#spend half the work week hungover at work

[joyridingmp3]

tomorrow plan: seduce rego man into giving me another $30 pink slip because i am so poor i will have literally $2 to my name if he does. and then charm my mother into giving me free drugs. 🤞 love being a libra.

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[girlycocksleeve]

Description: A man turns a cuntboy into his perfect girlfriend

Tags: coerced detransition, abuse kink, misgendering kink, transphobia, rape

He met her through mutual friends. The moment he first saw her at the house party, it was obvious to him that she was a fakeboy, her binder not able to hide her tits, which must have at least been C cups judging by the curve of her shirt. She had a lower voice, although distinctly feminine, so he guessed she must’ve been on HRT.

They had exchanged numbers and talked for a couple weeks. He was older than her, 33 compared to her 22, and she had just moved to the city.

When he asked her out she was ecstatic, and they quickly planned a first date, then a second, then a third. He took her to a bar and got her drunk before taking her back to his place, pushing her up against the door and kissing her. She slurred out that she didn’t take her binder off for sex, and that she was anal only. He respected that the first time, fucking her ass would be good enough for now. She had protested at how big he was, had begged him to go slower but he just whispered “You feel too good baby, I can’t help it” and fucked her harder.

Once he was done she lay there dazed for a minute, cum leaking out of her ass, before starting and saying she needed to go home. He convinced her to stay the night, citing the lateness and her lack of sobriety, and then helped her out of her binder. He made sure not to ogle her tits, definitely bigger than a C cup, until she was asleep. At that point he was free to take pictures and videos, even parting her labia to play with her enlarged clit, sticking two fingers into her virgin pussy while she moaned.

She woke up hungover the next morning and he was there with crackers and water and ibuprofen, all gentle and sweet. She didn’t really remember the night before, but assumed her aching ass was because of him, which just turned her on. Before she left she asked to ride him. He expressed doubt, saying that she was too hungover, that she needed to rest, and she just begged, giving him a blowjob to try to convince him. It worked, and soon enough she was bouncing on his dick, tits bouncing as she hadn’t even thought to put on her binder. She left mid morning with a plug in her ass and her cunt dripping.

Before long she was opening up to him about her kinks. She wanted him to be rough with her, degrading and humiliating her. He acquiesced, making sure she knew the safeword by heart, and telling her to use it liberally.

He started to isolate her, making plans when he knew she was trying to see other friends. Driving wedges in between them, making scenes go on too long so that she would miss appointments.

One weekend he kept her denied, only letting her blow him without being allowed to touch her ass. He fed her aphrodisiacs and kept her watching porn so that her cunt stayed wet. After a couple days she was begging him to fuck her, saying she would do anything he wanted. He gave her two options: either he would fuck her ass without lube, or he would fuck her pussy. She hesitated before saying ass, crying out when the head breached her and immediately asked him to fuck her pussy.

“I don’t know, you asked for this.” He sunk another half an inch deep. The friction almost hurt with how tight she was.

“No, no, please, daddy. Please fuck my virgin pussy please I need your cock in my cunt.” He smiled as he drew back and pushed into her virgin hole. Tight and wet and he was immediately fucking rough into her, not giving her a second to adjust. She just moaned, breath catching on every thrust. He wondered if she was on birth control, but ultimately decided it didn’t matter as he came in her.

He made her clean her juices and cum off his dick before letting her cockwarm him for the rest of the day, fucking back into her pussy whenever he got hard. Eventually she came from it, clenching around him beautifully.

It was a few more weeks before he made another move. She was basically spending all her free time with him, and he had taught her that the minute she entered his apartment all of her clothes came off. That day he had her chained up, arms above her head while she was on her tippy toes. Nipple suckers had been on her tits for a good half an hour while he had flogged her ass, making her thank him for each one as her skin progressively grew more bruised. When he took the suckers off he immediately replaced them with clamps, and she instinctively shouted “No!”

She froze up, knowing that she wasn’t allowed to say that, and he tutted, yanking on the chain between the clamps so that she cried out. He then left the room, going to the atrium where her clothes were, grabbing her binder and scissors.

“This body is mine, understand?” He growled the words while yanking on the chain again, harder this time.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Please, daddy.” She was sobbing, either from pain or fear of punishment he didn’t know.

He held up her binder, made sure she knew what he was doing as he took the scissors to it. “If I ever see you wearing one of these again, I’ll whip your tits until they’re so swollen you won’t even be able to put one on.”

She just whimpered, “Thank you, sir.”

He fucked into her pussy afterwards, and she came when he told her what a good girl she was.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch. 3 returning the favor

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 3/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 4.5k

a/n. hope you enjoy! i really had fun incorporating a lot of the other characters in this one.

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|| 9:21AM Gojo Satoru sent you a photo

|| 9:22AM Gojo Satoru: Here’s our practice schedule for the week. Honestly, it’s better if you come when we do practice games or something, since on other days we just do drills or strength training, but coach doesn’t really tell us what we’re doing beforehand so would probs have to play it by ear

|| 9:27AM Gojo Satoru: Oh yeah, we’ve got a big game in three weeks on the 28th. It’ll decide if we’re automatically seeded into the top 16 teams bracket, which is really crucial if we want to eventually bring home the championship. Not sure when your assignment is due, but that would be a good official game to come to 

|| 9:28AM Gojo Satoru: Let me know as soon as you can if you want to make that game. I’ll have to ask coach to get the referee sign-off for you to be on-field during play at least a week before

You look down at all the messages he was sending you during class on a Monday morning. After he sent you that house party details post from his fraternity’s Instagram page last week, their posts kept popping up in your feed and you saw one this morning with a bunch of the guys in the frat, Gojo included, shotgunning beers until 3AM last night. You marvel at how he’s somehow not hungover beyond repair and is texting you before noon. 

Pressing and holding on to his messages, you give him little thumbs up reactions and you decide on a heart reaction for the picture he sent you of the practice schedule. Then, you set your phone down and look at the video of the men’s soccer team highlights your professor was playing from the game a week and a half ago.

“Here, here, this right here. Midfielder #24 surveyed the field, spotting #13 making a run for it down the flank. Pinpoint pass to left winger, who starts steering through defenders, but loses the ball. Then, center forward #10 steals the ball back! He steals the ball, he fucking steals the fucking ball back!” Your professor was running back and forth in front of the projector screen, his finger following the movement of the soccer ball in the video. Your heart jumps a beat when Gojo shows up on screen, with his signature #10 jersey, and some people in the lecture hall stand up in excitement with the professor. “Beelines towards the goal, and BAM! Goalie stood no fucking chance, ball sent immaculately into the back of the net. Victory for UTokyo, 2-1, in the last seconds of the game!" Your professor cheers and jumps up and down. Some people cheer with him, others sigh, others are in awe, and some simply clap. 

Another entire lecture goes by where the professor spends absolutely no time going over film photography theory and instead just talks about how soccer used to be back in his day. You approach him after class, clutching your laptop case to your chest, and it’s only when you clear your throat in front of him that he finally looks up at you from the podium. 

“Oh, y/n, how can I help you?” He asks as he shoves his phone back in his pocket.

“Hey, professor. Bit of a request, could I have like two extra days for my assignment? There’s this event that I really want to use for the subject matter but it’s the day before the deadline, and I would need some time to develop my photos,” you say in the politest tone you can muster up.

“Yeah, sure. Just get it in before the end of the deadline week,” he says nonchalantly. “Looking forward to seeing it. Good work on the last one, by the way.”

You give him a smile and a word of appreciation before turning on your heel and making it up the stairs to exit the lecture hall, pulling your phone out of your tote bag. 

|| 9:53AM You: i can make it on the 28th. please get that referee permission for me

You press your lips together as you press send, and then type a bit more.

|| 9:54AM You: and thanks a lot

Your stomach is suddenly growling and you’re about to head over to the student hub when your phone starts ringing. You look down at the contact name that says Nobara and pick up.

“Hey, Nobie, what’s up,” you say as you make your way towards the heart of campus, enjoying the light breeze as the sun peeked through the clouds. 

“Where are you? Didn’t we have a Film Club meeting today?” She asks you, her tone a bit impatient. “We were supposed to discuss that collaboration with the school newsletter.”

Shoot. You forgot. These days, you were a bit too distracted by recent happenings, like Mina practically falling head-over-heels for a guy that was quite possibly the opposite of her type, the towering amount of class assignments that never seemed to end, and this whole arrangement you were trying to coordinate with Gojo Satoru. The Film Club meeting totally slipped your mind. You were supposed to head out of class a bit early to make it on time. “I’m so sorry, Nobara. I totally forgot about it. I’m unfortunately all the way on the other end of campus right now. I typed up some notes in the document, can you just run those by them? If we need anything else, I’ll reach out to them by email.” 

She sighs on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I’m not good at these conversations, but I guess as President I should be better at them anyways. I’ll let you know how it goes.” And then she hangs up. 

Mentally happy that you were at least free of one other obligation today, you prepare to make your way to the dining hall when your phone vibrates again.

|| 10:01AM Gojo Satoru: Will do, and sure thing. By the way, you free right now? Coach is having us do a practice game, probably for around 2 hours

You squint your eyes at his message, considering the opportunity. You didn’t have any other classes left for the day and were just going to grab something to eat before heading home, but now you wonder if you should make it to this practice session. He did say that you have to be flexible since he doesn’t even know exactly what they’ll end up doing before practice, so you figured this might be your only chance this week to practice capturing shots of them as they play, since it seemed like they had Tuesday & Friday off based on Gojo’s schedule picture. Unfortunately, you only brought your digital camera with you today since your film camera was too heavy to carry around unless you knew you needed it, but you can still do a lot with digital that would help for the film camera shoot. You could make it work.

|| 10:05AM You: yeah, i’m free. i was just gonna grab something to eat first, and then i’ll head over to the field in maybe 15 min. but i’m not exactly sure how to get onto the field, or where the entrance is…

He adds a heart reaction to your message which startles you a little bit. An accident, maybe?

|| 10:06AM Gojo Satoru: Lol, just meet me at that weird art sculpture they put up last semester. The one that cost like all of our tuition money. I’ll walk you to the field

You let out a sigh, somewhat nervous that you'll be seeing him again soon. The last time you saw Gojo was when you left him standing unceremoniously at the kitchen island with a somewhat offending comment. Nonetheless, he didn’t necessarily seem angry at you. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s been way more helpful than you had ever anticipated. You started to feel like the effort you put into getting Mina to go to that house party was nothing compared to the effort he was putting in for you to ace this assignment. 

Stopping by your school’s mini grocery store, you pick up a sandwich plus some strawberry vanilla soda, and take some bites as well as some sips as you leisurely make your way to the expensive art sculpture near the sports fields. As you get closer to it, you see Gojo from a distance talking to some people. A few of them were guys, a few of them girls, and he was laughing out loud at something one of the girls said. A part of you wonders what it’s like to be adored by so many people. 

When he spots you at the other side of the cross walk, he doesn’t break eye contact with you as he’s hurriedly saying goodbye to the group in front of him. Their heads turn to each other in confusion before turning their attention in your direction as he makes his way over to you.

“Hey,” he says as he lightly jogs up to the sidewalk you were standing on. You notice he’s wearing a black long sleeve undershirt with a short-sleeved blue one on top, along with some athletic black shorts and running shoes. When he brushes some of his hair away from where it had fallen near his eyes, your heart skips a beat at his handsome expression. A smile graces his face. “You ready?”

You nod, swallowing the mouthful of sandwich you didn’t realize you had stopped chewing, and follow his lead as the two of you cut across behind the batting cages of the school’s softball training area. Your eyes fell to Gojo’s back as he walked on the pavement. His shoulders were broad, shoulder blades pulling the upper half of the fabric of his clothing somewhat taut across as the rest of it freely flowed down to his lean lower back. The long sleeved shirt he wore underneath was pretty loose-fitting, but you could still see the thickness of his muscles. With every step that he took, his calves flexed in a way that made you realize he must really work out.

“What are you eating?” He says as he turns around to face you, walking backwards for a few paces as he looks at your hands.

“Oh, just a veggie sandwich,” you answer as you hold it up next to your face. “Campus delicacy.”

His smile widens. “And what are you drinking?” This time he asks with a bit more curiosity.

“It's strawberry vanilla soda,” you say as you juggle all of the things you were holding in your arms. 

“Can I have some?” He asks with a somewhat innocent tone. “The soda, I mean. I’ve never had that flavor.” 

You hesitate, but alas you were a people-pleaser. “Sure.” 

He halts his movements and so you do too, and he closes the gap between you two in one exaggerated stride. His hand gently pulls the soda bottle out from where it was tucked into your elbow to keep it from falling. You notice the veins on his hand get more defined as he squeezes & twists to release the cap and it sends something akin to a wave of arousal through your body, entirely startling you. But when he brings the bottle up to his lips with his head tipping backwards, drinking directly from it, neck bobbing as he swallows and a single drop trickles down the expanse of his jawline, the arousal directly hits you at your core. 

“Hm,” he licks his lips. “That’s pretty good.” 

You’re standing there in shock, your grip on your sandwich causing dents in the bread. He dabs the stray droplet of liquid at his chin with the back of his hand and turns around to keep walking ahead, making his way up the stairs onto what looks like a grassy field. It takes you a second to start moving too, and by then you need to do a light jog just to catch up to him. 

There’s a comfortable silence that develops between the two of you and when you glance at Gojo, you notice his eyes are closed and there’s a serene smile on his face, a gust of wind pushing the hair up out of his forehead and sending the blades of grass dancing across the hilly field. You smile too at the sensation of cool wind on your skin. It was a beautiful day outside with sparkling sunshine and quiet whistling wind.

“Can I ask you something?” You say after contemplating if you should interrupt his somewhat meditative state. 

“You can ask me anything,” he easily replies. 

“Why are you so willing to help me out with my assignment?” 

He turns his head to look at you with a neutral expression. “Because you did me a favor.” 

You sigh. “I know…but it really wasn’t that hard to convince Mina to go to that party. I feel like you’re helping me out way more than I helped you out.” A small ladybug lands on the fabric of your jeans and you marvel at it before it flutters its wings and flies away.

