please dont scream at me in anons bc im sensitive and cry about it every time, thanks xx thank you to @jamesdeanbby for the inspo ily xx
this is my back up account. i will repost all my fics here as my blog has been marked as mature. consider this a fresh start?
He doesn’t wanna get out of bed in the morning for class
𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫ˎˊ
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ summary. in which theodore nott isn't a morning person and its up to you to get him out of bed. w.c. 870. a.n. sorry this took me forever, im trying to be more motivated... ty for the request !
The morning brings a chill that settles over the dorm like snow, concealed within the stone walls of the Slytherin dorm. The room is awash in deep green, broken by the aureate glow of the bedside lamp, completely blocked out by the heavy emerald drapes that surround the four-poster bed. The silence suggests the other boys have gone to breakfast, oblivious to your presence, content to let Theo sleep through the morning as he usually does.
The duvet shields you from the bitter air, trapping the heat that seems to radiate from Theo’s body; his hair is a tousled mess, his face buried into his pillow, lips parted. He looks peaceful, any traces of stress or worry dashed completely from his features in sleep.
A small smile graces your features and you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip, a featherlight touch that makes his brow scrunch slightly. His arm tightens around your middle, an action so absentminded and small that you’re certain he isn’t aware it happened at all.
“Theo…” Your voice is a low, melodic whisper that fills the space between you both, eliciting a grunt from him.
His expression doesn’t change and his eyes don’t open.
“Stubborn.” You tut, though your own smile doesn’t falter as you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek, then his nose, his jaw, and finally the corner of his mouth. His lips twitch upwards into a tiny, sleep-hazed smile, and you watch as his lashes flutter, eyes bleary and half-lidded.
“What?” His voice is a low rumble deep in his chest, laced with exhaustion, enough to make your stomach dip.
“You look like you slept well,” you tease, your fingers brushing the hair back from his face.
Theo chases the touch, eyes falling shut as though the effort to keep them open is too much. He hums softly. “That feels good…”
His arm tightens its hold around your middle, dragging you closer until you're practically lying ontop of him, free hand braced against the solid plane of his chest. A small laugh bubbles up and you muffle it against his shirt.
“Don’t do that, amoure mio.” He grumbles, tilting your chin up enough that your eyes meet his own. The light makes his eyes look like pools of honey, green flecks swirling in amongst the warmth and he watches you through his lashes, still clinging to the final remnants of sleep.
You frown, head tilting slightly. “What?”
“Don’t hide.” He yawns. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing over your bottom lip reverently. “I hardly see you during the day—”
“You see me plenty.”
He fixes you with a look, his brows raised. “Seeing you from the other side of a classroom doesn’t count. This is the only real time I get.”
Your fingers freeze in his hair, your smile falling into something far more tender. Theo doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he’s too tired to point it out.
“Then sit with me,” you murmur, letting your forehead drop to rest against his. “In class. Sit with me at lunch.”
“Everyone would throw a fit.” He doesn’t pull away, his hand resting at the small of your back. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Fine,” you yield gently, pushing yourself up so that you’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t realise Theodore Nott was so scared of a few dirty looks–”
His fingers enclose around your wrist—not tight enough to hurt but enough to make you stumble when you try to stand up. “Don’t.” That low grit has returned to his voice, his tone laced in coarse gravel. “I’m not scared of them. But I know what they’re like, love.”
You hum, amusement tinging the sound. You pry yourself free from him, finally rising and bending down to collect your clothes from where he’d tucked them beneath his bed. Out of sight, completely hidden. Just like you.
“They know enough.” You remind him. “They’ve seen us at parties, at Hogsmeade…”
“If I sit at your table, they’ll think I’ve gone soft.”
You can’t help but laugh at the pure sincerity written across his features. He’s finally pushed himself up onto an elbow, watching you as you tug on your uniform, smoothing down the creases, trying to push your hair back from your face.
“Come here, bella.” He reaches out and you sit before him once more. Carefully, as though he’s gone through the motions a thousand times, he takes your hair tie from your wrist and gathers your hair up, tying it back so that it doesn’t fall in front of your eyes. “Better?”
You smile, cheeks warming despite yourself as you turn to face him. “You’ve definitely gone soft, Nott.”
And Theo doesn’t deny it; not when you press a kiss to his lips one final time, not when he melts into it, chasing the action as you rise and move towards the door. And definitely not when you whisper ‘i love you’ before leaving with a promise to see him again later.
If anyone were to ask, he would blame the distant, lovesick look in his eyes on tiredness.
warnings. implied canon typical violence.
w.c. 1.1k
a/n. oh achilles how i love you. back in my greek mythology era which means my writing style immedietly improves bc im actually reading good books.
The evening is alive with the jaunty laughter of men drunk on spirits and life, wine sloshing over their goblets, voices rising and falling like the waves that crash upon the shore. Candlelight flickers across their faces, highlighting every scar and delighted crease of their expressions. Their songs are of hope, of the great son of Peleus, his name roared by hundreds of drunken voices like a battle cry until his glory is heard by the heavens.
They do not notice that the man they sing for is not there. They don’t go searching for him or calling upon him. They simply bask in their own triumph, still wearing their sweat and the blood of soldiers like it is a prize in itself.
You find him sitting alone on the beach, his silhouette impressive even in darkness, his shoulders a broad expanse of sun-kissed muscle, forearms resting on his knees. His head is bowed, sea-green eyes downcast to the sand beneath his feet. His hair is tangled from battle, matted with dirt and blood, and he is stripped entirely of his bronze, leaving him in nothing but a sleeveless tunic.
If one did not know his name, he might look like any other exhausted soldier.
The waves crash against the shoreline once more, the churning waters reflecting the glow of the pale moon above, silencing the camp’s roars and cheers as another song starts up.
Achilles does not move. Not when the sand shifts under your feet. Not when you stop behind him, fingertips grazing the tight-knitted muscle of his back.
“You are thinking loudly.” Your voice cuts through the silence, carrying across the desolate space surrounding you.
He inhales sharply, the breath catching in his throat. He does not flinch but when he finally exhales it’s jagged with barely concealed exhaustion. His shoulders drop beneath your touch, his head tilting back enough that the moon catches the sharp cut of his jaw, making him look as though he has been carved from marble.
“They are singing my name.” It comes out as a meagre whisper—it isn’t filled with pride, nor is it a boast. Instead, the words are stained with exhaustion.
“That is what you wished for.” You lower yourself down beside him, eyeing the shortsword that lies in the sand. The bronze is stained crimson, tainted with the blood of Trojans.
“I wished for glory.” He trails a blood-stained finger through the sand. “I did not know it would feel like this.”
You trace the line of his jaw, watching the way it twitches beneath your touch. “You wish for peace instead?”
“No.” The response is sharp, spoken without any doubt. He takes a fistful of sand, the grains falling between his fingers. “Peace is for those who fear death. I am not built for a quiet life. I do not want children who will bear my name. I do not want to be forgotten over time.”
You gently pry his fingers apart and he relents beneath you, allowing you to brush the coarse grains from his skin without word. “You let your pride get in the way, Achilles.”
His gaze finally lifts from the horizon, eyes snapping to meet your own, drowning you in the sea that Thetis created. The glint behind them is not anger, never towards you. Instead, it is alight with something akin to amusement, a challenge that only you could face, unmatched.
