#spend half the work week hungover at work
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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. đ€ love being a libra.
#this week alone has been like:#creepy coworker making me anxious like a white shaky dog with gunk in its eye that belongs to a middle class family#accidentally start a fire in my house#realise I've driven around an unregistered car for the last month and spend all the money I have on that#spend half the work week hungover at work#steal food to be able to eat#and tomorrow. call in sick to work because I can't afford to drive there#and then the above#it's been... a time#mine#my work haven't done their end of the tax return stuff which is the money I typically use to pay for this
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more than anyone âŽïž cl16
genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst
word count: 13.7k Â
You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, youâre 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 itâs 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 (sheâs a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didnât 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 youâre intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe bothâbut itâs bad.
You donât take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachelâs stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.
âDavid sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.â Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.
âWhatâs going on?â
She purses her lips. âHeâs on his way over here. JustâŠâ She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. âSorry. Wait for him. I canât tell you anything yet.â
You take a swig from the pity coffee. âAm I getting blacklisted?â
âGod, you dumbass, noââ 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.
âRachel told me you hadââyou stifle the adjectiveâânews.â
âThat I do, yes.â He hums, tracing the edge of your table. âDid you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?â
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 croissantsâsure, 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?Â
âSure.â You take another gulp off your coffee. âIt was⊠fun.â
âWell, since your movieâs doing well,â David pauses and hums, âhow do you feel about another few weeks of fun?âÂ
âLike Paris Fashion Weekâweeks⊠this month?â You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? Youâre not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldnât mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. âSo soon after spring? Did Anna want this?â
âIiiitâs, er, Vogueâs new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,â David says smugly. âWell, she called my office, granted. But to ask for youââ
âAre you fucking serious?â You stand up, and if you hadnât had some fix of coffee you wouldâve gotten dizzy. âDavid, tell me youâre serious.â Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answerâwhich, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.Â
âYeah, I am.â He plays off a grin. âShe 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.â
You sit back down, mouth slack. âOh, my God. I canât believe it.â Your eyes dart to Rachel, whoâs caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. âFuck! This is huge, David.â
âYeahâokay, yeah, it is.â David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. âGood and bad news, remember?â
You blink a few times. Youâd nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good newsâand it is overwhelmingly goodâcomes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that itâs noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But itâs. Fine. Itâs whatever. Worst case scenario, youâre going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.
âSo⊠the shows? Events, and shit?â He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. âTheyâre all in Monaco.â
Wrong.
âMonaco.â You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. Itâs 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. âMonaco. Areâyouâre sure?â
âMmm,â he hums in affirmation. âI know, I know youâre not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But thisâlike you said, this is huge! And I donât think we should jeopardize that.â He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.
âWellâyeah, I suppose. Iâll deal with it.â
âYeah.â He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. âOkay, thatâs it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.â He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.
âIs that it, David?â She asks, an edge to her voice.
You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that itâs a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who theyâre in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencersâall making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.
âYeah,â says David dismissivelyânervously? âThatâs it.â
You search for your name. âOkay. Um, hey.â Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. âDid, umâdid David mention youâre paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.â
David sucks his teeth. âThank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.âÂ
Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your searchâeventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one youâve wished to never read over ever again.
âWait, my Charles?â You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. âI meanâno, sorryâCharles, as in Charles Leclerc? I canât work with him, you know this!âÂ
âWhâwell, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,â Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, âyouâre always saying you can work âwith anyoneâ!â She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.
âI didnât evâI never say that,â you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. âI wouldâve known if I did. RachâDavidâI cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. Heâs my⊠weâŠâ 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. âFine. Then itâs either Anna Wintourâs special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-boââ
ââfriend.â You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. âEx-friend.â
âAlright, kid. Suuuure.â David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldnât 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 wouldâveâshouldâve, evenâbeen 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 wasnât. Months prior, youâd 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 youâd miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.
âDo you two at least get along?â David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.
âItâs not that simple.â You tap a nail against your desk a few times. âBut I think itâll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be⊠good friends? As teenagers.â
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.
âSo itâs a no.â
âIâm just saying itâs impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!â Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. âI donât even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?â
âAre you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?â Davidâs tone is comparable to that of a dadâs, scolding and horrified, almost. âLook. If you donât take this, career-wise, it doesnât mean much. You get paid a shit ton, youâll surviveâyouâll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do itâI mean it.â
You stare back at him because you know heâs right. âMaybe it wonât be a big, long feature?â Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. âIf you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.â
And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteenâbut 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 youâre 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. Thatâs 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 youâd ever want to be in a room with. Ten years laterâthe person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
â
âMAMAN!â Charlesâ 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. Itâd 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.
âCharles,â you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. âDonât.â
âGuess who got the lead spot in the recital.â 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 readâŠ
âBut-ter-cup.â HervĂ© sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. âYou?â
âYes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,â he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, âshe got the titular role!â He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.Â
âThere is no titular role in a school recital,â 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 Charlesâ 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 youâd be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didnât stop laughing even when youâd both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didnât 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 laughâeven laughed yourself at some pointâbecause all day, youâd been absently wondering how youâd break the news about your moving away to him.
â
Charles is not okay. Heâd gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now heâs 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. âOn the dot, sharp,â said his assistant, like the two didnât just mean the same fucking thing. Heâs patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion⊠thing.
âA meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon⊠oh, and in the next few weeks, youâre going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With⊠withââ
âDâaccord, thank you,â he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. Heâs 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 itâs the jetlag, maybe itâs the lack of sleep, maybe itâs 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). âSorry,â he says. Heâs new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. âIâm new. Iâm Greg.â
Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. Thereâs several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but thereâs only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before heâs conked out on Ambien; he trusts heâll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. Heâll figure it out.
Yeah, sheâs 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 sheâs saying. Greg chips in with something he canât decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, Iâll 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. Itâs even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive Frenchâtable 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.
âUm, right, yeah. Okay, uhâwait here. Your partnerânot really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. Sheâs on her way heeereâŠâ He checks his phone. âOkay. You caught her name, right?â Charles nods to fend him off. âOkay. So, wait here.â
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 heâs 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 partsâ
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 doesnât 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. Itâs a valiant effort.
A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as youâre 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. âI need a drink,â you huff, not even looking at him.Â
Youâre on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room thatâs much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl heâd seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: âDo you need a drink, too?â But he shakes his head.
âAre you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?â 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.
âOh, no. I meanâyeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.â
âItâs okay, I donât expect you to do it of your own will,â you joke, crossing your legs.
Charles laughs dryly. âWho asked?â
âSo he speaksâŠâ You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.Â
âIn the two minutes weâve been around each other, youâve insulted me and my assistant. Iâd prefer silence, your highness.â
âAww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?â You suck your teeth. âYou must be fun at parties.â
âDo you two, um. I donât want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?â Charles notices that Gregâs forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. âOr if you donât, like, are you two just⊠not in good moods or something?â
The girl comes in then, saying hereâs 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. âSit.â
Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because heâs starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. âBossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.â He offers a smile of his own.
âSheâs my assistant, Rachel,â you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. âWe need to check my schedule.â
He wants to slap himself. âToo busy to open your calendar?â Nevermind, heâs a god.
Your sarcastic smile drops. âAnd whatâs on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?â
Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, itâs 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 weekâs plans and proclaiming youâre both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back upâSchiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front rowâtomorrow.
The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Gregâs 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. âHey, Iâm Rachel, by the way.â
âCharles.â
âI know,â she says sheepishly. âListen. I know you two have history, sheâweâsheâs, um, told me about it before. I donât know the whole story, and Iâm not⊠like, Iâm 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. Itâs a huge gig for you both. Soâyeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.â
She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.
â
âAlors,â Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. Heâd been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. âWhat is the problem?â His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. âAre you missing the recital?â
âQuoi? Non.â You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldnât lie for much longer, not when youâd been keeping this under wraps for two months. âListen. Charles.â He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. âCharles.â
âHmm?â
âCan you pleâlook at me.â Your voice hardened.
Heâd 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. âDesolĂ©. This pimple wonât go away.â
âCharles,â you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. âListen.â
âOkay.â He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long heâd been scratching at it.
You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didnât understand why you felt so torn. âItâs something to do with me,â you said.
âYeah.â
âIâm moving.â You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. âOut of Monaco.â
A beat. âWhat?â
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. âYeah. In a few months, like, after school. Itâs Papaâhis job. Itâs a whole thing.â
âEurope?â You shook your head. America.
âWhat⊠well, what does that mean, then?â His expression didnât waver but if anything did, it was his eyesâdesperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. Youâre his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.Â
âWeâll keep in touch,â you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. âYou were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so itâs like. Ăa revient au mĂȘme.â
âIt isnât the same,â he said, his voice thin and cracking.Â
âYouâll be fine.â
âYou have a very misguided idea of who I am.â
âShut up. Come off it,â you laughed, sitting up straighter. âWeâll call everyday, and Iâll meet all the famous people whoâll get me a real acting job, and Iâll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things wonât change. Not that much, at least.â
âMaybe, just maybe.â He pauses. âWill you be here for my birthday, at least?â Heâd made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.
âCharles,â you sighed.Â
âNo, yeah. I get it.â He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like heâs 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 didnât say anything else.
Just: âWeâll be okay.â
â
You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but youâd 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 wellâthe 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. Youâd 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 weekâs agenda would be a photographed tour of the MusĂ©e OcĂ©anographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to âfraternize withâ 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 Davidâs 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.
âBâjour,â 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: âHello?â
Butterfliesâsome form of them, whateverâflutter in your stomach. âItâs me.â
He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. âHuh. What do you want?â The butterflies have rotted to death.
âI need to talk to you.â
âTo insult me again?â He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. âBah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. Câest tout ce que tu as Ă dire? I gotta go.â
Your face warms at his accusatory tone. âWow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?â
âWhy should I be charming with you?â
âAt least be polite,â 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. Itâs the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasnât 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 heâd 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 youâd convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from youâby him, no less, which hurt all the more. Youâd 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.
âIt doesnât matter,â you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. âLook, weâre supposed to be friends. In⊠on camera, at least. Itâs disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.â
âFor the cameras,â he says back, solemn.
âYeah.â You wind a finger through your hair. âJust⊠for the sake of civility.â
You hear his little hums of consideration. âDâaccord,â he says after a few minutes. âTruce, then.â
âSure.â You smile a little. âI have to go.â
â
You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. âCall you yet, poppet?âÂ
âNon,â you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress youâd been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. âJe tâai dit quâil ne le ferait pas.â You were right: he wouldnât 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 youâd been upset. The knit in your brows that didnât go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. âIâm sorry, baby.âÂ
âItâs fine.â Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. âItâs⊠fine. Iâm fine.â 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. Heâd 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 âdangerousâ 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.
âBah, trop dramatique,â 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. âCome on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.â
âWe need to talk,â he eked out awkwardly. âI have something important to tell you.â
You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. âOuais?â
âIâŠâ 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. âIâŠâ
âSay it.â
âI want to.â His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. âI⊠Iâm going⊠going home.â
You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. âOh.â You blinked. âThatâs it?â
âYeâouais. Yeah. I gotta.â Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. âSave some for me, oui? Bye.â
âCharles,â you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. âThatâs it, promise?â Your hand flexed around air.
âCross my heart!â The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.
â
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 youâd rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you theyâre both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if youâre still dating the guy youâd most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.
âGod, no. We never even dated, the⊠um, tabloids always make shit up.â You purse your lips. âAnyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?â You ask, turning your head a little. You donât think youâll ever forget his affinity for cinema.
âNot professionally, but I still sit through hours-long⊠you know, reviews, and stuff.â He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.
âHe 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.â
âWhich is?â He segues into a more personal topic. âIs it still Bambi?â
âOh, it was, for the longest time!â You almost squeal with excitement. âNot anymore, though. Itâs been dethroned, ha ha. I think itâs⊠Iâd say itâs maybe Casablanca now.â
âHow American.â
âShut up.â Your face warms. âItâs so romantic. When he saysâwhen he goes, um. Weâll always have Paris. And then, Godâwhen Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave youâand Rick goes, And you never will⊠isnât it so classic? Romance movies nowadays areâI, I, I⊠I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and theyâre either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.â You sigh. âItâs like nobody gets love right anymore.â
âUs Weekly disagrees,â he says weakly, after a period of silence.
âStop,â you laugh warningly. âAnd donât act like youâre not being paired up with different girls, too.â
For a minute you sit with the realization that youâve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. Itâs a bit jarring, itâs a bit warm, itâs a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.
âCome see me tonight.â He says it like he didnât 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. âEarth toâŠ?â
âWhâsorry. Fuck.â You clear your throat and deduce your next words. âWhere?â
âIâll text you. A club, near your hotel.â
âYeah⊠yeah, sure.â You hum an affirming noise.Â
â
Your name is on the list, though youâre sure it doesnât 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. Itâs 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 donât 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 donât 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 heâd conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to lifeâyour hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. âHey.â
âHi.â
âSo.â He realizes heâs in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. âUm, guys, this is myâfriendâyou already knowââhe fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anywayââand these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel⊠you know Joris.â 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. âLong time.â
âYeah, itâs been.â 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 youâve 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 (âI rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna seeâ) before he leans close and asks: âAre you his girlfriend?â His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.
âNo,â you holler to emphasize it. âWe used to know each other. I grew up here.â
âOh shit! Native!â 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 bathroomâanother hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize itâs Charles.
âHowâs the drink?â He asks, brows straight.
âThatâs all you wanted to ask?â You raise your voice above the bass. âSomeone needs to teach you fucking⊠proper small talk.â A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.Â
He laughs, too, despite himself. âNon, I wasâI was just asking. We shouldâI brought you over here toâso we couldâŠâ He realizes heâs been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. âDance.â
Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For whâŠWhy?
