#sunday souvenirs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pickingupmymercedes · 3 days

Text

All these little things - Lewis Hamilton

Lots of fluff. 9 snippets of fluff to be exact (plus 9 more to come on Sunday)

Also there's 20 more fluffs just like these ones - Ways to say I love you and Ways to say I love you pt. 2

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +3k

a/n: I've gotten so many requests for fluff Lewis, regular things with Lewis, just Lewis being a bf/husband. So,I hope you guys enjoy mostly domestic moments with him.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Late night snack

The rhythmic rumble of a passing truck vibrated through the floor, a jarring counterpoint to the silence pressing against her eardrums. Jet lag, the unwelcome souvenir of her whirlwind trip to Paris, had her wide awake at 3:14 am, staring at the unfamiliar shapes of Lewis's NY apartment.

Her stomach, thankfully, didn't mirror the wide-awake state. In fact, the thought of food sent a shudder through her. But the disorienting quietness, punctuated only by the city's lullaby of honking horns, demanded some kind of action.

She slipped out of bed, the cool floor a stark contrast to the plush carpets of the bedroom. Padding down the hallway, she felt a strange sense of displacement. This wasn't their Monaco or London apartment, but Lewis's NYC one, and while they’ve been living together for a while they would seldom stay there.

The warm glow of the kitchen light drew her like a moth to a flame. She rummaged through the fridge, her fingers brushing against a carton of leftover takeout, a half-eaten bag of kale chips, and a jar of something labeled "Grandma's Pickles."

Just as she opened the jar, a sleepy voice filled the doorway.

"Night pick me up?" Lewis stood there, hair tousled and eyes crinkled with sleep. He wore a worn t-shirt that hung tight on his broad frame, and even in the dim light, she could see the rumpled remnants of a smile playing on his lips.

"Couldn't sleep" she mumbled, putting the pickle jar on the island.

"Jet lag?" He crossed the room, his presence filling the previously empty space. She nodded, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. "Yeah, I guess."

He leaned closer, his scent - a mix of cologne and the lingering warmth of sleep - washing over her. "Next time, call me so we can raid the fridge together" he teased, his eyes twinkling.

She stuck her tongue out at him playfully. "They're Grandma's Pickles! How could I resist?"

He reached out, taking the jar gently, setting it on the counter. He pulled her to his body, his embrace a warm haven in the cool night. "You know," he said, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "sometimes the best cure for jet lag is a good cuddle."

She laughed. "Is that a doctor's recommendation, Dr. Hamilton?" He pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "The most handsome doctor you know," he corrected, before leaning down and capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

The kiss was slow and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Pulling away, Lewis rested his forehead on hers, his voice a warm rumble against her skin. "Truth is," he admitted, "I woke up missing you."

Lazy sunday Mornings

The silence was almost unsettling. Lewis, accustomed to the constant hum of activities, found the stillness of his mom's house almost jarring.

He cracked open one eye, surprised to see a sliver of sunlight already peeking through the curtains. It was way too early for a lazy Sunday morning, especially after a grueling season.

He glanced over at Y/n, her head buried in the crook of his neck, fast asleep. A soft smile tugged at his lips. He loved seeing her so relaxed, the worry lines on her forehead smoothed out, a gentle rhythm rising and falling with her breath.

He reached out, tracing a fingertip down her cheek, the temptation to wake her with a kiss strong. But before he could act, a soft groan escaped Y/n's lips. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily at him. "Morning" Lewis murmured; his voice rough with disuse.

Y/n stretched; her smile sleepy but undeniably beautiful. "Too early" she mumbled, pulling him closer. Lewis chuckled, wrapping his arm around her. "Couldn't sleep," he admitted. "The silence is...different."

Y/n laughed softly. "Close your eyes" she said, her voice a soothing whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Before he could ask, she began gently tracing the back of her finger to the bridge of his nose. It was an unexpected sensation, a light tickle that soothed something within him. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, the rhythmic move lulling him back to sleep.

He drifted off in a haze, fragments of dreams swirling around him. A couple of hours, punctuated by the occasional weird dream, must have passed because the next thing he knew, a high-pitched squeal pierced the peaceful silence.

"Uncle Lewis! Wake up!"

Lewis groaned, burying his head under the pillow. Another voice, slightly deeper this time, chimed in. "Come on, Auntie Y/n! Uncle Lewis is being a lazy bum again!"

Y/n giggled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, my secret weapon doesn’t work on them”

Lewis peeked out from under the pillow to see his niece and nephew bouncing on the bed, their faces alight with excitement. There went his peaceful Sunday morning, but the sight of their bright smiles chased away any lingering sleepiness. It was time to be Uncle Lewis for the day.

Roscoe photos

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyes glazing over at the endless stream of spreadsheets projected on the screen. The board meeting droned on, each statistic sounding more monotonous than the last. Glancing around the table, she saw her colleagues diligently taking notes, their expressions an equal mix of concentration and fatigue.

A notification buzzed on her phone, a welcome distraction. Unlocking it, she saw a picture on Instagram – a close-up of Roscoe staring intently at the camera with his tongue lolling out in a comical fashion. The message: "Deep in thought... about treats?"

Y/N chuckled silently, the image instantly bringing a smile. She quickly tapped a like, then sent a playful message back to Lewis: "Looks like someone's plotting world domination... or maybe just the next jar raid."

Before she could put her phone down, another notification popped up. This time, the picture was Roscoe sprawled across a fluffy white rug, toasting in a sunbeam. The caption: "Living my best life. Don't be jealous."

Y/N couldn't help but grin. Lewis clearly had a newfound time killer – chronicling Roscoe's every move.

Over the next hour, the barrage of photos continued. There was Roscoe sporting a pair of tiny sunglasses, another with a flower crown perched precariously on his head, and yet another napping in a miniature F1 car. Each picture accompanied by a silly caption, making Y/N laugh silently behind her hand.

The sheer absurdity of it all was a welcome escape from the monotony of the meeting. She pictured Lewis, presumably bored at his own meeting, deciding to entertain her with Roscoe's antics.

It was a sweet gesture, a silent way of connecting with her amidst their busy schedules.

Finally, silence descended upon the boardroom as the meeting concluded. Y/N stretched, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. Reaching for her phone, she sent a final message to Lewis: "Thanks for the Roscoe spam. You made this meeting a bit more bearable!"

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed again. A new picture filled the screen – this time, it was Lewis himself, a sheepish grin on his face, with Roscoe perched on his lap. The caption read: "Just your average meeting attendees. Don't tell Toto."

Cramps

A dull pain ripped through Y/N, jolting her awake. Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, casting the room in a soft, silvery glow. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked back trying to grasp what was happening.

The monthly visitor arrived at least once every cycle, and tonight was no different.

Throwing off the covers, she shuffled towards the kitchen, her body a symphony of discomfort. Reaching for the familiar bottle of pain relief on the top shelf, she fumbled slightly, wincing at another twinge. Grabbing a glass of water, she popped a couple of pills and made her way back to the bedroom, hoping the medication would kick in soon.

Sliding back under the covers, she snuggled in beside Lewis, who stirred slightly in his sleep. A moan escaping her lips as another cramp flared up.

Sensing her discomfort, Lewis sleeply wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Everything alright, love?" his voice was thick with sleep, but still holding concern.

"Just the usual," she mumbled, burrowing deeper into his warmth. "Cramps." He understood. They'd talked about it before.

Without a word, he shifted their positions, maneuvering her back to his chest and reaching his hands under her shirt to rest gently on her lower abdomen. A silent communication, a shared language they'd built over time.

His touch was soothing, a welcome contrast to the ache radiating from within. His large hands, usually so strong, felt surprisingly gentle as they pressed against her skin. The warmth seemed to seep into her, easing the tension knot by knot. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as he acted as her own human sized heating bag.

As the cramps eased, Y/N snuggled closer. She could have sworn she felt Lewis's lips brush against the back of her head, a silent promise of being there for her.

Winning Celebration

The rhythmic crash of waves against the Monaco shoreline provided a calming white noise backdrop to the quiet murmurs in Lewis' living room. Sunlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an especially warm string of light to the tangled mess of limbs sprawled under a thin duvet.

Lewis, his bare chest lightly dusted with golden sunlight, held Y/n close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the small of her back.

"You were incredible this weekend" Y/n whispered, her voice husky. "That overtake at Sainte Devote? Pure magic."

Lewis chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against her ear. "Just had a feeling " he admitted, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Course you did" Y/n continued, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as he leaned down to place a soft kiss on her neck.

Just then, the sound of the front door creaking open shattered the peaceful intimacy. A loud, slightly slurred voice echoed through the apartment, "Alright, I brought those-"

The voice, belonging to one of Lewis' friend, cut off abruptly as the realization of what he'd walked in on dawned on him. He stood frozen for a beat, his eyes widening at the sight of them entangled on the living room rug, bathed in sunlight.

"Don't mind me" Daniel finally stammered, his voice thick with embarrassment and amusement "I'm clearly way too drunk for this. Don’t worry I won't be remembering any of this."

Y/n buried her face in Lewis' chest, a strangled giggle escaping her lips. Lewis, meanwhile, burst into laughter, the tension dissolving into a wave of relief and amusement.

"Typical" Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "Always the party crasher."

Y/n peeked up from his chest, a playful glint in her eyes. "See? Told you he wouldn't be fazed," she teased, remembering a previous, similar incident involving a particularly enthusiastic post-podium celebration.

Lewis grinned, pulling her closer. "Seems you were right" he admitted, his voice laced with affection. "Now, how about we get ourselves to the bedroom before he decides to join us?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow playfully. "Sorry, I don’t share." Her lips crashing into his as he brought her even closer.

Stargazing

The humid costal Cape Town air hung thick and heavy as Y/N and Lewis stepped out onto their hotel balcony. A million diamond-like stars glittered across the velvet expanse of the sky at the distant villa they were staying at.

"The night sky here is so clear" Lewis breathed, tilting his head back to take it all in.

Y/N smiled, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. "Look south," she instructed, pointing towards a constellation of four bright stars forming a perfect cross. "See that? That's the Southern Cross."

Lewis squinted, following her finger. "The Southern Cross? I've never seen it before."

"It's not visible from most places in Europe" she explained. "It's our signpost back in South America. My dad always says that whenever we get lost, all we have to do is find the Southern Cross. It always points south, it points home."

A warm feeling spread through her chest as she pointed to each star in the cross. "See, the little arm on the left is Mimosa, and the one on the right, slightly dimmer, is Pálida - 'pale' in portuguese. The longer arm pointing north is called Rubídea, and the longest one, pointing due south, that's the Magalhães star, named after the explorer."

Lewis chuckled. "And the one in the middle, kind of squeezed between the right arm and the south one?"

Y/N grinned. "That's Intrometida," she declared. "It means 'nosy'. It's the odd one out, just hanging out there in the middle."

Lewis laughed, a low rumble in his chest. " Fits the description."

They stood in comfortable silence for a while, simply gazing up at the breathtaking display of stars. The vastness of the universe felt humbling, and yet, the familiarity of the Southern Cross, a beacon from her childhood, brought a sense of comfort.

"Thank you for showing me this" Lewis finally said, his voice soft as his fingers reached for hers and he held her gazer "But my favorite part of this view is right here beside me."

Late night driving

Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the neon glow of oncoming traffic into streaks of light. The countryside, usually a picturesque blur of rolling hills and quaint villages, was now an inky expanse punctuated by the occasional farmhouse windows alight.

Y/N gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the late-night drive back home to London starting to feel endless.

A glance at the passenger seat revealed Lewis, his head resting back against the headrest, a peaceful expression on his face. He was supposed to be in charge of the music for the long journey, but exhaustion, brought on by a long day of meetings at the factory, had clearly won him over.

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyelids growing heavy. Reaching for her phone, she pressed the home button.

"Hey Siri," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Y/N, how can I help you?" came the disembodied voice from the phone's speaker.

"Play some upbeat songs, please" Y/N requested. A beat of silence followed, then the unmistakable opening chords of "Dancing Queen" by ABBA filled the car.

Y/N's lips curved into a smile. Maybe a little cheese was exactly what she needed.

Just as the chorus picked up a startled groan erupted from the passenger seat. Lewis jolted awake, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the sudden change in light and sound.

"What is this?" he exclaimed; his voice thick with sleep.

Y/N glanced over at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Abba?!" she replied, tapping her finger rhythmically on the steering wheel in time with the music. "You know, since you failed in your designated DJ duties."

Lewis's face scrunched up in mock horror. "Seriously? Dancing queen?!” Y/N laughed. "Hey, classics never go out of style. Besides," she added, a teasing lilt in her voice, "how can you resist singing along?"

Lewis opened his mouth to protest, then a ghost of a smile played on his lips. He sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "but only because you’re driving”

Y/N winked at him, her heart lighter. The rain continued to fall outside, but inside the car, filled with ABBA and the playful banter between them, the long drive felt a little less daunting.

Ironing shirt

A low hum danced across the room and dragged Y/n from her sleep. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked, the hum resolving itself into the rhythmic hiss of an iron.

She turned her head, a smile tugging at her lips. There, across their motorhome room, stood Lewis, shoulders broad and relaxed as he glided the iron over a crisp white shirt. The scene, domesticity in all its glory.

"Lew?" she rasped; her voice thick with sleep. He glanced up, a smile mirroring hers as he set the iron down. "Morning. Sleep well?"

"Yeah" she mumbled, burrowing deeper into the covers. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure your shirt is crispy" he said with a bright smile on his lips, picking the iron back up.

Y/n stretched languidly, the sheet slipping down her shoulder and revealing his t-shirt she had slept in. " You really didn’t have to”

Lewis chuckled, a warm rumble in his chest. "Non sense". He gestured towards the bed. "Come on now, sleepyhead. We need to leave soon."

With a sigh, Y/n threw back the covers and padded across his motor room, the plush carpet a welcome comfort against her bare feet. She wrapped her arms around Lewis from behind, pressing her cheek against his back.

"You shouldn't have done that" she mumbled into his shirt.

"Shouldn't have ironed your shirt?"

"No, woken up so early." Lewis turned in his arms, his brow furrowed slightly. "You know I don’t sleep too much”

He brushed a bit of hair from her face, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. "Spoiling me rotten, why don’t you?!" she teased, leaning up to kiss him softly.

The kiss deepened quickly, a familiar electric current running between them. He held her close, the iron forgotten on the ironing board. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, a comfortable silence settled around them.

