#just pretend he's dancing on a stool
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My submission for @luneariann's DTIYS >:]
Thanks for hosting! Love your stuff btw bro, keep it gOINN đ„đ„
#dtiysluneariann#bsd fanart#bungo gay dogs#bungou stray dogs#bsd chuuya#bsd dazai#bsd skk#soukoku#bsd soukoku#ya bro's back from the dead rAHAHAHA#may is not my month#hands and I have a one-sided relationship or smth man#fuck it we ball#I know chuuya's height isn't biblically accurate#just pretend he's dancing on a stool#kiss kiss fall in love#I kinda see the resemblance to Tamaki after people pointed it out XD
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just for tonight | S.H.
Summary: You and Steve can't stand each other. You always jump at each other's throats whenever you are together. You have set a goal during his birthday party, but you didn't think it would work.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f! reader
Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), p in v (protected sex), oral (m receiving), choking kink, fingering, (sort of) aftercare, a little bit of angst
Word count: 4.6k
-`âĄÂŽ-
If there's something Steve hates the most besides hating you, it's the fact that Robin insisted you should come to his birthday party. And he insisted it was his birthday, and you would ruin it if you were there. He wasn't wrong, though. You made his life a living hell simply for the fun of it, but he would always make sure he did the same.
And there you were, holding the same scowl on your face as he does. Whenever he had to walk past you in his big apartment, he would try to avoid your gaze, but deep inside he wanted to show you how much he despised your presence. You couldn't give a shit about him, completely ignoring his existence as you were drinking your Piña Colada while talking to Eddie about something random.
At some point, you started to notice how Steve would go back and forth. While you were sitting in the stool of his living room with Robin and Nancy, you would notice he would stand there and huff. Now you try to pretend you're not listening to him as you look straight forward, but your left ear perks up when you listen to what he's saying. He's complaining he has been turned down twice until now. You try to hold back a snort and sip on your drink to avoid that to happen.
Pretty, golden kissed skin, perfect sat hair on his head and muscled Steve Harrington was complaining he was being denied. Twice. You thought your night wasn't going to be good at all, but the sight of him with pouty lips as he talks to his girl friends, it was worth getting out.
You lost count on how many drinks you had, you already smoked weed with Eddie, who drank more beers than he could count as well. Argyle was also in a funny state of drunkenness. You were dancing with both girls too, bumping a few times into each other as the alcohol traveled through your system. You're in a daze as you swing your body to the music, barely keeping your feet steady and Eddie has to hold your waist a few times so you won't fall on your face. You laugh at it all.
You laugh even more when you watch from afar while a girl rips herself from Steve's grip and gives him an apologetic nod, before turning her back to him. He turns his head directly at Robin, who's dancing beside you, and it's enough for him to notice you were watching all of it as well. This time, you snort and cackle. You laugh so hard, there's no reason to hide it. He rolls his eyes and walks towards you, his hands balled into fists as his face holds a scowl again.
"Is it all amusing to you?" His face gets closer to yours, his eyes are kind of blown from the weed he also smoked.
You sipped on your drink, nonchalant, and shrugged. "Well, I just think it's funny how king Steve can't seem to score on his birthday"
Robin tries scolding you with a warning look on her face.
"It's okay, Steve! Someone will like you!" She comforts him with a gentle look. Her hand rubbed his shoulder.
He's actually still shooting daggers at you, mouth closed on a thin line. His chest is kind of puffed because he feels like his body is rigid from his anger.
"You should just stop being such a brat. This is my house. Go find something better to do" He scans you up and down with disdain over his eyes and you just hold your gaze at him.
And you did.
But you never intended to stop looking his way to make sure he wasn't getting a girl. And it's not like there were many options, because it wasn't a big party anyway. You complained to Eddie about the way Steve talked to you, and he laughed it off.
He was being annoying too. He would try at all costs to bump into you whenever he got closer. Steve was trying to get on your nerves just so you could feel what it's like. And when you were left alone for a moment, he would send you this taunting sly smirk. When you were leaving his bathroom, you were caught off guard when his sudden shadow made its presence in the hallway. He passed by you, shoving his shoulder against yours when he made his way to the bedroom.
Back to the living room, when you were all dancing, he made sure he would hit his back against yours, making you stumble forward. It was getting really infuriating. You looked back over your shoulder, just to catch him mouthing a forced "sorry" with another smile. Then something switched inside of you. You weren't getting guys either, but because you didn't want to. So you decided there would be a goal tonight.
You placed both hands over Eddie's shoulders and danced to the music. You swayed your hips to the rhythm, sliding down until you were almost crouched. Your dress rode up a little, showing a little more of your skin. He was flabbergasted to see you dancing like that out of nowhere.
You stood up and kept swinging your hips left and right. Turning on your back to your friend, you couldn't help but notice how Steve's eyes would divert whenever you caught him looking. You smirked. It was working. You then moved to Robin, dancing on your back to her as she placed her hands on your hips, dancing in sync with you. You dropped your head back, leaning against her shoulder, biting your lip.
"Yeah, honey. Whoo!" She gripped your skin through the fabric and grazed your stomach.
You and Robin were always too touchy and sometimes it made people think you had a thing. Steve included. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat, growing impatient as he saw the way she was holding your ribs, fingers touching the curve of your breasts. He tried to focus on his other friends, but it was too hard when you were looking at him that way.
He waved it off, reminding himself why he hated you, why he despised you. He remembered why he didn't invite you even then, you were forced to come because of your friends. But the thought of ripping off the material and sucking on your skin was making him become annoyed.
You were twerking with Robin and Eddie, your ass bouncing to the music. Your hips rolling as your legs are tangled to Eddie's. He doesn't care if you look hot, you're like a sister to him and it's hard for him to actually sexualize you. They knew what you were doing by now. They were catching sight of Steve holding his glass of whisky tightly. Your eyes drifted to him a few times, and your tongue would slip between your fingers in a cocky way. He knew that.
There was no one in the kitchen. You went looking for a beer as the buzz of all the drinks you had was too much now. There were too many empty bottles spread through the sink, along with the bottles of booze. A few snacks were on top of the kitchen island. You were too absorbed into your own thoughts as you ate the food and sipped on your newfound beer. You didn't see when Steve came right behind you.
His frame caged you between the kitchen island, while towering over you. His big hand found your hip and he swung you around, your faces barely touching as your eyes widened. He wasn't scowling, but his brows were furrowed and his lips were pursed.
"What?" You ask in confrontation, his arms leaning against the furniture behind you. "What? You're frustrated no one would fuck you on your birthday?"
Steve didn't answer you, rather, he chuckled with sarcasm. You watched as he shook his head, looking down. When he looked up at you, one of his hands flew up to your face, he was gripping your jawline almost forcefully.
"You know it sounds like you're just jealous, right? It seems to me you wish you were the one I was hitting on".
You laughed at his words, you truly laughed. But you couldn't deny the fact that Steve Harrington was almost God's grace.
"Oh, Stevie. Not even if the world was ending" Your own hand came up to his cheek, where you left a mocking slight slap.
He reacted to that. He truly wished you didn't have to be so bitchy about it. But now it was his time to play your game. His free hand reached for your side, fingers sliding up to your ribs. His thumb stroked your skin through the dress, right under the curve of your breast.
"Are you sure?" He rasped, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. His breath hit your skin and it left goosebumps.
The ones you couldn't fucking control. He mused at your reaction. "Yeah. That's what I thought".
Your only plan was to induce him. You didn't think Steve would actually come after you at all. And now you didn't have cards to play against him. And it made him realize he was the one ahead of you this time.
"So now that you have no other options, you come crawling to me?" You spread your hands against his chest, slipping your fingers down his white t-shirt, all while he tightens his fingers around your side.
He has to hold a grunt, because you're so hot and yet adorably annoying. He hates you, yes. But he would never deny fucking you either.
"Now, you wish. Don't pretend you're not enjoying this, pretty girl" His voice is like honey when it reaches your ear.
His fingers are rough on you, but they never hurt you. His expensive cologne is not helping either. And the way his hair falls on his face makes you think you wish you could rake your fingers through them. Your legs almost close in response to the pet name, but he's pushing one of his own legs in between yours. You didn't even notice it.
"Don't be so arrogant. You may be handsome, but you're far from being worth the time".
And you lie. You don't even budge, you don't blink an eye. It makes you realize how good of a liar you are and how bad it would make you look.
But it's not like he doesn't know you well enough to see you're not saying the truth and he laughs again. There's a soft, but still hard look on his face, he pouts at you with a sided smile and tilts his head. You wish you could admit he's not worth it.
"Right. So I won't waste your time" He then leaves your skin, and steps back. You immediately miss his touch. His leg isn't between yours anymore and he gives you another look before going back to the living room.
Steve can't do this anymore. He wished for a long time he would fuck you dumb. Just to hear you say his name. So he slowly retrieves back and turns his footsteps. And he waits, for a moment, but he waits. He's walking away sluggishly from you.
And you watch him walking away. Your heart is pumping faster and your hands are gripping too tight on the edge of the kitchen island. Your knees are wobbly. For a few seconds, you think it's better this way. Maybe you won't work in bed either. Maybe it would be a disaster doing that. But your body aches for him, your stomach burns craving for his touch. You call him out in almost a whisper, but it's enough for him to hear you.
He turns his head first, the corner of his eyes peering at you. "Are you sure?" He barely sees when you just nod, still holding yourself up from all the tension. "Fuck this".
He clings to you in a rush, holding your waist with both hands as he brushes his lips against yours. "Tell me we're not gonna regret this" He breathes out.
"I know I won't" Your arms wrap around his neck, hands finally tangling between his hair.
He needed reassurance, because there was no way he would regret this either. There was a fire growing inside his chest from seeing you this night. Obviously he wished he went to bed with another woman, but there's something about you that pulls him in. He wants to drown in you. His lips finally crashed against yours, for the first seconds it was an intense rush of feelings. You let out a muffled whimper, leaving him desperate to taste more of you.
His tongue slips through your mouth, colliding against yours. He tastes your beer and you taste the bourbon he was having. It's an explosion of lust between you two, finally. Steve lifts one hand and plants it on your neck, his rub stroking your chin. You wouldn't know he was soft after all you've been through. All the bickering, all the mocking. Every time you crossed paths, there was a look of aversion at each other.
You were almost always together. There were times you refused to go out with your friend because he was going too. Or he wouldn't go to someone's house or go out either because you'd be there. It's been like that for almost two years, ever since you saw him making fun of Eddie when he was still a new friend. And you hated that. You started to hate him with a growing avoidance to be near him.
After you started to mistreat him and be ironic most of the time. Until he started to fight back. Eddie was such a sweetheart, he was the one to stop you from fighting. He said it was okay, because then he became friends with Steve. But you never agreed to that and never forgave him either.
Now you were almost turning into a puddle. He kisses like he can't get enough of you. And you battle for dominance with your tongue. You pull the nape of his hair back and he groans. He tugs at you and pushes his hips forward until you feel the bulge straining in his jeans. His thumb slips down your neck as he feels your pulse, and then squeezes your throat lightly. You breathe out against his mouth with a soft moan and he loses it.
"Fuck, you're going to kill me" His voice is hoarse. Steve opens his lids only a few inches just to look at you with lust fulfilling his eyes.
He doesn't waste anymore time as he holds you up and you wrap your legs around his waist. He makes his way to his bedroom, locking the door as he shoves both of you against it. He kisses you again and there's no romance in it. He's impatient and bites your lower lip, pulling it back gently. It's a mix of roughness and softness at the same time. He drops your weight, only to capture your ass with both hands this time. His fingertips graze over the curve of your ass, digging his nails against it.
There's a jolt on your body when he slaps your asscheek. It stings but it doesn't hurt. "You like that, huh?" He chuckles against your mouth and gives your lips a smell peck before slapping you again.
"You're such an arrogant dork" You pull back and use both hands to shove him by his chest until the back of his knees hit his bed.
He watches in awe as you bend down in front of him, small gentle hands undoing his jeans, sliding your fingers against his boxer. You feel the roughness of it, his cock being pressed by the fabric, a damp patch forming around it. You don't need to waste your time with teasing, so you immediately get rid of both at the same time, watching as his hardness springs free. Reddened tip, leaking precum. His length surprised you.
You wrap a hand around his girth, stroking him a few times. You look back at him behind your lashes, his eyes trained at you with such an unreadable expression. He doesn't seem to hate you right now. You see how his chest rises quickly, and you bite your lower lip when you notice how his eyes shut when you stroke him harder.Â
Your fingers spread the liquid over his shaft before you finally get to taste him. You lick a stripe from his balls until the tip and put on a show for him. You swirl your tongue over the sensitive spot and open your mouth, sucking on it. Steve throws his head back, leaving a loud growl in reaction. You can't help but hum. You lower your head further down, bobbing it a few times until you're used to his size. You don't think you can deep throat him, but you try your best to get past half of it without gagging.Â
His tip hits the back of your throat and he moans. He doesn't care if he's vocal. You use your free hand to rest it over his stomach, fingers grazing his hairs, nails scratching his skin. You use your tongue to lick him through his length, pumping him with your mouth.
He grabs a fistful of your hair, fingers tangling on it. He bucks his hips forward and fucks your mouth. He can't stop whimpering either. You hear your name slipping out of his throat every now and then. You hold his shaft and suck his cock mercilessly, saliva dripping down his skin. You pull back with a pant, looking at him straight in the eyes and he hurriedly pulls you back up. Your mouth is so wet, from the spit, from his precum.
Steve is fast when he swings you around, removing your shoes and throwing them off. He pushes you slowly to the bed so you bend over to him, your ass in the air for him. He plants his palms over your cheeks, stroking them before slapping one and you jolt forward again, leaving a mewl.
"You're such a pretty needy thing, aren't you?" His tone is raspy and it trembles from his sight. Another slap. "Always so pretty. Delicate". Another slap. "It's such a shame we hate each other. Could've had fucked you way before".
You feel his hands lifting the hem of your dress, reaching for your underwear. He rolls it off your legs, getting rid of it before opening your legs apart with one knee. The air gets knocked out of your lungs when he uses his thumb to spread your slit. His finger reaches for your clit and rubs circles around it, making your hips stutter.
"Fuck, Steve" You plead. He collects the wetness of your cunt and uses it as leverage to push into your pussy and you cry out. "Shit".
He's lightheaded, drunk on you. Steve strokes his cock as he pumps his finger inside you a few times. He rubs his thumb up and down, pressing your swollen nub. He hisses whenever you roll your hips against his finger, feeling your slippy skin against his thumb. His cock is almost bursting into a mess and he can't seem to hold it back for too long, but he tries. He picks up a condom from his drawer and rolls the plastic around his shaft.
Still on your fours, you can feel him shifting behind you, positioning himself. His free hand stays on your waist as he uses the other one to rub his dick against your slit. You bite your lip from the obscenities you want to scream.
He pushes his tip first, feeling you clench around him. He takes another second before thrusting against you once, carefully so it won't hurt. You drop your weight forward, whimpering from the sensation.
"Fuck, I'm so big for you" His hips slowly start to hit on your ass. "You okay, pretty?"
You can't formulate an answer so you just nod. Steve could never be this gentle in your head. And yet, there he was, making sure you were good. You heard his own voice proclaiming curses under his breath each time he digs his cock further into your pussy. He starts pounding on you quickly, slapping his skin against yours.
You're both a mess of moans, you can't stand on your elbows and you can't stop rolling your hips against him. He holds your waist with both hands, firmly gripping on your skin.
"Oh God, Steve. That's it. That's so good" You yelp when you feel the tip of his cock hitting you.
His hair is a mess, there's a few strands falling over his eyes as he looks down. He takes his shirt off and throws it away as well, feeling his body on fire. Sweat streamed down his hairy chest, reaching his happy trail.
"You're so fucking good" He praises.
He leans down on you, thrusting harder against your pussy. The new position makes you feel every inch of his cock, his balls slapping against your ass too. Steve carefully wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing it. It's enough for your windpipe to close a bit.
You shut your eyes and your brows crease, voice too strained from pleasure to say anything else. He can only listen to your crying moans.
He licks his lips, moving closer to your ear. "You're such a kinky girl, I see" Steve whispers, his hot breath hitting your skin. You clench around him again and he leaves a groan next to you. "Fuck, do that again".
Now you chuckle, still in a daze. He's still gripping your throat tightly, fingers digging on your neck, straining you. You cage his cock so hard with your pussy, he pushes it all inside of you. He can't move it, and the more you clench around him, the more he feels his pleasure building up.
He pounds hard once, his free hand still holding your waist for support. You throw your head back and roll your eyes. His other hand never leaves your throat. He pushes further again, hips meeting your ass, and you cry. He then decides to pull you up, leaning your back against his chest. You're feeling limp already. His tip hits a different spot inside of you and it makes you roll your hips against him.
Steve rests his head over your shoulder, and he whispers such dirty things for you but you can barely comprehend what he's saying. He's wrapped an arm around you, snapping his hips against you. The other hand slips down your body, cupping one of your breasts. His fingers pinch your hardened nipple, ripping another moan from you.
He loves the way you're falling apart for him, as much as he's glad you're doing the same for him. Even though he would love to see you riding him. He feels your legs wobbling, tension contracting your body. Your muscles are sore and there's a knot forming in your stomach.
He's clinging to you, his sweaty chest is sticking to your back. Now he's not even pounding on you anymore, he's just pushing his cock in a soft motion as he whispers into your ear.
He grazes his teeth between your earlobe and breathes against your skin. You're already clenching so hard, he thinks his cock could snap in half. "Come for me, pretty girl".
Steve spreads wet kisses against your neck, sucking on it as he trails your skin down to your shoulder. You don't want to deal with that right now, you don't want to think how soft he's being to you. There's a coil inside of you and it snaps as you cum on his cock. Your body jolts and trembles over him, legs almost faltering.
You're squirming and clenching around him as he thrusts faster when he feels his orgasm reaching its peak. He usually doesn't cum together with a partner. It's either he waits for them to cum first and he finishes minutes later, or when he's feeling needy he finishes first. But it's hard for something like that to happen.
You're still coming down from your high, he spurts into the condom, feeling his muscles contracting. He never leaves you, he groans from the pleasure over your ear and leaves marks from his fingertips on you.
He gives his final thrust, throwing his head over your shoulder. He's heaving against your back, cock still twitching inside of you. You turn your head to the side where his head is resting and kiss his temple, ripping him from his daydream, catching him off guard.
He painfully pulls back from you, missing your pussy right at the same moment. Steve disappears into his bathroom for a few seconds, walking back and picking up the clothes from the floor. You notice you're completely naked and start wondering when the fuck you got rid of your dress.
You look at Steve. Sweat coating his skin. His hair is wet, as well as his chest and his stomach. His face is flushed and his breathing is still uneven just like yours. He hands you your lace underwear and gets dressed up. You're still peering at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way he tries to fix his greasy sweaty hair with his fingers, only making you feel giddy about it.
But it surprises you when he hands out a comb for you to brush your hair. Your head immediately snapping at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. He clears his throat when he notices your reaction, sitting on his bed close to you.
"I uhâ Maybe we should, you know" He gestures with his fingers, but it's unclear to you what he wants.
And you giggle, tilting your head at him. "Are you getting shy on me, Steve Harrington?"
But he waves you off, pretending he doesn't know what you're talking about. It's kind of a strange feeling to be around him without jumping at each other's throats, but at the same time, it's a good thing.
"I meant, we should talk it off. You know, hating each other. I know you never bothered to show how much you hate me because of Eddie. And I know I was a dick" Steve never even tried to apologize to you before, knowing you were never open to it.
"Let's not get through this tonight, we should try to have fun on your birthday. See if you can actually score".
He chuckles when you finish your sentence, knowing there would be no way he would fuck someone else this night. Not even if he wanted to. "So... we're kinda good tonight?"
You look down at his hand that is expectantly waiting for you to shake it. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea after all. "Yeah, kinda. Just for tonight".
He shakes your hand as well, flicking his eyes between your hand and your lips. God, he wanted to kiss you again. You both get up from the bed and fix your clothes before leaving the bedroom, but when you're holding the doorknob, you feel his hand wrapping around your wrist carefully.
You look to your side, to the way he's facing you in a different way. His hand slips to yours, interlocking his fingers with yours, and he pulls you closer to him. You just let him. He holds your jawline with his free hand and hovers his lips against yours lips.
"Just... let me do it one more time tonight" And he kisses you, soft tongue colliding against yours again.
There's something conflicting inside of him. Like his feelings are battling against his mind. Because to him, there was no way he was starting to have emotions towards you.
Not now, not ever.
He breaks the kiss, and when he opens his eyes he realizes something. He was fucked.
#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x you#steve harrington smut#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington angst#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington x fem!reader fluff#steve harrington fanfiction#stranger things#stranger things fanfic
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Private Show (Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader) [+18]
Pairing: Tommy Shelby x female reader Summary: You're a burlesque star who caught the eye of the infamous Tommy Shelby, and one night after your show he decides to pay you a little visit backstage. Word count: 3,292 Contents: (Minors DNI) Unprotected sex, hair pulling, semi public sex? pull out, cum shot. Author's notes: Once more, my bestie @fuckiingloser and I collaborated to make this. Give her some love! I've had this in mind for quite a while now so I hope you enjoy it. Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer. ILY!
The roar of your beloved London audience followed you across the backstage hall. You were a star. A burlesque princess adorned in sequins and rhinestones, enamouring the audience with your unique presence and charm that got you where you stood at this very moment. Adrenaline coursed madly through your veins, mapping out every inner crevice of your risqué scarlet costume. Another job well done. Another night of the glory of bright lights, music and performance.
Every single sound got muffled out right after you entered your small private dressing room. A privilege of being the main attraction. No more snarky comments and unhealthy competition between a stressed out dance troupe. It was just you in your velvety stool, admiring your own self in the vanity mirror. What a beautiful woman. Carefully, you removed your feathered headpiece and let your hair down in relief, finally winding down.
You removed your bracelets and hairpins, carefully placing them in their respective decorated boxes when a soft knock on your door interrupted you. Definitely the stage manager, you thought, already picturing what he would say to you about your next show. To your surprise, however, when you opened the door you met with a completely different manâŠ
Thomas Shelby, in all of his infamous gangster glory standing right in front of you, that signature cheeky smirk upon his devilishly handsome face.Â
He looked like he wanted to swallow you whole.Â
You knew of this man. The Shelbys had risen to power throughout the years and now, anyone with a working brain knew who they were. The name Tommy Shelby made many shudder, and now, you had him just a step away.Â
âCan I help you?â You looked straight into his perfect blue eyes, fearlessly. You owed nothing to anyone and you had no reason to cower in front of him, no matter how dangerous or handsome he was.Â
âI donât know, love, can you?â His smile grew a bit, his voice was husky and rich in a Birmingham accent. He didnât bother to conceal the way his eyes roamed all over your scantily clad body, so beautifully adorned in red jewels and feathers and so deliciously leaving little to the imagination.
âBackstage is private, you knowâŠâ You pretended to chastise him, leaning against the doorframe like you didnât have a feared criminal shamelessly checking you out. He didnât even try to hide his intentions. He laughed a bit, your heart raced. No security could ever stop him from doing what he pleased and you both knew it.
 âI've seen your pretty picture on flyers all over townâŠÂ Figured Iâd come see what all the fuss is aboutâŠâ He remarked as your eyes locked on each other finally.Â
âAnd?â You asked with a pretty smile. âWas it everything you dreamed and more?â His smirk grew to a big grin. He knew you were a tease, feeding him with playful banter that he absolutely enjoyed.
âYou were a sight to behold out there, love⊠Body like that, face like that and voice like yours⊠Iâve never seen anything quite like you⊠You were a goddess up there.â Thomas practically purred to you in that thick accent that made your pussy tingle and sent shivers down your spine. His tongue, quick yet unmissable to your eyes, wet his lips after speaking. So subtle but incredibly sensual. You wanted to drop down to your kneesâŠ
But you also wanted to make him work for it a littleâŠ
Charmingly, you invited him in for a drink. An irresistible offer. You shut the rest of the world out and closed the door behind him. Just you and him in your little shoebox dressing room. He sat down on the small futon across from you and you sat at your vanity, pouring you two glasses of whiskey from your secret stash. The room was so tiny your knee brushed against his when you spun your stool around to face him and hand him his drink.
âThere was buzz amongst the other girls of a Shelby brother in the crowd tonightâŠâ You started, lipstick staining your glass and your legs crossing. âI was hoping it was youâŠâ Thomas smirked like a devil, your admission feeding his ego.Â
âAnd whyâs that, love?â He took a large sip of whiskey like it was a sip of you, savoring the burn like he wanted to savor you. It made you nervous, restless⊠And you were a performer, your nerves were supposed to be of steel. But Tommy had something about him, an aura, a natural disarming confidence that made you want to bow down in submission. You swallowed a bit, just to gain some confidence back, knocking your head out of the trance his accent and icy blue eyes put you under.Â
âWell youâre the leader right? The big man in chargeâŠâ You charmed through your smirk like he was your audience, looking over at his crisp, expensive navy blue suit. Tommy laughed, pulling a cigarette out and rubbing it against his plump bottom lip before lighting it up.
âThatâs rightâŠâ He smirked, a puff of smoke adorning his words. He leaned forward a bit, his large calloused hand finding its shameless way to the exposed skin of your knee and rubbing it softly with his thumb. Naughty girl, not even wearing a pantyhose for your performances. A mischievous glint shimmered in his eyes.Â
You couldnât help but bite your lip and clench your legs together at his touch. The sexual tension hung thick and heavy in the air of your tiny dressing room, threatening to burn you both alive.Â
âI'm known for getting what I want⊠When I want it, loveâŠâ There it was, expected yet it caused a strong reaction in you. The closer he leaned in, the more he spoke with that deep voice of his, the more you wanted it. He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray next to you on your vanity, your faces now inches apart.Â
âAnd I'd love a private showâŠâ  He whispered, his voice raspy. His hand reached out and the tips of his fingers brushed over the red jewels on your breast, nearly feeling the pulse of your racing heart. You could feel yourself soaking through your underwear from just the thought of what he wanted to do with you. To you.
âI'm not a whore, Mr ShelbyâŠâ You retorted softly, finding pleasure in resistance despite how turned on you were for him already. Tommy, accustomed to most women giving in easily, smirked, thrilled by the challenge.
âBut you could be, couldnât you? Just for meâŠ?â His voice was attractive, persuasive. One of his hands came up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, his eyes bearing into yours deeply. There was always something so captivating about a man with no shame about getting what he wants⊠And this man just so happened to want you.
Hungry eyes moved from your alluring cleavage towards your gaze again. You had found yourself completely speechless at his proposition, not even a single witty comment popping into your head at that moment. For a second, you got lost in the crystal blue, enthralled by the obvious knowledge of what would come next for you both.
Without another word he sat up and leaned forward, closing the gap between you. His plump lips met yours, the taste of cigarettes and whiskey melding in your mouth. You closed your eyes, letting him sink you to the depths of his desire, your tongue melting slowly against his. You took your time with each other, just soaking in the sensuality of it all, sharing a few gentle moans before his hand came up to grip the back of your head.
You made out slowly, almost teasingly for around a minute, then finally pulled back for air. There was that smirk again, Tommy reveled in as his hand snaked between your thighs and his thumb rubbed gently over the satin of your costume, right over your pussy. He pressed against your clit through the fabric and you bit your lip, stifling back a moan.
He took in every single detail of your reaction and loved each one. You felt a nice shiver running down your spine as his mouth came closer to your ear.
âYou little minx⊠This little pussyâs already wet for me and all I had to do was kiss youâŠâ. His hot breath on your ear mixed with his words had your brain buzzing, expertly knowing how to push your buttons.