“You say it as though it were a burden. My mother promised me a name that will outlive the stars themselves. I will be remembered through songs, through stories that will be passed through generations. Is it pride to want the prize I have been promised?”
Slowly, he laces his fingers with your own, placing your palm against the solid expanse of his chest until you feel the steady thump of his heart.
“Tell me.” Your voice has dropped, barely above a whisper, carried by the sea breeze. “When they sing of the great Achilles, will they sing of this?”
His brow does not furrow, but you notice the slightest change in his eyes, the way they soften imperceptibly. “Of what?”
Your fingers shift against his chest, pressing more firmly. “Of his wife. Of the woman who seeks him out after each battle. Of the way his heart races and his breath comes jagged. Will they sing of the human or the beast?”
His eyes turn back to the ocean, to the black waves that conceal all beneath them. Yet, his hand covers yours completely, concealing you in warmth until you feel nothing but the beat of his heart. “History does not care for the mortal man inside. Nor do they care for his wife.”
You swallow once, leaning into his side, your head resting upon his shoulder. “And what of Patroclus?”
His body goes rigid beneath you, his grip tightening enough to make you wince. He loosens it just as fast, thumb soothing your knuckles. “He will be remembered. But not the way we know him.”
“Then how?”
“They will make a warrior out of a man who only fought to protect people. They will sing our names in the same breath. They will not know of his kindness.”
Your breath leaves you in a slow, defeated exhale. Slowly, you take his jaw in your hand, turning his face with enough force that he looks at you once more. For the first time in a long while, he looks every bit the exhausted man he is.
The lines marring his features seem to soften, his lips set in a straight line. You brush a loose blonde lock from his forehead, lingering a few moments too long before resting your hand at the base of his neck.
“History does not matter tonight.” You whisper, forehead pressing to his until the air that passes between you is reduced to nothing but a shared breath. “Tonight it is simply me and the mortal man before me. Not the legend, nor the beast. The one nobody will remember.”
His eyes slip shut, easing into your touch as though you are the last gentle soul living.
The roar of the camp suddenly feels distant, drowned by the gentle song of the waves as they lap closer to you both, the sea foam fizzing and the spray dusting your skin lightly. The moon continues to reflect off the surface, bathing you both in its pale glow.
For the first time in a long while, Achilles allows himself a moment outside of the prophecy, simply basking in the warmth of your touch and the tender way your lips press to his own.
oooooo…. how about sneaking around with theodore and just having some harmless fun. finding spots to makeout and just fuck around (love your writing, so excited to see you write for him!!)
𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫ˎˊ
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ summary. hogwarts after curfew is a whole different place, shrouded in shadows with only the moonlight to guide you. yet, when theodore nott is the one leading you along, you find you don't mind half as much.
w.c. 745
a.n. this might not be perfect bc i didnt get the time to edit. i also know this fandom is dead and gone but hey, let me have fun. ty pinterest for improving my vocab & thank you for the req xx
The classroom sits at the end of the corridor, completely abandoned, the hallway a desolate expanse of stone walls and dusty torch brackets. It looks as if nobody has set foot this way in months, perhaps even years; there’s no need to anymore, aside from the few students that slip away for a few moments.
Your footsteps reverberate off the walls, dull, echoing thumps that have your skin crawling with nerves, eyes darting to every corner, some insolent part of your brain afraid that Filch might come calling out for you and ruin everything.
“You’re nervous.” It isn’t a question so much as a statement, spoken loud enough that you squeeze Theo’s forearm tightly.
“Shut up.” You hiss, checking over your shoulder once more. The hallway remains empty, the only occupant being the sliver of pale moonlight that slices through the windows.
He chuckles, dragging you onwards, towards a heavy oak door at the end. The wood is mottled and splintering, the handle rusted with age. “Come on. If someone were following us, we would have heard them by now.”
The hinges give such a shriek that your breath hitches and you’re certain the whole castle would have heard. But Theo remains unbothered, slipping through the crack and into the darkness, beckoning you after him.
It closes with a gentle click, and you’re bathed in blissful silence once more, enveloped in the scent of old parchment and wood. The only light is from the moon outside, gleaming through the tall windows, and your shadows stretch endlessly across the floor, cutting through the thick layers of dust.
“How did you know about this?” You whisper, trailing your finger over the smooth surface of one of the desks, noticing every ridge and knot in the wood.
Theodore shrugs, leaning back against the door, watching you with eyes that are the same shade as moss, and in the dim glow you can just about make out the flecks of hazel woven within. “Word gets around.”
You raise your brows, shoulders finally relaxing as he steps towards you. You can’t help the small twitch of your lips. “Word?”
“You know,” he closes in, arms bracketing you against the desk, chest pressing against your own. You can smell his cologne, the mingling scent of smoke and musk that clings to his skin, something that is so uniquely him that it drives you crazy. “People talk.”
“Do they?” Your fingers reach up, running through his hair, tugging gently enough to elicit a steady exhale.
“Mhm.” He leans in, lips brushing your own in a kiss so feather-light you can’t help the way you melt against him.
One hand drops to the base of his skull, still holding onto his hair, the other resting against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. Theo groans, deepening it enough that it verges on desperate, hands finding your hips and lifting you onto the desk.
The wood stays stable beneath you, giving a singular groan of old age as you shift to get comfy. He nudges your thighs apart, stepping between them, lips still pressed to yours.
“Missed you today.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin as he trails his kisses lower. His teeth graze your throat, just enough to evoke a shudder.
“I’ve been here the whole time.” Your tone is teasing, drawing a selcouth smile from him as he nips at your skin.
“It’s not the same.” He pulls back enough that you can see him properly; his features are shadowed by the light, his skin made pale by the moonglade. His lips are swollen, his pupils blown wide enough that the darkness swallows the green waves entirely. The sillage of smoke and cedar clings to you, the same way it clings to every piece of clothing he owns, and you only wish it could linger longer.
“You’re ridiculous.” You gasp, pulling him down once more.
Theo goes easily, the same way a dog follows when tugged along, completely pliant and content. He smiles into the kiss, fingers squeezing your hips lightly.
“I don’t think you realise what you do to me, cara mia.”
“I think I have a good idea.” You whisper, your voice breaking with lust.
And as the kiss deepens once more, shifting into something far more desperate, all tongue and teeth and hissed confessions, you find that staying out a few more minutes after curfew might be worth the risk after all.
HII, i hope ur doing great!! First of all i wanted to say that i looove ur writing!
I saw your requests are open, and that's SUPER convenient because I can't stop thinking about Cliff Booth shirtless repairing the antenna LOL.
Soooo, what about reader trying to be a good neighbor and offering him something to drink "because of the heat" but really she's just trying to seduce him into fucking with her?
I KNOW it's very specific but i've been thinking about THAT scenario for a couple days, and now that i stumbled upon such a good writter for him I think it's time to get it out of my head! <3
𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐒𝐮𝐧
༄.° 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
warnings. implied age-gap, 18+ content MINORS DNI
a/n. thank you so much for the req! sorry this took me so long to get out, i've been struggling with motivation. but i love this concept so so much and i hope i was able to do it justice !!
The sun warms the pavement beneath your feet, aureate rays slicing across the concrete and causing shimmers of heat to rise up from the ground below. It warms your skin, making your clothes feel too tight and your hair stick to your face.
