#the design. the movement. the noises

[horizonandstar]

uhh some of the death stranding au thoughts before it disappears from my brain forever in the next few seconds

sun and moon are still animatronics. whether theyre separate or not, i have no idea, but i tend to lean more towards canon and keep them in 1 body. literally the thatls au and rw au are the only ones ive got where theyre separate. i need to start keeping track of my aus

anyways. similar thing where theyre still daycare bots, but then the city theyre in gets wiped by a voidout

theyre still functional but not doing so great

y/n has DOOMS and can see BT's. rotating the idea of them being a repatriate too since that opens up an avenue of shenanigans

y/n is so incredibly plot important if i throw repatriation at them. the only way we're shown how people get repatriation is like. yeah! theyre all plot important. DOOMS i can handwave away

if (repatriation), y/n comes across sun and moon in the voided out city being all quiet and sneaky so they dont die to the BT's. sun and moon have to follow their lead because theyre unable to see the BT's

sun and moon become porters at some point because people see the value in having bots to deliver packages since they wont cause voidouts, especially bots with advanced ai who arent shit at navigation and can also fight back against gangs and thieves. i forgot the specific name they had in game

y/n bites anyone trying to separate them from their new friends (parental figures)

y/n has that hand thing that senses BT's! its modified from bridge baby gear lying around so that they can use it whenever they want to inform the people around them where the closest BT's are

honestly my only motivation for that one is because that butterfly/hand BT sensor thing is iconic to the gameplay. also i really like it

#ds au #fr i love that thing #the design. the movement. the noises

[too-deviant]

ray bans.

with…ART DONALDSON!

contains…fem!reader, 18+ CONTENT!, handjob, p in v, public sex, this was written b4 the movie came out so excuse any discrepancies!

You blame the tequila.

Strong and sharp in your glass at the tennis luncheon your boss had invited you to, swishing around with every movement you made as you told an overexaggerated story to Art Donaldson. He didn’t pay a lot of attention, you could tell, but his eyes were so firm on yours that you needed to talk to get the nerves out. 

It was the tequila, not his eyes, that got you cornered in a bathroom too fancy to be anywhere but this cushy hotel, legs pushed back so far you felt a burn in the crease of your groin. Those dusty blonde curls buried between your thighs, perfectly calloused hands holding them apart so he could lap at you with perfect fervour. 

Your eyes were watering, and he gazed at you as you came down, rubbing up and down your legs until you were ready to push yourself down and onto your feet. You wiped the runoff mascara as best you could, but huffed at the stains around your eyes.

Art had grinned, slid his sunglasses from his collar and placed them perfectly over your eyes. You’d asked him when he wanted them back, and he’d just smirked. 

Which was how you found yourself scooting past old people in linen suits and straw hats, expensive bags and designer shades on their noses. Yours weren’t designer, but they were Art Donaldson’s, so you won. 

In this life you took your seat in the rows at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Centre — a doozy of a sentence to tell your Uber driver. In this life you slid Art Donaldson’s sunglasses over your eyes and waited patiently for him to sidle onto the court, slam himself a win, and meet you in the bar to take them back. 

His hits were precise, hard, fast. The muscles in his arms and neck pulled beautifully. You pulled the plush of your lip between your teeth, letting it go when he hit another, his grunt louder to you know. Clearer. 

But as your eyes pivoted back and forth across the court, his opponents moves much more confident and fluid than his, the life changed. Now this life was a tense strain in your neck, your fingers tight around the dress you wore just for today. In this life, Art Donaldson lost, and when everyone else was cheering for the winner, you were watching him storm away. 

It was quicker to manoeuvre through the crowds now that everyone else was leaving. You didn’t have to worry about bumping into people, because they were all bumping into you and there was a collective agreement that any and all shoulder shoving slash toe-stepping was okay for now. So you slid your way through, sidestepping through the rows of seats and going down a row every time you got to some stairs — ensuring that it wasn’t completely obvious where you were going. 

You made awkward eye contact with the ball boy but your confident smile put him at ease and he dismissed you completely, allowing you to slip around the back of the stands and into the locker room. 

It was much quieter in there, the noise of the crowd fading into nothing when the door closed behind you. Now you could focus on your surroundings, the sound of water dripping and heavy breaths. 

You parted your lips gently, “Art?”

Footsteps, and then the blonde man was rounding a row of lockers and meeting your sly gaze. His own was shrouded in barely covered anger and light confusion, the latter crowing over a bit more when you took steps to invade his personal space. 

“You came.” 

“Well…” You shrugged, lifting the glasses off your head and tucking them into the collar of his polo. Letting your hand linger on the planes of his collarbones, feeling the heat radiating from the skin beneath the cotton. “That was quite some game.” 

Art huffed, “I was in walkabout. Shit luck.” 

You leaned ever so slightly closer, running your hand down his chest to just above the waistband of his shorts. You admired the way he looked under the lights — the beads of sweat on his jugular, the happy trail you could feel peek out from under the hem of the shirt. Your other hand stayed propped against the locker, and he was quick to run his own down your wrist, cupping your elbow. 

“Well…I say we pick up where we left off, no? That make you feel better?”

You narrowed your brows at him in a silent question. His minute nod was enough. Then your hand was sliding beneath his waistband, dipping into his underwear — Tommy Hilfiger — and wrapping around the base of his cock. 

He sucked in a breath, fingers tightening around your other arm, jaw ticking and eyes firmly on yours. You didn’t break contact even when you squeezed him a bit and he let out a shaky groan. 

You dropped your other hand, hooked your fingers around this waistband. Pulled it back so you could lean forward, eyes glaring at where your other hand sat. Then, with a noise so sweet he might have exploded, you let a string of spit slide from between your lips. Art watched it fall, achingly slow, onto his shaft, and then held back a cry when you started to slide your hand up and down his dick. Wetting it just right. 

You looked back up at him, made him look back at you. You pumped your fist slowly, thumbing his tip and adding his precum to your saliva. The sounds were erotic on their own, and even you had to tense your thighs together. Art’s own legs shook from his standing position, but before he could drop his head onto your shoulder you were removing both hands from his body and smirking at his painful moan. 

With your right hand still wet from his cock, you printed a perfect print on the front of his polo and pushed him gently back. He walked, transfixed on your gaze, until his calves were hitting the wooden bench and he was being sat down. He stared up at you, pleadingly so, and you lifted the hem of your dress just enough so you could slide onto your knees on either side of his hips. 

With your crotches pressed together, Art couldn’t stop his hands from flying to your ass and squeezing. You grinned, and his smirk returned in full force. 

“Should lose more often.” He murmured, leaning forward and pressing his nose against your chest, the low cut of your dress feeding his carnal desire to completely devour you. 

You hushed him gently, pushing yourself up so you could slide his shorts and boxers down to his thighs. His dick sprung out beautifully, making another wet patch where it hit the bottom of his shirt. You used your hand, brought one of his around so he could pump himself while you reached under your dress and pushed your underwear to the side. Then you were shuffling forward and letting Art align the tip of his cock with the wet of your folds.

You didn’t waste a moment, bracing yourself on his shoulders and rolling your hips along his own. Your breathy moans accumulated to the steam you had now registered coming from the shower he had abandoned in favour of letting you take him like this. His huffs and puffs only increased as he began to control your movements, rutting into you from below. 

The creaky hinges of the bench cried with every hurried thrust, but the shower muffled most of your sounds. You gave into your urges and licked a stripe up the plane of his neck, bringing your hands around to grip hard at his back, creasing his already ruined shirt. His own mouth was suckling and nipping at your chest, hitting that sweet sweet spot just in time for your movements to get a little sloppy. 

Smacks of skin on skin fuelled the fire in your gut, and your fingers coiled around his blonde curls. His own movements stuttered, and you let out a guttural groan into the humidity of the room when you finally reached your peak, Art following not far behind you. 

You stood with effort, fixing your underwear and patting your dress down while Art panted beneath you. Then you patted him on the cheek, took his sunglasses back from his shirt and put them right back on your face.

“I’ll see you at the mixer next month.”

divider by @bunnysrph 🫶

#art donaldson #challengers #art challengers #challengers movie #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson smut #@lia’s works

[is-not-a-bell]

Ghost blobs lead someone to Danny

(There is a part 2 now)

Batman froze at the floating blob, nearly the same color of lauzus waters and glowed even brighter. It seemed to notice him and ziped over to him at an alarming speed. Batman tensed ready to strike. But the thing just hovered in front of him and humming? It sounded desperate and worried, despite sound completely inhuman. His lack of response on seemed to increase the noise it made now make odd movements in one direction.

Before he could blink suddenly he was swarmed with the things. Some started pushing at his back and face. Others grabbed at his cape and tried tugging him forward. All of them humming the same desperate tune. Against his better judgement, a feeling in his chest told him to follow. "Alright" He whispered to the odd blobs. "Lead the way." Several bolted away as he chased behind them. A few stayed with him flying next to him or tucked into his cape.

He followed them over buildings until they reached a warehouse district. He was lead to an area designated for demolition. Finally the blobs float to the ground stoping at a warehouse with a door left ajar.

When Batman pushed the doors open he saw nothing, he stood still for a moment. He nearly thought it was a trap. Before the familiar gentle push urged him on. The ones leading him before flew behind a pile of trash and just barely he could see a faint glow behind it.

When Batman walked behind the trash pile, he froze. A dozen more blobs were there all crowding around a dimly glowing child. The white haired child was curled up and seemed to be bleeding lauzrus green. Batman rushed over and grabbed the child's wrist to feel for a pulse. His heart lurched when he found one, and it lurched again when the boy moved. He whimpered and weakly tried pulling away.

He sprang into action and pulled the boy to himself. He grabbed his bandages and gently uncurled the boy to see his wounds. He froze again at the Y-shaped cut on his chest and the countless other cuts left on him. "Please- please stop." Batman snapped back to when the boy spoke. "It's alright, you're safe now." He said softly, he wrapped the boy up as best he could. "What's your name?" He asked as he gently picked the boy up.

The boy was humming like the blobs he realized, it was far weaker like a buzzing in his hands. "Danny" The boy replied, Batman nearly didn't hear him. "I'll keep you safe Danny, I promise." At that Danny seemed to relax and melt into him. Batman called the Batmobile.

The blobs followed them outside a few seemed to fly away before coming back. Like they were patrolling the area. Others were comforting Danny, rubbing up against him or humming a different sound possibly to reassure him. "What are they?" Batman asks, hoping to get some information before the boy could pass out. "Blob ghosts." He muttered.

"Ghosts?"

"It's what I am, but I'm really bad at it" Danny mumbled the last part to himself but Batman caught it. A ghost entity? It would explain the lack of a pulse and even the wounds. A ghost haunted with his own autoposy scars. Before he could ask more the bat mobile stopped in front of them.

Batman hopped inside and gently place Danny in the passenger seat, buckling him in. The blob ghosts followed tucking into the back in a quick flurry. And like that Batman set off. He called Alfred. "Alfred, prepare the medbay. I have a severely injured unknown."

"Right away"

Batman barely managed to keep the boy awake all the way to the Batcave. Batman tries to ignore Alfred's shocked face as he sees Danny and the swarm of blob ghosts that follow them. "You didn't say they were this unknown."

"Danny says that they are 'blob ghosts' and claims he is a ghost as well. But that he is bad at it some how." Batman explained as they rushed to the medbay. When Batman set the boy down a white ring of light appeared around the boy it split and passed over him. They were left with a very human looking boy who was now bleeding red, mixing in with the green.

He and Alfred shared a look of shock. Before having to push the feeling away to help the boy.

#dcxdp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #Batman is totally calling the nearest magic man he can to come help him #How Danny got there is up to interpretation #Mine is Danny managed to escape to the ghost zone being led by blob ghosts before they all get swept up in a random portal #And the blob ghost went to find help #Batman was the only one that didn't run away #And he had an aura of protection and something that felt close enough to ghost core #They were basically screaming at him to come help their boy #I'd imagine that Jason could understand them a bit better. #He'd probably get swarmed by them too

[hoshifighting]

Anklet Adorned

Preview: "You like that, don't you?" he says, his voice dripping with arrogance as he resumes his relentless pace. "You like it when I fuck you so hard that even your anklet can't stay quiet." he refers to the charms from the anklet he made for you, making little noises continuously synchronized with his thrusts.

Warnings: Smut, hard slutty smutty hard awesome sex, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, squirting, degradation, praising, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, fingering, messy sex, sloppy, chocking, crying, aftercare, doggy style and etc.

Word Count: 3.7k

This smut was created through a request, thank you anon, I LOVED writing this one! (click here to be sent to the request)

Joshua, with his deft fingers and boundless imagination, had a passion for crafting bracelets. Be it beads or strings, he could weave magic with his hands, creating intricate designs that sparkled with personality.

Every day, Joshua would surprise you with a new bracelet, each one a unique masterpiece that told a story. He'd fill you with joy as he slipped it onto your wrist, his eyes gleaming with pride and love. From vibrant colors to delicate patterns, each bracelet was a reflection of his affection for you.

What made Joshua's gesture even more endearing was his knack for matching the bracelets to your outfits. No matter how last-minute your wardrobe choices were, he always managed to craft a bracelet that perfectly complemented your look. His dedication and attention to detail never ceased to amaze you.

One Friday evening, as you curled up on the couch watching a movie, Joshua sat beside you, his fingers busy at work with his latest bracelet creation. You watched him intently, admiring his skill and dedication as he meticulously threaded beads together, lost in his own little world of creativity.

But then, just when you least expected it, Joshua leaned over and gently slipped something around your ankle. Startled, you looked down to see a delicate anklet adorned with an array of pretty charms dangling from it. Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected surprise.

"Surprise," Joshua whispered, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he admired his handiwork.

You couldn't help but smile, feeling a rush of warmth flood your heart. The anklet was exquisite, a perfect blend of elegance and whimsy, just like Joshua himself. Each charm seemed to hold a story of its own, and you couldn't wait to hear the tale behind this new creation.

Joshua adored the moments when your legs rested gently on his lap, your smooth skin inviting his touch. With tender affection, he would run his fingers along the length of your legs, reveling in the sensation of your warmth beneath his fingertips. But what captivated him most was the anklet adorning your ankle, its delicate charms dancing playfully against your skin.

As your legs lay draped across his lap, Joshua found himself mesmerized by the contrast of the anklet against your skin tone. The intricate charms seemed to come alive with each movement, casting dappled shadows across your legs as they swayed gently to the rhythm of your breathing.

"So, what do you want to do tonight, babe?" You ask.

"Hmm, I can think of a few ideas." Joshua trails his fingers along the curve of your thigh. "Well, we could keep watching this movie..." his hand ventures higher, teasingly brushing against the hem of your shorts, making you shiver at the touch, biting your lip. 

"Or we could find something... more entertaining." you suggest, brushing your thighs together sensually, immediately capturing his attention.

A slow grin spreads across Joshua's lips as he leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. "I like the sound of that," he murmurs huskily, grabbing your thighs harder.

You find yourself lost in the moment, your breath catching in your throat as Joshua's lips meet yours in a passionate kiss. His tongue dances against yours, igniting a fiery passion that courses through your veins.

Before you realize it, Joshua is already on top of you, his weight pressing you into the soft cushions of the couch. With a gentle yet firm touch, he guides your legs to wrap around his waist, drawing you closer to him in a fervent embrace.

His hand finds its way to your throat, applying a slight pressure that sends shivers down your spine. It's a delicate balance of pleasure and restraint, a silent communication of lust between the two of you.

As you melt into his touch, surrendering yourself to the intoxicating sensation of his lips on yours and his hand on your throat, you feel a surge of desire coursing through your body. 

Desperately, your hands roam over the hems of Joshua's clothing, driven by a need to feel every inch of his skin against yours. With eager fingers, you fumble with buttons and zippers, determined to strip away any barrier between you and Joshua. 

Joshua chuckles at your needy antics, his eyes alight with amusement and desire as he watches you. Sensing your urgency, he reaches behind him, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

The sight of his toned torso, bathed in the soft glow of the room, steals your breath away. Muscles ripple beneath smooth skin, evidence of his strength and vitality. You drink in the sight hungrily, your heart racing with anticipation as you marvel at the beauty before you.

With a low grow, Joshua leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his hands roam over your body, as he undresses you with skillful hands. Garment after garment falls away, discarded to the floor in a heap of forgotten fabric.

Lowering his head to meet your dripping pussy, until his gaze meets yours, Joshua captures the expression of excitement in your eyes. He latches his mouth onto your cunt, and you melt on the cushions. 

As Joshua's warm mouth works its magic on your cunt, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body, you can't help but surrender to the sensations washing over you. With each flick of his tongue and gentle suckle on your clit, he brings you to the brink of ecstasy, coaxing soft moans of pleasure from your lips.