Soft kisses peppered the skin of your neck, sending another shiver through your spine and goosebumps all over your body. His rough, greedy hands reached back to undo the fastenings of your costume, then gently pulled it down your chest, your warm tits finally bare for his eyes to rake over.
âJesus⊠You are just gorgeousâŠâ He rasped, unable to stop himself from tracing the soft underside of your breast. Not that he would have to stop. But even then, for such a rugged, scary gangster, he was so gentle. So reverent. It truly took your breath and words away, filling the now empty space with butterflies instead. From your chest to every nerve ending of your fluttering pussy, a deep need for him ran rampant.Â
âYou've got me rock hardâŠâ Tommy whispered, proudly proving it to you. His growing bulge in his trousers looking right at you, mirroring your own desire. He rose slowly, looming over you and your vanity set.
âStand up for me love⊠Letâs get this costume off you, I need to see this beautiful body naked and bent over this vanity for meâŠâÂ
Your eyes widened, but you werenât against his request. Without thinking it twice, you stood up, one of his hands slid off your red satin costume bottoms, the other took your hand and helped you step out of them. The metallic jeweled necklace around you felt heavy with all the loss of clothing items, you reached behind to unclasp it, but Tommy stopped you.
âKeep itâŠâ He whispered, slowly turning you around until you faced the mirror of your vanity. You looked utterly gorgeous. Completely naked besides the beautiful ruby necklace you had on. You watched his smile widen in the reflection and his strong arms wrapping around you.
One hand came up to squeeze the soft flesh of your breast, the other now traced slow tempting patterns over your skin, down your stomach and between your legs. One finger rubbed between your slit tortuously slowly, making you moan and close your eyes. You melted against him, perfectly placing your ear close to his hot breath.Â
 âAh ah ah⊠Keep those pretty eyes open⊠I want you to watch yourself fall apart on my cockâŠâ Tommy purred, his voice so deep and sexy you wondered why your arousal wasnât dripping down the inside of your legs already. Obediently, you nodded and opened your eyes, locking gazes with yourself in the mirror.Â
âYes, sirâŠâ You moaned back, his fingertip rubbing painfully slow, hard circles on your clit. He grinned, proud of just how easily you yielded to his touch, how easily you submitted yourself to him.
Slowly, he grinded his aching hard-on against you back, a reminder of what was to come. Gentle, wet kisses left a fiery wake on your neck that extended to your earlobe, he nibbled it, his finger never once forgetting your clit.
âBend overâŠâ He commanded, a little whine of protest leaving your lips when he withdrew his finger from you. Hoping to get that much needed stimulation back, you did as he said, bending over your vanity and displaying yourself for him. Tommy responded with the sound of his belt unbuckling and the rustling of his trousers being undone.Â
In the reflection of the mirror, you watched him pull down his trousers and briefs in one go, his large thick cock springing free and slapping obscenely against his pelvis. Its head was already red and dripping, aching to be buried deep inside you.
Not wasting a single second, he palmed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart a bit to get a better look at you and your puffy wet folds. He groaned, knowing that in a few minutes his cock would be buried deep between them.
He looked up into the mirror, locking eyes with you and giving you a sexy smirk. It was an unforgettable image, with you laid there, bent over your vanity panting in anticipation. The lighting of the room cast a warm glow over your naked body, making the rubies around your neck glimmer.Â
âLooks like itâll be a tight fit love⊠But weâll make it work⊠Wonât we?â He cooed, voice dripping with need like you were dripping wet for him.Â
You nodded, your eyes on the mirror, paying close attention to every movement of his and hoping it would lead him closer to fuck you. The way he licked his lips, how he reached down to line up behind you. It all seemed so slow in your own arousal-clouded mind. When he gripped your hips, you felt relief, and when he finally started to sink into your dripping center, you moaned. It was a breathy, soft moan with a grateful undertone. Such a sweet relief after centuries of teasing and foreplay.Â
Tommy groaned loudly, one part for pleasure, one part for being proved right. You were indeed really tight. Your pussy stretched and swallowed his aching cock, already feeling so full and he still hadn't pushed all the way in yet. You whimpered, getting split open further like never before in your life. Any discomfort from adjusting to his length and girth completely outshined by total and complete pleasure.
âFuck me⊠This pussy is so perfect⊠Gripping my cock so fuckinâ goodâŠâ Tommy groaned, managing to push even further and finally filling you full. He gave you a merciful second to adjust before moving his hips, slowly pumping in and out of you.
Involuntarily, your eyes shut, moaning repeatedly for him in this newfound sea of pleasure. You felt his hand tug around your hair hard, your neck craning up to look into the mirror. A warning. Remembering, your eyes shot open, you whimpered like an apologetic prey to the mixture of pain and pleasure.
âI said⊠Keep those eyes openâŠâ He growled, stern eyes looking at you through the mirror. As discipline, he pistoned his hips faster, you whined loudly. He drilled into you relentlessly, skin slapping with fury against skin and filling your changing room with obscene noises.
âY-yes sirâŠâ You managed to moan out, noticing how the pale blue of his eyes never once left the reflection of your deeply fucked form. Your mouth hung open, your eyes were half lidded and struggling to follow his command. In your mind, every single thought disappeared, all of them fucked out of your head until only him remained.Â
The thick tip of his cock nudged that special spot inside you, over and over with every perfect, hard thrust of his hips. You babbled incoherently, still watching like he wanted. Your reflection bouncing and jiggling with each hard and fast movement.Â
Tommy smirked, but even through his triumph he was lost in the pleasure too. He panted hard, his fingers sunk into the flesh of your hips and made sure there would be evidence of the encounter tomorrow morning. As if you minded.Â
The vision of you falling apart on his cock got to him in the best way possible. From the way you were moaning to how you almost drooled as he fucked into you hard. It was obvious you werenât going to last much longer, and neither would he.
âJesus Christ- This pussyâs so good- I think it was made for me⊠Wonât last much longerâŠâ He groaned to you, a hint of vulnerability escaping in between the words.
At this point, your body and mind had a major disconnect, so well fucked forming a coherent sentence took all your brain power.
âP-please⊠please come..â You stuttered pathetically, eyes fixed on his reflection. His hand tightened its grip on your hair for leverage as his thrusts got sloppier and sloppier, his strong hips pistoning into you.Â
His left hand left its vicious grip on your hip and snaked around to find your clit, beginning to rub hard circles on it. The combination of his long cock poking your g-spot with every thrust and his fingertips rubbing your clit had you seeing God⊠Your orgasm built in the pits of your stomach, threatening to boil over any second nowâŠ
âI want you to come first loveâŠÂ Want this perfect pussy to cream all over my cockâŠâ He rasped, his voice deep and thick with need, almost like he was begging you to.
And thatâs what did it for you.
The pressure in you finally reached its peak and exploded into the best orgasm you had ever experienced. Every nerve of your body relented to the sinful pressure, making you cry out a string of loud whiny moans and mindless curses. Your pussy clenched him tight, like you never wanted to let him go. For a moment you disobeyed his previous command, as your eyes rolled to the back of your head and lost track of the private show your reflection in the mirror was giving.
He moaned loudly, feeling you clamp around him. The satisfaction of seeing the reflection of your face contorting and twisting in pleasure was priceless, Tommy truly understood just how much he loved to see you fall apart for him⊠Because of himâŠ
He fucked you through your orgasm, chasing him. The feeling of your pussy spasming around him had his usually crystal clear mind completely hazy with pleasure. The way you looked, sounded, felt⊠It was too much for him⊠So much it sent him over the edge.
His hips slowed their movements a bit and it hit him.
 âOh fuck love- Iâm comingâŠâ He warned with a strangled moan. Quickly, he pulled out, shooting thick hot ropes of his cum onto your ass cheeks, eyes still focused on the mirror.Â
You watched too, biting your lip at the feeling. Tommyâs brows furrowed together while he moaned for you, his warm load slowly dripping down your ass and taking over your senses. You both stayed there for a second, catching your breath, basking in the afterglow together.
After a while, Tommy tucked his tired cock back into his trousers, grabbing a shirt off your vanity and wiping you clean. You finally stood up, turning around to face him despite how weak and wobbly your legs felt. Being bent over your vanity felt like forever, although it was the fastest a man had ever made you finish.
âWell, that was certainly somethingâŠâ Tommy smirked cheekily, eyes still on you and arms wrapping around your naked waist. You couldnât help but laugh and blush a little, his presence alone making you feel so shy, as if you hadnât been moaning like a whore for him just a moment ago.
âYou really do put on one hell of a show, love. Youâre a natural born performerâŠâ He smiled at his own words, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against yours before giving you a hot kiss. Then, he pulled back, just enough to whisper his proposition against your lips.
âHow about we make this a regular thing? I come to all your shows⊠Maybe even bring you flowers⊠In return you be my naughty little showgirl and let me fuck nâ fill that perfect cunt and make you scream?â
You smiled without even having to think of your answer⊠How could a girl say no to that?
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itâs never over âŽïž cl16
genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70âs music,Â
word count: 12.9k Â
You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink
auds here⊠hi hi hi!!! youâve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows iâve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll đđ€đ€ đ this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long iâd lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking
Itâs later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the âletâs get you even drunker than you areâ headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. Youâre balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.
âAnother voddy Red Bull!â Youâre slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another oneâbut right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, itâs caught.Â
Charles, your cocktailâs knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because youâve never not known beforeâCharles has been your best friend since you were five.
Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but heâs tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, itâs my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your visionâs too cloudy to see him and your mindâs too bogged to remember any of this. Youâd already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.
A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesnât anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.
Iâll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still canât wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.
Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charlesâ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. Itâs gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?
More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeeeâÂ
The bartenderâs eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to lookâso Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.
Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy youâve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again.Â
â
Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.
You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. âWhatâd you just call me?â
âSnoopy,â he says simply. Heâs beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. âOr, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?â
âWho told you about that nickname?â
âLorenzo.â
âHasnât been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.â
âTĂȘte de noeud.â Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.
Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, todayâs just for the familyâand you, but youâre basically family.
âHow is Paris?â Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.
âItâs fine.â
âOh really?â He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.
âI got an offer for a higher position,â you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. âIf you must know.â
âOh? Let me know how that goes.â He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charlesâ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.
Youâre seated at your usual spotâin-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthurâwhen the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.
He sits beside you. âI need to talk to you.â Then, quieter, âPrivate.â
You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. Theyâre equally aloof. âWhânow?â He nods.
You end up talking in the kitchen. Heâs sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. Heâs tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isnât franticâheâs scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.
âTell me,â you press. âWhatever it is, I wonât judge.â
âTheâmyâthe iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.â
When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and aboutâblue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.
Donât drown, heâd warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.
You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.
You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.
But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. âShit?â It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. âUm, sorry. What are weââ But your question is cut short by Pascaleâs voice, cutting through the tension like itâs wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.
â
Charles canât wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isnât that surprising given heâs up two hours late. But the amountâthe sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.
All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: âF1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.â Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: âNaughty Driver? Charles Leclercâs iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.â And then of course Page Six, who doesnât miss a beatâ
Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shitâno. No way. Itâs almost (it should be) silly, the way heâs reading vigorously over the reports like heâs a fan, but heâs anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, itâs got to be the Daily Mail.
He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phoneâs full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. Itâs the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charlesâ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.
Itâs unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. Itâs unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. Thatâs why you were hugging.
Thereâs another one of you playing Scrabble in his bedâheâs not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. Heâs not in it, and heâs pretty sure the fans donât know his house this well. Already his brainâs doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his teamâs frantic messages.
Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the othersâfrom his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how âactually, weâre not dating, we just fuck constantlyâ might hold up for the fans.
â
Youâre twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across HervĂ© and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?
Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what youâre doing hereâyou snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now youâre in a meeting for it.
Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.
No, you want to tell preteen Charlesâthis is. Youâre older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today itâs Pascale going solo. Itâs been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, sheâs used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too.Â
âHow long?â Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.
âMumââ
âAnswer the question.â She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. âBoth of you.â
âUm.â
âBecause⊠Iâve beenâŠâ
You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. ââŠwaiting for this all my life!â
You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascaleâs face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.
Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesnât take itâsheâs already droning on and on about how long sheâs waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits wonât help you. You donât even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You donât know how itâll come across, anyway.
Ninety minutes later, youâre in Arthurâs bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you donât find anything too gross. Heâs on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.
The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. Itâs cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. âWhy not just tell her the truth?â
Youâd also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascaleâs heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommyâs boy.
âI canât, Arthur.â Charlesâ voice is steady and unwavering.
âYou can.â
âNo.â
âFine. Next best thing then.â
You fiddle with a Rubikâs cube, then turn in the seat. âWhat?â
âPretend youâre dating.â
âArthur,â you say seriously. âShut up.â But he doesnât join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe theyâd actually bank on this as an actual plan.Â
âYou guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.â
âItâs just paddock appearences. Youâre not pretending for millions of people,â Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to youâyou catch it one-handed. âYouâre pretending for Mum.â
âSure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?â
âUghhh. Youâre acting like itâs impossible.â Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. âLike you two arenât fucking every other wââ
ââoh, my God!â Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. âWhâIâmâlanguage, Arthur!â
Charles balks. âHow did you evenââ
âI didnât. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,â Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. âI mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so⊠intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.â
You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charlesâ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. Heâs always had a knack for schemesâhe never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charlesâ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. Itâs a bit childish, but he gets the job done.
âDo it for⊠letâs say a month. Tell Mum youâve been dating a whileâChristmas isnât that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. Dâaccord?â
You both nod, hyperfocused.Â
âDuring race weekends, be all over each otherâshouldnât be hardâespecially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldnât worry.â
âNo, waitâI mean.â You shrug. âPeopleâtifosiâthey know Iâm Charlesâ friend. Theyâre going to be all over the fact that weâre apparently dating.â
âDonât worry. Weâll use palatable density,â Charles says, nodding.
You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.
âYou mean plausible deniability.â Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder.Â
âRight, ouais, that.â He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. âSorry.â
âSâfine.â You sigh. âIâm totally okay with this. Just worried itâs going to have unintended consequences.â
Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how itâll be over and you two can say something like we decided weâre better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charlesâ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if youâre willing to do it yourselves.
You wedge yourself into Charlesâ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. âDid Fred say anything?â
âGot the IT team to fortify my account.âÂ
âYou think this thingâs going to be okay from a professional standpoint?â You look up and toward him; heâs already gazing at you, eyes soft. âIâm worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Yââ
âDonât be.â He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. âBitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry aboutââhe takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together looselyââis your acting skills.â
âGod, youâre right.â You sigh, looking out the window. âHow am I going to pretend I can stand you?â Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.
â
You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charlesââthough you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flatâs address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. Heâs there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loudâThe Kooksâlike his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like heâs still in middle school and not in Formula One.
âSave your eardrums,â you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him.Â
âHowâs uni?â
âShit,â you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. âObviously. Howâs the Ferrari?âÂ
âAmazing.â He smiles. âObviously. Howâd you know I was in? Mum told you?â
âOuais. Sheâs running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?â You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.
Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your headâitâs not that deep, you tell him. Itâs justâI had a bad date before I left and itâs put me in the worst mood.
Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs.Â
You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. âHe was just weird. Nothing.â
He wiggles his eyebrows. âYou shy, Snoops?â
Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. Youâd never talked with Charles about boys or flings beforeâmaybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you donât know why, either.
âYou can tell me.â
âTheâwhen weâI had to fake,â you say cuttingly. âYou know.â
He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I donât, actually. Something unnamed trills through youâthrough your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? Itâs, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.
Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you donât even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end youâre well exhausted and retired to the couch again.
His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. âYou really had to fake it?â
âYeah.â You pout. âCan neverâum, finish, I dunno.â Your inhibitionâs gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.
âMaybe because it was too casual.â His voice hardens.
âSo youâre saying I shouldâŠâ You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. âSleep with somebody I know?â Youâve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.
His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didnât mean anything by that. Heâs half-sure you didnât.Â
âI am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.â
âYouâre a good friend,â you say, volume low.Â
Five minutes later youâve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw.Â
He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. Heâs smiling. So wet for me. Heâs got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and youâre clenching around himâ
Come on, heâs saying. Insisting. Youâre trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper.Â
He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then heâs fucking them into you and youâre leaking around them.Â
Yes, yeah, Charlesâyouâre gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.
So needy, and youâre chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. Heâs calling you baby and youâre closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah?Â
You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you donât feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. Itâs Charles.
âAre we going to do that again?â You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.
âOnly if you want. Whatever you want,â he says. Heâd do anything for you. Heâd do whatever you wanted.
âI do, I do want.â And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.
â
Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But youâre not thereâclad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, youâre walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.
âLamb chops?â You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.
âI was thinking more seafood.â Â
âTuna? Make âem little tacos.â
âGood idea. Think Iâll go for those. Hey, are you sure youâre on board with fake-dating my brother?â
You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadnât brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the worksâheâd been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that heâs asking so suddenly.
âI meaaanâŠâ You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. âItâs only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are youâdo youâsorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.â
âIt is not not okay.â
âSo itâsâŠâ You pause. âOkay.â
âItâsâyes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this wonât hurt anyone?â
âI donât know, itâs⊠bitter with the sweet. And whoâs getting hurt⊠like the fans?â You laugh a little. âTheyâll live, wonât they?â
âLike you.â He pauses. âLike Charles.â
â
Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.
âWe need to talk.â
âCould this possibly be about the news of your brand new âgirlfriendâ over last week? Where is she, by the way?â
âWith Lorenzo. Listen, hereâs the thing. Mum thinks weâre dating, and I donât know how to tell her weâre notâso I wonât.â
âLie to your mum, go ahead.â Pierre crosses his arms and hums.
âTais-toi. Itâs for her own good.âÂ
âSo youâre going to pretend to date.â
 âOuais.âÂ
âShould be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.â
Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We donât kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we âare not dating,â so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time heâs just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jawânever your lips.
âYou donât kiss?â Pierreâs genuinely shocked. âPutain, youâre a hero. How does that even work?â
âWe just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.â He shrugs. âItâs always been that way.â
âSo how about her birthday?â
âShe doesnâtâŠâ Charlex exhales tightly. âRemember.â
âCharles,â you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. âOh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?â
âSprint racing,â Pierre says, an easy lie.
Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. âInternational tariffs.â
â
Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after thatâs been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, youâve been told, was your drink of choice.
âHeadacheâs better,â you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. âMum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.â
âDid you snog anyone?â Charles is always teasing.
âGod, I wish.â You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. âI really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.â
A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. âYou mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?â He snorts.
âYouâre such a prick!â You scream into your pillow, laughing. âI already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.â
He smiles to himself. âYouâre welcome.â
âDid you have fun?â You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.
âBit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?â
â
âNervous?â
âI mean, fuck, yeah.â You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. âPascaleâs waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.â You wince. âCan you even imagine Charles and me? Itâs justâI dunnoâitâs weird.â
âIt isnât,â she says, laughing. âNot really. It makes sense. Plus, arenât you on the whole arrangement?â You envision her air quotes.
âYeah, butââyou slip your sandals onââitâs on and off, and thatâs not dating. Itâs sex. Two different things.â
âIs it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, arenât yââ
âOkay, input no longer needed,â you laugh. âBye, Gi. Iâll text you later.â
You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. âYou look like the sky.â
âThanks, man.â A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. âThatâs a compliment, right?â
âSure.â
âPrick.â You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice youâre looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. âI think Iâm going to be replacing you.â
âDream on. On y va?â
You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walkâthe fans clearly dig it, because everyoneâs yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.
âDid you forget weâre supposed to be dating?â He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling.Â
âI didnât think,â you say, still smiling falsely, âthat youâd put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.â
âSmile, honey,â he teases. âI see at least five cameras at us right now.â
âItâs seven,â you beam. âDumbass.â
âAgain with the competitive streak.â memory
âI totally deserved to win last weekâs game. Youâre just a sore loser.â
âNo youâre just aâhi, hi, hello!â
Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charlesââsomeone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has.Â
They handshake and he waves at you politely. âWhole paddockâs buzzing with news of you dating,â he says, smiling. âItâs a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charlesâ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How didâwell, if you donât mind me asking, whereâd it all happen?â
âOh,â you say, laughing. âYeah, Monaco.â
âTexas,â Charles says at the same time.
Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charlesâ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. âHe meansââyou say, coughing and noddingââwe went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and thatâs where he asked me out.â You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.
âDefinitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?â He grins. âI guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!â
Youâre smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then youâre (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock.Â
You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. âUm? Texas?! Whatâs up with the backstories?â
âIt slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.â
âYouâre so fââ You try to scold him, but canât, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. âTexas, really?â
âSorry,â he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and itâs warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.
Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. Youâre given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who havenât been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who youâd previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.
âCiao, ciao.â They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. âIs everything okay?â
âThe car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.â David punches his arm, playful. âYou finally got her!â
âOh.â
âItâs just⊠I remember all the times she would show up and youâd tell me about how much you liked her⊠I donât know, itâs perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!â
âOh, si. Iâve just been, you knowâŠâ He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where youâre talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and youâre smiling while talking. He wonders what youâre so passionate about. When youâre caught in fits of happiness and passion, youâre extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips canât stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe itâs France, maybe itâs crossword puzzles, slim chance itâs your jobâwhatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks itâs beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love.Â
â⊠crazy about her forever.â
â
There are banners, Italian flags, and Charlesâ face on every other wall. Heâs done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, youâre hoping). Youâve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because youâve been told the nightlife is bleak and youâd rather save that energy for the next race.
Lando picked out the restaurantâheâs âon a massive Yelp highâ trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. Heâs tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurantâs name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wineâa whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.
Youâre in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. Youâre content with the white noise.
Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoesâoh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoesâJoris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isnât anyone paying attention to Landoâs cat. Itâs funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.
Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charlesâ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesnât miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, heâs even able to get a dig in against Landoâs affinity for cats.
âNo more wine, mâkay?â He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours.Â
âOh, but it was so good, though.â You mope, but nod in agreement. âI could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.â
âSure did that a lot with beer.â You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space youâre given. âYou sleepy?â
âYeah. But Iâm fine,â you respond, smiling. âNow shut up. I need to know what happened to Landoâs cat.â
Lewis leaves first, claiming heâs into this whole âsleeping at 9PMâ thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. Itâs you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and youâre good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.
How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. Theyâre actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.
âSorry to burst your bubble, Lando,â you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, âbut Charles and I probably didnât do your fanfiction kink justice.â
âIgnoring the emasculation.â He says, turning beet red. âWhatâd you do, then? Wasnât it hard?â
âIt was hard, but itâs like that.â Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to itâs like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. âWe just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.â
âYeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,â you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.
âIn all seriousness, thoughâhow are you two okay with this? I know Iâd be second guessing my feelings every second.â
You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. Itâs quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, âWeâre both comfortable with each other, I think.â
âYeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.â Youâre looking at Lando when you say that. You donât know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charlesâ eyes.
You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when youâre out the door, back into the chilly night air. Itâs then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.
âItâll be fun, guys.â Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. âI heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.â
âIt sounds very fun,â you say, smiling, âbut I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.â
âWhâno, Iâm not going, either.â You raise an eyebrow at Charles. âSerious! I wasnât in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Landoâs car and weâll take mine.â
âAlright,â Lando whistles. âSuit yourselves, agoraphobes.â
âJokeâs on youââCharles smiles, smugââI donât know what that means.â
âNot the dig you think it is, Charles,â you say, rolling your eyes. âNight, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!â
âShould be saying that to you guys,â quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.
The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy youâve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God canât stand the low seats anymore.Â
âYou want dessert?â He asks when heâs rounded the car and settled into his seat. âGelato, a cone, biscottiâŠâ
âNo, no,â you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. Itâs easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. âIâm good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?â
âSure.â He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. âHow was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?â He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. âWasnât too tough, I hope.â
Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. âIt was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?â He smiles, nodding, and you continue. âYeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know itâs fake.â
He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. âAbout?â
âYou.â
â
The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind youâheâs scored less than half of your points thus farâbut youâre on a mission, like your competitive self always is when youâre put in a position to be able to win.
Youâre two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. âThatâs not allowed!â You say, petulant.
âThis is a practice session,â Charles says gently, nearing you. âMate, none of us are actual players.â
You wipe sweat off your forehead. âRight. DĂ©solĂ©e. Iâm justâIâm in the zone.â
âOuais, I get it. Relax, mâkay? We got this.â
You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip.Â
Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ballâs out. You throw your hands up in question.
âOkay, what? That was clearly a point!â
âSnoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,â Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.
âWhat are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!â You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.
âHow aboutâŠâ He suggests quietly. âWe let them win? You did win the lastââhe pauses to countââfive sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with theââ
You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. âFucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.âÂ
Charles thinks heâs in the clear and heâs managed to extinguish your flames of frustrationâthat is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and HervĂ©, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. âFive euros.â
He splutters. âFive? Whânon, non! I was trying to calm you down.â
âYou were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,â you say playfully.
âSaluuut,â Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. âQuoi de neuf?â
âCharles has five euros for the jar.â The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascaleâs out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).
Arthurâs joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and HervĂ©, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you donât call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.
âYou heard Snoopy. Five euros. Weâll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.â You high five. âAt this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.â
âHeâs going to race,â you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. âWhat race driver is going to open a restaurant?â
â
You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. Youâve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.
âYukiâs volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,â Pierre tells you and Charles, across him.Â
Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.
Theyâre like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.
So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldnât be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.
âIf itâs too much trouble, feel no need to⊠you know.â
âNonsense.â Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where heâd even acquired it, youâre clueless). âYukino would be happy to.âÂ
The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. Theyâre in the backseat offering bits of conversation.
âOh, mate, we should totally play tennis while weâre here.â Pierre sighs. âDidnât you guys play before?â
âMmm, yeah,â you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. âAt the country club. Doubles always, otherwise Iâd knock Charles out of the park.â
âHey, I won a couple times!â He protests weakly. âLike⊠twice.â
You laugh out loud. âAnyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.â
âI had to calm her down twice a set,â Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. âStill do.â
âYou know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,â you say cuttingly, âI swear Iâd be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.â
â
Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of itâthis is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before theyâre all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.
Itâs also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is youâve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.
âDo we have to kiss?â You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you canât help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you havenât gotten laid in weeks.
âIf you donât want toââ
âI do.â You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. âNo! I mean I donât mind. If it sells the thing.â
âDâaccord, then we will.â He smiles. âThat okay?â
âSure. First kiss,â you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.
âFirst.â He looks away.
You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.
You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.
âPut me down, loser!â
Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. âCharles! Youâre such a cunt.â You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.
You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see youâby the entranceâand it happens faster than your mind can muster. Heâs leaning in, youâre reaching up, and your mouths slot together. Itâsâand it feels crazy to say it, butâ
Itâs perfect. Itâs lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like theyâre familiar and yours and like maybe this is all youâve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you canât help but keep him tethered to you always. Itâs strange and itâs not platonicâyouâre mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.
You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like youâre sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. Thereâs massive uproar and youâre in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, whichâthatâsâitâs winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throatâs dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than itâd been at the start of the year, so thereâs a lot to celebrate.
And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years youâve spent abstaining from the kissing. Heâs just finished interviews. Heâs only just changed into his polo, and now heâs tugging it off again, feverish.
This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one lightâs been switched on and heâs hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. Heâs kissing youâkissing you stupid, almost. Like heâs waited forever to taste your lips and now heâll starve if heâs away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or donât, donâtâso everyone knows Iâm yours.
He presses your chest against the wall so your backâs turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt.Â
âSâ big,â youâre saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.