He’s silent for a second. “Honestly, when you agreed to help me out with Todo’s little crush, which by the way I had to do because I lost a bet, and you mentioned something about terms and conditions in your message,” he starts to say, a brief pause making its way between the sentence as if he was actively trying to relive that first night he was texting you, “I thought you were going to ask for something sexual in return.” 

Your mouth drops at his line of thinking, suddenly mortified. That’s how your message came across to him? Oh my God, you had to rethink how you texted everyone in your life from now on.

“I mean, weren’t you being a little flirty? ‘My terms and conditions will come later’. Or do I just have some weird sexual brain rot?” His eyes are still on you, his tone way too casual in your opinion for this sudden topic of conversation. You also realize that he thinks having sex with him would be returning you the favor. And then you try not to think about how good he probably is in bed. 

When you can’t think of what to say and just stare at him with wide eyes, he smiles and stretches his arms out in front of him as another gust of wind passes by. “Well, anyways, when you shared what you actually wanted from me and it ended up being a pretty earnest request…let’s just say I was emotionally moved by your dreams and aspirations.” He says that last part somewhat dramatically and you roll your eyes, sending him an annoyed look. “A little disappointed, but nonetheless moved.” 

“Wow, you’re the type of person that would trade favors for sex?” you ask him with a sneer to your tone. 

He sends a lazy smirk to you over his shoulder to where you’re trailing behind him now. “Not really, no, can’t say I’ve ever done it before,” he says slyly, “probably would’ve made an exception for you, though.” And then he’s giving you a wink.

You can’t help but blush a little. He was definitely just teasing you, some hobby of his that he does just to constantly get a kick out of the people around him since he knows he just has that much of an effect on them, so you try not to let his words get past your skin to the more vulnerable parts of you. He’s reading your expression before he speaks up again.

“We’ve already started this little return favor of yours, so no take-backs. It’s an eye for an eye. Not an eye for an eye and throw some casual sex in there, too.” He makes his way up what seems to be the largest hill across the field and he stops at the top, peering out at whatever was across from it. When you made your way to the top too, your eyes widened as you saw an expanse of flat grassiness covered in orange cones, green land markers, white chalk outlines, and netted goals. Oh, and a lot of men. “Alright, you freaky little photographer. Here are your muses.” 

You let out the breath you were holding in and smiled, hands immediately reaching for your digital camera case within your tote bag. A wave of creativity and inspiration hit you as you were finally able to lay your eyes on your subject matter and setting, and you couldn’t wait to get started. 

Gojo makes his way down the hill and you stumble after him. He high-fives a couple of his teammates that were leaving the first wave of practice and makes his way over where the second-wave practice players were stretching on the field and running laps.

“C’mon, Itadori, I’ve seen snails with a more urgent sense of direction than you! Pick up those goddamn knees!” You hear a loud voice from a few feet away from you and flinch, eyeing the scary looking man that had a…Pomeranian dog in his arms? He was wearing a black athletic jumpsuit and had extremely tinted, thick sunglasses on. His facial hair was a bit jarring and you immediately decided you were scared of him, despite how gently he was petting the little dog cradled in his arms. 

“That’s coach Yaga,” Gojo says beside you with a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. “Real nice guy.”

You turn to give him a suspicious look and he just returns it with a wider smile. 

“Hey! It’s y/n,” you hear a somewhat familiar voice call out and you glance at the direction it came from. You see Geto standing next to Nanami and he whacks his hand against the blonde's chest to get his attention when he makes eye contact with you before jogging over. You see Gojo put his hands in his shorts pockets in your periphery. “What are you doing here?” 

You give him a shy smile, suddenly embarrassed by the attention. “Here to take some photos.”

“Are you with the school newsletter?” Nanami’s smooth voice says as he approaches Geto, standing next to him. They both were wearing matching blue tracksuits. 

“No, I’m not. Just here to…take some photos for one of my classes. It’s for a film photography assignment.” You suddenly wished you were part of the school newsletter committee, so that you could at least provide them with some positive publicity with your photos. You wondered if they would think you’re just using them. As if Gojo could read your mind, he patted Geto harshly on the back and let out a loud, obnoxious laugh.

“Hear that, punks? She wants to try and take some nice photos of you lot. Be grateful! Of course, your grotesque appearances cannot simply be fixed by any technology yet known to man,” Gojo says rather loudly, continuing to smack Geto on the back. Geto has a small pitiful smile on his face and Nanami just looks annoyed. You feel lighter somehow, less tense. 

“Okay, cool, let us know if we can help in any way,” Geto says kindly as he sits down on the grass to continue stretching out his legs. “Oh by the way, Satoru, Chosou’s out sick today so you might need to cover for goalie.” 

“What? Why’s that fucker always getting sick?” Gojo says as he walks towards one of the duffle bags on the bench, and you assume it’s his. He pulls out a water bottle. “He needs to stop eating that goddamn grocery store sushi.” 

“Oh! Oh! It’s you,” another somewhat familiar voice calls out from ahead. You see a guy wearing a dark blue jacket that had a red hood approaching you from the inner field. Then you recognize he was that guy at the entrance of the house party that called you a- “It’s casual tomboy!” 

Your eye twitches slightly as you take in your appearance. Sure, you were wearing jeans again, but your top was somewhat stylish and feminine. He arrives in front of you and notices the digital camera hung at your neck. “Hey, what’s that?” He points directly at your midriff where the camera sat. He almost pokes his finger right through the delicate attachable lens that cost you nearly two months of rent.

“A little rude, Yuuji,” Geto says, grunting as he switches from one stretch to the other. 

Yuuji gets closer to you to study the camera and you instinctively lean away from him before Gojo is grabbing him by the hood of his jacket and yanking him away from you, Yuuji’s arms flailing out in front of himself in a struggle. “Hey, get back to practice. You’re not allowed to talk to pretty seniors.” 

Coach Yaga grunts and crosses his arms from where he stood a few feet away, the tiny pomeranian now barking at his feet. “I never said you could stop running laps, Itadori! Get your ass back out there! I’ll be sending you to recreational soccer for the rest of your freshman year if you don’t get your damn head straight!” Gojo lets go of Itadori’s hood and the poor boy is scrambling across the field to join what seems like the other first-years for their warm-up laps. Coach Yaga turns to you and gives a hmph before vaguely gesturing to you. “May I know what you’re doing out on my field?”

“Coach!” Gojo says, making his way over to the scary man. He slings his arm around his neck and the man just continues to glare at him through his sunglasses. “She’s with me today. Photographer y/n will be taking some handsome photographs of you that you can send to your wife, and then maybe your wife will actually want to-”

Coach Yaga puts Gojo in a headlock and Gojo’s instantly tapping on his back to get him to ease up. “I dare you to finish that sentence, boy.”

You let out a small laugh. This was certainly a lively bunch. Nanami approaches you and expresses interest in your camera. You lift it up for him to take a closer look. He pinches his chin between his bent index finger and thumb, as if he was a detective analyzing a crime scene. “I see…so this is a film camera.” 

“Ah…” you laugh awkwardly. “No, this is just a digital camera.” 

“I see…so this is a digital camera,” he repeats, equally as intrigued. 

The time eventually comes along where all the players start the practice match. There’s obviously not enough players out on the field for full teams on each side, but they’re split into 1st & 4th years vs. 2nd & 3rd years. You learn that the second wave practice group has the talented players at the top of each of their year groups. Gojo doesn’t seem to participate in the practice match despite one team having to omit having a goalie since the coach requested he sit out to watch the plays and make suggestions.  You’re a bit sad you don’t get to see him play, but figured you’ll have a chance in the future. You take a few snapshots as one of the other first-years, a quiet boy named Megumi, kicks the ball towards the goal that ends up bouncing off the goal frame. You spend some time tweaking the exposure, zoom, and focus until you feel like you have a pretty good idea of the settings you’ll need to get some fluid shots. 

When you look up over the field again, raising your digital camera to your face, you notice Gojo looking at you from across the field where he stood at the sidelines. You both keep your gaze on one another for a couple of seconds, and you boldly lift the camera up to your eye, taking a few snapshots of him. When you pull it away, look down at the results on the small screen, and then glance back up at him, his eyes are slightly wide. Something stirs within you when you remember his words from earlier: I thought you were going to ask for something sexual.

Your mind wanders back to the party from last weekend, and the feeling of him leaning down next to your ear in the kitchen as he said “Thanks, I owe you one. Find me later, ‘kay?” The memory itself made your cheeks feel warm. Did he…think that something was going to happen that night at the party? Probably would’ve made an exception for you…Disappointed, but nonetheless moved. Somewhere in the haziness of your thoughts, you realize that meant that Gojo would’ve wanted to sleep with you if that was indeed your condition.

When you look to the other side of the field again, Gojo’s eyes are still on you but his handsome face looks a bit troubled, eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly pursed. You couldn’t really tell what he was thinking, but for some reason you felt like he could tell what you were. When you raised an eyebrow at him, his face relaxed and he slowly shook his head as if to say it's nothing. 

Coach Yaga’s sharp whistle cuts through the silent conversation you two were having as he yells, “alright, boys. Practice over! Go stretch yourselves out.” 

You quickly stuff your digital camera back into its case and collect your things into your tote bag. In your peripheral vision, Gojo’s making his way over to you and when he’s right next to you, you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“How’d it go? Get some good shots?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“Um, yeah, I think so.” You’re still not looking at him, pretending to fiddle with something in your tote bag. He leans down a bit to look at your face more clearly when he notices you’re not meeting his gaze, but you still struggle to make eye contact with him. “I’ve gotta go, can you tell the guys I said bye?” And then you’re making your way up the hill.

There’s a beat of silence as confusion washes over him from your behavior. “Hey, wait, y/n, do you know how to get back to campus?”

You spin to face him when you're at the top of the hill, finally looking him in the eye. There’s a concerned expression on his face. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Thanks a lot for today. Let me buy you a strawberry vanilla soda sometime, okay?” Flashing him a small smile, you turn around and run down the hill, ignoring the fast beating of your heart.

a/n. thanks a bunch for reading!

➸ take me to chapter four!

[americasass91]

Use Me

Hello there! I know I’ve been M.I.A. for awhile. And literally haven’t written anything in like 8 months. I’ve been going through a shit ton. (Divorce, job change, all kinds of fun stuff) And I really lost my spark to write. And then the Fnaf movie came out. And seeing Josh Hutcherson on screen again lit a fire inside of me! That boy was my original crush (long before Evans). Peeta Mellark will forever have a piece of my heart. That being said, here’s a little something starring Mike Schmidt! I know, I know. It’s not a Chris Evans character? What’s wrong with me? Josh is fucking pretty. That’s what’s wrong with me. Like, I have a problem. Don’t get me wrong, I still think Chris is pretty and hope the best for him. But…he’s not been my muse lately. I said a long time ago that I wanted Josh to fuck me like a screen door in a hurricane. And it apparently still holds true today! So, I hope you enjoy it even though this is not a part of your regularly scheduled programming! Also, this takes place after the events of FNAF. Also, Also. Not sure if the people on my Taglist for Chris’ characters want to be tagged in Josh’s. If so, just let me know!

*DISCLAIMER*, If you’re under 18, this is nothing for you to be reading. Go away.

Words: 3.3k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut, p in v smut, oral(f rec), unprotected sex, language, Mike being good, um I think that’s it

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“Listen Y/N, I’m gonna need you to stay and work the next shift.”

You turn around and look at your manager as if she had suddenly grown 3 heads. “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you right. It sounded like you said you needed me to stay and work the next 8 hour shift.”

She rolls her eyes as she goes back to charting the current patient she’s working on. “You know that’s exactly what I said. Look, I have no other options. Hannah called off.”

“Again? This is like the third day in a row! How is that fair exactly?” You put your patient’s paperwork down and cross your arms over your chest as you stare at her expectantly.

She doesn’t even bother looking at you as she answers. “I don’t know what to tell you Y/N. She says she’s sick. I can’t have her come in if she’s sick.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “If by sick you mean hungover! She literally posted on Instagram last night about her night out on the town!”

She glances over at you. “There’s no way to prove if that was from last night or if it's older. Now just get back to work and I’ll let you have an hour and a half break instead of an hour.”

Now you’re pissed. “Yeah, see, that's not going to work for me. I’ve already been here for 16 hours because Kim was late. I’m not working Hannah’s whole ass shift. I have plans. I finally get to see my boyfriend after weeks because our schedules weren’t lining up. I’m not staying.”

“You really don’t have a choice. I wasn’t really asking you, I was telling you. There’s no one else to cover.”

Tears started welling up in your eyes out of frustration, exhaustion, and the possibility of not being able to see Mike again. “There’s a bunch of other people that can cover! What about you? You’ve only been here 8 hours. It would make more sense for you to stay.” 

She turns in her chair to look at you now. “Y/N, I have actual plans. My husband has a work party. And the rest of us have husbands and children to attend to. Not just ‘hanging out with my boyfriend.’

Now you’re seeing red. “So what you’re saying is because I’m the only nurse on this floor not married, I get the shitty end of the deal and have to cover when other people call off?”

“No. If you had legit plans then I’d be more sympathetic. But you haven’t even been with this boy that long. You don’t need to spend every free moment with him.”

“I’m sorry but who do you think you are? My mother? Because I’m a grown ass woman. And if I want to hang with my boyfriend on my time off then I’m going to! I don’t really need your approval for it. I’m not staying.”

You grab your Stanley and start heading towards the locker room to grab your stuff. 

“Y/N! If you don’t stay, then you can forget about this job.”

You turn around just before reaching the end of the hallway. “Well, then I guess you’re going to have to stick around and cover Hannah’s shift. Stick it up your ass, Jan. I quit.”

You don’t even stay to hear what she has to say. You quickly run to your locker and grab all of your stuff out before you start to cry. You can’t believe you just quit. And it’s not just because of your boyfriend. You haven’t been treated right since the first week you started. This was just the last straw. You just hope Mike won’t be disappointed in you.

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After a quick shower and outfit change at home, you reluctantly find yourself pulling into Mike’s driveway and getting out of the car. You haven’t gotten to see him in about 3 weeks and you know you look like shit from not only your long ass shift but also because you cried on the way over.