Driven by an insatiable hunger, you instinctively wrap your legs around his head, pulling him closer as you lose yourself in the rapture of his touch. The charms of your anklet sway rhythmically against his back and he moans, as he feels the weight of your legs around him, Joshua's excitement grows, fueling his desire to please you even more. With a renewed sense of urgency, he redoubles his efforts.

His tongue slipped inside of your cunt, while he sucked you sloppy, you can feel the slick heat of your arousal dripping down your thighs.

As you feel the impending rush of your orgasm building to its peak, Joshua suddenly pulls his mouth away, leaving you panting and desperate for release. Your legs tremble around nothing, aching for the touch that was just tantalizingly close.

You whine in frustration, your body still thrumming with the echoes of pleasure, craving the exquisite release that eludes you. With a glistening chin and a cocky smirk, Joshua looks down at you, reveling in the sight of your desperate desire.

In moments like this, his softness gives way to a confident dominance, his cockiness taking charge as he watches you squirm and beg for more. He loves to see you in this state, your cries and pleads only fueling his desire to push you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond.

With a teasing glint in his eyes, Joshua leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers words of encouragement and promises of pleasure yet to come. 

"You're so close, aren't you, babe?"

"S-so close!" You protest, your voice tinged with need.

"That's the point," Joshua counters, his tone dripping with confidence. "I want to make you beg for it."

You groan, the ache between your legs growing more intense with each passing second. "Please," you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joshua's smirk widens, his gaze darkening with desire as he watches you squirm beneath him. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin. "Beg for me."

You bite your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. "Please," you whisper again, your voice thick with desire. "I need you."

With a satisfied grin, Joshua leans in close, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing kiss. "I know you do," he whispers huskily. "And I'm going to make you feel so good."

"Don't stop now Josh, please…"

Joshua's smirk widens, his confidence palpable as he revels in your neediness. "Oh, I won't stop, sweetheart," he murmurs, his tone dripping with promise. "Tell me how badly you want to come."

You swallow hard, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment and arousal at his command. "I want it so bad," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Joshua, I need to come."

"That's better," he says, his hand trailing teasingly along your thigh. "But not yet. I want to see you beg a little more."

You whine in frustration, but there's no denying the thrill that courses through you at his words. Despite the ache of desire that burns within you, you find yourself craving his dominance, eager to submit to his every whim.

With a wicked gleam in his eyes, Joshua leans in close, his lips brushing against yours in a tantalizing kiss. "You're so beautiful when you beg, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "I could watch you squirm all night."

Joshua tilts his head, his gaze fixed on the globs of arousal dripping from you. There's a hunger in his eyes, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches out, his fingers trailing through the slick wetness between your folds. You shiver at his touch, a low moan escaping your lips as he explores your arousal with a confident, knowing touch.

"You're so wet for me…" Despite the embarrassment that floods your cheeks, there's no denying the raw, primal thrill that courses through you at the sight of Joshua's arousal.

With a confident smirk, he leans in closer, his lips hovering just inches from your ear. "You like it when I make you this wet, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "You can't get enough of me, can you?"

As you lie there, too aroused to think, Joshua takes control with a firm yet gentle hand. With a deft movement, he turns you around, pressing your chest against the couch while raising your ass up for him to see. You whimper at the sudden change in position, your body trembling with anticipation and need.

"Look at you," he murmurs softly, his voice laced with desire and dominance. "All spread out for me like a good little slut."

His words cut through the haze of desire, sending a shiver down your spine as you feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal overwhelming your senses.

But even as you cry, you can't help but feel a sense of surrender wash over you, knowing that in this moment, Joshua's dominance is all-consuming. His soft degradation only serves to heighten your arousal, the delicate balance of pleasure and pain driving you to the edge of ecstasy.

As your tears wet the fabric of the couch beneath you, Joshua's expression softens, a hint of tenderness in his eyes as he coos at you. "That's it, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice gentle against your ear. "Let it all out for me. You know I love it when you're so responsive."

As Joshua's tip teases your entrance, you can feel your core ache with longing, craving his touch with an intensity that consumes you. Every teasing brush against your slick folds sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body, heightening your arousal to dizzying heights.

His words send a shiver down your spine, your core fluttering in anticipation as you feel him slowly entering you. The sensation of him stretching you open, inch by delicious inch, is almost too much to bear, but you revel in the exquisite pleasure that courses through your veins.

With each slow, deliberate thrust, Joshua pushes deeper into you, his cock filling you completely as you cling to the couch beneath you, lost in a haze of ecstasy. Your walls clench around him, eager to be filled with every inch of his length as you surrender yourself completely to the overwhelming sensation of pleasure.

As Joshua fills you completely, you're so tight around him that he can hardly move, every inch of his length enveloped by the delicious warmth of your core.  Joshua almost loses himself in the sensation, his breath hitching at the sheer intensity of your grip. Your eyes roll back in ecstasy, a sight that only serves to fuel his desire further.

"You're so tight, baby," he murmurs, his voice laced with awe and desire as he continues to move within you. "I can barely move... but I love it. I love how you grip me, how you take me so eagerly."

With a hard thrust, Joshua elicits a little sound from you, a soft whimper escaping your lips as he drives into you with unbridled force. But it's not just your reaction that catches his attention—it's the tinkling sound of the anklet adorning your ankle, its charms dancing. With each powerful thrust, the anklet chimes, a sweet melody that fills the room with the rhythm of your pleasure.

"Hmm, what's this?" Joshua muses, his cocky smirk widening as he hears the anklet chime with each of his powerful thrusts. "You like that, don't you?" he says, his voice dripping with arrogance as he resumes his relentless pace. "You like it when I fuck you so hard that even your anklet can't stay quiet."

You can only moan in response, your body writhing beneath him as he continues to slam into you, hitting your g'spot with precision each time. The combination of his cocky demeanor and the relentless stimulation has you teetering on the edge of ecstasy, your moans of pleasure growing louder with each passing moment.

As the knot tightens in your stomach, signaling the imminent arrival of your climax, Joshua senses the impending release building within you. With each thrust, he can feel the tension mounting, your body quivering with the promise of ecstasy.

He glances down, his eyes widening as he notices the telltale sign of your impending orgasm—a white ring forming at the base of his cock where it meets your slick heat. It's a visual confirmation of your impending release, a signal that drives him to push you even further towards the edge.

"I can feel you getting close, baby," Joshua murmurs, his voice husky with desire as he continues to pound into you. "I want you to come for me. I want to feel you clenching around me as you lose yourself in pleasure."

And then, with a guttural cry of release, it happens—the knot in your stomach unravels, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading through your body. Your walls clench around Joshua's cock, milking him for all he's worth as you ride out the waves of your climax.

With a primal hunger still burning in his eyes, Joshua shifts positions, laying you gently on your back. You gasp as the change in position heightens your anticipation, your body tingling with excitement as you await his next move.

Licking three of his fingers, Joshua smirks down at you before slowly sinking them inside of you. The sensation is electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you arch your back in response to the overwhelming sensitivity.

You moan softly as his fingers delve deeper, filling you completely and stretching you to your limits. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the air, mingling with the rhythmic swaying of the anklet adorning your ankle.

Your breath catches in your throat as Joshua curls all three of his fingers inside you, hitting just the right spot that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body. With a high-pitched moan escaping your lips, you arch your back, unable to contain the overwhelming sensation that threatens to consume you.

Joshua smirks triumphantly, his eyes alight with satisfaction as he watches you writhe beneath him, lost in a whirlwind of pleasure. He knows exactly how to push all your buttons, how to drive you wild with need, and he revels in the power he holds over you in this moment.

With one final, powerful thrust of his fingers, Joshua abuses your g'spot relentlessly, driving you over the edge into an explosive climax. You scream in ecstasy as the overwhelming pleasure crashes over you, your body convulsing with the force of your release.

In an uncontrollable surge of pleasure, you squirt, your essence spraying out onto Joshua and the couch beneath you. The sensation is electrifying, sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through every fiber of your being as you surrender yourself completely to the overwhelming bliss.

Joshua's eyes widen in surprise and delight as he feels you drenching him with your arousal. He revels in the feeling of your release, knowing that he's the one who pushed you to such dizzying heights of pleasure.

As Joshua feels the arousal surging through him at the sight of you squirting, a wicked idea forms in his mind. He can't help but wonder if you could do it again, this time around his cock. With a primal hunger burning in his eyes, he wastes no time in sliding his length inside you once more.

But as you feel him filling you effortlessly once again, you can't help but cry out, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation. "I-I can't take it," you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes as you struggle to accommodate his size.

But Joshua is quick to reassure you, his voice soft but commanding. "Yes, you can, baby," he murmurs, his hands gentle yet firm as he guides you through the discomfort. "You can take it. Trust me."

Joshua's voice is a husky whisper as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel so good, baby," he murmurs, his words sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. "I can feel you stretching open for me again, taking me so eagerly."

Despite the mess of white cream coating your pussy, Joshua's cock throbs inside you, pulsing with desire as he continues to drive himself deeper into your clenching warmth. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the sensation.

With each movement, the tightness of your grip around him only serves to heighten Joshua's arousal, driving him to push you even further towards the edge of ecstasy. He revels in the feeling of your slick walls clenching around him, milking him for all he's worth as you both surrender yourselves completely to the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you.

As the intensity of your pleasure peaks, your nails dig deliciously into Joshua's back, leaving marks of desire in their wake. His cock buried deep inside your cunt, you feel every inch of him pulsating with need, driving you closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy.

With each thrust, the anklet around your ankle sounds ever louder, a symphony of pleasure that fills the room as you ride the waves of your climax. Joshua can only moan in response, his own desire reaching a fever pitch as he feels you tightening around him, your walls gripping him with a desperate hunger.

Feeling the spray of your arousal drenching him and the couch beneath you, Joshua's cock throbs with anticipation, the sensation only serving to heighten his arousal. He can't help but groan in pleasure as he feels you cumming around him again.

Your throat is already sore from the screams of ecstasy that have torn from your lips, your hair clinging to your face in sweaty tendrils as you ride out the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

With a guttural groan, Joshua releases himself inside of you, his hot seed filling you completely and adding to the mess already coating your pussy. The sensation of him pulsating within you sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body, driving you to the brink of oblivion once more, your vision turning completely black.

As your vision slowly returns, you find yourself enveloped in soft covers, the lingering haze of pleasure still clouding your mind. Confusion washes over you as you take in your surroundings, realizing that you're now clean and showered, the evidence of your passionate encounter with Joshua washed away.

Just as you begin to wonder how it all happened, Joshua appears suddenly in the doorway of the bedroom, a cloth draped casually over his shoulder. His eyes light up with a warm smile as he takes in the sight of you, peaceful and serene in the aftermath of sex.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," he says with a gentle smile, crossing the room to sit beside you on the bed. "How are you feeling?"

You blink up at him, still trying to process everything that happened. "I... I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "What happened? How did I get here?"

Joshua's smile widens as he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "I took care of you," he explains softly. "After... everything that happened, I wanted to make sure you were okay. So I cleaned you up, gave you a shower, and tucked you into bed."

You smile gratefully at Joshua, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort wash over you at his tender care. "Thank you for taking care of me," you say softly, your voice filled with appreciation.

Joshua returns your smile, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Of course, baby," he replies, his voice gentle. "I'll always be here for you."

Then, he adds with a chuckle, "Oh, and I took care of the couch too. It's all clean now."

Your smile falters for a moment as you gasp, a wave of mortification washing over you as you realize what he's referring to. For a moment, you had forgotten about the mess you made on the couch in the heat of passion.

"Oh no," you exclaim, feeling embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I completely forgot..."

You feel a rush of relief flood through you as Joshua cuts you off with a reassuring smile, his warm hand squeezing yours gently. "It's all okay," he reassures you, his voice filled with understanding and love.

You let out a sigh of relief, feeling grateful for his understanding and support. "Thank you," you murmur, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders as you relax into his comforting embrace.

But then, Joshua's words catch you off guard, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment as he adds, "And you know what?" he adds, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You looked so hot while you squirted."

#seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen headcanons #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen fluff #seventeen #svt smut #svt imagines #mingyu smut #joshua #seungcheol smut #joshua fluff #gose #joshua smut #seventeen fanfic #hong jisoo smut #hong jisoo #hong jisoo fluff #joshua hong x you #joshua hong fluff #joshua hong x reader #joshua hong #joshua hong smut #joshua x y/n #joshua x you #joshua x reader #joshua hong x yn #hong jisoo x reader

[anantaru]

overprotective ex!boyfriend aventurine??? <3

cw. [ex]plicit, rough sex, toxic relationship (you cannot keep a distance from each other!!!), he's obsessed with you, ex! boyfriend au, fem! reader

let's get one thing straight out of the way.

aventurine and you were not broken up. it was merely a skimpy, little break— not worth bothering about.

at least that's how he saw it, and aventurine couldn't believe that this pointless pause was turning from a couple days to multiple weeks. precisely how you give off the idea of wanting to move on? live life but not with him in the picture?

without reserve, it turned him insane.

although luckily enough, aventurine had no plans of letting you go.

he wanted your relationship to go on forever, because you see, aventurine doesn't just love you, that certainly wasn't enough— he was undoubtedly obsessed with you, and the more you two were apart from one another, the more you craved each other.

or at least the physical aspect of it.

you cannot help it, and you know it's wrong— but there was only one person who knew your body from inside and out, who would reach for the stars in the sky in order to make you happy. aventurine wasn't the easiest person to get along with, sure, but that didn't mean you could just forget about him, not when you were still very much in love with him too.

to a higher standard, you do realize you were important to him, right? he's a little fucked up in the head and sometimes seems like he's lost his mind, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how love was supposed to feel like.

you showed him how it looked like, yes, how it felt, of course, how it moved and tasted.

at this point, you were really using each other for selfish reasons, acting like two dirty liars with two different goals.

aventurine was angel alike, calming to ones gaze— hypnotizing eyes that swerve tremors through your veins when he fixes you underneath his famished glare, or his cheeky grin that spread wide and sharpened on instinct when he catches you stare.

when it comes to the hold he had on your body, you are done for, sensed the magic-like pull resembling that of a moth to a fire, igniting your deepest desires.

"i knew you'd come back to me, sweetheart," aventurine's sugarcoated, and a little eerie whispers leisurely trickle from the tip of his tongue before running a cold shiver down your spine, "because you see baby, you always do."

"nothing can break us apart, isn't that correct?"

his thrusts were usually on the stronger side, but they held on to calculated movements of his hips trapping yours against the mattress.

his grinds and sensual thrusts ripple through your opening, rutting back and forth your sopping walls, truly restlessly, his raw skin connecting and hungrily soaking up your filthy juices.

your blistering hot cunt was designed to turn him into a mess, one that cannot get enough of you— aventurine gets drunk on the feeling of your pussy suffocating his shaft, and he's making you look at him through a doe-eyed expression when his tongue darts past his mouth to lick across your bottom lip, listlessly pulling angelic noises from you.

aventurine doesn't make love to you, such phraseology enunciated boredom to him personally.

at the same time, he fucked you with meaning— until the bed rocks violently back and forth and scratches the wooden floor as he reminds you on whom your body belonged to.

it's euphoric, salacious and wicked in the way how your snug, constricted cunt shivered around his hefty girth, his tip embedding a touch of feathers once and away your golden spots until you were crying out his darling name.

he drags further into your creamy cunt until you clench a bit, resulting in his thrusts stuttering through one, big snap forward and fuck, it's just so long, covering every spot on your walls without much thought.

and yeah, that's right, aventurine was not only confident in his skills but moved his shaft as precisely as you liked.

although now, his hips were suddenly turning slow and ponderous— you already know that he did it on purpose, probably to taunt and make you beg for him, or perhaps so he could slant forward and hypnotize your eyes with his own, buzzing gaze.

your legs were tensing hard around his waist as he angles his hips just right, setting off sparks behind your eyes when he pushes down on your bristling pussy— how magical and full you felt, it turned your brain overstimulated to the point where no left over energy in your body was able to even focus on the aftermath.

the moments that follow next, the consequences of fucking your ex boyfriend, merely days after your problematic break-up.

but that's what you wanted, right? it's what your body craves when you look at him through soused lashes, sticky mascara smeared over your eyes as his warm heaves ghost along your wet lips.

a big, twisted smirk on his face finalized this situation, your mind spiraling into the humid air upon witnessing it.

right then and there, it feels like there weren't any problems— only aventurine and you, grinding your bodies together with your heart rattling against your chest when he thrusts all the way inside of you until his balls hit your ass, his erection delving all the way forward.

how indescribably strange love was.

it can be destructive, but at the same time, it can pump the adrenaline and make your heart beat rapidly.

that was something no science could explain, honestly, an all-consuming emotion, engulfing your body and mind.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #aventurine x reader #aventurine smut #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #aventurine x you #hsr drabbles #honkai star rail drabbles #aventurine drabbles #hsr x y/n #honkai star rail x y/n #honkai star rail fanfic

[obsessivevoidkitten]

On The Naughty List

Yandere Krampus x Gender Neutral Reader CW: Noncon, spanking, bondage, dick piercings, size difference, Krampus, Christmas, assassin reader, punishment, kidnapping, biting, very mild blood from biting, general yandere behavior Word Count: 1.5k (Hey guys, I hope you all like this. Kinda rushed, not beta read, please forgive any errors. My second Christmas gift to you all. I hope your holiday is amazing <3)

You got yourself settled in your hotel room. It was very early in the morning, not past 3am, on Christmas. But you were not Santa Claus and you were not delivering cheer. You had with you only a simple black suitcase. The furnishings in your room were sparse, but that was okay. You did not select this room because of the accommodations but rather for its view. It was not particularly scenic, merely a view of a road and residential area. But you were an assassin and this room afforded you clear aim into the room of your target’s living room. All you had to do was wait.

