#that is a privilege that not everyone has and i recognise that

[touchlikethesun]

i hate the idea that kageyama is as good as he is because of natural talent. maybe you could get away with thinking that the first few seasons, but we know from the manga that he trained his ass off from the age of 4 he’s been surrounded by volleyball since he was born. ofc to people that haven’t known him from birth, that haven’t seen all the hours that he has and continues to put in, it looks like natural talent. but it’s not. kageyama is as good as he is because of a whole life of constant practice and hard work.

[phagodyke]

weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

[wild-at-mind]

Hacking my brain on depression: one of my favourite things to do when depressed is convince myself that me feeling like shit is actually good, because it's an appropriate reaction to all the horrible things happening in the world.

The way tumblr social justice culture used to be structured was very based on 'bad feelings in a privileged person=something good is happening'. This came from the idea that people in privileged groups often feel very defensive when introduced to new ideas about how the world is structured in their favour. Their negative feelings about learning this eventually (in theory) translate into learning more and understanding more about the reality of marginilised people.

This is a real thing but it's not all there is. It's actually really weird now I come to think of it that the tumblr social justice sphere (and later the twitter version of same) latched onto this so hard. There are many other ways to come across information that makes you seriously change your worldview about privilege. There are also many things that can make you feel awful without any kind of productive thought and no benefit to anyone else or to yourself. Feeling like shit in reality usually doesn't translate to doing anything productive. (I'm not convinced it works in most social justice contexts except someone discovering a new idea for the first time, actually.)

So occassionally you still run into the kind of stuff like above on here, and it's really bad for my brain, personally. I actually use it as a kind of emotional self harm during the depression spirals. (This is probably obvious if you read my blog.) I get so I can't even contemplate trying to access outside help with my illness, or the simplest internal coping mechanisms that would help (e.g. if reading horrible tumblr blogs makes you feel worse, stop!). So I try and hack my brain by telling it- actually it's really important that you stop this because otherwise you will actually be worse at social justice stuff- if you can't engage with anything without shutting down how is that a good thing for any kind of cause? And I try and use that to get myself out of a spiral. How well it works will be seen- if I write 20 tumblr posts in the next few hours: it didn't work. If I'm not seen agian for a while: it worked.

[thegodatyourdoor]

every time this post gets attention i feel the need to give an update;

u will not feel like this forever ! sure maybe life doesn't get better but you do. you learn and you grow and you start to become an adult and you learn So Much about who you are and who you want to be. and while circumstances may or may not improve you get better at coping and then you get better at actively making the life you want for yourself.

absolutely continue to use this as an outlet bc trust me i Get It but one day you will look back at the little girl who related to this post and you'll realise you both survived and that you are everything she wanted to become <3

being the gifted eldest daughter is like *shows an interest* *gets mocked for it* *struggles socially* *has unfair expectations placed on her* *ignored until exceptional* *burns out at 16* *never gets parental support* *third parent* *needs attention but cant ask for it bc ‘youre so mature’*

[apas-95]

How do I reconcile my intense sympathy and support for Palestine while also living in the ancestral lands of Native Americans? As a black man, where exactly could I migrate to and be accepted by the local populace? I am lost on this point.

While the question of black nationhood is a complicated one, I think there's a deeper misconception, conveyed by the idea of migration, that should be addressed, here - decolonisation does not mean physically removing non-indigenous people from the land.

Decolonisation means the destruction of the colonial state, and the return to sovereignty and self-governance of the colonised nation. Decolonisation of Palestine does not mean that 'israelis' living in Palestine must be removed - but that they must no longer be occupiers, they must no longer be beneficiaries of a state that opresses the indigenous population. In the case of Palestine, many of them will likely leave of their own accord anyway - they do not want to be residents of Palestine, but occupiers of it - but in more entrenched settler colonies, there's no reason to expect everyone who isn't indigenous to up and leave. Rather, recognising the occupied nation they actually live in, accepting its governance and authority, and renouncing any illicit gains the occupation granted them (like stolen homes and land) is much more in line with what decolonisation looks like.

The issue is not, and never was 'foreigners living on our land', it has always been the military occupation, repression of indigenous nations and nationhood, and elevation of settlers to a privileged class on the back of exploitation and base robbery of occupied nations.

[sansaorgana]

— THE PROPHECY

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Fremen!Reader

SUMMARY — After failing to protect your tribe, its members leave you behind to die according to your customs. When Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen finds you, he immediately knows you are a daughter of the desert that was promised to him in the prophecy. Just like you were promised a man from the stars to come for you.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I changed the request a little and I hope it's fine – I just had this idea and I really wanted to write it but the request itself inspired it! 💛 By the way, this request was sent in April... 🙈 I am so ashamed of myself and it's not even the only request like that because I still have one left to write with Feyd... Please, do forgive me... 🙏🏻 I know nothing about Fremen customs and I didn't bother to Google them because I had this idea in my head and I liked it so I didn't want to change it either way. Therefore, keep in mind that I treat The Fremen culture pretty loosely here. Reader is a Princess (I don't think they have royalty at all in canon), she has ritual tattoos on her body (not as many as Lady Jessica but still) and she has blue eyes from the spice (which is not even mentioned I think 🤔) but other than that I did not describe anything about her looks.

WARNINGS — mentions of slavery, mentions of sexual activities including non/dub-con (no actual smut), mentions of suicide, Reader gets beaten up badly in the beginning by The Harkonnen soldiers

WORD COUNT — 4,200

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

THE PROPHECY

In other worlds, noble families had all the possible privileges alongside the burden of responsibilities. In other worlds, Princesses were spoiled and insufferable creatures who had all their whims and wishes fulfilled. But it was no other world – it was a cruel and harsh Arrakis. It was a hot desert filled with nothing but sand and spice and your tribe expected that your parents would help them to survive – no matter what price.

Everyone had the same duty to keep the rest alive – your father, your mother and even you, a simple Princess. The Fremen were not rich, therefore you were wearing the same clothes as everyone else. But even if you tried to blend in with the crowd, everyone would recognise you because of the ritual tattoos covering your skin. The noble blood was nothing but poison running through your veins – it was unwanted. Every failure was blamed upon you and you would drink the collected water as the last because your job was to make sure your tribe would live.

You had lost your mother first, even before the new Harkonnen invasion and the oppression of The Atreides. But your father died recently, in the very same ruins where your tribe left you to die in the ashes and heat before they attempted to run away. You were their Princess and your family had failed to protect them – the tough custom was to leave you behind and let the desert take care of you. It would either swallow you whole or you would prove yourself by digging yourself out.

But in this case – it was leaving you behind for The Harkonnens to find you and take care of you. It was worse than death in the desert. Perhaps their ways of murder were quicker and more sophisticated but they were unnatural. You were a Fremen and if you were to die, you wanted to do it by slowly decaying in the sand.

“Mercy… Mercy…” You begged quietly in Chakobsa language when they found out that the body laying amongst the ruins was still alive and breathing.

One of the Harkonnen soldiers pulled you up by your hair and you could see them all through hazy eyes, in their black uniforms covering their unhealthy pale white skin. 

“That bitch is alive,” one of them drawled out. “Are you going to talk?” He leaned in to ask you but you didn’t answer. You had no physical strength to answer him but also no spiritual motivation to keep going.

You were already prepared to die and you felt so indifferent that their punches and kicks did not bring you any pain at all. They dragged you by your hair and bruised your skin, they threatened you and cut you in a few places but with each drop of blood, you also felt your life leaking out of your body and what a sweet relief it was.

You were lying curled up on the ground and completely lost track of time. You could have been there for centuries, long hours or mere minutes only. You had absolutely no idea. You only waited for death to finally release you from this life and from the endless sands of Arrakis.

Your dream was to fly – fly away and see other worlds. See the worlds with greenery and water. To breathe in the fresh air and to be invisible in the crowd, to no longer be a Princess.

Or to simply disappear. That option was not so bad either. Everything was better than this life, certainly.

For now, they left you alone and proceeded to ruin the temple around you. And some part of you grieved this loss of your culture but the other part had no love for it anymore because you couldn’t care less at this point and because this world and these people had brought you nothing but pain and oppression. You loved and hated the Fremen equally.

Perhaps The Harkonnens had left you alone to regenerate before they’d start kicking and beating you again. Perhaps they would let you die in peace – that was doubtful, though. Perhaps they thought you were already dead but you were sure they did not because they were very committed to their art of killing.

When you heard heavy steps approaching you and their muffled voices explaining something to the man who had just arrived, you realised that they had been simply waiting for someone more important. And he was probably the one who would bring death to you. You tried to open your eyelids at least a little to see the face of your killer as you prayed quietly for a painless death even though you knew very well that no gods were listening to you. No gods would listen in a destroyed temple anyway. 

The gods were angry and their anger was always aimed at people like you – the noble Fremen who hadn’t managed to keep their people safe. You were doomed in this life and in the afterlife. There was no escape.

The man who had just walked inside the cave in which you were lying had an intriguing face because he was quite handsome for a Harkonnen. He had to be someone important, too, because his clothes were more elegant. He even had a cape attached to his stillsuit.

“Spy. Left behind,” one of his soldiers informed him and the man finally looked down and spotted you.

You bravely kept looking at him even though you knew already that painless death would be no option from his hands. You even straightened yourself up, slowly and gritting your teeth because you didn’t want to hiss out of pain and give them any satisfaction. Now, you were on your knees.

“No trace of the others,” the soldier explained.

“They’ve gone South to hide in the storms,” the new man commented and his voice made a shiver go down your spine and formed a knot in your stomach. There was something extremely eerie about him in a way that no ordinary Harkonnen could match. He was evil and twisted – even his voice was.

He was given a blade and he examined it as you were examining him, trying to figure him out even though it was pointless since it was the last minute of your life, most likely. Yet, stupid human brain always had to be kept entertained, always needed a distraction – even in a time like this.

“Send this message to The Baron,” the man commanded. “The North is liberated and secure. Harvest spice at will,” he looked back at you as if he was trying to mock you or tease you – so unaware how much you simply did not care anymore.

If it was up to you, you would blow up the whole planet. You would wipe Arrakis out of every galactic map.

“Yes, Na-Baron,” the man behind him bowed his head and then you realised that the demon in front of you was Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen himself.

It was quite ironic – he was of noble blood, too. Perhaps it would be an honour to be killed by him if you were a simple girl but you were not. Maybe it was a small mercy of the gods – a small, ironic smile. Yes, they would bring death now but at least your murderer was your equal and not a common Harkonnen scum.

Feyd-Rautha approached you slowly, clenching his jaw and your own sore muscles tensed, expecting another kick or a blow or things much, much worse. You just kept sitting there and looking up at him, too weak to even beg for mercy anymore.

And you didn’t want to either.

“She won’t talk,” another soldier of his told him and Feyd-Rautha tilted his head.

After a short while of silence, he crouched down in front of you and he tore a part of your stillsuit off of your body, revealing your arm and one side of your chest. You made no attempt to hide away from him or to yell for him to stop because you knew it would not help you in any way and it would only cost you even more of your dignity.

He smirked at the sight of your exposed body and stood up again.

“She is their Princess,” he pointed out loud. “Her marks give her away,” he added. “She is no spy. She was left to die as a punishment of her tribe.”

You were surprised how much he knew about your customs. Feyd-Rautha turned around to look at you again.

“I do not care about the Fremen traditions,” he informed you. “You will go with me,” he ordered.

You were too weak to move, of course. When two of his soldiers forced you to move up as they dragged you by your hair, you fell down on the ground. They kept forcing you up again and again, until you completely lost consciousness.

A man from the stars. 

You were a young girl again or perhaps you were a visitor in your old memory because you could see yourself sitting there, inside the dark cave deep under the temple with a Reverend Mother and a few other veiled Bene Gesserit women. A young girl with tears still in the corners of her eyes from the painful ritual of marking her body with the black ink. She had just become a Princess and she already knew it was a path of pain and sacrifice. Now, she had been tested with Gom Jabbar – another suffering filling this small body of a little girl. She hadn’t asked for any of this.

“A man from the stars,” the Reverend Mother said to her. A prophecy.

“What about him?” The girl asked, wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand, forgetting that they were sensitive now. The tears burnt her freshly-inked skin and she hissed. Bene Gesserit women smiled contemptuously. It was the Princess’ punishment for shedding tears and wasting water.

“He will come for you,” The Reverend Mother found her eyes through all the chains in her veil. Little girl felt a chill going down her spine at those words and she was not sure whether it was a promise or a threat.

She never told her parents about this prophecy and soon she forgot about it anyway. She grew up to be too big to believe in fairytales.

When you opened your eyes again, you gasped and sat up rapidly as the water splashed all around you. You looked down, terrified, and realised that you were naked inside a bathtub, surrounded by a few terrified maids who had moved away at the sight of you awakening.

“Wh-what is happening?” You asked them. Some of them were clearly Harkonnen with their white skin, big black eyes and bald heads. Some of them were Fremen slaves but they were not from your tribe because you couldn’t recognise any of them.

“Na-Baron asked us to clean you up and take care of your wounds, my Lady,” the Harkonnen maid informed you. She was not sure how to address you but you couldn’t care less about that. What shocked you the most was…

“Water!” You yelped and tried to get out of the bathtub although you were too weak to do so. “You are wasting water!”

“We have more than enough water here in the palace,” the Fremen slave woman told you and you calmed yourself down although you couldn’t help but feel angry about the injustice.

Of course they had water in the Arrakeen’s palace. The Harkonnens, The Atreides… People like them never suffered – even in a place like this.

You allowed the maids to go back to cleaning you up. When you were as fresh as never before, you couldn’t recognise yourself in the mirror. Even your skin looked a shade paler because it was no longer stained with the sand. Your hair was shining and the skilled hands of one of the maids braided it before your wounds were patched up and your body was covered with a semi-transparent dress. It was very feminine and quite revealing and the colours were all hues of orange.

“Na-Baron wishes to see you now, my Lady,” one of the maids bowed her head at you and two other maids took you by your arms to help you walk down the corridor to join Feyd-Rautha since you were still too weak to walk.

He was sitting by the big table that was filled with so much food you had never seen in your life. The colourful fruit filled with juice and water made your mouth drool.

The maids let go of your arms to bow down in front of him. You did not bow down but he did not comment. He had his legs placed up there on the table’s surface and he smirked at you, beckoning you over with his finger.

“Come, Princess,” he mocked your title and you limped towards him. “Leave us,” he ordered the maids and they left the room with their heads kept low out of fear and respect.

You finally reached the table and you grasped the edge of it for support as you moved even closer to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. You were not scared of him because you were not scared of death anymore and his title did not intimidate you because you were of noble blood, too – even though in his eyes you had to be a dirty savage anyway.

His face fascinated you because it was so unnaturally beautiful in a way that no Harkonnen should be. But still, you kept staring at his face with nothing but pure hatred.

“You must be starving,” he pointed out at the chair nearby. “Treat yourself.”

“Thank you,” you drawled out through your gritted teeth and took the seat, too hungry to dismiss such an offer.

You were devouring a grapefruit, allowing its sticky juice to run down your chin when Feyd-Rautha put his legs back on the floor and leaned in over the table to take a closer look at you.

“What do they call you, Princess?” He asked in a low, raspy whisper. “Have my men hurt you badly?”

“(Y/N),” you answered and looked deep into his eyes, showing him that you were not scared of him. “I can handle that.”

“That is a pretty name for a strong woman,” he commented. “You will be my slave,” he said casually and leaned back on the chair.

You didn’t know what to say to this, really. You knew that protesting was foolish – you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to keep your stomach full and it was obvious from the beginning that he hadn’t brought you to the palace as a guest anyway. Still, it felt wrong to quietly accept such a fate.

“I am no maid,” you only said.

“Not like that,” Feyd-Rautha smirked. “Not a maid. A special slave,” he explained but you kept staring at him in silence, killing him with your gaze only. He found it amusing as he chuckled. “You know, Princess, you are a daughter of the desert,” he pointed his finger at you and you raised your eyebrow at him. “I was told by a Bene Gesserit witch that a daughter of the desert would give me a strong heir who shall inherit the Empire. The Harkonnen and Fremen bloodline could not be further apart and that is why mixed together they will create the most powerful species of men. An ultimate man,” Feyd-Rautha explained.

“You are the man from the stars,” you mumbled out, feeling weird with the fact that your prophecy had been true, after all.

Feyd-Rautha was taken aback by your question and he had no idea what it meant but you did not feel like explaining.

“You want me to be your whore. You want me to push out your heirs but they will not be any powerful, ultimate beings, Na-Baron. They will be pure chaos. That is the only thing that can ever come out of our bloodlines mixed together,” you pointed out harshly. “You poison my world, you oppress my people, you killed my family. And now you’re asking me to be your concubine.”

“I must have missed the part where I am asking,” Feyd-Rautha clenched his jaw. You were getting him angry and it was nearly funny how spoiled he was that he really had thought you would agree to such a proposition after such a past.

“Kill me,” you requested and put the grapefruit down. “Kill me because I will be no use to you. I will never be your whore and I would rather die than give birth to your sickly bastards.”

“Why are you loyal to the people who left you behind to rot in the sand?” He asked, tilting his head. He was no longer angry but simply curious.

“That is the custom,” you only answered.

Your relationship with your tribe and your world was of a difficult kind but Feyd-Rautha did not need to know about it. He was an intruder, an outsider, an oppressor. He didn’t deserve to know your heart.

“You can’t run away from your prophecy, Princess,” Feyd-Rautha reminded you before leaving the table and leaving you alone inside the room.

When he left, you went back to eating – as much as you could and as fast as you managed. You felt like an animal and a savage indeed but there was no one to witness that desperate act anyway and you could not remember the last time you had something in your mouth.

Feyd-Rautha did not bother you personally but the maids were following you around and even though you were given your own room with a beautiful view of the desert, you were never truly left alone. You had beautiful but pretty humiliating dresses to wear and you were given baths every day which felt like a profanity for a Fremen.

You were well fed but most of the time you were bored. You knew that Na-Baron was awaiting your answer. You just hadn’t been told how much time exactly you had to make a choice.