You’ve been sitting on the bottom step of your porch for the best part of an hour, your focus trained solely on the house opposite. Rick Dalton’s property is something to admire, with its sprawling driveway and yellow cadillac parked carelessly outside. But it’s not the house you’re interested in—it’s the man who's been posted on the roof all afternoon, sweaty and sun-kissed, glowing beneath the rays.
He’s been toying endlessly with the antenna, muscles rippling beneath his skin the same way waves cascade over a flat body of water—completely mesmerising and all-consuming of your attention. The sun catches his hair just right, the sharp edge of his jaw emphasised by perfectly cut shadows, every line marring his complexion worthy of a painting.
You’re not entirely sure what possessed you to leave the safety of your step and you still don’t understand how you ended up standing at the foot of the ladder, two sweating drinks in hand, ice clinking against the glasses.
“You sure you shouldn’t be in the shade?” Your voice is a sweet song, carrying up to the roof with the minimal breeze, and you don’t miss the smile that tugs at his lips. HIs shoulders drop and he turns to face you.
“I work in the sun, sweetheart. I’d like to think I’m used to it.”
You let out a bemused hum, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warm at the nickname, one that comes as naturally as breathing, it seems. “It still isn’t good for you.”
He scoffs, rolling his shoulders back enough for his muscles to ripple once more, your heartbeat stuttering. He descends the ladder with a languid grace, stopping just before you, his frame towering over you.
He acknowledges the other glass in your hand, brows raised. “That for me?”
"Mhm." you hand it over. “Thought you should at least hydrate if you’re not going to go inside.”
He takes the drink from you with a grateful grunt, and you watch the way his throat bobs as he sips. Your silence must speak volumes because the smirk that graces his features is wicked, a criminal tug of his lips that has you wishing you’d stayed within the safety of your own fenceline.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart, and I might start thinking you came over here for something other than being neighbourly.”
His guileless words catch you off guard, the flush clawing itself up your neck now, the sheer recalcitrant way in which he speaks making your knees feel weak.
“I’m just being helpful.” You protest, but it comes out more defensive than you intend, all hopes of being modest entirely dashed by his smile alone.
“I’m sure you are, honey.”
He takes another step closer, something that could easily be passed off as casual to anyone watching from the outside, but to you… The action is deliciously illicit, the way he leans down enough to make your breath hitch as the sillage of smoke and musk envelopes you.
His eyes, impossibly blue in the sunlight, the rays highlighting the faintest flecks of colour swimming in the irises, roam over your features, searching for the tiniest crack in your facade.
“You been sat watchin’ me from that porch all day?” The words come out in a husky whisper, like a handful of coarse gravel underfoot.
“No.” You say suddenly, straightening your back.
Cliff laughs, a sharp bark that comes straight from his chest, his eyes never straying from yours. “No?”
“I was reading.” The defence is weak even to your own ears, and you know the moment it leaves your lips that Cliff isn’t going to buy it.
“Funny. Every time I saw you, you weren’t even holding a book.”
You raise your brows in amusement. “So you were watching me back?”
Cliff shrugs, tanned skin catching the light that filters through the trees once more. He sets the glass down on the bottom step of the ladder. “Hard not to when you’re dressed like that.”
“At least I’m dressed.” You retort, though this time it’s you who steps closer.
Who closes the gap, you aren’t sure. It happens in a blur of colour, a haze of motion that’s clouded by the heat and months of pent-up attraction. He tastes like smoke and lemonade, a combination so addicting that you can’t help but sigh against his mouth. It’s not gentle so much as desperate, all tongue and teeth, his hands gripping your hips, your fingers trailing through his hair, tugging on sun-bleached strands.
“Cliff…” His name leaves your lips in a shuddering exhale, pawing at him like you’re deprived.
“I know, sweetheart.” He glances back at the house. “Got a little time ‘til Rick gets back.”
You don’t protest, gripping his bicep tightly as he walks towards the front door, letting it bang shut behind you both, loud enough to alert the whole neighbourhood. Brandy glances up from her place on the kitchen floor, wisely remaining where she is, her tail wagging once before she drops her head once more.
Rick’s house is just as you’d expected—spacious and accented with browns and oranges, the walls lined with posters from his own films. The couch is sleek leather, cool beneath your skin as Cliff backs you onto it, and you allow your body to sink down into the cushions.
“You’re sure he won’t walk in?”
Cliff chuckles, a low rumble deep in his chest. “I’ve gotta pick him up, sweetheart. He ain’t gettin’ home unless I bring him.”
Your body relaxes completely at that as you melt into another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate than before, as though the two of you have been holding back for months. Your hands run through his hair and trail down his back, your nails scraping at his skin.
His run beneath the fabric of your shirt, his rough, calloused fingers a stark contrast to the smooth, gentle skin of your chest. He grazes just under your breast, eyes searching yours for permission before finally removing your shirt.
He discards it languidly, letting it fall to a rumpled pile somewhere on the rug. Your bra goes next, closely followed by your shorts and his jeans, the tell-tale clink of his belt buckle making a shudder run through you.
He hovers over you, hands hovering over your hips, not quite touching. “You okay?”
You nod, giving him a seraphic smile, brushing a sweat-streaked strand from his temple. “Perfect.”
When he finally pushes into you, it’s gentler than you’d ever expect, a slow and gradual stretch that coaxes a gasp from between your lips. Cliff hushes you, lips trailing down your jaw, and when he moves, it’s blissful.
Blinding pleasure explodes across your visions, making you see stars of all colours as your eyes slip shut, your hands grappling for some semblance of grounding purpose, eventually settling on clawing at his shoulders once more.
He grunts by your ear, low, animalistic sounds that have the gradually tightening knot in your stomach being pulled taut.
“Cliff!” You gasp as he lifts your leg, wrapping it around him, allowing him to hit deeper. The new position opens you up, the head of his cock nudging that place inside of you that makes everything feel blissful.
“I got you, sweetheart.” He thrusts again, driving deeper this time, and you can tell from the stutter in his rhythm that he’s drawing close.
Your orgasm rips through you the same way a tsunami rips through a town, unrelenting and unexpected. Your back arches off the couch and you let out a sharp cry that reverberates off the walls around you.
You clench around him, nails cutting in hard enough to leave deep indents, and Cliff finishes soon after with a loud groan, spilling across your stomach.
By the time your head finally clears, the haze replaced with bone-deep exhaustion, he’s sprawled on the couch beside you, the two of you cramped together, tangled and heavy-limbed.
“You feelin’ okay?” The words are a low growl once more, that grit returning as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath your ear.
You manage a nod, a smile touching your features. “Yeah…”
His fingers trace languid patterns up your spine, his lips brushing your temple in a featherlight kiss.
Outside, the California sun continues to spill through the windows, slicing through the room in aureate rays, warm and golden. Yet, wrapped up in Cliff’s arms, you find that maybe the shade of Rick Dalton’s house is far better.
hi! I looooove your brad pitt fics and I’m thirsting for some dilf Cliff booth… maybe something like ricks little sister or something like that! Your writing is always amazing!
𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝
༄.° 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
warnings. implied age-gap
a/n. thank you so much for the req! im finally on summer break, so expect me to be writing more and hopefully giving you guys good quality stuff.