"Alright, enough distractions." Lewis said with a playful grin, picking up the iron again. Y/n swatted him playfully on the arm. "Fine, fine. But at least let me make you some coffee."

"Make it strong, beautiful. Long day ahead." he said, winking.

Naps

The scent of Lewis's signature cologne hit Y/N as she fumbled with her key, the familiar aroma a warm welcome after a long day of meetings. She pushed open the door, a tired smile gracing her lips. Stepping inside, the apartment was the picture of disaster with luggage all around.

Curled up on the plush white sofa, Lewis lay fast asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. But he wasn't alone. Nestled beside him, Roscoe mirrored his position, a ball of contentment.

Y/N's heart melted. Lewis, notorious for his messy sleep schedule, must have been exhausted after the race. And clearly, Roscoe, ever the emotional sponge, had picked up on his human's need for rest.

She tiptoed closer, careful not to disturb their slumber. Lewis's face was relaxed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. One hand lay unconsciously draped over Roscoe's back, who in turn let out a contented sigh in his sleep.

Unable to resist, Y/N pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, capturing the heartwarming tableau of man and dog united. A soft chuckle escaped her lips. Maybe unpacking could wait.

Just then, Lewis stirred, his eyes flickering open. He blinked blearily at her for a moment before a grin spread across his face.

"Hello gorgeous" he mumbled; his voice thick with sleep.

"Hey you" she replied, her voice soft. She gestured towards Roscoe, who was now blinking awake, his tail thumping a lazy greeting against the sofa cushion.

"Looks like someone else is happy you were back" Lewis observed, reaching out to scratch Roscoe behind the ear.

The dog whined happily, nuzzling into Lewis's hand.

"Well," she declared, sinking down onto the sofa beside them, "it seems you two had a relaxing afternoon."

Lewis chuckled, pulling her close. "We did," he admitted, his voice laced with sleepiness. "Until you arrived, photojournalist extraordinaire."

Y/N playfully swatted at his arm. "Hey, someone has to document the domestic bliss."

Lewis leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Then perhaps," he murmured, "you should document some more."

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

436 notes · View notes

chiara-hotel · 14 days

Text

𝒟𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓂

Characters: Blade, Dan Heng, Robin, Jingliu

Warnings: Pre-plotline Jingliu (back in the quintet, spoilers for various quests, penacony spoilers (Robin), Pre-plotline & during plotline Robin, Small spoilers for Luofu questline(?) (Jingliu)

Part 2 Here: (w/Aventurine, Acheron & Boothill)

Fic: Fluff, Headcannons if you date them, Honkai Star Rail

- Main love languages is gift giving & acts of service

- Whenever he’s on a mission and sees something that reminds him of you he immediately buys it

- As for acts of service well he’ll help you out all the time, cooking, cleaning, opening the door for you etc.

- A quieter person also, but blade enjoys just sitting there and listening to you ramble on about life

- Most times you do a bunch of things and then blade follows you around like a little lost puppy… Its adorable

- Cuddles are not uncommon but not common either-it really depends on blades current mood for if he decides to cuddle with you (or if you ask him 100 times)

- Blade gets both Jealous & Possessive quite easily

- All it takes is one look from a man, not even suggestively, even if it’s looking at you for 0.5 of a second, blade is already on their throats

- It did depend on who you prefer to date, if you only like males he’s a little less jealous around women, although if you like both he’d ready to murder everyone in the world

- Blade doesn’t show much emotion, often you can’t figure out what he’s thinking

- His favourite date spots include picnic dates or small cafe dates

- Remember he’s a wanted criminal so he can’t go anywhere too public, that said he dislikes PDA a lof

- Blade would rather keep any affections between the two of you only, not even for the other stellaron hunters to see

- Some gifts Blade gives you include souvenirs from different worlds he goes to, a sword to protect yourself (if you need it) and some cute stuffed animals he saw that reminded him of you

- Hes the quiet type in the relationship most of the time

- Likes affection in private, but in public he loves kisses (on the cheek, or small kisses on his lips), hugs or even holding hands

- Cuddles are his favourite, he doesn’t care too much in who hugs who

- Especially loves physical touch & giving you gifts

- Its adorable seeing your face light up when he gives you something

- You both have a shared room in the express so most of the time you both just cuddle while you sleep

- Loves forehead kisses, especially when you give them-it makes him blush every single time

- During the trailblaze mission of the Luofu he tried avoiding you in his Imbibitor Lunae form (but he knows he can’t hide forever and you guys have to fight together so you end up seeing it)

- His tail gives away his emotions away whenever hes in that form (its adorable)

- Oh and March is your #1 shipper

- Shes gotten a lot of pictures of the two of you when you guys weren’t looking

- Robin is similar to the other two, fairly quiet in the relationship

- As a popular singer you attend all of her concerts and help give her some luck

- As well as calm her nerves when needed

- Loves cuddling! Its her favorite pastime (small spoon)

- Physical touch means a lot to her, cuddling, handholding, hugging, anything

- In public Robin loves holding your hand, keeping you close to her

- In private, she enjoys cuddling you, hugs again, but she adores when you touch her wings (watch her get all flustered from that)

- Also enjoys giving you gifts

- Many of her fans adore you, some are very jealous though…

- Speaking of jealousy she doesn’t get too jealous-if you spend too long ignoring her though she’ll start sulking just a little bitbit

- Her fans are definitely jealous at you both, they wish they were in your place all of the time

- You’ve met Sunday plenty of times, the first time you both met he threatened you if anything happens to her

- But he understands how much his sister loves you and ends up accepting you

- When Robin “dies” in the Penacony dreamscape you and Sunday teamup to find the murderer as the ultimate duo

- Of course he makes you do most of the labor

- In the end, you end up like Sunday when you both confront Gallagher

- Jingliu adores her partner

- Naturally, the other 4 members of the quintet love you aswell-you often hangout with eachother

- Jing Yuan tells you stories about Jingliu on missions, Yinqing is quiet yet you both chat about smaller things like food or tea, Dan Feng is most likely the busiest out of the 4

- Around the Quintet Jingliu doesn’t mind if you hug her, hold her waist, hold hands or even kiss

- Most likely she’ll have her arm around your waist to keep you close

- Other than the quintet, she generally doesn’t do any actions of PDA except hand holding (+ an occasional kiss)

- She actually isn’t a jealous person, even if she is (which never happens), shes great at hiding how she truly feels

- With her, you’ll wake up to her arms around you, forcing you to sleep and stay with her longer

- One adorable thing she does is she always kisses you on the forehead before leaving for a mission

- As she returns from a mission, she is often tired and loves to cuddle you

- In those moments shes a small spoon-but usually Jingliu perfers being the big spoon

——————————————————————————

303 notes · View notes

macfrog · 6 months

Text

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn��t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #sex on fire

681 notes · View notes

megu-meow · 2 months

Text

when a fire starts to burn - sukuna

sukuna x fem. reader (reader is Nanami's sister)

Part 2 of my Hockey Player Sukuna Series - Part 1

Lmk if you would like me to create a taglist! :D

Sukuna finds himself looking forward to Sunday. He suddenly considers texting you non-stop not enough. He wants to see you in person. He wants to see with his own eyes how you react to his flirtatious comments, he often wonders if they make you blush. He is convinced that they do, considering that sometimes you react with unintelligible keyboard slams. He loves it, but seeing it in person would be hundred times better.

He considers himself enchanted by you. He finds it undoubtedly easy to talk to you, he loves telling you about his day and he certainly enjoys hearing about yours. He loves how passionate you are about your job, how excited you get about office gossip, and how you never hesitate to text him whenever the smallest thing happens to you throughout the day. The hardest part is hiding the fact that he is talking to you constantly from his Captain, your brother.

"Sweetheart, when is Bambi coming?" he hears Nanami's wife, Sophia question from the kitchen while Sukuna is sitting on the couch in the living room, and his ears perk up once he hears that adorable nickname of yours being mentioned.

"She's not coming here. We're meeting at the cafe." Nanami responds as he leaves their bedroom.

"Why is that? I haven't seen her in a while, I wanted to give her the souvenir I got her from Thailand."

"She's tired and irritated, she said she wants to hear about your travels when she's in a better mood."

Sukuna's grin widens. He knows why you're tired. He knows why you're irritated. The two of you stayed up texting until 5 in the morning and your conversation ended with him calling your cat stupid, which offended you deeply. The thing is, Sukuna is severely allergic to cats so he couldn't comprehend the cuteness of your cat even after receiving ten pictures of the sleeping feline from you. And you couldn't accept him calling your child stupid either. Nonetheless, he was displeased that you were not seeing him today in person. What's worse is that they're leaving tomorrow for a road trip which is scheduled to last at least a week, if not more. He doesn't really understand why he has these feelings after two weeks of knowing you, he usually wouldn't care about something so insignificant, but he figures that you were an enigma enough to entertain these thoughts running around in his mind about you. Once Nanami leaves the house, Sukuna retreats to his momentary room and starts packing his bag for the upcoming road trip. He has gained a lot of fans after the amazing debut he had with the team and now there's a lot of pressure on him to live up to the expectations. If everything goes right, he should get a raise in a couple of months, after the regular season is over and he will be able to get his own place after that. Despite enjoying how his current situation gives him more opportunities to see you in person, Sukuna hates leeching on others, so he cannot wait to get himself out of your brother's apartment.

While you're out with your brother, you cannot stop thinking about the pink-haired player currently living with Nanami. You really wanted to see him today, but you didn't want to cause suspicions with Kento and Sophia. Those two were incredibly good at figuring out when you have a crush on someone. This is not the case here with Sukuna - or at least you try to convince yourself about that. Regardless, you're being cautious.

However, your plan is thrown out the window by Sukuna himself, as he walks into the cafe and sits down at your table. Both Nanami and you glare at him in disbelief. He ignores your confused expressions as the waiter approaches and he orders the same thing he did two weeks ago.

"What are you doing here, Sukuna?" Kento questions, clear irritation in his tone.

"I told you this before, I'm extremely superstitious. The last time we had a game on Sunday and I joined you guys for brunch, I scored five goals, may I remind you. So I decided, to include this in my game-day routine." he explains, while gesturing to the situation at hand. His eyes jump in between you and Nanami as he tries to figure out how you feel about his bluntness. "And you, Captain, cannot say anything against this, because tonight, I'm gonna win the game for us."

Nanami is speechless, while the pink-haired guy grins, his enjoyment evident. He is having too much fun with the current situation, in your opinion. Kento looks at you expectantly, he doesn't really have a say in this matter. You were the one to decide that Sunday Brunch was just for the two of you.

You started chewing the inside of your mouth nervously. Sukuna trapped you into a corner: hockey players - or professional athletes in general - were peculiar about their routines. You heard of the most unhinged pre-game routines over the years, you were aware of how much goes into the mental preparation for games. You couldn't possibly sabotage Sukuna's career with the Wizards just because you want to be selfish about the time you spend with your brother. However, this is a really bad idea. You know why the pink-haired idiot is doing this: he wants to spend time with you. But this is a dangerous game, one that your brother would surely not approve of. Sukuna is secretive. He's arrogant and full of himself. He challenges you and is constantly on a mission to irritate you. That's why you don't understand why the next words leave your mouth.

"Sure, everything for the team right?"

Sukuna grins widely, as he crosses his muscular, tatted arms in front of his chest and leans back in his chair. His dark eyes are glimmering with joy as he looks at you, winking sneakily.

"Okay, Bambi. But..." he sighs deeply "If your performance falters, Sukuna, this ends right away."

"Understood!" he agrees, saluting your brother jokingly.

That Sunday, Sukuna scores a hat trick and gets an assist. It seems like he is determined not to screw up this unique opportunity to spend meaningful time with you every fricking Sunday. After the game, Akane, Senna, and Sophia convince you to go out with them and the team as they're celebrating the goaltender's birthday. You agree, despite knowing that you are gonna regret this decision in the morning. You often join the team for these kinds of occasions considering you have a good relationship with every one of them. You're having a good time, chasing around coach Yaga's kid, who has an unmistakable bump on his forehead. He probably ran into a table or something earlier, but it doesn't stop him from running around like a maniac. Once you catch him and pick him up, you are determined to deliver him back to his mother, who is to your frustration, talking to Sukuna.

"How are your brothers? Aren't they missing you now that they're far away from you?" you don't want to listen to their conversation, but you can't really help it as you hear the question being asked.

"They're gonna be alright. It's Yuji's draft year so he was about to move away soon anyway. And Choso is Choso, he's gonna go wherever Yuji goes."

Sukuna spots you and grins, he cannot help but think that you look incredible, even with the child clinging to your side.

"Special delivery!" you exclaim as you give the child back to his mother. The toddler's energy has faltered significantly and his mother looks at you gratefully for tiring him out. She says goodbye to you, leaving you alone with Sukuna.

"You have brothers?" you ask curiously.

"It's not nice to listen to someone's conversation, you know, sweet pea?!"

"I - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry your pretty little head, I don't really care honestly." he teases "Yeah, I do have brothers. Two, to be exact."

"Are you close?"

"Yeah. They're brats tho."

"Figured."

"You wound me, y/n. I'll let you know, I am the best brother ever."

"I doubt that."

"Well, I would be the best boyfriend for sure, there would be not doubt about that one." he adds, winking at you, mischief evident in his features. You can't help the blush appearing on your face and Sukuna relishes the feeling of pride that takes over him. He was right, it is 100 times better now that he can see your reactions.

"You're such a flirt, Sukuna."

"Only for you, y/n. I hope you know that."

"Yeah? Prove it."

"Well, how about you let me take you out on a date once I'm back from our road trip?" you knew he was a straightforward guy, but he never expected him to be this blunt. His eyes scan your face rapidly for any kind of reaction, you get that feeling again, that he can read your thoughts just by looking at you. You misjudged him. You thought this guy was a master of hiding his feelings, but this time around, his eyes are sparkling with hope. He doesn't seem worried or scared of rejection, which is slightly irritating, but what did you expect from a guy with a big ego like his?! "I don't have all day, y/n!" he frowns, and despite his words seeming harsh, they come out as more nervous than demanding. You have him under a spell that he cannot understand just yet, he feels the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he impatiently waits for your answer. Suddenly, you smile brightly and Sukuna's worries are forgotten just like that.

"Okay. I'll let you take me out on a date."

Sukuna is beaming with happiness, but unfortunately, it doesn't last too long. On their way to Kyoto, Kento sits beside him on the bus.