Choosing death was simple and easy. Choosing to be his slave-concubine meant betraying your people and betraying who you were, even though you had always felt like you did not fit in with the Fremen and you always wanted to leave Arrakis. It had been a distant dream, too foolish and impossible to even be mentioned to anyone. But now, it could be true. As Feyd-Rautha’s new pet that he seemed to already be pretty fond of, you would be able to visit other worlds.

Your prophecy had claimed, after all, that the man from the stars would come for you. His prophecy had claimed that the daughter of the desert would give him a powerful heir. If it was true and you would become a mother of the future Emperor – well, that was quite tempting, indeed. No matter the price.

Staring at the desert behind your window, you were hugging yourself and biting on your lower lip while you were spending your evening overthinking – it had been your only occupation lately.

You had a feeling that this evening Feyd-Rautha would join you because you were left alone by your maids which was unusual. And indeed, a few moments later the doors opened again and he walked inside. His steps were heavy and confident as usual. It would be your first conversation ever since the one after your arrival.

“My Princess,” he greeted you in that harsh voice of his as he stood behind you and put his hands on your arms in quite a gentle but still very possessive manner.

“I have not made my decision yet,” you only said.

“Decision?” Feyd-Rautha was surprised and then he laughed. “You do not get to choose. Do you think I would let you choose death when I know that your womb might give me an heir that has been promised to me in a prophecy?” He lowered his voice and his words sent a chill down your body. His lips were brushing your neck and earlobe and you tried to get away from his grip but he tightened it and you couldn’t do anything about it.

“I should have killed myself,” you drawled out through gritted teeth.

“I suspected you might do so, therefore I ordered the maids to invade your privacy all day and night, my Princess,” he smirked. You could feel his lips curling on your skin.

“I’m going to kill every child you put inside of me,” you threatened.

“You can try,” he kept smirking but his grasp tightened even further.

“I will not be your slave,” you protested and kept shaking your head even though you knew it was pointless.

“Concubine,” Feyd-Rautha tried to convince you as if he really cared for the transaction to go pretty smoothly. And, apparently, he was in a mood to bargain. 

“Wife,” you spat out and a long silence occurred. His grip loosened and he took a step back, eyeing you up and down as he let out a deep laugh. You turned your head around to look at him. “I won’t push out bastards,” you stated.

“I have no desire for a wife,” Na-Baron dismissed you.

“And I have no desire for a husband but that is the only way I see it working,” you explained. “Of course you don’t need my permission to do anything with me. You might use me, imprison me to make sure I won’t get rid of your spawn and then you can kill me. But I am not as weak as you think of me, I am a daughter of the desert. I will change your life into hell and I will make you regret every hour, every day until I eventually die but believe me, I will make this time pass by very slowly,” you threatened.

“And why would I want to marry such a woman?”

“Because I have not described a wife. I have described a slave,” you explained. “Do you wish to know what kind of wife I would be?” You raised your eyebrow and took a step further towards him. He seemed to be intrigued as he tilted his head and you smirked to yourself. It seemed to be working – your plan to tempt him and convince him.

You had to secure your future and your position and since he was your oppressor, you felt no guilt about using manipulation to get there.

“You might think of me as lower than you but I am a Princess just like you are a Na-Baron and only our customs differ. Imagine taking me back to your world, your exotic war prize from Arrakis. You can dress me up in those pretty dresses and show me off, swollen with your special heir. I am a savage to the outsiders but couldn’t you turn the tables and make it an advantage? Your wild, savage wife that nobody knows anything about and who everyone fears?” You whispered, seductively.

“I know what you're doing,” Feyd-Rautha breathed out but even though he was aware of you trying to manipulate him, he was visibly giving in anyway. “You’re going to kill me in my sleep,” he added, looking intensely into your eyes and you chuckled at that.

“Perhaps,” you shrugged your arms. “But isn’t the prophecy worth the risk?” You asked.

After all, you were sacrificing and risking a lot, too. And it would be only fair if the transaction costed you both the equal amount.

“You are the jewel of Arrakis,” Feyd-Rautha chuckled and raised his hand to undo your braids and watch your hair let loose.

“And you are its poison,” you remarked as he smirked, eyeing you up and down.

“Together, we can rule over the worlds,” he whispered.

“Or destroy them,” you added.

Na-Baron shook his head but the smirk remained on his lips. He found it amusing that you had an answer for everything and how gloomy they all were. However, so far, it was entertaining for him. He brushed your collarbone with his fingertips.

“I surely have more experience in destroying them than I have in ruling over them,” he confessed but the hunger in his eyes was a clear message to you that he did not mean only Arrakis but also women overall.

“Some are too wild to be ruled over and too wild to be destroyed,” you informed him and he found your eyes again after staring at your chest and neck. For the first time, you saw that he was genuinely intrigued. Perhaps he finally saw you as a challenge. A riddle. A savage to tame.

Whatever would keep you alive and in a position of power.

Because no matter how much you were trying to convince yourself that you were ready to die, this life stubbornly seemed to keep you alive and there must have been a purpose in it.

Therefore, you were ready to receive everything this new life had to offer for you now. As if you had died in that temple and now you were given a second chance.

MASTERLIST

[boneblushed]

Is it enough?

synopsis All these people think love’s for show, but Rafe would die for you in secret.

a/n a late lil Christmas blurb for all the pre-Euro Trip Rafe lovers out there (aka me). Hope everyone’s enjoying the holidays !! 💗

You prefer the Outer Banks over Christmas break.

It’s when the salt air quiets and the tourons dissipate, the pavements pleasantly bare with cold asphalt unblemished. You’re certain to recognise everyone you see in December; you don’t have to perform when you’re out and about, the details of your personality are already firmly embedded. You prefer this, like to smile at that member of your mother’s book club, or that convenience store owner that’s watched you gain inches over the years.

You like recognising the people you make eye contact with. This is easier to do during the winter months, when touron tarnish isn’t diluting the street strollers and beach crowds.

Or so you think.

You’re celebrating the start of Christmas break at the Shake Shack with Topper and Kelce, when this pretty girl you don’t recognise walks in with Rafe and his younger sister.

You use the split second before he spots you to take inventory of his figure. He’s without that Kildare Island cap he likes to wear—always backwards; you’re chagrined that even you remember this little detail—his dirty-blonde locks overgrown and a little damp. He’s just showered, or something. Maybe gone for a swim. A fleeting image of Rafe Cameron’s chiseled torso enters your brain.

You blink. The heat in your cheeks makes you frown on instinct.

Topper must spot him at the same time you do, because he straightens and shouts, “Oi! Cameron!”

Rafe turns toward your table, his blue eyes brightening as he takes the three of you in. Behind him, his younger sister Sarah smiles politely. You watch her lean close to the mystery girl beside her, whisper something inconspicuous that makes her eyes pull right toward you. You smile back, though it’s more grimace than anything particularly deferential.

And then you fix Topper with a pointed glare, because your poor skin has suffered enough warmth for the day. “Topper,” you hiss, “why would you do that?”

“Uh,” Topper balks, looking to Kelce for help. (He provides none. He’s far too busy staring at the girl on Sarah’s left.) “Because he’s our friend?”

“Your friend,” you mutter irritably. You’re still feeling the after effects of shirtless Rafe in your head.

“No way!” Rafe exclaims then; you refuse to look up at him as he walks over, but the amusement in his voice is recognisable as ever. “How’re you guys going?”

He says ‘you guys’, but he only means you really. He’s more pleased than he should be about a rendezvous outside of school hours.

He walks slow, allowing his gaze to fall over you in paces. He’s already forgotten why he came here in the first place, his only goal now to get close enough to spot that freckle on your lower neck. He thinks about kissing it often. Not to mention, it’s winter, so any bare skin on display is a privilege. Light-wash jeans and a singlet with a cardigan pulled over it; he discerns the sliver of waist exposed between them, smells your lavender perfume and feels a jolt in his ribcage.

Kelce straightens slightly as he nears, clearing his throat. “Not bad.” He’s adopted a deeper timbre than you’re used to, enough octaves lower to earn a look of bewilderment. “You?”

“Not bad?” Rafe echoes, sending you a meaningful glance. “You guys have gotta do better than that.”

You narrow your eyes up at him. “Worse now that you’re here.”

“Funny, my afternoon’s gotten way better since I saw you.” Rafe grins. “What’s that saying again? Opposites attract or something?”

You frown harder at that, as if that’s somehow possible. Rafe aches. He’s going to get a smile out of you even if it fucking kills him.

“Anyway,” you say then, ignoring his jibe. “You seem busy, so we’ll let you get back to—”

“We’re not busy,” Rafe interrupts. He reaches behind him and grabs a chair from the table adjacent, sliding it forward and sitting down beside you.

“Rafael.” You sigh. “You can’t just—”

But the sound of Kelce’s chair scraping linoleum causes you to falter; he’s up and out of his own seat before you can continue, grabbing two more chairs and gesturing for Sarah and the mystery girl to join you.

You turn to him, confused, but he’s only got eyes for the pretty brunette that’s taking a seat beside him.

“Oh, thanks,” she says kindly. She’s almost blushing if you squint. “You’re Rafe and Sarah’s friends?”

“Barely,” you reply just as Kelce says, “mainly Rafe’s.” He sends you a pointed look before adding, “we all go to the Academy together. How do you know the Camerons?”

“We’re cousins,” she replies with a smile. “I’m Manon.”

“Manon,” Kelce repeats, slow, in that perplexingly low timbre. “I’m Kelce. How’re you finding the Outer Banks?”

“Good,” she says, still smiling. They haven’t stopped staring at each other since the conversation started.

That’s when it hits you. Your pretty eyes widen, and the corners of your mouth pull up into a pleased expression.

He’s totally crushing on her. Having known him for the better half of his formative years, you’re pretty sure your mind has gathered every single one of his tells.

The way that he’s scooted his chair closer to Manon’s, almost imperceptible. The fact that every word she says has his gaze pulling to her pink lips. They’re still having a conversation, but their eyes aren’t quite in it. Topper’s talking too, Sarah piping up here and there, but you’re taking in Kelce’s features and coming up with a plan.

Rafe is silent too. He hasn’t spoken a word since he noticed your features brighten. His chair’s pretty close to yours too, to be fair; he’s finding it hard to concentrate with your face a kissable distance away. The frown he brought to it has long since dissipated, the smile that reigns making his hands feel rogue, a little reckless.

He has a want to touch you that’s maddening. His only goal now is to keep you smiling that sweet smile.

Besides, he clocked Kelce’s eyes on his cousin the moment he made it over to your table. He’d recognise that look anywhere. It has that same helpless quality that your mere proximity brings him.

He throws his arm around your chair, pulling it closer to his. “Gross,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. “Could they be any more obvious?”

Your shoulders are touching. You try to focus on everything but the static bare skin on skin elicits.

“Personal space, Rafael,” you grumble weakly, sending him a reproachful look.

“I know right?” Rafe teases quietly, the grin on his face audible. “Manon may as well sit on Smith’s lap, huh?”

You try for a frown. “You know what I meant.”

“It’s different with us,” he says.

You turn to him then, raising your eyebrows. “How so, Cameron?”

A pause then, the closeness of your faces becoming painfully evident. Rafe’s gaze pulls down to your lips, the arm that’s resting on your chair pressing into your back. Your surroundings blur. How does he always manage to get you into such compromising positions?

“Just is,” he murmurs back, his voice rougher now than it was a second ago. His eyes are still on your lips, this maddening pressure bubbling up through his chest. “Mrs Cameron.”

“Ha ha.”

The jibe is enough to pull you out of your reverie, and you roll your eyes, giving him a shove in his chest. He doubles back dramatically, rubbing the space your hand pressed with a pleased grin.

“So have you guys ordered yet?” Rafe asks, drawing back into your space like a magnet.

“Nah,” Topper answers. “We’d only just arrived when you got here.”

“And we aren’t doing anything after,” Kelce adds, only really looking at Manon as he says it. “So we should grab ice-cream too, if you guys are keen. We’d love to help show you around.” He turns to you then, this pointed, pleading look on his face. “Right Y/n?”

“Uh.” You balk. “Yes?”

Your gaze moves to Topper and Sarah, who have struck up a similarly cozy conversation. They’re sitting pretty close together, all eye contact and Topper’s hand on Sarah’s chair back. Your heart drops.

“As long as it’s okay with Top and Sarah,” you add quickly, forcing them to re-enter discussion. “Top—don’t you have that thing later? With your mom and dad?”

Topper doesn’t seem to pick up on your cues, his hand sliding along the chair’s top rail. Sarah leans back into it. In your stomach now, you aren’t sure your heart has any further to plummet.

It’s easier to ignore Rafe’s patchouli and spice cologne when Topper’s indifference is so obvious. You find yourself at odds with wingwoman-ing Kelce and keeping Topper and Sarah as far away from each other as possible.

And you at a distance from Rafe, obviously. No grazing touches and lingering eye contact permitted.

“Uh… oh, the dinner?” Topper replies, furrowing his brow. “Yeah, but it’s only 1.00pm Y/n. Plenty of time before I have to head off for that.”

You grimace. “Right.”

Rafe frowns slightly as he looks over your features, bemused. There’s been a shift in your demeanour, but the culprit evades him.

He watches you glimpse the sliver of space between Topper’s chair and Sarah’s. Oh. The need to pull yours closer to his intensifies ten-fold.

“If that’s settled, we should order,” he says quickly, jumping up out of his seat. He looks down at you expectantly, resisting the urge to offer up his shoulder for you to take.

He’s learned that some things are ‘too much’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. When it comes to you, too much isn’t actually part of his vocabulary.

“You coming, sweetheart?” He adds, his eyes still on your figure.

You meet his gaze. It’s softer than before. An emotion you can’t quite put your finger on passes between the two of you, a gentle something that warms your insides.

“Uh,” you balk again. “Me? Why?”

“Need your help. Don’t know anyone else’s order,” he says. Anyone else, like it’s obvious he knows yours.

Your eyes widen. That gentle something intensifies to hot molasses. “Neither do I,” you reply, almost defensive.

“I’ll get the classic,” Sarah says then, trying not to smile. She shares another look with Manon, who adds, “and I’ll grab the veggie.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, nodding as you stand. “Classic for you too, right Top? And the double for Kelce?”

“Nah, I want the veggie,” Kelce responds, sending Manon a wink. “Reckon it’s time I tried something new.”

Manon’s ears grow pink. “Good choice,” she says, her smile widening.

You can’t help but smile too, turning to face Rafe. And he’s grinning down at you in tandem, this mischievous glint in his eye, and you almost forget that you’re supposed to be vexed as opposed to enamoured.

Almost. You turn back toward the table, creating space between you and him. Rafe aches, again. There’s longing like static in your physical distance.

“Alright,” you say, sounding more amused than bewildered. “Coming right up, I guess?”

You make your way toward the front counter, Rafe falling into your step seamlessly. Once you’re safely out of earshot of your friends, he ducks his head closer to continue your conversation.

“So,” he says seriously. “How’re we going to play this?”

You frown up at him, confused. “Play what exactly?”

“Smith and Manon.”

You balk. “What? Like… set them up?” You steal a glance back at the table, where Kelce and Manon’s chairs have scooted impossibly closer. The unimpressed look on your face softens, a pleased smile transforming your features. “I don’t think they need our help Rafael,” you say, gesturing toward them. “Look.”

Rafe turns too, taking in the scene. “Shit, you’re right,” he responds, grinning. “We’re going to have to keep these good vibes going.”

“You’ll be an expert at those,” you say, raising your eyebrows. “‘Good vibes’.”

“For you, always.”

“For them, Rafe.”

“If it’s you asking,” he reiterates. “Always.”

Your traitorous heart stutters. To compensate, you roll your eyes and turn to face the counter. He moves in tandem, shoulders side by side, elbows almost touching.

“What can I get for you guys today?” The server asks absentmindedly, fiddling with the iPad in front of her.

“Uh, can we get—”

But Rafe’s quicker than you are, repeating the order with ease and adding your own at the end of it. He knows to order your burger with extra pickles and sauce, tacks on the shake you love to dip your fries in when you’re starved. And he pays for the whole meal before you can so much as grab your own card, leaving the server impressed and you perplexingly pissed off.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you say stubbornly, watching him slide his wallet back into his pocket. “We’ll Venmo you.”

“What? No way.” Rafe looks down at you then, all handsome and sincere. Your heart stutters again, a forgotten car engine reborn. “It’s on me, seriously.”

“Rafe.”

“Venmo’s gonna kill the mood, trust me,” he says. “We can’t go back to the table and talk finances. That isn’t romantic.”

“Maybe not for Kelce and Manon,” you reply, frowning up at him. “But Top and I will. You don’t need to pay for our meals.”

“Top got me some beers a few weeks ago, so I owe him.”

Bold faced lie, but Rafe doesn’t particularly care. He wonders whether you realise that you stand closer to him when you’re vexed.

“And me, Cameron?”

“You?” He echoes.

You fold your arms across your chest defiantly, furrowing your brow. Rafe tries to command his gaze, willing it not to fall with the movement.

He fails miserably.

“I—I’ll Venmo you,” you clarify. You aren’t sure why you’re faltering.

“You know I can’t let you do that, sweetheart,” he replies helplessly, his voice lower now.

You sigh, beleaguered. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re impossible,” Rafe returns. “I’d be beyond fucking disowned if anyone found out I made you Venmo me for a burger.”

“It’s polite,” you say stubbornly.

“It’s not polite when what’s mine is yours.”

You balk. “But it isn’t.”

“Course it is,” Rafe replies matter-of-factly. “Has been since freshman year.”

“When we met?” You ask, bewildered.

“Aw.” Rafe cracks a roguish grin. “You remembered.”

“You know what—”

“Y/n, I’m kidding,” he adds quickly, sounding amused. “Not just when we met. When I told my mom I was going to marry you.”

Your cheeks warm, the tips of your ears on fire. “Like I fucking said… impossible.”

“Anyway,” he continues, faux-sombre now. “Today isn’t about us. It’s about Smith and Manon.”

He turns back towards the table, gesturing for you to do the same. As you do, your wrists brush against each other, the pulses within them syncing. The skin-on-skin lingers. “What should we do after lunch? Beach?”

You nod slowly, returning to the task at hand. Trying to ignore the feeling of Rafe’s rough forearm on yours.