Your weapon was easy enough to assemble. A sniper rifle, of course. Finally you saw your designated victim pull up into their driveway and enter their house, so you opened the window and readied yourself. An icy chill filled the room. Your vantage point was clear and your weapon was ready but before you could take out your mark you heard a strange and tumultuous sound from behind.

It sounded like the Earth was being torn asunder and the four winds themselves were howling in unison as they collided.

You turned around and saw the very fabric of space and tear before you leaving a purple portal leaking black mist blocking the door to the hotel room. An odd scent like that of cinnamon and coal filled the room. You were about to flee through the open window, you had the skills necessary to scale the building, but the window slammed shut before you could act.

Not many things made a hardened combatant turned assassin such as yourself scared but you would be lying if you said you weren’t trembling.

You could hear a slow and rhythmic pounding sound getting nearer and nearer as if some unseen monstrosity approached from the other side of the portal. And that’s exactly what it was.

The first thing you saw erupt through the rip in space was the head of a horned beast. It was humanoid and wore a wicked grin full of sharp teeth. Eyes like black coals stared into you, piercing you with unrestrained glee in your fear.

Followed by this terrifying face was its body.

Muscular thighs with legs like tree trunks that ended in cloven hooves.. And his whip-like tail lashed angrily at the air. The demonic beast was covered in thick black fur.

The horrifying creature was at least 7 feet. tall.

The faint scent of burning coal filled the space surrounding it.

It took a thundering step towards you, and you cowered in place, momentarily stunned as it said in a deep booming voice, "I’m Krampus and someone has been verrrry naughty this yeeeear."

Though you felt more fear than you ever thought possible you were still a trained combatant turned assassin for hire and you managed to collect yourself about as well as it was possible for any mere human to in such a situation.

You shot the thing right between the eyes with your high-powered rifle, and he... laughed. The bullet bounced off uselessly, and he just... laughed...

You screamed and shouted as loudly as you could, hoping to attract help. Though what they could possibly do when he had shrugged off, a bullet remained to be seen.

No help came for you. Krampus always magically silenced noise from leaking out of rooms where he was punishing someone.

Suddenly, he closed the difference between the two of you and was upon you in record speed, moving supernaturally fast for such a behemoth.

With precise movements, strong hands and sharp claws made confetti out of your dark clothing before he had you bent over his knee.

"I usually use a birch rute for this, but I wanna feel your skin on my hand..."

You struggled and tried to get away, but there was no chance he would let you go. Krampus had to punish many humans, but you were special. Ironically, it was your defiance, the fight in your eyes, that initially attracted him to you.

His hard, calloused hand came down on your bare ass, causing you to curse and tremble.

With all your training something as simple as a slap to your ass shouldn't have bothered you much, even from such a large adversary, but it was like he had slammed the essence of dread into your very heart.

But that still wasn't enough to still you. You kicked, punched, and clawed ferally at any inch of flesh you could reach, like a feral animal backed into a corner.

But he only laughed more as he spanked you over and over. Until you were crying. Worse than the pain was the total humiliation.

Through it all, though, you never stopped struggling. No matter how much terror and pain you endured. You didn't realize it, but it only made him more into you.

Everyone he had punished before, broke them like a kid with a toy, and left them to deal with the trauma. But you didn't seem so easily broken, and that sealed your fate.

If you kept resisting like you were, he was going to keep you forever.

Krampus finally stopped the assault on your rear and dragged you, kicking and screaming over to the bed. You could now see his cock, large and uncut with a frenum ladder set of piercings going up the underside of his length.

"Stop! Get away from me!!"

"Yeah, because you're really the one in position to give commands right now."

He chuckled and bent you over the bed as you writhed madly, knowing what was about to happen.

"Might need to keep you still for this."

In a puff of black smoke, a coil of rope appeared in his hand that he skillfully used to bind your legs and arms.

While he had tied up many people in his line of work, he had never actually used rape to punish someone. But he wanted to see how far he could take things with you. Though at this point, even if he broke you, he was sure he would keep you anyway, just to fix you up again.

Krampus spit on your hole and plunged his cock in roughly. Hardly enough prep to do anything for the pain. For the fiery burning stretch that came with his big dick breaching your entrance.

Despite being bound you still wriggled as best you could while screaming until your throat hurt.

"Fuck you! Goddamned piece o- AHHHH!!!!"

He smirked as he increased the pace. Good. His toy STILL wasn't crumbling apart.

Sharp claws raked your back as his hot breath cascaded down your neck while he whispered, "For someone so bad you feel so good."

Tears rushed down your cheeks. You were infuriated with him and with yourself for having allowed yourself to be taken with such ease. What was far more reprehensible than that though, was the fact that your body had adjusted to his size and it was actually starting to feel somewhat good despite the pain and discomfort.

You yelped as he lightly smacked your sore ass while fucking you.

"Go to H-hell bastard!"

"Ha, been there."

He pulled out, flipped you over on your back, and slid right back into, profuse amounts of precum now providing more adequate lubrication. Embarrassingly, you couldn't stifle a moan as he entered back into you with his piercings adding to the sensation you were trying to ignore.

If your legs hadn't been tied you would have tried to kick him right between the legs for making your body betray you like that.

He leaned over and nibbled on your neck lightly with his sharp teeth, licking up the little droplets of blood that welled to the surface of your skin

You moaned as he did so, as you were pulled closer and closer to orgasm.

Violently, you twitched as you came hard, blushing deeply and cursing him as you did so. He ignored you and licked the blush on your cheeks, humiliating you even farther.

For a few more moments you thrashed as much as you were able in overstimulation as he continued to breed you. His skin meeting yours with an audible slap at each thrust.

Finally he went in deep and filled you with abnormally hot cum that coaxed another orgasm from your exhausted body.

After a few moments of panting he sighed with content and slung you over his shoulders, cum leaking from you and out on to him as he carried you. Vulgarities rolling from your tongue with each heavy step he took.

Another portal opened and he stepped through with you. The cussing, the fierceness, the unbreakable spirit. A perfect partner.

You were the best Christmas gift he had ever given himself, and there was no way he was ever going to give you up.

#yandere teratophilia #yandere terato #yandere x reader #monster boyfriend #yandere monster #gender neutral reader #male yandere x gn reader #yandere boyfriend #yandere #yandere Holidays #Yandere Christmas #Happy Holidays 2023 #christmas 2023 #Yandere Krampus #Krampus x reader #yandere scenarios #Yandere Scenario

[canisalbus]

Please please share some info on your Claydol/Umbreon sona 👀 👀

Well they're not a very lore heavy character ´v` Just a fun design I got attached to more than I intended I guess.

It's genderless, sexless and doesn't seem to age (it/they pronouns)

It's sentient but in a hard to decipher way. It prefers solitude and sparsely communicates with other beings.

It's seven eyes can move independently from each other.

The head can rotate and spin freely, and while it's not attached to the body, it usually maintains it's position, hovering at the end of the nonexistent neck.

The ears and tail are fully rigid. The tail can be bent from the base but the ears are always static (I think of them as baseball bat-like).

The mouth is a dead end and disappears completely when closed, but it can open very wide and is full of teeth (canines in particular are very sharp, curved and prominent).

The skin is firm, smooth, hairless and matte, similar to unglazed ceramic, and it matches the ambient temperature of the surroundings.

It's mostly odorless but has a faint aroma of dirt and myrrh.

It's resistant to heat and cold but can't stand water. It gets slow, lethargic and confused and starts to suffer tissue damage if it gets wet enough.

It's about the size of a caracal.

It doesn't breathe.

It doesn't seem to need to eat, and it doesn't have a working digestive tract. The internal organs it has are only vaguely reminescent of organic viscera and don't have a clear purpose, they're all uniformly orange and have the consistency of hard boiled egg yolk.

It sleeps a lot, or maybe hibernates, often in oddly upright and stiff positions.

It's generally a quiet and fairly inactive creature, but when it moves it can be surprisingly swift and nimble, the locomotion is mostly a mix of cat, dog and hare movements.

Sometimes it makes various hollow hissing and rattling noises when it moves, or sounds similar to two pieces of pottery or stone being ground together.

It's most common active vocalization is barking and it sounds like the clack of hyoshigi:

It's not aggressive, but can inflict feelings of anxiety, disorientation and mild catatonia on onlookers when threatened, and being on the receiving end of it's psychic attacks sounds like a bullroarer:

#answered #anonymous #claydol umbreon

[shortnotsweet]

This technically applies to my Stepmother AU in which Alicent is around six years older than Rhaenyra, and occupies a wicked stepmother role as opposed to ex ‘friends-to-first loves-to-enemies’. Despite lacking the foundation of shared girlhood, both find simultaneous comfort and rivalry in one another, and undergo a gravitational pull. A young Rhaenyra’s eagerness to participate in swordplay and political affairs at a young is accommodated for, and she grows up with a sword in one hand and the weight of experience in another, which further helps pave her way to the throne.

Alicent’s Costuming

Alicent’s clothing is almost entirely bottle, emerald, or forest green. While there is layering present in her skirts and jackets, the accent should always be a darker green than the base color. The fabric is deep, rich, and retains an undeniably high-quality luster. Look to velvets and silks. Gold embroidery lingers around her sleeves, neck, and hemline to elevate the coloring.

Metallic embellishments should be almost military-like, and appear heavy. Contribute to the imagery of chains or shackles in addition to her status

Draws inspiration from historically accurate stiffness and Victorian shapes, with a tapered waist, imposing, puffy sleeves, and a high neckline. Despite inaccuracies, this shape is evocative of someone elegantly and conservatively feminine, repressed, and capable of exerting power over others. Reference a classic, trussed hourglass shape. Skirts should be notably heavy and full; may make noise in movement

The coloring and shapes remain relatively consistent but lack variation; this is to demonstrate a lack of freedom and exploration, as well as an adherence to conventional feminine roles

Despite these limitations, her costuming should always be put-together, coordinated, and unquestionably fashionable. Tight sleeve cuffs may be accompanied by a more traditionally medieval fan sleeve

Shoes should stick mostly to slippers, or flat designs

In this AU, her hair leans more towards a dark brown instead of auburn, as her show counterpart. This is mostly due to faux-book accuracy and to simplify the sketch process, since keeping her hair darker in comparison to Rhaenyra’s lighter hair translates more easily in uncolored renderings.

Keep her hair either in a tidy bun or pulled back and loose; avoid too many intricate shapes, braids, or styles. Occasionally, the hair will hang loose. Lean into medieval or royal headpieces, clips, coverings, etc.

Rhaenyra’s Costuming

Rhaenyra’s clothes are primarily black and red, occasionally accented or substituted with neutrals such as beige, white, or gray. Exceptions may include blue or yellow, but she generally stays in this color palette.

Strong focus is drawn to her shoulders and neckline, sometimes with embroidered or embellished detailing. She often has strong, angular shoulders in her dresses or jackets, occasionally theatrically pointed. Off-the shoulder necklines emphasize her collarbones and a certain broadness.

There should be decent variety in her clothing; there is a hypothetical outfit for every occasion and more (for battle, for riding, everyday, formal, feasts, everyday, etc.), and most should be composed of multiple pieces and utilize generous layering. This includes under-fabric, belts and corsets, jackets and doublets, draped fabric for aesthetic purpose, and even functional capes.

Most of her clothes should provide visual aid for movement; additional fabric to her skirts, for example. Her clothes should be highly stylized but still easy to move in. In riding and battle gear, it is presumed that she wears pants and boots under her skirts, even if they are not visible.

Shoes lean more into boot cuts, still practical but should have a sleek and uniform quality to them. When she walks, she should make some kind of noise. Shoes should usually be black or potentially red, the latter for decorative purposes.

Overall her style should be more contemporary and lean into the fantasy element. She’s not opposed to oriental details or showing skin, and her costumes should reflect both couture-height drama and period-reliant aspects. Longer lines and diagonal hems mean she is not as devoted to an hourglass shape, and her high collars should always be decorative in some respect.

Keep her hair long and mostly loose, sometimes pulled back. Small braids should be implied as incorporated. Occasional hairstyles feature complicated braids. With the exception of highly decorative braided styles, simple buns should be avoided unless accompanied with very high necklines.

Avoid headpieces that are not either a) her crown or b) ceremonial.

#rhaenicent #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenyra x alicent #asoiaf #my art #thinking about how their character and costume designs are so communicative and are designed with each other in mind. for example havijg bc #the strong shoulders and embroidered necklines keeps them connected although imo they could’ve played around with it a lot more #I just have a lot of thoughts about them ok

[rookieloveskashi]

Don't Mind Me

Relationship: Hatake Kakashi x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit - Minors DNI

Warnings: smut, established relationship, masturbation (male), teasing, cockwarming, riding, voice kink, praise kink, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, POV reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: You're settling in for bed, but Kakashi isn't quite ready to sleep.

AO3 Link

Anyone who knew Kakashi Hatake knew that there were only a few things he was likely to be doing at any given time. Training was high on the list, as well as going out on missions or indulging Gai in yet another competition; all activities designed to keep his body fit and his skills sharp. But when he allowed himself some true restful downtime, he had one favorite pastime: reading Icha Icha.

Kakashi was infamously known to kick back with his book in any number of locations. He could be spotted in even the most public of places—surrounded by superiors or students alike—with one of his ever-present paperbacks tipped in such a way that no nosy onlookers could peer over his shoulder.

As if the entire village couldn't tell the content of those pages from the book's cover, the author's reputation, or the Copy Ninja's giggles.

And as often as he could be seen reading in public, Kakashi spent just as much time reading in the comfort of his own home. Reading before bed was an old habit of his, since he'd first turned to books as a potential distraction from the nightmare fodder constantly rattling around in his head. Over time, Kakashi found the near-perfect antidote to his nightmares in the romantic exploits of the Icha lcha series, buying copy after copy to ensure he would never go without.

More recently, he'd stumbled upon the good fortune to find you, and the romance that blossomed between the two of you was something that Icha Icha just couldn't match.

He still liked to flip through the book before falling asleep, but you suspected it was more out of routine than necessity. These days, the best way Kakashi knew to fall asleep was to get tangled up in bed with you, and it was a sentiment you wholeheartedly shared.

As he read, you nuzzled yourself into the perfect position against him. You loved the feeling of his arm around your waist, his solid form under your fingertips, his cheek resting on the top of your head. He would breathe so gently, you barely felt his chest rise and fall. Every minute or two, you would hear Kakashi turn a page; the sweetest domestic white noise lulling you to sleep.

Just as you had nearly drifted off, something disturbed you just enough to snap you back to consciousness. Maybe it was some tiny twitch of Kakashi's muscle, or a slight change in temperature in the room, or maybe one of your synapses just tripped over its own feet. But whatever the cause, your eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the low light of Kakashi's reading lamp.

As your vision focused, you first spotted the gently illuminated pages of the book Kakashi held in his left hand, his wrist still propped on your hip. The writing on the pages was distorted in your blurry vision. You couldn't discern what was happening on the page, but the number printed neatly at the bottom let you know he'd gotten through about thirty pages since you'd snuggled in with a kiss on his cheek and a whispered 'goodnight.’

Then your focus shifted as movement a little further back caught your eye.

Looking past the book, you were treated to the sight of Kakashi's free hand working over his exposed cock, his fingers wrapped around the shaft and stroking over the length at a languid pace. He was in a state just shy of fully erect, the skin gliding up to roll over the ridge of his cockhead with every upward motion. The tip was slightly darkened, with a generous drop of opaline precum welling at the slit.

It didn't take even one second for your entire body to react; your eyes widening, your cheeks flushing, your mouth watering. And that's to say nothing of the reaction between your legs.

Your body was excitedly awake, but your brain seemed to be lagging behind.