âBarely even in,â he whispers. âSlow down, baby, come on, take it.â
Your toes curl. Youâre high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. âIâm taking it, Iâm taking it,â you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until heâs bottomed out and youâre tiptoeing from the overwhelm.
âI feel you,â youâre whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasnât even fully removed. âI feel you there,â you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.
His cockâs bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and itâs getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.
I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quicklyâyou donât usually cum so early, heâs always making you wait for itâpussy squeezing around him.
Jesus, already? Heâs groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. Heâs fucking you harder, faster. Itâs so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, youâre bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and youâre even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.
Youâre half-sure someone can hear, but it doesnât even phase you. Harder, deeperâ and youâre collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense itâs on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.
âI never evenââyou pant, tiredââgot to say congratulations.â
âThat was more than enough.â
â
Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. Heâs boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person whoâs up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday.Â
He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (âI hope youâre not driving closed-eyed,â youâd warned.)
Even if he could, anyway, heâd rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of itâthe buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances.Â
And youâin the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when youâre in the passenger seat.
The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. Thereâs bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchenâvisible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.
Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because itâs 70âs music playing, which is what heâs fond of for family gatherings like these. Itâs My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.
Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, heâs not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace.Â
You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.
He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. âCiao, zia,â he says, voice buoyant, happy. âYou came here to see me, no?â
All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. âNo,â she says. âSono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.â
His eyes widen. âSheâsââ He pauses. He debates telling Eden youâre not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.
He shouldnât, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. âAh, sheâs over there, zia. Con mamma.â He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. âBeautiful, yes?â
âMolto,â she says proudly. âYou marry her?â
Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charlesâ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because itâs a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, sheâs at home. So he indulges a bit more.
âSi, weâre engaged. Butâitâs a secret, zia.â He grins. âNon dire a nessuno. Okay?â
âSei fidanzato?!â She claps once, excited. âAy, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?â And sheâs wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.
â
âHow is my son?â Pascaleâs voice is teasing. She sighs happily. âFor years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.â
âOui, sure is,â you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. âWeâreâheâs okay. Weâre great. In love.â
âOh, in love,â she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. âSaluuut.â
âMmm, good to see you, too.â You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. âHowâs wedding planning?â
âThink weâll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?â
âNo,â you say, mulling over it. âSure, a bit. But just donât make it a whole thing, youâre golden.â
âI see.â He sighs fondly. âYou know, many a conversation weâve had right here at this counter. About anything.â
â
You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charlesâ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, HervĂ© a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.
âLorenzo!â You stomp your foot. âStop stealing! That is my apple.â
âYou mean the Leclercsâ apple.â He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling.Â
You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: âHow was school?â
âShit, as usual.â You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. âPascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.â
âDid Papa?â
âObviously not. He fist bumped me.â You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. âAnyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch⊠got driven here by Charlotteâs mum.â
âCharlotte?â Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: âMmm. Cha-r-lotte.â
âWhatâs up with Charlotte?â Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.
âI think she likes Charles, a little.â You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not yourâor nobodyâs, really. Just Charles. Yeah.
âWhat? Bull!â You narrow your eyes. âSays who?â
âWhy do you care?â
âWhâI donât!â You squeak, caught. âJust⊠I think Iâd know, Lorenzo.â You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. âSoâsays who?â
âI saw her leering at him during his birthday party.âÂ
âYouâre wrong,â you say, but you donât really know who youâre convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.
âMon dieu, youâre snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,â he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. âI talked to her during the party, too.â
âWeirdo,â you tease, allowing him to take a few more. âAbout Charles, yes?
âNo, about her brand new dress.â
âYouâre the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.â
âShe told meâŠâ He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. âShe told me she âfinds Charles cute.ââ Air quotes, shrug. âBut that they âprobably wonâtâ date.â
âHuh. Did, um. Did she say why?â You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You donât know why youâre so fidgetyâyou arenât nervous, you donât think.
âBecauseâŠâ he says, chewing to allow for a pause. âShe said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, heâs already following you around like some puppy.â
â
You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.
You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. âHey. Ăa va?â
âFine,â you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. âDo you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?â
âYeah,â she whispers back. âAround⊠2013.â
âOuais. And⊠and it disappeared after that,â you say. âRight?â
âYou said it did,â she says. âA year later. When we were sixteen.â
âRight.â You think. Seventeen onwardsâyouâd never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. âOkay. Itâs nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.â
âOui, letâs eat.â The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charlesâ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.
â
When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage âbitter with the sweet.â Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name youâd heard on the stereo.
Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when heâs interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. Itâs a hot day and youâre especially doubled down on by the fact that heâs finished ninth.Â
Youâd been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).
Pascale also calledâCharles first, and when he didnât check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.
âIâm glad youâre there,â she says. âGod knows he needs you.â
You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.
âIâm such a big fan. I stalk Charlesâ Insta like, all the time, and itâs crazy how you guys are dating.â A teenaged girl laughs nervously. âWhereâd it happen?â
âTexas!â He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.
âHeâs kidding,â you interject. âItâs justâit just happened, really.â
How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. Itâs always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echoâthe echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itselfâs been there all along.
With Charles, itâs out of the question. You love him. Heâs your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.
How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The loveâs always been there and itâll never go away.
It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away heâs stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.
Youâre creepily observant; youâve been told this many times before. What people donât know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because thereâs never an answer.
âAre you okay?â He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. âDid I hurt you?â
Then you realize. In the matters of love, every questionâevery single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.
âOf course not,â you say. And you smile.
â
You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. Theyâre still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.
Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means youâre going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.
Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His handâs gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.
The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canadaâlong, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her âfavorite pairââyou maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.
Youâd been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.
But he makes it better. Youâre still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.
And then youâre quiet.
The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like youâre supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. Youâre closer now. But this shouldnât feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions beforeâwhatâs different?
Heâs so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.
Funnily enough, itâs then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.
âShitâsorry,â you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.
âNo, donâtââ He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. âItâs not that I donât want to kiss you. I do.â
âSo kiss me,â you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion.Â
âI donât want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,â he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. âAn AlphaTauri stock room.â He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.
âCharles,â you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. âYouâre acting like you and I havenât kissed before.âÂ
âThis is different.â He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what heâs implying until the implicationâs hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer heâll kiss you anyway.
Itâs a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you canât; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.
âHâŠâ you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, âHow different?â
He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.
The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you itâs okay to, and itâs only thenâonly thenâthat Charlesâ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.
Itâs a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlosâ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. Youâre open to itâthe win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeksâ break. So your original itinerary is Portugalâbeaches, coasts, foodâbut the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because youâre in New York City.
â
Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. âThis is one hell of a wedding shower,â you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. âI thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?â
âYeah, well⊠why not here, right? Itâs beautiful.â He gestures to the skyline, smiling. âPlus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.â
âWell, for what itâs worth, I love it.â You beam. âI canât believe it, either. Whenâs the final date?â
He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latterâs childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. âWhat a wedding shower!â
âDonât flatter me, dipshit,â Lorenzo jokes.
âItâs a lovely one.â Lorenzo thanks him. âAn amazing shower. You know, itâs a total golden shower!â
You purse your lips. âCharlesââ
âA golden shower, mate. Absolutely.â
That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper donât ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please donât embarrass me or your brother.Â
For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the musicâDesafinado nowâis amazing. âI could see myself here,â you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. Heâs half-distracted.
âYou look beautiful, by the way,â he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. âVery.â
You part ways at some pointâPascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.
Youâre halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attentionâCharlesâ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. âCiao, Eden!â
âCiao, bella.â She smiles. âFlight was long.â
âOh, yeah. New Yorkâs far. I might work here someday. Iâll hear results in around two weeks, but Iâm hoping for London instead.â You slow your speech.
âWhen will you two wed?â
âWed?â Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. âOh, Edenâziaâno, no! Weâre just friends.â
âMy Charles told me you two are to be married.â You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.
Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You canât help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. âOh, did he, zia?â
âSi, he did.â
âWell, weâre just going to let it happen, then. Youâre invited. Front row.â You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.
Itâs announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascaleâs friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70âs music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.
When Ainât No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the songânot even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.
You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. Itâs semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gayeâs, Charles takes Tammi Terrellâs. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend youâre performing.
His handâs in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It worksâyou laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.
The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breatherâthen the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. âThatâs going into the RSVPs!â He says, accent unmistakably American.
âDoes he know weâre not the couple here?â You ask.
Do we know weâre not the couple? Charles asks himself.
The night escalates as the âoldiesâ leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. Youâre all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.
âI feel young again,â Matthew says, liberated by Titoâs vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.
âYouâre twenty-five, calm down,â you joke. âDodged that bullet.â Youâre poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. âAnyway, you three be careful. No driving.â
âJesus, but reallyâI havenât been this drunk since youââhe points at you, laughingââturned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?â
âOh, God. Yâknow, same.â You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. âI remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.â
âI remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,â he jeers.Â
âHeartbreak? Were youâwere you with anyone?â You ask, confused.
It happens before anyone can stop it. âNo, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzoâmerci!â
Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giadaâs voice.
You open and close your mouth. âChâwait, heâwhat?â
âIâletâs talk here,â Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. âWhen⊠we were at Amber⊠and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twiceâjust twice. And you didnât, um. Remember a thing.â
Youâre unsure. âIn Amber?â You blink, confused. âWhat do you mean?â
âWe⊠I donâtâI mean, I understand why you donât remember. We kissed that night.â
âSo thatâs⊠Charles⊠You didnât tell me.â Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. âWhy didnât you say it at the time?â
He doesnât give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He canât give you one. He doesnât want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so heâll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.
âCharles.â But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. âLook at me.â
âI was scared.â His eyes gravitate to yours.
âOf?â
âIt felt stupid, is all. That you didnât remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you werenât. I didnâtâit didnâtâsorry.â He laughs, stutters. âI convinced myself it didnât mean anything because we didnât have feelings for each other.â He pauses. âThen.â
âWell,â you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. âHow about now?â
âNow?â
âI love you, now. I mean, isnât that all this is? Loving? Even if? Deâdespite of?âÂ
And thisâGod. This is how it feels. Heâs looking at you and youâre telling him you love him because you do, and finally heâs been over with reassurance.
You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like youâre a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.
This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. Heâs yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if youâre the last two people on Earth. Heâs yours, so foolishly in love with you.
Even far from home, youâre both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us againâitâll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, weâre here. Itâs never over.
Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.
So even if youâre taller, in high heels and a yellow dressâand Charles is broader, in a suit and tieâLorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well.Â
âSo what now?â You ask. Again with the questions. In your defenseâit begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the makingâlayer after layer after layerâof course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. Whatâll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?!Â
But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. Youâve grown. Youâve done it. Youâre here. âWeâll figure it out.â He smiles. âWe deserve this kind of ending, donât you think?â
â
âHe has my name.â A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. âThat one.â
âAnd whoâs the dog?â Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. Heâs cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card theyâre staring at.
âThe nameâs right there. Theyâre best friends.â
âOkay, thatâll be me.â
âSo thatâs us.â
âOui.â She smiles. âCharlie and Snoopy.â
â
read an omitted scene here :)
#f1#charles leclerc#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader
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THE FUCKBOY NEXT DOOR: FINAL PART.
Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)
Previous chapters: Part I / Part II / Part III
Synopsis: When a new fuckboy, Minho, moves into the building, Chanâs sense of security is shaken. Minhoâs flirtatious confidence and bold claim to win you over rattles Chan, igniting a rivalry. As Chan struggles to defend his relationship, heâs forced to confront his insecurities while proving his worth to you.
...
The evening air feels warm and easy inside Chanâs apartment. You're perched on a stool next to his DJ setup, your fingers hovering uncertainly over the turntable as Chan stands close, guiding you through the basics. His voice is soft but enthusiastic as he explains how to cue up tracks, mix beats, and create seamless transitions.
âSee? Just like this,â he says, demonstrating the movement with fluid precision. His hands brush against yours, and you feel the slight buzz of electricity from his touch.
You bite your lip, pretending to concentrate. âSo, what happens when a girl comes into your DJ booth?â you ask teasingly, glancing up at him with a playful smirk.
Chan grins mischievously, his dimples deepening. Without missing a beat, he takes you gently by the waist, pulling you into the open space of his living room.
âThis happens,â he replies, starting to sway with you to the beat of the music.
You laugh, a little awkward as you try to follow his lead. âYou know Iâm terrible at dancing, right?â
âThereâs no such thing,â Chan counters, spinning you around playfully before demonstrating a goofy dance move, making you burst into laughter. âSee? Now youâre better already.â
Shaking your head, you try to mimic his move, but itâs hopeless. He chuckles and takes your hands, pulling you closer until thereâs barely any space between you. âAlright, letâs make it simple,â he says, lowering his voice. âJust follow me.â
Despite the upbeat track playing in the background, Chan slows his movements, leading you into a slow dance. The contrast feels silly and intimate all at once, and your heart beats faster as he gazes at you with a soft, unguarded look.
He leans in, his lips brushing yours, and you melt into the kiss. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, anchoring you as the world shrinks to just the two of you and the music in the background.
When you pull back, you tilt your head and narrow your eyes playfully. âDo you do this with every girl who comes into your booth?â
Chan smirks, his dimples making another appearance. âAbsolutely not,â he says smoothly, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. âIâm very selective about who gets into my booth⊠especially who gets to touch my turntable.â He pauses, his grin turning cheeky. âAnd letâs be honest, no one handles my knobs like you do.â
Your jaw drops as you laugh at his lewd joke, swatting his arm. âChris!â
He laughs along with you, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. âWhat? Itâs true,â he says with a wink, pulling you back into his arms for another dance, the music now forgotten as the two of you move to your own rhythm.
The music hums softly in the background as Chanâs lips move with yours, his hands firmly holding your waist as the two of you sink into the plush sofa. The warmth of his body against yours, combined with the way he kisses youâurgent yet tenderâsends shivers down your spine.
Chanâs fingers trace slow, teasing patterns along your sides as the kiss deepens, pulling you closer. His breath hitches as your hands tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a low groan from him.
Then comes the knocking.
Chan stiffens slightly but doesnât stop, his lips still lingering on yours. When the knocking persists, you reluctantly pull back, breathless. âChris,â you murmur, your lips still brushing his. âSomeoneâs at the door.â
He groans audibly, his forehead dropping against yours. âIgnore it,â he mutters, his voice heavy with frustration.
The knocking grows more insistent, and you nudge him lightly. âYou canât just ignore it forever.â
With a resigned sigh, Chan pulls himself up, running a hand through his messy hair as he trudges to the door. He swings it open, already prepared to send whoever it is away, but freezes when he sees Minho leaning casually against the doorframe.
âChris,â Minho greets with a smirk, his tone infuriatingly casual. âNice party youâre having. Could hear it from my place.â
Chan narrows his eyes and lets out a sigh. âWhat do you want now, Minho?â
Before Minho can reply, you appear behind Chan, peeking over his shoulder. âMinho,â you say with a smile. âWhat brings you here?â
Minho straightens up and gives you a polite nod before turning back to Chan. âI actually need a favor,â he starts, leaning just a little too casually against the doorframe. âThereâs this heavy piece of furniture I need to move from my old apartment, and I figured Chris here could help me out. Itâs too much to handle on my own.â
Chanâs jaw clenches, clearly unimpressed by the request. Deep down, heâs looking for an excuse to say no, but when you glance up at him with an encouraging smile, he knows heâs already lost.
âThatâs so nice of you to ask Chris,â you say warmly. âHeâs always so helpful.â
Chan exhales sharply, knowing he canât refuse in front of you. âFine,â he mutters, his tone begrudging. âWhen do you need help?â
âTonight,â Minho replies, his grin sly and victorious. âIâll swing by to pick you up in... 15 minutes?â
âOkay,â Chan replies just so the conversation ends quickly.
âThanks, man.â Minho gives Chan a quick pat on the shoulder before sauntering off, clearly pleased with himself.
Chan closes the door a little harder than necessary, turning to you with a pout. âYou know I didnât actually want to do that, right?â
You laugh softly and loop your arms around his neck. âI know,â you tease. âBut I like having a boyfriend whoâs nice and kind. Itâs very attractive.â
Chan pouts deeper, narrowing his eyes. âI donât like him.â
You nudge him playfully. âCome on, Chris. We didnât like each other at first either, remember?â
He crosses his arms, his pout unrelenting. âThis is different. Iâll never, ever be in love with Minho.â
Laughing, you pull him into a hug, resting your head against his chest. âGood,â you murmur with a smirk. âOne reformed fuckboy is enough. I donât think I could handle another one.â
He softens under your touch, his arms coming around you as he mumbles, âI told you, Iâm not that anymore.â
You lean back just enough to meet his eyes, a teasing smile on your lips. âExactly. Thatâs why Iâm keeping you.â
He grins despite himself, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his earlier frustration melting away entirely. He sighs as he pulls away, knowing he has to get ready.
âI'll go get changed.â
You playfully slap his butt as he walks towards his room. âNow, thatâs my good boy!â
...
Full fic will be released this Friday, Dec 20!
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sharing a bed ; seungmin ; sequel
masterlist.
original one-shot.
pairing: kim seungmin/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers. sequel to sharing a bed one-shot linked above. morning afters. running from feelings. making reader jealous. confrontation with a creep and light violence. sexual content includes blow-jobs, hand jobs, strap-on blowjobs, 69ing, rimming, pegging, light choking. some brat seungmin and sort of brat tamer reader (kinda just likes the brat lol). word count: 7k.
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Kim Seungmin, the perpetual thorn in your side and ache in your head, is torturing you.Â
Not the fun kind of torture, either.  You had your fill of that two nights ago when a silly scheme resulted in a horny happenstance and you let yourself get carried away. Your careful control not only slipped, but fell right into the hands of someone you once disliked.Â
It left you befuddled in the light of the day, when you woke to Seungmin curled around you, his cheek pressing into your bicep and his leg hooked around yours. Not to mention his morning wood digging into your hip. It surfaced memories of the pretty and unexpected piercing you found there, how your idea of this guy was so so wrong. And it made you wonder what else you were wrong about, and all the ways this burgeoning something could go wrong in turn.  Your thoughts spiralled.Â
You were no longer handcuffed, so you slipped out of bed and walked right out the front door. You hoped a walk through the brisk winter morning would help clear your mind. It did, but only momentarily. When you got back to the vacation house and ran into Seungmin, you fumbled. Badly.  You meant to be pragmatic but came across dismissive.  Something about how last night was the only night. Something about how you were bad at commitments. Something about being better off friends.Â
Seungmin was silent the whole time, letting you ramble like an idiot. Then his eyes narrowed and he laughed. It was an airy, unpleasant, and derisive sound.  Â
âTrust me,â he said. âWe will never be friends.âÂ
âWell, fine,â you said, bristling despite the fact you were the one rejecting him. What did you care if he hated you again? You didnât. You shouldnât. âGood.â
It was not good. Saying it left a sour taste in your mouth and a pit in your stomach.Â
And despite it all, your stupid horny hindbrain did not relent, purring like a kitten when Seungmin gave you a judgemental once-over and scoffed.  You could not help but remember the very different noises he made last night, again and again, in your hands and mouth, from your actions and words.Â
You will never look at him the same way again. You have no idea how to move forward, but you know you can never go back.  Pretending nothing happened will not work for once. Â
It freaks you out. You are usually good at shucking attachments. His cold acceptance should not have hurt. What did you care? This vacation would end and you would go back to your own lives, right?  So you let Seungmin shove past you. He ignored you for the rest of the day. When he started an argument later, causing everyone else to groan, you replied like always, but it was half-hearted at best. Â
Oh god, you think now, rubbing the bridge of your nose, I canât start thinking with my damn heart.Â
Emotional attachments and long-term romantic liaisons never turn out well. You cut a dashing figure but your many flaws eventually find their way to the surface. It is not worth the inevitable heartbreak when someone sees under the charming mask to the real you. Â
Rather than suffer later, you are suffering now, brooding over a beer while doing your damnest to not look across the bar. You know you will not like what you see.Â
You and your friends only have a couple more nights at the vacation lodge, so you all went down to the nearby resort to drink and dance and enjoy a fun night out.Â
You are not having any fun, of course. You are sitting on a bar stool, all alone at the counter, in your signature leather jacket as you hunch over your drink and glare at nothing in particular.Â
Seungmin, on the other hand, is suddenly a dazzling socializer rather than an obnoxious stuck-up jerk like he used to be. You expected him to sit in a corner, making snarky remarks all night, but instead he has been moving from person to person, flirting with anything that breathes.Â
He is also wearing an obscene pair of jeans. No one else in the friend group seemed to notice, not a single eye so much as twitching in his direction, but you noticed. Oh, yeah, you fucking noticed. The second he came bounding the stairs, swinging on a stupid baggy letterman jacket like the twerpy little prep he is. His dark hair neatly combed, bangs swept off his forehead, brightening his gaze.Â
The jeans. The stupid fucking jeans. Straight-cut denim that has absolutely no business cupping his ass the way it does. And why does he have such a nice ass anyway? It also has no business looking that way.Â
Kim Seungmin. What a nightmare.Â
You take a swig of beer and glare at the wall. You tell yourself not to look at him. He is probably leaning over some equally prissy knob and offering to buy them a glass of milk or whatever people like them drink.Â
So, no. You will not give him the satisfaction. It is no coincidence that in all the time you have known him, Seungmin has never been flirtatious or promiscuous, but the second you turn him down he is slobbering all over anything that moves.Â
You will not let him get to you. You will not look at him. You will not react.Â
Except he is already getting to you. So you look over. You react.Â
âFor fuckâs sake,â you grumble, abandoning your beer and stomping down from your stool.Â
Seungmin is huddled in a booth with some colossal bitch of a man. You recognize him from the other night, remembering how much time he spent harassing the bar staff. Seungmin doesnât know that. He might be your enemy â or whatever â but you are not gonna leave the guy with that kind of jerk. And you are not secretly thrilled that you are justified in storming over there, drawing up to the table with all the aggression that has been building inside you.Â
You slap a hand on the table, bringing their attention to you. Seungmin gives you a once-over, then smiles that stupid smile of his, all boxy and puppyish, like you are the funniest punchline to the funniest joke in the world. There was a time you used to fantasize about swiping that smile off his mouth.  You are still thinking about occupying his mouth, just not like that.Â
âMove along,â you say to the creep.Â
âExcuse me?âÂ
He is already drunk. You can smell it as much as see it. Seungmin is looking very smug and you start to feel like he picked this guy on purpose.Â
Seungmin drives you crazy, he really does. One second he is all good boy, the next he is purposefully throwing himself at a creep just to get a rise out of you. You feel like he would take a running leap off the mountainside if he was inclined to a prove a point to someone. He is fearless and ridiculous and you want to hate him. You want him to be the boring two-dimensional snob you thought he was. You have no idea what to do with the complicated man in front of you.Â
Thatâs a lie, you think, meeting his gaze. You know exactly what to do with him.
You swear his eyes are twinkling. He slouches back comfortably, arms crossed.Â
âI told you once,â you say, tearing your gaze from him to look at the creep. âNow move along.âÂ
âTry me.âÂ
The guy was only bothering women and seems uninterested in Seungmin so you suspect he just wants to piss you off, but then he puts a hand on him anyway, grabbing Seungmin by the arm so suddenly that it surprises him.Â
Before Seungmin can shake him off, you snatch the guy by his wrist and twist. He yelps, struggling to wrestle his arm back from your iron grip. You slam him against the back of the booth.Â
âTouch him again,â you say, âand I will break your hand. You wanna try me?â
He opens his mouth, no doubt to spew some smelly rejoinder, but you donât stick around for it. You grab Seungmin by the elbow and yank him out of the booth. You drag him away.Â
âExcuse me,â Seungmin says, not politely, ripping his arm back. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
âI think Iâm saving your dumb ass from getting felt up by every creep on this mountain.âÂ
âMeh-meh-meh,â he mocks, dodging when you reach for him again. âIâm having fun. I donât need you to do anything. Itâs not like youâd really care if something happened to me. Bad,â he smirks, âor good.âÂ
He knows he has you cornered. You might have the physicality over him, but he is holding this entire scene in his hands. You can only rub your jaw and shake your head, trying and failing to remember how to act indifferent.Â
He has the tiniest drop of cream on his upper lip, leftover from the sugary abomination someone bought him. Â Â Â
You say nothing in reply to his deliberate antagonizing. You plant one hand on your hip and reach for him with the other.  When he tries to dodge, you grab him by the shoulder, firmly putting him in place. He does not move the second time, standing still while you wipe a thumb across the sugary residual.Â
Then you push at his bottom lip, press down, flicking your thumb so it bounces back. His stare is unwavering. He is not the blushing type, but he noticeably swallows.Â
âCome on,â you say, zipping up your jacket. âWeâre leaving. Now.âÂ
âWhat if I donât want to?â he asks.Â
You grab the back of his neck and drag him right up against you.Â
âI didnât ask,â you say.  Â
âFriends donât get to make demands, dumbass,â he says, sneering the word friends.  He does not wriggle away, but he does not fully surrender either. He meets your stare head-on, unmoving and unintimidated.Â
He is going to make you say it. He is not going to let you act sexy and charm your way out of it. He is going to stand in this bar with your hand uselessly holding his neck until you do. Â
âFine,â you say. You exhale. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry I said all that dumb shit. Iâm a moron.â
âYes,â he says. âYou are.âÂ
âI didnât think it would matter that much anyway.â
âBecause you arenât the romantic type,â he says dryly.Â
âBecause I didnât think youâd care,â you admit. âYou donât like me and we donât get along anyway. I justââ You finally drop your hand, waving at nothing and looking away. You can feel him glaring at you. âLook, I suck, I get it. Believe me, I know all the ways I suck. I figured Iâd spare us the mess when you figured that out so I just walked away while it was still good.â
âYouâre an even bigger idiot than I thought,â he says. He is still frowning at you. âI already know how much you suck. It was the first thing I noticed, you arrogant, womanizing ass.â
âHey nowâŠâ    Â
âYouâre vulgar and loud and, for someone without a dick, you think with it constantly.â Â
 âI⊠donâtâŠâ You do.
âAnd for some reason even though you are the biggest idiot and the worst person I have ever met,â he says, still glaring, âI still like something about you. Because even though youâre determined to not let anyone see your good side, unfortunately you have one. Even though itâs buried so deep you have to walk into hell to find it.âÂ
It did not really occur to you that Seungmin has already seen your worst qualities. Because you did not get along, you never felt a need to hide those attributes. Inadvertently, you have been more open and honest with this annoyingly handsome brat than anyone else you have ever known.
You cannot help the smile tugging at your lips. Seungmin rolls his eyes.Â
âYouâre hopeless,â he says, shaking his head as he shoves past you. âTake me home, idiot, before I come to my senses.â Â
You turn to follow him, only to get bopped on the nose when he shoves a pointed finger in your face.Â
âIf you even think about acting like a moron in the morning,â he says, âI will kill you and make it look like an accident.âÂ
You draw a cross over your heart and nod. He huffs in aggravation, turning on his heel and stomping outside.Â
âYouâre the worst,â he says. He swings open the door and stomps into the snowy night, seemingly unbothered by the fluffy bits of snow swirling around his face. He just swings up his hood and marches through the downy white carpet. âYou better make this worth my while,â he says.Â
Your eyes are on his ass in those jeans, thinking about how you very much will be making it worth his while. You look up when he keeps grumbling to himself, a marked sign he is maybe more nervous than he is letting on. You remember his stubbornness before his eventual acquiescence, the way he hid his face at his most vulnerable moments.Â
You might be in the habit of ducking out the door, but he deflects just as much with his wit.