It’s quieter in the car, far quieter than the after-party could ever be with its blaring music and sleazy producers, drinks sloshing over their glasses, the whole entire room reeking of booze and smoke. Here, there’s only the low grumble of the engine and the muffled hum of the radio, broken by the occasional static.
The windows are rolled all the way down, and the warm breeze hits your face, blowing through your hair and soothing the nerves that have been wired through you all day. Beside you, Cliff takes another drag of the cigarette between his fingers, his attention focused solely on the road ahead.
Red and gold lights streak past, casting shadows across the side of his face, accentuating every line and scar that marrs his features. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to expose a slither of skin beneath, and his jacket is now wrapped snugly around your shoulders, draped over your dinner dress and enveloping you in the scent of his cologne.
“You okay?” His voice is a low rumble in his chest, the kind that has your stomach flipping like you’re a young girl with a crush. Which, compared to him, you are.
“Tired,” you say, before dropping your gaze to your discarded heels in the footwell. “And my feet hurt.”
“Told you to wear somethin’ more comfortable.”
You roll your eyes, watching as he flicks the cigarette out of the window, the ember disappearing in the darkness. Immediately, his hand seeks out your thigh, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. “Oh, yeah, sure. Because that would be considered acceptable.”
Cliff hums vaguely, taking another turn; you’re not sure where you’re going, and by the looks of things neither does he. But any destination is better than going back to that crowded rooftop bar with too many people.
“You’re Rick Dalton’s sister.”
You fix him with a pointed look, shifting enough that you can face him fully. “All the more reason for me to dress nice.”
Cliff lets out a soft snort, glancing at you long enough for you to catch the smile crossing his features. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it falls again, replaced with something far more solemn. “You looked miserable in there.”
The guileless tone of his voice takes you aback enough for your brows to furrow. Your lips part, the words lodging halfway, prompting you to clear your throat awkwardly.
“I just don’t like parties like that.” You admit, shrugging once as though every street lamp that streaks past doesn’t make your eyes glisten and your head pound. “They’re too busy.”
“I know.”
“And everyone is always staring.”
Cliff’s thumb rubs over your knee absently, a gesture so tender that it makes your body melt further into the seat. “Let ‘em stare.”
It isn’t until you reach a stoplight, the engine grumbling idly beneath you, that he finally turns to face you fully. His expression shifts, head tilting enough that you notice, something akin to concern etching itself in the lines of his face.
“Your head hurtin’?”
You regard the question for a fleeting second, considering lying, but another sharp wave washes through you, and you nod jerkily. “A little. Must have been the music."
Cliff doesn’t care for excuses. He reaches over, nudging your other legs gently out of the way to pop open the glove box. He rummages for a few moments before pulling out a pair of Ray-Bans.
“Put those on.”
There’s no room for argument, and the second you slip them on, the whole world is bathed in yellow, every sharp edge dulled down into dim shadows and streaks of gentle light. It immediately draws an exhale from you.
The light changes and the car springs back to life, the tyres crunching on the tarmac once more. The turn he takes isn’t towards your house so much as your street, nor does it lead to his own.
“Cliff…”
He hums, fingers lacing with yours as you seek his hand out.
“This isn’t the way to my house.”
Cliff shakes his head in an attempt to prevaricate on the statement. “Figured we’d drive around for a while. Party won’t be done ‘til early hours.”
You can’t help but grin, settling into the idyllic peace that the inside of the car has lulled you into. “Rick will wonder where we are.”
“Honey, he’s too many drinks in to care.”
Another turn, another endless road surrounded by palms, glowing neon lights, and billboards coated in flashy titles and another grinning, soulless actor.
For a few moments, you allow yourself to bask in the silence, listening to the cadence of the tyres hitting loose rocks and the wind whipping through the cracked windows. Your eyes stray to the other side of the car, taking in his features once more—there’s something so still about him now, a stark contrast to the way he held himself on the rooftop and exchanged easy but terse words with people he has no care for.
“You weren’t enjoying yourself either.” The words leave you before you can stop them, though you don’t take them back.
Cliff regards you with another hum. His fingers drum a tuneless rhythm against the steering wheel. “No.”
“Why?”
“Never do.” He huffs, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. “Too many people pretending to be someone they’re not.”
You regard him with a silent raise of your brows, head tilting just enough. “Then why go?”
His hand squeezes yours lightly, an action that would easily go unnoticed by most but makes your senses feel as though they are buzzing beneath your skin. He lifts your hand easily, lips brushing your fingers as though it were an absentminded thing, something so normal that he doesn’t even acknowledge it. “Rick would throw a fit if I didn’t.”
That draws a gentle laugh from you, the kind that has your head tipping back against the seat, your whole face lighting up beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps outside, shadows casting across your features in a way that makes Cliff stare. Gently, your fingers guide his focus back to the road, your own lips pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“When we get home.”
Home.
Whether that be your house or his trailer. His things reside at yours; your things reside at his. Some nights he spends curled beneath the warm sheets of your bed, eating meals that have been carefully prepared. Other nights, you spend sprawled on the tiny bed in his trailer, Brandy occupying the floor, his arm heavy around your middle.
Wherever it may be, you know that home is a far better place than any party or dinner. Because, in Hollywood, both of those are fake.
And what you and Cliff crave the most is far from it.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. your job goes against everything tyler stands for. you tell yourself that everything you do is for you. he sees right through you.
𝐰.𝐜. 1.6k
a.n. sorry it took me so long to post. ive had a lotttt going on and ive kind of been writing when i feel like it so i can give the best stuff yk. thank you for the req xx
The room reeks of rich perfume—vanilla and jade and something sweet that makes your lungs burn after a few inhales—so strong that it verges on dizzying. It clings to the silk bed sheets, to the drapes over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering below, lingering and clinging to the walls like a stain.
The door doesn’t cry when you push it open, and you revel in the way the heavy oak slams behind you, a vast difference to the mangled and dilapidated ‘doors’ that separate the world and the inside of the Paper Street house.
Your heels dangle from your fingers, the strands glinting under the warm lighting overhead—they’re Louboutins, the finest in the market, the black leather shiny enough that you can see your own reflection in them. Your hair is still held perfectly in place, the curls solidifying by enough hairspray to last the average person a year. They bounce around your face, framing it perfectly, your makeup glossy and dewy under the aureate glow of the lights.
“You’re late.”
The voice makes you startle, hand flying to your chest, lips parting in a choked gasp. Immediately, your expression morphs into one of annoyance, and you drop the shoes, storming over to where Tyler is sat in the plush armchair, the cushions strewn about the floor.
He looks entirely incongruous, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling around him in waves. The TV is blaring in front of him, playing some infomercials you know he doesn’t care about, and there’s an empty plate occupying the coffee table beside his kicked-up feet.
His jeans are worn, fraying in places, and his boots are even worse, the leather scuffed and the laces barely holding on. His shirt is a rich burgundy, unbuttoned enough to expose his bruise-mottled chest beneath, and his sunglasses are pushed up into his already tousled hair.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap, your voice an octave too high as you snatch up the pristine white robe that has been discarded on the bed, undoubtedly by him. Thankfully, it looks unused, and you bundled the soft material to your chest like it’s a child.
“Waiting for you.” Smoke spills from his lips as he speaks, causing your brows to knit together in distaste. “You said you’d be done by 7.”