“Beach,” you agree. “Let ‘em walk ahead a bit, head to that monument where the lookout is.”

“Great idea,” Rafe says, that mischievous glint in his eye returning.

“And… have you guys shown her the old Church yet? We can drive up there and point out all the old boat wrecks.”

“Well, Smith can,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows at you. “We can pretend we don’t know shit.”

“Even better,” you respond delightedly, grinning up at him.

“And how d’you propose we spend the evening, sweetheart?”

You pause, furrowing your brow in thought. “I know,” you say after a beat. “Star-gazing. We can take some blankets to that park at the end of Clover, you can see Orion’s Belt from there.”

Rafe doesn’t miss the fact that you don’t tell him off for the pet-name, not in that exasperated way you normally do. He realises that playing Cupid makes you more happy than he initially thought it would.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that he was your very first victim. Spending time with you like this—like friends—is just as pleasing as teasing you into oblivion.

Not to mention, your proximity is far more apparent when you’re excited. Rafe wonders whether you realise how often your hips touch, your forearms, the soft knuckles of your index and thumb.

(You do. Rafe’s signet ring is as cool on your skin as it is devastating.)

“You know where else you can see Orion’s Belt?” Rafe asks.

“Hm?”

“From the very end of our boat dock.”

You turn to him then, eyes wide. “You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding,” Rafe replies slowly. You’re closer now than you were before, as if that’s somehow possible. “Used to lay out there with my mom all the time. She’d point them all out to me when I was a kid.”

“There’s more?”

Rafe nods. “Ursa Major and minor.” His freckles aren’t dissimilar to the constellations he’s describing. “The Big Dipper too, if we’re lucky and there’s no clouds.”

“Kelce won’t even know where to look for them,” you murmur, quietly bewildered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rafe replies, his voice low too. “He just has to point at random shit and sound confident.”

You let out a bemused laugh. “S’that what you do with all the girls you take home, Cameron?”

He grins sheepishly. “Guilty. Only cause I know it doesn’t count with them.” He pauses then, ducking his head to eye level. “Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure I know every constellation there is when it’s you I bring home.”

—

Mission set Kelce and Manon up is a roaring success.

After a very enlightening lunch—where Kelce and Manon flirt shamelessly while the rest of you make hushed small talk—the six of you head down to the beach before Topper takes his leave for dinner.

And though by then the two lovebirds are well acquainted enough to be left to their own devices, they continue to insist on your company under the guise of maintaining pleasantries.

If you go, Kelce feels the obligation to go too.

If Rafe does, or Sarah for that matter, Manon’s far too polite to ask you and Kelce for a ride home.

Not that Rafe’s complaining or anything. He’s been afforded the luxury of your presence and he’s basking in it. Everyone around him seems to think his love’s for show, but quiet admiration in the name of company is just as valuable to him.

Setting up your best friend with his cousin, for example, putting his own feelings on pause so you aren’t obligated to act abashed.

So true are his efforts that they’ve led the five of you back to Tannyhill, the sun low on the horizon and amaranth dusk painting the walls in shadow.

As it isn’t yet dark enough to justify star-gazing on the dock, Kelce and Manon have situated themselves on the couch, looking far too cosy with bare shoulders pressed together.

Sarah’s retreated to her room, so you and Rafe idle at the stairwell, unsure.

“Uh…” Kelce turns to you over his shoulder, a hopeful look on his face. “Has Rafe given you a tour of the place yet?”

“Ye—” You falter, Kelce’s eyes widening pointedly. “Oh um, no. Don’t think so.”

Manon shifts sideways then, glancing back at the pair of you. “Rafe should then, no?”

Rafe’s trying his best not to look too pleased. He looks down at you to find that your gaze is already on him, that unnameable emotion back and torturous as ever. “I should, yeah. C’mon.”

He places his hands on your shoulders to guide you up the stairs, exerting this rough, sure pressure that leaves you a little dazed.

“So transparent, huh?” He murmurs, the smile on his face audible. “Sickening.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” you whisper back, equally amused.

“Touchè.” He lets go of your shoulders then, pushing open a door on his left. The heat of his touch lingers. “Here, this is my room.”

You walk in slowly, cautiously. To enter his private space feels oddly sacred.

What’s mine is yours, echoes his voice on your head. You find yourself continuing forward before you’re able to stop yourself.

Scruples of purple light spill through his window, illuminating the flannel comforter pulled over his bed. There’s two bedside tables and a chest of drawers decorated with memorabilia, a wooden desk holding his computer propped up against one corner.

His en-suite door is ajar, shadowy dusk illuminating his toothbrush holder. And all you can smell is his woody cologne, all musk and citrus and spicy patchouli.

You didn’t realise how familiar the notes were until they registered. Less sacred, more home. It’s terrifying.

You grapple for purchase on something you don’t recognise. Walking around his bed to inspect his belongings more carefully, you find yourself face to face with baby Rafe immortalised.

“Fuck off,” you exclaim, letting out a delighted laugh. “How old were you in this, Rafael?”

You’re holding the photo frame that sits on his bedside table, your pretty eyes alight with mischief.

Rafe needs a second to recalibrate. You’re in his room, in the flesh, and Rafe really really needs a second to recalibrate.

“Four,” he answers finally, flashing you a sheepish grin. “I was a chubby kid, huh?”

“A chubby cute kid,” you reply, raising your eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Gained a few inches.” He walks toward you until he’s close, until the difference in your height and his is painfully obvious. “A whole lot of inches.”

You look up at him then, the dim lighting deepening the blue of his eyes. “A whole lot of audacity too.”

“And love,” he murmurs.

“Rafe,” you warn quietly.

“You’re in my room, sweetheart,” he replies helplessly, the timbre of his voice roughening. His gaze is darker now, mirroring the amaranth hues of nightfall. “You’ve gotta cut me some slack.”

Your eyes widen. “Doesn’t mean you’re allowed to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to kiss me.”

A pause. Rafe’s Adam’s apple bobs dangerously in his throat, the small distance between your figures shrinking. “Fuck, Y/n,” he says finally, stepping back from you in a daze. “Is it enough?”

You furrow your brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Knowing that I’d kiss you… that I’d do anything for you. Is it enough?”

You swallow. The pulse on your wrist falters. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Rafe murmurs back. “Cause it’s enough for me.”

[lesbianslovenamari]

This whole thing about Americanisation is really important I’m glad some people here have explained it so well

DO NOT LET SOCIAL MEDIA TURN YOU INTO AN AMERICAN

[aphroditesmoon]

Hiiii! Love your clarisse oneshots ^^. Could you possibly do one where Fem!reader is the daughter of Hades and has a hellhound as a pet that absolutely adores clarisse? Reader also has a similar personality to clarisse, loves to fight and has a big pride but only lets her guard down around Clarisse.(also possibly has her own electric weapon of your choice)Thank you!!

creatures of the night

clarisse la rue x fem!hades'cabin!reader

warnings: none

a/n: sorry this is so short, hope u like it<3

wc; 1.1k

You would never consider your relationship with your father as better than anyone else's relationship with their own parent in camp.

But when you had been claimed by Hades as well as being gifted a long black javelin with gold wrapped around the sharp edge on the same night you arrived at camp Half Blood, it seemed well established to everyone else and including yourself, that your father acknowledges your existence proudly.

Being one of the people in the small list of forbidden children, had created a fearsome reputation around your presence, and honestly speaking, you enjoy the privileges that come with it.

Although it was hard making friends considering your less friendly personality, some campers stuck by your side anyways. Those who bore you enormous respects and had been intrigued by your mysterious air instead of intimidated.

One of them being the infamous child of Ares, Clarisse La Rue.

Beautiful, strong and hot headed, Clarisse La Rue.

The two of you are often compared as the two sides of the same coin. Your personalities differ from eachother in many ways, but when it came to your goals and aims, you both are usually on the same team.

It's safe to say that you are less hostile than Clarisse. You prefer to keep to yourself whilst she prefered to assert dominance onto the other campers. And yet you are the more feared than her.

Clarisse is commonly brutal and unrelenting, but you usually saved up the worst of your tricks for when necessity calls for it. For now, intimidation worked well enough.

What's funny enough, is how Clarisse herself had a certain trepidation when she first befriended you. She learned soon that you were just another demigod girl just like she was, glory aside.

One of the instances where she felt that she had truly seen you as you are, all the facade dropped down, was when you first introduced her to your hound, Cerberus.

Your father had gifted him to you for your 15th birthday. It was one of yoir proudest moments in life. Demigods are almost never cared for that much by their parents, and so to have your coming of age be recognised by your father was a huge thing.

"Is that not the same name as Hades' own three headed hound?" She asked, staring at it for afar from the corner of your bed.

"I know, that's why I named him that." You explained to her as you're sat criss-crossed on the floor, scratching the beasts' chin.

Cerberus, once he deemed Clarisse as not a threat, rolled down on the ground on his stomach.

"Look at him, such a good boy." You were distracted by your new pet all day, ignoring your poor girlfriend who had come over to your cabin to spend time with you. "He's almost as tall as you." Clarisse spoke sarcastically, picking you on your height.

"That's not a fair observation. Most things are almost as tall as me." You responded, still not looking up.

"Are you just gonna keep standing there staring at me?" You asked her finally, realising just how weird the distance between you two were.

Clarisse was hesitant, frowning at your pet like he was some sort of threat. "I...think I'm good here." She muttered loud enough for your ears. "Oh, come on."

Clarisse shook her head as you complained about her irrationality. "Look at him, he's friendly." And he was, Cerberus had warmed up to you quickly and have not shown a single tendency for violence against your girlfriend.

"Come and say hello to him, Clarisse." You called out to her again.

You hear her sigh from the other side of the room. After a few more minutes pass, her footsteps grow louder as she moves nearer to you.

Clarisse squats down to meet Cerberus and flinched as he lifts his head up to sniff her. You reached for her hand, trying to get him to smell it. She pulls her hand back at first, but after a few more pulls, Clarisse relents and lets the hound give her knuckles a lick. "That tickles." She mumbled under her breath.

"He likes you, see." She gives a resigned look, like she's just going along with what you're saying. "No, I'm serious, look at how nice he's acting." You nudged your head towards Cerberus' head, encouraging her to give him a pet

Clarisse braves herself to give him a few strokes on his ears and found that he particularly likes that notion. "I guess he's not that bad." She admitted at last, pulling out a smile from you. "I told you."

"So what is he then? Some sort of guard dog?" She inquires. The gods would gift their children with tools that can be used, never something useless, like a domesticated pet. And from the looks of it, Cerberus is definitely not meant to be a some cute little friend.

"I don't know." You answered honestly.

"It's not like my dad does a lot of talking to me, but he gave me something from the underworld, something that's set as a reminder of him and his place above. I'd like to view it as some sort of stepping stone. Like I'm one step closer to him because of Cerberus."

It's not surprising that your end goal is to follow on your father's footsteps, no one really knows what the real secret to make their godly parent to care about them is.

It is often assumed that glory was the key, and yet, the best fighters in camp a

re usually the ones who resent their parents the most. You often prayed and hoped that you wouldn't ever have to cross that threshold.

"I'm sure he sees it that way too." Clarisse offered kindly. She knew all too well how much it meant to be noticed by their absent fathers, even if so slightly.

She slso knew deep down that even if your father refused to notice the lengths you would be willing to go for him, she did. And she would break the world in two for you if your father wouldn't. And you would do the same for her.

Clarisse leans her back against the lower frame of the bed, a small smile on her face as she watches you scratch the hound's chin whilst kissing the spot in between his eyes.

It is truly rare to catch sight of either daughters of Ares or Hades' being as gentle and playful as this, and Clarisse is grateful that these kind of intimacies are reserved for small private moments.

That same night, as she sleeps with her arms around your waist, Cerberus laying down by the foot of the bed, Clarisse realises that she would do anything for the bond between the two of you to prevail.

[wreckedandpolemic]

white and gold - matty healy

(mdni) in which you become both entangled and enamoured with your father's boss. 13007 words.

warnings (buckle up): 18+, problematic age gap, masturbation, corruption kink, slight exhibitionism, praise, degradation, heavy daddy kink, slight dumbification, unprotected sex, oral (f and m receiving), filth filth filth filth filth!

Your heels click against the tiled floor as you stroll across the lobby of your father’s office, giving a winning smile to the familiar security guard as he waves you through. Humming along to the song that plays over your headphones as the lift rises, you wonder idly why your father wanted to have lunch with you today; he had been oddly insistent that morning. The doors ding open and you step out into the office, fairly quiet at lunch hour. Men in suits mill around, their gazes catching on you and darting away so they can pretend their lurid thoughts aren’t painted plain as day on their faces.

Scanning the room, you don’t immediately spot the man you’re looking for. On a closer look, your father’s thinning hair and crisp suit are nowhere to be seen. Strange, again; he’s always here to meet you when he wants to take you out for lunch. Your searching gaze lands on a man heading for the lift, the sight of him arresting, practically rooting you to the spot. Greying curls haloed around a sharp, handsome face, lips plush red. A silver hoop shines in one of his ears, standing out against his dark hair. The designer sunglasses that sit across the bridge of his nose should be obnoxious, but he wears them louche and rakishly charming. He’s younger than your father, but not by much; probably nearing twice your age. You don’t recognise him — you know everyone who works for your father practically inside and out, and you’d never forget a face like his.  

Suddenly, he’s in front of you, and you’re blinking dumbly at the material of his expensive suit. “Are you lost?” he asks, his voice low and alluring, wrapping around you like a caress. The sunglasses block your view of his eyes, leaving you unfairly unable to tell whether he’s reacting to you the way you are to him.

You swallow thickly, fighting to find your voice. “No,” you say confidently. “Well… kinda, I guess?” you add with a laugh. “I’m looking for my dad.” You offer his name, and he nods in recognition.

“Ah— My fault, that. Sorry, love,” he says, voice softening on the final syllable in a way that has you biting the inside of your cheek to get your racing heartbeat under control. “Kept him late in a meeting.” You nod absently, distracted as his tongue flickers out to wet his lips and leaves them pink and glossy. Hopefully you aren’t wearing your thoughts too obviously on your face. “Matty,” he offers, holding out a hand.

You take it politely, surprised at the calluses scraping against your palm. He doesn’t look the type for hard work, the very shape of him insouciant, privilege scented on him under the smell of cigarettes and expensive cologne. The weight of his hand in yours as Matty holds your gaze for just a split-second too long feels charged, tension welling between you. After a beat, you give your name and Matty quirks an enigmatic half-smile that you just can’t get a read on. You wonder what kind of picture you’re painting for him; ribbons in your hair, skirt short enough to tease without any promise, socks biting into the flesh of your thighs. Your soft pastels boast innocence, a clean sweetness begging to be ruined where the sharp lines of him are rough around the edges, something dark tightly controlled under his easy smile. The pair of you are incongruous, yet symmetrical somehow, an artist’s rendition of impropriety.

The coolness in your palm when he lets go feels like a physical loss, your entranced gaze lingering on his face for another brief moment. Then he gives a cursory nod and strolls off, the spell breaking and leaving you stock-still as if you’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water. His name rolls around your head as you pick your way to your father’s office; Matty, Matty, Matty, like a litany, the concurrent chime of warning bells going unheard, or maybe just ignored.

Your father smiles up at you when you enter his office, getting up as if to hug you and stopping awkwardly short. He doesn’t know how to act around you, a consequence of the years of long hours and late nights that afford you your lifestyle but cost you a family. You make clumsy small-talk on the drive; he asks you how uni is going, you ask about work, he forgets the names of your friends, you remember the names of his. The same circles you always talk in. It’s never unpleasant, but always stiff, artificial.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you,” he says once you’re seated in a quiet corner of your favourite restaurant. He remembered that about you, at least. “I was in a meeting that ran long.”

You try not to visibly perk up at the reminder of possibly the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met. “Oh, yeah,” you say, feigned casualness layered over your tone. “I met the guy you were with on his way out. Who was he? I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Your father pauses briefly, and you wonder if you’ve laid it on too thick, showed too much interest. But you know your father couldn’t reconcile the idea of you being interested in one of his coworkers with the image he holds of you as his little girl.

He sits up straighter, adjusting his tie in the way he does because he thinks it’ll lend more gravity to his next words. “It was actually a very important meeting, or I wouldn’t have let it run as long as it did. It was with the VP of the company, Matthew Healy.” He nods self-importantly. “Very nice chap, honestly. I convinced him to allocate us more budget next quarter, which means that…”

You tune out the rest of his corporate jargon, letting the new information you’ve gleaned rattle around your brain. Vice fucking President. The scandal you’d cause selfishly thrills you more, because who could gainsay it, really? Sure, your father would have some choice words, but he’d keep them to himself in public for the sake of his job. You almost giggle picturing the vein that would throb in his forehead, and then remember yourself and focus back into the conversation right as your father finishes talking.

The waiter who has been hovering a tasteful distance away seizes the gap in conversation to take your order. You order without looking at the price, leaning casually back in the booth as you rattle off the name of the dish in perfect Italian. A few minutes later, the smooth, dark flavour of an espresso martini on your tongue, your father finally gets to the point.

He says your name seriously, levelling you with a look that’s laden with meaning over his drink. “I wanted to meet with you today to talk about something.” You nod uncertainly, unable to track where this is going. “Your last year at university is starting in September, and I’d like to know you have somewhere to go when you’re finished. Other people studying your course have been making industry connections and networking for years, and I’m concerned that you’ll be behind when you’re trying to get into work.”

You let him talk, even as you mentally roll your eyes. He’s showing care in one of the only ways he knows how, and you can’t really begrudge him that. Never mind that the idea of trudging to the office every day in a dull grey pantsuit and attending mergers and meetings for the rest of your life gives you the shivers. You open your mouth to bring this up, but pause when he continues. “I know you aren’t sure about using your degree, but there’s a dinner this weekend that I’d like you to come to. Just to see how everything works, show your face, start making yourself a name, hm?”

The refusal sits on the tip of your tongue, balancing there on instinct, but then you consider that this might be your only chance to see Matty again. Of course, he might not even be there, but it’s a risk you’re willing to take. Your thoughts haven’t strayed from him for more than five minutes since you met, he’s a nagging itch under your skin that you just can’t scratch, and you need him. “Okay,” you say, cutting your father off. He goes silent mid-spiel, having anticipated you taking more convincing than that. “Is it black-tie?”