"What do you want from my sister?" he asks, his demeanor completely different from the usual.

"What?"

"You heard me! First, you get yourself invited to brunch. Then, you're openly flirting with her at Panda's party. So, tell me what you want from my sister!"

Sukuna swallows hard, his Adam's apple jumping visibly. He has to play his cards right, otherwise he will have to forget about your date. He is perceptive enough to know, that you would never go out with him if your brother didn't approve of it. He knew from day one that he had to get Kento's blessing. He considered doing the cliche things that happen in movies and books, hiding it from him and letting the whole thing explode in his face, but Sukuna has a stronger sense of justice and fairness than to betray the person who took him in like that.

"I asked her out on a date. I don't think I have to tell you, but your sister is gorgeous, intelligent, and absolutely amazing. I plan to treat her with respect, I don't want to hurt her feelings. I will not tell anyone on the team about this, you know that I do not participate in locker-room talk and I don't plan on changing that. I would like to take her out to a nice restaurant and have a great conversation with her. Those are my intentions for now."

"For now?"

"Well, I don't want to get ahead of myself. I won't say that I would like that date to be followed by a second one, because there's no guarantee that's something she would enjoy. I do believe she is special, but whatever this leads to, she will be the one to set the pace. I would never rush any woman into anything, especially not someone like y/n."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Well, I knew since December that your sister is the kind of person you meet once in a lifetime, guess I had a hunch. And my hunch was right. She deserves the world. And if she gives me a chance, that's exactly what I would like to give."

"What do you mean you knew since December? You barely moved here four weeks ago and it's April. You guys met two weeks ago."

"I spotted her at one of our games. I guessed she traveled with you guys for the Family Game."

"She did. Are you implying you had eyes for her for five months just to get my approval? Or is any of this true?" Kento questions with furrowed eyebrows.

"I'm fucking offended that you would think of me so lowly that I would come up with an elaborate lie like this just to get into your sister's pants. Believe me, if that was the case, I wouldn't care a single bit about your approval." Sukuna explains.

Kento sighs, deeply. He lived with Sukuna for four weeks. The guy is insanely chill, despite his odd looks. He literally goes to practice, works out, and plays video games. He never hears him talking about anyone, especially not women, with disrespect. Hell, he never mentioned any woman before. He's been brutally honest with everyone and he's been nothing but gallant. However, Nanami knows what hockey players are like. He also heard rumors about the pink-haired prodigy from his old teammates. Thus his hesitation.

"Give me a few days. By the time we get back home, I will have your answer."

Sukuna nods understandingly. This is going to be the longest road trip of his entire life.

Part 3

#ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #sukuna #sukuna imagine #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagines #Ren Writes - Sukuna ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

169 notes · View notes

sunkendreams · 4 months

Note

uhh asking for a request of bo and just anything that involves with duct tape 😭😭 gagging or bounding im happy either way

Also love ur work! 🩷💖

souvenir.

➾ pairing ; bo sinclair x fem!reader.

in which bo decides that he’ll take you as his souvenir — a pretty hiker lost in ambrose.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 5.3K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), DUBCON, drugging, kidnapping, bondage (tape and chains), restraints, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, groping, knifeplay, rough sex, p in v sex, different positions, spitting, choking, bruising, hair-pulling, scratching, marking, use of pet names (good girl, sweetheart, etc.), dom/sub dynamics, begging, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, bo is definitely not nice in this fic

author’s note: this is definitely more of a darker fic, but I actually loved writing it ,,, nothing like gross and horny sex with bo sinclair to get the blood flowing! I hope you all enjoy! Still working on requests, I’m hoping to post a few things this week since I’ve been so busy!

Warm, glittering rays of a vibrant Louisiana sun cut through the thick canopy of trees and marshland, bathing your face in a haze of heat. It was midday — hot and sticky, accompanied by a stifling humidity that was prevalent in the South, not terribly far from a saltwater coastline.

Beneath you was the grass — clutches of wildflowers blossomed amongst strands of emerald, a temporary refuge for you to rest as you savored the outdoors. A town sat in the near-distance, baking away underneath the sun, as evidenced by the paint wearing thin and the asphalt looking gray instead of black.

You’d been hiking by yourself — that was your first mistake. Too brazen and bold enough to be without the company of your friends, and now, subject to the ire of Ambrose’s hidden devils.

It was akin to ringing the dinner bell when Lester had caught wind of your presence through the scope of a well-used Barrett. Once he’d informed Bo over a very colorful phone call, your fate was sealed, doomed to become another pretty fixture in the House of Wax.

There was no getting out of Ambrose — you just didn’t know it yet.

As the glaring sun began to slip behind the verdant canopy above you, you took it as a sign to relocate, trekking the short distance toward the quaint town. You could hear the general buzz and chatter of townsfolk, but there wasn’t a soul in-sight — the ones that were, confined to their eternal tombs.

“Nobody’s home.” You murmured, thumbing the thick straps of your backpack as you sauntered down the middle of the road, glancing at some of the vehicles lining the road. Some appeared brand-new, others showing signs of weathering.

You passed the gas station and row of various houses, making your way toward the church. The distant hum of an organ guided your path, leading you to the steps and to the devil himself.

Bo Sinclair stood in front of a set of white doors, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, a bead of sweat glistening upon his brow. He wore his Sunday best to look the part, gaze flickering toward your pretty, doe-eyed countenance when you’d stopped a few feet away.

A cloud of billowing smoke drifted into the air, a thin gray wisp that dissipated into the staggering heat. He appraised you in an unusual silence, drinking you in, shamelessly admiring the way your jeans clung to your body. Bo’s own fascination was nearly palpable — he still wondered what possessed a girl to go hiking alone.

Maybe you were stupid — he didn’t think so.

“Sermon getting to you?” You hadn’t intended to come off as simpering or awkward, gesturing toward the cigarette in the stranger’s mouth. A chattering ambiance and piano music emanated from inside of the church, and you felt severely underdressed in the presence of this man — the only one you’d seen in the town so far.

A huff escaped him as he ashed his cigarette, granules of charcoal floating towards the steps. “Might need another cigarette if that’s the case,” Bo chortled, taking another long drag. He ogled you again, jaw tensing as he sized you up, unbeknownst to you. “You lost?”

You would do perfectly — prettiest thing he’d seen in ages, that much was for certain.

Bo’s mind worked differently than yours, sinister and callous when compared to your innocuous demeanor. Whilst you stood along the picket-fence, contemplating about finding a good drink of water, Bo was picturing you strapped down to his bed, clothes cut away.

“A little bit,” It was painful for you to confess to being lost, considering how many times you’d traversed the backwoods of Louisiana. The sound of your voice was enough to momentarily sever Bo’s salacious train of thought, watching as you picked at the fading paint along the fence. “Do you know if there’s a convenience store around here or anything?”

He shook his head, motioning down the street. “Closed for th’day, I’m afraid. Lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” Bo asked, attempting to lay the foundation for you, building a rapport that was surely to break once he got his hands on you. It was all about the building.

You shrugged, withering away beneath the oppressive heat of the midday sun. You wondered how this man was so unusually comfortable within an all-black suit and tie. Nonetheless, you decided to be truthful. “I’m just looking for a quick drink before I hike back to the main road. I’m a little low on water.”

“If you’re willin’ to make the trek, I can take you up to my place. Won’t take long, ten minutes or so.” Bo offered, attempting to sweeten the deal. It was akin to a predator skillfully drawing their prey inward, making it difficult to resist. He took another lengthy drag of his cigarette before smashing it against the concrete with the toe of his boot.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother,” Admittedly, you felt intrusive — a meddlesome presence amidst a quiet, peaceful town. You felt even worse interrupting a church service, but Bo didn’t seem phased whatsoever. “I don’t want to distract you from church, either.”

Bo scoffed, lips twitching into something sardonic, one hand perched atop his hip. “Don’t think th’good Lord really cares a whole lot for me these days,” He mused, and you couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “Let me take you up there.” He motioned for you to follow him.

Leaving the white chapel behind, you walked alongside him, somewhat smitten by his Southern drawl and charismatic charm. Beads of sweat glistened along his brow, and he promptly loosened his tie as the two of you made it toward a stretch of beaten-up road.

“Name’s Bo, by th’way. Forgot my manners.” Bo mused, making sure to really lay on the flirtation and appeal. It wasn’t hard for him to tell how flustered you were already — and he fully intended on manipulating such a fact.

“Nice to meet you, Bo.” You smiled, cordial and polite as you sauntered alongside him. “How long have you lived here in Ambrose? It seems so far from the rest of civilization.” It was out of reach, away from the rest of the world, a world that was impervious to the sinister deeds of the Sinclairs.

Unfortunately, you were now in their territory, subject to their rules and ire.

Bo chuckled, shamelessly stealing glances at you whenever possible. You were gorgeous — a looker with a sweet demeanor. He wanted to lick that sweetness right off of you, drain it all, keep it for himself. “Lived here for most of my life. Town’s real quiet, jus’ known for the House of Wax.”

Intrigue glistened upon your features, and you recalled the sign that you’d spotted during your hike — Trudy’s infamous House of Wax. The building itself sat in the distance, nestled amongst a cluster of hills. Even that seemed relatively dormant.

“It’s nice here, really peaceful. You must get used to the silence.” You replied, stepping up the incline as Bo gently steadied you with one arm. You murmured a soft ‘thank you’ as a house came into view, rustic yet large. This must’ve been Bo’s home. “Is this it?”

He motioned toward the house, wrapping his tie around his hand as he loosened up his collar. “Yeah, this is it. We’ll go on inside, you can sit an’ I’ll get you fixed up with somethin’ for the road.” Bo chimed, making his way to the front door.

Bo let you inside, gesturing toward the couch and recliner that sat in the living room. It was a very well lived-in home, but you didn’t seem to mind. You moved toward the couch, finally able to sit somewhere comfortable and relax, placing your backpack beside you.

“Thank you for doing this, Bo. I appreciate it.” You piped up, watching as he moved toward the kitchen. The interior of the home felt warm and inviting, littered with plenty of things to look at. There was ample opportunity for Bo to take matters into his own hands.

One of the cupboards in the kitchen had what he needed, a syringe filled with some strange concoction, a thicker liquid. His dark gaze darted toward you, distracted by your surroundings. Bo took the syringe, discreetly keeping it by his side as he stepped behind you, offering you a water bottle.

“‘Course. Heat’s pretty bad in these parts.” He replied, and you immediately unscrewed the lid, greedily drinking several gulps of icy water. Bo was close, hovering above you with a manic look in his eyes.

Before you had time to properly react, his hand closed around the underside of your jaw, squeezing tight to hold you steady. The intrusive, cold prick of a needle digging into your neck made you scream, but Bo had you in a rather uncomfortable chokehold.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, stroking at your hair. Everything felt numb, and you could no longer feel anything in your arms and legs, reduced to simple tingling sensations. Your cries were in vain, throaty and hoarse as you sank into the couch, limp and lifeless. “Jus’ relax. All that strugglin’ is gonna make it worse.”

Your eyes felt heavy, beginning to close with a weight to them — the last thing you remembered was the glimpse of Bo’s insidious smirk and dark hues before you’d been rendered unconscious.

———————————————————————————

The scratch of duct-tape reverberated around the concrete cellar, obnoxiously close to your ear, causing you to involuntarily wince. The haze of unconsciousness was lifting, but that sound — it made you groan, unpleasant and invasive. You attempted to move as the heaviness wore away in your limbs, but you had no such luck.

You were in the underbelly of some cold, dingy cellar, cement walls lined in grainy polaroids, tools, and obscene amounts of sex toys. An icy, uncomfortable sensation began to pool within the pit of your stomach, and you tried to jerk against the tape around your wrists.

A strange, unsettling chill fluttered about your body, causing you to shudder. Your hiking boots were nowhere to be found, flannel stolen too, leaving you in your shorts and tank top. Something felt intrusive, as if there was an outside presence bearing down on you, crawling beneath your flesh.

Bo was standing at the foot of a strange chair, stained with months-old cruor, dressed differently than before. A pair of mechanic’s coveralls were stained with grease and oil, dark enough to conceal bloodstains. He bit at the strip of duct-tape, clutching it between his teeth as he bound you, keeping you restrained.

“W—Wait,” You babbled, and suddenly, the heightened sensation of fear and startlement blistered through you, visceral and volatile. “Please don’t do this.” Your whimpers fell on deaf ears as Bo continued his mission, sweat layered in a thin sheen along his temples.

Death in a town that wasn’t on the map was a fate worse than any other — you would rot into the ground with no one to find you, only the animals and trees would know; bear witness. You would cease to exist and become a memory, a painful one, eternally trapped within Ambrose.

“You can make this real easy on yourself,” Bo’s husky, dark drawl emerged from the bitter chill of the cellar, roughened hands sliding along your legs. “All you gotta do is behave for me, yeah?” He stood above you, a twisted version of the man you’d met at the church — or perhaps, the real him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling vulnerable and exposed in your current position. Your hands were bound on either side of you with many rings of duct-tape, legs chained to the floor, yet there was some room for you to walk — if that were even possible. You shivered, mostly from the oppressive cold of the basement coupled with fear.

“Please,” Your chest felt tight, fear unfurling from your ribcage as it spread across your body. A shudder rolled down your spine when Bo grabbed your chin, thumb stroking along your lower lip. “Please don’t kill me.”

Something about this place told you that he’d killed before — they’d been in the very same spot that you were now. A sinister, lascivious gleam glimmered within his dark eyes as they raked over your body, lips curling into a smirk.

“Didn’t say anything about killin’ you, beautiful.” Bo corrected, digits beginning to squeeze your chin, putting pressure on your jaw. “But I might change my mind if y’make this hard for me.” His other hand moved toward your shorts, unbuttoning the front as he ripped the zipper down in one swift movement.

You began to squirm, mortified and flustered as you fought against the tape wrapped around your wrists — but it wasn’t any use. “Don’t.” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper as he gave you a pointed look.

Bo scoffed, head cocking to one side. “Be a shame if I gotta shut that pretty mouth of yours, too.” It wasn’t a warning, but a threat, a promise — one that he intended to make good on if you weren’t careful. “Gonna open up for me?” He crooned.

There was something hideous about him touching you — and even more so was the disgusting fact that you wanted to let him do it. He was handsome at the church, all a facade of Southern charm and debonair wit, but this was something else entirely.

