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sourcherryandsprinkles · 15 days

Note

I need more cregan modern au!!!! I loved the hockey one but what about him being a business person? A hot office romance?

Request: More modern!Cregan pretty pretty please 🥺

This is heavily inspired by Bed chem by Sabrina Carpenter (p.s. This is almost 4k and I did not re-read anything, so I apologize if it's bad)

Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, dirty talk, elevator action, p + v,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You met him at an event hosted by the firm. The company was expanding its operations internationally and opening its first new office in London. To celebrate the new venture, a banquet was organized at the main office in New York.

Although you’ve been working here for three years, you didn’t know half of the people. You were not the kind of person who befriended her co-workers — other than Baela. She was the granddaughter of the CEO and your office mate when you started working at the firm. Now, you were best friends and roommates.

‘’I think Jace is going to propose.’’

You snapped your head towards her so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. ‘’What?!’’

‘’He has not asked — yet —,’’ Baela continued, her eyes sparkling with excitement, ‘’but I think he’s going to do it soon. Very soon. Should I plan all of my next manis? I don’t want him to propose when I have a chipped sparkly pink polish.’’

‘’When did you ever wear sparkly pink polish?’’ you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Baela shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. ‘’I don’t know. But what I know is that I don’t want sparkly pink polish when I take cute pictures with my engagement ring. My mom will repost it on her socials, and everyone will see my crusty many.’’

You couldn’t help but laugh at Baela’s theatrics.

‘’Do you think we’re going too fast?’’ Her earlier excitement faded into a nervous frown. ‘’We don’t even live together.’’

You could see the worry lines forming on her forehead. She wasn’t even engaged, and already she was fretting about the future. You didn’t want to imagine the type of bride she’ll be when Jace will get down on one knee.

Offering her a kind and reassuring smile, you shook your head. ‘’Too fast would be you getting engaged to your Tinder date after two weeks. You and Jace have been dating for two years. And, when you know, you know.’’

Baela's shoulders relaxed, and she returned your smile. She took another sip of her drink and began telling you about the hot gossip she heard in the bathroom this afternoon. There never was a dull moment with her.

After a story about a mystery thong found by the coffee machine, you excused yourself and went to get another drink. You suspected it belonged to one of the secretaries or the new intern, Mysaria. You saw her flirting with Baela’s father last week.

You headed toward the bar, squeezing past a group of laughing executives. When you finally reached the bar, you quickly blurted out your order, eager to get a drink in hand. These work events felt tedious without the right amount of alcohol.

‘’Just a moment, Miss,’’ the bartender said, nodding toward a tall man standing beside you. ‘’He was there first.’’

You turned to the man, who you had genuinely not seen, ready to apologize for cutting in line. He was dressed in a blue-gray button-up shirt and a neatly fitted waistcoat — typical business attire for these events —, and was very good looking.

He waved the bartender off dismissively. ‘’Serve the lady first. I can wait,’’ he said, his voice deep and rich with a thick accent that immediately caught your attention. This man was not American.

Behind the bar, the bartender nodded and began preparing your drink. You turned toward the man you rudely cut in the line and thanked him. It was gentlemanly of him, but he didn’t have to let you go before him.

He shrugged with a small, easy smile. ‘’It’s no trouble at all.’’

There was an effortless charm that radiated from him, pulling all your strings right into his hands. You could feel his eyes drop to your dress, which hugged your curves in all the right places and revealed a bit more cleavage than would be considered appropriate at the office. Not to be outdone, you let your gaze wander too, taking in the man before you — the different colors in his eyes, his neatly cut beard, the way his waistcoat accentuated his broad shoulders. And more inappropriately, he seemed to be packing beneath those trousers.

Your drink was ready too soon, forcing you to go back to Baela to tell her about the man you just met.

‘’Who’s the guy with the dark hair and the thick accent?’’ you asked, watching from afar as Vaemond Velaryon stopped him and began a conversation.

Brother to Mr. Velaryon, Vaemond was one of the most loyal pawns of the company. But his views were often sharp and unapologetically sexist, which was why you actively avoided him. If you're looking to stir an argument with someone just for fun, go to him. His quick temper and rigid opinions made him an easy target for a heated argument.

Baela followed you sightline, a knowing smile curling on her lips. The way you asked about him was enough to guess that you fancied him. ‘’That’s Cregan Stark, the managing director of the new firm in London,’’ she explained.

You frowned lightly, your eyes not leaving him. ‘’He’s young to be a managing director, no?’’

Baela shrugged. ‘’He’s under thirty, that’s for sure. But I doubt my grandfather would have given him the post if he wasn’t competent.’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

You were utterly disappointed when you found out Cregan Stark was not on social media. How were you going to charm your way into his pants if you couldn’t contact him?

manifest seeing him again.

A few weeks after the opening of the new Velaryon Importation offices, your boss needed someone to travel to London on his behalf, and you had to thank the universe for this perfect opportunity. While there were others at the firm who seemed more likely candidates, it was you who got called into his office that Thursday morning. You’ll have to thank Baela, who may have spoken good words to her grandfather in your favor.

‘’All I’m asking in return is updates on the hot managing director. Call me every night. I heard british men have filthy mouths and oversized di—’’

Your jaw dropped, cutting her off before she could finish her sentence. ‘’Baela!’’

She shrugged. ‘’What? It’s what I’ve heard. If he’s really freaky, he might bend you over in his office.’’

You shook your head and headed down the stairs to get into your cab.

Eight hours later, you landed in London and fell straight into your bed. Taylor Swift was a liar, jet-lag was not a choice.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

‘’Mr. Stark is on a phone call. He’ll be down shortly,’’ his secretary informed you with a friendly smile.

She was blonde and stunningly beautiful, which made you wonder if Cregan had an affair going on with her. It was an office classic: an executive hooking up with his secretary.

You took a seat in the sleek, modern office and glanced around, waiting.

Moments later, Cregan Stark walked in, exuding effortless charm.

‘’Apologies for the delay,’’ he said, his deep northern accent adding a rugged charm to his words as he extended his hand. ‘’I was held back on the phone.’’

You took his hand, feeling a brief, electrifying contact. “No worries at all,” you replied, flashing a warm smile.

He was even more handsome than you’d remembered. His dark hair was pulled back into, giving him a more professional look, his crisp button up was clinging to his broad shoulders, and his beard made you want to push his face between your legs — be damned the carpet burns!

You needed to manifest this.

Cregan’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “We met at the banquet in New York, didn’t we?” he asked, his gaze lingering on the wrapped neckline of your blouse and the soft curves concealed by your tight skirt. “I didn’t catch your name, though.”

You gave him your name and he repeated it, falling sweetly on his tongue. You wanted to hear it again.

‘’It’s quite the pleasure to see you again, Y/N,’’ he said, his eyes catching yours.

Then, the boring part of your trip to London began. You followed Cregan as he gave you a visit of the offices, pointing out the various departments and introducing you to key staff members, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the way he’d said your name and the way his hand — twice the size of yours — had lingered just a moment longer than necessary during your handshake.

You wanted that big hand all over your body. Especially between your thighs.

Shaking any inappropriate thought off your mind, you pulled out your phone and asked questions about various things Mr. Velaryon wanted you to check on, almost forgetting the reason for your presence in London. You took notes, not wanting to be empty handed when you’ll write your report email later.

As the tour continued, you were obsessed with the way the executive stole glances at you. He watched the way you moved, the way you spoke to people, the way your glossy lips curled when you laughed at Oliver’s British humor. He didn’t fail to notice the way your hips swayed as you walked past him everytime he held open a door for you.

You would be lying if you said you did not wear this skirt on purpose. It made your ass look fantastic.

Finally, you reached Cregan’s office. He opened the door for you and gestured for you to step inside. The office was sleek and modern, with large windows overlooking the city — not much different from the ones in New York. Except for the green couch in the corner, creating as a small lounge area.

He had planned to take you out for lunch, but the tour of the offices took longer than he would have liked and now there was a bright pink post-it on his desk — written by his secretary —, a glaring reminder of a meeting he seemed to have forgotten.

‘’I would have invited you for lunch,’’ Cregan said, a hint of frustration in his tone as he glanced at the post-it. ‘’But I have a meeting in…’’ He checked his watch and frowned, ‘’...ten minutes ago.’’ He let out a soft curse under his breath. ‘’Mondays never fail to keep me busy. I’m always on the run.’’

You couldn’t help but smile at his mild panic. ‘’I can take myself to lunch, Mr. Stark. It is not a problem. I’m a big girl, I’ll find my way around the city.’’

‘’No,’’ he interrupted, a touch of insistence in his voice. ‘’I insist. Let me make it up to you. How about dinner tonight instead? I should be out of the office by 7pm. Can we meet up for 8?’’ He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘’A friend of mine owns a restaurant. I’ll ask him to save us a table.’’

The thought of having dinner with him, just the two of you, made your stomach do little flips. But you tried to keep your cool and nodded with a smile. ‘’8pm is good with me.’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

You mentally patted yourself on the back for bringing a dress in your suitcase. Without it, you would have been forced to go to dinner in your office clothes. They weren't ugly per se, but you would never wear them on a hot date. Not that tonight was a date. It was just dinner between colleagues.

You should remind yourself of that as you applied lipstick and extra spritz of perfume.

When you arrived at the restaurant, Cregan was waiting outside. He was still in his office clothes, but his tie was removed and the first buttons of his shirt were undone.

He led you inside, his hand coming at the small of your back, and you smiled at the ground. Maybe his intentions for tonight were not different from yours.

A waitress took you to your table, promising to return with the wine card. Wine and a hot date on a Monday. Were you becoming your mother?

Before sitting down, you removed your light coat, revealing the thin straps and the sweetheart neckline of your dress. You didn’t miss the low groan Cregan tried — and failed — to suppress, his eyes lingering a bit longer than necessary. You caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, his gaze darkening as if he was fighting to maintain his composure.

‘’How is London so far?’’ he asked, clearing his throat and taking a sip of wine, trying to refocus. ‘’Did you do anything this afternoon?''

You wished.

‘’Truthfully, I napped all afternoon. I had this ambitious itinerary of all the sights I wanted to see and shops I wanted to go to, but jet lag hit me hard right after I left the office. I barely managed to order room service before I passed out.’’

Cregan chuckled softly, his eyes still subtly tracing the curve of your neckline. ‘’Jet lag can be brutal. But hey, at least it means you won’t be falling asleep on me tonight.” His tone was teasing, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

You leaned in slightly, your smile turning sly. “Lucky you.”

As the dinner progressed and plates were brought over, you began feeling a little bolder in your flirting. You slipped your shoe off under the table and stretched your leg out slowly, brushing your foot lightly against his ankle.

You watched as Cregan’s eyes widened just a fraction, his breath catching slightly. He tried to maintain his composure and focus on the conversation you were having, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, fighting back a grin. You continued the gentle pressure, running your foot up his leg under the table, teasing him just enough to make him shift uncomfortably again in his seat. You were grateful for the table cloth shielding the restaurant of what was happening underneath.

Cregan leaned in over the table, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘’You’re playing a dangerous game, love.’’

You felt a shiver run down your spine as he called you ‘love’, the word sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

‘’Who, me?’’ You feigned innocence, your voice dripping with playful coyness as you continued to tease him with your foot beneath the table. ‘’I’m just enjoying my meal, Mr. Stark.’’

Cregan grimaced. ‘’Don’t call me that. It sounds straight out of a bad porn movie.’’

A giggle bubbled out of you. You had not expected him to say that.

You took a sip of your wine and finished your meals in silence. No more teasing.

When Cregan saw your empty plate, he called for the tab, ready to leave.

‘’But we still have dessert left. I was thinking with a lot of getting—’’

‘’Fuck dessert.’’ He leaned closer, his eyes never leaving yours. ‘’What I want is not on the menu,’’ he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

As soon as the doors closed, Cregan’s mouth crashed on yours. He backed you up against one of the walls, his body towering over yours. The elevator started moving, going on its slow rise up to the tenth floor. You barely felt it under your feet, your brain tuning off as you felt his large hand grab one of your breasts over your dress, which Cregan had been dying to do ever since he met you at the banquet.

He groaned in your mouth, and you grinned. This dress truly was a great pick.

Behind him, the numbers were going up, now reaching the third floor.

You pushed your hands under Cregan’s jacket, feeling the warmth of his chest over his button as his tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting the overpriced wine on each other's tongue.

You tried to hook your leg to his hip, but it was not working. His tall frame was a blessing and a curse. Chuckling, Cregan came to your help and held your leg up while his other hand moved down underneath your dress, his fingers pulling your panties to the side and rubbing at your clit. Your head fell back against the wall, melting against his hand and breaking the kiss.

''More please,'' you sighed.

Cregan smiled against your neck, and then he pushed a finger inside you. He felt rough against your smooth channel, and you couldn’t help but clench down around him. A second finger stroked across your clit. It made you shiver as he filled you up. Your legs buckled. If it wasn’t for his body and the wall keeping you upright, you were not sure you would be standing. Especially in heels.

You gripped at the front of his button up, clinging to him and moaning loudly while his hand worked quickly at your cunt. If anyone were to hail the elevator, you would be very embarrassed, yet a small part of you wanted it to happen.

But it didn’t.

Before you could reach your peak, the elevator dinged and Cregan pulled his hand out.

‘’I…I don’t think I can walk,’’ you said with a giggle, not trusting yourself on your feet. The combination of the two glasses of wine and what just happened made your head spin.

Taking matters in his own hands, Cregan simply lifted you and carried you to your room. You fumbled with the key card — those damn things never work on the first try —, then he shut the door with the heel of his foot.

Once inside, he set you down on the bed and you removed your shoes, kicking them off your feet.

You'll have to tell Baela about your adventure in the elevator later.

Right now, you really needed Cregan to satisfy the burning desire between your legs. Preferably with his cock. His fingers were nice — thick and long —, but judging by the tent in his pants. his cock will make you see fucking stars.

As if he had read your thoughts, Cregan began taking off his jacket and button up, leaving him in his work pants. You eyed him hungrily. He looked strong and sturdy, not like those gym bros you’ve encountered in the past.