Your father watches you curiously as you sip demurely at your cocktail. “Yes. I’m very happy you agreed,” he adds, the implicit question hanging heavy in the air between you.

With an airy shrug, you set down your glass. “Like you said, I’m not committing to anything. I just get to have a free fancy dinner, basically.” It’s a casual excuse, characteristic enough of you that your father couldn’t even begin to guess at your real motivation. The same waiter suddenly materialises with your food, and you dig in happily.

Over the course of your meal, your father explains the most important figures who’ll be attending, and Matty is among them, thank God. You try, subtly, to pry into his personal life, but come up fairly short; you can’t find a tasteful way to ask if he’s married, although it’s not unlikely, with a face like his. Once your father’s free hour has dried up, he drops you home and you slink off to your room and fall into your bed.

Guiltily, you pull up a private browsing tab on your phone and search matthew healy wife. A grin spreads as you find no results, wider when girlfriend turns up nothing but a string of articles about his latest breakup. Switching to image searching, you scroll through dozens of photographs of him, posed and smiling, this time missing the sunglasses and letting you admire his sweet brown eyes. Then you come across a photo of him giving the camera the eyes, your thighs clenching as he smoulders in a way that feels directed to you, a twin of the look he gave you earlier.

You let your eyes fall closed, your phone thudding against the pillow as your hand creeps under your waistband. The first brush at your clit buzzes bright up your spine, a pleased whine falling from your lips. Instinctively, you dig under your pillow for your vibrator, your other hand tugging your skirt and panties down your legs. You lay in just your blouse and socks, the barest hint of wetness beginning to pool between your thighs.

The sudden pulse of heat as you press the vibrator to your clit is almost too much, your body tensing at the sensation. Your hazy mind conjures up an image of Matty, his spectre watching you touch yourself for him. He’s on you in seconds, the ghost of his kiss almost tangible against your lips, the idea of his calloused fingers running over your skin so real they almost feel like a memory. Rocking your hips, you chase the pleasure that rolls over you, coiling low in your belly. You can almost hear Matty murmuring encouragement in your ear, telling you how pretty and good you are for him.

Body writhing against the sheets, a whimper of his name spills from your bitten lips, pleading as you rub tight circles into your clit. Molten pleasure drips down your spine, sticking in your lungs and melting against your ribs. The phantasm of Matty’s touch trails over you, his hands replacing yours as you thumb over your nipples, moaning at the soft spark of pleasure that flickers under your skin.

It’s not enough.

Your hands are too delicate, too far from the memory of thick veins and scraping callouses that your body craves. Still, you work diligently at yourself, falling into a familiar rhythm. Your motions are perfunctory now, an aside to the fantasy building behind your closed lids. You picture Matty’s sleazy smirk, heat in his gaze as he rubs at you, working you closer and closer, filthy words pouring from his lips. Pleasure burns under your skin, close and electric under the sheets.

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, ecstasy rippling through your limbs as you bite down hard to keep a scream at bay. Rolling your hips, you ride out your orgasm, chest heaving as you gasp for breath and twist your fingers in your sheets.

Your face begins to flame as the afterglow wanes, the image of Matty fading and leaving a column of mortification in its place. God, how are you supposed to look him in the eyes after this? Flinging your covers off with a groan, you corral your thoughts into shape and march into the shower. Hot water pounds between your shoulder blades and you scrub at your skin until it’s pink and tender; you still don’t feel clean. It feels, suddenly, like you’re wearing a scarlet letter, like the evidence of your depravity is scrawled over your body in bold, dripping ink.

Still, you can’t stand under the shower spray forever, and the endless slog of summer reading you have to do won’t wait for your sudden crisis to be over. Taking a seat at your desk, you crack open a textbook and force yourself to stare at it until the words stop swimming in front of your eyes and you can process their meaning. You type up notes with practised ease, almost automatic and scarcely retaining the information. A chill grips you as you remember that this might be the rest of your life. 

A self-indulgent fantasy drifts across your mind, and you snatch at it greedily, rewarding yourself for your work with an unjustified distraction. Is it so much to ask that you want a life of ease? To be spoiled and showered in affection, to have no expectations on you? Maybe that makes you a lazy brat, a typical, self-absorbed princess, but you’ve worked damn hard the last three years. At graduation, you’d have your pick of droning, selfsame corporations if that was what you wanted; you’d have no difficulty following your father’s footsteps, letting your own daughter trace yours.

Truthfully, your private desire is much harder. Men that run in your circles want a woman like you, superficially — from the same stock, with your own family money, barely old enough to know who you are. Under the surface, though, you know women like that. They’re your aunts, the mothers of friends and old boyfriends. Unfulfilled, wearing dead-eyed Stepfordian smiles, finding their only pinched joy in passing snide insults dressed up as compliments, laughing behind their hands when their victim du jour takes the bait. No, being one of those wives would be the only fate worse than spending your decades as a spinning cog.

Without your notice, the sun has sunk beyond the horizon, a moonbeam slanting through your curtains when you switch your desk lamp off. You slip between your sheets, clad in a thin nightdress and low-waisted underwear, the thoughts that circle your brain winding slower and slower until they slip away like a whirlpool draining from the sink.

The next morning, you really are planning on taking school seriously, in line at a coffee shop with scholarly intent before 9:30. Impossibly, though, a familiar head of curls is waiting in the queue only feet ahead of you. Your heartbeat speeds as you debate whether to speak to him, hands clammy with nerves at the sight of him. You step up to the counter to order, and Matty’s head whips around at the sound of your voice.

“Oh! Hello, love,” he grins, and you smile back, hoping you don’t look as nervous as you feel. “Hey, no, I got it,” he says as you pull out your phone to pay. Matty taps his card before you can even react, then leans forward to address the barista. “Can I get mine for here instead? Is that okay? Thanks,” he flashes a winning smile and your heart flutters.

“Thank you,” you say shyly, toying anxiously with the buttons of your cardigan. 

He waves a hand, his smile almost dizzying as he looks down at you. There’s a faint dusting of stubble over his jaw, and you have to force yourself not to get distracted by thoughts of it scraping over your skin. “Don’t worry about it. Always happy to do a pretty girl a favour.” Your knees almost buckle, heat flooding your cheeks as you swallow thickly. Thankfully, the barista calls your orders and Matty goes to collect them, giving you a second to catch your breath. “Is it okay if I come sit with you? Just realised I never asked.” He grins sheepishly, and you practically melt into a puddle. “Don’t wanna distract you if you’ve got work to do, or something.”

“God, no, of course,” you say, suddenly a little panicked at the idea of him leaving. “Feel free. I mean, if you have time,” you add, a last-ditch attempt to feign casualness as you slide into a booth.

Matty sits opposite, observing you with an inscrutable look on his face before he speaks. “I’ve got time. I’m the boss, darling, they can wait.”

Your thighs clench, the casual reminder of his status sending a shudder up your spine as you smile blithely. Neither of you speaks for a moment, both taking in the sight of each other, testing the boundaries of this thing blooming between you. “Do you make a habit of taking time out of your busy day to have coffee with girls?” you say, tone teasing to conceal that you’re truly curious about the answer.

He grins. “Like I said, I do whatever I like,” he says with a shrug. “If I wanted to, I don’t know, spend my morning having coffee with a pretty girl, well. Nobody would be surprised, let’s say.” It’s a non-answer, and you swallow down the jealousy that starts to rise in your throat.

“You keep calling me pretty…” you remark idly, pausing to sip delicately at your coffee before you speak. “I’m starting to think you might have an ulterior motive, Mr. Healy.” You tack on the title with a smirk, leaning forward in challenge.

Matty swallows, slightly unnerved for the first time. “I think you’re pretty,” he says simply. “Don’t have to have any motives. Unless you want me to,” he adds with a smirk.

“And if I do? What’s that say about you, sir? Chasing after a twenty-year-old girl? Quite inappropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

He chuckles softly, eyes darkening. A shock of heat sparks under your skin as he takes your hand, gaze searching. “Very,” Matty agrees lowly. “Good, sweet young girl like you shouldn’t be getting mixed up with me, angel.” Something in you flutters at the nickname, the way it rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue.

“I don’t have to be good,” you say, deliberately widening your eyes and biting your lip in a show of innocence. “I can be naughty. If you want.” You lean back and deliberately pop a button on your blouse, a hint of pink lace peeking out from the gap in your shirt.

Matty tips his head back, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply, eyes closed and trying to compose himself. “What am I going to do with you?” he mutters, more to himself, unable to drag his gaze up from the sliver of exposed skin.

“You’ll just have to keep playing and find out,” you smirk, purposefully leaning forward as you stand to give him a deliberate eyeful. “Have a nice day, Mr. Healy. Thank you for the coffee.” His gaze burns hot into your back as you walk away, and you make a conscious effort not to look back. You’re slightly annoyed as you wander down the street — that cafe is your favourite study spot, and you’ve effectively handed it away. You’ll never be able to set foot in there without remembering Matty’s smirk, his heavy gaze, the feeling of his hand over yours.

So, despite your best intentions, you find yourself spending the morning dipping in and out of stores instead, smiling blithely as your bank account dwindles. In the end, your evening winds up the same as yesterday, mindlessly copying up text without absorbing any of the information. You’re gonna kick yourself so hard when you have to use these notes to take an exam. Giving up, you shower and get into bed, shutting your phone off to sleep at around midnight.

When you stir, you know acutely that you’re dreaming. The bed is your own, the man sharing it is not. “Morning,” Matty says, in a low, sleep-thick voice that seems so real you can scarcely believe your mind conjured it up. He kisses your nose, your cheek, the hollow of your throat, but never your lips, as if your subconscious is saving the memory for the real thing.

“Hi,” you giggle, savouring the heat of his body against yours, willing yourself still for fear of the barest shift ruining your dreamscape. Matty’s hands run over you, one taking a firm hold of your ass, the other pinching gently at your nipple.

You whimper, and he gives a mocking pout. “Needy, hm?” You nod, eyes wide and pleading, and he cups your pussy, your hips rolling as you chase your pleasure against his hand. Arousal drips out of you, soaking your panties as Matty grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. Your head swims in pleasure, distracted and flailing as the dream blurs around you. Whining, you try desperately to grasp onto the vestiges, convinced that one last touch would have brought you there.

Eyes twitching open, morning light slants through the crack in your curtains, a gentle kiss over your sweat-slick skin. Embarrassingly, like you’re a hormonal adolescent again, there’s a throw pillow wedged between your legs, desire soaking into it through your ruined panties. An experimental thrust of your hips sends a scattered, delicious burst of pleasure up your spine, but you refuse to indulge yourself, already humiliated without feeling that sudden, crushing guilt again.

Once again, you force yourself under a punishingly hot shower, and once again, you can’t scrub yourself free of the sin. It becomes something of a routine; three more nights you dream of him, and three more mornings you try your hardest to melt the flesh off your bones in an effort to forget. The fourth night, the day before you’ll see him again, your sleep is mercifully dreamless, though you still wake with him on your mind. You stand in front of your wardrobe, hands balanced on your hips as your gaze darts between two dresses.

You need to be stunning, fuckable in a way that caters to Matty’s tastes perfectly. The amount of time you’ve spent scrolling through pictures of him with old girlfriends would surely be impressive if it wasn’t embarrassing, but it’s helped you narrow your choices down to two options. There’s a wine-red number, the thigh slit so high it practically bares your ass and the neckline plunging almost to indecency — it’s reminiscent of how his last girlfriend dressed, simple, dark elegance, deep hues paired with bold, striking makeup. Then, there’s a floor-length, pastel-pink silk gown, evidence of the virtue you’ll pretend to possess until you can show him just how dirty you can be.

The second dress speaks to you, more similar both to your own style and that of the youngest girl he’s ever dated. She was still older than you, though, you think wryly, four years ago twenty-three to his thirty. That being said, you wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d fucked every college girl from here to Edinburgh whose father had so much looked at her askance once. The thought sends a ripple of jealousy through you and you shudder, picturing dozens of faceless girls under him until you want to tear your hair out. The man practically has you in a chokehold, and you’ve met him once.

Your rational brain knows it’s crazy, that the idealised version of him built up in your mind means he’ll only disappoint, but you’re almost sure you’ll get a good fuck out of it at the very least. More, if you play your cards well enough.

With ribbons in your hair, silk gloves over your hands and a string of pearls at your throat, you pose in the mirror, practising your teasing pout, your innocent smile, the eyes that say please, sir, let me make you feel good. Your mother shouts your name, and you follow the sound down the stairs and across the foyer, smiling blithely at your parents as they take in the sight of you.

Okay, maybe you’ve laid on the innocence too thick, your makeup subtly widening your eyes and faintly flushing your cheeks. But there’s nothing technically wrong with your outfit, so your mother simply heaves a sigh and leads you out to the car. You arrive perfectly, politely on time, pose quickly for the few cameras and take your seats. Wait staff linger discreetly around, filling champagne flutes thanklessly, as if they exist on a plane below the guests’ notice.

You have to bite back a grin when the placard beside the empty seat at your table reads Matthew Healy; by some magnanimous twist of fate, he’ll be directly across from you, giving you an excuse to gaze at him as long as you like. He’s late, but only fashionably so, smirking and doling out insincere apologies as he saunters to the table. You don’t stand until everyone else has, playing clueless as Matty greets everyone around the table politely.

When he reaches you, his eyes flicker over you in a way that has your knees threatening to buckle, and you finally let yourself take him in properly. He looks fucking gorgeous, dressed in another expensive suit, his curls gelled back with that same smell of cigarettes and cologne seeping from his pores. He leans forward, brushing his lips against the apple of your cheek, and you almost moan at the contact your body has been craving for days. “You look stunning, darling,” he murmurs, so quiet that you could almost be convinced you’d imagined it, if not for the dark look in his eyes when he pulls back. 

A half smile pulls at your lips as he sits down, one of the ubiquitous, black-clad waiters coming forward to fill his glass. The conversation quickly turns to business you couldn’t care less about, giving the automated, reflex responses to questions you’ve heard hundreds of times. You pay attention only when Matty speaks, the low timbre of his voice addictive even when he’s not addressing you. Emboldened by his heavy gaze and the significant looks he fixes you with each time his eyes land on yours, you slip a stockinged foot out of your shoe and trace it across his calf. His eyes widen a fraction, and he raises his glass and an eyebrow in your direction, his gaze laden with promise.

There’s still time before any food gets brought out, and after a few minutes, Matty offers to take you on a spin, introduce you to some of the more important people in suits that are clustered around the room. Your father preens, convinced you’ve made such an impression in the bare moments you’ve held your own in conversation that he wants to mentor you, or something. You accept gratefully, his proprietary hold on your arm falling low to your waist as soon as you’re out of your father’s sight, the heat of his palm splayed over your hip hard to believe. “Let me get you a drink,” he says, steering you to the bar. The crowd parts around him, conversations going quiet like he’s some kind of divine figure, taking a nod and a brief greeting like a blessing from on high. “You’ll need one to deal with this lot,” he adds, jerking a thumb at the gathered crowd, still murmuring awed in his wake.

Smiling, you take a seat at the bar, letting Matty flag down the bartender before you speak. “What’ll you have, darling?”

“Surprise me,” you grin, batting your eyelashes teasingly at him. “So, you hate this stuff, huh?”

Matty huffs a surprised laugh as the bartender pours him a glass of top-shelf red and hands you an Aperol spritz. “Is it that obvious?”

You take a long, slow sip of your drink, watching the way his eyes fall to your lips, pursed around the straw. “I don’t think so. Not to anyone here, anyway. They’re all too worried about what everyone else thinks of them to worry about what anyone else is thinking.”

Something shifts in his expression as he takes in your words, suddenly appraising you critically as a person with thoughts, rather than just a pretty face he wants to take to bed. And he does. Want to take you to bed, that is. His eyes are wide, dilated, his tongue unconsciously wetting his lips more often, his gaze trained on your face so it doesn’t fall further. “Beautiful and smart,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair, all at once dropping the intensity and sinking easily back into irreverence.

“I try,” you say with an artfully careless shrug, letting one of the thin straps of your dress fall from your shoulder, enjoying the way Matty’s eyes trace the movement. There’s a dance in this, a skill; overt flirting between the pair of you, a casual, if laden, conversation to an observer.

“I want to do bad things to you in that dress,” Matty says, low and sudden, a bolt of arousal striking you at your core.

You match his tone. “Like what?”

“The kind of things a man like me shouldn’t be thinking about doing to a girl like you.”

“So, why don’t you?” you challenge, a flicker of carefully masked surprise crossing his face as you drop your facade of naïveté. “There’s always somewhere private at a party like this,” you say, implication heavy in your tone, spreading your legs slightly and licking your lips.

A muscle jumps in Matty’s jaw, jealousy and lust warring in his expression as he pictures you crowded up against a bathroom sink, mouth parted and eyes glassy. “S’that what you’re used to? A quick fuck in a bathroom with some pathetic boy?” He leans close, delivering his next words slow and quiet. “I’m not going to do that, princess,” he says with a disparaging scoff, the sobriquet sending heat pooling between your legs. “Have you ever fucked a man, angel?”

Swallowing your moan, your thighs clench as you whisper, “No.”

“Good. Means I get to show you how it should really feel. Because when I fuck you for the first time, I’m going to make you fall apart for me. Piece by pretty, perfect piece. Shall we?” he adds, standing and offering you a hand without giving you any time to process his words.

You swallow thickly, accepting his hand and standing on unsteady legs. True to his word, he introduces you to what feels like an endless string of people. Their faces all blur together, your body working on autopilot to churn out pleasantries as your mind turns over Matty’s words, spinning them over and over like a coin set on its edge.

“Stay right here,” you whisper to him as he starts to head back to your table, and you’re pleased to find when you return from the bathroom that he’s obeyed. As discreetly as possible, you press the scrap of lace you peeled off from under your dress into his hand. The sound of his choked-off inhale is infinitely gratifying, and you savour his gaze at your back as you stride away, a deliberate sway in your hips.