With a defeated, pitiful expression, you began to part your legs, and that was akin to victory for Bo. His dark chuckle made you shiver, feeling his hand brusquely tug and wrestle with your shorts, inching them down your legs. “You’re real pretty,” He uttered, looking you in the eyes. “Prettiest thing I’ve seen in ages.”

Heat pooled within the pit of your stomach, and you clenched your hands into fists, nearly whimpering when he ghosted his fingers across your clothed cunt. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction — this was wrong, depraved on so many levels, but you found yourself submitting instead of retaliating.

A strangled whimper escaped you as he rounded the chair, standing right in front of you as he planted a kiss against your forehead. “Bet you’re all wet from this, huh?” He husked, voice kept to a low growl as he slipped his fingers into your panties.

Arousal had collected there, slick and warm upon his digits. Part of you wanted to melt into the chair and disappear, muscles tense and taut as you worked to suppress your whining.

“Fuck, look at that,” Bo sneered, greedily sucking your nectar right from his fingers, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. “Guess I was right.” His hand returned to your aching cunt, the other wrangling your panties aside, movements harsh and rough.

You hated that it felt good, offered you a sliver of relief — you wanted to scratch at your restraints, thighs beginning to quiver. A string of incoherent babbling escaped you, mumbled pleas for him to stop. It was quite the juxtaposition to your hips, which happened to lurch forward into his hand.

Bo bullied his way in between your legs, spreading you apart as he lowered himself to his knees — unexpected, but you still felt embarrassed. “Gonna have to have a taste of this pretty cunt,” With a gravelly hum, he grabbed your thighs, unceremoniously spitting a wad of saliva onto your throbbing cunt. “Don’t move.”

“Bo,” It was almost involuntary, moaning his name as you jolted forward, mouth agape. Bo’s grin felt like a hot brand against your inner thigh as he clamped his hands down into your legs, hard enough to cause bruises. “P—Please.” You sputtered.

Part of you felt terribly embarrassed for enjoying yourself at the hands of this man who’d kidnapped you, your innocence being taken advantage of. His calloused, rough hands spread you apart, broad tongue licking a stripe along the length of your slit.

Bo was eating you out like a man starved, breath hot and heavy as he savored you with his lips, tongue swirling across your cunt. His hands groped into your haunches, against the swell of your pliant flesh, practically forcing your hips to tilt into his face as he buried his head between your legs.

With a wanton moan, you slouched back into the rigid frame of the chair, listening to it creak and groan as you writhed around. The manacles that shackled you to the concrete rustled with your movements, fingers curling into your palms. His tongue was deliberate and slow, teasing you with every stroke.

You tried to smother your noises, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but he was ten steps ahead of you. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” Bo stopped, ceasing any further contact until you submitted to him. “Gonna have to beg for it, I s’pose.” His sigh was theatrical and badgering, forcing you to whimper.

A simpering, choked-up noise escaped from the back of your throat, desperation beginning to mount as you jerked and jolted forward. Bo simply sat still, attempting to smother that smarmy, devilish grin of his as you shook your head back and forth. “Please keep going, please!” You cried.

Bo clicked his tongue, seemingly unimpressed and dismissive, reaching for the knife that sat in his back pocket. “Ain’t ever met a girl this ungrateful. You rather I stop an’ get this all over with?” His voice was vitriolic, full of a manipulative venom that only served to drag you deeper into his pit.

The sharp, icy blade suddenly traced over your legs, goosebumps erupting in its wake as you shook your head. You didn’t want Bo to hurt you — the idea of being harmed, of being so helpless — it frightened you. Bo enjoyed seeing that little pang of fear within your doe eyes as he prodded the tip of razor-sharp silver into your flesh.

“I’m sorry,” You gasped, stumbling over your words and babbling, restless within the chair. “Bo, please! I — I’ll be loud, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.” It was a gushing string of pleas and begging that didn’t go unnoticed this time.

With soft shushing, Bo sighed, kissing along your inner thigh as he dug his nails into your flesh. It was rough enough to make you feel the burning sting of pain, chest heaving with labored breaths as he nudged his lips against your cunt again. “I think I’m gonna keep you for m’self, how’s that sound?” He uttered.

“Good, good,” You nodded. “I — I want you, please keep going.” Whatever bite and edge you had before had diminished completely, shadowed by his dark, domineering nature. It was hard for anything to break through that barrier of his. He retracted the knife, then and there.

A cajoling chuckle escaped him, one filled with mockery and a duplicitous edge as he lapped at your cunt once more. His tongue was like hot coals, raking across your slit with a wanton need, fingers grabbing and groping at the meat of your thighs.

His cock twitched within his jeans, desperate to be inside of you, make you scream. You wanted to grab at his tousled tresses or grip onto his shoulders, but the duct-tape prevented you from going anywhere, digging into your wrists.

Bo savored you as if you were some delectable meal, licking his lips before toying with your clit. His mouth was feather-light and teasing that bundle of nerves, enough to make you contort within the chair. A strangled moan left you, noisy and desperate, wrought with desire.

“Please, Bo, please,” You breathed, and when your thighs threatened to squeeze his face, he roughly pushed you apart, gazing at you from between your legs. The duct-tape chafed at your flesh, uncomfortably tight around your wrists as you writhed, hips bucking forward. “Please!” You were nearly sobbing.

All inhibitions had been abandoned — you were his now, reduced to his pretty plaything, all spread out on a silver platter. Molten heat surged through you when he lapped at your cunt, hand slipping down as he teased your entrance, giving you no warning as two digits sank into you.

A blissful whine left you, head rolling back against the chair as he nudged your clit, just enough to keep you chasing after that sensation. Bo was undeniably cruel, grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud, causing you to squirm and shiver, all sound escaping you.

“Sing pretty for me,” Bo’s husky, Southern purr emerged from between your thighs, teeth nicking your thigh before he finally began to suck on your clit. His thick digits pistoned in and out of your weeping cunt, providing you with an overwhelming barrage of pleasure. “That’s it.” He huffed, lurching forward.

The rattling of chains couldn’t rip you from the moment as liquid heat coalesced between your legs, with Bo’s chin steeped in your arousal. You moaned again, flexing against your restraints, stomach churning with an anticipation that made you want to melt.

Bo grunted, greedily lapping at your sweet cunt, fingers beginning to curl into that sweet spot, prompting you to choke on any sound that bubbled within your throat. He was like a predator, with you in his clutches, a rabbit trapped within the jaws of a wolf.

With another barrage of practiced licks, he continued his onslaught against your clit, eliciting a myriad of sinful, inhuman sounds from you. Bo — it was the only word that fell from your lips like some chant, and he didn’t stop, feeling your knees buckle and shake around him.

His digits buried themselves into your tight cunt, sluggishly rocking in and out as he sucked on your clit. It sent you careening over the edge, lost to a white-hot explosion of ecstasy as you came, moaning and shivering, a complete and utter mess.

He was the devil — pearlescent teeth glinting in the low, buzzing light of the cellar. The shadows moved in a way that made him seem sinister. You were surprised that he didn’t have horns and a forked tongue, but it was likely a trick of the eyes. You huffed, fading away into your post-orgasm haze, but Bo was far from finished.

“We ain’t done just yet,” He uttered, licking his lips as he moved up from between your legs, hand gripping your chin as he dragged you forward. Bo made you open your mouth, head tilted backward as he leaned in, countenance contorting into a sneer. “Got a little gift for you, for bein’ good.”

A wad of his saliva landed upon your tongue, and you nearly choked, feeling filthy and vulnerable. His eyes glistened with an insidious shade, shadowed and bemused as he closed your mouth, forcing you to swallow his spit.

Bo was expectant, waiting for you to say something — but when nothing emerged, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Where’s your manners?” He reminded you, patting your jaw like he would a beloved dog.

“Thank you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, somewhat shrewd as Bo grinned, seemingly satisfied with your answer. You squirmed again when Bo began to unzip the front of his pants, breathing noticeably heavier and wrought with unrestrained excitement.

“Now,” Bo hummed, fishing his cock from the confines of his jeans. His erection was thick and heavy within his calloused palm, oozing with pearls of precum. With a step in your direction, he pressed the head of his cock against your cunt. “M’gonna fuck you right.”

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, letting out another moan as he teased your entrance, hooking his hands around your hips. Bo was rough and callous, dragging you forward as he sank his cock into you, grunting at the tightness and warmth.

Another wanton moan escaped you, back beginning to arch as he thrust forward, chest rippling with grunts and subtle growls. Lewd, crass noises reverberated throughout the cellar, the only ambiance that you could really focus on. His shadow eclipsed the stark glare of the light, gaze fixated on you.

Bo’s eyes were shadowed, brewing with something dark yet indecipherable. He began to adopt a very brutal pace, cock pounding away at your poor cunt. You hadn’t done this in so long, to the point where it felt borderline unfamiliar. You sputtered and moaned, feeling one of his hands abandon your leg.

That rough, calloused hand of his found its way to your slender neck, digits squeezing at your throat. It wasn’t particularly gentle, but not enough to completely rob you of air. You whined, unable to keep from watching the way his cock disappeared again and again into your sweet, oozing cunt.

You wanted to grab onto him, onto his arm, chest, anything — instead, you were met with harsh resistance from the duct-tape. “Bo,” You moaned, hips rolling in-tandem with his movements. Bo hunched closer, hand tight around your throat as his thumb pressed into your jugular, causing you to wince. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Bo’s voice dropped to a lower octave, cock rutting away into you with a rough, unyielding amount of force. If he went any harder, he might’ve threatened to split you in half. “Fuck, you’re nice n’tight. Can’t believe you’re gettin’ off to this. You like bein’ tied down an’ fucked by a stranger?” He uttered, and you began to stammer.

A wave of liquid heat burned bright within the pit of your stomach, a flame that only grew in intensity as he kept up with his brutal ministrations. Your cunt clenched pathetically around his cock at his words, causing you to shiver again. “I—I …” You didn’t know what to say, embarrassed and ashamed.

Bo scoffed, voice tapering off into a grunt as he continued to rut forward, cock buried inside of you until he could go no further. “Got you so fucked you can’t even speak,” He sneered, grip tightening on your throat. It was bound to leave some sort of mark, but you knew he didn’t care. “You gonna behave?”

Your head bobbed up and down several times over, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.” You squeaked, watching with blown-out pupils as he reached for the knife, cutting you loose from the duct-tape. Though, once your hands were free, you were being dragged onto the cold concrete on your stomach.

The steely, sharp bite of the knife sliced through your tank top like butter, leaving you completely exposed to Bo, who remained entirely clothed. Goosebumps coalesced along your spine from the icy temperature of the ground, feeling his hand close into your hair as he fucked you from behind.

His cock battered away at your cunt, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. It was harsh and intrusive, digits tugging on your hair, wrangling you like you were molded from obsidian. Bo savored the sensation of you rocking back into him, thighs quivering like a leaf.

Your eyes flickered toward the muted brick wall on your left, met with a garish display of polaroids — other girls, girls like you. You had a feeling that none of them had lived to tell the tale.

A pang of dread consumed you, followed by fear — you hoped that you wouldn’t end up on that wall too, immortalized in some sick photograph. Instead, you wanted to increase your chances of survival, moaning and whimpering his name, forehead snug against the concrete.

“You wanna cum?” Bo asked nonchalantly, spoken through labored breathing as his thrusts became quick and sporadic. He was close, cock throbbing inside of you as his other hand clawed bruises and marks into the swell of your hips.

“Yes,” You didn’t hesitate, moaning again when he dug his nails into your flesh, causing you to squirm from discomfort. “Please, Bo! I want you to let me cum!” Desperation was laced within your voice, high-pitched and simpering as he let go of your hip.

“Good girl,” Bo grunted, somewhat perplexed by you. “Finally usin’ your manners.” He reached between your thighs, slathered in your slick and his precum, thumb rubbing circles into your clit. Your back began to arch, pushing back into him as he fucked you like a wild animal, chains clanking against the floor.

Pleasure rippled through you in blistering waves, coupled with the faint sting of pain that radiated from your hip. Bo grunted, breath hot and strenuous as he fucked you senseless, pounding away at your cunt with little regard for your comfort. His thumb toyed with your clit, causing you to writhe and moan.

With another harsh rut of his hips, Bo grunted, pushing his hips forward as he came inside of you, ropes of white-hot seed flooding your cunt. His brow glistened with perspiration as he pulled his cock free, leaving you with the mess of it all, haphazardly smeared between your legs.

Bo, in all his cruelty, tore his hand away from your clit, leaving you a throbbing mess, edged to the brink. You wanted to beg for him to continue, but you were spent, hot flesh soothed by the cold temperature of the floor.

“W—Wait,” Your protests were weak, but still strung-out with desperation. “Aren’t you going to keep going?” There was a little sliver of hope within your voice, but he relented, lips curling into a bemused smirk as he gave your ass a light smack.

“Changed my mind.”

You hated him.

For a moment, you saw red, frustrated without any semblance of relief, but also in misery over your current situation. You didn’t know what to do or say — and the last thing you wanted was for him to become angry with you. You didn’t want to become a permanent fixture on his wall of past trophies.

He stood up, hovering above you as you sheepishly rolled onto your back. Bo’s unsteady, dangerous leer sent shivers down your spine, watching as he stared at you for several moments. “Guessin’ you’ll last longer than the rest have,” He crooned, swiping his tongue across his lower lip. “Go on.”

His head jerked toward the chair, signaling you to climb back in. Your legs quivered in the aftermath of being fucked stupid, and you awkwardly reached for your panties and shorts, but Bo intercepted you. Wordlessly, you sat down in the leather seat, naked and entirely vulnerable.

“Keep you like that for when I come back.” Bo’s Southern purr made you shudder as you trembled, both from fear and from the cold. He couldn’t help but take a little bit of pity on you, tossing you a blanket from the old mattress that sat several feet away from you.

Something about being left entirely alone, naked and used in this basement, made you more terrified than anything else. You didn’t want to be left alone with just your thoughts. Even if Bo had kidnapped you, he was more tolerable than solitude. “You’ll come back?” You asked.

Bo huffed, retrieving his baseball cap. “Maybe,” He could see the hint of fear that had glossed over your eyes. “Maybe I’ll leave you down here an’ let you rot.” His voice was somewhat vitriolic, but undecided — part of you knew that he couldn’t leave you alone after this.

You would take the physicality over being isolated.

Silence drifted between the both of you as your legs shifted, the sound of clanking manacles providing the only bit of ambiance. Bo made for the iron-wrought door, standing in the doorway to give you one last look. Even in your disheveled state, you were beautiful — and now?