You stood so he could unzip your dress, but first pressed you up against his chest, one hand coming under your jaw to hold you in place as he kissed you. He was kissing you even harder than he had in the elevator, his touch sending tingles of heat through the material.

Cregan’s lips were hot and demanding, his tongue delving deep into your mouth. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against you, the firm muscles of his chest against your back, as you melted under his kiss. You felt your dress loosen as his hands worked the zipper, sliding it down your body.

As it finally slipped from your body, Cregan drew back to admire the sight of you, standing there with no bra, only lace panties and stockings up to your thighs.

A feral growl left his mouth, the sight making his cock twitch painfully. ‘’Did you plan on killing me tonight?'' he muttered, closing the distance between you again. One hand slid into your hair, his touch gentle yet possessive, while the other gripped a handful of your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. ‘’Because you’re fucking killing me right now.’’

You couldn’t help the grin curling on your lips. His words sent a thrill through your body. You would not have taken him for a lingerie man, but it was good to know.

‘’Don’t worry. I’m not a praying mantis,’’ you said, alluding to how they bit off the head of their mates after mating.

Cregan couldn’t help but laugh at your humor. You were hot and funny?

The bed was unmade from your afternoon nap as you and Cregan fell onto it. He had taken the rest of his clothes off, and his now bare — and hard — cock was rubbing against your panties as his hips rutted against yours. You moaned as you bucked your hips into his, your fingernails scratching down Cregan’s back.

He pulled the crotch of your panties to the side, rubbing the head of his cock on your cunt. The contact made you moan.

‘’I think someone enjoyed the elevator a lot, uh?’’ Cregan teased, feeling how wet you were. Your panties were soaked from your arousal. ‘’Should we try it in the office’s elevator tomorrow?’’ He pushed his tip against your clit, sending jolts up your spine. ‘’Maybe I should fully take you this time? Would you like that, love?’’

The thought of doing something so forbidden made your heart beat faster and your walls clench. It would probably get you both fired. Your boss would never tolerate this kind of inappropriate behavior at the workplace.

“Please, yes,” you gasped out, your legs spreading more for him.

Cregan smirked, continuing his assault on your little bud, pushing his red tip against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes until your legs shook and you came, your back arching off the bed.

Breathing heavily, you closed your eyes for a short second. When you opened them again, you saw Cregan stroking himself before pulling on a condom. Air caught in your throat — shocked — when your eyes fell on his cock. Your assumptions had been right — the man was packing.

And if he knows how to use it, you won't be able to walk tomorrow.

He pulled your panties down, not letting you time to recover from your orgasm. You were about to do the same with your stockings, but Cregan stopped you.

‘’Leave them on,’’ he said, rubbing your thighs. ‘’I like it.’’

He turned you over, positioning you on your fours for him, and grabbed your ass before giving it a smack. The sound echoed in the hotel room.

You glanced over your shoulder, watching as Cregan pushed his hair out of his eyes. He locked eyes with you, then lined himself at your entrance, slowly sliding in. You whimpered and clung to the sheets as you felt yourself stretch to accommodate him. They say that beauty is pain, but so is a good dick.

‘’You alright?’’ Cregan asked, checking on you.

You gave him a small ‘yes’. Your last Tinder date didn’t bother checking on you before slamming into you. This was an upgrade.

After a moment, your walls no longer clamped around him and Cregan took this as his cue to start moving. He went slow, feeling every inch of his thick cock being squeezed at every deep thrust, eliciting breathy moans from your sweet lips.

‘’Fuck, you feel so good around me. Your sweet cunt’s squeezing me with a vice grip,’’ he praised as grabbed your hips, wishing he had made a move on you a month ago.

If he had, you would not have spent so much alone time with your sparkly pink little helper.

‘’Harder. Fuck me harder,’’ you demanded, pushing back against him. ‘’You're not going to break me.’’

Answering your wishes, Cregan slammed into you and watched as you reeled of pleasure, getting fuck you just like you craved. His pace never once faltered and his cock slid in your cunt so fast all you could do was moan his name and clench the sheets as Cregan left you breathless and helpless, hitting all the right spots.

With a loud shriek you came all over him, your cunt gripping him like a vice, making him moan as he finally came deep inside you — well, into the condom.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

While Cregan was in the shower, washing off the sweat of the day and the smell of sex off him, you pulled out your phone and sent a quick text to Baela.

To Baela: You were right about British men. Best. Sex. Ever.

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale @mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden @memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08 @mymultiveres @secretsthathauntus @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit @blublock404 @Icefyre19 @paulilvsremus @mfedits @aemondwhoresworld @angrybirdxx @YarianyIrizarry @frutiloopslupin @minedofmoria @aleemendoza2425-blog @quinquinquincy @Rosey1981 @maria-reads-everything @eddieslut69 @barnes70stark @baybaybear @prettyduckling22 @Briefwinnerpersonaturtle @darlingcharling-blog @deliaseastar @Wolfgirl-205 @visenyareads @Nanaldy @Lovelywiseprincess @not-neverland06 @newtmyhusb @mikimimic

All and more taglist: @kenqki @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity Anouk nani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21 @Spacexdrago @nhlfs

#cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #hotd cregan #cregan fanfiction #cregan x reader #house of the dragon

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cordeliawhohung · 8 months

Note

what kind of drunk is shy!reader? and how does mafia!simon handle her at that state?

oooh! very interesting question!

first off, i think it would be very difficult to get her to drink. not that she's opposed to drinking or wanting to stay sober or anything, i just think she really doesn't want to drink in social settings. like she would not be getting drunk at Price's club or anything like that. she'd want to make sure she's really in control of herself and aware of her surroundings. so when she does drink, she's only really drinking around close friends and people she knows!

which usually means that she only really gets drunk around Simon. because of course he's the person she feels most comfortable being around. he'll make her the tasty fruity drinks while he's sipping on his whiskey and she talks a lot. way more than she does when she's sober. it's like all her worries and filters just vanish, and she'll just talk about whatever's on her mind.

"i like your tattoos."

"yeah?"

"yeah. you should let me color them. please? i think that'd look neat. do you like purple? i feel like purple would look really good here."

"whatever you like, sweetheart."

she also gets really touchy. not like in a weird way but she's just always leaning against him, trying to cuddle, play with his hair, trace the lines on his palm, that sort of thing. we've seen in other one shots that she's a little anxious with PDA but really, she's a little touch starved.

fuck it i'm writing a blurb under the cut.

there was nowhere else you'd rather be than in the warm cage of your boyfriend's arms. curled in his lap, you sat with your head nestled into the side of his neck where you could feel the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beating of his heart. whatever show or movie you had been watching faded away into background noise as the fuzzy drunkenness of your brain cloaked your body and all its senses.

"hold me," you whispered, speech slurred.

"i am holdin' you," Simon retorted.

"more."

he chuckled as he squeezed his arms tight, firmly pulling you into him as if trying to consume you through osmosis. and though it was constricting, it felt nice, like laying under a heavy blanket in winter.

"i love you," you admitted as you curled into him. "you're so warm. i wanna bite you. we should cuddle more often." you paused to place a few kisses against the soft side of his neck. "you smell good. would you be mad if i bit you?"

the poor man was at an utter loss for words, and for a moment he could only shake his head and laugh. "you're gettin' feisty."

"you hate me."

there was something cute about how carefree you got when you were drunk that just had Simon wrapped around your finger. without the anxiety and worry holding you down, you had become something of a chatterbox. one that he could listen to all day. but it was getting late, and he needed to cut you off eventually.

"i'm gonna take you to bed, yeah?" he prompted as he slowly began to position his arms to pick you up.

"are we having sex?" you asked.

taken aback, Simon shook his head. "not right now."

"why not?" you questioned, confused.

"you're drunk."

"oh." a pause. "we're still cuddling."

"'course."

I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR

#mafia!simon #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #f!reader

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angelbwrry · 1 month

Text

cherry hill. eren j. 11k.

cw 𐙚 nsfw link, plug! eren, long plot,cannabis consumption, lots of angst, little bit of domestic violence by readers bf, ony, armin and connie cameo, car sex, toxic-ish reader, black reader, spanking, toe-sucking, oral, size difference, dirty talk, cream-pie, creaming, multiple orgasms, cervix kissing, pet names, thumb in ass, fluff at the end, lowercase intended! or in which you and your best friend do the dirty. . . minors shoo!

a/n𐙚 just wanna say, i love eren and i worked really hard on this so if you enjoy please like, comment or reblog:)

“i know you wanna tell me, so just say it.”

you soak in his words, eyes staring at the pink hello kitty rolling tray, fingers slowing as they work on the blunt-in-progress. you were more of a let someone else roll girl, but you were trying to get better. the tray, with its playful design, contrasts sharply with the intensity of the moment. each curve and line of the hello kitty image seems to mock your fumbling fingers, but you persist. the rolling paper crinkles slightly under your touch, the scent of fresh herbs filling the air.

you can feel his gaze on you, a mixture of amusement and patience, as you try to perfect the roll. the blunt takes shape slowly, each twist and tuck a testament to your determination. envy bubbles up inside you as you think about how his always come out so flawlessly—stuffed to perfection, smooth, and not a single piece of weed dropped. you blame it on his big ass hands; there's so much you can do with big hands. his fingers, adept and confident, always seem to mold the tobacco leaves with an ease that leaves you in awe.

“so?”

oh yeah, back to his question. you shift in your seat, eyes now on your manicured feet propped against the dashboard of the camaro. the soft hum of the car's engine fills the silence, and you can feel the tension building. you don’t know if you should say anything; you know how eren gets. he’s a hothead, you’ve known that ever since you first laid eyes on him in kindergarten. ha, who knew a six-year-old had the strength to break a grown man’s nose? the memory brings a small, amused smile to your lips, but it quickly fades as you consider how to respond.

“"ʚ♡ɞ.” annoyance laces his voice,he hates when you get cagey like this.

“it’s nothing.” he knows you’re lying, the way you’re focusing immensely on your toes. the dim light from the dashboard illuminates your face as you stare at your feet, making it clear you’re avoiding eye contact. he admits they’re pretty, but not that damn interesting. he already knows that you and your boyfriend got into a nasty fight, maybe the nastiest yet. but, he wants to hear it from your mouth. he eyes the bruise on your arm, his jaw clenches. the sight of it makes his blood boil, he’d already pistol whipped that hoe once; he doesn’t mind doing it again. the tension in the car is palpable, every second stretching out as he waits for you to open up.

you can feel his gaze now burning into you, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. the silence in the car is deafening, broken only by the occasional hum of the engine. you know he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but the words are caught in your throat. you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “it’s just... things got out of hand,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t say anything, but you can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. his grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. “out of hand?” he repeats, his voice low and dangerous. “that doesn’t explain the bruise on your arm.” you flinch at his words, the reminder of the fight sending a fresh wave of pain through you. you know he’s right, but you don’t want to admit it. you don’t want to admit that your boyfriend hurt you, that you let it happen.

the car feels like a pressure cooker, the tension building with each passing second. you can see the muscles in his jaw working, the effort it’s taking him to stay calm. “look,” he says finally, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. “you don’t have to protect him. if he’s hurting you, you need to tell me.” you can hear the desperation in his voice, the need to protect you. it’s almost enough to make you break down, to spill everything. but you hold back, the fear of what might happen if you do keeping you silent.

"well, i broke up with him, so, it’s . . . nothing.” you turn your attention back to the blunt. he hums. “for real this time?” you nod, feeling the weight of the decision settle in. you’re so tired of dealing with that manipulative nigga. every interaction with him felt like walking on eggshells, constantly trying to avoid triggering another argument. you don’t even know how the latest argument started, something about eren. it was always something about eren. he hated him, convinced that men and women couldn't just be friends. every time you mentioned eren, his face would darken with suspicion. he always accused you of being too close to eren, implying you were more than friends.

you’d thought about doing something just to spite him, to prove a point, but deep down, you knew you could never go through with it. the thought of jeopardizing your friendship with eren was unbearable. eren had been there for you through thick and thin, a constant source of support and understanding. losing him as a friend was a risk you weren't willing to take. the bond you shared with eren was one of the few stable things in your life, and you valued it more than anything.

as you sit there, you feel a mix of relief and sadness. relief that you finally took a step towards freeing yourself from a toxic relationship, but sadness for the time and energy wasted. you take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to let go of the lingering tension. maybe now, you can start to heal and focus on the relationships that truly matter to you.

“you got a light?” you ask, finishing up. eren sucks his teeth. “girl, y’know i always got a lighter.” he leans over, reaching past your legs and popping open the glove compartment. your skin tingles as he brushes you, and you pull your legs down, tucking them underneath you. a smile tugs at your lips when you see the hello kitty lighter. it’s comical seeing his tough, drug-dealing self carrying around such a girly lighter. he thinks it’s cute. it reminds him of you. he also always makes sure to put your weed in a hello kitty package, loving the way your eyes always lit up when he handed it to you.

“wanna do the honors?” you pass the misshapen mess to him. “you’re dead wrong—y’know what, never mind. i’d love to.” he holds the lighter in his hand, and your eyes glisten as you watch the end burn orange as he inhales. almost immediately, you’re reaching for it, and he chuckles at your neediness. it’d been a while since you last smoked, admittedly, you were trying to stop. but, life was life-ing and you needed it. joyfully, you wrap your glossy lips around the blunt, inhaling the white tendrils of burning toxins. the foggy smoke splashes onto your teeth and slips into your dark eyes. the sweet substance fills your lungs, and you exhale your relief in a cloud of grey smoke. it swirls upwards like a mist, devouring everything in its delicately deadly path before curling into nothingness.

eren watches you with a mix of amusement and something else, something softer. “you always look so peaceful when you smoke,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. you glance at him, your eyes slightly glazed but filled with gratitude. “it’s my escape,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “sometimes, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

he nods, understanding. “i get it. everyone needs an escape.” he takes another drag, the end of the blunt glowing brightly in the dim light of the car. you both sit in comfortable silence, sharing the moment, the smoke, and the unspoken bond that ties you together. in this small, hazy world, everything feels right, if only for a little while.

