#i love hanging out with him and having little jokes and just spending time together being dorks
Note
could you write a fic where arthur finishes too fast in bed and gets really embarrassed about it but the reader comforts him
love u
please, he'd be so sad... :(((
"arthur?"
"i'm nearly done in here," he murmurs back in response except yn can't figure out his response from the sound of the shower that had hot water cascading down his bare skin, "be done soon."
"what was that?"
"i'm nearly-"
his sentence is cut short when he hears his en-suite door open and close and his heart sinks lower in his chest at the sight of her figure on the other side of the frosted glass of his shower. with her hair still pulled back into a messy ponytail and a grey tee hanging down her figure, which he assumed she'd taken from his wardrobe, his eyes staring into the distance except the frosted glass kept him from seeing anything clearly.
"i'm nearly done in here," he repeats, taking a deep breath and feeling the steam clear his nose and his throat, "should be enough hot water for you."
"not what i came in here for," she claims and he watches her as she slides the tee over her head and lets it drop to the floor, laying in a cotton puddle at her feet, "i came to check on you, you just left me in bed, naked."
he gulps back the lump in his throat and stares down at his feet, his eyes focusing on the water that ran down his legs and disappeared down the plughole so he didn't have to see her step into the shower, so he didn't have to make eye contact wit her. her hands tentatively reaching forward to grab his hands and she winces at the heat of the water that touches her skin.
"jesus, arthur."
she snatches her arms back and he frowns, feeling one of her arms snake around him so she could turn down the heat and make the water a little more tolerable, a little cooler so his skin wasn't scolded and red and blistering by the time he left the room.
"i'm sorry."
"i didn't realise you had your showers this hot," she says softly, taking slow steps towards him and reaching her hands back out, taking his fingers in her gentle hold and squeezing them softly, "no need to be sorry about that."
"no, i'm sorry about-" he cuts himself off, shaking his head at how silly he felt before he looked up and made eye contact with her, "i'm sorry i couldn't last in there."
"oh."
the silence between them was broken by the stream of water falling from the shower head yet neither of them could tear their eyes from each other. his fringe clung to his forehead and his eyes were sunken and she could see the sadness lingering deep in his mind. she lifted a hand up, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand and she smiles at the way his head tilts into her touch, his other hand squeezing hers.
"you don't need to apologise for that either," she admits, stroking the curve of his cheek with her thumb, "it happens."
"i just, i don't want you think i wanted it over with from the moment it started."
"i'm actually taking it as a compliment. i'm just too sexy that you can't hold it back," she jokes teasingly and he can't hide the amusement that bubbles up in his chest and leaves his mouth in breathy laugh, "i think you just can't handle hot hot i am."
"you really are just irresistible," and she swore she saw a smirk tickle at the corner of his lips, moving her arms to wrap around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest and feeling the wet skin against her face, "i know you were excited to, you know, do it now i'm home from sri lanka and-"
"it's okay, arthur," she shakes her head softly, "honest. you're home now so we've got so much time to spend together."
"i'll make it up to you," he presses a kiss to her wet hair and lets his mouth linger, "i promise you." xx
#arthurtv#arthurtv blurbs#arthurtv imagines#arthurtv fics#arthurtv headcannons#arthur frederick#arthur frederick imagines#arthur frederick blurbs#arthur frederick headcannons#arthur frederick fics
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Two jobs, part 2
word count; 1107 – set a few years after part 1, reader and Osamu are married and the three of you live together. I gave your son a name, Kazuo, to make writing easier
You were away on a business trip and left your two favourite guys to take care of each other for a few days. Luckily, you didn’t have to do this often, but you were relieved they got along so well that you could. Even though Kazuo grew attached to Osamu in a way before you two even started dating, it had been an adjustment for all of you after you got married and moved in together, especially because your son was at his most difficult age.
Currently, Kazuo sat on a bar chair by the island counter while Osamu made dinner. The two would often hang out in the kitchen together, because Kazuo liked spending time with Osamu when he had an excuse for it. He also found it hilarious when he asked his stepdad for help with his homework and Samu got frustrated because he didn’t understand it either. It was a peaceful connection they had, and you usually did your best to let them have their time in the kitchen to themselves even when you were home.
“Hey, look at this.” Osamu said to catch his attention. When Kazuo looked up, he did some weird juggling trick with the pepper shaker before adding the necessary seasoning to the soup he was making. Then he did the same with the salt to show it wasn’t a fluke. “Am I cool, or what?” It was meant as a joke, but there was a hopeful look in his eyes.
Kazuo made a face. “Uhh… yeah.” he said, which was an obvious lie, making Osamu deflate. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt particularly sensitive about it all of a sudden. Perhaps it had something to do with the difference of how Kazuo looked when he got to play volleyball with his twin compared to how he politely declined lately when Osamu asked him if they should do some passes in the garden.
“Do you not think I’m cool?” he asked after a long silence, leaning one hand on his hip while the other stirred the soup to make sure it didn’t stick to the bottom.
“Not like Tsumu.” Kazuo answered honestly without thinking about it, eyes on his homework so he didn’t notice his stepdad’s face scrunching up. If he thought he felt sensitive before, that one hit the spot for sure. “But it’s okay, being a chef is good too.” The boy honestly didn’t think adults cared so much about being cool.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t take pity on me now.” he said followed by a deep sigh. “Maybe I should cook you instead, you gremlin.” Kazuo just laughed, unknowing of Osamu’s bruised ego. When he turned back to his homework, Osamu pulled his phone out and opened messages, sending a simple ‘You’re ugly and stupid’ to Atsumu without context. That made him feel a little better, at least. You bet he’ll call you that night before bed for some reassurance. And to remind you that he loves you, of course.
Sometimes, Kazuo was allowed to go to parties in exchange for sharing his location at all times while he was away with whichever parental figure was home at the time. Usually, the parties were alright. Typical underage parties where someone had stolen a few beers from a parent and they all tasted it before looking disgusted and swearing to never drink it again. He would be picked up at the agreed time with a few complaints of how lame you were for setting those rules, and then he would tell you he loved you under his breath before going to bed.
However, they were growing older and that came with engaging in new topics of interest. That’s how Kazuo ended up in a game of seven minutes in heaven that he desperately wanted out of. It’s not like he could just tell them he might prefer guys over girls, he wasn’t even sure yet himself! It was all too much, so he snuck away and pulled out his phone with slightly shaky hands. You’re still on your business trip, and he was starting to miss you even though he would never tell you that. After all, you were the only one he relied on for the first 10 years of his life.
He pulled up his contacts on the old phone you had gifted him, scrolling past your contact until he got to a Miya. Even though he knew Atsumu liked spending time with him, he didn’t seem to have that much spare time anymore. Actually, he probably wouldn’t call Atsumu for an emergency anyways, he realised. Tsumu was more of a cool uncle, like he told Osamu in the kitchen the day before. Now that he was in trouble, he already knew who he had to call.
“Samu…” Kazuo said, voice cracking a little so he pretended to clear his throat.
“What’s up, buddy?” Osamu sounded tired, like he had taken a nap in that recliner he loved to occupy when you weren’t home. If you knew he snoozed off while your boy was at a party, you would not be happy, but at least he picked up the phone.
“Can you come pick me up?” he asked not too loudly, frowning at the floor. “I’m okay, I just want to go home.” He tried to sound tough and chill, but it didn’t fool Osamu.
“Sure, I’ll head out now. Go outside in about 15 minutes but not before. Actually, stay inside until I’m there.” Kazuo chuckled a bit at Osamu’s short ramble where he corrected himself, then he hummed in confirmation and hung up. So he told his friends he was feeling under the weather and went outside when Osamu came to pick him up.
Kazuo didn’t say much more than “Thanks for picking me up,” and “I don’t want to talk about it,” after getting in the car, and Osamu knew he would rather tell you about it than him, so he didn’t pry.
Instead, he clicked his tongue with a cheeky smile. “You know, the new Star Wars movie just came out for streaming. I won’t tell your mom we stayed up late if you don’t.”
And as he looked to the side where Kazuo fiddled with his hands in the passenger seat wearing a relieved smile, safe because he dared text him for help, Osamu decided that he didn’t need to be cool. He just had to be there.
Even so, his chest bloomed with pride when Kazuo came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth for the night and told him, “Thanks for the movie, Samu. You are pretty cool.”
masterlist
taglist: @miyamizuna, @makkir0ll, @shiratorizawa-can-step-on-me, @sobbing-leave-me-alone-bots, @eeerreehhh, @f4iryk3i, @cosmiicdust, @malikazz243
#haikyu x reader#haikyu#haikyuu#hq x reader#fanfiction#haikyuu x reader#hq#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu x you#haikyu fluff#stepdad!osamu#miya osamu x reader#miya osamu#osamu x reader
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i think there's been a glitch / theodore nott
PAIRING Theodore Nott x studious!shy!Reader
SUMMARY Theodore Nott was well known for the sort of happenstances that occurred in his dorm. However, the new transfer student seems to catch his eye in particular - that transfer student is you. His friends think that, at first, he has his eyes set on you for more sinful reasons, but he soon proves that his intentions are more romantic than anyone ever thought.
TAGS Theodore Nott x Reader, angst, if you squint, idiots in love, cursing, kissing, study buddies, friends to wtf is this to friends with benefits but also wtf is this to lovers, theo is a simp, reader is not slytherin, can be any other house, reader has social anxiety, references to sex, underage drinking, headmaster's list = dean's list, gender neutral reader
"We were supposed be just friends, / you don't live in my part of town, but maybe I'll see you out some weekend, / depending on what type of mood and situationship I'm in, / and what's in my system," - Glitch by Taylor Swift
WORD COUNT 3.2K
WRITTEN 27.08.2023
A/N This came as a burst of inspiration during calc class when I realized I was really the only person answering my professor's questions in my classes, lmaoo 😭😭 so this is purely self-induglent. i hope you guys enjoy <333
When you had transferred to Hogwarts, you hadn't made very many friends. All right, you hadn't made any friends. Because you had transferred to Hogwarts so late in your academic career, everyone had already formed their own friend groups. No one had any real interest in you - that was, they were interested in why you transferred, but not in assimilating you into their social circles. Your professors, however, had grown quite fond of you, most likely due to your dedication to your studies. And eventually, around midway through the fall semester, you were called into the Headmaster's office. It had kept you on your toes all day - had you done something wrong? Gotten in trouble? Your mind had come up with most elaborate and unlikely scenarios that might have cause you to get called into the Headmaster's office.
You were awarded the honor of being added to the Headmaster's list. Only two others in your year were granted the same honor - Hermione Granger and Theodore Nott. All three of you were maintaining straight O's. You and Hermione had never gotten the opportunity to grow close - it might have been the fact that she was much more close-mindrd than you, or the fact that she didn't have the time to spare to make new friends between her studies and all the "Chosen One" stuff going on. You wanted to at least make one friend, instead of an academic rival, which you made the mistake of creating at your previous school.
So, you approached Theo after the meeting, your hands clamy and shaking while you stuttered out your request to study together. Theo simply watched you with those dead eyes of his before nodding. It had unnerved you but you pushed yourself to confirm a date and time with him. And so began your little friendship.
You were never meant to be more than study partners. Weekly study sessions in the library grew into bi-weekly gatherings, which then grew into daily meetings. And then you were meeting each other after class, making inside jokes, hanging out just because. Slowly, but surely, you and Theo grew close. You weren't sure you had ever been this close with anyone before. It was like he just knew you, not only like the back of his hand, but like every square inch of his body.
And Theo? Theo had never saw you coming. He didn't know that he wanted to be friends with you until you were friends, and then he couldn't stop coming back. You were like a drug. He needed another hit each and every time he saw you. Soon enough, he was aching to spend every waking moment with you. It had started as nothing more than a mutually beneficial partnership, but it grew to be much more than that.
It took him a while to realize he loved you. Cared for you. He was well reputed for sleeping around and having a general devil-may-care attitude. He knew that he loved you when he began to grow tired of the constant flings and one-night stands. When he called off the on-and-off relationship he'd had with a particularly vivacious Slytherin girl. He hated the way girls threw themselves at him, vying for his attention like wildcats fighting over a piece of meat. You weren't like that. You were perfect.
He knew he wanted to ask you out. His friends scoffed at the idea, thinking he was joking. They were shocked when they realized he was serious. Mattheo had even knocked on his head, asking if Theo was really in there. It had to be perfect, so he went to the only people he knew who had ever been in serious relationships. Mostly everyone had told him the same thing - find out what you liked. Woo you. It was rather simple. "For someone who is so smart, you're rather stupid, you know," Blaise had told him. He secretly agreed.
First, he had bought a collection of muggle novels for you at a book store on a forgotten. It had beautifully decorated covers, guilded with golden etchings. When you had sat down to study one day, Theodore had dropped it on the table in front of you while he pulled out his books.
"What's this?" You had asked in confusion.
"It reminded me of you," he said simply, pulling out his spellbook and flipping through it to find where he had last left off.
You furrowed your brows as you pulled the box towards you, unclasping the front of it and pushing it open. You let out the small gasp at the gorgeous hardcovers resting inside, hands trailing along the sturdy spines. Five Muggle Classics, the interior of the box cover said. "Theo . . . " Your voice trailed off at the thoughtfullness of the gift - you were left utterly speechless. "I can't take this. I can't imagine how expensive how this was." You slid the case of books back to Theo. He stopped it, pushing it back towards you.
"Take it. I can't return it. Besides, I got it for you. I would hate to see these go to waste."
You bit your bottom lip before pulling the box back towards you, a smile spreading across your face as you pulled out one of your favorite muggle classics. You flipped through the pages, allowing that paticular new-book smell to wash over you like the waves on a shore. "Thank you," you mumbled softly.
-
You never came to parties. Mostly because you hated all the drinking and crowds and the mixture of stroking lights and booming music that made you dizzy. But you had started to develop feelings for a particular friend of yours. He was tall, devilishly handsome, and more intelligent that anyone you'd ever met. He smelled of evergreen trees, cigarettes, and lilac. You felt for him in a way that you had never felt for anyone else. You were always so laser-focused on you studies, but you realized that your attention had been straying towards a paticular someone as of recently.
You knew he hung around these sort of parties, finding pretty girls to have a fun night with. You wore the most insanely inappropriate dress you could find, hoping to catch his attention. You weren't exactly sure what your goal for that night was, but you were certain you wanted it to end with you and Theo, alone.
Of course, Theo was shocked to see you there. Even more shocked to see you out of the jeans and sweaters you usually wore, standing in a tight little number that had him practically frothing at the mouth. Not that you weren't always stunning, but you were stunning stunning. He wouldn't have approached you normally, but with the alcohol currently coursing through his system, he had a boost of courage and stupidity.
Five seconds later, he was standing right behind you, calling your name. You turned around to face him with a grin. "Hey, there you are."
"What are you doing here?" It sounded much more like a statement than a question - he was seemingly distracted by something else about you.
