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helenanell · 13 days

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Contempt of Court || Challengers

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Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

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For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

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( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

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( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

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( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

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( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

859 notes · View notes

harrowing-of-hell · 5 months

Text

i've been meaning to talk about the scene where cytherea's body shows up underneath harrow's bed, and the whole "is she actually there or not?" question, because many people seem convinced that ianthe was gaslighting harrow and i genuinely don't think she has any reason to do so. the scene itself is deliberately ambiguous for several reasons. the most obvious is that harrow hallucinates. she knows this. the audience knows this. this is precisely why she seeks out ianthe in the middle of the night, because harrow doesn't trust her own senses.

harrow also used bone to shackle cytherea's body to the floor— and yet her body somehow disappears from underneath the bed without breaking these shackles. initially, this would indicate cytherea's body is another hallucination.

however, we also know that there's something weird going on: for some unexplained reason, cytherea's body apparently doesn't trigger blood wards.

after cytherea's body goes missing, it also can't be detected by john or found anywhere on the mithraeum.

one possibility is that cytherea's body is negating magic somehow. her body is being necromantically preserved by john and thus her body is imbued with john's magic. that may be why wake can move around in it completely undetected by john himself, and also may be why she is able to bypass blood wards and other types of necromancy.

but again, no concrete answers are given, and any ideas or claims are just pure speculation. all we know is that cytherea's body has been able to do weird things and avoid detection, so it's not exactly unreasonable that, if she was underneath the bed, she may have been able to escape the the shackles somehow.

additionally, though i'm not at all inclined to believe this, we also can't rule out the possibility that both of these appearances of wake-in-cytherea's-body were hallucinations and the only time harrow really saw her was in the incinerator room when she was trying to kill g1deon.

at the end of HtN, gideon claims that cytherea's body was obviously there, but she isn't reliable because she only has access to harrow's memories. she would recall that situation as harrow did, meaning she would remember any hallucinations harrow was experiencing. unlike harrow herself, gideon doesn't doubt harrow's experiences, but harrow feels the need to confirm whether she's hallucinating when it's not already obvious to her that this is the case.

and then there's ianthe, who's behavior during this scene is weird:

ianthe says very little during this entire scene before leaving harrow's bedroom, and i think this is deliberate, only meant to make it more ambiguous as to whether the body under the bed is actually there or not.

but it's actually because of ianthe's behavior here that i believe that harrowhark seeing cytherea's body underneath the bed was an hallucination.

there are other times where ianthe comments on harrow's psychosis:

in both of these situations, she's not nice about it! in fact, ianthe takes the opportunity to insult harrow or question whether harrow's actually seeing the things that she's seeing.

importantly, her behavior in these two instances is very different from what she does when harrow tells her to look at cytherea's body underneath the bed and touch it. ianthe doesn't insult harrow at all or call her "crazycakes" or "mad", just asks if harrow's been sleeping, says good night, and walks away.

i think that this is because ianthe gets really uncomfortable whenever she's confronted with harrowhark being in undeniably vulnerable positions.

when she sees harrow bloody and naked after being attacked by g1deon, she brushes it off by essentially going "yikes", but the fact that she makes no attempt to help harrow recover from the attack and hastily walks away from the sight of harrow's maimed body is very telling.

her walking away is so unexpected that i've seen several people say that they're not sure why ianthe didn't take that as an opportunity to manipulate harrow (even harrow expected it to happen, and welcomed it). and yeah, from what we see of her character in HtN up until this scene, it does seem ooc for her to just walk away with nothing but a quippy comment.

but to understand her behavior i think it's important to note that ianthe does see harrow as an equal! at any given opportunity she brings up the similarities between herself and harrowhark. ianthe also does this because she's down bad, but regardless, she would never equivocate herself to someone who she thinks is lesser than her.

i also don't think she would do this if she didn't care about harrow— and she does care about harrow! she was genuinely happy to see harrow was alive before realizing that it wasn't harrow but gideon-in-harrow's-body. at the beginning of HtN she kneels before harrowhark in "unmistakable supplication" and looks at her with "half-beseeching, half-contemptuous despair" as she offers to help defend harrow's body once they go into the river to fight the RB.

ianthe has no reason to gaslight harrowhark for fun the night before the RB is supposed to attack. she incessantly taunts harrowhark with her impending death all throughout HtN, but she doesn't actually want harrowhark to die. gaslighting and destabilizing harrow further when harrow is already likely to die directly goes against this desire.

imo ianthe does enjoy having someone rely on her and is willing to be manipulative to achieve that, but i think she relied on harrow just as much as harrow relied on her. in HtN, harrow is very much filling the coronabeth shaped hole in ianthe's life and i don't think ianthe would risk losing that.

that's all to say, i think it's precisely because ianthe sees harrow as an equal and cares about her in her own fucked up way that, when faced with harrow's vulnerability, her immediate reaction is to brush it off and help harrow save face by walking away from the situation.

ianthe views vulnerability as a weakness and thus thinks she is doing harrow a favor by walking away from harrow in her times of weakness and making no further comment about it. it's like how many people react when they see a stranger crying it public; they would feel similarly embarrassed to be seen crying in a public space, so their way of helping that person is to ignore the fact that they're crying and prevent them from experiencing further embarrassement. she would want harrow to ignore her moments of weakness, and so in turn, she ignores harrow's moments of weakness.

in a way this is kinda how they show solidarity to each other in HtN; despite how they threaten each other with death, harrow defends ianthe when she's struggling to use her rapier arm, keeps ianthe's secrets, never explicitly mentions that ianthe cries at night to anyone (actually i think there are several scenes where harrow suspects ianthe has been crying, and she doesn't mention it aloud). in turn, ianthe thinks it best to not acknowledge or make it known that harrow experiences hallucinations. they know they're both in shit positions and aren't trying to deliberately make it worse for each other.

this is ultimately why i think ianthe wasn't lying when she said she didn't see cytherea's body; she not only has zero reason to do so outside of "for fun", but destabilizing harrowhark further would go against the fact that she wants harrow to survive the RB fight. ianthe's behavior when harrow asks her to look underneath the bed is also directly in line with the other occasion in which she has to interact with harrowhark in an extremely vulnerable moment: she seems incredibly dismissive of the situation, and then walks away.

#tlt meta #ianthe tridentarius #harrowhark nonagesimus #the locked tomb

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reminiscingtonight · 3 months

Text

The Thing About Families (Arsenal Style)

Alessia Russo & Russo!reader (Lia Wälti x Russo!reader)

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: A Russo sisters + Lia ft. Kyra story that wrote itself after that picture came out

And The Things You'd Do (Part Two) // That's How You Know It's Home (Part Three)

[WOSO Masterlist]

“I need your help.”

Growing up as the oldest kid in the family meant you’ve heard this line quite a lot. For your brothers it usually meant helping them sneak out of the house or cover for them as they did god knows what, but for Alessia it usually meant one of two things: organize her laundry or organize her life.

Given that you’ve done all the washing and have neatly stacked her already folded clothes on the edge of her bed, you have a sinking suspicion that this ask has more to do with the latter.

“Rat. What’s up?”

Alessia frowns at the nickname, an insult perched at the end of her tongue. But she seems to think better of it, batting her eyelashes in hopes of seeming more innocent as she latches onto your arm.

You’re not amused, instantly trying, but failing, to shake her off. “Less, let go!”

“I need your help,” she whines again, digging her heels into the ground.

You try wrapping your arm around her neck to pull her into a headlock, but the height difference between the two of you means Alessia has no trouble heaving you over her shoulder and onto the couch behind her. You let out a disgruntled yelp, trying to wrestle her for dominance. Alessia simply sits on top of you, hands locking your arms across your own body.

“Alessia Russo I swear to god, get off!”

“Your baby sister is trying to ask for a favor! Will you just,” she huffs, pinching your side when you try to buck her off of you, “calm down! Just hear me out!”

“I’m kicking you out before Lia gets home. Off!”

How your mom talked you into housing your sister when she moved to Arsenal, you will never know. Lia jumped at the opportunity to help her out, but since she isn’t home right now…

Alessia cringes a bit at your girlfriend’s name and you instantly stop moving. Your eyes narrow dangerously. “What?”

Family is important to you. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for Alessia, but there’s also nothing you wouldn’t do for Lia too. You haven’t ever had to make a choice between the two of them, but if you’re going to have to you’re not sure if sisterly love will be enough against how much you love Lia.

“If you don’t tell me what your problem is I will actually kick you out. Talk.”

It only takes two seconds under your glare for Alessia to break. “Kyra won’t stop bugging me!”

For a second you’re taken back to your childhood, a tiny Alessia sat in your lap, saying the same exact thing about Gio. You had given her a comforting pat on the head and then socked Gio as hard as you could in the arm. But now that you’re in your thirties, you don’t think punching Kyra would be taken as well, by your girlfriend or the other Aussies on the team.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

And Kyra’s hilarious, you’ll give her that. The younger girl had instantly taken a liking to your sister since the day she arrived. And by liking of course you mean a liking to bothering Alessia.

But as long as the young Australian keeps bothering Alessia and not you, you don’t really see a problem with her behavior.

Call it karma for everything Alessia has put you through growing up.

“And I love Lia, you know that.”

Your lips pinch into a thin line. “I don’t think I’m liking where this is going. If you’re about to be rude about my girlfriend--”

“Lia needs to stop babying Kyra! Sometimes I just need some peace and quiet at the Colney, and I can’t do that if Kyra keeps bothering me and Lia keeps letting her get away with it!”

Right. That.

It’s not like you haven’t missed it.

Any time Kyra’s running wild your girlfriend can be found nearby, always quick to soothe any ruffled feathers from the Australian’s adventures. At first Steph was set on Kyra duties, but when it became clear that anyone outside of her chosen Australian/Swedish family were ill-equipped to handle her, Lia was quick to step in.

You’re not sure what it was that drew Kyra to your girlfriend but Kyra lived for the praise and affection Lia gave her and Lia lived for the adoration from Kyra.

So yeah, it’s cute the way Lia has taken the young girl under her wing. If anything it just makes you want to ask her to marry you and start a family faster.

“Don’t be jealous, rat. If you want Lia to baby you again you can just say so.”

Alessia’s too busy scoffing and objecting to your claim that she’s not expecting it when you dump her off of you and right onto the ground.

---

It only takes a week.

It starts when Lia cancels date night. Kyra’s feeling a bit homesick so Lia invites her for a movie marathon at your place. Of course you’re a little bummed, but it’s not something you can’t reschedule so you just let it go. You find Lia and Kyra teasing each other throughout the night cute enough to replace any hard feelings.

The next strike comes when you have Lia pinned under you in bed, the two of you making use of an Alessia-less house for the night. Alessia had gone out with Vic for the night, telling you with a wink that she would be catching a ride from the Dutch to practice the next day. Your clothes had gone flying off the second you got home from dinner, but before you could really go down to business you hear the unmistakable sound of your doorbell going off. You pause, lips stilling upon Lia’s neck.

“Maybe if we don’t do anything they’ll go away.”

The doorbell ringing again has you sighing as Lia gently pushes at your shoulders. “Babe, off,” Lia laughs. She gives you a kiss on her way out but she does in fact leave you in bed to see who’s come to visit so late at night.

You’re off daydreaming about what you’re going to get up to when Lia returns when you hear the unmistakable sound of an Australian accent coming from the living room.

The pillow isn’t enough to muffle your cry of frustration into it.

You’re already sighing and throwing on a hoodie when Lia pops her head in, apologetic look on her face.

“Do you want to pop the popcorn or me?”

The last straw occurs when you wake up in the middle of the night a couple days later. You’re not really sure what’s woken you up, but you do find yourself at the edge of the bed. There’s barely a sliver of blanket covering you, but Lia’s warm body wrapped around your back gives you all the heat you need.

Humming, you shift as softly as you can so to not jostle your girlfriend. The original plan is to gently shift the two of you back towards the center of the bed, but when you reach over Lia to make the transition easier, your hand hits the undeniable form of a third body.

You freeze.

Hazily opening an eye, you raise your head to look at the other side of the bed. Next to you is Lia, like you expected. What you don’t expect is the snoring Australian sprawled out over Lia's half of the bed.

You have to bite back your groan.

You let out a disgruntled grunt when you settle back onto the tiny piece of the mattress left to you.

You’re not sure how long you lay there awake and thinking through the best way to go about ridding yourself of the new girl in your bed when a sleepy hand comes up to pat at your cheek.

“Why are you brooding?”

Although you’re a bit grumpy, the sound of Lia still half asleep brings a smile to your face.

But when you hear a snort, gurgle, and then snore from the other side of your girlfriend, the look is quick to fall off your face.

“What is she doing here?”

Lia frowns, sleepily rubbing at her eyes. She reads your pout easily. “Kyra was tired.”

“So you let her in our bed? Baby, we have a couch. A very comfy couch.”

Lia raises an eyebrow at you.

After spending the next night sleeping on said couch you come to two conclusions. First, the couch is not as comfortable as you initially thought. Second, Alessia was right.

You corner your sister at training the next day. She looks surprised but follows you when you pull her into a storage closet.

“Okay, how do you want to do it? Should we kidnap and ship her back to Australia?”

Alessia grins, not even needing you to say anything further. “Nah, we can keep her local. I think it’s time the other Aussies get custody, don’t ya think?”