You belonged to him.

Before Bo shut the door, his lips twitched into the ghost of a devilish smirk. “Guess I’ll see you soon.”

#slasher x reader #slasher x you #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #house of wax #house of wax smut #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfic #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #slasher fandom #slasher x y/n #house of wax fanfic #house of wax 2005

337 notes · View notes

sunny-day-jack-official · 10 months

Text

The posters designed for the Norwich Anime & Gaming Convention are now available at Shark Robot for everyone worldwide to purchase! The SFW and NSFW variations are available separately for purchase, and each poster is printed on premium luster photo paper with archival quality inks. They also come in four size options to choose from so you can ensure that you have enough space to admire these bad (and good!) boys:

$9.95 USD - 8" × 10" (20.32cm × 25.4cm)

$12.95 USD - 10" × 13" (25.4cm × 33.02cm)

$13.95 USD - 12" × 16" (30.48cm × 40.64cm)

$14.95 USD - 16" × 20" (40.64cm × 50.8cm)

Additionally, Hatter Jack has returned as a sticker, in case you missed the run for the Patreon Hoodie! Single die-cut sticker are sized 2.95" × 3.09" (7.493cm × 7.8486cm) and retails for $2.95 USD.

Posters

Bachelor of the Month - Prince Blossom's Blossoming (Prince Blossom)

Originally designed as a convention souvenir, our princely mascot Prince Apfel Octavius Blossom The Third basks in the floral delights of his hidden rose garden. Perhaps, is he beckoning you to come closer? You would do well to oblige your lord~ (Looking for the NSFW variant? Purchase it here!)

DachaBo - Rude Awakening (Simoun)

Originally designed as a convention souvenir, this little meow meow doesn't appreciate his beauty sleep getting interrupted. The least you can do is let people know when you're gonna barge into their nap corner, okay!? Not like he wants to see you, a-anyways... (Looking for the NSFW variant? Purchase it here!)

Gallagher Mansion - Elias' Sunday Best (Elias Gallagher)

Originally designed as a convention souvenir, our dearest departed Elias Gallagher is getting ready to put on his Sunday clothes. Oh? It seems like he's noticed you looking... Well, he's certainly not displeased~ (Looking for the NSFW variant? Purchase it here!)

Sunny Day Jack - Wave For The Camera (Jack)

Originally designed as a convention souvenir, your best friend Sunny Day Jack is here to say hi! All eyes on the star of the show, after all. Why don't you wave back? (Looking for the NSFW variant? Purchase it here!)

All purchases of merchandise from our Shark Robot catalogue further supports development of our series! You can view the full catalogue here at our vendor page.

#somethings wrong with sunny day jack #sdj #sunny day jack #dachabo #the groom of gallagher mansion #minors dni

484 notes · View notes

heich0e · 1 year

Text

wouldn't it be nice? - suna rintarou/f!reader (haikyuu!): fluff but suggestive at times, established relationship, talk of babies/families/pregnancy, committing to the bit is all fun and games until the bit commits to you, tw: light miscommunication since some of u guys hate that, let the record show this was NOT written for his birthday, i didn't even KNOW it was today ok, i will not be taking questions at this time (or ever)

You know exactly what started it.

The problem.

It was some sappy commercial you saw on TV one lazy Sunday afternoon.

You rarely even watch television—not proper cable television anyway—preferring the simplicity of streaming services in this modern day and age. It's a complete fluke that you happen across it at all while you and Rintarou rest sprawled across his couch in the afternoon sun, your feet tucked underneath his thigh. You wouldn't even go on to remember what the commercial was for; all you remember is the perfect, cherubic little baby at the centre of it, and the way that it made your heart melt.

You let out a long, wistful sigh once the advertisement transitions into the next. "I want to hold a baby."

It piques his interest. That stupid, completely unremarkable comment that you'd come soon to regret.

Rintarou pulls himself a little more upright at his end of the sofa, shooting you a mischievous look. His expression might seem placid to most people, impassive even, but you know it, and him, and all his minute eccentricities too well to be fooled.

"I'll give you a baby," he muses, angling his body over yours on the sofa with his arms caging your waist. You draw your legs back instinctively—hips perpendicular to your thighs and heels to the bottom of your bum—at the first sign of trouble.

Your lip curls, and you lift your sock-clad feet so they press flat against his chest, pushing him back with all the strength you can. He hardly budges, but you expect as much.

"Ew, Rin," you snort, head lolling to the side to idly watch the next useless commercial on TV as it unfolds, “gross."

Suna pauses, a hand loosely circling your ankle, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye. There's a look that you don't recognize that flitters across his face. His grip tightens a little, his thumb sweeping down over the round protrusion of your joint and back again.

"Gross?" he asks softly.

"Yeah, gross," you say, pulling your foot out of his hold. It takes a bit of effort, because he doesn’t seem to want to move, but you roll over onto your side and wiggle out from under him to rise up off the sofa. You shuffle into the kitchen for a snack, and you feel his eyes on you as you go.

But that was just the start.

You’re not sure if you just never noticed, or if the universe has a deeply perverse sense of cosmic humour, but after that Sunday afternoon, it seems like there are babies everywhere you go.

And if not actual living, breathing babies, then it's all matter of things that are decidedly baby-adjacent. Itty bitty onesies on display at the store you two are shopping at. Sweet souvenir plushies at the Aquarium that are meant for little ones to hold. Diapers, formula, and various other baby necessities are advertised in the posters mounted on bus stops, on train stations platforms, and on flashing digital billboards.

And every single time, without fail, you see them when you’re with Suna.

And every single time, without fail, he looks at you and waits for you to meet his gaze.

You’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding it, honestly. But then he’ll always make some comment. Point it out. Make it obvious.

“Look at that baby’s tiny hand. I bet our baby will have my hands.”

“Can you believe that babies are really this little? Do you think ours will be this small?”

“If you were buying these for our baby would you get the yellow or the—“

“Trick question,” you cut Suna off, snagging the yellow pair of training chopsticks (complete with a little ducky on top) out from his hands and shoving them back onto the display he’d just plucked them off of. You don’t allow yourself to linger for too long on how cute they really are. “Babies don’t use chopsticks, and also we’re not having a baby.”

You continue down the aisle of the market, a familiar pain throbbing just behind your eyes that Rintarou seems so uniquely skilled at eliciting. Your face is hot too, but that’s probably just from the frustration. After a moment you hear his feet shuffling along after you, and the two of you finish your grocery shopping in relative silence.

You’re used to putting up with all of your boyfriend’s other annoyances and oddities, so this is just another one to add to the ever-growing list. But this time, something feels a bit… different.

The two of you stop at a vending machine for coffee on your walk home since it’s cold out. Suna has the largest of your two reusable grocery bags looped over one of his arms, and somehow while you’re digging for change in your wallet he manages to weasel the other one off of your arm and onto his own, too.

“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner, why are you stopping here?” he asks, watching as you carefully make your selection from the humming machine in front of you. You press the button of your choice, and a can of cafe au lait clunks down into the waiting chute below.

“The metal can keeps my hands warmer,” you explain, sticking a few more yen into the machine and choosing Rintarou’s favourite, too. His choice makes the same descent yours had, and you crouch down to retrieve it for him, holding it out to him in offering as you stand.

He blinks at you.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Hands are full, anyway.”

You balk at him soundlessly for a moment. “Give the other bag back, then!”

“Nope,” he replies, making a point to enunciate it clearly in a way that you know he knows drives you crazy. He takes a step in the direction of your apartment, and you have no choice but to stick the can of coffee he’d declined into your coat pocket and chase after him.

It does a great job of keeping your hand—tucked into your pocket and wrapped around it—warm as you walk, though.

Nearly back at your apartment, your can of coffee drained and properly disposed of, a little ball of fluff waddles past you on the sidewalk, heading towards the entrance of a nearby park. You and Rintarou both pause, equally confused by what you’ve just spotted.

Behind the amorphous little thing is a couple, maybe a few years older than you two are, trailing not even a metre away. You watch as they coo and fawn over it as is wobbles unsteadily towards the open stretch of grass ahead. They call it pet-names, and try to convince it to turn around for mom and dad so they can take a picture.

Oh.

A baby.

Probably a little older than a baby given the whole… walking thing. But it’s still so tiny, even in its big, puffy coat, so they can’t be very old. The hood is pulled up over the child’s head, and you realize upon closer inspection that it has—

“Teddy-bear ears,” Rintarou says, cupping his fingers over his mouth and blowing warm air into his hands. “That’s so cute.”

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile, watching as the child toddles along in their fluffy little teddy jacket.

Suna must have put the grocery bags down at his feet at some point when the two of you stopped walking, and when he pulls his hands back from his face, you see how the tip of his nose has gone pink from the cold. He dips down in front of you, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing you up-close.

“What?” you ask him nervously, a hand fluttering self consciously to your face.

His breath leaves his mouth in wispy clouds as he tilts his head to the side. He’s so close that the warmth brushes against your lips like an airy, indirect kiss. You wonder if he can taste the coffee that clings to yours.

“What?” you repeat yourself again, a little more insistently this time. You reach up and pinch either of his cheeks between your thumbs and forefingers—stretching the pliable flesh outwards in an attempt to get him to back off a bit. His rosy cheeks are cool under your warm touch.

“Do you think we’d make a cute baby?” Rintarou asks, though the question is a little garbled thanks to your grip, and your stomach clenches involuntarily. His hands, and his frigid fingertips, reach up and rest over your own where you’re still pinching his cheeks—though your vice has eased slightly.

“You can barely even make an omelet,” you huff out as heat rises in your cheeks, pulling your hands out from under his and looking away. “Like I’d ever trust you to make a baby.”

“People make them all the time by accident, you know,” he remarks, rubbing at his stinging cheeks where you’d been pinching him. “I’m sure I could do it on purpose if I really set my mind to it.”

You dip down and grab the grocery bag he’d taken off your hands earlier, hiking it up onto your shoulder.

“Why are you so obsessed with this stupid baby joke?” you ask him exasperatedly, following it with a long, aggrieved sigh that you can see as you breathe it out.

He looks at you for a moment, his brow pinching in the middle. His nose is still so pink, and it makes the green in his eyes stand out more.

You watch how Suna’s lips part, like he’s going to say something, but then they press together in a thin line again without uttering a word. He picks up his grocery bag with one hand and sets off in the direction of home, and this time you feel a little sheepish as you follow after him.

The apartment is quiet when you return home, and it stays that way as the two of you unpack the groceries in your kitchen side by side. You bought more than you usually would on a weekly grocery trip, all because Suna’s been staying over more than he usually does. But there’s a sudden frostiness that seems to have creeped in from outside, as if clinging to your coattails, and the chill has now settled between the two of you.

It makes a strange sort of anxiety prickle under the surface of your skin, tender like a bruise. It makes you wonder if half of these groceries are going to go to waste.

“I’ll shower first,” Rintarou mutters without turning towards you after he puts the last pantry item away and closes the cabinet.

Stress sits heavy in the pit of your stomach when he doesn’t look at you. It’s intentional, you know it is. Suna’s favourite hobby is staring at you—he’s told you that himself many, many times. But he doesn’t even spare you a glance before he shuffles off towards your bedroom.

You stand in silence in the kitchen, as though that weight in your gut keeps you anchored in place. You can hear the rustle of Rintarou’s clothes hitting the hamper. You hear the bathroom door close. You hear the spray of the shower turn on.

You hear your heartbeat. Loud and wet in your ears.

You’re being ridiculous. You know that. You’re all worked up over nothing.

This was all just some stupid joke that he was being annoying about in the first place. That he found every possible opportunity to bring up.

You aren’t even sure what’s upset him so much; uncertain as to why you being annoyed about one of his blatant attempts to annoy you seems to have caused him offence.

You curl up on your sofa as Rintarou showers, picking at the fraying cuff of your hoodie as you similarly pull apart every second of your memory from the walk home from the market in an attempt to identify what could possibly have gone wrong. You’re thinking about the can of coffee—left sitting, unopened and room-temperature now, on your kitchen counter—when you hear the shower turn off.

The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly as you wait for your sullen boyfriend to emerge, but when he does he still seems resolved to avoid you. You wait on the sofa, your fingers stilled in the motion of fiddling with your sleeve, anticipating that he’ll come ask you to blow-dry his hair, just like he always does.

He doesn’t.

The hairdryer clicks on in the other room, and the sound makes you feel sick.

“Rin!” your voice leaves you involuntarily, without an ounce of conscious effort. You sound panicked.

The hairdryer clicks off immediately, and Rintarou appears in the doorway to your bedroom—half-dressed and hair half-dried—in an instant. His eyes are alight with concern.

Your hand had flown to your mouth as soon as you called out for him, too late to actually muffle the sound. But it stays there as you look at him with shocked, notably-guilty eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks you, eying you suspiciously.

“Nothing,” you murmur, your fingers still resting lightly over your lips, you avert your eyes. “It’s nothing, sorry.”

He hesitates in the doorway for a moment, and then turns to head back to the hairdryer.

“It’s just—“

He pauses when you speak again, one of his hands resting on the doorframe he’s lingering beneath—neither in nor fully out.

“—you’re mad at me.”

You watch his shoulder blades as your words hang in the air between the two of you. The chill in your apartment, unlike it had been outside, is only proverbial—but you half expect to see wisps of vapour slipping out on the edge of your breaths.

“I can’t figure out what I did wrong.”

Suna looks at you over his shoulder, his already vulpine eyes narrowing a little further. Not in irritation, but consideration. For all the strangeness between the two of you today, you can still recognize that much in his expression.

“I’m not mad at you,” he finally says, and you hate how relieved you feel at so few words. Hate even more how him turning back to face you makes the weight in your stomach lessen. That as he approaches you on the sofa you feel the air warm with every step.

Rintarou perches on the edge of your couch, a full cushion between the two of you as you sit there quietly. Both of his feet are on the ground, but yours are drawn up onto the sofa with you, facing him. Slowly your feet creep forward, slipping your toes under his sweat-pant clad thigh.

Suna’s head droops forward, and he lets out a breathy, wry laugh.

“What are your theories so far?” he asks quietly.

Your head tilts to the side in confusion.

He peeks over at you, peering up at you from the corner of his eye.

“What do you think you might have done wrong?”

You hum quietly, pursing your lips slightly.

