragged and hash breathing. His body is trying to acclimatize to the new temperature of the room as the heat from his body is quickly evaporating out of him. But the thing under his skin, poisoning his mind and sanity is still there. He feels like he’s on fire. You’re pressed up against every inch of him, and it is screaming in his ears with an ugly hungry need. Marc feels like he’s burning up. Like he’s going to die, flesh burning away until there’s only ashes left, and that’s okay the burrowing need tells him. Let it burn away every inch of resistance left within him, and then he can have you.

Marc wants that, wants you in any way he can have. 

Wants you to grind up on his aching cock that’s so hard it hurts. Wants you to hold him, fingers tugging at his hair until it stings and burns. Want your legs and arms wrapped around him as he sinks inside of you, bury his cock as deep as it goes until he can never leave. 

Wants you, wants you, wants you. It echoes with fury and overtakes everything else. There’s no other brain process except this, as his hand clamps down on your waist and grinds you down on him. His traitorous hips hitching up until he can feel that perfect press of your body against his trapped and pulsing cock. 

You don’t stop him, hand coming up to the back of his neck and hold him close to you. You’re so fucking perfect letting him rub himself up against you, even when he’s acting like some stupid animal in heat. The pleasure sends him on the tip of his toes, chasing the high and it’s good, it feel so fucking– Fuck! 

His eyes slam open, tearing himself away from you. You’re blinking up at him with a confused look. 

The fuck is he doing? 

With his free hand, he moves you out of the range of the shower until your back is pressed against the opposite wall. 

He’s such an idiot, he’s such a fucking stupid– his cheeks burn and prickle, sweat stinging his back underneath the waterlogged shirt. He needs to cool down. Get his head straight. Needs to rid himself of this burning inferno of a hellfire that is roaring under his skin. 

A shower, a cold fucking shower. He needs to calm the fuck down. Needs to– Marc moves back towards the tap and turns it back on. 

“Marc! No! Stop!”

You’re leaping forward into the shower again, uncaring of being in the firing range of the cold water cascading from the showerhead, as you reach for the tap to turn it off. 

“You’re fucking freezing, you need to stop. Marc, I need to get you out of the shower. We need to warm you up. Where’s the keys?” 

He ignores you, tries to wrangle you away from the shower with his back and shoulders, wrestling his path to the tap again. 

You slap at his hand. “Marc, no!” you bark. “Stubborn fucking –” 

He knocks your hand away from the tap, turning it again as he tries to block the ensuing shower from you with his shoulders, and you growl in frustration. 

“Fine, fine! You want the water on, it stays on, but you have to let me–” you shove your way back to the front of the tap, turning the hot water on. It takes a few moments but then the punishing coldness turns lukewarm and almost comforting against his stinging skin. 

“There,” you murmur and back away enough until you’re both staring up at each other again. The water is hitting you too, drenching and soaking your clothes as you peer up at him cautiously. 

“Should I help you take your clothes off? It’ll be more comfortable for you this way,” you say the words slowly, giving him the time to react before you move. 

The logical part in him that’s still intact knows he should stop you. Should tell you to leave before he loses the last of his sanity and tries to maul you like an animal again. 

But his tongue is heavy in his mouth. All his words are failing him, and as you inch closer to him, all he can do is stare up at you, silently begging you– to go, to stay, to abandon him, to touch him, to run, to help him– until he doesn’t know anymore what he wants, and ducks his head to the ground. 

“I can help you if you want to,” you tell him. 

His eyes squeeze shut. He’s so fucking useless. He swore to never let this happen again to you, never put you in that situation again and here the two of you are not even 48 hours later, in the exact same fucking seat. He’s no better than Steven at this. Useless at protecting you. Instead you’re the one trying to take care of him. Maybe you’d be better off with Jake in the saddle. 

“You shouldn’t have to hel–” he starts, but you cut him off. 

“I want to help you,” you enunciate each word and syllable, leaving no room for doubt, as you’re facing up to him in challenge. Then your eyes soften as does your voice. “But I don’t want to force anything on you that you don’t want.” 

There’s a brief silence and the only thing he can hear is the water falling from the shower. Then, “Marc, look at me.” You say it softly, it doesn’t sound like an order, but not quite a request either as Marc tips his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want to. But I’m gonna stay here with you until this passes. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares up at you like an idiot, eyes drawn to that determined look in your eyes that he knows he can never win against, and he feels his resolve fail him. 

“Is it okay if I take off your clothes?” you ask again.

And until he gives you an answer, he realizes, you’re going to ask him again and again. You’re so persistent, more than a goose. He loves that about you and he doesn’t know how to say no to you anymore, even if he had wanted to (which he doesn't, not really). 