#lia walti x reader #lia walti imagine #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo imagine #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #Ace writes

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schwarzkatje · 4 months

Text

'50s!au with butch!ellie and married!fem!reader

part 2

you, who had been forced to get married to a man you don't even know (let alone love), being torn between feelings of acceptance, because what else could life have given you, and the lingering thought that you're missing out on the many experiences and possibilities hidden god knows where.

confusion that only expands its roots in your mind and heart when one of your husband's most close friends, joel miller, gets invited for dinner and brings his daughter along with him.

ellie. of course you already knew her, she is just a few years younger than you and, again, the daughter of a very close person to your husband. but never had the two of you had the chance to talk and lock eyes for more than two seconds.

it's not just the more intimate scenario that makes your throat dry and your heartbeat falter, but ellie herself. her beauty – round green eyes, so clear and delicate – and the way she dresses – a grey suit, slightly on the bigger side in size, both because this kind of clothing isn't meant for women and also because ellie is quite skinny.

it's the contrast that does it for you and if your train of thought wasn't already all over the place before, it certainly is now.

you forget how to act properly and your husband doesn't waste a second to reprimand you for not smiling enough or for taking too long to bring him his cigar. how can you function when your skin reacts to ellie's stare as if it was a touch your senses could physically perceive? how can you when you feel drawn to her and have to remind yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on her in fear everyone at the table notices something odd going on with you?

ellie's body language contributes to the flowing heat in your face and shivering sensation inhabiting your body: it's an habit of hers to sit with spread legs, right elbow planted on the table and the thumb and pointer finger of her right hand fiddling with her lower lip. all of this while keeping those sinful emeralds locked on your figure. it isn't fair.

when dinner's over, you gather all the dishes, the cutlery and the glasses, heading to the kitchen to wash them. it's when ellie gets up her seat and sees it as an opportunity she has to take to help you, but most importantly to spend some time alone together.

you only hear the rattling of her chair being dragged and don't see her coming in your direction. you realise her intentions when you turn around and bump into her, face first, against her chest. now you even have her scent to haunt you. just your luck.

you quickly make out an apology, gaze going anywhere but towards her direction. ellie taking your chin with the fingers that had been playing with her lip this whole time, guides you and stops your wandering.

"it's actually my fault, i scared you". again, it can't be fair. "can i still help you with the dishes?"

you try your best to sound as polite as possible and not dismissive as if ellie was a burden or stepped the line. "no no, you're a guest here, i can't have you do any of that".

ellie doesn't insist and you almost picture this behaviour as uncharacteristic of her. until you realise that although you declined her offer she isn't budging. instead she leans against the counter and follows your every move, this time with her arms crossed.

your nervousness reaches its peak now that there's only you two – your husband and joel are in the living room in front of the tv. and when you get to this point, you abandon any shy constraints and start talking, hoping to ease the awkward air.

"i really like how you dress. i mean, it really suits you," and you think ellie would laugh because when exactly did you manage to take a proper look at her attire when all you did was avert your eyes? turns out that ellie simply smiles and inches closer to accept the compliment.

"it has a whole different flavour when it comes from a pretty woman like you," this kid is too sly for her own good. your breath gets temporarily stuck on your throat and takes a little longer than usual to get out. and when it does, its higher in volume. goddamnit.

you scoff because what exactly is life doing with you right now? "it's the corniest thing i've ever heard, i hope you know that," comes out... natural? your own chest feels lighter and even though shivers don't cease to awaken your body, you start walking on an path where you are at ease.

now it's ellie's turn to laugh, maybe not expecting you to be so bold as to come up with such an answer. she's not a saint and she would be lying if you had asked if she wasn't enjoying just a little too much taunting you.

"doesn't mister hubby call you names like 'sweet pie' or 'honey bear' or whatever shit you straight couples seem so fond of?" ellie isn't afraid to give voice to what she thinks and you find yourself admiring that.

this encourages you to keep talking and laughing without keeping an eye on how hard and loud you do. "i think these nicknames only appear in nursery rhymes".

you go back and forth for quite some time, keeping it not serious and just enjoyable. maybe the first time since your marriage where your speech isn't as controlled and your own persona tastes the aroma of existing while being free.

but the excitement – for lack of better words, because you know it's not just that, but something more serious and filthy, something you aren't ready to admit even to your own thoughts – that caught you in a net previously comes back the instant ellie goes quiet and pushes a lock of hair behind your shoulder.

you are so beautiful and nice and easy to talk to. not only that, you clearly don't have anything against ellie and the way she is and lives. she wants to keep this.

and so she decides to risk it all, running her mouth and being shameless.

"listen, would you mind if sometimes i steal you and take you with me? i know a place or two you would like"

#ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #ellie williams #ellie tlou

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gentlyweeps-world · 4 months

Text

Surprise! 💖

summary: Your “talking stage” pays you a surprise visit.

pairing: logie sarge x reader

warnings: none

rom-com type fic 🫧

LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO

You and Logan had a “talking stage”. Really it was a “I want to be in a relationship with you and I’m in love with you but not right now”. Your job was chaotic and draining- and well his job was certainly more chaotic and draining.

Although your two friends didn’t know this, so when you guys met up for your monthly breakfast date, they were shocked.

“Wait- but he was totally in love with you?!” Your best friend says, disbelief evident on her face.

“Okay that’s beside the point!” You say with a sigh, setting down your drink.

“But you made a Pinterest board specifically for him in case you two got married.”

“Okay that is definitely beside the point!” You say in embarrassment.

“What’s the point?” Your other friend asks, her hands wrapped tightly around her latte and eyebrows furrowed.

“The point is we were both too busy to be in a relationship..I’m sure he’s moved on” You say, taking a sip of your own drink.

“Bullshit!” Your best friend exclaims, “This man was absolutely head over heels for you. He’s not the type to move on.”

“He’s a formula driver! I’m sure he has and with someone much better than me!” You say with an annoyed sigh.

“Excuse me?” Your best friend scoffs, “I am 100% sure there is not a better woman than you out there.”

“Tell that to Logan!”

“Well- Valentine’s Day is in a few days, maybe he’ll say something to you”

——

Did you see Logan’s story?

No, what is it?

Check Insta

Instagram

logansargeant posted to their story

I told you he moved on

Y/n honey be honest here

I am! He moved on

No he didn’t

He’s in town for Valentine’s Day, that’s not a coincidence

Yes it is

Whatever just be at my house around 4

Okayyy

Instagram

youruser posted to their page

Liked by logansargeant and others

youruser no men here 💋

Comments on this post have been limited

yourbsf NO MEN 🗣️🗣️

yourbsf except for Drew Starkey 🤭

youruser and Aaron Taylor Johnson 🤭

yourfriend SLAYYYYY

yourfriend galentines day for the win 🫶

youruser always and forever 🤍

yourfriend2 where was my invite 🤨

youruser Jake, you are a guy

yourfriend2 So???

youruser that’s not how it works

yourfriend2 booooooo

——

“Okay so hypothetically- what if Logan was in town for you and he bought the flowers for you?” You best friend says, taking a sip of the alcoholic mixture you made.

“Okay, stop.” You say, waving your hands in the air and looking over at her, “That’s a big hypothetical and it’s not going to happen. And even so, how would I even know that’s his intention?”

“Because he liked your post!” Your other friend says, eyes lighting up.

“I genuinely think you two are delusional, and I’m supposed to be the delusional one!” You say, taking a sip of your drink.

“Oh shut up!” Your best friend groans, rolling her eyes. “You know that man is still in love with you. Stop being so dense.”

“Okay but if he still loves me then why wasn’t he ready to commit?” You say.

“Because he had a busy race schedule, and so did you!” Your friend yells, “How many times do we need to go over this?”

“Enough times so I can move on..” You say with a groan, leaning into your couch.

“Not a chance.” Your best friend scolds. “I’ve known you for over seven years and I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were around him. You can try to move on all you like, but you’re just going to be miserable.”

“This is supposed to be galentines day! Do we have to talk about him??” You say giving your friends a look.

“We’re just stating the obvious here.” Your best friend scoffs, “Just admit you’d like to get back with him and we can move on from this.”

“Okay yes- if I was given the opportunity to actually be in a relationship with him or even start talking to him again I would!” You admit with a huff, “Now can we put on a rom-com?” You say with a sigh.

“See? Now was that so hard?” Your best friend says with a smirk as she scoots closer to you on the couch. Your other friend laughs and puts on “13 going on 30”.

——

You hum to yourself as you clean up the dishes and food from earlier. You could hear a soft knock on your apartment door over the sounds of Justin Timberlake.

“Coming!” You say, dropping the trash bag and going to your door, opening it to see Logan, who holds a bouquet of roses in his hands.

“Surprise?” He says with a sheepish grin.

You’re silent for a moment, taking him in and noticing the roses in his hands. Your expression is a mix of surprise and confusion but you say nothing and invite him inside.

“Why- why?” You say, not sure what to say as you turn to face him.

He steps inside and looks around, noticing the messy counters and dishes still in the sink. He turns to you and places the roses on your countertop.

“I realized I needed you back in my life- Is this a bad time? I can come back later.” His words were fast and jittery, eyes averted and cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“No- no..it’s not a bad time!” You say, “I was just uhm- cleaning up from earlier with my friends..” You say with a small smile.

“Okay- good.” He lets out a nervous sigh and shifts his feet a little as he looks around your home.

“So I have no idea what to say.” He speaks up, “But I’ve been thinking about you a lot- I missed talking to you, and I just felt the need to bring you flowers. I’m sorry if it’s random.”

“It’s okay Logan..it’s not random” You say with a smile, “I would had said something myself but I thought you moved on and didn’t want to be with me”

“Never.” He whispers, his eyes locking with yours, “I’ll never move on from you.”

He takes a deep breath and steps towards you, the tension building the closer he gets.

“I’ve always wanted to be with you, but I wanted to be there fully for you” He says softly, reaching to lace your fingers together.

You feel like time just stops the moment your hands connect. He lets out another sigh before taking a deep breath and continuing.

“I want to be ready for you, for us. But I don’t want to keep you waiting anymore. You’re incredible- and I’m an idiot for letting time pass like this.”

“Yeah you are an idiot, but you’re cute” You say with a small laugh, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips.

He kisses back, wrapping a hand around your waist and pulling you close to his body. He pulls away after a moment, his cheeks flushed and a smile on his face. “I missed that.”

“I missed it too”

Instagram

logansargeant posted to their story

alex_albon replied to your story

alex_albon Is this that Y/n girl you always talked about?

logansargeant NO

alex_albon So yes?

logansargeant yes

oscarpiastri replied to your story

oscarpiastri Tell Y/n I say hello

logansargeant okay

williamsracing replied to your story

williamsracing You have some explaining to do Sarge 🤨

logansargeant don’t worry about it admin 🫶

yourbsf replied to your story

yourbsf I TOLD HER

logansargeant ????

yourbsf don’t worry

logansargeant okay 👍

jv.f1 replied to your story

jv.f1 Please explain

logansargeant really? you too James?

jv.f1 Yes

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

radio 🪩: I know Valentine’s Day is a bit away but I thought this was so cute 🫶

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oriigami · 1 year

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(spoilers for both knives out movies ahead)

i think what i really enjoy about knives out and glass onion is that they are, while not completely fair-play whodunnits, pretty close to it.

a fair-play whodunnit is a murder mystery which is entirely solvable by the viewer before the detective sums everything up at the end; the viewer is given the same information as the characters, and the same opportunity to figure everything out. this is a style some modern detective stories like to break to preserve the ability to catch the viewer off guard, as hbomberguy elaborates at some length in his sherlock is garbage and here's why video.

knives out gives you almost all the information you need. its possible to figure out on ransom's introduction that there is, at least, something missing from his story, that he returned to the house for some reason after leaving; the dogs were heard barking the night of harlan's death, and he is the only one they are seen reacting aggressively to. likewise, the audience hears nana saying 'ransom, are you back again already?' well before blanc learns about it and realizes its importance.

the only crucial piece of evidence any of the characters ever see that the audience doesn't is the toxicology report, which the audience doesn't get a chance to see before blanc's summation at the end revealing marta's innocence. but even with that omission, it's possible to guess harlan wasn't poisoned! marta lists off the symptoms of morphine poisoning at five and ten minutes on screen, and we see him exhibiting none of them, even after she's left and snuck back in, which must have been more than ten minutes after the initial injection. later we see fran suffering an overdose of the same drug, and she's far more debilitated than harlan was even in his last moments.

glass onion, of course, plays a lot more fast and loose with this concept, because it hides large swathes of the setup from the viewer until the halfway point. blanc actually has a lot more information than the viewer until we get the extended flashback in the middle of the movie.

however, after you know the circumstances of andi's death, like blanc says, you can completely guess that miles killed her! helen even suggests it during one of their first conversations, because it's obvious! of course he did! the only thing the movie does to delay this conclusion is throw out a swarm of red herrings in presenting motive and opportunity for everyone else, but the motive is obvious. the main thing both the audience and blanc need to realize is just that miles is stupid enough to do it. blanc uses his countless malapropisms as evidence when reaching this conclusion, but he doesn't even need to; it's absolutely obvious from the fact, readily available to the audience, that HE MADE HIS HOUSE INTO A BOMB.

likewise, the movie shows you that miles handed duke the drink that killed him, though this is later corrected during his self-serving flashback. you can see the outline of a phone in miles's back pocket after duke's murder even though miles doesn't own a phone, and even a brief shot of him sticking duke's gun in the ice bucket on the table.

additionally, putting a little bit of thought into miles's justification for the lights going out reveals it makes no sense. he was supposed to give a big speech as part of the murder mystery?? no he wasn't! he's dead at this point! he gets shot by the crossbow at dinner! why would he be giving a big speech at 10 pm? because he made up the lights going out on the fly based on blanc's earlier comment, and didn't think it through at all, like everything he does!

i'm not gonna pretend i figured either of these movies out ahead of time on the first viewing- i totally didn't! but i know when the next one comes out, i'm going to be watching very carefully, and probably doing a lot of rewinding.

