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dream-a-little-bigger-x · 8 months

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Girls Can't Drive | Spencer Reid

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: talk of sexual assault, sexual harassment, rape and murder. ends in fluff :-)

Author's note: Loosely based off Girls Can't Drive from Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies, as well as the Season 6 Episode 8 of Brooklyn 99 "He Said She Said".

Words: 3,208

Working a case like this was always hard. But this time around, it seemed to be even tougher to get through for her. Five women had already fallen victim to a rapist. Five women murdered. All five women worked in the same company at one point or another, so it was only logical for the team to look into them.

“Reid, y/n, you’re gonna take the statements from the coworkers,” Hotch ordered when the team was being informed about the case in the briefing room. “Rossi, Kate and I will go to the M.E. Morgan, JJ, you’re to go to the latest crime scene. We’ll be working from here.”

Everyone nodded their agreement before leaving the briefing room and heading out to do their part of the job. Y/N had fallen quiet upon hearing the details of this case. Every case they worked was pretty gruesome, but none ever affected her in the same way this one did. Maybe it was the fact that these women were on their way home from work when they were raped and brutally murdered. Maybe it was the fact it was all happening in Washington D.C., where she herself lived.

Whatever the reason was, her sudden silence hadn’t gotten lost on Spencer, her boyfriend of two years.

“Hey, you doing okay?” he asked when they got in the car and drove to the company.

Y/N offered him a smile that all but convinced him. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired, I guess.”

Spencer had let it go, believing that if his girlfriend wanted to tell him what was bothering her, she would. Instead, he focused on the case. The two of them walked into the company’s building, curious to see what they were going to find out about who worked there.

They sat down with the manager, Tomas Ramos, first. Each taking turns, Spencer and y/n asked the man their questions about the victims and if he knew someone on his staff that could’ve done something like this.

“Oh, no,” the guy said, “There’s no one here that could’ve done that. No one here would ever hurt anyone. We’re a very professional company.”

Spencer and y/n thanked the man for his time and sat down with the next person. Tyler, the finance guy. When he was asked if one of his coworkers could do something like this, his words sounded a little too familiar. “Oh, no. There’s no one here that would do that. No one here would hurt anyone. We’re a very professional company.”

Neither one of the agents commented on it until every single one of the employees told them the same thing. Spencer and y/n exchanged glances, which was enough for the both of them to know they were thinking the same thing.

“I think we should talk to the manager again,” y/n suggested and Spencer agreed.

As y/n sat down on one of the chairs in front of his desk, Spencer placed his hands on the backrest. “You told your employees what to tell us,” Spencer pointed out.

Mr. Ramos furrowed his brows, though y/n noticed the twitch of his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re all just honest people who happen to share the same story. Maybe this is just your sign that you’re looking in the wrong place.” His eyes raked across y/n’s body from head to toe, halting for a split second at her decolletage before focusing on Spencer behind her.

“In most cases, when people’s stories are identical, it means they need everyone to get the story straight to hide something,” Spencer said matter-of-factly.

Tomas shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agents.”

Realizing they weren’t going to get anything else out of Mr. Ramos or any of his employees, Spencer and y/n left the company. There was something about this Mr. Ramos and the way he handled his company that stood out to the couple. They knew he wasn’t speaking the truth and that they were hiding something.

“Do you think it’s him?” Spencer asked when y/n drove them back to the BAU.

Y/N shrugged, sighing. “I don’t know. Every single one of those men was looking at me like I was a piece of meat and the handful of women that work there, looked too scared to say anything. It could literally be anyone working there.”

Together with the team, Spencer and y/n looked into it further. The more they looked, the less sure they were of their profile and theory. Either all of the men in that office were guilty or none of them were and they were looking in the wrong place.

“Y/N,” JJ caught her attention when she and Spencer were looking through the files. The thirty-something looked up at her blonde coworker. “There’s someone here that wants to talk to you. Uh, an employee of Mr. Ramos’.”

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed as she shot a quick glance at her boyfriend before getting up and following JJ into the family room. A woman, around her own age, sat waiting for her. She was nervous as she picked at the loose skin around her cuticles.

“Amanda?” JJ called out for the woman.

Amanda looked up at the agents, her green eyes wide and filled with fear as she shot up from the small couch. “Agent y/l/n,” she said and shook her hand politely.

Motioning for Amanda to sit down again, y/n took a seat as well. JJ offered her coworker a quick smile before shutting the door to the family room behind her as she left. This seemed like a conversation Amanda wanted to have with y/n alone.

“I know I already talked to you this morning,” Amanda started, hands shaking in her lap. “But I wasn’t entirely honest.”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly as she gave the woman in front of her an inquisitive look. “What do you mean?”

“Tomas told us what to say if there was ever a police investigation of all kinds. He’s…” she took a deep breath. “The office is a very toxic place, especially for women. The women that work there are basically just a token to show the world that Ramos Inc. is inclusive. If it wasn’t for the feminist movement, none of the women would work there.”

“Why do you work there?” Y/N wanted to know.

Shrugging, Amanda heaved in another deep breath. “I’m good at my job, it pays very decently and I love watching those men squirm whenever I fix something they couldn’t.” She let out a soft chuckle at that and y/n couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of pride at this confident woman. “The thing is though… Because I’m so good at my job, these men think I owe them for it or something. Every one of my female coworkers feels the same.”

A shiver went down y/n’s spine. She knew this story all too well.

“Has any of them ever been inappropriate with you?” y/n then asked, but Amanda simply scoffed.

“Which one of them hasn’t?” Y/N stared at Amanda for a moment. There could literally be a guy working at the firm she was working at that raped and murdered five women. “But Andrew is the one you should be looking at.” The words piqued y/n’s interest. “He almost…” Amanda swallowed her words, but y/n didn’t need anything else from her to know this Andrew guy was the one they should be looking at.

“Do you know why he’s still working at the firm?” she asked.

Amanda grimaced. “Because he’s Tomas’ little brother.”

With that information, y/n thanked Amanda and headed out to the briefing room where her coworkers were still working hard on the case. Her brain was going at a hundred miles an hour, trying to piece everything together. Of course it was Andrew Ramos. She and Spencer had talked to him before. He’d given her the creeps then, too. She should’ve felt it.

“It’s Andrew Ramos,” y/n informed her coworkers.

The team did a deep dive into Andrew’s life. Nothing they found could pinpoint him in the area at the time the murders happened. Everything had been seemingly sweeped under the rug, no doubt by his big brother. They worked for two days straight on trying to find evidence that Andrew Ramos did indeed rape and kill those women.

Y/N didn’t even go home while the others did. She needed to get this done. She needed to get this guy.

“Hey,” Spencer greeted when he walked into the breakroom where he found his girlfriend on the second morning in sweatpants and a BAU shirt she probably found at the lost and found. “What are you doing? You didn’t come home for two nights.”

Y/N sighed and looked up at him. She looked worse for wear. Her hair was messy, her makeup smudged underneath her eyes and she had exchanged her contacts for her glasses because they were drying out her eyes. “I need to get this guy, Spence. I won’t sleep until I do.”

Spencer looked at his girlfriend for a moment. There was something that had rendered her silent when they first took on the case, but he didn’t want to push it then. Though right now, he really had no other choice than to ask.

“Why is this case bugging you so much, y/n? You’ve never done this before,” he said whilst sitting down next to her on the couch.

“It’s just… Remember how I was a detective before I came to the BAU?” she asked and Spencer nodded in response. “My Captain back then, he was kind of my mentor. When I made my biggest arrest ever, he took me out to dinner to celebrate. I-I thought it was gonna be the whole team, you know? We all worked hard to arrest those guys. But no, it was just me. That night he-he tried to kiss me…” Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes that she couldn’t hold back. “I just… I threw my glass of Martini at him and ran out of the restaurant. I transferred to another precinct the next day…”

Spencer’s eyes glazed over as he grabbed his girlfriend’s hand in his. “I’m so sorry, angel.”

Shaking her head, y/n sniffled. “It’s the same for so many women. Literally every woman I know has been sexually harassed. For some it’s on the daily… It’s just so hard being a woman sometimes because you just… men just think they own you and that you owe them your life and your achievements. Everything we do is for the men, according to them. And I just… I hate how there’s this one guy in this one firm that can get away with five counts of rape and murder just because his big brother can pull some strings. If we as women say something about the sexual harassment we encounter every day, we ruin the guy’s life. But they’re literally out there, murdering women.”

With a sigh, Spencer wrapped his arms around y/n and held her against him for a hug. It only lasted a good half minute before he pulled back and got up, earning a confused glare from the woman.

“Where are you going?” she asked, wiping her tears away quickly.

“I’m going to get you a change of clothes and some coffee. After that, we’re gonna work together to solve this case. This guy is going to jail today, baby. I promise.” He sounded so determined, it put a smile to y/n’s face.

Spencer shot her a smile back before turning on his heel. “Hey, Spence.” He turned back to face her. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.” He looked at her for a second longer. “I’m also gonna get you a hairbrush, but you only have to use it if you want to use it.”

With a nod and a smile from his girlfriend, Spencer headed home to get everything he needed to get her back to her normal self. The fresh pair of clothes, the hairbrush and especially the coffee made her feel almost brand-new. Which helped a lot in solving the case.

Spencer and y/n eventually worked it out with the help of Penelope’s illegal sleuthing to pin the guy and get him locked up. It made the weight on y/n’s shoulders drop as she walked back into the BAU with Spencer. Never had she ever felt this drained after a case.

“You did a great job, y/n,” Emily congratulated her with a smile and a squeeze of the shoulder.

Y/N offered her coworker a tired smile. “Thanks, Em.”

“Why aren’t you happy about it?” JJ wanted to know, her brows furrowed in confusion.

Sighing, y/n shrugged. “I don’t know… It’s just one guy we managed to put away when there are so many other guys like that walking around…”

“It’s like that with every case, y/n,” Rossi reminded her. “You did great. One more guy you put away.”

A smile befell y/n’s lips as she listened to her colleagues, but before she could say anything, Spencer beat her to it. “Y/N’s just upset because the historically entrenched patriarchy has created a culture of victim-shaming that suppresses any power shift in our masculo-phallic system.”

Of all the facts he ever ranted about, y/n didn’t expect him to start ranting about a feminist topic. It was the first time he had ever even shown such interest in feminism. She couldn’t lie that it surprised her in a very good way that would become of use in the bedroom later that night.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I read some books about feminism,” he added with a tight-lipped smile.

“I love you,” y/n whispered. “But it still kinda sucks that people like Amanda still have to work there and that women are murdered and raped every day.”

“Look, this is a hard fight, but it’s an important one,” Emily reassured her. “It’s good that you rid the world of one more of those guys. Step by step, y/n.”

The woman nodded her head as she let the words sink in. She had done a good job. Even if it was just one of many guys, it still was one guy less. With that in mind, she headed into Hotch’s office for the debrief. It was short but ended on a sweet note, with Hotch telling her how good of a job she did, only further reassurance of what her other coworkers had already told her. After her debrief with Hotch, it was finally time to go home with Spencer. Something she had been looking forward to since they started their super deep-dive into Andrew Ramos’ life to get the proof they needed.

“Did you know that it’s two women who hold the highest IQ-scores?” Spencer asked her when they were lying in bed together, ready to sleep. He had been rambling off facts about feminism that he’d learned about when reading last night.

Y/N, who was laying on his chest, turned her head to look up at him. “Oh, so you don’t have the highest IQ in the world?”

“No,” he answered, “I’m glad it’s two women holding that title.”

Chuckling, y/n turned her head again and began circling patterns on his T-shirt-clad chest. “I’m glad I awakened the feminist in you.”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile and buried it in her hair to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Is it really that bad for you? You know, on the daily?”

A sigh rolled off y/n’s lips as she thought about it. “I can think of four instances that happened today alone,” she started. “When we went to get coffee this morning, the barista wished you a good day and he told me I had beautiful eyes before wishing me the same. Even when Andrew was being handcuffed, he was still eyeing me up as if trying to calculate how to make me his sixth victim. In the elevator this morning, Robert from the seventh floor stood behind me, a little too closely while there was plenty of space for him. And when we went to pay for gas earlier, the guy behind the till was so confused as to why I was paying for gas. When I told him it was because I was driving, he looked at me as though I was speaking a foreign language and he literally said “girls can’t drive”.”

Y/N was almost out of breath from summing up all the instances.

“Wow,” Spencer gasped. “I didn’t know it was that bad for you.”