“Well, I… I thought maybe I got you the wrong coffee. I didn’t ask, but you always choose that one, so I just thought…”

Suna clicks his tongue.

“Nope.”

You huff a bit, staring at your hands in your lap. “Well… there was that baby at the park.”

You feel Suna’s eyes on you, but you’re suddenly too wary to meet them. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong though, so you continue.

“And I said you can’t make an omelet.”

He laughs a bit again, and you know that wasn’t it either.

“Are you upset because I said that I didn’t think you could make a baby?” you ask, peeking up at him. “Rin, I’m borderline militant about taking my birth control. I obviously don’t think you’re impo—“

Rintarou tips his head up a little further, meeting your gaze. Caught in his stare, it’s suddenly like your words die before you can get them off the tip of your tongue. Slowly, he reaches out towards you, taking one of your fidgeting hands and holding it in his. His touch is warm now, in contrast to what it had been at the park. He lifts your hand up to his mouth.

Delicately, he kisses your fingertips. His lips brush against the digits, over your knuckles and up to your palms. He presses your hand to his cheek and looks at you with the most pitiful gaze. It makes your chest ache.

“I don’t like it when you say that,” he says reticently. And for all Rintarou’s height and weight and sheer breadth, he sounds so impossibly small.

“Say what?” you ask him, and your voice is quiet too. Vulnerable.

He leans his flushing cheek into your hand, holding it to his face and closing his eyes as he nuzzles into your touch.

“That you wouldn’t have my baby,” he whispers, “that you don’t want it.”

You resist the urge to pull away. It’s an instinct you can’t explain: a desire to keep him at a distance, to always laugh things off, to make a joke out of very real feelings.

“Because I do.”

You blink.

Suna opens his eyes and looks at you, and for the first time you see the very real, very not joking pain in his eyes.

“I want that with you.”

Your mouth is dry and you’re frozen. You stare at him, completely still, stunned by his sincere confession.

“What?” you manage to squeak out.

Rintarou closes his eyes again, breathing out a little sigh. He pulls your hand from his cheek, folding your fingers down so they’re hooked in a loose fist around his thumb. He brings your hand to his lips, not quite a kiss but close enough to call it that anyway.

“Not right now,” he murmurs into your knuckles, lips brushing against you as he speaks the words. “But someday.”

You’re still so shocked that you don’t know how to respond. He peers at you, hand still held to his lips, his eyes more resolved than they are wounded now.

“And I want you to want that. But I don’t know how to make you want it too.”

Your heartbeat thumps in your chest, resonant and palpable. Heat has crawled all the way up your face now, and you’re fairly certain your hand has gone clammy, but Rintatou passes no comment even if it has.

“Do you think you could?” he asks you quietly. Sheepishly. Earnestly. “Could you want that? With me?”

You pitch yourself forward suddenly, and Rintarou lets out a little grunt of surprise as the two of you topple back into the sofa. You hide your burning face in the crook of his neck, that smells like your body wash and shampoo but somehow so much better, clutching onto him like your life depends on it. Suna seems shocked for a moment as he finds himself flat on his back with your weight on top of him, and his body is stiff as he processes it. After a few beats of your too-loud, too-telling heart pass, he finally eases. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tightly to him.

“You’re so stupid,” you grumble, your eyes squeezing shut tightly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The genuine laughter that’s hiding just behind the words. He hugs you a little tighter. “Probably.”

You stay like that for a while, basking in the warmth of Rintarou’s body and the rhythm of his breath.

“You love me though,” he says quietly, “so that reflects pretty badly on you.”

You lift your head to meet his gaze, and find him barely holding in a laugh. You can’t help but laugh with him. Can’t help but enjoy your favourite sound.

Rintarou scoops you up in his arms again, tugging you into his lap. He presses featherlight kisses to the corner of your jaw, and you fiddle with his long, lithe fingers. He sighs, but this time the sound is at ease. His damp hair tickles your face as he rests his forehead against your temple, nosing at your cheek.

“Hey, Rin?” you murmur as you run your thumb over the space between his first and second knuckle on his ring finger. You think about the kid you saw at the park in the fluffy jacket, and the besotted parents trailing along behind it.

He answers you with a content, if not slightly curious, hum.

You turn your face towards him, and your noses brush. Rintarou’s lashes flutter as his gaze turns a little heavy-lidded. You can feel his breath on your lips, that’s how close he is. You inch forward until the space between you is almost completely gone.

And just before your lips meet, you smile.

“I do think we’ll make a cute baby.”

#suna x you #suna x reader #suna rintarou x you #suna rintarou x reader #suna #suna rintarou #hq fic #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

1K notes · View notes

doumadono · 5 months

Note

Sinful Sunday - I can't believe it's the last sinful sunday of this year lol. Anyhow, pussy eating with Bakugo, please 🥹

Warnings: aged-up Bakugo

SINFUL SUNDAY

Katsuki's the kind who revels in moaning as if he's relishing the experience even more than you are. It seems he takes delight in responding to your moans with his own, almost in a teasing, mockingly playful manner.

His tongue explores every inch, a warm and moist sensation gliding effortlessly across your hot, puffy lips, intensifying the pressure gradually. It meanders through your folds, and sometimes delves into your entrance.

Bakugo alternates between fervently sucking on your clit like there is no tomorrow, and gently caressing it with his rough hand.

His mastery knows no bounds; he's well-versed in the art of using his lips, tongue and fingers on you — whatever it takes to elevate your pleasure to unparalleled heights.

You're not just a meal; you're his absolute favorite feast, and your moans? Well, they're the delectable sweet treat that tops off the entire experience for him!

He goes all in — rough and fast— driven by an insatiable desire to savor every drop of your juices.

Bakugo's the kind who'd have you in his office within his top-rated agency, sprawled across his desk. Of course, he's impeccably dressed, and so are you – well, mostly, except for your panties, discreetly stashed away in his pocket like a naughty, little souvenir.

When it comes to your panties, he's a relentless teaser. I mean, we're talking about Bakugo, the undisputed king of teasing, right? Picture him running his tongue along your folds, pressing it against the fabric of your panties, ensuring his saliva seeps through. The cool, wet sensation sends your senses into overdrive. He'd leisurely remove your panties, taking a moment to savor the scent afterward, sniffing them like a dog, because, of course, he'd keep them as a little souvenir.

Bakugo's craving for you to climax multiple times — first around his tongue, followed by the one around his fingers, and then back around his skilled tongue. Expect a lot of overstimulation.

Oh, that tongue of his! Seriously skilled, darting around like a pro he is, applying just the right pressure on all the sensitive spots - your swollen clit, your dripping entrance, the little spot just beneath it, right between your opening and your tight asshole.

393 notes · View notes

custard0nut · 2 years

Text

𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲 (𝐇𝐂)

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockley x gn! reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Small acts of intimacy with the moon boys.

—————

Marc Spector:

When you’re eating together he likes to wipe your face with the pad of his thumb, his reason for doing so is because apparently, you’re a messy eater when you’re actually not. He just needs a reason to touch you tbh.

On days when he’s busy doing some avatar duty, he leaves his sweatshirt or hoodie on your shared bed, so when you’re doing your routine, a part of him is with you. He may or may not have sprayed his cologne on it too.

Since Marc’s been to every part of the world, he would give you those tourist souvenirs unironically.

"Seriously, Marc? An ‘I love New York’ t-shirt?" “What? The quality is great, baby."

If he wakes up early before you, he will stay in bed longer until you wake up because he loves to admire you. There’s just something so raw about it like time has stopped and it’s just the two of you.

Your morning raspy voice? He fangirls internally. “Good morning Marc,” “Morning baby”

Sometimes, without realizing it, Marc’s hands always find their way to have skin-to-skin contact with you. Like he would draw circles on your stomach with his finger while you’re laying down on his lap or pinching your thigh while you’re cuddling on movie night.

Does the laundry for you when he’s around and would never let you lift a finger at all. If he sees you reaching for the broom, you can bet he will swat it out of your hands.

“Ow!” “Oops sorry baby", then proceed to kiss your knuckles as an apology.

—————

Steven Grant:

Nap times are a must! He will buy matching pj's and even turn on the air humidifier or light a scented candle before your nap time. He doesn’t mind if he’s the big spoon or small spoon but he loves being the small spoon. If you’re having a bad day, he will be the big spoon and would pamper you with kisses.

“It’s okay love, I’m here.”

Leaves candies and snacks around the apartment/your bag/your pockets, he does that just in case you ever get hangry or you just need sugar in your body.

“But Steven, they don’t make candy as sweet as you :(” He suddenly melts into a puddle.

Brews you a cup of tea/coffee every morning before heading to work, and he would place your favorite mug next to it.

He has a tendency to link your pinkies together when walking next to you. He doesn’t want to get lost in the crowd.

To heal your inner child, Steven bought lots of colouring books, and you guys would compete to be the best. Gus would be the judge of it. The little guy will swim toward whatever attracts him the most.

“YES! I won again!” “That’s not fair love! You bribe him with food!” Que to him sulking.

One perk you adore about him is when he’s humming softly to himself. He usually does that when making dinner or in the shower, and you would sometimes sneak up on him for a surprise hug. He appreciates that a lot.

—————

Jake Lockley:

He lowkey has cute aggression and would playfully bite you. Your arms and thighs become the victims most of the time.

“Can you stop biting me?” “Why not? You always bite me when we’re in bed though ;)”

He likes to take a shower with you and massage your head and body with shampoo and soap. Takes his time picking which scented shampoo to use on you because he likes to sniff your hair while cuddling. It’s therapeutic for him.

“Mixed berries or green tea?” “Green tea please.”

Would invite you to run errands with him cause he enjoys your company and plays your playlist in the car. He will either grab your thigh or hold your hand while driving; there is no in-between.

Since you’re his pretty passenger, you can bet you leave your stuff around purposely. He thinks it's cute.

He will go to any lengths for you, even driving across town in the middle of the night, to satisfy your cravings.

“Okay, I got you your favorite snacks amore,” “Thank you!” “And I demand kisses as payment.”

Self-care Sunday was your thing at first, but now it’s his too. So when he’s running errands alone he would buy skincare for you and him to try out and you were surprised when he came home with a bunch of varieties.

“Which one do you wanna try first mi amore?”

#steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fluff #steven grant x y/n #marc spector x y/n #jake lockley x y/n #moon knight headcanon

2K notes · View notes

astroboots · 2 years

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 5

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

Summary: You try to befriend Marc with mixed results. Or alternatively: God this man is cranky.

Word Count: 7080

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

The thing about vanishing off the surface of the earth is that even if the missing person themselves doesn’t notice, people around them will.

We live in a society where we’re all accountable to someone or something. Your landlord will want the rent paid at the end of month. Your parents will ring to moan about you not calling them often enough. Your boss is going to send chaser emails asking for progress reports. A person cannot just disappear for a week, reappear and expect nothing to come of it. There are always going to be repercussions.

So it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when Steven stands before you, looking absolutely gutted as he tells you that his supervisor has assigned him the worst possible schedule. He’ll have the unenviable honour of manning the gift shop every Saturday and Sunday for the rest of the month, and on top of that he’ll be on the second shift most weekdays where he’ll be stuck unboxing inaccurate ancient Egypt souvenirs late into the night.

“I’m sorry, love.” Steven looks down at the ground, then back up at you, all contrite apology and puppy-dog eyes. “I tried talking to Donna about it, but she just threatened me with more inventory. Not sure why she’s got it in for me, but it’s been worse than ever this last week.”

You hum sympathetically, though you’ve got a pretty good idea of why his supervisor might be hacked off—missing a whole week of work can’t have endeared him to anyone at the museum.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry that I’ve gone and messed things up again.” He looks like a sad puppy in a rescue video, disappointment and remorse colouring his features.

“You haven’t messed anything up,” you reassure him, reaching over to touch his arm. “You don’t have control over your schedule. Besides, we can still spend the nights together, even if we can’t laze about together in the morning. And maybe you can ask Donna nicely to switch you back to your old schedule when you have your performance review at the beginning of next month?”

He gives you a small nod, but he still looks like the world is ending. It’s frustrating and painful to watch him struggle with the consequences of a disappearance he knows nothing about and couldn’t control. Having his body arbitrarily borrowed and spirited away is hardly something he planned just to spite his supervisor. Not that you could tell her that (or Steven for that matter).

“We’ll have plenty more weekends together.” You slide your hand up his arm until you can cup the back of his neck and pull him close, resting your forehead against his. "Not going anywhere, remember?"

You hope it’s the truth.

Steven smiles a bit at that, and warmth blooms in your chest. All you want is to make him feel better.

“Maybe I can phone in sick tomorrow?” you offer up as a consolation prize, “Skive off work so we can have a proper lazy morning together.”

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree at your suggestion. “That’d be amazing!” he enthuses, then hesitates. “But are you sure you can do that? I don’t want you to get in trouble for chucking a sickie on my account.”

“It should be alright. I haven’t taken a sick day for years, I can afford to do so now so long as we don’t make a habit of it. One day shouldn’t cause too much trouble.”

You’re wrong about that.

The situation in Steven's flat the next morning proves as much.

You’ve never understood the expression cooking up a storm, but there’s no other words to describe the way Steven Grant lays waste to the kitchen.

It’s chaos.

Steven whirls through his kitchen space with the uncoordinated choreography of a drunk elephant. Pots and pans are banging. There are tomato specks spattered across the kitchen tiles like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Smoke is rising, and there’s a strong burnt smell permeating every inch of his flat. The fire alarm has already gone off twice, and no doubt would be doing so again now if not for your executive decision to remove the batteries.

Even with the smell of smoke hanging heavy in the air, you’re smiling as you watch him destroy his kitchen. His enthusiasm is contagious, lighting up the whole of the room.

Half an hour and two fully open windows later, the storm subsides, and Steven makes his way over to where you’re seated on the bed, balancing a tray in his arms.

“Breakfast is served,” he announces, setting it down on the duvet with a flourish, and you can’t help the bubbly laughter that rises to your lips at the grandiose theatricality of it.

You watch his expression, enjoying the way he beams with pride as he starts plating out the cutlery and leans down to steal a confident kiss before neatly folding a napkin on your lap.

He’s gone completely overboard, but you can’t help but love it, love him.

“You know," he muses as he takes a seat beside you, "I’ve always wanted to do this. Serve someone a romantic breakfast in bed I mean. And now, here we are, and I’m just… I’m thrilled! Can’t believe I’m lucky enough that I get to do it with you, but I’m thrilled.”