âFor the sake of the truce.â His voice is light. âWe should try being closer.â
âWe were close once,â you say, loose. âDid you forget?â
Heâs looking right at you, and youâre warm all over. âHow could I?â
It feels too real. Not the wordsâyes the wordsâbut the alcohol, the alcohol is what youâre referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as theyâd 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 thatâs 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. Itâs a futile effort, though, because youâre feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.
âThis stall is open,â somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: âOh, my God. Are you okay?â
You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. âIâm so sorry. I justâIâve been nauseous all night.â
âI have water,â she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. âCarmen, the water!â A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesnât hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: âOn the off chance Iâm lucky, and youâre the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say Iâm a huge fan of your work.â
Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. âOh, God. Yeah, thatâs me. Iâm so sorryâthis is so humiliating.â
âItâs notâitâs normal,â she assures, nodding. âWeâve all⊠yâknow, puked into a club toilet before.â From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. âWhatâd you drink?â
âFruity stuff,â you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. âAnd shots.â
They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. âAre you heartbroken or something?â Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean donât ask the world-famous actress if sheâs heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.
âNo. Thereâs a guy, though, and heâs⊠weâre⊠itâs a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but⊠clearly, it did not.â Your lips simmer into a straight line and youâre quiet for a few moments before remembering youâre on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. âAnyway! Sorry. Iâm clearly, um, delirious.â You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.Â
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 reflectionâyour tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. âThank you.â
âItâs nothing,â says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. âIâm Lily, by the way. And just so you knowâIâm so sure that guy has nothing on you.â Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.
Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. âYouâre too kind. Thank yââÂ
âLil? Baby, are you puking?â 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 sideâthe detective of sortsâhappens to be Alex, who youâd been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.Â
âWeâre fine. Leave us alone,â replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. âCarmen and I have a new friend.â She doesnât even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.
Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. âTry harder next time.â He pumps his eyebrows. âWe were introduced earlier.â He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lilyâs jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.
âWhat the hell? How?â A pause. âNo offense. Itâs like. Two levels of fame, right there.â
He makes a pinched face. âSheâs Charlesâ⊠friend? I donâtâcoworker? 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.â
âWaitâyou might be right.â Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. âLetâs talk about it at the hotel.â
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. âSorry,â she says with a smile. âThat was my boyfriend, Alex. I didnât know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?â
âOh.â Your shoulders relax. âYeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind ofâwe drifted apart, so. Iâm here on a business trip, and heâs just welcoming me.â You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.
âSo youâre friends?â
âYeah.â You feel like vomiting all over again.Â
â
The skyâs 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 heâs sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesnât doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. Youâre somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum thatâs 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 thereâs a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; heâs done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.Â
âAnd a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, likeâaround?â Gregâs voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.
Youâd left him hanging at the clubâhe couldnât 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 catererâs churros, a recommendation he deems âvery special.â (âHave you worked with these caterers before?â âNo.â) Itâs also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or threeâchocolate 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.
âOur truce seems to be working.â You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.
âIt seems so. I owe that to my personality.â
You really laugh at that. âI didnât know you had one. Itâs very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.â
âWho said that?â
âNo, nothânobody.â You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. âAw, putain. Iâm ruining my lipstick. Patâs going to kill me. I look awful.â 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 heâs 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.
âNo. You are very pretty, you know.â He says then, and itâs 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. âSorry,â you laugh, and his heartâs frozen because itâs the prettiest sound heâs ever heard. âWhat did you say?â
The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, âWhat? Nothing, I said nothing.â
You make a faceâconfused, suspiciousâbut 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 HermĂ©s, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. Itâs easy to get lost in a crowdâin a cityâwhere everyone looks the same, and knows the otherâs name. Perhaps thatâs also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.
âThe coast was always my favorite part about the city.â
He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when youâre in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here itâs busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. Itâs nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because itâs the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.Â
âI wanted toâŠâ He trails off. âI wanted to talk to you because, ah. Iâm sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I shouldâve been more⊠yeah. Iâm sorry. I hope youâre okay.â
You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: âI alwaysâŠâ Youâre clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. âI remember, um. In Year 3, weâI came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?â You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.
âAnyway.â You pace around again, and he follows. âSo, Iâm mad, and sheâs trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It mustâve been around here, I think.â You look around and point at an empty area. âThere. But itâsâthey mustâve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, Iâm sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.â
Charlesâ eyebrows knit confusedly. âWhat, the bench area?â
âNoâthe whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this hugeâthis, um, board? Sign? Poster? And heâs got half the pier in on his whole thing, and Iâm totally⊠it was just⊠yeah.â You smile. Itâs the biggest smile heâs seen on you since you got here and the fact that heâs even around to see it gets him all warm.
âSo what happened?â
âIt was a flash mob. You know thoseâyeah, theyâre 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.â You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. âIâd love that.â
He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. âVraiment?âÂ
You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. âHeeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, youâll like it. Maybe not a proposal, thoughâcan you imagine the pressure?â You pause. âBut I donât know. Thereâs something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think itâs worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if itâs cheesy, I wouldnât mind much. You?â
âItâs cheesy for me,â he disagrees, shrugging. âBut I see your point.â Truth be told, he didnât see you as a romantic typeâbut all heâs 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 wouldnât share in interviewsâlikes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. âDancing is a bit overboard.â
âOh, definitely.â 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 hasnât had the courage to say?
â
Next question is who your first love wasâweâre rolling in threeâŠ
âFirst love?â 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 differentâuncharted, private territory. But youâd realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.
âI 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 theseâthere were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013âthatâs, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When youâre a teenager, youâre kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, thatâll 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.â Your smile didnât reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. âWe learn a lot from childhood loves.â
Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.
âThank you, Lynn,â you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: âCould we omit that? Iâsorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? Iâm sorry, I just. Sorry.â For the first time in five years, you realize, youâve conjured his memory again.
â
âOkay. What else do you remember?â
âI⊠do you remember the recital song?â
âOf course I do! The dance is⊠thatâs a different story.â Youâd been at Charlesâ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video youâre doing in a few days. You stayed becauseâthatâs beyond you at this point, and youâd rather not delve into the rationality of it all. Youâre content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.
âThe dance, mon dieu, the dance.â He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. âYou were at the center!â
âStop. Stop,â you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. âItâs crazy, you know? How we⊠like, we share a life. Notâbut like, we had a whole childhood together.âÂ
âAnd nobody knows.â Itâs not something you keep a secret on purposeâitâs just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, thatâs a good thing for you.
âDo people ask?â
âPeople ask, yes.â His accent is a reminder of your pastâyouâd once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English youâve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where itâs 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 wouldnât describe as anything but home.
âWhat do you tell them, then?â Quickly, you add: âThe truth, orâŠ?â
âThat we knew each other as kids,â he says, smiling absently. âThat is the truth, no?â
You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. Thereâs 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. âWhat would you want me to say?â 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 wouldâve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything wentâ
âNothing, thatâs fine.â 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. âUnless youâre privy to telling people how we didnât talk for months before I left.â
He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. âIâm sorry. I donâtâI⊠Iâve wanted to bring it up.â
âIâm not mad.â Itâs a half-lie. âOkay, noâI am, a bit. It justâit wouldâve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.â
âI know.â He doesnât 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 selfâa sense of quiet, a sense of privacyâwhen heâs alone with you. Perhaps itâs 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.Â
He pretends heâs 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. Youâd been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you wentâyou werenât tripping too much, really; he didnât need to hold you, but he told himself he had toâand 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, youâd 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.Â
The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. âWhen you were drunk last week.â He looks up. âYou saidâyou kept saying, maybe, just maybe.â
A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. âOh. That wasâyeah, okay.â
âWhatâs it mean?â
âYou seriously donât remember?â Youâre laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. âOh, my God. Charles, itâs all you ever said in Year⊠what, 7? I donât⊠anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, IâŠâ
Momentarily, youâre stunned by the memories of himâyouâd forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. âSorry. Yeah, I, umâI think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.â
âI donât understââ
ââYou were always just saying it,â you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. âNo, you reallyââ
âI donâtâI do not ever remember sayââ
ââWell,â you say, âI remember.â 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.
âI have to go.â You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. âGood?â
âYeah,â he says, blinking. âYeah. Take care. Should I drive you?â
âGod, no.â You laugh breathily. âIâll see you tomorrow.âÂ
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 heâd almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wondersâor with regret?
â
âBest friends now, are you?â 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 youâve spent the most time withâthese 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.
âWait, so sheâs hooking up with him?â Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. âHiiii. Whereâve you been?â
Muffled by the bedspread: Charlesâ 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 youâve 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.
âTalk to us,â 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. âDid you two fight?â
And, oh Christ, fight? Itâs not like youâre dating. You arenât even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but thatâs 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 canât fight with a guy whoâs not your boyfriend. You canât fight with a guy youâre not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.
âDo you want gelato?â No, no.
âLove Island?â In a minute.
The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no useâhating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a âtruceâ seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings youâd once been able to suppress.
âWhat kind of crush doesnât disappear after ten years?â You ask through tears. Itâs almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. âIâve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he neverâpretending we wereâfuck. Pretending he didnât exist. It wasâIâm not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpseâI see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. Itâs the same crush I had before, coming back, like itâs never going to leave me alone.â
âMaybe itâs not a crush,â says Lily, slowly.
âSo what is it then?â You ask, hopelessly. What is thisâthis revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what heâs doing, youâll 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 doesnât answer, because you already know.
â
âHey VogueâIâm here with Charles Leclerc, and weâre here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.â 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. Itâs 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 Charlesâ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.
The dayâs business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitorâs closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. Itâd 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.
Itâs ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romanticâitâs a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. Heâs gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until heâs 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 heâs licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.
âYeah?â His voice is rough against your pulse point.
âMake itâwe gottaâquicker.â Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on somethingâso 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.
Heâs hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. âI want more.â
âI know, baby. I know.â The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.
You squirm when he doesnât let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his timeâhe hates that he canâtâand 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 goodâfuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.Â
You buck your hips into the air desperately. âWe reallyâfuck. We donât have time.â 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. âPlease, I can take it,â you breathe. Youâve 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. Youâre flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels sâgood. 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? Youâre 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. Youâre so big. Youâre 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 donât have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.
I knowâ you whine. Iâm cummingâit feels too goodâ
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.Â
You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.
â
The gala is big and extravagant and youâre 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.
Youâre beside Florence and sheâs talking about something, about a new movie sheâs working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesnât really reach your eyes. Youâre still caught in a web of fragile confusion. âI need to excuse myself for a moment,â you say after a while, after youâve 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 itâs irrevocable now, the change thatâs come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensiveâa match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. Itâs starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things youâd only say about a marble banister when youâre trying to avoid an adult introspection.
Behind you: âAre you okay?âÂ
In response, you say, âWe shouldnât have had sex.â
Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too farâhe, 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.
âIt was hard, when you didnât⊠when we didnât talk, and you didnât ever tell me why, so I didnât know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, whatâten years later, ha ha, even after⊠I donât know, after the fact. Weâre supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but Iâm 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 Iâm famous now, my life is a whole thing, aâthis whole party, and Iâm supposed to⊠fuck.â You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. âItâs like. You know when youâre a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where youâre staring at someone from across a room, and youâre smiling and talking to other people and youâre happy because you know in a few hours, youâll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That⊠I always thought youâd be that person for me. Maybe because you were the onlyâyou knowâthe only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differentlyâhell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I donât. Sorry. Iâm notâIâm not drunk, or anything.â
He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like itâs just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. âIâŠâ he says, before pausing. âIâm sorry for leaving.â
You nod in response.Â
âI always thought you would forgive me.â His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. âI wanted to be your person.â
âHow could I forgive you without an apology?â Your voice comes out fragile. âI leave in three days. Youâve fuâyouâve⊠youâve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. Youâve done everything but that.â
âI did apologize. I donât think it was enough, butââ
âBut you didnât,â you reply, a jagged response. âYou never said anything.â
âI wrote you.â His eyebrows knit. âI wrote you.âÂ
âYou wrote me.â You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. âWhat, a letter?â
âAn e-mail. Before your first film came outâ2014? A year after you⊠yeah.â Heâs quiet and timid and nervous. âI forced Gi to tell me your address.â
âI didnât⊠I wasnât using that e-mail anymore. I havenât in years.â 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. âI have to go.â 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.
âIf you find the message,â he says, âwill you read it?â
âI donât plan to,â you lie. âGoodnight.â
â
From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
Date: 14 October 2014
To: You
Subject: Buttercup
jâappellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles rĂ©pondre. itâs been more than a year since you moved out, in two days iâll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. iâve 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 youâre doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know itâs my fault all this happened in the first place. iâm 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 donât want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah youâre my best friend and you always will be. iâm sorry for being a knot head.
i was always scared to tell you but itâs been there since forever: i love you. i shouldâve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but itâs the 1 thing i regret. shouldâve done a lot more, i know.. but i didnât. 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 âplayground weddingâ 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 itâs just in the way weâve always been (as friends). if you write me back iâll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if weâve talked yet. if not, thatâs ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.Â
charles
p.s: est-ce que je te manque?
p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?
â
âRachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.â 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 Iâm 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 interviewsâ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, itâs not.
You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesnât 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. âHi. Iâm a huge fan.â
âThank you,â you smile, despite your tiredness.
âThis is so embarrassingâbut do you happen to have the time?â
âSureââyou tap your phone openââhalf past four.â
âGreat,â she says. âThanks, Buttercup.â
Youâre opening your mouth to say youâre 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.