"What’a’ya doin’?" you heard yourself ask, the words blending together in a poor attempt at shaking off the dregs of sleep.

It was a stupid question—there really wasn't any way to misinterpret what you were seeing—but still, the words tumbled off your traitorous tongue without any command.

"Hm?" He turned his head just enough to fix his charcoal eye on you. A rosy blush colored his cheeks, but you weren't sure if it was there before or after you'd caught him.

"I'm sorry," he continued, crinkling his eye into a smile. "I thought you were asleep."

You couldn't think of any way to respond. The entire situation was nothing short of ridiculous. In the scant time since you'd closed your eyes to go to sleep, Kakashi had gotten so worked up by the content of the book that he'd felt compelled to reach down, push his sleep pants and his briefs down far enough to expose his dick, and start masturbating, all without disturbing you in the slightest.

And only Kakashi knew how long he'd been at it before finally letting his composure slip just enough to wake you.

That's some use of jōnin skills.

You couldn't help it; the bark of laughter burst from your throat before you realized it was happening.

And the more Kakashi just stared at you in response—scarred eye closed; pink deepening the color of his face; hand frozen, just holding his dick—the funnier it got. Snickers and giggles built in your chest faster than you could breathe them out, more and more until your eyes were watering and your stomach burned from laughter.

It could have been anywhere between ten seconds to ten minutes before he finally broke his silence. "Y/N," he calmly spoke, your name almost lost among your continued hilarity, "if you keep laughing like that, I might start taking it personally."

Your body shuddered as you tried to get your breathing under control in an effort to spare both his pride and your abdomen. "I'm-I'm…sorry—" you gasped, squeezing your eyes tight to force the building tears to fall. "It's just…silly."

A strange look sparkled in Kakashi's eye. "I've been accused of being a lot of things, Y/N, but never silly."

"Well right now?" you grinned, "that’s exactly what you are."

“And just what exactly is so silly to you?"

Even thinking the explanation caused more giggles to sputter from your lips as you spoke. "You're secretly touching yourself to that pervy book while I'm practically on top of you. It’s just…funny that it affects you that much.”

Kakashi silently watched as you stifled the new outburst of laughter. His eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, but it quickly settled as you relaxed.

"Ahhhh, I see." He closed the book, holding his page with his thumb as he snuggled you a little closer. "Don't worry, Y/N. There's no need to be jealous.”

"Wha…jealous?" you echoed. "Of a book?"

"I only wanted to give you the chance to get some rest," he continued. "I know you've been busy lately, and naturally I don't expect you to answer my every beck and call. So…" Kakashi trailed off with a shrug, then leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Don't mind me.”

With a smile, he returned his attention to his book. You stayed frozen in position as Kakashi went right back to reading as though nothing had happened, his eyes on the filthy words and his hand resuming its lazy strokes over his swollen cock.

Wait... what?

Had you just been...dismissed?

You were awake and uncomfortably aroused—two facts that you were sure he was equally aware of—and he chose to just...go back to the book?

Now you were the one taking something personally.

You nudged his arm to give yourself space to shift your hips, intentionally rubbing the front of your body against his side while you slid off your panties and successfully recaptured your boyfriend’s interest. Kakashi watched with curiosity as you propped yourself up on one elbow and gently shooed his hand away from his penis.

When the obstacle was out of your way, you sat up on your knees and tossed your leg over your hips to straddle him.

"What's all this?"

His voice was measured and controlled, but his attention was fully on you. You suppressed a haughty grin as you reached down to take his erection in your hand, gently running your thumb over his slit to collect the precum and bring it to your mouth.

You moaned as you licked the bitter fluid from your digit, swirling your tongue and holding eye contact all the while. After a few seconds you removed your thumb, glistening with saliva, then wrapped your hand around his dick once more to guide him to your entrance.

You bit your lower lip and slowly sank down on him, sighing as the tip of his cock spread you open. The stretch stung a little—your body working with less preparation than he typically gave you—but it was still the feeling that you were craving: him. His right hand settled on your thigh and followed as you went lower and lower, descending so slowly that you were feeling the burn in your thighs.

But it would be worth it.

Maybe now you were the one being silly, but you were determined to prove to him that no book could compare to you.

It wasn't until your ass met his thighs and you saw the smirk spread across his face that you realized you'd fallen into one of the Copy Ninja's perfectly laid traps.

He...I can't believe he sweet-talked me into sitting on his dick!

You had to school your face to keep your jaw from dropping in dumbfounded embarrassment. It was all too clear now. This had been his game all along.

Here you were, thinking you were taking some kind of control, when in reality, you were exactly where he wanted you. On top of him, hands on his chest for leverage, his cock so deep inside of you that you swore you could feel him bulging against your stomach. Wetness drooling from your cunt, making his lap slippery and shiny.

You wriggled your hips to get comfortable, noticing the way he triumphantly grinned at your movement. His cock filled you to the point that you could hardly adjust. And he just laid flat and watched you, waiting for you to start riding him, a look in his eye that proved he knew exactly how badly you wanted to do just that.

Hmmmmm, maybe he'll be waiting longer than he expected.

The perv truly loved it when you fucked yourself on his dick. Nothing turned Kakashi on like watching you raise yourself up just to crash back down on him, greedily wringing his every inch for your pleasure.

Not this time.

In a fit of theatrics, you stretched your arms to the side and yawned, giving him one last good look at your body and the cute bulge under your navel where his cock was securely snuggled. You leaned forward—trying to ignore the tight squeeze of his fat dick inside you and how perfectly it stretched you as you moved—and carefully laid down on his chest, wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling back into his neck.

“Mmmm sleep tight, Kakashi,” you murmured.

Stunned silence was your only answer, and you had to hold yourself back from cheering in the name of victory. You were way too wired to actually fall asleep now, but the next move was all Kakashi’s.

Finally, finally you'd gotten the upper hand. True, you would probably benefit more from riding him until you were fucked too stupid to even remember where you were, but the victory of surprising him was almost as sweet. Besides, with his sex drive, you could easily get another chance to take your pleasure from him. Beating him at his own game, though? You might never experience this again.

Just as you were starting to worry that the silence would stretch on forever, Kakashi addressed you in a whisper.

“Sweetheart?”

And let the groveling begin.

“Mhmm?”

He kept his voice low and soft, his gentle question tickling your ear. “If you're going back to sleep, you don't mind if I read just a little bit longer, do you?”

You furrowed your brow, wondering if you should truly be insulted that he was still thinking of the book. “You want…to keep reading?”

“I’m almost to the end of this chapter, and I hate to leave things unfinished.”

There was a brief pause of silence where you tried to figure out his plan. “Okay,” you finally answered. “But don't move; I’m so comfy.”

“Don't worry Y/N,” he cooed, holding his book up in position. “I'm comfortable too. Right where I am.”

Suspicious as you were, you allowed your eyes to close as you breathed in the familiar scent of Kakashi's skin. Despite the demanding feeling of fullness between your legs, everything was serene. Kakashi stayed still, exactly as you asked. You couldn't even notice when he moved to turn a page.

You were reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that you might have to settle for a draw when you heard Kakashi’s low, rumbling voice in your ear.

“He licked his lips, his love's delicious juices making his entire jaw shine.”

You sharply sat up enough to look at him, cursing the pathetic little moan that slipped past your lips as you felt his cock brush along your walls. "W-what are you doing?"

His eye flicked to yours, the usual stormy grey now completely black and as devious as the smirk on his face. “I’m reading, Y/N.”

“But…out loud??”

“What’s wrong?” Kakashi grinned. “Is it affecting you?”

You started sputtering a nonsense response, but before you could manage to form a single word, he simply looked back at the book and continued reading. “‘You taste better than I ever imagined, gorgeous,’ he growled. ‘I can't wait to feel you.’”

The words sounded so beautifully lewd in Kakashi’s thunderous baritone, you couldn't fight the shiver climbing along your spine. Against your conscious will, the muscles inside your cunt tightened around him and forced a needy moan from your lips. He just felt so good, you decided right then and there that you were done with whatever game you'd been playing. Screw it.

He could gloat all he wanted, but if you didn't get some friction, you were going to lose your mind.

You lifted only a centimeter off of him before he stopped you with the strong grip of his one free hand on your hip. “Kakashi….” The whine that left your lips was absolutely pitiful. “Why are you—”

“Because, if it's so silly that I like these books so much, you should have no problem holding still."

What?!

He had to be joking. He wouldn't seriously torture you—and himself—like this…would he?

With a subtle shift of your hips, you dared to test the waters. Only the barest hint of satisfaction swept over you before his grip tightened.

“I said…hold still.”

Your walls gripped down on him, clear arousal drooling from your cunt. All you wanted was to move, or feel him moving inside you. But his fingers stayed latched to your hip, his pelvis stayed flat on the bed, and his voice stayed cool and even as he breathed life into the story on the pages.

“‘I want to make love to you until the sunrise,’ he proclaimed while stripping away his trousers. ‘I’ll spend these next five hours showing you the greatest pleasure you've ever known.’”

It wasn't even the smutty nature of the book that had you all hot and bothered. Kakashi could have been reading his own shopping list and you would still be weak just from listening to his voice. Those filthy words only dumped kerosene on the fire.

“‘Open yourself for me, my love. Let me inside.’”

Everything you wanted was so close. So close, but you couldn't have it. Not with the way Kakashi was restricting you. His wide palm was an anchor you had no chance of escaping. All you could do was ignore every impulse and desire in your body and continue to stay still while Kakashi narrated all the things you’d rather be doing.

“He ran his fingers along her pink folds, touching the silky skin he would soon feel around his cock. He smiled as he watched his beautiful partner writhe under his touch. Her mouth formed the most perfect shapes as she whispered his name, begging her lover to give her what she needed.”

You bit down on your lip to distract yourself from the sound of his voice, his smooth tone easily casting a spell over you. He wouldn't let you move, but you had to do something before you lost your mind.

Gently, you pressed your lips to his throat, testing soft kisses along his neck. Kakashi paused his narration, chuckling a laugh that vibrated against your mouth.

“Are you enjoying the story, sweetheart?”

“Kakashi…please…” you whispered. “I need you.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice. “Oh yeah?”

“Please,” you begged, tipping your head up to kiss the sensitive spot behind his ear. “Please, baby.”

A soft sigh slipped past his lips. “Hmmm, alright.” He shifted his weight letting you lean back enough to see his face. “I’m going to let go, but you're going to be good and stay put for me, won't you?”

Eagerly, you nodded. “Mhmm.”

Kakashi smiled at you. “Very good.”

With his one hand still holding the book, Kakashi moved his right hand off your hip. Goosebumps chased his touch, calluses tracing their way down your plush thigh. His long fingers splayed over your soft skin, fingers reaching back toward your ass while the pad of his thumb landed right over your needy clit.

You gasped at his touch, shoulders tossing themselves back without your permission as your spine curved in ecstasy.

“There we go,” he smiled at you. “Now, where were we?”

Kakashi slowly started circling your clit with his thumb. Another feeble whimper escaped you and your grip on his shoulders tightened, your fingernails digging tiny crescents into his skin as he continued to read.

“Her body opened for him, unfolding like the most beautiful flower. She was still flushed and sensitive from all his tongue had already done to her. Strings of arousal glistened between her folds, and he had never felt such a strong ache between his own legs. ‘Please kiss me,’ she sang. ‘Kiss me and make me yours.’”

You panted little breaths in time with the pattern he was drawing over your engorged bundle of nerves. It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close to enough. The action in the story was progressing much more quickly than he was. His thumb moved maddeningly slow, making your muscles twitch and your body want to scream. You wanted to grind into that lazy thumb and fuck yourself on his perfect cock. All you dared to do was whimper into his neck and dig your fingernails a little deeper. 

That is, until Kakashi overplayed his hand.

“He plunged into her warmth. Pressure surrounded him; her h-hot, t-tight, wet insides fitting him just right.” His throat bobbed with a heavy gulp. “She was m-made for him, her m—”

Kakashi’s cock throbbed inside of you, causing both you and him to moan. Your internal muscles fluttered at the long-awaited stimulation, exploiting his moment of weakness and baiting him into giving you more. He clutched at your body to regain control, but you could tell his resolve was finally crumbling.

You seductively brushed your parted lips over his earlobe, relishing the heavy sigh he awarded you. “Don't stop,” you whispered, letting your voice drip with desperation. “Tell me what else he does to her.”

Kakashi tossed his head back with a groan, and his hips thrust just an inch off the mattress. You could have cried at how good the friction felt. “Kashi!”

“He—haa—sunk d-deeper inside…” Kakashi continued to read in a choppy voice as he worked his cock in and out just that last inch. “She felt…like heaven…so good…”

Carefully, you let your hips start to roll against him. Most of the pressure and stimulation was still directly on your clit, and now that you had a little control, you were already trembling. It was so much closer, but it still wasn't enough.

You wrapped your arms around him tighter, grounding yourself as you started fucking him the way you’d wanted to since you’d caught him fucking his hand instead of you. His broken narration started to get lost among his moans and your whimpers. You let his name slide from your lips in a plea, and that was the last straw. 

The book clattered to the floor with a sound so worrisome, you wondered if you needed to stop. But Kakashi's free hand was immediately on the back of your head, holding you in place against him while he started to thrust up into you in earnest. His hand on your hip squeezed tight, letting go only for a second to land an encouraging smack across your ass that had you clenching in on him. Then he found his grip on your hip again, pulling you down to meet his thrusts with resounding wet slaps.

“Up baby,” he ordered, releasing his hold on your head. “Ride me like you mean it.”

With an intoxicated laugh, you planted a loud, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Then you moved your hands to his chest and pushed yourself up into a seated position. His eyes seared into you as you immediately got to work; rolling your hips and extending your thighs to rise up over him, tits swaying in a way that made him lick his lips.

On your first full descent down his long, thick cock, you practically screamed out for how good it felt dragging along your needy insides. Kakashi bent his knees and planted his feet so that you could fuck yourself on him exactly how you needed to.

“Fuck, that’s it baby.”

Kakashi looked at the place where your bodies met; yours taking him in again and again and again, bouncing up and down with an urgency that left a creamy white ring around the base of his cock. After all of his teasing, that sight alone was enough to have him ready to blow.

“Not…gonna last.”

Your fingernails burrowed into his skin, digging out little crescent shapes that stood out even among all of his scars. “Not yet,” you begged. “Please, not yet…need more.”

A deep, resounding groan rippled up his throat. “Take what you need. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Your mouth hung open, eyes rolling back in your head as you worked your body over Kakashi’s perfect dick. He was exactly what you needed in every way. The breath was knocked from your lungs every time you brought yourself back down. Your body moved in perfect harmony, every muscle and nerve playing its part so you could selfishly enjoy him. You could feel beads of sweat running from your neck down your chest.

Kakashi watched you with both eyes open. His hips kept rocking to meet you, but the rest of his body simply reacted to your movements. He smiled as your body stuttered in pleasure, so close to your peak but barely missing it.

“Kashi…” you whined. “S’close…please…”

“Need my help, sweetheart?” Apparently, Kakashi couldn’t help but taunt you one last time. But your only goal now was to cum, and you vigorously nodded, giving him the control that he never failed to use to your benefit. “C’mere.”

With one arm wrapped around your hips and the other high on your back, Kakashi pulled you back down to his sticky chest. You held onto him as he pressed his wide palm into your lower back, grinding your clit into the coarse silver hair trailing up toward his navel.

“Kakashi!” Pleasure immediately washed along your entire body, already better than anything you’d been able to accomplish on your own.

“That’s it, Y/N,” he panted. “Now cum on me.”

You bit down on his neck and whimpered from how good he made you feel. The light sheen of sweat on his skin tasted of salt and only made your mouth water for more. You gave up on the last dregs of your dignity, grinding into him with the single-minded focus of getting off on your gorgeous, beloved menace of a boyfriend.

“Y/N…fuck, please…”

His voice was deep and reverent even as he was pleading for you to cum, and the beautiful sound finally caused the building tension in your lower belly to snap. You responded with a gasp as your inner walls squeezed down and suffocated his cock. Not a second later, Kakashi let out an indulgent, satisfied sigh and you felt his cock pulse inside of you, filling you with warmth.

“Mmmm, baby…” His body relaxed beneath you, his arms encircling you to cradle you to his chest. “Fuck, that was good.”

You planted a kiss on his neck, smiling at the faint mark left there by your teeth. “Better than the book?”

Kakashi ran his hand up the back of your neck, spreading goosebumps along your skin. His long fingers tangled into your roots, gently coaxing you back a little so you could look at his face. His other rough palm cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as his eyes narrowed to complement his adoring yet devilish grin.