#glass onion #knives out #glass onion spoilers #knives out spoilers

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cherryjuiceblues · 10 months

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𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

➯ HARRY IS A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH Y/N AND Y/N JUST WANTS TO KNOW WHEN HE’LL HAVE SEX WITH HER AGAIN. ✰ dom!harry sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 14k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him.

But he doesn’t. He’s nice.

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best.

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy.

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?”

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away.

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused.

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with.

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees.

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?”

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve.

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand.

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones.

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse.

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.”

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for.

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

#harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #fanfiction

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cherryredstars · 5 days

Note

omg hi cherry!!! yay yay yay I'm so excited requests are open! I love your writings ❤❤❤

Mkay so I was wondering if you would be into writing something more fluffy (I mean you can put smut if you want, lord knows I'm not gonna complain 🤭). I was thinking maybe reader is a teacher, and Gabriella is in her class at school, so she meets Miguel that way. And like over time he just keeps making excuses to see her, even though Gabriella's grades are actually totally fine— he's just so down bad lmao

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reder

Warnings: Fluff, Last Line is Suggestive

A/N: Hi, lovie! Thank you!!!

Unedited

You're fucking stunning.

Standing there in a pretty little dress, skin glowy from summer vacation. Got one hell of a smile on you, too. It has Miguel antsy as he waits in line to drop Gabi off for her first day, his hands tightening around his daughter's book bag as his eyes study every little move you make. Eyes zeroing in on how the wind plasters the back of your dress to your legs, your hands catching the front of it to prevent the fabric from flying too high up. He's nothing but a lovesick puppy by the time he reaches you, nodding dumbly to your introduction as he marvels over the softness of your hand in his, and eyes dropping to the glossy tint of your lips. He has to stop myself from making a noise when you bend down to talk to Gabi, complementing her outfit and gushing about how excited you are to be her teacher this year. The sight is so fucking domestic and he has to stop the fantasies popping up in his head. He takes it as a god-given sign that you're meant to be his when you start to get up, only to grab onto Miguel's shoulder as two little kids come running and bumping into you from behind. He'd be one hell of a lousy man if he didn't jump at the opportunity to grab at your waist and pull you closer to him to 'help steady you'.

Any day that Gabi comes homes with a little paper asking for parent help at a school event for her class is one hell of a lucky day for Miguel. Instantly jumping at the opportunity, signing up the seconds he reads it. Can't miss out on a single opportunity to see how you treat Gabi like she's your own kid or be close to you. Fucking loves how flustered you are every time he takes something off your hands, encouraging you to leave all the heavy duty labor to him so you can focus on the kids. He's always offering to do something for you. Something in the classroom is broken and the school's maintenance is taking too long to fix it? Oh cariño, why didn't you say something sooner to him or Gabi? He'll come in during your lunch break to fix it up while the kids are at recess. Sweet little thing needs help putting up decorations around the classroom? Oh baby, what do you think big, large men are meant for? He'll stay after school Friday and put everything up, just sit and be pretty as you help Gabi with her math homework. Sad that you need to buy new supplies for the classroom but they don't fit into your budget and you feel bad having to ask the parents to donate supplies again? Oh doll, send him a list of anything and everything you want and it's yours, pretty ladies like you don't deserve to worry about things like that. He'll even give you his number so he can buy you lunch.

And when you blink up at him with your sparkly doe eyes and ask, "What can I do to repay you, Mr. O'Hara?"

Fuck.

If you aren't careful, he might just have to buy you a pretty little ring. And, by next school year, you'll be introducing yourself as Mrs. O'Hara.

Maybe he'll even give you a kid of your own while he's at it; Gabi's been bothering him about a baby brother, anyways.

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sofs16 · 5 months

Text

clearly

pair lando norris x singer!reader

note if you guys want to decorate my tree with a little note, I’d appreciate it:,)

tree!

++ dont be a silent reader pls hehe

ln4updates

liked by 10, 475 others

ln4updates Lando goes live on twitch again and mentions his longtime crush, yn. (she’s a** — i got the subtitles wrong)

view all 261 comments

ynslover F1 and yn?!? 😭😭😭

norrizznutsz THE BUTTON UP O HTMGOFD

user73 if i was yn, i’d be dead. lando.jpg yn

⤷ ln4updates mans has no shame 😭

landonorris

tagged: yn liked by yn, and 7,373,383 others

landonoriss that’s a wrapppppp 😁

view all 263,383 comments

user33 the thirst trap right before the yn tagged slide 😭😭😭

yn congrats, lando 🧡🤍

⤷ landonorris thankyou so much! your music was my wakeup music

[ COMMENT DELETED ! ] ⤷ landonorris thank you so much, yn! your music was always blasting at the mclaren garage 🫡

⤷ yn awwww thank you AHAHAHA hope to meet you some time! ⤷ landonorris See you at your UK show :)

⤷ yn omg what!!!! see you soon!!!

⤷ carlossainz55 DMS exist

[(carlossainz55) landonorris: DELETE THAT CARLOS STOP SHUTUTP STOP]

[ COMMENT DELETED ! ]

⤷ yn AHAHAH, come in them then 😝

(LANDONORRIS) yn just followed you back!

[ (landonorris) carlossainz55: You’re welcome]

uk, manchester

liked by landonorris, and 12,462,299 others

yn cop or drop???

view all 1,484,484 comments

landonorris cop 👮‍♀️

⤷ yn thought dms existed?? :)

⤷ user4 oh ITS HAPPENING. user44 lando thinks he’s real slick with commenting ‘cop’ 4 seconds after this was posted 😭

ynspeed yn’s response to lando’s thirst trap:

⤷ yn landonorris isn’t the only one who can do that

⤷ user2 i bet lando is dying rn

manchester, uk

liked by landonorris, and 9,284,019 others

yn and that’s the end of the silence between songs tour 😵‍💫😵‍💫manchester, you are something else 🧡 i’m glad it was you closing this magical tour! thank you, thank you, thank you!

view all 463,585 comments

user3 the orange heart???? something is a little 🐟hy around here…

⤷ user4 I CANT WITH THE FISH EMOJI😭

ln4updddts WHERE’S OUR YNLANDO CONTENT!!

lando.jpg

liked by yn, and 3,586,203 others

lando.jpg I woke up happy, watched the sun rise. I wonder why

view all 219,456 comments

yn the I Wonder caption 🥹🥹🥹

⤷ lando.jpg Too good of an opportunity to not use it

yn i adore you

⤷ lando.jpg i adore YOU! ⤷ lnrizzyn theyre actually my parents. ⤷ ynsloverr lnrizzyn THE LAST SLIDE!!!!!

user39 THE FLOWERS!!! YNS FAV ARE TULIPS 🥹

ynsource

liked by landonorris, and 15,490 others

ynsource yn coming out backstage with her favorite tulips in hand! rumored to be given by landonorris

view all 95 comments

user484 HELLO???

ynsource

liked by landonorris, and 13,586 others

ynsource yn goes live on twitch again and mentions lando norris! view all 382 comments

uppyn landonorris are you okay? user37 YNLANDO NATION RISE!!!

landoyn4

liked by landonorris, and 21,927 others

landoyn4 LANDO NORRIS WHEN I CATCH YOU. HER WAITING FOR THE DM😭😭😭😭😭 HER SEEING OUT POSTS 😭😭😭

view all 918 comments

lllmclerc Lando liking the posts 😭

(99+) INSTAGRAM MESSAGES 𐙚˙✧˖°

— december 9, 2023

Lando Norris

i am sooooo sorry for not messaging sooner. i pussied out and thought you were joking about it:( please forgive me please

yn 🫧🤍

hi landooo! don’t worry about it:) sorry if i outed you online, i kind of pussied out as well to message you 😭 you just seemed interested so i didn’t know what to think after you came to the uk show last week with those flowers and you ghosted me

Lando Norris

No i feel even worse now. I really did want to hang out or go out with you (whichever you prefer) but, again, i pussied out… think we could have a redo?

and about the online thing, it’s totally alright, nothing they didn’t already know anyways 🤗

yn 🫧🤍

it’s alright and i would love to go out with you :)) what’s important is we were able to talk in our most random way possible 👍🏻

Lando Norris

do you mind if i get your number?

yn 🫧🤍

not at all! it’s xx-xxx- xxx

liked by landonorris, and 15,976,019 others

yn sorry i haven’t been active :) i’ve been happier than ever

view all 2,811,092 comments

landonorris nice heart

⤷ yn thanks! ynlando 😵‍💫👀

landonorris

liked by yn, and 8,923,019 others

landonorris snow days ☃️

view all 3,869,028 comments

yn hey, nice heart! ⤷ landonorris your snow heart is better ☹️

ynlannn …

ynlannn HELLO?????? LANDO CAMCORDER -> POST OF YN FROM A CAMCORDER. THE HEART SNOW -> YN WITH HEART SNOW. THE COMMENTS. THE BOYFRIEND EFFECT IN THE 4TH PIC. SO MUCH TO UNFOLD AFTER 3 WEEKS OF SILENCE.

ynsource

liked by ln4, and 17,383 others

ynsource photos taken of yn by the paps this week! view all 1,982 comments

lnyln we’re all thinking the same thing, aren’t we..

⤷ynsource ynlando real and they’re on a ski trip🥹

landonorris and yn

liked by 19,294,064 others

landonorris and yn Lando is the photographer in the relationship, clearly. - yn 🧡

y/n/n is clearly the better looking one in the relationship, clearly - lando 🤍

view all 5,797,019 comments

yn hey! that last part isnt true ☹️

⤷ landonorris yes it is

⤷ yn thats a lie

⤷ landonorris you’re like the most beautiful person in this universe. what are you on

⤷ carlossainz55 Not even three months and disgusting in the comments already 😝

⤷ landonorris shhh dad

user4 THEYRS SOOOO🥹😝

ynslove i bet that first clip is yn for her 2nd leg of the tour 😵‍💫😵‍💫

user73 y/n/n?? she said she doesn’t like being called that except for her future partner UGHHHHDHAJAALALA

mclaren 🧡🧡🧡

#SOF : anotha lando fic!! bump on the tree 🤗

happy holidays! 🤍🤍

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagines #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #landonorris #lando 4 #lando norris #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfic #lando imagine #lando smau #lando norris smau #formula 1

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wildernessuntothemselves · 6 months

Text

Jealousy, Jealousy... | Part 7

A/N: don't even have a summary for this. oc is in love with gyu and gyu is in love with another girl but both are virgin losers and gyu is a horndog who would let oc do what she wants to him just as long as he gets to cum.

Word count: 9.8k

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff

Warnings: fem!reader, dom!reader kinda, riding, blowjob, power play, descriptions of a horror movie, inaccurate portrayal of photographers and creative directors, lots of cute moments

You’re on set with the boys shooting promotional pictures for one of their new songs that Yeonjun insisted you'd be perfect for given your affinity for all things horror. It’s called Frost and the concept for the shoot is supposed to portray guys who are hearing voices in their heads trying to drive them mad and they are attempting to fight against them before ultimately succumbing to them, and so you’re doing shots of them getting swayed by the voices contrasting with others where they express fear about what’s happening to them.

Surprisingly all the boys suit the concept well, even sweet Hyuka was doing a remarkably good job. He was doing this manic laugh and shooting you evil looks that come out really well in the pictures.

“Wow, Hyuka. These are really awesome shots.” You say, showing him the camera and he laughs. “You sound surprised.”

“I actually am. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Well, you know I’m full of surprises, baby.” He winks, flustering you. Who the hell knew he had it in him?

“Don’t flirt with my girlfriend.” Yeonjun scolds, playfully smacking him.

“I’m just messing with her. You should’ve seen the look on her face.” Hyuka laughs his piercing laugh, as mischievous as ever, and you give him an indignant chuckle. “You little shit!”

You raise your hand into a fist, pretending to threaten him, and he bolts, yelling a panicked bye over his shoulder. You shake your head, staring at his retreating form with fondness.

You’re already done with Soobin and Taehyun’s shots, both of whom did really well too, but your favorite so far you have to say is Taehyun’s. The contact lenses you have him wear coupled with his naturally very intense gaze makes it so he doesn’t need to do much to come off as intimidating.

“Is it my turn yet?” Yeonjun asks, kissing your temple.

“No, baby, I’ve saved the best for last.” You coo, never missing an opportunity to compliment him, just so you can see the shy, pleased smile on his face, and he gives you just that. “Beomgyu is next.”

“Oh, are you going to be okay?” His smile falls and concern replaces it instead, making you roll your eyes. “He’s not going to eat me.”

“No, but I’m worried about you. You haven’t really talked to him for a while. Do you want me to come oversee the shoot?”

You kinda do. You are just acting strong for him. Fake it till you make it, right? He can’t hold your hand forever. “Don’t be silly. I know you’re starving. Go eat something and I’ll call you when we’re done.”

“But–” He’s interrupted by his own stomach growling and you laugh, leaning up to kiss him. “Go eat, baby.”

“Okay. I’ll be thinking of you.” He shouts as he leaves, bringing his hands together across his chest and mimicking a heart beating.

You laugh again at his antics, but quickly stop when your gaze lands on Beomgyu. He’s sitting by himself on one of the chairs, eyes glued to his phone and blocking everything else out. You walk towards him, clearing your throat. “Beomgyu. It’s your turn.”

He sighs, pocketing his phone and following you silently. You show him where he needs to stand before getting behind the camera.

“Beomgyu, I want you to lean onto the mirror and look into it, smiling menacingly as if you’re taunting your reflection. We’ll do another one after that of you looking terrified as if you’re trapped in the mirror. So you should play off that. Got it?”

He nods, resting his arm above the mirror and leaning forward, staring at himself with a smile.

“Okay, that’s not really what I’m going for. I’m not feeling any chills. I want a piercing gaze and a crazed smile. Try to have your mouth open as if you’re panting, like you’ve just won a fight. Don’t furrow your eyebrows and don’t tense up your shoulders.”