You hurry your pace, catching up to him. He is still muttering to himself, head down, a soft layer of snow dusting his jacket and hood.  It must be all over your head but you hardly feel the cold. Your mind is on warmth, that stupid heart of yours suddenly flooded with it.Â
You want this to be good for him, even if he would never outright ask for you to be kind. It is all the more reason to make sure you are. You really were such an idiot.Â
Your grip is firm but not rough, hand curling protectively over his shoulder. This touch invites more than demands.Â
He stops in place, looking at you with a wary glare. It disappears when you swoop in. His hood falls as you tug him close. He goes without protest, lips parting under yours with a claiming so heated that the cold does not stand a chance against you.Â
You try to keep it romantic, a rare act of restraint on your part, but the supposed good boy drags the zipper of your coat down, down, down, then grabs your belt and tugs. You stumble, uncharacteristically shaky, gasping against his lips when he grinds his knuckles against the zip of your jeans.Â
âTsk,â he says, lips still brushing yours. âNot prepared.âÂ
âI was planning on sitting around feeling sorry for myself,â you say, with a helpless laugh despite his teasing. You grab his wandering hand, leading it away from your crotch. You are eternally grateful your dick is the kind you can leave in your sock drawer, because resisting him right now would have been impossible otherwise.   Â
âTrust me,â you say. âIâll make up for it.â
âFine,â he says. âI will. You better not let me down.â He looks at you when he says this, as close to imploring as Seungmin ever does.Â
You feel the weight of that trust. You nod, swallowing, looking at his lips, full and pink from the hard press of your kiss. You lean in for more when he abruptly zips your coat again, all the way up to your chin so he smacks your jaw.Â
âCome on then,â he says with that mean little laugh as he scampers away, grinning at you. âAre you gonna prove it or not?âÂ
It is a short drive back to the cabin, and a torturous one to boot. Not because Seungmin touches you, but because he doesnât, and he wonât let you touch him either. You try to put a hand on his knee but every attempt is rebuffed. All you get is that cheeky grin or a glare, then a mere flick of his wrist as he brushes you away like lint.
Somehow it is more maddening than a direct touch. You can feel him everywhere just by his proximity. He even jumps out of the car before you unbuckle your seatbelt. He is inside the cabin before you reach the door.Â
You are panting from the sprint up the driveway, trying to keep up, not entirely convinced he wonât play you for a sucker and run right out the back door. It would be like Seungmin to make you chase him up the mountainside. You wouldnât blame him for making you prove yourself, considering what an ass you were.Â
But he is waiting inside the cabin. Everyone else is out for the night and should be gone for hours. When you close the door, sealing out the cold and the world, this cabin feels flush with more heat than you know what to do with.Â
You do not hesitate. The tantalizing promise of more is like a touch on its own, heightened by his stubborn refusal to give you anything easily. Â It makes catching him that much more satisfying, that soft sound all the sweeter when you pull him into your arms and finally steal that kiss.Â
His skin is cool from the weather but his mouth is warm, the kiss searing hot. He digs his blunt nails into the arms of your jacket, pressing the whole length of his hard body against yours.Â
You remember his unexpectedly tender places, how just a faint stroke behind his ear will have him curling into you, how looping some hair around your fingers and tugging will deepen the rumbling sound that spills past his lips. Â
You unzip his coat while kissing, licking into him while he scrambles to help strip. The coat hits the floor in a damp heap. You separate for just a moment, giving him the chance to tug his hoodie up and off. You toss your own jacket over the nearby couch, then hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him close. Â
His hair is in an endearing state of dishevelment and he looks flushed from the rush of warmth after the chill. Just looking at him like this has you throbbing. You try to imagine telling the old you that you would feel that way, that the annoying friend-of-a-friend who mutually hated your guts would be looking at you like he wants to devour you and let you return the favour.Â
You canât imagine believing it. Now it feels completely natural, letting him walk you backwards until your back hits the wall and his chest is pressed to yours, rising and falling with the quickness of his breath.Â
He is looking aside, contemplatively. You cup his jaw and draw him back to you, unable to resist a breathless laugh when he nips at your fingers. You do not shy away or let go, and that seems to placate him. He practically melts against you, your hand curving around the shape of his cheek, lowering to curl gently around the side of his neck.
âWe should go upstairs,â you say. The stairs are right beside you, but somehow the bedroom seems too far. Â
Impossibly, ridiculously far, when Seungmin flicks some hair out of his eyes and looks at you intensely.Â
âDonât you want me on my knees?â he asks.Â
Your response is not a real word, just a rough sound. He smirks, but is still flushed and a little shaky as he sinks onto his knees. He gets your belt open, tugs it free, and tosses it to the side. The sight of him licking his lips has you seeing stars before he even leans in.Â
You brush some of his hair back, looking down at his face as he focusses on unzipping your jeans. He has the fly down when you catch your breath and your senses.Â
You gather the hair at his nape in your fist and tug, firm and sharp. His mouth falls open and his breath stutters, eyes so dark and lips so wet and plush that you are tempted to drive his face right between your legs, where is obviously offering to be.Â
But thatâs not how you want to do this, not yet.  You move from his hair to his neck, wrapping your hand around his throat and watching his eyelashes flutter with surprise. There is always a breath of panic in that surprise, adrenaline fueling the flood of desire that follows. He is visibly hard, straining in those sinful jeans, breathing harder as you none-too-nicely push him down onto the stairs.Â
âWhat are you doing,â he says, though it sounds like less like a question than acceptance. Continue, waving his hand like a prince on silk sheets even though he is sprawled on his back on the staircase.  Â
âMaking it worth your while,â you say. He is not wearing a belt because these jeans are made for his body, snug and perfect and fitted everywhere, so it is just a matter of unbuttoningâ
Oof.Â
He plants his foot on your chest like last time, pushing you back. He blinks innocently.  Â
âShoes first,â he says.Â
You smile, though it less playful than predatory, a promise in the flash of your teeth.  You nonetheless obey his silly whim as you tug off one shoe than the other. It leaves a damp patch on your shirt which he remarks on.  You roll your eyes but tug your shirt off, sports bra following.Â
The second time you push him down, you are even less nice. You gather his hands in yours and pin them above his head, holding him there when he squirms ineffectively.Â
âYouâre kind of a brat,â you say, yanking his zipper down. âAnyone ever tell you that?â
âYou,â he says, panting around the word. âJerk.âÂ
You laugh, then cover his mouth with yours, swallowing the moan that takes him by surprise. His hips buck towards you when you reach into those jeans to take him in hand. He wriggles in your hold, arms straining while his hips lift toward you for more, following the snapping rhythm of your hand. You trace the dick piercings that caught you by surprise last time, the metal smooth under your rolling thumb.Â
You only release him when you duck down, tasting for yourself, relishing in the sounds that spill out of him. He claws at your bare shoulder, spreading his legs to make room for you to lay between them. His head falls back, resting on the step above while you work him in your mouth.Â
âIâmâIâmââ  His voice gets lighter, breathier, his orgasm hitting him all at once. He throws an arm over his face instinctively, head thrown back, hips lifting. It catches you by surprise, making you choke just a bit, but he is already coming so you ride it out.  Â
He is still twitching when he finishes, gasping behind his arm when you roll a thumb around his piercing again. When he hisses, knees jerking, you let go.Â
Knowing him better than you ever thought you would, you move, stretching out alongside him. You tug him into your arms and he goes without hesitation, burying his face in your neck. You snake a hand under his shirt, stroking his back affectionately.Â
Once more, you are genuinely endeavouring to be sweet.Â
Once more, he shoves his hand down your pants.Â
âHelloââ It is all you manage before he is touching you, finding all that wet desire and rubbing a little haphazardly. It makes you laugh and you grab his wrist, slowing him down. âEasy,â you say, showing him a better pace. âJust like that is good.âÂ
He learns quickly. It was the same last time. Every idea you introduced, he contemplated, experimented, then excelled. With just a nudge now, he skillfully obliges. He is breathing hard against your throat, pressed so close to your whole body, his fingers finding all your secrets and working them out. You slide a hand down his backside, squeezing a handful of his ass. The sound he makes has you coming faster than usual.
He puts his hand on your thigh, then lifts his head and grins at you. Â
âIâm still winning,â he says.
âItâs still not a contest,â you reply, quirking an eyebrow.Â
âIt is,â he says. âAnd Iâm winning.âÂ
âI see.â
You scoop him into your arms and cart him up the stairs. He situates himself by the time you reach the bedroom, legs around your waist and arms around your shoulder. Â
âStill winning?â you ask.Â
âObviously,â he replies.Â
You shake your head and sigh but with no real animosity, just like his smirk is more playful than vicious. You still whole-heartedly believe he is capable of catching you off guard, so you are prepared for the brat switch to flip at the slightest provocation.Â
You drop him onto the bed with a gentle thump, then cross your arms and look down at him.Â
âCan I leave you unsupervised for two minutes while I get my dick?â you ask.Â
âI donât know,â he says, blinking innocently. âCan you?âÂ
âProbably not,â you say, but retreat nonetheless.  Your equipment is in your travel bag. You left it behind when you went to the bar because you were not in the mood for a hook-up, which should have been the first sign you were hopeless. You were already in waters far too deep when you tried reaching for that shitty life preserver. Learning to swim is not easy but infinitely more rewarding.Â
You change into packing boxers and tuck your toy into it, buttoning up the pocket. You grab some lube and a towel, then walk back to his bedroom, certain that he has somehow caused trouble in the five minutes it took to do all that.Â
Heâd naked. Of course he is. Sitting where you left him, perched on the edge of the bed, but his clothes are folded in a pile on the dresser and he has nothing but a bedsheet pulled over his lap. He is not wearing his usual cheeky expression, though, and you are about to ask if something is wrong. Then he says, âIâve never done this before.âÂ
âOh,â you say. âThatâs fine.â It is the unthinking response, automatic as the admission is not too surprising. You live in a world where strap-ons and gender games are the norm, so sometimes you forget that most people consider it inherently kinky or an anomaly. A lot of men are new to it. Seungmin didnât even know what was packing was when you first mentioned it.Â
But then he says, âAny of it.âÂ
And you say, âHuh?âÂ
âIâve never done,â he says slowly, âany of this.âÂ
âAny.â
âAny.â
It takes a long minute to compute. You think about his clumsy touches and experiments followed by his quick learning. Unabashed and unjudgmental regardless of what he encountered. Testing and figuring himself out just as much as you.Â
âOh,â you say. Then, âOh. Fucking shit. Iâm such an asshole.âÂ
Because that was his first time doing anything with someone, and you just walked out the door without a word the next morning.Â
He does not look upset about it anymore. In fact, he laughs, though he tries to hold it back. It turns into a snort he barely catches, amused eyes gazing up at you.Â
âYeah,â he says. âYou are. We already knew that.âÂ
âI really, I justââÂ
âCan you shut up and come take my virginity before I get beatified for involuntary chastity?â
âBut youâre so fucking hot,â you blurt.Â
It is obviously not the retort he anticipated, because he blushes profusely, which is not the response you expected.Â
He clears his throat and looks away, rolling his eyes to compensate for the obvious vulnerability.Â
âThanks,â he says. âStating the obvious. Iâm also picky. And apparently I scare people.â
âScare them?â you ask, quirking an eyebrow. âWhoâd be scared of you?â
âEvidently not you,â he says. His tone is snarky but he looks at you, up and down, and the look is a thoughtful one. âNot ever.âÂ
Agh. Thereâs that heart again, pounding away. Who knew that thing could race so fast.Â
âWell,â you say, finally putting the bottle and towel on the bedside table. âThat is their loss. Not everyone is built for chasing luxury, I guess.âÂ
âLuxury,â he says with another snort, grinning despite himself. âIâm high-end,â he says it like a fact, not a question.
âNaturally,â you say, approaching where he is sitting.Â
âIâm going to be honest,â he says, eyes wandering your body before landing on your face. âI thought you were going to be weird and egotistical about being with a virgin.âÂ
It suddenly pings in your head that you are his first, that there is a certain responsibility that comes with that. That the wrong person could make this terrible for him. That you want to make sure it feels better than anything he could dream. These thoughts are completely and truly unselfish.Â
And there is one admittedly egotistical and selfish thought, of making him irrevocably yours with one really good fuck.Â
He glares when he sees the look on your face, his lips pursed, though a breath of a laugh escapes nonetheless.Â
âWow!â he says. âYouâre a pig, go away.â
âNo, no, Iâm not, I swear!â you say, laughing.Â
He laughs too but shakes his head, pushing you away when you reach for him. âNo way,â he says. âYou and your ego. Gross.âÂ
âPlease, I promise,â you say, getting on your knees and lacing your hands together like a praying supplicant. âIâll be so normal,â you say. âI have no ego at all.â
âYouâre the worst,â he says dryly.Â
âYeah, butâŠâ You wiggle your eyebrows at him. âYou kinda like me anyway, right?âÂ
It is a more vulnerable question than you thought it would be. It prompts him to look at you, really look at you, before he huffs and rolls his eyes.Â
âUnfortunately,â he says.Â
You giggle and he swats your head.Â
âAre we just going to sit here all night and look at each other?â he asks, crossing his arms.Â
âNo, no, of course not,â you say. You get back on your feet, standing bedside so you are looming over him.Â
âWhat are we doing then?â he asks. Â Â
âWell, you know what weâre doing,â you say, laughing when he rolls his eyes and huffs again.Â
You reach out, cupping his face in both your hands and guiding him to look up at you. Your heartbeat hammers away not only in your chest but everywhere else, a rapid current of heat that thunders most prominently between your legs as shiny dark eyes gaze up at you amorously from such a suggestive vantage. Â
âFirst, before anything else, this.â  You speak in a lower voice, watching his spine straighten as the sound. You run your thumb across his bottom lip like you did earlier, except this time it is a bruised pink from kissing. It really makes you feel like that extra weight in your boxers is coming to life, connected to you intimately, ready and wanting as you are. Especially when you tug on that bottom lip, when he leans towards your hand like he needs it, needs you.Â
âNow,â you say. âNow I want you on your knees.âÂ
There is a sharp intake of breath before he nods, subtly, then shifts. The sheets falls away from his lap, revealing he is already half-hard again. There are goosebumps along his skin, from his nudity and the chill or just anticipation.Â
Last time, he needed almost no direction. He followed his own instinct, logically deducing that the part of the toy you could feel was the part at the base, closest to your body. He uses his usual deductions when unbuttoning your boxers, taking a second to first press the base of the toy against you before leaning back and opening his mouth.Â
It is not easy to come like this, but you are so worked up that it might happen. It does not matter if you do. It is not always about chasing the perfect orgasm. This time, it is touch and sensuality. He lets you teach him, rather than stampeding like last time. You wonder if his heart is pounding given how red the tips of his ears are, blood rushing everywhere in a hurry. You hold his face and slide back and forth, taking your time getting wet, both yourself and the toy, pushing him a little further each time.Â
When his mouth is full and he blinks slowly, contently, every bratty remark and combative tone far from his mind, you smile and tug his hair. He moans and you push a little more, gliding back and forward again.Â
âYouâre a fast learner,â you say. âBet you could get used to this.âÂ
It is a testing tease, to great success if the returned moan is anything to go by. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts touching himself, finally moving his head instead of letting you guide him. Before he gets too lost in the rhythm, you ease him back. You smile and rub your thumb across his shiny lips as he blinks up at you.  Â
âCome here,â you say, and kiss him.Â
He falls into the kiss, arms wrapping around you as you lay down with him. He is eager in the searching heat of the kiss, long and deep and hungry.  You get on your back and pull him on top of you, give him one more drawn-out kiss with a filthy wet lick into his mouth, then smile.Â
âTurn around,â you say. âKeep going.â
It takes him a second to work out what you mean, but he really is a fast learner. Soon he is laying on top of you, face where it was before, mouth wrapping around the end of your dick and his fingers searching beneath it to stroke you directly.Â
You snatch the lube off the table and wet your fingers then him, taking it slow and easy, using your mouth and spit then more lube until everything is slippery and he gives in so easily into you. He is breathing hard down between your legs, resting his cheek on your thigh and no longer using his mouth on you. His eyes are closed and his hips are rocking, focussed on the sensations that you are certain are overwhelming him.Â
You move him around, at which point he comes to attention, looking back at you. This is the quietest he has ever been, all the action in his heart as you expected; you can feel it racing when you touch his chest. Â
You lay him down in front of you, sidling up behind him. You lay a hand on the wildly fluttering race of his pulse, throat cupped in your palm. You turn his face to kiss him, your wet hand stroking your wet dick. You probably should have thrown that towel down before getting started. The sheets are a mess already.Â
âUgh, hurry up,â he says, reaching back to smack your thigh. âYouâre the worst. I hate you.âÂ
You laugh. Oh well. No time to worry about bedsheets. You give his throat a gentle squeeze and smile at the noise he makes, strained and needy, his hips rearing back into you.Â
âWhat?â you ask, sliding the toy down his backside. âYou want something?â
âI will bury you in the mountain pass,â he says. âTheyâll think it was a skiing accident. And that you got mauled by a bear. And eaten by wolves. Andââ
To be honest, having him distracted and rambling is for the best. It means he is more relaxed, not so focussed when you finally start pushing in. Of course, he feels it pretty fast, and instinctively rebels. You stop clutching his throat and hold an arm across his chest instead, holding him protectively and kissing that sweet spot behind his ear. His groaning turns into a whine.Â
âOkay?â you ask.Â
âGonna kill you,â he says.Â
âThat a yes?â
âYes.âÂ
âThank you.â You hook a hand under his leg and pull it up, giving yourself leverage, then fuck into him completely. His whine turns to a sharp yelp, hand scrabbling against the arm on his chest. You let him catch his breath and adjust. âStill okay?âÂ
âItâs weird,â he says.Â
âBad weird?â
âNo,â he says. âItâs⊠itâs good. Itâs justâŠâ You move a little and his whole body clenches then loosens. He makes a strangled noise but softens in your arms, though his nails have dug a pretty picture into your skin. You are surprised he hasnât drawn blood. âUgh,â he says. âItâs so wet. I feel like a river rafting ride.â
âNot⊠what most people usually say⊠but okayâŠâÂ
âIâm⊠not⊠most people.â
âNo,â you say, kissing that spot again and finally moving your hips. âYouâre not.âÂ
You are not sure if his little sound of submission is in response to your actions or your words, but with it he seems to all at once open to you. You find a rhythm, holding his hand when his fingers search for yours on his chest. He ends up biting your arm, which you should have seen coming, but itâs fine because you leave a visible bite mark on his neck in return.Â
At that he gets into it, meeting the pace you set, altering it to what he wants. It is a good thing the house is empty because you are not quiet at all. If your fooling around was enough to send an aggravated Minho storming after you, then this probably would have led to him burning the cabin down.Â
The thought makes you snicker, which makes Seungmin ask what is so funny, so you tell him then he laughs too.Â
âUgh, stop making me laugh,â he says.Â
âYou can laugh while making love,â you say, kissing his neck.  âItâs okay.âÂ
That does not make him laugh but it does make him sigh. âMaking love, huh,â he says dryly. âThat doesnât sound like you.â
âIt didnât,â you say, finding another sweet spot that has his whole body rearing into yours. âI guess Iâm a fast learner too.â
âEw, youâre so annoying,â he says, but squeezes your fingers in his hand.Â
âI think youâre not getting fucked right if youâre still this bratty,â you say playfully, prompting him to roll his eyes.Â
âWhat are you gonna do about it? Make love at me? Sap.âÂ
You laugh, kiss his neck, then move away to roll him onto his back. He wriggles a bit, surprised with the change and sudden emptiness. His legs part easily when you move between them, but you still snap, âSpread. Good.â Because it makes him swallow hard, his dark eyes sparkling and his mouth bruised, hair mussed and body flushed. He is already a fucked out sight, but he wants more, and you give it.Â
You snap your hips together and fuck into him. This time you do hold his throat, gently, not repressing air but showing control. He holds your forearm with both hands, his face scrunching up, eyes closed as he focusses in that intense way of his. He breathes hard, makes sweet sounds, and not a single antagonistic or bratty word leaves his pretty mouth.Â
âI think Iâm finally winning,â you tease, to which he just makes a hiccupping sound of pleasure.  âYeah, thatâs right.âÂ
You hold his ridiculously pretty dick and give it the expert treatment it deserves. The combination of sensations has him throwing his head back, clawing your arm as you work him in your head. You cannot feel the end of the toy, but there is a magic in this kind of fucking, and when he comes and he clutches your arm and he screams your name, when the muscles in his abdomen clench and you know he is feeling sensation in every part of his body, you can feel him wrapped around you, wholly and completely, like you could feel him when he wasnât even touching you at all.Â
He writhes almost desperately as you keep touching him until he canât take it anymore, then you ease him down and pull back.Â
âGood?â you ask, sitting back, looking down at him, blissfully fucked out and dishevelled.Â
âYes,â he murmurs. âI won. Again.âÂ
âGonna need to supply me with that rubric one of these days,â you say.Â
âMeh-meh-meh,â is the half-hearted retort, delving to a sleepy sigh.Â
 âGotta take care of yourself before you go to sleep,â you say, though you have a feeling itâs a losing battle, his eyelids already heavy.Â
âThatâs what youâre for,â he grumbles.Â
That damn heart really does have a mind of its own. It has clearly decided to make its presence known whenever it damn well pleases.Â
You run your fingers through his messy hair, smiling when he blinks up at you.Â
You tidy him up then scoop him into your arms to carry him to your bed, because that one is not a filthy sex nest. He wakes a little on the journey. And when you lay down and pull a sheet up, he rolls towards you and throws an arm and a leg around you, pinning you to the bed.Â
âIâm not going anywhere,â you say. âI promise.â
âGood,â he says.  âYouâre too stupid to be out there on your own.âÂ
You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head, but you put an arm around him and nod.Â
âYouâre right,â you say.Â
âOf course I am.â He snuggles in close and sighs. âNow go the fuck to sleep. Your dick is in the sink so you have no excuse. Good night.â Â
âGood night,â you say with a laugh.Â
I think I won too, you almost say, but decide let him believe he is the only winner for now, because he is already falling asleep with his head on your shoulder. Â
You can tell him in the morning.Â
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notes: a repost of my fave fic for my fave freckled faced boy âĄ
âstay still.â
you playfully pinch aceâs side before reaching back up to focus on what you are doing.
âow,â he whines, feigning pain. he tilts his head back, looking up at you with a small pout and puppy eyes, âthat hurt.â
you only laugh at his dramatics, grabbing his jaw before tilting his head back to level. âi said stay still. or youâll end up with a ridiculous bob, dummy.â
the scissors in your hands carefully move through his black locks, snipping away dead ends and restoring health back into his hair.
âyou wouldnât dare.â he warns, glaring at you in the mirror.
a smirk crosses your face, âand maybe i would.â
this is routine for both of you, cutting aceâs hair. you try to keep up with it frequently (he has surprisingly fast growing hair). a lot of times heâd go however, not really caring about it and doing whatever (meaning nothing). but youâre always able to recognize when his locks are getting a little too shaggy.
it never really bothers you to do it. in a way, itâs small intimacy time for the both of you.
itâs a rare sight â ace without his hat on or necklace fresh after a bath as he sitsâmore so squirmsâon a stool. his wavy locks are slightly damp from washing. you get to peak at his broad, tanned shoulders. theyâre decorated with all kinds of freckles, like little jewels on his skin.
ace is thankful. never used to having someone care for him in this way. he feels pampered. his brown eyes are always large and filled with admiration when he watches you cut his hair, your face cute in concentration.
heâs never afraid or shy of any physical contact with you, but when you get close up to him, holding his face in your hand to trim his bangs just right, he feels a little skittish in his tummy. heâs already a naturally hot running person, so he feels he must be scalding when this happens.
this game you two play is cunning. you always pretend not to notice his staring, while he is vying for your attention, chasing after your glances when your eyes happen to meet a few times.
if thereâs one thing about fire fist, heâs competitive. he wonât stop till heâs won.
âcan i kiss you?â he blurts, gaze intense.
a shocked look appears on your face before you laugh, âwhatâs gotten into you?â
âyou justâŠlook so pretty when youâre concentratingâŠand i canât help it. not any longer at least.â he admits sheepishly.
you feel heat in your cheeks but recover from his words, âtell you what, if you let me finish what iâm doing, iâll let you kiss me.â you offer.
âiâm your boyfriend, why do i have to wait?â ace whines and complains, but you only poke his cheeks before smooshing them between your hand.
âlisten you stubborn fool, i promise iâm almost done. i think you can manage till then.â
âfyne,â he grumbles, cheeks still puffed.
you resume your work, but itâs not long before his hands dance on your waist, fingers tracing your skin and marveling over the softness of it.
the snipping pauses, âace, what are you doing?â
âyou didnât say i couldnât touch you.â he argues, sniffing.
you donât say anything and just shake your head. heâs lucky heâs really cute.
eventually you find yourself being near wrestled by the commander as he progressively pulls you into his grasp. youâre finishing up his bangs by this point. practically on his lap with a hand on his shoulder as you steady yourself.
ace is glad you donât tease him for being a blushing mess. but at the same time he feels like heâs going to die. heâs going to implode if he doesnât get your full attention in the next several seconds.
ââŠand done.â you say, snipping the last lock.
âfinally.â he sighs, crushing you into his arms impossibly closer to him. you yelp when the scissors fall out of your hands.
âa-are you even going to look at my final work?â you huff, feeling him pepper kisses on your cheeks, chin, noseâanywhere he can reach. you can barely move.
âdonât need to. you did wonderful, babe.â he responds, chuckling.
admittedly you did do good. really good. he doesnât look so boyish now. more grown up. mature. his hair is only a tad bit shorter but shows all his best features that were hidden away. the apples of his cheeks decorated by freckles, his sharp, defined jaw, and his brown eyes you love so much can all be seen with ease.
ace has always been pretty and you donât know if heâs well aware of that. so you turn his face towards the bathroom mirror.
he protests once his lips miss your cheek, almost looking like a fish with the way they pucker. he doesnât have a chance to ask anything when your next words stop him.
âlook how beautiful you are, ace,â you say, beaming, âyou look so handsome.â
the man turns from pink to absolutely beat red, not expecting your words so suddenly. he curses under his breath since he canât hide behind his hat. âwhaâwhy are youâŠ?â
when his eyes meet yours in the mirror he sees the soft twinkle in your eyes that you give only him, no one else. like heâs put up the stars in the sky for you. like heâs built you an entire empire by hand.
heâs silent, knowing youâre not lying about your words.
ââŠthank you.â he finally says, burying his face in your neck. his voice is small with vulnerability that only you have seen and heard. thereâs a thousand things he wants to say right now, but the words wonât come out.
âyou donât need to thank me for loving you.â you respond, bumping noses with him before finally kissing him on the lips.
and itâs times like these where he figures life is something heâs meant to be living.
#ace x reader#portgas d. ace x reader#portgas d ace x reader#one piece x reader#one piece fluff#ace fluff#portgas d ace#portgas d. ace drabble#ace drabble#portgas d. ace fluff#op fluff#one piece drabble
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Imagine being Gibbsâ girl
He tries to keep his rough exterior, but he totally melts for you
Heâll definitely dance with you in the basement if you ask sweetly enough, and even if he pretends not to, he loves just swaying with you to some old country loves songs.
(This would definitely play through his radio)
Or kiss every one of you fingers if you come home from work and say theyâre sore.
He will put you back in the car if you try to open your own door.
Heâll learn how to put your hair in a pony tail or a bun if you hurt your shoulder and canât do it yourself. Plus heâll keep brushing your hair for you, sitting snugly between his thighs and enjoying his warmth, long after you heal.
He sings to you if you wake up in the night reliving your darkest times in your dreams. Heâll wrap you up as tightly as he can in his strong arms, strong enough to remind you youâre safe with him, and whisper the words to any old song that pops into his head.