“What book?”

tagging @deviant-donna 💕

► masterlist

#kakashi smut #kakashi x reader smut #kakashi x reader #kakashi x you #kakashi fanfiction #kakashi imagine #reader insert #reader insert smut #rookie wrote

[fayes-fics]

Ruler & Subject

Paring: Benedict Bridgerton x royal!fem!reader

Summary: blurb where a princess and a certain untitled artist play together…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, power swap, dom/sub dom!Benedict, sub!Princessreader, hair pulling, blow job, deepthroat, breathplay, derogatory names, masturbation, swallowing, smidge of cunnilingus and face-sitting.

Word count: 1.4 k

Authors note: Another smut blurb that came as a result of a roulette prompt (“Swallow. All of it”). Written in an hour. Unbetaed. Utter and complete filth. Enjoy? 🤷‍♀️

Something about his slightly rough treatment makes you mindless with need—a want to be used by him. And he knows it. Gets that glint in his eye when you give him the signal across a room at a boring soirée.

Once in a quiet corridor, he grabs you by the back of the neck and steers you away from prying eyes. Out across the manicured gardens. Deep into your aunt’s Byzantine maze, a mist clinging to the neat privet hedges in the crisp night air.

He doesn’t even have to tell you to get on your knees anymore; it’s a reflex. As soon as he stops marching, you drop. Eager to please. His crooked smile beguiling as you gaze up at him roughly, pulling open the buttons at his hip.

“Hands behind your back,” he tuts as you go to touch his clothed thigh. 

Instantly, you obey, fingers clasped over the small of your back. The rough pebble path under your knees is already a slight discomfort you know will only heighten your experience. Bruises on both your knees for him.

His cock is already leaking as it bobs against your nose, leaving a patch of wetness there that you will savour later. Without being told, you shuffle a fraction, greedily wrap your lips around the tip, suckling into your mouth. Hot, salty and tart against your tongue as you lathe the underside, and he exhales raggedly. A large hand rounding your scalp and pulling your hair at the root, a slight burn on your scalp.

“What's your signal?” He checks quickly.

You raise your left hand and tap twice on his outer thigh. Then, obediently, place the hand back. You never want to use it. 

“Good,” he nods, scraping blunt fingernails over your crown. “I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns, a prickle of excitement running down your spine at that news.

He thrusts his hips forward and slides his cock deep into your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut at the blunt force attempting to school your gag reflex.

“Eyes open,” he snaps, “you will look at me the whole time.”

You do as bidden. Wide-eyed as he holds for a few beats, watching you suckle hard and accommodate his girth.

This is what you crave. So very opposite to who you both are; the role reversal and personality juxtaposition are intoxicating. A strong-willed princess on your knees for a sweet, affable, untitled artist. But not when you play like this. He is dominating and rough, bossing you around in ways no one dares. And you revel in it, insist upon it. The submission, the abdication of power, control. The pleasure to be used when, in all other aspects of your existence, you are the designated user, purely by the luck of your birth. 

“My filthy princess,” he coos, one hand moving to tap your hollowed cheek, a thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth to break the tight seal you hold around his cock. “Relax your throat; let me in,” the order is velvet and steel, just like his shaft.

Slackening your suction, you exhale around him, letting your throat open. He tips forward, deeper than before, groaning at the restriction your throat provides, a bead of precum sliding over your tastebuds as he rocks back moments later.

Then his hands clamp around your ears, and he is thrusting. Using your pliant mouth, your lips a ring of soft friction as he grunts, a slick gurgling noise every time he plugs your throat. His movements get rougher, plunging in, his grip strong in your hair, the gravel crunching around your knees and toes as he rocks your whole being. 

He stills, your nose buried in his pubic hair as you burble around his invasion, gaze locked on his. Unable to draw breath, You know he is waiting for that slight hint of panic on your face before giving your reprieve.

He withdraws, letting you take a shuddering, coughed breath as ropes of saliva web from your lips to his glistening cock.

“Call me it,” you implore hoarsely, feeling your spit drooping across the priceless large diamonds that drape around your neck.

“Wanton little slut,” he growls, and you flood yourself, a trickle of arousal running down your trembling inner thigh to your right knee.

“Please fuck me,” you beseech as he roughly moves your head around by your hair, chasing your mouth with his cock, a game of cat and mouse he is playing with himself as much as you.

“No. Ride your fingers if you must, but tonight, you stay on your knees.”

You whimper in disappointment before he slides back into your mouth, holding still shallow, awaiting your suckling attentions. Which you enthusiastically do. Humming and lapping at his cock, sucking hard with your tongue swirling over his frenulum. He mewls little noises, praising your talented mouth as you hitch up your skirt and hurriedly drive two fingers deep into your dripping cunt, wishing it was his cock.

He takes over again, thrusting deep as you ride your own hand, spiralling greedily towards completion. His gaze slips down, and he smirks when he sees your hand thrust under the hem of your dress.

“Give me that hand,” he instructs, holding still a weight over the length of your tongue as you offer your hand above your head. 

He pulls your arm straight, a slight burn in your shoulder socket as he wraps his warm, wet mouth around your soaked fingers and laps at your juices lasciviously. 

“You always taste so deliciously sweet,” he groans as he lets your fingers slip from his lips, thoroughly cleaned.

You can’t answer, your mouth too full, but he already knows it, both so feral for each other's taste. An irresistible tang that leaves you constantly coming back for more. 

Just last week, he was buried under your cloak, making you orgasm - silently - over his tongue in the royal box at the opera. You wanted to scream louder than every singer on stage but had to settle for a vice-like grip on your opera goggles and a few ragged, mute whimpers. Knowing he would stop immediately if you so much as made a peep. You are sure other box patrons likely saw him emerging from under your layers, a smug smirk on his dampened face, before being summarily dismissed from your company. And yet word never got back to your mother, the queen of Prussia, or your aunt Queen Charlotte. Women of power need their pretty playthings, likely being the Ton’s shared sentiment.

Urgency takes over for both of you. A need to climax clawing at your beings. You roughly rub your clit as his movements turn sharp, more pronounced, using you without mercy, knowing it is driving you closer, too, the heady sensation of denied breaths. You feel his peak as much as you hear his barked warning, a ripple up his shaft that has you readying yourself for the salty, tart taste, his tip at the back of your tongue. You have to hold your breath as it coats the inside of your mouth, him curled over and around you, cursing, his hand heavily matted into your hair.

“Swallow,” he commands. “All of it.”

You do as you are told, almost unable not to, mouth filled, his hand slipping to your throat to ensure you follow the directive.

“Good,” he groans, rubbing your windpipe soothingly with his palm as he shudders with little aftershocks.

You feel the throb of denial, unable to complete before he did, your clit burning, engorged, needing relief. As he withdraws from your mouth, you cannot stop the little shimmy in your hips, desperate for reprieve.

“Did my little Princess not finish?” he chuckles as he tucks himself back into his britches.

You pout and shake your head, looking up at him imploringly. The smirk that grows on his face makes your heart light up.

“Alright, you can sit on my face,” he offers conciliatoryly, sinking to join you on the ground. “But it will cost you…” he ends with a clipped warning.

“What is the price?” your voice slightly hoarse, eagerly gathering your dress around your hips and shuffling over him.

“I’ll think of something,” he hums affably before disappearing under your gown.

You offer him half of Bavaria when he slides his tongue deep into your slit and has you howling at the moon. Instead, ever your loyal subject, he settles on what you already had planned for him—one of his paintings hung in the National Gallery and you wearing a choker with his initials hidden amongst a cluster of sapphires.

No taglist cos just a writing sprint blurb.

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

[nordschleifes]

life is what happens to you

➝ the life of a mother is not simple but it does not surpass that of the mother of a child who, in theory, does not exist to the world

➝ word count: 5,8k

➝ warnings: mentions of smut, coparenting.

➝ author's note: let's just say the idea of a formula one driver having a secret son gave me ideas.

The doorbell made you jump from the couch, relief filling your chest. As you walked to the apartment door, the sound of laughter made you smile. Finally your heart was home. When you opened it, you found a man and a little boy standing in the doorway, both with huge smiles on their faces.

— Mamá! — the boy exclaimed, throwing himself into your arms as he laughed.

— Hi, my love — you replied, pressing a kiss to his brown hair — How are you? I missed you so much.

— I missed you too, mamá — he murmured, his head nestled against your sternum, his hands resting firmly on your back, as if he were trapping you between his arms. After what felt like an eternity away from him, you never wanted him to let go.

— How was your week? — you asked.

— It was good — the boy replied, turning his head toward the man behind him — I biked a lot, didn't I, papá?

You looked up into a pair of brown eyes that were similar to your son's. The man in front of you had a tender, soft expression. One of his hands gripped the handles of a carry-on bag that you’d packed, and the other was stuffed into the pocket of his dark jeans. He looked exactly the same as the night you had met a Richard Mille event, seven years earlier.

You had been working as a designer for the watch brand for a few years at that point, and had gained a reputation for creating some especially bold pieces. At that time, you were celebrating the launch of your newest creation, the RM 19-02, which featured the first automatic movement for the brand, featuring a magnolia flower that opened and closed as the internal mechanism moved.

Seeing people enchanted by your creation, praising the little details, felt incredible, but all of it became background noise when an incredibly well-dressed man stopped to look at the display. You had seen his face before, but you couldn’t recall his name.

— This is yours, right?

— What? — you asked, half confused by the vagueness of his question, half captivated by how smooth his accent was.

— The design. It’s yours?

— Yes, it's mine.

He smiled.

— I can tell.

— Why? — you said, raising an eyebrow at him.

— It's beautiful like you.

Before long, he had introduced himself as Fernando and that he was a longtime friend of Richard Mille himself. You had a feeling that he wasn’t just any ordinary guest at the party. As the two of you continued talking, he started talking about cars, but you’d long stopped paying attention. His lips were of much more interest to you than the words coming out of them.

Ending up in bed with Fernando felt inevitable. Later that night, you didn't care about the marks on your neck or the volume of your moans. You didn't care how tightly he held your hair or how your hips bumped against his. You didn't mind when he mumbled something about the condom, his words were all lost in the post-orgasm haze.

Three months later, you realized that maybe you should have cared a bit more.

Finding yourself calling Fernando and then showing up at the front door of his house in Lugano with a positive pregnancy test in your purse made you feel like you were in a bad serial drama. You were fully prepared for him to humiliate you and tell you that it couldn’t have been him, that he would have never gotten a woman pregnant on a one-night stand. A pit formed in your stomach as you braced yourself for the inevitable paternity lawsuit you would have to file. 

To your surprise, though, he didn’t take the news badly. He didn’t look angry or shocked, but contemplative. He asked you a few questions about birth control and the morning after, but when you told him that you’d forgotten to take the morning after pill in the blur of the hangover the next day, he sighed.

— Well, I guess we're going to have a baby, then.

Your mouth dropped open in shock.

— What…?

He looked at you, his gaze serious.

— You don't want to? I mean, don't you want to continue with the pregnancy? Of course, I'm not forcing you to do anything, if you don't want to continue, we can look at our options and, and I’ll help you pay for the procedure, of course… 

— No, no, I want to have this baby... In fact, legally I can't do anything at this point — you stuttered, shaking your head — I mean... Aren't you going to ask for any proof?

He knit his eyebrows together.

— Do you want me to take a paternity test to verify?

— No, not because I have any doubts, you were the only guy I had sex with in the last few months. It’s just — you said, letting out a nervous laugh — It’s just thought, I thought you’d react in a very different way.

— Different?

— I thought you would be pissed and that I’d have to leave here and find a lawyer — you said softly.

Fernando smiled, taking one of your hands.

— I always wanted to be a father. It’s not the most conventional way, but now that I have the chance, I won't waste it. You can count on me, Y/N.

He had been sincere in offering his support. It wasn’t just monetary, either; even from the first few doctors appointments, Fernando was nothing less than the best co-parent you could have asked for. He was sincere in his willingness to wade waist-deep into the world of pacifiers, dirty diapers, doctors’ appointments, and toys.

However, the joy of having him around didn’t come without a lot of sacrifice and sadness.

Before long, you realized that Fernando was incredibly famous, especially in Spain, his home country. Because of this, and his incredibly public persona as a Formula 1 driver, a lot of legal rules had to be established with regard to the baby. His best friend and business partner, Alberto, diligently drew up a document outlining a custody schedule, restrictions on posting any identifiable images of the child, a future move — paid for by Fernando — when the child came of school age, and an agreement not to disclose the child’s paternity. It was all to protect the privacy of you and your baby, Fernando said.

However, it was worth it, and still was, especially when you saw the sparkle in your son's brown eyes. He was named Leon Alberto Luis, after Fernando’s best friend and father. All the effort was worth it when it came to your little boy, the greatest love of your life.

— Yes, we biked a lot — Fernando replied, looking up at you after dropping your son's bag on the ground — We went all around Parco Ciani, didn't we, Leon?

The boy nodded excitedly.

— And what else did you do? — you asked, as you stroked his hair.

— We played football and papá ordered Japanese food for us...

— Calamari? — you asked, looking up at Fernando again.

— As always — he replied, putting his hands in his jeans pocket. Even after seven years the similarity between Leon and Fernando still caught you off guard. It wasn’t just the physical similarities, either, but their personalities were almost identical. They both were shy at first, but had a great sense of humor once they were comfortable with someone. Both of them were also incredibly witty, with intelligence and mischievousness in equal measure.

— That's good, my dear — you replied, kissing his head — Now, say goodbye to your father and go straight to the shower.

— Do I have to take a shower now? — the boy questioned.

— Yes, you do. I could smell the sweat as soon as the car pulled up.

— I told you she would smell it — Fernando said to your son, ruffling the boy's hair — Now come here, let me give you a kiss.

Leon walked over and hugged his father tightly, his face pressed against his belly. Bowing down a little, Fernando placed a kiss on the boy's forehead and murmured something in Spanish to him, who nodded his head.

— Don't forget to ask, okay, papá? — the boy said, toddling off to his room with his overnight bag. As you looked back up at Fernando, he seemed to have a sheepish look on his face.

— You have something to ask me? — you asked, giving a small smile.

— Yeah, you could say that — he murmured.

— And what would it be?

— I wanted to know if you could... Not that, it's... If you'd like to bring Leon to a race at the end of the month — Fernando stuttered, running a hand through his hair — You know, it's going to be my birthday on the weekend and … You know…

You clenched your jaw. It was a tense subject between the two of you.

The first and only time you took Leon to a race track was, in short, a disaster. It was at the end of 2018, when Fernando had decided to retire from Formula 1 to dedicate himself to other projects, and to spending more time with Leon. The last race would be special, and he wanted his entire family to be there, including you and his son.

However, the steps that Fernando and his team had taken so that you and Leon could enjoy the race in peace was all for naught when journalists began to speculate who the woman and child were who were accompanying the Alonso family around the paddock. In the end, the plan to watch the race from the McLaren garage went down the drain and you ended up hiding away in a small room inside the McLaren motorhome, trying to calm down a screaming four-year-old boy because he wanted to see his father on the track and not on a screen.

— Fernando…

— I know Abu Dhabi was a disaster, I know — he interrupted you — But it was stupid of me to take you to a place where I would be the center of attention, but this time it's different.

— Different how? As far as I know, your season has been brilliant.

The shadow of a smile appeared on his face.

— Are you watching it?

— Leon keeps me updated. He’s watched every single race. Six podiums in eight races, right? — you said, leaning against the doorframe. 

— That's right — Fernando said — The last few races weren't so good, but I believe we can recover, and having you and Leon at the track would be wonderful.

— That's why he told you to ask me, right?

He pursed his lips before letting out a heavy sigh.

— Yes, Y/N — he replied — But, like I said, this time it will be different. My parents and sister won't be there, so it will be easier for you to blend in with the rest of the team’s guests…

— Look, Fernando, I would really like to…

— I asked for normal credentials, without my name, so that you can enjoy the weekend — the driver continued — Please, Y/N, it will be so good to have you there with me, and on my birthday...

— Fernando…

— He even told me what he's going to wear, it's going to be that lime green Kimoa sweatshirt...

— Fernando! — you exclaimed, interrupting him — I know you love Leon, that you want him around but, as you said when I got pregnant, we have to protect him from the media circus.

— I know…

— So you understand that taking him to the middle of a paddock for a race is not the best way to do this, right? I know you both love Formula 1, but we can't risk his safety and privacy because of this.

— But I want him to watch me race…

— And he watches you, Fernando, every weekend. He loves watching you on television, he screams every time you make an overtake. But we have to face the reality of it, and you know that it’s too much of a risk to his safety and privacy. You know that more than anyone.

— I know, which is why I took so many extra steps this time — he replied, running a hand through his hair — Forget about it, okay? When I get back from Spa, let's see about doing something together, okay?

— As long as it's not on a go-karting track — you said, laughing a bit.

— I can't promise that — Fernando said, putting his hand back in his pocket — See you, Y/N.