"I came to see you, silly. And to see what all the rage is about."
"And?"
"I've come to the conclusion that parties suck."
Theo laughed, something hearty that rumbled through his chest. "Want to go somewhere else?"
"Please," you responded with a role of your eyes. "I'm starting to get a headache." You had stupidly accepted a drink and chugged down the bitter alcohol earlier - that didn't bode well for your head when you were already bothered by loud music sober.
Theo's eyes searched the room for somehwere that might be a little quieter - his eyes landed on the staircase to his dorm. Well, where else was there to go? He lead you up the steps, the two of you laughing as he kept you from stumbling down the stairs, and guided you to his dorm. He sat you down on the bed, grabbing a glass on his bedside table, and filled it up with the spell Aguamenti.
"Thanks," you said sweetly, taking it from his hand and taking a long sip. You took a good look at the room, easily able to tell whose area of the roo. was whose. Mattheo's was messy - clothes strewn across the bed and floor. Draco's was neat and filled with a variety of potions book, his bedside table cluttered with potions of a variety of colors, lined up in orderly rows. Blaise had a poster of his favorite Quidditch team plastered on the wall, as well as a family photo filled with all his siblings. Theo's, however, was minimal and tidy aside from the piles of books. His bed was neatly made, the corners of the covers tucked under the mattress.
You finally met Theo's eyes and finally saw some sort of emotion - it took you a moment to identify it as hunger. You glanced down at the outfit you were wearing and flushed, your eyes staying firmly on the ground.
"You look very pretty."
You felt your heart stop in your chest. Had Theo called you . . . pretty? You were in shock - sure, you had come to the party with more than friendly intent, but you had never expected that he would actually notice you the way he had noticed other girls.
"Y-you - you look very handsome."
Theo watched you for a moment - he was standing only a foot away with arm wrapped around the four-poster, hanging off from it slightly. There was an odd sort of tension in the room - you both knew what you wanted and you both knew you wanted it now. Both of your inhibitions were lowered because of the alcohol, so it was that one split desicion that changed everything. Soon enough, his lips were planted into yours, one hand cupping your cheek and the other trailing along the side of your body. Everything had happened so fast - it went from the hand on your hips guiding you down onto the mattress to clothes strewn on the floor to sleeping heavily within each other's arms. It was hours before you woke again, and you were grateful that none of his friends had come up from the party yet. He helped you get dressed, a look of almost disbelief settled into his features as you left, sending him an awkward smile before you closed the door. What had he done?
-
The next day you had studied together like nothing happened. You cracked a joke. He laughed. You helped him with Transfiguration, he helped you with Ancient Runes. Another day passed. And another. And another. Theo was going beyond mad - what were you two now? Were you still friends? Were you dating? He felt like he wanted to yank all his hair out of his head.
That was, until about a week later. Late at night, the two of you were studying in the library. He was huddled next to you, embarrassingly distracted by your beauty while you were trying to help him with a homework problem he got stuck on. He finally snapped back to attention as you pointed to something on his parchment, leaning downwards to see exactly what you were pointing at. At the same time, you had turned your head to see what had him so distracted. The resultant situation: your noses bumped together and he could feel your heavy, hot breath on his lips.
Flashbacks to the night you shared soared through both of your minds. And it was you, this time, who had made the stupid desicion. You lunged for his lips with desperation, fingers snaking through his hair, a hand planted on his chest. He had tensed in surprise before returning the kiss with equal fervor. It wasn't long before you were quickly packing your things and Theo was dragging you to some abandoned room, your lips entangled as he pressed you up against the wall. The moonlight seeped in through the red glass-stained windows, dancing deliciously on your skin. Forever engraved in his memory was the picture of you, the only word on your lips being his name, grasping his shoulders with need.
-
Neither of you knew what kind of relationship you had descended into. It involved rather intimate gatherings from time to time, but for the most part, you were just friends. It was an almost seamless friendship between you two - except for the nagging thoughts at the back of both of your minds that kept you wondering if the other really felt the same way.
Theo buried his face into his hands, surrounded by a group of friends who had utterly no idea what to do. Their eyes watched him with trepidation and worry. It was oddly concerning how much he was stressing over this. Theo never seemed to stress about anything. But here he was, hands fisted in his hair, staring down at the ground in utter disillusionment.
"I've ruined everything. All cause I couldn't keep it in my fucking pants."
"That can't be it, mate," Mattheo tried reassuring him. "Look, you said they're different, yeah? All the other girls you've slept with found someone else after you. But they keep coming back for more. That has to mean something, right?"
"Yeah, you've just got to romance them," Blaise said. Theo groaned.
"Please never open your mouth again."
"I'm serious. Take her to Hogsmeade, that'll show them."
Theo leaned his face upwards, staring at Blaise. He was right - taking someone to Hogsmeade virtually meant asking them out on a date. You had to know the innuendo by now, being at Hogwarts as long as you have. "Blaise, you're brilliant." He clapped his friend on the back, rushing out of the dorm to find you.
-
You scanned the bookshelves for books with more information on Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. The idea fascinated you - how come you could conjure any sort of non-edible object from nothing, but with food you couldn't? At the root of it, everything was made of subatomic particles, then atoms, then particles, and so on. So, theoretically, anything could be created from nothing, correct?
You were so enraptured by your own thoughts that you had no conception of your surroundings and bumped right into someone walking straight towards you. The books in your arms tumbled onto the floor and you flushed a bright red, bending down to pick them up.
"Gosh, I'm so sorry!" you exclaimed, hastily collecting the books from the ground. The boy, who you hadn't really looked at yet, bent down to help you collect them as well. "I wasn't looking where I was going, I'm really -"
As you stood up, you finally got to look at his face - and it turned out to be Theo. His face was just barely flushed, and the emotion in his eyes held a deep meaning that you couldn't quite decrypt. You didn't have a chance to ask him what he was doing, because he beat you to it.
"Go to Hogsmeade with me."
"I'm sorry?"
"Hogsmeade. You and I. Interested?" His tone was strained, and you realized what emotion finally lay beyond those dead eyes. Fear.
You knew what he was insinuating. Was he - asking you out on a date? Did that mean he really did like you? More than just as someone he could have a little fun with time and again, someone who was just a friend. You stared up at him for quite a while, not realising how silent you were as you sunk into the rabbit hole of your own thoughts.
"I - erm - all right, then." You were still quite in a bit of shock. "Will you -"
"Yeah, I'll wait for you outside your common room." The fear in his eyes seemed to dissipate, his shoulders sagging in relief.
"Right. Yeah, sounds good. Great."
-
You had bundled up for the cold weather, a thick scarf wrapped around your neck and a hat with your house emblem on your head. You tried to dress in something nice underneath the layers of warmth - it had taken you a long time to decide what exactly you wanted to wear, but you had eventually come to a conclusion.
When you exited the dormitory, you found Theo bundled up with an equal amount of layers, yet he looked just as attractive as he always did. In his hands, he held a single rose. You flushed a bright red, especially as a group of first year girls giggled as they exited the dorm behind you.
"Hello," Theo said simply, handing you the rose.
"Hello," you responded shyly, taking it gratefully and holding it in your hands. You smiled nervously, rocking back and forth on your feet. "So."
"So. Are you ready?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Theo grabbed your hand, holding it gently. You hid your face from his view, not wanting him to know the kind of affect he had on you as he lead you through the castle. "What do you want to do first?"
You had weaved your hand through his arm, resting your head on the edge of his shoulder. "Hm. I need some more quills. But we should definitely stop at the bookshop first. I want to see if they've gotten anything new."
"Okay."
Theo had never been a talkative person - and you had never really minded it, not until now. You wish that maybe he might just tell you he had feelings for you, more than feelings that only arose every once in a while. It would make this so much easier on you. But you were nervous and shy and had a hard time talking to people, even one's you've been friends with. So you remained silent on the walk there.
Theo could tell it was an uncomfortable silence. Not only did being the quiet one meant he could read a room easily, he had also been around you long enough to know when you felt uncomfortable. He stopped the two of you from walking - you were already walking the path to Hogsmeade, snow lightly covered both of your heads.
"What's wrong?"
"N-nothing."
"You don't have to lie to me."
You bit the interior of your cheek nervously. Did you really want to destroy what you had with him? You were content with keeping your relationship the way it was. At least, that's what you convinced yourself.
You felt your gaze being drawn back to Theo, his fingers resting under your chin. "Don't hide from me, love, tell me what's on your mind."
"Love." You felt your heart melt into a puddle of hope and embarrassment. "Theo . . . what are we?"
Theo grabbed your hand and held it up, intertwining your fingers together. He looked at them, with something akin to fascination, and muttered, "What do you want us to be?"
You paused. "I want us to be together," you whispered, looking up at him with eyes of despair. Theo felt his heart wrench at the sight of it. He raised his other hand, brushing it lightly against your cheek.
"Then let's be together," he whispered back. He leaned downwards, meeting your lips in a soft kiss. It wasn't like any of the kisses before that - no, those were passionate, desperate, lust-filled kisses. This was loving, caring, blossoming. He dropped your hand to cup both of your cheeks in his hand, his nose biting into your cheek. "You and I. I like the sound of that."
tags: @plants-are-pretty-cool @annaisabookworm @maricardigan
Thank you all for reading! Be sure to like, reblog, and comment! I really appreciate it ^^. If you have any requests, by inbox is open but make sure to check the list of characters I write for here. If you want to be tagged in any upcoming fics/headcanons of mine, let me know. If you want to see more from me, go ahead and check out my masterlist here!
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double teamed.
cw: nsfw!! mmf threesome, jealousy/competitiveness, blowjob & swallowing, fingering, squirting, licking/tasting cum, praise, penetration (penis-in-vagina), big dicks, female reader. this is meant to be softer/fluffier with a friendly rivalry.
plot: your best friends gojo and geto have always been jokesters. but one day, one of their jokes goes a little too far.
“Hey, (Y/N). Which one of us is cuter? Me, or Suguru?”
Satoru asks you this seemingly innocent question while the three of you are at your place hanging out. You all had decided to curl up on your long sofa and spend the day watching stupid cartoons and music videos, but Satoru had gotten bored and decided he was going to stir the pot. As usual. Suguru, who’s sitting to your right, looks at you expectantly with a small half-smile, as if he already knows your answer.
You snicker quietly. “Neither. Both of you are butt ugly.”
Suguru slaps a hand on the back of your neck and squeezes tightly. You squirm in his grasp, giggling as you try to push him off.
“Brat.”
“I was just kidding!!”
Gojo, to your left, turns towards you and takes off his sunglasses, then sets them on the coffee table. He gazes at you with his big, beautiful blue eyes, smirking ever so slightly.
“Come on. We all know you’re hopelessly in love with me.”
You laugh again. “Yeah, right. Keep dreaming.”
“Yeah, ‘Toru,” Suguru drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his chest. “You’re not her type.”
“And you are?”
Suguru grins. “I sure am.”
“Ha-ha.”
You feel your face flush as the two playfully fight over you. It was a common occurrence, one of the bits you liked to do together. It was part of your weird friendship with the two strongest sorcerers in Japan. It was all in good fun, and you liked the attention.
Something felt different this time, though. Suguru was holding you a little too tightly, Satoru was inching up a little too close.
“Which one of us do you think would be a better kisser?” Your white-haired friend asks you, licking his lips.
“Um…” the next question catches you off guard. Your eyes dart up at Suguru, who smirks back at you, then to Satoru, who is waiting patiently for your answer. The question he’d asked earlier was mostly made in jest, but this time the sorcerer sounds serious. Your heart flutters, and you start to feel more and more nervous.
“...I dunno, jeez. Why are you asking that all of sudden?”
“‘Cause I wanna know.”
Satoru is so close now that you feel sandwiched between the two giants. Suguru, still with his arm wrapped around you. And Satoru, who just placed his hand on your thigh and is now caressing iit softly. Your skin quivers from the feather-light sensation.
“I wanna know, too,” Suguru pipes in, strokes your hair and neck with his fingers. You shudder and let out a small gasp.
What the hell was going on?
“I… think both of you would be good kissers.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Satoru scolds. “Only one of us can be the best. You have to choose.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know? I’ve never kissed either of you.”
“Hmm…” Suguru puts a hand on his chin, strokes his thumb across it while pretending to be deep in thought. “She’s right. How could she possibly know if neither of us have kissed her?”
“Good point, my friend,” Satoru grins mischievously. “ I s’pose there’s only one way to remedy that.”
As the two of them stare you down, you feel your heart pound madly against your chest.
A split second passes, and Satoru suddenly cups both of your cheeks, pulls your face forward, and presses his lips against yours. You let out a startled “Mmph!” and melt into the kiss. His lips are soft like silk, and you can hear him quietly moan when his tongue seeks out yours. You feel his hands trail down your neck and shiver at the touch.
It’s over too soon. When Satoru pulls away and flashes that accomplished smile of his, Suguru is overcome with a fit of jealousy. He gently yet firmly takes your chin and pulls your face towards him, then plants a delicate kiss on your lips. His lips aren’t as soft, but his kiss feels deeper. The two of you get lost in each other, your hand goes to the back of his neck and pulls him closer.
You look back over at Satoru and see that his cocky expression has faded to one of envy. Suguru places his hands on your thighs, rubs his smooth palms over them a bit more desperately.
“Well?” Satoru scoffs.
Your face is on fire, and your body feels weak. With them both touching and exploring your sensitive skin, you find yourself feeling more and more overwhelmed as things continue. Their big hands are skilled in touch; one of Satoru’s hands cups your breast, covering it completely as he fondles and gropes you. Suguru grips your thigh with one hand and has the other on your opposite hip, squeezing both gently until you make high-pitched noises.
“...I can’t choose,” you answer honestly, despite the sudden shyness that has overcome you. “You’re both amazing.”
“Hmm…” says Satoru.
“Hmmm…” says Suguru.
“Did you hear that, Suguru? She says she can’t choose.”
“I guess that means she’ll have to take us both.”
Before you can say anything else, they suddenly push you backwards, pinning you down as they each straddle one side of your hips. They hold down your wrists and use their free hands to feel you up, starting from your upper thighs. You can’t move a muscle as they trail their fingertips up your body, sneaking under the hem of your shirt to reach bare skin. Your breaths become light and airy, caught between moans and light giggles.
“You like this, baby?” Suguru comments as he tweaks your nipple, grinning when you arch your back.
“Look how wet she is already,” Satoru slides his down between your legs, feels your soaked panties through your cotton shorts. “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”
“Mmm… aaaahhhh!”
Your mind has gone fuzzy. You can barely get out words, let alone complete sentences. Having both of your best friends gang up on you like this, taking turns touching all over your body, is overwhelming to say the least. But that doesn’t mean its unwelcome.