An airy chuckle erupted from her throat. “Yeah, some days are better than others, but it’s always something. As young girls, we’re taught to behave, never be loud, always apologize. We’ve learned not to say anything about it because society taught us that ‘boys will be boys’. It’s exhausting, you know?”

“I don’t,” Spencer mumbled. “But I am willing to learn.”

At his words, y/n turned on her side and propped her head up on her hand, elbow resting just above Spencer’s shoulder. His golden-speckled eyes looked inquisitively into her y/e/c ones. “You’re amazing, you know that?” she asked and pecked his lips.

“Mmh, you’re amazing,” he argued before she kissed him again. Deeper and more sensual this time. “You never have to apologize to me, you know that?”

Y/N’s eyebrow raised. “Not even when I steal the last of Penelope’s homemade cookies?”

Her mention of the homemade cookies Penelope had given them a few days ago made Spencer’s eyes go wide. This was her confessing that she was the one who had eaten the last three cookies in the tin when they could’ve shared them. “You ate the last ones?!” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, I did…” she pouted, her bottom lip jutting out innocently.

“You devil woman!” he exclaimed before attacking her sides with his fingers, sending her into a fit of laughter at his tickles. “How dare you steal those delicious goods from me! We could’ve shared!”

Exclaims of ‘stop’ bounced off the walls, along with her laughter while she tried to pry his hands off her to stop his attack. When he finally did, y/n calmed down again and even faltered when, instead, he attacked her lips with his in a long kiss.

“I love you, y/n y/l/n,” he muttered when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers.

Smiling, y/n kissed his nose. “I love you, Spencer ‘The Feminist’ Reid.”

Spencer was always able to get her mind off the case, no matter how tough. In this instance, he’d been the buoys that kept her afloat, the rock that kept her steady. He’d been exactly what she needed him to be in a world that seemed to be against her and every other woman.

Thanks to him, she dared to be seen, she dared to be loud.

Because girls can drive.

Everything taglist: @calamitykaty @littlemissaddict @n0wornever @wanniiieeee @unnowhatthisistbh

Criminal Minds Taglist:

@boimlers-gonna-boim @samsbirks @tinaasthings @dysphoricsanity @love4lando @elenamoncada-ibarra @r-3dlips

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds

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restinslices · 4 months

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MK1 x Winter Soldier Reader Intros

Me not writing only about the Lin Kuei Bros? Who would've thought. Idk why I thought of this but here we are. For those not into Marvel the simplest way to explain TWS is he was in the Army in the 50s then he was injected with the super soldier serum and forced to become an assassin with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years. You're not a white guy named James “Bucky” Barnes, you just hold the title. Also you got a metal arm, it’ll make sense later-

Kung Lao: You’re a Winter Soldier?

Y/N: I am The Winter Soldier

Kung Lao: Ugh, more training?

Y/N: Do you expect to get better through sheer luck?

Kung Lao: I take it Liu Kang doesn’t allow assassins to be Earthrealm’s champion?

Y/N: Assassins and failures, such as yourself

Kung Lao: How do I become a Winter Soldier?

Y/N: You don’t

Raiden: It is an honor to be trained by you

Y/N: As is to train Earthrealm’s champion

Raiden: I can’t imagine going through what you have

Y/N: Good. You’ll save yourself nightmares

Y/N: Sometimes I worry I’m not a good person

Raiden: You are a good person through and through

Y/N: I wish I had lightning powers

Raiden: I wish I had your metal arm

(These rabid dogs behind him-)

Liu Kang: I hoped your life would be better this time

Y/N: Why hope when you had the power to change it and didn’t?

Y/N: You let my life go down this path?

Liu Kang: I cannot control everything

Y/N: You let me be a part of Earthrealm’s defenses, why? Pity?

Liu Kang: Because you are a capable warrior who deserves more in life

Liu Kang: Do you doubt my care for you?

Y/N: You expect me to still believe our friendship is real?

Y/N: I am not playing an assassin in your movie

Johnny: Aw, but you have tons of experience

Johnny: How much for the arm?

Y/N: Not for sale

(That debt kicking his ass)

Johnny: Your life could make an amazing movie

Y/N: You’ll become a real victim if I see it

Johnny: Over two dozen assassinations but a date with me would ruin you?

Y/N: If I had to pick between being a mindless assassin and dating you, I’d put my mask back on

Kenshi: Wanna trade predicaments?

Y/N: A blindfold looks much better on you

Kenshi: Have you ever fought a blind swordsman?

Y/N: Not sure it’d be fair to count it as a fight

Y/N: I too understand the need for a new life

Kenshi: Perhaps that is why we are such good friends

Kenshi: Planning on giving me a hand?

Y/N: I don’t think you’d see it coming

Y/N: And they call me The Winter Soldier

Bi-Han: Jokes will not help you win this fight

Bi-Han: You have not a shred of hope against the Lin Kuei’s Grandmaster

Y/N: Your ego is what’ll knock you down in the end

Bi-Han: You won’t have the element of surprise with me

Y/N: Oh Bi-Han, I’ll be the last thing you see before you die

Bi-Han: You alone won’t take the Lin Kuei down

Y/N: I’ve taken a whole country down in one night. Excuse me for not being scared

Kuai Liang: I am glad to have your support

Y/N: You always will

Y/N: Are you willing to kill Bi-Han if he does not back down?

Kuai Liang: I am not sure

Y/N: Liu Kang could’ve made all our lives better and chose not to

Kuai Liang: You have to believe in his judgment

Kuai Liang: Liu Kang is not your enemy

Y/N: He is certainly not our friend

Y/N: I’ve heard you’re a great fighter

Tomas: I’ve heard the same about you

Tomas: You look great for 106 years old

Y/N: God, you gotta stop hanging around Johnny

Tomas: Why still defend Earthrealm if you’re so angry?

Y/N: The same reason you do; the need to protect is bigger than anger

Tomas: Why’d I have to hit Madam Bo and not you?

Y/N: I’m left/right handed and that’s the metal one soooo…

"I'm gonna write angst soon" *proceeds to write dumb Marvel x Mortal Kombat shit* I could've looked for gifs when they clash but my tumblr is actually so glitchy, if I did that I'd Kate Marsh. Also disclaimer. I should be writing Liar pt 3 and I have some of it written but I'm fr not having fun with it. For whatever reason it's just not making me happy like Mortal Kombat is. And as a bitch who has bad depression and that shit gets alarmingly bad during this time of year, uhhh I don't wanna do something that's not making me happy. I'm not tryna go to another hospital so Imma put off writing it until I'm having fun. Who knows, maybe that'll be next week. But yeah, that's for the Shadow and Bone fans here. Also also a fanfic, oneshot, drabble, whatever the fuck about being with Liu Kang (or being friends) and thinking your relationship is fake because as your creator he must've forced it to happen (he didn't but ya know). Am I cooking 'cause I feel like I am.

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

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Red Earth & Pouring Rain

Remember what we found? No one can ever take that away. Something forever.

Summary: When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.

Or- that time Rhys fell in love with a stranger writing him letters.

Big thanks to Unhinged Bookclub for help with the moodboard and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant (which consisted mostly of me asking about swear words)

Part 1/2: I've Got Something Burning, Coursing Through These Cold Veins | Read on AO3

Dear Rhysand Campbell-

Today is my sixteenth birthday, which ought to be cause for celebration. I want to be happy about it, but I’m not and I can’t tell anyone. My sisters already think I’m terribly spoiled and my father probably would, too, if he ever cared enough to notice me. Ugh, that sounded spoiled, too. Maybe they’re right. I don’t suppose you understand.

Of course you don’t. You aren’t real. And I guess there’s no danger in telling you about this miserable birthday party (if you could even call it that) or worrying you’ll think I’m spoiled and a miserable brat (like my older sister accused me of) (don’t worry, I pulled out one of her extensions in front of Tomas Mandray which…in retrospect…maybe proved her right on the miserable brat front. It was pretty funny, though. Even Elain cracked a smile.).

It all started with my father. He woke up one morning a month ago, looked me straight in the face, and asked me how old I was. I didn’t know what to say (I might have forgotten), so Elain told him I would be sixteen in a month. And he said we should celebrate, which made me so happy. I rattled off a list of things I wanted to do, and I thought he was listening.

I should have known he wasn’t when he put Elain in charge of planning. It’s not that Elain is malicious, she’s just…prim. Perfect, really. The sort of daughter he actually wants, I think because she doesn’t make a lot of fuss and maintains his calendar for him like mother used to (she died when I was nine).

And I definitely should have known we were NOT going camping when Elain had me measured for a dress. She looked so apologetic and I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings when I know she’s trying really hard to fill the gap mom left when it comes to me, even if it makes her spineless when it comes to dad. And I could have asked Nesta to ruin it, but I guess I’m a little spineless, too.

So by the time the day arrived, it’s this huge party for all of dads friends, one of whom is running for parliament and needs money. And I look so very stupid in a floor length ball gown and—I am not joking—a jeweled tiara while all these old men in their fifties whore themselves out for cash. There was a cake (five tiers and chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, at least), there was singing, and of course the aforementioned incident in which several of Nesta’s extensions were pulled from her head unceremoniously.

Some leering prick told me I was a woman now. Well, he said it to my breasts, not really me. What is it about men that makes them think that’s a normal thing to do? Am I supposed to be flattered? Elain whisked me away, a smile plastered on her face and when I asked her how she stands it, she only laughed and said, “Oh Feyre.” Like I was the silliest person in the world.

She looked like a princess, and I don’t envy her for it. Every man our father is friends with is trying to trick or trap her into marriage. I think she could be a princess like Kate Middleton if she had the interest.

Anyway.

Father made some grand speech right before the cake cutting, where he talked about peace and, for some unknown reason, Brexit. He also thanked God for our monarchs, which, I didn’t realize he was that religious but I guess for this crowd, he is.

You know what he didn’t do? Say thank you for his daughters? Imagine, blessing Charles but not the daughters who enrich his life. Nesta was gripping a steak knife so tightly I thought she might actually stab him and Elain’s eyes were glassy and sad, even with that plastered smile.

And despite how Nesta thinks I’m a miserable brat, she DID stand up and demand everyone sing me happy birthday. And Elain led everyone in an off-key rendition of the song, which was nice. Serving staff cut the cake, and there were, of course, no candles.

Happy sixteenth birthday to me.

And at the very end of the night, some lord (I think—honestly, I wasn’t even listening at that point, I was just thinking about getting those miserable shoes off my feet) told father that his son was single, and also sixteen. I could see father's interest peak and I can’t be like Elain. She’s always letting those awful boys take her on dates, and they always make her cry. So I blurted out,

“Actually, I have a boyfriend.”

Father asked who, but already he didn’t care. So I said the most made-up, Scottish name I could think of—Rhysand Campbell. Maybe you do exist, somewhere. Actually, there are probably hundreds of you, though who's counting? What’s important is that YOU, Rhysand Campbell, are not real and this address is to a post office in the middle of nowhere Scotland. I expect it’ll be shredded. Perhaps the mail worker will read it and have a laugh at my expense.

Still.

Thank you for saving me tonight.

All the best,

Feyre Archeron

Dearest Rhysand–

I didn’t think I’d write to you again, but I think I have to confess my lies, and you are the only person I know who won’t judge me.

Of course, you’re fake, but in my mind you’ve become a little real. Everyone wants to know how we met, and if you’re curious why they would ever want to know that, well, you are very convenient. You see, most girls my age want to date. And in some ways, so do I. There are some very handsome boys, nice boys, even.

But none of my family approves of. If they found out I slept with Isaac Hale, I think they might actually kill me. He’s a fishmonger, which is a very real job thank you very much. It only sounds fake and like something from an eighteenth century book because of the word monger. Which made me laugh the first time I heard it. Anyway, I thought maybe it was better to just get things over with, and he really was so nice that I just…kept going back.

He has a girlfriend now, and I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings a little. Even though I know I could never bring him home. Nesta would sneer and call him smelly and Elain…well, Elain would probably be nice but her eyes would be pitying. So maybe it’s for the best.

I’m sidetracked again.

So Isaac has his girlfriend from Milton Keynes, which I am absolutely NOT jealous of, even if her eyebrows made her look insane. I admit, I was brooding which Elain says is going to give me frown lines around my mouth. And of course father took that moment to stroll in and say he knew just the thing that would cheer me up.