— See you, Fernando — you replied, as he turned and headed towards the elevator. After a few seconds of staring at his back, you finally closed the door, letting out a long sigh.

It was hard to be the person who said no. However, it was often necessary to curb the impulses of both Leon and Fernando and bring a rational view of the situation to make decisions. Of course, you wanted them to have the most normal coexistence possible, to be able to do normal things that fathers and sons did, but, above everything else, you needed to protect him, even if it meant having to deny what would probably be an amazing experience for the boy.

— Are we going? — Leon's voice broke you out of your thoughts. You turned around to see him in the hallway, looking hopefully at you.

— What?

— Are we going with papá to the race?

— Leon…

— Come on, mamá, it'll be nice. I swear I will behave, I will stay only with you...

— My love, you know it's not just that. There are other things…

— Is it because of Andrea? — he asked.

You swallowed hard, feeling your shoulders tense. It wasn't like Fernando's love life was any of your business, after all, your romantic relationship with him never went beyond the night Leon was conceived. However, you couldn't help but feel a certain distrust every time he showed up in the paddock with a new girl on his arm.

His most recent girlfriend was Andrea, a journalist who covered Formula 1 for an Austrian broadcaster. Even though Leon thought she was kind, and loved playing with her dog, a yellow Labrador named Bodhi, you always felt uneasy in her presence. There was something in the way she looked at you that made you uncomfortable, as if she was studying you, trying to understand your relationship with Fernando and Leon, if there was something more.

— No, it has nothing to do with your father’s girlfriend…

— Papá said she's just his friend now.

— What? — you asked, confused.

— Bodhi wasn't at papá's house when I got there, so I asked where he was and papá told me that he went back to Austria with Andrea — the boy explained — I asked if he was going to Austria too, and papá said no, because he and Andrea are just friends now.

You couldn't help but notice that Leon looked a little upset. You knew he loved dogs, but the fact that you lived in a small apartment prevented you from having a big one, which were his favorites. It also didn't help that Fernando had plenty of space to have a big dog, but wasn’t home often enough to care for one. 

You brought a hand to your son’s face and stroked his cheek.

— You liked him, right?

— Bodhi was nice, mamá — he said — He was always happy to see me. Did you know he liked to lick my face?

You laughed, lifting the hair that fell over his forehead.

— And you loved letting him lick your face, didn't you?

— Yes — the boy said with a mischievous expression — I also liked playing ball with him and Andrea...

— Did he bring you the ball? — you tried to keep up the conversation, ignoring the mention of the woman.

— Yes, he would look for us and ask us to play. I always managed to throw it further than Andrea — Leon said, until his face lit up — Mamá, what if we go to the race and ask Andrea if we can visit Bodhi?

You paused, unsure of how to answer your son’s question.

— We’ll see, my love. Now, go take a shower.

With a hopeful smile on his face, the boy obeyed.

His smile was what made you want to kick yourself. Leaving the possibility of going to the race open was fueling the expectation that Leon had already cultivated within himself for a long time. Doing that just to break your son's heart made you feel like a terrible mother.

“Would it really be so bad if we went to a race?”, you thought as you dropped onto the sofa, looking at the photo on the end table. It was a photo of you and Fernando holding Leon when he was just a few months old, both of you looking at the boy with pure admiration and love. It was as if it was impossible to believe that you had been able to create something as beautiful and pure as Leon. It was precisely that innocence that you wanted to protect from the media monster that prowled the circuits, sniffing out stories and devouring its prey without mercy.

Leon couldn't become another victim. You wouldn’t let it happen.

Over the next few days, you managed to avoid talking about the race, dodging the question any time Leon asked. However, your efforts were in vain when Fernando made a video call with the boy, directly from his room in Budapest. He had no restrictions on seeing Leon, quite the opposite. There were very few days that Fernando didn’t speak to his son somehow. Most of the time it was through calls or text messages, and you were proud of them for managing to become close in spite of Fernando’s insane workload.

During the conversation about what Leon did during the week and in his football practices, your son asked the question you were most afraid of.

— Will I see you next week, papá? — Leon asked.

— Ah, well — Fernando stammered, his eyes seeming to search for your image on the phone screen — You know I'd like to see you, but it's your mom who decides that.

The boy turned to look at you, his face full of hope.

— Can we, mamá?

— Leon…

— Please, mamá, I'll behave, I promise!

You sighed. Something inside you told you that this wasn't a good idea, that it was too risky for his privacy. However, what kind of mother would you be preventing him from seeing his own father? What kind of mother would you be if you kept him trapped in a bubble? What kind of mother would you be to deny something so simple?

— Do you want to go see your papá race?

— Yes, mamá!

— Are you going to stay by my side the whole time and not talk to strangers?

— Yes.

— I mean it, don’t talk to anyone other than me, your papa, and your uncle Alberto. 

— I won't talk to any strangers, I promise, mamá — he said, while Fernando smiled on the device's screen.

— Then we can go, my love — you said to Leon, who immediately looked at the cell phone screen with a giant smile on his face.

— Papá, I'm going to the race! — he exclaimed.

On the other side of the call, Fernando laughed at the boy's excitement, but the way his dimples framed his smile indicated that he was overjoyed with the news.

— Yes, you are! And we’ll have that waffle filled with chocolate sauce I told you about instead of the birthday cake.

— With candles for us to blow out?

— Yes, we will find some candles to put in it, okay?

The boy talked about what he would like to take with him and whether he could sit in the car, which Fernando was happy to confirm. At the end of the call, he blew several kisses to his father, telling him he would see him in five days.

Those five days that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

On the private flight that Fernando had hired to take you and Leon to Belgium, you couldn’t help but feel restless. Even with all the assurances that you wouldn't have any problems, you couldn't reassure yourself. Terrible scenarios came to mind, unprompted, each one worse than the last. By the time the plane approached the small airport in the region, your anxiety had reached a fever pitch.

— Mamá? — Leon's voice bringing you to reality — Are we there yet?

— Not yet, my love — you replied, looking at him — There’s still a little bit left.

— Is papá going to pick us up at the airport? — your son asked, as you took off the hood of the sweatshirt he had chosen that morning to fix his hair.

— Yes, along with Alberto and Fabri. And we will go straight to the circuit.

The joy on Leon’s face when learning that information was only exceeded by the joy on his face when he saw Fernando waiting for him on the landing strip, a slight smile beneath the hood of his black Boss sweatshirt. The hug between the two made something warm fill your chest, and so did seeing them laughing and joking like any other father and son.

— Thank you for agreeing to come, Y/N — he said, as Leon pulled his father's credential from his sweatshirt pocket and showed it to Fabri.

— It's the least I can do, Fernando — you replied, crossing your arms — And, considering he's your biggest fan...

You both looked at Leon at the same time. The boy was questioning Alberto relentlessly, wanting to know where his credential was and if it was the same as Fernando's. When your eyes met again, you knew that your concern was more evident than you would have liked.

— Look, I — you started, only to be interrupted.

— I know you're scared, especially because of what happened in Abu Dhabi. But rest assured, nobody will bother you.

— Are you sure? — you asked.

— Absolutely — Fernando said, before being interrupted by his son clinging to his arm.

— Let's go, papá! — Leon exclaimed, anxiously — I want to see the track!

The trip to the track was fairly short, with Leon excitedly talking about playing games on the Nintendo Switch in his backpack. 

At the entrance to the paddock, you decided to separate, in order to avoid unnecessary attention. Giving Fernando one last kiss, Leon made him promise that they would meet inside so he could show him the car.

— Your passes are inside — Alberto said, handing you an envelope — I'll send you a message when Fer is free, ok?

— Perfect — you replied, before getting out of the car with Leon, as he waved to his father one last time before Fernando disappeared through the turnstiles. 

The last time you’d come to a race, the paddock was incredibly crowded, but the fact that this was not the final race of the season and the weather was cold and dreary seemed to be keeping the crowds down.

— Where is everybody? — Leon asked you softly, gripping the pass around his neck.

— Well, there's nothing on the track today, so there aren't many people around here — you said  — Which means we can make the most of it.

The boy nodded, holding your hand as you both walked past the rows of paddock buildings. However, when you were passing the structure set up by Red Bull Racing, you felt your phone vibrate in your purse. You let go of Leon’s hand to paw through the contents of your purse in search of your phone. 

— Where, where… Here! — you said, as you unlocked the screen and saw that the call had gone to your voicemail.

However, that became a secondary concern when you realized Leon had run off somewhere. You felt your heart pounding as you started looking for the boy’s brown curls and gray coat. You had only let go of his hand for a second…

— Leon, Leon, my God, Leon — you stammered, about to scold him for not staying by your side even though he promised to do so on the phone call with his father...

— Mamá! — you heard Leon calling out — Here, mamá!

You turned around and found the boy waving at you a few feet in front of you. He was next to a woman wearing a pink coat and her hair in a ponytail, who was sitting on a bench. You walked toward him briskly, your words for him dying on the tip of your tongue when you realized who he was standing next to.

— My love, why…

— Remember I said I was going to talk to Andrea about Bodhi?

You blinked, looking up at Andrea, who had an embarrassed smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand.

— Good morning, Y/N — Andrea said softly.

— Good morning, Andrea — you replied, trying to mask your apprehension — I hope Leon isn't bothering you.

— No, never. Leon was just asking me about Bodhi…

— Can we go visit him, Andrea? — the boy asked, expectation shining in his eyes. Placing a hand on your son's shoulder, you were thinking about the best way to say that it wouldn't be possible to go to Austria to visit a dog when the woman gave a warm smile.

— Of course, I can talk to your father and we'll see a day for you to go play with Bodhi — Andrea said, looking up at you. As if she sensed your hesitation in the air, she added quickly — If your mother agrees, of course.

— Let's see, maybe during your school vacations, right, my love? — you replied, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, forcing a smile.

— Yes!

— Perfect. Now let’s go, we have a long day ahead of us and so does Andrea — you said, looking at the journalist with the hope that she would follow your lead.

— Yes, media day is always busy for me — she said, smiling — See you later, Leon.

The boy waved goodbye to Andrea and allowed himself to be led toward the Aston Martin motorhome as you gripped his hand extra firmly. During that short journey, you tried to focus on your own breathing and not on the anxiety that took over your chest and made your stomach turn.

— Mamá…

— Not now, Leon — you replied, trying to remember what color the facilities of the team Fernando was racing for that season were.

— Mamá, you're crushing my hand — your son protested, making you stop suddenly and bend down in front of him.

— Why did you do that?

— What?

— Why did you leave my side?

— Because I saw Andrea and you said we could talk to her...

You let out a long sigh.

— My love, you said you wouldn’t leave my side, remember?

— She wasn’t far from us…

— I know, but you can't run off alone here — you said, placing a hand on the boy's face — Imagine if it were a day with more people, how would I find you? You know that I love you more than anything and that losing you would be the worst thing in the world for me.

Leon pursed his lips, looking upset about what had happened.

— Sorry, mamá — he murmured.

— It’s okay, my love — you replied — Now let's go to the motorhome.

The rest of the day was divided between watching the activity around the track and catching glimpses of Fernando as he circulated around the paddock giving interviews, checking the car's assembly and meeting with the engineers. The highlight of the day was the trip to the garage with Alberto, who introduced you and Leon to the mechanics and allowed Mikey, their leader, to explain the car to the boy.

— Can I get in? — he asked with his eyes shining.

The red-haired man looked at Alberto, who gave a positive nod.

— Of course you can — Mikey replied.

With Leon settled in Fernando's seat and with his hands on the steering wheel that had been positioned just in front of him, the boy seemed completely ecstatic. It felt like he was finally in the right place, where he should have been all along. It was no wonder his grandfather, Luis, was so insistent that they consider getting him into karting as soon as he was old enough.

— You can't see anything from here — he said, looking at you. The mechanics working on Alonso’s car chuckled.

— The drivers are a little taller, so they can see the track — Alberto explained — But, when you're a little older, you’ll be able to see just fine.

Leon smiled, before looking ahead again and pressing his fingers on the steering wheel. It was impossible not to notice how much he looked like the pictures you’d seen of Fernando as a child, so much so that you made a point of taking a picture of him to show Fernando at dinner later.

However, you didn't have that opportunity.

Leon was already lying in bed, watching a cartoon on Netflix. Despite what you had agreed on, Fernando hadn’t been able to leave his meeting with his engineers in time to have dinner with you. His message fell like a bomb on his son's mood, and he barely touched the ice cream that Alberto had offered to share with him. 

— Mamá?

— Yes, my love?

— Is papá coming?

You swallowed hard. The last message you had received from him stated that he was leaving the circuit, and it had been right after you arrived at the hotel suite. At that point, you had no idea when or if he would hit there, especially after that day.

— I don't know, my love — you said, running your hand through his hair — You know that this is still papá's job and he's very dedicated...

— But didn't he say when he's coming? — the boy questioned.

— He texted — you started, only to hear the sound of two knocks on the door. Looking back at Leon, you found his excited expression — Wait here.

You got up from the bed and went to the entrance of the room, feeling relief take over your chest when you saw that it was Fernando.

— Can I come in? — he asked softly, running a hand through his hair.

You nodded and stepped aside so he could come in. Smiling, the driver walked by you, kissing you on the cheek as he passed, before walking over to the bed. Leon had an enormous smile on his face. 

— Papá! — he exclaimed, as Fernado lifted him up into an enormous hug.

— Hola, mijo. I came as soon as I could. Did you have fun today?

— Yes!

— What did you do? Tell me everything.

— Yes, it was really cool. Mamá and I stayed with Melina in the morning and she showed us everything inside. She even got us waffles!

— Does that mean you got the waffles? I always ask them, but they always say they don't have any waffles — the driver said, as you walked around the bed and sat on the other side of Leon — I think I'm going to have a serious talk with them.

— Maybe the waffles are just for the VIP guests, right, my love? — you suggested with a wink, which made your son laugh.

— Yes, only for special guests!

— But I'm their driver! — Fernando exclaimed, in mock indignation — I deserve waffles too!

— Don't you have a weight to keep, Fernando? — you asked.

— Yes, but that doesn't mean I can't eat waffles, especially with my son — he replied, before pouting — But I don't think he likes eating waffles with me...

Almost immediately, the boy laughed.

— I like eating waffles with you, papá…

— You mean we can eat waffles together?

— Yes! — Leon exclaimed.

— With chocolate sauce or honey?

— Hm — the boy thought for a few seconds — Mamá, could it be chocolate?

— Don't you think you ate too much chocolate today?

Leon looked away from Fernando, looking embarrassed.

— It wasn't that much...

— Yes, it was. And I have a photo to prove it.

— You do? — Fernando asked, raising himself on one elbow.

— Yes, I do — you replied, taking the phone that was on the bedside table. A few taps later, the plate of waffles was on the screen in front of Fernando, who seemed somewhat impressed.

— Did you eat all of that? — he asked looking at Leon.

— Yes, every last bit  — you replied — He didn't give me any.

The driver laughed.

— I can imagine the sugar rush you had afterwards…

The conversation between you continued for some time, until Leon began to slowly close his eyes while his father stroked his hair. It wasn't long before he was fast asleep, with his face against Fernando's chest and one of his arms resting on his waist in a hug.

— Y/N? — Fernando asked softly.

— Yeah?

— Was Leon very upset that I couldn't have dinner with you?

You pursed your lips.

— Well, a little. He was really looking forward to seeing you and telling you everything but…

He snorted, looking at the boy.

— I didn't want to stay late — Fernando murmured — But tomorrow there's only one practice session before qualifying for Sunday, so I couldn't avoid it...

— He knows that — you said — I told you that, as much as it's fun, it's still your job and you're very dedicated to it. And you can't win if you don't dedicate yourself, so we have to understand and support you, even if it means you're far from us.

The driver looked up at you, his expression completely unreadable.

— Do you think I'm dedicated?

— That's a stupid question, Fernando.

— I just want to know your opinion — he smiled.

You rolled your eyes.

— Yes, I think you are dedicated and I admire you for that.

— You admire me, huh? — the driver asked in a suggestive tone.

— Professionally speaking — you said, the emphasis in your words causing a giggle to escape his lips.

— I also admire you a lot, Y/N.

— Professionally speaking?

— Personally speaking.

You stared at him in silence for a few seconds, trying to read between the lines of his words. However, the smile on his face made you completely lose your train of thought. It always did.

— Well, thank you — you managed to say, before your eyes found the face of his watch, which indicated that it was already past 11 o'clock at night — But I think it's past your bedtime

— No problem, I can stay a little longer…

— I'd like to rest, since I've had to deal with your son all afternoon.

Fernando laughed.

— He's also your son, in fact, he has a lot of you in him — he said, as he carefully got up from the bed, placing Leon's arm close to his body.

— I know that. But I prefer to highlight your participation so you can understand why I need a good night's sleep.