âI know, I knowâIâm just, um. Iâm waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.â
âTremendous. Merci, Buttercup.â
âWhââ You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. âWhat?â
She doesnât turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps youâve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.
Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping youâre 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 youâve just read, matching the opening notes of a song youâve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the roomâs intercom and floods it with life.
Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine youâd learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. Theyâre 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.
Heâs 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. Youâd told him about this before. Heâd 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. âI believe that belongs to you.â
And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of camerasâyouâre grateful for itâyou finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. Youâve 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, Lilyâso many familiar ones), he says it again: âIâm sorry. Iâll make it all up to you.â
âYou better,â you tease into his lips, smiling. âI know. I love you.â Ten years laterâyour person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
#f1#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smut#f1 x reader
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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 mustâve 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 didnât 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 âYou feel too good baby, I canât help itâ 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 didnât 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 hadnât 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.
âI donât know, you asked for this.â He sunk another half an inch deep. The friction almost hurt with how tight she was.
âNo, no, please, daddy. Please fuck my virgin pussy please I need your cock in my cunt.â 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 didnât 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 âNo!â
She froze up, knowing that she wasnât 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.
âThis body is mine, understand?â He growled the words while yanking on the chain again, harder this time.
âYes, sir. Iâm sorry, sir. Please, daddy.â She was sobbing, either from pain or fear of punishment he didnât know.
He held up her binder, made sure she knew what he was doing as he took the scissors to it. âIf I ever see you wearing one of these again, Iâll whip your tits until theyâre so swollen you wonât even be able to put one on.â
She just whimpered, âThank you, sir.â
He fucked into her pussy afterwards, and she came when he told her what a good girl she was.
#detrans kink#detransition kink#ftm detrans kink#misgender kink#detrans me#fakeboy#forced detrans#misgenderingkink#detransitionkink#ftm misgendering#my writing đ
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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]
kickoff ch. 3 returning the favor
á° pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader
á° 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.
á° 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
á° chapter. 3/x (probably 12)
á° words. 4.5k
a/n. hope you enjoy! i really had fun incorporating a lot of the other characters in this one.
nav. masterlist
âŸÂ·Ì©Íêł moodboard no.1
âŹ.*ïŸplaylist
|| 9:21AM Gojo Satoru sent you a photo
|| 9:22AM Gojo Satoru: Hereâs our practice schedule for the week. Honestly, itâs better if you come when we do practice games or something, since on other days we just do drills or strength training, but coach doesnât really tell us what weâre doing beforehand so would probs have to play it by ear
|| 9:27AM Gojo Satoru: Oh yeah, weâve got a big game in three weeks on the 28th. Itâll decide if weâre 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 toÂ
|| 9:28AM Gojo Satoru: Let me know as soon as you can if you want to make that game. Iâll 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 fraternityâs 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 heâs somehow not hungover beyond repair and is texting you before noon.Â
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 menâs soccer team highlights your professor was playing from the game a week and a half ago.
âHere, 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!â 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. âBeelines 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.Â
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 itâs only when you clear your throat in front of him that he finally looks up at you from the podium.Â
âOh, y/n, how can I help you?â He asks as he shoves his phone back in his pocket.
âHey, professor. Bit of a request, could I have like two extra days for my assignment? Thereâs this event that I really want to use for the subject matter but itâs the day before the deadline, and I would need some time to develop my photos,â you say in the politest tone you can muster up.
âYeah, sure. Just get it in before the end of the deadline week,â he says nonchalantly. âLooking forward to seeing it. Good work on the last one, by the way.â
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.Â
|| 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 youâre 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.
âHey, Nobie, whatâs up,â you say as you make your way towards the heart of campus, enjoying the light breeze as the sun peeked through the clouds.Â
âWhere are you? Didnât we have a Film Club meeting today?â She asks you, her tone a bit impatient. âWe were supposed to discuss that collaboration with the school newsletter.â
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. âIâm so sorry, Nobara. I totally forgot about it. Iâm 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, Iâll reach out to them by email.âÂ
She sighs on the other end of the line. âYeah. Iâm not good at these conversations, but I guess as President I should be better at them anyways. Iâll let you know how it goes.â And then she hangs up.Â
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 didnât 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 doesnât even know exactly what theyâll 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 Gojoâs 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, iâm free. i was just gonna grab something to eat first, and then iâll head over to the field in maybe 15 min. but iâm not exactly sure how to get onto the field, or where the entrance isâŠ
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. Iâll 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 didnât necessarily seem angry at you. Quite the opposite, actually. Heâs 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.Â
Stopping by your schoolâs 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 itâs like to be adored by so many people.Â
When he spots you at the other side of the cross walk, he doesnât break eye contact with you as heâs 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.
âHey,â he says as he lightly jogs up to the sidewalk you were standing on. You notice heâs 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. âYou ready?â
You nod, swallowing the mouthful of sandwich you didnât realize you had stopped chewing, and follow his lead as the two of you cut across behind the batting cages of the schoolâs softball training area. Your eyes fell to Gojoâs 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.
âWhat are you eating?â He says as he turns around to face you, walking backwards for a few paces as he looks at your hands.
âOh, just a veggie sandwich,â you answer as you hold it up next to your face. âCampus delicacy.â
His smile widens. âAnd what are you drinking?â This time he asks with a bit more curiosity.
âIt's strawberry vanilla soda,â you say as you juggle all of the things you were holding in your arms.Â
âCan I have some?â He asks with a somewhat innocent tone. âThe soda, I mean. Iâve never had that flavor.âÂ
You hesitate, but alas you were a people-pleaser. âSure.âÂ
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.Â
âHm,â he licks his lips. âThatâs pretty good.âÂ
Youâre 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.Â
Thereâs a comfortable silence that develops between the two of you and when you glance at Gojo, you notice his eyes are closed and thereâs 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.
âCan I ask you something?â You say after contemplating if you should interrupt his somewhat meditative state.Â
âYou can ask me anything,â he easily replies.Â
âWhy are you so willing to help me out with my assignment?âÂ
He turns his head to look at you with a neutral expression. âBecause you did me a favor.âÂ
You sigh. âI knowâŠbut it really wasnât that hard to convince Mina to go to that party. I feel like youâre helping me out way more than I helped you out.â A small ladybug lands on the fabric of your jeans and you marvel at it before it flutters its wings and flies away.
Heâs silent for a second. âHonestly, when you agreed to help me out with Todoâs 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,â 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, âI thought you were going to ask for something sexual in return.âÂ
Your mouth drops at his line of thinking, suddenly mortified. Thatâs how your message came across to him? Oh my God, you had to rethink how you texted everyone in your life from now on.
âI mean, werenât you being a little flirty? âMy terms and conditions will come laterâ. Or do I just have some weird sexual brain rot?â 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.Â
When you canât 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. âWell, anyways, when you shared what you actually wanted from me and it ended up being a pretty earnest requestâŠletâs just say I was emotionally moved by your dreams and aspirations.â He says that last part somewhat dramatically and you roll your eyes, sending him an annoyed look. âA little disappointed, but nonetheless moved.âÂ
âWow, youâre the type of person that would trade favors for sex?â you ask him with a sneer to your tone.Â
He sends a lazy smirk to you over his shoulder to where youâre trailing behind him now. âNot really, no, canât say Iâve ever done it before,â he says slyly, âprobably wouldâve made an exception for you, though.â And then heâs giving you a wink.
You canât 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. Heâs reading your expression before he speaks up again.
âWeâve already started this little return favor of yours, so no take-backs. Itâs an eye for an eye. Not an eye for an eye and throw some casual sex in there, too.â 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. âAlright, you freaky little photographer. Here are your muses.âÂ
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 couldnât wait to get started.Â
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.
âCâmon, Itadori, Iâve seen snails with a more urgent sense of direction than you! Pick up those goddamn knees!â You hear a loud voice from a few feet away from you and flinch, eyeing the scary looking man that had aâŠPomeranian 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.Â
âThatâs coach Yaga,â Gojo says beside you with a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. âReal nice guy.â
You turn to give him a suspicious look and he just returns it with a wider smile.Â
âHey! Itâs y/n,â 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. âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
You give him a shy smile, suddenly embarrassed by the attention. âHere to take some photos.â
âAre you with the school newsletter?â Nanamiâs smooth voice says as he approaches Geto, standing next to him. They both were wearing matching blue tracksuits.Â
âNo, Iâm not. Just here toâŠtake some photos for one of my classes. Itâs for a film photography assignment.â 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 youâre just using them. As if Gojo could read your mind, he patted Geto harshly on the back and let out a loud, obnoxious laugh.
âHear 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,â 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.Â
âOkay, cool, let us know if we can help in any way,â Geto says kindly as he sits down on the grass to continue stretching out his legs. âOh by the way, Satoru, Chosouâs out sick today so you might need to cover for goalie.âÂ
âWhat? Whyâs that fucker always getting sick?â Gojo says as he walks towards one of the duffle bags on the bench, and you assume itâs his. He pulls out a water bottle. âHe needs to stop eating that goddamn grocery store sushi.âÂ
âOh! Oh! Itâs you,â 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- âItâs casual tomboy!âÂ
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. âHey, whatâs that?â 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.
âA little rude, Yuuji,â Geto says, grunting as he switches from one stretch to the other.Â
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, Yuujiâs arms flailing out in front of himself in a struggle. âHey, get back to practice. Youâre not allowed to talk to pretty seniors.âÂ
Coach Yaga grunts and crosses his arms from where he stood a few feet away, the tiny pomeranian now barking at his feet. âI never said you could stop running laps, Itadori! Get your ass back out there! Iâll be sending you to recreational soccer for the rest of your freshman year if you donât get your damn head straight!â Gojo lets go of Itadoriâs 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. âMay I know what youâre doing out on my field?â
âCoach!â 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. âSheâs 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-â
Coach Yaga puts Gojo in a headlock and Gojoâs instantly tapping on his back to get him to ease up. âI dare you to finish that sentence, boy.â
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. âI seeâŠso this is a film camera.âÂ
âAhâŠâ you laugh awkwardly. âNo, this is just a digital camera.âÂ
âI seeâŠso this is a digital camera,â he repeats, equally as intrigued.Â
The time eventually comes along where all the players start the practice match. Thereâs obviously not enough players out on the field for full teams on each side, but theyâre 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 doesnât 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. Youâre a bit sad you donât get to see him play, but figured youâll 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 youâll need to get some fluid shots.Â
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 âThanks, I owe you one. Find me later, âkay?â The memory itself made your cheeks feel warm. Did heâŠthink that something was going to happen that night at the party? Probably wouldâve made an exception for youâŠDisappointed, but nonetheless moved. Somewhere in the haziness of your thoughts, you realize that meant that Gojo wouldâve wanted to sleep with you if that was indeed your condition.
When you look to the other side of the field again, Gojoâs eyes are still on you but his handsome face looks a bit troubled, eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly pursed. You couldnât 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.Â
Coach Yagaâs sharp whistle cuts through the silent conversation you two were having as he yells, âalright, boys. Practice over! Go stretch yourselves out.âÂ
You quickly stuff your digital camera back into its case and collect your things into your tote bag. In your peripheral vision, Gojoâs making his way over to you and when heâs right next to you, you canât bring yourself to look at him.
âHowâd it go? Get some good shots?â he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
âUm, yeah, I think so.â Youâre 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 youâre not meeting his gaze, but you still struggle to make eye contact with him. âIâve gotta go, can you tell the guys I said bye?â And then youâre making your way up the hill.
Thereâs a beat of silence as confusion washes over him from your behavior. âHey, wait, y/n, do you know how to get back to campus?â
You spin to face him when you're at the top of the hill, finally looking him in the eye. Thereâs a concerned expression on his face. âYes, Iâll be fine. Thanks a lot for today. Let me buy you a strawberry vanilla soda sometime, okay?â 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!
âž take me to chapter four!
#anime#gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen#gojo x reader#gojo smut#jjk gojo#geto suguru#nanami kento#choso kamo#toji fushiguro#yuji itadori#aoi toudou#sukuna ryomen#yaga masamichi#alternate universe#college#college au#soccer#sports au#fraternity#sorority#tw drinking#partying#romance#smut#fluff#angst#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#jjk smut#series
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Use Me
Hello there! I know Iâve been M.I.A. for awhile. And literally havenât written anything in like 8 months. Iâve 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, hereâs a little something starring Mike Schmidt! I know, I know. Itâs not a Chris Evans character? Whatâs wrong with me? Josh is fucking pretty. Thatâs whatâs wrong with me. Like, I have a problem. Donât get me wrong, I still think Chris is pretty and hope the best for him. ButâŠheâs 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 Chrisâ characters want to be tagged in Joshâs. If so, just let me know!
*DISCLAIMER*, If youâre 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 thatâs it
đđđđđÂ
âListen Y/N, Iâm gonna need you to stay and work the next shift.â
You turn around and look at your manager as if she had suddenly grown 3 heads. âExcuse me? I donât think I heard you right. It sounded like you said you needed me to stay and work the next 8 hour shift.â
She rolls her eyes as she goes back to charting the current patient sheâs working on. âYou know thatâs exactly what I said. Look, I have no other options. Hannah called off.â
âAgain? This is like the third day in a row! How is that fair exactly?â You put your patientâs paperwork down and cross your arms over your chest as you stare at her expectantly.