He loves to leave you little notes by the coffee pot or on your bedside table when he leaves before you do:
Have a good day, my love. See you tonight
- J
You agree not to marry early in the relationship
Youâd both been around that block more than once, and it seemed like that fancy piece of paper just complicates things.
Of course, youâre exclusive to one another, but you just canât bring yourselves to risk changing what you have by changing your last name. It seems so insignificant when you think of it that way.
Most of your neighbors and friends just assume youâre married, anyway. So when a letter arrives in the mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, you arenât surprised. It makes you smile to see it on paper, but nothing is going to change your minds on this.
His love language is 100% acts of service
Heâll unload the dishwasher, fold the laundry, bring you home fresh flowers for no reason at all, have dinner ready if he somehow makes it home before you do one day. He rarely lets you bring in any groceries or luggage. Even though he knows you are tough enough to literally take him down, he wouldnât dare letting you carry something too heavy or inconvenient.
Any little thing he can do to brighten your day, he does.
In turn, the small acts you grant him, like taking his suit jackets to the dry cleaners, setting his shoes and thermos out for him before work, picking up a new book about boats, make him fall even more in love with you.
He makes you things
J will make you anything he thinks you might like. A wooden stand for your plants, a step stool when you mention that the bed is just a little bit high off the ground for you, shelves to proudly display your knick knacks, a sled for Christmas after you tell him you never had one as a child.
Heâd even try his hand at a ukulele if you mention wanting to learn to play.
Of course heâs made boats named for Kelly and Shannon, but his newest project is adorned proudly with your name, sprawled across the hull in flowing letters.
His hobby turns into more than just that, itâs his way to show you how much he loves you, and you soak in everything heâll give you.
Heâll use his jacket to shield you from the rain
Jethro is usually prepared for anything, but rain can sneak up on you. In that case, heâll peel his jacket off and cover you as best as he can. Even if it means heâll get soaked to the bone, heâll make sure youâre covered a least a little bit more than he is.
He tones down his crazy driving for you
The first time you got in the car with him, you about passed out from an anxiety attack. You donât want to be a backseat driver, so you just grin and bear it for a while, but he picks up on your discomfort pretty quickly.
He slows down, starts using his turn signal, and stops cutting people off, but every now and then, when itâs late and the roads are empty, heâll take you for a high-speed cruise just to get your blood pumping.
Heâs much touchier than you ever imagined
A strong hand on the small of your back, fingers ghosting over your exposed thigh, a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder when youâre uneasy, or just brushing against you to pass, even when there is plenty of room to spare.
Anything he can do to have his hands on you, heâll do. You two are like a safety tether for each other, always there to make sure you donât drift too far away.
As far as PDA goes, Jethro is pretty limited in what heâs willing to show the world, but heâll always find a discreet way to connect himself to you. A brief brush of your pinkies, a quick kiss to your forehead, or a full-on embrace if you find a moment alone. Whatever it is, his touch still sets you on fire every time.
He is so gentle and fatherly to children
The two of you decided early on that you would avoid having kids. Given his past, you understand and agree to the arrangement. When you get together with your young nieces and nephews, though, Jethro turns into a total kid right along with them.
Heâs quick to join in a game of cops and robbers, always quipping how itâs so much more fun being the bad guy, or plop down in the grass and find pictures in the clouds.
When someone takes a tumble or scrapes up their knee, though, heâs the first to scoop them up in his strong arms and hug the pain away. Heâll make them feel better with a story about when he hurt his knee, too, or how chicks dig scars (you always smack him playfully for that).
He makes a mean cup of coffee
Youâd never thought of yourself as much of a coffee snob, but after tasting Jethroâs version, brewed slowly over the fire if time allows and mixed with the perfect amount of cream and sugar, you could never go back to any coffee shop again.
Same goes for his cooking. He doesnât make much, but when he does, damn it is good.
âThe secret ingredient is love,â heâll joke to you, mocking your own phrase, and youâll roll your eyes as the flavors envelop your tastebuds.
All in all, our man Jethro is basically the best partner you could ever ask for, and you love showing him how much you appreciate him.
Tagging some of my LJG lovers đ
@instantnoooodles @daphne-bourne @museofbooks @ilovemark1951 it wonât let me tag you :( @yestwlightfan
#kdogreads#leroy jethro gibbs#jethro gibbs#jethro gibbs imagine#leroy jethro gibbs x reader#jethro gibbs x reader#gibbs x y/n#ncis gibbs#gibbs imagine#gibbs fluff#gibbs#gibbs x reader#ncis x reader#ncis imagine#ncis reader insert#reader insert#NCIS#ncis fluff#Spotify
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Stray Kids x reader
Requested by anonymous: so ihave this request that is like an queendom x kingdom, and y/n is an idol (in other group) i know is short but i really wanted to see what would your imagination feed us.Â
Queendom and Kingdom were combined for a spin-off show that you were lucky enough to be a part of. Your group had been one of the few chosen for this highly-anticipated show.
âPractises are today.â The girl next to you puckers her lips, staring at her reflection in the mirror. âIs your group ready yet?â
âUh, yeah.â You fidget in your seat as your cheeks are swiped over with blush. As soon as your makeup is finished you slip off the stool and go off to your group.Â
âRemember,â your leader is saying, gaze firm and arms crossed. âEverything rests on this moment.â
You linger in the back of the group, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. You always felt awkward around then for some reason.
Itâs probably just your imagination.
âWeâve been struggling lately, and this is a good chance to prove ourselves.â Your leader smiles, sickly-sweet as she looks over at you. No mistakes.â
Your stomach twists with nerves.
At a recent event that was live-streamed, you had tripped. You donât know what you tripped on, but you had. You had fallen during the performance, causing the rest of the members to stop everything.
Your company wasnât pleased. Neither were your other members.
You follow the rest of your group into a dance studio. You spend the next hour running through a choreography for your performance, something that will lead to a media recovery.
Your only problem is how little you have to do. You understand that you might not be the best dancer, or the best singer, or might not even be as pretty as the other girls.
But standing at the rear like a backup dancer? Theyâre not using your abilities like they should, and you know you can do better. You know that the tripping in that other performance was a one time thing.
But you start to doubt it as more time goes by and no progress is made. The others are struggling with the more difficult movements, and your steps are too simple.
But when you add more flair to it, you get told to stop being so flashy.Â
âYouâre taking the attention from the front,â the choreographer complains. He sighs and waves a hand at you. âWhile we figure this out, go fill the water bottles.â
You, taken aback by the humiliating request, frown. âWhat?â
âHe told you to do something!â a girl in your group snaps at you. âJust do it!â
Youâre handed all of their water bottles and awkwardly juggle them as you go down the hallway. You manage to find the water station and hold each bottle under the tap one by one.
You hear a gasp of your name and ignore it. When people talk shit about you, you push it aside and cry about it when youâre by yourself.
Then someone is tapping your shoulder, and you hesitantly turn around.
âYes?â you warily ask before realizing who it is. Itâs fucking Seungmin. Seungmin, from Stray Kids, is in front of you. âWhat the shit.â
He blinks at you. âIâm sorry?â
You gasp and cover your mouth. âIâm so sorry! Pretend you didnât hear me swear! Please!â
Seungmin smiles gently at you, something akin to amusement flashing in his eyes. âItâs okay. I make fun of JYP all the time. I wonât ruin your idol image.â
You grin. âYeah, I know.â You pause before attempting a recovery. âI mean- Who are- Whoâs- Iâm JYP.â
Seungminâs smile widens even further, and it infects you with joy. Youâre both just standing, beaming at each other like idiots.
âCan I get a photo with you?â You both blurt it out at the same time before sighing in relief.
âWhy do you want one with me?â you question as he pulls out his phone. You smile into the camera and pose with him.
âBecause youâre cool,â he replies simply before making hearts with his fingers for your photo. âObviously.â
You feel heat rise to your face at his words. âOh. Thank you. That means a lot.â
Seungminâs head tilts. âWhat are you doing here? Arenât you supposed to be training right now?â
You fiddle with your hands anxiously. Youâve never liked explaining the dynamics between you and the other members of your group.Â
âSomeone had to refill the water bottles,â is what you finally say. You motion to them, almost forgotten on the ground.
Seungmin nods slowly. âSure, I guess. Do you have some free time to come meet the rest of us then? Weâre kind of fans of yours.â
You can hardly believe it. Stray Kids are fans of you.Â
âSure.â You shrug casually. You should run back to the rest, but you do want to meet them. âI have time.â
Seungmin helps you carry the bottles down the corridor, dodging other idols. You reach a studio with a closed door, and Seungmin knocks on it with his foot in the form of a hard kick
Changbin answers it, eyebrows pulled together in annoyance. âYou have hands, idiot- Oh. Oh!â
âMy hands are full,â Seungmin grumbles, holding up the bottles. âGet out of the way, loser.â
Changbinâs wide eyes are still locked on you. He steps away, letting you and Seungmin pass.Â
You flash him a warm smile, bowing slightly. Changbin returns it as if he canât believe youâre here.
âOmg,â Jisung says, covering his mouth.
âI canât believe you just said âomgâ,â Hyunjin drawls from where heâs on the floor. He has his arms covering his face.
âHello.â You wave to the rest of the room. Everyone is just watching you and youâre frankly uncomfortable with their gazes all being on you.
âHi,â Chan coughs out. âWhat are you- What are you doing here?â
You adjust your stance, looking to Seungmin uncertainly. âHe said you guys would want to meet me? And honestly Iâm a big fan, so I didnât mind coming here.â
âYouâre a fan of us?â Felix asks in amazement.
âI canât believe youâre a fan of me.â You laugh lightly. This whole day has taken a bizarre turn.
Hyunjin sits up, jaw dropping. âStay is going to be so jealous. Can we post photos of us with you?â
You shrug casually. âYeah. Go ahead.â
So youâre swarmed by them all taking photos in various poses with you. Jeongin is shy when he comes up to you, but quickly warms up to you and even asks you to record a video with him.
âIâm sorry, but I should go back to the others.â You grimace before smoothing out your expression into a pleasant one. âItâs been great meeting you.â
Chan hums softly. âYouâre welcome back anytime. We know what weâre doing so weâre just fine-tuning. We have plenty of spare time.â
You smile and nod before putting all of the bottles back in your arms. Itâs difficult to carry them all, but you make do.
When you return to the studio your group has been assigned to, theyâre wrapping up. You linger in the doorway, unsure of what to do with yourself.
âThere you are!â The choreographer puts his hands on his hips. âCome here.â
You set the water bottles down before rushing back to him. âYes?â
âWeâve decided to remake your part,â he casually tells you. âIâll show you it, and then youâll memorize it and have it ready to go by tomorrowâs rehearsal.â
You freeze, watching him demonstrate the new dance. Itâs definitely more complicated than the one you had previously been assigned, and you hesitate.
âAre you sure?â you carefully say.
âOh, and youâre in the front now.â He wipes his hands on his pants. âYou have it memorized? I also have a video of it set up on the laptop over there. You know the lines already too.â
âYeah.â You blink back frustrated tears. âIâve got this.â
The rest of the group shuffled out the door, wiggling their fingers goodbye at you. You stare numbly at them as youâre left alone in the studio.
You press play on the speakers and focus on singing for now. Youâve never sang this part before, and itâs a bit out of your range.
But youâre confident enough that you can do this, and nail it. You know you sound amazing, so you move on to the dance.
The movements are tricky, especially the hand gestures. Theyâre complicated enough that you have to just work on them for a minute.
âYou look busy.âÂ
You whip around to find Hyunjin hovering near the entrance. You click the pause button and take a swig from your bottle.
âWhat are you still doing here?â Hyunjin pulls out his phone and checks the time. âItâs midnight. Youâll be exhausted for rehearsals tomorrow.â
You stretch out your legs. âNo, Iâll be fine. I just- I have to do this.â
Hyunjin settles on the ground, leaning against the mirror. âShow me then.â
You falter. âSorry?â
Hyunjin crosses his legs at the ankles and folds his hands in his lap. âIâll give you some feedback. Then you can go get some rest sooner.â
You nod. âSounds good.â You press play on the music and go through the dance, singing along. Your voice echoes weirdly in the room, but you know on stage it will sound good.
When you finish, you pant and slide down against the wall to the floor. âWell?â
Hyunjin tilts his head at you. âIt was excellent. And⊠Weird.â
âWeird? Whatâs weird?â you anxiously ask.Â
Hyunjin runs a hand over his shaved head, hand not catching on any hair. âIt just⊠It matches perfectly with our choreography. I know weâre not supposed to talk about it before the show, but itâs almost identical.â
You frown as he gets to his feet. âReally?â
Hyunjin shows you his, and sure enough it goes alongside yours almost perfectly. He considers it for a moment before shaking his head. âIâm sure itâs just a coincidence.â
You adjust your stance. âIâm not sure. Doesnât your group go first, with mine after? It would look like weâre copying you.â
Chan knocks on the doorframe, clearing his throat. âHyunjin. You should be in bed by now at the dorms. Itâs a big day tomorrow.â
âTake a look at this.â Hyunjin points at you, so you awkwardly show Chan your dance as well.
Chanâs eyes widen. âHyunjin! Why did you teach her our-â
âThatâs hers,â Hyunjin interrupts. He begins to pace. âBut you thought it was ours, which means that the audience would think they copied us, which means-â
You cough. âIâm sure there was just a misunderstanding with the choreographer. He probably just studied closely with yours, and it came out the same. Big coincidence.â
âWe made ours.â Chan shakes his head. âThereâs no way thatâs what happened.â
You shuffle, unsure of what to do now.
âLetâs just deal with this in the morning.â Chan sighs and rubs at his face tiredly. âWeâll walk you to your group. Or van I guess.â
âThatâs nice, but Iâm okay.â You smile warmly. âThey left already and took the van with them.â
âSo how are you getting to your dorms?â Hyunjin questions, exchanging a look with Chan.
You chew the inside of your cheek. âI usually just walk if Iâm not far, or sleep at the studio. Itâs not bad. I can sleep in weird places.â
âShe sleeps at the studio like you do.â Hyunjin shoots Chan a filthy expression. He rounds back on you. âWeâll give you a ride.â
You yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. âReally? You donât have to.â
âNo, itâs fine.â Chan tugs at his jacket, pulling it tighter around his body. âCome on.â
You trail after them, holding your water bottle. You make sure to flick the lights off before you leave.
âFelix!â Hyunjin yells. âWeâre going!â
Felix darts out from an empty room, eyes locking on you. âWhatâs she doing here?â
âWeâre giving her a ride,â Chan briefly explains. He fishes his keys out from his pocket.Â
When you exit the building and go outside, Hyunjin screams, âShotgun!â
Felix groans and crosses his arms. He glances at you and brightens. âGuess we get to sit together!â
Chan unlocks the vehicle and everyone scampers inside. Hyunjin snickers at Felix, who has to sit in the back.
You tell Chan the address and rest your head against the window as Felix eagerly rambles on. You barely catch what heâs saying, too tired to really focus.
Then youâre asleep, and your head rolls onto Felixâs shoulder. His entire face turns red and he reaches up to poke at Hyunjin.
âWhat, backseat loser?â Hyunjin grumbles.
âSheâs asleep,â Felix whispers. âWhat do we do?â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake the next morning to silence. Itâs odd. Usually thereâs frantic racing to get ready and people slamming on your door.
But itâs quiet with the sunlight filtering through your curtains.
You slip out of bed and tap the screen of your phone, heart sinking when you realize itâs almost nine. You dash out of your room, urgently tugging your pants on. You knock on peopleâs doors before skidding to a halt.
Why were you the only one in your room when you woke? Why are there dirty dishes piled up next to the sink?
Thereâs a note on the fridge, kindly informing you of your removal from the performance. The others are worried that you wonât be able to be ready in time.
So youâve been âtransferred to a backup dancer for another group or something.â
Temporarily, they added, but you have a sick feeling that itâs not. That this is your new normal.
You sit on the couch, sighing heavily. You notice ink on your forearm, and since you canât remember last night-
âI got a tattoo?â you shriek in alarm. You feel dizzy as you look at your arm.
Itâs not a tattoo, thankfully. Instead, someone has written a number with a marker.Â
Last night comes rushing back, so you type the number into your phone and dial.
It rings once before Chanâs voice meets your ear.
âHello?â
âHey.â You greet him maybe too casually, but youâre not a morning person. âWhy did you give me your number?â
âSo I can add you to our group chat.â
You pause. âWhat? Why?â
âBecause⊠youâll be working with us? Did you not know that youâve been signed over to our group?âÂ
The dizziness has returned.
âWhat?â you rasp. âIâve been what?â
Thereâs silence before Chan speaks again. âOkay, so Iâm assuming you didnât know.â
You close your eyes, fighting the light-headedness. âThis is a lot. Chan, I think Iâm going to pass out.â
âDonât pass-â
Then youâre unconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chan curses and puts his phone down, causing Minho to glance up.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks with mild concern as he places own phone in his lap.
Chanâs lips thin into a tight smile. âGet the others. We have to go pick her up.â
Minho shrugs and stands, wandering off. Chan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink and stuffs it into the van. When the others climb inside he starts up the engine and tells them everything.
âSo, sheâs been transferred to us.â Chanâs grip tightens on the wheel. âShe had been taught our choreography so it would be an easier transition for this performance and-â
âSo you knew the whole time?â Hyunjin demands. âAnd you didnât say anything?â
âNo!â Chan looks in the rearview mirror at him. âI got the email this morning that explained everything. Iâm as shocked as you are.â
âCanât believe they just gave her up,â Changbin mutters.Â
Seungmin sighs and drums his fingers on his thigh. âWhy is there a first aid kit?â
Chan shifts in his seat. âShe mightâve passed out.â
Jisung gasps. âOh no! Is she okay?â
âWell thatâs why weâre going over,â Chan says in exasperation.Â
Jeongin puts his hand up. âDibs for CPR.â
Felix frowns at him. âI donât think thatâs how it works. I think you have to be trained to actually do it.â
Hyunjin snorts in amusement. âRight. I do it all the time.â
Chan side-eyes him. âExcuse me? Who are you giving CPR to so often?â
Hyunjin narrows his eyes. âThatâs none of your business.â
Chan lets it go, having arrived at your dorms. Hyunjin had watched you put the code in last night, so he presses the buttons and the gate slides aside.
Changbin busts the door down and they all charge inside, holding various tools from the first aid kit.
You blink at them, holding a wet towel to your forehead. âWhat- How did you get in here?â
âWeâre here to give you CPR,â Jisung blurts out.
You scowl. âEw. Yeah thatâs not happening.â
âHey, you could do a lot worse than him!â Jeongin defensively says. He bats his eyes at you. âHeyyyy.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose. âI canât believe Iâm in Stray Kids now. This is insane
âWeâre cool.â Seungmin puts an arm around Hyunjinâs shoulder before shuffling to the side awkwardly once Hyunjin shrugs him away.
âYeah I know. Iâm not upset about being here now.â You grin at them. âIâve been a fan for a while. Iâm just⊠getting used to such a big change.â
âAnd weâve been your fan for a while.â Minho rolls out his wrist. âBut we have to get to rehearsal. Are you in or out?â
You toss the wet cloth at the sink, leaving it with the dirty dishes. Someone else can deal with it. âLet me grab my things and then Iâm ready to go.â
Taglist:
@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic
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Oh my my my
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Im Nayeon x Reader
a/n: this has been sitting half-finished in my drafts since October. time to let it out of the vault. đââïž
"I'll still look at you like stars that shine in the sky"
When you were seven years old you can't explain what that feeling was in the pit of your stomach and in your chest. All you knew was when your next door neighbor, Im Nayeon, dragged you out of your parents' grasps and into the backyard that summer night where the stars so brightly shinned, your whole world stopped. It's the way her eyes twinkled more dazzlingly than any stars that night and the way her bunny teeth smile light up the whole backyard brighter than any moon. It's the way she giggled as she pushed passed the adults in that party and asked you to dance with her in the middle of her aunt's wedding. It's the way her dad chuckled at your mortified expression and her giddy state when she announced that she too will marry you someday then kissed your cheek before running away giggling. You were seven but that very moment was etched in your brain permanently, albeit you still can't name that feeling yet.
At sixteen you finally knew that there was this certain feeling you have for your next-door neighbor. It wasn't because she was always so sweet and playful towards you. It wasn't because her eyes swam with so much emotions when she looks at you. It wasn't because of the way she calls your name with a giggle every single time. Nope, it was none of these butterflies-in-your-tummy moments but rather such a silly mishap, her literally falling on your arms from standing on a stool as she was installing a wall fan for your mom that made you realize that you were in love with Im Nayeon all along.
You were twenty-three and working in your mom's booth in the fair one night, handing out free samples and selling the jam she made when it all happened. There were a lot of games, some contests, a handful of rides, and good food everywhere. The lights and decorations make everything more magical and romantic even. You spotted Nayeon with her friends from the city. They were playing a shooting game and you can't help but stare at her as she laughed and played with them, a ghost of a smile starting to form in your lips as you see her enjoying herself. You were brought back to your task at hand when your mom playfully hit you with her spatula and you felt your cheeks heat up at the thought of getting caught.
Your mom laughed at your expression, you always pretend to be so nonchalant and quiet when it comes to Nayeon although the people around you were quite positive you'll end up together. You rolled your eyes at her as she said, "You know you can always ask her out, right?" Of course you denied it, "I don't like her that way, mom, just drop it," you say as you hand out more samples. You mom gave you a knowing look but didn't say anymore as Nayeon and her friends are approaching your booth. She gave you her adorable smile where her bunny teeth showed as she waved at you. You gave her a very brief smile and pretended you were busy refilling your tray.
On your periphery you see a boy beside Nayeon chatting with her playfully, you tried to swallow something bubbling in your feelings and scowled a little. Your mother, to her credit, tried her best to stifle a laugh as she was observing you while giving out some food to Nayeon and her friends. As they were eating the boy suddenly asked Nayeon to go somewhere with her for a while and you heard her agreeing and telling her friends she'll be right back. You sighed and got strange looks from her friends but kept quietly working while looking at Nayeon walking away with that boy. "Where are they going?" you hear one of her friends ask while the other snickered, "He's taking her to the marriage booth to ask her out." You slammed the jar you were holding on the table and everyone was startled. Your mom looking at you knowingly as she said, "Go get her, you idiot."
You never ran as fast as you could in your entire life. You navigated through the crowd as flashbacks of her promise to marry you someday is the only thing on your mind. You spot them a few feet away talking and you stopped to look at Nayeon, breathing heavily. By some force, as always when you're both in the same room, she looks up and spotted you immediately. She gave you smile although you can see she's a bit confused. This is it. You've made up your mind after trying, and failing, to brush off your feelings for her. You jogged your way to Nayeon with determination as you kept your eyes on her, and you saw her eyes change from confusion to understanding then mischief. She giggled when you reached her and you can't help but tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear as you said a breathy "Hi." You can't move as you saw her staring right back at you and the boy she was with looked at the both of you in confusion and disbelief.
"Sorry, we have somewhere we need to be," she said to the boy even though she's still holding your gaze. And just like when you were kids, Nayeon took your hand and ran to the marriage booth laughing. You ran with her, butterflies erupting in your tummy and heart so full you feel like flying. You looked up, the stars twinkling and the moon shining brightly, just like the that very day and here she is making good on her promise even if it's just a silly game. But in your head, you promised you'd marry her for real on a night like this, when the stars are twinkling and the moon is shining - so pretty and mesmerizing just like the girl smiling at you and holding your hand.
#nayeon#im nayeon#twice nayeon#nayeon x reader#twice x reader#twice imagines#gg imagines#gg fanfic#kpop fanfic#kpop gg x reader#twice#twice fanfic
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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader
Description: A dangerous spirit is bound to an old family portrait that brings misfortune and death to anyone who buys it.
Warnings: Cannon violence and gore. flirting if you can call it that
Word Count: 10,688
Provenance
(Master list, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)
Music thrums through the dimly lit bar, mingling with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, drawing a crowd that fills nearly every corner.
I managed to escape from Sam and his research onto the safety of the dance floor two songs ago. And while I wasnât always privy to dancing, itâs hard to ignore a live band.
So, I let the bassline sink into my bones, guiding my steps as I start to move. My hips sway in time with the sultry beat, each sway slow and deliberate. My arms lift, hands tracing soft arcs above me as I lose myself in the music. Then, fingertips brush my waist, and if they didnât feel so familiar, Iâd pull away. But, I know these hands, I know each callous as I feel them through my dress. ââYou come to dance?â I ask, turning in his hold to face him. He wears that charming smile, eyes dropped to my hips that still move with the music. âNo, uhâŠâ his eyes move back to my face. A smile stretches itself onto my lips as I tilt my head to indicate Iâm listening even if Iâm dancing. âUh,â he turns his head away, âSam was tryinâ to wave us down, but you were, umâŠ.â his eyes meet mine, âdistracted.â
âLittle disappointed that wasnât a âyes,ââ I tease, although I know he isnât the type to dance. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my waist, gently pulling it away and taking it in mine. âToo bad Sam needs us, huh?â I say, starting to walk backward and leading him with me. âYeah,â he sighs, âToo bad.â Something mellows in his eyes then, something I canât quite grasp before I turn around and guide him back to our table.Â
The moment we reach Sam I collapse onto the little stool with a bright smile and a satisfied huff, taking my abandoned half-drunken soda into my hands. âAlright, I think we got something,â Sam announces, looking between us.
âHit it!â I point at him.
âOh yeah, me too,â Dean answers, glancing back at the bar to a girl I forgot he was talking to.
âOr notâŠâ I mumble as he continues. âI think we need to take a little shore leave, just a little bit. What do you think, huh?â he asks, looking back at us, âIâm so in the door with this one.â
âSo, what are we today, Dean?â Sam mocks. âI mean, are we rock stars, are we army rangers?â
I avert my eyes to the newspapers strewn about the table, pretending like I do not hear their conversation. âReality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills,â Dean answers, and I can hear the grin on his face, âI mean, hey, itâs not that far off right?â
âYou are being particularly icky with this one,â I comment, looking at him now as I bite on the thin black straw in my drink.
âSheâs right,â Sam adds.Â
âYeah, well itâs working,â Dean counters, âBy the way, sheâs got a friend over there. Possibly hook you up. What do you think?â
âDean, no thanks, I can get my own dates,â Sam answers.
âYeah, you can but you donât,â he argues. I hit his arm, throwing him a look. He shouldnât be pushing his brother like this. He canât possibly expect Sam to be ready to move on when his girlfriend died only a couple of months ago, let alone not feel guilty for moving on. âWhat is that supposed to mean?â Sam bites back. But, I give Dean a âdonâtâ look, they donât need another thing to fight over. âNothing,â he answers, taking my warning, âWhat you got?â
âMark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York were both found dead in their own home, a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, allâŠâ Sam trails off, his findings coming to an abrupt end. âDean!â he yells, gaining back the attention of his brother, ââŠ.No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside.â
âCould just be a garden variety murder you know, not our department,â Dean rationalizes, taking a sip of his beer.
âSays the guy who wasnât paying attention,â I mumble.
âHey!â he grumbles.