That thing??? A MAN. In what world has a man’s presence ever made a woman feel better? Even Elain turned her head to roll her eyes, thinking no one saw. Nesta was in a mood, though I didn’t ask why—I don’t care, so long as she keeps yelling at father on my behalf. She told him seventeen was too young to worry about marriage, which made him remember that Elain is nineteen and Nesta is twenty-one, so I suppose we’ll all be dealing with that fall out later.

But the Lord of Rose-something-or-other has a son. Tamlin? Timothy? I was not paying attention. What I did say, was, “You know I’m dating someone already. I’ve told you all about him.”

I probably could have gotten away with that if Nesta and Elain weren’t in the room. We talk more frequently and they’ve never once heard me say your name. Of course Elain was fascinated, and Nesta was suspicious. Father is far easier to gaslight.

“Ah, yes,” he said, that liar. “Remind me, who’s son is he?”

And I said, of course, that you were no one’s son, but just a regular Scottish man.

Nesta, that traitor, narrowed her eyes. He can always tell when I’m lying. “Oh? How did you meet this London-living Scotsman?”

Murdering your sisters is a crime. I’m saying that as a reminder to myself, because if she invented a fake suitor to get father to leave her alone, I would have gone along with it. So I said we met in a tea shop. I made you charming. I said you saw me from across the room and couldn’t help yourself. In this fictional meet-cute, you were enamored at first sight, and I, of course, believed you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen (I did not mention that because I was talking to my father).

That was important, because NO ONE thinks that about me. They think it about Elain, who is so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, and they might think it about Nesta if her eyes didn’t promise violence all the time. But not me. And I have mostly made my peace with it, but it would be nice if there was one man who didn’t prefer my sisters to me.

Even if I have to make him up in order for that to happen.

He told me to invite you to dinner. Please, oh please, Rhysand Campbell, will you do me the honor of dining with my dysfunctional family? Father will want to know all about your father, and if your family could be of use to him and his shipping business. And Nesta will hate you on principle alone, while Elain won’t be able to help but like you.

Of course I like you, if only because you are not real.

It’s a shame you can’t make it because you’re heading back to Edinburgh to take care of a sick relative. You’re so compassionate, so selfless. This is why I like you.

Thank you (again) for rescuing me. Too bad you’re just me, rescuing myself,

Your beloved,

Ferye Archeron

Darling Rhysand,

Last names are formality by now, don’t you think? I’ve officially taken things too far. The nice thing about being overlooked is everyone kind of forgets what you’re doing (or that you exist), which means you and I have been happily dating for the last two and a half years. If I go out with someone else, no one questions it because they assume I’m seeing you.

And no one cares that they haven’t met you, because you’re some nobody they assume I’ll eventually tire of. Which would be all well and good if I hadn’t blurted out, in front of god and EVERYONE, that you asked me to marry you. Let me set the scene:

I panicked.

Okay, I guess I didn’t need to set much at all. It was another party and as you can guess, I was in another stupid dress. Have you ever seen Gone With the Wind? You know those kinds of dresses? That’s how I feel, no matter how sleek and lovely the dress actually is. And I know I look perfectly fine in them, but I feel out of sorts. Like a doll, like someone who LIKES when men stare down my dress despite their wife right beside them, and tell me I’m beautiful.

They never say that when they’re looking at my face.

Anyway, do you remember Tamlin? Well, he’s a baron and his father and an MP, despite having so much money he doesn’t need to work (I suspect he just misses when the nobility could boss around the english populace), and he is quite taken with me. Rhys (can I call you Rhys? I feel like since you proposed I could probably call you that), he’s actually really handsome, too. The first time I saw him, I almost considered breaking things off with you. No hard feelings, of course, it’s just…you’re not real.

But he’s duller than dry paint. BEIGE dry paint. We have nothing to talk about, and believe me, I’ve tried. I thought if I could get him to talk to me for even thirty minutes, we could get naked.

But it’s like pulling my own teeth, dragging answers out of this man.

And, between you and me, he once told me “your hair looks clean” as a compliment. He couldn’t even lie and say I was pretty? So you and I continue our romance, implausible as it is. Tamlin’s father was saying how handsome we’d be, and Tamlin jumped in to ask me on a very public date and I am a coward, I think.

Because I said, “Rhysand proposed.”

And Nesta burst out laughing, the bint. It was Elain, eyes brimming with hope and pleasure—she so badly wants to see one of us do whatever we like, father be damned—who asked to see the ring.

Of which there isn’t one. So I’ve made you poor, I’m so sorry. I lied and said you didn’t have one, because you were working toward affording something nice and of course I don’t care about it (because I don’t). Father demanded to meet you and Tamlin was humiliated (a silver lining to this whole affair, truly).

Any reasonable person would have just confessed the whole plot right then and there. But I am not reasonable, my darling fiance. I am, I think, a little crazy because I slipped out the next morning and purchased a ring myself from Boodles, and since I bought it, it was perfect. Nothing terribly fussy—a sapphire cut in the shape of a diamond, with little diamonds haloed overtop, like falling stars. Set on a delicate silver band, it really is quite lovely.

I showed father, who was rather impressed with it. I lied and said it had belonged to your mother, who was so overjoyed at the thought of getting a daughter that she solved your ring dilemma on the spot.

It doesn’t fix the problem of everyone wanting to meet you, of course.

Our engagement is going to be short lived, I think—just as soon as I can figure out what to do next. If I’m not careful, I’ll be saying I eloped and then what?

What then, indeed.

Yours, faithfully,

Ferye

Rhys,

Well.

It’s officially over. Why am I so sad? You were never anything more than a figment of my imagination, and yet telling my family you had ended things drew real tears from me. Elain comforted me, and Nesta called you a self-serving asshole, which is her way of assuring me she loves me. Father, of course, just barely remembered you existed despite the ring I’ve been wearing for a full year. I tucked it in a box as a token of how far I’m willing to commit to a lie (and because it was pretty expensive, and I don’t think I can return it).

Even though you’re fake, I didn’t have the heart to make you an asshole. I said your mother had become gravely ill and you had to care for her. That it was with your deepest regrets you ended things—that you thought I deserved someone who could be in London fully, and you would always regret me.

Nesta called it “typical male bullshit,” so I suppose she believes me now. Or she’s willing to pretend, given how sad I am. I’m mostly sad that I think I should probably stop writing to you. I’m twenty, now, and I think it’s time to stop indulging in my fantasies and be real. I’m nearly finished with school, and I should devote more time to paintings.

And besides, Elain is practically engaged, which has taken the pressure of marriage off Nesta and I, for now. Lord Graysen Nolan. How I wish you were real, because you would think he was a total twat, too. Nesta begrudgingly tolerates him because Elain is so head over heels, but he is awful. A scourge, a plague upon mankind and CERTAINLY upon my beautiful sister. He’s going to dump her in some ancient country estate, fill her with babies, and crush her into dirt and she can’t even see it.

He is handsome and charming, though, and he has my sister wrapped around his finger. I think it’s because he doesn’t think she’s beautiful—though, I think he says so in his effort to break her down. She is so used to everyone finding her impossibly lovely that the first man who insults her is worthy of her heart.

I’m rambling again. Anyway, this is my official break-up, fake boyfriend slash fiance. I have loved you, though you never existed. You were the perfect man (because you were fake), and I’m not sure how any others will compare. Maybe I’ll try boring Tamlin again.

What’s funny is that we could have been together, if you’d been actually real. Some dead uncle gifted my sisters and I three castles—one apiece—and mine is in the Scottish highlands. Isn’t that wild? He was my mothers uncle, so technically an uncle twice removed? I’m not sure how that works, honestly. But in his will, he left us each a castle in need of repair to do with as we like. Elain has dreams of turning hers (of course it’s located in the English countryside) into a charming bed and breakfast while Nesta wants to live in it as, and this is a direct quote, “the local bog witch all the children are afraid of.”

As for me, well…I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. I intend to go visit at the end of the month with my paints to see if inspiration might strike. I admit, I’m curious about a real life castle—maybe I will start a farm and remove myself from society instead. Everyone will ask (no one would, because that would require remembering I exist, but lets pretend they would), “What ever happened to Feyre Archeron?”

And my father would be forced to tell them I own a multitude of cows. All of which are named—and perhaps even treated like my children. Who can say? I am not sure if I’m cut out for livestock, or farming or even castle living. Maybe I’ll make it a museum or something else that requires little effort on my part.

The caveat seems to be fixing it up. I can do that, I suppose.

This whole letter is rambling. It is supposed to be me telling you goodbye, and putting this whole messy affair behind me. Thank you for being my only friend, which I recognize is pathetic. I hope the postal worker who has been reading these takes pity on my plight, however pathetic it was.

I will think of you fondly.

Yours, forever,

Feyre

Feyre wiped her nose on the back of her hand, breathing rather hard for someone who was in decently good shape. Six months since she’d moved to the highlands, thinking replacing the inner workings of a centuries old castle would be easy. Replace the plumbing and the floors, rework the electric, and fix the broken glass and she’d be done.

If only. Every day there was some new, horrible discovery. Bats in the attic and rodents in the cellar. A crumbling foundation that had to be nearly rebuilt. A leaking roof that flooded water into the great hall, which then ruined all the flooring Feyre had installed, causing it to be ripped up and replaced again.

It cost a small fortune before the sprawling structure was decent enough to sleep in, let alone live in. And though she had her uncles inheritance to go along with fixing the god forsaken castle. Of course, that money was only for castle repair, and was just barely enough. She’d used her fathers money, too, a paltry sum given just how much of it he had to give away when it was for one of his friends or some do-nothing politician looking to cut taxes in a way that personally benefited her father.

Feyre also considered she was far luckier than Elain, who’s castle came with a rather surly occupant that swore he also owned the castle—and after a little digging through legal records, was found to be correct. Feyre would have lost it if she had to compromise at all.

Except, now she had a nearly finished castle she had no idea what to do with. As it turned out, Feyre did not have the aptitude for farming like she’d hoped, and rather missed living in the city—though, she didn’t miss London. She missed people, and things to do, but not London itself.

There were enough rooms to turn it into a hotel, like Elain was considering. Feyre also thought it made a rather nice venue for people looking to host events or get married. The view of the Scottish highlands was breathtaking, and the castle itself was really nice. Stone on the outside, mostly modern on the inside. Full, working plumbing so long as no one shoved too much toilet paper into the drains, claw baths, and big, four poster beds in circular rooms overlooking the hillside. There was a full, working kitchen Ferye had never used, a ballroom, a grand hall, dungeons—anything a person might want, if she could only figure out how to market it.

It was just a passing idea. For now, Feyre was living in it with a small, paid staff to keep herself fed and the bats from sneaking back in.

It was pure privilege to spend her days painting, and yet Feyre felt like she’d earned it. Without her father and his obnoxious social circle breathing down her neck, she could run wild like she’d always wanted to. She had a little hammock in the courtyard she frequently fell asleep in, a barbeque she’d spent an exorbitant amount on only to use twice, and was even considering digging out a pool. Why not? Who could stop her?

No one.

She’d have to go back eventually—home, that was. Her father’s calls were becoming more frequent and becoming more annoyed. All three of his daughters had just vanished, leaving him to manage his own life for once. Who was he going to build life-long alliances with if he couldn’t move Feyre and Nesta around like pawns.

Elain was all but sold to the Nolans, if the ugly engagement ring Graysen had given Elain was any indication. Feyre supposed she’d have to come home for that tragedy. Sometimes Feyre wondered if Elain wasn’t dragging out the business with her castle in an attempt to avoid wedding planning.

Maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Feyre woke that warm, summer morning like she did every day. Breakfast was waiting in the small dining room on the main floor—a simple fare of sausage, beans, and toast. She dressed, braided her hair in a long, french tail, and gathered her art supplies, intending to make her way to the furthest point on the grounds.

Outside the heavy, rounded doors lay a neat stone path meant to feel old, though it was very modern. She’d watched the workers lay it herself. And standing at the very end of it, dressed in a black shirt and a blue and green plaid kilt, was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His dark, blue black hair ruffled in the wind, while eyes so blue they seemed nearly violet, stared openly at her.

She saw plenty of Scotsmen, given she was in Scotland. And yet there was something about this man, with his toned shins clad in high, black socks and his tall, powerful body, that gave her pause. She could see the hint of ink just above his knees and the curve of his neck, and when Feyre looked back to his face, his mouth was curved into a sensual smile.

“Feyre Archeron?” he asked with a rich, dark accent.

Feyre cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s she—I ah—I mean, that’s me.”