Satoru pulls down your panties, massages the hood of your clit for a few seconds while he slides his fingers into your hole. One at first, then two, steadily pumping in and out in a rhythmic flow as his thumb circles the hood once more. His smile is feral and deranged as he watches your eyes roll in the back of your head.
Suguru lets go of your wrist and focuses on your breasts, leaning down to lick your nipples while occasionally peppering kisses all over your chest. He strokes the spot under your boobs and lets out a chuckle when you squeal, proud of himself for finding yet another errogenous zone. The two sensations together bring you to the edge quickly, and Satoru pushes you over with a single curl of his index finger. You cry out, filled with pure ecstasy, and come hard on his hands until your legs are shaking. The sorcerer licks his fingers as he admires the view of your disheveled hair and your sweat-plastered face.
“God, you taste good…”
Tired of waiting for his turn, Suguru takes the lead. After yanking his pants and boxers down, he takes his erection in hand and rubs it slowly. It’s massive, at least 9 or 10 inches, and it’s perfectly thick. He lifts up your hips and carefully presses the tip against your hole. It’s barely in, but you still let out a yelp. He slides it inside you, stretching you out, coaxing out your loud moans and sounds of pleasure. Then, he starts pumping, slowly at first so as not to hurt you, speeding up once he senses you’re slick enough to take it.
Satoru, embittered that he’d missed his chance to penetrate you, decides to get his another way. He, too, yanks off his pants and underwear, tossing them aside with little care. His dick is just as beautiful as Suguru’s: it’s long, thick, and slightly curved, although pale from lack of sun. You can’t tell from where you’re laying, but it looks to be as big as Suguru’s, if not slightly larger. He kneels at your head, holds his member in hand and waits for your lips to take it. You part them slightly and dance your tongue around his shaft, doing your best to suck him while Suguru fucks you deeply. You feel yourself start to choke, but he senses that, pulling out a bit so you can breathe. Then, when you’re ready again, your grab his cock and wrap your lips around it once more.
The two men groan in perfect harmony, moaning in unison in gravelly baritones and heavenly falsettos. Satoru sounds like an angel; the lovely noises falling from his lips almost match the beauty of his face. Suguru grunts in pleasure, mumbling praise and affection into your ear as he thrusts inside you.
“Hngh… fuck, you feel amazing…”
“Oh God, Toru… S-Suguru… aaaah!”
“(Y/N)... I’m gonna come…”
Suguru finishes first, letting loose a giant load that fills you with warmth. You feel his dick twitch and throb inside your walls, and clench them purposely to hear him moan once more. Satoru takes a bit longer to finish, warning you when he’s about to blow. You take his load and swallow it whole, relishing the sweet taste of his cum. Exhausted, both men collapse at either side of you, panting heavily as they enjoy the last few fleeting waves of their orgasms.
“I think… it’s safe to say…” Satoru manages to spit out as he curls a leg around yours. “(Y/N) definitely likes me more.”
“No… way…” Suguru argues back weakly, then wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s totally into me.”
“Oh yeah? Well, she swallowed my load.”
“So what? She let me bust inside her.”
Their bickering starts anew, and all you can do is sigh. You try to hide your growing smile as they snuggle up closer, as if claiming parts of you for themselves. Some things will be different after today, but one will remain the same.
You were madly, madly in love with them both. And you always would be.
#satoru gojo x reader#suguru geto x reader#jjk smut#minors dni#gojo x reader#geto x reader#satoru gojo x suguru geto x reader#reader insert#gojo smut#geto smut
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sunshine of your love (law x reader nsfw)
law overhears you talking with ikkaku and takes notes ;^)
18+, mdni, nsfw, wc: 3.4k masterlist
cw: afab!reader, virgin law, masturbation, oral sex (reader receiving), voyeurism kinda, teasing, law's kinda weird but he means well, friends to lovers, ikkaku is your girliepop, virginity loss, law is cocky, law is also a dork, alcohol consumption, hangovers
tagging: @willowbelle @sanjisjuul @eelnoise @kaizokuniichan @risenwrites @ragethebunny @mirillua @sanjisprincesswifey @atanukileaf
This was all a cruel joke—a way for Ikkaku to silently torture him as punishment for finally giving her a roommate on the submarine after all these years—at least that’s what Law tells himself as he listens to the conversation bleeding through too-thin walls into his bedroom.
The two of you had been drinking fairly heavily judging by the volume of your giggles and the way your words slur as you swap stories of escapades, some good, some bad, but mostly mediocre. Truthfully, he couldn’t care less about what Ikkaku gets up to in that respect, but when you speak, he hangs onto every word; the conversation is filthy, beyond explicit, and he now has a tantalizingly crisp image in his mind of exactly what gets you off and what doesn’t, and as drags his hand down his cock, he convinces himself that despite his lack of experience, he can give you what you crave. Part of him felt terrible for touching himself to something as innocent as you talking with your friend, but when you were describing what you like and don’t like in bed in so much detail, what else was he supposed to do with himself?
A lull in the conversation leads to Ikkaku coming up with some silly hypotheticals. “Alright, here’s one for you—fuck, marry kill: Shachi, Law, and…” she says, pausing for a moment while she thinks of a third option, “Me!” A pair of giggles echo through the wall when you immediately respond with a kill Shachi; if Law weren’t busy picturing you splayed out beneath him, he probably would have let out a snort of amusement too.
“Fuck you, marry Law.” you say decisively. Law lets out a hiss as he wills away the inadvertent image that pops into his head of Ikkaku on top of you, pleasuring you in the way he wishes he could—in the position that he should be in. Marry Law. The words bounce around his brain, driving him wild with the prospect of you not just wanting him once out of passing curiosity, but wanting him all the time. He’s wanted you so much, for so long, in every conceivable way, contriving excuses at every turn to spend more time alone with you, and lo and behold, here you were fantasizing about a life with him in your free time.
“Marry Law?” she balks incredulously, “You’re still on about that? I thought you got over that little crush you had—” Law’s hand stops stroking momentarily as Ikkaku’s words send him reeling. Feelings. You had feelings for him; he had wormed his way into your heart just like you had burrowed into his, and all of a sudden, he’s fisting himself with renewed vigor, propelled by the notion that if he plays his cards right, he’ll have the real thing sooner than he could have ever imagined. Images of you float through his mind as electricity courses through his skin—you by his side, you curled up in his lap while you flip through a novel, you laying face down as he fucks you into the mattress—each one carried the same weight of eroticism as he pictures the near future with you.
“I can’t help it!” you exclaim, far too loudly, but you were much too tipsy to be cognizant of the fact that Law’s bedroom was right next door, and despite his night owl tendencies, it was far too late to be lurking elsewhere on the submarine. “We’ve been spending so much time together and he just turns me into a flustered mess! He looks at me and has this look on his face, and I just—ugh, I need him!” you lament, causing Ikkaku to laugh at your plight and tease you further.
Rambling on, you say much more, about how much you cherish your time together, and wax poetic about how you feel a quiet kinship like him, as if he knows the contents of your soul without having to disclose them, but Law was still focused on the frustrated whimper you had let out when you said you needed him, replaying the words in the back of his mind like a broken record until he spills warm seed all over his hand. Guilt washes over him for disregarding your words of gushing adoration in the moment while his mind was preoccupied elsewhere, but he atones for his disrespect by ruminating on your tipsy ramblings as he drifts off to sleep.
The other half of my soul, you had said with a dreamy sigh—they were the exact same words that roll around his head whenever he thinks of you. Though half asleep, he concocts a half-baked plan to execute in the morning, sleepily setting his alarm to ensure he doesn’t miss his window of opportunity.
Law slips into your bedroom with a glass of water, a couple pieces of toast, and four-hundred milligrams of ibuprofen the moment Ikkaku leaves in the morning. Though he had only gotten a couple hours of sleep, the excitement flowing through his veins as he makes his way towards your room intent on subtly making his feelings known with a small gesture overpowers any exhaustion. Completely covered in your blankets from head to toe, the click of Law’s heeled boots against the floor prompts you to pop your head out from underneath, a dusting of red coating your face.
“For the hangover.” he says plainly as he sets the plate and glass on your nightstand. As you sip on the water, he takes in your lips and messy hair and weighs his options and contemplates taking an additional risk with you beyond simply hanging at your bedside for a bit of light conversation; despite how tipsy you had been last night, you’re now more parts pleasant than irritable and dizzy, and cute as a button as you thank him for going to the trouble of bringing you the light breakfast and medicine.
“It’s no trouble.” he insists, staring at you for a moment before committing to the urge in his core that keeps telling him to sling a teasing remark your way. “Besides since you want to get married so badly, I figured I should start taking better care of you.” he says with a smirk as he sits at the foot of your bed, masking his nerves with an aura of feigned confidence, behaving as if he’s made himself comfortable like this dozens of times.
He observes your reaction carefully, searching for any sign of disgust at him for eavesdropping as you turn red from head to toe; instead, he only finds mortification plaguing your face as your gaze turns downward towards your blankets. “I’m so sorry, Captain—” you squeak out, though before you can apologize further, he stops you, and you become acutely aware of the way he’s leaning in a bit closer to you, his hand nearly grazing the side of your leg.
“Why? Are you taking it back?” he asks; his expression is unintentionally blank as he focuses on analyzing the emotions on your own face. In turn, you find yourself unsure of whether he shared your feelings or was simply teasing you for being so brazen and loose-lipped while drunk.
“Only if you’re uncomfortable—” you start, but your voice falters and halts when his hand rests on your thigh and a devilish smirk graces his face.
“Do I look uncomfortable?” he teases, inching closer as he watches a flood of relief crash over your features, releasing your nerves with a shaky exhale.
You shake your head. “No, Captain.” you reply softly, inwardly cringing at the way you’d used his title out of habit. He lets out an exhale of amusement and gets unbearably close, hovering over you as the tension hangs thick in the small space between you.
“You need to relax.”he whispers softly, “Let me help you with that.” He hesitates for a moment before cautiously pressing his lips to yours. Law freezes for a moment before pulling away, admiring the half-lidded look in your eyes; playfully flirting with you while packaging his words in a coating of plausible deniability came naturally to him—the game of slowly pushing the envelope was fun for him—but kissing you, feeling you, and being on top of you were all novel and exhilarating new sensations that send him into a whirlpool of swirling nerves.
After listening to you complain about past experiences, he doesn’t want to disappoint you—he doesn’t want to fade into the back of your memory as another lousy story to tell.
As he gently coaxes your lips back to his, he runs through the laundry list of bad kissing habits you and Ikkaku had agreed upon last night: don’t clash your teeth against hers, don’t slobber in her mouth, don’t go crazy with the tongue. It seemed simple enough, and to an extent it was, as each muffled noise you make against his lips helps him learn, improve, and plan his next step, but everything from the press of your lips to the swirl of your tongue was so foreign and alien to him that he nearly forgets to take notes on what he likes in the process.
His hand creeps upward to cradle the side of your face—it was something you had said you adore, and the sweet, content noises you let out indicate that you were underselling your affection for the motion, if anything; however, what he doesn’t expect is to feel the flush of warmth that covers his face when you mewl against his mouth. He likes making you vocal, he decides, greedily soaking in each little bit of affection and praise you offer him as he slowly picks you apart.
I love getting my neck kissed so much—bites, licks, all of it. Words from last night echo in his head as he presses his lips in a trail down towards the sensitive column of your neck. The simple touches of his mouth along your skin are enough to make you squirm and whimper softly underneath him, giving him the confidence he secretly needs to sink his teeth into your flesh with an intent to mark you.
“You like that?” he purrs in your ear between nips of his teeth and swirls of his tongue against your neck. “Mhm…” you whine out, causing him to let out a small growl as he sucks at your skin. Satisfied with the bright red mark that would no doubt turn purple later, he lets his hovering hips fall, reattaching his lips to yours as he grinds his clothed cock into where he was approximately sure your core was underneath your sheets, and is gratified when he feels your legs spread slightly so he can feel a bit more of you. Succumbing to a haze of lust, Law is nervous but hungry for more—so much so that he becomes afraid of pushing things too far and pulls himself away so he can get a read on your pulse.
Your gazes lock together as you ask each other a silent question—how far do you want to go? A slight tremble courses though his hands; everything was seemingly happening all at once, but the tension between you had been building for months, and he can’t help but want to let everything spill over in this moment. He’s afraid to ask for too much and scare you off, but he’s filled with so much need that it makes him shake as he stares down at you, your lips still moist and kiss bitten.
“I want you, Law.” you whisper, the words traveling like tiny wisps that linger in the air. With a small sigh of relief, he’s resolved to give himself to you, give everything to you and lays the foundation in his head for a coarse path to reach that goal.
And then he moves your sheets, with the intention of being able to press himself closer to your body, and is thrown for a loop.
“Do you normally sleep without—” he stutters, unable to get the rest of his sentence out as he becomes transfixed on your bare lower half. He can’t resist letting one of his inked hands travel downward and rest along the curve of your hips as he takes in the expanse of bare skin, the tufts of wayward hair above your sex, and the hints of slick arousal that have began to creep along your inner thighs.
“No.” you say with a shake of your head, blushing furiously. Averting your eyes from his, you swallow hard before continuing. “I was… y’know…” you mumble, trailing into nothingness out of embarrassment from your admission, hoping it wouldn’t scare him off. Peeking at his reaction reveals quite the opposite as he gives you a feral grin, gears clicking together as he realized why you were hiding under your blanket when he entered the room.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about me, hm?” he hums teasingly, lips nearly grazing your earlobe. The ghost of a sensation makes you twitch, and he purrs with satisfaction at being able to make you squirm without even touching you. “Do you always think about me when you touch yourself?” he asks, letting his hand wander before resting his thumb on your needy bud, tracing light circles onto it, your words about hating when someone is too rough with it sitting clearly in the front of his mind.
“All the time…” you whisper as your back arches up off the mattress; the soft patterns he traces along your sensitive clit make you whimper for him, and the tone of your needy sounds nearly make Law cum on the spot.
“So do I.” he mumbles, the words distant on account of him being consumed by his task of working you up with his fingers. He contemplates going down on you, haphazardly pushing your shirt aside and kissing his way down your body, paying your tits some extra attention along the way, but he has absolutely no clue what to do beyond the theory of it all. Asking for assistance was out of the question—not when he was trying so hard to impress you enough to convince you to tether yourself to him permanently, not when he is so dead set on making sure you don’t realize that this is his first everything; looking incompetent in front of you was not an option, in any sense of the word.
And so, he takes a deep breath and decides to learn through doing.
Now, face settled between your legs, he was truly out of his element. More overheard guidance from the previous night floods his head. Keep your tongue flat and lick from side to side. Don’t fake a ton of obnoxious noises while you do it. It’s okay to roam a little, but keep your attention on the clit. He cyclically runs through each one of your preferences in his mind as he drags his tongue across your bud, instinctively picking up on the right pressure, the right patterns based on your reactions—it’s like a puzzle for him, though instead of clicking pieces into place or filling out a crossword, he’s slowly turning you into a squirming mess with his mouth. If he were any less drunk on the sensation of making you fervently writhe against him, he’d be thrown off by the way you snap your hips harshly along his tongue, doing more work than he feels you should be doing, but he’s simply awestruck by how pretty you look when you’re so intently focused on getting off. You seem so close, and, desperate to do something to push you over the edge, he grips your thighs tightly, making his best attempt at replicating your description of how much you said you enjoy it.