Beomgyu tries again, leaning his head down so he’s glaring up at the mirror and puts on a lopsided smirk. But you’re still not feeling it.

“You’re putting on an act, Beomgyu. I can see you thinking. I want you to really believe it. Wait.” You walk towards him, reaching up to fix his hair in the way you want. Or more like make it more messy and unhinged. “Let’s just push this over your eyes like this…”

You’re so used to doing this, you don’t even think about it, messing with his hair and making his makeup more smudged, streaking his eyeshadow here and blotting his lipstick there. It’s only when you’re done and realize he has been staring at you that you quickly step back. “There, all good.”

You try again and again with him, but none of the pictures come out like what you had in mind. You don’t get it. He’s usually much better than this. You’ve done plenty of shoots with him before, and he has never given you this much trouble. You keep trying to instruct him but his head doesn’t seem to be in it, too distracted by something else.

Normally, you’d ask him what he’s thinking about that got him so out of it but you don’t think you can. Things are too awkward for you and him right now and you’re not sure if opening that can of worms here is the best idea, which all just makes you even more frustrated.

“Beomgyu, the concept is mad not sad.” You sigh, annoyed after what must be the hundredth bad shot.

“Well, maybe if you gave better directions I would know what to do.” He snaps back, irritating you further. Beomgyu has never criticized your skills before and you don’t exactly take it well, the remark hurting more that it’s coming from him. He has always been a wall of unbending support for you so for him to call you out like this causes cracks in the very foundation of your sense of self worth.

“If my direction was bad then how come all the others had no problem following it?” You hiss, getting defensive to cover the cracks up, but you quickly back down when you see him opening his mouth to retaliate. You’re not going to get into it with Beomgyu right now. You’re at work. You can’t ruin this for yourself.

“Forget it. You’ve already wasted so much time. I’ll get around to you later.” You shut him down and walk off, not giving him the chance to argue.

Were you being short with him? Maybe, but you’ve wanted an opportunity like this for a long time and you were doing so well before him. You need to prove yourself. The boys are gaining more attention every day and this shoot could be really good for your career.

You also have a more personal reason to be snappy with him. After all, he has been avoiding you ever since you’ve admitted that you’ve slept the night with Yeonjun and you’re fucking bitter about that. You don’t understand why he’s acting this way and it’s driving you up the wall. You can take the pain of him not loving you back. You can take the pain of him getting angry at you for stupid reasons. But to ignore you? That you can't bear.

______________________________________

“Yeonjun, I need you to look more sharp. I want you to look at the camera as if you’re going to devour it. Don’t look so sweet. And move your right arm up like this.” You instruct him and he follows your lead flawlessly, so different from Beomgyu, and it slowly eases your nerves and allows you to get back in the mood.

“Good. Keep your head down and look up at the camera with your eyes. Smile a little, no, not too much. We want you to look crazy, but not funny crazy.”

He laughs at that, offended. “Hey!”

You snap a couple of pictures of him laughing. You know, just for your own personal collection. “Sorry, babe. There is such a thing as overdoing it.”

He pouts, acting sulky, and you take pictures of that too.

“What are you doing?” He raises an eyebrow and you blush. “Doing my job?”

“Those pictures would never make it as promotional pictures and you know it.” He calls your bluff and you shrug. “They can make it as my lock screen though.”

“I knew it. You’re so down bad for me.” He laughs and you scowl at him. “Shut up. Be professional.” You demand as if you weren’t using paid time to take pictures of your boyfriend for your own personal use.

“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes you, “Do you think I could play the song on my phone? It might help me get more into the character.”

“Sure, if you think it will help.”

He pulls out his phone and plays the song, closing his eyes for a second like he does before doing a dance routine, Kai’s manic laugh from the song ringing around the room before Yeonjun opens his eyes and looks at you, completely transforming in front of you.

“That’s really good. Keep going.” You encourage. You don’t even have to give him much direction after that, he does it on his own. You just give little modifications here and there but he’s embodying this concept so well by himself.

“Really lost my mind. Really, really, really lost it.” He mouths the words, pressing two fingers to his head in a trigger motion before rolling his head around.

“Remember to look at the camera, baby. Not all the time, I want some shots of you looking away so it seems I’ve caught you in the middle of it.” You keep shooting him, getting in different positions and angles to get the best shots as he gets into the music, channeling the darkness of it through him.

“Now, I want you to snap out of it. Look around as if you’re trying to find the source of the voice.” You instruct and he does it as if a switch had been flipped. He has such a talent for this. “Grab your head and stumble around a bit as if you’re losing your balance. Good.”

“Now look at the camera.” He looks up at you, eyes wide and filled with fear. You take a few shots before you lower the camera down. “Wow, baby, you did amazing. You’re such a good model.” You praise him and he gives you a lovely smile, completely changing his vibe once again and turning into the sweet boy that only you get to see.

You smirk, grabbing his chin and making him look at you. “Does someone like being told he’s a good boy?”

His breath hitches and his smile falls. Shit. You forgot that this is Yeonjun, not Beomgyu. He’s probably not into this. You let go of his chin and step away, an apology on your tongue, but he pulls you back, kissing you. “I do like it. Maybe when we’re done you can show me how much of a good boy I am?”

Relief soothes your racing heart and you reach up to run your hand through his hair, tugging on the bright orange mess. “Only if you behave.” You brush your lips over his neck, making him shiver.

“Guys, really? We have children present.” Soobin complains, pointing to Kai.

“Hey, I’m not a child!” Kai protests in turn, “But I’ll agree to act like a child if it will get those two to stop. Seriously you’re worse than Beomgyu and Haeun."

That last remark makes your face drop real quick. You're lucky Haeun was too busy to come to the shoot today. With how stressed you are, you might've snapped at her and Beomgyu and made a huge scene. You already almost did it with Beomgyu. You’re sure if she was here, you would’ve lost your cool.

“Sorry, guys.” You step away from Yeonjun, clearing your throat. You look at Beomgyu to see him staring right at you and Yeonjun, and if looks could kill, you and Yeonjun would be dead now… wait that’s it! That’s the look you want from him.

“Beomgyu, come with me. I think we can do your shots now.” You motion to him quickly, and Yeonjun gives you a confused look.

“He’s got the look I want from him. Be right back.” You explain to Yeonjun, getting up on your toes and giving him a quick kiss, partly because you love kissing Yeonjun’s plump lips and partly to annoy Beomgyu further and get him more mad in order to get the pictures you want.

___________________________

Things go much more smoothly this time. Beomgyu was giving you just the look you wanted, glaring at you like he actually wants to pounce on you. It’s great for the shoot, but bad for your heart.

“Now give me a smile.” You say and his lips move ever so slightly, shaped into a weird distorted smile that is so tense, it looks like it might snap into a snarl any second now. It’s the exact vibe you were going for and you didn’t even have to instruct him to do it. It was almost too spot on.

“Perfect. Now grab your neck as if you’re trying to claw something out, like you can’t breathe.” Even that he does perfectly, fingers digging into his neck as if he’s not worried about his well-being at all. He’s doing it so well that you only take a few snaps before stepping in to quickly stop him.

“Okay, that’s enough. We’re done here.” You can’t help but walk towards him, pulling his hand off his neck and inspecting the little marks he made there, smoothing your thumb over them as if you could make them go away.

“What, I don’t get a good boy?” He asks and you snap out of your worried daze, stepping back.

“Beomgyu…” You warn, annoyed at yourself for slipping. “Don’t start now.”

“I guess he’s your muse now.” He mutters, looking away, and you follow his gaze to see Yeonjun looking at you.

Is he? Yeonjun is a natural model–he has proven that today–while Beomgyu requires more prompting. Yeonjun is intense and chic while Beomgyu is ethereal and melancholic.They’re completely different from one another. Can you really compare them?

You guess that’s a lie. Yeonjun can embody whatever concept you give him, but Beomgyu inspires you to make new concepts. He’ll always be your muse.

You don’t tell him that though. It would only cause trouble. Instead, you deflect, “We need to do the group shoot now.”

You gather all the boys in one spot, posing them every which way you want, instructing them on where to look, how to stand and what expression to make. It’s a bit overwhelming making sure that they all look good at once, but you’ll have to get used to this if you wanna make a career out of it.

You’re almost done with the shoot and you’re so proud of how all of you have done so far. You just need a couple more pictures and that’s it.

“Soobin, look to the side and tilt your head a little to the right. No more. More. A little less. Yes, perfect! The rest of you stay like you are.” You take a few pictures like this, before you call out again, “Baby, look at the camera”

When you say that, both Yeonjun and Beomgyu turn their heads to face you, and an awkward moment of silence passes before you stutter, “Yeonjun… I mean. Look at the camera, Yeonjun.”

“Awkward…” Hyuka sings and Taehyun elbows him in the stomach.

You brush right past it, pretending that it didn’t even happen. Though your stammering and blushing doesn’t fool anyone. Thankfully though, it’s all over soon.

“Okay, boys, that’s it. We’re done!” You cheer, exhausted but happy and confident that you’ve gotten all the pictures you needed. “Anyone want to see some of the photos?”

They all gather to look at them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. As you scroll through the pictures, they oh and ah at their own shots while making fun of the others for any awkward ones. You expected nothing less from them.

“Hey, how come your boyfriend got all the best shots?” Soobin grumbles, and you roll your eyes. “He got all the good shots because he posed the best out of all of you.”

“Bullshit.” Taehyun interjects and Hyuka agrees, “Nepotism is what it is.”

“Shut up, Kai. That’s not even what nepotism means.”

“Oh yeah, then how come you gave him the best set and accessories?” He challenges and Yeonjun wraps his arm around you, “So what if she favors me? Are any of you giving it to her good every night? I don’t think so.” Yeonjun boasts, making you blush deeply.

Whatever reply you were going to make gets cut off by Beomgyu slamming his drink down and storming off.

“Someone’s in a pissy mood.” Taehyun mutters and Kai adds, “Probably pissed off that all the good shots went to the photographer’s boyfriend.”

“Drop it, Kai.” Yeonjun snaps and the younger guy raises his hands up in surrender.

“Ignore them, baby. I think all the shots are stunning.” Yeonjun says, holding you.

“You really think so?”

He nods, rubbing your arms soothingly, before grinning. “But mine are the best, of course.”

“You’re all assholes.” You grumble, pushing him away but inside you’re thankful he diffused the awkward situation.

“Let me make it up to you. You wanna grab something to eat? I’ll buy you your favorite fried crap.” He offers and you clap, excited. “Oh, yum!"

“Can I come too, baby?” Kai asks, making kissy faces at you before running away as Yeonjun takes off his shoe and throws it at him.

_________________________

“Junnie?” You call out and he blinks, looking up at you. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet for a while now.”

“I’m just a bit worried.” He sighs, making you frown. “About what?”

“I think we’re really close to being signed. We’re having promising talks with a couple of record companies and the whole process is really stressed out.”

“But isn’t it a good thing?” You ask, confused. Didn’t the boys want to be signed for a long time? Is he having second thoughts?

“It is, but we all know the stories of artists getting scammed by companies and having their masters stolen, or having their creativity stifled by the execs, or losing their sound… as the front man I really wanna make sure to do this right. I don’t want to let my members down.”

“Oh, Junnie, I know you’ll do your best.” You reach out to grab his hand, squeezing in comfortingly. He’s such a good hyung to his members, always so reliable and trying to make everything easier for them so they don’t have to stress like him. “But you can’t put all of this on your shoulders only. The boys need to contribute to the decision too. After all, it’s their future too.”

“I know but it really bums them out thinking about all this. They’re here for the music, you know? Not the corporate dance.”

“Neither are you. They’re big boys. They can handle it. They need to do this too. They need to take on part of the responsibility.” Your hand moves up his arm, stroking it. It’s not fair for him to take on all this burden by himself. Besides, it’s not good in the long run. The boys need to make a joint decision or conflict and blame could arise later. “I can’t have you losing your hair over this. I don’t really like bald guys.”

Yeonjun gives you a betrayed look. “Hey! Are you saying you won’t be with me if I was bald?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” You confirm and he scoffs, pretending to be offended. “You’re so fake.”

“Probably. But I took your mind off it for a second there.” You tease, using the same trick he used on you when you were crying.

“I think you’re gonna need to do a lot more to take my mind off it.” He tells you suggestively and you roll your eyes.

“Eat your heart attack-inducing food first, then we’ll talk.”

He grabs a drumstick and bites off a piece of it like he’s in a cartoon, making you burst out laughing.

"You know what I noticed?" He asks after chewing his food, and you hum in acknowledgement, prompting him to go on, "Your style has changed since we've started dating. It's become edgier and more trendy. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to impress me."

You blush, feeling caught. "Good thing you know better then."

"Well, since I know better, I won't say that I would find it really cute if you were trying to impress me or that it would make me feel really special."

"Well, if I were doing it to impress you, it would be because you're really special.” You say sincerely, looking him right in the eyes, before shrugging, “Luckily, this is all hypothetical."

You continue to stare at him as he laughs.

“What?” He asks, and you tell him, "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" He gives you a confused look.

"Laughing in that adorable way that makes your nose scrunch up and makes me wanna tackle you to the ground and kiss you all over your stupid face."

What happens next is so groundbreaking, you almost can't believe your eyes. You actually make him blush. And your stupid heart that has been beating non-stop for Beomgyu, falters in its incessant pace a second to let Yeonjun in.

___________________________

It’s going good with Yeonjun. Despite the flirty and confident persona he portrays for his fans, behind closed doors he’s shown you many sweet and shy moments. He’s attentive to you despite how busy he is with his career and his clear passion for music. And he’s really, really sexy.