You head to the front door and open it up. He always leaves the door unlocked when he knows you’re coming over, and get hit with the aroma of pasta. Mike’s cooking you dinner. That makes you want to start crying all over again. He’s the sweetest.

“Babe? Is that you?” You hear him call from the back of the house. He quickly comes towards the front and sees you. His smile falters when he sees the state you’re in. “Babe, are you okay? What happened?” He quickly wraps you up in a hug. 

You try your best to keep it together but a few tears fall. “I quit today.”

He pulls out of the hug but keeps his arms around you. “You did? Babe, that’s fantastic!” He pulls you back in for another hug and picks you up to twirl you around.

Your mood instantly lifts and you can’t help but laugh. “It is?”

He sets you down and pulls you in for a quick kiss. “Of course it is! That place was treating you like shit! And Jan was a bitch! What finally made you do it?”

He lets go of all but your hand and leads you into the kitchen so he can continue making spaghetti. He sets you down at the table and pours you a nice big glass of wine he bought just for tonight. “I want to hear all about it.”

He goes back to the stove and continues making dinner while you rehash the last 16 hours.

He turns around with the sauce spoon in his hand and his other on his hip. “Hannah called off again? Jesus, how does she still have a job? Didn’t she do this to you last year during Christmas?”

Oh, shit. You had forgotten about that. She did do this last year! You had plans to fly home and see your family for the holidays when Hannah unexpectedly came down with ‘the flu’. Jan had called and needed you to work since nobody else could cover. You felt like since you were still new at the time that you couldn’t say no. Now you’re getting pissy all over again. 

“Oh my god! You’re right! Maybe the bitch has some vendetta out against me. I’ve never done anything to her though! I’ve been nothing but nice!”

Just then your phone dings, alerting you of a text. You quickly check it. It’s from Hannah.

I can’t believe you threw a tantrum and quit just because I wasn’t feeling my best and couldn’t come in. Wow. All so you can hang out with your piece of shit delinquent boyfriend. You sure have your priorities straight.

“Fucking cunt!” You yell as you throw your phone across the table. Then immediately you slap your hands over your mouth just as Mike turns around to see what you’re yelling about.

“What’s wrong? Who was it?”

You remove your hands from your mouth. “Mike, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to curse that loud. I hope Abby didn’t hear me.”

He waves you off. “Babe, she’s not even here. She got invited to a sleepover at Natalie’s house. We’re alone. You’re good.”

You sigh in relief. “Thank god! I don’t want any of my bad habits to rub off on her.”

Mike just chuckles and turns back to the sauce. “If she turns out anything like you, I’d be entirely okay with that.”

You can’t help but feel a blush creep up your neck. He was always saying sweet stuff like that. You get up and hug him from behind and press a kiss to the back of his neck. “You’re too sweet.”

He turns around in your arms and grabs your face and gives you a proper, toe-curling kiss. “I mean it.”

After a few more shared kisses, Mike finishes up dinner and fixes you both a plate and a glass of wine for himself. As you’re sitting there twirling your spaghetti around your fork, you can’t help but think about Hannah’s text again. And then all of the little snide remarks she’s ever made to you come flooding back.

“Babe?”

You snap out of your thoughts and Mike comes back into focus. “Yeah?”

He puts his fork down. “I asked if there was something wrong with the spaghetti? You’ve hardly touched it.”

You look down at your plate and realize you’ve just been twirling it around your fork. “No, it’s fine. Just thinking about what Hannah said and how much it pisses me off. I’m sorry, I’m not meaning to ruin our time together.”

He smiles and grabs both of your plates and gets up and places them on the counter. He comes back over and holds his hand out to you. “Come on.”

You grab his hand with no hesitation and let him pull you out of your chair and let him lead you to his bedroom.

He turns around to face you right before you get to his bed. “First of all, you could never ruin our time together. I love getting to spend time with you no matter what. Second of all, it sounds like you need to let out some anger and need a distraction.”

You can’t help but feel all tingly at the smirk he’s giving you. “What did you have in mind?”

He backs up a little and sits on the bed and looks up at you. “Use me, Y/N.”

You shake your head. “What? What do you mean?”

He reaches out to grab your hands to pull you towards him. “I mean use me. Use me to distract yourself and to take your anger out on. I’ll be a good boy and do whatever you need.”

That almost had your knees buckling. “Oh.” He lifts your shirt up and starts pressing kisses along your stomach while running his hands from your back to your hips and down to your ass. You’ve never been in this position before. Sure, you guys have only been together for like 5 months but anytime you’ve ever been intimate, he’s been the one who’s taken charge.

He pulls back and looks up at you. “Use me, baby. I got you. Tell me what you need.”

You decide to run with it and take control and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I wanna sit on your face.”

He lets out a little whimper as he moves back on the bed. “Fuck, baby. Please sit on my face. I want you to suffocate me.”

He lays back and patiently waits for you to remove your pants and panties. You hesitantly climb up on the bed. You’ve never done this before with anyone but have always wanted to try it. You climb up until you’re straddling his waist and lean down to kiss him. 

He returns the kiss enthusiastically and grinds you down onto him so you can feel how hard he already is for you. It makes you let out a small moan into his mouth. The making out only lasts for a few more minutes before you pull away and start climbing up until you’re hovering right above his mouth.

Before you fully lower yourself onto him you grab his hair and yank so that he has to look at you. He lets out another beautiful whimper. “I’m going to ride your face until I can’t think of anything else but your tongue. You’re going to be good and make me cum as many times as I want, right?”

He nods instantly. “Yes, I promise I’ll be good for you.”

“Good boy.” You tell him, which makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. Hmm. Who knew he had a praise kink?

You let go of his hair and grab onto the headboard with both hands before you slowly lower yourself onto his waiting mouth. 

He immediately grips your thighs and pulls you even harder on him and starts eating you out like a man starved. “Oh, fuck!” You throw your head back and start grinding on his tongue. He gives you a few more licks before he sucks your clit into his mouth and starts lapping his tongue back and forth against it. “Oh, god. Fuck, Mike! You’re so fucking good at that.”

Your praise has him moaning and whimpering into your pussy, heightening the experience that much more. He moves his right hand towards your ass and gives it a nice squeeze before moving towards your pussy and immediately inserting two fingers.  It makes you start grinding faster, feeling yourself already close to the edge.

He starts pumping his fingers in time with your grinding, pushing you even closer to the edge. You can’t believe how quickly he got you there. 

“Mike, please! Gonna cum! Make me cum.”

He pumps his fingers even faster and lightly bites down on your clit, knowing it’ll make you fall over the edge.

You scream his name out and grind on him until it’s too much and you lift yourself away from his mouth. To which he whimpers out, “where’s that pussy going? I wasn’t done yet.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Jesus. I almost passed out from how hard I came. Give me a minute.”

“So I did good?” He looks up at you with big eyes and his chin glistening with your juices.

You pat his hair. “You did so good, baby. Made me feel so good.”

He smiles and wraps his arms around your thighs and presses soft kisses to the inside of them. You close your eyes and take a minute to enjoy that before you look behind you and see his erection pressing painfully against his jeans. You need that inside of you. Right now.

You remove yourself from his face and he lets out a little whine. “Don’t worry. I’m not done. Need your cock, baby.”

You’ve never seen him undo his belt and slide his jeans down that quickly before. It almost makes you chuckle. “Eager, are we?”

He nods as he pushes his jeans down far enough that his cock springs free and hits your ass. “Need to feel you around me, babe. Please.”

You lean down and pull him into a kiss which he returns generously. You can taste yourself on his tongue. He grabs his cock and hits it against your ass, signaling that he’s ready for you to slide onto him. You take the hint and lift up and back until he catches at your entrance. He’s the first one to break the kiss as you slowly slide down onto him. The little whimpers he lets out as you sit flush against his thighs is music to your ears.

You decide to tease him and just stay resting there for a minute while looking down at him. He has his eyes clenched shut and a death grip on your hips. He opens his eyes after a few moments and looks up at you. He reaches his right hand up and places it on your cheek, caressing it with his thumb. “Go ahead and use me babe. Take what you need from me.”

You slowly start moving your hips back and forth, never really lifting them up and down. The friction against your clit is so delicious. You place both hands on his chest and start moving your hips a little faster. “Oh, fuck baby. You feel so good. You’re so deep.” 

“Yeah? Am I making my girl feel good?”

You smirk down at him. “Oh, yeah. You’re being so good for me.”

He lets out another whimper as he grabs you by the back of your head and pulls you in for a heated kiss. This one sloppy and desperate. His hand that’s still on your hip starts moving you a little harder against him. He pulls away from your mouth and kisses his way up your neck towards your ear. “Come on babe. Cum on my cock. I can feel you clenching around me. Cum for me so I can be good and cum for you.”

This time you’re the one letting out a whimper. “Yeah? Want me to be your good boy and cum for you? Fill you up?”

“Please.” You whine out, moving your hips even faster than before. You can feel your orgasm coming like a freight train. There’s no stopping it. 

“Oh yeah. I can feel it. You’re gonna cum for me. Do it. Make a mess on me babe. Please, I need it.”

“Yeah? You need me to cum for you? Need to feel me cum? Oh, god Mike. I’m almost there. Please don’t stop.”

He continues helping you grind your hips against his. You’re almost there. Just a little something…..

“I love you, Y/N. So fucking much.”

That did it. You’re pitched off the edge and silently scream out. The edges of your vision going white. You can vaguely hear Mike whimpering out your name as he does as promised and fills you up. You slow your hips down until you can’t move them anymore and slump down against him with your face tucking into the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around you and rubs his hands up and down your back.

You both stay like that until your heartbeats return to normal. You lift up your head just until you can see him, almost nose to nose. He’s the first to speak. “So, did I do good for you?”

You let out a chuckle. “You were so good, baby.” You can feel him twitch inside of you at the praise. “But, we need to talk about what you said.”

Mike scrunches his brows for a few minutes before his eyes go wide and he realizes what he said. “Shit, I did not mean to say that.”

You can’t help the disappointment that crosses your face. “Oh, well that’s okay. It was in the heat of the moment.”

He quickly wraps his arms tighter around you. “No! That’s not what I meant. Shit. I one hundred percent meant it. I just wanted to make it special when I told you. Not in the middle of an orgasm. You deserve better than that.”

You smile and press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I appreciate the thought. But I really don’t need anything special. I already have you.”

His smile lights up his entire face. “I love you, Y/N.”

This time you press a kiss to his lips. “I love you, too Mike. Like, a lot.”

“I bet not as much as I love you.”

Just as you’re about to retort, Mike’s cell starts vibrating, causing you to jolt with fright since his phone is still in his pocket which your leg is pressed up against.

“Jesus Christ.”

You quickly get up so that he can grab his phone. “Hello?”

You go into the bathroom to clean up. You come back in with a wet cloth to clean Mike up. He just hangs up as you come in the room. “Everything okay?”

He smiles in thanks as you hand him the cloth. He goes about cleaning himself up. “Yeah. That was Natalie’s mom. Apparently Abby has decided she doesn’t wanna stay the night so I have to go get her.” He stands and pulls his jeans back up and smooths his shirt out. “Sorry we won’t be alone anymore.”

You pull him in for a quick kiss. “Nothing to apologize for. I love you Mike. And that means loving all of you. Which includes Abby. Whom you know I just adore. Go get her and we’ll have a movie night or something.”

He shakes his head and pulls you in for another kiss. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You just smile in return. “After the past year you’ve been through, you deserve to be happy.”

He chuckles as he heads out the door. “Ain’t that the damn truth!”

[izzabela]

Can you write about Kuei Liang x female reader about the reader believes Kuai Liang is cheating on her with Harumi since they are childhood friends and close because they've been spending so much time together and he even named the clan after her and starts to distance herself away from him?

Focus - Kuai Liang x fem!reader

in which Kuai Liang's priorities are not in line

a/n: sigh

ship[s]: kuai liang x fem!reader

warning(s): emotional cheating, gaslighting, harumi is not a girls girl guys

Honestly, the fact Japan was Kuai Liang's first idea should have waved some flags.

He said he has a familiar there, so why not trust him?

Coincidentally, it was a girl, but a familiar nonetheless. Besides, it had been years since contact, so of course nothing was suspicious.

Right?

"Her name is Harumi. We... grew up together," Kuai Liang had said once.

It's okay, you're cool.

Meeting her was an interesting... occurance. She liked you for sure, but she didn't like like you. Always eyeing you, sizing you up, but never too close to you.

She was a divider between you and Kuai Liang, but you were so sure that Kuai Liang would know better.

Right?

"It's been a while, we grew up together!" he had said once.

"She just wants to reminisce the past," he said another time.

It's okay, you're cool.

But reminiscing turned into longer talks. The longer talks turned into longer lunches. Longer lunches turned to dinners out.

And dinners out always led her to his bed.

"We took naps together once as children," Kuai Liang defended her once.

"She was hungover, and you were out that night," Kuai Liang said another time.

But it's okay, you're cool- though, you wish that it was you behind his metaphorical shield.

So you still try to get along with Harumi. You still try to talk to her. You still try to have breakfast, tea, train with her.

She rejects every advance. Whether with smart-ass comments, snarky replies- it's annoying.

But it's okay, you're cool.

After a couple months, you decide to talk to Kuai Liang about it. You explained how you felt: how you felt left out, how you felt forgotten- like a second place trophy.

"It's okay, dear," Kuai Liang said. "Nothing is wrong, and you are still my number one."

But the math doesn't line up. His numbers don't make sense, but you still make the calculations work.

Meet the problem half way, find the variables, anything to find the missing piece. But the problem is left unsolved.

But it's okay, you're cool- you'll fix it another time.

But the other time stretches into days. The days into weeks, and the weeks turn into months. And suddenly, the problem is forgotten.

Kuai Liang and Harumi are seen in your eyes They're happy, smiles all around as Kuai Liang brushes a hair out of her face.

It's okay, you're cool- although, you wonder the last time Kuai Liang held you with such tenderness.

You'll never see the tenderness though, as Kuai Liang finally sat down with you after a whole year at her compound.