To his pleasant surprise, it works.
And when you come crashing over the edge, with white-hot intensity, he can’t help but slip his tongue inside you, wanting to feel every bit of your arousal on his tongue and experience the way your walls spasm—he wants to feel you coming apart and study it for future reference. You’re gorgeous, with your knuckles twisting and clutching at your bottom sheet, and your face blooming with heat.
He's been so singularly focused on pleasing you, on proving himself and protecting his ego, that he had put his own needs on the backburner, but seeing you glowing, needy, and all for him makes him unable to wait any longer to have you.
Unbuckling his pants, freeing his cock, and lining himself up with your entrance, he's about to slide his length inside of you, but something makes him instinctively pause; he’s not quite sure what’s making him hesitate, until he remembers.
You like to be teased.
He presses the smallest bit into you before withdrawing, making you let out a sigh of frustration. “You want it?” he coos playfully, smirking down at you when you grind your hips towards him in vain.
“Please, Law… I need it…” you whine, slightly pouting your lips out at him.
Please.
“Then take it.” he whispers lowly as he bottoms out inside of you, hiding his burning face in the crook of your shoulder as he’s flooded with another wave of novel sensations. Pride swells in his chest upon hearing you beg for him, plead for him to take you; the feeling is intoxicating, so much so that he nearly forgets that he doesn’t quite know what to do once he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Flailing for only the briefest of moments, he does the only thing he can think of—stop thinking so much, for once.
He acts on instinct, capturing your lips with his and swiping his tongue along your bottom lip clumsily as he rocks his hips into yours, trying to keep his strokes slow and even to prevent himself from getting too overwhelmed before he even truly starts. Soon enough, he regains his head and gets bolder, using your sounds and reactions as cues to make sure he’s barking up the right tree; the more decisive he is with his movements, the more you respond, and the better he can get a read on you.
But right now, he can’t see your face, opting instead to bury his own into the crook of your neck, scattering any patch of skin he can reach with kisses and love bites as he gives you surer, more intense strokes; just when he thinks he’s ascended to the truest form of a higher plane, completely dissolved into something intangible and forever mixed with you, he feels you do something that drives him even more wild. It’s paradoxical, how much he loves it when you wrap your legs around him; he so badly wants to be caged in by you, an eternal mess of tangled limbs, but the action is so intimate, so comfortable that it sends him spiraling unbearably close to the edge.
“Where do you want me to—” he rasps, unable to spit the rest of his words out as the way he buries himself deep inside you makes him gasp sharply.
“Anywhere.” you reply, the word dipped in layers of lust. He laments his inability to last longer, but the way you fit around his cock like a tight glove combined with the pretty, fucked out look on your face makes him unable to keep his composure.
A slew of whispered curses fall from his lips as he pulls out and spurts ropes of hot cum onto your lower stomach. Mesmerized by the look of his seed spread over your skin as he catches his breath, he takes a few moments to fall back down from space before planting a kiss on your lips.
“Thank you…that was… wow.” you say quietly with a smile, mind still scrambled as he haphazardly wipes you clean with the tissues that sit on your nightstand.
“Thank yourself.” he replies teasingly, pressing kisses along your collarbone as he settles in bed behind you, “You’re the one who gave me the detailed instructions.” His words make your cheeks flush as you nuzzle into his touch, his hands lacking their usual chill as they trace patterns into your skin.
“My other half.” he murmurs gently into your ear, in a hushed tone so quiet that you nearly think you’ve dreamt it.
A soft, lazy smile drifts onto your face. “My other half.” you echo, lacing your fingers with his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles before nodding off back to sleep together.
#one piece x reader#trafalgar law x reader#trafalgar law smut#law smut#law x reader#trafalgar law x you#law x you#trafalgar law x y/n#law x y/n#one piece fanfiction#one piece smut#one piece scenario#trafalgar law#x reader
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Bf!Rin headcanons? 🤭
RIN ITOSHI x gn!reader
authors notes. i am IN LOVE with rin so im glad i wrote this instead of my college essays
╰┈➤ the type of person to keep your relationship strictly private. in fact, it’s because he loves you so much that he wants to keep your relationship private.
╰┈➤ private, not secret.
╰┈➤ it was no surprise to the public when it was discovered that professional footballer, rin itoshi, was dating you, especially since you did have connections to the Itoshi brothers previously anyway.
╰┈➤ from the beginning, the paparazzi pressing on the matter pissed him off. he hated how interviewers would always eventually get to bringing your name up, because it meant that your relationship was starting to be shared with the world.
╰┈➤ but more than that, it was because he had a such a soft spot for you that he couldn’t help but become nervous when people brought you up. and as annoying as the interviewers were, he couldn’t stand to be mad at them when they gave him an excuse to talk about you.
╰┈➤ he’s probably half the reason your relationship wasn’t as private as he’d hoped. he was just such an unintentional blabbermouth.
╰┈➤ when you’re actually with him in public, he tends to get overprotective.
╰┈➤ when you’re in the streets, you need to be holding hands; when you’re at social gatherings, his palm needs to be attached to your hip.
╰┈➤ not just for safety reasons, but he supposed he also needed to constantly remind people that the two of you are together.
╰┈➤ when he realises that he’s getting approached by fans in the street, he’ll subtly hide you behind him so that you’re not pestered, and you’ll watch with a soft smile as rin is forced to take photos and sign autographs.
╰┈➤ despite maintaining a cold facade, he somehow manages to talk do gently when it’s to you.
╰┈➤ if the two of you are at a party he’s clearly uncomfortable being in, he’d slowly scoop your hands into his and plant a gentle kiss on your knuckle before muttering, “it’s getting loud. do you want to leave?”
╰┈➤ honestly, it’s quite impressive how quickly he’s able to switch tones.
╰┈➤ he can go from kindly whispering words of affirmation in your ear to screaming expletives to a random man, threatening to fight him where they stood and ordering him to stop hitting on you.
╰┈➤ rin’s jealousy is actually an unheard of level of rage.
╰┈➤ every time bachira jokes with you, isagi compliments you, or any of his other team members hang out with you one-on-one, it’s like a ticking time bomb in his mind. 
╰┈➤ rin trusts you with all his heart, but his possessiveness is a little louder than his compassion, and he’s rather eat both of his shoes than put you aline in a room with a man that isn’t him.
╰┈➤ he is willing to start the most outrageous scenes over it.
╰┈➤ once, shidou publicly dedicated a shot to you during an important match just to piss rin off, and he went ballistic.
╰┈➤ he had maintained himself on the pitch, but as soon as he reached the locker room, rin was already prepared to pack shidou up and send him to the emergency unit.
╰┈➤ a good fight definitely would have ensued, had he not been stopped by his teammates holding him back.
╰┈➤ plus, you continuously warned him not to fight because you hated seeing him show up to your dates with bruises and marks— his injuries from football were already enough. 
╰┈➤ he hated defying you, but sometimes he just really couldn’t help himself.
╰┈➤ the days where he would literally feel himself freeze before knocking on your apartment door because he knew that his injuries would tell you that he got into another fight were the worst for him.
╰┈➤ because you always looked at him with that certain face of disappointment before simply sighing and letting him in, ready to properly tend to his wounds.
╰┈➤ he’s so gentle when he’s in private with you.
╰┈➤ you could spend hours cradled in his arms, listening to the dulcet mumbles of his voice as he told you about his day.
╰┈➤ when be gets home from a match or training, all he wants to do is cuddle you mindlessly with a tv show in front.
╰┈➤ sometimes he’s mumble about how annoying his teammates were today and how he’s glad he can finally lay down with you.
╰┈➤ to many’s surprise, he’s really the sweetest boyfriend ever.
#blue lock x you#blue lock x reader#blue lock#blue lock x y/n#blue lock rin itoshi#rin itoshi x you#itoshi rin x reader#rin itoshi x reader#itoshi rin#rin itoshi#rin itoshi x y/n#bllk fluff#bllk imagines#bllk x you#bllk
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Dating Carlisle Cullen HCs!
a/n: was the requested? absolutely not. am i a slut for daddy cullen? abso-fuckin-lutley
warnings: fluff, smut, swearing, im lowkey an edward hater in this i’m sorry, smut is fem!reader based!! dating daddy carlisle
- when you guys hang out at night /alone he’s all over you
- he holds you, lays on your chest, plays with your hair while you sit inbetween his legs SHSSUWHEISN
- he plays with your fingers while you guys are around other people and he gets a little nervous
- like if your hanging out with friends he’ll play with your fingers and hands, twist around your bracelets and rings
- i love him he’s so soft
- he desperately tries to stop you from popping pimples and blackheads
- “y/n sTOP”
- sometimes you’ll laugh at stuff he says bc it sounds so old fashioned
- he attempts to make you food and most of the time it’s amazing but usually when you two cook it almost always ends up burnt or undercooked or missing an ingredient
- bc he gets distracted by your stupid jokes that sometimes result in a food fight
- carlisle would do anything for you
- literally one time you brought up wanting to go to disneyland because they do a mardi gras parade and he almost bought plane tickets right then and there
- “what’re you doing?”
- “buying plane tickets.”
- “what??? STOP-“
- he loves how you hate when he spends money on you
- it makes him want to do it more
- you both have multiple matching things
- bracelets, rings, necklaces, etc
- he bought you this EXPENSIVE bracelet once and you almost passed out on the spot
- it has your and carlisle’s initials engraved into it and it’s your favorite color
- he lets you paint his nails frequently
- he loves when you do little designs on them too
- he loves being the person you feel comfortable ranting to
- it breaks his heart when he opens his door and sees you with puffy eyes and a red nose, tears reminiscent on your face
- he lets you in and picks you up, speeding you to his bedroom
- he grabs you a big t-shirt and a pair of his boxers and tells you to shower or change before talking about it
- and then after that he does whatever you want
- sometimes he’ll comb your hair while you rant to him, or make you some tea on the kitchen island while you talk to him about what happened
- he’d totally sit you on the counter and cut up + feed you fruit and clean the juice from your chin. im sobbing
- 100% takes care of your stuffed animals
- he would love how you bond with his “kids”
- you and emmett would totally play horror games together
- emmett and you are this clip:
https://youtube.com/clip/UgkxJdszrIKDCtmfnyVLdhVwf2sGqLcJ6NBU
- honestly either of you could be rhett/link and it would still make sense
- you lowkey make fun of edward ngl
- i feel like he plays games with you and emmett too and he sucks ass
- carlisle looses his shit when he hears you make a gooddamn good roast of him and you can hear him laughing from upstairs
- alice constantly tries to buy you clothes she thinks not only you, but also carlisle would like
- Rosalie would confide in you a lot
- tbh it took her a hot minute to warm up to you but when she saw how happy carlisle was with you she gave you a chance
- jasper loves you tbh
- he games w/ u and emmett and you guys kick ass in rocket league
- sometimes Carlisle will just stare at you for no reason
- you’ll catch him and he won’t break eye contact and you get all flustered and look away
- and proceed to look back to see him still staring
- “what’re you looking at?”
- “just you. :)”
- “okay but why”
- “youre beautiful.”
- “get a room!” ~ emmett
- reminds your to take ur medication
- after meeting your family, he’s always down to babysit with you or go to family reunions or vacations
- if it’s a sunny place he’ll just busy himself with work inside
- always liking ur instagram posts
- he always comments on them too
- just a simple “i love you” or “gorgeous🩷”
——— smut time
- respect and consent king
- wouldn’t dream of hurting you/degrading you ever
- he loves tits. sorry not sorry it’s true
- he’ll play w/ ur nipples and leave hickeys on ur boobs
- fucking looses it when you moan his name
- like, if you do that he’s giving you literally everything he has
- his fav position is missionary or when you ride him but you face him
- specifically if he’s sitting in his office chair and you get ontop of him and-
- makes your legs SHAKE
- he has his hands on your hips while you ride him bc that’s hot
- literally adores your body
- he couldn’t care less of your stomach pokes out or if you have love handles or stretch marks
- he loves you for you
- PRAISE
- this man loves to make you blush and he knows exactly how to do it in bed
- master at giving you head
- literally knows exactly what to do and how you like it done
- fucking dies when you ride his face
- like it’s not a thing that he wants he NEEDS it
- he pays attention to your body movements and how you react to certain things
- he’s the typa guy to get on his knees and eat you out
- tongue around ur clit and fingers inside you pumping in and out and moving around inside to touch your g-spot
#love u mwah#im in love with this man#twilight#carlisle x reader#carlisle cullen x reader#carlisle#carlisle cullen#twilight imagine#twilight headcanon#twilight x reader#carlisle cullen smut#carlisle cullen fluff
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OH I SEE YOURE TAKING REQUESTS...what about emo!wanda x emo!reader but wanda is like >:( and reader is more ^_^ happy and then reader is best friend's bucky and wanda is so jealous. idk it can be fluff or smut !! ( i tried to be a little more specific
Jealousy
Pairing: wanda x female reader
Tags Minors DNI: smut, wanda in a skirt, fingering (R receiving), little arguing, jealousy!
A/N: Hiii anon! Thank you soo much for your request!! It's been a busy week sorry for being late, but I hope this is okay and you enjoy jealous Wanda 😊
Wanda knows deep down that you would never cheat on her. She knows how much you loved her, how much you cared about her. In the time she's spent here at the Avengers campus, she's only ever taken a real liking to you, not interested in truly getting to know the others. And you, thankfully, gave her everything she needed.
But right now, she couldn't help the heavy feeling in her chest as she watched you with your best friend.
She stood with her arms crossed, biting down on her lip so hard it may just bleed, staring at you and Bucky. Wanda watches as your hand touches his arm, your head thrown back in a fit of laughter. He smiles at you with fond eyes, and oh, she can't take it anymore.
"Having fun?" She asks, words coming out more bitterly than she had planned.
"Wanda!" You say, and the way you beam at her almost makes her feel guilty. Then Bucky turns too, with his arm slung around your shoulder.
"Come to join in? We could actually use your help. It turns out both of us are shit at baking," Bucky jokes, and you both laugh, looking at the mess around the kitchen.
Your smile fades, though when you see the seriousness in Wandas face. Buckys arm slowly slides off of you, scratching his head awkwardly in the silence. Wanda tilts her head and okay, you were fucked.
"Actually, you know," Bucky clears his throat and looks at the time. "I was supposed to meet Steve for training a little bit ago." His metal arm pats your shoulder, giving you a good luck look before walking out of the kitchen.