“I said the runway would be done by 7,” you correct matter-of-factly, plucking the smouldering filter from his fingers and drowning the tip in the crystal tumbler of whisky, listening to the way it hisses before finally going out. “I never said anything about the after-party.”
“Exactly.” Tyler, to his credit, doesn’t look the least bit affected by your action, instead leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “You forgot to mention that part.”
“I didn’t forget.” Your voice is an exasperated drawl, and you feel his eyes trail after you as you flop back on the bed, body sinking into the mattress. “It’s my job.”
Tyler snorts, fixing you with a knowing look, one leg crossed over the other. “No, it’s your contract.”
“Same thing.” You sit up straight once more, reaching down to grasp your aching feet. The heels have caused the arches of your feet to cramp, your ankles burning in a way that makes you huff and pout. “Stupid things…”
“Don’t wear them then.” Tyler flashes the shoes a dirty look, kicking them with the heel of his own boot, ignoring the protest you give as they scrape across the polished wood floor. “Nobody’s forcing you.”
“Oh please,” you rise from the bed, snatching them up and walking towards the closet. It’s a whole different room in itself with mirrors lining the walls, sparkling under the lights, and your bags occupying the carpeted floor. Clothes occupy the hangers, and you carefully select a box from the shelf, settling the shoes inside of the tissue paper.
For a place that’s temporary, you’ve made it a home within days. One filled with all the things Tyler hates.
“You could’ve called.” Your voice drifts from the room, a gentle sing-song that makes Tyler roll his eyes. He stands from the chair, moving towards the closet, letting the doorframe support his weight.
His arms cross over his chest. “And said what?”
“That you were coming over.” You set the box back down with more force than necessary, turning to face him sharply. “Hell, that you were in the area at all!”
Your voice rises an octave, bouncing off the walls, refracting off of the mirrors and having very little effect on Tyler at all. His expression remains unchanging, his brow merely raising as though mocking you.
“I wanted to see the spectacle you were making of yourself.” He doesn’t move as you make to shove past, your shoulder knocking his. The action simply sends pain shooting through your arm, and you grimace despite yourself. “You know, how many people told you you looked good tonight?”
You refuse to glance back, heading toward the large vanity, the bulbs dazzling you, the faint buzz of electricity a cadence in the quiet space.
“Plenty.”
Tyler nods once, boorish as ever. “How many of them meant it?”
“What?” You meet his recalcitrant gaze in the reflection.
“How many of them told you that you look good? Not your makeup, not your hair, not your dress.” He steps closer until he’s practically looming over you, and you can smell the smoke and musk that clings to him, an aroma that could never be covered by expensive cologne no matter how hard you try to convince him.
“You’re being ridiculous.” You grab your hairbrush, the handle engraved with your name in cursive gold letters, dragging the bristles through your hair with more force than necessary. They snag and you try to blink away the tears that form. “You think I don’t know that?”
For the briefest moment, you swear something in his facade shatters, a limina of genuine concern showing through. It’s gone just as quickly as it arrived, replaced by his usual stoic and blank expression.
There’s something selcouth about it, as though he’s holding back something he refuses to let show. You don’t question it, simply keeping your gaze steady with his.
“Do you have any idea how many people touched me today? Make-up artists, stylists, photographers, rich men in suits whose hands wander to my lower back in a gesture they think is fucking friendly.”
You don’t realise how hard you’re dragging the brush through your hair until you hear a few strands snap and your scalp starts to burn. By now, the tears are flowing freely; whether from frustration or pain, you aren’t sure.
Tyler steps forward once, hovering over you with an unreadable expression. “Give me that.”
He doesn't give you a chance to respond, instead taking the brush from your grip. It’s not gentle or tentative so much as it is a rough snatch. He sets it back down on the vanity with more force than necessary before his hands seek your shoulders.
His thumbs press into the muscles, and you don’t realise until a knot gives way beneath the pressure just how tense you are.
“I don’t need help.” You say, but the argument feels weak even to your own ears, falling flat enough that Tyler doesn’t even acknowledge it.
“Good. Because I’m not helping.” His fingers graze the hem of your dress, eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “You want out of this?”
Your nod is automatic, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of just how tight the dress is. The fabric clings to you like a second skin; hours of parading around and partying now means that every little sensation is far too much for your brain to handle, the frustration finally setting in.
Tyler seems to notice the shift in your expression, a wry smile tugging at his lips. It’s subtle, barely there, yet you’ve trained yourself to notice every minor change of his face.
“What?”
He shakes his head once, tugging the dress down far enough to relieve your chest, air seeming to rush into your lungs. You stand and step out of it, leaving yourself cold and exposed in nothing but a thin bodysuit.
“Just looks like you’re finally getting it.”
“Getting what?” You snap. You kick the dress aside, watching the silk fall into a crumpled, expensive heap that will no doubt be marred with deep wrinkles in the next few minutes—for once, you don’t care, distracted by the enigma of a man who's still grinning at you.
“That you don’t do this job for yourself,” he says. “You’re doing it for others. You like the validation.”
“Fuck you.” The words leave you in a breathy rush, fury flashing across your features.
Tyler steps closer. “You know I’m right. You like seeing yourself in magazines, on billboards surrounded by labels and brand names. You love that everyone thinks you’re perfect. But you and I both know you're not even close.”
“Oh, and you are?”
“No. Nobody is.” His hands settle at your hips, cold and calloused but not claiming, and you find yourself melting into his touch easily. “You’re part of a construct.”
“And you hate that, don’t you?” You hiss, leaning close enough that the scent of smoke and musk practically envelopes you, overpowering your sweet perfume. “You hate that I go against everything you preach.”
Tyler doesn't answer. His lips slam against yours with such force that it knocks the breath from you, and your fingers drag through the hair at the base of his skull in a futile attempt to ground yourself.
The kiss is brutal, all tongue and teeth, and when you both finally break apart, you’re gasping like fish on land. His hair is even more tousled, his lips swollen, and you don’t doubt that you look just the same.
“You hate me.” You whisper.
Tyler’s lips twitch into something akin to a smile; however, this time it isn’t smug. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist as he removes your hand from his hair.
hi!! not sure if you’re taking requests but i’m in love with the brad pitt as sonny hayes fics, the ones where he dates ruben’s daughter. do u know if your going to make a sonny hayes smut because that man is just chefs kiss and your writing is so amazing!!!
ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲
𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫ˎˊ˗
.ᐟ summary: being rubén cervantes' daughter means that you're expected to be perfect, that any relationships within the APXGP are strictly forbidden. but you and sonny have a tendency to push the limit and after a celebration party, you both steal a moment together after so many hours of being strangers.
word count. 1.6k
The evening has settled into something remotely peaceful; the sky has long since turned that hazy colour where the clouds seem to become a perfect blend of pink and white, deep blue finally beginning to creep in around the edges as the sun sinks below the horizon, the moon already taking its place.
Everyone has moved inside, music thumping from the speakers of the bar below, unintelligible voices drifting beneath the crack in the door, seeping out of the open windows and joining the cadence of traffic below. The city is still lit, glittering like the sun on the sea, windows illuminating and going out every so often, a reminder of the thousands of lives going on around you.