He doesn't smile with you anymore. His eyes don't shine as they used to, not the way they do with Harumi. He takes your hand as you both sit on the edge of your shared bed.

Is it even your bed anymore, though?

"I have something to tell you," he begins. And it's a lot isn't it?

How Harumi and Kuai Liang stayed up drinking one night. In her room. With bottles of sake and other premium Japanese liquors. How Harumi hasn't felt this way with any suitors. How she's only thought of him after all these years.

"And so, I am leaving you. But you understand, do you not?"

His eyes look for a sure answer in yours. Because you always said yes, always said go ahead, always affirmed him.

"It's okay, I'm cool," you replied.

Even after Kuai Liang was happy around Harumi, now including you in conversations and hang outs, Harumi remained still and firm like stone.

You had overheard her once, talking to her servants about a single harlot hanging around a taken man.

Ironic, but it's okay. You're cool about it- especially with a woman as insecure as Harumi.

Even so, they worked. Kuai Liang and Harumi fit better than you and him ever did. He knew her inside and out, just as she did. And she knew him top to bottom, just as he did.

You wished they didn't. You wished their perfect home collapsed under them. That the roof would cave and fall and bury them alive. But you can't say that, not when you're cool with it.

And so, as Kuai Liang guided Harumi down the aisle on their wedding day, their red and gold clothes well-coordinated and perfectly fit, you wished them happiness.

Even if you imaged yourself in her place.

Even if you imagined her on the side.

Even if you imagined her somewhere else in the god damn realms.

But you don't' say anything, not on their special day.

Because it's okay, and you're cool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

guys i fear i'm in a mortal kombat burnout because i wanna write a cod fic so bad

but if i write a cod fic then the requests will eat me alive

idk what to do

see yall in the next fic!

[lupuslikethewolf]

marauders!au where the war never happened and they all got to go on and live happy lives :) its set years later, when Harry, Ron, Neville, Luna and Hermione are going into their first year.

I haven’t come up with an actual plot yet :/ but this is the setting, and they are all around their early-to-mid-thirties at this point. it's likely just domestic fluff and slice-of-life type shit, with Harry still getting into impossible amounts of fuckery whilst stressing at least 10 different adults (as he should tbh)

i can't decide whether this is set in the 90s or in the modern!era so i left it ambiguous

Barty Crouch Jr, now Professor Barty (just Barty, Crouch is my father), teaches DADA and his fiancé, Evan Rosier, is a Magizoologist who travels during the school year, comes back home for the holidays and weekends to spend with Barty, either on Hogwarts grounds or at their own home. Barty has a close friendship with McGonagall, who is Headmistress, and Poppy (who are married, but no one figured it out).

Dorcas and Marlene play International-Level Quidditch: Dorcas for England, and Marlene for Wales or Ireland (undecided). Everyone thinks they hate each other from the way they treat each other during games. They played for the Holyhead Harpies until they got recruited, and their wedding was basically the biggest, most dramatic and over-the-top graduation party Hogwarts had ever seen, hosted in the Potter Manor. everyone was hungover for days afterwards

Lily and Snape are best-friends-turned-rivals, who achieved a Mastery in Potions at the same time, and are both the youngest people to ever do so. Sev specialises in theoretical potions, and Lily specialises in experimental work, altering old potions and creating new ones. She commandeered the entire basement for her own potions lab, and Remus helps her research in his spare time.

Pandora started publishing with Xenophillius (the definition of gender-fuckery; no-one knows how they identify, not even Xeno), and they publish the most outlandish work they can, alongside Pandora’s books!! They also run Xeno's Quibbler and a couple other independent newspapers. They live out in the countryside w/ Luna. Barty & Evan are their only walking-distance neighbours, but they floo to their friends houses semi-regularly

MaryLily and StarChaser are co-parenting Harry, and being godparents/family friends of Draco, Blaise Zabini, Ron, Neville and Luna. When Harry is at pre-school, he makes friends with Hermione, and the four of them introduce Dr and Dr Granger to the magical world over the years, instead of the two month crash-course Hogwarts gives

Mary is an artist, and since she was raised half-blood, absolutely adores the technique and process of muggle painting, later enchanting it to move and learn and talk. She doesn't own anything that isn't stained with paint, bleach or hair dye. She is famous for her work, in Magical and Muggle circles, but is almost completely anonymous, and they only know what she looks like because of a group portrait she painted

Regulus is an independent researcher of old Pagan traditions and 'Muggle' magic, how different solstices and days (like All Hallows Eve) affect the Magical community, etc. He visits Barty at Hogwarts with Harry every few weeks, and later with Hermione as well, so they grew up learning about the secrets at Hogwarts, in the library, and with the teachers. Also friendly house rivalry, and the adults completely split on which houses they will go into at Hogwarts. Evan started a betting pool.

James and Sirius are the wizarding private investigators. They work everywhere, for everyone (no matter what. they don't need to charge more than what people can afford), and love it. James absolutely adores the 'Sherlock Holmes' vibes, but they are both Sherlock Holmes b/c they are simply too baddass not to be!

Remus opened a bookstore-cafe, and him and Sirius live in the flat above it. It’s really popular and became the place for students and young queer people. The bookstore stocks everything from really popular and really unknown books and authors of every genre. The regulars also notice all these really famous but really mysterious friends of Remus who come-and-go (artist!mary, author!pandora, athletes!dorlene, etc). And then, of course, is the “private” investigator boyfriend, who couldn’t be less subtle at anything if he tried.

Alice is still an Auror, and the Best of the Best, but she is so fucking fed up of the politics, DMLE, and Ministry in general. She is starting a revolution/reformation from the inside- and if that doesn’t work, quit her job and do the same thing from the outside! Frank ended up in law and becoming a Lawyer, and is glad he did, because it might be the only thing that will keep his partner out of jail if she decides to commit treason. They love Neville to bits, and would do anything for him!! They built a whole-ass greenhouse when he discovered his talent.

Peter Pettigrew works part-time with Remus at his place, but is currently training with Gringotts/other cursebreakers to become a professional cursebreaker! it is taking a long ass time with a lot of testing and work to put in, but Peter finds it interesting and it meant that he always has more stories to tell the kids when he sees them, which is a bonus because children are hard to entertain.

[separatist-apologist]

We Never Go Out Of Style

Could end in burning flames or paradise

Summary: When Gwyn breaks up with her boyfriend on the eve of Nesta's destination wedding, Nesta Archeron has only one objective: set Gwyn up with her high school crush.

Note: Based on this tweet from @heathermcwrites: "One of my bridesmaids just broke up with her bf who was supposed to come to my wedding & I was sad for her for about 3 seconds until I remembered that her crush will also be at the wedding (single) and I'm now more committed to this 2nd chance romance than to my own marriage."

"I should also note that this is a destination wedding so there are EVEN MORE opportunities for uh…shenanigans"

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | AO3

“This whole week has been a bachelorette party, Nes,” Emerie complained from Nesta’s couch. One slim arm was thrown over her eyes, dark hair a tangled mass against the pillows. Gwyn nodded, slumped on the hard floor while her feet rubbed against the soft, black and white shag carpet sitting just beneath a coffee table. Gwyn didn’t bother mentioning that Cassian’s ass cheeks were imprinted on the glass, though her eyes kept drifting toward it.

How had they not broken it?

That didn’t matter? Not when Nests flung open the curtains in her suite living room, earning groans of protest from the very hungover Gwyn and Emerie. “Turn it off, Nesta.”

“I can’t turn off the sun, Em,” Nesta replied. “And it’s almost noon. Don’t make me spend the day with my sisters.”

“Why not?” Gwyn asked, turning to bury her face in the squishy, leather couch. “They went to bed earlier than we did.”

“Come on. Lets do the work out class in the pool and have a few drinks—”

Both Emerie and Gwyn groaned again at the mention of alcohol. The Archeron sisters could drink like fish, and wake up just as pretty as they’d started. Not Gwyn, though. After their hike, Nesta and Cassian had wanted to go to another club, where drinks were half off if you were a lady. Had Gwyn taken advantage, flirting with men at the bar only to pass drinks along to Azriel—and Cassian, if he was nearby? Yes. 

And what had it gotten her? Passed out on the floor of Nesta’s suite while Azriel was god knows where, all while her friend was hoping for a repeat. 

“I can’t, Nesta. My mouth is dry.”

“Drink some water,” Nesta said casually before vanishing behind a doorway. She returned moments later with two of her own swimsuits. Neither Gwyn nor Emerie made any attempt at catching them, leaving the red fabric hanging in her hair. No matter what they said, Gwyn knew she and Emerie would put them on and be in the pool within an hour.

“Will you braid my hair?” she asked of Emerie instead, ignoring the soft sound of triumph that left Nesta’s throat. Emerie peeked open a pretty brown eye, glazed from the bad sleep they’d gotten, and mumbled that sounded mostly like agreement. Maybe a little swearing, too, which Nesta promptly ignored.

“Cassian bought a bunch of frozen breakfast burritos. Want me to microwave—”

“Yes.” They said it in unison, the most certain either Gwyn or Emerie had been all day. While Nesta powered up the microwave and moved through the kitchen with the same efficiency she employed in the courtroom, Gwyn tried not to complain too much when Emerie began dragging a brush through her hair before snapping little plastic ponytails against Gwyn’s scalp to create two thick, cute bubble braids. 

The smell of cheese and peppers filled the air, turning Gwyn’s stomach hollow with hunger. She scarfed one down while Nesta watched, triumphant. “It’s fixing you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she lied. “Make me another.”

Nesta only laughed, pretty as ever in another black bikini that somehow made her seem impossibly tan. Gwyn retreated to the bathroom, throwing on the red suit that Cassian probably loved on Nesta given the scraps of fabric held together by flimsy string. She tried not to think too much about what Azriel might think.

But she wondered, all the same, if he’d have any reaction at all. She traded places with Emerie, scarfing down another piping hot burrito and chugging a cold glass of orange juice before she said a word. 

“You know, I have an actual bachelorette plan for this weekend,” Gwyn began, drumming her fingers against the laminate countertop. “I’ve been putting it together since we got here.” “Cassian told me,” Nesta admitted, eliciting a choked sound of outrage from Gwyn.

“How—Azriel.”

Nesta grimaced. “They don’t keep secrets. Cassian especially. It sounds really fun, Gwyn,” Nesta added, though Gwyn could see she didn’t really mean it.

A little offended, Gwyn asked, “What’s wrong with the night I have planned?”

“No Cassian.”

Gwyn spluttered. “That—that’s the whole point! You have your whole life to see Cassian!”

Nesta nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek. “What if we combined them—”

“Then it’s just a regular night! A stripper was coming, Nes,” she added, snapping her fingers in front of Nesta’s face. “And not just any stripper, but an Italian stripper, which I was assured is better than a regular one.”

“Cassian would probably think that’s very funny—”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Gwyn grumbled. “Why would you wait until now to tell me?”

“I thought maybe Azriel would convince you—”

“Why would you think that?” Gwyn demanded, suddenly defensive. Nesta’s cheeks seemed to darken even as those silvery blue eyes flashed a warning. Gwyn was going to lose this fight. Nesta shook her head, brushing strands of her that had escaped her own braided hair from her face.

“I—”

“He’s obviously into you,” Emerie interrupted, strolling into the room in a vibrant purple two piece. She’d braided her hair, too, which warmed Gwyn. They’d been wearing the same hairstyle for years, and not even marriage was going to stop that. No matter how chaotic their lives got, they were still friends first. “We all saw that picture he put up, too. That man doesn’t have one woman on his grid but now he’s got you.”

Nesta was fiddling with the ties at the front of her swimsuit. Quietly—so quietly Gwyn barely heard her, she murmured, “I put you two in the same room.”

“You what?!” 

Nesta sighed. “When you ended things, he called me. Wanted to know why, and how to get you back blah blah blah. I didn’t help him, but…you had that crush on Azriel in high school—”

“Oh my God,” Gwyn mumbled, putting her head in her hands. “And this whole time…I thought…”

“Did it work, at least?” Emerie asked curiously, picking up one of the microwave burritos from a paper plate. “Have you…you know?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“That’s a yes,” Nesta said, slapping a high five out with Emerie. “Do you like him?”

“I’m not answering that, either. I’m feeling a little betrayed right now. ”

Nesta sighed. “Well, don’t. It was done out of love for you both—Azriel is stupid when it comes to women and you…God, Gwyn, do you have any idea how much it has sucked watching you lose yourself to Jonathon?”

Gwyn looked between her friends, heart pounding. Emerie grimaced.

“He made you so small,” she murmured, squeezing Gwyn’s hand.

“All he did was complain,” Nesta added darkly. “The amount of times I had to remind Cassian he couldn’t hit him…” Nesta shook her head. 

“It doesn’t have to be Azriel,” Emerie amended hastily. “It just seemed like maybe you two…”

“So you both knew?” Gwyn asked flatly, unsure how she felt about the whole thing. Though a new, more terrible thought was settling in her chest. “Did Az—”

“No!” Nesta said quickly. “God, no. Not even Cassian knew.”

“Because he—”

“Can’t keep a secret, yeah,” Nesta agreed. Gwyn exhaled a breath. If Azriel had known, Gwyn thought she would have had to pack up her things and fly home, change her name, and start over in an entirely new city. “He doesn’t know. And it seems like he likes you. Rhys told Cassian Azriel said something that made him think so. He didn’t say what, though.”

Gwyn could have admitted she and Azriel slept together. Could have put Nesta and Emerie out of their misery and told the truth. Instead, she clarified, “So, this whole time, you’ve been playing matchmaker during your wedding?”

Nesta nodded without an ounce of shame. “I’m more committed to your romance than my own marriage, Gwyn. Don’t be mad,” she added, the closest Gwyn would get to an apology. “You’re so stubborn…if I’d told you what I was thinking, you would have avoided him on principle.”

“Yeah, and I probably wouldn’t have slept with him in the airplane bathroom,” she grumbled.

Emerie burst out laughing. “I didn’t believe Mor when she told me she saw you two go in there. She’s going to die—”

“Do not tell her!” Gwyn shrieked. “Tell no one.”