 By the time you’re back at the table, a thick wedge of business cards is tucked neatly into your purse to be left there and forgotten about until you shake them onto the floor the next time you need the bag. All but the one sitting on the very top, with Matty’s personal number scrawled on the back. He doesn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner, his hand dipping into his pocket at every free moment, the knowledge that his fingers are running over your panties driving you wild. Your legs cross so you don’t start dripping on the seat as you throw pleading glances at Matty every chance you get.

You practically chase him to the bar as dinner winds down, draping yourself over him as much as you dare. “I need you,” you whine, pressing a hand to his inner thigh, feeling the heat of him through his suit trousers. “I can’t wait anymore,” you plead, as close to begging as you can get without prostrating yourself on the floor in front of him.

Matty laughs, condescending. “Needy girl,” he pouts, crooking a finger under your chin. “If you were anyone else, I’d take you home right now, fuck all of these people. But we can’t have that, can we?” he teases. “Because you’re a good girl, yeah? And what would people think, good girl like you all spread out for a dirty old man like me?”

A pathetic whine slips from your lips, lust overtaking you even as the gears start to turn in your mind. “Take me home,” you beg, pulse hammering in your throat at the very prospect. “I can make an excuse, say I’m meeting friends or something. I’m a big girl, they won’t care as long as they don’t know where I actually am. Please?” you pout, leaning so close that your breath kisses across his lips. “I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

And Matty is only a man, with a man’s self-control. He’s had a few more years to refine it, but he’ll never be immune. “Go on, then, sweetheart. Make your excuses and meet me out front, yeah?” He gives your ass a firm slap as you stand, the brief flash of pain melting into sticky desire that hums under your skin.

You spin a lie to your parents, some story that your friends are in a bar a few streets away, and surely they don’t mind if you slip away just a few minutes early? Honestly, they’re ecstatic you stayed as long as you did, waving you off with unsuspecting smiles. Then, before you know it, you’re in a taxi with Matty, your thigh pressed against his, one of his hands tracing a pattern into your skin. You crowd closer to him, struggling to breathe as lust swallows all the air between you.

He stays teasingly out of your reach, tutting softly when you chase his lips. “You promised to be good for me, princess,” he admonishes, trailing his hand further up your thigh. You obey, squirming as you fall back into your seat, his fingers cruelly close to where you need them. “Good girl. You want me to touch you?” Matty murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against the shell of your ear, a shudder rolling up your spine at his closeness. You nod, bating your breath as his fingers find the wetness between your legs. “Nice and still for me, yeah, darling?”

Pleasure floods you when the pad of his finger finds your clit, the gentle scrape over your sensitive nerves somehow blinding, your hips rolling as you chase the sensation. “Matty, please,” you moan, pouting pathetically when he takes his hand away.

“You’re not being very good, love. Still, remember? You can sit and keep your hands to yourself until we get home, understand?” You nod, sinking back in your seat and sulking. “Don’t be a brat, princess,” Matty chides, closing his lips around his wet fingers, sucking your arousal off them with an exaggerated moan. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll give you what you need, yeah? Sweet, needy girl.”

You flush at the praise, at the way he can switch from gentle to commanding and back in a second. Your blood is thick with desire, heart working in overdrive to pump it through your body. Then, with no ceremony, the end of the most agonising minutes of your life is signalled by the crunching of gravel under tyres. Matty leads you into the house, his control on a tight leash until the door clicks shut behind you.

He all but slams you against it, crowding into your space, his breath hot on your lips. His smell of cigarettes and cologne envelops you, fills your lungs, dizzying and intoxicating. “Please?” you whine, and he finally, gloriously obliges. Your lips crash together, a messy slide of spit and teeth and tongue that leaves you bruised and begging.

Matty’s hands fall to your ass, squeezing hard at the soft flesh, pliant under his touch as his nails bite crescent-moons of desire into your skin. “Can you jump for me, baby?” he asks, breaking away from you just long enough to breathe the words against your lips. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your dress hiked up so far that it bares your cunt as Matty grips you by the thighs.

Pleasure spreads slowly through you as you grind yourself against him, his lips falling to your neck as he carries you up the stairs, a squeal escaping you as he tosses you on the bed. He stands at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, greedily drinking in the sight of you. “Take that dress off. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, practically puppeteering you, expensive silk crumpled on the floor before you can even react. “Gorgeous,” Matty murmurs, one hand coming up to unbutton his shirt. “Can you touch yourself for me? Wanna see how to make you feel good.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the inches of skin being revealed, a covering dragged off a masterpiece. Dark ink peeks from the V of his shirt, dissonant from the toned, marble skin surrounding it. Impatient, you dip two fingers into yourself, the familiar stretch sending heat shooting up your spine. Gasping, you pinch at your clit, rolling it between two fingers, hips rocking as you moan wantonly up at him.

“Good girl. Does that feel good, princess?”

“Not as good as you,” you pout, fucking yourself desperately on your fingers. “Daddy,” you add, watching that final thread break, Matty’s eyes going dark as he collapses on the bed above you. He kicks off his trousers ungracefully, tugging your hand up to his lips.

His warm mouth closes around your fingers, sucking the taste of your desire off them with a moan. “Such a dirty little girl, dressed up all innocent like that when you just wanna be ruined by your fuckin’ Daddy.” His clothed cock grinds against your aching, soaked core, the contact achingly close to what you need, and yet agonisingly far. “You taste so good, angel. Want me to eat that sweet little pussy of yours?”

Your mind swims at the thought, his skilled, clever tongue buried between your legs, your hands tight in his curls as he devours you. But that isn’t what you need. You shake your head. “Want you to fuck me,” you say, the simmering well of desire endless in the pit of your stomach. “I need it. Please?”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Matty croons, shoving his boxers down his legs. You watch his cock spring free, thudding hot and sticky against his belly. “You want my fingers first, or can you take me all by yourself?”

The subtle condescension sets you on fire, liquefying your brain and sending it flooding down your spine, dripping out of you onto the mattress. You reach down, wrap your hand around him and pump slowly, swallowing his quiet hiss against your mouth. “I can take it, Daddy,” you promise, wide, innocent eyes turned on him.

The stretch when he enters you burns gloriously, your mouth falling open in a perfect, round ‘O’ of ecstasy. Matty fills you slowly, burying himself to the hilt, so deep that you can practically feel him rearranging your insides. “Such a good girl, takin’ all of me like this,” he praises. Discomposed, his accent thickens, rounding the vowels and blurring the ends of his words. Matty rocks his hips one shallow thrust striking a spot inside you that has your vision whiting out, ecstasy buzzing in your heavy limbs. “That felt good, huh? Yeah. I know, I know,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with wet, deliberate kisses, tongue sweeping every corner of your mouth and teeth grazing your lips.

Matty pulls almost all the way out of you, your body crying out at the loss, then slams his hips against yours so hard you see stars. “M-Matty, fuck,” you whimper, back arching desperately as he fucks you into the mattress, hard and fast, the obscene sound of skin meeting ringing out around you.

“Ah-ah. That’s not my name tonight, princess.”

His hips still, the waves of pleasure subsiding in punishment. “‘M sorry, Daddy,” you whine, bringing your hand down to rub at your clit, bright heat bursting between your legs.

“That’s it, angel,” Matty murmurs, pinching softly at your nipple with one calloused hand. “So beautiful all fucked out for me. I’m the only one who can get you like this, huh?”

Subtle jealousy hums in his tone, his kiss turning possessive as you writhe under him. “Yeah,” you whimper breathily. “Never had it this good before.” It’s not a lie. Your body feels at once wound into a coil and loose on your bones, the point where your hips meet your only anchor to your physical form.

Matty scoffs. “That’s because you’ve only fucked boys, princess.  Never had a man before, have you?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whine, rubbing frantically at your clit, Matty’s rhythmic groans warm against your lips.

His lips fall to your neck, kissing and biting against your tender skin, the scrape of teeth a flash of pain undercutting your desire but gentle enough not to bruise. “That’s right, baby. ‘M your fuckin’ Daddy. Wanna be my girl, huh? Could have you like this whenever you want, never let you worry about anything, ‘cept staying all pretty and cockdrunk for me.”

Oh, God. How does he know? Involuntarily, your legs wrap around his waist, the new angle rapturous as his thrusts continue, long and so deep you practically choke on them. “Mm-hmm. Yeah. Could just be your little toy, never think unless you told me to. Want that so bad, Daddy.”

Matty’s eyes light up, wide and liquid with desire, your heartbeat hammering in your cunt as it throbs around him. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl. You wanna be my dumb little slut, huh? Want Daddy to fuck you stupid, turn you into my pretty fucktoy?” The words turn you to liquid, dripping and sticky under his skilled hands. “Yeah, you do,” he grins, arrogant and cocksure, your mind melting into fantasies of being Matty’s kept girl, of bending over with a smile whenever he liked, of spending your days keeping yourself pretty for him, and your nights split open like this. “I can feel how bad you want that, your pretty cunt keeps squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, angel.”

“‘M close,” you whimper, the words choked from your closing throat, desire clamping down on your body like a vice.

“Good girl,” Matty whispers, one of his hands joining yours at your clit, the pressure suddenly dramatically intense, every nerve in your body firing as one. “Cum for me, angel,” he orders, and your body obeys.

You come unglued from yourself, feel it in your whole body, euphoria crushing the air from your lungs. Your cunt pulses, thumping a sick rhythm in tune with Matty’s thrusts into you. Barely conscious, you feel amorphous, a messy string of liquid desire more than a corporeal girl. WIth a final, low groan, Matty spills inside of you, painting your insides white.

A whine escapes you as he pulls out, the loss tangible in your heavy limbs. “Oh, I know, baby, I know,” he soothes, falling beside you and cupping your jaw to kiss you tenderly.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur shakily, and a soft smile brushes at his lips.

“So polite,” he says reverently. “Such a good girl.”

You pout at him and drag two fingers through your slick, messy cunt, sucking the taste of both of you off your fingers. Matty gasps, eyes wide, and you smile around your wet fingers. “You want more, darling?”

You nod frantically, the fire under your skin still raging, ferocious and uncontrollable. Weakly, you lift your head, transfixed to where his cum trickles out of you, pooling white on the mattress. “We taste so good together,” you tell him, without taking your eyes off your ruined core. “Looks so good, your cum dripping out of me. Want you to finger it out of me. Please?” you add, pouting until he kisses you gently, breaking away to smile against your lips. 

“Whatever you want, you’ll get, princess.” His fingers find your hole, teasing at you for a moment before toying with your sensitive clit, a stab of pleasure-pain winding sharply through you. “S’that sore, darling?”

“A bit,” you say, your body lax as he plays with you gently. All the urgency is gone now you’ve both come, the air honey-thick, your breathing slow and deliberate. “Feels good, though.”

Matty’s fingers are broad and thick as he pushes two of them inside you, your soaked cunt accepting him easily. He crooks his fingers, brushing that sweet spot that sets your nerves alight, and begins a slow rhythm. Lewd, wet sounds echo off the walls as you both watch his fingers disappear where you take him, cum leaking out around them.

An orgasm builds slowly at the base of your spine, your body jolting as Matty’s thumb comes up to circle over your clit. He swallows your sudden moan, languid kisses that have your eyes fluttering closed and let you fall into a daydream as he brings you closer.

“Mmm, can I cum again? Please?” you moan, hips rolling down to meet him. Pleasure swims hazy through your head, your blood syrup-thick and heavy with it.

“Can you hold it for a minute, baby? For me? Just wanna watch that pretty cunt of yours taking my fingers a little longer.” You whimper as he curls his long fingers inside of you, trembling with the effort of holding your orgasm at bay. “You make such pretty sounds, princess. Tell me who you belong to and I’ll let you cum, okay?”

“‘M yours, Daddy. Your good little girl,” you promise, words coming out slurred, your tongue too thick in your mouth.

“That’s right, baby,” Matty says, encouraging, grasping possessively at your hip. “All mine, yeah? Go on, princess. Cum,” he instructs, curling his fingers against your g-spot and rubbing a harsh circle into your clit in the same, breathless moment.

All the air crushes out of your lungs, white-hot pleasure melting your brain into liquid. Matty croons reassurances as you writhe under him, the thickness of his fingers visceral where you clench around him. You moan his name over and over in a litany, tasting something divine where the word spills from your lips.

You float back down to Earth, blissed-out and smiling, adoration in Matty’s gaze as he watches you. “There you are, sweet girl,” he grins, warm hand stroking gently up and down your side. “How do you feel?”

“God, incredible,” you answer, stretching back and luxuriating against his pillows. “Best fuck I’ve ever had,” you grin, watching his jaw clench at the reminder that you’ve fucked other people.

“Ruined you for other men, have I?” he says, smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“Other boys,” you correct airily. “Men like you know what they’re doing. Maybe you’ve given me a taste for it. Maybe I’ll fuck my way through the office, get all those men you see every day eating out of my hand.”

Matty practically snarls, silencing you with a harsh kiss. “Those fucking pricks couldn’t make you cum if their lives depended on it. Believe me, darling, I’m the best you’ll ever have,” he promises, and you give a quiet giggle. Your eyes are heavy even as electricity still buzzes under your skin, and you yawn, catlike, and settle against his bare chest. “Tired, angel?” he says, a hint of humour in his tone.

“Right shattered me, haven’t you?” you complain, swatting playfully at him. “Can I stay?”

“‘Course, darling. Long as you like,” Matty says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Want me to make you something to eat? Can’t have my girl going hungry after I’ve worn her out like that.” The casualness with which he flings the words my girl sends your heart racing, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw then trailing up to play with your hair. It’s all so sickeningly domestic, more intimate than when he had you split open and dizzy under him.

“Sounds nice,” you say sleepily, but whine when he moves to get up.

You pout when Matty tugs on his discarded boxers, and he chuckles softly. “What?” he adds as your frown deepens, watching him pull on a pair of grey joggers.

“Was looking at you,” you say sulkily. “You have a cute ass.”

His head tips back as he laughs, baring the sloping column of his neck gorgeously, his curls bouncing with the movement. “Are you objectifying me?” he grins, mock-affronted.

“Yes,” you say immediately, sitting up and tracing your gaze deliberately over his chest, muscles rippling as he breathes. Your attention falls to the tattoo at his hip, half-hidden by his joggers, and the sudden need to taste the skin there overtakes you. “What else is a big, strong man like you good for? Fucking me right and cooking me dinner, and looking gorgeous doing it,” you tease, sucking in a sharp breath when he crosses the room in two strides and catches your jaw in a harsh grip.

“Don’t be a brat, princess. ‘Cause then I’ll have to show you what I’m fucking good for.”

“Okay,” you breathe against his lips, trailing your hand down his chest and thumbing over the tattoo, savouring the way Matty shudders under your touch.

The air under your hand goes cold as he steps away. “Needy girl,” he grins. “Food first, yeah? You want me to bring it up here? Serve my princess dinner in bed?” There’s that my again, one tiny, thoughtless syllable sending a thousand fantasies flickering behind your eyes. “Or do you wanna come down with me?”

You slip out from under the covers and set your feet on the floor, only for your knees to buckle when you try to stand. “Fucked me so good my legs don’t work,” you say with a weak laugh, smiling softly when Matty comes to fuss over you. “Can you carry me downstairs?”

“Here,” Matty says, handing you a shirt and boxers that are probably too small for him; they dwarf you, the shirt swallowing you while the boxers hang indecently low on your hips. At the sight of you in his clothes, he stops still, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply for a long moment. “Look fucking gorgeous wearing my clothes, darling. C’mere, I can carry you if you want,” he offers, scooping you into his arms.

Nestled happy against his warm, bare chest, you notice for the first time how fucking big his house is. It’s almost brutalist, but still homey, evidently lived-in. Framed photographs and prints litter the walls, slightly wilted flowers sitting in a vase atop a gorgeous upright piano.

“D’you play?” Matty asks, catching you admiring it.

“Since I was a kid. Do you?”

He huffs out a laugh above you. “You think I’d have a fifty grand piano sitting around that I don’t play?”

You shrug as best you can, still wrapped in his arms. “My parents have a baby grand that nobody played until I came along. It’s like a status symbol, or something, I dunno.”

“Yes, I play. The guitar too,” he adds, slowly strolling in the direction of the kitchen.

The realisation dawns on you, and your mouth drops in an ‘O’ of understanding. “So that’s why your hands are like that. I don’t know why I didn’t put that together. You’re hardly the type for hard labour.”

Matty laughs, setting you down on the kitchen counter. “You don’t know,” he teases, pressing a featherlight kiss against your cheek. “I could’ve been a mechanic in a past life.”

The thought of him, sweaty and dripping in grease, bending you over the hood of a car, makes your head spin, and he smirks as your jaw goes slack. “I wish,” you grin as he retrieves a pan from an upper cabinet, flexing the muscles in his back gratuitously with the movement. ement.

“What are you feeling like? Eggs? Pasta?” he offers, setting the pan on the stove.

You mull it over for a moment. “Can you make me French toast?”

“‘Course I can, baby.” You watch his hands as he cracks two eggs in a bowl, whisking them together with cinnamon and sugar. He steps between your legs as the bread sizzles in the pan with a healthy spoonful of melted butter, kissing at your neck and jaw. In the light, the fading hickeys scattered over your skin are visible, and he prods jealously at them. “Who gave you these?” he says, gravel in his voice.

Shrugging airily, you smirk up at him. “Some boy,” you tease, Matty’s nostrils flaring as he fights to control his reaction.

“Did he make you cum?” he asks, nails biting possessively into your hips.

“We didn’t get that far. Just made out on the couch. He was a good kisser, though.” At that, Matty captures your lips, kissing you slow and deep, the lingering taste of red wine filling your mouth. The kiss is hard, almost aggressive, like he’s trying to forcibly erase the memory of any kiss you’ve ever had. He bites gently at your lower lip as he pulls away, not hard enough to sting, but enough for you to read the message in the action. “Careful. Don’t burn my toast.”

A mumbled fuck makes you giggle, and he turns to flip the bread in the pan. “Don’t worry, angel. Still perfect.” He watches you as he speaks, wide brown eyes liquid and luminous, framed by delicate lashes.

Still, if he gets to be jealous, so do you. “Do you make midnight snacks for all the girls?” you ask, swinging your legs back and forth off the counter.