So he doesn’t, instead he nods. 

You move slow, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. Your hands come to the soggy hem of his shirt, drawing it up against his torso and over his head. Fingertips scraping under the bare naked skin underneath as you go, and it fucking tingles. It tingles and burns and smolders until his insides are on fire, and for a second, Marc is sure that his knees can no longer carry his weight and he’s going to tip over and capsize. 

He leans down his head for balance, and you’re there to catch him. You ground him, as you always do. He rests his forehead against yours and for a moment, the roaring noise of blazing fire in his veins stops. It’s quiet and calm in his head. 

“You okay?” you ask, staring up at him, eyes gentle, as you go slow. 

“Yeah.” 

His shirt is left hanging on the shower rail, where his hand is still cuffed to it. Then your fingers come to the front of his jeans, nail tapping against the metal button and his cock jerks and strains against the wet and heavy material in anticipation. 

Popping open the button, you undo his fly, and the too-strict pressure of the material finally eases. He squirms, “Fuck, baby,” he gasps out, raw and broken. 

You hush him, sweet and comfortingly, with your lips pressed close to his ear, “do you want me to touch you?” 

His mouth feels thick and dry, everything turned into cotton against the roof of his mouth. He swallows, taking another long breath and holds it deep as he tries to get himself together. He’s weak, useless. Can’t get anything right. Can’t even say no when he knows he should. 

“Marc?” you ask again and he inhales deeply to calm himself, then nods. 

You smile, sweet and bright, and…relieved. You look so relieved and… happy, even. It makes it better. Makes him feel a little bit less of a colossal fuck up that you’re doing this for him when you’re smiling at him like that. Your head tips up, lips pressing up against his, and that helps too. With his eyes closed, listening to the sound of your soft hums as he licks into your mouth, he can almost pretend to himself that this is okay. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing firm and tight in that perfect way that you know he likes. It's relief and pleasure and warmth all wrapped into one, as everything inside him buzzes with a quiet soothing noise that drowns out the rest.

Your soft lips, drags downwards, mouthing at his neck, teeth nipping at his shoulder. He’s still aching, but it feels good. It doesn’t hurt this time, instead everything lingers pleasantly as your lips drift further down, soft plushness dragging against the sore muscle, down the slope of his belly and–wait! What’re you– 

His eyes fly open. He’s staring at the empty walls again. You’re no longer standing face to face with him and his head drops down. The sight that greets him slams into his ribs until he nearly doubles over. Fuck. 

You’re on your knees on the wet bathroom floor, tucked between his legs. Staring up at his cock through your water-lined lashes that glitters against the harsh fluorescent light. 

“Baby– wai–wait,” his words fumble and trip out of his mouth, brain unable to process the sight in front of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. “You don’t have to–” 

“Marc,” you breathe, cutting him off again. From this close distance he can feel the warmth of your mouth gust over the overwrought tip of his cock, and he nearly blacks out. Your voice sounds drippingly sweet and warm. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Let me do this for you”.

He should stop you. You shouldn’t have to be on your knees and take care of him when he’s the one who fucked up and got himself caught in this mess. There’s a tight lump stuck in his throat that he tries to swallow down so he can speak, but it doesn’t ease and the words aren’t coming to him. 

Your hand comes to the side of his thighs, dragging the drenched denim down his legs and discard them into a sloppy pile in the corner of the floor. 

He gazes down on you, how the shower has drenched your oversized sleepshirt, until the white of it has gone see-through. The drenched cotton cling onto your skin and the curve of your breasts and his cock bobs up and strains against his stomach at the sight. Shit. 

Embarrassed heat climbs his cheeks, and judging from the smile tugging at your cheeks, you definitely noticed his reaction. You lean up, mouth brushing up against the length of his cock and press a kiss to the swollen flesh. White blinding heat streaks through his chest and his stomach draws in tight. He can’t think. 

It’s here again, that hungry ember that scalds hot in his veins. It’s overwhelming, his toes curl against the tiles, breath catching sharp in his lungs until he feels like the ground is going to swallow him up. His knees are giving out, the hard tiles gone soft and weightless beneath the sole of his feet. He’s panicking again. His hand flings out, clutching at your shoulders, fingers digging in, it’s too hard and too rough, and he shouldn’t be doing that – shouldn’t be doing anything of this, but he can’t help himself. 

One of your hands comes to rest on top of his, and you tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

“It’s okay, Marc. it’s okay,” you say, and with those words, the panic in him dissipates somewhat. Enough to have his fingers ease their hard grip on your shoulders, as you lean your back closer between his thighs. 

Try as he might, he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this, want you. Your mouth is inches from his cock, and he can see the incriminating precome welling up at the tip, where it shines slick, giving him away. His breath constricts in his chest, as he waits for you. 