Emerie and Nesta, eyes bright with delight that their scheming had worked immediately, nodded their heads in agreement. God, how had they even gotten here? Looking up at the popcorn ceiling overhead, Gwyn forced herself to say, “It’s not like that between me and Azriel. It’s…this is just a vacation thing. Proximity—”

“Oh, bullshit!” Nesta exploded while Emerie swallowed the laughter causing her shoulders to shake. “Azriel isn’t capable of casual anything.”

Gwyn wanted to believe that. He’d said a lot of things, always with his cock in her body. Never…never without. And Gwyn was cautious to trust anything a man said in the middle of sex given he was likely to say anything he thought she wanted to hear if it meant he got to finish. 

“I don’t know how we got here,” Gwyn grumbled, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Do not meddle, okay? If you want to change the bachelorette party tonight, that's on you.”

“Finally,” Nesta breathed, her delight evident.

“Control freak,” Emerie teased.

And somehow, everything was fine. All Gwyn’s resentment melted away as they devolved into silly teasing, finishing their food and drinks before heading out into the hot Italian air. The sun bounced off the flagstones, blinding the three of them until they clutched at each other, giggling and lamenting that they’d forgotten to put on sunscreen. Gwyn’s hat and sunglasses were in the room she shared with Azriel, and today she didn’t dare run down to get them. She’d hoped to avoid Azriel until she knew how to tell him they’d been set up.

It didn’t matter, at any rate. He was already laid out in a pool chair, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes, arms folded behind his head while one muscular leg was bent at the knee, causing the muscles in his abdomen to flex obscenely.

It was absurd, how handsome he was. More absurd when he lowered his glasses to look at her walk past him—as if both Nesta and Emerie didn’t immediately notice. He wasn’t beating the not interested charges, which both annoyed and thrilled her. Azriel didn’t seem to notice the group of beautiful blondes in the pool all laughing loudly, hoping for his attention. Nor did he pay them any mind as they continued to get out of the pool, dripping wet as they slicked their hair back right in front of him.

Even after he’d put his mirrored shades back on, Gwyn could feel his gaze burning against her skin. 

Azriel isn’t capable of anything causal. 

To find out the truth, she was going to have to just ask him flat out what he wanted. And if he wanted to keep this going when they got home—for real, and not when he was erect or drunk or lost to romantic moonlight. Gwyn swallowed.

It was better to know.

Right? 

AZRIEL:

“What was the point of asking me to throw you a bachelor party if we were going to end up with the girls?” Azriel grumbled, thinking of all the wasted money Cassian was flushing down the toilet. It didn’t matter if Rhysand and Nesta had venmoed him more than he’d spent—it was the principle of the thing. He’d paid for a stripper. And not just any stripper, but an Italian stripper, which was, apparently, better than American ones. 

“Nes wants to be together tonight,” Cassian said, flashing Azriel a grin. So much for a nice night out—Azriel was wearing a pair of salmon colored shorts and a white and blue Hawaiian shirt wholly unbuttoned and a lei around his neck. Cassian’s choice, of course, tied together with flip flops that made him feel like a middle aged dad on a Florida beach. 

“You’ll be with her your whole life,” Azriel reminded him, for all the good it did. They were still at the resort for a themed beach night at the adults-only club, and judging from the others he’d seen, their clothes weren’t creative.

The girls were worse—or better, depending on your point of view. Better, because they were in bikini tops and tied sarongs, and worse because every fucking man with eyes was hovering, hoping to drag one of them home. Rhys immediately pushed onto the pulsating dance floor, mere shadow in the black lit dark. Feyre didn’t seem to mind the attention, or was merely trying to get a rise out of Azriel’s brother.

And Rhysand was so, so stupid he fell for it every single time. Azriel wondered if they’d be married next. 

At the bar, Elain Archeron was carefully arranging glasses filled with pale, pink liquid on a circular tray. That seemed safe enough—he was terrified to look for Gwyn and see her with another man. A distraction was exactly what he needed.

And a drink.

Or maybe six. 

“Want help?” he asked Elain. She looked up, relieved to find him and not one of the crawling creeps. Glancing just behind her, Azriel found Lucien Vanserra having a loud conversation with his brothers wife, oblivious to his own being hit on simply for breathing. How could Nesta and Cassian find this preferable to a quiet evening with food and strippers? 

“Yes,” she nodded, shouting over the thudding music. Azriel took the tray and brought it to her husband while Elain began doling them out with a pleased smile.

“Can we try not to get so wrecked tonight?” Emeries voice pulled Azriel from his eyes off Elain and found Gwyn standing close enough to touch. Back in that red top that had been haunting him since he’d seen it at the pool. Did she even know the effect she was having? He wished she’d kept the braids in her hair, though her thick, cinnamon colored hair fell in thick waves down her back which was erotic in its own kind of way. 

He wanted to wrap it around his wrist until her back was arched in the air. She hadn’t come home the night before, likely tucked in with Nesta but Azriel’s imagination had run wild. He imagined her all night with another man, writhing with pleasure and screaming his name.

Cassian had told him when he woke up he’d found Gwyn asleep in the bathroom, one arm flung over the closed lid of the toilet, and Emerie on the couch wrapped up in one of his shirts. Azriel hadn’t dared to ask why Cassian was telling him that, though the knot of anxiety that had formed in chest eased significantly when he learned she was safe—and still his.

Gwyn offered him a tentative smile before throwing back her shot. So much skin was on display—so much he could touch without anyone thinking twice. In fact, Azriel could see her breasts peeking from the bottom of the swim top, taunting him when Gwyn stepped back, shaking her head with a grimace. 

Cheeks flushed, she said, “That was awful.”

“It’s a barbie shot!” Elain told her cheerfully, pushing one toward Azriel. Gwyn’s eyes found him again, smiling sweetly before she took Emerie’s hand and led her back out onto the dance floor.

Fuck. Holding his glass, Azriel couldn’t drag his eyes off the sway of her hips or the way her hair swished back and forth.

A heavy hand clapped on Azriel’s shoulder, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. Cassian, just behind, grinned. “Want to dance?”

Azriel leveled a flat stare. He’d never danced a day in his life—he wasn’t about to start now. He was content to watch. Cassian, too, given he beckoned for Azriel to follow him up a set of grimy stairs where beautiful women came down, eyeing him up and down and running their hands down his chest while pretending there was so little space they had to touch him.

Normally that kind of would amuse him, but today it irritated him. 

“I paid for a private room,” Cassian told him, the music quieter as he pushed into a door with his tattooed shoulder. It was nice, with a long, semi-circular table with booth and chair seating and a glass window overlooking the dance floor beneath. The stripper pole in the middle of the room made Azriel wish he hadn’t canceled the one he’d paid for Cassian’s bachelor party.

“Should have kept the stripper,” Rhys said, reading Azriel’s thoughts. 

“Maybe we can get Nesta—”

“No!” Rhys and Azriel said at once, falling into their seats with wide eyes. 

“Don’t make this weird, man,” Azriel added as Cassian chuckled. “Save that for tonight.”

“Is this what you wanted?” Rhys asked Cassian, who pulled up a chair across from them. 

“It will be when the pizzas get up here. I know…look, I know you two really tried, but I don’t need one last night of freedom. I don’t want to pretend to be single.”

Azriel and Rhys sighed, though neither could pretend to be surprised. All Cassian had ever wanted was Nesta. It made sense, he supposed, that Cassian would want to spend this night with her, too. He knew, from the look on Rhys’s face, that the same soft jealousy he felt was echoed in his brother.

They wanted what Cassian had. 

“We can do strippers when Feyre decides to marry Rhys,” Cassian added with a laugh. 

“Yeah fucking right,” Rhys grumbled, cheeks flushed. “Not if I want to keep my balls.”

“Az, then.”

“Don’t look at me,” he replied, heart thumping loudly. “I’m not getting married anytime soon.”

He wondered what Cassian knew when he replied rather smugly, “We’ll see.”

Had Gwyn told Nesta? Or had Rhys told Cassian? That seemed the most likely given Rhys was suddenly studiously examining his fingernails. He was spared a confrontation by Elain Archeron, repaying the distraction favor, albeit unwittingly, to bring up more shots, along with the Vanserra brothers.

“Nice,” Lucien said, setting a round of beers in front of them. “Bottle service?”

“Do I look cheap, Vanserra?” Cassian replied with a grin.

“Yes,” Eris responded, earning a warning smack in the chest from Elain. More people filed in, along with a very beautiful waitress and the bottle service Cassian had paid for. He barked at everyone to drink, and drink heavily, given it hadn’t come cheap. For the crowd they had, it seemed more than reasonable and no one paid him any mind when he ordered a glass of water and kept quietly to himself. He was waiting for an opening—one he found when Gwyn stumbled down the steps for the bathroom.

Azriel made his way after her, content in the knowledge that all their friends were too drunk to notice if they left together or not. And maybe this loud club wasn’t the place for a conversation, but when Gwyn pushed into the bathroom, Azriel followed right behind her.

“Is this a new kink I should be worried about?” she asked, though she still undid her bottoms to pee in front of him. Azriel turned, only a little embarrassed.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.”

“Oh? Why is that, I wonder?” she asked, her voice just a little louder than usual. Okay, so maybe she was a little more drunk than he thought. Azriel hesitated.

“Because I like you.”

“Me? Or me naked?”

Oof. “Both,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “I ah…I wanted to talk about going home.”

Her laugh bounced off the tile walls. “Are we breaking up?”

A flush, and then Gwyn, flip flops slapping against the floor while she went to wash her hands.

“No. I want to see you when this is all over. Just you,” he added. 

As my girlfriend, though Azriel didn’t know if he dared to add that. Not when she was looking at him with…was that amusement? Was he about to have his heart broken? 

“Just me?” Gwyn asked, shaking her wet hands between them. “This is starting to sound like a confession.”

“I just told you I liked you,” he reminded her. Gwyn’s smile widened. 

“So you want..what, exactly?”

“You,” he replied, daring to come closer. Close enough to touch her arms, to smell the scent of her shampoo and the salt on her skin from dancing. “With me and no one else.”

“So…your girlfriend.”

The urge to play it cool, to tell her no and hedge his bets rose through his throat and nearly spilled out of his mouth. Did she want to be casual still? To keep her options open? Azriel didn’t, and the thought of agreeing to that made him want to vomit on the floor.

“Yes.”

Gwyn’s brows shot skyward. He’d caught her by surprise, then. “Just you and me,” he added, so it was perfectly clear to her. “No one else.”

“Starting…when?”

“Starting now,” he replied, pulling her closer still. “Right now.”

“You should know something,” Gwyn said, before rushing to tell him the whole, sordid saga of Nesta’s manipulation. With flushed cheeks and averted eyes, Gwyn told him how they’d been paired together—and that Nesta had known she’d been single the entire time. Azriel waited patiently, unsure why it was so critical he know this. Did Gwyn think he was going to change his mind, or that proximity was the only thing drawing him to her?

He wanted her in the airport, well before they ever got seated together, and told her as much. It was hardly romantic, telling your would-be girlfriend that you fucked her in an airplane bathroom because your attraction was driving you insane, but Gwyn obviously needed to hear it.

But even if that hadn’t been true—he’d still want her. And would have thanked Nesta for hitting him over the face with it. 

“So…so it doesn’t matter?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck.

“Never did,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Azriel might have taken her right then and there, but a pounding against the door reminded him that they were not anywhere private—and there were limited bathrooms. 

“I can’t leave,” Gwyn lamented, reading his mind.

“Don’t drink too much,” he said instead, selfishly wanting her more than he wanted to carry her back to their shared room, black out drunk until she threw up in his lap. “Cassian has pizza upstairs. You should eat some.”

“Insatiable,” Gwyn teased, unlocking the door and dragging him out with her. Everything was perfect. Better than perfect because for the first time, Azriel genuinely believed he could have what Cassian and Nesta did. That this might actually be it for him, and all he had to do was hold tight and try not to fuck it up too badly.

He never considered outside forces were conspiring against him. And he never thought, when they were back just outside the dance floor and he’d pulled her flush against his body for a languid, long-coming kiss, that anyone would even care. 

“Gwyn!” 

Gwyn froze, turning her head in slow motion. Azriel, too, turned to look at the masculine voice calling over the music. His stomach dropped to the floor. There, in an ugly green and blue striped tie and a long sleeved, white button down made of stifling polyester, stood Jonathon. 

“Fuck,” Gwyn whispered.

Fuck, indeed.

[breelandwalker]

Conversations I Have Had With Grown-Ass Adults Today:

-"While I can sympathize with your situation, and I do, the payroll department is not going to accept a note that says Hot Girl Tummy Issues an excuse for lateness. Just put in for a half day's worth of sick time, no explanation needed."

-"Yes, if you're going to be absent from work unexpectedly, you DO need to let your manager or teammates know. .....Yes, even if you're hungover. .....Yes, even if you've been here for twenty years. .....Yes, I'm serious. .....Yes, a text message would be fine."

-"With all due respect, sir, our office suite is consistently quiet because the team members here are usually either working on data entry for incoming donations or talking on the phone with donors. Walking into the suite and loudly calling, 'WHY IS IT SO QUIET IN HERE?' every day is causing disruption to our workflow and does not sound professional to callers. .....Yes, they can hear you. The entire wing can hear you. .....No, they don't find it amusing and unfortunately neither do we."

-"I'm very sorry ma'am, but spending money at the outlet malls in the same city as our museum does not count as a charitable donation to the organization. .....Because those funds were used to purchase items from shops, not donated to the museum. .....No, we don't get a cut of area sales from private businesses. .....No, shopping and staying in the area do not grant you a say in our programming. .....Ma'am, that's not remotely how any of this works. I've been shopping at the local pharmacy for years and it hasn't given me shares in Walgreens. If you would like to make a donation directly to our organization, I can assist you- .....You don't support our programming so you don't wish to donate, you just wanted to know if you could get a free hotel stay for shopping at [unaffiliated outlet shops]. I see. The answer is no. .....I'm glad I could answer your questions. Have a nice day, ma'am." (She told me to go fuck myself.)