His smile widened. “Aye, ye are, aren’t ye?”

She blinked. “Can I help you with something, Mr…?”

He chuckled, placing a broad hand against his muscular chest. “Ma apologies. I’m Rhysand Campbell.”

A soft scream escaped Feyre’s lips. “Liar.”

He took a step toward her, reaching into the leather sporran hanging from his waist. Feyre couldn’t breathe, watching in horror as he pulled a stack of letters out and offered them to her.

She didn’t take them, shaking her head back and forth. “Prove it.”

He was still grinning, reaching for his wallet. Feyre’s hands shook when he pulled out a license, proving he was exactly who he said he was.

“How…?”

“Did ye think there was no one in all of Dornoch with the name Campbell? It’s quite common a last name.”

Feyre’s heart was mere seconds from jumping out of her chest.

“It was luck I happened to be named Rhysand.”

“Luck,” she repeated, looking skyward. “All those years and you never thought to write back/”

He merely shrugged, taking back his license from her shaking fingers. “At first? It was charming. I figured ye’d stop eventually. Ye wrote a lot of things.”

“Oh, I get it,” Ferye said stiffly. Prick.

“I’m sure ye don’t,” he replied with that insufferable smile.

“No, I do. You got my letters, figured out who my father was, and now you’re here for money. Is that it, Mr. Campbell?”

“Not quite,” he replied, coming closer still.

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Where’s tae ring, darling?” he all but purred. Ice slithered through Feyre’s veins, her eyes landing back on those letters. She’d spent three years writing to him, pouring out her secrets, venting about her family…and telling him all about their nonexistent romance. At best, Ferye had imagined an elderly postal woman reading those letters with a mixture of pity and amusement before tossing them. Never, in her wildest dreams, did she imagine that an actual man was reading what she wrote.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” he pressed, those eyes flashing with delight. “Sentimental, lass.”

Feyre shook her head again. “No. Absolutely not. Send father those letters—”

“And Nesta? Or Elain?” he pressed, preventing Feyre from turning on her heel and leaving him standing in the garden looking foolish. “What about them, hm? What do ye think they’d think of yer scathing assessment of them?”

Feyre exhaled. “What is it that you want? A sham engagement?”

“Oh, a wee bit more than that. I’ve come to claim my wife.”

“You don’t even know me,” Feyre protested, wondering if she ought to just call the police. He was blackmailing her—into marriage, for a purpose she couldn’t ascertain.

“We’re in love,” he said, some of his smile fading just a little.

“So I’m supposed to, what, exactly? Call up my father and tell him—”

“The engagement is back on,” he interrupted, closer still. She could smell him, then—like citrus and the sea, washing over her with the warm morning breeze. Rhysand blotted out the sun with his large body, peering down at her with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. “And we’re in love.”

“Lies.”

“Ye should be verra familiar with that, darling,” he replied, an edge to his voice.

Feyre ran a hand down her face. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “Who could say?”

Prick prick prick!

“A marriage built upon the foundation of blackmail. You are too charming, Mr. Campbell.”

“Just as ye always imagined,” he replied with a wicked grin. “Now. Are ye going to invite me in? Or do I have to beg?”

“Why not?” Feyre grumbled, eyeing those letters. Rhysand caught her, offering them up again.

“Take them. It’s not like I didnae make copies.”

Still, Feyre snatched them from him all the same, holding them close to her chest. She’d hoped she might undo this mess simply by throwing them away and thus, removing his leverage. In truth, were Rhysand ever to show her father her letters, it would merely force him to pay attention to her. Elain and Nesta would forgive her, with time.

But the idea of her father knowing just how much she loathed him, all while craving his validation and approval, was too much for her pride to handle. It was enough to make her think that, perhaps, this wasn’t such an awful idea. If she could set some hard rules, having a ne’er-do-well for a husband kept her from ever having to get married to someone awful.

Like Tamlin, who still sent the occasional too-formal text inquiring after her help.

And this man was hot. Surely he knew it, too, if that wide smile and the way he kept running his hand down his chest was any indication. How long could he tolerate her? How long before he realized his new wife had no intention of sleeping with him, of showing him any affection?

He couldn’t blackmail her into sex—even Feyre had her limits and had to assume he did too.

Or hope, anyway. The bar was in hell, even for a man who’d shown up on her doorstep and declared his intention to marry her.

She forced a smile on her face. “Right this way, Lord Campbell.”

His smile vanished. “I preferred when ye were calling me Rhys. All my friends do. My wife should, too.”

“I’m not your wife yet,” Feyre reminded him. “My sisters are going to be so thrilled. Elain will want to throw an engagement party, and father—”

“Elope,” he said, stepping through the threshold with big, wide eyes. “I’m not going to London for a wedding.”

“Your wife is from London,” Feyre reminded him through gritted teeth. “You’ll have to visit them eventually.”

“Why? Invite them here. Surely there’s space.”

Feyre whirled on her heel, smacking straight into the hard plain of his chest. Rhysand reached for her arms, steadying her with a soft chuckle. “Careful, lass.”

“Let me get this straight. You will make no concessions in this sham marriage? Because, despite what you’ve imagined, blackmailing is a crime and my father has a lot of money.”

“Do ye want to go back to London?” he asked patiently, one perfectly groomed brow arched. As if he already knew the answer to that. As if he knew Feyre would have done anything to stay exactly where she was—far from London, far from her father and his circle of friends. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, hating how smug he looked.

“It will be an actual wedding. And you will invite yer family—”

“I have none,” he interrupted, a shadow crossing his handsome expression. Feyre faltered.

“Friends?”

A soft smile. “Aye. Friends I do have.”

“Okay. Then friends. And you will keep your hands to yourself the entire time. Separate beds. Separate lives.”

He clenched his jaw for a moment before nodding. “Aye. I can do that. Any other demands ye have?”

“Once we’re married, I want you to burn those letters,” Feyre said, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable. “I’ll—marriages are not so easily undone.”

“And how do I know ye won’t back out tae moment they’re gone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

She considered pleading with him. Was it not enough, she wanted to ask, to make her go through with this? That he knew things about her she’d never wanted anyone to know? He couldn’t let her forget it? Feyre took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. Not in front of him.

“Very well,” she said, trying her hardest to channel Nesta’s icy disdain. “Let me just—”

She turned, and he caught her by the arm, spinning her around. “Give me a reason to trust ye, lass, and I’ll destroy them.”

“And will you be giving me a reason to trust you?” she asked, wrenching her arm from his grasp.

“I could have gone straight to ye father. Shown him what ye did, demanded he pay me to keep quiet. I came to ye, instead. I don’t want yer money, Feyre. Just…”

“My home,” she finished with a sigh.

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “A castle that belongs to Scottish blood, not the English.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she snapped.

“Tae only way,” he murmured, and despite the softness of his tone, it was clear he didn’t care for disagreement. Feyre dug the heel of her hand into her eyes and sighed loudly.

“Call him,” Rhys said, nodding toward her shorts and the phone outline in the tight fabric. “Tell him the good news.”

“He will never accept you as a son.”

Rhys only shrugged. “As long as his daughter loves me.”

“She doesn’t,” Feyre snapped, but it didn’t matter. She pulled out her phone and dialed.

Took a breath. And then.

“Dad? It’s me, Feyre.”

-*-

Living with Rhysand was a mixture of insufferable and tolerable in equal measure. The castle was sprawling, big enough that for the first day, she didn’t see him at all. She’d instructed the staff to serve him and slipped that ring back on her finger in order to keep up appearances. Absurd, given any truly happy couple reuniting might have spent that first night locked in bed together, and Feyre had very much shut her bedroom door with the letters Rhysand had given and begun to pour through them.

They were worse than she imagined. Not only had she complained about her family, she’d divulged personal secrets, told him about her hopes, her dreams. She’d sent him sketches, she’d told him about the people in her fathers social circle, along with all the most embarrassing and hilarious gossip. Things that Rhysand could have sent to a trash magazine and humiliated half of London with.

She’d treated those letters like a diary, never thinking there was a real man on the other end. Feyre couldn’t sleep that first night.

Or the second.

She did sleep the third, but only because Elain had promised to come down that weekend, delighted to meet the man she’d heard so much about. Nesta had sent back only three words.

Are you sure?

If Nesta came, she’d see straight through Feyre, so Feyre supposed she ought to be grateful Nesta was embroiled in some kind of property dispute with her castle and a local reenactor who took to staging battles of Scottish victory over the English on her front lawn with loud enthusiasm. Feyre suspected Elain was rather happy to escape for a bit, and might soften Rhysand ever so slightly.

And maybe if he realized there were more interesting Archerons, he might take to courting Elain instead of insisting with the sham wedding. Not that Elain would ever agree to it, but…men had always gravitated toward her. Feyre thought Rhysand simply wouldn’t be able to help himself.

On the fourth day, Feyre slipped back through the castle, lugging her art supplies in a canvas bag with her. She expected the grounds to be empty, that Rhysand would be inside lording about her staff like some kind of king.

She heard the sound of wood splitting in the courtyard before she saw him.

Shirtless, in that kilt and the same black socks, rolled halfway down his shins from sweat and exertion. He’d found an ax and with a mighty swing of his powerful biceps, brought it screaming onto a block of wood.

Feyre couldn’t take her eyes off the slick, taut muscles of his stomach, his back, tattooed in dark whorls of ink. Rhysand seemed far too pretty to do any sort of manual labor, which brought Feyre back to the present.

Though, he’d absolutely caught her ogling him. He halted, pushing one booted foot up onto the heavy stump he was using to split wood while using the hem of his kilt to wipe at his forehead. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Didn’t he know she paid someone to bring in firewood? Besides, there was heating the castle—she’d also paid for that.

“Chopping wood,” he replied, his eyes sliding to the neat stack at his feet. His tone was polite, though perhaps annoyed. As if he really wanted to say, what does it look like I’m doing?

“I pay someone to do that.”

“Of course ye do, lass,” he said with relish. “I don’t see why—I am more than capable of helping.”

Feyre hesitated. “You want to help?”

“Aye.” He frowned. “What did ye think I was gonna do? Sit around waving my hands like some kind of fancy lord?”

“Yes, actually—that’s exactly what I thought.”

“I already told ye. I don’t want yer money.”

Yes, he had said this, hadn’t he? Feyre sniffed. “Fine. You want chores? There are bats in the attic again.”

He offered her a handsome smile. Coupled with the bright sunshine and his warm, brown skin, Feyre’s knees wobbled a little. Why couldn’t he look disgusting? Her traitor body had not gotten the message that they hated him.

“I can do that,” he said. “And anything else ye have for me.”

“I’ll make a list,” she said tartly.

But later, when Feyre was alone with nothing but her thoughts and her canvas, all she could think about was Rhysand, midswing over that block of wood. She thought of the tight expression on his face and the controlled movements of his body.

And even though she hated herself for it, she reached for a piece of charcoal.

And began to sketch.

-*-

Elain arrived at the end of the first week of Rhysand’s arrival. True to word, Rhysand had done every chore Feyre had left for him without complaint. He’d cleared out the bats and fixed several burnt light bulbs, digging out a ladder from god only knew where. And when he ran out of things to do, he turned his attention to the dilapidated stables Feyre had never bothered with. In truth, she’d always meant to tear them down.

It seemed Rhysand meant to fix them up.

He was out there when Elain swanned in, tan from a summer outdoors in the English countryside. She grinned the moment she saw Feyre, throwing her arms around her sister's neck.

“It’s so good to see you,” Elain said, squeezing tight enough to make Feyre’s ribs ache. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? How are you holding up?” Feyre asked, pulling away to search her sister's expression. A faint blush bloomed over Elain’s cheeks.

“Well—I’m, well, I’m perfectly lovely, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh?” Feyre asked.

Elain held up her hand, wiggling bare fingers while Feyre just stared. “You got your nails done?”

“You’re so terribly observant. I’ve called off my engagement—just in time for you to be married. I’ve come to see if you want any of the things we put deposits on, so they don’t go to waste.”

“You—what?” Feyre gaped, realizing only then Elain was trying to show her a hand without an engagement ring. “What happened?”

Elain only shrugged, though more pink crept up her neck. “It wasn’t right. I was…I was deluding myself, I think. It doesn’t matter, because I know you hated him, so you don’t have to pretend. I’ve brought pictures so you can see everything, and it would be no trouble to have it all brought here for you. I know how much you hate planning,” Elain added brightly. “I only wish I could be more helpful.”