âWhat? Itâs true!â
âAnyway,â Sam interjects, âDad says differently.â
âWhat do you mean?â Dean asks, suddenly more interested.Â
âDad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. First one here in 1912, second one right here in 1945, and the third in 1970, the same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit, doors were locked from the inside. Now so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern, except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one.â
I have to give John credit, he seemed to have a hunch for these sorts of things and was persistent enough to keep up on it. Itâs admirable at the very least. âAlright, Iâm with ya,â Dean replies, âItâs worth checking out. We canât pick this up til first thing though, right?â
I roll my eyes, though, of course, I'm not surprised. Not only does he not trust the legitimacy of a case until it has the John Winchester seal of approval rather than just trusting his brother, but of course, heâs immediately trying to go back to his potential hook-up. âYeah,â Sam sighs.Â
âGood,â Dean grins, immediately going back to the bar. I donât know whether to be disgusted or jealous. âAnywho,â I start, âIâm gonna go back to the dance floor, wanna join me?â
âNo, you go,â Sam insists.
âOkay, well if you change your mind you know where to find me. Or, if you just need anything,â I offer.Â
Sam and I check out the Telesca's house while Dean reaps the consequences of a hangover. Either way, the house was a bust. Thereâs no sign of anything supernatural, in fact, thereâs no sign of anything.
We approach the Impala and in it, a sleeping Dean occupies the passenger seat. He sleeps slouched with sunglasses on, I suppose to combat the sun for when he does decide to wake up and join us. Sam walks around the car sporting a mischievous smile as he leans into the open window and honks the horn. Dean jumps awake, his sunglasses slipping down his face. I scuff, laughing a little as I get into the backseat. To be fair, it is a little funny. And Sam, who finds it infinitely more funny than I do, laughs loudly as he takes the driver's seat. âMan, that is so not cool,â Dean grumbles, adjusting his sunglasses clumsily.
âWe swept the Telescas with the EMF. Itâs clean,â Sam informs, âAnd last night, while you wereâŠwellâŠout.â
âGood times,â Dean smirks, a satisfied look on his face. I cringe even though something sharp stabs my heart.Â
âI checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas,â Sam elaborates.Â
âAlright, so if itâs not the people and itâs not the house, then maybe itâs the contents. Cursed object or something,â Dean deduces.
âYeah, funny story,â I start, âThereâs literally nothing in that house.Â
âYeah, you said that,â he counters.Â
âNo, like literally empty,â I clarify, âLike empty empty, like more than just crime scene cleaners.â
âNo furniture, nothing,â Sam explains.Â
âWhich could mean itâs either in storage somewhere, given to familyâŠâÂ
ââŠOr at an auction,â Sam adds, finishing my sentence.Â
****
Beautiful classical music plays in the auction house, where nearly every surface is covered in trinkets or furniture. Nicely dressed people flutter around in their expensive suits and dresses, holding champagne flutes as they chat.Â
To say we stick out is an understatement. We arenât dressed nearly as nice as we should be for a place like this. I mean, they have violin players here. I feel incredibly awkward as we walk around, itâs like everyoneâs staringâŠ. They might actually be staring. Maybe we shouldâve gotten more entail for a place like this before coming in because it is a horrible day to be wearing shorts.Â
The class difference feels apparent not only just clothing but in manners. Their prideful eyes flip onto us, seeping in as if they can read us. They can sniff out our class the same way we can see theirs. And itâs no help that Dean keeps stopping for the finger food, shoving it into his mouth without care. âConsignment auctions, estate sales. Looks like a garage sale for Wasps if you ask me,â Dean comments.
âTheyâre usually nicer than this,â I respond, looking around, âI mean in terms of people and environment ...not that this environment isnât nice but itâsâŠâ
âDisturbing?â Dean answers, popping another piece of food in his mouth.Â
âI was going to say pretentious but that works too,â I nod. Thrift stores and estate sales were usually nice experiences but a place like this is more about boasting through showing your wealth than enjoying your search for items to complete your home or yourself. In other words, itâs a great way to remind you of your class and just how much you donât fit in.Â
âCan I help you?â a voice suddenly asks. An older man with grey hair and blue eyes stares at us. Dean looks him up and down before shoving more food in his mouth, âIâd like some champagne, please,â he says putting on his best posh voice.Â
âNo, baby, heâs not a waiter,â I cut in, putting a hand on Deanâs upper arm.Â
Sam holds out his hand, âIâm Sam Conners,â he greets. But, his introduction is not met with the same friendliness. The man just looks at him, not moving. Sam gives a sharp nod, retracting his hand, âThatâs my brother Dean and my sister-in-law Y/N. âWeâre art dealers, with Connors Limited.âÂ
âYou areâŠ.â the man searches for the word as he looks at us with skepticism. âArt dealers.â
âThatâs right,â Sam confirms.Â
âIâm Daniel Blake,â he finally introduces himself, âThis is my auction house. Now gentlemen and madam this is a private showing, and I donât remember seeing you on the guest list.â
âWeâre there chuckles, you just need to take another look,â Dean answers, unamused, as he grabs a drink off a passing waiter. âFinally,â he mumbles, bringing it up to his lips.
âWhat I think my husband means to say,â I intervene quickly, the word sounding strange on my tongue. Itâs a title seeped in ironyâone I long for even though he spent last night with someone else. And yet, here I am, calling him my husband, craving a title thatâs only pretend. âNames are such funny things. They justâŠ.slip on by. If you should like, I have no problem looking at the guest list with you so we can get this all cleared up.â
He raises his chin high, seeming to consider my offer. âVery well,â he answers, âCome along.â He turns around, stiff in his movements. I move away from Dean, my hand slipping off his arm as I throw back a wide-eyed glance. I follow after the man, moving further and further away from the boys. He goes to a security guy and asks him to go fetch the book because apparently, he canât do it himself. âI donât mean to come off as intruding but I didnât see a ring on your finger,â he says.
He didnât believe Samâs lie. Heâs testing me to determine our legitimacy. I put on my best smile, âYou must have glossed over it,â I reason. I hold up my left hand, displaying a matching wedding band and an engagement ring. Both are aged silver bands, the engagement ring having a simple diamond at its center. Itâs all I could come up with on short noticeâquite literally in the seconds it took me to answer and raise my hand. âCharming,â he comments, lacking conviction. I put my hand back down, keeping the rings there even as my smile falters.
Finally, the rather thick book reaches the hands of Mr. Blake who simply wastes no time in cracking it open. He flips through the pages until he finds the names under âC,â his finger skimming down the page. His face drops. He clears his throat. âYes, there you are,â he declares, placing the book in a way I can see. His pointer finger is just below our names, newly placed by yours truly. âI apologize for the disruption,â he says, closing the book with a thump.Â
âOh, thatâs okay. With all those names itâs easy to miss,â I reply. I almost feel bad for deceiving him, he must feel crazy. But, we do need to figure out what killed the Telesca's and everyone before them so it is necessary. âNow, if youâll excuse me Iâm going to go back to my boys,â I say with a nod, wanting nothing more to get away from this manâŠ.no offense to him.Â
I feel his eyes burning into the back of my skull as I walk back to the Winchesters like he still suspects us and is just waiting for a slip. So, without a second thought, I move closer to Dean, slipping my hand beneath his blue jacket and resting it on his back. He doesnât question it; his eyes flicker to mine, but he just pulls me closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. The warmth of him sends butterflies crashing into my stomach, and my pulse quickens until I can barely focus on anything but the solid warmth of his touch. My heart pounds so wildly that I have to force my gaze forward.
Thatâs when I notice the dark-haired woman standing in front of them. Her hair is pulled back with two curled strands framing either side of her face, highlighting her sharp, thin eyebrows and kind grey eyes that are fixed intently on Sam. She wears a black dress with a bit of a plunging neckline, accented by a sparkling brooch at its center. âBut, Dadâs right about one thing, sensationalism brings out the crowds,â she says, adding to whatever conversation was at hand, âEven the rich ones.âÂ
âIs it possible to see the provenances?â Sam asks.
âIâm afraid there isnât any chance of that,â Mr. Blake says, his voice suddenly appearing from behind us. What could he have possibly found? âWhy not?â Sam asks.
âI fear we have guests complaining about yourâŠ.â he looks us up and down. âAppearance. We do have a very strict dress code.â A sigh escapes my lips, no way this constitutes us being kicked out. So much for creating a whole illusion.
âWell, we donât have to be told twice,â Dean responds putting on his horrible posh voice again. Heâs probably done with this scene.
âApparently you do,â Mr.Blake retorts cooly.
âOkay. Itâs alright,â Sam intervenes. âWe donât want any trouble. Weâll go.âÂ
The dayâs light filters in through the entryway as we step out. Itâs hard to tell if guests were complaining about us or if he truly just wanted us to go. Either way, he got us to leave. We pause just a few steps away from the doorway, Sam already moving far ahead of us.Â
The sun catches Deanâs eyes as he turns to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips, âI guess Iâm your husband now,â he says, his voice low. My heart stutters behind my ribcage and it takes all my willpower to keep my eyes on his and not let them dip to his mouth. âThat you are,â I answer, an easy smile on my face.
âMaybe I should get you a ring,â he teases.
âApparently, you have,â I hold up my left hand for him, the rings still there. He reaches for my hand, thumb brushing over the bands, his eyes lingering on the diamond. The gentle pressure sends a rush of warmth through me, and my stomach does about ten flips consecutively. He looks at me through his lashes, that smirk only deepening, âYou bad girl.â
I gasp, taking my hand from his to hit his chest. âI didnât steal them!â I insist, but he just catches my hand again, bringing his thumb back to the rings.Â
âHave to admit,â he murmurs, eyes sparkling as he meets mine, âI have good taste. Couldâve added a few more diamonds, though.â He says it so casually, with such cockiness, and it just fuels a quiet, barren dream that I now want more than anything. âWell,â I reply, feigning nonchalance. âYou can keep that in mind for the next time we get married.â
I slip from his hold with a teasing smile, and he lets me go. I let the rings disappear from my finger, leaving the same way they came. At least I have control over them leaving. It hurts to give myself hope, and I donât know why I do it. I fix my faltering smile before I spin around, walking backward as I speak to him. He hasn't moved from where we stood, something written on his face. âI really didnât steal them. They arenât real.âÂ
****
âWere you really flirting with that girl?â I ask Sam, a proud smile on my face. He rolls his eyes, no doubt knowing where I got my information from. âI wasnât flirting. We were just talking art,â he defends.
I laugh, âI think that might count as flirting. At least in your book.â I donât mean to tease him too harshly over this, after all, Iâm proud of him. Maybe that sounds weird but just like Dean I want him to be happy, and itâs good if heâs trying to move on after Jessica. âGrant Wood, Grandma Moses?â Dean mocks, âWhereâd that come from?â he asks as we approach their room, bags in hand. Iâll go to my room later, as for now, itâs easier to stick with them.
âArt history course,â he answers simply, âItâs good for meeting girls.â
I laugh again, nudging his arm with my own, âLook at you go.â
He scuffs despite the smile on his face. Dean puts the key in the lock, turning it as he says, âItâs like I donât even know you.â
He pushes the door open to reveal a complete disco-themed room. The walk-in is lined with black and white diamond wallpaper, and a metal divider made of circles separates the walk-in from the sitting area. Very â70s. Meanwhile, the sitting area has granite-like floors and completely black walls that contrast with the two white seats that face a long dresser-like table where speakers and lamps rest, and right above it an abstract painting sits. More of the same dividers separate the sitting area from the back where the two queen beds reside, the diamond wallpaper makes its reappearance there as well as the red carpet.Â
âHuh,â the boys hum at the same time.
ââHuhâ might be an understatement,â I mumble, following after them into the themed room. I feel like we should be in Vegas with a room like this, that feels more appropriate. But, at least itâs funâŠ? They move deeper into their room, dumping their bags on their respective beds while I leave mine by the door. âWhat wasâŠprovidence?â Dean asks.
âProv-e-nance,â Sam corrects, âItâs a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past.â
âSee, your art history class isnât just helpful with getting girls,â I say, taking a seat on one of the white seats. Apparently, they found a painting that belonged to the Telesca's. The painting was a family portrait with two young boys in suits on the left and a young girl in a frilly dress holding a doll with matching clothes on the right. And, at the center a woman, likely the mother, sits wearing a dress with similar frills and ribbons as her daughter, a balding man with a serious face standing behind her.
âSpeaking of girlsâŠâ Dean snaps his fingers at his brother, smirking.
âYeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin,â Sam responds, smirking right back.
âNot me,â Dean laughs.
Samâs face drops, âNo no no, pick-ups are your thing, Dean.â
âIt wasnât my ass she was checking out,â Dean remarks, giving him a look.
âSam, she couldnât take her eyes off of you,â I add, âAnd I wasnât even there for half the conversation.â
âIn other words, you want me to use her to get information,â he responds.
âSometimes you gotta take one for the team,â Dean reasons. âCall her.â Iâm tempted to correct him and put it in kinder words. But, I stop myself as I realize that if we frame it as a proper date, he might back down. He might not feel ready to move on or feel too guilty about it and, frankly, no one could blame him.
****
A Re-run of Scooby-Doo plays on the large TV in front of us, the take-out we ate a while ago sitting in the trash can now as we lounge on his bed. Our backs lean on the cushioned headboards, the crisp motel blanket covering both of us as we sit side by side, close enough for our thighs to touch. He chuckles at some silly joke Scooby made, the sweet sound warming my heart.
Iâm glad we decided to hang around if only to see him this content. I like the familiarity of thisâof him. I wish we could have endless moments like this. If only we could live in a gap between time where all is well. Iâd like that. I think heâd like that too. Time seems to melt together here where responsibility is put on hold to justâŠbreathe. I hope Sam is having a good time on his date, thatâd just make this whole day as perfect as it can get.
Iâm pulled out of my thoughts as a plastic spoon comes crashing into my personal space, landing right in my (flavor) ice cream. âHey!â I exclaim, laughter immediately bubbling from my lips, âYou have your own ice cream.â He gathers a big spoonful and I donât stop him or pull the container away. âSo?â he shrugs, putting it into his mouth as he puts his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to his side. With a hand on his chest, I pull away enough to look up at him, âYouâre ridiculous,â I say though my voice lacks conviction. His eyes meet mine, his head tilted down slightly, âYeahhh,â he smirks, âBut you love me.â He says it confidently as if he knows it's true even though he means it in a teasing way.
Then his eyes dip down and I canât quite find the right words because the right words are âI doâ and I canât afford the truth. Not nowâŠ.maybe not ever. This hunting trip has been a blessing and a curse. I get to spend more time with him than we probably ever had, and yet to be this close hurts. Itâs as if heâs the sun and to even get in his gravity field would burn me right up. Though, maybe being like Icarus would be worth it. âYouâre lucky I do,â I tease.
The click of the door tears my eyes away from him. âSam!â I say excitedly as he comes into the motel room. âHow was your date?â I ask.
âIt wasâŠâ he searches for the words as he removes his blazer, âGood. I got the provenances.â
âGreat!â I leap from the bed, leaving the rest of my ice cream on the nightstand, âI want to hear every single detail,â I take a couple of the manilla folders from him.Â
âThereâs really not any details to share,â he answers with a tight-lipped smile.
I give him a pointed look, âReally?â
âYeah, really.â
âThatâs not gonna work on me,â I say, taking a seat on one of the chairs in the living room area.Â
âFine,â he gives in, throwing his blazer over the back of the other chair before taking a seat, âThe restaurant was fancy.â I practically hang onto each word, waiting for more to come. âAnd?â I ask, beaming.
âAnd the food was good.â
I groan, laying my head against the chair, âDude, these are hardly details!â I twist in the seat to look back at his brother, âDean, help me out here.â He looks up from the ice cream container in his hand, âThis is all you, sweetheart,â he answers, shoving more ice cream in his mouth. Wait. My ice cream in his mouth. I roll my eyes, turning back around, âYou guys are being such guys right now.â
A sheepish smile rests on Samâs face, his eyes already on an open file. âFine!â I give up, throwing my hands up, âKeep your date a secret!â I shake my head as I pick up a file of my own.Â
I get to reading as the room falls into silence thatâs only broken up by the sound of turning pages. âSo, she just handed the providences over to you,â Dean starts.
âProvenances,â his brother corrects.
âProvenances,â Dean repeats with a bitter tone.Â
âYes. We went back to her place, I got a copy of the papersâŠâ
âAnd?â Dean asks, using the very word I had used. I look up from my papers, expecting to hear more information than he was willing to give me. âAnd nothing. Thatâs it. I left,â Sam answers.
âYou didnât have to con her or do anyâŠspecial favorsââÂ
âEww,â I laugh, âWhyâd you have to say it like that?âÂ
âDean, would you get your mind out of the gutter, please?âÂ
âHey, her head is in the gutter too,â he says and I can practically feel him pointing at me. I turn in my seat again, âI didnât say anything!â I defend.
âYou sure were thinking it though,â he remarks, a slight smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.
âAnd you know that how?â I counter giving him a pointed look. But, Sam cuts him off before he can get a word in, âCould you both stop, please?â
âYeah, sorry,â I mumble, returning to my reading.Â
âYou know when this whole things done, we could stick around for a little bit,â Dean offers, not exactly backing down like his brother wanted.
âWhy?â Sam asks.
âSo you could take her out again,â he answers. âItâs obvious youâre into her, even I could see that.â Itâs quite a conflicting situation. On the one hand, maybe we shouldnât push or encourage him to go on dates when heâs clearly still grieving his girlfriend. In truth, it feels wrong and inconsiderate but on the other hand, maybe encouraging him could help with the moving on and accepting process. Or, perhaps this isnât our place at all and we should shut up. âHey, Sam, you said the first murder was in 1912, right?â I ask, deciding to move on from the conversation of dating. âYeah, why?â he responds.
âI have a family portrait here from 1910 with the first sale in 1912 to Peter Simms,â I explain, lifting the paper for him to see. Then, there's a familiar presence behind me, a hand resting on the back of my chair. âPeter Simms murdered in 1912,â Dean reads, holding his Dad's journal in his free hand.Â
âThereâs another sale in â45 and then in â70. Does that match?â I ask, looking up at him.
âYeah,â he nods, confirming this was what we were looking for.
âThen it was stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month. Where the Telescas bought it,â Sam fills in the rest of the information. âSo, what do you think, itâs haunted? Or cursed?â
Dean shifts behind me, the journal coming to a soft close, âEither way, itâs toast.â
Pitch darkness cloaks us as we break in, from climbing the ridiculously tall metal gate to the careful way Sam disarms the security alarm before Dean works at the lock with careful, gloved hands. Our flashlights guide our way into the quiet auction house. Itâs so different now without all the people, more enjoyable even.Â
The painting is located quickly and cut from its frame with a switchblade. And as quickly as we came we left, doing almost everything in reverse. âFour minutes,â I announce, ââThink thatâs a new record.â
****
The cut-out painting lies in the dirt of a random side road. Something that took a lot of work and talent to do left to burn in the middle of nowhere. âUgly ass thing. If you ask me weâre doing the art world a favor,â Dean remarks, dropping the lit match onto the art piece.Â
This had to be some sort of crime.
I swing my legs off the bed, shoving my laptop onto the duvet as I get up to answer the knocking at my door. Before opening it, I tug my shirt to sit properly off my shoulder.
âHey, we have aââ he stops short, those green eyes dropping to my bare legs. The oversized shirt Iâm wearing only reaches mid-thigh. A smirk tugs at his perfect lips, and whatever he is going to say goes out the window. His gaze drags up my frame slowly, my insides going all warm and my stomach flipping in a way I wish it wouldnât. âWhat were you up to?â he asks, the smirk still easy and lazy on his face. A huffed laugh escapes me, and I hope he doesnât notice the blush creeping onto my cheeks. âWhat happened with âwe have aâŠâ?â I answer instead.
âWhat?â His eyes snap back to mine from wherever they were looking.
I laugh again. âDean,â I say firmly, trying to keep the conversation on track. âWhat were you going to tell me?â
He shrugs, something he doesnât do often, his smirk turning into a goofier smile. âI have no idea.â
I give him a pointed look, heâs messing with me now. âCome on, Winchester, focus.âÂ
His eyes dip down again, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek as his gaze crawls back up. âOh, Iâm plenty focused.â
âYou were saying something about âwe have aâŠââ I try again, hoping to jog his memory.
âProblem,â he finishes, shuffling a little bit as he adjusts how heâs standing. âRight. A problem.â
I wait for him to elaborate, but he just stares at me. âWhat's the problem?â I ask, leading this conversation.
ââCanât find my wallet,â he answers, nodding awkwardly. I try not to let the surprise show on my face. All this because he couldnât find his wallet? âDo you need help finding itâŠ?â I offer.
âYeah,â he nods, then pauses. âWait. No. I think I dropped it at the warehouse.â
âWhat!?â I exclaim. âWhy didnât you say that sooner!?â Immediately I spin right back into my room. âLet me get dressed real quick,â I add over my shoulder.
He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as I rummage through my duffle. âWait.â I pause, turning to face him. His eyes dart up to meet mine, eyebrows raised as if he got caught doing something he shouldnât have. I brush his antics off as I ask, âDo you want me to just,â I raise my hands, wiggling my fingers, âmagick it here.âÂ
A small look of surprise hits his face as if he hadnât thought of it. âRight. Soââ
****
âYou could have encouraged him instead of fake losing your wallet, you know right?â I ask, looking up at him as his brother and Sarah converse across the room.Â
âWhereâs the fun in that?â he remarks.Â
âI donât think making us think you could get caught for last night because you dropped your wallet is very fun,â I point out, crossing my arms across my chest. His wallet was in his pocket the whole time, which of course he knew about. What he really wanted was an excuse to get Sam and Sarah together again after their date. I donât necessarily disagree with what he intended to do but it also isnât exactly fun to be in the warehouse again. Itâs like no matter what we still can't fit in.
But, he doesnât need to say it. We both know Sam wouldnât have come here otherwise.Â
****
âI donât understand, we burned the damn thing,â Sam says, frustrated.Â
âYeah, thank you Captain Obvious,â Dean grumbles.Â
âAnd we can for sure rule out itâs not a duplicateâŠ.somehowâŠright?â I ask even though Iâm not convinced of what Iâm saying either. But a girl can dream. Sam turns in the passenger seat, delivering me the nastiest pointed look to ever be received. âOkay. Okay. I get it,â I say, raising my hands in defense. âI was trying to beâŠhopeful.âÂ
Dean nudges his brother's arm, getting him to lay off of me. âAlright, we just need to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?â
âOkay, alright. We, um, in almost all the lore about haunted paintings itâs always the paintingâs subject that haunts âem,â Sam informs.
âYeah. So we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creepy-ass family and that creepy-ass painting,â Dean adds.
âWho do you think would know about them?â I ask.
****
The smell of old books fills my senses as we step into the second-hand bookstore, the little bell above the door chiming softly. Itâs quiet and warm in the store with books stacked in piles littering the floor, making walking almost hard. Others are neatly arranged on tightly packed shelves in an attempt to fit more. If we werenât here on business, Iâd spend so much money here. I have to force my eyes away from the alluring spines of the novels, a gentle hand on my lower back encourages me to focus. I donât need to turn my head to know the hand belongs to Dean.
âYou said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?â the old man behind the counter asks.
âYeah, thatâs right,â Sam answers. The man lays out a huge book, dust sprinkling from it as he opens it to reveal the many news clippings inside. Heâs well organized, I have to give him that. But, my focus is broken by the flicking of pages beside me. I look at Dean, his free hand holding open some old magazine about guns. Naturally, the guy encouraging me to focus is unfocused himself. But, he looks so happy as he flicks through the pages itâs hard to be upset. âWant me to buy that for you?â I ask softly, the words slipping from my lips before I have time to think. I kind of want to hit myself for that one.
But then he turns that smile on me and suddenly I do not want to hit myself. âIâm a big boy,â he says, his gaze dipping lower. âI can buy my own stuff.â His eyes slowly trail back up to meet mine, but his hand doesnât stay still. It dips slightly, taking my stomach with it. His middle finger hooks lightly through a belt loop on my jean skirt, the rest of his fingers splayed on my very lower back. âYou rarely buy things for yourself,â I point out. He only buys himself the necessities.
âI dug up every scrap of local history I could find,â the owner announces, pulling my attention forward. âSo are you crime buffs?â
âMhm,â I hum. âYeah.â
âWhy do you ask?â Dean asks, and I can feel the heat of his gaze pulling away from me.
âWellâŠâ He holds up a newspaper article. The lead story, taking up most of the front page, is about the Titanic. But, a little further down to where he points is a side article titled: âFather Slaughters Family, Kills Himself.â
âMurder-suicide,â I mumble to myself. Itâs certainly not the first.
âYes. Yeah, that sounds about right,â Dean says, stumbling on his words.
âThe whole family was killed?â Sam asks.
âIt seems this Isaiah, he slits his kidsâ throats, then his wife, then himself. Now he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor,â he explains, his voice gravelly with age.
âDoes it say why he mightâve done it?â I ask.
âLetâs look,â he answers, turning the newspaper around so that he can read it. ââPeople who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. Controlled his family with an iron fist.ââ
Itâs certainly not surprising news considering it was the early 1900âs. âWife, uh, two sons, adopted daughterâŠâ he continues. âYeah, yeah, yeah,â he mumbles as he skims the page. ââThere were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave.â Which of course you know in that day and age, umâŠ.â he clears his throat. âSo, instead, old man IsaiahâŠwell he gave them all a shave.â He draws his hand across his throat, mimicking the motion of slitting one's throat as he laughs.Â
âThatâs, uh, certainly one way to put it,â I respond, my words harsh. It was hardly a laughing matter. An entire family was killed because some guy let his anger and ego get in the way when all his wife wanted was to get the kids and escape his wrath. His laugh dies down pretty quickly once he realizes no one is joining in. âDoes it say what happened to the bodies?â Dean asks.
âJust that they were all cremated,â he answers.
âAnything else?â Sam asks.
âYeah. Actually, I found a picture of the family.â He shuffles through the papers in the book, âItâs right hereâŠ.somewhere. Rightâhere it is.â He holds up the paper for us to see. Itâs the family portrait from the painting.Â
âHey, could we get a copy of this please?â Sam asks.
****
âIâm telling you, man, Iâm sure of it. In the painting at the auction house, Dad is looking down. Painting here, Dadâs looking out. The painting has changed,â Sam argues for the fifth time since weâve been sitting at the table.
âAlright,â Dean finally gives in. âSo, you think that Daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like he did with his family?â
âWell yeah, it seems like it. But if his bones are already dusted then how are we gonna stop him?â
âMaybe not everything was burned,â I suggest.Â
âKind of hard to miss something when youâre cremated,â Sam counters.
âWell yeah but that doesnât mean a keepsake doesnât still exist,â I point out. âOr, not even a keepsake but maybe anything thatâs on his person in the painting thatâs still around now. If itâs personal enough.â
âMaybe,â Sam nods, seeing my point. âAnd if we figure out what and burn it then no more killing.â
âYeah,â I nod with him, âWe just have to figure out whatâŠsomehow.â
âAnd where,â he adds.Â
âWell, if Isaiahâs position changed then maybe some other things in the painting changed as well,â Dean suggests. âYou know it could give us some clues.â
âWhat, like a Da Vinci Code deal?â Sam asks.Â
Dean's face goes blank, âI donâtâŠ.know..uhâŠIâm still waiting for the movie on that one. Anyway, we gotta get back in and see that painting.â He rises from his seat and moves across the room to his bed, he throws himself onto his back and crosses his arms across his chest. I have to stop myself from ogling him with the way the grey shirt looks on him, especially with those forearms on displayâŠ
âWhich is a good thing cause you get some more time to crush on your girlfriend,â he teases.
âDude. Enough already,â Sam says firmly.
âWhat?â He answers in defense.
ââWhat? Ever since we got here, youâve been trying to pimp me out to Sarah. Just back off, alright?â
âWell, you like her donât you?â He reasons. Sam groans and rolls his eyes. âAlright, you like her, she likes you, youâre both consulting adults,â Dean adds.