"Baby... what's wrong?" You frown and walk around the counter to her, your hands moving up to her shoulders. She shrugs you off, crossing her arms. "What's your problem?" You ask, annoyed she was pushing you away.
"What's my problem?" Wanda spits out, a sarcastic laugh leaving her lips. "My problem is you two are always all over each other! He's always looking at you like he wants to fuck you!"
"That's not true!" You defend, raising your voice to match hers. "Bucky is my best friend, that's it! That's all we've ever been, all we will be."
"Right, okay. You're literally always hanging out with him, I dont see why you have to spend so much time together." She rolls her eyes.
"We're friends!"
"Friends don't eye fuck the other friend! Don't be so stupid."
Your eyes widen at her words.
"Sorry you don't have any friends to hangout with because you fucking hate everyone." You cross your arms, dishing it out as she does.
"Fuck you," Wanda replies.
"Just because you're jealous doesn't mean you have to take it out on me."
Her eyes shoot daggers at you.
"Jealous? I am not jealous." She seethes, taking a step forward. Your back hits the counter as you take a step back, her usually soft green eyes dark as she peers into yours.
"You are so jealous." You bite your lip, taking in her angry appearance. She wore your zip-up jacket over her shirt, a dark skirt around her hips. Her fingernails were still black from when she painted them the other day.
Wanda doesn't speak, she only takes another step, pressing her chest against yours. The tension between the two of you built up with every word spoken.
"I'm not jealous, Y/N. You want to know why?" She asks, her hands move to the counter behind you, trapping you in her presence. You only look up in reply, with a questioning look. "Because you're mine. And if I have to remind you of that again, I will."
Wandas eyes flash red, and you feel yourself being lifted a few inch onto the counter.
"Wanda, what are you-" You look around the empty kitchen and to her, who is now level face to face. Her hands moved to your thighs, spreading them apart, and you've never been more grateful for stealing one of her shorter skirts this morning.
"What if someone walks in?" You ask, feeling the wetness pool in your panties at the way she kisses your neck.
"Hopefully, it'll be him." She mumbles, and your cheeks burn red at the possibility. You feel her fingers slide your soaked panties to the side. You grip onto the jacket she wore, pulling her as close as possible.
"So wet, detka... tell me who made you this way," Wanda whispers, and you feel her fingers dip inside of you easily. You bite back a moan as she begins to move them.
"You, Wanda.. fuck - just you," you lean forward, pressing your face against her neck as she fingers you right there.
"Don't hide those pretty moans, let me hear you."
"I'm yours!" You moan out.
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Wanda," you pant against her skin, her fingers thrusting inside of you at a quicker pace. When you feel her thumb press against your clit you feel that familiar burn in the pit of your stomach.
"Nobody else is allowed to touch you like this except for me." She whispers against your neck and bites down, marking you as hers. You nod desperately, holding onto her as tight as you can.
"Baby, I-I'm so close," you moan into her ear as her fingers work inside of you, and she smirks at the delightful whimpers that leave your lips.
"That's my good girl... let go detka. Tell them who you belong to," she says, forcing your head out of the crook of her neck. Her grip is strong in your hair, and your legs tremble around her. It's not long before you pathetically are moaning, "Wanda!" Into the kitchen, releasing onto her fingers, your panties now drenched.
Wanda takes all you have and removes her fingers from inside you, slipping them into her mouth. Her eyes burn red at the taste, and she pulls you into a heated kiss, making you taste yourself on her tongue.
You pull back to catch your breath, letting your head hit her shoulder hard. She chuckles at how cute you were and wraps her arms around you, you do the same. The two of you hold each other for a moment as you sit on the counter still.
"I'm sorry, for saying what I said..." Wanda says, her voice soft. Your fingers move in circles on her back.
"I know... I'm sorry, too. I promise there's nothing going on between us. I love you so much." You kiss her jaw, and she smiles.
"I don't hate everyone, you know," she jokes, lightening the mood. "I especially love you."
You can't help but laugh, pulling back to see the now playful look on her face. Wandas soft spot for you made your chest swell, you loved how different she treated you.
"You only love me," you giggle and kiss her nose. She groans and rolls her eyes.
"Fine, you're right," she chuckles and leans forward to give you a sweet kiss.
A noise from behind you pulls you from her kiss, you see Bucky standing in the doorway clearing his throat. You hop off the counter, feeling Wandas arm wrapp protectively around your waist.
"Forgot my phone," he says with a hint of pink on his cheeks and points to the phone next to you. You watch as the phone glows red, and it's suddenly floating in the air towards him. He catches it as it drops in front of him.
You turn to Wanda, watching her eyes return to green with an unbothered look on her face.
"You know, you kinda really scare me. I like it," Bucky says to Wanda, a smile taking over his face. You groan and put a hand over your face. Wanda can't help the smirk on her face, satisfied with herself as the man leaves with a wave.
"Happy?" You ask, turning to look at her satisfied smirk. You take her hand in yours, feeling the cool metal of her rings against your fingers.
"Very," she beams down at you, kissing your cheek.
#marvel#wanda maximoff#wanda x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda x you#wanda x fem!reader#civil war wanda#wanda in a skirt ahhhhh#scarletlizzard asks#thank you anon!!!
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more than anyone ✴︎ cl16
genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst
word count: 13.7k
You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.
auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)
You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.
You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.
“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.
“What’s going on?”
She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”
You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”
“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.
“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”
“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”
Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun?
“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”
“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?”
“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”
“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”
“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.
“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”
You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”
“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”
You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.
“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”
Wrong.
“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”
“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.
“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.
“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.
You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.
“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”
You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”
David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.”
Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.
“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!”
“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.
“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.
David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”
“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”
“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.
With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?
You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.
“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.
“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”
You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.
“So it’s a no.”
“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”
“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”
You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”
And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.
So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
—
“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.
“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”
“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…
“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”
“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.
“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.
In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.
You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.
—
Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.
“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”
“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.
But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”
Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.
Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.
In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.
“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”
There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—
There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.
He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.
A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him.
You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.
“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.
“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”
“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.
Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”
“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.
“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”
“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”
“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”
The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”
Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.
“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”
He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.
Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”
Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.
The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”
“Charles.”
“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”
She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.
—
“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”
“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”
“Hmm?”
“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.
He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”
“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”
“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.
You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”
A beat. “What?”
You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”
“Europe?” You shook your head. America.
“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.
“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”
“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking.
“You’ll be fine.”
“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”
“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”
“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.
“Charles,” you sighed.
“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.
Just: “We’ll be okay.”
—
You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.
And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.
Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.
Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.
“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”
Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”
He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.
“I need to talk to you.”
“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”
Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”
“Why should I be charming with you?”
“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.
At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.
Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”
“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.
“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”
You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”
“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”
—
You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?”
“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.
You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.
She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.
You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.
Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.
“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”
“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”
You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”
“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”
“Say it.”
“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”
You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”
“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”
“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.
“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.
—
You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.
“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.
“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.
“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”
“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”
“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”
“How American.”
“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”
“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.
“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”
For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.
“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”
“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”
“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”
“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise.
—
Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.
Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?
The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.
You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”
“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.
You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.
“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”
“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.
“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.
“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.
He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”
Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?
“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”
“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”
He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”
It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.
The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.
The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.
“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”
“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”
Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”
“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”
“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”
They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.
“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.
You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.
Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—”
“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.
“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.
Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.
“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”
He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”
“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”
You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”
“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.
“So you’re friends?”
“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again.
—
The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.
He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.
“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.
You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.
He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.
You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.
“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.
“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”
You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”
“Who said that?”
“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.
He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.
Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.
“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.
You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”
The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”
You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.
“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”
He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.
“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”
You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.
“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”
Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”
“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.
“So what happened?”
“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”
He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?”
You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”
“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”
“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?
—
Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…
“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.
“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”
Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.
“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.
—
“Okay. What else do you remember?”
“I… do you remember the recital song?”
“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.
“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”
“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.”
“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.
“Do people ask?”
“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.
“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”
“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”
You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—
“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”
He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”
“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”
“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people.
He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.
He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace.
The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”
A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”
“What’s it mean?”
“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”
Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”
“I don’t underst—”
“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”
“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”
“—Well,” you say, “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.
“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”
“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?
—
“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.
“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”
Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.
Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.
“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”
And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.
“Do you want gelato?” No, no.
“Love Island?” In a minute.
The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.
“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”
“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.
“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?
She doesn’t answer, because you already know.
—
“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.
The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.
The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.
It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.
He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.
“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.
He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”
“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.
You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.
You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.
You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.
His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.
Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.
Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.
I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—
You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different.
You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.
—
The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.
You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.
Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.
Behind you: “Are you okay?”
In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”
Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.
“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”
He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”
You nod in response.
“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”
“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”
“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”
“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”
“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.”
“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”
“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”
“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.
“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”
“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”
—
From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>
Date: 14 October 2014
To: You
Subject: Urgent!
hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag
From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>
Date: 14 October 2014
To: You
Subject: Buttercup
j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.
i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?
tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.
charles
p.s: est-ce que je te manque?
p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?
—
“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.
Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.
You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.
A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.
“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”
“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”
“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”
You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.
“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”
“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”
“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”
She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.
Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup
Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.
Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.
He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.
The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.
He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”
And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.
In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”
“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
#f1#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smut#f1 x reader
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clingy
pairing: Lando Norris x gf!Reader
tw: none
a/n: me? writing fluff for once? well it's semi fluff. kinda like a comfort fic?? maybe? i don't really know tbh
You and Lando enjoyed hanging out with friends. Whether it was his friends or yours, you both had a great time regardless. There were also times when you would hang out with your friends alone and he would hang out with his friends alone, which of course you had no problem with. You’ve been together for 8 months now, so you had plenty of security in your relationship.
Lando currently had a few of the other drivers over at his house. All the drivers were on holiday so you were able to spend some time with Lando before he had to go back to his hectic race schedule. Unbeknownst to everyone except your boyfriend, you were upstairs watching “The Summer I Turned Pretty” on your TV.
Midway through the first two episodes, you got hungry so you went downstairs to get a snack. Just as you approached the bottom, you heard someone mention your name.
“Is anyone elses girlfriend super clingy?” Charles asked
“Kika and I just spend a lot of time together” Pierre added
“Y/n is sometimes clingy. It can be a bit overwhelming at times” Lando answered. You heard your name and frowned as you took in his words. You were overwhelmingly clingy? You barely ever saw him.
Hearing that, you turned around and made your way back up the stairs, your appetite suddenly gone as you rushed to pack your bag and leave.
“Oh shut up, mate. Y/n is not clingy from what I’ve seen. Usually it’s you jumping on her for comfort, not the other way around. You’re absolutely whipped” George threw a bouncy ball at Lando’s head.
“Yeah I know, I’m only joking. She’s just so perfect. I love her” Lando blushed as he grabbed the bouncy ball and threw it back at George.
Just then you quietly made your way down the stairs and brushed past the group of guys without a single word as you crossed through the living room to get to the front door.
“Where are you going, love?” Lando stood up from his seat and walked towards you, grabbing your wrist to halt your movements. You turned around to face him.
“I uhm- forgot I have to go walk my sister’s turtle. Bye” You said the first lie you could come up with as you pulled your wrist out of his hold and turned around. You opened the front door and shut it behind you, praying that Lando wouldn’t follow.
Lando turned around and went back to his spot on the couch.
“Is that a thing people do here? Walking turtles?” Pierre asked, confusion written all over his face as he looked around the group for an answer.
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Ever since that night, you hadn’t been over to Lando’s house. He would call and text you to make plans, but you would come up with excuses to not be able to go. You didn’t want to seem any clingier than you supposedly were, according to Lando’s words.
After nearly a week of avoiding Lando, he’d had enough of it. You were in the process of making yourself some pancakes when your doorbell rang. You turned the stove off as your grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders, since you were lounging around in a sports bra and shorts. You couldn’t see anything through the little peep hole so you opened the door, shocked to see Lando standing there with flowers in hand.
The smile that was once on Lando’s face turned into a frown when he saw the blanket wrapped around your body.
“Oh baby, are you feeling ill?” He was genuinely concerned. He thought you had the blanket around you because you were sick, and you still weren’t fully up to seeing him, so you joined in on his misconception.
“Yeah, I’ve got a massive cold. I don’t want to get you sick too” You made your voice sound as scratchy as possible before pretending to cough.
“I don’t care if I get sick. Let me take care of you” He said as he pushed himself into your flat. He grabbed one of your arms and dragged you to the couch, where he grabbed both of your shoulders and pushed you into a sitting position. He ran across your flat to your bathroom to get the thermometer so he could check your temperature. You knew you’d be screwed if he actually checked.
He came back moments later, the little green thermometer in hand as he took the clear cover off.
“So uhm… I don’t exactly know how to work this” Lando held the tool in his hand, trying to figure out how to use it.
“No worries. I’m just not feeling great” You fake coughed again. Lando placed the thermometer on the coffee table in front of the couch and placed his hand on your forehead. All you could think was ‘shit’.
“You feel normal. What’s going on, love?” He asked as he slowly sat down next to you.
“What do you mean?” Your voice was back to normal, yet it was quieter than it usually was.
“You’re being all distant and shutting me out. We haven’t seen each other much. I just…did I do something?” He asked, the hurt in his voice evident as he spoke.
“I’m giving you a break” You answered and he just stared at you.
“Wh—what? A break?” He asked.
“ Yeah, a break. I heard what you and the other drivers were saying the other night, Lando. I didn’t-” you took a moment to breathe.
“I didn’t know that I was somehow clingy and that it bothered you” Your voice cracked as a tear streamed down your face.
He wrapped you in his arms and held you as you cried into his shirt.
“Oh my god. Let me explain everything, okay love?” He said as he slowly let go of you.
“I did say that but what you probably didn’t hear is that I said it was a joke. You wanna know what I told them?” He said and you nodded your head.
“I told them that I love you and that you’re perfect, because I truly do love you. You’re my girl forever. And if anyone’s clingy in this relationship, it’s quite obvious that it’s me” He joked, hoping to get a smile out of you. You laughed at his words, which resulted in a smile erupting on both your face and his. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before engulfing you in a hug.
“I love you. I can’t stand seeing you so upset like this. Plus the house was so lonely without you. Let’s go home?” He asked.
Home.
You always thought home was a physical place, a location. It turns out you’d found you home eight months ago.
“Home is wherever you are” You pressed a soft kiss to his lips before resting your head on his shoulder.
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BONUS
“By the way, you’ve made Pierre question whether or not walking a turtle is a real thing”
“If Pierre was confused, I know for a fact that Charles was just as confused. Plus I’ve seen people do it on TikTok, so I guess it’s a real thing”
“I also feel like they would be the type of people to actually walk around Monaco with a turtle on a leash”
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side note: rip to the pancake Y/n was making before Lando showed up
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taglist
@firehazardxx @judesgfirl @celestialams @xjval @chelseagirl98
#✎ natalie writes#lando norris#lando norris fluff#lando norris angst#lando norris x reader#lando norris x y/n#lando norris x you#lando norris fanfic#lando norris imagine
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Okay,, you have to let us know are the eggs any characters Specifically like megumi or itadori? I bet they would be clingy mommas boys.