She doesnât even bother looking at you as she answers. âI donât know what to tell you Y/N. She says sheâs sick. I canât have her come in if sheâs sick.â
Now itâs your turn to roll your eyes. âIf by sick you mean hungover! She literally posted on Instagram last night about her night out on the town!â
She glances over at you. âThereâs no way to prove if that was from last night or if it's older. Now just get back to work and Iâll let you have an hour and a half break instead of an hour.â
Now youâre pissed. âYeah, see, that's not going to work for me. Iâve already been here for 16 hours because Kim was late. Iâm not working Hannahâs whole ass shift. I have plans. I finally get to see my boyfriend after weeks because our schedules werenât lining up. Iâm not staying.â
âYou really donât have a choice. I wasnât really asking you, I was telling you. Thereâs no one else to cover.â
Tears started welling up in your eyes out of frustration, exhaustion, and the possibility of not being able to see Mike again. âThereâs a bunch of other people that can cover! What about you? Youâve only been here 8 hours. It would make more sense for you to stay.âÂ
She turns in her chair to look at you now. âY/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 âhanging out with my boyfriend.â
Now youâre seeing red. âSo what youâre saying is because Iâm 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?â
âNo. If you had legit plans then Iâd be more sympathetic. But you havenât even been with this boy that long. You donât need to spend every free moment with him.â
âIâm sorry but who do you think you are? My mother? Because Iâm a grown ass woman. And if I want to hang with my boyfriend on my time off then Iâm going to! I donât really need your approval for it. Iïżœïżœm not staying.â
You grab your Stanley and start heading towards the locker room to grab your stuff.Â
âY/N! If you donât stay, then you can forget about this job.â
You turn around just before reaching the end of the hallway. âWell, then I guess youâre going to have to stick around and cover Hannahâs shift. Stick it up your ass, Jan. I quit.â
You donât 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 canât believe you just quit. And itâs not just because of your boyfriend. You havenât been treated right since the first week you started. This was just the last straw. You just hope Mike wonât be disappointed in you.
đđđđđ
After a quick shower and outfit change at home, you reluctantly find yourself pulling into Mikeâs driveway and getting out of the car. You havenât 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 youâre coming over, and get hit with the aroma of pasta. Mikeâs cooking you dinner. That makes you want to start crying all over again. Heâs the sweetest.
âBabe? Is that you?â 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 youâre in. âBabe, are you okay? What happened?â He quickly wraps you up in a hug.Â
You try your best to keep it together but a few tears fall. âI quit today.â
He pulls out of the hug but keeps his arms around you. âYou did? Babe, thatâs fantastic!â He pulls you back in for another hug and picks you up to twirl you around.
Your mood instantly lifts and you canât help but laugh. âIt is?â
He sets you down and pulls you in for a quick kiss. âOf course it is! That place was treating you like shit! And Jan was a bitch! What finally made you do it?â
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. âI want to hear all about it.â
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. âHannah called off again? Jesus, how does she still have a job? Didnât she do this to you last year during Christmas?â
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 âthe fluâ. 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 couldnât say no. Now youâre getting pissy all over again.Â
âOh my god! Youâre right! Maybe the bitch has some vendetta out against me. Iâve never done anything to her though! Iâve been nothing but nice!â
Just then your phone dings, alerting you of a text. You quickly check it. Itâs from Hannah.
I canât believe you threw a tantrum and quit just because I wasnât feeling my best and couldnât come in. Wow. All so you can hang out with your piece of shit delinquent boyfriend. You sure have your priorities straight.
âFucking cunt!â 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 youâre yelling about.
âWhatâs wrong? Who was it?â
You remove your hands from your mouth. âMike, Iâm so sorry! I didnât mean to curse that loud. I hope Abby didnât hear me.â
He waves you off. âBabe, sheâs not even here. She got invited to a sleepover at Natalieâs house. Weâre alone. Youâre good.â
You sigh in relief. âThank god! I donât want any of my bad habits to rub off on her.â
Mike just chuckles and turns back to the sauce. âIf she turns out anything like you, Iâd be entirely okay with that.â
You canât 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. âYouâre too sweet.â
He turns around in your arms and grabs your face and gives you a proper, toe-curling kiss. âI mean it.â
After a few more shared kisses, Mike finishes up dinner and fixes you both a plate and a glass of wine for himself. As youâre sitting there twirling your spaghetti around your fork, you canât help but think about Hannahâs text again. And then all of the little snide remarks sheâs ever made to you come flooding back.
âBabe?â
You snap out of your thoughts and Mike comes back into focus. âYeah?â
He puts his fork down. âI asked if there was something wrong with the spaghetti? Youâve hardly touched it.â
You look down at your plate and realize youâve just been twirling it around your fork. âNo, itâs fine. Just thinking about what Hannah said and how much it pisses me off. Iâm sorry, Iâm not meaning to ruin our time together.â
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. âCome on.â
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. âFirst 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.â
You canât help but feel all tingly at the smirk heâs giving you. âWhat did you have in mind?â
He backs up a little and sits on the bed and looks up at you. âUse me, Y/N.â
You shake your head. âWhat? What do you mean?â
He reaches out to grab your hands to pull you towards him. âI mean use me. Use me to distract yourself and to take your anger out on. Iâll be a good boy and do whatever you need.â
That almost had your knees buckling. âOh.â 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. Youâve never been in this position before. Sure, you guys have only been together for like 5 months but anytime youâve ever been intimate, heâs been the one whoâs taken charge.
He pulls back and looks up at you. âUse me, baby. I got you. Tell me what you need.â
You decide to run with it and take control and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. âI wanna sit on your face.â
He lets out a little whimper as he moves back on the bed. âFuck, baby. Please sit on my face. I want you to suffocate me.â
He lays back and patiently waits for you to remove your pants and panties. You hesitantly climb up on the bed. Youâve never done this before with anyone but have always wanted to try it. You climb up until youâre straddling his waist and lean down to kiss him.Â
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 youâre 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. âIâm going to ride your face until I canât think of anything else but your tongue. Youâre going to be good and make me cum as many times as I want, right?â
He nods instantly. âYes, I promise Iâll be good for you.â
âGood boy.â 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.Â
He immediately grips your thighs and pulls you even harder on him and starts eating you out like a man starved. âOh, fuck!â 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. âOh, god. Fuck, Mike! Youâre so fucking good at that.â
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 canât believe how quickly he got you there.Â
âMike, please! Gonna cum! Make me cum.â
He pumps his fingers even faster and lightly bites down on your clit, knowing itâll make you fall over the edge.
You scream his name out and grind on him until itâs too much and you lift yourself away from his mouth. To which he whimpers out, âwhereâs that pussy going? I wasnât done yet.â
You let out a breathy laugh. âJesus. I almost passed out from how hard I came. Give me a minute.â
âSo I did good?â He looks up at you with big eyes and his chin glistening with your juices.
You pat his hair. âYou did so good, baby. Made me feel so good.â
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. âDonât worry. Iâm not done. Need your cock, baby.â
Youâve never seen him undo his belt and slide his jeans down that quickly before. It almost makes you chuckle. âEager, are we?â
He nods as he pushes his jeans down far enough that his cock springs free and hits your ass. âNeed to feel you around me, babe. Please.â
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 heâs ready for you to slide onto him. You take the hint and lift up and back until he catches at your entrance. Heâs 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. âGo ahead and use me babe. Take what you need from me.â
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. âOh, fuck baby. You feel so good. Youâre so deep.âÂ
âYeah? Am I making my girl feel good?â
You smirk down at him. âOh, yeah. Youâre being so good for me.â
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 thatâs 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. âCome 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.â
This time youâre the one letting out a whimper. âYeah? Want me to be your good boy and cum for you? Fill you up?â
âPlease.â You whine out, moving your hips even faster than before. You can feel your orgasm coming like a freight train. Thereâs no stopping it.Â
âOh yeah. I can feel it. Youâre gonna cum for me. Do it. Make a mess on me babe. Please, I need it.â
âYeah? You need me to cum for you? Need to feel me cum? Oh, god Mike. Iâm almost there. Please donât stop.â
He continues helping you grind your hips against his. Youâre almost there. Just a little somethingâŠ..
âI love you, Y/N. So fucking much.â
That did it. Youâre 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 canât 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. Heâs the first to speak. âSo, did I do good for you?â
You let out a chuckle. âYou were so good, baby.â You can feel him twitch inside of you at the praise. âBut, we need to talk about what you said.â
Mike scrunches his brows for a few minutes before his eyes go wide and he realizes what he said. âShit, I did not mean to say that.â
You canât help the disappointment that crosses your face. âOh, well thatâs okay. It was in the heat of the moment.â
He quickly wraps his arms tighter around you. âNo! Thatâs 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.â
You smile and press a kiss to the tip of his nose. âI appreciate the thought. But I really donât need anything special. I already have you.â
His smile lights up his entire face. âI love you, Y/N.â
This time you press a kiss to his lips. âI love you, too Mike. Like, a lot.â
âI bet not as much as I love you.â
Just as youâre about to retort, Mikeâs cell starts vibrating, causing you to jolt with fright since his phone is still in his pocket which your leg is pressed up against.
âJesus Christ.â
You quickly get up so that he can grab his phone. âHello?â
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. âEverything okay?â
He smiles in thanks as you hand him the cloth. He goes about cleaning himself up. âYeah. That was Natalieâs mom. Apparently Abby has decided she doesnât wanna stay the night so I have to go get her.â He stands and pulls his jeans back up and smooths his shirt out. âSorry we wonât be alone anymore.â
You pull him in for a quick kiss. âNothing 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 weâll have a movie night or something.â
He shakes his head and pulls you in for another kiss. âI still donât know what I did to deserve you.â
You just smile in return. âAfter the past year youâve been through, you deserve to be happy.â
He chuckles as he heads out the door. âAinât that the damn truth!â
#mike schmidt smut#mike schmidt x y/n#mike schmidt x reader#mike schmidt#josh hutcherson#josh hutcherson smut#fnaf#mike schmidt x you#mike schmidt imagine#fnaf x y/n#fnaf x reader#michael schmidt#five nights at freddy's
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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!
#mortal kombat#mk1#x reader#mk1 2023#kuai liang#scorpion#sigh#toxic kuai liang#kuai liang x reader#kuai liang x you#kuai liang scorpion
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Something More [than this]
Katsuki Bakugo x gn reader
MDNI
Setting: mid-time skip, Senior Year of College. Reader did not attend UA high, just joined for university. Enemies to lovers (with a lot in between.)
part 1Â -Â part 2Â -Â part 3Â -Â part 4 -Â part 5 -Â part 6Â -Â part 7 - this is part 8
Half your class still looks hungover, cursing whoever decided to throw a massive party the Saturday before a busy school week. One explosive blonde looking worse than the rest of them.
Katsuki had a dumpster fire of a weekend, leading to this shitty morning.Â
After being away on a trip for his side-kick work, he returned Saturday afternoon. Despite working crazy hours, he considered texting you when he had the time. He wanted to tell you about his day and ask how your day went. To get your opinion on some of the villains he'd been dealing with. Honestly, it had been so stressful he'd just be happy to hear your familiar voice. But he didnât want to be needy. And there wasnât anything he could offer you at a distance so he skipped it. Plus, you didnât text him either so he figured you were busy with your own life. He could just tell you about everything later.Â
This doesnât mean he didnât spend the whole week thinking about you.
While he didnât usually think of anyone that much, he reasoned that it was coincidental. What are the odds of ending up somewhere where everything there reminded him of you? Must have been the location. He wondered if youâd ever been to the area, he thinks youâd like it. The villains reminded him of you too, your quirk would have worked great with his against them. Additionally, he rationalized, his body had become used to being with you every night. Not having that release was hard, especially when the last time he saw you was the best sex he's ever had. Maybe he could ask you for pictures while he was away. No, he thought, that's too big of an ask and he didn't have time or energy to touch himself anyways.
Finally, the last day arrived and he felt hopeful. It was a long one but he'd be home soon. At a small shop he patrolled by, he got you a gift. Sure, everything reminded him of you, but this especially so. And itâs something friends do while visiting other places, right? He still wasnât sure of that but when he saw it, he knew you needed to have it. Yeah, he decided, it is what friends do.
Coming back was rough. The little sleep he got on the flight did nothing to counteract how massively wrecked his body felt. Cursing every step, he dragged himself back to his dorm -Â throwing his oversized bag near the closet before stripping his clothes straight into the laundry basket and jumping in the shower. Without time to clean up before traveling, he felt disgusting all day. The water ran dark, tainted with the ash and blood he was covered in. Every cut on his body stung but itâs the closest to human heâd felt in a few days so heâll take it.Â
His friends were going to a party. They said youâd be there too. Normally, heâd pass but after a week away, it would be good to see friends (you). For a moment, he considered inviting you over to watch a movie instead and have a more low-key night but thought better of it. This was already unofficially deemed the biggest blowout of the year (on a fucking random week in February??) and he couldnât take that away from you. Also, a bit more insecurely, what could he offer you in comparison to that? It's not like you were dating.
So, it was decided. Heâd have a big dinner, change into something decent, and go. Maybe he could convince you to leave early with him.
He showed up to the lobby a minute too late to see you with your friends. Thatâs okay though. You would find him when he got there, the two of you would catch up, and everything would be fine. He was happy enough to walk with his own friends, sharing stories of their weeks too.
Immediately after he showed up, some extra cornered him. Spewing the same old shit everyone does when theyâre trying to be flirty. Something something so brave something. His eyes glazed over while she talked; all he could think about was you. She kept leaning into him so much he had to keep his hand on her shoulder to hold her back. Feeling stuck, he wanted to blast her away from him but he was just so. Fucking. Tired. He barely entertained the conversation, saying whatever terse comments he thought would get him out of there the fastest. This exchange served no purpose. It's not like heâd take her home with him anyways. Without ever consciously acknowledging it, he has no interest in random girls anymore.