Yes, his flirtiness can make you feel insecure sometimes and it does make you wonder if he’ll get sick of you one day and jump to someone prettier and new like guys in a band so often do, but you think you could overcome that feeling with time. You’re just being insecure. It’s part of his job. He’s not actually this cocky playboy. He has to act that way to bring in the fans.

Except he kind of is a playboy. He has dated many other girls before you and he has broken up with all of them. Who is to say that that won’t happen to you too soon? Who knows when he’ll get sick of you? Maybe he’s just waiting to scope out his next girlfriend before breaking up with you.

No, you’re being paranoid. He’s just entertaining his fans. It means nothing. Just because he dated a lot before you, doesn’t mean you’re just another notch on his belt. This doesn’t mean anything, especially not his innocuous interactions with his fans.

Yeah, you’re not bothered at all watching him deliver not-so-subtle pick up lines to his horde of fangirls and watching them giggle and swoon over him. You don’t care that he lets them touch him and hug him. You don’t even notice the panties they throw on stage for him or that they ask him to sign their bras. It’s all good.

“You okay, doll?” Yeonjun throws his arm around you, nudging you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t let me keep you from your girlfriends.” You mutter, pushing his arm off, and storming off. Okay, maybe you are a little bothered.

You hear footsteps behind you and quicken your pace but he catches up to you eventually. Damn his long legs. “Hey, hey, what was all that about?”

“This may come as a shock to you but I don’t exactly enjoy you flirting with other women.” You grit, your anger bubbling up in your stomach and forming acid around your bitter words.

“You know I’m just doing my job.” He defends himself and you scoff. “Your job is singing. Not getting their panties wet.”

“That is still part of the job. You think all those successful bands don’t get where they are by appealing to the fangirls? You really think it’s just about the music?” He may have a point but that doesn’t make you feel any better about his behavior. At the end of the day he is still acting inappropriately around girls who aren’t his girlfriend. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Want me to go invite some of them back to your room for some quality fanservice?”

He laughs at that, and it’s far from the sweet laugh you adore. “You have no right to act jealous. Not when I have to watch you everyday staring longingly at your best friend. Your best friend who you live with and have messed around with before by the way. How do I know you won’t fall to your knees the moment he asks you to suck him off?”

"Fuck you, Yeonjun." You tear up at the unexpected attack, and turn around to leave. You can't believe he is throwing this in your face.

“Wait. I’m sorry.” He holds you back, brushing your hair away from your face and seeing the tears budding in your eyes. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. I know you don’t like the way I act but it’s my job. My livelihood depends on it. I’m not doing it just for fun. You know that.”

You look away, conflicted. Yes, you do know but that doesn’t make it suck any less. “Do you have to let it go that far though?” You pout, images of your boyfriend with his arm around random girls or letting them touch his face or hold his hand flashing behind your eyelids.

“I will try to tone it down.” He concedes and you finally look at him. “No letting them kiss you?”

“No.”

“No sexual innuendos?”

“No.”

“No signing their bras?”

“So just their breasts?”

You go to leave but he pulls you back flush against his body. “I’m kidding.” He kisses you and you reluctantly let yourself fall into the kiss. God, why do you pick the hardest boys to love?

Speaking of which…

“And I’m sorry for what I said about Beomgyu. I trust in you not to do that just as you trust in me not to cheat. But I’m not sorry about the part where I don’t like you living together.”

“What?” Your frown. What is he trying to say?

“You’re in love with the guy. Living with him won’t allow you to move on. You need to move away from him to let us move on.” He clarifies, not really making it easier for your brain to compute.

“Oh."

"We can never move forward in our relationship if you're holding onto him." He presses, seeing your resistance to his words. “Come live with me. Leave whatever this thing you have with him in the past and take the next step with me.”

"But he's my best friend. We promised each other we'd stay together." You say as if that means anything to him, and the look he gives you is what an adult would give to a naive child thinking their family pet really went to live on a farm. "Are you going to live together even when both of you are married?"

"No. But it's too fast. He's so freaked out about everything changing. This is gonna send him into a breakdown." You resist still, maybe because some of what you’re saying applies to you too. You’re not sure if you’re ready to do this.

"Don't you think that's a little weird?” Yeonjun challenges your statement, forcing you to examine your unusual situation with Beomgyu for the first time. “You two have an unhealthy attachment to each other. You’re not together and believe me no boyfriend or girlfriend is gonna tolerate how you two are acting. I know I can't."

But you can’t think about it too deeply right now, not on the spot like this, not when there is a plain threat in his words. "Are you giving me an ultimatum?"

"No. I'm just asking you to set some boundaries."

Is that the same thing? You sigh. "Can you… just give me some time to think it through?"

Yeonjun doesn’t like that. "You know I'm right."

"Please."

What he’s asking you is huge. With how Beomgyu isn’t talking to you, moving out of the apartment might spell complete doom to your friendship, and you don’t know if you are ready to risk that yet. Maybe you can work it out while still living with Beomgyu. Maybe you can find a way to move forward with Yeonjun while still retaining your friendship with Beomgyu.

"Fine." Yeonjun backs down for now, but this is clearly not the end of it.

____________________

When you get home, you find a strange surprise waiting for you… A pillow fort?

"What's this?" You ask Beomgyu suspiciously and he beams at you, pulling you towards the structure he made. "Come on in. Come on in!"

You let him take you inside with him, seeing it lined with pillows and soft fuzzy blankets and all kinds of snacks you could ever need. The only light illuminating the inside coming from the small laptop filled with movies for you to watch.

"What's all this for?" You ask, very confused at the sudden change in his attitude. What has gotten into him?

"Well, I know I've been an ass–"

You don't mean to snort but you can’t help it–interrupting him–and he shoots you glare, albeit a playful one.

"I know I've been an asshole," He repeats, not deterred. "But I was worried about what Yeonjun was gonna do to you and I was frustrated you weren’t listening to me. I’ve seen him blow through girlfriends many times before–maybe not in a way that is meant to intentionally hurt them but he just doesn’t seem to be ready for something serious yet. It always seemed like the girls were way more into him than he was into them and that eventually leads to the relationship breaking down and the girls getting hurt and I didn’t want that to happen to you. I didn’t want you to get hurt like that.”

His words echo your own doubts. You’ve been wondering about this exact yourself. Yeonjun is great. He’s fun and sweet and he makes you smile, but if you let yourself fall for him, will he be able to love you too?

Is that even a fair question to ask? Doesn’t everyone go into relationships not knowing if the other person will end up liking them the same amount? And can you really be the one wondering about this when you’re the one in love with your best friend?

You don’t say anything though, just letting Beomgyu continue, curious about where he is going with this. “But in my attempt to try to prevent that I've stupidly gone and hurt you myself. I got angry and vindictive and I lost sight of what I was trying to do… I also was being selfish because I didn’t want to lose you to him. I’m so used to it just being the two of us and it made me a little jealous that suddenly he’s taking all your time and attention. I used to be your number one guy.”

You look at his pout, trying miserably to fight down the tears his words are springing up. He is still your number one. That’s the problem.

“You said all of this already.” You say quietly, looking down and trying to hide your glossy eyes from him.

“I know, but what I didn’t say is that I don't know if Yeonjun will stay like this forever or if he's going to break your heart and force me to cut his balls off, but I wanna be there regardless.” He proclaims, sounding exactly like the best friend you terribly missed, the obvious joke not taking away from the seriousness of what he’s saying. “I don’t want to lose you over this. I want us to go back to how we were before all this mess. Do you think we can do that?"

You look up at him, his pretty face shimmering and swimming around in your tearful vision, making his already ethereal features appear celestial. He looks at you as if you could ever deny his request. How can you ever say no to him?

"Yes, Beommie." You finally say, letting the tears fall.

"Hey, hey…" He coos, grabbing your face and kissing your tears away. "Don't cry. You know seeing you cry will just make me cry too."

“I can’t help it. I missed you, you idiot.” You wail, and he pulls you into his arms, rocking you back and forth and rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I missed you too. So much. You don’t even know.” You hear his voice falter and you know he’s crying too.

You stay there for a while–you don’t know how long–until you and him have calmed down enough to be able to string together words again. He’s the first to pull back, but only so he can look you in the eyes.

“You look so pretty when you cry.” He whispers, wiping your tears away and you cover the way your heart skips a beat at that with a cough, pushing him away to give yourself room to breathe in something that isn’t him.

“Shut up.” You mumble, wiping your tears away with your sleeve before looking around awkwardly, trying to change the subject. “So what movies do you have for us?"

Thankfully, Beomgyu follows your lead. "Top gun of course!'

You groan.

"I'm kidding. I'm kidding. I got you one of those foreign horror movies you love so much." He shows you that he chose a French movie called Martyrs.

"Aw, you really do love me." You exclaim, covering your heart with your hand.

“I know. I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” He mutters, sitting down and motioning for you to do the same. You sit down next to him, leaving a small gap between you.

“Hey, what are you doing?” He asks, and you look at him in confusion. He rolls his eyes and opens his arms to you. “You can’t have Movies and Cuddles Monday without the cuddles.”

You hesitate for a second, wondering if you really should do this. Is this too intimate? Would this be considered cheating on Yeonjun?

No, you’re being ridiculous. People cuddle with their best friends all the time. You can do that.

“Right.” You get into his embrace, and he holds in in both arms.

“Okay, let’s start the massacre.”

_____________________________

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” Beomgyu groans, burying his face in your neck as screen shows the main lead being flayed alive.

“Well, don’t do it on me!” You squeak, trying to pull away to hide the goosebumps that have erupted on your skin when his lips brush against you, but he’s holding onto you too tightly. “Don’t go. You made me see this. I’m traumatized.”

“You’re the one who picked the movie.”

“Because I wanted to satisfy your blood thirst.” He mumbles and you laugh. “I don’t even like gore. I prefer the subtly creepy.”

“Yeah like that game you like where the character takes a pill and entrails fall from the sky.”

“Hey, entrails can be subtle.” You grumble, relaxing back in his arms. “Now shut up. I wanna see the ending.”

Beomgyu sits in silence, holding onto you tightly as the character called Mademoiselle leans over the flayed woman to hear what she has to say after achieving martyrdom. You watch with bated breath, not feeling any of the anxiety you’re supposed to feel as the cult members ask the Mademoiselle what the main character told her–too relaxed with the way Beomgyu massages your scalp with his fingers. If you were a cat, you’d be purring right now.

Even Beomgyu keeps his mouth shut as the Mademoiselle grabs a gun and shoots herself, taking the secret with her to the grave–the both of you seeming to be in a trance. It’s only when the credits roll does he speak up.

“I can’t believe they didn’t tell us the secret to the afterlife.” Beomgyu complains softly, not making any move to disentangle you from his arms,and neither do you.

“Yeah right, like they would tell us the secret to the afterlife.” You snort at your naive friend, “Besides the movie isn’t about that.”

“Yeah, and what is it about, genius?” He challenges.

“Um, it’s clearly about the exploitation of the working class so the rich can achieve knowledge and even more power–no it’s about the exploitation of women of the working class.”

“You just pulled that out of your ass.”

“Maybe. But that could be right.” You shrug, your shoulder once again brushing against his lips. “Do you have a better theory, idiot?”

“Yeah, my theory is that the director just wanted to make the most disgusting movie possible and made up this whole martyrdom story to justify the torture inflicted on the characters, and that’s why he couldn’t come up with an actual answer to what happens after death.”

“Maybe that’s the point. We were never meant to know the answer. Knowing the answer renders life and its struggles meaningless. That’s why the Mademoiselle killed herself.”

“Or maybe Anna told her a lie that she knew would fuck her up and get her to kill herself. Perfect revenge.”

“That doesn’t make sense. At the start of the movie we see that when Lucy got revenge on one of the families, it still wouldn’t make her guilt go away so clearly the movie views revenge as a non-viable option.”

“Hey, when did you become so smart? I thought Movies and Cuddles Monday was supposed to be about mindless consumption of media and making stupid jokes about plots we’re not smart enough to comprehend.” He looks at you in suspicion and you meekly answer, “I may possibly have started reading some books–”

He gasps. “Books? Dear lord, save us.”

“You’re just worried you’ll stay the only dumb one.” You poke his nose teasingly and he tries to bite your finger, making you withdraw it with a giggle.

“Doesn’t matter. Smarts are for ugly people. I’m too pretty.”

You smile fondly. “Yes, you are.”

He wraps his arms around you even tighter, letting out a small contented hum as the credits roll, neither of you moving to start another movie or turn off the computer. How can you when it makes you feel so safe and content, like you could want for nothing else in the world as he strokes your hair with one hand and your arm with the other.

Every emotion you've been working so hard to smother comes roaring back. And you realize that you and Beomgyu are not just friends. Probably can never be just friends. This is why Yeonjun insisted you move out. You can't be this close to Beomgyu without falling back into your old habits. If you wanna give Yeonjun an honest chance, you need to get some space.

“Beomgyu… do you ever think about living with Haeun?”

He frowns. “Why? Did she say anything to you?” You almost laugh at his look of terror. Almost. If you weren’t so terrified of what you have to say to him.

"Yeah she told me on one of our weekly get togethers." You snort, then hesitate. “It’s just… Yeonjun wants me to move in with him.”

He pulls away from you, face hardening, and your body is suddenly left defenseless against the cold chill in the air. "What did you tell him?"

You want to tell him that you said No. You want him to take you back in his arms. Even if he doesn’t love you back, this can be enough for you, right? "I said I'd think about it."

"Think about what? This is way too soon. You can't just move in with him. What if you break up? Then you'd be left homeless because you were so stupid as to move in with a guy you've only been dating a few months."