And suddenly the joy is gone.

You sit on the top of the duvet, staring down at the breakfast tray of burnt toast and charred baked beans that Steven has prepared for you with such love and devotion, and all you feel is guilt.

You can’t help but wonder how much of his over-the-top enthusiasm is simply because he is so excited to finally have something he's been denied for such a long time. And he has no idea why he’s never been able to have it before. (But you do, and you’re lying to him about it.)

The happier the two of you are, the deeper the guilt festers in you like rot spreading under the still-shiny skin of spoiled fruit. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen Marc again. The very fact of his existence is impossible to ignore, haunting your time with Steven like a dark shadow that looms large in the corner of every room you share. You know now that somewhere underneath that shy and sweet exterior, there’s another man hidden behind the curtains, controlling his life.

You can’t go on like this. You need to tell him. Steven deserves to know.

Squaring your shoulders, you take a deep breath, gathering the courage to initiate the conversation. You can do this. It will be okay.

You look up to his warm eyes, which narrow slightly in confusion, and for the briefest of moments you think you see a reflection of Marc within them. That’s all it takes for you to lose your nerve.

You don’t want him to be taken away from you.

“Everything alright, love?”

Steven’s voice snaps you back to reality and you refocus your gaze to find those gorgeous brown eyes filled with concern.

You can’t tell him.

“You looked… worried.” Steven picks at the charcoaled edges of the toast with his fork, brows knitted with concern. “I’m sorry, this is really quite burnt, isn’t it? I’ll make new.”

You’ll lose him forever.

You glance at the charred bread and try to smile back at him. Wouldn’t it be nice if burnt toast was all you had to worry about?

No one else is going to save him from Marc. You’re the only one here, the only one who knows. You’re the only one he has.

The words falter on your tongue, and when you open your mouth they’re replaced by a different sentence entirely.

“You don’t need to make me a second breakfast, just come back to bed.”

You wrap your arms around his waist and drag him in towards you, feeling the curve of his smiling lips against your forehead. He’s warm and solid in your arms, yet the precariousness of his position has never been so apparent.

You need to protect him.

“Oh? And just what exactly are you planning for us to do in bed?” Steven asks, and you hear a hint of amusement in his tone. “Cause I don’t think it’s sleep, now is it?”

Your fingers thread through his curls, as you pull him downwards to your lips. “We can sleep after.”

It's noticeably lighter in the room when you wake, you can tell that much even with your eyes still shut. You must've had quite a lie-in if it's gotten late enough to be this bright.

Despite the warmth the afternoon sun brings to this space tucked up under the eaves, the bed feels colder than it should. It's only when you open your eyes that you understand why.

Steven is not in bed with you, which means...

In a panic, you lurch upright, head swivelling frantically as you search the cluttered flat for any sign of– There! You let out a sign of relief when you spot his familiar figure in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter with his back towards you. Shoulders square and stiff, his movements sleek and sparse. Calculated.

It’s all very… un-Steven-like.

“Morning,” you call out hesitantly even though it must be well into the afternoon. You’re trying to confirm your suspicions, and sure enough, he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t answer you either.

Definitely not Steven.

You draw up the covers and clutch them tightly to your chest. It feels like a distorted deja-vu of the first night. But unlike that night, you’re not engulfed in darkness; the slanted golden sunlight is streaming through the large windows of the flat, illuminating every dusty nook and cranny. Unlike that night, he has yet to speak to or even turn towards you, and you don’t have to fumble for your clothes this time. They’re there, neatly folded, in the empty spot of bed next to you.

Carefully dipping your toes onto the floor, you wrap the covers securely around you before slinking into the loo to get dressed. When you emerge, he’s still there, ignoring you. The silence is unnerving, a warning sign.

Stay away. Do not engage.

Given the experiences you’ve had with this man so far, you really should heed that warning. Anyone with half a brain or a scoop of survival instincts would quietly gather their stuff and flee the flat immediately, but not you. You hesitate. If this were a horror movie, you would be yelling at the daft woman on the screen to get the bloody hell out of there.

But if you do, then Steven is bound to wake up to an empty bed and an empty flat. You don’t want him thinking you’ve disappeared on him again, not after he told you how much it upset him last time. Particularly not after you’ve had a taste of the experience yourself. You don’t want to do that to him again. You need to leave Steven a note or something at the very least.

Your eyes skim the clutter, settling on a yellow pad of sticky notes on Steven’s desk. Perfect!

As quietly as you can, you tiptoe over to the desk and reach over for them. There’s a loud crash, and you jump, startled, your eyes darting to the floor by your feet. Steven’s pyramid paperweight lies there, staring back at you accusingly. You must have knocked it off the desk, a casualty of your graceless attempt at stealth.

So much for being inconspicuous.

When you look back up, Marc has turned around to stare at you.

It’s uncanny how unalike they look. It’s like one of those spot-the-difference photo games. The same face, the same body, but where Steven’s gorgeous dark eyes are wide and vulnerable, this man’s are narrowed and impatient. His brows perpetually drawn together and a constant stubborn set to his jaw as he grinds it.

He’s staring at you like that now, arms flexing where they’re crossed over his chest, and it feels like another warning.

A red fucking flag.

Every inch of your skin prickles at the hostile attention, but you can’t leave yet. You haven’t written the note. You can’t leave Steven in the dark again.

Doing your best to pretend that your heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of your chest, you take a deep breath and bend down to pick up the paperweight trying to steady it with your slightly trembling hands. It’s undamaged thankfully, and you quickly find a more secure spot on the desk to set it down, then search out the stack of sticky notes and a pen.

You can feel Marc’s penetrating gaze on you as you scribble down a quick message to Steven, and it’s all you can do to keep your shoulders from creeping up to your ears. You sign off with a heart for good measure. Hopefully that will allay some of Steven’s anxiety when he inevitably wakes up alone with no memory of seeing you leave.

Sneaking another look at Marc as you finish, you find that he’s still looking at you. Somehow though, it feels different than it did that first night. Less predatory and more... cautious. He is no longer a wolf eyeing his meal, but a wary stray sizing up whether you might pose a threat.

You square your shoulders and lift your chin as you walk over to the fishtank, more aware than ever that he’s watching your every move. He’s eyeing you with all the distrust of a shopkeeper who suspects you of shoplifting. You wonder with nervous annoyance if he thinks you're somehow planning to smuggle the gigantic tank out of Steven’s flat in your handbag.

“I don’t want him to worry,” you explain as you stick the yellow note onto the side of the fishtank.

At this, Marc finally officially acknowledges your presence.

“The fish?” he asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow in apparent confusion.

The… fish?

You stare stupidly back at him, not quite able to understand what he’s referring to until you follow his line of sight, turning your head to trace his gaze back to the fishtank.

Dear God. Is he joking or does this man seriously think you’re writing a message for Gus’ benefit? What kind of daft, idiotic—

“No, not the fish!” You interrupt your own mental tirade. “Steven. I don’t want Steven to worry.”

Marc doesn’t seem to have anything further to say to that. He just watches you with narrowed eyes as you finish gathering your belongings in silence. He doesn’t mention the dropped paperweight, or check in on your promise to keep his existence a secret from Steven. Apparently, Marc’s biggest concern is how the crazy lady Steven is sleeping with on a regular basis has learned to communicate with fish through written language.

The fish. Good God.

You want to laugh. All of a sudden, the formidable, larger-than-life image you’ve held of the man in your mind cracks, crumbling slightly around the edges. Amusement at the sheer knob-headed stupidity of his question lingers at the corners of your mouth as you turn and head to the door.

“Bye,” you call out, but he doesn’t respond to you as you close the front door behind you. You can’t believe you took a sick day for this.

Steven goes missing again.

When lunchtime rolls by and his trademark silly texts and photos of the odder artefacts from the museum’s collection fail to show up on your phone, you know that Marc must have disappeared into the ether and taken Steven with him again.

God. No wonder Donna always has it in for Steven if Marc keeps pulling stunts like this. If Steven was in the doghouse before, you can’t even imagine the torture she must be planning for him now. She’ll probably drag the doghouse into the inventory dungeon and throw away the key.

You glance at your phone where it’s lying next to you on the sofa, then at the palm of your hand where the numbers Marc had once scribbled down have long since washed off.

You’re allowed to initiate texts, right? He never mentioned that you couldn’t. And why else would he have given you his number in the first place?

Your hands are sweating as you swipe up your contacts, fingers a little shakier than you would like. It makes it hard to type correctly, despite your text being only three simple words.

You Is Steven okay?

You stare at the screen and watch the single tick turn into two. The message has been delivered. There’s no reply, but that makes sense, he hasn’t seen it yet.

Nothing further happens, but you watch the screen for a long time before eventually forcing yourself to put the phone down. This is not healthy behaviour. You try to busy yourself by pottering around in your flat, tidying the laundry you’ve left strewn about haphazardly, hand washing dishes and clearing out clutter. Anything to keep yourself distracted. But you still find yourself obsessively checking your phone every two minutes.

An hour goes by, then two. Still nothing.

And then, on yet another check, you notice the two ticks have turned from white to blue. He’s seen it. Still no reply though. Shit, this was a mistake.

The phone dings and vibrates in your hand, and you nearly shriek with surprise.

Marc He’s safe.

You When will Steven be back?

You don’t receive a reply to your second message, even though the two ticks turned blue almost immediately. But, just like the previous time, Steven returns shortly after, safe and sound and still none the wiser.

Your daily life settles into an odd sort of routine. You spend as much time as you can with Steven, but Marc is never far behind. In your early dating days, you only saw Steven a handful of times a week. It had never occurred to you before how omnipresent Marc was in Steven’s life.

The pattern goes like this: you and Steven get to play house and enjoy your relationship uninterrupted for a few days at most until, lo and behold, you wake up in the morning to an empty bed and neatly folded clothes next to you. Then it happens all over again.

At this point, your life has become some bizarro remake of Groundhog Day.

Wake up in bed together with Steven, and he’ll lovingly make you burnt toast for breakfast, blow up your phone with cute nonsensical texts during lunch, and surprise you with your favourite takeout for dinner.

Wake up alone in bed, and Groucho Marx is there serving you cold silence instead, and you spend the hours (or days) alone until Steven, still oblivious returns.

Rinse and repeat.

Eventually it occurs to you that mostly ignoring Marc isn't going to get you anywhere in the long run. He is clearly an all-time world champion at the quiet game. If something is going to change, it’ll have to be because you make it happen. You’re going to have to at least try to talk to the man if you want to get enough information to be able to protect Steven from him.

It’s this half-baked plan that comes to your mind, some weeks after, when you find yourself in Steven’s bed again, with no Steven next to you.

Instead you find him in the far corner of the kitchen, and your clothes folded on the bed next to you.

You’re not dumb. The odds of you chumming it up with this man are about the same as an ice-cube’s chances in hell. Your interactions so far have informed you that Marc is not the friendly type. In fact, he seems to be allergic to chit-chat. It makes the act of trying to befriend a person you still find somewhat intimidating all the more difficult.

Still though, these recent encounters have been downright bland compared with the time he revealed himself by threatening you in your bed. And even that was nowhere near as unnerving as your first encounter.

Maybe he isn’t as intimidating as you had made him out to be in your head.

“The fish?” he had asked with genuine confusion in his voice, and you almost crack up all over again at the memory of it.

Hell, if you do spend enough time with him, perhaps he’ll stop being scary to you altogether (unlikely, the little voice in your head tells you, but necessary, you rebut).

The end goal isn’t to befriend him. You’re never going to be besties. You just need things to be cordial between you, friendly enough that you can make sure that he doesn’t actively put Steven in harm’s way.

You call out a greeting on your way to the loo. Marc doesn’t answer and he doesn’t even look up or turn around when you emerge, ignoring you completely while you dress.

He's putting away dishes from the sink from last night at a snail’s pace, trying to make as little noise as possible. When he runs out of dishes, he stands there tapping his fingers as he looks around the kitchen, opening and closing a few cupboards, before he chooses one apparently at random and starts organising the items inside.

For a second, you just observe him, confused by his actions. Then it occurs to you that he’s busying himself in the kitchen so he doesn’t have to talk to you. That could be rather insulting if you allow yourself to dwell on it, so you don’t.

Instead, you turn your head, eyes roaming the walls of the space, desperate to come up with some topic of conversation to ease the tension. Your gaze catches on the heaps and heaps of books in the flat. There’s nothing that sets off Steven into an excited flurry of conversation like the mention of Egyptian history, if you’re lucky, their body isn’t the only thing that Marc shares with Steven.

“Do you have an interest in Ancient Egypt as well? Steven’s told me he’s read all of these books at least twice.”

Marc goes still, then turns slowly to face you. The silence is thick and heavy, and his eyes are mere slits as he looks at you. You suspect he’s hoping to scare you into dropping the subject so he doesn’t have to engage in conversation. But instead of looking away, you stand your ground, meeting his stare with as politely expectant of a gaze you can manage under the circumstances, waiting for his answer.

Kill him with (strained) kindness, that’s your strategy now.

After what seems to be an eternity, he opens his mouth to answer.

“No.” Statement made, he turns his back on you again.

One word. Apparently all you get is one, single, word, in the negative. Then it’s back to silence.

Even Steven gave you three words on your first date. God. The all-familiar frustration and deep desire to bang your head against the wall returns, and it takes more of your willpower than you would like to resist the urge.

You walk over to the fish tank, trying to give yourself a moment to think. Trying to recover. You find yourself smiling indulgently at the one-finned champ through the glass, as you watch as a row of bubbles leave his mouth.

"Do you think you’ll be gone for long this time? I don’t want Gus to get lonely."

Marc doesn’t answer, and your eyes catch the postcards that Steven has hung haphazardly all over the wall above the fish tank.

It’s a collage of iconic landmarks from various holiday destinations, and you read the locations of each postcard hanging on the wooden ledge. Morocco, Venice, Porto, Iceland, Moscow… Gosh, Steven’s mum is quite impressively travelled, isn’t she?

“Oh hey,” you turn around to face Marc. “When’s your mum coming back to London?”

He jerks around to stare at you, shoulders raised in a painfully firm line that’s stiff and defensive, even for Marc, and you have to stop yourself from apologising, though you’re not sure for what.

“What do you mean?” he asks. The words are said with such caution. He’s on guard as if bracing for a blow.

“From her travels?” you try to clarify.

His eyes narrow. The hostility is back. “What travels?” He asks.