You lean closer, and he catches the pink tip of your tongue as it darts out to lick at the liquid dribbling down the length of him. His spine seizes up at the barely there contact, an ugly noise tearing from his throat. 

“Marc, you okay?” you ask, and when he blinks down at you, lips slick with him, he feels undone. “Should I keep going?” 

Marc swallows down the whimper that is lingering dangerously at the tip of his tongue that wants to leap out. He nods a little bit too frantically in response and he barely has the time to meet your eyes, and how it glitters with pride at his reaction. Then your lips part and you envelop his cock in the perfect sweet warmth of your mouth. 

An electrical static noise crackles in his head. Your mouth is so fucking good. Soft silk wrapped all around him. Your tongue slides softly over the ridge of his cock and sweet aching bliss twines through his limbs. It’s slow and languid, the tip of your tongue darting out with soft, fluttering licks against his oversensitive flesh as you take your time and try to murder him. You’re succeeding too. 

Heat carves through him sharp and intense. With the way his heart is trying to pound its way through flesh and muscle and out of his chest, he’s pretty sure he’s only got minutes to spare before his heart entirely gives out and he drops dead on the bathroom floor. 

You’re so ridiculously gorgeous. Eyes half-lidded as you stare up at him with unwavering attention. 

It’s bliss. It’s torture. It’s heaven and hell. Marc doesn’t know up from down anymore. All he knows as his cock slides between your lips, wet and slippery and so fucking good, is that he doesn’t want it to stop.  

For all the composure he’s trained into himself for years and decades, he can’t seem to find an ounce of it to draw from in this moment. He never can as far as you're concerned. His hands fists at his side, every muscle in him tensing, trying to stop the way his hips cants up with small thrusts into your mouth. But it’s not working. His body is betraying him, refusing to stay still. 

Good, it feels so– The burning flame under his skin is back, the whole of his body is wracked in warm pleasant shivers and he wants to curl into your touch. 

You hum, a small quiet little sound as you suck on the tip and he can feel the pleasant vibrations of it skitter up his entire spine. He jackknifes forward, pressing further into your mouth and fuck, he can feel the head of his cock nudge against the resistance of your throat. He stops there. Makes himself stop, ignores how every muscle in him is screaming for him to move. His cock pulses eagerly on your tongue, desperate for friction. But he ignores it. 

He can’t have this for himself. Doesn’t deserve it. 

“Come back up here, need to make you feel good baby. Let me- fuck let me make you feel good,” he says, even as his balls are drawing up, cock going somehow even harder, swelling and throbbing on your tongue. 

Marc swears, bites down on his lip hard until he tastes blood, and clenches every damn muscle in his body as he backs away, and slides himself out between your lips. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to hold on. His damn dick jerks and bounces spasmodically, oozing precome all over the damn floor as he struggles for control.  And through it all you just smile indulgently up at him, eyes gleaming, the pearly edge of your teeth digging into that perfectly plump lower lip.

He wonders if you even fucking heard him, because you’re leaning back in towards him, and wrap your mouth back around his cock. That inescapable fire is building at the base of his spine, threatening to burn him to the ground, but he can’t let himself come yet. He can’t because then it will be over, and you’ll have given this to him, and he doesn’t fucking deserve it. 

Marc doesn't deserve you, period. But he definitely doesn't deserve to have you on your knees like this for his miserable ass. Doesn't deserve that warm, worshipful mouth, slicking and sliding so perfectly over his aching cock. Perfect lips stretched tight around him as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. Doesn't deserve the way your hand alternates between clutching at him and petting so gently over his skin. Doesn't deserve the loving look in your eyes. Has to close his own eyes against the sight of you or this is all going to be over in about half a second.

But somehow that's even fucking worse, behind closed eyes it makes the feeling of it all the more acute. There's nothing there to distract him. He can't escape the feel of your clever tongue and perfect wet heat of your mouth wrapped around him in the blank darkness. The way your tongue curls around him. You’re moaning just slightly with each press forward, and he can feel the vibrations of it along every throbbing inch of his dick. It's fucking killing him.

“Let me–I can’t stop, I can’t–” He’s sobbing, the sound raw and needy as it wrenches out of his throat. Pleasure sears through his entire back. 

He's trying to hold still. He's fucking trying. But his legs are fucking shaking. Trembling thighs threatening to dump him on his ass any second, and he can't seem to control the way his hips are hitching forward in tiny abortive thrusts, seeking more even as he knows he should be jerking back, pulling away, and convincing you to let him make you feel good instead. but you don't seem to mind at all. 

Fuck, you seem to love it, moaning louder every time he loses the battle with his instincts. 