“This is already too helpful,” Feyre said, pulling her sister through the open hall toward the spiraling stairs that led both to the left and the right. Elain drank it all in as the skirt of her buttery yellow sundress swished around her legs. She looked every inch a princess, and it took no effort at all to imagine her walking these halls four hundred years before while poets and bards sang songs about her beauty.

“Are you going to introduce me to your husband?” she asked, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. Nesta used to swear you made him up and I told her you’d never do such a thing. It’s nice to prove her wrong sometimes.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed. “He’s working on the stables. I’ll take you to him.”

This would be the moment of truth. Rhysand would see her and realize his mistake, just as all men did. He wouldn’t be able to look away—and Elain seemed radiant that morning, glowing like the midafternoon sun beating overhead. Her golden blonde hair was perfectly curled, a cascade over her slim shoulders while a set of pearls graced her ears. She’d put on make-up, which Feyre never did, and had the air of someone both effortless and yet unattainable.

The same air Rhysand had, if Feyre was being honest. They’d make a smart couple. Why did that thought annoy her so much?

Feyre led Elain over the grounds slowly, giving her a tour and pointing out all the work she’d done while Elain explained how her bed and breakfast was going. She’d created a tentative peace with the other occupant and owner of her castle—a man with a distinctly French sounding last name and decidedly French first one. Lucien Vanserra. He sounded snooty, and given the difficulty he’d created for Elain, likely some seventy year old man looking to exert his control one last time before his time on earth ended.

“Oh, he’s not so bad once you get to know him,” Elain said, which was a very Elain sort of thing to say. She could charm a wild bear holding a sword. If the man had eyes, it likely hadn’t been hard to talk him into a small compromise.

Rhysand was coming out of the stables as Feyre and Elain began to walk in. He didn’t see them approaching as he mopped up the sweat on his brow with the hem of his shirt. Feyre’s breathe caught at the sight of peeking abs, vanished the second he saw Elain. His eyes slid from her sister back to Feyre, some answered question flickering in his gaze.

“Elain, this is Rhysand,” Feyre told Elain just in time for her sister to plant her foot in a wet container of wood stain.

Elain screeched, yanking herself backward. Her lovely white flat was ruined, which was a shame, truly—though Rhysand? wasn’t looking at Elain at all, but Feyre. His expression very much betrayed his annoyance, some shared secret she didn’t quite understand, as if to say oh. I understand now.

“I’m so sorry,” Elain said, looking at the mess pooling around them.

“No need,” Rhysand replied, though there was some disappointment in his tone. “I was going to do tae floor as well.”

“Of course. Probably not like this, though,” Elain replied with a small laugh.

Rhysand only nodded, looking back to Feyre for some guidance. But it was Elain who was the conversationalist, and when she realized he didn’t know what to say, pressed forward. “How is your mother?”

Oh, christ. Feyre had forgotten that lie, amid the others. Rhysand became rigid for a moment, haunted by Elain’s ask. “She passed, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Elain whispered. Rhysand only nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. So that had been true, in some way. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not yer fault,” Rhysand murmured. “But I miss her.”

Elain nodded. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress nervously. “We should ah, probably let you get back to…”

“I’ll see ye both at dinner,” he replied, offering up his most charming smile. And that was that. Elain, holding her shoe by the crook of one finger, waited until they were out of earshot before she said, “You really undersold how handsome he was.”

And when Feyre turned to look over her shoulder, she found Rhysand leaning against the wooden door frame, eyes wholly on her.

It was that night that both Feyre and Rhysand seemed to realize they could not sleep apart in opposite wings of the castle. Elain had made some little quip about how nice it must be to have all this alone time and Rhysand’s fork had clattered to his plate while Feyre’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

He’d come to her, at least. Feyre sat up against a sea of pillows when she heard him knock, sucking in a deep breath.

“Come in.”

A moment later, the handle turned and there he was. He’d put on plain black sleep pants and a white t-shirt, and his still damp hair told her she’d just freshly showered. If she’d been smart, Feyre would have dragged a divan up from another room so he could sleep on it. As it stood, there were two little chairs facing a small breakfast table and then her rather large, four-poster bed.

And Rhys was a tall man. He looked around, drinking in the cream colored rug and the sand and stone walls, illuminated by an overhanging chandelier. A little potted plant sat half dead in the circular window at the far end of the room, while books were stacked on beneath the television stand haphazardly.

“I’m not sleeping on tae floor,” he told her when he realized their predicament.

“I assumed,” she replied, scooting to the far side of the bed. “No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a theatrical eye roll. As he padded toward her, he asked, “How long will she be here?”

“The weekend,” Feyre replied, trying—and failing—not to notice how good he smelled. “Why?”

“She’s not what I imagined,” he finally said, dragging a hand through his hair with contemplation.

Feyre immediately felt defensive. “She has that effect on people.”

He frowned. “Oh? And what effect do ye imagine she’s having on me?”

“She’s just very…”

“Verra…” he prompted, waiting for Feyre to spit it out. “Dull?”

“What?” Ferye gaped. “She’s not dull.”

“Proper, then. A real English princess,” he amended.

It was asking for pain, and still Feyre couldn’t help herself. “Then what does that make me?”

He smiled again, his face blooming with warm affection. “Wild. Free,” he added, thinking to himself for a moment, as if he needed to choose his words carefully lest he insult her. “Ye are far more lovely than her—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, unable to stand the lie. “No one thinks that.”

She turned to her side, angrily fluffing a pillow before turning off the bedside table.

“I think that,” Rhysand murmured defensively. “I saw a picture of tae three of ye, once.”

She half twisted to look at him. “How?”

“We do have the internet here too, lass. It was simple enough to google ye. I wasn’t sure which of ye was which—but I hoped ye were…well…Feyre. I thought ye must be Elain, given how much you talked of her beauty.”

Feyre’s heart pounded. “You’re such a liar, Mr. Campbell.”

“Not when it comes to ye, darling.”

There was a pause of silence between them, hanging thickly as Feyre digested that information. Hoped. She didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“It was one of the things I liked about getting tae letters,” he murmured, settling into the bed. After turning off the lights, it felt easier to peel back some of her defensiveness, to listen to him talk. “My sister died when she was wee, and my mother, well. She never quite recovered from it. When ye wrote that first letter, she was ill again and my father was in one of his rages. And there ye were, in a similar predicament. I thought maybe it was fate.”

“Why didn’t you write back?” she asked, turning fully to her side, her head resting on her elbow.

“Cowardice, I suppose. Ye were a bit younger than me, too. Sixteen, but I was nineteen. It dinae seem right, and truthfully, I didnae want spook ye.”

“Is this your attempt at not spooking me, then? Demanding I marry you for reasons you’ve yet to divulge?” she asked, this time without her usual anger.

“Aye,” he murmured, twisting so he was facing her, too. “I never said I was a good man, Feyre. Only that yer letters were never funny to me.”

“Will you tell me why all this was necessary? I might be able to help, you know—”

“One day,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “When all this is done and ye aren’t so angry, I will. I want to. Not tonight. Hate me all ye like, but I know ye—you’ll be trying to get out of this marriage if ye think you can solve my problems with money. I don’t want yer money.”

“Yes, so you keep saying and yet once we’re married, you’ll have it, regardless. Surely you’ve considered that.”

Rhysand’s pause betrayed him. So he hadn’t realized he’d become unspeakably wealthy the moment Feyre said I do.

It settled some wild, ugly thing in her. “That’s yers,” he finally said.

And with nothing left to say, Rhysand turned over and left Feyre to fall asleep.

-*-

Feyre agreed to take the least offensive things from Elain’s wedding, which, to be fair, were few and far between. The cake was nice, along with the flowers of which Elain would always be the expert. Tables and chairs, and of course, the caterer. Elain had been delighted, in no small part, Feyre suspected, because it meant Graysen wouldn’t be getting his money back. What had he done to her? It wasn’t like Elain to be so petty, but with each thing Feyre said yes to, Elain’s smile grew wider and wider until Feyre wasn’t sure how her sister's smile didn’t split.

And then, with an exasperated sigh, Elain was gone to check on Mr. Vanserra, who was likely wrecking everything in her absence. Feyre thought she’d be sad to see Elain go, but the minute her sister's car pulled out of the drive, Feyre felt the smallest hint of relief.

Rhysand, too. She caught him peeking around a corner, muddy boots on a rather nice ivory floor runner she’d need to wash later.

“Is she gone?” he asked, as if Elain were some terrible creature and not just chatty and maybe a little nosy.

“For now,” Feyre agreed. “She’s putting together your dream wedding, you know.”

“Ours,” he amended.

“No matter how many times you say that, it will never be true.”

He stared her down, straightening to his full height. Feyre’s heart leapt into her throat. “Will ye tell me tae truth about one thing?”

“I doubt it, but you can ask,” she replied primly, wedging her way past his obnoxious body.

“In yer letters, ye said I was tae most beautiful man ye’d ever seen. Is that true?”

Feyre froze. If she turned, he’d see her answer written all over her face. “Everything I imagined about you in my letters was a fiction, Mr. Campbell—”

“For fucks sake, Feyre, call me Rhys,” he snapped. “I cannae stand hearing ye call me Mr. Campbell.”

Feyre forgot she wasn’t supposed to look at him, turning to argue only to find him so close she could smell him. Eyes wide, she backed up only for him to slam his palm against the stone wall behind her, trapping her with his body.

“Tae truth, lass.”

“Why does it matter?” she whispered, hating herself for wanting him and hating herself for not being able to send him away.

His fingers brushed her cheek. “It matters.”

“You can’t have it all, Rhys,” she hissed. He winced as she spat his name, saying it as though it were a curse. “You can’t have your secrets, this marriage and my affection.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t!” she shouted, shoving him away from her. Rhys let her, though she knew if he’d wanted to keep her where she was, there was little she could have done to stop him. “I’m guessing you’re the kind of man who just snaps his fingers and gets exactly what he wants. You could have asked me on a date! You could have been honest and told me who you were, that you got my letters! I would have said yes, you know. If you’d just asked. And if you told me the truth, I would have helped you. You want your secrets, fine. Here I am, playing along. Whatever else you want from me, though? Forget it. For the rest of your life, just forget it.”

“Feyre!” he called as she stormed off. “Feyre, come back!”

She didn’t turn, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was certain she was going to explode. Feyre didn’t pay attention to the direction she went, running through the halls as fast as she could, just in case he was following her.

He wasn’t. She heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, and if she had to bet, Feyre would have guessed he was headed to the stables. It slowed her just enough to make a decision. He wanted secrets? Well, Feyre didn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in her own misery that past week to bother thinking rationally, but she’d seen him drag in all his things.

Surely there was some answer to the Rhysand question up in his room.

Feyre didn’t feel even a little badly flinging open that door. Where she was messy, Rhysand was immaculate. His bed was made for the morning, draped in silken black that was just like him.

He’d tucked his suitcase beneath the bed, and when she opened his drawers to the dresser, everything was neatly folded and in its place. Feyre rifled a bit, feeling like a creep as she shoved aside his underwear and socks.

The curtains to the windows were pulled open, allowing gloomy gray light to filter through. Outside, she was certain a storm was brewing. If it rained, Rhysand would retreat indoors and she’d have to try again another day.

She didn’t know what she was looking for when she dropped to her knees, sitting on the plush, circular sand rug she’d put in all the rooms. Feyre pulled out his suitcase, unzipping thinking she’d find a passport with his real name, or maybe a criminal record that would explain this whole thing. And then she could call the police and be free of him.

Her stomach clenched when all she found was a large manilla envelope, unsealed.

Feyre.

With trembling fingers, Feyre pulled out a stack of letters. They were stapled individually before he’d folded them into quarters. She reached for the one on top, surprised to see it was the very first letter she’d ever sent him, highlighted and starred with a blue pen.

And beneath, was the letter she’d said he should have sent her.

Dear Feyre Archeron,

Don’t be embarrassed, but I have received your letter. I am curious—do you possess the gift of sight? It seems too much a coincidence that you would mail a letter addressed to Mr. Rhysand Campbell to my home in Dornoch. I’ve decided it’s fate, or at least luck. Tell me, though, this one thing: is your birthday on Christmas? I received this at the new year, and I have been trying to figure out when, exactly, you were born.

I guess it doesn’t matter, though it would be nice to send you a birthday gift next year. If you’re wondering, my birthday is in August. Not that you have to send me a gift. It just seemed fair, since I was asking, to tell you my birthday, too.