On top of being known for his explosive personality, there are other reasons it isnât hard for him to turn someone down. Up until a few years ago, heâd never slept with (or even kissed) anyone. Seeing all of his classmates pass him in that aspect made him feel left behind. So, he fixed that. It wasnât just about numbers either. He always wanted to be the best at everything, sex included. And how could he be the best without lots of practice? Even he knows it's arbitrary, but he still had to try. And he got good, some might even say, great at it. Regardless of that progress, there have been times he questioned what the point was in any of this.Â
That is, until it was with you.Â
All of his hard work finally paid off the first night he got you in his room. He loves the sounds and faces you make when he touches you. The way your fucked out face looks as soon as his dick goes in. Or how loud you are for him when youâre close. He loves the way he can have you cumming on his hand in less than a minute. Or how it feels to hold you up, your whole body falling into him when he fucks one of the smartest people he knows until they're too stupid to stand. Suddenly, it all felt worth it. Shit, he had to stop thinking about this or he was going to give himself a boner.
Back to the party.
It took him a few minutes to rid himself of her and he set off to find you. He could have sworn he saw you out of the corner of his eye earlier. When he asked your friends if they knew where you went, Raccoon Eyes said something about meeting up with Aizawa.
âRight now?â he asked, he thought you had a little crush on Eraserhead but having you over at 10pm seems weird on the professorâs part. Heâs not a creep though and you're his student, maybe it was an emergency?
âNooooo,â the pink girl slurred, trying to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder but missing completely. âTomorrow.â
âDonât worry Bakugo, sheâs fine,â added Ears, âshe left with Shinso like ten minutes ago.â
Neither of them see the flash of hurt on his face. Sure, both of your friends (and some of his) know about your arrangement but Mina is the only one holding out hope he has any amount of emotional investment in it. And even she's not so sure. So there wouldn't be reason for them to specify if they don't assume he cares.
âOh, that freak? And you let this happen? You've gotta be fucking kidding me,â he says, before walking away from the conversation.
He knows youâre just friends.Â
Of course he knows that. Neither of you want more than that, right? But he still thought he was your first option. That youâd never leave the party with someone else if he was there. His contact pic in your phone is the two of you cuddled up on the kitchen floor, he figured he has to mean something to you. Besides, itâs rude to ditch your friends after they leave for a week. That has to be the pain heâs feeling, you left him there without saying anything. Why else would everything hurt so bad?
He bailed on the party after that. In retrospect, he knows your friends would probably tell you about how he yelled at them about you leaving with another guy and it wouldn't be a good look, but he couldn't be bothered to care. With any luck, they're used to it and it would never come up again. And he'd never have to explain himself. That wasn't the concern right now though.Â
Katsuki slept like shit that night, tossing and turning. He couldnât get the image of you with that purple haired freak out of his mind. His hands all over your body. His mouth. His -
Fuck.Â
Theoretically, he could go over there. You all live in the same building, he vaguely knows the which room it is. While you probably wouldn't be as loud with that asshole as you are with him, surly he'd still hear something. Katsuki fantasizes about kicking his door down and smashing his face in. It would be easy, he'd just have to keep his mouth shut. And then...you'd thank him for being so amazing and coming to your rescue? No, you'd call him a cockblock, get him expelled, and never talk to him again.
So, sitting with his feelings it is.
He tells himself itâs a platonic thing. That heâs worried about you, his friend who went home with someone he doesnât trust. And heâs upset because you, his friend, left before saying hi after you hadnât seen him for a week. Thatâs a valid reason to be upset, to want to check on you. But rationalizing doesn't help. And the nagging feeling in his gut chases him into the next day.
All day Sunday, he doesnât leave his room. Playing video games, trying as hard as possible to not think about anything but farming runes and annihilating bosses.Â
But he canât.
And you donât text.
One more sleepless night while he lays confused as to how friendship problems can hurt so much when he's never felt like this before. Was it unreasonable to assume it would always be the two of you continuing like that forever? He doesn't think so. Before he knew it, the alarm clock over his bed read 6:45 - he might as well get up at this point.Â
He makes breakfast (that he barely eats) and throws his hero costume on to head over to Ground Beta.Â
Todayâs the day your project ends. The written portion having been turned in a while ago, now itâs a competition between all of the teams to see whoâs the last to get eliminated. Itâs bittersweet, he thinks. What if your friendship was only for the duration of the project? No, he can't let that happen. Even if you have been ignoring him all weekend.
Seeing you in the training area, he doesn't miss the nods between you and purple hair as he joins you to walk to your designated start point. A surge of anger shoots through him. Deep breath, he reminds himself. Time to play it cool.
âHey, you didnât talk to me Saturday and you left with him,â he nearly yells, gesturing vaguely towards Shinso who is glaring at him.
âOh,â you look slightly confused, âhe walked me home when you- when I didnât wanna be there.â
âSo you didnâtâŠâ he trails off, feeling like an idiot for asking.
âWhat would it matter to you? You donât do relationship shit, right?â your voice is venomous, but the content of what you're saying shouldn't be unexpected.Â
Katsuki stepped back, unsure of why your words make him feel like you just punched him in the chest.
âREADY? GO!â Present Micâs voice echoes through the building.
Your turn now.
The competition starts and youâre at a loss of what to do. The boy youâd been working with all term, now standing listlessly in front of you. Earlier, you thought you said what heâd want to hear but now, seeing the tears welling in his big red eyes, youâre not so sure.
He looks rough. Beautiful as ever, but a bit more pale with his apparent lack of sleep etched into the bags under his eyes. You'd probably look the same if Shinso hadn't used his quirk to make you sleep the past two nights (still nothing going on there, he just uncomfortable seeing you cry then hearing what happened from Jiro. He felt bad, wanting to help more, but it was the most anyone could do for you all weekend.)
Bakugo is still frozen in front of you, swaying slightly.
âKatsuki, are you-â
Okay?Â
You meant to say âokayâ, but instead find yourself jumping forward to block him with your quirk while Tsuyu and Kaminari came in to attack. The latter, expelling a bit too much electricity that was all quickly reflected back at them both, rendering Tsuyu unconscious and Kaminari dazed by the overuse of his quirk. Neither you nor your teammate take any damage. Looks like the one training session with Aizawa yesterday went a long way.
âFROPPY AND CHARGEBOLT ARE BOTH ELIMINATED!â Present Mic announces. ("yayyyy," yells Kaminari.)
Your attention turns back to Bakugo, who youâd knocked onto the ground with you in the scuffle. After the weekend you had, you want nothing more than to leave him alone but you canât help but care a little when he looks like heâs about to cry or pass out from exhaustion.
The moment Bakugo raises his head and sees that you had blocked him from the attack, his tired eyes widen and his jaw drops. Realization hits him like a dump truck. Every oddly stacked excuse in his brain slides into the right place and everything makes sense now.Â
âOh, fuck,â he mumbles, pulling his hands to his face while continuing to stare at you.
What is happening? You don't have time to think about it, more of your classmates are approaching.
By some miracle, the competition went okay considering the circumstances. Somehow, you scrambled into third place, after your teammate snapped out of his coma. He never did explain himself though, instead grabbing you by the arm and pulling you out of Ground Beta as soon as you were both eliminated.Â
âWhere are we going?â you ask. He remains silent.
He must be pissed at you for something, you think as he marches you up the stairs towards his room. Honestly, youâre not in the mood to deal with it - he lost that courtesy over the weekend. Considering pulling away, you tug your wrist from his grasp causing him to turn towards you for the first time since dragging you out of Ground Beta. Much to your surprise, heâs not angry -Â he looks terrified.
âDid you get hit by a quirk or something?â his tongue-tied state becoming concerning.
He simply shakes his head, pulling you into his dorm and pushing you onto the bed. This is the last place you want to be after everything that's happened.
âSit here for a sec,â he finally speaks, rummaging through his still fully packed bag.Â
âHere,â he tosses something small at you before moving to sit on the floor by your legs.
An Eraserhead keychain, it's nearly impossible to find merchandise for him. This would be a really amazing gift if you didnât think the man giving it was just doing so to tease you.
âHow many times do I have to tell you, I donât have a crush on our teacher-â
âNo, itâs not that,â he continues, âthe hero you wanted to be doesnât usually do merch so it- it reminded me of you,â he looks up at you, his flushed cheeks finally adding some color to his face. Seeing that youâre still listening, he tries to keep his voice even, âthen everything reminded me of you. I thought it was just the place or the villains but the more I think about it, everything always reminds me of you. I think about you constantly.â
Now youâre the one left speechless.Â
No response isn't a rejection so he continues, âI don't think I can just be your friend anymore. I need - I need something more than this.â
You ponder for a moment, this conversation doesn't seem possible. Maybe it's a dream? No, hitting your ass falling on the floor earlier hurt too much for you to be asleep. This is definitely happening.
âAre you sure you can do that?" you ask, "what about the girl from the other night-â
âThere is no other girl," he sounds exasperated. "There hasnât been for a while. You see me every fucking night, you know that,â his eyes plead for you to believe him.
Weirdly, you do.
âOh. at the party I saw you with someone. I thought-â
âYou thought I was with someone else and you left with purple hair?â
âHe walked me home. Thatâs it. I was-â heâs been honest with you so you take a deep breath before sharing your side of the story, âI was really fucked up when I thought you were hitting on someone else. I know I shouldnât have felt that way in our situation. But I did. I like you a lot more than I was supposed to. And I thought you didnât feel the same.â
âMe too,â he adds, "does this mean...?"
"Yeah."
The two of you sit in silence, taking time to process everything that's happened. Your now boyfriend smirks, still looking awkward (in the most adorable way.) Pressing-up from the floor, he moves to the bed next to you and wraps an arm around your back.
âWeâre really bad at this,â you joke (itâs not a joke.)
âWeâll get better,â he smiles, moving in to kiss you like he's wanted to all week.
For the first time in a month, the kiss doesnât lead to anything sexual. The two of you are both exhausted and don't need any excuse to be close, you can just be now. He draws the blackout curtains in his room and you both change into some of his old All Might shirts before crawling into bed. Running your hands through his soft hair, you kiss him slowly.
"I think about you all the time too, you know," you whisper. He smiles and pecks your forehead, holding you as you doze off. Everything about him feels safe and warm. You've never been so comfortable.
Katsuki lets his mind wander while he drifts off to sleep.
Itâll be hard learning how to be the best boyfriend. Heâs excited for the challenge though. Heâll get good at it because itâs what you deserve.Â
You stir and he pulls you closer. He's never seen anything as beautiful as you in his shirt, dreaming as you snuggle into his chest.
Yeah, heâll definitely be great at this. And heâll spend the rest of his life trying to be better and better for you.
If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading this!! It got pretty angsty there for a bit so here's some extra fluff smut:
Bonus Epilogue
m.list
Taglist: @anonymity-222 @k1tk4tkatsuki @arsonfrogger @dragonscribble @kalulakunundrum
@screaming-dough @rikislove @gold24fish @ita606 @arc6021
@pikachuzhc @jeanbabygirl @nemisimp
#bnha smut#my hero academia smut#bakugo x reader#bakugou katsuki#bakugou x reader#bakugo smut#boko no hero academia#katsuki bakugou#bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo x reader#bnha bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo mha#katsuki x you#bakugo katsuki x reader#katsuki x y/n#katsuki bakugo x y/n#bakugo x you#bakugo x y/n#bakugou katuski x reader#bakugou x you#bakugou x y/n#bnha bakugou#dynamight#mha bakugou#bakugou smut#katsuki bakugo smut#boko no hero academia smut
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Fattening Valley
First pov / feedee pov / second pov feeder / intox feedism / weight gain / mention of sex
Iâve already been at the farm for quite some time, working hard to build a successful life for myself in the valley, engaging with the townspeople, pining after Harvey and slowly winning his affectionâŠ
And then one day, you come to town, taking it by storm. I offer you a place to stay in the farm house so you donât have to worry about finding accommodation while you get settled. Itâs only after a week or two that you begin to enact your master plan, only eating half of the dinner you prepared in thanks for letting you stay and giving me the rest of your portion and a few leftovers. Me being polite, I accept, not wanting to admit to you that Iâm already full. You start cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, all of them bigger portions than what I usually had. You bring me snacks throughout the day, slowing me down and making me feel more sleepy and lethargic.
The charade continues for a few weeks, a pot belly forming under my clothes, my thighs and ass looking a bit more thick and blubberyâ my face puffing up slightly. Thatâs when you move onto the next stage, you take me to Gusâ for a big thank you dinner, all this time youâve been making subtle moves towards me, declaring your romantic and sexual desires with me, I laugh you off and say that Iâm flattered. But you donât stop. At this dinner date, you ply me with a variation of wines and beers, getting me drunker as you flirt more and more with me, I start drunkenly flirting back for giggles. You order plate upon plate of food for me, stuffing me so full that I nearly fall into a food coma at the bar. You scoot your chair around to my side of the table, slipping your hand into my clothes, feeling the taut bloated body beneath. I rest my head on your shoulder as you make me finish every last bite. Whimpering and burping from how full I am. The other townspeople look on in confusion and worry, they thought that it was me and Harvey that were supposed to end up together⊠but they donât intervene.
At midnight, Gus closes for the night. You essentially carry an exceptionally drunk me home to the farmhouse, I belch and moan the whole way back, one arm looped around your shoulders and the other resting on my stuffed full belly. Once we get back, you decide to encourage me to drink some milk I forgot to sell during the day and I comply, lusting after you with boarish desires.
The next morning, I wake up still stuffed and hungover, unable to bring myself to get up and go about the farm chores. You smile and waltz your way into my bedroom, a thick stack of pancakes and a large coffee (with some whiskey mixed in), you declare that youâve already done the chores for the day so I should relax and take a day for myself in bed.