This is so wrong. He’s not in his right mind, not in control. You should be shoving him away, but instead you’re clutching at his ass with one hand, fingernails digging in as you encourage him to thrust harder, deeper. Tiny sharp bites of pain that just seem to add to the maelstrom of pleasure twisting and building in his gut.

Marc opens his mouth, determined to make one more attempt at convincing you, but then you swallow around him, moan around him, and all that comes out is a guttural groan. 

"Ba-baby-," he stutters out. He tugs on your hair, trying desperately to be gentle, but he's not entirely sure he manages it. You let him pull you off, one torturous inch at a time, and he barely manages to stop the thrust of his hips, the instinctual need to chase your mouth.

You look up at him, all wide eyes and slick, swollen lips. One long shiny string of spit or precome of both still connecting the two of you.

Oh shit,  how is he supposed to resist when you’re looking at him like that? Like he's actually worth a damn, when you’re the one who's worth anything, everything. He can’t, he was crazy to think he ever fucking could.

"Marc," you say, tone mildly reproachful. Your voice is hoarse... from swallowing his cock, and for a second, he thinks that's fucking it for him.  

Close, so fucking close. It’s pushing and clawing at every stitch and seam inside of his skin and he is unraveling. No wonder Steven lost it. No wonder he gave in. Marc can taste his climax at the tip of his tongue, dangling precariously on the fine thread of his fragile sanity. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to block it out. 

“Let go,” you hum, and you press your mouth to the trembling muscle on the inside of his thigh that makes him jolt up and nearly swallow his tongue. “You don’t have to hold on anymore. I want you to come. Want you to come in my mouth.”

Fuuuuck. 

You kiss your way up, and he’s trying desperately to hold on, to hold back. But he can’t, not when he feels your tongue trail the underside of his cock with a long wet and devoted line. Not when you’re kissing his hips. Not when you put that perfect mouth of yours back on his cock and swallow him down. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, where your mouth can’t reach, giving it a firm stroke downwards, and his toes tingle. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably now. The pleasure is almost unbearable. his muscles jerking and twitching uncontrollably with every slide of those pretty lips.

That insidious flame flickers at the base of his spine ominously. Warning him of what’s to come. It feels too fucking good, he can’t deny himself of this anymore. His orgasm swells up, large and looming, rushing out along every nerve ending and won’t be ignored. 

“Baby, fuckfuck, please– I can’t–can’t,” he opens his eyes, and looks down on you and fuck that’s such a mistake. You’re looking up at him, a dark pitch that bleeds into your blown pupils. His eyes slam back shut again because he can't survive the hungry look in your eyes.

But it’s already too late. 

His orgasm is consuming, large and looming as it’s trying to eat him whole. It wraps around his flesh and licks down to the marrow. From the curl of his toes, searing through his thighs until it’s permanently carved somewhere deep into his ribs, as he comes down your throat. Leaving nothing but a tingling ache in its wake.

It feels endless, the way he keeps pulsing into your mouth. Cock twitching against your lips, riding out his oversensitivity at your lapping tongue. 

He’s moaning and whimpering, toes skidding along the wet tiles as he desperately tries to find his footing. There’s nothing left but his undeniable surrender. Letting you take as much as you want from him. Until he’s empty and the blazing blue flame in his veins is sated and wrung dry from your attentive tongue. 

There’s clarity again. The dust and smoke clears until there’s only a faint smell of ashes lingering in the back of his mind and he feels like he can think again. His muscles ache with the soreness, and as he takes a long inhale, oxygen floods his head with a rush. Sweet fucking relief, he can breathe again. 

It doesn’t last very long. His eyes open, to see you smile up at him, bleary eyed and messy, drenched hair plastered on your forehead. The water from the shower is still running down your face as you’re trying to catch your breath.

You look like a mess. He did that to you, and you look so fucking good like this.

It’s all it takes, and the insidious heat licks at his bones, corrupting his blood again. The hunger in him returns with a devastating scream in his flesh. His mouth salivates, like what came before was only an appetizer. Now he’s gotten a taste and he’s hungrier than he was before. 

It makes him gain a new sympathy for Steven and the hell the man must’ve gone through with you two nights ago.

Fuck what’s wrong with him. Marc���s already gotten one release. That should’ve sated him. But he can already feel the simmering hunger gain hold again. All it did was make that selfish hungry monster inside him more insatiable. The greedy need claws at his veins, refusing to be ignored anymore.

There’s a knowing look in your eyes that makes his heart seize up. “Do you need more? Do you want to go again?” you ask. 

He swallows around the constricting lump of guilt lodged deep in his throat, blinking up at you, unable to answer. Unable to open his mouth to ask. You’ve given him too much already, he can’t ask for more. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can ask me.”