“Can’t say I do, darling.”

The implication of his words thuds hard in your chest, a warm flicker of hope striking to life like a match under your skin. “What’s so special about me?”

“Good girl like you deserves the princess treatment. ‘Specially from a dirty old man like me,” he grins, sliding your toast onto a plate. The sudden reminder of your age gap, of the scandal you’d cause if even a whisper of this got out, sends a shuddering thrill up your spine. Matty hands you the plate, topped with icing sugar and drizzled with syrup, and you tuck in eagerly. 

He picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter, eyebrows going up when you go to reach for one. “What? I’m not always a good girl.”

“Oh, I know, love,” Matty smirks, lit cigarette dangling indecently from his lips. “Can’t have you ruining your pretty lungs, though. Here,” he says, pulling deeply on the cigarette and then pressing his open mouth to yours. Grey smoke curls from your parted lips as you suck in the smoke greedily. He shotguns you half the cigarette, your head light as the nicotine buzz hits.

You drink in the sight of him as you eat, taking advantage of the light to appreciate the finer details of him. The gentle glow of the cigarette where it sits between his plush, pink lips, the joggers obscenely low on his hips, the V of muscle that points tantalisingly down, a light trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.

“You wanna go back to bed, angel?” Matty smirks, the air between you shifting as he meets your gaze, eyes darkened.

You scoff. “Bed’s boring. You have this whole fucking house, and you wanna take me back to bed?”

Matty crowds close to you, stealing a kiss and dropping to his knees. “Alright, princess.” His fingers dig into your hips as he eases his boxers off you, dipping his head to kiss at your bare thighs. A filthy smirk spreads wide across his lips as he looks up at you. “You’ve eaten. Now it’s my turn,” he promises, and your giggle turns to a moan when his tongue meets your centre.

He devours you like he’s been starved, lapping at your still-soaked cunt in a toe-curling rhythm. A sudden flash of pleasure-pain strikes sharply where his teeth scrape at the tender flesh of your thigh, sucking and biting hard enough to bruise. A quiet moan tumbles from your lips, and you squeeze your thighs around his head to urge him back to your cunt. Obediently, he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure at your sensitive bundle of nerves making your head spin. “C’mon, princess. You make such pretty sounds, I know you can be louder than that.”

Matty sets a dizzying pace, tongue-fucking you with fervour. Burying your hands in his hair, you shift so you can rest your legs over his shoulders, the new angle letting him drive his tongue even deeper inside you. Heat roils in your belly, winding around your organs, entangling sweetly with your veins. “Fuck,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his face wantonly. “Feels s’good, Daddy,” you moan out, gasping as Matty curls his tongue perfectly inside you, white-hot pleasure buzzing up your spine.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs and tilts his head up to look at you, his lips and chin practically dripping with your slick. He sucks another bruise into your sensitive skin, kissing over the mark apologetically. Your skin is on fire, tension pulling tight in all your limbs at once. “Taste so fucking good,” he moans, kissing softly at your cunt, his laugh ghosting over your skin as you flutter needily in response. “Could spend the rest of my fuckin’ life between these pretty thighs, darling.”

Your head is hazy, barely coherent thoughts drifting in and out, an incomprehensible plea falling from your lips. Matty won’t let you get complacent with a rhythm, switching between broad, flat strokes over your cunt, deep thrusts into you and sucking on your clit so fast it deliriates you. “‘M close,” you whine, tugging hard on his curls as ecstasy builds at the base of your spine. “Wanna cum for you,” you add, a hint of begging in your tone.

“Say please, darling.” The words vibrate gloriously in your cunt, a shock of pleasure rolling over you.

“Please, Daddy, I wanna cum. Need it so bad,” you plead, whimpering when he scrapes his teeth over your clit, fighting to hold your orgasm at bay until he gives you permission.

“Go on, princess. Cum for Daddy, yeah?” The words are all you need, a string of obscenities interspersed with breathless moans of his name tumbling from your lips as pure euphoria overtakes you. Hot pleasure cascades over you, racing down your spine and along every nerve in your body. You writhe against Matty’s mouth, half-convinced you’ve left your body behind, made of pure sensation.

Boneless, you slump backward, sure you could fall asleep on the cool granite of Matty’s kitchen counter. He catches you, steadying, and gathers you back into his arms. “Thank you, Daddy,” you smile up at him, curling into his chest.

The thump of his heartbeat is soothing as he picks you up again. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs fondly. “Now do you want me to take you back to bed?” he adds, grinning teasingly. He carries you back to his room, laying you softly against the pillows and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just need you awake for a few more minutes, sweetheart. Need to get you cleaned up, then you can sleep, yeah?” He’s so tender, speaking softly and petting your hair for a moment before he fetches a damp cloth. Running it softly over you, he makes soothing sounds at your pained whimpers. “I know, baby, I know. ‘M sorry. Just a little more, okay?”

You’re half-asleep by the time Matty climbs into bed with you, sweeping your hair off the back of your neck and kissing softly at the skin there. An arm drapes over your waist, the pressure warm and soothing. “I wanna be your girl,” you mumble, more than half-asleep, barely conscious of the words as they slip unbidden from your lips. You’re unconscious before you hear his reply.

You’re sore in the morning, momentarily disoriented by the weight of a body in bed with you, before last night comes flooding back and you smile to yourself. “Morning, princess,” Matty murmurs, voice low and sleep-thick in your ear.

“Good morning,” you smile, stretching out your muscles and arching your back. Matty hisses as your ass meets his hips, his hardness pressing against you. “Oh, very good morning, hm?” Turning to face him, you reach down, slipping your hand under his waistband to palm his cock. He twitches under your touch, a sleepy moan falling from his lips as he rolls his hips into your hand. “Wanna suck your cock,” you murmur, his reaction visceral in your palm.

“Such a sweet girl,” he says, sliding his boxers off as you climb over him. You kiss his neck, the hollow of his throat, working your way down his chest. Indulgently, you bite a bruise into his chest, a twin to the ones that litter your thighs. You trace your tongue over the tattoo at his hip, his body shuddering at the sensation. His cock twitches against your lips as you press a kiss to the head, the taste of salt filling your mouth when you lick your lips.

You mouth at him teasingly for a moment, needy whines filling the air above you. Having power over him this time is intoxicating, and you hold his hips down as he tries to thrust into your mouth. “Not so fast,” you grin. “Keep still and hands to yourself, remember?” Matty swears softly as you repeat his words back to him, hands fisting in the sheets.

Teasing him for a few more moments, you kiss at his lower belly, smirking as he trembles under your lips, cock drooling. The moan Matty lets out when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock is obscene, low and keening, and you dip your head to take him in deeper. “That’s it,” he murmurs, threading a hand gently in your hair. “C’mon, sweet girl, just a little further. I know you can take it, angel.” The encouragement sends a shudder through you, liquid pleasure pooling between your thighs.

Obediently, you relax your throat, sinking further until your nose meets his skin. “Good girl,” Matty says. “Good fucking girl, takin’ me so well. So fuckin’ pretty all stretched out around my cock.” Saliva pools under your tongue, dripping helplessly from the corners of your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, thrusting gently into your mouth. “Such a pretty slut, fuckin’ drooling on my cock.”

You pull off him, a string of saliva connecting your skin for a split-second. “‘M your slut, Daddy. Can go harder, if you want,” you say, wrapping your hand around his cock, spit-soaked and dripping, and pump slowly. You lave at him for a moment, licking messy stripes over his cock before taking him all the way in one motion.

Matty groans, bucking his hips. “You want me to fuck your pretty mouth, huh, angel?” His hand tightens in your hair as he thrusts into your mouth, the stretch in the corners of your mouth gorgeous.

“You can do better than that,” you murmur. “Want it hard. I won’t break. Unless you want me to,” you add with a grin, moaning around his cock as you swallow him back down. Finally, gloriously, Matty fucks into your mouth, sets a deep, punishing pace. He pulls you by your hair, the sting in your scalp divine as he uses you; you let yourself slip out of your body, sinking into the warm, fuzzy feeling of being his toy.

“That’s right, baby. Fucking made to take my cock, yeah? Good little girl just wants to be Daddy’s cocksleeve.” The filthy words wash over you, thighs clenching as arousal thrums low in your belly. Wetness pools between your legs and you slip a hand down your body to rub at your clit. The soft spark of pleasure grants you the briefest relief, and you moan around his cock. He’s losing control, the movement of his hips turning sloppy as your throat burns raw. “Fuck,” Matty hisses. “Gonna cum, angel.”

“You wanna cum in my mouth?” He nods, transfixed by your flushed skin and spit-slick lips. “Say please, Daddy.”

He moans, long and low, as you take him back in your mouth, swallowing around him. “C’mon, princess, I wanna cum in that pretty mouth of yours. Fuck, I need it.” He fucks your throat wildly, heat firing through your body, sensation cascading over you. “Please?” The word sounds delicious falling from his lips, sliding sweetly across your brain as you moan around him. With a final groan, he spills in your mouth, a cry of your name tearing from his throat. His cock pulses in your throat, the salt of him filling your mouth as you swallow obediently. “That’s it, take it all. Such a good little cumdump for me, princess.”

You pull off him, sitting back on your heels with a grin. “Did I do good?” you ask, pouting down at him.

You’re only teasing, but when Matty meets your gaze, chest heaving and eyes lidded, and murmurs, “So good, princess.” A gush of heat floods between your sticking thighs. “Where’d my good girl learn to suck cock like that?”

Falling back onto his chest, you give him a wicked smirk. “I told you already, Daddy.” You shift your hips, grinding your soaked cunt against his cock and whining at the soft buzz of pleasure that lights under your skin. “I’m not always a good girl.”

He groans, rolling his hips against yours. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, baby.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to the tattoo in the centre of his chest. “The elderly and their weak hearts,” you scoff, hissing when he pinches the flesh of your ass.

“Oi. Be nice.” Rolling your eyes dramatically, you mime zipping your lips. His fingers wander between your legs, anticipation thrilling under your skin as he finds your clit, the rough pad of his finger scraping against your sensitive nerves. “So wet, princess. Does being my little cocksleeve turn you on, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you murmur. “Feel a bit gross right now, though. I wanna shower first.” Matty grins, a vision of you naked and dripping wet from the shower playing out so clearly on his face that you can practically see it reflected in his eyes.

You hop up on the bathroom counter as Matty runs the shower, rinsing your mouth out with mouthwash and leaning over the sink to spit it out. Matty does the same, then steps between your legs, and you cross them instinctively behind his back. He catches your lips, mint taste mingling in your breaths as you kiss open-mouthed, hot and messy. Distracted, you lose yourself in the kiss, forgetting why you’re in the bathroom at all until the air is thick and cloying with steam.

Matty breaks away from you and helps you to your feet, tugging his shirt up over your head and discarding it to the floor. He can’t resist a greedy handful of your tit, gazing down to where the flesh spills over his fingers. “Pretty girl,” he murmurs, walking you backwards until you’re stepping into the shower.

You pull him under the spray, curls sticking to his forehead as the water soaks him. His hands trail over your body, grasping at your wet flesh as you press yourself needily against him. His cock is hard against your belly, heat pooling in your core as he pulls you in for a wet kiss. Matty grips your thighs, your head spinning as his tongue sweeps your mouth. “Jump up for me, sweet girl,” he says against your lips. “I’ll catch you, don’t worry.” Something in your chest catches as he smiles earnestly down at you, and you force it down before it bubbles out of control and something incriminating slips from your lips.

Obediently, you jump up, your legs tangling around Matty’s waist as he crowds you against the shower tile, his nails biting at your thighs where he holds you in place. You moan against his mouth as you grind your hips down against his stomach, a soft buzz of pleasure growing where your skin meets his. “Daddy, please. Want your cock,” you whine, steam curling around your bodies as you grasp weakly at his wet skin.

He laughs softly against your lips, angling your hips carefully as he lines up his cock. Torturously slow, he lowers you down, pleasure rolling hot under your skin from the point where his hips meet yours. Your cunt throbs, stretched wide around him as Matty moans against your neck. “God, this fucking cunt drives me crazy. Made for this,” he groans as he bottoms out, hips flush under the warm spray of the shower.

“C’mon,” you whimper, clenching your cunt around him and rolling your hips. “Fuck me. I need it,” you beg, scraping your nails down his back.

His cock twitches inside you, the barest flicker of sensation sending a pulse of heat thrumming under your skin. “Needy girl,” he says, clicking his tongue condescendingly. 

“Please, Daddy,” you moan, writhing in his arms, the plea on your lips breaking into a whine as he pushes into you agonisingly slow. Your head thuds back against the tile as your eyes slip closed, hot pleasure coiling between your legs as you clench your cunt around him.

Matty groans as he bottoms out, your legs locked around his waist as you pant into his mouth. “God, takin’ me so well, princess. Look so beautiful while I’m fucking you like this, fuck,” he praises, his words sending heat rushing to your cheeks. His head falls to suck and bite at the flesh of your tits, pain blooming into bliss under your skin as he fucks into you slowly.

You moan desperately, scrambling for purchase against his wet skin. “More, harder, please,” you whimper, rocking your hips as arousal pools in your cunt and drips out over him. He laughs darkly, and you shudder slightly, wondering what you’ve let yourself in for.

“Harder, huh?” he murmurs into your neck. “Whatever you want, princess.” It’s the only warning you get before he lifts you and slams you down on his cock, your hips meeting hard as he strikes deep inside you. He fucks you wildly, the slick heat of his body pinning you to the wall as he mouths at your neck, his breath hot on your skin. Incoherent moans fall from your lips, your head hazy and distant, pleasure welling hot under your skin.

His lips come up to cover yours, swallowing your wanton moans greedily, the faint taste of mint on his tongue as he licks into your mouth. “God, such a good girl,” he murmurs. “Wish you could see yourself, baby. Such a pretty little cocksleeve for me.” Arousal drips between your legs, mingling with the water soaking you, your cunt throbbing at his words. “You like that, princess?” he asks with a soft laugh, subtle derision cascading down your spine. “Little slut. Wanna be Daddy’s pretty toy, yeah?”

You whine, nails digging into his shoulders. His rhythm doesn’t slow, your grip on sanity slackening with every pulse of heat in your cunt. “‘M yours, Daddy,” you manage to get out around broken moans.

“That’s right, princess.” He’s practically dragging you up and down on him, using you like you really are a toy. “Gonna be a good girl and cum for Daddy, hm?” Your legs tighten around Matty’s waist as one of his hands leaves your hip to play with your clit. The rough scrape of his calloused finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves is too much, and it barely takes another minute before your world shatters.

Your scream echoes off the tile, cunt pulsing as your blood burns with ecstasy. Heat floods every nerve in your body, bone-deep pleasure swelling under your skin, incessant gasps and whines falling from your lips. Matty’s brutal pace never slows, chasing his own pleasure, silencing your whines with his mouth as you squirm against the overstimulation. “‘M almost there, baby. Just a little more, takin’ it so well, princess,” he assures you, rhythm sloppy and faltering as he gets closer. Your name spills from his lips in a groan as he pulses inside you, ropes of cum dripping sticky down your insides. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, whining as he pulls out and gingerly setting a leg on the floor, testing whether they can hold your weight. Matty’s hands hover at your waist, ready to catch you if you slip, and you stretch up to press a grateful kiss to his lips.

Matty pulls you fully under the shower, reaching for a bottle of shower gel and soaping his hands. “Feeling good?” he says, cocky smirk playing on his lips.

“Mhmm,” you sigh happily, settling against his chest as he runs his hands slow and tender over your body. In your blissed-out state, you barely notice your next words as they slip from your lips. “Wish it could be like this all the time.”

Matty croons softly, brushing a thumb over your nipple and kneading at your tit. “Wanna be my sweet girl forever, hm? I’d love that, princess,” he murmurs, the fantasy rooting in your mind despite how obscenely ridiculous the idea is — you’ve barely known him a week, for Christ’s sake. Something about him makes you feel safe, though, secure. Like you’ve known him for years — although, maybe not, given the circumstances. A moan slips from your lips when Matty digs his thumbs into your back, working the tension free from under your skin as your eyes slip happily closed. He cleans your cunt gently, smirking at the cum stringing between his fingers and swirling down the drain. “Can I wash your hair?” he offers with a soft smile.

Your chest feels distended, bloated with an affection you know you shouldn’t be feeling as you nod, the scent of his shampoo maddeningly comforting, sickeningly familiar. Matty’s skilled fingers work over your scalp, a quiet kind of bliss rolling over you as you relax into his touch. Stepping out of the shower, your hair scrunched up in an old t-shirt of his that he swore he didn’t care about getting ruined, you can’t hold back a pout when he wraps a towel around his waist. “Hey, no, what do you think you’re doing?” you gasp, suddenly distracted as Matty starts to bring a towel up to his hair. Puzzled, he stares at you blankly as you snatch it from his grip. “Gonna ruin those pretty curls if you keep doing that,” you tut. “Here, sit down. Let me spoil you for a second, okay?” You’ve never felt so cared for by one of your hookups, even by some of your boyfriends, so you seize a chance to return the favour. 

Obligingly, he sits on the closed toilet seat, letting you advance on him with a tub of obscenely expensive hair gel. He smiles softly, leaning involuntarily into your touch as you twist his curls around your fingers, defining them neatly and admiring the way they bounce back on themselves. You straddle his lap to scrunch the gel into his hair, batting his hand away when he tries to grab your tit. “Behave,” you chide, laughing and stepping away to take in your handiwork. With his hair loose and framing his face sweetly, he looks younger, more innocent, a far cry from the man calling you a pretty little cocksleeve not even half an hour ago.

“What are you thinkin’ about, darling?” Matty murmurs, searching gaze heavy on your bare skin.

You blink, shaking your head as if to clear it. “Just about how I could really go for that breakfast in bed right now,” you grin, teasing to alleviate the intensity in the air between you.

He huffs a laugh. “Think it might be closer to lunch by now,” he smirks. “How about I do you one better? Let me take you out for lunch, yeah?”

Your jaw hangs open in shock. Of all the ways you were expecting this to end, this wasn’t it. “Like… like a date?” A date means something, means being seen together in public, means being more than just a dirty little secret.