And yet yours seems at a standstill as you and Sonny stand shoulder-to-shoulder, your drinks forgotten, resting on the railing surrounding the rooftop. The paddock feels miles away, a distant memory that you know Sonny is holding on to.
His shoulders are tight, knuckles occasionally tapping against the metal separating you and the city below, rings clinking hollowly in the silence. His expression is unreadable, though there’s a tension carved into the lines of his face, a deep-rooted stress you know he’d never admit to.
The reporters seemed worse today—they always asked the same unrelenting questions: Aren’t you too old to be driving? Are you fit enough to compete? How long are you planning on staying? Usually, they don’t seem to get to him, don’t penetrate through the thick layer of skin he’s constructed over time. But today, they finally seem to have eaten their way through, burrowing deep in his bones, residing there and bubbling over in the form of silent frustration.
You knew he’d stay out here, that he wouldn’t follow everyone immediately, using the excuse of needing air a short while longer. You’d stayed under the premise of keeping an eye on him, though you both know the truth: this is your only opportunity to steal a moment together without the prying eyes of the rest of the APXGP team watching you both.
“My dad will be looking for you soon.” You speak up, turning your gaze to him, admiring the way the city lights illuminate his features. He looks older like this, the years finally showing their wear in the form of deeply etched lines.
Sonny gives a noncommittal hum. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He returns your glance, exhaustion shining behind his eyes. “You gonna tell him I’m out here?”
You shake your head, letting out a long sigh before finally deflating against his side. “No point. If he wanted to find you, he would.”
His arm wraps around your middle tenderly, his hand settling easily at your hip, as though the risk of someone walking out and catching you both is no longer a conceivable thought in your heads. You let yourself relax into him easily, head falling against his shoulder, enveloped by the scent of his cologne and the champagne that still clings to his skin.
He’d won the race by a long shot, and the celebration was nothing if not huge, with enough drinks to last the team until morning and music so loud you’re sure the city below can hear it. Yet, as the evening begins to drift into something more subdued, so does Sonny’s mood. It always happens, a solemn silence that you can detect without even asking him.
“What they say doesn’t matter.” Your fingers intertwine with his, the cool press of his ring stark against the warmth that buzzes through your veins. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” His voice is gruff, a low rumble in his chest that still makes goosebumps prickle along your skin no matter how many months go by that you hear it. “Still gotta listen to it though.”
“You won. What's the problem?”
Sonny scoffs, eyes turning to the horizon once more, his head shaking absently like he’s trying to grasp something that's too far out of his reach. The media, the articles, and the headlines that have already been published. And while they praise him at first glance, they all hold the same scrutinising comments.
“Winning doesn’t change anything.” His thumb rubs circles against your hip. “People still expect me to be perfect.”
“You don’t have to be—”
“That’s easy for you to say, sweetheart.” He cuts you off, finally looking down at you. “You’ve never had your face plastered over billboards.”
Silence falls between you both, the kind that hangs suspended, a tacit understanding passing through, things neither of you are ready to say aloud. The media will always say what they want, and you’ll always have to write about it too.
It’s just your job.
“You walked right past me today.” You force a smile, one that’s meant to be teasing but comes off as more of a tight grimace. Your brows furrow, your lips straining into something half-genuine.
“I noticed you.”
“Did you?” Pain lies hidden beneath the words, finally spilling through the facade you put on for everyone else in a futile attempt to hide just how much it hurts you whenever he fails to so much as smile at you.
As far as everyone else on the team is concerned, you mean nothing more to Sonny Hayes than his best friend’s daughter.
“You know I did.” There’s something gentle in his tone, the same way a parent speaks to a child who is on the verge of a tantrum. He doesn’t mean to do it, you know that, yet it’s a neverending reminder of the years that separate you both. “If I’d looked at you the way I wanted to, your dad would have figured us out easily.”
Your cheeks flush crimson at that, and you tuck your face further into his shoulder, the fabric of his polo brushing against your skin. You feel his lips graze your temple, a gesture so intimate that it’s become instinct after months of acting in secret.
“I’m tired of hiding.” The admission is entirely guileless, evoking a deep sigh from Sonny.
“I know, baby.” He reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face, huffing a faint laugh when it falls back, dancing aimlessly in the breeze. “But we can’t say anything yet. Not with your contract just starting.”
“They’ll understand—” you try, but he cuts you off with a shake of his head.
“You know they won’t.” It’s a definitive answer, one that silences you without so much as another word. Your lips clamp shut, disappointment rushing through you, the kind that you’ve been trying to hide for so long because it hurts too much to face.
The rooftop doors open once more, the telltale scream of the hinges cutting through the din of the city below. Sonny’s arm drops from around you, and he steps away, taking his drink with him, putting enough distance between you that you both simply look like two co-workers sharing a terse, slightly unwanted conversation.
To everyone else, you are strangers once more.
A mechanic comes through the doors, a cigarette between his lips. He nods to you and raises his hand in greeting to Sonny, mumbling something about engines that you don’t care to stick around for. You simply give Sonny a tight smile and slip back into the party downstairs like you’d never been gone.
The celebration drags on for a couple more hours, and it isn’t until midnight that people finally begin filtering out, warmed by the alcohol and happy enough that they don’t seem to care about the early morning start they all have.
You’re leant back against the bar, empty glass in hand when Ruben walks over. His brows are knitted together with concern, the unwarranted sort that always seems to cross his features whenever he’s leaving somewhere and you aren’t.
“Are you going to be okay getting back to your hotel?”
You nod once with a distracted smile, eyes scanning the thinning crowd behind him. “Yeah.”
“You have a lift?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You know, I’d take you there but the car isn’t mine and—"
You cut him off, patting him lightly on the shoulder, partly to ease his worry, partly to get him gone and out of the door. “It’s fine, Dad. Really. I’ll be okay.”
Ruben nods once, wrapping you in a quick hug and dropping a kiss to your forehead with a small ‘goodnight’ before he too retreats to the door and vanishes into the night. Only when he’s out of sight do you finally let yourself relax.
“I was almost starting to think he’d never go.” The voice behind you is gruff with amusement, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you turn.
Sonny’s arms are crossed loosely over his chest, and you can’t help but notice that the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing a slither of tanned skin beneath.
“He’s just cautious.”
“Too cautious.” He begins to walk towards the fire exit, far away from where the other had left, where you know he’d parked earlier, certain that neither of you will be caught together. “You’re lucky I only had a few drinks; otherwise, you’d be calling a taxi.”
He holds the door open for you, and you thank him softly, stepping out into the chill of the night. A breeze tousles your hair, making goosebumps prickle along your arms, a subtle shiver coursing through you.
Sonny seems to notice, pressing himself alongside you, arm finding your shoulders easily. “You still okay coming with me?”
You fix him with a look, a smile playing at your lips. “I didn’t book another room, Sonny.”
And the grin that lights up his features makes it all worth it. He holds open the passenger door for you, hand covering the roof so your head doesn’t hit it as you get inside. “I know. But it was worth making sure.”
Hii, I was wondering if you could make a Bobby fic about how we are the ones who gets to go down into the hole instead of him and we all get separated but we end up finding each other in the backrooms and escaping back into the real world… something like that 😭
ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧
𝐛𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ˎˊ
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. after being split upon entering the backrooms, you have only two goals. find bobby and get the hell out of whatever hell clark has dragged you into. but that proves slightly difficult when neither of you know which is the way out.