You say it with that voice. Breathless, filled with love and affection, like you’d offer him the world if he asked you for it, and it’s not right, he’s the one that should be doing that. The one to give you everything. Yet somehow he keeps finding himself in this seat where he’s the one taking and you’re the one giving. 

“I’m here,” you tell him. “It’s going to be okay, I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”

Shit. His chest squeezes tight. The feeling is so large and overwhelming his veins are overbrimming with it. But he never knew how to tell you with words. So he shows you in the only way he’s ever known. 

He drops down to his knees, ignoring the strain in his shoulder from the hand still cuffed tight to the shower. His free hand reaches for you, cupping the back of your neck to pull you in, His mouth slant over yours, and he swallows the sweet affectionate hum between your lips. 

I love you. 

That’s what he’d say if he knew how to. 

I love you and I want to be everything to you. 

He cups your face in his one free hand, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone as he tilts you up to his mouth and kisses you. Your mouth parts, letting him lick into into your mouth properly. You still taste of him. Tart and salty, and the taste of him on your tongue makes him lightheaded. 

Needy heat rolls over his back, and he can feel it again. The demanding hunger that is consuming his insides. The one that wants him to sink his teeth into your soft and pliant flesh, lick and nip at every inch of wet skin you’ll let him as he tries to swallow you whole. It’s not enough. Kissing you isn’t enough. He wants you pressed up against every inch of him. Wants your body lined against his, your legs spread wide as he settles between them. Wants your back arching up against him, breathless and keen as he buries himself inside you. 

He leans further down, pressing you downwards until he has you flat on your back against the cold and hard tiles, and he should do better by you. Should take you into bed, where it’s soft and warm. Nice and sweet. Not fuck you against the dirty floor of Steven’s dirty bathroom like some savage. 

But his body isn’t listening to him, surging down to reclaim your lips as he grinds his hips and cock against the softness of your stomach. He’s hard again, or maybe he never went down for the count, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s aching for you. All of him dying to be buried inside of you to the hilt. 

Pleasure sparks deep in his veins at the contact, and he does it again, grinds himself needily into you, smearing precome over the fabric of your already soaked sleepshirt. God he’s such a mess, he’s ruining your clothes. 

He forces himself up again, kneeling over your body, as he stares down at you. He’s made such a fucking mess of things… of you. Your face is wet from the shower, hair matted against your forehead, and your shirt is soaked and opaque clinging wetly to your skin underneath. The sight of you makes his mouth dry with heat. 

Behind him, the spray of the shower is raining down lukewarm water over his back. It should calm him, that’s why he turned the damn thing on in the first place, but it doesn’t. He can’t even feel it anymore, can barely hear the sound of the shower drizzling down like rain. Instead it’s all turned to static noise inside his head. 

The only thing he sees is your pretty face look up at him, warm and affectionate, and so fucking loving, and he feels sick with want over you. 

“Baby, you gotta tell me to stop,” he forces out, and his hand draws down between his legs to grip his aching cock, that’s throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“If it gets too much– you have to–” 

You rise up to meet him, curling one arm around his neck until you’re face to face, so close that your nose nudges his. Your hand reaches down between you, wrapping your hand over his, and your eyes never falter from his, as you shove your panties to the side and guide his hand to notch his cock against your entrance. 

Fuck, you’re dripping. He’s not even inside, and he can feel you slick and warm and wet against the head of his cock. 

“Can you feel that?” you murmur, against his lips. “How wet you got me? I need this too. Need you to fuck your cock inside me, Marc.” 

Shit. 

He snaps. Plain and simple. 

He thrusts down and into you with a long and deep consuming stroke and it’s fucking everything. 

Ecstasy rushes into his bloodstream with a heady sugary rush, and he chases it with his hips, burying his cock inside as deep as you can take him, until it nudges something sweet and blissful that has you clawing at his arm with a gorgeous sob ripped from your throat. 

And it’s so good, so fucking good, he wants to crawl into that sound and nestle into it. He drags himself out of you, until only the overwrought tip of his cock rests inside you, watching you bite down on your lip to muffle your sounds, and that won’t do. Marc wants to hear you. Wants you to scream so loud his ears ring from pain with it. Fuck, he wants to go deaf with it. Wants the sound of your voice obliterate him until it echoes in his ears til the day he dies.

His arm moves to your leg, curling around your thigh to pull you in closer towards his torso, canting you upwards, tilting you at that angle that he knows will make you cry for him. Then he slams forward, his thighs tense, burning with the pleasure that threatens to incinerate him. You’re so fucking tight around him. It’s heaven if Marc ever believed in one. 

Your fingers tighten down on him, nails digging into his skin and the biting pain only makes the pleasure of it all the more ripe and sweet as you clamp down around his cock. 