And, if it makes you feel better (I’m guessing it won’t, but it did make me feel better), my father also forgot my birthday this year. He was working, and I think he expects my mother to handle those things. I shouldn’t care because I’m an adult, and adults don’t need birthdays (or, that’s what I tell myself at least), but it stings every time he looks me in the eye and asks how old I am.

I think he thinks I’m disappointing. Maybe I am.

Anyway. I am happy to be your pretend boyfriend if it keeps you from having to date wankers. If you decide you’d like to write me back, send it to my address in Edinburgh. My mother lives in Dornoch, and I visit when she’s ill (which, to be fair, is pretty often), but I don’t want to miss one.

That is, assuming you don’t find this horribly creepy.

Yours in pretend,

Rhysand Campbell

P.S. I think Nesta deserved to have her hair pulled, just between you and I.

My silly Feyre,

You keep sending letters (that I devour), but I can’t make myself send one back. I’m starting to suspect I’m a coward, which is a terrible quality in a boyfriend. Maybe you should end things with me and date the beige paint (don’t do that). You’re so honest, and I’m so jealous because without my secrets, who am I? The thought of stripping myself bare makes me feel sick, and so I fold these letters up and pretend you read them and they didn’t disgust you.

In truth, I think you’d stop writing if you knew the truth about me. I’m back in Dornoch and mother is ill and father is working and I am just here. Barely existing, both in Edinburgh where I’m trying to be diligent and finish my education, and in Dornoch, where everyone thinks I’m a good son.

Am I? Can I tell you something?

My sister died when she was nine. It was no one’s fault—except, I suppose, the man driving the car who hit her. We were out together and Ainsley darted out of reach. Father was closest. He lunged, but he wasn’t fast enough, and by the time mother and I could react, it was all over.

I was eleven.

I think we tried to rally together for a while, but the days following Ainsley’s death all blur together. Mother cried all the time and father began yelling. Everyone blamed themselves because we couldn’t blame each other, until we were just festering. Father stayed in Edinburgh, and mother went home and I was in-between.

It’s like she’s lost in a fog, and I’m so angry sometimes because I needed her, too. I needed them both, and it was like, if they couldn’t have Ainsley they didn’t want me. Or anyone—I think mother wishes she’d died, too. And I think father is too busy punishing himself—and by extension, me—to take care of mother.

I wonder what will happen to him when she dies. He loved her better than he ever loved either of us. And deep down, I think he’s ashamed he failed her by letting Ainsley die, and it’s better to yell at her, to stay away, to pretend none of it matters to him.

I can’t send this to you, but I like to pretend you’re reading it anyway. That you’d understand, because you feel forgotten, too. That’s how I feel.

Anyway. Tell Tamlin to stay away. I’m fond of you, pretend girlfriend or not.

Your mess,

Rhysand

Feyre, my darling,

Engaged? I admit, I laughed out loud when I saw what you’d done. I knew the English were awful, but surely there must be one tolerable man among the lot of them. I’m tempted to drive all the way up there and rescue you, if only to spare you the embarrassment from when this falls apart. I’m also curious to see the ring I got you.

I’d like to have it, if only so I can get on one knee and ask you to marry me myself. It’s strange how much affection I feel for you. How often I think about you, how I miss you without knowing you. I feel as if I do (maybe I’m crazy, too).

I graduated last week. Father wasn’t there, though he did call in the after to ask me what my plans were. I nearly told him I planned to marry an English lass–but I have no plans for that yet, and no idea how to announce myself to you. It’s been almost three years, and I think I should have been less of a coward back then and just said hello.

I think, sometimes, you would have liked me. More than that other bloke (Ian? I remember his name, but it makes me feel better to pretend I don’t.), at any rate. And maybe my plans wouldn’t seem so far-fetched, and you wouldn’t have to keep lying to your family because I would be asking you to marry me.

For now, things seem possible. I feel like my own man for once, even if I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Only that whatever it is will bring me closer to you. Of that, I’m certain. I am looking forward to hearing of our fake marriage, though—I hope you tell me exactly how you imagine it, so when we do meet, I can impress you.

Is that charming, or does it make me creepy? It’s a question I keep asking, and I think I’m walking a very fine line when it comes to you. Perhaps this will all be charming to you—or maybe you’ll have me locked up. I look forward to finding out. I’m certain I will never live it down, regardless.

For now, just know that I find you endearing.

Yours,

Rhys

Feyre,

Your ability to tell the future is unnerving. Our relationship is over because my mother is ill—and though you don’t know it, you were right. I don’t think it would give you solace to hear she finally passed, but in a way, it gave me peace thinking you’d written me to say goodbye. That you understood, even if you didn’t know it, why you and I were just a foolish dream.

Father and I stood in the rain to bury her. I didn’t think he’d come and it would be just me, watching them set her beside my sister. Reunited, at last, just like she’d always wanted. And for one moment, he and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, silently weeping for all we’d lost and all the things we’d never have again. Ainsley should be here and so should mother.

Her heart failed. I didn’t think you could die of a broken heart, and today I think I could, too. I thought I’d prepared myself better for this moment. As I so often am, I was wrong. Father left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. Or if I even want to. Maybe that moment was enough. Maybe enough passed between us to call it even, to start over.

I think I’ve been trying so hard to forget when I should have been trying to remember. And I think you were just another way to pretend I was someone else, at least for a little while. You don’t know me—you don’t know Rhysand Campbell and neither do I. Not your once betrothed, anyway. That man was a fantasy, someone I wanted so badly to be.

I would have disappointed you. I’m not a good man, Feyre. I don’t think you would have liked the real Rhysand Campbell, and I would have loved you. That’s the tragedy of us, at least to me. You are witty and funny and charming and I am…I am this. I am not the sort of man you fall in love with, but you.

Oh, you, Feyre. I don’t know how everyone isn’t in love with you. How you don’t walk onto the street and have everyone at your feet, wishing they knew your name. Begging for a second of your time. And even though I know you’ll never see this, and so it doesn’t matter what I think or what I say, I feel as though I’ve been drowning in endless night, and you were the first bright thing that came along.

It would be wrong to go looking for you, no matter how strong the impulse is. You’ve said goodbye, and I am saying it, too. I need to figure myself out and maybe that will take forever. I know one thing, though. I will always be thinking about you. Always be wondering about you.

It’s your birthday (I think), today. That’s what started this whole thing.

Happy birthday Feyre.

Yours, eternally,

Rhys

A crack of thunder sent the letters flying from Feyre’s hands. Was she crying? For one wild moment she twisted to look up at the ceiling, certain there must be a leak. Only, no, it was just her, dripping salt onto the elegant penmanship of Rhys’s unsent letters.

“So,” a dark, masculine voice from the doorway intoned. Feyre’s head snapped to the side, drinking him in. His expression was carefully blank, fingertips holding the frame as he leaned forward. Ferye had been caught, had been so engrossed in the parallel lives they’d been living that she hadn’t realized the rain had started or that he’d retreated indoors.

His wet shirt clung to the contours of his chest, slicking that dark ebony hair to his forehead.

“So,” she agreed, her voice trembling.

Feyre held his gaze. Waiting for his ire.

“Now you know.”

#feysand #feyre archeron x rhysand #feysand fic #yeah i did this #it started off as a joke #now it has spin-offs #and 13k words #smut tomorrow!

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sincericida · 10 days

Text

ANDREW GARFIELD

and his girlfriend Kate Tomas out in Primrose Hill, London | on April 20.

(source)

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nightstars5 · 9 months

Text

This Is Real?

Pedido: oii, td bem? ent vc poderia fzr um imagine do shawn em q ele conhece a sn numa festa, os dois ficam flertando um c o outro, dps eles se beijam lá na festa aí o shawn chama ela p ir num motel c ele?? (enfim, rola um hot do tipo puxão de cabelo, tapas, mas na manhã seguinte eles toma café da manhã juntos, se conhecem mlhr, pega o número um do outro, uma coisa bem fofinha sabe??) e obg ^^

A quanto tempo eu não me sentia assim?

Depois de um bom tempo negligenciando minha vida social, me dedicando somente ao trabalho e estudos, finalmente me permitir relaxar um pouco. Claro que depois de muita insistência de Anna e Kate que basicamente me arrastaram até essa boate.

— Vou pegar uma bebida. — digo chegando mais perto do ouvido de Kate.

Ela afirma com sinal de legal e volta a dançar como se não houvesse amanhã.

Anna, não estava muito longe, quando passo em direção ao bar, a encontro se agarrando mais ao canto com o loiro que ela dançava mais cedo.

Dou uma risada fraca e puxo um banquinho me sentando.

— Uma água e uma margarita, por favor. — peço ao barman que me atende.

Pouco depois as bebidas são colocadas em minha frente e agradeço.

Bebo quase a metade da garrafa de água sentindo o liquido gelado refrescar a minha garganta.

As luzes da boate são uma mistura entre o roxo, vermelho e verde, a pista de dança está cheia ao som de um remix de The Hills do The Weekend. Jogo meu cabelo para o lado, sentindo calor por ter dançado tanto, sinto um filete de suor escorrer do meu pescoço até o decote que vai até o meio dos meus seios.

Olhando ao redor do lugar, encontro um par de olhos fixados em mim. O homem está na parte de cima da boate, a área vip. Ele está encostado na grade, com os cotovelos apoiados na mesma.

Ele é lindo, alto, vestido com uma calça preta, a blusa e a jaqueta que cobrem seu corpo também da mesma cor. Um amigo se aproxima falando algo, mas seus olhos não desgrudam nem por um segundo de cima de mim.

Desvio meus olhos me sentindo sem jeito por sua atenção, pego por minha margarita, dando um gole na mesma vendo Kate e Anna se aproximarem.

— Ei, gato. — Kate chama pelo barman — Mais duas margaritas, por favor. — pisca pra ele, que sorri com as bochechas ficando coradas.

— Não cansa de paquerar os barmen, amiga? — pergunto com uma sobrancelha arqueada em sua direção.

— Se vocês soubessem o quão habilidosos esses caras são com as mãos, vocês iriam fazer o mesmo. — o homem coloca os drinks sobre o balcão.

Kate, como uma boa mulher que se garante e sabe o poder da sua beleza, pega pela taça, raspando propositalmente seus dedos pela mão do homem, seu sorriso mínimo, mas completamente sexy, fazendo parte do seu charme jogado.

— A vadia não tem vergonha na cara. — Anna ri se acomodando no banquinho ao meu lado.

— Tenho atitude, é diferente. — a morena retruca — Mas enfim, eu já tenho minha transa dessa noite garantida e pelo jeito que o loirinho e Anna estavam se comendo antes de eu arrastá-la, creio que ela também... mas e você querida S/N? Onde está seu par sexual?

Inconscientemente, meus olhos vagam para a parte de cima da área vip, procuro sem perceber pelo homem que parecia enxergar até minha alma com seu olhar tão intenso, mas, não o encontro mais e por um segundo me desanimo.

— Quero só me divertir, não vim na intenção de ir embora acompanhada. — dou de ombros.

— Planos mudam. — ela diz, com um sorrisinho ladinho em seus lábios perfeitamente pintados de vermelho.

— E pelo visto os seus também... — Anna comenta como quem não quer nada, franzo meu cenho olhando pra Kate e acompanho seu olhar até o outro lado do bar, onde ela e uma ruiva linda se encaram descaradamente.

— Dois é ótimo, mas três é perfeito! — ela sorri e se volta pra gente — Pelo visto não vou ter só um na cama hoje.

Há vezes que gostaria de ser mais como Kate, totalmente nem aí para o que quer que falem de suas atitudes promiscuas ou do que ela faz da sua vida, ela aproveita do seu jeitinho. É uma mulher exuberante, independente, que atrai atenção onde quer que pise. Sua pele chocolate, seu corpo curvilíneo e seus olhos azuis são só um bônus para completar a pessoa incrível que existe ali dentro.

Anna também não fica de fora, quase uma modelo de tão linda, alta, loira, olhos claros e corpo perfeito. Gosta de aventuras e sempre arrasta a mim e a Kate quando pode. Seja para alguma viagem de última hora até saltar de paraquedas.

Então me pergunto, como que fui ficar amiga de duas pessoas como elas, tão bem resolvidas, confiantes, tão leves e parceiras. A verdade é que temos muitas coisas em comum, mas, diferente delas, minha vida amorosa é um completo caos e pra ser sincera pouco me lembro da última vez que beijei e muito menos que transei.