His anger is like lashings to your cold skin. Why does he keep doing this to you, making you let your guard down before attacking you once more? Does he not know how hard this is for you too? "Beomgyu, you said you weren't going to be an asshole anymore."

"I just don't understand why you'd do something like that." His frustration is palpable. He is looking at you as if you’re just doing this to hurt him.

"Because Yeonjun doesn't like me living with you after we messed around."

You shouldn't have said that. That just makes him angrier. "And you’re just going to do whatever he tells you to do? Are you one of those girls who does everything her boyfriend tells her?"

His accusation pisses you off. He’s treating you like you’ve committed a crime for wanting to move forward with your boyfriend. "No, but he has a right to be weirded out by us living together. I know I wouldn't be happy about him living with a girl he hooked up with."

"Oh yeah, and what's next? He's too weirded out by us hanging out? Talking? Looking at each other?"

"You're being overdramatic."

"Am I?" He shouts, “This is why I didn’t want you to date him. He is taking you from me.”

The fucking audacity for him to say this as if he hasn’t been terrible to you ever since you started even expressing interest in Yeonjun. This would never have happened if he had been an actual goddamn friend to you.

“He isn’t taking me from you. You’re pushing me away.”

“You know he’s only going to hurt you?” He says, hitting you right where it hurts. It’s one thing for you to doubt your relationship with Yeonjun, but it’s another thing entirely for your friend and his to keep telling you that it’s never gonna last.

Does he really have no faith in you? Does he not think you’re pretty enough, good enough to keep yeonjun’s attention? Does he think it’s impossible for Yeonjun to actually love you?

You start tearing up again. "Why are you being like this?"

“Because it’s what he is. You’re making a huge mistake. You're choosing this guy you just started dating over our years of friendship."

You shake your head. "Why does it have to be either or. Why can’t I have my boyfriend and my best friend?"

He lets out a condescending laugh. “I’m not the one making you choose!”

But he is. He has been making you choose since the beginning. He just doesn’t like it because for once you’re not putting him and his ridiculous demands first.

“He is not making me choose.” You defend Yeonjun and yourself. “He just doesn’t want us to live together.”

“You really think he’ll end it at that? You don’t think he’ll demand more bit by bit? Next it will be ‘I don’t like him touching you.’ then it will be ‘don’t hang out with him so much’ and then ‘why do you even need to see him. We can just stay in.’ and before long he’ll have completely phased me out!”

“Well maybe there should be some boundaries. We did hook up together. It’s normal for him to feel insecure. And maybe we’re a bit more touchy than other friends are. Maybe I should only be cuddling with my boyfriend and that only my boyfriend should be kissing me…” You’re saying this more to yourself than to him. Even what happened earlier wasn’t really appropriate. It could be for completely platonic friends but you know that’s not what you and Beomgyu are. Not for you, at least.

“See? It’s already happening!” He exclaims, and you sigh. There is no point arguing with him. He’s too upset to see reason. “I’m sorry, Beomgyu…”

"Forget it. Forget all of this." He stands up and takes the pillow-fort apart. "Enjoy living with your boyfriend."

__________________

You quickly gathered a few essential items that you'll need along with a change of clothes before you texted Yeonjun to come pick you up. You'll get the rest of your stuff later. You just can’t handle being in this house anymore.

"Are you okay?" Yeonjun asks when you get into his car.

"Yeah, it's just Beomgyu is really mad at me." You sniffle, trying to hold back your tears.

"Of course. That fucking idiot." Yeonjun curses and you agree. "Such an idiot."

"Want me to go beat him up?" He offers but you shake your head. "I really don't think you two having a cat fight is gonna lift my spirit up."

"Hey!" He shouts, offended, but he can't help but give you a smile–his sweet smile that you love so much.

"But that might." You smile back, wiping your nose before bending over to give him a kiss.

"Didn’t know I'd be eating snot today." He says as he pulls back and you smack him. "I wiped before I kissed you!"

He laughs and tries to kiss you again but you push him away. "No. I've revoked your right to kisses."

“Is that so?” He quirks an eyebrow up and you nod, indignant.

"And what if I told you I have some great news that will make you wanna kiss my face off?"

“What?” You look suspiciously at the massive grin on his face. "You know the director of Elements magazine?"

"Do I? Of course! She's one of my inspirations." You gush, excited at what he could possibly have to say about her.

"Well, I've been talking to her about you–"

"What?” Your face falls, terrified. “What–what would you talk to her about me for?"

"She's interested in your work." He tells you and you give him an unflattering snort in disbelief. "Yeah, right. What do I have to show her?"

"She's actually seen the shoot you did with us and would like you to send her more of your stuff because she thinks she may want you to do a pictorial for the magazine."

“Shut up.” You gape at him. You? Do a pictorial for Elements magazine? "Oh god, I think I'm gonna pass out."

“Please, don’t. I don’t know how I’d be able to explain why I have a passed out girl in my car to anyone who saw.”

You shoot him a glare, but there is no heat behind it. "How do you even know her?”

"I've done some modeling for her before." He shrugs as if that isn’t a big fucking achievement, "I told you, networking is everything."

"You're amazing." You breathe out in awe.

"I know." He replies confidently and you suddenly shriek, kicking your feet in excitement. "Oh my god, I can't believe she liked my stuff!"

"Why wouldn't she? You’re great." You turn to him, a huge smile on your face before you bend over the console and give him a big kiss. "You are so getting laid."

"That's why I did it." He jokes, starting the car before pulling out of the parking spot.

___________________

"Welcome home." Yeonjun says, putting your bag down in his bedroom.

Yeah, you guess this is home now. You look around, trying to process the fact, and Yeonjun comes up behind you to wrap his arms around you. “You can redecorate a bit if you want. I’ll give you a whole corner of the room.”

You turn around in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck. “You’re very generous.” You kiss him slowly, deepening the kiss as you go, pushing your tongue into his mouth as your lips move against each other. “My good boy.”

“Oh, are we doing this?” He raises an eyebrow at you.

“You deserve it.” You push his jacket off before slipping his white tank top over his head. As soon as his chest is bare, you attack your lips to it, kissing it all over. Your lips tingle as it comes in contact with his warm skin over and over again and you feel his little moans vibrating through his chest as he slowly gives into the pleasure, shivering a bit when you wrap your lips around one of his nipples.

Your hands trail down his body, grabbing at his waist on the way, kneading it, before moving to his pants. You unbutton and unzip them slowly, rubbing the back of your hand over the bulge there, making his breathing stutter.

“Baby…” He pouts at your teasing, and you lean up to give his pretty lips a kiss.

“Want it, darling?” You ask, continuing to brush your hand over him teasingly and he nods. “Okay. Just because you’ve been so good to me.”

You put your hand in his boxers and pull out his cock, stroking it to full hardness while kissing his addictive lips.

“You’re so good to me, Yeonjun. You deserve to be pampered.” You tell him, twisting your hand over the head of his cock as your lips go down his neck and along his chest until you have to get on your knees to go further. You kiss his abs gently before opening your mouth and giving his skin a playful nip which makes him jump.

“Hey, that’s not pampering.” He protests and you laugh, licking the reddening spot soothingly as you continue to tease his dick with your hand.

“I was just thinking about how you seduced me with this at the party.” You tell him and he grins. “So I was–ahh–right? It was my rock–fuck–hard abs that got you?”

It’s hard for him to keep a straight face when your fingers are twisting so sinfully around his hard cock. “Maybe I ran into you on purpose t-to–shit–give me the chance to take off my shirt in front of you.”

“Diabolical.” You hum, kissing all over his tummy, getting closer and closer to his aching cock before moving up again, just to tease him, then repeating the process all over again until he starts dripping in need.

“Baby, please…” He finally calls out when he becomes so needy that your palm gets all sticky with his arousal.

“I got you, baby.” You finally take him into your mouth, the taste of him familiar by now.

Over the few months you’ve been dating Yeonjun, you’ve gotten very acquainted with what he likes and how he likes to be touched. You learn what makes him tick and where he is sensitive. It’s no longer entirely nerve-wracking to be with him. There are some things you can do and say that you can rely on that are guaranteed to get him in the mood

But today is different. You’ve never tried to take the lead from him before. In a way, you’re both more confident and more nervous–more confident because you know how to do this better, you’ve done this a lot with Beomgyu… and more nervous because you’ve never done it with Yeonjun. What if he doesn’t like it?

Your movements are slow, meant to tease and build up rather than push him over the edge. Your tongue swirls slowly around his flushed head and laps up any precum leaking from his slit while your thumb and index finger make a circle around his cock and slowly move up and down the bottom of his shaft, working him up until he’s begging again.

“More–please, I need more.” He breathes, voice tight and needy.

It’s a lot different from Beomgyu… If it was Beomgyu, he’d be crying and whining loudly, his mouth spouting off all kinds of filth in an attempt to get you to throat his dick. He’d be squirming and trying to push his dick further down your mouth, bucking his hips into your hand so you’d jerk him off faster…

But Yeonjun is not Beomgyu. He stands there, as still as he can, and lets you do what you want.

Only interrupting with a quiet plea when he can’t take it anymore. Is that better? Is it worse? You don’t know. All you know is that you need to get Beomgyu out of your mind, stop comparing them. Yeonjun is yours, Beomgyu is not. Yeonjun is here for you to touch and taste and feel, Beomgyu isn’t. Yeonjun has opened his heart up to you, and it’s insulting to think of another guy when you’re with him.

So you get off your knees and kiss Yeonjun, letting yourself focus on him and only him. You push the rest of his clothes off his body, and let him do the same to you, letting his hands wander and squeeze and caress as he does so–because you’re his.

You lead him towards the bed, pushing him on it and climbing on top of him, lining yourself up with his hard cock before catching his gaze, seeing the way he lies still and waits for you to do, before you sink down on him.

He lets out a deep sigh when you’re seated on his hips, his cock buried all the way inside you.

“This what you wanted, darling?”

He nods, resting his hands on your thighs, not pushing or pulling, just letting you take your time. Is it a sign of patience and letting you take the lead or is it a lack of passion and indifference? These are the thoughts that plague you.

But you’re too much of a coward to ask, so you just lift yourself up and fall down on his cock, establishing a steady rhythm. He lets out quiet moans and pants, responding to the way your hips move and your pussy works over his cock, his eyes alternating from staring at your form to rolling into the back of his skull when the pleasure becomes too much.

“Is it good?” You ask and he nods. “So good.”

Still restrained. Still subdued. But you take it. You take it and you run with it, bouncing faster on his cock, your gaze stuck to his face, eating up every little twitch and sigh that escapes him, so focused on him that you neglect your own pleasure, only noticing when his right hand brushes up your thigh and his thumb grazes your clit.

“What are you doing, baby?” You ask, hand circling around his wrist but not pulling it away.

“Don’t wanna cum alone. Want you with me.”

Is it really you domming him if he can still do whatever he wants? You don’t know but you don’t have to decide right now. You can just take it slow. You can work things out the kinks bit by bit.

“That’s a bit quick, don’t you think?” You venture to tease him, hoping he’d give you the response you’re looking for, and he does… somewhat. “Can’t help it. You just look so sexy bouncing on my cock. You should dom me every day.”

You groan, thighs burning as you ride him faster, needing him to really mean it. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” He purrs, his thumb still circling your sensitive nub.

“Like you’re still in control.” You finally push his hand away, pinning his arms next to his head, but maddeningly, he just smirks up at you.

“You want the control, you’re going to have to take it, doll. I am not going to just show my belly and give you the lead so easily.”

“You’re insufferable.” You hold his wrists with one hand and use the other to wrap around his throat, not cutting off his circulation but just holding it tight enough to make a point.

“That’s more like it.” He gasps, craning his head back to give you an easier purchase on his neck. “I’m close.”

“Why should I let you cum?” You challenge, digging your fingers just a little more into his neck, clenching your pussy just a little tighter around his cock.

“Because you like it when I empty my balls inside your little pussy.” He sucks in a sharp breath, his control slipping just a little bit, and you latch onto that.

“I do like it, but what I like more is making bad boys cry.” You threaten, slowing down your movement until you’re barely riding him. “I’m sure it would feel just as good getting off your cock and making myself cum on my fingers. Just seeing your needy cock all hard and red with no relief would be more than enough to get me off.”

He frowns. “You wouldn’t…”

You make a show of getting off his cock and he quickly cries out. “No, wait. Okay. You win. I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow at him before going back to riding him fast, not giving him the chance to challenge you again. “Well, that was easy.”

He does well by shutting up this time, his full lips pulled into a hilarious pout.

“Are you close?” You ask him when his eyebrows begin to furrow and he nods. You let go of his wrist, telling him to keep them there as if you could’ve stopped him if he wanted to overpower you.

You use your now free hand to rub your clit, pushing yourself towards your own high.

Yeonjun doesn’t like that. “I could do that for you.”

He tries to reach out to touch you but you let go of his throat and swat his hands away. “No. Only good boys get to touch.”

He gives you a little whine–a semblance of what you crave from him. Maybe the rest will come in time.

“I’m close.” You tell him, fingers desperately moving over your pussy as you ride him. “Want you to cum with me.”

He nods, his hips moving for the first time under you, helping the both of you over the edge.

“Yeonjun–fuck!” You throw your head back, eyes squeezed tight as your body shudders with release. Yeonjun hands reach out to hold your hips flush against his as he empties himself inside you, a long groan slipping from his pretty lips.

“Fuck.” You gasp, falling down when your orgasm leaves you, and Yeonjun opens his arms to take you in, holding you close to him, your hearts beating rapidly still.

This whole day has been an emotional rollercoaster for you, and the release of pent up energy leaves you spent, your body all but becoming boneless in Yeonjun’s embrace.

He kisses the top of your head, his hand smoothing through your wet hair as the both of you catch your breath. You feel your eyelids getting heavy with exhaustion, the heat of his embrace now a familiar night-time companion, and you find yourself drifting off to sleep.