You point to the postcards.

“Steven tells me she’s currently on a trip abroad. She’s sent him these?” You don’t know why the pitch of your voice rises as you speak, turning the last sentence into a question. There’s just something about Marc’s behaviour that makes you doubt every word coming out of your mouth.

“I don’t know. I don’t–” his voice breaks, fingers flexing as he curls them into agitated fists then releases them again.

“We don’t really talk anymore, we’re…” he stops and looks up but not at you. Instead, he looks to the ceilings as if the words he’s searching for will be etched somewhere in the wooden beams. “Estranged.”

That’s not right. You know that can’t be right. The cards are from Steven’s mother, who is always off travelling on some new adventure or other. It’s why he’s never introduced you, despite his excitement to show you off to her.

“What do you mean? Steven talks to her on the phone almost every day. Where do all these postcards come from then, if not from her? Surely they weren’t sent by a ghost?”

Something painful flashes in his eyes. Marc bites into the bottom lip, so hard it goes bone-white, and you know you must’ve struck a nerve, you just can’t tell which one or what it was you said that’s upset him.

“Marc?” you try again, voice cautious.

“I send the postcards,” Marc finally says.

“Then why does Steven think they’re from his mum?”

Marc doesn’t answer you, just turns his head to look away, and you’re getting more confusing by the second.

What the hell does he mean he sends them? And if so then why does Steven think they're from his mum? Either Marc's lying to you or–

“Wait! Are you sending these postcards to him while pretending to be his mum? Why are you lying to him?"

“Steven doesn’t need to know.”

“You say that a lot,” the words, sharp and bitter, come out before you think to stop them.

He stays quiet at your accusing tone. Doesn't move and stays seemingly unemotional. But there’s something there. It’s subtle. From the distance between you, it would’ve been easy to miss.

There’s a tick in the small muscle of his jaw. His nostrils flare ever so slightly.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, you know every intimate detail of this face too well for him to hide from you. It’s not an expression you’ve seen on Steven’s face, ever, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it all amounts to.

He’s really quite upset, isn’t he?

Any sensible person would stop right about now. You’ve always prided yourself on being a sensible person, but since you met Steven, sensibility seems to have flown out the bloody window.

“Whatever it is, Steven can handle it. He’s so much stronger than you give him credit for.”

“Steven shouldn’t have to handle it," he snaps back at you. Voice losing any restraint he held before.

Once again the sensible thing would be to drop it. But the dismissive, know-it-all tone in his voice rubs you entirely the wrong way.

“He deserves to know. It’s not right for you to keep him in the dark like this. He deserves better. He’s an autonomous adult, and he should be allowed to make decisions over his life just as much as you do. You have no right to control his life the way you do. You’re torturing him.”

“I am not,” he all but shouts back, voice raised for the first time since you met him. “I'm protecting him. You know nothing about the world I live in. If Steven finds out about me, about the work I do, he will be drawn into that world. Steven will be in danger. Do you understand? Is that what you want? For him to know he's sharing body with a– ” Marc stops himself mid-sentence. Eyes wide in shock, as if surprised by his own outburst.

A silence falls between you, and he steps back, physically distancing himself from you. He continues to retreat until he bumps up against the kitchen counter, grabbing onto it to steady himself as he looks down to his feet, sharp eyes now hazy and unseeing, a guilt ridden tinge to his usually unshakeable expression.

You appreciate the space he’s giving you, but a more pressing thought pushes to the forefront of your mind. What was Marc going to say before he stopped himself? Did you want Steven to know that he’s sharing his body with… what, exactly?

You search his face, free to stare as much as you like now as his eyes remain downcast. “Just what is it that you do, Marc?”

“You don’t want to know,” he answers, voice quieter now, devoid of any emotion.

His stance is no longer as straight and firm and usual. His shoulders sag as he continues to stare fixedly at the ground, avoiding all eye contact. The lines around his eyes are marred with sadness, a mark of defeat. He’s curled into himself, the entirety of his body shrinking like he’s trying to make himself invisible. For a beat of a second, he reminds you all too much of Steven, and your heart breaks for him.

Even though this isn’t Steven you’re looking at, that all-familiar instinct to protect swells up in your chest. Your arms want to curl around him, drape yourself over him and tell him it’s okay.

You open your mouth, trying to come up with something to salvage the situation. The first words that come to your head is ‘sorry,’ but the problem is that you’re not. Not really. Sorry means that you condone his perpetual lies.

You hesitate for a long moment, but you don’t know what the right thing to say to him is. Probably because there is no right thing. And you’ve already bollocksed things up quite enough for one night, haven’t you? Perhaps it’s best to cut your losses now and try to do better next time.

As quietly as you can, you gather up your handbag, and head towards the door. “I’ll see you around, Marc.”

There’s no answer, and you don’t look back, as you close the door with a quiet click behind you.

Blue Planet is on in the background at your flat. It’s become yours and Steven’s weeknight ritual, but Steven is nowhere to be seen.

You sit on your sofa, a dull weight perched oppressively on your chest, as you think of Steven’s other half.

His words ring loud and sharp in your ears, overpowering Attenboroughs sombre narration on the telly, until Marc’s voice is all you hear.

“I’m protecting him,” he’d said.

You think of how small he’d looked this morning, completely unlike the other times you’ve seen him, but somehow, heartbreakingly, you suspect it’s the most honest you’ve ever seen him as well.

What reason does he have to lie to you? None.

Fishing your phone from your handbag, you pull up Marc’s contact details. You stare at it, fingers hovering over the keyboards, unsure of what you want to say.

You Are you and Steven okay?

Marc Steven’s fine.

It’s only a half an answer, and not quite the answer you would’ve liked. But part of you is surprised he responded at all considering the way things ended earlier.

You When’s Steven coming back?

He doesn’t answer you (surprise, surprise), and you’re just about to call it in for the evening when you remember Steven's upcoming performance review. If Marc is telling the truth– If he cares about Steven’s well-being the way he claims to, then he wouldn't want him to miss it, surely?

You He has his performance review at work on Monday.

There’s no reply, and you’re left on read once again.

Still, despite Marc’s lack of acknowledgement, Steven returns in time for work on Monday. He’s even on time for once.

You’re awoken in Steven’s flat by the quiet clattering of dishes being put away. The bed beside you is cold and as you reach out your hand, patting the mattress, instead of Steven, you find your clothes folded into a neat square.

You sit upright in the bed turning your attention to the kitchen, sure enough Marc is standing by the sink, tidying up after you and Steven the previous night.

“Good morning,” you call out.

Save for a brief pause in his work on the dishes, he doesn’t respond. The silence between you has taken a different tone now. It’s not unnerving or scary to you this morning. Instead it makes the heavy weight settle even deeper, until it’s carved a hollow dent into your chest at the thought of how you two last left it.

Dipping your toes onto the floor, you gather your clothes and once again make the habitual walk of shame to the loo to get dressed.

When you emerge, Marc predictably pays you no attention. You pad across the room until you find yourself standing in front of the fish tank.

You wonder how long you could stand here, without saying a word before he would have to give in and acknowledge you. An hour? A day? You suspect that you could very well stand here until you both grow old enough to claim pensions, and he’d still keep his silence.

It’d be easy to just walk out of the door. You have no obligation to Marc. He’s a stranger who wants nothing to do with you. The thought makes you sad.

You grab the shaker of fish food and sprinkle some into the water. It’s at least double the portion size Steven would usually give, but God knows how long he’ll be gone this time. Gus deserves a decent meal before he’s left to fend for himself.

When you’re done, you put the food back away above the fish tank. A postcard of the Alps catches your eye. Green fields full of cows peacefully munching away against the backdrop of ice-clad mountains. It’s so picturesque and idyllic.

“This one’s new,” you say out loud, and you observe Marc through the glass panes of the fish tank where he’s standing at the opposite end of the room. He looks over at you, and you gesture to the postcard.

“It’s so pretty. We went to Switzerland once when I was a kid.”

No response to that, but you continue to natter on mindlessly, “I got a cheap music box as a souvenir. I loved that thing. Used to listen to it for hours. I cried for a week when it broke and my dad threw it out.”

Marc doesn’t answer. He’s clearly still upset about last time. But instead of capitulating, you keep going. Sooner or later he has to crack and respond. Right?

“The melody was from The Sound of Music. It was my favourite movie growing up. Used to watch it on repeat on my mum’s old VHS player every day after school until it was completely worn out. Tried to run away once just so I could join a nunnery thinking I could work as a nanny for a handsome colonel and his kids”.

He hums in acknowledgment. A hum. Stubborn…

“I was kind of hoping I could take Steven for a weekend trip one of these days. A couple’s holiday.”

Still no reply, but as you watch him through the glass-panes of the fishtank, you can see his shoulders loosen, body language visibly relaxing.

“If you don’t mind, that is. Since we’d be bringing you along as well.” You say it facetiously, with as much humour in your tone you can muster, trying to invite Marc to share the joke. Unsurprisingly he doesn’t take the bait.

"We don't have to do this," he says. Zero inflection in his voice, but at least it’s a response.

You straighten up slowly and meet his gaze over the top of Gus’ tank. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

"This,” Marc reiterates. He gestures to the space between you. "You and me. Conversation. We don’t have to be friends,” he clarifies.

Wow, this man is blunt.

“I know we don’t have to. But…”

But what exactly? What are you trying to do here, really? The man has made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in your friendship, barely willing to tolerate your mere presence in his vicinity.

“But,” you start again, “I’m hoping to be with Steven for a long time. And my understanding of the situation is that you and Steven are not…” you hesitate, unsure of what wording to use. If there’s a way to make this sound pretty, you can’t think of it, but you forge ahead anyway. “Well– That you two come as a package deal.”

Across from you, Marc straightens his posture, folding his arms. He assesses you guardedly from top to toe.

“It would be good if we could be friendly with each other,” you add hopefully, “Maybe even friends? We don’t have to be, of course, if you’re not willing, but… I think it would make Steven’s life easier. Better.”

There’s a subtle change in his face, and he rolls his shoulders, looking up at you from underneath his striking lashes. His expression is softer somehow, not the stern, unsmiling face he’s been perpetually giving you. It makes you hold your breath waiting for his answer.

Except it doesn’t come.

Seconds tick by, and the line of his lips presses down firmer. He looks away, something akin to frustration in his face, eyebrows pinched tightly together. Once again, you’re left to linger in the limbo of awkward silence. He clearly doesn’t want to continue this conversation.

You try to think of something else to add to your filibustering, but your well of potential topics to keep this one-sided conversation going has run dry. At least you tried. Giving up with a sigh, you flash him a resigned half-smile and turn to pick up your bag. You’re collecting the rest of your things when he finally speaks.

“I like Switzerland.”

You turn to stare at him, and you can feel your mouth gaping in what is probably a very unattractive imitation of Gus. You’re in complete disbelief that he actually volunteered information, completely unprompted. Well, mostly unprompted.

Marc shifts his feet slightly, redistributing his weight, and then miracles of all miracles he actually continues. “The mountains are nice. Quiet.”

You manage to snap your mouth shut, disproportionate elation building in your chest. You can’t entirely contain the gleeful smile that wants to spread across your lips, but you manage to tamp it down to something a bit more muted so he won’t think you’ve lost the plot entirely.

“They really are,” you agree warmly, “Nice and quiet.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment, and he doesn’t quite smile back, but something in his face relaxes marginally from the ever-present frown he likes to sport.

You can’t help but be happy (happier than you probably should be) that he finally opened up to you. That moment of joy and relief, of simply staring at this man as he softens before your very eyes extend into a much longer one, until you’re not sure how long you’ve been standing there but you’re too afraid to move in case this armistice breaks the moment you blink.

Out of nowhere, your stomach cramps. Before you know it, a growl of hunger reverberates across the cluttered walls of the flat.

Shit…

A shiver of embarrassment runs down your spine as you stiffen. Surely, it’s one of those moments where the silence of the room intensifies any sound. You’re just aware of it because it’s your own stomach. Surely Marc didn’t hear it.

“You’re hungry,” Marc states.

Oh for fuck’s sake!

It’s the sort of comical nonsense that constantly happens between you and Steven… Not with Marc. If only the Universe had gotten the memo.

Turning his feet, Marc walks towards Steven’s fridge—or is it his too?—which immediately starts whirring noisily as soon as he opens the door. “There’s not much, but I can manage scrambled eggs and sausages.”

“I… um…” You hesitate. Not sure if you should take him up on the implied breakfast invitation. You can’t help but feel that you’ve pushed your luck about as far as it will go already this morning, and that you’re bound to upset the delicate progress you’ve miraculously managed to achieve if you stay. “I don’t want to impose…”

Marc looks back at you, eyes narrowing as he studies your reaction, and it’s like he can read you like an open book.

“You’re not imposing. I’m no gourmet cook, but my food won’t kill you. Can't be worse than Steven’s. You ate that and survived.”

You’re stunned. Blinking at his comment, it takes you far too long to realise he means it as a joke. A rush of laughter rises up to your lips, once you do. He’s offering you food and joking with you. That’s a friendly gesture if you’ve ever seen one.

You stay, and he’s right. The slightly runny eggs and soggy vegan sausages left in Steven's fridge are nothing to write home about, but you eat them with a smile on your face.

You Hi. Have you taken Steven again? He’s not answering my texts.

Marc Yeah. He’s safe.

You When’s he coming back? We have a date on Saturday. I’ve made a reservation and they’ve taken a deposit. Do I need to cancel?

Marc No. He’ll be back.

You Thank you.

You’ve just put your phone face down on your nightstand when an impulse you can’t quite explain pushes at the corner of your mind, and you reach for it again.

You Be safe.

Placing your phone back down, you expect that to be the end of it. When your phone pings and vibrates against your night table a moment later, you jump, startled. You unlock the screen to see the new message.

Marc Thanks.

~ CONTINUE~

Credits/Dedications

Forever and always to my wonderful, amazing and most perfect friend and co-writer @thirstworldproblemss. I'm just going to keep this simple and true. I love you, in fact I love you the m💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗st

Also a shoutout to @the-ginger-hedge-witch @radiowallet @write-and-buried who have listened to me scream about this.

And last but absolutely not the least to everyone who's followed and read this story. I appreciate you so big-ly!! I am so so excited to share this chapter with you and finally get to delve properly into Marc beyond... mystery guy who frowns a lot. Whether you're lurking, liking, commenting or reblogging, thank you all so much for reading this little work of ours!

1K notes · View notes