He can’t stop. Hips thrusting into you with a demanding pace like his body is no longer his own, just a conduit for him to chase that mad pleasure that skitters to his brain and has him want to go harder, deeper, until he’s lodged so deep inside that you can never rid him of you. 

It’s a selfish need that Marc would never allow himself to give voice to. He keeps it jammed under a lid and pretends it’s not there. That deep gnawing hunger that wants you all to himself and never have to share. The possessive streak in his veins that wants to mark you, fuck himself so deep into you until you can fucking taste him in your throat. 

Your legs are wrapped all around him, clamping down around his torso until he’s sure you’re constricting his lungs from the sheer force of it and he almost can’t breathe. “Shit, baby–fuck, you’re so– I–” he grinds down on his teeth, and doesn't let himself say the words, swallowing down the groan that tears through his throat. 

So good, he thinks to himself. You feel so fucking good. So warm and wet and blissfully tight around his cock. He loves you. Loves you so fucking much and he can’t stop, won’t stop– Never want to stop fucking his cock into you. 

Then he sees it. That all familiar tell that lets him know you are close. Every muscle in your body goes taut, and you’re squeezing down almost rhythmically and so tight it knocks the fucking breath out of his lungs. “That’s it baby, come on my cock for me.” 

Your eyes roll back, mouth parting as your back arches upward.

And there you go. You’re so fucking beautiful. 

You come hard and punishingly tight as you squeeze around his cock. 

The pleasure swirls hot and hungry inside his gut, and it’s all it takes to push him right over the edge with you. He spills himself inside, pulse after greedy pulse as he fills you. 

He barely manages to catch himself with a palm braced next to your head on the tiles as he tries to come down.

There’s no relief this time. Not like last time, however brief it was. This time his climax only serves to fuel the pathetic need in his chest. Like someone threw gasoline over an open fire and now it’s spreading everywhere and there’s no extinguisher in sight. 

More, the hunger inside his veins scream out. Again. 

Wants to feel you come again. Wants to feel you squeeze tight around his cock, as your lips part and moan out his name in bliss again. Want to feel your slick drench his cock as you come again and again and again and again. 

He’s still hard. 

He thrusts forward, and you cry, high pitched and broken and the sound makes the blood in his veins sing. 

You're slick and excruciatingly tight, but his come drips out of you, easing the tight press of his cock no matter how hard you squeeze down on him. 

“It’s okay baby,” he hushes, and you sob in reply even as he bends down to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay. You can take it for me. Doing so good. You’re being so good,” he coos, as he cants his hips and pushes into you as deeply as he can again. 

Closer. He needs you closer than this. Wants his hands to touch and grip every inch of your skin. He brings his other arm to wrap around your waist, and something tugs and restrains him from behind. It locks up his shoulder, and no matter how hard he pulls forward, he can’t quite reach you. 

You blink up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion as you watch him before your eyes widen, hand reaching up for him. “Marc, wait– you’re–” 

His free arm shoots out around your shoulders and reels you close as he captures your mouth, swallowing down your words. He’s trying to come down to you, to press you down against the floor with the weight of his body, and wrap his arms around you, and never let go. Hold you so tight to him until you can never leave. But something won’t let him. No matter how hard he strains forward the strength holding back his arm won’t budge. 

There’s a metallic groaning noise that protests as he continues to pull against the resisting strength from behind him, as he rolls his hips relentlessly into you, chasing the pleasure. It digs sharp into his wrist with a jagged pain, but he doesn’t even care. Marc wants to hold you close, wrap his arm around your leg and squeeze it tight to his hips and lock you there. 

He rips against the hindrance, with an impatient and angry snarl. The strain and resistance finally gives, and he’s free to put both his hands on you. His arms lock up tight around your waist. 

There's a cacophony of sound somewhere in the distance. Of broken dishes and sharp crashing noise, but he doesn't care. The roof could be collapsing right now and it wouldn't make any damn difference to him so long as you were still here with him.

“Fuck! Marc!”

It doesn’t even register until he hears your agitated shout. He looks up in a daze at you, Your wide and alarmed eyes. Something’s wrong. 

His head whips back, tearing himself away from you prepared to leap into action at the culprit. But that's not what he sees.

There’s debris on the wall. Bare cement in the large torn cracks of the tiled walls. There’s jagged pieces of cracked white porcelain on the floor. Debris and parts of the wall along with the showerhead and the metal rod he handcuffed himself to is lying in ruined shambles below, as the shower spits out water all around like a death rattle. 

Well fuck.  

Fuck– what is he… 

Shit!