"i hate when you wear lipgloss, makes the blunt sticky as hell," eren states as he grabs the blunt from you. "a girl's gotta look pretty when meeting her plug," you joke, pearly whites gleaming. and pretty you are. he would never admit it, but he admired the fuck out of you—the way your brown skin always seemed to shimmer, the way you always smelled so damn good, even the way you laughed—it was ugly as hell but he loved it.

"you don’t need makeup to look pretty," he says, ignoring the way his dick twitches in his pants as your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. "i know, but i feel better when i do it." you run your hands through the silky strands; his hair is so damn shiny. you wonder what his secret is. you can’t help but run the dead ends between your fingers, this long, beautiful ass hair and he refuses to keep up with it. he mostly keeps his hair in a bun, but for you, he wears it down because he knows you like playing in it. he doesn’t mind; it actually feels good.

he’s gone home with cornrows more times than he can count, and he always thought they looked ridiculous on his white ass, no matter how much you assured him they looked good. "you need a trim; i got you tomorrow after class." he only nods and puffs the blunt. he looks so beautiful—inked arm resting on his lap, sharp jaw clenched as he inhales. you know it’s weird to look at him this way, but you can’t help it. he’s eye candy; it’s okay to look . . . right?

the faint scent of mango from his air freshener fills your nose, your favorite. you take yet another drag from the joint, the tip glowing bright orange once again, then passing it to eren. “lord," eren starts, taking a hit and exhaling slowly, "remember that time you greened out at my place?"

a smile pulls at your lips, how could you forget? your stomach hurt for like three days straight, you had to call out of work and class. "oh god, don't remind me! that was so embarrassing."

"nah, it was hilarious," he replies, boyish grin on his face. "you were convinced the couch was swallowing you whole. you kept yelling, 'help, it's got me!'"

you couldn’t help but giggle, pushing at his shoulder, his stocky build didn’t move but it was worth a shot. "stop it! i can't believe i did that."

"and then," he continued, chuckling, "you tried to call 911, but you forgot how to use your phone. you were like, 'why isn't it working?' and i had to take it away before you actually called them."

you wiped tears from your eyes, still giggling. shit, you were gonna mess your makeup up. damn eren, and his talent to always make you laugh. ”stoppp,” you whine, crossing your arms over you chest and jutting your lip out.

he smiles, enjoying the sight of you so carefree. "okay, okay, i'll quit. but seriously, that was one for the books. i've never seen anyone freak out over a couch before."

you shook your head, still smiling. "you're ridiculous," you picked at your chipped acrylic nail, "but that's why i love hanging out with you. you always know how to make me laugh." eren’s smile widens, taking another hit before passing the joint back to you. "well, someone has to keep things interesting," he says. "and besides, what's life without a little laughter?"

“mhm,” is all you get out before your glossy lips wrap back around the blunt. you could feel those intrusive green eyes on you, he couldn’t help but admire your pretty ass. perfect makeup dewy and light with faux freckles sprinkled across your nose, wispy lashes framing your upturned eyes, those juicy lips pulled into a half-smile. you’d recently cut your hair into a bob, and he loved it so much. he wanted to run his fingers through your silk press but remembered the last time he’d done that, you’d punched him in the face. "never touch a black girl's hair," is what you’d said.

you’re little as hell compared to him, but you pack a serious punch. he swore his eye randomly twitched for two weeks after that. his eyes trailed down. you were still in your gym clothes, him having pulled up right after you got home. it was hard to ignore the way his heart had skipped when he saw you wearing that cherry red matching set, the shirt clinging to you perfectly, showcasing every curve. your ass jiggled as you ran to his car in those tight-ass pants, every hip dip, every dent in your round ass visible. you’re so damn pretty, he could stare at you all day.

the way your body moved, the way you carried yourself with confidence and grace, it was mesmerizing. he watched as you took another drag, your lips wrapping around the blunt with a casual elegance that drove him wild. your eyes met his for a brief moment, and he felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him.

"stare any longer and i’ll charge you, jaeger." he snorts at this but pulls his gaze away. he clicks the power button on his phone and sees it’s approaching midnight. you’d been with him for half an hour, yet it had only seemed like a few minutes. you had that effect—time seemed to fly by when he was with you, and he hated it. eren knew you had classes in the morning and would probably be heading back to the apartment you shared with sasha soon. she hated when the two of you smoked inside, so naturally, you’d resorted to hotboxing in eren’s modded-out camaro.

"shut up," he mumbles, cracking a window to let some smoke out. you watch as it collides with the night air and dissipates. "fuck, i’m so tired. today was leg day—squats and the stair master killed the fuck outta my me." you puff, hands massaging your sore thighs. he wishes those were his hands. "since when are you such a gym rat?" eren looks amused, sticking the tip of the fat blunt out of the window and ashing it. "m’ don’t know. trying to stay consistent. not everyone can be built like a greek statue naturally," he laughs as you glare at him.

"what can i say? i just hit the gene jackpot." he’s got that right—he’s so damn pretty. you’re actually jealous of the way his lashes are naturally long and kiss his rosy cheeks. this time, it’s you who’s staring. you’d been refraining all night, but the way he’s rocking that black T and black denim jeans with brown nike dunks definitely made you look twice. the ink beautifully sits on his skin, his scent overwhelming.

"well, catch me in a couple of months—my body will be so t." a smile plays on your lips. "oh it's not t now?" he rests back in his seat. pulling down the visor, you start checking your makeup, choosing to ignore his comment. bloodshot brown eyes stare back at you, and you’re unsure if it’s from tiredness or the weed, maybe even both. you didn’t even realize how sleepy you were until now, the warmth of a hot shower beckoning you.

"mmm, i’m so sleepy. should probably get inside." a soft yawn escapes your lips as you stretch your limbs, feeling the tension ease away. "i know, you need your beauty rest. can i have a hug before you go?" eren pokes his lip out, and you giggle, finding it amusing that this six-foot-four man is pouting like a little girl. he knows it’s hard for you to say no to him. "fine," you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully.

you grab your hello kitty tray, the cute design always bringing a smile to your face, and slip your crocs back on, their familiar comfort grounding you. smoke billows into the night air as you push open the door, the humid air a stark contrast to the coolness inside the car. you walk around the car to where eren is already waiting for you, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim streetlights.

his embrace is warm and comforting, enveloping you in a sense of security. he smells so good, a mix of cologne and something uniquely him, and he notices that you do too, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he holds you close. you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

after a few moments, you attempt pull away. "i really should get inside," you say, your brown eyes meeting his lighter ones. he nods, understanding but not letting go just yet. "noo, jus’ one more minute," he murmurs, pulling you back into his arms. you giggle and close your eyes, savoring the warmth and comfort of his hug. you don’t know what’s up with his clingy behavior lately, but you don’t mind. it feels nice to be appreciated for once in your sad life.

he finds it hard to restrain himself as your ass sways with each step you take away from him. god, you’re so thick that it drives him absolutely crazy. he can’t help but imagine sitting between those luscious legs as you trim his hair tomorrow, the thought sending shivers down his spine. he watches intently, waiting until you’re all the way inside the house before he finally hops back into the cool car. what is he gonna do about you?

eren is pissed at you, more pissed than he’d probably ever been with you. you told him you were done with jean, yet here you are on his snapchat story. he couldn’t see your face, but he knows it’s you from your hair. it stung knowing you’d lied straight to his face last night. he clenched his fist so hard he drew blood. did you take him as a joke? were you that fucking dumb to let yourself be manipulated into jean's arms again? the thought made his blood boil. in a fit of rage, he pushed connie’s arm, which was holding the phone showcasing the snapchat story, sending the device flying.

eren’s mind raced with a mix of anger and betrayal, unable to comprehend how you could do this to him. he felt a storm of emotions brewing inside him, each one more intense than the last. he had trusted you, believed in you, and now, seeing you with jean again, felt like a dagger to his heart. his stormy green eyes, usually so full of determination, were now clouded with hurt and fury. his warm olive skin seemed to flush darker as his anger flared, veins pulsing visibly against his clenched fists.

he remembered the conversation from last night vividly. you had looked him in the eye, your voice steady, promising that you were done with jean. he had believed you, letting a small glimmer of hope spark in his chest. but now, that hope was crushed, replaced by a seething rage. he couldn't understand why you would lie to him, why you would go back to jean after everything.

eren’s thoughts spiraled further into darkness. did you think he was a fool? did you think he wouldn’t find out? he felt the sting of betrayal deep in his gut, twisting like a knife. his mind replayed the moment he saw the story, the recognition of your hair, the undeniable proof of your deceit. every second felt like an eternity as he stood there, grappling with the overwhelming emotions.

he wanted to confront you, to demand answers, but he also knew that in his current state, he might say something he’d regret. the pain and anger were too raw, too consuming. he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the image of you with jean kept flashing in his mind, fueling his rage. the room around him seemed to blur as his focus narrowed on the betrayal he felt.

eren knew he needed to calm down, to think rationally, but it was nearly impossible with the torrent of emotions raging inside him. he couldn’t shake the feeling of being made a fool, of being played. he had always prided himself on his strength, his ability to see through lies, but now he felt vulnerable, exposed. the trust he had placed in you felt like a weight dragging him down, suffocating him.

he looked at connie, who was now staring at him with wide eyes, clearly taken aback by eren’s sudden outburst. but eren couldn’t bring himself to care. all he could think about was you, and the betrayal he felt so deeply. he needed to confront you, to get to the bottom of this, but he also knew that he needed to calm down first. taking another deep breath, he tried to steady his racing heart, but the anger and hurt were still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“eren, you need to calm the fuck down.” connie’s tone was serious, a stark contrast to his usually laid-back demeanor. eren, normally so composed, was pacing the room like a caged animal, his face a mask of frustration and pain. connie could see the turmoil in his friend’s eyes, the way he was lashing out because he was hurt. he knew eren loved you, even if eren himself refused to admit it.

connie didn’t understand why eren kept his feelings bottled up. it was stupid, like some high school drama. he watched as eren grabbed the things you’d left behind and tossed them into the trashcan with more force than necessary. connie, was speaking but all eren could hear was his thundering heartbeat.

his mind was a whirlwind of emotions, and he knew he had to confront you, but he needed to do it without losing control. he stormed out of the room, leaving connie behind. he made his way to your place, each step fueled by the anger and hurt he felt.

when eren arrived, he didn't bother knocking. he shoved the door open with a force that echoed through the room, and there you were, sitting on the couch, looking up in surprise. the sight of you, so calm and unaware of the storm brewing inside him, only fueled his anger further.

"eren, what's wrong?" you asked, concern etched on your face as you stood up, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and confusion.

he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his voice shook with emotion. "why did you lie to me?" he demanded, his eyes burning with hurt. "you said you were done with jean, but there you were, on his story.

your eyes widened in shock, and you quickly took a step forward, your heart pounding. "eren, it's not what you think," you began, but he cut you off, his voice rising with a mix of rage and desperation.

"then what is it?" he snapped, his words dripping with sarcasm and pain. "because it sure looks like you went back to him."

you took a step closer, reaching out to him, but he stepped back, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and pain. "eren, please, listen to me. i didn't go back to jean. i was just talking to him, trying to clear things up." you stressed, it hurt you that eren was hurting. but, you had no one to blame but yourself.

"clear things up?" eren repeated, his tone bitter and disbelieving. he scoffed and his tongue against his cheek, god, he’d never hated anyone like he hated you right now. "and you couldn't tell me that? you couldn't trust me enough to let me know?"

"eren, i didn't want to upset you," you said softly, tears welling up in your eyes. "i thought i could handle it on my own."

his face contorted with rage and heartbreak. "you always think you can handle everything on your own," he shouted, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions. "but you never think about how it affects me! you never think about how much it hurts me to see you with him!"

"eren, i—" you started, but he cut you off again, his voice filled with raw pain.

"i love you, damn it!" he confessed angrily, the words tearing through the air like a storm. "and you just keep running back to the men who hurt you, instead of the ones who want the best for you. you're a stupid, selfish bitch!" his words cut through you like a knife, and you could feel your heart shattering.

you tried to reach out to him, to touch him, but he slapped your hand away, his eyes filled with tears. "don't touch me," he said, his voice cracking. "you're done with me. we're done."

you could only watch through tear-filled eyes as eren turned and walked out of your life, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoing like a final, devastating blow.

the days that followed were a blur of agony and tears. you cried until you couldn't cry anymore, the pain of losing eren too much to bear. he didn't come over, didn't show up when all of your shared friends hung out. he'd blocked your number, cutting off all contact. the hurt was overwhelming, and you felt like a part of you had been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole that nothing could fill.

the days turned into weeks, and the pain lingered like a dark cloud over your life. you tried to distract yourself with work, with class, with anything that could take your mind off eren, but nothing worked. every little thing reminded you of him—the scent of his cologne that still lingered on your clothes, the way he used sit patiently while you practiced braiding on him.

you found solace in small things, like the comfort of your hello kitty tray that eren had given you as a gift. it brought back memories of happier times, when you both would sit together, sharing meals and laughter. the scent of cigar smoke, which you once found annoying, now brought a strange sense of comfort, reminding you of the nights you spent together, talking about everything and nothing.

you even found yourself wearing your crocs more often, a gift from eren that you used to tease him about. now, they were a reminder of his thoughtfulness, of how he always wanted you to be comfortable.

but the nights were the hardest. lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't escape the memories. the way eren used to hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, providing a sense of security and warmth that you now desperately missed. you longed for his touch, for the reassurance that everything would be okay. but he was gone, and you were left to navigate the darkness on your own.

sasha couldn't stand seeing you in such a slump. with a gentle touch, she stroked your hair, brushing back the tears that had been silently streaming down your cheeks. "if eren's shutting you out like this, maybe it's for the best," she said softly, her voice a mix of concern and tenderness. she shifted slightly, her legs dangling off the edge of the bed, creating a comforting presence beside you. "we're all going to see a drive-in movie tonight. you should come. i think it would be good for you," she added, her eyes filled with a genuine hope that you would find some solace in the company of friends.

her words lingered in the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. maybe sasha was right. it hurt to not have eren here, the absence gnawing at your heart, but you couldn't keep living in this shadow of sadness. the thought of being surrounded by friends, the comfort of the open night sky, and the distraction of a good movie seemed like a small step towards healing. sasha's presence was reassuring, a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

you took a deep, shaky breath, feeling the weight of your sorrow start to lift, if only just a little. the idea of a night out, filled with laughter and companionship, seemed like a lifeline. sasha's hand remained on your shoulder, a silent promise that you weren't alone in this. with a tentative smile, you nodded, deciding to take that first step towards reclaiming your happiness.