You start doing this more and more, always making sure Iâm in a state of tipsiness at all times, itâs easier to get me to eat more this way. My bloated pot belly becomes a large hanging gut, my arms flabby sacks of fat that canât even bring themselves to pick up even a hoe anymore, my legs thick and blubbery cellulite ridden slabs of meat. My face rounded and cherub likeâ constantly rosy and jolly. Iâve begun to outgrow my once baggy clothes, knitted jumpers always riding up my belly halfway, showing off a large slice of pale fat belly.
Harvey becomes worried, he sees my decline of diet and increased intoxication, he wants to confront you for my changes but I brush him off and tell him that farmers are supposed to carry a little extra thickness, itâs all just thick muscle. Heâs flustered but letâs it go until I stop doing the farm work entirely, and only appear in town for our weekly date at the saloon where you get me drunker than Iâve been all week and stuffed to beyond my increasing limits.
It goes on for a year, you transforming me into a lazy, flabby pig that canât even take care of his own farm anymore, spending his days eating and drinking in various locationsâ constantly outgrowing his clothes. My body truly becoming a round and blobby spectacle for the whole valley to bask inâŠ
And then we marry, Iâm yours and yours alone. Your fat, drunk piggy, a fallen vestige of a once promising young farmer.
#overlydeniablewrites#feedee story#feedee pov#weight gain writing#ftm feedee#trans feedee#fatty getting fatter#queer feedee#feed me#stuffed fatty#wg encouragement#feeding you fatter#feedee piggy
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Off-Brand Version - Fukunaga Shohei x Reader
For @fuzztacular because she doesn't mind sharing Fukunaga with me.
Words: 2540
Itâs a well-known truth that Fukunaga Shohei is a better cook than he is a comedian and a better friend than he is a roommate.
The dishes from his last midnight cooking session are still in the sink and the remnants of something, dried up and flaking off the kitchen isle, tells you it wasnât a great success.
Youâve had other roommates before him, some that didnât clean up after them and some who did.Â
If youâd list up all of Shoheiâs weaknesses against the demands and rules youâve set up ages ago, youâd have to kick him out.
But you donât want to. So you donât.
-
You wipe the counter as your coffee trickles down, file all the dishes into the dishwasher and start the rice cooker for your usual breakfast.
Early mornings are your refuge against the madness of life.Â
Shoheiâs bedroom door opens as you pour creamer into your cup.
âIâm never going to drink again,â Shohei announces for the nth time this month as he moves past you, his hair disheveled and still wearing PJs.Â
âDo you want something to eat?âÂ
âCoffee first,â he eyes your cup.
You grab his head and turn it toward the coffee machine where a whole pot is waiting. âThis oneâs for you.â
âThanks,â he mumbles through his squished cheeks. âWhereâs the sug-?â He quiets when you slide it over and sends you a sheepish grin. âAm I too predictable?â
âA little. Are you hungover or just dehydrated?â
âWhatâs the difference?â
You hesitate. You havenât experienced either.
âWell,â you swallow your hesitation. âNevermind. Iâm making Korean Egg Rice if you want some.â
-
The truth is, not many people can live with you just as you canât live them.
Youâve called yourself Type A too many times to count, not because you believe in it, but rather to make it easier for people to understand how you roll.
âType F,â Shohei had commented at that first ever meeting, pointing at himself and chuckling. âFool or Fukunaga, whatever you want it to be.â
- - -
âWe got invited,â he declares on Friday, in a break between work places.
Cooks usually work late, but Shohei got lucky with this place where they need him in the mornings too for the breakfast rush.
He uses the day shifts to build his Comedy Career in the right after, though thatâs slow going.
âTo what?â You ask from the kitchen table, your makeshift home-office two times a week.
It doesnât really make sense for you to work from home, really.Â
Not with this Kitchen Table set-up, at least.
The truth is, and youâre a little ashamed of that, that you only work from home to spend time with him.
Itâs just half an hour some days, and other days all you get is watching his back as he recreates a dish he dreamed up in his sleep, but you like watching his back and reaping the results of his cooking. Youâve just not found the courage to tell him that. Yet.
âUh,â Shohei blinks as he tries to figure out how to explain it. âWell, Kuroo knows some guy who knows some guy and thereâs a celebration and weâre invited.â
âWhoâs Kuroo again?â
Shohei pushes up his hair into something like an Mohawk, just messier. You get the resemblance immediately.
âWait, we?â
âYeah,â he nods, grinning. âIâm supposed to bring you. I think he likes fighting with you.â
You groan. âI donât like fighting. He was just wrong about that article he quoted and you know how I am about wrong quotes.â
âYep,â he pops the P. âOh, did you eat already? I was going to make Paella.â
âNope,â you shake your head like the dirty liar you are. âIâm starving, really.â
âCanât let that happen with a cook in the house,â he ties an apron around his waist. âDo you mind listening to my new stand up routine while I work.â
âDepends, do I have to laugh at certain parts or can I just listen in?â
âNo, Iâve got a pre-recorded laughing track, I will be fine.â He winks at you and you duck behind your screen, hoping against hope that he doesnât know how much that affects you.
- - -
âYer early,â a warm, syrupy voice calls out as you enter.Â
You blink, surprised to see double. Oh, nevermind, itâs just twins.
âSorry, I, uh,â you turn around as if Shohei will magically appear out of thin air. âIâm looking for my roommate? Fukunaga Shohei, Iâm supposed to meet him here.â
âAh, yer the smart one,â the guy on the left comments, taking of the black baseball cap with the restaurant logo to drag his hand through the bleachblond hair.
âDepends who you compare me to,â you point out and his brother snickers, followed by a âShut yer trap!â from the blond.
âIâm Osamu Miya, but you can call me Samu,â the snickerer tells you, offering you his hand. Heâs the one with the smooth voice, the one that reminds you of rich chocolate thatâs melting. Itâs embarrassing how attractive that sounds, especially when youâre head over heels into Shohei.
âMhm, yes, uh,â you shake his hand regret it immediately when his grip is warm and firm.
âAnd Iâm Atsumu Miya, the famous Setter.â
You blink. âThe famous what now?â
His face falls. Heâs kind of adorable like that, though youâve never been a fan of mobbing someone for fun. âIs that a sports term?â You ask to clarify, pulling back your hand from Samu, sorry, Osamuâs grip. âIâm not good with Sports.â
Both of them look at you like youâve suddenly grown a second head.
âDid no one tell you what tonight is about?â
âWell,â you start when the bell chimes behind you. You turn, hoping on a rescue but nevermind. Itâs Kuroo of all people.Â
âAh, youâve already met the hosts,â he links his arm around your shoulders without asking. God, you hate being touched without asking. You try to shake him off but heâs persistent.Â
âHey,â Osamu calls out, âgive her some space, will ya?â
âOh,â now Kurooâs the one blinking. âSorry.â He steps away. âOld habits die hard. Is Fukunaga coming?â
âYeah,â you nod. âHe said to meet him here. Heâs bringing some food.â
âNice,â Atsumu declares. âDouble the food.â
-
Shohei arrives late, hair disheveled as usual and smelling like the cheap oil they use to fry up stuff. Youâve grown used to the smell by now because he carries it home after work everyday, but you can tell heâs feeling awkward about it amidst all those guys that seem to have showered in aftershave before arriving.
âHey,â he finds you at the bar. Youâre not there for the alcohol but the chairs, because all the other seating arrangements are too soft and you canât stand it when your body sinks into a cushion when youâre supposed to be sitting.
âHey,â you smile at him, canât help it. âI missed you.- I mean, Iâve been missing you here. Samuâs fun, but heâs not you. Like, comedy wise, you know? His jokes only work because of his weird dialect and-â
âDid you try his food?â Shohei interrupts you, nodding into the direction of your plate.
âYeah,â you reach for it only to realize itâs empty already. âThe Onigiri are good. Just the right amount of filling. What did you bring?â
âChicken Wings and Ribs. I was thinking Paella but it doesnât taste as good when itâs cold.â
âWhat a shame,â you pull a face. âI love your Paella.â
He smiles, the edges of him softening. âIâll make it again when weâre back home.â
âHey Hey Hey!â Bokuto slings his arms around the both of you, nevermind the fact that youâve slid out of his grasp three times already. âAre you excited for the game?â
âFor sure,â Shohei tells him, shifting in Bokutoâs hold to the point the bigger guy has to let go of you. You send your roommate a thankful smile.
-
Somethingâs wrong with Shohei.
You havenât yet figured out what it is, but you can tell itâs there. Itâs in the way heâs grown quiet next to you, watching instead of talking.Â
Heâs tried a few of the things Samu made before giving up, pretending to be not hungry when you know he usually eats thrice as much.
When the match starts and everyone unites around the TV to watch some people play a sport you know nothing about, Shohei stays close.
âCan you explain?â You ask quietly, unwilling to start a new discussion about how you know nothing about it.
Shohei startles. âOh, sure. So the point of the game is-â
âOh, hey,â Samu appears to your left. âYa mentioned ya know nothing bout it. Sit over here, ya have a better view. Tsum, move yer fat ass, we need tha space.â
âOh, no, I donât-â
But Atsumuâs already gotten up and moved, all the while bickering and everyoneâs looking at you know, waiting for you to fill the empty spot.
Even Shohei, quiet again, pushes you forward.
âItâs fine,â he tells you and without him having your back you have no reason to decline.
- - -
Samu pays your Cab back and you hate it.Â
It feels like you owe him now, not just money but so much more. Food, an experience, a helping hand you didnât ask for.
âDid you like it?â Shohei asks, picking at a threat in his jacket, the bag with the leftovers on his lap.
âIt was okay,â exhaustion sits heavy on your chest like one of those fat cats that like to choke their owners while they sleep.
âThe game?â
âEverything,â you wish you could pull your knees to your chin and curl into a ball, roll away until this is all forgotten. âIt was a lot but it was okay. Did you have fun?â
Shohei doesnât answer for a moment.
When he does his voice is weirdly tight. Even if you werenât as perceptive as you are, you would have noticed, youâre sure.
âI think Osamu likes you. Did he give you his number?â
âHe asked for mine,â you tell him. âI didnât give it to him.â
In the flickering light of passing street lights you can see the surprise on his face.
âWhy not? Heâs a total catch.â
âWhy? I mean, why is he a catch?â
âHeâs good looking,â Shohei counts off on his hands, âFunny, respectful of your boundaries, a good cook, generous, smartâŠâ
âArenât you all that too?â You bite your tongue but itâs too late, the words are out of your mouth.
Shohei halts, fingers still in the air.
He breathes out, deflating visibly.
âIâm more like an off-brand version of him.â
âOff-brand?â
âYeah,â he nods solemnly. âHeâs buff, Iâm a twig. Heâs funny, Iâm still working on it. His cooking is- did you taste it? He has his own restaurant and I work as a shift cook. He has the money to pay our cab and I-â
You grab his hand and squeeze it.
âYou know,â you talk around the lump in your throat. âSome people really like off-brand stuff.â
âWhat?â
âYeah,â you trudge on, not really sure where this is going. âLike, some people buy Louis Vuitton handbags and stuff, but not everyone. Some people have the money but they donât want the designer stuff, the name brand handbag, you know? Itâs too high maintenance for them.â
âHigh Maintenance,â Shohei repeats quietly and you want to ask what he thinks about it but the cab stops in front of your apartment building and you have to get out.
It looks different now, after tonight.Â
Atsumuâs place with his built in bar, huge TV and the fifteen rolled up bath towels for easy use that you assume were put there by his cleaning service⊠it feels like a different world.
âIâm not High Maintenance,â you say, more to remind yourself than anything else. âI like my weird apartment.â
And, suddenly brave, you add. âAnd my weird roommate too.â
âIâm weird?â Thereâs a glimmer of humor in his eyes as he asks.
âType F,â you remind him. âType Fukunaga.â
He links your arms together before trudging up the stairs.
-
âShohei?â You ask, fresh-faced and Pyjama-clad, surprise in your voice. âWhat are you doing?â
âOh,â he turns from the stove. âIâm uh⊠making Paella.â
âAfter six rounds of Ribs and Wings?â
âWell,â he rubs the back of his neck. He was supposed to use the bathroom after you, not start cooking for Dinner at midnight. âI wanted to, uh⊠make a point. A statement, if you will.â
âOh?â
âYeah,â his fingertips are hammering onto the kitchen counter like heâs playing invisible drums. âCause, you know, if you want to impress someone, you need to put your best foot forward.â
âI do agree that Paella is your best dish.â
âRight?â His smile blooms. âSo Iâm making it.â
âAnd whoâre you going to impress with it?â
âOh,â Shohei falters again. âWell, uh⊠you.â
âMe?â
âYeah,â he pulls his shoulders up to his ears. âBecause, you deserve some name brand stuff. Something High Maintenance.â
âEven if I donât want it?â You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly nervous about where this is going.
âEven then,â he clears his throat. âAnd Iâm going to give it to you, if you have some patience with me. This is just a promise. Like a promise ring, but with food.â
Shohei pauses.You can see the gears turning. âA paella ring?â He offers, the joke terrible.
You smile. âA Paella ring.âÂ
For a moment, all you share is that smile and the promise of something. Then, his words sicker into the part of your brain that has already tried to say goodnight.