He’s completely lost control. The familiar dread and anxiety bleeds into his veins, and he can fight it all he wants, but it’s already here. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was the one who was supposed to be able to keep it together. The one who was supposed to protect you from this and keep you safe from harm. The bitter acrid taste of failure lingers on his tongue and drips down his throat until it reaches his lungs. Embarrassment clings to his cheeks and burns like fire. His body wants to curl into itself and hide, until he’s so small no one can see him anymore, least of all you. 

“Marc, it’s okay,” you say as you plant an elbow against the slippery floor to you can raise yourself into a sitting position. Until you’re both at eye level with each other. 

“It’s okay. Just ignore it. We’ll clean it up later,” you murmur as you crawl closer to him, until your face is within inches from his and you press your mouth to his cheek. Then you climb into his lap, the firm press of your warm body straddling his thighs and he looks up at you in dazed awe. 

“Do you want to keep going?” you ask. 

Despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t ask this of you, he still nods, whimpering at the reassuring press of your body against his achingly hard cock. 

“As many times as it takes, okay?” Your fingers circle around the base of his cock, and he chokes on a moan, as you position him against your entrance. You’re slick and warm and fucking dripping for him. 

“Let’s keep going until you feel better. I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Is that okay?” you say.

He doesn't understand how that's a question. Of course it's okay, it's more than okay, it's all he wants. All he ever wants. He nods, and you smile at him. That warm and affectionate smile filled with love and it fills him to the brim. He feels like his heart is going to give out again. There's no more space for shame anymore, the way your smile crowds his vision and every inch of space inside him.

You lift your hips slightly, then you lower your knees, slowly sinking down on his cock until he’s buried all the way inside you, squeezing down around his cock in that perfect way you do, and he can’t fucking think. 

You’re looking down at him like you’re expecting him to answer and he doesn’t even remember how to open his mouth and use vocal cords anymore, fuck he doesn’t even remember what the question was. 

“Marc,” you repeat, 

He still doesn’t know what you’re asking him. But it doesn’t matter does it? When it comes to you, he’s never going to say no to you. So he answers you with the only answer he has. 

“Yes.”

It must be the right answer you were looking for, because you’re looking at him in that way again, smiling up brightly at him, like he’s worth a damn, worth everything to you. He knows that you’re wrong about that. He doesn’t deserve it. But it fills his chest with something sweet and heady. An antidote to the poisonous fire that’s still burning hot and bitter in his veins. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t fight the warm buzz that’s trickling slowly into his veins and lets himself bask in it. 

After all, who is he to say no to you? 

You roll your hips against him and your eyes flutter close with a gasp as his cock hits something deep inside, and both of you moan at the feeling as he tightens his arms around your waist. 

You lean closer, lips pressed to his ear, “I love you, Marc” you whisper in the hair above his ears and his whole back shudders pleasantly. 

He tilts his head upwards, his nose brushing up against your chin and cheeks as he tries to find his way back to your mouth. 

Marc might not deserve you. But you deserve everything you want and more, and if Marc is one of those things (for whatever unfathomable reason that he will never understand)… then that makes things a little bit easier for him. 

He wakes with a pounding headache. 

The muscles in his shoulders and back are stiff and sore, cramping up with a sharp throb as he tries to get up. Every limb aches. He feels like he was hit by a fucking truck going at full speed down a highway. 

“Morning,” your voice greets, as your hand comes to his forehead and rests there as if you’re checking for his temperature. It’s soft and soothing, a balm to the ache in body and he fights every instinct to not nuzzle into the palm of your hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he replies. His voice scrapes against the lining of his throat, like something crawled up in there and died. 

He can hear you laugh quietly at his reply, and despite how crap he feels, the sound seeps into his chest and the stiffness melts just a little bit. The bed dips as you sit down on the edge next to him. 

“How long was I out for?” 

“Not too long. Just a bit. You needed the rest,” you answer, and it's entirely too vague for his liking. 

He anchors his elbow into the soft bedding below and despite the angry creak of the mattress and the protesting groan in his bones, he tries to get up into a sitting position. His head feels lightheaded with the sudden altitude, like he’s about to throw up all over the sheets. It’s like he’s experiencing the world’s worst hangover, the second time in less two days. As soon as he gets his hand on that sex sprite, he’s going to fling it into the surface of the sun. Don’t care how upset that will make Min’s avatar. 

Bringing his hand to his face, he rubs at his temples and the blunt throbbing pain that’s killing his head, when it occurs to him. His wrist feels light and unimpeded, there’s no sharp metal digging into his wrist.  He stares down at his now bare wrist, then he looks up at you in confusion. 

“Jake told me where the key was,” you answer. 