“yay, that’s the spirit! i’ll tell everyone you’re coming. they’ve missed you,” sasha squealed excitedly. “we’re leaving in like an hour, i gotta go get ready!” she slipped out of your room and shut the door behind her, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

tossing the covers from your body, you slid your feet into your teddy bear slippers and made your way to your vanity. the light was bright and harsh on your eyes, and you had to blink a couple of times to adjust. how you felt was the epitome of your outside appearance: puffy eyes, dry skin, chapped lips. you looked terrible, and you couldn’t believe you’d let yourself go so much in the span of a couple of weeks. “alexa, play ‘more than a woman’ by bee gees,” you said, beginning to get to work.

pushing your hair back with a fluffy pink bath headband, you slowly went through your makeup routine, finding the familiarity of it all comforting. it’d been about thirty minutes, and you were finishing up, just needing to draw your freckles on and do your lip combo. you were surprised your makeup had come out so well, seeing as you hadn’t done it in a while. but as you stared at the clean, smooth base in the white wooden vanity mirror, you were pleasantly surprised.

you were currently lining your plump lips with brown, smudging the liner a bit with your ring finger for an ombré effect. you just had to straighten your hair and find something to wear, then you’d finally be done. you couldn’t help but feel a wave of anxiousness wash over you. what if eren was there? you didn’t think you could be in his presence without breaking down. you’d heard he’d gotten a girlfriend—how could you not? sasha was always so damn loud, and the walls in this place were thin as hell. you weren’t jealous, but the thought of seeing him with someone else made your stomach churn.

you took a deep breath and reminded yourself that tonight was about having fun and reconnecting with friends.

you’d finished with your hair, meticulously pressing each strand until it fell just right. satisfied with your reflection, you turned your attention to your closet, pushing aside hangers and rifling through a sea of fabrics. after a few moments of contemplation, you settled on a red sleeveless cropped shirt, the bold "miller genuine draft" logo emblazoned in white letters across the front. it was eye-catching and edgy, exactly the vibe you were going for. you paired it with low-waisted denim jean shorts that hugged your curves and accentuated your figure perfectly. to complete the look, you slipped into a pair of black knee-high platform boots that added a few inches to your height and a lot of attitude to your ensemble. it was simple but still stylish. look good, feel good, right?

“sasha! you ready?” you called out, grabbing your bottle of victoria’s secret ‘bombshell’ perfume and giving yourself a generous spritz. the familiar scent enveloped you, adding a final touch of confidence.

“yep—you look hot,” sasha replied as she entered the room. her brown hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, showcasing her delicate features. she wore a cropped black shirt that highlighted her toned midriff, paired with crisp blue skinny jeans that fit her like a second skin. thigh-high boots clung to her legs, adding a touch of drama to her outfit.

“thanks, sash, you look hot too. connie will be drooling,” you teased, noticing the faint blush that spread across her cheeks as you winked at her. she thought you didn’t know about her and connie hooking up, but once again the walls in this place were like paper, and secrets didn’t stay hidden for long.

“you ready?” you asked, grabbing your phone and bag, feeling a rush of excitement for the night ahead.

“sure am,” sasha said with a grin, hooking her arm through yours. together, you made your way out, ready to take on whatever the night had in store. the air was electric with anticipation, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of exhilaration as you stepped into the night, your friend by your side.

the air is warm, and there's a gentle breeze that makes the evening feel perfect. the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden hue across the horizon, and the sky is painted with shades of orange, pink, and purple. as the light fades, the large screen at the drive-in movie theater becomes more prominent, ready to transport its audience into the eerie world of the classic horror movie, "it."

cars are lined up in neat rows, their occupants settling in with blankets and pillows, creating cozy nests in the backs of their vehicles. some have even brought lawn chairs, spreading them out under the open sky. the chatter of excited moviegoers fills the air, a mix of laughter and anticipation as everyone gets ready for the show.

mosquitoes are out in full force, buzzing around annoyingly. thankfully, you remembered to bring bug spray, and you take a moment to apply it liberally, ensuring you can enjoy the night without constant swatting. the faint smell of the spray mingles with the more pleasant aromas wafting through the air.

the scent of freshly popped popcorn is unmistakable, its buttery goodness making your mouth water. nearby, the sweet, sticky aroma of candy apples tempts your senses, reminding you of childhood fairs and carnivals. funnel cakes, with their crispy edges and dusting of powdered sugar, add to the olfactory delight, and you can almost taste the sweetness in the air. various other delicious sweet snacks are also available, from cotton candy to caramel corn, each scent blending into a symphony of indulgence.

"can you believe this shitty ass popcorn was twenty dollars? could’ve brought my own shit." ony sucks his teeth as he plops down in the back of armin’s ford truck. armin laughs, shrugging his shoulder at his friend. "should’ve gotten funnel cake, you can never go wrong with funnel cake," he says, mouth full of the delicious sweet treat. ony puffs, peering over at the familiar blue honda, a grin spreading across his face. "i know that ain’t, ʚ♡ɞ!" he shouts excitedly.

he hasn’t seen you in weeks. shit, the only person that had is sasha and even she wouldn’t give much intel on you. you can feel the stares of your friends as you get out, feeling terrible for just disappearing without an explanation but you’d needed time to yourself. you were sure they were caught in the loop of all that had happened between you and eren.

"hi guys," you smile, waving. immediately armin and ony are encasing you in a tight hug, sasha joining in. you giggle, enjoying the moment. "we missed you! how dare you leave me alone with these two idiots," armin jokes. they finally pull away, ony finding his place back in the truck and stealing some of armin’s funnel cake. "m’sorry, just been going through some things." armin nods, he knows.

"y’know i'm always here for you, right?" he says softly. you nod, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt as your anxiety creeps in.

"okay good," armin gives your shoulder a squeeze before he finds his way back to his truck.

"where’s connie?" you peer over at sasha, she looks worried as her fingers tap furiously on the screen. "um, he should be here any second i-" she’s cut off as the sound of a familiar engine rumbles through the air.

you freeze. it’s him. he’s here. your heart thunders in your chest, each beat echoing louder than the last. a wave of nausea hits you so hard you almost want to throw up. everyone is looking at you, or at least it feels that way, and you can feel the walls closing in. the world seems to narrow, and you have to grip the roof of your car to steady yourself as your legs threaten to give out beneath you.

"ʚ♡ɞ, just breathe, okay? i didn’t know he was coming until the last second, i promise," sasha says, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos inside you. she rubs your back in slow, comforting circles, her touch grounding you in the present moment. her breath of relief is almost palpable as your breathing begins to slow, the tightness in your chest easing just a bit.

you take a deep breath, letting the cool evening air fill your lungs, and try to focus on the familiar scent of popcorn lingering in the air. it reminds you of simpler times, and the scent is oddly comforting. the noise of the drive-in theater fades into the background as you concentrate on sasha’s voice and the steady rhythm of her hand on your back. gradually, the panic subsides, you can just avoid him . . . right?

“yooo, "ʚ♡ long time no see.” connie cheeses as he steps out of the camaro you’d been in countless times before, yet it all seemed so unfamiliar now. you could feel his eyes on you, but you couldn’t see him as he hid behind that five percent dark tint.

“hi constanceee,” you tease, giggling as his face pulls into a scrunch at the use of his full name. he pulls you into a hug, it’s friendly and warm. “and don’t be throwing out my government, girl,” connie says, pushing your temple with his pointer finger as he pulls away. you laugh, putting your hands up, “whatever you sayyy. you look nice.” you hum, noticing his outfit—a white longed sleeved shirt under a black thrasher shirt, baggy jeans hanging low around his hips topped off with a pair of scuffed-up converse.

if ’stoner skater boy’ was a person, it’d be connie. he smiles at your compliment, “you don’t look too shabby yourself.” he nudges your shoulder. “thanks, connie.” you murmur, swiping a strand of hair behind your ear. “stealing my man?” sasha pops her head into the conversation, you roll your eyes with a smile. “he’s all yours.” you giggle, watching as the cute pair hook arms. this was the most touchy you’d ever seen them; you wondered if they were dating now.

as the sun dips below the horizon, the sky darkens, and the first stars begin to twinkle. the screen flickers to life, and the familiar, haunting music of "it" begins to play. the audience quiets down, the atmosphere shifting from festive to tense as the story unfolds. the glow from the screen casts eerie shadows across the rows of cars, adding to the spooky ambiance.

unfortunately, you were third wheeling. you were in the back seat of your own car, feeling a bit out of place as connie and sasha whispered and giggled in the front. you try to focus on the movie, but your mind keeps drifting back to the way things used to be, before everything got so complicated. eren still hasn’t showed, and you wonder if he’s with his girlfriend. you want to ask connie but your pride doesn’t let you, you sink into your seat as the two start to kiss.

“I’m gonna get a drink.” you curl your lips inwards, unsure if they even heard you over the sound of their lips smacking together. must be nice. you push open the car door and stand to your feet, stretching your sore limbs. the back of your honda was not comfortable in the slightest bit. eren is parked right beside you, and the urge to open his passenger door is strong, but you resist and walk past with your head down. your throat burns as you fight back tears.

suddenly, you’re flat on your ass, grass poking into your thighs. you look up to see eren standing over you, his expression unreadable as he stares down at you. he looks so fucking good, his long hair pulled back into a messy low bun, strands framing his stoic face. he’s wearing a black shirt with a design printed on the front, and it’s hard to ignore the way his inked muscles stretch around the fabric. a pair of khaki loose jeans hang around his hips, paired with chunky converse. he’s wearing a gold bracelet, the one you’d given him. you want to say something, anything, but your mouth is dry and you can hardly think with the way your heart is beating.

he extends a hand to you, and you hesitate for a second before grabbing it. his touch is warm and familiar, and you can’t resist as you pull him into a hug. his arms don’t wrap around you, but you don’t care. the waterworks start up and you’re fully ugly crying as you bury your face into his shirt. the familiar scent of him makes you cry even louder.

“e-eren,” you hiccup, “p-please l-let me talk to you.” you beg, your voice desperate but you don’t care. you need to explain yourself. eren was still pissed at you, no doubt about it. but seeing you so vulnerable, begging for him to talk to you, pulled at his heartstrings. his heart and mind were at battle on what to do. part of him wanted to walk away, get in his car, and drive away. but the other part wanted to embrace you, wipe your tears away, and tell you it’s gonna be okay.

“please don’t cry, we . . . can talk. just stop crying,” he finally murmurs.

you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "i didn't mean to hurt you," you whisper, your voice trembling. "i miss you, eren. i miss us. i can't stand the thought of losing you." your words are rushed, desperate, as if saying them faster will make them more true. eren's eyes soften for a moment, and you think you see a flicker of the old eren, the one who would hold you close and tell you everything would be alright.

he finally wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. the warmth of his embrace is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness you've felt without him. you inhale deeply, the scent of his cologne mixed with a faint hint of cigar smoke filling your senses. it's a smell that brings back so many memories, both good and bad. you cling to him, your fingers digging into his back as if you're afraid he'll disappear if you let go. he’s missed this more than he wants to admit, you look so damn pretty. he’s missed the fuck outta your face, your smile. you’re wearing these tight short denim jeans and he wants to grab a handful of your ass and knead it between his fingers.

"i'm sorry," you sob, your voice muffled against his chest. "i know i messed up, but i need you. i can't do this without you." eren's grip tightens, and you feel a glimmer of hope. maybe, just maybe, things can go back to the way they were.

“i-,” eren starts but his words catch in his throat. he takes a deep breath, “we can talk in my car.” he finally says, pulling away from you. he leads you back to his car, opening the door for you. your heart races as you slide into the seat, eren popping open his door and sliding in. it’s quiet for a few moments before eren speaks up. “so explain, why did you go back to jean?” he asks, trying to push down the rage that’s bubbling inside of him.

you sigh, running a hand through your hair, “i didn’t fuck him, i really just went over there to get some things and clear the air.” you try to keep your voice steady as you speak. “he took that picture and posted it to make it seem like we were back together. he fucking knew it’d get to you.” you ramble, tears falling from your eyes. you hate how much of a crybaby you’re being, but you can’t help it. you’re fighting for him, and you’re not gonna let him walk out of your life again.

“i would never intentionally hurt you, eren. i care for you so fucking much! and it eats me alive knowing that i hurt you. but i promise, if you give me a chance, i can—i will treat you how you deserve to be treated. when you told me you loved me, i realized how selfish i had been. it was in my face all along, and i didn’t realize. i’m in love with you, eren, and i think deep down i always have been—” your rant is halted as eren presses his lips against yours. it’s soft and passionate, and you melt in his touch.

eren pulls away slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “i’ve been so angry,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “i didn’t know what to believe. seeing that picture... it broke me.” his hands cup your face gently, thumbs brushing away your tears. “but hearing you say all this, i believe you. i want to believe you.” he takes a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. “i love you too, and i want to make this work. but we need to be honest with each other, no more secrets.”

you nod, your heart swelling with hope. “i promise, no more secrets. i’ll be completely honest with you from now on.” you take his hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “we can get through this, eren. together.”

eren smiles softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and determination. “together,” he agrees, his eyes lock onto yours, a silent conversation passing between you. the tension in the air is palpable, thick with unspoken words and simmering emotions. he leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours, and your heart races in anticipation.

without a word, he cups your face in his hands, his touch both gentle and possessive. the world around you fades into a blur as his lips capturing yours in another kiss that is both intense and hungry. it's as if he's pouring all his emotions into this one moment, and you respond with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair.

the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more desperate. his tongue teases the seam of your lips, and you part them willingly, inviting him in. the taste of him is intoxicating, and you lose yourself in the sensation, every nerve ending alight with desire.