-"The benefits associated with your membership are listed in the letter that arrived with your membership card. .....The card at the bottom of the letter. It should have your name and membership level and expiration date- .....What letter? I'm sorry, sir, at the beginning of our conversation, I thought you had mentioned that you called because you'd received a letter- .....Another solicitation? It's possible. What does the text of the letter say? .....Okay, could you please open the letter and let me know what the first sentence says? .....Okay, that's your acknowledgement letter, your membership card should be attached at the bottom. .....The benefits associated with your membership are listed in the letter you just received. .....Yes I'm sure. .....Yes it's a thank-you letter, but it also explains your benefits. .....Sir, perhaps it would be better if you read the letter and called back with any further questions you might have at that time."

-"Sir, the terms listed at the bottom of the invoice we sent you indicate that payment must be received within the allotted time or the order will be cancelled. We did not receive payment and you did not respond to our attempts to contact you, so the order was cancelled. .....Sir, net7 means seven DAYS, not seven WEEKS."

[unreliablesnake]

I shouldn't love you, yet here we are (Joel Miller x reader) – part 3

Summary: Joel jumps in to fix your lock, but a drunken kiss makes everything more awkward between you.

Note: This is another short one. / If you want to know when I post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics and hit the get notifications button. I don't have a taglist.

part 2 / part 4

The plan was to call someone to fix the damn lock on your door, but when you called your dad for a recommendation in your half-drunk state, Joel was there and he was quick to offer his help. At first you refused to accept it, saying he should relax in the company of a beer at your parents’ place, or maybe he should spend some time with Sarah. But then he reminded you that his daughter was now too old to just hang out with him on a Saturday night, especially when she could just as well go out with her friends to some girl’s party.

“You seriously shouldn’t have come, I could have just hired someone to do it,” you told him for the third time since he had arrived half an hour ago. “I didn’t want to ruin your night.”

“Sweetheart, you give me a coffee and we’re even. I’ll always help if you need it,” he said with a smile.

You sat on the floor not far from him with a bottle of water in your hand, hydrating to avoid being hungover the next morning. You drank a lot in a very short amount of time, taking shot after shot to forget about Tommy. Because it was painful to be rejected, you also hated that your relationship was now ruled by awkward silences instead of the sweet nothings that filled your conversations before.

Being in the company of Joel only made things worse. You were reminded of his brother whenever your eyes fell on him, and it didn’t help that something had definitely changed about the way he acted around you. He was a lot warmer, nicer, and you couldn’t understand what was going on with him. But it reminded you of the way you had been with Tommy until last week, so you wished he kept his distance like he used to.

“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he noted when he turned his head to look at you.

“I’m drunk.”

But Joel only shook his head at this as he packed up his tools and closed the front door. “It’s not my first time seeing you drunk, but this is different. What’s wrong?” You remained silent, for some reason believing that he wouldn’t keep asking if you refused to answer. But you were wrong, because he said, “Still sad about Tommy?”

You watched him while you took a sip of water, thinking about what to say to him. A part of you warned you to keep your feelings to yourself, but another part wanted to tell him everything, even things you wouldn’t tell your family. After taking a deep breath, you leaned back to look at the ceiling.

“I really thought it could work out between us,” you admitted.

“Listen–”

But you immediately raised your hand to stop him. “It’s not your fault, Joel. You tried to help me, everything else was Tommy’s choice.”

“My intention was to help avoid the heartbreak, but look at you now. It is my fault, sweetheart, and I’m so sorry,” he said as he crawled over to you on his hands and knees.

Maybe alcohol gave you the ability to notice things you wouldn’t see when you’re sober, because you noticed the longing look in his eyes as he watched you. This was that strange thing you hadn’t been able to decode before. When did this happen? You tried to pinpoint the first time he looked at you like this, but you couldn’t figure out the answer.

You were drunk enough to be stupid, to act on your instincts and lean forward to be only inches away from his face. He gulped when he realized what you were doing, visibly nervous that you would do something dumb.

“Let’s get you a cup of coffee,” he told you hoarsely.

“Why? I'm fine,” you told him, your fingers slowly inching closer and closer to his face, but he grabbed your wrist before you could touch him.

“Stop,” he warned you, although you could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “You don’t wanna do something you would regret later, believe me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at this as you pulled back your hand. “I shouldn’t use the first man I stumble upon as a rebound, right? Look, I’m sorry, I’m drunk and stupid right now.”

“So we’re being honest with each other right now?” he suddenly asked, surprising you. You nodded and waited for him to explain why he asked this. “I resisted the urge to make a move on you years ago. I know you were trying to get my attention, but I respect your father, and I didn't want to screw things up. But seeing you with Tommy lately? It was hell, sweetheart. Knowing he could have you reminded me of my old feelings for you.”

It was hard to say anything. There were just way too many things to bring up after his confession, so much that you simply couldn’t decide what to begin with. You could have been together, you might still be together if you weren’t cowards back then. But maybe it wasn’t too late to try, maybe things happened like this with Tommy for a reason.

Yes, maybe the universe was trying to tell you something.

Before you could chicken out, you moved forward to kiss him, and at first he didn’t hesitate to return it. You both got lost in the sensation with Joel grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep you close, seemingly in no rush to breathe.

But then he abruptly pulled away and cursed under his breath, all while you were trying to process what you’d just done. You haven’t even gotten over Tommy’s rejection, why on Earth did you think this would be a good idea? It did feel good, and you were already missing his touch, but–

“I should go now,” he said as he stood up.

You desperately reached after his hand, pulling him back before he could begin to pick up his things. “Joel, I–” you tried weakly, ready to apologize and explain that your thoughts were bouncing around and you didn’t know what you were doing.

“This can’t happen again, okay?”

“I’m so sorry, I’m just very, very confused now, and I was just following my instincts,” you explained quickly.

“Yeah, I know that feeling. But you’re drunk, I can’t let you do something stupid.”

You remained silent for a while after this, thinking about what to say. Then, after carefully choosing your words, you said, “And what if I want to do something stupid even when I’m sober?”

Joel let out a long sigh as he thought about what you’d just told him. You didn’t know what was going through his head, but it didn’t really matter as you weren’t sure about anything either. Did you really want to go down this rabbit hole and chase a relationship with him? Would it be a good idea?

“Listen, only last week you were all over my brother, I don’t want to be the backup plan,” he told you. It was understandable, you wouldn’t like to be the second best option either. “Maybe someday we cou–What’s this buzzing sound?”

Looking behind your back, you were quick to notice the phone on the coffee table moving around. “Shit, it’s my work phone. Just a second,” you said as you tried to jump to your feet.

It was your boss. With a long sigh, you answered the phone and listened carefully to the person on the other end of the line. You kept nodding to yourself, then went to grab a pen and paper to take some notes. You ended the call with a promise to join a conference call an hour later, then put down the device and turned back to Joel.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“What the hell did they want at this time on a Saturday?” he asked you with furrowed brows after standing up.

“The CEO just checked a document we wrote and she wants changes ASAP,” you explained while you drank some more water. “That’s how it goes with her.”

Joel walked over to you and put a hand on your shoulder. “You’re drunk, sweetheart, maybe you shouldn’t work now. You can’t focus on one thing at the time apparently,” he added with a smile, referring to the way you’d been acting since he arrived.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want to piss anyone off by slacking, and this job pays too well to lose it. At least it will avert my thoughts from–”

“Tommy?”

“You,” you corrected him before biting on your lower lip.

After drawing in a sharp breath, Joel nodded and pulled back his hand. He seemed hesitant to leave, while you were sure you didn’t want him to go. The thought of him being there with you was comforting, as if nothing bad could ever happen to you when he was around. But deep down you both knew you needed time on your own to think about what happened.

It was Joel who broke the silence by clearing his throat and saying, “I’ll go now. Sarah is spending tomorrow with her mother, so if… You know, if you want to talk, I’m available.”

You nodded and watched as he picked up his tools and left. You sat down on the couch and buried your face into your hands. How could you be such a stupid, pathetic idiot?

[sapphires-and-silver-linings]

Begin Again | Saga Anderson/Daughter's Teacher!F!Reader Teaser

Hey, guys! This is going to be my first F/F fic I've ever written and I'm honestly really excited about the direction it's heading. This story is gonna be fluffy and sweet at parts and also smutty, but there's a lot of angst and hurt/comfort too because I can't stop myself lol. Hope you like this opening teaser of what I have so far! I think I should also add this is an AU somewhat inspired by what was in the Return manuscript, and I wanted to explore grief, addiction, and family dynamics.

Masterlist

--------------------

When Saga awoke to the blare of her alarm clock, she was hungover.

It was a common occurrence these days, and she felt around her nightstand in the dark of the early morning for her aspirin bottle, the pain splitting her head like an axe into wood.

Great, she thought, she had forgotten to pick some up yesterday. Just like how she forgot to get groceries for dinner. She and Logan had just eaten the leftover pizza from two days ago instead.

That was also a common occurrence. Forgetting things.

Saga had always been a sharp tack, but since her divorce with David—hell, well before that if she was being honest—her mind felt like it was buzzing so loud, that it was fuzzy around the edges, not unlike the static of an old TV. The only thing that seemed to numb it was inebriation, something Saga never thought she would succumb to in all her years on earth.

To her credit, it wasn’t an immediate jump. It started with the pills her psychiatrist had prescribed her, the very same psychiatrist her assistant director had lauded as “the best”. Well, if shoving Xanax into her hands the moment she listened to her tale of woe could be considered the best… then perhaps he was right.

And then came the alcohol. It started with a couple drinks in the evening, just to settle her nerves. But two drinks turned into four and she was half-gone by the time she needed to go to bed almost every night.

A few weeks after the “incident” (god, she hated the way everyone just tip-toed around it), it was clear her superiors didn’t think she was capable of handling any more cases. They put her on leave to “clear her head”, and it only served to make it worse.

All that time alone to sit and stew in her own misery… that’s when things between her and David really started to shift. She didn’t blame him for any of it, of course. He did the best he could to be her lifeline when she felt like she was drowning, but it just wasn’t enough. She got distant. She got mean. And even when she went back to work… it was obvious there was something so fundamentally broken inside of her she wasn’t sure anything could repair it.

David tried, but he just couldn’t handle it anymore. He asked for a divorce.

Then, after spending a few months in a shithole apartment, wondering how she could crawl her way out of this ditch she’d dug herself into… she got a letter in the mail.

It was from a man named Tor Anderson, claiming to be her long lost grandfather, asking her to come visit him in Bright Falls, Washington. She almost thought it was a mistake, that he had the wrong person, but then she noticed a photograph had fallen out of the envelope onto her tiny kitchen table. It jarred her to her core to see this strange old man, her mother, and who she assumed was the infant version of herself staring back at her.

She called the number he had written down with shaky hands, and soon she was in full contact with her estranged grandfather. Hearing his voice… it felt like a balm to her aching soul. It felt familiar. It felt like home, one she didn’t even know she was missing. 

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was coincidence. Whatever it was, she knew that this was her chance to start over. To begin again.

The divorce settled, and David reluctantly agreed to let Saga have full custody of Logan, who would visit him over holidays and school breaks. A small town, safe, surrounded by nature, getting to reconnect with family… it would be good for her, she had told him.

He gave her this gentle look in return—one she knew well, though it made her heart hurt more than flutter this time—and he replied, “I hope it’s good for you too.”

Soon after, she had rented a trailer in Watery—an even smaller town near Bright Falls—quit her job, and moved across the country with her teenage daughter in tow.

Logan was angry. Saga knew she would be. Her whole life was turned upside down in the course of a year, and she was moving to a new location where she didn’t know anyone. Saga hoped that after they settled in, she would understand that it was better this way.

But maybe Saga was reassuring herself more than Logan.

--------------------

Masterlist

[f1-disaster-bi]

Could you pick the pairing please with song 50?

Take me or Leave Me from Rent

"You can't keep acting like this, Lando"

Lando didn't want to look at the other as he tucked his hands into the pouch of his hoodie. He didn't want to recieve yet another lecture from his boyfriend, the person that was meant to love him unconditionally, about how he needed to change because they were 'grown up's' now.

Every time he got this speech, Lando felt himself shrinking back into his shell that he had worked hard as a teenager to come out of.

"Are you even listening to me?", George sighed, and Lando finally looked up at the other and tried to recognise the man he had fallen in love with under that stern and disappointed gaze, "Are you hungover?"

"No, George, I'm not hungover", Lando replied softly, "I just don't feel like hearing your speech again"

George huffed and moved away from where he had been lurking by the armchair to stand in front of him. His arms where crossed over his chest defensively as he stared at Lando, and Lando hated it. It made him like a specimen being examined. It was like George was looking for faulty parts and trying to figure out the best way to fix them when Lando didn't need to be fixed.

"Would it kill you to take me seriously, to take yourself seriously?", George asked, "How can you ever expect people to take you seriously when you go out partying and come home drunk, or spend time playing games online, all the time? You don't even wear the shirts I bought you. You need to grow up Lando"

Something inside of Lando broke a little at those words, and anger flooded him as he tried desperately to find the man he loved under the corporate robot that was standing before him. He tried to find his George that had once snorted milk out his nose and who yelled at the tv when Lando beat him at Mario Kart, but there was nothing.

Lando was tired of fighting for nothing.

"Fuck you", Lando didn't yell but his words were cold and the surprise on George's face almost made him want to laugh, "I work my ass off at my job five days a week. I am up for promotions, but you never ask about that, do you? You just pick and pick and pick at my personality as if I am a problem to be solved and not the person you fell in love with, and I am a person George. I don't live for my job, I leave it at work. I dress comfortably because it's what makes me feel good, not some stranger in a restaurant that costs half my salary and leaves me hungary when I leave. I play games online because it's time spent with friends who have moved away and it's relaxing. I go out, occasionally, because it's fun. When's the last time you had fun, George?"

"Lando, stop", George tried to argue, stepping back from Lando, "You are being too defensive"

"Because I have to be around you", Lando pointed out, tears burning his eyes, "There hasn't been a week for the last half year where you haven't tried to make me into someone I am not or complained about something I love because it doesn't meet your standards, and I'm tired George. I'm tired of fighting to be with you when I am clearly not enough for you"

"I never said that", George whispered, and he looked like he had seen a ghost as Lando's words sank in.