He frowns, but holds his tongue. That means at some point while Marc was still unconscious, Jake must've woken up without him being aware. Marc doesn’t love that. He’s still not completely at ease with Jake being around you. Especially when he’s unconscious and can’t keep an eye out to step in and protect you if something were to go wrong. 

As if something hasn’t already.

Marc is such a hypocrite, talking about protecting you as if he isn’t the very wolf at your door, fangs poised at your throat. 

Your thumb smooths over his knuckles, as you nudge his leg with your knees.  “Should I make you some coffee? Maybe some breakfast. Can whip up some omelets for you.”

He shakes his head. “No I gotta get up. Try to catch that thing before it does more damage again.”

He should tell you to leave. It’s not safe for you here. But he knows you’re going to fight him tooth and nail over it. 

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” you say as you rise from the bed, “stay there for just a sec will you?” 

You walk up to the Gus trio’s tank, sliding a few books around, and pick something up before you make your way back to him, holding an all too familiar brass-metal box in the palm of your hand outstretched to him. 

He can see from the shape on the golden lid the puzzle sequence has been properly completed, just like that obnoxious Avatar had shown him. Locked and sealed.

“How did you–” he sputters out in shock as he eyes it. 

“Steven sealed it for me.”

He blinks, feeling a little bit stunned as he takes the box from you. “How did you get it back in there in the first place.”

“You said that it liked small cramped spaces with a lid. I figured it couldn’t have gotten far from the flat like last time. So I just started opening every single item in the place with a lid. It hid in an empty shoebox this time.” 

Marc grits his teeth. “That’s dangerous, it could’ve possessed you.”

You wave your hands dismissively at his concerns. “It’s alright. I had a fly-swatter,” you answer, like that answers everything and Marc’s just being silly. 

“You what?”

“A flyswatter. I just swatted at it until it finally got back into the box. Had to chase it around the flat, reopening every jar and box in the flat for a good hour or so until it got the hint.” 

He wants to scold you, want to point out everything that could’ve gone wrong and how you should have just ran out of the apartment and gotten yourself to safety. It’s a speech he’s made a hundred times before, but you never listened then either, and those times you didn’t have the upper hand with the argument, given that he passed out and you saved the day. 

So he bites his tongue. 

“Hey,” you say softly as your hand comes to cup his cheek. “Everything worked out fine alright? It’s a happy ending. You don’t have to look so sad.” 

He bites the insides of his cheek. Flashes of you under him, soft and moaning, legs spread and wrapped around him, invading in startling technicolor.

“I’m…” he wants to say sorry, but the word won't come. His hand curls into a fist to his side with unease. “That shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let you stay and do that for me”.

“Marc, it’s not a punishment for me to have sex with you. This shouldn't come as a surprise to you by now, but I like having sex with you.” 

He doesn’t answer you, just stares blindly at his feet at the end of the bed, as the guilt crawls in his gut and tries to consume him. Maybe he should let it. It’s what he deserves after all. 

You scoot closer to him, an exasperated but fond look in your eyes as you take his hand in yours. “You see Marc, when two adults love each other very much,” you sing-song and start to jokingly explain to him about the bird and the bees.

Despite himself he can feel the smile tugging at his lips, and the gnawing anxiety fades a bit. You think you’re so fucking funny sometimes (and to Marc you are), but he isn’t going to let the laugh that wants to push up against his throat betray him. You meet his smile with your own, and that helps to take away the last of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Can you promise me that next time something like this happens again, you won't run away… or lock yourself in the bathroom to deal with it all by yourself? We’ll handle it together alright?”

Marc meets the look in your eye. It's the same one that he keeps finding somehow even though he never quite understands why, of love and adoration for him.

A part of him wants to fight it, push it away because he doesn't deserve it... But your soft voice echoes in his ear. The weight of your arms wrapped around his shoulders still lingers from before. 'I love you', you had told him, and whether he deserves your love or not is maybe not the point. You love him regardless. And who is he to say no to you?

“Yeah,” Marc nods. “Together.”

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

Happy Moon-aversary everyone!!! I can't believe I'm still here a whole year after this show premiered. When I first saw that trailer with Oscar Isaac's strange british accent I remember telling @thirstworldproblemss I was sceptical and then I watched about 5 minutes of Steven on screen and went "oh no, I'm in love with this man" and the rest is history.

I hope you guys enjoyed this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it, thank you so much for taking the time to read it I appreciate all of you so very much.

Dedications and credit: To my co-worker, co-clown and the love of my life @thirstworldproblemss she's had a busy few months and she is everything to me please go over and send her some love if you have time!!!!

Also to my muse @guruan who draws horny sketches and the most inspiring artpieces that makes me write near 13k of blowjob for this man. That blowjob scene was particularly inspired by THIS sketch. Send her love! Send her reblogs, send her everything you have and more!