"i-i need you," you whimper against his lips, feeling your core throb from the sloppy kiss you two shared seconds ago. a smile pulls on eren’s lips, his thumb trailing against your soft, two-toned, plump lips. your eyes are full of desire and lust, and he fucking loves it. “want me to fuck that pretty pussy?” his voice is deep and raspy. you nod, clenching your legs together, feeling the heat in between them stir at his filthy words.

"get in the back, pretty girl," he taps your thigh, and you quickly find yourself stepping over the center console as you climb into the back seat. the leather seats are cool against your skin, contrasting the warmth radiating from your body. eren follows close behind you, his presence filling the small space as he adjusts the seats to give you both optimal room. the sound of the seats clicking into place is drowned out by the pounding of your heart.

his fingertips dig into your thighs, leaving a trail of tingling sensations that make you gasp. your back is pressed against the door, the cool metal seeping through your clothes as you watch him intently. he pulls off your boots, large fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shorts now, each movement deliberate and teasing. you lift your hips instinctively, allowing him to slip them off more easily, your legs spreading wide in anticipation.

"look at this, soaking through your panties already?" he laughs, a deep, throaty sound that sends shivers down your spine. his thumb traces the wet stain adorning your underwear, the fabric clinging to your arousal. a shaky breath escapes your mouth as his fingers brush against your clothed clit, the sensation both electrifying and maddening. he has you in his hand, he knows it.

he presses wet kisses along your thick thighs as he pulls your underwear down your soft brown legs, you smell so damn good it’s got him twitching eagerly in his pants. his kisses trail down your legs, holding your calf gently, your breath hitches as he places pecks all the way down to the gold bracelet clasped around your ankle. “e-eren,” you whine, pussy throbbing.

with each kiss, his lips leave a lingering warmth on your skin, sending shivers up your spine. he takes his time, savoring every inch of your body as if committing it to memory. the way he moves is deliberate, almost worshipful, making you feel like the most precious thing in the world. his hands are firm yet gentle, guiding your further legs apart with a reverence that makes your heart race.

as he reaches your toes, he pauses, his eyes darkening with desire. his tongue flicks out, teasing the sensitive skin before he takes your toe into his mouth, sucking gently. the sensation is electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. his eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel exposed and vulnerable, yet completely safe in his care. the air is thick with the scent of your arousal, stickiness seeping onto his leather seats.

“tell me what you want, ʚ♡ɞ,” his hands massaging your feet, he sure knows how to make a girl feel special.

“eat my pussy, please.” you don’t even recognize your voice as you whisper the words. you’re hot with desire, eren's lips dart out to lick his lips before he leans down, inked hands pressing into your inner thighs as he holds you in place. “with pleasure,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with lust.

your head smacks against the window as his tongue moves lazily over your sopping folds. his mouth feels like heaven on your sex, each stroke deliberate and slow, sending waves of pleasure through your body. “so fucking good,” he whines into your wetness, the taste driving his senses into overdrive. you’re the perfect combination of salty and sweet, and he finds himself pressing his face further into you, desperate for more.

his tongue flicks and swirls, exploring every inch of you with a fervor that makes your toes curl. his inked hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open as he devours you. the sensation is overwhelming, your body arching off the seat as you lose yourself in the pleasure he's giving you. “oh my god,” you whine, your voice barely more than a breathy moan as his tongue ravages you.

each movement of his mouth feels like pure ecstasy, his lips and tongue working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge. he alternates between long, languid licks and quick, teasing flicks, keeping you on the brink of release. the sounds of his mouth on your wetness fill the car, mingling with your breathless moans and the soft creak of the leather seats.

eren's eyes flick up to meet yours, the intensity in his gaze making your heart race. he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, his sole focus on bringing you pleasure. his tongue delves deeper, finding that perfect spot that makes you see stars. your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as your body trembles with the force of your impending orgasm.

“let’s see how many fingers you can take angel,” eren's eyes glint mischievously as he slides a single digit inside of you. the feeling is both foreign and electrifying, causing your breath to hitch. you grip the headrest, your knuckles turning white as he follows it up with a second finger. the stretch is intense, but you bite your lip, determined to endure. when he adds a third, your body tenses, and you’re sure you’ll split as he pushes another in.

“h-hurts,” you whine through clenched teeth, your nails digging further into the headrest, leaving crescent-shaped imprints. eren pauses, his expression softening as he presses a tender kiss against your thigh. “it’s okay, just relax around ’em princess,” he coos, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “m’ trying,” you want to sob, but take a deep breath, trying to focus on the warmth of his lips on your skin rather than the discomfort.

eren continues to kiss your thighs, his mouth trailing gentle, reassuring kisses that help you relax your walls around his fingers. the sensation of his lips, combined with the rough yet careful movement of his hand, begins to ease the tension in your body. “o-okay, you can move,” you gulp thickly, your eyes shutting as you brace yourself.

“good girl,” he begins to push his beefy digits into your greedy pussy, the stretch becoming more bearable as your body adjusts. each movement is deliberate and slow, allowing you time to acclimate. “taking my fingers so well, so proud of you kitten.” he murmurs.

the mix of pleasure and pain sends waves of pain conflicting sensations through your body, but eren's gentle kisses and soothing words keep you grounded. you focus on the warmth of his touch, the reassuring pressure of his fingers, and the way he makes you feel safe and cherished even in moments of vulnerability.

“y-your fingers a-are s-so long!” you drool, hands finding themselves back in eren’s hair.

“you wanna cum on em’?” eren smiles, eyes gazing at you as you fall apart underneath him. you’ve pulled your shirt up and his cock twitches as you pinch and squeeze your hardened nipples between your fingers.

“y-yes! s-so close!” your sweet voice is a symphony of desperation and desire, each word trembling with the intensity of the moment. eren's eyes darken with determination, the sound of your plea igniting a fire within him. he doesn't hesitate, his mouth finding its way back to your sensitive clit with a hunger that matches your own.

the car's backseat is cramped, the leather seats sticking to your skin, adding to the rawness of the moment. outside, the movie plays, but inside the car, it feels like time has stopped. the scent of weed lingers in the air, mixing with the fragrance of your perfume, creating an intoxicating blend that heightens your senses.

“oh god, eren!” you gasp, your back arching off the seat as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

the sensation is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. you grip the edge of the seat, your fingertips aching as you fight to hold on to the last shreds of your control. he’s so deep inside of you you can feel his fingers kissing your cervix, you wanna run but eren's eyes that are peering up at you as you come undone are saying don’t even try.

his hands slide up your thighs, his touch firm yet gentle, grounding you as his mouth works its magic. “i can feel you trembling, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, seductive growl that sends shivers down your spine. his large hand repeatedly cracks against your thigh as he spanks you, pushing you further over the edge.“let go for me. i want to feel you come undone.”

his words are your undoing. you cry out, your body tensing as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. “eren, i-i can’t—” you stammer, your voice breaking as the orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. your vision goes blank for a second, “m’ cumming! c-cumming!” you hiccup.

he doesn’t let up, his mouth continuing its relentless assault on your clit, prolonging your pleasure until you’re a quivering mess beneath him. “that’s it, just like that,” he whispers, his voice filled with pride and satisfaction. “you’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

as the waves of pleasure finally begin to subside, you slump against the door, your chest heaving with the effort to catch your breath. eren crawls up beside you, his eyes softening as he takes in your flushed, blissed-out expression. “are you okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you nod, a lazy smile spreading across your lips. “more than okay,” you murmur, reaching up to cup his cheek.

“can i fuck you?” he ask almost hesitantly, you giggle. was he really asking you that?

you nod,”please.”

in an instant, eren is naked, manspread as you’re straddling him. the heat between your bodies is palpable, every inch of your skin tingling with anticipation and desire. your lips are intertwined with his, a passionate dance that leaves you both breathless and yearning for more. his thick cock twitches against your warm pussy, the sensation sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire deep within you. his arms dig into your skin, his fingers kneading your doughy thighs with a fervor that speaks of his desperation and need.

he can’t get enough of you, his voice breaking as he pleads, "ʚ♡ɞ p-please,fuck me," the whine in his tone making your heart race and your core tighten. you grind your slick folds against him, feeling the hardness of his cock pressing against you, so hard it feels like he might explode at any moment. "patience baby," you murmur against his ear. he shivers, his body reacting to every word, every touch, every breath. your stomach churns with desire as his head lulls back against the seat, his eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of pleasure and frustration.

you rub your throbbing clit against his swollen pink flushed tip, the friction driving you both to the edge of ecstasy. his eyes flutter closed, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he struggles to maintain control. every movement, every touch, is a symphony of sensation, a dance of desire that leaves you both yearning for more.

his hands move from your thighs to your hips, guiding your movements as you continue to grind against him. each stroke, each grind, brings you closer to the precipice of pleasure. his moans grow louder, more desperate, as he feels you thriving against him. "please," he whispers again, his voice barely audible over the sound of your combined breaths. you can feel his need, his desire, and it mirrors your own. "since you asked so nicely," you sink onto him, moaning softly at the stinging stretch.

“you’re s-so big,” a broken sob leaves your lips, he was gonna fucking break you.

“you can take it, i know you can.” eren murmurs against your shoulder, arms holding you in place. he resists the urge to buck his hips into you, you’re so tight and warm around him.

once you’re adjusted, you begin raising your hips on eren, your mewls of pleasure mixing with the rhythmic slap of your ass against his thighs. the sensation is intoxicating, each movement sending waves of ecstasy through your bodies. eren's hands grip your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he guides your movements, his eyes dark with lust and need.

"god, you feel so good," he groans, his voice thick with desire. he pushes his thumb into your asshole and you nearly scream, “so tight,” he gasps,his words send a shiver down your spine, adding fuel to the fire burning within you. you lean forward, your hands resting on his chest for support, feeling the hard muscles beneath your fingertips. the connection between you is electric, every touch, every movement intensifying the pleasure you both feel.

"mm, you like that, baby?" you whisper, your voice breathless and filled with longing. you can see the answer in his eyes, but you want to hear him say it. you want to hear the desperation in his voice, the need that mirrors your own.

"yes," he gasps, his head falling back against the seat, his eyes closing again as he loses himself in the sensation. "please, don't stop."

you smile, a sense of power and satisfaction washing over you. you increase your pace, your hips moving faster, the sound of your bodies coming together echoing in the space. each thrust brings you closer to the edge, the pleasure building with every movement.

"you're so deep," you moan, your voice trembling with the intensity of your feelings. eren's grip on your hips tightens, his own breaths coming in ragged gasps. you can feel him getting closer, his body tensing beneath you. you’re a creamy mess as you ride his cock, the sick sound of your pussy queefing each time you lower onto him making your stomach twist.

you nearly scream as eren begins bucking his hips up into you, his thrusts fast and unrelenting. the intensity of his movements sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making it hard to catch your breath. his inked hands grip your cheeks, pulling them apart to glide deeper into your wetness. the sensation is overwhelming, tears brimming in your eyes as he rolls into you with a fervor that leaves you trembling.

"tell me you love me," he pants, his voice rough and desperate. his eyes lock onto yours, filled with a need that mirrors your own. the urgency in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, adding to the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you.

"i love you," you manage to gasp, your voice breaking with the intensity of your feelings. the words feel inadequate to express the depth of your emotions, but it's all you can manage in the heat of the moment.

eren's mouth descends to your chest, his lips latching onto one of your nipples. the sensation of his mouth sucking on your sensitive flesh sends another wave of pleasure crashing over you, making you arch your back and cry out. his hands continue to guide your movements, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

"mm, i fucking love you," you sob, the words spilling out in a rush of emotion. the tears that had been brimming in your eyes now spill over, streaking down your cheeks as you lose yourself in the overwhelming pleasure and love you feel for him.

eren's pace quickens, his hips driving up into you with a relentless rhythm that leaves you breathless. each movement is a testament to his need for you, his desire to feel you, to be as close to you as possible. the connection between you feels electric, every touch, every thrust amplifying the intensity of your emotions.

"i love you so much," he groans, his voice thick with emotion. his grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pushes you both closer to the edge. the sensation of his body moving against yours, the sound of your breaths mingling, the raw emotion in his voice—it all combines to create a moment that feels both profound and beautiful.

as you reach the peak of your pleasure, your body shudders, a wave of ecstasy washing over you. eren follows moments later, seed decorating your sore walls.you collapse against him, your bodies slick with sweat.

eren's arms wrap around you, holding you close as you come down from the high. his lips press gentle kisses to your hair, a soft, loving gesture that contrasts with the intensity of what you just shared.

“ain’t no fucking way—“ ony, connie, and sasha say in unison as they watch the car rock. ony laughs out loud, smacking connie's shoulder. he pulls out his phone and starts recording, connie shoves ony's hands away. what's his damn deal with hitting whenever he laughs? connie feels a bit jealous. at least someone’s getting some. he looks over to sasha, who’s crying, “girl—is you crying?” connie breaks into a smile.

“i’m just so happy they made up! i hope she gets pregnant. i wanna be an aunt.” she sniffles, wiping her tears away with a smile.

“you are mad wild for saying that—where’s armin?” connie asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

“here! what’s up—oh,” armin's voice trails off as he looks at the car, funnel cake dropping out of his hand. he stands there, mouth open in shock, the powdered sugar from the funnel cake dusting his shoes.

“did he forget his back window isn’t tinted?” connie asks, raising an eyebrow. they all burst into laughter, the absurdity of the situation hitting them all at once. the car continues to rock, oblivious to the audience it has gathered.

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rosesareredrosa · 2 months

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When Laughter Fades

Mattheo Riddle x fem reader

Summary: Mattheo takes things too far with his "banter" and didn't notice y/n's feelings of hurt and anger until one day she decides to speak up and Mattheo has to change to keep the relationship steady

Authors note: Sorry anon for the wait this was randomly so hard

Word Count: 1070

Mattheo Riddle loved pulling pranks. They brought him joy and amusement, especially when his favorite target, Y/N, was involved. She usually laughed along with him, but he didn't realize how close he was to crossing the line until today.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and the Slytherin common room was buzzing with students enjoying their free time. Y/N was seated at a table, diligently working on an essay for Potions class. Mattheo, ever the prankster, watched her from across the room, a devious idea forming in his mind.