He probably hadn't realised what he had been doing to Lando but Lando couldn't take it anymore as he shook his head at the other.

"Not in those exact words, but in everything you did and the way you treat me", Lando replied as he ran a hand over his face. His heart was breaking because he knew what he had to do, and he didn't want to, "George, you can take me as I am, or not at all because I won't pretend to be something I am not even if I love you"

George didn't answer. He looked paralysed under the weight of Lando's words, and Lando took that as his answer as he nodded to himself before he swollowed down the tears he felt building.

"I guess that's my answer" Lando whispered, heartbreak numbing him as he began to move, grabbing his phone and turning towards the hallway to go grab some essentials, "I'll leave then. I...I'll come back for my stuff in a few days"

He managed to quickly pack without any interuptions, and it wasn't until he was shoving his feet into his runners that George spoke. His hand gentle on elbow.

"Please, don't leave"

[lovesosweeet]

KNOW IT ALL x THE BAND CAMINO

part 6

a calum hood songfic

read 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Calum wakes up confused and wickedly hungover. His head is pounding and he feels like he should probably throw up again, but he doesn’t think there’s anything in his stomach to remove. It takes a minute, but he realizes he’s in Tillie’s bed. Had he spent the night?

It’s not his first time waking up in her bed. Naturally, he’s spent countless nights in it, but never without her wrapped around him. He’s shocked when he looks to the bedside table and sees a bottle of Gatorade and two pills he assumes are ibuprofen. He takes the pills instantly, washing them down with the fruit punch flavored beverage Tillie apparently left out for him. 

When he gets out of the bed, he’s a little woozy and takes a few seconds to get his bearings. He’s still wearing his costume. Calum walks out to the living room, where Tillie is already awake and cleaning up the disastrous mess left behind from the party. She’s wearing a muscle tee that was once Michael’s with a pair of striped boxers, her hair messily thrown into a bun. She has bags under her eyes and mascara smeared everywhere.

To anyone else, she’d look like shit, but Cal still thinks she’s prettier than everyone else on the face of the planet. 

She doesn’t see or hear him walk in due to the music she has blaring while she cleans with her back to him. He awkwardly stands there, not sure if he’s supposed to talk to the girl he has only spoken to once in the past year — last night. When she turns around and finds him standing there, she jumps and drops the beer can in her hands.

“Goddamn, Calum. You scared the shit out of me,” she huffs, bending over to grab the can she dropped.

He clears his throat, his mouth feeling wildly dry even though he’s just drank half a bottle of Gatorade. “Sorry.”

Tillie just keeps cleaning, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he follows her lead. He grabs a trash bag from under the sink and starts to collect cups and cans.

“You don’t need to help, Cal. You can go home.”

“I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t say anything further. Since Calum is helping gather the trash now, she grabs the vacuum and switches it on, trying to get rid of at least some of the glitter that’s coating her floors. She didn’t actually drink that much the night before, so she doesn’t have that bad of a hangover, but she was up until 5 am with the last of the party attendees. They were playing a game, Secret Hitler, time and time again, until Michael checked the time and kicked everyone out for Tillie.

She slept on the couch, but barely got any sleep, Calum’s words still echoing in her head on repeat.

The two of them work in a wordless daze, the music Tillie has playing acting as a soundtrack for their awkward dance of grabbing trash, vacuuming, disnfecting, and tidying around each other. Once Tillie’s home is restored to its usual state of organized chaos, Calum’s stomach grumbles loudly.

“Do you want to go grab breakfast? I know you love the place down the street.”

Calum, wide-eyed, is at a loss for words at Tillie’s suggestion. She’s asking him to spend time with her, one on one, despite their very tense, brief conversation last night. 

“I’m buying, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she adds.

He nods, and she nods in response. 

“Do you want something different to wear? I’ve got some of Mike’s stuff in the dryer you can wear instead of being Superman in incognito,” Tillie says while she walks to her bedroom to grab a sweatshirt and shoes. 

Calum follows her. “Uh, yeah, that would be nice.”

Tillie grabs her favorite hoodie and slips on a pair of Birkenstock clogs before she heads to the laundry room. She opens the dryer and fishes around in it for a pair of sweatpants and the long sleeve shirt that Mike somehow left at her house over the past few weeks. When she finds what she’s looking for, she hands the clothes to Calum.

“I’ll be in the living room,” she tells him before she leaves him to change.

When Calum is done dressing in Michael’s stuff, he meets Tillie in the living room. Together, they go downstairs and then leave the building, walking down the street a few blocks to the cafe they used to go to together at least once a week. Tillie hadn’t been since she left Calum that sticky note. It felt weird to go without him, even if she did crave a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich from there all the time. 

They still don’t talk, and without even asking Calum what he wants, Tillie orders the same thing he would get every time in the past. Black coffee, scrambled egg bowl with home fries, side of hot sauce, and a cream cheese danish that she will end up eating half of. 

“Surprised you remember,” he says when they get their ticket number and stand off to the side to wait for their food. 

Tillie shrugs. “We only came here a million times and you ordered the exact same thing every time.”

Calum nods. “Thanks for buying me breakfast. And, um, for letting me sleep in your bed last night.”

“You’re welcome. You’d do the same for me, and I’m glad you had somewhere safe to sleep. Drunk Calum Ubering home sounds like a recipe for disaster.” 

He laughs quietly, staring down at his feet. He’d forgotten how tiny Tillie’s feet are compared to his. They look comically small next to his feet. He’d also forgotten what it’s like to laugh at something — anything — with Tillie. 

“Fair. Still, I know things are… weird,” he says. “Between us, I mean.”

They’re weird because of Tillie. It’s her fault. A lot of things are her fault, and that’s a fact she knows all too well. She’s chewing on her lip while she thinks, feeling guilty about a lot of things, but especially for what she’s done to Calum. 

“It’s about time we are able to interact again, Cal. I miss you.”

Calum’s expression shifts to stone cold in an instant. She misses him? She doesn’t get to miss him. She doesn’t get to miss him when she left the way she did and ignored him for a year. That’s not what someone who misses him would do. Those words would’ve made him melt a few months ago, but right now, it pisses him off.

He doesn’t say anything before he turns around and walks out of the cafe. 

Tillie, confused, takes a minute to process that he’s leaving. Once it settles, she runs after him, mumbling “what the hell” while she tries to catch up with the man who is over a foot taller than her who got a head start.

“Cal! What the fuck?!” She yells after him, but he’s walking quickly and isn’t going to stop. 

She thought they were making progress and things were actually going pretty well, but now that she’s running after him on the sidewalk of a busy street, she realizes she thought wrong. 

“Calum! Wait! What did I say? Why are you leaving!?”

He halts.

Calum turns around, glaring at Tillie. His jaw is clenched and his hands are balled in fists at his sides. He’s livid.

“Why am I leaving?” He asks. His tone is bitter and clipped. “Why did you leave?”

Tillie’s mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. She wasn’t prepared for this to be the conversation they’d have. She thought things were going to be okay between them. She didn’t expect that he’d be so cold so quickly. She’s confused and quickly becoming upset, too.

“I needed—”

“Space, I know. You keep saying that, but you got your space and suddenly it was filled with new people. What about me, Tillie?” He hates the way his voice cracks, giving away the root emotion of his anger: hurt. 

It wasn’t about him. It was never about him. Why didn’t he see that?

“And now, you found somebody new that, apparently, you’re actually happy with. And that shit hurts. I have to watch the girl I love be happy with someone new, even though we were happy. Tills, we were so damn happy. Then you were just gone.”

Tears are forming in her eyes and she digs her fingernails into her palms as she squeezes her hands into fists. She doesn’t realize how hard she’s biting her lip until she tastes blood. She doesn’t know what to say, because Calum isn’t wrong. She was happy with him. She’d never told him, and she’s never told anyone, but she did love him. She does love him. Things were going so well between them, but when shit hit the fan, all she knew how to do was run.

So she ran. 

“Does he even know about me?” Calum asks.

It’s rhetorical. He knows she’s not going to say anything, and he’s honestly a little surprised she’s still standing in front of him. He thought she’d just go home as soon as she realized what conversation they’d be having. She’s so good at running away.

“I mean, he definitely knows who I am, right? The bassist of the band you toured with for a year. Your best friend’s other best friend. He knows I exist, but does he know it all?”

Tillie’s crying now and hot tears are streaming down her cheeks.

“Does he know how we got drunk in Montreal and you told me about the shit you’ve done? How we lived in our own perfect little world for a few weeks? What about the nights we spent on the beach in Australia? Does he know your favorite color is yellow, but you can’t stand to listen to the song? Did you tell him that you told me I was the only person you’d ever met that you’d want to be in a relationship with?”

The questions come pouring out of Calum and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. It’s partly therapeutic to get to say all of this to her now, after a year of sitting on these thoughts, but it’s also breaking his heart to watch her stand there and cry. 

“I know he doesn’t. You’ve acted like I haven’t existed for a year, Tillie. You can’t even say my name to Michael. You shut down whenever he mentions me.”

She feels betrayed that Michael told him that, but she can’t blame him for it. It wasn’t a secret.

Calum is done talking now, standing there and watching the girl he loves cry on a sidewalk. She looks like a mess. Hell, he looks like a mess. They’re a disaster, just happening for the world to see. He’s hoping there isn’t a paparazzi camera aimed at them right now.

“Are you done?” She asks. Her voice is so quiet and distraught. He’s never heard her like this. He hasn’t ever seen her actually cry. It’s so foreign, and there’s a piece of him that feels horrible for making her cry, but he’s glad he’s finally been able to talk to her about everything.

When she ran away, she didn’t have to face the consequences of her actions. She didn’t have to see how she broke him. 

Calum nods.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Well you did,” he snaps. 

“I was dealing with some shit, Cal, and I didn’t know how to handle it, so I pulled back. I… I’m sorry. I was…” Tillie trails off. Does she tell him? Does she finally say the words? Does she admit the worst facts she’s ever had to come to terms with, out loud, for the first time?

The word sits at the tip of her tongue, but she can’t say it. 

“You were what, Tillie?”

She answers him with silence.

“Figures. Just shut down again.”

Tillie sighs, staring at him through her tears. She wants to tell him. If there’s anyone on this planet she wants to tell, it’s Calum. 

She wishes things were different, and that she didn’t fuck it all up. She wishes she could tell Calum and they could go back to the way they were. She does miss him. She was so happy with him.

The word is right there, but Calum won’t be able to hear it, because he’s walking away, just like she did.

Grieving. Tillie was grieving.

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[dangerously-human]

Waking up slightly hungover on a Friday like a college kid after missing two classes. Which isn't even an experience I had in college, and conveniently for last night's plans, I had taken today off because we leave for kids' retreat in early afternoon. (Oof, I've gotta pack.) Definitely have gotten better about not trying to keep up with these particular friends (hence the "slightly"), but am out of practice with the way I am basically incapable of leaving as long as former office crush #1 still has things to say. This is why I used to leave the office well after 7 half the time.

I am just so grateful that I didn't lose touch with everyone I worked with after the mass exodus. Making the decision to leave was easy, but the actual opportunity to do so falling at the very beginning of the pandemic made it hard, not getting a chance to really say goodbye or figure out intentional friendships with people I was used to sharing space with. I truly believed I would never see many of these people again, and they were such important parts of my life. But God has been so good, when I prayed for these relationships to last, and even I've struggled to be the one to reach out, others have taken up the task. I've been feeling a strong prompting recently to make it a point to spend time with some of those old friends again, to listen and be a Christlike influence in some ways and just to love people better. So that's sort of the theme of this late winter/early spring season, I've got plans with that crowd just about every week, and I'm glad.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Vaguely incoherent stuff about what might have become my favourite episode of the Robins/James radio show. Not for any one particular reason, it was just very funny. The whole post could basically be summarized in those few sentences.

Reached episode 220 of the Radio X shows, from May 2018, and I think it might be the funniest one I've heard so far.

Normally, to be honest, I like that this show is nice easy listening. I'm sorry that this is a massively backhanded compliment because I don't mean it that way and love the show, but I do like that it's something I can easily listen to on the commute to work or on a break at work or something, and it's not going to make me fall apart laughing in public. I mean, I always try to get a spot at the front of the train and facing the wall so I can laugh a bit without people seeing me. But I won't necessarily laugh out loud to the point of it being a problem.

For whatever reason, on this day in May 2018, they hit a stride to the point where I found it difficult to listen on a break at work because I didn't want my coworkers to hear laughter coming from the empty classroom in which I'd barricaded myself. They were both just on for the entire time. I should maybe say they were all on, because Vin was good too. It was so much fun to listen to.

They do repeatedly announce that they were both at a party last night and are both hungover, and John repeatedly announces that he's in a terrible mood for at least the first half of the episode, so we have further confirmation that alcohol always makes people better at their jobs and John Robins should never be allowed to be happy. Although he did mention on the next episode that he was almost a week into things with his new girlfriend, which I realized probably explained why there was the sort of manic giddiness alongside his irritability and hangover the previous week, which I think was the recipe for why everything he said was so funny. But that's not sustainable, you can't have John Robins acquire a girlfriend every week just because it might put him in a particularly excitable broadcasting mood. That's definitely not a good idea. When they announced that, I did have a brief reaction of "Oh my God, again? He's doing it again? Oh God, I forgot that that he's going to do it again. Isn't he tired? How does he have the energy to do this all over again? I barely have the energy to listen to him do it all over again." The radio episodes were quite a rollercoaster during his previous relationship, turning up every other week with anecdotes that made me wince and think this is a terrible idea, and then there was the breakup phase that was even more of a rollercoaster, and I was vaguely aware from having read his Wikipedia page that between the point I'm at (mid-2018) and present day he gets into an other relationship, gets engaged, and then it ends again. But I'd forgotten it was going to happen until they actually mentioned it. It was pretty similar to my reaction when any of my friends tell me they've got into a relationship, which is "Oh I'm going to have to spend so much time listening to stories about how your relationship is going that always make me think you should definitely not be in it anymore, and I'll have to stand there and not say that, and hanging out will get awkward because I have to pretend I think your relationship is a good idea, and then eventually there will be a breakup phase where you'll be very upset but I still won't really be allowed to tell you the whole thing's a terrible idea, until you're finally done and then the cycle will just repeat, and it's fine and I'll be supportive but don't you get tired?" (People reading this blog excepted, and I mean that genuinely, the couple of people I've met online in healthy relationships make me wonder if I just happen to have only ever met in person people who have terrible relationships.) Anyway, the commercial indie Radio X show is going to do another romance storyline, even though honestly, it's been in a pretty good place and I'm not sure they needed to throw in that kind of subplot.