𝐚/𝐧: im so sorry if this is bad; its so hot where i live and my brain has literally short circuited. ive also been doing a lot of essays atm so the vocab might be formal and big...
𝐰.𝐜. 1.5k
Exhaustion is the only thing you can feel.
It has long since overridden the fear, suffocating the panic and stripping any form of conscious thought you may have been able to form. Your breathing is shallow, the heavy rise and fall of your chest taking just as much effort as moving your legs, your feet dragging against the mottled beige carpet.
Every wall looks the same: pallid yellow wallpaper, bathed in sickly yellow lighting, the electricity buzzing and flickering overhead. It’s become so monotonous that you’re not sure where you are, whether you’re venturing deeper or simply going in circles.
Bobby is somewhere. Clark is somewhere. They are down here with you but you don’t dare call out. Because there is something else down here too.
You turn another corner, breath hitching as you do so, afraid that something might jump out and rip you to pieces. Instead, the endless stretch is empty aside from more walls and more open hallways. Your footsteps are dull, bouncing around the space until it sounds as though there are multiple pairs, far too loud for your liking.
You freeze. The footsteps don’t.
Nausea floods through you, your chest tightening in that way that makes you feel like you could throw up, panic clawing at your chest. You stumble backwards, pressed against the wall in a futile hope that maybe you will merge back through it and fall back into the furniture store.
You don’t, though; instead, you meet solid drywall padded with that stupid wallpaper with its stupid pattern, and the footsteps are still approaching, louder and louder. They’re unsteady, like whoever they belong to is also dragging their feet, like it takes physical force to get them to move forward.
Something inside of you, that tiny rational voice that has been dampened by fear, screams at you to run, to get the fuck away from the wall and whatever is making it towards you. Yet your feet remain stuck to the carpet, held by some invisible force, frozen like a deer in headlights, your eyes comically wide and lips parted in a silent gasp.
A figure rounds the corner, and you flinch immediately, hands coming up to shield your face on instinct. The roaring in your ears increases, the blood thundering alongside your heart, slamming against your skull like somebody is driving a hammer into the bone.
The silence is deafening, heavier than before, but it's transient.
“Jesus Christ…” The words slip from his lips in a choked whisper, as though hours of silence have driven his voice hoarse. He swallows sharply and you step away from the wall, allowing your muscles to relax for the first time since you walked through the wall.
“Bobby…”
There’s no big reunion—it’s not like you see in the movies, where people collide into each other with tears streaming down their faces and confessions spilling from their lips. You simply walk towards one another like you’re not sure you can trust what you’re seeing. His hands cup your cheeks, eyes roaming, scanning your features for any imperfection, any sign that it isn’t the real you.
“You okay?”
You let out an incredulous laugh, tight with unshed emotion. “Do I look okay?”
“No.” His response is brutally guileless, and it makes you melt anyway. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, lingering a second too long before he realises what he’s doing and drops his hands. “You look terrible.”
“So do you.” You release your white-knuckle grip on his shirt, stepping back despite everything screaming at you to stand as close to him as possible, the fear of separation creeping back into your head. You scan the hallway again; as expected, nothing has changed.
“Where’s Clark?”
Bobby shakes his head once, brows furrowing. “I don’t know.”
That doesn’t bring you as much dread as you’d expect—maybe it’s best you don’t find him. He brought you down here; he must have known about that thing… But he also knows the way out.
The thought settles heavily in your stomach.
Bobby seems to reach the same conclusion. He scrubs a hand over his face, looking over his shoulder at the endlessly sprawling hallway. There seems to be no end, just a labyrinth of corners and turns.
“We need to keep moving.”
You nod, though your hands knot together, your breath shaking at the thought. “Are we looking for him?”
Bobby’s silence says everything; why look for the man who brought you down here in the first place, who put you in danger knowing it was there?
You both fall into step alongside one another, though neither of you mentions it, deciding that staying close is the best thing you can do. Your nerves are in shreds, your heart beating at such a rate you’re sure it’s unhealthy, that you’re going to keel over and die at any second.
Bobby’s fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing once. You glance down, then at his side profile. A tacit silence passes between you both; he doesn’t glance back, simply keeping his gaze fixated ahead, the yellow glare of the lights illuminating his features.
You’re not sure how long passes, or if you’re going in the correct direction at all. Maybe you’re going in circles. But you're yet to bump into a single soul—human or not—and you can’t tell whether you’re grateful for that.
“I thought I was gonna be alone down here.” You don’t say ‘forever’ afraid of sounding melodramatic, yet the word is implied in the tremor behind the words.
Bobby’s attention finally drifts to you for a split second and you notice something soften in his expression, the tightness in his brow easing enough for you to catch a glimmer of vulnerability he tries so hard to keep hidden.
“I was looking.” He admits, squeezing your hand once more.
You both round another corner, checking once behind you, footsteps quickening enough to be noticeable, echoing through the hollow space. There are no signs around, nothing to differentiate where you’ve already been.
“You’ve got a shit poker face, you know.” The words leave you in an exasperated burst of laughter, almost hysterical. Bobby fixes you with a look that’s just as much amused as it is concerned, speaking gently as though you were teetering on the brink.
“What?”
“You were worried.” You gesture to his face half-heartedly, that tell-tale crease in his brow, the way his lips part around something unspoken. “You are worried.”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs as though the answer is obvious. “Of course I am. I thought you were dead and now we’re stuck down here.”
You lapse back into stunned silence, blinking once. “Dead?” It feels foreign in your mouth, something you’ve tried so hard to ignore now said so plainly.
“Don’t act like you didn’t think the same.”
You don’t disagree.
The silence isn’t suffocating anymore—it’s heavy with exhaustion, the easy sort where nobody needs to break it for meaning to pass between you both.
You’re losing hope. That much is clear. In the way your steps grow slower, dragging more against the mottled carpet, your breathing more laboured, eyes drooping against your own will. A headache has begun to pound against your temple, taking a hammer to your skull and striking at such an unpredictable rhythm you just want to curl up and…
You round another corner, eyes catching on the slither of light that seems to emit from the wall. An anomaly that makes you stop dead in your tracks, Bobby stumbling into you from behind; you’d laugh if your lips weren’t already parted in a relived, choked gasp, your finger outstretched in a trembling point.
“That’s it.”
The light is white in contrast, blinding enough that it slices through the yellow and the shadow that shrouds the barricade of furniture in the centre of the space. Bobby’s grip tightens on your hand as he steps towards it, as though in a trance, refusing to take his gaze off of it in fear it will seal and you’ll be trapped here.
He reaches out, chest unmoving as his fingers pass through the wall. He chokes on a laugh, glancing back at you with eyes you’re sure are slightly glassy.
He lets you go first, covering your back as you disappear through the gap; he’s close behind and soon, you’re both swallowed by the dingy, dust-filled air of the furniture store with it’s pale flickering lights and ridiculously comforting musty stench.
“Oh my god.” You practically crumple to the floor in relief, legs giving out, the cool hardwood pressing against your skin. Bobby joins you, arms wrapping around you, tugging you close enough that you have no choice but to bury your face in his shirt, fingers tangled in the white fabric once more.
“We’re okay.” He whispers, brushing your hair in a way you’re sure he doesn’t realise. “It’s gonna be fine…”
“We need to tell someone.”