He slipped out of the common room and returned moments later with a small enchanted box. Inside it was a jinxed snake that would leap out and hiss at whoever opened it. He approached Y/N's table with a casual grin.

"Hey, Y/N, I found this weird box in the Room of Requirement. Want to see what's inside?" he asked, holding out the box to her.

Y/N glanced up, raising an eyebrow but smiling. "Sure, Mattheo. Let's see it."

As soon as she opened the box, the snake leaped out, hissing loudly. Y/N screamed, knocking over her ink bottle in the process. Ink splattered all over her essay and her robes. Her face paled, and then flushed with a mix of fear and anger.

"Mattheo, what the hell!" she shouted, her voice trembling.

Mattheo's grin faltered. "It's just a prank, Y/N. It's a fake snake, see?"

He picked up the snake, which had now returned to its inanimate state, and showed it to her. But Y/N wasn't laughing.

"Just a prank? Look at my essay, my robes! This isn't funny, Mattheo. You always do this, and I'm sick of it!" Tears welled up in her eyes as she glared at him.

"Y/N, I didn't mean to—" Mattheo started, but she cut him off.

"That's the problem, Mattheo. You never mean to, but you always end up hurting me. Maybe you should think before you act."

With that, she turned on her heel and left the common room, leaving Mattheo standing there, guilt and regret washing over him. He watched her go, the weight of his actions sinking in.

Days passed, and Y/N avoided Mattheo. The usual spark in her eyes was gone, replaced by a guarded, wary look. Mattheo's heart ached every time he saw her, knowing he had put that look there. He had to make things right, but he didn't know how. Apologies had never been his strong suit.

One evening, after searching for Y/N around the castle, Mattheo finally found her in the library, sitting in a secluded corner. Her face was buried in her arms, and she looked up as he approached, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

"Y/N," he said softly, approaching her table. "Please, can we talk?"

She looked up, her expression weary. "What do you want, Mattheo?"

"I want to apologize. I was an idiot, and I took things way too far. I never wanted to hurt you, but I did. I'm so sorry, Y/N."

"You always say you're sorry, but then you do it again. How can I believe you this time?"

"I know I've messed up," he continued, "but I promise I'll change. No more pranks, no more teasing. I care about you, and I don't want to lose your friendship."

Y/N stood up, her frustration boiling over. "You care about me? You have a funny way of showing it. Every time I start to trust you, you pull another stupid prank. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"Y/N, please, I never meant to hurt you. I just thought it was all in good fun."

"Good fun? Fun for who, Mattheo? Because it's not fun for me. It's humiliating and cruel."

Mattheo felt his heart sink. He hadn't realized just how much pain he had caused her. "I... I didn't see it that way. I thought we were just playing around."

"Playing around? This isn't a game, Mattheo. These are my feelings. And every time you pull one of your 'pranks,' it feels like you're saying my feelings don't matter."

"I'm sorry," Mattheo said, his voice breaking. "I really am. I don't want to lose you, Y/N."

She sighed, her anger giving way to exhaustion. "I don't know if I can trust you again, Mattheo. You've hurt me too many times."

"I'll prove it to you," he said desperately. "I'll show you that I can change. No more pranks, I swear. Just give me a chance."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and doubt. "Alright, Mattheo. But this is your last chance. If you hurt me again, we're done."

He nodded fervently. "I won't let you down. I promise."

In the days that followed, Mattheo made good on his promise. He was attentive, considerate, and kind. He helped Y/N with her studies, brought her favorite snacks, and most importantly, he listened. But he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that things weren't the same. Y/N was more reserved, her laughter less frequent, and Mattheo feared that he had caused irreparable damage.

One night, as they sat by the lake, watching the sunset, Y/N broke the silence. "Mattheo, do you ever think about the future?"

He glanced at her, surprised by the question. "Sometimes. Why?"

"I've been thinking a lot lately. About us, about everything that's happened. I want to trust you, but it's hard. Every time I see you, I remember the hurt."

Mattheo's heart clenched. "Y/N, I promise I'll never hurt you again. I care about you so much."

She turned to him, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and sorrow. "I want to believe you, Mattheo. But it's going to take time."

"I know. And I'm willing to wait, to do whatever it takes to make things right."

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, a small gesture of trust. "Thank you, Mattheo."

As they sat there, wrapped in each other's presence, Mattheo knew that this was his chance to prove himself. The road to healing would be long and difficult, but he was determined to show Y/N that he valued her far more than any prank or joke. He would cherish her, protect her, and make sure that her laughter returned, brighter and more genuine than ever before.

#x reader #slytherin x reader #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo #mattheo riddle #mattheo x y/n #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo fluff #mattheo angst

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 3 months

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Overblot Universe (4) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Part 1 • 2 • 3• 5

There he was

The first overblot you witnessed

The Overblotted Riddle was as regal as ever

Standing above your gilded bed fit for royalty decorated by arches of spinning ink

You could see guards that looked similar to the entrapped dormmakers during the event

Standing in front of heart shaped doors that resembled an inky reflection of the Heartslabyul’s dorm

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, (Y/n). I haven’t forgotten how you ran from my forces meant to bring you home.”

“I…was just scared. Your army was fighting with Jamil’s and I just didn’t want to get in the way.”

Riddle scoffed,”You think I’d allow any of my vassals hurt you?! I thought you heard me last time we saw each other.”

His gloved hands clutched your cheeks and chin forcing you to hold his gaze

“In my world, I am the law. I am order manifest!

The words brought back the memories again

But you couldn’t drift off especially now that Overblotted Riddle was smiling

You could practically smell the idea of something awful coming from him

He let his ink gloved hands trail from your jaw to rest around your neck

“I have been eagerly awaiting the day I’d meet you again. For so long I’ve been replaying the sight of the collarless king working alongside those rogue cards.”

He pulled away leaving a ring of ink that tickled your skin, shaping to hug your neck letting a black splattered rose hang from it’s center

“All this time I’ve thought about having you and now I’m this close to having everything be perfect.”

You watched his eyes drift down your body, letting yourself follow his gaze

Finding your outfit to be matching his own, you hoped it was just the ink doing its things

He beckoned you to follow him

And the moment you deliberated you could feel the bodice of your outfit slightly squeeze

So that was it’s purpose+

You hurriedly caught up to him minding the overwhelming line of soldiers collared and at the ready

“Riddle what do you plan to do?”

Riddle’s distorted chuckle exploded into a diabolical laugh

Calming himself he turned over his shoulder as you both left the dorm/castle for the garden

“I’m recreating where we met of course. An unbirthday celebration that changed everything. A coronation that would have been perfect if you and those cards didn’t ruin it.”

Arriving to the entrance of the garden it was exactly as he said

The table and treats for an unbirthday party all different shades of black with that sheen that said was ink

All surrounding a grand stage where to thrones sat at the edge of it

He took your hand, more gentle than you were expecting and led you on a red carpet that led to the thrones

Out of nowhere this Riddle brought out a box setting it on a pedestal

He opened it to reveal a crown…fit for a king

“Bow, (Y/n) and receive your right as my king.”

Idia’s crown flashed in your mind making you cower instinctively

His glare was paralyzing

“Bow. (Y/n).”

The pressure around your body was intense, as if sapping your energy to make you fall to your knees

Riddle sighs,”That’s good enough.”

He places the crown on your head

It doesn’t hurt like Idia’s but it feels hard to remove

And as Riddle helps you stand you can feel the something wet drip from the crown and into your eyes

But it doesn’t burn…more like clouding your vision as you were led to rest in the throne

“Now! Bring the relic! It’s power will be what finalizes your king's coronation!”

Carried by many of the soldiers was the mirror–The mirror that you originally traveled to

“That–”

“Recognize it? This is the accursed object that let me bring you here. But it’s done it’s job and no one has any intentions of you using it again.”

“Wait but I have—to–go back!”

The overblotted Riddle gave you that sly smirk all to similar to the dormleader you knew

“You’ll find that world will fade from memory when the portal does as well.”

With a trumpet sound and coordinated shouts an ink covered axe was brought to Riddle

Despite being so close you couldn’t lift yourself from the throne, courtesy of the ensemble you were wearing

You could feel your tears blend with the ink trailing down your face as the Overblotted Queen raised his axe to smash the mirror

You tried to reach in vain as he brought the axe down

You felt as though it was helpless

Until you heard a whisper

“(Y/n) don’t despair we wouldn’t leave you by yourself.”

A new bout of energy let you sit up

“Oh my gosh! It’s you! You’re here!”

“Hush, we’ve got to be quick the main event is on its way.”

“I summon thee cauldron!”

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderexrea #yanderes #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere harem #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere riddle x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere oveblot #yandere twst riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle #yandere overblot universe #yandere deuce spade #yandere leech

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luveline · 1 year

Text

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

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terry-perry · 6 months

Note

Hey, I see you're looking for Alastor request to write him better.

Could I get Alastor x F! Reader where they're constantly flirting with each other until someone shouts just kiss already which takes Alastor off guard enough for the reader to sweep in and kiss him, then as he kisses back she gets dragged off to is room. The rest from there is up to you :)

Inspired by the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Alastor?" Y/N asked the distinguished demon by her side as they shared a few drinks at the hotel's bar. Husk busied himself by wiping some glasses, refraining from rolling his eyes as the pair continued with this back-and-forth.

"I'd look rather darling with such a hairstyle, don't you think?"

"An absolute dream, my dear," Alastor responded, regarding her more intently than usual.

He wasn't sure what it was, but something about her was especially vivacious that night. Perhaps it was the way she seemed to make a bit of effort to be on his level for the dinner-dance the hotel was hosting to celebrate its grand re-opening. Like with many of the antics that go on in the place, Alastor stood passively by, subtly scaring those who came close to him.

Then he spotted her.

He liked how becoming the dark red dress she wore was and how It set off her unnaturally shadowy eyes. Let's not forget about the way her hair glistened so! It was almost like the stars were woven into it.

"You know, back when I was alive, having such a hairstyle would be considered immoral, sinful," Alastor remarked, shamelessly reaching out to twirl a few strands of her hair around his sharp nails. "It was a sure and easy way to attract certain attention."

She took in the way his eyes floated towards hers, but not before making their way up slowly from her legs. Had he been anyone else, she would've disregarded his remark with a brutal slap (perhaps with something worse if she were in the mood). But this was the Radio Demon she was speaking with.

She knew she had him right where she wanted him the moment she stepped in. If her attire hadn't drawn him in, then it was definitely all the attention she gathered from the other party guests who would offer to dance with her. Each one that would head her way with enthusiastic determination would have Alastor's eye twitch before he finally decided it was his turn to cut in.

After that, she was his and no one else's. After all no one would dare be stupid enough to steal the Radio Demon's dance partner.

"Well, it's a good thing we're in Hell then," Y/N said, going as far as laying a hand on the normally touch-aversed Alastor's knee. In this case, however, a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him.

Their eyes met completely, and they stopped talking entirely as they stared at each other. It wasn't until an irritated voice intruded on their space and made the glow fade away.

"For fuck's sake, will you two just get it on already?!" Angel Dust screeched from the Y/N's other side. "This was amusing for a while, but you've been dancing around each other all night. The party ended hours ago, and you still haven't even kissed yet."

An awkward silence followed this. Alastor looked at Angel, eye twitching once more. He wouldn't understand that a classy lady like Y/N deserved to be wooed properly. She's, no doubt, heard every practiced line known in this side of the Pentagram. And she certainly wouldn't react well to such bold actions like hot kisses and heavy petting.

Alastor opened his mouth to explain as much when Y/N grabbed a hold of his face and placed a big kiss on his lips. He would've been more shocked had it not felt like such blissful oblivion. It was better than any glass of rye he had ever drank. He kept a stronghold of her, his claws piercing the small of her back while his other hand took hold of her hair.

They eventually released one another, going back to looking at each other.

"Forgive me," she managed to say between heavy breaths. She kept her bold smile on as well as a tight grip on his lapel. "You've got an awfully kissable mouth."

And with that, the glow returned along with a desire to finish this upstairs.

"About fucking time," Husk uttered, watching with Angel the way Alastor dragged a giddy Y/N to his room.

#alastor x reader #alastor #x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #imagine #request #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin #radio demon #requests #taking requests #requests open #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin spoilers

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dorotheataylor · 5 months

Text

You are in Love

Pairing- Gojo Satoru x fem!Reader

Summary- The three times he realised he loved you, and the one time he said it. Inspired by You are in Love (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift.

Warnings- Its just fluff, a little angst if you squint? SATORU IS WHIPPED (hes so cute😭), best friends to lovers romance, Shoko and Suguru playing cupids, whipped satoru (yes this warning again), swearing (its only one word but still), no curses!au, modern!au, my poor english :p

Word Count- 3.5k words

A/N- Whenever I listen to Taylor, either this guy or his best friend pop up in my head. Like the amount of times I think about them is so insane and I can’t help it anymore. Anyways, here’s another songfic (is this even a surprise atp?) based on another Taylor’s song coz i love that woman so much. Alsoooo it’s my birthday today! And what is better than writing a fic abt your man on your birthday? So I hope y’all enjoy this little birthday gift from me!

The first time Satoru realised he loved you was when you were in college together. It was the last day of the semester before everyone bid farewell to each other and went home for the holiday season. You and him were walking along one pathway coming back from your Christmas shopping, snow falling softly around everyone’s body, and a chill in the air that made everyone want to snuggle up beside the fireplace in their houses.

Suguru and Shoko had joined you both too but then excused themselves to leave you two alone, hoping that the romantic ambiance of the holiday season would finally give Satoru the confidence to tell you how he felt.

To say he was a nervous wreck was an understanding. He had spent the whole afternoon talking to himself in the mirror, practicing what he would say so that he won't stumble on his words and ruin the moment.

He didn't have a problem talking to you as he normally does; you were his best friend after all, like Suguru and Shoko, but once he tries to tell you that you make his heart beat faster, make butterflies flood his stomach, it makes him lose all his senses. Suguru had to drag him out of his room, complaining about waiting for 'thirty fucking minutes' already.