— And you will have it, I'm sure — Fernando replied, before heading towards the door of your suite. However, before leaving, he turned and smiled at you — Good night, Y/N. See you tomorrow.

#fernando alonso #fa #fernando alonso fanfic #fernando alonso fic #nordswrites #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula one fic #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso x y/n #fernando alonso x you #formula one fanfic #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x y/n #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n

[zelphin124]

Killer x Y/N short story

One of the few short stories I will be writing. Requested by the wonderful @itsxroxannex as her honorable mention prize.

I do write commissions and short stories! Do you want a story? I can work with a small price (:

I'm using an image from Bing Image Creator to help the readers visualize where they are at and who they are talking to. It's for visual purposes only, and I do not claim it.

Enjoy the story!

~o0o~

The light from the sun bouncing off the rock hallways started to fade as the moon rose. The dripping from the ceiling had stopped, and monsters and humans started filling the tavern. It was supposed to be very busy tonight.

The tavern was underground, just below the surface life. Dartboards hung across the walls on various barrels. Small candles were lit beside them, either hanging from the ceiling or resting on uniquely carved tables. Carpets were strung across the floor, filled with old designs and symbols that the humans didn't understand, and the monsters refused to explain.

The bar itself looked like any other bar, but the counters were carved into the rocks and the drinks were stored within the earth. The tables were made from woven branches, and the chairs were also made from scattered parts of trees that were no longer needed elsewhere.

You weren't much for drinking. You had only come to the bar to talk with your friend, Shiro. Shiro ran the place during slow hours. Now that the night rush was coming, his co-workers came in to help him run the shift. He wouldn't have much time to talk anymore.

You started to pack your computer, flinging your bag over your shoulder. Shiro had told you of the many tales and tragedies that happen during the night rush, and you didn't want to stick around to become one of them.

"Leaving so soon?" Shiro asked as he wiped the table where you just sat. His baggy white hair fell over his face, and he smiled softly.

"You know how I am with crowds," you responded, hoping he would get the hint.

He didn't. "Well, surely it shouldn't be that busy tonight-"

He was cut off as three skeletons walked down the entrance stairs. It was apparent that they were some sort of gang, as they all wore the same-colored jacket, pants, and shoes. Each of them stood proudly as everyone went silent.

The tallest one had a large hole in his head, and his left eye was huge. It glowed red and barely made any movement when he looked around. He hunched over and had a large ax on his back. He never stopped smiling, which left an unhinged feeling in everyone who saw it.

The shortest one wore a hood over his head. His eyes glowed red, and one of them had a purple and blue tint to it. Unlike his tall counterpart, he never smiled. He glared at everyone who even dared to look at him. Monster ash covered his clothes, sparking fear in all who noticed.

The third one seemed the most normal of the group. His smile was contagious, and his extroverted personality always drew attention to him. Big black stripes dripped from his void eyes down to his neck. His coat was fluffier than the rest, and his soul wasn't hidden. It hung in front of his chest like a big red target. He twirled a knife in his hand before resting it by his side.

The Murder Time Trio, you recalled. You recognized each of their faces from wanted posters across the town. Working under Nightmare, they worked to harvest negativity.

The Star Sanses - rulers of this AU amongst many others - wanted to bring them to justice, but with all of the Sanses abilities to travel alternate universes, they were hard to track down.

You couldn't buy into the fact there were other worlds than your own. The only reason you believed it was the evidence before you; multiple versions of the same person taking different paths.

Shiro glanced over as the tavern filled with noise and music again. He rolled his eyes, grabbing a notepad and pen before walking over to the table they sat at.

The dart games began. Multiple people threw darts across the room to the targets. According to Shiro, this was how all the drama started. Someone would think a shot was unfair, and a fight would break out.

Deciding it wasn't the best idea to stay any longer, you weave through the crowd of monsters and humans trying to get to the bar to drink. You glanced at the table where the trio sat as they talked with Shiro. You pray they don't do anything to your friend.

As you stood between the dart targets, waiting for the round to be over, you eavesdrop on Shiro's conversation. He seemed bored, surprisingly.

"I'll have a margarita," the striped face one said.

"A big beer, please," Horror lowered his head.

"Think you can handle one of those again, Horror?" The striped face asked.

Horror didn't answer him. He waved his hand in dismissal to Shiro as he looked at the menu.

"I see," Shiro scribbled down the orders on his paper. "And for you, Dust?"

"Nothing," the hooded skeleton replied. "Someone has to be sober when Killer isn't."

"Hey, I would do just fine," Killer smirked. "I don't see you..."

The conversation faded out of hearing as shouts echoed across the tavern. Glancing behind you, you see a human and a monster arguing about who hit the target first as they shot their darts at the same time. The shouts almost frightened you, and you didn't think before stepping forward. Your goal was to get away from the chaos before more violence broke out. Maybe you shouldn't have come here, maybe it was a bad idea after all.

A dart flew towards your face.

You didn't have time to react before you were pulled off your feet, resting in the mercy of someone's arms as he caught the dart. "Woah darling, careful there," he sighed, his head turning toward the people who threw it.

You realize the man, or the skeleton that saved your head was Killer. His grip was firm around your waist from when he had pulled you away from the weapon. He dropped the dart and continued to glare at the monster that had thrown it.

The people playing the particular dart game went dead silent, all pointing to the person who threw the dart. He didn't seem to care. "Oh, come on, she walked in front of it! It's not my fault!"

"Pay attention to your surroundings more, mm?" Killer smirked, tilting his head. He turned towards you before the others could reply. "You too, cutie," he smirked, poking your nose. "Gotta be careful in places like these~"

His grip on your waist loosened as you backed up. A blush painted your face as you stared up at him. As your blush increased, so did his smile, making you blush more. The blood rushed to your face as you tried to cover your cheeks with your favorite-colored scarf.

"Do you seriously have to flirt with everyone you see, Killer?" Dust snapped, opening a deck of cards and flushing them across the table.

"Look at them, they're pretty!" Killer replied. "I didn't want them to get scratched by a silly dart!"

"Then they shouldn't be in a place like this," Horror rolled his eyes, glancing at the deck of cards Dust had started dealing.

Instant guilt washed over you. You didn't mean to cause any trouble, and Shiro was nowhere in sight to defend you. You gesture to Killer, thanking him for saving you before telling him you'll leave to not cause any more trouble.

Killer looked you up and down, smiling as his eyes made their way back to your face. "What's your name, Hun?" He smirks slyly.

You tell him your name, scratching your head in the process. One of the most wanted men in the multiverse was talking to you. In fact, he smiled when he looked at you. How could this be?

"Y/N, what a beautiful name," Killer takes a step closer to you, extending his hand. "You plan to get on out of here? I can make sure you get home safely."

You open your mouth to accept the offer but hesitate. He, along with his friends, were mass killers. It was obvious by the dust and blood across their clothes. Was he going to kill you? You had no idea.

If he was, then why would he go out of his way to pull you away from an incoming dart?

"Killer, you play or not?" Horror asked, interrupting your thoughts.

"Not now," Killer didn't take his eyes off you. "I wish to walk this lovely human home."

"Oh, can I come?" Horror smirked, his hand reaching for his ax.

Dust slapped his hand. "Not that kind of walk home," Dust rolled his eyes. "Look at him! His soul his turning into a heart! Pathetic, really."

Dust wasn't lying. Killer's soul had taken the form of an upside-down heart momentarily. You tilt your head in curiosity, surely that was a good sign.

"Hey!" The monster that had thrown the dart earlier shouted. "You broke my dart with your disgusting fingers!"

Killer raised his eyebrows as he shrugged. "Oops."

"That dart cost me hundreds of G!" He growled. "You're gonna pay for that!"

You felt Killer's hands run along your shoulders. "Time to go~" he whispered behind you.

As the monster tumbled near, he suddenly faded from sight. Everything vaporized into stripes as the underground tavern disappeared and was quickly replaced with the cool breeze of the surface.

The moon glimmered in the sky next to the stars as it shined down on the slightly paved street. There were no streetlights, but you could see the village in the distance. Fireflies glittered the sky along with the stars. There were a few trees and a river to cross, and the bridge over the river linked the road.

"Whew, that was close," Killer chuckled, letting go of you. He walked over to your side and smirked down at you. "Don't worry, he won't catch us now."

"Thank you," you sighed with a smile before walking toward the village.

Killer started to follow you. "Hey, I know we like, just met, right? This is a little crazy," he glanced down at the ground as he caught up to you. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he couldn't stop smiling. "But can I get your number?"

You widened your eyes, surprised. He really wanted your number after two minutes. Surely that couldn't be... This couldn't be happening, right? Wasn't that a red flag of some sort, and you, out of all people? You didn't see why someone as famous and as brave as him would pay attention-

You snapped back into reality, realizing that you had given him your phone, and he was already punching in his own number.

"Thanks, doll," Killer smiled to himself. "I didn't expect you to actually say yes. I'll fulfill my promise; let's get you home safely."

How the- you paused, unable to comprehend what just happened.

Despite the darkness and eerie noises surrounding you, you felt at peace. You couldn't help but wonder if that was because a skilled killer was by your side, ready to defend you if anything came your way. He made that clear with his actions at the tavern.

It didn't take long for Killer to start a conversation. He asked many questions and answered any questions you had. He often would laugh, smile, and tease you in such a way that made the butterflies in your stomach squirm. He was very charming, flirtatious, and unique. You couldn't recall if you met anyone like him.

And you liked that.

He was so different from everyone else that you had met, treated you well, and it was so easy to be yourself around him. He brought out a side of you that you thought died a long time ago. That side that made you feel... wild and free.

"Look look look," Killer begged, running off the path toward a lake. He picked up a rock and threw it across the water's surface. It must have skipped a hundred times before it plunged into the depths below. He picked up another one and did the same thing. "It's perfect water to skip the rocks on!"

You join his side and sit on a boulder nearby, watching him skip rocks as he continues to tell you about the first time won a card game, which you learned wasn't very often due to Dust having a special connection with cards.

"The look on his face when I won, hah! Priceless! Should've known better to have challenged me!"

You asked him if he had won the next two games after that.

"Uh, no, but that's not the point silly!" He smiled, heaving a great sigh as he looked up at the stars. He closed his eyes, letting the wind blow across his face as the ripples on the lake settled. The moon complimented his face and made him seem so peaceful and innocent. It highlighted his chest and showed the two small eyes that he had hidden within his skull.

You commented how he looks great in the moonlight. When he asked you how so, you got up and pointed out the various places the moonlight shined on him, and how it made him look so handsome.

"Tch, you're sweet," Killer snickered, brushing the hair out of your face. "But the moonlight on me is better on you."

Before you could recover from the sudden blush, he continued. "Have you ever skipped a stone across the water?"

As you shook your head, Killer frowned. He turned you around to face the lake and picked a stone up from the ground, admiring it in the moonlight. "Here, I'll teach you darling." He placed the stone in your hand and gestured that you try.

You tossed the rock into the water, it sunk in front of you.

"Heh, not like that." Killer came up from behind you and grabbed your wrists gently. "Here, let me guide you."

For the next thirty minutes, Killer moved your wrists in the correct motion. He gave tips on what to do with your fingers when you release the rock. You would have gotten it much sooner if you weren't so distracted by his sweet breath brushing against your cheek.

As you threw your hundredth stone, it skipped across the water more times than you can count. Joy filled your face, and your smile only increased when you heard Killer congratulate you.

"That was awesome!" He gleamed, running his hand along his skull. He quickly picked up a stone and skipped it across the water to catch up with yours. "Fast learner, eh?"

Before you could reply, Killer came up to you and embraced you. His hug was so snug, you felt safe in his arms. You wrap your arms around his back as the tension in your body flees. He was so warm, and he held you so tight... you didn't want to leave his arms.

Alas, it didn't last for long. Killer smiled and took your hand, guiding you up back to the path. "Alright, it's best I get you home, cutie," he smiled slyly. "The boys are probably wondering where I am."

You were closer to your home than you thought, to your dismay. Killer stood close to you, putting his hood over his skull to hide his face from the town as they turned down the street to your house. You almost had forgotten that he was a wanted killer with how enjoyable your time was with him. Surely, he wasn't all everyone said he was... he was so nice to you.

"Lovely house you have, I'll have to visit you sometime," Killer commented, smiling his usual charming smile as you approached the door. "Y/N, it was fun getting to know you, I'll call ya, alright? You're too pretty to say goodbye to, anyway."

You invited him to stay and watch a movie, but he declined.

"Nah, I'm sure Dust and Horror would be suspicious... besides, I cannot stay in the town for long unless I want Nightmare mad..." He took a few steps toward you until he was inches away from your face. He continued to smile as he took your hand. "However," he paused. He lifted your hand up to his face and kissed it gently. Once he met your eyes again, he smirked softly again. "I'm sure I could make an exception for you another night."

You didn't know how much more of his teasing you could take as your face turned red. You held your hand as if it was made of diamonds.

"Heh, you're so cute," Killer backed up into the street. "See ya later, Y/N."

You barely waved in time before he vanished from sight.

You couldn't stop thinking about him for the rest of the night. He treated you kindly, and his jokes were so funny... you longed for his company, despite his reputation. How long had it been since the tavern? A couple of hours? Were all monsters like this? Maybe there was a special thing about monsters where you grew attached quicker than another human. As if they understood the value of another living being and had a way to make another feel at ease around them. You tried to figure it out as you winded down for the night.

Maybe they were masters at this feeling that you felt: love.

Or maybe Killer was just special like that.

#undertale au #utmv #sans au #undertale #killer sans #killer sans x reader #Killer sans x Y/N #sans x reader #creative dumpster idea #oneshot #short story #au sans #killer!sans #yn

[mondaymelon]

— …𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗱..!? ♥

:feat~ alhaitham, kaveh, cyno, tighnari x gn!reader:

⤷ just doing my part to contribute a fic to this ✨scrumptious✨ trope ⤷ ...might have a part 2 with the anemo men... ⤷ the title says it all. (sfw!!)

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open!) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis @solxima, @poweredbyghostadventures, @haliyamori

"Ah, welcome, travelers! Deepest apologies, however..."

Your eyes linger on AL HAITHAM's expression as it flickers slightly at the innkeeper's sheepish words.

"Only one room, hm?" His gaze is stern as he eyes the man from head to toe, before making a slight 'tch' noise with his tongue. "There's no point in complaining. We'll stay the night." The ashen-haired man makes a slight nodding motion, taking the keys from the other's hand. The two of you had originally planned to stay in separate rooms for the night, before meeting up in the morning, but one room shouldn’t be too much of a problem… right?

As the two of you head up the stairs of the hotel, making your way to the designated room, silence is the only thing that envelops the two of you. However, it’s not one of those awkward moments of quiet, more so a comfortable one - so it doesn’t exactly bother any of you.

It isn’t until Al Haitham turns the knob and swings the door open that the silence turns… dangerously unsettling.

The reason? Beyond the door frame, into the space, lies a singular bed. One, not two.

It takes a good ten seconds more before one of you speaks. Al Haitham moves his lips as to, but words have already left your mouth.

“...Well, this is a predicament, isn’t it?”

“Unexpected, perhaps, but not exactly.” It’s strange, the way he tilted his head and how his eyes are trained on every movement. “I see no problem with sharing-”

“Woah woah woah-!” You cut him off, shaking your head frantically as you wave your hands, seemingly to disperse your… thoughts. “T-That’s what intimate people do, and we’re…!”

“...Coworkers.” Al Haitham finishes your sentence with an air of smugness riding his expression. “Ah, but who's to say anything will occur? Oh, you don’t happen to be thinking about anything unsightly, do you?” His tone is lilting as his gaze upon you seems much too observant. His tongue has always been quick, and more so sharp, and you can feel the tinge of his words cause a flush of red to settle upon your expression.

“...What… hey! Stop painting me as the bad guy here! I wasn’t thinking about…” Your face goes red. “...A-Anything!” The relationship between you and him had always been somewhat blurred. Sure, you were merely coworkers, but sometimes, the atmosphere that the two of you shared was easily much more… insinuate.

“I’m sure.” Somehow, Al Haitham’s sedate words hold a sarcastic essence, before he lets out a quiet sigh. “It’s getting late. If you insist, I’ll sleep on the floor, and you can go ahead and take the bed.” He wraps his arms around your waist firmly, placing you on the soft surface with ease, before moving to take off his shirt.

“...Wait-”

“What, do you have any complaints? I thought you were the one being all huffy about having to share a bed with me.”

"That's not what I..." The hesitance in your voice is evident as you tried your best to resist the urge to stare at him. “...Well, I suppose it’s fine if I do it just once, right?”

Al Haitham smiles, just slightly. “If that’s what you want, then very well.”