âWhatâs the point, Dean?â Sam responds, his voice rising as his frustration rises too. âWeâll just leave. We always leave.â Itâs quite a reminder. The life of a hunter isnât a kind one for many reasons, one of them being how lonely it can get. Itâs knowing a normal life canât ever truly exist because once this is embedded into you it stays. And he had tried to get away from the hunting life and it had worked for as long as it did with his girlfriend whom he was happy with until, once more, the hunting life caught up to him and he had to lose it all unfairly.Â
âWell, Iâm not talking about marriage, Sam,â he defends.
âYou know, I donât get it. What do you care if I hook up?â he asks, getting more agitated.Â
âCause then maybe you wouldnât be so cranky all the time,â he answers calmly. Sam stares at him, then huffs out a breath and looks away. Dean sits up from the bed as he continues, âYou know, seriously Sam, this isnât about just hooking up, okay? I mean, IâI think that this Sarah girl could be good for you.â But, once more he doesnât get an answer other than a sigh.
âAndâŠâ he continues softly. âI donât mean any disrespect but Iâm sure this is about Jessica, right? Now I donât know what itâs like to lose somebody like thatâŠbutâŠI would think that she would want you to be happy.â
Tears fill the younger Winchesterâs eyes. But, Dean continues anyway. âGod forbid have fun once in a while. Wouldnât she?â âYeah, I know she would,â he answers softly, a half smile managing on his lips. âYeah, youâre right. Part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part.â
âWhatâs it about?â Dean asks. This time Sam doesnât answer. And, luckily, I donât have to give Dean a look to tell him not to push it because he lies back down. âYeah, alright,â he says crossing his arms across his chest. âWell, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah soâŠâÂ
A little surprisingly Sam picks up his phone, clearing his throat as he does so. âSarah, hey, itâs Sam,â he says awkwardly. âHey, hiâŠ.Good, Good, yeah, umm. What about you?â
I have to try not to cringe at how awkward this is. Itâs uncomfortable.
âYeah good, good, really good,â he repeats himself.
âSmooth,â Dean mumbles.
âSo, uh, so listen. Me and my brâwe were, uh, thinking that maybe weâd like to come back in and look at the painting again. IâI think maybe we are interested in buying it.â There's a pause before his eyes widen and he exclaims, âWhat?!â He stands up and paces, âWhoâd you sell it to?â
Oh frick.
âSarah, I need an address right now.â
****
The Impala roars up the drive, Sam and I not waiting for it to come to a full stop before jumping out. Sarah runs down from the driveway, her eyes wide in panic, âSam whatâs happening?â I hear her ask as I move past them and up the porch.
âI told you, you shouldnât have come,â Sam says from behind me. I knock as loudly as I can against the door, âHello?â I call loudly. Dean appears at my side, banging on the door and shouting, âAnyone home?â From what I can see the lights look off.
âYou said Evelyn might be in danger, what sort of danger?â Sarah asks. But, unfortunately, she has to be ignored for now as we try and get in. Sam goes to the windows and starts banging on them as best as he can with the metal gates in the way. âI canât knock this sucker down. I gotta pick it,â Dean announces.
âNo time,â I intervene, shaking my head. If Sarah wasnât there Iâd blast it open but she doesnât deserve to be brought into this life any more than sheâs being exposed to it. So, instead, I cover my hand with my sleeve and put it on the doorknob. I apply a little magick, a stream of purple mist going into the locks. I turn the knob and push the door open, revealing the darkness that cloaks the house. âWhat are you guys, burglars?â Sarah remarks. I donât wait for their conversation to pan out as I nod towards inside, quietly asking Dean if heâs going to follow. Unsurprisingly, he follows after me as I step into the house before he quickly takes the lead.Â
âEvelyn,â I call as we venture in deeper. I can hear the insistent steps that follow behind us, one set familiar the other not.Â
A soft glow of light stretches into the hallway just enough to lead our way. We turn into what looks to be a lounge. A blonde lady sits half-turned on the sofa. I take in the room swiftly from the burning candles to the painting that sits above the mantle. The father in the painting isnât looking straight or down, instead, he looks at the daughter. âEvelyn?â Sarah says softly, appearing beside us. But, based on the lack of reaction or even recognition itâs likely that weâre too late. âItâs Sarah BlakeâŠâ She carefully walks into the room and closer to the woman. âAre you alright?â She slowly reaches a hand out to Evelynâs shoulder.
âWait! Thatâs not aâ
âSarah donât. Sarah!â
Our warnings don't stop her. Evelynâs head tips back, exposing the long cut on her throat. Sarah screams, the noise seeming to reverberate. Her head is barely attached to her neck, blood spewing from the cut rapidly. âOh my God. Oh My God!âÂ
Sam quickly intervenes, putting an arm around her as he leads her out of the room.
Weâre forced to watch Sam pace back and forth even though weâre supposed to be researching. Heâs been doing it all morning. Heâs very distracting.Â
He finally stops with a knock on the door. The person behind it is the reason he was pacing in the first place. He opens the door and in storms Sarah. âHey. âYou alright?â Sam asks.
âNo, actually, I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelynâs, alone, and found her like that,â she spews. Her hands are balled in fists at her side, a fire of determination burning in her eyes. And even though sheâs angry, Samâs face relaxes. âThank you,â he says sincerely.
âDonât thank me, Iâm about to call them right back if you donât tell me what the hellâs going on,â she demands. âWhoâs killing these people?âÂ
Sam looks at us for help, and the question is clear in his eyes. I shrug, I donât feel comfortable enough to give a solid âyesâ but she wonât take no for an answer. She deserves an answer. He looks back at Sarah, âWhat,â he corrects.
âWhat?â
âItâs not âwho.â Itâs âwhatâ is killing those people,â he elaborates. Expectantly, she looks at him like heâs crazy. He sighs, âSarah, you saw that painting move.â
âNo,â she says firmly. âNoâŠI wasâŠI was seeing things. Itâs impossible.â
âYeah well, welcome to our world,â Dean and I say in unison. I look at him a little shocked, âJinx.â
âSarah, I know this sounds crazy,â Sam continues. âBut we think that painting is haunted.â
She bursts into laughter, tears filling her eyes. âYouâre joking.â But, of course, we arenât. She looks between Sam and Dean and I. âYouâre not joking.â
âGod, the guys I go out with,â she mumbles. And for Samâs sake, I hold back my laughter.
âSarah, think about it. Evelyn, the Telescas, they both had the painting. And there have been others before that,â Sam explains. âWherever this thing goes people die. And weâre just trying to stop it. And thatâs the truth.â
She takes a deep breath, âThen I guess youâd better show me. Iâm coming with you.â
âWhat? No. Sarah no, you should just go home. This stuff can get dangerous andâŠand I donât want you to get hurt.â
âLook, you guys are probably crazy,â she says bluntly. âBut, if youâre right about this? Well, my Dad and I sold that painting that mightâve gotten these people killed. Look Iâm not saying Iâm not scared because I am scared as hell butâŠIâm not going to run and hide either.â She strides over to the door before pausing and turning back, âSo are we going or what?â Then, she walks out.Â
Sheâs cool. âSam?â Dean says. Once he has his attention he points to the door after Sarah, âMarry that girl.â
****
âUhhâŠisnât this a crime scene?â Sarah asks as I open the door again. We didnât have to rush inside this time but itâs easier than waiting for a lock to be picked. I probably shouldâve done it when we broke into the warehouseâŠ.
âIt is,â I answer as we walk in. âIf it makes you feel better your prints are already insideâŠand on the victim and because you found her theyâve already been cataloged or considered. So a couple more wonât make a difference seeing as they likely donât suspect you. I mean, they let you go after getting your statement so thatâs good.â
She looks at me a little strangely, a tight-lipped smile on her lips. Iâm probably not helping the crazy allegations. âI used to do the whole crime investigation thingâŠ.sort of,â I try to explain. The writing job I had was a weird one because I wasnât really doing any crime investigation, Iâm not certified like that. But I did need and use skills that investigators might have. It was kind of an excuse to be a nerd and write. Also, it paid well. She nods. I donât think Iâve been convincingâŠmaybe I should stop speaking. âYouâve already lied to the cops. Whatâs another infraction?â Dean remarks as Sam lifts the painting down from the wall.Â
âArenât you worried that itâsâŠgonna kill us?â Sarah asks.
âNah, it seems to do its thing at night,â Sam answers. âI think weâre alright in the daylight.â
Dean takes the photocopy of the original painting out of his pocket and holds it up in comparison. âCheck it out. The razor, itâs closed in this one but itâs open in that one,â he points out.
âWhat are you guys looking for?â she butts in.
âWell, if the spiritâs changing aspects of the painting then itâs doing so for a reason,â Dean explains.
âWhatâs that thing in the painting,â I ask, squinting and pointing behind the family. âI mean the painting thatâs in the painting.â
âLooks like a mausoleum,â Sam answers with a tilted head. Dean looks around before grabbing a glass ashtray from an end table. He holds it up to the mausoleum. âMerchant,â he confirms.
****
Carefully I step around the gravestones, no need to upset any more dead people. âThis is the third boneyard weâve checked,â Dean complains. âI think this ghost is jerking us around.â
âAt least weâre looking for a whole building rather than a lonely gravestone,â I point out. This way we can beeline to the building area instead of searching each line of graves. âSo this is what you guys do for a living?â Sarah asks.
âNot exactly. We donât get paid,â Sam answers.
âWell, Mazel tov,â she remarks.Â
After venturing deeper into the graveyard we found the mausoleum, the âMerchantâ name carved right into it. Dean breaks the lock, revealing the mass of cobwebs and dust. Various nameplates fill one wall while the other side holds the urns all lined up with glass-fronted boxes built into the walls. But the number of urns is weird.
âOkay, that right there,â she points at a doll in one of the boxes. âIs the creepiest thing I've ever seen.âÂ
âI think itâs cute,â I shrug. The doll isnât creepy, itâs quite normal with its brown hair and white dress. There isnât an eye missing or a smudge on it. âWell, it was a sort of tradition at the time,â Sam explains. âWhenever a child died sometimes theyâd preserve the kidâs favorite toy in a glass case, put it next to the headstone or crypt.â
âNotice anything strange here,â Dean asks.
âYeah, thereâs only four urns,â I answer. âAnd unless I suck at counting there should be five.â
âDaddy dearest isnât here,â he confirms.
âSo where is he?â Sam asks.
****
An office building, a lot of lying, paydirt, and possibly interrupting an almost kiss between Sam and Sarah later leads us to another graveyard, a grave, and some shovels. According to what Dean and I had found, the surviving relatives of the Merchant family were ashamed of Isaiah enough to not want him to be kept with the rest of the family. So, he was given over to the county who gave him a simple burial. Not a cremation. Therefore, a body to burn. Which again, leads to the shovel in my hand. Bad day to wear a white shirt because now I have to keep my zip-up on and digging up a grave is already a workout. Yay, sweat.
Sam lifts himself out of the grave to stand with Sarah and her flashlight. Even with 2-3 people digging itâs a lot of work. I donât even want to know how long weâve been at this for. âYou guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this,â she comments.Â
âWell, uh, this isnât exactly the first grave weâve dug,â Sam responds. âStill think Iâm a catch?â
She laughs and God they need to kiss already.Â
Finally, Deanâs shovel hits something hard. âThink Iâve got something,â he announces.
âOh thank God,â I sigh, leaning on the handle of my shovel as I wipe some sweat from my forehead. âThis so sucked.â
âNow you can stop worrying about your pretty little shirt gettinâ all dirty,â Dean remarks. I roll my eyes, of course, he picked up on that. âIâm gonna hit you with my shovel,â I threaten, my smile ruining the seriousness of my words.Â
âAre they always like this?â
âYup.â
âIâd like to see you try,â he counters as he looks me up and down.
âAnd Iâll hit both of you,â Sam threatens, peering into the grave.Â
âOkay Obi-Wan Kenobi,â I mumble as I help Dean clear up more of the dirt to open it.Â
âNerd,â Dean remarks.
âDude! You saw the movie too!â I defend.
âShut up,â he grumbles. âMove back so I can open this.â
****
Lighter fluid and salt in place, Dean strikes his match. âYouâve been a real pain in the ass Isaiah. Good riddance.â He tosses the match in, everything going up in flames.
****
The Impala pulls in front of Evelynâs house, hopefully, for the last time. âKeep the motor running,â Sam directs, opening the car door.
âI thought the painting was harmless now,â Sarah says beside me.
âBetter safe than sorry. Weâre gonna bury the sucker,â Sam explains.
Sarah gets out of the car, declaring, âIâm going with you.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah,â she answers, something shining in her eyes. Okay, now they really need to kiss. Sam tries to get out of the car again before Dean stops him, âWeâll stay here, you go make your move.âÂ
He scoffs and rolls his eyes as he gets out of the car. âSam. Iâm serious!â But, heâs ignored as they round the car and move up the stairs. Dean turns on the radio, a silly love song playing. I have to shake my head with how obvious it is, the upbeat tune paired with lyrics like âIâm in love with a girl that Iâm talking aboutâŠIâm in love with a girl I canât live withoutâŠâ Sam practically whips around to give his brother a dirty look. But, Dean being Dean shrugs, seeing no problem with his intervention. Sam motions for him to cut it off, his eyes wide. Surprisingly, Dean shuts it off but not without sighing. âIâm fairly sure theyâll kiss even without your ridiculous music,â I say as I watch them enter the house.
âItâs not ridiculous,â he counters.Â
âI love a good love song but that was painfully obvious, Dean. Plus, can you really kiss to that one?â
âOne way to find out.â
âYeah, youâre gonna try that on your next hookup?â I ask. He shakes his head but I canât see his face from where I sit in the backseat and with his head downturned I canât use the rearview mirror either. But, I donât have time to dwell on it and he has no time to vocalize an answer when our attention is taken away by the front door slamming.Â
Heâs out of the Impala and up half the stairs before I can open my door. âSammy, you alright?â he calls out, shoving himself against the door. His phone rings a half second later and I donât think Iâve seen him pick up his phone quicker. âTell me you slammed the front door,â he says. And I try to connect the pieces of the conversation with only half of it. Something with a girl. âWasnât the Dad looking at her?â Dean asks. âMaybe he was trying to warn us.â Well, that answers what girl.
âHey, sweetheart?â He suddenly directs at me. âCould youââ I nod before he can finish. I know what he wants. âMove back,â he tells them. I know this time simply unlocking it wonât work with a spirit being the one to keep it closed. I guess Sarah gets to see a door exploding anyway. âWait! What do you mean no time?!â But my hand is already raised, a blast of energy going right through the door. Shards of wood explode inward.Â
âWhereâd they go?â I ask, the entryway clear of people and spirits. When he told them to move I thought theyâd remain close by, not disappear. âDamn things on âem,â Dean answers, moving past me to go in headfirst. âSammy!â he yells. But thereâs no response. âWhat could be left behind?â I ask, following after him, âWe saw her urn!â
âI donât know,â he throws back. Something crashes and slides fast behind me. I spin around, a large wooden cupboard now blocking the remains of the front door. Closing us in. âReally?â I get it doesnât want us to leave but I just broke the door. âSammy!â Dean yells. Something else slams and this time Deanâs gone too. âDean! Sam!â I call, moving further down the hall. How big is this house? My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble for it, flipping it open before I can catch more than the first letter of the name. âWhere did you go? I looked away for two seconds and you were gone. Are you with Sam?â
âIâm a little stuck right now,â he answers, his voice sounding a little gruffer.
âWhere are you?â I repeat, spinning around slowly for any sign of where he went.
âThat doesnât matter Iââ
âIt kind of does,â I cut him off.
âListen,â he says firmly. âI need you to do something for me, sweetheart,â he groans.
âDeaââ
âThink you can do somethinâ for me?â
âYeah, Dean jusââ
âYou gotta get back to the mausoleum and burn the doll, it might have her real hair,â he directs. âThe keys are in Baby, gââ
âI can get there quicker than that,â I cut him off. âJustâŠbe safe and find Sam.â I hang up before he can say anything more. I roll my shoulders back, I can do this. Iâve teleported before. Hell, I managed to teleport to a place Iâd never seen before back with the asylum hunt. This may be further but Iâve been there once so thatâs going to have to be close enough. Also, I have no time for this. I exhale, summoning my powers forward. I donât have time to focus on what I want as I did at the asylum. So, I put all my hope into it working as simply as I can. I flick my wrist and envision the inside of the mausoleum. ThenâŠIâm there.
Man, Iâm getting good at this.Â
I waste no time in sending a small blast of energy at the glass covering. It shatters in the box, covering the doll in glass. Carefully, I lift the doll out of the box and hold it in one hand as I hold my pointer finger up. A little flame ignites from the tip of my finger, not hurting me in the slightest. âSorry doll,â I mumble, holding her hair over the flame. Quickly, it ignites. Her brown hair goes up in flames and with it, I hope, the spirit of the ghost girl. I shake off my finger flame, not needing it anymore with how flammable the hair is. I put the doll down on the stone floor, letting it go up in flames as I take out my phone. I click on Samâs contact, bouncing on the balls of my feet, nervously, as it rings. Please be okay. âSam! Oh my god, are you guys okay? Did it work?âÂ
âWeâre not bad.â
At the auction house, workers buzz around packing various things up in crates. The spirit is dead for good this time and no one else got hurt. âThis was archived in the county records,â Dean announces, walking over with some papers. âThe Merchantâs adopted daughter Melanie. Know why she was up for adoption? âCause her real family was murdered in their beds.â
âShe killed them?â Sarah asks.
âYeah,â Dean answers. âWhoâd suspect her? âSweet little girl. So when she kills Isaiah and his family. The old man takes the blame. His spiritâs been trying to warn people ever since.â
âGuess she figured she couldnât get away with it twice,â I say, thinking out loud. Yet, through death, she was able to get away with it continuously.Â
âSo whereâs this one go?â One of the workers asks, holding up the Merchant family portrait.
âTake it out back and burn it,â Sarah directs. Both workers seem to pause at once, looking at her strangely as if she might be joking despite her serious tone. âIâm serious guys. Thanks,â she insists. She looks back at us, the workers walking off with the painting. âSo whyâd the girl do it?â
âKilling others? Killing herself? Some people are just born tortured. So when they die, their spirits are just as dark,â Sam answers.
âMaybe,â Dean adds and I agree with that far more than the idea that people are born evil when itâs more complicated than that. âI donât really care,â he continues, âItâs over, we move on.â
âAhh,â Sarah sighs. âI guess this means youâre leaving.â
I nudge Dean as he looks between the two. This is our cue to leave. âWeâll go wait in the car,â Dean says. âSee you, Sarah.â
âIt was nice meeting you,â I add, giving a little wave before we head out. âNow I can give you your thing,â I tell Dean.
âWhat âthingâ?â he asks, looking confused.
âYouâll find out in just a second,â I laugh, skipping in front of him. I get to the car first and open the back door. I bend down as I open my duffle, taking what I left on top in my hands. I zip up my bag and turn to him holding it behind my bag before the big reveal. âOkay, itâs stupid,â I warn. âBut here.â I hold out the magazine he had been reading at the old bookstore the other day. His eyebrows rise, and his mouth parts as if he wants to say something, except nothing comes out of his mouth he just smiles and takes it from my hands. âSweetheartâŠâ he trails off, looking down at the magazine. I smile brightly as he looks at it, practically beaming where I stand.
Then, a knock swifts both of our attentions. I look up at the auction house door, Dean turning to do the same. And right there in the doorway, Sam kisses Sarah, his head bent down to her level and his hands on her waist. âThatâs my boy,â Dean smiles.
(Next Chapter)
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#supernatural#fanfiction#dean winchester x reader#dean winchester#the hunter and the witch#sam winchester#dean winchester x witch reader#slow burn#john winchester#supernatural season one#dean winchester x f!reader series#dean winchester x f!reader#dean winchester x female reader#dean winchester x fem!reader#witch reader
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hi lovely, can i make a request? reader and fred are together. readers father recently passed away and it's readers first christmas without her dad, she goes missing and fred is frantically looking for her and he finds her at the top of the astronomy tower just before midnight and it ends with them saying merry christmas to each other? mainly fluff and protective
Hi dear Anon! I hope I did okay with this request and that you enjoy! If this is specific to your real life situation then Iâm sending you my biggest condolences and a warm wintery hug, or if itâs just a request then you can still keep the hug! đ€
Warnings: mentions of death (readers father), grief, sadness, Fred being an incredible boyfriend, protective Fred. Not beta read nor spellchecked.
Word count: 1.9k
Merry Christmas Baby
You'd done so well all day, even if you had stretched yourself beyond your means; masking up to your eyes until you couldn't pretend to be fine anymore.
You'd made it through the morning, through waking up alone in your dormitory, your other dorm mates all spending Christmas at home with their families whilst you remained at school, practically homeless and without a whole family to return to. You'd bathed, gotten dressed and had spent an hour in quiet contemplation in your room before making your way down to the common room.
Beyond Harry and the Weasleys who were staying at school over Christmas, there were very few other students that remained, meaning that you practically had the Gryffindor common room and the entire school to yourselves. The elves had prepared an even more lavish feast than usual and you'd happily eaten the meal until you were full to bursting. You sat beside Fred, his hand entwined with yours in a silent form of support as you joined in with the jokes and the laughter as a form of escape from your grief.
You knew staying at school was the best option, though some could argue it was only running away from your problems, the first Christmas without your dad was easier to face indirectly from the comfort and familiarity of your school and your friends.
After dinner you'd all waddled back to the common room with belts and trousers loosed and collapsed in various chairs around the room. The fire was lit and it was calm, with most of the other attendees having a mid-afternoon snooze after their dinner but you couldn't seem to nod off. You stared into the fire for a while, watching the flames rise and fall, the flickering shadows projected around the room that danced with the flames. Fred was lightly snoring against your shoulder as you lay draped over him at his insistence, his long legs acting as the perfect stool for your own. Your shoes had been long since pulled off as you lazed about, thankful for the warmth of the fire. There were so many things you were thankful for this year, trying to remain positive despite the dark thoughts threatening to intrude upon your day, always in the back of your mind like a dark cloud hanging overhead. You were thankful for Fred and George, for your friends, for the school that you loved so much, for your magical abilities and for the family that gave them to you. You were thankful for the years spent with your dad and thankful that you had somewhere to go this Christmas knowing that home was no longer an option.
It was early evening when various people began to wake from their Christmas siestas, with George waking first and Fred following in almost alarming synchronisation. The rest of the night was spent playing chess and exploding snap, occupying yourselves in whatever way you wanted. You felt yourself slipping into yourself more and more throughout the evening, with less input to conversations, your laughter decreasing until you were barely chuckling even at the funniest of quips. At first you were perplexed by your sudden low mood, thinking that perhaps your social battery had run low but it wasn't the case at all, you wanted your friends around you. It was inevitable really that your sour mood would finally take over, the undeniable thoughts of grief, of sadness, wouldn't be able to be held back forever. You suddenly felt claustrophobic in the cozy common room, surrounded by too many people and too much happiness that you were inevitably going to bring down the mood by staying.
You looked at Fred, seeing that he was currently occupied in a rather intense battle of exploding snap with Ron, briefly checking around the room for anyone else paying attention to you before you grabbed your shoes and slipped away. You walked out of the portrait hole and out to the corridor, placing your shoes on and walking aimlessly around the castle. The portraits wished you merry Christmas as you walked past and you offered them festive greetings in return, just wishing that you could slip away unnoticed without having to interact with anyone either in person or in portrait.
You curse yourself for not bringing a jacket with you as you walk out of the doors into the courtyard, seeing a thin sheet of ice and snow on the ground that once seemed to make it look more beautiful, more magical. You hugged your arms tighter to yourself, fighting back an involuntary shiver as you made your way around the courtyard without any specific destination in mind. You felt better at escaping the common room, taking some time away to allow those thoughts and feelings to surface in private. The last thing you wanted to do was cause a scene, or bring down anyone's good mood and good time, which they so rightfully deserved. You let the slew of tears finally come as if right on cue, your father's face occupying your mind completely as you think of past Christmases, of past memories with him that you'd never get to experience again.
Back in the common room, Fred celebrates his landslide win over Ron who sits back in his chair with a face like thunder, arms crossed like a petulant child at losing to his older brother. George cheers and celebrates with his twin as he scoops up the two sickles that he'd won from Harry in their bet. Fred turns to find you, confused at the lack of cheers he hears from your mouth, his constant cheerleader, but finds your seat no longer occupied. He frowns, looking around the room in hopes of spotting you but doesn't see the figure he is so familiar with.
"Gin, have you seen y/n?" He asks his sister as she walks down the steps from the dorms and bathrooms. She shakes her head with a slightly confused look, eyes whipping around the room just as Fred's had moments before.
"Can you."
"On it," she replies with a nod, cutting him off already anticipating his question as she turns on her heel to go back up the stairs. When she returns a few minutes later, she gives Fred a definitive shake of her head and momentarily considers that this is the first time that she's ever seen him look so concerned over anything. His eyes are full of worry and anxiety, body rigid but fidgety as he paces the length of the room, mind working overdrive to where she might have gone. He shouldn't have been so stupid leaving her alone whilst he played his game, knowing that the day was undoubtedly going to catch up to her.
"I've got to find her," he says to no one in particular as everyone watches him exit through the portrait hole and disappear. He runs down the corridors, not listening to the portraits that shout at him to slow down, to not run in the hall, the only thought in his mind being you. He searches all your usual places, even making his way to Hagrid's hut only to find that you hadn't been there all day. With each place he looked and didn't find you, he grew more frantic until he was almost sprinting to the next place, quickly running out of options. He stopped in the courtyard to catch his breath, watching the steam pour out of his mouth from the frozen air around him. The bell rang out to signal that it was midnight and he felt completely defeated and upset at the fact that your Christmas Day had ended exactly as he didn't want, with you feeling alone.
Only when he'd resorted to returning to the common room in the hopes of your return, did a faint but present light flicker from the top of the astronomy tower, making him realise that he hadn't checked there. He bolted quickly, his feet leading the way with his head lagging behind slightly, spiralling thoughts filling his mind with each step closer. He climbs the spiral staircase with deep heaving puffs falling from his lips, the physicality of his chase now catching up to him. He pauses briefly, seeing the figure of you through the slats of the wooden floor and exhales a sigh of relief, head dropping on his shoulders momentarily. He doesn't want to scare you, to catch you off guard especially in your emotional state and so he ensures his ascend up the stairs is as loud as possible, old worn trainers banging on the stairs with every tread.
He watches as you turn towards him as he steps off the staircase and onto the platform with you, a soft, calming smile on his face. He remains silent as he creeps forward, moving to sit beside you on the floor without any words spoken. He notes how cold and unrelenting the floor beneath his arse feels and a frown appears between his brows, thinking of how long you must have been sat here. His hand takes yours and he frowns deeper at how cold you feel to the touch, both of his hands wrapping around yours to try and give you any warmth he can of his own.
He doesn't know what to say that hasn't already been said, something that would fix the hurt and help to comfort, but nothing comes to his mind. He's always been an actions kind of man, with George taking care of the more sensitive words, and right now he's wishing he had his twin's gentleness.
When he feels your head shift to rest on his shoulder, he knows that he's doing something right. He rests his chin on the top of your head and you sit there for a few moments with nothing spoken between the both of you, the only noise being the gentle whistling of the wind as it whips past the astronomy tower.
"Freddie," he hears to say quietly and adjusts his head so that he look down towards you. You look like you'd been crying, your eyes rimmed with a pink hue that matched the shade of pink on the top of your nose. The pink around your eyes only seems to make your eyes more vibrant, the colour astounding Fred as he looks upon your face. "Thank you. For today, for everything really. I know you didn't go home just to stay here with me."