Eventually, he met you and Shoko at the front gate of his house and walked with you towards the mall. The entire day, he felt so jittery, like he couldn’t stay still. You remained oblivious to the fact that Satoru was about ready to burst from the inside from how nervous he was.

Suguru and Shoko, on the other hand, couldn’t contain their laughter. By the time the sky began to fade into the night sky, Suguru and Shoko decided that now was as good of a time than ever and made up an excuse to leave the two of you alone.

Now here you were, walking beside Satoru, bundled up in your white scarf, and the cutest red blush on the tip of your nose. You readjusted your beanie, looking up at him to start conversation. Satoru felt his words get stuck in his throat, unable to remember how to speak with you staring up at him with the twinkle of oblivion in your eye.

"Toru?" you asked bumping your shoulder with him, noticing his uneasy expressions as you wrapped an arm around yourself to get some warmth as the snow had started to fall little more harshly, "am I that boring that your mind had to drift somewhere else?"

"God no." He blushed, finally able to say something without stumbling. Without thought, he wrapped one of his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. You sighed in content, melting into him and Satoru swore his heart swelled three times its size.

The snow crunched under your boots as you walked up the path. The lights lining the cobblestone street gave a yellow tint to the sight. He walked with you in silence but in his head, he was going over exactly what he wanted to say. This was the perfect time.

The snow falling from the sky, little snowflakes tangled in the strands of your hair. You were pressed up against his chest, so close to him that he could smell your perfume, sweet and addicting. There were no other people around, all too eager to find sanctuary in warmth that their houses brought. It was the perfect time.

He stopped walking, halting you with him. He let you go for a moment, taking a deep breath in and slowly let it out. You watched as the cloud of fog escaped his lips and dispersed into the air. His white hair poked out from under his hoodie, matted on his forehead. Satoru looked down at his wet boots, kicking around snow that pooled around the soles.

Finally, he looked up, taking your two hands into his palms in the process.

You smiled at the gesture, your heart fluttering in your chest. You looked at him, offering a comforting look as you raised your eyebrows up in suspicion, “What’s up, Toru?”

And just like that, all of the words he worked so hard to conjure up, slipped right out of his mind. When he saw you looking up at him, eyebrows raised, cheeks and nose tinted with a light shade of pink, and your lips plump and red, he realized that there were no words to describe what it was he felt about you.

You watched him in silence, studying the way he gave you a lopsided smile when you tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear. He leaned into your touch, letting out another sigh of relief.

“Nothing,” he finally spoke, letting go of your hands. He wrapped his arm around you again, hoping you won’t hear the marching of his heart in his chest. “You’re my best friend.”

The second time he realised he loved you was when he found you crying on your couch. He had came to check on you when you didn’t come over for the routine movie night. Every Saturday, you, him, Suguru and Shoko got together at each other’s places for movie nights. Laughter, jokes, entertainment, talks, drinks and what not went on full night and the next day all of you were passed out on either couch or the floor.

Today everyone was coming over at Satoru’s place. Suguru and Shoko were already there but when it kept getting late, Satoru became worried about you. Shoko tried assuring him you were okay, just stuck in some work but he wouldn’t believe it. Because you were time punctual and never missed the movie nights.

So he came over to yours and opened your door with the spare key you’d given him only to find you curled up in your couch, crying.

He immediately rushed over to you and wrapped his arms around you tightly as you held onto him. He didn’t say anything but stayed there, holding you, feeling his heart break as you sobbed into his chest.

A few moments later, when he felt you relaxing a little, he took your face in his hands as he asked, “better?”

You just nodded as you snuggled into him. Neither of you two said anything, a comfortable silence, just sitting there on your couch, engulfing each other, enjoying each other’s company.

“Now tell me what happened?” he asked softly when your crying had quieted down, afraid you might break again.

“It’s nothing. I just- its too much. Work, studies, family, everything. I just got too overwhelmed and just couldn’t keep it in anymore. And I had nobody present here for me to tell me that its okay or listen about what I felt.” You said now realising what mess you had made and quite embarrassed that Satoru had to see you this vulnerable. “God this is embarrassing! I’m so sorry.”

“Hey look at me.” He said, cupping your cheeks to make you look at him when you didn’t. “Everyone in this world has a vulnerable side. Everyone on this planet has things which is maybe too much overwhelming for them that they might just break at any point. Just like you did. But don’t ever apologise for this. Because none of it is your fault. Okay? And I’m always here for you. Even if you’re far away, I’ll always be there. You’re not alone, okay?”

You just nodded and gave him the smile he adored so much. And without saying anything else, he wrapped both of his arms around you once again, letting you rest your head on his chest. He kissed your forehead and hummed in content as you snuggled even closer to him if possible.

And as he looked down at the girl in his arms, he realised this is what he wanted for the rest of his life. He loved you.

The third time he realised he loved you was after summer. He hadn’t talked or heard from you since 4 months.

You left without a goodbye or a message to god knows where. He'd tried searching for you but always ended up getting disappointed. Suguru and Shoko missed you too. They had helped him to find you too but to no avail. It was like you’d disappeared into thin air.

Satoru often wondered if you ever thought about him like he did, if you missed him like he did. He knew you were probably out there pursuing your dream career, which you'd always talked about and wanted to do, but a part of him wanted to be there with you. To support and cheer for you at every step you take, to give you advices, to have late night celebration for your achievements. Call him selfish and everything. Everyday that passed, he cursed himself for not telling you how he felt before you left. Would it have made any difference? He’d like to think so. Even if it didn’t, he, at least, wouldn’t have to live every single day thinking: “What if?”

He kept a picture of you in his office. He often looked at it whenever he was free, always wondering how you were doing, if you were okay or not. Suguru and Shoko always found this sight pitful. They had tried to get him to move on, but all of them knew that Satoru was so in love with you and you were special to all three of them and that nobody could ever take your place.

It wasn’t until six months later when you stumbled into the building, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. A part of you knew you didn’t have the right to be there because you left them with no warning. You wouldn’t blame them if they asked you to leave the premises the minute their eyes landed on you. You knew you deserved the cold shoulder. Because if they were the ones who did that to you, you knew you wouldn’t be so forgiving.

The receptionist had told you to wait while she checked if the three of them were free or not. As you waited, you smiled sadly at the memories of last six months. You had gone for higher studies, as your dad had promised, for your dream career. You knew you should’ve at least informed someone before you left but everything happened just so fast that one moment your dad had agreed on your consent and the next moment you were on the plane.

Surely you enjoyed the studies and training period there, Paris being busy in days and nights, but having really nice places to visit. You would always go to the Eiffel tower, watching the sunset, half expecting for Satoru to wrap his arm around your waist but whenever you turned your head you’d always met with empty space. Whenever you came home exhausted, you always expected Satoru to be there with dinner ready and him greeting you with a welcome home kiss.

That’s why you came back. To be in his arms. To be able to kiss him. To be able to call him yours. Because you’d realise that your life was nothing if Gojo Satoru wasn’t in it.

The receptionist told you to go upstairs at floor 5 but as you were about to click the lift button, you heard someone running on the stairs. You turned to look who it was and your eyes locked with a pair of blue ones which were close to home. He just looked at you and slowly stepped towards you as you did the same.

When you were both closer to each other, he brought his hand up, touching your cheeks delicately as if making sure you were real.

Satoru couldn’t believe it. When the receptionist called him and said that someone named Y/N L/N was here to meet him, he left all his works and ran downstairs. And now that he’d seen you, he was mesmerised and shocked. Shocked because you were really here and mesmerised because you looked even more beautiful than before. He touched your cheeks delicately, making sure you were really here and not another one of his hallucinations. And then without another thought he took you into his arms and held you tight and closer to him, now promising himself to never let you go. All the feelings he still had for you, tripled. His heart rumbled in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Even after all this time, he was still so in love with you.

“No need to tell me where you were. Because I already know.” You were tearing up as you finally felt complete in his arms and realised how much you loved him.

“Don’t ever leave me like that again.” He said as he was starting to tear up too. He loved you so much and the thought of being apart once again was killing him.

“I won’t. Ever again. I promise.”

It didn’t take long for Satoru to tell you how he felt after you came back. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Every moment that he didn’t get to call you his, chipped his heart. Both Shoko and Suguru were growing tired of it, encouraging him to just say it because they were sure you felt the same. He tried to ignore them, not wanting to get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help but think about how amazing it would feel if you told him you loved him back.

You came over to Satoru’s for dinner that night, Suguru insisted that they all missed you too much to go out to a restaurant. After dinner and catching up with everyone, you and Satoru excused yourselves and walked out in the garden. His hands were in his pockets, unable to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time. He’s been practicing what to say to you since years and yet, he still felt unprepared.

You were walking silently beside him, taking in the silence and calmness of the life you’re living now. You no longer had to worry about anything, just the day to day necessities, and your feelings for Satoru. Subconsciously, you intertwined your fingers with his snuggling up to his side for some warmth.

He froze for a moment. This is it, he thought, this is the perfect moment. So before he lost his confidence, he spoke, “Y/N, I have something to tell you.”

“Yes, Toru?” you asked, rubbing your thumb over the top of his hand. “What is it?”

There it was. He missed it. He missed the way you called him ‘Toru’. And now finally hearing it from you made his heart skip many beats.

He held you in your place, stopping in the middle of a field of flowers. The moon illuminated one side of your face, showing off your perfect features. Satoru smiled, reaching over to caress your cheekbone. With tears in his eyes, he said, “I love you.”

You gasped softly, looking up at him, “What?”

“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” Satoru sighed, connecting his forehead with yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a breathy laugh, “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

You slowly brought your hand to his face and cupped his cheek as he melted in your touch. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was afraid of what you'd say. I didn't want to ruin our friendship and lose you. I just thought that maybe if you didn't love me like that, I'd still have you. Even if it's just as your best friend."

"Then why now?" you asked, you voice getting even quieter. He kissed the palm of your hand as he met your eyes.

"Because after all those years of crushing on you, all those months of not being able to see you or be in your arms, made me realise how much in love I was with you. All those six months, you consumed all of my thoughts, your laughter was all I could hear in my silent nights, your smile was all I could see everywhere I went. And not being able to tell you how much I loved you was killing me." He finished, tears flowing uncontrollably from his eyes.

You didn't know when your eyes started tearing up. All you knew was how much you loved him at this moment. Him confessing all his feelings for you, so vulnerably. It made you realise how much you just wanted to hold him and never let him go.

So you said, "I'm in love with you too, Satoru."

At first he thought his ears were playing tricks on him. You loved him back? His eyes shot open, pulling away from you as he stared at you in disbelief. “Y-you love me?”

"Yes, you idiot." You chuckled through your tears, pulling him closer. Your lips ghosted over his, causing him to shiver. "I've been in love with you for a really long time as well."

"I'm really an idiot, aren't I?" he said, laughing a little.

"Yes, you are. But you're my idiot."

And with that, he kissed you. All those years where he hid his feelings came pouring out in this one kiss. His hands cupped your cheeks, pulling your face closer to his like there was any more space between the two of you to close. Your arms looped around his neck, his one hand snaked down to your waist to steady you while one still remained on your cheek. He kissed you, pouring in all his regrets, mistakes, apprehensions, into his love, no longer wanting to pass up an opportunity to love you for the rest of his life.

And when he pulled back for air, he had the biggest smile on his face. "I'm the luckiest man on this earth." You pecked him again as you gave him your biggest grin.

On your way back home, you could feel it, you could hear it in the silence, you could see it with the lights out in the garden. It lingered between you two, suffocating you but it was the best feeling ever. Gojo Satoru is in love with you. You are in love.

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mxqdii · 7 months

Note

can you do matt x reader hcs for childhood bsfs to lovers??

headcannons - m.s x childhood bsf to lovers

pairings: matt sturniolo x reader

summary: headcannons

wanring(s): none!

not proofread

definitely had little kid moments like him proposing to you with a ring pop or something

looking back on it, you both never really knew how to bring it up because you were kids, did matt even remember it? he probably thinks it means nothing, it was years ago, right..?

wrong!! matt thinks about it everyday (his roman empire fr)

he also doesnt wanna bring it up, scared to ruin your friendship

mutual pining fr

you guys are best friends, sure, but sometimes you do things other best friends dont usually do

one thing led to another and you would start cuddling, as friends of course! then holding hands, as friends though..! then he'd start kissing your cheek and temple, as friends..?

slowly, the fine line between friends and more started to fade

and suddenly, you went from friends to a lot more, but it all felt normal because you've been doing this shit for years

the best thing about bsf to lovers with matt is all the "remember whens"

you guys could talk for hours about stupid shit you did as kids, and its perfect being with him because you already know everything about eachother

it was definitely an experience getting together though, you both avoided eachother for a few days because what if things went wrong?? this could ruin the friendship, and then the family dinners would be awkward and everything would go to shit (atleast thats what you both thought)

poor nick had to hear BOTH of you idiots rambling about each other (for hours)

nick eventually got so sick of it and snapped

"okay enough! you both have been ranting to me about this shit and you both obviously feel so same so just leave me alone and kiss or something!"

you and matt looked at eachother like 'oh shit' and ended up talking about things and kissing

so i guess yall owe it all to nick, (poor nick fr)

baby fever is huge with you too, you and matt have to babysit one of his little cousins one day and he absolutely dies seeing you talk to them

in conclusion, bsf to lovers with matt is a yes

TAGLIST

@opheliaofficial07 @stargirlv0id @strniolo @annaisabookworm @theperson-nextdoor @its-jennarose @thetriplets3 @gottamakemyhatersmad @luvsturniolo

#madispeaks!#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo headcannons #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fic #matt sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo #fluff #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x reader

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 8 months

Text

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre.

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp.

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?”

Or somethin’ along those lines.

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark.

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in.

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice.

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor.

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned.

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone.

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice.

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up.

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick.

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression.

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly.

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain.

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread.

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me.

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose.

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it.

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be.

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile.

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him.

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else.

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me.

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?”

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply.

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.”

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest.

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight.

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too.

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits.

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!”

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices.

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate.

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow.

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me.

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down.

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work.

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause.

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought.

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen; Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night.

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes.