Love you crumbs you give us and happy late birthday 🫶🏻
awww ty bestie okay okay okay holdonholdon
You'd name the hatchlings. Idk if I mentioned this or not but in the excerpt, the reader names Suguru and Satoru cuz they didn't have a concept of language yet. I think once they had a general concept of human language, they'd use their human names for each other just like you do.
When Nobara, Yuji and Megumi hatch, they'd definitely hang onto you the most. It's mostly because you are the most caring out of the throuple you were forced into. It makes sense for you to care about them, right? After all, human babies are pretty helpless and that's how far your knowledge extends. And they're adorable, with big round eyes, making cute little chitters. You get a tiny bit protective of them, especially considering the other two nagas don't carry the same sentiment. Suguru is clearly a believer of tough love and you've caught Satoru trying to put one of the eggs in his mouth (you're pretty sure he was joking...but you arent risking it when they're this tiny). They're small right now, but naga hatchlings grow up fast. They're practically your height in just a couple of years.
I feel personally, Yuji would be the (most outwardly) clingiest. He's affectionate, more dog than snake, sometimes. He's the largest of his siblings. When he was smaller, his favorite thing to do was wrap himself around your shoulders and you'd carry him around. He can't do that now, but he has other ways of spending time with you. He 'hunts' with you the most, assisting you with collecting berries and fruit. Apart from you, he'd bond with Satoru more. They share a similar personality, both are easily amused.
Megumi would be the shyest, but he loves you just as much as his siblings do. Much like his fathers, he enjoys the warmth you provide and would love cuddling with you in the languid hours of the evening. He doesn't do that much when he's older, but he's still interested in spending time with you! He likes quality time, the most. Eventually, during your time on the island, you'd have set up a tiny garden. He'd help with that. He and Suguru would have lots of similarities, so you'd often catch them together. They'd both help with your garden, helping cultivate the seeds and soil. It's not natural for them, but they understand you're different from nagafolk
But I think Nobara would be the one you're the closest to. She hatched the first. She's also different from her brothers. Again, in the naga species, the females become something akin to sirens. Slowly, you'd notice how different she is compared to her brothers, how much she enjoys the water, how dry her skin gets when she stays on land for too long. She'd evolve differently. Webbed hands, her tail would be more lithe, finned.
Because she's so different, Satoru and Suguru don't have much of an interest in her. Again, much like reptiles, nagas are fairly independent at a young age. Satoru and Suguru allow the hatchlings to stick around because you'd pitch a fit otherwise and they try to keep their mate happy. Once it becomes clear Nobara is aquatically gifted, you'd be terrified of the thought of her being out alone at sea, so you'd often go out with her, not caring how pruny your fingers get. Because of how much time you spend with her, I think she'd be the most interested in humans. She'd ask you about human culture, human customs. Every once in a while, she'd go out and collect remnants of humanity, clothes, trinkets, jewelry, anything she can find off the ocean floor. She'd sit on the rocky shore, holding out each one, demanding you to explain them to her.
You wouldn't dare mention how much you fear her fathers, but I feel Nobara would be the first to realize that you don't want to be here. She can see it in your eyes, the longing whenever you're explaining another human trinket. She wants you to be happy, but if you go back to the humans....would you still have time for her? Would you still braid her hair? Take care of her? Love her?
In the end, Nobara is the most similar to her fathers. She'd keep you on the island too.
ughhhhhh i should just write that chaptered naga fic already this is getting ridiculous.
#yandere#x reader#dark content#yandere jjk#dark gojo satoru#dark jjk#dark geto suguru#naga au#naga satosugu#naga gojo satoru#naga geto suguru#naga fushiguro megumi#naga itadori yuuji#yandere gojo satoru#yandere geto suguru#yandere satosugu#siren nobara kugisaki#Top of the Food Chain
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hold me closer [e.munson]
summary: you can’t sleep. eddie helps you out
pairing(s): eddie munson x fem!reader
fandom: stranger things
word count: 1583
warnings: lots of fluff, reader has insomnia, making out, suggestive jokes, eddie being a sweetheart, eddie being fuckin sexy
“Can I come over?”
Your voice is sweet and soft through the phone. Sleepy. Eddie smiles, leaning into the wall.
“Course you can, princess. It’s late though, are you tired?” he rasps. You hum in affirmation.
“Can’t sleep.”
You struggle with sleeping often, spending many nights without so much as a second of rest. Eddie tries in every way he can to help, doing everything from playing you soothing music to holding you in his arms and cuddling you to sleep. Sometimes his efforts pay off - other times, not so much.
“Alright, baby. You want me to come and get you?”
“‘s alright, I’ll walk.” Eddie frowns; his little grunt makes you giggle. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, he rifles through the array of possessions scattered by the front door and jumps in triumph when he finds his car keys.
“I don’t want you walking so late by yourself, beautiful. I’m gonna come and get you, okay?”
“I don’t want you walking so late by yourself, beautiful. I’m gonna come and get you, okay?”
“I don’t want you walking so late by yourself, beautiful. I’m gonna come and get you, okay?”
“‘kay, Eds. See you soon. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
“Love you more.”
“Love you more.”
Eddie hangs up and crosses his arms. You must be exhausted if how agreeable you are is anything to go by. Usually you’d do anything but let Eddie help you, arguing and protesting for every second that your boyfriend is trying to make your life easier. But you just don’t have it in you. You’re so fucking tired.
The drive to your house isn’t a long one, but Eddie hates the idea of you out, alone, in the middle of the night. He’s so protective of you - and with good reason.
You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. Hopping into the passenger seat, you gaze up at him with drooping eyes. He threads fingers through your hair, nimble and wonderfully gentle, and you murmur quietly, leaning into him.
“Hi, pretty princess,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed. We can cuddle, have some tea, whatever you want.”
“Tea?” you giggle.
“Yeah! I read somewhere that it’s like, super calming and can help you fall asleep. So I bought some for you.”
“Thank you, baby.” You smile, climbing awkwardly into his lap in the car. He sits back, immediately making room for you. You’re so lucky, really, to have someone who puts up with all of this. Who wants you despite all of your silly quirks and flaws, even though you’re difficult and stubborn and hard to deal with sometimes. Eddie loves you regardless. Pushing your hair back from your face, he kisses your forehead; you whine, holding his face still to press a kiss to his lips. He sits up, deepening the kiss; your lips mesh together, warm and soft and comforting, and Eddie’s tongue slips through and into your mouth, pulling a hum from you.
“Eddie,” you whine against his lips, fingers curled around his t-shirt.
“Shh, shh. ‘s alright,” he reassures, thumb caressing your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
A grin cracks across your face at the word home. What’s his is yours, after all, and Eddie has always adhered to that.
You climb back over to the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt in and hugging your knees.
“Good girl,” Eddie says, rubbing your cheek before starting the car engine again.
The ride to Eddie’s is short and quiet; you struggle to keep your eyes open, but still sleep refuses to come. By the time you realise that you’re stationary and Eddie’s already out of the car, he’s lifting you. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing him in and working deft fingers into the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. With your other hand, you twirl the ends of his long hair, smiling dazedly into his neck. His steps are long and languid, purposely so as not to jolt you. He unlocks the caravan, setting you down gently so he can close the door behind him. You make for the bed, laying down on the pillows that smell like him and inhaling deeply.
“Smells like weed in here, Eds,” you laugh.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“No, the smell isn’t bad,” you reply, “jus’ different.”
“Okay, what do you wanna do? What d’ya think’ll help you fall asleep?”
“Dunno. Will you cuddle me?”
He toes his heavy boots off along with his jacket, climbing into the bed alongside you. You’re on him in an instant, shuddering at the touch you’ve been sorely lacking. You already feel like you could fall asleep.
“I missed you,” you tell him, pushing your arms under his own and stretching.”
“I missed you too, princess. Missed this.” You hum thoughtfully at his reply, kissing his jaw.
“How’s Hellfire been? Is your campaign going well?”
“Oh yeah, it’s going really well. It’d be better if I had my lucky charm to come with me.”
“That me?” you giggle.
“Of course that’s you. Will you come, sweetheart? Please?”
“Yeah, Eds, I’ll come. You’ve just got to help me sneak out. My dad has me on house arrest.”
“I’m not messing with your dad. He scares me,” he laughs. “What did you do?”
“I snuck out to go to one of Steve’s parties and I may have come back a little bit drunk.”
“Oh my god,” he cackles, his chest shaking with the force of his laughs.
“Not my finest moment,” you admit, “He only really grounded me because I threw up on the front doorstep.”
Eddie cries actual tears at that, wheezing and howling above you. You scrunch your face up, batting at him halfheartedly.
“You’re so mean!”
“It’s funny, princess. I’m sorry!”
You settle yourself in the juncture of his neck, his infectious happiness relaxing you infinitesimally. His arm travels up and around your shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. You shiver, slipping your hands beneath his t-shirt.
“Y’alright?” he asks, tilting his head to get a glimpse of your face.
“‘m alright. Just tired.”
He pulls the blankets further over you, pressing his lips to your temple. Before he knows what’s happened, you’ve drifted off to sleep nestled in his arms.
You manage to doze for a few hours before you’re wide awake again. You feel refreshed and significantly better, albeit still tired. Eddie sleeps soundly next to you and you smile, tracing his tattoos with the very tip of your finger. Your lips follow, pressing chaste kisses to his skin, anywhere you can reach. You do it for no other reason than you need to feel close to him.
“Fuck, I love you,” Eddie rasps, voice thick with sleep. “Can’t believe I have you all to myself.”
You laugh, snuggling back into his awaiting arms and kissing a trail along his jaw and cheek.
“I love you more,” you mumble.
“Don’t test me, princess. You want me to prove how much I love you?”
The innuendo isn’t wasted on you and your eyes widen as his arms tighten around your frame.
“Baby, it’s so early!” you squeal, writhing in his iron grip.
“Shh, shh,” he coaxes, body crushing yours from above now; his skilled hands have you soft like putty within mere seconds and you go lax, baring your throat to him like an offering. A sacrifice.
“There’s my girl,” he praises, teeth grazing the tender skin over your trachea. “So good for me. So pretty.”
“Eddie,” you whimper, pawing at his chest and abdomen.
“I’m right here. What do you want?” he almost purrs, knowing exactly what to say to rile you up.
“I-I want you,” you manage to stutter out, arms sprawled around you. You’ve gone limp like prey - and he’s hunting you.
“Gonna have to be more specific than that, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Your skin is on fire, buzzing with energy that needs to be expelled. You need him to do something, anything.
“Kiss me please.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement, lips feverish against your own. When his hands cup your cheeks, rings cold against your warm skin, you prop yourself up on your elbows, pressing yourself as far into him as you can get. He murmurs love words against your lips.
“Good girl. So good f’me, princess. Fuck, I love you so much.” Incoherent whines are your only reply as you practically try to crawl inside of his skin. You can’t seem to get close enough and it’s driving you mad.
“Sweetheart, I’m here. Chill out,” Eddie laughs. You could almost cry. You need to be closer.
“I can’t,” you breathe, tucking your bare arms under his t-shirt. “Not close enough.”
“Alright, alright. If you wanted me to take my clothes off, should’ve just asked.” He winks, stripping his shirt off in one clean movement. You pounce, nuzzling into him. He cradles you like you’re made of china, lips gliding over your face and shoulders. “Sweetheart, what is it?”
“I just missed you,” you say, “Everything is so much worse when you’re away.”
“I have you, princess. I missed you so much.”
The fatigue returns tenfold, crashing over you like a wave, pulling you under. It’s almost as if your body knows you’re safe with Eddie and allows you to relax. To sleep peacefully without worry.
“Can we go back to sleep please?” you ask. Eddie nods.
“Finally feeling tired, hm?”
“Yeah.”
He gets you comfortable, smiling at your dozy expression. You sigh softly, pressing your face to his chest and wrapping your arms around his neck. Humming, you kiss the hollow of his throat.
“Love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” He rubs your head with deft fingers until you’re pulled back under by sleep.
#fanfic#writers on tumblr#imagines#writing#fiction#fem!reader#stranger things 4#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson x y/n#eddie x you#eddie x y/n#eddie munson#eddie munson drabble#eddie munson blurb#stranger things x you#stranger things x y/n#stranger things x reader#stranger things spoilers#stranger things
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Hihi, love your writing. Just sending over a request for a male reader (could be ftm if you'd life) with Hobie Brown? So basically the reader is apart of the organisation too and is a spiderman (could be possibly like a rock and/or punk based spiderman, or something completely opposite it's up to you) and it's how he had met Hobie and how they got close? I can send more details over if you'd like, thanks!
Hobie Brown x Male reader
Headcanons
I couldnt find any gifs of hobie yet, so just have this one.
Spoilers for Across the Spiderverse I guess? Reader is a Juggalo because I like ICP lmao.
You were one of the Spidermen that stood out somewhat amongst every other spiderperson around. You suit was white and black and had Juggalo features painted on the face. You wore a baggy ICP t-shirt and black shorts, maybe even a jacket or battle vest covered in patches. You wore a pair of heavy boots as well, perfect for kicking ass.
Along with that you didn’t respect the machine, aka the people in charge, as much as everyone else. You liked fighting and busting fascist and racist heads, you didn’t get involved with cops, and you were stubborn like a mule. This resulted in Miguel hating you because you were so difficult, but you were one of the best, so he kept you around.
You really liked fighting, which could be seen in the claws you added to your gloves, the brass knuckles worked into your suit, or the hard covering on your knees perfect for kneeing people in the chin. Those were only the visible ones, but you had many other hidden gizmos. This made you a bit of an outcast amongst the spiderpeople, but you didn’t care, you didn’t care about anyone’s approval but your own.
When Hobie joined the organization, it had been for Gwen’s sake in the beginning, since he himself doesn’t care much for large organizations with one leader who makes all the decisions. He puts up with it though, since its his duty to be spiderman.
Color him intrigued when one day he, Gwen and Jessica are called to Miguel’s area. When they arrive, they first see Miguel pacing back and forth rubbing his temples in clear annoyance, and second, they see a spiderman perched on the wall with little respect in his posture, roasting Miguel from head to toe.
Hobie already liked you from just that, but when you jump down to introduce yourself and he sees the anti-capitalism and anti-cop patches on your jacket? He might have fallen in love.
You, Gwen and Hobie were sent on a mission together, and you and Hobie got along like a house on fire. Gwen joked about being a third wheel the entire time, but she was just entertained about how well you two got along.
Outside of missions Hobie and you hang out most of the time, jumping into each other’s dimensions and just spending time at the others place. Hobies place is as punk rock as you can imagine, with all his instruments and an organized mess going on.