Será que foi no ano passado? Não, não pode ser...

Droga, isso realmente faz muito tempo.

Com o passar das horas, a boate parece encher cada vez mais, pela segunda vez, elas conseguem me arrastar de volta para pista de dança e confesso que apenas me deixo levar e aproveitar cada segundo.

Dançamos duas músicas até que na terceira é quando eu o vejo outra vez, no mesmo lugar de antes, agora segurando um copo de whisky com seus olhos em mim. Aquele calor estranho subindo por minha espinha como se me queimasse aos poucos a cada segundo que sustendo seu olhar.

Ele parece sexy, muito sexy.

Com um sorrisinho de lado, quebro nossa troca de olhares e me perco ao som de NBK da Niykee Heaton. Anna e Kate dançam coladas a mim, jogo a cabeça pra trás fechando meus olhos enquanto mexo meus quadris no ritmo da música, Anna que está em minha frente, vai até o chão passando suas mãos por meu corpo levantando de volta, quase trazendo junto meu vestido que sobe um pouco mais pelas minhas coxas. Kate dança com as costas coladas a minha, jogo meu cabelo para o lado sentindo o calor me engolindo, ao olhar para onde o homem estava, o encontro tomando um gole da sua bebida, me observando, me admirando de longe...

A música acaba, então sinto que preciso me sentar e descansar um pouco, volto para o bar, deixando Kate e Anna dançando alguma música eletrônica mais animada.

— Água. — peço para o barman, o mesmo que me atendeu antes e que Kate estava flertando.

A garrafa é posta em minha frente e a abro, bebendo longos goles molhando minha garganta.

Sinto alguém se aproximar de mim, por um segundo penso ser o cara da área vip, mas descarto essa opção quando vejo ser um homem completamente diferente.

— Oi, linda! — ele diz, ficando mais perto do que eu gostaria.

— Olá. — dou um meio sorriso, não querendo ser mal educada.

— Posso te pagar uma bebida?

— Não vou mais beber, mas obrigada. — faço menção de me levantar do banco quando sinto sua mão segurar meu braço, me impedindo.

— Qual é? Só uma bebida, depois podemos ir em um lugar mais privado quem sabe. — seu sorriso sugestivo não me passa nenhuma confiança, na verdade, me arrepia, de uma forma nada legal.

— Não tô afim e se puder soltar meu braço... — digo já incomodada.

Seu dedos apertam um pouco mais minha pele e começo a ficar com medo.

— Quanto você cobra então? — insinua.

Esse idiota está me chamando de prostituta?

— Vai à merda, seu babaca. Me solte! — puxo meu braço, tentando me livrar do seu aperto.

Ninguém parece reparar no que está acontecendo, o que me deixa mais aflita.

— Você não veio vestida assim pra nada, vamos comigo, prometo ser gentil.

Minha respiração começa a ficar descompensada pelo medo, o aperto em meu braço está machucando.

— Me solte! — ordeno entre dentes, colocando toda minha força para empurrá-lo pelo peito e me livrar.

Dou um passo para trás ficando distante do idiota, e quando penso que ele apenas vai se virar e ir embora, ele dá um passo em minha direção, mas no mesmo momento um corpo alto e forte entra em sua frente.

Minha respiração fica presa na garganta quando o reconheço.

— Não consegue ouvir um “não”, amigo? — ele pergunta, sua voz grossa e baixa enquanto encara o homem que arqueia uma sobrancelha em sua direção, o desafiando.

— E quem você pensa que é?

— O cara que vai quebrar cada dedo seu se não sumir agora da minha frente.

Os dois se encaram pelo que parecem minutos, até o idiota levantar as mãos em rendição e rir.

— A puta é toda sua. — diz se virando e sumindo entre as pessoas.

O moreno faz menção de segui-lo, mas seguro seu braço coberto pela jaqueta pesada o impedindo.

— Não vale a pena. — digo.

Ele se vira para mim e caramba... o homem parece ainda mais lindo de perto. Solto seu braço e sinto na mesma hora minhas bochechas corarem. Ele me intimida, de uma forma boa.

— Tudo bem com você? Ele te machucou? — seus olhos descem para meu braço, institivamente acaricio o lugar, sentindo apenas a sensação ruim dos dedos o apertando, mas que vai desaparecendo aos poucos.

— Não, está tudo bem. — sorrio sem jeito — Obrigada. — agradeço.

Se não fosse por ele, não sei do que o babaca teria sido capaz de me fazer.

— Não era assim que eu pretendia me aproximar de você. — ele dá uma risada fraca, me encarando com seus olhos que destoam entre verdes e um castanho claro — Me chamo Shawn, inclusive. — ele estende a mão.

— S/N, prazer. — sorrio, segurando sua mão. Sua palma é quente e áspera.

— O prazer é meu. — diz, os olhos fixos nos meus.

Shawn me acompanha de volta ao bar e se senta ao meu lado, próximo o suficiente para nossos joelhos se tocarem.

Conversamos um pouco e tão sutilmente às vezes sua mão tocando meu joelho dando leves apertos, seus olhos brilhantes me observam com curiosidade a cada palavra que solto, prestando atenção em tudo.

O que é uma novidade, já que a maioria dos caras na balada pensam em apenas encontrar alguém para foder sem nem mesmo perguntarem por nome.

Em algum momento, vejo por trás de Shawn, Anna indo embora de mãos dadas com o loiro, ela sorri em minha direção fazendo um legalzinho com as mãos e soltando um beijo.

Não consigo nem perguntar onde Kate possa estar, ela aparece ao meu lado sorridente intercalando o olhar entre Shawn e eu.

— Achei que já tivesse ido. — diz, com um sorrisinho fraco.

— Ah, não. Eu teria avisado se fizesse.

— Claro... — ela semicerra os olhos para Shawn, que parece nem notar a presença de Kate, já que sua atenção permanece apenas em mim — Bom, eu vou pegar minha ruiva e esperar pelo barman gato. E você... — seu sorriso se amplia e ela se inclina para sussurrar em meu ouvido — Vai tirar seu atraso, esse daí já tá babando por você. Aproveita a porra da noite, a vida não é só faculdade e trabalho. — ela se afasta e deixa um beijinho em minha bochecha.

A acompanho com o olhar ela falar algo para o barman do outro lado e então pegar a mão da ruiva e sair.

Volto minha atenção para Shawn e sorrio.

Kate tem razão, por que não aproveitar essa noite e ver no que dá?

— Quer dançar? — pergunto, vendo o mesmo afirmar sem nem mesmo pensar.

Pego sua mão e sigo para o meio da pista, Fill The Void do The Weeknd começa a tocar e me viro para Shawn segurando seus ombros, balançando meu quadril no ritmo lento e sensual da voz feminina. Suas mãos acompanham meu balançar, seus olhos nunca deixando os meus.

Quando a voz masculina entra, me viro ficando de costas, colando em seu peito, desço até o chão, sentindo suas mãos escorregarem por minhas laterais e então subo de volta. Seus braços me envolvem me colando mais ainda em seu corpo, sinto uma protuberância em minha bunda e prendo minha respiração sabendo muito bem o que é.

Sua boca se aproxima do meu pescoço, deixando um beijo delicado e logo uma mordida, que me faz jogar a cabeça para trás.

— Você tem me deixando louco desde a hora que pus meus olhos em você, S/N. — sussurra em meu ouvido, mordendo o lóbulo.

Me viro ficando de frente para seu corpo e seguro a gola de sua jaqueta, o encarando nos olhos. Shawn passa a língua entre os lábios, descendo seu olhar até minha boca.

— Quer me beijar, Shawn? — pergunto aproximando mais nossos rostos.

Todos ao nosso redor parecem sumir, sendo só ele e eu ali. Posso sentir a tensão entre nós, é sufocante e quase palpável. Nunca senti um clima assim antes, é novo e excitante.

— Quero fazer muitas coisas com você. — diz rouco. Sinto meu ventre se apertar de desejo e porra, quero que ele faça tudo comigo.

— Por que não me conta? — provoco, raspando nossos lábios. Tenho certeza que ouço um grunhido baixo escapar de sua garganta e internamente sorrio, meu ego contente por conseguir o atingir.

Afastando meu cabelo e o segurando em um punhado apertado, Shawn aproxima a boca do meu ouvido.

— Quando te vi lá de cima, sentada, parecendo cansada e alheia a todos os olhares famintos que eram direcionados a você, o cabelo jogado para o lado, me dando a visão perfeita de seu pescoço e esse decote que deixa demais para imaginação... Porra, parecia que um imã me impedia de desviar os olhos. — um beijo molhado é deixado em meu pescoço e suspiro — Você dançando depois, me provocando, fez a parte mais suja da minha mente aparecer. E porra S/N, quando vi aquele merda se aproximar, por um segundo achei que tinha perdido minha chance. — ele morde meu pescoço, lambendo logo em seguida o local. Seus braços me apertam mais, me prendendo mais ainda ao seu corpo forte.

Porra, esse homem já me tem tão rendida a ele.

— Eu quero ouvir você gemendo meu nome, S/N. Quero beijar cada centímetro do seu belo corpo, quero provar você, quero sentir sua boceta implorar para ser fodida... — Shawn se afasta minimamente, me encarando no fundo dos meus olhos — E a julgar como você tá agora apertando suas coxas, quer isso também, não é, linda?! — sorri, acariciando nossos narizes um no outro.

— Sim, eu quero, quero muito! — minha voz sai por um fio e pouco me importo se pareço desesperada, porque é isso que estou mesmo.

Shawn morde meu lábio e então me devora com urgência, sua língua explorando cada canto da minha boca, me fazendo perder os sentidos e se não fosse por seu braço me segurando tão firme, eu acho que derreteria aqui mesmo.

Ele morde meu lábio o sugando em seguida, me fazendo gemer.

— Vem comigo? — ele pergunta ofegante, me encarando nos olhos.

Afirmo balançando a cabeça e ele sorri, me dando um selinho antes de entrelaçar nossos dedos e me guiar para fora dali.

No caminho até o apartamento dele, Shawn não largou minha mão, deixando beijos vez ou outra. Quando chegamos, ele abre a porta para que eu passe primeiro, liga as luzes e caramba! Eu já imaginava que ele poderia ser rico, principalmente quando entrou na garagem em um dos prédios no centro da cidade, que com certeza custam um rim, mas ainda sim, não consigo deixar de ficar surpresa quando vejo que sua sacada tem a vista perfeita para a Torre CN.

Sinto braços rodearem minha cintura e um beijo ser deixado em meu ombro. Suas mãos são rápidas em me rodopiar para que ficássemos frente a frente.

Seus olhos brilhantes me fazem queimar de dentro para fora, me sinto exposta sob seu olhar tão penetrante e misterioso. Suas orbes escuras, vasculham todo meu rosto, até um sorrisinho ladino puxar em seus lábios antes de se juntarem aos meus.

Envolvo seu pescoço, enfiando meus dedos entre seus fios macios. Suas mãos apalpam minha bunda com vontade, apertando e me puxando contra si, me fazendo sentir seu pau duro em meu estomago.

— Eu quero tanto você. — diz rouco, descendo sua boca por meu queixo e minha garganta.

— Eu estou bem aqui. — sussurro com um gemido.

Suas mãos escorregam pelas laterais das minhas coxas, levantando meu vestido e então as segurando, e com um impulso ele me ergue, fazendo minhas pernas se enrolarem em seu quadril. Sua boca não desgruda da minha enquanto ele caminha em direção que eu suponho ser o seu quarto.

Minhas costas chocam contra algo macio e seu corpo cai sobre mim após ele tirar a jaqueta e jogar em algum lugar, mantendo seu peso com uma das mãos apoiada na cama.

O quarto é clareado apenas por uma luz amarelada do abajur, mas posso ver perfeitamente o homem delicioso que me toca por cima da roupa apalpando cada pedacinho de mim com suas mãos curiosas enquanto espalha beijos e mordidas por meu pescoço e boca.

Seus lábios macios escorregam por meu decote me fazendo estremecer, ele está mantendo um ritmo lento, como se quisesse que isso durasse. E não, eu não estou achando nenhum pouco ruim.

Puxo sua camisa e Shawn me ajuda a tirá-la, deixo meus olhos escorregarem por seu tronco forte e definido, não controlo minhas mãos quando o toco, acariciando sua pele quente.

Tomando coragem e me deixando envolver pelo momento, empurro seu corpo nos virando na cama e ficando por cima, ele sorri, passando as mãos por minhas pernas, apertando minha carne com seus dedos fortes.