"Thank you again for choosing me for the Frost shoot." You mumble, eyes closed. He may have just changed the whole trajectory of your career.

"No need to thank me. It was all Beomgyu's idea."

____________________

A/N: one more chapter to go. as always your feedback makes me update faster so don't be shy to drop in a message. the author note in the last chapter will contain a link to my patreon for the alternative ending for the losing boy so look forward to that

and for the final time

Taglist: @blxxsss@sanasour@tinkw1nks@lol6sposts@zuzuhasablog@beomsl@seolis-world @stantxtorurmissingout@wonwooz1@yaorzu-blog@allylikesdabee@rkivezzs@malieno@leviathanlee26@yomomas-stuff@kurisaiyunobara@girlwholovekpop@zuzuhasablog @viaaasdiary @ho3forkpop@skzvcr @th3-3d3n-g4rd3n @izzyexe @boomfrogg @kpop-cakepops-recs @chronicallygyu @girlwholovekpop

#txt smut #tomorrow x together smut #fem!reader #dom!reader

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shoddynomenclature · 3 months

Note

Hi!!! Absolutely love your writing :)

Idk if you’re taking requests but if you are:

Been having a tough time lately, would it be possible to have the female companions (plus Aylin+Isobel) comforting Tav/Reader during a panic attack?

Thank youuuuuu sending you all the love and good vibes

BG3 Ladies Soothe a Panic Attack

I was honestly unsure I’d ever able to do this prompt justice, especially given how differently every person’s needs are in such a situation. But I felt inspired to give it a shot anyway! I hope it’s alright!

I also send good vibes and well wishes to all my fellow panic attack having soldiers.

In the spirit of trying to keep it vague, this one is pretty short. But without further ado, here’s Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Karlach, Minthara, Jaheira, and Isobel and Aylin!

Shadowheart

Shadowheart knows all the clerical tips and tricks that are gonna get you through this you through this.

As soon as you’re in full blown panic she’s got an ice spell at her fingertips, placing her cold hands on your face especially around the eyes.

She kneels down next to you. “Alright love, I need you to breathe with me,” she commands, modeling the most effective breathing techniques.

She’s very soft, nearly whispering so you have to really focus on her in order to understand what she is saying.

She’s very liberal with her praise, telling you how good you’re doing with every breath you’re able to match.

When the panic subsides, she instructs you to rest. She’ll lay with you if you’d like, but you need to rest for at least a few minutes before proceeding with life as usual.

She brings you food and water, taking the opportunity to make sure you’re taking care of yourself in general. You have to eat and drink at least a little bit before she’ll let you go.

She also wants to have a little chat about the root of the issue. What are some of your triggers? What are some things that help you specifically?

Next time, she’s gonna be prepared.

Lae’zel

Lae’zel is not the gentle type when it comes to these sorts of things, though it’s not something she’s entirely unfamiliar with.

When she sees the panic set in, she’s the first to pull you up to your feet and have you do jumping jacks or something.

While any observers might think she’s being heartless or unemphatic, the adrenaline actually works pretty well to pull you out of the panic fast.

She doesn’t make you feel embarrassed about it at all. She simply squeezes your arms and nods in understanding. It happens to the best of us.

Lae’zel is, shockingly, largely unfazed. You get the sense that she dealt with this before. Perhaps she even dealt with panic attacks herself in her youth.

She thinks it’s best to resume normal activities immediately, though she’ll secretly be keeping a special eye on you the rest of the day.

Karlach

In seeing your unbridled panic, Karlach starts to get a little panicked herself.

She just doesn’t really have any experience with this sort of thing and is completely unsure of what to do.

Her first instinct is to hold you, but if you put up any sort of resistance at all she backs off immediately.

Whether you are in her arms or simply next to her, she whispering words of affirmation. But she’s unable to come up with much more than “it’s okay, soldier. It’s gonna be okay. You’ve got this.”

When you’re no longer gripped by panic, she’s still not entirely sure what to do. She’ll take your lead completely. Though she’s not entirely convinced that a simple “back to business” is the best course of action.

She’ll probably want to cuddle or at least hold your hand for a while just to make sure you’re truly alright. If she’s being honest, the ordeal gave her quite a scare. But she absolutely will not make this about her right now.

She’s going to be checking in on you pretty consistently over the next couple days. She may even get some pointers from Shadowheart on what to do if it ever happens again.

Minthara

Minthara’s first priority is privacy and protection. Anyone who isn’t her isn’t allowed to come anywhere close to you. Not when you’re this vulnerable.

After everyone is gone and out of earshot, she asks “Would you like to be held?” She speaks with the same tone and cadence she’s always using. Nothing about her softens.

If you say yes, she’ll silently pull you into her arms, allowing you to sob and heave into her chest until you recover.

Pretty much anything you need is fair game. She will not stop you from clutching at her clothes or skin, even if you accidentally hurt her.

If you say no, she’ll simply sit next to you in silence, occupying herself with a silent menial task. She will allow you some space, but she will not leave you entirely alone.

Either way, anyone who values their life will stay away from you; she’ll make sure of it.

You expect her to lecture you about such a blatant display of weakness, but she doesn’t. And anyone who would dare even mention it will receive a glare that makes them think better of it.

Jaheira

Jaheira’s first tactic is similar to that of Lae’zel. She tries to get you moving until the endorphins help you overcome your panic.

It’s honestly frustrating how effective it is. The height of your panic subsides quicker than it ever has before.

She is, however, quite a bit gentler afterwards. She has questions. Is this a frequent occurrence? What triggers your panic? How can we avoid it in future?

When you express to her your concern about your anxiety making you a weak link, she is quick to shut down any doubt that you are less valuable for this.

She’s raised enough children to know it takes all sorts of strengths and weaknesses to round out a team. Even those on the softer side have their purpose.

She eventually convinces to start taking more days off, especially when the task at hand has a high likelihood to push you beyond your limits.

Isobel and Dame Aylin

Dame Aylin pulls you into her arms. Even if you struggle against it at first, she just holds you tightly against her chest and gently shushes your sobs.

Meanwhile, Isobel handles the situation very similarly to Shadowheart, bringing her clerical knowledge in to support you.

She strokes your face with cooled hands, not minding the way tears pour relentlessly down her hands. All while a strong Aylin gently kisses the crown of your head.

Aylin shields you from the world with her wings, only allowing Isobel close. Anyone else will receive a gentle yet firm “Begone.”

When it’s over, Isobel tells you to rest. She’ll probably insist prefer you came back to/stayed at camp with her for the rest of the day.

As loathe as you are to miss out on a day on adventuring, Isobel’s company makes for the best afternoon anyone could ask for.

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reiderwriter · 6 months

Note

listen- i get this is not helpful at all but i NEED a fic based on the 8th picture (him in front of that wooden door in glasses) with spencer reid x reader 🙏

https://www.tumblr.com/reiderwriter/726627519505301504/photo-dump-2-im-really-in-love-with-him-guys

A/N: I love this pic so much, you don't even know, like glasses??? Hair??? Shirt unbuttoned whorishly??? It's actually criminal. I hope you enjoy the fic!!

Warnings: Semi-public sex, creampie, most of this isn't smut, but it is there, fingering, cowgirl, etc.

You weren't sure what motivated you to keep your relationship with Spencer Reid to yourself. You just knew that the heat of his kisses was delightful.

On days like today, special occasions where you had him all to yourself with no threat of intrusion, you gave into your little desires, let go of all your tension and melted into his touch, ready to feel all of him as you both basked in your pleasure.

Rolling your hips into his from the couch you enjoyed every lazy tun of his lips across yours, each slow caress of your cheek, every pump of his fingers inside you, stretching you out and getting you ready.

You let yourself get lost in his bites, his licks, just as he moaned at each scratch of your nails against his back. You were so lost and content that neither of you, in fact, noticed the frustrated rings of the Spencer's doorbell, until whoever it was on the other side pounded against the door with a forceful knock.

“Come back to me quickly,” you reluctantly parted from him, taking the opportunity to catch your breath as Spencer donned his glasses and straightened the part of his shirt that remained buttoned.

Moving to the door, Spencer scowled in dissatisfaction. Cracking the door open, his face immediately drained of blood as he took in the face outside of it.

“About time, pretty boy. I've been out here ten minutes trying to get you to open up.” Morgan sighed, exasperated. Suddenly thankful that he'd only cracked the door, Spencer narrowed it a little further, knowing that your body would be in direct view of anyone standing in the doorway with a clear eye line.

“What are you doing here?” He questioned the man, willing his body to lose the tension in his voice before Morgan suspected something was off.

“Rossi's pasta night. I drive you every time, don't tell me you forgot.”

“I'm feeling a little under the weather. I think I picked up the flu in Seattle last week.” He coughed for effect, though the resulting eyebrow raise didn't exactly bolster his opinion of his own acting skills.

“You are looking a little pale, but you're also sounding very suspicious. Spencer, if you're using again, you know we'll get you the help you need.”

“I appreciate it, Morgan, but I'm not. Just the flu. I promise.”

“That last unsub really did a number on you, huh? I knew he landed some punches, but I didn't think he'd bruised up your neck and chest like that.”

For a minute, Spencer stood confused before he glanced down at his near bare chest, trailing a hand down certain areas you'd paid special attention to moments before. His mind blanked as he searched for an excuse, completely forgetting that Morgan had just given him a perfectly reasonable one.

“Well, anyway, take care of yourself, kid.” With that, the older man sauntered away, leaving Spencer to close the door behind him and thank whatever logical higher power there was that he didn't ask any further questions.

He practically threw himself back into the living room and into your arms as he pressed himself into you once again, not planning to leave until you'd shared ample satisfactions with each other.

–X–

“So they're definitely fucking, right?” Emily sipped her wine as she finished her pasta dish, Penelope to her left and Morgan to her right as they gossiped about their beloved teammates.

“You should've seen it, Emily. The kid was covered in lipstick and hickeys and couldn't even give me a reason why.” With Rossi and Hotch away packing up the leftovers, the three more fun members of the team had been left to JJ's careful watch.

“The three of you should drop it. They'll tell us when they tell us. We shouldn't pry.”

“It took me a month to learn Y/N's first name. I thought I'd forgot it and was wandering around trying to get her to say it, only to find out she'd never told any of us, and you think she's going to be so forthcoming with other personal information?” Penelope pouted, still sore about your slightly chilly welcome to the team.

“I'm just saying maybe we shouldn't push it. They're both our friends, and they're obviously enjoying the sneaking around.”

“I suddenly recall Miss Jareau here also sneaking around and being secretive a while back, with a certain Mr LaMontagne.” Emily smirked at her friend across the table, silencing the other woman with her teasing and earning her a humorous eye roll.

“How much of that wine have you had, Emily?” Hotch asked, stepping into the dining room once again, a tense frown set against his stern features.

“Half a glass. We have a case?”

“Unfortunately. I'll call Y/N and Reid. Go pick up your go-bags.”

“Hotch, wait!” Morgan called out as the man started typing the familiar digits into his phone. “I'll get Y/N and Reid. I have a feeling I can kill two birds with one stone with this notification.”

–X–

The feeling of Spencer buried inside of you was near perfection, as you rocked your hips into his, grinding down on his cock as you rode him. Never a fan of giving up complete control, Spencer kept a tight hand on your hips, controlling your pace and keeping it disastrously fast as you found your release above him. He continued feeding you pleasure as he worked himself over the edge, to happy to be meeting you in your bliss.

Another interruption found you before you could catch your breaths, though, and the pounding at Spencer’s door was back again. Somehow, it was even louder this time.

“You're on top. Can you get that one?” He panted underneath you and you nodded quickly, hissing slightly as you pulled yourself off his cock, watching your shared arousal spill out. Cleaning yourself up with the towels he'd prepared earlier, you pulled on the closest item of clothing to you and made your way to the door.

Your biggest regret, had you been asked, would most likely have been the decision to forego pants. As you swung open the door to Spencer’s apartment, you were met with three shit-eating grins.

“Y/N, wonderful, just who we were looking for.” Emily smiled and teased as Penelope tried her best not to burst into laughter. Morgan’s expression was the mirror of Emily’s, as he joined in the teasing.

“That shirt looks better on you than it did on Spencer earlier, I'll give you that.”

You subconsciously wrapped it around yourself more, again cursing your lack of foresight. You'd grabbed Spencer’s shirt and pulled it on like a dress, despite the fact that you weren't so much smaller than the man himself, just shorter.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Hotch sent us to get you. We've got a case. Shipping out in 1 hour. Do you have your go-bag, or do you just leave enough supplies here to be able to make the drop from here?” Emily continued, mixing business with the pleasure of poking fun at you.

It seemed that Spencer in his post-orgasmic bliss had made the same mistake as you had as you felt a set of arms wrap around you from behind, a warm presence at your back as he lifted an arm to tilt the door slightly more ajar than before.

He'd at least had the decency to throw on pants, though.

“Spencer! I'm so glad you could join us! How's your cold?” Emily barked with laughter as she took in Spencer’s guilty, frozen expression.

“There's a perfectly good explanation for this.” He stuttered, putting a slight bit of distance between the two of you but not fully letting you go as your friends struggled to wipe the smiles off their faces.

“I don't want to hear an explanation of anything you did in their, kid. I already know about the birds and the bees.” Morgan laughed as he started his retreat from Spencer's doorway, the two women following suit.

“For your consideration, I'd make a wonderful godmother.” Penelope shouted as she followed her best friends out of the building. Emily lingered a few more seconds, though, still grinning.

“You have about an hour to come up with an excuse, though, if you'd like. Hotch says wheels up in 60, gives you time to get your story straight.” With a wink, she was gone, and you were once again closing the door to the world and turning into Spencer's embrace.