âWait, did you just⊠confess to me?â
Shohei blushes. âYeah, was I⊠too weird about it?â
âNo, Iâm weird about it. You know my brain, I didnât get it.â
âOh,â he smiles. âShould I go again?â
And itâs that, really, that will always stand out to you. Type F, Fukunaga.Â
âYes please,â you tell him, knowing heâll do it again and again, only for you.Â
-
âOkay, so what do you think about this one?â Shohei turns his phone on the table so you can read the script to his newest Stand up Routine. âAlso, Wings or Ribs?â
âWings,â you say as you read on. âWeâve had Ribs last time.â
âTrue that.â He gets up to order, is back in less than a minute. âThey already prepared it. Seems like weâre too predictable.â
âOh,â you look up. âBut we canât switch it up. I only like the Wings and Ribs here.â
âI could offer to cook,â he thinks out loud. âSome Paella on the Menu would be a nice change, donât you think?â
You smile. âIâd like that. Also, the Paella Ring is a nice touch to the Routine. When are you trying that out?â
âTonight. Are you coming?â
His knee knocks into yours below the table as his hand finds yours above, squeezing it tight. Thereâs a ring there, no diamonds, a promise of something more and the reminder of what already is.Â
âDo you even have to ask?â
âCourse. Iâm High Maintenance like that,â Shohei winks.
You lean in to kiss that joke right of his lips.Â
#my writing#fukunaga shohei#fukunaga#fukunaga x reader#kuroo#miya twins#bokuto#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu x you#hq x reader#haikyuu!!#fukunaga fluff
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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 havenât 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 Pandoraâs 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. Itâs 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 âprivateâ investigator boyfriend, who couldnât 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 doesnât 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.
#i just want to imagine them happy and less traumatised and living past their twenties okay#they deserve that much#im far too emotionally attached to them#marauders fandom#marauders era#the marauders era#dead gay wizards#dead gay wizards from the 70s#rosekiller#evan x barty#barty x evan#marylily#mary x lily#lily x mary#dorlene#dorcas x marlene#marlene x dorcas#pandora x xenophilius#starchaster#jegulus#james x regulus#regulus x james#wolfstar#sirius x remus#remus x sirius#fralice#frank x alice#alice x frank#slytherin skittles
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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 uhâŠshenanigans"
Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | AO3
âThis whole week has been a bachelorette party, Nes,â Emerie complained from Nestaâs 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 didnât bother mentioning that Cassianâs ass cheeks were imprinted on the glass, though her eyes kept drifting toward it.
How had they not broken it?
That didnât matter? Not when Nests flung open the curtains in her suite living room, earning groans of protest from the very hungover Gwyn and Emerie. âTurn it off, Nesta.â
âI canât turn off the sun, Em,â Nesta replied. âAnd itâs almost noon. Donât make me spend the day with my sisters.â
âWhy not?â Gwyn asked, turning to bury her face in the squishy, leather couch. âThey went to bed earlier than we did.â
âCome on. Lets do the work out class in the pool and have a few drinksââ
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 theyâd 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 Azrielâand Cassian, if he was nearby? Yes.Â
And what had it gotten her? Passed out on the floor of Nestaâs suite while Azriel was god knows where, all while her friend was hoping for a repeat.Â
âI canât, Nesta. My mouth is dry.â
âDrink some water,â 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.
âWill you braid my hair?â she asked of Emerie instead, ignoring the soft sound of triumph that left Nestaâs throat. Emerie peeked open a pretty brown eye, glazed from the bad sleep theyâd gotten, and mumbled that sounded mostly like agreement. Maybe a little swearing, too, which Nesta promptly ignored.
âCassian bought a bunch of frozen breakfast burritos. Want me to microwaveââ
âYes.â 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 Gwynâs scalp to create two thick, cute bubble braids.Â
The smell of cheese and peppers filled the air, turning Gwynâs stomach hollow with hunger. She scarfed one down while Nesta watched, triumphant. âItâs fixing you, isnât it?â
âNo,â she lied. âMake me another.â
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 heâd 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.Â
âYou know, I have an actual bachelorette plan for this weekend,â Gwyn began, drumming her fingers against the laminate countertop. âIâve been putting it together since we got here.â âCassian told me,â Nesta admitted, eliciting a choked sound of outrage from Gwyn.
âHowâAzriel.â
Nesta grimaced. âThey donât keep secrets. Cassian especially. It sounds really fun, Gwyn,â Nesta added, though Gwyn could see she didnât really mean it.
A little offended, Gwyn asked, âWhatâs wrong with the night I have planned?â
âNo Cassian.â
Gwyn spluttered. âThatâthatâs the whole point! You have your whole life to see Cassian!â
Nesta nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek. âWhat if we combined themââ
âThen itâs just a regular night! A stripper was coming, Nes,â she added, snapping her fingers in front of Nestaâs face. âAnd not just any stripper, but an Italian stripper, which I was assured is better than a regular one.â
âCassian would probably think thatâs very funnyââ
âOh, for fucks sake,â Gwyn grumbled. âWhy would you wait until now to tell me?â
âI thought maybe Azriel would convince youââ
âWhy would you think that?â Gwyn demanded, suddenly defensive. Nestaâs 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.
âIââ
âHeâs obviously into you,â Emerie interrupted, strolling into the room in a vibrant purple two piece. Sheâd braided her hair, too, which warmed Gwyn. Theyâd 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. âWe all saw that picture he put up, too. That man doesnât have one woman on his grid but now heâs got you.â
Nesta was fiddling with the ties at the front of her swimsuit. Quietlyâso quietly Gwyn barely heard her, she murmured, âI put you two in the same room.â
âYou what?!âÂ
Nesta sighed. âWhen you ended things, he called me. Wanted to know why, and how to get you back blah blah blah. I didnât help him, butâŠyou had that crush on Azriel in high schoolââ
âOh my God,â Gwyn mumbled, putting her head in her hands. âAnd this whole timeâŠI thoughtâŠâ
âDid it work, at least?â Emerie asked curiously, picking up one of the microwave burritos from a paper plate. âHave youâŠyou know?â
âIâm not answering that.â
âThatâs a yes,â Nesta said, slapping a high five out with Emerie. âDo you like him?â
âIâm not answering that, either. Iâm feeling a little betrayed right now. â
Nesta sighed. âWell, donât. It was done out of love for you bothâAzriel is stupid when it comes to women and youâŠGod, Gwyn, do you have any idea how much it has sucked watching you lose yourself to Jonathon?â
Gwyn looked between her friends, heart pounding. Emerie grimaced.
âHe made you so small,â she murmured, squeezing Gwynâs hand.
âAll he did was complain,â Nesta added darkly. âThe amount of times I had to remind Cassian he couldnât hit himâŠâ Nesta shook her head.Â
âIt doesnât have to be Azriel,â Emerie amended hastily. âIt just seemed like maybe you twoâŠâ
âSo you both knew?â Gwyn asked flatly, unsure how she felt about the whole thing. Though a new, more terrible thought was settling in her chest. âDid Azââ
âNo!â Nesta said quickly. âGod, no. Not even Cassian knew.â
âBecause heââ
âCanât keep a secret, yeah,â 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. âHe doesnât know. And it seems like he likes you. Rhys told Cassian Azriel said something that made him think so. He didnât say what, though.â
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, âSo, this whole time, youâve been playing matchmaker during your wedding?â
Nesta nodded without an ounce of shame. âIâm more committed to your romance than my own marriage, Gwyn. Donât be mad,â she added, the closest Gwyn would get to an apology. âYouâre so stubbornâŠif Iâd told you what I was thinking, you would have avoided him on principle.â
âYeah, and I probably wouldnât have slept with him in the airplane bathroom,â she grumbled.
Emerie burst out laughing. âI didnât believe Mor when she told me she saw you two go in there. Sheâs going to dieââ
âDo not tell her!â Gwyn shrieked. âTell no one.â
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, âItâs not like that between me and Azriel. ItâsâŠthis is just a vacation thing. Proximityââ
âOh, bullshit!â Nesta exploded while Emerie swallowed the laughter causing her shoulders to shake. âAzriel isnât capable of casual anything.â
Gwyn wanted to believe that. Heâd said a lot of things, always with his cock in her body. NeverâŠnever 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.Â
âI donât know how we got here,â Gwyn grumbled, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers. âDo not meddle, okay? If you want to change the bachelorette party tonight, that's on you.â
âFinally,â Nesta breathed, her delight evident.
âControl freak,â Emerie teased.
And somehow, everything was fine. All Gwynâs 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 theyâd forgotten to put on sunscreen. Gwynâs hat and sunglasses were in the room she shared with Azriel, and today she didnât dare run down to get them. Sheâd hoped to avoid Azriel until she knew how to tell him theyâd been set up.
It didnât 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 himâas if both Nesta and Emerie didnât immediately notice. He wasnât beating the not interested charges, which both annoyed and thrilled her. Azriel didnât 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 heâd put his mirrored shades back on, Gwyn could feel his gaze burning against her skin.Â
Azriel isnât capable of anything causal.Â
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 homeâfor real, and not when he was erect or drunk or lost to romantic moonlight. Gwyn swallowed.
It was better to know.
Right?Â
AZRIEL:
âWhat was the point of asking me to throw you a bachelor party if we were going to end up with the girls?â Azriel grumbled, thinking of all the wasted money Cassian was flushing down the toilet. It didnât matter if Rhysand and Nesta had venmoed him more than heâd spentâit was the principle of the thing. Heâd paid for a stripper. And not just any stripper, but an Italian stripper, which was, apparently, better than American ones.Â
âNes wants to be together tonight,â Cassian said, flashing Azriel a grin. So much for a nice night outâAzriel was wearing a pair of salmon colored shorts and a white and blue Hawaiian shirt wholly unbuttoned and a lei around his neck. Cassianâs choice, of course, tied together with flip flops that made him feel like a middle aged dad on a Florida beach.Â
âYouâll be with her your whole life,â 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 heâd seen, their clothes werenât creative.
The girls were worseâor 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 didnât seem to mind the attention, or was merely trying to get a rise out of Azrielâs brother.
And Rhysand was so, so stupid he fell for it every single time. Azriel wondered if theyâd be married next.Â
At the bar, Elain Archeron was carefully arranging glasses filled with pale, pink liquid on a circular tray. That seemed safe enoughâhe 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.Â
âWant help?â 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?Â
âYes,â 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.
âCan we try not to get so wrecked tonight?â 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 heâd seen it at the pool. Did she even know the effect she was having? He wished sheâd 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.Â
He wanted to wrap it around his wrist until her back was arched in the air. She hadnât come home the night before, likely tucked in with Nesta but Azrielâs 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 heâd 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 hadnât 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 safeâand still his.
Gwyn offered him a tentative smile before throwing back her shot. So much skin was on displayâso 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.Â
Cheeks flushed, she said, âThat was awful.â
âItâs a barbie shot!â Elain told her cheerfully, pushing one toward Azriel. Gwynâs eyes found him again, smiling sweetly before she took Emerieâs hand and led her back out onto the dance floor.
Fuck. Holding his glass, Azriel couldnât drag his eyes off the sway of her hips or the way her hair swished back and forth.
A heavy hand clapped on Azrielâs shoulder, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. Cassian, just behind, grinned. âWant to dance?â
Azriel leveled a flat stare. Heâd never danced a day in his lifeâhe wasnât 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.Â
âI paid for a private room,â 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 hadnât canceled the one heâd paid for Cassianâs bachelor party.
âShould have kept the stripper,â Rhys said, reading Azrielâs thoughts.Â
âMaybe we can get Nestaââ
âNo!â Rhys and Azriel said at once, falling into their seats with wide eyes.Â
âDonât make this weird, man,â Azriel added as Cassian chuckled. âSave that for tonight.â
âIs this what you wanted?â Rhys asked Cassian, who pulled up a chair across from them.Â
âIt will be when the pizzas get up here. I knowâŠlook, I know you two really tried, but I donât need one last night of freedom. I donât want to pretend to be single.â
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 Rhysâs face, that the same soft jealousy he felt was echoed in his brother.
They wanted what Cassian had.Â
âWe can do strippers when Feyre decides to marry Rhys,â Cassian added with a laugh.Â
âYeah fucking right,â Rhys grumbled, cheeks flushed. âNot if I want to keep my balls.â
âAz, then.â
âDonât look at me,â he replied, heart thumping loudly. âIâm not getting married anytime soon.â
He wondered what Cassian knew when he replied rather smugly, âWeâll see.â
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.
âNice,â Lucien said, setting a round of beers in front of them. âBottle service?â
âDo I look cheap, Vanserra?â Cassian replied with a grin.
âYes,â 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 hadnât 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 openingâone 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 wasnât the place for a conversation, but when Gwyn pushed into the bathroom, Azriel followed right behind her.
âIs this a new kink I should be worried about?â she asked, though she still undid her bottoms to pee in front of him. Azriel turned, only a little embarrassed.
âIâve been trying to talk to you all day.â
âOh? Why is that, I wonder?â she asked, her voice just a little louder than usual. Okay, so maybe she was a little more drunk than he thought. Azriel hesitated.
âBecause I like you.â
âMe? Or me naked?â
Oof. âBoth,â he murmured, swallowing hard. âI ahâŠI wanted to talk about going home.â
Her laugh bounced off the tile walls. âAre we breaking up?â
A flush, and then Gwyn, flip flops slapping against the floor while she went to wash her hands.
âNo. I want to see you when this is all over. Just you,â he added.Â
As my girlfriend, though Azriel didnât know if he dared to add that. Not when she was looking at him withâŠwas that amusement? Was he about to have his heart broken?Â
âJust me?â Gwyn asked, shaking her wet hands between them. âThis is starting to sound like a confession.â
âI just told you I liked you,â he reminded her. Gwynâs smile widened.Â
âSo you want..what, exactly?â
âYou,â 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. âWith me and no one else.â
âSoâŠyour girlfriend.â
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 didnât, and the thought of agreeing to that made him want to vomit on the floor.