“Yeah, princess. Like a date.” He smiles fondly. “Here, I’ll call you a car. You go home, get changed, and I’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?” Instinctively, you nod, his tone leaving no room for argument even if you’d wanted to. You open your mouth to ask how he knows where you live, the answer coming to you with sudden, shocking clarity. Right. Because he’s your father’s boss.

Well, fuck. That certainly complicates things.

…But it’s not like complicated has ever stopped you before.

[marlsswrites]

June 25th <3

Horoscope - @jegulus-microfic - words: 1400

“Where are you two off to?” Barty spoke as he ran up behind Regulus and Pandora in the tall, stone walls of Hogwarts.

“Divination.” Pandora replies distractedly, much more interested in braiding a small piece of blonde hair in front of her forehead, causing her to go slightly cross eyed.

“We have charms don’t we?” Barty looked around the halls, confused, before looking at Regulus for an answer.

Regulus ran a hand through his hair and looked towards Barty. “Me and Dora got moved up, we’re in seventh year Divination.”

“Oh! Okay.” Barty replied, instantly zoning out of the conversation when he saw a rather grumpy looking Evan walking past. “Nerds.” He snorted and tan towards Evan. “Evie!”

“Are we sure they aren’t dating?” Regulus huffed out with a smirk. “I called Evan ‘Evie’ once as a joke and he fucking hexed me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Pandora matched his smirk with a grin. “Enough of them, let’s go embarrass some dumb seventh years with my seer privileges.” She winked.

Regulus rolled his eyes and brushed a loose curl away from his face. “Are we actually nerds, though?”

“You are, I’m just good at divination and shit at everything else.” She tapped her head to prove a point as they walked into the classroom, surprisingly, being some of the last ones there.

Regulus felt multiple pairs of eyes attach to him as he walked into the room, trying to avoid eye contact, he quickly stepped past the teacher to get to a table in the back.

“Not so fast!” The professor spoke as she stepped in front of a rather embarrassed looking Regulus, and an excited looking Pandora. “Everyone, these are some of our new sixth year students, the smartest of their year!”

He quite literally wanted to smash his head into a wall. “Thank you.” He muttered as he sat down at an empty table, Pandora next to him as she tied her platinum blonde hair in a bun with a multicoloured scrunchie, Regulus is pretty sure she sewed that one herself.

A few moments later, just as the professor started to speak, a flustered James Potter ran into the classroom. He apologised swiftly to the scowling professor and made a beeline for Regulus’ table as soon as he spotted him.

“Hi Reggie.” He whispered, Regulus would correct him like he does most people, but he quite likes it to be honest, especially when it’s James whispering in his ear.

“Potter.” How he managed to get that out with a smooth voice was a mystery.

“What did I miss?” James asked in a hushed tone.

Pandora turns to them, eyeing them suspiciously before shrugging and leaning over, propping her head on her hand. “Professor Wells told us that her horoscope predicts that Regulus has a secret.” She spoke in a hushed, overdramatic voice.

“Old nutter.” The Slytherin boy muttered.

“Do you now Reggie?” James asked with a dramatic gasp.

“Shut up and listen.” Regulus hissed.

Regulus saw a suspicious grin start to appear on the Potter boys lips as he spoke. “Ma-“ He stomped on James’ foot, receiving a yelp as James decided to finally pay attention to the class.

His brother and Lupin weren’t even at class today, not sure why, the Lupin kid seems to always be in the hospital wing for one thing or another and Regulus knew for a fact the he and Sirius were attached at the hip. Regulus wasn’t sure about Pettigrew, probably doesn’t take the class.

-

“What is that?” Regulus held the cup close to his face, trying to decipher what shapes the tea leaves made up. He held it to the side, hoping Pandora could tell.

Pandora hummed, a puzzled look appearing on her face. She grabbed her book, flicking through until she could find the recognisable shapes.

“That one…” She pointed at the first shape in the cup. “It’s a stag I think?” She flicked the page and looked at the next shape. “This book is not helpful at all!” She groaned and slammed the book on the table.

Now, James peered over his shoulder to take a look at the cup. “It is a stag!” He beamed and looked at Regulus, who rolled his eyes, yet again, and looked back at the cup. “That one there looks like a heart.” The brunette pointed his finger to the cup.

And he was right, anyone could tell that it was a love heart. But would Regulus admit that? No way.

“No it doesn’t.” He scoffed.

“Yes it does.” Pandora and James chimed in at the same time.

Regulus pointed at James, ignoring it when the Gryffindor licked his lips and grinned that stupid, gorgeous smile of his. “This- this is none of your business.” He turned to point at Pandora. “And no it does not.

“Yes is does!” She sang, in a slightly too loud voice, causing multiple people in the classroom to turn and look at them

“No it-“ He sighed. “I’m not winning this am I?”

Pandora’s grin widened. “Nope.”

-

Regulus left the class before Pandora as she spoke with the Professor about crystals, he didn’t even pretend to understand that nonsense, it’s a mystery how he ended up in higher Divination.

He turned to corner into an empty looking hallway, their class had finished early so not many students crowded the halls yet, which was nice.

Sitting down in a small alcove, he folded in on himself, tucking his legs to his chest and letting his head fall back onto the wall with a soft thud.

He heard footsteps nearby, but he passed it off as a student or teacher passing by. His gaze was glued on the roof, he traced the patterns in the stone with his eyes.

Only moments later, he felt a hand ruffle his hair, a hand he would recognise the feel of from anywhere.

“James.” He sighed with a laugh, the corner of his mouth tipping up into a smile.

Watching carefully, he saw James sit on the other side of the alcove. The older boy lifted Regulus’ legs up ever so softly, go place them on top of his own.

Regulus felt a soft flutter in his stomach as those honey brown eyes locked with his stormy grey ones. James’ tan, golden skin shone in the sunlight. It was perfect the way the sun hit him, just like a spotlight, like he deserved to be in.

But no, Regulus didn’t want to share James’ beauty with the rest of the world, that was his. His to keep, to touch, to cherish, to love.

“There’s no one here right?” James said in a low voice as he leant over to Regulus, their noses practically touching.

“No, but Pandora is very suspicious, you couldn’t be worse at hiding this.”

“It’s not my fault, I need you.” James sulked.

Shaking his head fondly, Regulus leant in to connect their lips, probably too eagerly, but he couldn’t care any less right now when James was smiling again his lips.

“Regulussss.” He sang in a sweet voice, pulling away but only slightly. “A heart and a stag? I’m flattered.” He spoke as he brushed a loose dark hair away from Regulus’ flushed face.

“Those things are fake.” He grumbled under his breath.

“Are they now?” He fake pouted, Regulus hoped it was fake anyway, he hated upsetting James. “So you don’t love me.”

Regulus looked James in the eye, his big wide doe eyes shone with pure adoration and love.

“Fuck off.” He said through a smile, there was no hiding the amount of feelings he had for this boy, he was just wonderful, so loving, so kind, so gorgeous. Regulus was sure James was crafted just for him, so they could love each other so much it hurt.

“You love me.” The Gryffindor teased.

“Sadly I do love you, what was I thinking?”

“That I’m super hot and a good kisser?” James asked with an eyebrow wiggle.

Regulus nodded slowly and pulled James in again, the kiss was deeper, slightly rougher, yet still it was perfect. More than perfect.

James traced Regulus’ bottom lip with his tongue, sending shivers down his spine and having his heartbeat speed up shockingly fast. No matter how many times James does that, Regulus thinks his reaction will always be the same.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Regulus mumbled against his boyfriend’s lips.

[qdbs-writes]

Do you write fem readers?!? 😭 If so can you write some head cannons about the Cullens with a goth s/o

i proudly write for all readers, nonny! and I'm gonna assume this about about trad!goth, but I'll try and make sure this applies to most goth subcultures!

Cullen Clan x Goth!Fem!S/O

Carlisle Cullen

He's confused but supportive. Back in his day, the term 'goth' only applied to the people who sacked Rome, which he'll remind you of regularly, especially if you're visiting the Volturi (who will also assume that you are directly connected to the ancient Goths, and would fear you as a result).

He'd be interested in your genealogy, because he thinks you're connection to the goth style can't be mere coincidence or personal choice, and it wouldn't be difficult to find out either, all he'd have to do is check if you have any Germanic ancestry from the last 2000 years.

Esme Cullen

If you're happy and comfortable, she's happy and comfortable. While it probably isn't her style personally, she's quick to see the benefits. For instance, black is a very easy colour to maintain, particularly with regards to cleaning.

Her only concern is getting you clothes other than black so that you can have something to wear to events that may require specific colours, like if you two are guests at a wedding (she wouldn't want you wearing black as it's bad luck for the couple).

Edward Cullen

Edward himself is basically a diet-corporate goth, so dating you will probably help him develop his own sense of comfort in the style.

The two of you are regularly seen brooding in the Forks CVS, loitering around the hair dye section, silently terrifying all of the elderly people waiting at the pharmacy.

Edward is likely already very familiar with goth music, has absolutely been to some Bauhaus concerts in his time, and probably has a respectable collection of gothic rock records in his room.

Rosalie Hale

It'll be like a Barbie/Oppenheimer-esque clash in aesthetics. I personally see Rosalie with a very Y2K aesthetic, so the two of you walking down the street together might turn some heads.

That doesn't mean that she isn't fully supportive of your style though, and appreciates the philosophy of the aesthetic, how it's a style built on defying expectations of conformity and obedience. In her short life, all Rosalie knew was to dress properly, smile, be open, happy, a willing host, an amusing guest. In death, she's proud to be herself, and even prouder to be with someone so comfortable with dressing exactly how they want, regardless of what others might think.

Emmett Cullen

You dress scary and Emmett loves it. He has regularly compared you to a venomous snake, your black clothes and aggressive makeup mean that almost everyone in Forks steers clear of you. But not Emmett, he's never had the survival instincts to stay away from things that could kill him, in fact, your "unapproachable" style only drew him in more.

Absolutely loves wandering around Forks with you, even if you aren't particularly doing anything. He thinks it's hilarious that some people cross the street to avoid you, it's like having 'scary dog' privileges.

Alice Cullen

She'd seen you in her visions for some time, but she almost didn't recognise you when you started dressing strangely and wearing heavy makeup. At first, it disturbed her, you looked like the sleep-paralysis demons that used to haunt her in the asylum.

Once she gets the chance to meet you in real life, that fear quickly subsides. Through your relationship, Alice learns how much of a safe space goth society can be, and that she can rely on other goths to not be judgemental towards her like so many others are.

Jasper Hale

Greatly appreciates the Victorian-era elements that are incorporated into your clothes, it helps him feel less old. You'll make his day if you show any interest in his clothes and jewellery that he had in life, particularly the more morbid pieces (such as the ring made out of his mother's hair).

If you're looking particularly historical, he'll love to get in his original clothes from when he was alive (except the ""uniform"" that shan't be mentioned), and stroll about Forks with you, arm in arm, like a true Southern gentleman.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 3. Faux Pas

Summary: "If it's not much trouble, Lady Danbury, I have an individual in mind I'm particularly interested in meeting..." Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Words: 1,759 Listen to: Risk -by Gracie Abrams A/N: I love paranoid Benedict -Danny

Once it's clear the man you met at Hyde Park has recognised you too, you hope he'll come and introduce himself, but there is no luck. You're left to enjoy the ball, that is to say, you sit on your arse and pretend to listen to the Prince's rambling about his many travels.

Now that everyone has seen your face and satiated their curiosity, you wish to return to your chamber and change into your nightgown. Marie makes no effort to keep you company, she is enjoying her prince far more than you are, perhaps because she's always loved meeting new people. You sigh and slouch, losing yourself to whatever story you can concoct on a whim. 

A dark-skinned lady makes a 'Tsk!' sound at you and you turn your head, surprised that anyone would dare address you in such a way. She looks like someone worth talking to, so you excuse yourself, stepping on your dress as you stand too quickly. The servant, placed there by your cautious mother, steadies you.

"Thank you," you flash an awkward smile at him before walking away.

"Having a nice evening, Your Royal Highness?" The woman holds back a grin.

You hesitate, not wanting to lie to her. "Surely my face says it all?"

She chuckles. "Lady Danbury, at your service."

"You may call me Y/N," you retort giving a curtsy. "The formalities are fraying my nerves."

"I see that," she accentuates the middle word. "I can't blame you for loathing the spotlight, my dear. The best ones always do. On nights like this one, you should cling to your privilege if you're to deal with every daunting task, too."

"I'm not so sure," you show a shy smile. "My Queen and King were far too pampering and as a to-be monarch, I cannot defer the spotlight any longer. I regret waiting this long."

Lady Danbury steps an inch closer, minding not to stab your foot with her cane. "I'm sorry you're stuck here having no one to talk to but the Queen's brats. Although your sister and brothers don't mind it much, do they?"

"Marie's far more patient and open-hearted than I could ever be. Forbearance runs thin within me, I need people with layers to them."

"Layers?" Lady Danbury asks.

"People that have lived many lives," you explain, unable to hold back your poetics, "I can work with a thoughtful talker, but I detest mindless rambling."

She hums. "If it's a character you seek, I might be useful to you. I could help you find some real layered individuals."

"Could you?" You beam, then pause. "Am I allowed to mingle like that?"

Lady Danbury glances over your shoulder. "Well, everyone in your group is paired up and entertained. I'm obliged to find you a worthy companion so you don't go home with a lowly opinion of our balls." 

"Splendid." You take the liberty to reach for her hand and lean closer to speak. "If it's not much trouble, Lady Danbury, I have an individual in mind I'm particularly interested in meeting..."

Benedict scolds himself for not paying attention to his siblings' depictions of Genovians. If he had, he would've recalled Colin's statement about the women in your country being no strangers to dressing in men's clothes. What a massive arse he'd been, teasing and calling... dear god, he'd called you an ill-bred critter.

He wants to drown himself in whiskey, maybe if he's lucky he'll escape before the night's over and claim victory at one of his lover's beds. That might alleviate the sting in his gut. He might come out of this unscathed, just an hour or so and he will be the first to walk out the door.

He stays away from where the royals are, searching for witless conversation while also paying mind not to humour any debutants too much. He dances with one, but as soon as it ends he forgets all about her and the worries come flooding back. 

Benedict doesn't wish to be executed for disrespecting a princess! Yes, she teased, too. She'd called him names, but she was a princess, not his equal, and perhaps she was enjoying the way Benedict was digging a deeper grave for himself.

"You!" Lady Danbury comes through like a bullet and the crowd opens despite everyone's interest in taking a closer look at the princess. To Benedict's horror, Lady Danbury and her companion are coming his way. "Don't look at me like that, boy, I'm doing you a favour! You always lament and protest the dullness of these events. Allow me to make introductions."

He takes a single step forward, hesitant and unlike him, incapable of looking at the princess in the eye. "Lady Danbury..." his voice comes out sounding ridiculous.

The woman clicks her tongue and grabs a glass of lemonade from a passing platter, almost shoving it into his hand. "Now, don't make me look bad in front of the princess, I was just telling her what a gifted talker you are!"

"I'm impertinent, really," he hurries to say. "Out of all I do for society, my inability to hold my tongue should be excluded from the list."

"Witty and humble," the princess says with amusement. "Lady Danbury, Mr. Bridgerton might be what I'm looking for."

"Looking for?" He questions anxiously.

Lady Danbury laughs. "You act as if we were choosing you as our next supper!"

That is more or less his worry. Benedict pushes through his remorse to greet the princess. "My apologies, Your Royal Highness, I'm extremely rude. Benedict Bridgerton, at your service."

"Y/N Devereaux," you curtsy with a smile. "Don't worry, I do not think you rude. Or a critter, for that matter." Benedict's entire face flushes.

"Mr. Bridgerton is the second son of the Bridgerton family, charming though he relies a bit too much on his looks and too little on his brain," Lady Danbury resumes. "Princess Y/N wishes to meet you, my boy. Can I trust you to take good care of her?"

The princess smiles, but Benedict feels it like a wolfish smirk. He tries his best to slip out of the situation. "I'm not half-witty to keep a lady such as the princess entertained, Lady Danbury, do not trust me."

"Well, seeing you're so eager to reject the offer I'm inclined to agree," Benedict has a fraction of a second to feel relieved before the grown woman continues. "However, Your Royal Highness wishes to speak to you tonight. So gather your wits and do your best."

Her eyes remain on him, playful and knowing. He narrows his. "May I ask what's so enjoyable about me?"

The woman pats his arm once before leaving. "I rarely see you so unsteady on your feet— quite an entertaining view." Lady Danbury looks at the princess and tilts her head down. "Your Royal Highness. I'll be right over there if you need me."

"Thank you," Princess Y/N smiles at her. Benedict is about to undo himself in apologies when the princess speaks, eyeing the decorations in the ballroom like she's not very interested in him. "Responding to my questions in a yes or no fashion will do just fine. Are you having fun?"

"No." He replies, glaring at a passing guest who smiles in a congratulatory manner at him.

"Would you like to?"

"Yes." His hands fidget with the untouched glass of lemonade Lady Danbury placed in them.

"Have you danced?"

"Yes."

"Breathed fresh air?"

"No. And I very much yearn for an ample spot where to faint," he keeps his eyes on her profile and watches as the smile on her face grows an inch.

"Garden it is, then," Y/N takes the lemonade and holds onto the crook of his elbow.

Outside, you take your time to address your companion, having too much fun watching someone else squirm in discomfort for a change. "If you wish to say something, now would be—"

"I am so dreadfully sorry," he untangles his arm from you and speaks, trying to keep eye contact while also bowing apologetically. "You must've thought me the most uncultured idiot when we spoke at the park. I didn't know who you were but I should've known—"

"Mr. Bridgerton," you interrupt him surprised. "Do I look angry?"

He examines your expression. "You're smiling, but that could mean anything."

"I believe that means I'm content."

"You could be smiling at my expense."

"Now, that does insult me. Do I give you the impression of being cruel?"

"Princess, I beg you not to ask me what I think of you," he closes his eyes in mortification for a moment. "My brain isn't working, I've drank too much."

You lift his chin to the light, pretending to examine him. "Yet your words do not drag and you don't smell. Do I make you nervous?"