“That went… as expected.” You whispered as he nuzzled his head into your hair.

“Honestly, I'm just surprised it took them this long. You'd think after a year of us sharing motel rooms, one of them would catch on.”

“You would certainly think so. You certainly would.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

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talesofesther · 1 year

Text

you're all I want love to be

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: Tara is still afraid to allow people close, to allow herself to trust again. Until she finds someone who makes it easier.

A/N: The idea for this was also given to me by my dear @iamnicodemus. Hope y'all like it. Tara, I love u. <3

Masterlist

Tara never meant for it to happen.

It was actually the one thing she wanted the least. Catching feelings for someone only opens up more opportunities for her to get hurt.

And yet it happened so easily, so subtly, that she only realized it when the damage was already done.

She found you on her first day at the university. When she was admittedly very lost; backpack hanging from one shoulder, fifteen minutes late for her class, and walking in the opposite direction of it. You were the only person she'd bumped into when going past Blackmore's cafeteria, and after a bit of an internal pep talk, Tara walked up to you.

And if kindness could be a person, it would be you. Instead of just taking her to class, you gave Tara a simple tour of the university, promising to be around if she ever needed anything else.

Tara started noticing you on every corner of the campus after that. She didn't take you up on your offer though, choosing instead to keep her distance. Still, you always had a smile reserved for her at times you'd catch her staring. That didn't change when the rumors about her and Sam started, if anything, you became more approachable than before.

But it was only after an unfortunate incident, that Tara actually started hanging out with you;

October had started four days ago, and with it, the Halloween season. Parties were already being scheduled every other weekend and sometimes on weekdays as well.

Tara was walking towards her class, her head in the clouds while she thought about what costume she would wear if she were to go to one of those parties.

She was usually one to be early for class now that she had her paths memorized, preferring the calmness of the minutes before everyone started rushing to arrive on time.

So she wasn't exactly expecting what happened next.

As Tara rounded a corner, she was surprised to come face to face with two other students; one of them adorning a black hoodie and a cheap Ghostface mask. The 'boo' that left his lips was as childish as it could be, but the abruptness of the encounter got Tara stumbling on her own feet as she took several steps back, eyes wide and her body momentarily entering fight or flight mode.

"What's wrong, Carpenter?" The guy in the mask said in a mocking tone, his friend joining in on the laughter, "thought I was your sister?"

Tara's voice was tangled up in her throat, she couldn't remember if she packed her inhaler this morning, or was it her taser that she forgot?

If unkind memories weren't flashing behind her eyes, Tara would have recognized the two idiots in front of her; the boys who came here to do anything but study, taking getting on people's nerves as a hobby.

It was only when the back of their heads was hit — quite forcefully — with a book, that they stopped laughing. The cheap mask fell to the ground with the hit, gaining a crack on its edge.

"Don't you guys have anything better to do?" You came from behind them, tucking the book back in your backpack, "fuck off before I tell the director what you've been doing out in the parking lot when you think no one's watching."

With a few complaints under their breath, they eventually walked away, allowing Tara to let out the breath she'd been holding.

"Morons," you huffed, tugging on the straps of your backpack before turning around to Tara, your gaze softening immediately, "you okay?"

Her dark eyes found yours. She simply nodded, feeling her lower lip quivering when she tried to speak. She noticed the way your hand twitched to reach out to her but you stopped yourself midway, instead tucking both hands in your pockets.

"I'm sorry about them," you told her with the usual gentleness you never lacked, "they should know better than to do that."

Tara shook her head softly, managing a smile when her heartbeat started to settle, "thank you for… stepping in."

You just shrugged, your smile coming as a copy of hers, and it got Tara wondering if it could hold the same sentiment too.

"Anytime," you told her then, and Tara hardly left your side after it.

It was easy to fall into the routine of having you near and pretending she was just a normal girl with a crush on her friend. Being with you was so easy that it made Tara forget about all the bad, forget about all the reasons why allowing people close became dangerous.

And today? Today should be a good day, it's a day Tara has been looking forward to, a day that took away her sleep for all the good reasons. And it's not like she never stopped to get coffee with you on the way to campus, but today felt different because you had asked her to, as a date.

And Tara had been counting the seconds for it; until Ghostface came back and nearly killed her and Sam at that grocery store, until Mindy said 'never trust the love interest', until her worst nightmares came back again and suddenly nothing was easy anymore.

"Alright guys, as much as I love discussing possible suspects with you," Chad pushed himself off the bench he'd been sitting on, "we've still got classes to go to, come on Ethan." The two boys gathered their things and walked away, Quinn soon following behind.

Tara slumped back in her seat, her hands coming up to cover her eyes. With her sight momentarily gone, it felt like everything else was louder, heavier; she could perfectly hear the rustling of leaves from the trees around, the cacophony of voices from all the other students hanging out outside, and feel the weight of Sam's gaze on her.

"I think someone's looking for you, lovergirl," Mindy said out of nowhere, kicking Tara's sneaker with her own. When Tara glanced up at her friend with a frown, all Mindy did was tilt her head towards the university, where you had just walked out from and were now making your way to them.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Mindy teased with a sing-song voice and a grin plastered on her lips.

"Noticed what?" Sam sat up straighter, her gaze shifting from Tara to Mindy.

"Tara's girlfr-"

"Nothing," Tara interrupted quickly, getting up so she could land a gentle punch to Mindy's shoulder, "nothing to notice," she said again, pointedly.

"Alright, let's go, Sam," Mindy extended a hand for the older girl, "we'll meet back at the dorm later."

Sam still had a confused frown on her features but she took the hand offered to her anyway, while Mindy leaned closer to Tara so she could whisper; "always knew you had good taste," before both of them walked again.

Tara's cheeks went aflame as she let out a groan, predicting the onslaught of questions she'd get later today. She slowly turned around to meet you in the middle, her soul naturally filling with incessant butterflies.

Had she really been that unsubtle when regarding you?

"Hey," you greeted her a little breathlessly, letting go of your backpack and leaving it on the floor as you took a small extra step closer to Tara, your eyes frantically looking her over, "I was so worried when I saw what happened last night, are you-"

"I'm okay," it was instinct, but Tara didn't know if the words were true. There was something about you that always made her feel more than she wanted to, she suddenly felt like the last pieces of herself she'd been trying to hold together so hard over the last months started crumbling. Tara took hold of your hands, squeezing tightly. She didn't know who she was trying to comfort, you or herself.

You held her back, glancing down as your fingers intertwined with hers. Tara observed the way your lashes kissed the corner of your cheeks; you were all golden softness and spring warmth, presence rivaling the one of a welcoming sun on a cold day. Tara wanted to memorize that, keep it in her heart as if it was the first and last time she'd be seeing you.

It should be easy to forget and pretend, but it suddenly wasn't, because Mindy's words kept ringing inside Tara's head even if she didn't want them to be true. She felt tears steadily collecting on the bottom lid of her eyes.

"But," she closed her eyes at the unsteadiness of her own voice. More than anything, she wanted this, wanted you. But she was stuck. It felt like quicksand, pulling her further down the more she struggled to get out. "about today…"

It's like you knew her better than she knew herself sometimes, maybe for you, it still felt easy. "It's alright, Tara." Your thumb brushed over the scar on top of her hand, "we don't have to go, I understand."

Tara pursed her lips, blinking away her vulnerability. She let go of your hands only to loop her arm around yours and bring your bodies closer together, "walk me to class, though?"

—

"Come on, spill it, what's up between you two?" Mindy leaned back on the kitchen counter beside Tara, "I was joking earlier today, but now I actually think there's something there."

The carrot Tara was cutting ended up with a slice too big, she had to turn it around and cut it one more time in the middle, "I've told you, there's nothing going on," Tara told her friend with a sigh, making sure to cut smaller slices so she could keep her hands busy as long as possible; "she's my friend."

Mindy scoffed, she picked up a spoon from the sink and tasted whatever Chad was cooking up on the stove. A grimace came to her face at the lack of seasoning, "I've heard that before."

"It's not like that," Tara dropped the knife then, unsure what she was frustrated about or what she wanted to convince Mindy of, "how can I get… involved with someone after what happened?" Her voice grew quieter by the end.

Mindy softened at that, she turned to face Tara fully — everyone knew the younger Carpenter was still struggling with what she'd been through, even if she didn't want to admit it. "I know it's not easy, T. But you can't close yourself off for everyone, some people are still worth it," Mindy glanced towards the living room, a soft smile on her lips when Anika's silhouette came into view, "people aren't meant to be islands."

—

There are times when the pain is so big, that it almost doesn't feel like pain anymore. If it comes from a wound, that's usually the time when you'll pass out. If it comes from inside, you start to feel numb.

Sitting at the back of an ambulance as she watches cops walking out with another one of her friends in a dark body bag, Tara thinks she's close to that feeling. Mindy is sitting beside her, she's not moving. Tara doesn't know what to say in moments like these, they feel almost awkward. A morbid kind of awkward.

So when she gets up, cell phone in hand with your number already ringing, she blames it on that; on the pain squeezing her chest almost to the point of unbearable, on the helplessness she feels twirling in her gut.

Tara paced back and forth on the sidewalk, trying to draw out the noise of the sirens as she counted up the seconds until you picked up.

… Two, three, four.

Tara could hear her own heart rate quicken, she closed her eyes, thinking about how her inhaler was still all the way up in the apartment; where there's blood, and-

Please, pick up. Please, pick up.

"Hello?"

A long sigh of relief left Tara's lips as soon as she heard your voice through the phone. As if she hadn't cried enough, she could see tears clouding her sight.

"Tara? What happened, is everything okay?"

"No, it's not," Tara forced out, her voice tight with a sudden rawness. She turned her back to Mindy so the girl wouldn't see her crying, "there was another attack… Anika didn't make it."

"Oh god, I can't-" Tara could hear you choking on your own voice, "are you okay? Please tell me you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm-" Tears made a steady path down to Tara's chin, some getting caught under the phone pressed tightly to her cheek, "I'm alright."

"Tell me where you are, I can be there in like ten- five minutes."

"No!" Tara said with urgency, "don't come here, please, I don't want you anywhere near this," she gulped back a lump in her throat, "it's too dangerous."

"But what about you?"

"I'll be okay," Tara closed her eyes, wishing the words really were true, "I just-" she hesitated, a confession lingering on her tongue, "I just wanted to hear your voice, is all." She bit onto her lower lip until it drew blood.

"We- we can talk for as long as you need," it was like Tara could hear your smile, "I'm happy to hear your voice too."

—

Ambulance lights and police sirens were clouding your senses as you run up to the commotion. It was quite a sight; your oversized shirt, shorts, and sneakers with mismatched high socks. But you couldn't remember to care because your heart had been at your throat ever since Mindy called.

There were several reporters blocking your view but you squeezed your way through them until you reached the police tape. You've always hated this; the white and red colors of the vehicles that only showed up in tragedies, the panic and grief that lay heavy in the air, the clicks of the cameras from people who saw it as an opportunity — you hated it all, but right now the only one on your mind is Tara.

You ducked to go under the police tape, immediately attracting the attention of one of the cops, "Miss, you can't be here, please go back behind-"

"No, you don't understand," you gripped at the fabric of his jacket when he tried to keep you back, trying to push through, "I know them."

And the cop kept speaking, probably about things you weren't allowed to do and places you shouldn't be. You didn't hear any of it, because you found her. Her blue shirt had more red than blue in it, dried blood was all over the fabric, making you feel a mix between relief and nauseousness; her hair was messy, tangled, and damp in some places; her skin still coated with bits of dirt and blood too; her arm was held up by a makeshift bandage. But she was there, talking to a blonde woman on a stretcher; she was alive.

"Tara," you called quietly as your sight blurred over, and then a little louder, "Tara!"

She looked up, any words she'd been saying dying on her lips when she saw you. For a beat, it seemed as if she was assessing if you were real or not, before she was all but running towards you.

Not caring for consequences, you pushed the cop off of you and met her halfway — lucky for you he apparently noticed you really knew them.

"What are you doing here?" Tara's eyes were glinting under the red and blue lights, there were clear tracks on her cheeks where tears had run down.

"I was-" you tried, stumbling over your words as you took her in, all blood stains and bruises. You raised a hand to push back her fringe, the strands of hair were damp to the touch; from sweat or blood, you didn't want to know. "Mindy called, and scared the shit out of me. I came as fast as I could."

With her lower lip stuck between her teeth, Tara leaned into your touch. Her eyes closed tightly when your thumb traced the outline of her eyebrow.

"Are you okay? I mean of course you're not okay, what am I even-"

You were cut off when Tara threw herself at you. She pulled you close with her free hand, nails almost digging into your skin with the force of it as she buried her head on your shoulder.

Quiet sobs shook her body and you held her back the best you could whilst being mindful of her injuries. One of your hands cradled her head, fingers tangled in her dark hair as you breathed in everything that was her. "Shit, I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

Tara only pushed herself into you more as you spoke. There was a beat, a moment of hesitance from someone who'd had the bitter taste of betrayal more than anyone should. Trust was a gamble, but when you had a place in her heart no one else could ever have, Tara knew you'd never break it. "I'm okay now," she spoke against you; and she believed it.

You only squeezed her tighter, pulling back just enough to land a kiss on her temple. And you allowed your lips to linger, to feel her skin against you and her heartbeat pressed to your own.

Tara melted in your hold, allowing you to support most of her weight. With her cheek pressed to your collarbone, she spoke; "you still owe me a date."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Tara’s taglist: @milkiane @v1ci0us @alexkolax

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter imagine #tara carpenter #scream #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x fem reader #taracarpenteredit #imagine #fanfic #fluff #angst #tara carpenter fanfic #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #my story

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