Your place is more what you’d imagine from someone who listens to rap, hiphop and ICP. You got a lot of music, casettes, cds, anything you can imagine. Lotsa posters or homemade merch stapled to the wall, etc.
When Hobie and Gwen make their band, you are invited of course, you are the singer. You can rap up a storm and speak so fast its hard for them to keep up some days. Hobie won’t admit it for a while, but hearing you spit bars makes his heart flutter.
Gwen would tease the both of you for having a crush on the other, which you both deny, because you are both cool and having crushes isn’t cool.
Gwen jokes about you two being boyfriends after you accidentally wear each other’s vest after spending the night at Hobies’ place. You both just roll your eyes at her and roast her with no actual heat, just doing it how friends would do it.
You both start dating at some point, neither of you can pinpoint when. One day you two just find yourselves cuddling on your rundown patched up couch without your masks on, cuddling and kissing.
Neither of you ever actually ask if you are boyfriends now or not, because you both know you are. It takes a while for Gwen and Pavitr a while to realize you two are together, since you don’t actually act any different.
Its only when they see you pull up his mask and your own to kiss him before going on a mission that it clicks for the both of them. They both whine that neither of you actually told them you were together.
When the movie happens you peace out the same moment as Hobie, having stolen your own tech so you two can keep visiting each other even if you aren’t part of the organization anymore.
Neither of you were ever big parts of being part of it anyways and only stayed for each other and for your friends, but seeing how Miguel deals with the whole Miles situation, you agree you need to leave.
You work together to make the watch for Gwen so she can save Miles. You two might join her too if needed, especially you, because you will take any chance to knock Miguel on his ass, maybe knock out those cheesy fangs of his.
Like I said, you hate authority. And since Miguel is authority, you hate him. Hobie follows after you because hes whipped and loves you deeply, plus he knows you can get kinda careless at times, so he has to pull you outta trouble if he needs.
You are both so grossly whipped for each other, it makes Gwen and Pavitr gag, though its fake gagging. You share clothes, instruments. You do his eyeliner and paint his nails, he does your Juggalo face paint. He always makes sure to give you a big kiss, which just wipes the paint onto his lips too.
#male reader#spiderman reader#hobie brown#spiderman#marvel#spiderverse#across the spiderverse#across the spiderverse spoilers#hobie brown imagine#hobie brown headcanon#hobie brown x male reader#hobie brown x reader#spiderman imagine#spiderman headcanon#spiderman x male reader#spiderman x reader#marvel imagine#marvel headcanon#marvel x male reader#marvel x reader#spiderverse imagine#spiderverse headcanon#spiderverse x male reader#spiderverse x reader#across the spiderverse imagine#across the spiderverse headcanon#across the spiderverse x male reader#across the spiderverse x reader
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ow guys and girls (not all) getting jealous seeing you with a new recruit
TW: Cassidy's headcanon is a little mature... (eyes emoji)
Hanzo
He'll have to remind himself that you can be friends and hangout with anyone you want. Being jealous is selfish and childish... right? So why does he feel so sad seeing you happy with someone else? He understands that you love him more than anything. But sometimes this man just wants you to himself. When you finally get back to Hanzo, he'll make sure to hold you close in the privacy of his room and tell you that he just wants to be enough for you. Please tell him he is enough and that there is no one else that will come in between you both. It will make him feel more confident in himself. :(
Genji
The ultimate playboy when he was his younger self...oh how the tables have turned. He used to make all the girls jealous of each other if they got to talked to him. He's used to people being jealous of him if anything. So when this weird feeling started when he say you with a random new recruit in the lounge talking and laughing, what got into him? Genji couldn't help himself. He quickly walked up and excused you both as he took your hand and led you out of the Gibraltar lounge. Was it rude? He simply was not thinking nor did he care. He did apologize for the sudden intrusion while walking you to his room. In there all alone with you, he confessed how he felt. It seemed like the most mature thing.
"Sorry, (Name)... I wasn't thinking...Is it okay if we just lay together for a little?" Genji will lay you down onto his bed that he bought for you. He'll lay on his side propped up by an elbow and watch you closely. Feel free to fall asleep, he just wants to feel like he can protect you for a little bit.
Cassidy
He'll walk up to that son of a gun and tell them how it is.
"Howdy. Looks like you've gotten to meet my partner, (Name). Ain't they a sight for sore eyes?" He'll sling an arm around you and give a look at the new recruit that just radiates 'Get away or I'll kick your ass' energy. After the recruit scurries off to who knows where, Cassidy will give you a big o'l smile. He kind acts like he was never jealous in the first place and just tells you, "I'm just lettin' others know what is mine." No matter what, the day will end with the two of you in bed. Expect him to to be a bit more aggressive and possessive than usual. Think of him being more forceful in the way he'll grab at you and force himself into you. Cassidy will lean down and whisper in your ear,
"I'm your huckleberry" "Only I can make you feel like this, pumpkin."
Brigitte
"Hey, (Name)...Can we talk?" You looked over to see your adorable lover at the door waiting for a response. You told the newbie that you'll see them around or maybe in a future mission. After walking into the hallway with Brig, she asks if you could follow her to somewhere private. You guys end up in a hidden park outside of Gibraltar. You asked if there was anything wrong. Brig can't help but shift back and forth while trying to form a coherent sentence. "I...Sorry I just felt like I wanted to be alone with you. Honestly, I think I got a little jealous watching you talk to someone." You couldn't help but sadly smile and give her a kiss on the cheek. It took her by surprise. "You're not mad at me? Isn't it selfish of me to whisk you away when you're making friends...?" You tell her that it's something you can both work on; to be able to feel confident in each other and so jealousy doesn't have to be a thing. "You're right. I need to work on it. But, I'm feeling better already!"
Kiriko
"Huh...So do you like hanging around them more than me?" Kiriko will playfully ask. Of course, she was only half joking...other half seriously asking. You would reassure her that you like spending time with her but you just wanted to say hi to the new person! "Alright, but can they do this?!" She'll bust out her kunai and start juggling them. You can only watch your silly partner try and impress you while you giggle.
Kiriko will join in on the giggling session, making sure to catch all her kunai and stuff them in her pockets. "We're the perfect match... right?" You can see some uncertainty in her eye while she looks directly at you. Simply pull her into a tight hug and this will erase any lingering fear of you leaving her.
Reaper
The person literally disappears. You never see that new recruit. Did your lover have something to do with this? You may never know. Maybe you should keep your distance with those who come around...
Moira
She would definitely deny any accusations of her being jealous! Do not even try to confront her or ask her why she's acting strange.
"What are you on about?" Moira will scoff.
You can try to tease her all you like, but it'll come back and bite you in the end. She always knows how to come out on top. After slightly opening up and telling you about her feelings, you'll have to make sure to console her and confess your undying love and loyalty... or else!
#overwatch#genji x reader#cole cassidy x reader#imagine your crush#x reader#brigitte x reader#genji shimada#cole cassidy#hanzo x reader#hanzo shimada#brigitte lindholm#kiriko x reader#kiriko kamori#reaper x reader#reaper#kiriko#gabriel reyes#moira#moira x reader#moira o'deorain#overwatch fanfic#overwatch headcanon#overwatch 2#ow#ow2#headcanons#imagine#reader insert#genji#gn reader
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why not me?
SUMMARY: They're in love with you, but there's one thing getting in the way. That thing? The fact that they aren't your favorite person (and never will be.)
CHARACTERS: All NRC Students minus Ignihyde.
WARNINGS: None!!
COMMENTS: Cater feeling like he's second place because your attention is IMMEDIATELY captured by someone else when you're together makes my soul hurt. Did I write it anyway? Yes. Every time I write Epel I'm reminded of how hard it is for me to grasp his character AJHSDFAJHS
This fic is related to the drabble why me?! linked here!! that part is a fluffy part for idia since there was no one else i could write romantic content for in his dorm C: idia kissers get out of this one........
~~~~~
Heartslabyul
Riddle Rosehearts fails to see the appeal. And no, he’s not saying that because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t get how you and Ace can talk about anything and everything and do it with smiles on your faces. Riddle’s tried so hard to get your attention, almost pathetically so, and it’s like he’ll never be anything more than Housewarden to you. He resigns himself to his fate of getting over you when he sees the two of you hugging, loud proclamations of never wanting to let go ringing through his ears like a death toll.
Trey Clover can’t blame you. He really can’t, because both you and Cater have such magnetic personalities that seem to just click. Yes, it hurts, because he wishes he could be the one you lean on at Unbirthday parties, taking silly pictures and posting them to Magicam with sappy captions. Though, he supposes that isn’t his style. Maybe he’s too boring for you, he’s been called that before. As long as you’re happy though, Trey supposes he doesn’t mind. He just wishes things could have gone different.
Cater Diamond's content being your friend. That’s what he tells himself, just another lie stacked upon castles and castles of them. Even the Queen of Hearts can’t compete with his towering structure, built of his facade and held up by his pride. He takes pictures with you but avoids the heart emoji, he holds up bunny ears behind your head but avoids pressing his lips to your cheek. He keeps you at arms length, because whenever you’re with Trey, it’s so obvious he’s the one you’d want. He posts another picture, this one of you and him at the Unbirthday party, and it’s only him and you that knows that the failed shot was of you spinning around at the sound of Trey’s voice the second the camera went off.
Ace Trappola doesn’t understand your taste in men. You hang around Deuce all the time and make him all flustered and it makes his blood boil. His heart seizes every time he sees the two of you together and he knows it’s because he loves you. You, who always laughs at his jokes and puts up with his stupid shit and who told him that he wasn’t a burden to be around when he and Deuce got into a fight. That same person who he treasures so dearly treasures the person that could not be more different from him, and for once Ace knows he should just give up because you’ll never be his.
Deuce Spade finds himself getting angry more often than he’d like. It’s irrational most of the time, little parts of his delinquent side coming out when he least wants it to. You’ve seen that side of him before. He wishes you hadn’t. Because maybe if you hadn’t, you’d like him more than his own Housewarden, who you’re currently feeding bits of strawberry tart to. Riddle’s face is bright red and Deuce feels his grip on his fork growing tighter. A pit of ugly jealousy twists in his stomach as Riddle mumbles something that makes you laugh, and Deuce can’t help but wonder where he went wrong.
Savanaclaw
Leona Kingscholar can’t find it in himself to care. Not when you’re fawning over Jack like he’s the greatest student NRC has ever had, not when you spend every waking moment with him, not when your conversations with Leona become shorter and shorter. He finds himself waking up alone time and time again, without a cheerful call of his name from outside his door and your blurry form bringing him little snacks. He grumbles as he hears your laugh from outside his door, except you keep walking. Of course you wouldn’t check on him, but he can’t help but get his hopes up every time. Pathetic.
Ruggie Bucchi feels a pit in his stomach as you lean your head on Leona’s shoulder, pointing out something in his textbook that the prince isn’t even paying attention to. Ruggie grips his magical pen tighter, gritting his teeth as Leona grumbles something incoherent and flops on your shoulder in return. You look embarrassed, Ruggie realizes, tearing his eyes away from the display in front of him. He’s never seen Leona this happy. He’s never seen you this happy. Not even when you’re with him.
Jack Howl doesn’t want to question your choices. He adores you, as gruff and cold as his affection may be. He wishes he could express his emotions better when he sees you and Ruggie, laughing and smiling and touching each other like it isn’t a big deal. He feels like he can’t breathe when he sees you two holding hands, and he feels nauseous when Ruggie leans his head on your shoulder. There’s a part of his brain that he hates that whispers jealous little thoughts into his ears, thoughts that he’s ashamed to admit are his. Great Seven, why couldn’t you be like that to him?
Octavinelle
Azul Ashengrotto feels sick to his stomach as he watches you talk animatedly to Jade, eyes shimmering like the stars the Vice Housewarden loved to admire. He sees the exact same look in Jade’s eyes, the look he has when he looks at his mushrooms or when he talks about a new bird he spotted on the trails, except it’s different. Azul doesn’t want to put a word to it, not when you reach for Jade’s hand and he takes it, because all Azul can think of is how that should be him.
Jade Leech is a background character in your life. That’s the role he’s been assigned and that’s the role he’s decided to be content with. He knows you won’t give him anything more than a fleeting glance, not when you’re hanging off Floyd’s arm like he’s everything you see. Jade is just a smear on the window, a blurry afterimage of his brother. There’s no use contemplating what you could have seen if you looked a bit deeper, because you didn’t. You favor his twin, and he can do nothing about it.
Floyd Leech knows what it’s like to want something someone else has, but never like this. It’s always been a feeling that surfaced when Jade got a treat before him, but this is not that. This is you, his Little Shrimpy, giving Azul your undivided attention while he talks about the monthly earnings of the Mostro Lounge. He whines and pouts and hollers into your ear, only to be pat on the head and ignored again like he’s only an afterthought. Azul gets to have all the fun with his Shrimpy, and that’s not fair.
Scarabia
Kalim Al-Asim invites you over as often as he can. He’s cheery and excited and absolutely delighted by your company as he shovels food onto your plate. Maybe he’s an idiot or maybe he's just dense, but he somehow misses the glances you send Jamil when he exits the kitchen. It hits Kalim like a truck one day when Jamil offers you heart shaped cakes, displayed all prettily on Scarabia’s best golden platter. You look taken aback but flustered, lashes fluttering as you turn your gaze to Jamil. He smiles down at you with a softness that Kalim has never seen him wear, and it’s like a knife in the heart. Oh. It’s Jamil. You’re accepting his invitation for Jamil. Oh Great Seven, you’re in love with Jamil. He excuses himself with a fleeting smile, running to his dorm room the second he’s out of view, collapsing onto his bed with a broken sob. Why did it hurt so much?! He should be happy for you.
Jamil Viper doesn’t even bother. You have his heart resting in the palms of your hands, but it’s like the weight of the organ is nothing because you can ignore it so easily. He watches you every day, observing your habits and mannerisms. He brings you and Kalim snacks as you laugh and study and talk, talk as casually as friends do, and Jamil wonders what it would be like to have that with you. He can’t though. He can’t, because he’d be competing with Kalim again and that’s never worked out in his favor anyway. Kalim always has to win, even if Jamil has to give up the one person who took the time to think about how he felt.
Pomfiore
Vil Schoenheit likes to pretend he doesn’t mind. He pretends he doesn’t like you as much as he does, because if he lets his emotions show you’ll surely feel obligated to apologize to him. He watches you as you talk happily with Rook, your hands intertwined and swinging as if you’re together already. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he says nothing as the two of you prattle on. Leave it to you to capture a few hearts on campus and break most of them, Vil Schoenheit’s included.
Rook Hunt thinks the way you look at Epel is beautiful, though he wishes it were him. He honestly doesn’t mind that much, even if he yearns to see that same affection boring into his soul. He’s content for now, watching you watch Epel, the affectionate look on your face reflected on Rook’s. It’s painfully obvious to him what’s happening in that little heart of Epel’s as he returns your look, and as long as Rook gets to see you bloom with love then he’ll be satisfied. (Rook Hunt is also, unfortunately, a liar, and he knows it will hurt him in the end.)