Benedict feels his face heat up again at the statement and steps out from your reach. "See if you'd like to be given the responsibility to entertain the pope and not have your nerves frayed entirely by the end of it."

You laugh, amused by his struggle between remembering his manners and wanting to reply to your teasing in kind. "I hold no resentment towards the way you treated me prior to this night, Mr. Bridgerton. In fact, that is exactly why I asked Lady Danbury to introduce us."

Benedict frowns. "May I ask you to elaborate?"

"Well, I had fun," you admit, looking at the beautiful garden ahead. "And Lady Danbury told me a bit about you and your family. I wanted to meet interesting people, and your last name was mentioned almost right away. Would you consider that a compliment?"

"Most definitely," he replies, a hesitant little smile finally showing up.

"Then take it as such and forget about yesterday, but I won't. I rarely get treated the way you treated me. I was clumsy and rude, but you weren't heartless, that is quite rare in a man."

"Is it?" Benedict tilts his head. "If you think me a rare find, you will think my brothers are figments of your imagination."

"You talk kindly of your siblings, that says a lot of your family as a whole," you point out, and your words make him warm up to you with ease. "Mother says one cannot hide who they are when asked about family."

You place your hands on the stone bannister and lean forward to peek at the bushes beneath you, making Benedict's heart shrink as his hand hovers near your lower back, looking after you.

"Careful, Princess," he says tersely.

"I've slipped from taller places," you grin. "And as I recall, you are well aware of how good my bum is at softening my falls."

That pulls an involuntary laugh from him that you easily match. Away from the hundreds of gazes in the ballroom, he finds himself wanting to keep you close, if only for one evening.

Taglist.

Next Chapter –>

@babypink224221 @Booknerdlife @djsporks @lght-roastcoffee @marii-ren @mythical-goth @omgsuperstarg @creepytoes88 @sarahskywalker-amidala @23victoria @shadowolf993 @squirreljoe @syxtiramishuui

[heerinnie]

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬

𝐏.𝐉𝐒

SYNOPSIS: Long term lovers, long term friends. Nothing and no one could come in between you and Jay other than your fear of intimacy.

WARNINGS: tooth-rotting fluff and smut, bf!jay x inexperienced fem!reader, reader has a fear of intimacy, implied s/a (not graphic), soft!Jay (he’s so sweet in this I cried a little when writing, making out, dry humping, mentions of oral (f!), Jay’s experienced but his body count’s like 2, blasphemy, written with the song Training Wheels by Melanie Martinez in mind

A/N: This is very very self-indulgent, writing is a way i cope with my experience in these situations so I feel like I healed a little part of me by acknowledging it happened and it wasn’t my fault, instead I’m turning it into something comforting. This works for me and for some others however i recognise that it may be triggering for others even if there aren’t any graphic mentions of s/a only the aftermath, please only read this if you’re in the right headspace. Any disrespectful comment will be deleted and blocked from my account 🤍

WC: 1274

^^ NSFW UNDER CUT, MINORS DNI (not proofread)

It all happened so quickly and yet you were still stuck here, still scarred 2 almost 3 years in the past. Time doesn’t heal wounds, physical ones? Yes but this feeling you could never shake off even if you tried your hardest, you couldn’t heal especially not alone.

You weren’t the an overly religious person, definitely not after your trust was broken. If there was a god well they’re a dick, if god was real why did you get hurt? You didn’t do anything wrong you were so kind…so bright until a shadow blew your flame away and forced you to live in a chamber of your own inner darkness. It was not your fault, you didn’t do anything you were just there...

That flame grew smaller and smaller until it suddenly disappeared and all that was left was a trail of smoke showing that at some point in time you were burning and warming everyone’s hearts whilst yours was barley flickering trying so hard to stay alight.

So many things changed with Jay's re-entry into your life, everything seemed to change directions and you felt like there was a purpose for your existence. Despite the lingering pain and heartache thats been consuming you, his presence felt like a much needed breath of fresh air. It was as if he had come to you as a guardian angel pulling you out of the misery you were dwelling in. He gave you the comfort that you didn't even know you needed until he appeared. The one which eased the damages of your heart.

“I think I'm ready” You've told him this so many times that you're starting to feel guilty for giving him this false hope. You know you've pulled back on your words before, so you understand why he may be sceptical. However, this time is different. You've taken the time to reflect on your feelings and you're sure that you're finally ready. You want to show Jay that you're committed and prepared to take the next step in your intimacy and you're willing to put in the effort to make it happen.

He obviously had some doubts however, he took the time to affirm that you were genuinely ready and that you wouldn't have any regrets. He's always so patient and understanding which is not surprising considering that he has always been your best friend before he even had the privilege of calling himself your boyfriend. Someone who understands you better than anyone else, your soulmate in all and every way.

Your relationship with him is built on trust, understanding and respect and it was so scary, you've never been treated so well before Jay and it showed but he was patient with the time it took time to get used him.

“I’m 100% sure” you got up and sat on his lap. You were fine and it felt right, this time you were in control of the situation and you weren’t uncomfortable with the feeling of sitting crotch to crotch with your boyfriend.

It felt like there was a force pulling your lips toward his as you leaned in to connect with each other and in an instant, you felt a rush of intense emotions overwhelm you. Your pupils dilated and your heartbeat quickened as it was trying to catch up with the sudden flood of feelings. It was a moment of pure realization- this was what true love felt like, and now you knew it with absolute confidence.

You weren't Jay’s first but at this moment he felt like you were, he had like two quick fucks with past short term girlfriends but this time it felt different. His heart was running laps and it was like all the air in his lungs disappeared as soon as your plush lips met his. He mentally cursed himself for growing hard already but in his defence, he had the most beautiful girl on his lap making out with him and as much as it made him nervous he couldn't help but get aroused when you started slowly grinding on his bulge to set the mood.

Your lungs were beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen as the room was filled with loud and wet noises of lips smacking, what started off as a passionate slow kiss quickly turned into a deeply heated make out session. Tongues dancing in an animalistic rhythm, hands travelling anywhere they could- you finally unlocked another level of intimacy with your boyfriend.

As you reflect on the situation you're in right now you can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude. You think back to all the moments you've shared together, from the first time you met to the night you opened up to him about your trauma. The thought that someone like Jay could choose to be with you fills you with so much happiness and you can't help but break into a fit of giggles at the sheer joy of it all. It's a feeling that's difficult to describe, but you know that you're grateful for every moment you get to spend with him.

Your hips moved faster as a result of the friction you felt, you moaned when it sent shocks of pleasure straight to your core and down your spine. When you adjusted to a better angle jays grip on your hips tightened, he let out a soft moan that sounded like music to your ears. You felt his soft palm touch your cheek signalling to look at him and once your eyes met he couldn’t control his body as he started thrusting in his hips into you.

Nearing closer and closer to your climax your head starting spinning when Jay let out moans and groans whereas you couldn’t keep even the smallest noises of pleasure within yourself, you noticed a tiny bead of sweat forming at the top of his sun-kissed skin. It was already a hot day but the way he was thrusting and you were grinding felt like the heating went up covering you in sweat. As you watched his face contort with pleasure you couldn't help but think that you had never seen a man this beautiful, both inside and out. His broad shoulders flexed to keep up with the movement of his hips and placement of his hands on your stuttering body, his chiseled features were accentuated by the dimmed living room light highlighting the sweat that trickled down his face. Despite the heat, he remained focused, determined to give you the best he could at the moment trying to leaving a lasting impression to say that sex isn’t as scary when it’s with the love of your life and you couldn't help but admire him for wanting to give you it all.

With all that work you finally felt your orgasm hit with jay’s quickly following after. You stayed laying on him ignoring the uncomfortable wetness on your panties as your blown out pupils stared off onto the empty space on the couch next to where you two rested,

“That felt amazing” you hummed agreeing with your boyfriend, “but if you’re up for it I can show you how good it can really feel” he purred, you felt his cock hardening again with the way you were spread out on him. In a span of seconds you two ran towards your shared bedroom preparing for a long night of what pleasure with your loved one really feels like starting off strong with jay devouring your pussy for the first time as an apology for the lack of dirty talk and foreplay he didn’t do before.

A/N: I’m not really happy with the ‘smut’ I rushed it and I think you can tell 😭 I haven’t posted in forever so this is a little filler for my hee fic that’s like 3/4 done (currently like 4K words idk 🤷🏽‍♀️) but I hope you guys enjoyed this little treat <3

[rainsfiction]

I think one of the most interesting things about Oliver is that he absolutely could’ve been a permanent fixture at Saltburn with Felix if only he had been a little less greedy. His biggest downfall is that his upper middle class privilege made him overly presumptuous with his greed in a way that left cracks in his carefully thought out plans.

First and foremost, it’s important to note that Oliver is an unreliable narrator in ways that made his third act monologue an unexpectedly interesting part of the film. His monologue is meant to not only justify his actions but is also a way for Oliver to make himself out to be smarter and better than he truly is. He’s working overtime to convince himself that he’s won and that he’s achieved this through his own actions. Whether you chose to believe him or not is up to you; what really matters is that you understand that no matter how big (or little) of a role he played in securing Saltburn for himself, he still royally fucked up his original plan on multiple occasions. He is not a mastermind who got what he originally wanted all along. He was not all knowing and he was not watching everyone play checkers while he played chess. Oliver. Fucked. Up.

The bicycle scene (whether you believe he tampered with the tire or not) and the pub rescue scene were more than enough to win over Felix. Felix was shallow and would've given no extra thought to Oliver's usefulness or perceived poverty. Oliver could’ve hinted at a difficult home situation and used the family strain he already experienced as a hook for Felix if necessary. It would’ve been enough... but then Oliver got greedy. He started building up the poverty case more and more, in the hopes of getting more and more of Felix, and that was his first major mistake.

It’s important to remember that we see Felix not from Oliver’s POV directly, but from Oliver’s POV in his twisted retelling that we have no reason to believe. Though Oliver probably knew Felix intimately, he doesn't share that Felix with us. He shares the godly image he built in his mind that is tainted by his own self deprecation. In Oliver’s world Felix was seconds from dropping him at any given moment, because why would Felix keep Oliver? In reality, Felix had already deemed Oliver the perfect new toy. Sure, Felix was irritated in the cleaning argument scene… but if we work under the assumption that Felix had already chosen Oliver, then Oliver pointing out his privilege in an way that made him acknowledge it would’ve ultimately intensified Felix’s saviour complex once he got past the initial discomfort. It might’ve taken a moment, but Felix would’ve ran straight back to Oliver soon enough. Though Oliver couldn't see it, we see through the jealousy Felix's circle of friends display that Oliver was a more permanent fixture in Felix is life than most were comfortable with. The problem was that Oliver couldn't handle the wait, and his greed overrode his patience and lead to yet another mistake when he escalates the situation by bringing in a dead father that he didn’t actually need.

Farleigh and Oliver’s dynamic is so interesting because Farleigh immediately recognises Oliver for what he truly is. Farleigh has an interesting class dynamic where by right he should be a permanent fixture at Saltburn as a member of the Catton family, but he’s been carelessly demoted to upper middle class purgatory. He recognises Oliver as his competition almost immediately despite having played this game for far longer. Farleigh is happy to play this game in school, because he knows it well enough to win, but then Farleigh is shaken when he realises Oliver has become his competition in fighting their way into the Catton family. Farleigh recoginses what Oliver doesn't, that Oliver is permanent. He hates that Oliver’s race mixed with his Oscar winning poverty act has given Oliver that extra boost that makes him a real threat to Farleigh's place in Saltburn.

This is what makes the karaoke scene so interesting. Up until that point Farleigh see's Oliver as lesser and underserving of a place at Saltburn. The karaoke scene shows a significant shift where Farleigh finally accepts Oliver as a worthy opponent and potential teammate. With the obvious attraction between them Oliver should’ve taken him up on his truce without question. Alas, Oliver’s greed takes control once more and he immediately tries to place himself above Farleigh despite the offer of solidarity presented to him. This is what leads to the Rent scene where Farleigh successfully declares war once more, and where Oliver calls him over to finish the song in a way that ensures that he wins that round. The problem is that unlike Farleigh, who is focused on playing an upper middle class game of infiltrating the 1%, Oliver gets so lost in cosplaying poor that he loses focus of what the real game is. He’s so focused on the humiliation his poor character must feel from singing Rent that he loses sight of the acceptance of the role the song portrays that Farleigh displays which allows for Farleigh to win the next round. He fails to recognise that he needs Farleigh as an ally to get what he truly wants, and that was one of his biggest mistakes of all.

Oliver's want for Felix ultimately becomes his biggest downfall as he lays the foundations for relationships with the Cattons only to taint those relationships for Felix's comfort. Felix didn't need to be happy with Oliver at all times, but Oliver was greedy for the affection that came with Felix is good graces. Oliver singlehandedly undid the work he had done on Venetia – and by extension the work he had done on Elspeth – to keep Felix's easy affections. Felix was sulking, but he would've gotten over it pretty quickly if Oliver practiced some subtlety and put in just that little bit more work for the affection he craved. Oliver didn't have the patience for the long game. He wanted Felix is affection immediately and that meant that he made the mistake of closing off all alternative entryways into the Catton family prematurely.

Despite all his mistakes Oliver still could've had Felix even after the birthday surprise disaster. Though Felix was angry, he had ultimately declared his love by positioning himself as the Juliet to Oliver's Romeo, as indicated by his costume to Oliver's birthday party. Though Felix's love and care was exploitative and tainted by his privilege, it was also real and present in all the ways that mattered. In the maze, despite Felix is harsh words, what really stands out is how we see Felix contemplate kissing Oliver and doing everything in his power not to give in. It's the first time it's made clear to the audience that Felix is just as dangerously in love as Oliver is. Felix would've taken any excuse imaginable to forgive Oliver in that moment. All Felix was asking for was clarity. Oliver could've given Felix the smallest bit of who he truly was and Felix would've done what he always did and filled in the blanks in a way that allowed him to play saviour. Felix would've given Oliver everything he'd ever wanted in that maze if only Oliver was willing to win the game on Felix is terms. Oliver could've had his cake and eaten it too, but his greed made him want more than that. When he realised he couldn't have it all he made an impulsive decision driven by his unquenchable thirst that lead to his biggest mistake of all. Oliver's need to be better, his need to be smarter, and his need to win the game on his own terms is what ultimately lead to Felix's death.

If Oliver had been more careful he could've had it all through Venetia or Farleigh or Elspeth... but he had already destroyed all alternative pathways through his own greed. When Oliver loses Felix, he loses any chance he might've had at elevating himself into the Catton's league. In the end, Oliver's third act monologue becomes a desperate attempt to make Saltburn worth it. Saltburn is not worth it. Oliver fishes the Cattons stones out of the water because without them Saltburn becomes nothing. In the end Oliver is alone, performing for the Cattons in a house long abandoned. Saltburn is the consolation prize Oliver had to convince himself he always wanted.

[pepaldi]

As we chat, the postman rings the bell, delivering packages. Council tree surgeons are working on the road outside. My son needs water, words of comfort, possibly he just wants another good long look at Capaldi. I’ve never interviewed anyone in my own home before and the limitations of the format are becoming apparent. But Capaldi seems to respond well to the setting and its lack of frills. His adult daughter and her family have been visiting, brand new baby in tow. When I apologise for all the noise and interruptions, Capaldi says it’s nothing compared to a newborn.

He and Collins were young parents themselves when his directing career fell apart. Arriving back in London from the disastrous Manhattan trip, “The initial feeling was shock. Then a pragmatic survival instinct kicked in.” Capaldi rejoined the auditioning circuit. “I was a psychiatrist in Midsomer Murders. I was a beekeeper in Poirot – AN Other Actor. Someone else would have turned down these parts first.” Collins, until that point an actor, too, decided to pivot into development and production, a career move that has worked well for her.

*

“This business is full of people who are not the real thing,” he says, “people I perceived to be artists ’cos they had posh accents, but who didn’t have it, they just sounded like they did.” He goes on to tell a tantalising but intentionally vague story about a major star he worked with, someone who revealed themselves through the course of an acting collaboration to be a dud hiding in plain sight. He won’t provide details (“Too easy to figure out. When everyone’s dead I’ll tell you”), but he says the experience changed him professionally, leaving him more aware of his own limitations, but grateful to have a little vinegar and grit in the mix. “There’s a kind of smoothness, a kind of confidence that comes from a good [paid-for] school. That’s what you’re struck by: they seem to know how to move through the world recognising which battle to fight, where to press their attentions. But it can make the acting smooth, which to me is tedious. I like more neurosis. More fear. More trouble, you know?”

*

In the new TV show, Criminal Record, he explores a more mortal kind of ageing, life’s third act, its inevitable professional humblings. Capaldi plays a London DCI in his 60s, coming to the end of a career, already moonlighting as a private security contractor, intimidated by the thrust and purpose of a younger colleague at the Met played by Cush Jumbo. As Jumbo’s character grows in confidence, Capaldi’s shrinks. It is a paradox of experience he can relate to. “I find the older I get, the closer I am to who I was,” he says.

I ask him to explain.

“Like I’m returning to… ‘roots’ is the wrong word. I feel more and more like my mother and father, more and more keenly aware of the values they had.” He provides an interesting example, how he has become all thumbs around the act of tipping in restaurants: “I can be in a complete sweat about that.” He can imagine his parents, both dead now, in a similar muddle. “From the background we come from, you can have a bit of anxiety about coming across as grand. So you have to allay that by making sure you are communicating with everybody, all the time.”

Capaldi shakes his head, chuckling softly. He has finished his coffee. He’s about to put on his big coat, say goodbye to my son, and walk back through Whoville to his home and his family. Before he leaves we return to the subject of actors from privileged backgrounds. He says he feels mean, like he took unfair advantage of them in their absence. “It’s not their fault,” he says. “It’s just that there’s less and less of my lot in the arts.” And this concerns him, he continues, because “people of all backgrounds are sophisticated, are interesting, are equally prone to tragedy and joy. Any art that articulates that is a comfort. Art is the ultimate expression of you are not alone, wherever you are, whatever situation you are in. Art is about reaching out. So I think it’s wrong to allow one strata of society to have the most access.”

He nods, feeling he’s expressed himself better. I agree.

The whole interview over at The Guardian.