He blushes under the praise, your grateful words affecting him more than he shows. Truthfully, he had chosen to stay at school during Christmas for you, not wanting you to be alone wherever you were, knowing that there was no such thing as home for you right now. George had naturally decided to stay with Fred and Ron hadn't wanted to leave Harry in the first place, leaving Ginny who didn't want to be left at home without her siblings.
There's nothing to be said. Fred for once remains silent, his actions doing the talking for him. His right hand slips from yours and he pulls it around you to wrap you in his heat, pulling you close to his body. He senses a calmness in you now, head no longer filled with only sad thoughts. You look like you're coming out of your negative headspace, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips as you snuggle down into his jumper.
"Merry Christmas Fred."
It's the only thing that needed to be said in the moment, a fine summary of your gratitude, your thankfulness and of your love for him.
"Merry Christmas baby."
#emeritusemeritus#emeritusemerituswrites#harry potter#fred weasley#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley x you#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley masterlist#Fred Weasley request#request#requests#requests completed#completed requests#hp drabble#hp fanfic#Weasley twins#Christmas fic#Christmas fluff#Christmas request#Weasley twin Christmas#festive favourites
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Hey idk if your taking requests, but I was wondering if you could make a oneshot where we work with husk behind the bar and we make him a good drink.
combined with a kiss prompt because it was too cute an idea to pass up :)
prompt #6: a gentle peck
âThe hell are you doinâ back there?â Husk asks, torn between amusement and what sounds like the beginnings of concern for his bar. Or at least, for the booze bottles that line the shelves.
âPatience is a virtue,â you sing-song teasingly back, selecting a bottle of rye whiskey from the shelf and measuring out three quarters of an ounce with practised ease. Husk is sitting in your usual seat on the other side of the bar, perched on the stool with his elbow on the wood and his chin in his paw. Heâs watching you with idle curiosity as you collect cognac and sweet vermouth from the shelves behind you. You check the label of the latter and wrinkle your nose, swapping it for a different label. Huskâs smile quirks slightly as you do.
âAnd youâre makingâŠ?â
âA Vieux CarrĂ©, chĂ©rie,â you tell him idly, measuring out equal measures of the two liqueurs into the mixing glass. You pronounce the words with the practiced lilt of a Cajun accent. You hadnât moved to Louisiana until you were grown, and while the accent you had begun to pick up before your death could still make an appearance with certain words â especially anything French â it hadnât been part of your vernacular long enough to stick around all these years in Hell.
Husk raises a brow. âAn âold squareâ?â
You smile, pausing in your drink-making to pour yourself a shot of bourbon. You throw it back, smile widening as Huskâs expression twitches, undoubtedly close to asking for a shot of his own. The booze burns your throat and you exhale it slowly. âNamed for the French Quarter, mon minou.â
âOf course,â he replies, his wings twitching slightly. âAnd Iâll get to drink it sometime this century?â
You let your jaw drop in mock-offense, pouring a few dashes of two kinds of bitters into the glass. âKeep that attitude up, and Iâll keep it all for myself.â
âGod forbid, doll,â he teases, and despite his impatience you can hear a soft purr rumbling from his side of the bar. âAnd since when exactly are you a bartender?â
âSince eighty-two.â A half-ounce of Benedictine liqueur is pulled from the shelf, and to prove your point you flip the bottle behind your back and catch it with your other hand. Husk huffs a soft breath, impressed, as you pour half an ounce into the glass. âNew Orleans barflies always liked a show.â
âAnd it had nothinâ to do with the pretty little thing makinâ eyes at âem from behind the bar?â
ââCourse not,â you reply with a grin. âWe were a classy establishment. I saved the topless dancing on the bar and body shots for special occasions.â
Husk chuckles, and you stir the liqueurs together for few moments before finally pouring the cocktail into a waiting glass with unnecessary flair. Husk rolls his eyes, but the affection is clear on his face. If you asked, heâd deny just how much the idea of body shots with you was now sticking in his mind. He shifts on his stool slightly, his eyes flickering down over your torso.
âYou really should invest in some garnishes you know,â you note, sliding the glass over to him and pretending not to notice the way his attention has drifted. âIt just looks sad without one.â
âNoted. Can I drink now?â
You nod, a little nervous for his opinion despite your cavalier attitude. He so often did these little things for you⊠you wanted to do something for him this time. And it had to be right.
âFuckinâ finally.â he jokes, eyes holding yours as he lifts the glass to his mouth. He closes his eyes as he takes a sip, humming as the mingled flavours meet his tongue. Your fingers curl around the edge of the bar and you press your lips together as you wait. Huskâs eyes open, a delighted sense of surprise colouring his features. âThatâsâŠâ
âGood?â
âBetter than,â Husk assures you, studying the glass for a moment before taking another mouthful. âWhat exactly did ya put in this?â
You grin. âTrade secret, minou.â
Husk raises a brow, smile of his own touching his lips. âAm I not part of the trade?â
âHmmâŠâ you hum as though thoughtful, leaning on your hands over the bad towards him. âMaybe I just need some convincing, then.â
Huskâs smile widens, and your eyes close as he meets your lips in a soft, brief kiss that still sends butterflies into your chest. You can taste the cocktail on his lips, and his claws ghost briefly over your cheek. When he pulls back again he doesnât go far, his face only inches from yours. âQuâen penses-tu, mon amour? Pouvez-vous me le dire maintenant?â
You reach up to run your fingers through the fur on his chest, straightening his bowtie idly. âI might need a little more incentive, cher.â
âThat I can do,â he rumbles, bringing his lips back to yours, his cocktail forgotten.
send me a prompt and either husk or blitzĂž
#lovergirl000#husk#husk fic#my fic#hazbin husk x reader#husk hazbin hotel#husk x reader#husk fanfic#husk fanfiction#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel husk#hazbin husk#hazbin hotel#husk fluff
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Or: Cellbit is on the run from a cult, and he somehow gets indebted to a god on the way. Go figure.
-
Once upon a time...
Cellbit stumbles into the tavern as wet as, well, a drowned cat.
It's warm inside- uncomfortably so. The fire is roaring in the fireplace, and there are enough people in the tavern for the place to feel like the inside of an oven. The torches on the walls cast the room orange, and shadows dance on the walls.
Still. Cellbit keeps his hood up as he makes his way to the bar. He keeps his head down even as he pulls a few copper pieces out from his coinpurse and slides them to the tavern keeper with a mumbled order of a warm glass of the cheapest wine in the building.
Thunder rolls above. Lightning strikes a tree just outside of town, he can hear the tree splitting, and he can hear the start of a fire that's quickly put out by the downpour.
Cellbit taps his foot nervously against the floor. His tail, hidden beneath his cloak, twitches slightly at every sudden noise. His ears hurt.
The man next to him at the bar wordlessly slides a crust of his bread towards him.
Cellbit shakes his head, biting back a rude wrinkle of the nose. (He isn't that spoiled, but... man, the bread looks like shit.)
The man rolls his eyes and says, "Come on, take it. You look like shit, man."
The tavern keeper puts Cellbit's wine down in front of him and moves on to the next guy down the line.
Cellbit drags the mug towards him and looks down into it; his own reflection looks back at him: tired. Visible bags under his eyes, blood still crusted slightly under his nose, a split in his lip.
He takes the bread. He doesn't bite into it, though. He sort of just taps it against the counter in beat with his anxiously-shaking leg.
"Crazy storm, though, right?" the man asks.
He picks his own mug up, lifts it to his lips, takes a long, long drink from it.
"The gods must be pissed at someone," he says into his cup.
The gods, hah.
"It's the rainy season," Cellbit mumbles. "This sort of just happens."
"Really?" the man hums.
Cellbit gives him a slight nod in response.
Conversation dies.
Cellbit's wine is just as bad as he expected it to be. As he drinks, he tries not to cough it all back up.
His shoulders tense as someone new enters the tavern- the bell above the door tinkles, and the door itself creaks like a coffin. (Cellbit's coffin, gods forbid.)
The door closes. The new person walks right past Cellbit and to a table in the tavern's far corner, out of sight and out of mind.
The man passes Cellbit another chunk of bread even though Cellbit still hasn't finished his first. Or even started it. Or even really looked at it.
"You paid for it," Cellbit huffs, taking both bread pieces and dropping them back onto the man's plate. "You eat it. I can pay for my own food, thanks."
The man holds up his hands defensively. "Okay, okay! It's fine! I'm just trying to help!"
Cellbit pulls his hood up to hide his eye roll. Right. He knows better than to trust someone 'trying to help'.
("Once upon a time," He said, "there was a prince, and there was a god.")
His wine is still shit. He drinks it, anyway, if only to try and keep the man next to him from talking to him.
No dice.
Leaning against the counter, the man swivels on his stool until he's facing Cellbit fully. He rests his head on his fist, and he looks.
Awkwardly, Cellbit stares down at the bar. If he pretends hard enough, he can see little faces in the wood. They're screaming, because of course they are.
His ears flatten against his skull as the tavern's door slams open.
"Oi!" the tavern keeper shouts. "Watch it! You get the floor wet, you're mopping it up!"
Several pairs of footsteps as a group of people enter the tavern- heels, that'll be her; boots, him; bells, them.
"Close the door," Foolish orders, sounding way more confident than he probably is.
The door closes.
Slowly, carefully, Cellbit moves one hand away from the bar. He slips it under his cloak, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his knife. (His knife, his fucking knife-)
The four of them start making their ways through the tavern. Tina and Jaiden are laughing about something, Foolish is arguing over their laughter, Leo is complaining about the smell of alcohol even though Cellbit knows she's had some before. They all have.
They stay away from the bar, thank the gods.
Still. Cellbit keeps his head down. He's switched his clothes and cloak out since escaping, and he doesn't think that any of them have actually seen his face, but...
"Weird vibes," the man next to him comments.
He chews on his bread thoughtfully, adds, "Not a fan."
"Tell me about it," Cellbit snorts. (He's sure to keep his voice down; they might not know his face, but they definitely know his voice.)
("The god was just and caring," He said, "but the prince was cruel and heartless. All he cared about was power, and what could hold more power than a god?")
Leo asks her dad to pick her up. Foolish playfully groans, but he does so, because he loves her.
"You know them?" the man asks.
Cellbit tensely shakes his head. "Nah."
"Mmm." (A moment of silence as the man chews on his bread.) "Wanna get out of here? My place is way better than this."
Cellbit chokes on his wine. He coughs so hard he lets go of his grip on his knife.
"Fuck!" he wheezes.
"Whoah, look at that guy!" Jaiden laughs. "Dude, is the wine here that bad?"
"I want juice," Leo says, not remotely answering her question.
"Great idea!" Foolish cheers. "Juice for everybody!"
And then, unfortunately, terribly, horribly, he approaches the bar- boots.
"Four cups of your finest juice, my good sir!" he declares.
Tina follows him- heels. "And some information, if that's okay."
Cellbit holds his breath. His tail stiffens. His leg stops bouncing.
The tavern keeper grunts, but he doesn't argue.
Mentally, Cellbit weighs his options. He can take Tina and Jaiden on in a fight, easy. He's beaten Foolish once or twice, but he won't be able to take him down if he has Tina supporting him. Fighting Leo is out of the question.
He can run, but he's already so tired. (He thought he had run far enough in one day, but apparently not. Apparently, He sent a bunch of fucking athletes after him.)
"We're looking for a guy," Tina explains. "Tall, cat ears, probably super ugly. Real bad vibes, like a serial killer on crack."
Okay, ouch.
The man snorts; Cellbit fights the urge to kick him.
"Because he is a serial killer," Foolish adds. "He's killed, like, a bunch of guys."
Something taps Cellbit's elbow.
"Here," the man whispers, voice so soft and so close that it wraps around Cellbit's spine like a snake, "you should probably eat something if you're gonna drink like this."
("The prince said to the god, 'My Lord, you must be very busy! Allow me to help you with your godly duties!'" He said. "The god, unsuspecting of the seemingly-king prince, allowed the prince to become his head priest. The prince would listen to the people's prayers, but he would not tell them to the god. Thus, the god's strength slowly began to wane, and the prince's began to grow.")
Cellbit silently shakes his head. How many times does he have to-
"His name is Cellbit," Jaiden says, walking up to the bar- bells. "And he is very dangerous."
"Your juices," the tavern keeper grunts.
"He likes wine," Leo says, because of course she does, the little snitch.
(She always used to catch Cellbit sneaking some of the sacramental wine between ceremonies, and she would always make him do something absolutely ridiculous for her in exchange for not telling Him.)
"Well, only one guy here's ordered wine tonight," the tavern keeper says. "Right here."
He taps the bartop right in front of Cellbit's head.
Dammit.
Cellbit yowls as he's roughly grabbed by the back of his cloak and yanked off of his stool. He's thrown to the floor and his hood is ripped off of his head and his arms are immediately being pinned by a perfectly-stoic-looking Jaiden, who... looks about the same as Cellbit thought she'd look, actually.
"Dude!" Foolish shouts, glaring at Tina. "I thought you said he'd be ugly!"
Cellbit sneers and hisses and kicks. The entire tavern is watching him get absolutely owned, and he knows they're all thinking the same thing: Wow, what a monster.
He Knows it.
Tina throws her arms up in the air in frustration. "I thought he would be!"
Jaiden rummages through Cellbit's cloak until she finds his knife. She pulls it out, gives him a disapproving look, and tosses it absently behind her, where it disappears from sight in the growing crowd.
"Come on, dude, did you even try?" she sighs.
Cellbit answers by trying to rip her fucking throat out with his teeth; he doesn't get very far, obviously, but he does manage to scare the crowd back a few paces.
Except for the man at the bar, who has a thin piece of bread dangling in his fingertips as he watches.
His eyes are red, Cellbit notices, finally getting a proper look at him for the first time. That's...
("The god asked the prince if the work was too hard, because he was a good god," He said. "The prince denied it and asked for more work. And so he got more, and he grew in strength as the god's strength weakened even more.")
"Wow, Cellbit, you look like shit," Foolish comments.
Leo drinks her juice judgmentally; still in her father's arms, she holds her mug with both hands and glares.
"Thanks, I feel like it," Cellbit dryly responds.
He wiggles desperately.
Tina draws her sword.
Jaiden's scythe is on her back, a familiar blue ribbon tied around it, and dull silver bells tied to that.
Foolish clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Welp, you shouldn't have killed all those people, huh?"
Those 'people' were monsters, not that any of them would ever be willing to admit it. They're in too deep, they all are. Even poor Leonarda, too young to know a life outside of what is Known.
The man from the bar hops off his stool and joins the crowd, standing right by Cellbit's head.
His boots- the bottoms and sides of them- are crusted with still-drying blood.
He winks down at Cellbit, bread still in hand.
Then, he looks at Jaiden and says, "Hold on, let me help."
He crouches and holds Cellbit's shoulders down with absolutely no strength whatsoever.
Jaiden nods appreciatively. "Thanks."
"No problem, I'm a nice guy!"
He grins, and Cellbit swears that his teeth are sharpened to a point for just a second, just a fraction of a second. He Knows it, he Saw it, he-
He sees a familiar dagger sitting on the man's belt that Jaiden hasn't noticed yet.
(That is his fucking knife-!)
("The people began to call the prince the God of Hospitality because he was so kind to them," He said. "But, in reality, he was the beginning of Chaos Incarnate. From him, all Chaos would be born, and ruin would sweep across the land.")
Cellbit closes his eyes briefly, and he Sees who the man above him truly is, and, for the first time in his entire life, he feels fear.
Still. He opens his eyes, and he whispers, "Help me."
The man's eyes sparkle, but he sighs and shakes his head and says, "I told you to eat earlier, man. But it's fine, here! Something so you don't starve on your way to prison."
He holds out the scrap of bread, dangling it just above Cellbit's lips.
"Careful," Tina jokes, "he'll take a finger off."
"Say, 'Aaaahhh'," the man teases, eyes halfway narrowed in amusement.
Cellbit, with no other choice, obeys.
It's as he swallows that the fire in the fireplace goes out. And it's as the man pats Cellbit's cheek in approval that every single torch and candle in the tavern is blown out in a sudden cold wind.
"Oooooh, shit," Foolish astutely says.
("Did the prince have a name?" he asked, more curious than he was supposed to be. "Does it matter?" He snapped. "The lesson is to be wary of strangers, no matter how kind they may be." "But I need to know who he is in case he finds me!" "He won't find you, Prophet." "But what if he does? I need to be ready!" He laughed, then, more fond than he had ever heard Him laugh before. "All right." He nodded. "Should Chaos ever try and find you, know that you can always identify him as the prince formerly known as-")
Thunder crashes, and Chaos reigns.
---
A/N: Let me know what you think in the tags or in my inbox! Please let me know if you want more, because there is more!
#a.d.'s fics i suppose#a.d.'s fics i suppose.#once upon a time fic#i was supposed to be working on bleeding heart. and now i'm here.#no r0ier namedrop but that's fine it's implied
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omg 6 is SO jarvy coded for your blurbs!!! đđ€
6 â âYou kissed me.â âYou kissed me back.â - Seth Jarvis
836 words.
Ahhh yes thank you Emmie, he fit with this one perfectly!
~
The morning after the night before. You were slightly ashamed at how groggy hangovers were becoming part of your routine, but considering that youâd only just graduated from college, you figured you still had a few years leeway. Having a little money from your first big girl job had its perks, okay? And if that meant partying after work on occasion and going to bars every week, then you could deal with that.
At least coffee existed to help, anyway.
Waking up today had been fairly manageable â you were a bit fuzzy on memories, but rolling out of bed to shower didnât make you hurl and neither did your attempts to eat some dry toast while your coffee brewed. It was one of the first things youâd bought with your first paycheck â a decent coffee machine â and right now it was your saviour. Even just the smell alone made you feel a little more alive, and by the time youâd eaten two slices of toast and gotten through half a mug of latte, you could feel the memories of your previous night slipping back into focus.
Last night hadnât been a trip to a bar, but a gathering â friends of friends. Nothing massive but still a sizeable crowd that let you feel anonymous enough to dance to your hearts content while still catching up with the social crowd youâd found yourself falling into in Raleigh.
Shots with Svechy. Dancing with the Martinooks and the Slavins. Discussing the best Finnish saunas with Jesperi and Sebastian. A kiss with Seth.
You choked on the last dregs of your coffee with that last memory, hurrying to wipe up the sprayed liquid as you coughed to clear your throat. A kiss. A kiss with Seth. With Seth?
Oh fuck.
Of all the nights for alcohol to give you the courage to act on your crush, it had to be when most of his teammates were around. You could only hope that none of them saw you embarrassing yourself, otherwise youâd never be able to show your face again. Although, if your hazy memory served you correctly, Seth had eagerly kissed you back.
But what if he was too drunk to remember it? What if he did remember, but wanted to pretend it didnât happen?
The sound of your apartment buzzer broke you out of your spiralling thoughts, and it was all you could do to stumble over to the front door.
âHello?â
âHey, itâs Seth. I have coffee?â
Oh fuck.
You couldnât remember making any plans with him but you had a sinking feeling why heâd turned up at your door. There was no point delaying the inevitable, was there? You buzzed him up without a response, quickly running to the bathroom to freshen up and put on a bra, and before you knew it, Seth was walking through your front door.
âOne coffee,â Seth announced, offering you a takeaway cup as he kicked off his shoes.
You just smiled, taking a sip and savouring the caffeine and oat milk.
âThank you,â you mused, leading him into the kitchen.
Seth just grinned, sitting down on a kitchen stool. âI know what youâre like without caffeine,â he teased.
You just stuck your tongue out, making him laugh. As he picked at the label of his own coffee, you stayed silent, sipping on your drink, not willing to make the first move in conversation. If heâd come over, then he mustâve had a reason to.
âSo, uh, last nightâŠâ
Seth trailed off, looking uncharacteristically awkward. Here goes nothing.
âYou kissed me,â he murmured.
âYou kissed me back.â
Seth huffed out a laugh as your cheeks heated, nodding his agreement.
âI did,â he acknowledged.
His eyes caught yours, sparkling with mirth as always, although there was a seriousness you hadnât seen directed your way before.
âWas it a drunken thing?â
âIâm pretty sure we were both drunk?â
Seth laughed again, shaking his head. âI meant more like, was it a spur of the moment drunken mistake kind of thing?â
Ah. Very different. There were two ways this could go. You could either confirm his statement and the two of you would never talk about it again. Or, you could tell him the truth. What choice did you have?
âNo, it wasnât a mistake for me,â you murmured.
His answering grin settled the bubbling anxiety threatening to fizz through your blood.
âWell, thatâs good,â you managed to say.
âIt is?â he needled, grin teasing.
There was the Seth youâd grown to love.
âMaybe you should tell me what youâre going to do about it, hm?â you said, raising an eyebrow.
Two could play at that game. Sethâs pupils blew out, making your breath hitch in your throat as a clear wave of confidence washed over his face. âI was thinking I could take you out. Coffee, drinks, dinner, whatever you want. Just you and me. What do you think?â
You could admire a man who was direct.
âI think it sounds like a date.â
#my writing#seth jarvis blurb#end of january blurbs#seth jarvis fic#seth jarvis imagine#seth jarvis x reader#nhl imagine#hockey imagine
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I Guess It's Different Cause You Love Him(Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)
warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of cheating, mentions of possible abuse, alcohol use, reader gets drunk, Eddie is weak for her word count: 1.4k pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader
Eddie hates your boyfriend. He does his best to be on his best behavior because he is your best friend, but Eddie knows you could do so much better than this fool. Still, heâll bite his tongue and pretend to be supportive of this relationship. It just hurts when he watches the person he loves the most get shit all over.
Day after day, he sees the real you begin to disappear. The shine and glow of you fades as your boyfriend takes over more and more aspects of your life. Eddie wants to say something, but heâs so damn scared to lose you. Heâs scared that if he tells you that this guy is bad for you that itâll end up backfiring on you and youâll only think that Eddie is jealous of your boyfriend.
And it hurts him so much to watch you begin to fade away. Your normally sunny smile is only half-assed these days. You were someone who would try decently well in school and in work, but now it would seem youâre doing so poorly. You even stopped coming to the Hellfire club meets, which ends up worrying everyone.
But you always try to pass it off as nothing. Eddie knows that youâll barely open up to it because this asshole has got you convinced youâre happy. He sees how your boyfriend acts around you, especially when he thinks nobody else is around. Eddie sees the tired look in your eyes along with the heavy bags that begin to form under them. He sees the way you flinch whenever someone raises their voice just a little too loud.
This all culminates one night when someone at school begins passing around the rumor that your boyfriend has been cheating on you. At first you try not to believe it, but the more you hear it from people who give you sad and pitiful looks, it becomes obvious that this isnât just a rumor. Youâve been played and youâre so embarrassed. You donât even know who to turn to because youâve just alienated yourself with the help of that asshole. Youâre way too afraid to turn to Eddie, the man who you trust in the most. Youâve been hurting him the most, you realize as all of this comes crashing down.
The bar near your home allows you inside even if you arenât quite of age. You know the patrons and the bartenders. They can tell youâre not doing well. So the bartender pours you a drink, which soon turns into twoâŠthen threeâŠthen four.
By the time youâre five drinks in, youâre more than tipsy. Youâre absolutely drunk. Youâre dancing to whatever song theyâve got playing on the jukebox, but it isnât healing your heart. It wonât heal your heart ever. Thereâs not much that ever could. You find yourself sitting on a stool at the bar, your head in your hands as you try to steady yourself.
âYou got someone to come pick you up, dear?â The bartender asks.
Youâre about to say no, but then you remember Eddie. You nod your head and the bartender gives you money for the payphone in the corner of the bar. You sway as you walk over there, and you lean against the wall to steady yourself. The phone feels heavy in your hands, but you press it to your ear and you put the coin in the slot. It surprises yourself to be able to remember Eddieâs number while youâre in this state. After a few rings, you feel like crying because someone answers.
âMunson residence, Eddie speaking,â Eddie says on the other end, a mocking tone to his voice.
You half-sob, âEddie can youâŠcan you come pick me up?â
Immediately heâs freezing on the spot, worried about whatâs going on with you. He had heard those rumors today too but he didnât want to hurt your feelings. He had wanted you to come to him for comfort.
âBabe, whatâs the matter?â
âCome pick me up. Iâm at the bar.â
You tell him the address and beg him to hurry. He can tell youâre not feeling well at all. So he quickly gets into his van and drives over to the bar. Once he arrives, he spots you just sitting outside. Youâre obviously drunk and he feels so sorry for you.
âEdsâŠâ you moan softly, clutching your head in pain.
Eddie is quick to pick you up, allowing you to lean on him. Heâs not even really sure what to say just yet, so instead he focuses on getting you buckled into your seat.
Then he begins driving the moment heâs back into the driverâs seat. You moan in pain and you begin to cry. Itâs breaking his heart to see you like this. Eddie feels guilty because he knows he should have been there for you. He should have done more for you.
âHoney,â he says softly. âDonât worry. Things will be okay.â
You shake your head, âNoâŠhe made a fool of me.â
Eddie feels his heart wrench when you say this. Itâs painful to see you hurting this way. So he drives you back to his trailer, knowing youâll have a safe space to recover from being this drunk. Once you two arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt and he guides you inside the trailer. You are so thankful that his uncle isnât home right now. You donât want him to think poorly of you.
âEasy there,â Eddie says as you begin to stumble. Heâs guiding you towards his bedroom.
As the alcohol burns in your veins even more and your mind gets hazy, you allow Eddie to lay you on the bed. First he takes off your shoes, then he begins to remove your jeans. He takes off your shirt, gently caressing your shoulders before pulling on his old Iron Maiden shirt on you. Then you watch as he leaves you on the bed for a few moments.
When Eddie reappears, youâre so happy to see him. Heâs got a bottle of water in his hands. He helps you sit up, and you relish in the feelings of his warm hands on your skin. He holds you close as he brings the bottle to your lips.
âDrink so slowly, honey.â
You try your best to take his advice, but the water just tastes so refreshing. Soon heâs pulling it away from you and he helps you lay back on the pillows. He pulls the covers up over you and heâs about to leave when you grab his hand and whine a little.
âStay with me,â you pout. âPlease, Eddie.â
His heart skips a beat when he sees how pitiful you are. Youâre a sight for sore eyes, but he still thinks youâre the most beautiful woman heâs ever laid eyes on. So without thinking too much, he shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. He slides under the covers with you, and immediately you cling to him. It feels natural to have you back in his arms like this.
âIâm such a fucking dumbass,â you mutter under your breath.
âNo, youâre not. Stop thinking that way. That guy is such an asshole for playing you like that.â
Eddie thinks you might be too drunk to understand what heâs saying, but your heart flutters when he defends your honor. You cling a little tighter to him, and he presses the softest kiss to the top of your head.
âWhy are you treatinâ me so good?â you ask, your words a bit slurred.
Eddie sighs, and he knows you might not remember this in the morning. âCause I love ya,â
Your heart flutters again and you snuggle even closer. You know maybe he doesnât mean it in the way you need it, but you still love hearing it from him. You smile sweetly at him, and he leans in to kiss your lips so softly.
âYouâre my girl,â he finally admits. âAndâŠI couldnât even protect you.â
You sigh softly, âEdsâŠI donât blame you for this. You are so wonderful.â
You two share another kiss, and he caresses your face so softly. You donât even really know why you were dating that assholeâŠespecially when you could have had this the entire time.
âSleep now,â Eddie commands. âSleep now and weâll talk more tomorrow, okay?â
You nod your head, âKayâŠnight night, Eddie.â
He holds you close, vowing to himself heâll never ever let anything else hurt you like this. Never again will you know pain.
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