Epel Felmier grits his teeth as you greet Vil with a cheery “hi beautiful,” and he returns the sentiment in kind. The way you two smile at each other makes him feel sick, so much so that he pushes away his food. Whenever the two of you are in the same vicinity, it's like Epel can't breathe anymore. He refuses to acknowledge what the feeling is, because that would be losing. Of course. Of course of everyone his first love could have picked, they fell in love with the one man he disliked more than anything.
Diasomnia
Malleus Draconia gets a sinking feeling in his chest whenever he sees you with Lilia. He thought you and him were friends, close enough to act casual with each other. He’s never had that with someone before, and he’s definitely never felt this before you. Beautiful, accepting, kind you. But when he sees you with Lilia, goofing off and laughing and smiling, he realizes that what he thought was special meant absolutely nothing to you.
Lilia Vanrouge thinks the situation is funny in the cruelest way possible. He stares at you with affection blooming in his eyes, and yet he sees you look at Silver the same way. Lilia has lived a long time, and he knows nothing lasts forever, but the fact that he never even got to have you will always eat away at him. As long as he gets to see the growing affection in Silver’s eyes grow for you too, he thinks he will be okay.
Sebek Zigvolt can’t blame you! You’re so obviously in love with Malleus, and what an excellent choice you’ve made, human! There is no one…better in the love…department than...the Young Master...He can’t do this. Why won’t you look at him? There isn’t a single thing he can train or improve that would ever steal your attention from his Master, and Sebek knows it’s blasphemy to try. So why does he want so badly? Why does seeing you and his Master make him so bitter?
Silver shuts his eyes. Sebek is loud as usual, and your attention has been completely captured by him. He’s aware that he tends to blend in, especially when Sebek is around, but knowing that doubles as an excuse. Of course you’re not paying attention to Silver, because he’s sleeping and Sebek is talking. It isn’t until he sees the two of you walking and talking together, his fellow guard’s cheeks red as he turns his head away from you, that he realizes you act like that regardless of whether Silver’s around or not. Because you like Sebek, not him.
#auburn's fics <3#disney twisted wonderland#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#twisted wonderland#disney twst x reader#riddle rosehearts x reader#trey clover x reader#cater diamond x reader#ace trappola x reader#deuce spade x reader#leona kingscholar x reader#ruggie bucchi x reader#jack howl x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader#jade leech x reader#floyd leech x reader#kalim al asim x reader#jamil viper x reader#vil schoenheit x reader#rook hunt x reader#epel felmier x reader#malleus draconia x reader#lilia vanrouge x reader#sebek zigvolt x reader#twst silver x reader#silver x reader
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hiiiii ♡ would be able to write something where reader is Jason Todd's girlfriend, friends to lovers situation so they've known each other a long time but she doesn't know about any of the vigilante stuff, And one day she's late making her way back to thier apartment but Jason is also making his way home but he's still in all the Redhood gear and reader bumps into him and is absolutely terrified out of her mind like just in complete terror of him. And she runs home and locks the doors and the windows and is a little shaken up. Jason finally arrives home obviously not as redhood lol And anyway he has to comfort her and just how would he react knowing that he scared the shit out of her and that she's this much afraid of redhood
Hi!! Of course! This is my first Jason Todd request and I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart!! I love him so much and this is an incredible idea. I added my own spin to the ending, but I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍
Warnings: angst, fluff, Dick Grayson is nosy
Word Count: 2.3k+ words
A/N: This isn't a specific adaptation/characterization of Jason Todd, but I do mention that he's built like a brick wall, so it's probably not Titans!Jason. The gif fit, though, so. If anyone has more Jason Todd requests, please send them!
Masterlist | DC/Jason Todd Masterlist | Request Info
The Man Under the Hood
“Are you going to tell her?” Dick asks, raising his gloved hand for Jason to hit.
“I don’t know,” Jason grunts between punches.
“She stayed through everything else.”
“We were friends then, it was different.”
Dick drops his hands, and Jason sighs, lowering his guard. Jason raises his eyebrows, preparing for one of Dick’s infamous lectures.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Dick begins before laughing at Jason’s surprised look. “I’m really not, but you’ve known her for a very long time. Just, don’t wait too long, because then it just looks like you don’t trust her.”
“It was different for you. Nightwing wasn’t feared. Telling her that I’m Red Hood tells her that I’ve done things that- that most people never consider.”
“She loves you. As you make the decision, just remember that.”
✯✯✯✯✯
Growing up in Gotham and playing in the streets (even when you shouldn’t have) introduced you to Jason Todd very early. He quickly became your friend, and when you lost him, you were finally ready to admit you loved him. But it was too late. The feelings that you were trying to navigate multiplied tenfold, and every time you pass his grave, they come back to the surface.
The cemetery is on your way home, and sometimes you can’t help but walk in. You can navigate to his headstone with your eyes closed, and everything else drifts away as you stare at his name.
“There’s a joke about the morbidity of this somewhere, I just know it."
Two large hands land on your waist, turning you around and pulling you into a kiss that takes your breath away. Breaking the kiss, you wonder what life would be like if Jason had never disappeared.
“Sorry,” you murmur. Kissing Jason is new and still catches you off guard, like you’re dreaming.
“Don’t apologize,” Jason whispers, brushing his fingers across your cheekbone. “Of all the places to hang out,” he adds with a bright smile.
“Why didn’t Bruce get it taken down?”
Jason shrugs. “The reminder? The idea that something else could happen. I really don’t know,” Jason half lies. He isn’t ready to tell you that he really did die and is happy to let you think it was just a ransom kidnapping gone wrong.
“What?” you ask, pressing your palms against his chest. “You disappeared into that pretty head again.”
“I’m just glad we’re finally more than friends,” Jason says, pressing his lips to yours.
“Me too,” you reply against his lips.
You’ve been friends much longer than lovers, so spending time together is not new, but being able to touch, kiss, and tell him what you feel is. While you think about how much you like the newness, Jason struggles to decide when or if to expose who he is.
He trusts you; he does, but he doesn’t want to scare you away or put a target on your back. Nightmares about you finding out and leaving while he’s gone plagued him for months after returning to Gotham and seeing you again.
“Do you have to go back to the manor yet?”
Jason shakes his head, looping an arm around your shoulders. “You’re stuck with me for a few more hours.”
“Oh no.”
Jason pulls you against his side, smiling as he kisses the top of your head.
Not yet, he decides. Not never, just not yet.
✯✯✯✯✯
Jason feels Dick’s eyes on the side of his mask, a distorted sigh leaking out.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“You didn’t tell her,” Dick – Nightwing – accuses.
“We’re kinda in the middle of something here, Wing.”
“They can wait. Right, criminals?” Dick asks over his shoulder.
“Sure,” one of them answers, a batarang through his jacket keeping him stuck to an alley wall. “Take your time.”
Dick raises his hands to ask, “Why?”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell me what to do,” Jason sighs.
“Changed my mind. Look, I obviously understand the purpose of secret identities, but you love her, and she deserves to know.”
“You haven’t told your girl?” the thief asks. “Why not?”
“Shut up,” Jason growls through the hood.
“What are you really scared of?” Dick whispers before turning away.
Jason and Dick leave the criminal in the alley when police sirens approach, finding a rooftop to wait on. Gotham is never quiet for long, and breaks on patrol are few and far between.
“I’m going to tell her,” Dick announces. “Not about you. About me. Maybe that will convince you.”
“Don’t.”
“Jaybird.”
“Don’t ‘Jaybird’ me, Dick,” Jason argues, standing and pacing. “You don’t understand what I’m dealing with here. You tell Babs you’re Nightwing and she says, ‘Oh, wow, thanks for keeping us safe.’ I tell the woman that I love that I’m Red Hood and her first thought is the duffel bag fiasco, or the suicide spike at Arkham, nothing about me being a savior.”
“Everyone in Gotham knows that you’re not like that anymore. Besides, knowing that you did something bad isn’t a make-or-break situation.”
“Begging for forgiveness won’t do much if she leaves while I’m on patrol.”
Dick tilts his head toward Jason. “You’ve thought about this.”
Jason flexes his arms as he links his hands behind his neck. “Every time I consider doing it, I have a nightmare about her leaving.”
“You’re letting a nightmare control you, Jay.”
“Just- give me a little time, Dick. I can protect her from everything without telling her. Me included.”
“What if she doesn’t want to be protected from you? What if she wants you as you are?”
✯✯✯✯✯
Jason can’t remember the last time he was this tired after patrol. Damian had too much sugar or something and drug Jason all over Gotham. He needs to see you, and as Red Hood makes his way through the streets of Gotham, Jason keeps his mind on you, prepared to ditch the helmet and hold you until he can’t anymore.
Meanwhile, you’re walking home from work. Jason likes to be on the phone with you while you walk alone, but it’s late, and he’s probably at a family dinner. Looking down at your phone, you have a short message from him, but before you read it, you walk into what feels like a brick wall.
Gloved hands grip your biceps to keep you upright, and when you look up, you see the infamous Red Hood looming over you. Your mind wavers between fight and flight as you try not to scream, leaning away with wide eyes. You swallow harshly, and the eye slits of the mask fix themselves on your face.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You flinch back at the sound of his voice, and his hands immediately fall away from you. Falling back, you catch yourself on your hands and scoot backward, terrified of what he’ll do to you. Red Hood has been working with the bats and birds, but the memory of what he was like before still looms over Gotham like the rain clouds that never dissipate.
He steps back, moving his hand toward his belt, and you gasp, freezing where you are.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, standing slowly. “Please don’t hurt me.”
It’s Red Hood’s turn to freeze, and unknown to you, Jason is falling apart under the mask. The pure terror in your eyes is the exact thing he’s been trying to keep you from.
“It’s okay, it’s my fault,” he rushes to say, leaving his hands where you can see them. “I’m not going to touch you.”
You nod slowly, moving backward as you clearly don’t believe him. Once you reach the corner, you turn and run. If he wanted to follow you, he could do so with no problem, but you don’t spare a glance over your shoulder as you run as fast as you can toward your home.
Jason’s shoulders drop as he watches you run, beating himself up for everything: for not telling you, for scaring you, and for putting you in this position. He can’t tell you now; he missed his chance, and there’s no way you’ll want him. His nightmare is coming to life around him, and he can’t wake up.
Your phone is lying on the ground, and Jason stoops to pick it up, slipping it into his pocket. Maybe you’ll still want to see Jason tonight. If someone like him can be so lucky.
✯✯✯✯✯
Your keys slip from your fingers several times as you struggle to unlock your door. Panting and blinking quickly to keep your tears from falling, you finally open the door, and once you're inside, slam it behind you and lock all three deadbolts.
Leaning against the door, you slide down it and hug yourself, wishing you had picked up your phone. You want to call Jason; you need him, but hopefully, he’ll come over when he can.
Something flies past your window, and you leap to your feet, walking through every room to ensure all the windows are locked.
✯✯✯✯✯
Jason takes his time following you. He can move quickly, especially for a guy his size, but after seeing how you looked at Red Hood, at him, he’s more than happy to go a little slower. Taking the long way, he drops his stuff off at his place, keeping your phone in his pocket.
As he walks, he wonders what to say or do to convince you to stay. Sure, you were terrified of Red Hood, not Jason Todd, but the two are not mutually exclusive and never will be. Part of him wants to take Dick’s advice and tell you, but the idea of it not working (or ending like he thinks he will) makes the decision impossible.
He takes a deep breath before knocking on your door, and when there’s no answer or footsteps inside, he hits the door again, saying your name.
“It’s me,” he adds.
Your footsteps sound before three deadbolts click. Opening the door, you move into the hallway to hug Jason tightly. He returns the hug, pulling you up against him as he carries you inside and closes the door behind him. Flipping all the deadbolts, he knows he can keep you safer than they ever could, but that requires trust. Trust from you and from him.
As you cling to him, his heart is torn between leaving you before he scares you again or comforting you all night. When you adjust your grip on him, pressing your cheek against his pec just above your heart, Jason decides to stay.
If she’s this afraid of Red Hood, what will she do when she finds out who he is? Jason wonders.
Pushing the thoughts away, Jason holds you close, rubbing his hand up and down your back while the other rests against your hip. The weight of his arms against you is comforting, and you focus on his heartbeat and the sound of his voice.
“You’re alright,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Take a few deep breaths.”
You do as he says, attempting to match your breaths to his. It takes several minutes, but your heart rate slows as your breath evens out.
“Thank you,” you say, moving your chin against his chest to look up at him.
He smiles, though his lips stay together, and it’s not as big as usual, running a hand over your hair.
“Can I- can I talk to you about what happened?” you ask, leaning into his touch.
He nods, and something akin to dread flashes through his eyes. You write it off as nervousness that you were hurt or threatened, which wouldn’t be unbelievable in Gotham.
“I was walking home, I got off late but didn’t want to call you and bother you.”
Jason wonders how different things would be if you had called, but rather than interrupting, he nods to acknowledge he’s listening.
“Then I turned into an alley, and I bumped into Red Hood. And, I mean, I know he’s not the same as when he first arrived in Gotham.”
Hope blooms in Jason’s chest at your words.
“He works with Batman, and Nightwing, and the rest of them, and they’re good. I’ve heard from my coworkers who live in the Hill that he’s making a difference, for good, but,” you trail off, looking away from Jason as you shatter his hope that you see a different side of Red Hood.
“But what?” he asks quietly.
You shrug, and Jason takes the opportunity to move. He pulls you with him as he sits up, tugging you into his lap as you look up at him. His arms wrap around your waist as his fingers brush up and down against your side.
“I think the reason he scared me so much is that there’s no way to tell what he’s thinking. The rest of them, you can see part of their face, but he hides everything. And he’s just so big, I looked up and felt so small that I knew if he wanted to hurt me, he could.”
He would never hurt you, Jason thinks.
“I guess I didn’t like being in that position where I knew he could do anything but had no way of knowing if he would.”
Jason leans back toward the back of the couch. The fear that you’re expressing is based on reasons that apply to him, the man under the mask.
“You got scared because he’s so big? And unreadable?” Jason clarifies, applying the adjectives to himself.
Your eyes are fixed on him, dropping to his shoulders and waist quickly, looking at his build (and noticing the shape of a phone in his pocket, aware that he set his to the side to hold you) before you hum. “Kinda like you,” you muse quietly.
Jason’s brows furrow, and you move your arms, causing Jason to drop one arm to his side.
You watch his movement, then look into his eyes. You lean toward him and smile, cocking your head as you ask, “But you can protect me. Right, red?”
#jason todd x fem!reader#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd imagine#jason todd fluff#red hood x reader#red hood#dc comics x reader#dc comics#fem!reader#requests
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