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter.

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger.

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it.

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face.

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin.

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.”

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently.

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving.

Give me strength. Give me strength.

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe.

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly.

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact.

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive.

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation.

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?”

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace.

“Kiss me again, then.”

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth.

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second.

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid.

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own.

A switch in his brain must flick on.

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt.

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable.

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return.

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?”

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this.

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me.

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.”

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him.

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.”

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton.

I sigh, try not to squirm.

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering.

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips.

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back.

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world.

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine.

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra.

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut.

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip.

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead.

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl.

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point.

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.”

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager.

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter.

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.

“Lie back.”

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth.

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger.

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit. My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse.

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers.

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here.

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away.

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see.

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him.

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders.

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him.

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside.

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound.

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out.

“It’s okay,” I reply.

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver.

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what #the idler wheel TD

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ghouldtime · 5 days

Text

Alone. Truly Alone.

I know I’m not the only one who took one singular, inquisitive glance at the new Alone Operator skin for the upcoming season and went “Would”. I need need need content on him

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

If you had to rank all the terrible decisions you’ve made in your life, this would certainly be in the top ten. Breaking into an abandoned place was a bad idea on its own. Now multiply the magnitude of that by twenty, considering it was supposedly some kind of military facility at one point in time before it was left to rot. Then add in the factors that you were alone, without a map, and no cell service. Yeah, definitely not your smartest decision.

Dozens of garish yellow and red signs marked with a variety of warnings used everything under the sun (and law) telling you not to proceed decorated the corroding chain link fences that lined the property like it was going out of style. The crumbling facade of iron and concrete that made up the walls were made out to match. Everywhere you looked there was yet another warning, another thing telling you to turn back now. That should've been a sign, right?

Well, it wasn't the sign you were listening to. That one, the only sign you cared about right now, you had spotted stapled to a telephone pole as you were waiting to cross the street to go to your favorite grocery store. The crumpled, salmon pink flier hastily crammed in your backpack was your savior and your curse that brought you here.

The reason being a whole whopping $500. Something that would greatly benefit you and cause a whole less of a headache this month - and allow you a chance to breathe. It was a chance you couldn't pass up. And it's not like it was complicated. All you had to do was: get into the desolate fort, get proof of evidence of being inside there (photographic AND physical), and get out. Simple. Easy money. A task that even you could manage in maybe an hour or two, tops. You'd be an idiot not to do it.

Why anyone would pay that kind of money for you to go in there was beyond you. Quite frankly, you didn’t care. Money was money. Everyone had their reasons and if they were paying that much for a task that was that simple, then you weren't going to pry. All they had to do was pay up when the time was done, you'd never think about it again, and you'd be on your merry way a whole lot better off and a little bit richer.

Just to be certain that this wasn't a prank or someone trying to harass their ex with a pathetic attempt to get their number out there, you called the number scrawled hastily on the rain-soaked, faded poster. A harried Scottish accent confirmed without a doubt that this wasn't fake and was real as real could be. Truth be told, you didn’t understand much of what he said aside from “Aye”, which was close enough. He seemed to be talking at a million miles an hour in a near frantic tone. Surely, that was a red flag. But right now you were colorblind to everything except green.

It was enough motivation for you to throw some gear into a backpack and head out late in the night to the address of the once-important fort. The promise of cash and having it soon in your hand was plenty to get you moving.

Against your best instinct, against your gut screaming at you and telling you to turn back, and against all common sense - you went forwards anyways and decided today was the day when you’re going to pretend that you’re illiterate and those warnings meant nothing to you anyways.

Stale, stagnant air filtered through the respirator that hung snug on your face. If you breathed in a lungful of whatever was in here without it, it's likely you would’ve ended up with some new kind of respiratory disease previously unheard of - you're sure of it. Algae and lichen clung to some damp crevices, decorated with splotches of black mold the darkened the corners even more along the outskirts of the inky, lingering shadows.

Each cautious step forward onto the rubble and gravel covered ground ricocheted off the dilapidated walls of the corridor, fading into the abyss of black that stretched on far beyond what you could see. Though you doubted the protective eye ware helped you see better - it was probably more of a hindrance but you didn't want to take any more risks than necessary. The last thing you needed was a hospital bill.

The pathetic beam of warm, yellow light your flashlight provided scarcely illuminated the void that swallowed the hallway whole. What little you could see did nothing to motivate you forward. More disintegrating ceiling and rubble-buried winding halls greeted you with the same unwavering stillness as the rest of the place.

Crumbling, bleak, cold passages decorated with mildew, mold, and umber mystery stains you really didn’t want to think about alike stretched in a winding labyrinth you tried your best to navigate. Sparse nearly-disintegrated warning signs served as place markers to guide you through the otherwise directionless building, offering you the smallest sense of navigation and a sense of knowing where you were going.

One foot in front of the other, step by slow step, you made your way through the place untouched by light and people alike.

It shouldn't be that hard, you mused as you kept on walking. Whether it was just to reassure yourself with a steady mantra or confidence was left up to debate, but the fact remained: it was simple. Get an object that irrefutably proved you were here, take a picture - and that was it. That was all.

Now, that still left the question of what to take and what to get a picture of up for debate. Scouring the building hadn’t turned up anything worthwhile so far, except maybe some signage. But they were all too… generic. They were all something that could easily be faked and pulled from elsewhere. And a picture of them or another dimly lit, basic hallway wouldn’t do you any good. It would get you a door slammed in your face, a laugh if you’re lucky, and certainly no $500 which was the whole reason you were here in the first place.

Maybe you should’ve asked specifically what he wanted you to bring and a picture of….

Who are you kidding? You wouldn’t be able to understand a lick of what he said if you did. Maybe his accent was better in person, maybe he had told you in the hurried, almost anxious tone and you weren't remembering - but trying to talk to him again through the phone was a hopeless endeavor. Unless they were keeping a spare brain in here and translating software, you doubt you'd be able to even begin to try and understand the guy. All you could do was silently curse yourself for not asking, curse him for not being more coherent, and try your best to find something unique, snap a picture, and get out of there before you regretted stepping foot in this place even further.

With grumbled curse, knowing very well that you had to go further in the hopes that something actually substantial would greet you, you kept on going. There was no turning back now, no. You'd come too far. One more step forwards got you closer to that money and being out of here.

Yet lady luck wasn't making this easy, nor was she on your side today. A majority of doors you came across had been locked - barricaded, and certainly not something you could open. Their heavy, unyielding steel frames stood impassive, unmoving, and scarcely caring of your plight or any force used against them. It's almost like they stood there, mocking you silently for even trying. It was a waste of energy to even try with another one when the first twelve hadn't done anything more than groan slightly, giving the tiniest shudder before stilling in their frame.

Rounding what must’ve been the hundredth corner, you braced for yet another blank hallway and another unmovable door, but what greeted you was something different enough to cause you to halt in your tracks. An open door. A single, open door marked with a flickering, old bulb dangling above as if it were on its last legs, trying to stay alight. A wave of relief washed over you as you couldn’t help but to sprint forward, closing in on the hope that you could be done and out of here - and you’d have your money before you knew it! It was almost over. This aimless wandering with a stuffy mask and glasses to match was almost over.

Ignoring all common sense, you chased that feeling - quite literally. Caution was thrown to the wind as you darted into the room, your eyes flickered all over the first true, non-vacant room you’d found in here. Empty hospital beds with yellowed, stained linens haphazardly jumbled across their tops lined the walls. It wasn't a pretty sight but right now, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

Panning your flashlight around, the warm, washed-out beam glinted off the dusty metal IV stands and carts littered about. Cobwebs spidered the corners of the walls and the rest of the surfaces alike, though their inhabitants seem to have left long ago.

Scanning the room, a few seconds ticked by before you finally found just what you needed, dangling off the foot of the bed by a worn hook. There it was, your holy grail: a brown piece of hardboard and rusted metal alike holding down frayed, yellowed pages. It's the only time you can officially say that you've been happy to see a clipboard - much less, elated and overjoyed to see such a simple piece of office ware. You could practically kiss it and taste sweet, sweet money right about now.

Swiping it from its place, your eyes flitted over the blotched, inky text scrawled on it, silently praying that it would have just what you’d need. The smallest corner of a logo stood in the top right corner, while the rest of the patient information seemed to have been rubbed at or swiped away. And your heart nearly sank in short-lived disappointment. Water stains distorted and warped the paper but your saving grace came in the form of a date and the name of the complex, officially signed at the top of the paper.

The warm, giddy feeling that had been so fleeting earlier came back with a vengeance that lit up your heart and face alike. This was it! This was just what you needed. Placing it down, you fumbled with the camera clipped onto your belt, the tremble of excitement in your hands doing little to aid you. Snapping a picture of the clipboard with a quick click and a flash of light, you stuffed your saving grace into the weathered backpack you had donned.

Task one - done. Now to get a good picture of the place and you'd be done. One simple click, one move, and one terribly annoying walk through the forever expansive hallways, and you would be out of here and back in your comfy bed before you knew it. Maybe you'd even get to catch up on a single episode of your favorite show.

Stepping back into a corner where you could find a vantage point, you held onto that flickering flame of hope as you pointed your camera and flashlight alike in the same direction to snap a quick picture of the room. With a simple click and a flash of blinding light, the deed was done. You could finally be out of here.

Or so you thought.

A sparse glint caught your eye as the bright flash ebbed away, the shadows returning full force aside from the gleaming, round lights that turned towards you. Your heart skipped a beat as you froze, your breath hitching as a wave of fear sunk the beginning of its talons into you.

No, no. Not a glint, you realized with horror. Six. Six luminous, reflective lenses glowed in the dark as they turned to look right at you. Staring.

Your heart sank even further into your stomach, your blood running cold, as the corner went dark once again for a fraction of a second before all six glowing dots were back and all were looking right at you.

With a trembling hand, you kept your flashlight lowered. You don’t think you wanted to know what that was. No creature - no living being that big would have six eyes.

You took a step back.

Then another.

Another.

The ice-cold sensation of your blood coursing through your veins, your heart erratically beating against your chest harder and harder, kept you from screaming. A creak of the protest from the old hospital bed sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise too-still room as the thing stood and started moving towards you with footsteps that were all too quiet, all too soft for a thing of that caliber.

Whatever breath you had been holding escaped you as it lumbered out of the shadows. An unearthly, sickening gurgle spewed from its maw as if it were choking on its own saliva.

Even through the respirator, the scent of putrid rot and decay wafted from it as it drew closer and closer, your stomach tensed as you gagged, the bile threatened to rise from your stomach as the urge to puke took you by surprise. If you weren’t wearing the respirator, you’re sure you would have - and maybe you would have noticed it in the room sooner if you could've picked up the stench of death.

The urge to run, all instincts screaming at you, pleading and begging you to run for your life simply didn’t work as you stood rooted to the spot as it finally stepped into the trembling, watery beam of light that cut through the speckles of floating dust. A scream of horror caught in your throat as you finally stared up at the abomination's mangled form with wide eyes.

Three heads, all fused together in a webbing of crimson, sinewy membranes moved in sync. Six eyes - six, now unblinking, cloudy eyes settled on you. Despite the milky, glassy sheen to the eyes settled and sunken deep into the heads (or in the raw membranous flesh in the case of one eye on the head to its left) - it tracked every single movement and breath, focused on you with near predatory ease. Six arms hung loose by its side, with two of them being partially fused together in a sick amalgamation. Bits of pallid skin had long ago sloughed off, exposing muscle that had blackened with exposure but somehow not rotted away.

Skull masks and balaclavas covered most of their faces - and you supposed that was a good thing. If the distended, broken jaws of the heads were indication of how it would look underneath, you’re happy declining on seeing what lay below. Drool spilled onto the fabric, or some mystery liquid, bubbling up as it made yet another noise. The motion caused your have to fly up to your covered mouth, your heart and stomach alike retching.

Torn tactical gear adorned the twisted cerberus, blackened with fluids, almost as if it had once had a purpose - to protect. But your mind wasn't there, it was on its existence. The abomination, the chimera, the thing that shouldn’t exist and went against all aspects of nature stood in front of you unmoving for a moment until you took a single step back.

It took a step forward.

Ever so slowly, as if moving through molasses, it drew three scarred hands up, reaching for you.

That was all you needed to take off. Up and out through the hall where you came, your legs strained as you sprinted. Each footstep echoed louder and louder down the void of black and gray you came from, flooding out the sputtered groan from it but you didn’t care. Consequences be damned, you didn't care how loud you were or how much attention you drew. You were better off getting caught by a guard or hell even the police - at least they’d have guns.

Every inhale scorched your lungs, the fire of fatigue seared deep into every strand of your muscles as you kept on pushing, but you didn’t stop - you couldn’t. Not until you cleared the hallways, skirting through the piles of debris and around the same desolate corridors you had meandered through prior. Not until the crisp, chilled night air finally greeted you as the stars twinkled above, oblivious to the sheer horrors below.

Not until you finally jammed yourself through the cut hole in the chain link fence, any pain of the metal scraping at your skin dulled out by the adrenaline flowing through your veins, empowering each sprinting step forwards until you were far, far away and back in the safety of your car.

Note to self: Don’t ever trust fliers you find on telephone poles.

This guy better be ready as soon as the sun graced the land again to hand over those five Benjamins. Hopefully he likes his mornings started with pounding knocks to his door and a middle finger to the face.

જ⁀➴

The darkness echoed with the patter of fading footsteps as the mystery person sprinted away, completely aghast with a look of sheer primal fear painted on their limited, exposed features.

They didn’t see how his fingers flexed, hands still outstretched in the air, twitching once again at the loss of something warm, something human that he came so close to grasping.

They didn’t see how he stared at where they were, not moving from the spot he stood. Nor did they see his clouded, hazy eyes downturn as he dragged his form back to the bed with great reluctance.

Nor did they hear the drowned out, garbled words that took all his energy to choke out and force his broken jaws to move.

“Don’t…. go….”

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Thinking of maybe making this a series! Any feedback is welcome and appreciated! It's been a while since I've written so forgive any mistakes,,,,

Edit: part two has been posted!

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