And just like that, a note of satisfaction in his voice, he nestles into the space next to you without another word. You can feel his body press up against yours, his warmth spreading into you. It’s awkward, how the silence that surrounds the two of you is so suffocating, but it doesn’t last long, not until Haitham shifts his body and pulls you into his own, his firm arms around your waist.

“Is this okay?” He sounds hesitant, and you can feel the subtle vibrations of his heartbeat against yours.

“...Mhm.”

“Then…” The next words that come out of his mouth are soft, uncharacteristically so as the smile that's painted across his face only widens.

“Sleep well.” ♥

“Oh, more customers? I have to inform you…”

You blink in disbelief at the receptionist’s words, struggling to keep KAVEH on his feet. The male has almost his entire weight leaning against your frame for support as he giggles slightly, loosley turning his head around to observe the dim scenery.

“Eh…? Wh’re we?” His words slur together as he shifts his position.

In hindsight, you should’ve known that when the blonde invited you out for drinks, you were the one who’d be paying… and, of course, Kaveh would be the one who ended up black out drunk. You were no stranger to these incidents, having heard tales of his excursions through Al Haitham’s huffy words, and having experienced your fair share of these ordeals yourself. Still, these past occurrences did little to aid you in the current predicament you were in… that being that there was apparently only a one bed room left at the singular inn within a 50 mile radius… it seems that you’ve just about signed your life warrant the day you accepted Kaveh’s proposal.

“...Alright, we’ll take it.” You hesitantly receive the keys from the innkeeper's hands.

“Th-Thank you…!” The man gives you a hasty bow as he watches you depart, up the stairs and into your room.

“Great… well, what do we do now…?” You let out a long sigh as you dump Kaveh onto the mattress, wringing your sore shoulders with slight disdain. It’s rather fruitless to be talking to someone completely out of it, but it’s a habit that you’ve adopted. “Ah, I suppose there’s only one option.”

While it’s rather awkward to leave him in his clothes that reek of wine, it’d be even more disturbing if you were to remove them, so you decide to leave the blonde as is. However, taking of your overgarments should suffice, so you proceed to do so, before sidling next to Kaveh under the covers.

“Night, Kaveh.”

...

It takes another two hours until the male awakes, blinking groggily in the darkened atmosphere.

“...Huh…?” He moves to sit up, but pauses when he feels someone next to him in bed. “Wh-”

He recognizes that familiar silhouette, that’s pressed against his body, sending warmth spreading throughout his body… archons, everything feels too warm, too hot…

Haha, maybe he’s still a little drunk… to the point he’s hallucinating…?

“Mm… Kaveh…”

It’s barely intelligible, the sleepy mumbles that escape your lips, but he hears them, and they send his heart aflutter.

“...Are you… awake?”

There’s no response.

“Hah…”

Drinking buddies. If he had to describe the relationship he shared with you, those might be the words he’d say. Ah, but of course, that phrase surely wouldn’t be enough to describe what he felt for you. Kaveh is one to fall easily… and fall hard, and that’s precisely what’s happened.

He takes one last glance at your sleeping form, a soft smile spreading across his features as he faces you, heart thumping loudly in his ears. And it’s then that he’ll say two words toward you that’d he never dare attempt to if you were awake.

“Night, love.” ♥

“Th-The General Mahamatra? U-Unfortunately, sir…”

“One room?” CYNO's tone shows no emotion, and you can tell that the innkeeper is absolutely terrified.

“I-I’m very sorry sir-! It’s just that-”

“Save it. We’ll take the room.” You’re sure his stern words may come off as too threatening - and you’d be right - the innkeeper lets out a petrified squeal, frantically nodding as he practically throws the keys into the mahamatra’s hands.

“H-Haveanicestay!!”

Cyno seems perplexed as he walks to the designated room, a scowl making its way onto his features. “What was his problem? Ah, perhaps he was j’inn’tery.” There’s a long pause. “What, do you not get it? He’s an innkeeper, and he was jittery… so he’s-”

“Yes, Cyno, I get it.” You let out an exasperated sigh at his antics. Even though the two of you were on the hunt for runaway criminals, he still somehow had the gall to make wisecracks. Sure, it made the trip slightly more “entertaining”, but at the same time, certainly much more insufferable.

“Was that not funny to you?” Great, now he’s pouting, puffing out his cheeks as usual. Anyone would just about laugh if you told them how the renowned mahamatra, ‘instrument of justice’, was here, frowning at you like a child.

“C’mon, say something, will you?” He reaches for the door handle, gaze fixated on you as his pout only deepens.

Yeah, ridiculous indeed.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s leave it at th…” You never finish your sentence, blinking into the open doorway. “...Am I seeing things, or is there only one bed?”

“He did say there was only one room.” Somehow, the male seems completely indifferent about the situation, merely unwrapping his scarf and placing it on the wall rack. 

“Well when he said that, I at least expected there to be two beds…!” You let out a groan, loosing a couple swears from your lips.

“What’re you getting so worked up over? I’m sleeping on the floor, so-”

You pause. “...Then I’d feel bad.”

“Archons, what do you want me to do?” Now he’s the one getting strangely worked up over the topic.

“Just sleep with me for tonight, okay? Let’s not think too much about it.” With that, in a desperate attempt to hide the growing blush on your cheeks, you whip around, tugging off a couple layers. It takes the man the count of three to hesitantly agree, and when he does, his voice is quiet.

“...Do you want the left or right side?”

“You choose.”

…

Fuck.

Somehow, in the midst of your packing several days before, you had failed to realize the need to pack nightclothes. Now, you sat here, face overcast as you towered over your half-empty suitcase.

“What’s up with you?” Cyno’s already in bed, shirt off as he aimlessly twirls with his hair, one hand propped under his head.

“...I forgot to pack sleepwear. Can I borrow one of your shirts?” It’s awkward how sheepish you sound. There’s a silence that seems to stretch onward, to the point where you hesitantly turn your head to see Cyno’s expression - only to see his face flushed, one hand over his mouth.

“Ah…? Y-Yeah, go ahead.”

…Hold on, did the general mahamatra just stutter? No wisecracks or archons awful puns, but stunned silence?

Now here’s a moment you won’t forget. ♥

“It’s getting late for the night, here, let’s stay at my place.”

Those are the words he spoke to you minutes prior, and presently, TIGHNARI's leading you up the stairs into his home, hand around your wrist as he gently tugs you along. His ears are fully perked up, flicking to every rustle as the dark forest comes to life while night falls. “Alright, here we are.” He smiles, albeit a little sheepishly. “It’s a little small, but it’ll do.”

As he opens the door, the first thought that comes to mind is: cozy.

And it really is, with the dim, warm lighting and the flowering vines that dangle from the round ceiling. There’s no shortage of potted plants and books lying about the house, most sitting in organized cases and shelves, while a few others sit strewn at his lamp-lit desk. All around, it immediately strikes you as someplace Tighnari would call home.

“Ahaha, sorry, it’s a little messy at the moment… I wasn’t expecting visitors, so…” He laughs softly, before shaking his head, as if to dismiss several thoughts. “You must be tired, right? The bedroom is over there, tell me if you need anything.” The male moves to walk away, but your words stop him.

“Bedroom… as in singular?”

More laughter, this time more nervous. “Apologies, I live alone, so I only have…” Tighnari coughs into his fist, ears twitching. “Well, to put it simply, one bed.”

“...Oh. Oh.” The information takes a good second to digest, so you only blink at the male. “Ah, then, where will you sleep?”

“It’s no big matter, there’s a couch in commons where I can-”

“Sleep with me.”

“...Pardon?” His eyes are wide as he stares at you, ears pressed flat against his head.

“Shit, wait no, that didn’t sound right-” You let out a long sigh. “The couch would be uncomfortable, so…”

“...Then I suppose it’d be alright.”

…

“Nari… do you… usually hug your tail when you sleep?”

He flinches, whipping around with wide eyes, ears shot straight up. “Wh- I- I thought you were asleep-” His face is blown red as he lets out a mortified high note.

“Is it soft?” Your eyes sparkle as you lean in closer, seemingly unaware of the almost negative distance between the two of you. “C-Can I try hugging it-?”

The male seems to deflate with every word, his ashamed expression only reddening. The only words he manages to get out are mumbles. “If- If you really want to- then…”

Without another word of confirmation, you wrap your arms around the soft, fluffy surface and lean into it, earning you a surprised ‘wh-’ that leaves Tighnari’s voice in a whisper.

“What are you-!”

“Nari, you’re really cute. I like you.”

“...Fuck it, please. Just go to sleep already, okay?”

“Say it back.”

“Hah… sleep well, beloved. I love you too.” ♥

(a/n) 2.3k words. that's almost double my usual amoutn jLKSDJlksjf

ehehe did you notice how in tighnari's section, the starting dialogue was his line, unlike the others? additionally, he was the only one who directly confessed (after you)!!

i wanna make these little information tidbits like the taisho era secrets an occuring thing hehe

#★ ˎˊ˗ mondaymelon #astronetwrk #favoniuslibrary #genshin impact x reader #x reader #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham #al haitham x reader #al haitham #haitham x reader #genshin haitham #kaveh x reader #kaveh #genshin impact kaveh #genshin kaveh #tighnari headcanons #tighnari x reader #tighnari #cyno x reader #genshin cyno #cyno headcanons #genshin x you #genshin oneshots #genshin x reader #genshin drabbles

[jakexneytiri]

Neteyam and reader go on date night and mistakenly leave uncle Lo’ak in charge? Imagine

i love thisssss yes. i’m not feeling the best so i hope this is okay :’)

⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰

“do you have to leave? can’t you just stay here?” se’ayl asks, hugging her father’s leg.

neteyam kneels, taking her hands in his. “we’ll be back before you know it. promise you’ll be good for uncle lo’ak?”

“i promise.” se’ayl mumbles, as neteyam kisses her forehead.

“why do you have to go out to kiss? you kiss in front of us all the time!” txonuk says, flying his ikran toy around your marui.

neteyam shoots him a look before speaking aloud.

“my love, are you read-” the last word dies in the back of his throat, tail swishing eagerly as he takes your appearance in.

“yes! sorry, i’m ready. nima wanted to help take my braids out, so it took a little longer than i’d anticipated.” you smile, holding nima on your hip. “isn’t that right, nima?”

“mama pweeeettyy.” she giggles, resting a tiny hand on your cheek.

“thank you, little love.” you smile as you kiss the top of her head, setting her down gently.

neteyam holds his arms out for you, wrapping you in a warm embrace before taking a step back. “wow. spin for me, mama.”

you give your mate a small twirl before his arms are around you again, unable to keep them off of you. “you’re so beautiful. how did i get so lucky?” he whispers against your neck as lo’ak rolls his eyes.

“you two should go, cause i guarantee no one in this marui wants to see that.”

you and neteyam both laugh, going to hug and kiss your children goodbye for the evening.

“behave for uncle lo’ak!” you say as neteyam holds the flap of your marui open for you.

“and uncle lo’ak should also behave.” neteyam states sternly.

“yea yea yea we’ll be fine. see ya!” he says, closing the marui flap in your faces. you hear the giggles coming from your children inside.

neteyam suddenly sweeps you off your feet, as he begins carrying you through the forest.

“teyam, what are you doing? i can walk!” you say, squirming out of his arms, only for his grip to tighten.

“i want to carry you.” he simply states, continuing to walk.

you lean in closer, whispering in his ear as you say “i can walk perfectly fine now. i’m not so sure i will be able to later tonight.”

he hums just below your ear, smirking against your skin “i will carry you then, too.”

your heartbeat picks up after that, giggling as you reach the designated spot for your date night.

a small spring, shoulder deep, that has a tiny, peaceful waterfall flowing on the other side. it radiates with bioluminescence this time of night.

neteyam sets you down gently, quickly fiddling with the strings of his loincloth. tossing it aside, he slowly wades into the water, until he’s submerged up to his shoulders.

you take in the glorious view of your naked mate, not moving to remove your own garments just yet.

“aren’t you joining me?” he questions, a smirk forming on his lips.

“maybe in a bit. i’m enjoying the view.” you bite your lip as your eyes never leave your mates broad shoulders, the only part of him you could see at the moment.

“don’t make me come and get you.” he playfully growls, the noise sending heat straight to your core.

“maybe i want you to come and get me.” you say simply, your arousal already soaking through your loincloth.

he smirks, wasting no time getting out of the water. in a few steps, he’s reached you. your arms stretch above your head as he removes your feathers in one swift movement. he’s quick in working the strings of your loincloth, tossing it next to his on the soft moss.

“you’re so beautiful. and you even took your braids out for our date?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “my pretty flower, i love you so-”

you crush your lips to his, unable to resist him any longer. he deepens the kiss, bending down slightly to grab the backs of your thighs. you wrap your legs around his waist, as he carefully brings you into the water with him.

—

“uhh, uncle lo’ak? dad doesn’t let us eat fruits after dinner.” tsantu motions to txonuk and nima, who are happily eating yovo fruits.

“that’s because your dad doesn’t let you have fun. he’s boring! and that’s why i’m here.” lo’ak confidently states.

“aren’t we going to get in trouble?” tsantu asks, glancing over at txonuk and nima.

“all right, listen. it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, okay? your dad will understand.” lo’ak gives tsantu a pat on the head.

“oooh i like that saying!” txonuk shouts with his mouth full of fruit.

“now, who wants to use war paint like real warriors?” lo’ak asks, holding up a pod of orange paint.

—

“do you think they’re asleep?” you mumble against your mate’s chest, as he carries you back to your marui.

“they better be. or i will never let lo’ak watch them again.”

you laugh, patting neteyam’s chest softly. “let’s just see what we’re walking into here.”

heading inside, you immediately spot discarded yovo fruit peels scattered throughout your marui. the boys’ bows are strewn across the floor, along with their toys. tsantu and nima are laying beside each other, holding hands. se’ayl is laying next to nima, curled up on her own. there are little orange handprints plastered all over their tiny bodies.

txonuk is laying down a few feet away, right next to lo’ak, who’s also out cold. lo’ak is laying on his stomach, drool running down his chin, cheek pressed against the woven floor. they both have matching orange war paint that covers their bodies as well.

you’re the first to speak. “okay yes, the marui is a disaster right now. but at least the kids are asleep!”

“he’s never watching them again.” neteyam pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a loud sigh.

“let’s get some rest, and we can discuss what happened with him in the morning, okay?” you ask, resting both hands on your mate’s cheeks.

neteyam sighs, pulling your hands away to kiss each of them gently. “all right, my love.”

you settle in beside your children, laying on top of your mates chest. “you know,” you begin to whisper. “i enjoyed myself tonight, and it looks like the kids did too.”

“as did i. but i’m asking my parents to watch the children next time.” he says, wrapping his arms around you.

“mmmmm.” you snuggle into his chest. “we’ll figure it out tomorrow. goodnight, i love you.”

“goodnight beautiful. i love you more.” he places a gentle kiss to your forehead, before resting his cheek against the top of your head for the night.

#dad!neteyam #daddy neteyam #dad neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam smut #neteyam sully smut #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x you #neteyam x you

[murdrdocs]

having to be quiet while modern!coryo is fucking you because your visiting your family for the holidays PLEASE

when picking rooms for the stay, you failed to remember that the bed in your designated room for the next two weeks was known for knocking against the wall with any harsh movement. unfortunately, every movement you were currently making was harsh.

you're facing the opposite direction, a hand held steadily onto the end of the wooden sleigh bed, but there's still an obnoxious knock! knock! with each thrust from coriolanus, your own body almost collapsing against the flannel sheet from the intensity of his hips knocking against yours.

you wince each time, the sound melding with your moans that you're struggling to stifle, and every time you try to speak you interrupt yourself.

"coryo, the — mm — the fucking, ah, right there..." eventually, you resort to looking over your shoulder, praying that coriolanus would understand what you're trying to communicate with just a look. and he does. unfortunately, he just doesn't care. at least not enough to stop fucking you to fix it.

he's determined, eyebrows pinched together, core tightened with the effort he's putting in, skin glistening along his clavicles and shoulders, a bit along his hairline, sticking the grown out, short, blond hair to his forehead. you almost get lost in staring at him, completely enamored with how glorious he looks.

but then he angles one thrust to the right spot and you can't help but gasp entirely too loud.

"please, coryo. the headboard." it takes all of your effort to get it out, the same way it takes all of coriolanus' effort to pull out of your cunt. he's grumbling something under his breath while he grabs a pillow and lodges it behind one side of the headboard, doing the same with the other.

"happy?" he asks when he's done, far too much attitude woven into his words. maybe you would get on him about it if you weren't feeling incredibly empty right now.

you hum appreciatively, wiggling your hips to gather his attention. he gives it to you in the form of a slap against your left ass cheek, grinning to himself as he realigns his cock.

as just as he enters, he says, "don't know why you're so worried about the fucking bed when you make twice as much noise."

#coryosworld! #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #celeste writes thg