Baixo o zíper do meu vestido o deixando cair sobre meus ombros, se embolando em minha barriga revelando meus seios nus. Shawn morde o lábio os olhando e abocanha um deles me fazendo arfar. Agarro sua nuca, enfiando meus dedos entre seu cabelo, sentindo sua língua rodar pelo biquinho, sendo depois chupado e mordido.

Mexo meu quadril sentindo seu pau duro ainda coberto pela calça, minha calcinha está enxarcada e continuo me forçando mais para baixo buscando algum alivio.

Sons roucos escapam de sua garganta enquanto me esfrego, sua boca brinca com meus peitos e então volta para minha, sugando meu lábio, me beijando cheio de tesão.

— Porra, eu quero provar você.

É tão rápido que rio quando ele nos vira outra vez. Levanto um pouco meu quadril o ajudando a tirar meu vestido e junto minha calcinha, e então estou totalmente exposta, sentindo um leve frescos em minha boceta encharcada.

Suas mãos agarram meus joelhos me abrindo mais para ele, seus olhos parecem brilhar me encarando com tanta admiração e fome.

— Você tá tão molhada. Tudo isso é para mim, linda? — pergunta baixo, rouco.

Então sinto seu dedo passar por minha fenda, acariciando, espalhando minha excitação. Ele leva seus dedos molhados até sua boca e os chupa, me encarando nos olhos.

—Tão doce... — ele sorri e então se abaixa.

— Droga... — ofego quando sinto sua língua em meu clítoris. Lambendo e chupando como se sua vida dependesse daquilo.

Ele parece saber exatamente onde me tocar, onde me faz gemer mais alto e curvar minhas costas, seus dedos acariciam minha boceta, rápido, devagar, rápido, devagar... Sua língua é divina e sinto que posso gozar a qualquer momento.

É quando sinto seus dedos entrarem devagar em mim, seus olhos não perdendo nem por um segundo minha reação.

— Você é apertada, linda... Posso sentir sua boceta apertar meus dedos e mal posso esperar pra sentir essa sensação em meu pau.

Jogo a cabeça pra trás com seus dedos levemente curvados dentro de mim, entrando e saindo tão devagar que parece uma tortura. Beijos são deixados no interior de minhas coxas e sinto outra vez sua língua em mim, trabalhando junto com seus dedos, me fazendo ter sensações que ninguém antes me fez sentir.

— Shawn, por favor... — imploro, com as mãos em seu cabelo.

— Quer gozar, linda? Quer que eu faça você gozar assim?

Afirmo várias vezes balançando a cabeça, sentindo o aperto em meu ventre.

— Palavras, quero ouvir sua voz. — diz suave, combinando com o ritmo lento de seus dedos dentro de mim e da caricia gostosa que sua outra mão faz em meu clitóris.

— Quero, por favor, por favor...

Seus dedos aceleram dentro de mim e sua língua volta a me enlouquecer, em questão de segundos sinto meu ventre apertar e toda minha visão ficando escura, milhões de pontinhos brancos e então aquela sensação maravilhosa que me faz gemer o nome de Shawn várias vezes puxando seu cabelo.

— Porra, tão deliciosa! A coisa mais gostosa que já provei.

Shawn sobe por meu corpo e me beija, me fazendo sentir meu próprio gosto e isso é excitante pra caramba!

Seus beijos descem por meu pescoço, mordendo minha pele e depois lambendo, sei que vou amanhecer completamente marcada e sinceramente não dou a mínima pra isso. Passo minhas unhas por suas costas sentindo sua pele se arrepiar, luto com o botão de sua calça e ouço sua risada, Shawn fica de joelhos entre minhas pernas e desce seu jeans junto com cueca, liberando seu pau e porra, minha boca saliva pra prova-lo e me sinto novamente molhada.

Ele se levanta para se livrar das peças e volta outra vez para cima de mim, estico minha mão para tocá-lo, sentindo toda sua circunferência preencher minha palma, meus dedos mal se fechando ao redor. Está quente e tão, tão duro. A cabecinha vermelha brilhando com o pré-gozo.

— Caralho, eu poderia gozar só com o seu toque, linda! — resmunga em meus lábios enquanto o masturbo devagar.

— Quero você dentro de mim, Shawn. — digo manhosa.

Eu não aguento mais, preciso o sentir me preenchendo.

— Camisinha? — pergunta rouco.

— Não, eu quero sentir você. Eu tô limpa.

— Porra, eu também. — diz quase sem fôlego.

Shawn volta a ficar de joelhos e segura os meus, os afastando, ele segura seu pau o bombeando e se aproxima, o esfregando entre minhas dobras e provocando minha entrada.

— Shawn... — imploro.

— Tão sedenta, linda. — ele ri e então me penetra, me esticando e me preenchendo aos poucos — Caralho, tão apertada e quente também.

Shawn fica parado por alguns segundos para que me acostume com a sensação de seu pau dentro de mim, mexo meu quadril de encontro ao seu ouvindo seu resmungo e então ele começar a se mover.

Seu corpo suado cobrindo o meu como um teto de músculos me fazendo ter a visão perfeita de seu rosto com a testa franzida em prazer enquanto me fode com mais força e dedicação a cada gemido que solto apertando seus braços fortes.

Sua boca deixa beijos molhados por meu pescoço e uma de suas mãos agarram minha coxa a fazendo se enrolar em seu quadril, seus dedos apertam minha carne com vontade, mordo seu lábio com um pouco mais de força quando ele me acerta em um lugar especifico dentro de mim que me faz revirar os olhos.

— Isso, assim...

— É aqui, linda? — pergunta, mas tenho a impressão que seja uma pergunta retorica quando ele me acerta outra vez e um sorriso puxa seus lábios quando gemo outra vez em aprovação.

Sinto outra vez aquele aperto familiar se aproximar e Shawn parece perceber também, com um último beijo puxando meu lábio ele se afasta e então ele está fora de mim e meu corpo é virado na cama.

Deixo uma risada escapar pela surpresa e então o sinto se aproximar, viro meu rosto podendo ter apenas um vislumbre de seu corpo de joelhos atras de mim, sua mão acaricia um lado da minha bunda e sinto minha pele esquentar em excitação.

— Tem uma bunda tão linda... Cabe perfeitamente entre meus dedos, consegue sentir? — ele a aperta com suas duas mãos e só consigo suspirar enquanto assinto — Que bom, porque agora vou comer você assim, quero ter a visão dessa bunda gostosa enquanto sua boceta engole meu pau inteiro.

Shawn levanta meu quadril enquanto mantenho minha cabeça apoiada no travesseiro, suas mãos grandes seguras em minha nádegas enquanto sinto a cabeça de seu pau roçar minha entrada outra vez, é um tortura e já estou pingando de tão sedenta.

— Shawn... — seu nome sai como uma lamentação.

— O que, linda?

— Me fode logo! — digo impaciente e isso parece o divertir já sua risada ressoa.

E sem menos esperar o sinto me preencher por completo, um gemido surpresa me escapando e agarro os lençóis os apertando em meus dedos.

O choque entre nossos corpos preenche o quarto, nossos gemidos se misturam e o cheiro de sexo nos envolve em uma bolha completamente erótica. Consigo sentir que estou próxima outra vez, minha boceta o aperta e Shawn rosta enroscando meu cabelo com sua mão e puxando meu corpo até minhas costas bata contra seu peito.

— Não para, por favor... — imploro, derretendo de prazer.

— Caralho, você me recebe tão bem. Quer gozar, hum?

— Por favor, estou tão perto!

Sua mão outra mão corre por meu estômago escorregando até meu clitóris o massageando com seus dedos habilidosos me fazendo chegar mais e mais perto.

— Goza, linda. Goza gostoso pra mim.

Aperto meus olhos sentindo os espasmos por meu corpo e então o alivio e toda corrente elétrica que me faz minhas pernas tremerem.

— Shawn...

— Porra, sim! — ele resmunga em meu ouvido e o sinto tremer atras de mim e seu liquido quente jorrando dentro de mim.

É uma sensação inexplicável, tudo fica silencioso por um instante, como se o tempo tivesse parado, meu corpo mole desmancha nos braços de Shawn que mantém seu braço ao redor da minha cintura. A mão que segurava seu cabelo, afrouxa o aperto e apenas um carinho gostoso é deixado ali, com beijos sendo salpicados em meu ombro.

Delicadamente, ele me deita e então sinto sair de dentro de mim, me deixando com uma sensação de vazio.

— Já volto. — ele diz depois de deixar um beijo casto em meus lábios e some para dentro do que eu suponho ser o banheiro em seu quarto.

Pouco depois ele volta com um sorrisinho tímido e para minha surpresa me pega em seus braços e caminha até o outro cômodo me pondo no chão aos pés de uma banheira.

Ele me ajuda a entrar e faz o mesmo ficando atrás de mim me puxando para si.

Não é um momento constrangedor ou desconfortável, é leve com algumas risadas e troca de carinho.

///

Acordo, sentindo um tecido fresco e macio cobrindo meu corpo, o colchão abaixo de mim parece me abraçar, me fazendo ficar com mais preguiça ainda de levantar, mas não estou em casa, aqui é muito diferente do meu quarto. Me sento na cama e não vejo Shawn ao meu lado, muita coisa se passando em minha cabeça.

Será que ele saiu para assim que eu acordar ir embora e não nos encontrarmos mais?

Será que foi mais algum daqueles casos de uma noite em que o cara acorda e só quer que a garota vá embora?

Então ouço um barulho de algo caindo do lado de fora do quarto e um palavrão, reconheço a voz de Shawn e me levanto, estou usando apenas uma blusa sua que ele me emprestou para dormir mais confortável e minha calcinha.

Saio do cômodo em direção ao cheiro delicioso, assim que chego a cozinha, paro contra o batente vendo aquele corpo alto sem camisa, com apenas um short moletom. Suas costas tencionam de acordo com seus movimentos e por Deus, eu poderia ter essa visão divina toda manhã.

Quando ele se vira, segurando a frigideira e me vê, um sorriso bonito enfeita seu rosto.

— Bom dia, linda! Está aí a muito tempo? — ele deixa o objeto sobre o fogão e caminha até mim.

— Não, acabei de acordar. — digo com certa timidez de repente — Bom dia! — sorrio minimamente.

Shawn me alcança e envolve seus braços ao redor da minha cintura.

— Dormiu, bem?

— Sim, bastante e você? — pergunto acariciando seus ombros largos.

— Perfeitamente bem. — ele sorri e deixa um selinho demorado em meus lábios — Vá se sentar, vou servir nosso café.

Faço o que o moreno pede ainda me questionando se isso é mesmo verdade. Por que ele ainda não me mandou embora?

O café está delicioso, com panquecas, ovos fritos e torradas. Conversamos sobre nossas vidas, gostos e sonhos, desejos, ambições, família... Se eu pudesse enumerar uma das melhores manhãs que já tive, essa com certeza estaria no ranking.

Mais tarde, depois de insistir em ajudar com a louça e receber vários “nãos” e Shawn se fazer irrevogável em sua decisão e conseguir com que pelo menos me deixasse enxugar os pratos, tomo um banho com a companhia repentina de Shawn, que me faz ter um orgasmo delicioso só com sua língua.

— Para você começar o dia mais relaxada.

Foi o que ele disse quando se levantou e me beijou com tanta vontade contra os azulejos que senti que poderia gozar outra vez só ali, então ele apenas saiu do banheiro e me deixou ali me recompondo.

— Que horas você sai para o almoço? — ele pergunta assim que para em frente ao meu prédio.

— Às 13hs, por quê? — me viro para ele assim que solto meu cinto.

— E se eu te convidar para almoçar comigo

— Está me chamando para sair? Quer me ver outra vez? — não consigo deixar de lado a surpresa em minha voz, o que o faz rir.

— Por que não iria querer? — sua mão põe uma mecha do meu cabelo atrás da orelha, arrepiando meus pelinhos ali — Então, aceita? — pergunta mais próximo, roçando nossos narizes, com um suspiro, afirmo com a cabeça, sentindo meu estomago com aquela sensaçãozinha que não sentia a muito tempo — Ótimo, te busco às 13hs então.

É a última coisa que ele diz antes de me beijar pela segunda vez no dia... ou seria a terceira? Talvez a quarta, mas quem liga.

********

Me conte aqui o que você achou, seu feedback é muito importante para mim.

#imagines #hot #shawn mendes

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