(Disclaimer: Obviously alcohol is bad for you and quitting it is good and people should be happy and digital DJs should pursue both happiness and relationships at the rate that makes sense for their own lives and not according to what makes good radio. Although pursuing relationships and frequently discussing their ups and downs on air are two different things, and the latter maybe could be done according to a bit more of a "good radio" schedule, because I'm currently three episodes into the new relationship and there have already been multiple stories based on it that are slightly exhausting to listen to, we've got several years of this ahead. I don't genuinely wish unhappiness on people, I hope all my favourite tortured single comedians are secretly very happy and just doing a character, I would love it if it turned out Daniel Kitson's been happily married since 2007 and Michael Legge's been sober his whole life and it's all an elaborate ruse. I just don't need to hear the relationship updates in their work all the time.)

Anyway, this post wasn't meant to be about that at all. This post was about a radio episode where they started by both apologizing because they were hungover and not at their best, and then absolutely killed it for an hour and a half. So many parts that made me laugh too hard to be at work. I've said before that John Robins is quite quick normally and "Lee Mack quick" on a really good day, and this was the latter. Solid riffs. Classic arguments. A made-up game with regional accents and yelling at each other. What more could we want?

I said recently that the dynamic from the beginning of their radio show, John's the better comedian but Elis is more successful, is a gap that I think closes because John wins a massive award and gets some more work and Elis' major TV sitcoms end and I'm not sure how much else he gets. At this point, however, I'm less sure of that. John's had his award for some time and done a big tour off it but the gap does still seem to be there, as every single thing John Robins does gets plugged repeatedly on the radio show, while Elis clearly has enough on his plate so that every once in a while he'll just off-handedly mention some shit he's doing on Welsh TV that's common enough so he doesn't need to make a big deal of it every time. He's got a football podcast with some actual players that seems like a pretty big thing, though it's hard to tell how big because John yells at him for promoting the competition if he talks about it. Though John is about to host a (probably terrible, I'm guessing, though I've not seen it yet) TV panel show, which is definitely big. And I do think wherever they were in relation to each other in 2023, the Taskmaster bump is a big enough thing so that John's got to be pulling ahead now.

Anyway, that episode 220 has a bit that really calls attention to that, because they announce that they've both intentionally kept secret some recent part of their life to tell each other live on air, and John goes first and his story is that he got a speeding ticket and then did a remedial driving class, and Elis' story is that his football podcast has been nominated for an international award in New York. Which was a really funny contrast. And John took way too long to congratulate him, which is such a relatable flaw. In my thirties, I have to constantly remind myself that it isn't like when we were younger and our friends do successful things and we just immediately make fun of them for it, now we're older and their successes are genuinely important life things and we have to remember to sincerely say congratulations and not be a dick about it. A thing that I've had tested several times in the last few months specifically as my roommate keeps getting chosen for Team Canada coaching positions and I have been genuinely working hard to remember to say "Wow well done on the hard work" before I start saying "Oh cool you get to go work with that council of terrible people we've hated for 15 years" and then make jokes about how terrible the people are. Congratulations first, then jokes. And if they hadn't made such a thing about keeping it a secret until they were on air, I'd have assumed that John did the congratulations privately and is now just doing jokes on air, as is appropriate for a comedy show. But because it was his first time hearing it, the longer he went without saying "well done" the worse it sounded, and he went way too long. He said the words "This is like finding out your husband’s affair’s been nominated for best relationship" before he said "Well done." Then Producer Vin pointedly said "Well done Elis" like a parent saying "Thank you" to get a kid to realize they should also say that, and then he muttered "Well done" as well. It was a genuine moment of being a bad friend and it made me laugh so hard that I had to cover my mouth so my co-workers in the break room (because I work with people who can somehow get through a whole morning and still be up for socializing rather than barricading themselves in an empty room during the break) wouldn't hear me. It was so funny. Bitter snippy John Robins is really funny. Elis James deserves a Chortle Award for patience, but bitter snippy John Robins is really funny.

Oh, there were also several links worth of discussion about whether Jon Richardson is a dick and how annoying it is to have your ex-flatmates on panel shows where they get asked to tell embarassing stories about you, which was also very funny. Very good episode. They should broadcast hungover more often. Obviously not really, it's a very good thing that an alcoholic has quit drinking. I should say, I hope there are more episodes in the past where they're broadcasting hungover but also fairly giddy and in a basically bad but excitable mood. It's very funny.

[forbidden-creepypasta]

In the Dark

For your consideration, my first creepypasta. If this merits posting on the main site, feel free! Reactions much appreciated.

In the Dark

My twin brother Chris and I drove cross-country this summer. We planned to do it in a week. We had each just finished our freshman year of college. Suddenly we had friends all across the country, and since we had nothing else to do over the summer we thought we’d visit them. We partied through Delaware, into Ohio, heading west, planning to spend a few weeks with our friend Ted in San Francisco by the end of June. We called it “The Wu Brothers’ Great Adventure” or “Chris and Stephen’s Bogus Journey.” We took turns driving and fought over the iPod.

On Wednesday we found ourselves crossing Iowa. Fields rolled to our sides; occasionally a hill would rear above us. We had stayed with a friend in Chicago the day before and had gotten a very late, hungover start. It was midnight by the time we hit the center of the state and we were both dragging. Chris’ head rested against the window and I could see he was falling asleep. It was about time to get gas, maybe some coffee.

I took an offramp at random and we drove beside the highway for a mile, two miles. Chris had sat up and was watching with half-shut eyes. Up ahead we could see a gas station, a pool of orange light in the flat darkness. It was old-fashioned, local, but it had gas pumps out front and the lights were on in the convenience store. Just past midnight we couldn’t ask for better.

Chris went off to the bathroom as I filled the car. Insects hummed in the night, I guess grasshoppers. They made a lulling, tidal chorus. I blinked as I held the handle of the gas hose. Regular was only $1.99 here, I saw. I read the price sign over and over the way you do when you’re sleepy and there’s nothing else to distract you.

When the tank was full I headed inside to pay. The place looked a little rough – just a sign that said “GAS” over the door. The window was flyspecked. Brown filth streaked the linoleum floor, like someone had mopped it halfheartedly. A fluorescent light hummed, adding its voice to the insect chorus from outside. White metal shelves stood forlornly empty. I could see dust outlines where they must have once held food or magazines or something. The cash register was in a little plastic cubicle, also hard-used and grimy. No cashier in sight. Past the register a door opened into the garage, which was dark. Next to the door stood a vending machine, lit up pink.

I rang the bell for the cashier and walked over to the machine. When I drive, I tend to eat greasy road food and I was hoping for some Combos. The machine looked like it had a printed sticker over the glass front, a pink, wavy pattern. Up close it proved to be completely stuffed with what looked like hamburger meat. A light pink fluid dripped out of the slot on the bottom, pooling beneath it. “ENJOY!” said the sign at the top. As I turned away strong, clammy hands grabbed me and a black plastic bag slipped over my head.

When I woke up I was on a concrete floor , staring up into a bare lightbulb. My arms and legs burned horribly. I struggled to a sitting position and saw that someone had tightened hose clamps neatly just below each of my knees and just above my elbows. I don’t know if you’ve ever used hose clamps – they’re very useful for plumbing and duct work. They’re a thin metal band with a little gear attached to it – you can use a screwdriver to turn the gear to get the band good and tight. Someone had done this to me, stripped me to my underwear, and fitted these clamps around my arms and legs, and tightened them until they cut raw circles into my flesh. I could move my arms and legs but they were simultaneously numb and burning. A slow ooze of blood crept past the metal bands, which were so new and shiny that I could see my terrified face in them. They kept me there for ten days.

When Chris and I were little my parents would leave us with our grandmother. We’re Chinese, but as you can tell from Chris’ name my family converted to Christianity (Lutheran, if you’re interested). My grandmother, who had grown up in mainland China, stayed a Buddhist, and she only spoke Chinese. My brother and I were both basically bilingual, so we would sit and listen while my grandmother told us Buddhist parables and stories from the old country. She taught us a few prayers, including one to the Amida Buddha, and for some reason as I lay on that filthy floor and listened to the screams I began repeating it to myself.

By then I think five or six hours had gone by. I had seen our captors. They wore shapeless, ruddy robes, and they shuffled on tiny, short legs. It could have been comical if they hadn’t been monsters. They were made, from what I could see, of gross, marbled flesh, livid, dead-looking, with yellow fat giving some of it a greasy shine. They were shaped like men, and they had powerful, thick arms and four-fingered hands. Their heads proceeded directly from their body in a bulge of muscle – they had no necks, and their only facial feature was a circular, putrid maw in the center of their heads. Their skin was loose over their muscles but stiff and awkward – they wore it like ill-fitting clothes. The reek was indescribable.

And they were cruel, but in a totally impersonal way. There was something automatic about their movements, the swift, unhesitating way they would select one of us, sling us onto the metal table and, with an ordinary chef’s knife, excise our blue, throbbing, numb arms and legs. They were very strong, hacking the knife through bones and joints with one or two efficient movements. They pushed the severed limbs off the table and they lay in gory heaps on the floor. I saw them work through dozens of us – men, women. A boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Some they killed.

I didn’t see what they did after they crippled their victims. They would carry the screaming, oozing torsos down the hall into another room. Once I saw them cut out all of a man’s teeth. Once one of them came in with a withered, emaciated torso attached to a metal harness. He held it like a workman would hold a toolbox. The torso’s head had been scooped out above the eyes, his skull halved, and a metal plate riveted over the void. His mouth disappeared beneath a metal grille, wired into his cheek muscles. The monster walked briskly past us with his horrid burden, opened a door at the end of the chamber and passed through. I never saw it again.

I lay there praying to the Buddha on the tenth day and one of the monsters turned towards me, almost like it was listening. I had never seen one of them do this before. By that point I was fairly certain I would lose my arms and legs even if they didn’t cut them off – they were numb, bright blue, swollen. I breathed in wet gasps. I had soiled myself. I couldn’t sit up or even wiggle my fingers. I kept praying, my voice hoarse and ghostly. The monsters, as I said, usually ignored noise of any kind. Pleading, screams, threats, flailing with our numbed limbs, nothing got a reaction from them. But this one watched me, though of course it lacked eyes, and it came over and crouched, its bloated hands on the floor in front of it, and it spoke.

“I knew him,” it said. It was speaking Chinese. Its voice was like an old man’s. I was shaking uncontrollably. The smell was indescribable. The thing’s breath was cold.

“I knew Dharmakara before he became a monk. He was a wheelwright. You pray to him as the Amida Buddha now.” He put his paw on my shoulder and leaned closer, like a friend sharing an anecdote in a bar. I still have the purple-yellow mark from those claws. Where it touched me my flesh is spongy and inflamed.

“What?” I asked. The thing’s mouth worked. I could see raw red muscle behind the slack lips, if you could call that circular flap lips.

“We began our work many many years ago. We were sorcerers in the foothills of the high mountains. A holy man, a Bodhisattva, came to us. He asked us why we caused so much suffering. This vile world is bad enough, he told us, why do you prey on others? The wheel of dharma will turn for you as well, he taught us. We let him leave and we thought. We held a congress in our caves that we lit with fat lamps. The greatest one of us, Nanygaal Shurang, had listened closely to the holy man.

The world is very wicked, Shurang told us, but it is not wholly wicked. The wheel of reincarnation turns only for those who have not yet exhausted their dharma, only for those who have hope and who wish to ascend to the pure land of Nirvana. Our wickedness is only temporary. We may torture and degrade, and prey on the poor people, but the wheel of dharma turns as long as there is light in the world.

Who can stop the wheel of dharma? We cannot, though we know the Nine Ways and the Path of Blood. Only the Buddha can stop the wheel and end the game of rebirth. Yet he watches the striving of men and he urges them to compassion. When will the Buddha turn away? When the world is wholly wicked. When we have made it wholly wicked. But we are few people! We live in these foothills and though we control many powers and many unclean spirits we cannot plunge the world into wickedness.

Yet what causes wickedness? He asked as the light played within the caves and as we sat or stood with our staves of bone and our skins and our beads.

Suffering causes wickedness, Shurang told us. So we must cause suffering. So for years we caught men and placed them in our caves and held them, and after many years we had many men, and then we created so much suffering. After the first few weeks we began to joke. This was work! We sorcerers, who usually sat in our caves and commanded spirits, had to grow strong muscles as we cut and crushed! Shurang prayed to the Buddha, as we worked. He asked the Buddha, oh boundless one, do you see this terrible suffering we have caused? Do you feel the taint of wickedness we have placed upon the world? Will you not stop the turning of the wheel, in your perfect compassion? The Buddha did not answer.

But something else answered. A thing in the dark of the samsara, the evil delusion of our world. It was the voice of suffering itself. We serve it now.”

He picked me up, then, and cradled me in his arms like an infant, and he walked me around those cold, filthy corridors, and he showed me what they were doing, what they had been doing for thousands of years. Afterwards he took the clamps off my limbs and put something like a white, wriggling bone into them. The pain was unbelievable but after a while I could stand and move my fingers again.

“My brother?” I asked, “can I see my brother.” The thing stood silent. There were stairs behind me and I left. It was early morning and my car sat at the pump. I got in it and drove. For a while I thought I was going to become like them. Where the thing had touched me the flesh is dead, purulent, sloughing off in stringy pieces. But only where the thing touched me. It’s not spreading. I think I will just die. I don’t expect anyone to believe this. I went back to the station, which is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, and it was ordinary. They treated me like I was crazy. They could see the blood and pus through my shirt. I don’t know what to do. I should kill myself. I don’t want to know if there is anything after this life.

Credit to: Gilgameshback