âYes.â
Gwynâs brows shot skyward. Heâd caught her by surprise, then. âJust you and me,â he added, so it was perfectly clear to her. âNo one else.â
âStartingâŠwhen?â
âStarting now,â he replied, pulling her closer still. âRight now.â
âYou should know something,â Gwyn said, before rushing to tell him the whole, sordid saga of Nestaâs manipulation. With flushed cheeks and averted eyes, Gwyn told him how theyâd been paired togetherâand that Nesta had known sheâd 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 hadnât been trueâheâd still want her. And would have thanked Nesta for hitting him over the face with it.Â
âSoâŠso it doesnât matter?â she asked, twining her arms around his neck.
âNever did,â 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 privateâand there were limited bathrooms.Â
âI canât leave,â Gwyn lamented, reading his mind.
âDonât drink too much,â 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. âCassian has pizza upstairs. You should eat some.â
âInsatiable,â 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 heâd pulled her flush against his body for a languid, long-coming kiss, that anyone would even care.Â
âGwyn!âÂ
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.Â
âFuck,â Gwyn whispered.
Fuck, indeed.
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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."
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I shouldn't love you, yet here we are (Joel Miller x reader) â 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 parentsâ 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 girlâs party.
âYou seriously shouldnât have come, I could have just hired someone to do it,â you told him for the third time since he had arrived half an hour ago. âI didnât want to ruin your night.â
âSweetheart, you give me a coffee and weâre even. Iâll always help if you need it,â 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 didnât help that something had definitely changed about the way he acted around you. He was a lot warmer, nicer, and you couldnât 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.
âYouâre awfully quiet over there,â he noted when he turned his head to look at you.
âIâm drunk.â
But Joel only shook his head at this as he packed up his tools and closed the front door. âItâs not my first time seeing you drunk, but this is different. Whatâs wrong?â You remained silent, for some reason believing that he wouldnât keep asking if you refused to answer. But you were wrong, because he said, âStill sad about Tommy?â
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 wouldnât tell your family. After taking a deep breath, you leaned back to look at the ceiling.
âI really thought it could work out between us,â you admitted.
âListenââ
But you immediately raised your hand to stop him. âItâs not your fault, Joel. You tried to help me, everything else was Tommyâs choice.â
âMy intention was to help avoid the heartbreak, but look at you now. It is my fault, sweetheart, and Iâm so sorry,â he said as he crawled over to you on his hands and knees.
Maybe alcohol gave you the ability to notice things you wouldnât see when youâre sober, because you noticed the longing look in his eyes as he watched you. This was that strange thing you hadnât been able to decode before. When did this happen? You tried to pinpoint the first time he looked at you like this, but you couldnât 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.
âLetâs get you a cup of coffee,â he told you hoarsely.
âWhy? I'm fine,â you told him, your fingers slowly inching closer and closer to his face, but he grabbed your wrist before you could touch him.
âStop,â he warned you, although you could hear the uncertainty in his voice. âYou donât wanna do something you would regret later, believe me.â
You couldnât help but laugh at this as you pulled back your hand. âI shouldnât use the first man I stumble upon as a rebound, right? Look, Iâm sorry, Iâm drunk and stupid right now.â
âSo weâre being honest with each other right now?â he suddenly asked, surprising you. You nodded and waited for him to explain why he asked this. âI 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.â
It was hard to say anything. There were just way too many things to bring up after his confession, so much that you simply couldnât decide what to begin with. You could have been together, you might still be together if you werenât cowards back then. But maybe it wasnât 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 didnât 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 youâd just done. You havenât even gotten over Tommyâs rejection, why on Earth did you think this would be a good idea? It did feel good, and you were already missing his touch, butâ
âI should go now,â he said as he stood up.
You desperately reached after his hand, pulling him back before he could begin to pick up his things. âJoel, Iââ you tried weakly, ready to apologize and explain that your thoughts were bouncing around and you didnât know what you were doing.
âThis canât happen again, okay?â
âIâm so sorry, Iâm just very, very confused now, and I was just following my instincts,â you explained quickly.
âYeah, I know that feeling. But youâre drunk, I canât let you do something stupid.â
You remained silent for a while after this, thinking about what to say. Then, after carefully choosing your words, you said, âAnd what if I want to do something stupid even when Iâm sober?â
Joel let out a long sigh as he thought about what youâd just told him. You didnât know what was going through his head, but it didnât really matter as you werenât 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?
âListen, only last week you were all over my brother, I donât want to be the backup plan,â he told you. It was understandable, you wouldnât like to be the second best option either. âMaybe someday we couâWhatâs this buzzing sound?â
Looking behind your back, you were quick to notice the phone on the coffee table moving around. âShit, itâs my work phone. Just a second,â 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.
âIâm sorry,â you said.
âWhat the hell did they want at this time on a Saturday?â he asked you with furrowed brows after standing up.
âThe CEO just checked a document we wrote and she wants changes ASAP,â you explained while you drank some more water. âThatâs how it goes with her.â
Joel walked over to you and put a hand on your shoulder. âYouâre drunk, sweetheart, maybe you shouldnât work now. You canât focus on one thing at the time apparently,â he added with a smile, referring to the way youâd been acting since he arrived.
âNo, itâs okay. I donât want to piss anyone off by slacking, and this job pays too well to lose it. At least it will avert my thoughts fromââ
âTommy?â
âYou,â 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 didnât 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, âIâll go now. Sarah is spending tomorrow with her mother, so if⊠You know, if you want to talk, Iâm available.â
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?
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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
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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 Davidâhell, well before that if she was being honestâher 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 wasnât an immediate jump. It started with the pills her psychiatrist had prescribed her, the very same psychiatrist her assistant director had lauded as âthe bestâ. 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 âincidentâ (god, she hated the way everyone just tip-toed around it), it was clear her superiors didnât think she was capable of handling any more cases. They put her on leave to âclear her headâ, and it only served to make it worse.
All that time alone to sit and stew in her own misery⊠thatâs when things between her and David really started to shift. She didnât 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 wasnât 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 wasnât sure anything could repair it.
David tried, but he just couldnât 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 sheâd 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 didnât even know she was missing.Â
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 returnâone she knew well, though it made her heart hurt more than flutter this timeâand he replied, âI hope itâs good for you too.â
Soon after, she had rented a trailer in Wateryâan even smaller town near Bright Fallsâquit 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 didnât 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
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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"
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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 doesnât think thereâs anything in his stomach to remove. It takes a minute, but he realizes heâs in Tillieâs bed. Had he spent the night?
Itâs not his first time waking up in her bed. Naturally, heâs spent countless nights in it, but never without her wrapped around him. Heâs 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.Â
When he gets out of the bed, heâs a little woozy and takes a few seconds to get his bearings. Heâs 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. Sheâs wearing a muscle tee that was once Michaelâs 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, sheâd look like shit, but Cal still thinks sheâs prettier than everyone else on the face of the planet.Â
She doesnât 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 heâs supposed to talk to the girl he has only spoken to once in the past year â last night. When she turns around and finds him standing there, she jumps and drops the beer can in her hands.
âGoddamn, Calum. You scared the shit out of me,â she huffs, bending over to grab the can she dropped.
He clears his throat, his mouth feeling wildly dry even though heâs just drank half a bottle of Gatorade. âSorry.â
Tillie just keeps cleaning, and he doesnât 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.
âYou donât need to help, Cal. You can go home.â
âI donât mind.â
She doesnât 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 thatâs coating her floors. She didnât actually drink that much the night before, so she doesnât 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, Calumâs 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 Tillieâs home is restored to its usual state of organized chaos, Calumâs stomach grumbles loudly.
âDo you want to go grab breakfast? I know you love the place down the street.â
Calum, wide-eyed, is at a loss for words at Tillieâs suggestion. Sheâs asking him to spend time with her, one on one, despite their very tense, brief conversation last night.Â
âIâm buying, if thatâs what youâre worried about,â she adds.
He nods, and she nods in response.Â
âDo you want something different to wear? Iâve got some of Mikeâs stuff in the dryer you can wear instead of being Superman in incognito,â Tillie says while she walks to her bedroom to grab a sweatshirt and shoes.Â
Calum follows her. âUh, yeah, that would be nice.â
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 sheâs looking for, she hands the clothes to Calum.
âIâll be in the living room,â she tells him before she leaves him to change.
When Calum is done dressing in Michaelâs 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 hadnât 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.Â
They still donât 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.Â
âSurprised you remember,â he says when they get their ticket number and stand off to the side to wait for their food.Â
Tillie shrugs. âWe only came here a million times and you ordered the exact same thing every time.â
Calum nods. âThanks for buying me breakfast. And, um, for letting me sleep in your bed last night.â
âYouâre welcome. Youâd do the same for me, and Iâm glad you had somewhere safe to sleep. Drunk Calum Ubering home sounds like a recipe for disaster.âÂ
He laughs quietly, staring down at his feet. Heâd forgotten how tiny Tillieâs feet are compared to his. They look comically small next to his feet. Heâd also forgotten what itâs like to laugh at something â anything â with Tillie.Â
âFair. Still, I know things are⊠weird,â he says. âBetween us, I mean.â
Theyâre weird because of Tillie. Itâs her fault. A lot of things are her fault, and thatâs a fact she knows all too well. Sheâs chewing on her lip while she thinks, feeling guilty about a lot of things, but especially for what sheâs done to Calum.Â
âItâs about time we are able to interact again, Cal. I miss you.â
Calumâs expression shifts to stone cold in an instant. She misses him? She doesnât get to miss him. She doesnât get to miss him when she left the way she did and ignored him for a year. Thatâs not what someone who misses him would do. Those words wouldâve made him melt a few months ago, but right now, it pisses him off.
He doesnât say anything before he turns around and walks out of the cafe.Â
Tillie, confused, takes a minute to process that heâs leaving. Once it settles, she runs after him, mumbling âwhat the hellâ while she tries to catch up with the man who is over a foot taller than her who got a head start.
âCal! What the fuck?!â She yells after him, but heâs walking quickly and isnât going to stop.Â
She thought they were making progress and things were actually going pretty well, but now that sheâs running after him on the sidewalk of a busy street, she realizes she thought wrong.Â
âCalum! Wait! What did I say? Why are you leaving!?â
He halts.
Calum turns around, glaring at Tillie. His jaw is clenched and his hands are balled in fists at his sides. Heâs livid.
âWhy am I leaving?â He asks. His tone is bitter and clipped. âWhy did you leave?â
Tillieâs mouth feels like itâs full of cotton. She wasnât prepared for this to be the conversation theyâd have. She thought things were going to be okay between them. She didnât expect that heâd be so cold so quickly. Sheâs confused and quickly becoming upset, too.
âI neededââ
âSpace, I know. You keep saying that, but you got your space and suddenly it was filled with new people. What about me, Tillie?â He hates the way his voice cracks, giving away the root emotion of his anger: hurt.Â
It wasnât about him. It was never about him. Why didnât he see that?
âAnd now, you found somebody new that, apparently, youâre 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.â
Tears are forming in her eyes and she digs her fingernails into her palms as she squeezes her hands into fists. She doesnât realize how hard sheâs biting her lip until she tastes blood. She doesnât know what to say, because Calum isnât wrong. She was happy with him. Sheâd never told him, and sheâs 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.Â
âDoes he even know about me?â Calum asks.
Itâs rhetorical. He knows sheâs not going to say anything, and heâs honestly a little surprised sheâs still standing in front of him. He thought sheâd just go home as soon as she realized what conversation theyâd be having. Sheâs so good at running away.
âI mean, he definitely knows who I am, right? The bassist of the band you toured with for a year. Your best friendâs other best friend. He knows I exist, but does he know it all?â
Tillieâs crying now and hot tears are streaming down her cheeks.
âDoes he know how we got drunk in Montreal and you told me about the shit youâve 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 canât stand to listen to the song? Did you tell him that you told me I was the only person youâd ever met that youâd want to be in a relationship with?â
The questions come pouring out of Calum and he doesnât know if heâll be able to stop. Itâs partly therapeutic to get to say all of this to her now, after a year of sitting on these thoughts, but itâs also breaking his heart to watch her stand there and cry.Â
âI know he doesnât. Youâve acted like I havenât existed for a year, Tillie. You canât even say my name to Michael. You shut down whenever he mentions me.â
She feels betrayed that Michael told him that, but she canât blame him for it. It wasnât 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. Theyâre a disaster, just happening for the world to see. Heâs hoping there isnât a paparazzi camera aimed at them right now.
âAre you done?â She asks. Her voice is so quiet and distraught. Heâs never heard her like this. He hasnât ever seen her actually cry. Itâs so foreign, and thereâs a piece of him that feels horrible for making her cry, but heâs glad heâs finally been able to talk to her about everything.
When she ran away, she didnât have to face the consequences of her actions. She didnât have to see how she broke him.Â
Calum nods.
âI never wanted to hurt you.â
âWell you did,â he snaps.Â
âI was dealing with some shit, Cal, and I didnât know how to handle it, so I pulled back. I⊠Iâm sorry. I wasâŠâ Tillie trails off. Does she tell him? Does she finally say the words? Does she admit the worst facts sheâs ever had to come to terms with, out loud, for the first time?
The word sits at the tip of her tongue, but she canât say it.Â
âYou were what, Tillie?â
She answers him with silence.
âFigures. Just shut down again.â
Tillie sighs, staring at him through her tears. She wants to tell him. If thereâs anyone on this planet she wants to tell, itâs Calum.Â
She wishes things were different, and that she didnât 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 wonât be able to hear it, because heâs walking away, just like she did.
Grieving. Tillie was grieving.
read next part!
my masterlist! :)
#5sos#5 seconds of summer#luke hemmings#calum hood#ashton irwin#michael clifford#fanfiction#fanfic#5sosfam#imagine#calum fic#calum 5sos#calum imagine#songfic#calum x ofc#calum x fem!oc#know it all#the band camino
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