He nods once, lips pressing to your temple. “They’ll never believe us.”
You pull back, meeting his gaze through the haze of your own tears. This time, your voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t crack or break.
⤷ 𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝟏𝟏
.ᐟ summary: jobs have never been difficult for you and rusty, and your relationship means faking a marriage is easy. but when he returns after three weeks of radio silence, the tension is so thick that, when if finally snaps, it grows messy.
word count. 2.7k
warnings. MINORS DNIa/n: making a gradual comeback teehee. this is a long one so enjoy. tysm for the rew !
⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Rusty and you have never once struggled during a mission—it's something that comes naturally to you both, like riding a bike after not doing so for months. You never forget how to do it; you don’t become clumsy or clueless, you simply have to fall back into a rhythm.
That’s hard to do when a deep-rooted anger is simmering under your skin, when the man you have to pretend to be married to is also the man your hatred is directed towards.
Music drifts around you, that soft and melodic symphony that most rich-people weddings have where the guests simply float between each other, exchanging terse and irrelevant words and drink champagne in pricy costumes. The room is stuffy and reeks of strong floral perfume, hairspray and cologne so pungent it makes your heartbeat thunder behind your eyes.
You tug at the collar of your dress, the fabric hugging in a way that’s just short of frustrating, the seam itching in a way that has your nerves on edge, your patience clinging on by a half-worn thread. Rusty isn’t helping—he’s gripping your hand tight enough that you can feel just how clammy his skin is, the cool press of his wedding ring cutting into your own fingers to the point that, if he squeezed any harder, he’d cut off the circulation entirely.
“You know,” you begin, the words hissed through clenched teeth, with a poor attempt at a smile. “You haven’t got to grip me so tight.”
“Thought you liked it.” His gaze doesn’t meet yours, instead staying focused on the bustling room itself, on every face that comes and goes, like he’s half-expecting one of them to recognise either of you and for the plan to fall through.
You simply hum in response, so terse that it makes a passing woman glance back, concern etched into her features. Rusty flashes her a charming smile, raising his hand in apology, before dragging you both onwards.
“Smile.” He whispers low in your ear, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Usually, it would send you into a frenzy, would cause heat to flood through your whole body and your heart rate to pick up. However, now, it just makes you want to knock the fake facade he’s putting on for everyone off his face.
“You smile.” You counter, dropping his hand abruptly in favour of the drinks table. You pour yourself a glass of red wine, the first sip making you wince as the dry liquid scathes your throat, forcing you to swallow a cough. “A wedding like this and they couldn’t even bother to buy the fancy stuff.”
Rusty comes up behind you, chest pressed to your back, his hand dropping to your waist; it’s a familiar action, almost instinctive in the way you gravitate towards each other, yet there’s a tension behind it. He plucks the glass from your hand, eyes fixed on your own as he takes a pull from it, expression unchanging.
“We’re not here to drink, sweetheart.”
“Then stop being insufferable.” You snap, reaching to take it back. His free hand shoots out, catching your wrist so hard that a gasp slips free. His thumb smoothes over your pulse point.
“People are staring.”
You don’t look away. Something shifts between you. “Then let them. See if I care.”
His grip tightens further and you tug against him, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. “You could at least look like you love me.”
Your scoff is boorish, the kind that says far more than words ever could. “You’re not making it easy.”
Something in his expression seems to change then, the briefest flicker in his eyes, his jaw ticking and brow tightening. His eyes harden as he drops his tone, low enough for only the two of you, too quiet for anyone else. “It shouldn’t be hard.”
You fall silent, lips pursed as you exhale sharply through your nose. As much as it pains you to admit, he’s right… it shouldn’t be. Three years in a relationship means love comes unconditionally, and while that hasn’t exactly changed, going three weeks off the radar without so much as a word to you puts a certain strain on things.
Nobody had told you where he was or if he was ever going to come back. He didn’t think to call or text. He just left in the middle of the night, leaving you to wake to an empty bed, his side of the mattress cold where his body had once warmed it.
And then, three weeks later, after returning unannounced, after walking through the front door like he’d been gone no longer than an hour, he was expecting a celebration. You refused to give him the satisfaction, yet your plan of ignoring him until an apology comes seems to be uneventful.
“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Danny’s voice crackles through your earpiece, vastly unammused. “But if we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we need you to blend in more.”
“Right.” You mutter dryly.
Around you, guests laugh, glasses clink together, and the music finally shifts into something with more of a rhythm. Bodies begin gravitating towards the centre of the floor in a formation that somewhat flows, couples following a routine that is purely their own, swaying and getting lost in one another’s eyes.
Rusty seems to hesitate for a moment before his hand finds your lower back, guiding you towards the dance floor.
“What are you doing?” You hiss as he spins you round to face him, taking your hands and placing them on his shoulders before his own drift to your hips. Your muscles are taut, and you look almost rigid as you try to match his movements.
“Blending.” His smirk is infuriating as he twirls you around, and you find yourself purposely driving your heel into the toe of his shoes, relishing in his barely concealed wince.
“Problem?” You ask sweetly, head tilting. Rusty gives you a tight smile, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You know what you’re doing.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Despite yourself, butterflies stir awake in your chest, your cheeks flushing.
“Maybe.” You counter, gravitating closer towards him. The blue of his eyes looks brighter under the aureate glow of the chandelier, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting your grudge at all. He scans your features, expression unreadable.
“You’re mad.”
You make a vague sound low in your throat, trying to focus on the cadence of the music, but any sort of fluidity has long since been lost. “Good observation.”
“Stop it.” He grunts, spinning you again. He drags you in closer until your faces are a mere few inches apart. “You’re being difficult—”
You cut him off with a sardonic laugh, trying to ignore the sillage of his cologne, the one you got for him a year ago, the one he wears because he knows you adore it. “I’m being difficult? You left, Rusty.”
The couple next to you glance over, giving awkward smiles that you return with a heavy glare. Rusty clears his throat. “Thought you’d be over that by now.”
"Well, I’m not," You snap, purposefully stepping on his foot again. “You could’ve called.”
He nods once, and for the briefest moment, something akin to guilt flashes across his features. It’s gone before you can point it out, however, replaced with that usual stoicism. “Yeah. But I was doin’ a job.”
“How was I meant to know that?” The music changes, as does your rhythm together. Easy, natural. Nobody around bats an eye; to them, you both look like the perfect couple. “You disappeared, Rusty. Nobody would tell me where you were; you didn’t return my calls. For all I knew, you’d found another woman and left me for good.”
“I didn’t leave you.” He mutters, the reticence holding his facade together cracking just enough for you to see the exhaustion beneath. He scans the room once more. “I went dark. There’s a difference, sweetheart.”
“Sure there is.” You roll your eyes. Now, the rest of the room feels unimportant. Suddenly, everyone around you has disappeared, the clinking of glasses and the sickly sweet scent of champagne that had been clogging your senses dispersing into nothing but a background buzz. “You know, I think you forget I’m in this business with you.”
Rusty exhales steadily through his nose, chest rising and falling beneath your hand—you're not sure when it slipped there; the action was so unconscious neither of you realised it had happened at all. You don’t move it, nor do you comment when he slides to cup the back of your neck, pulling you close enough to smell the mint on his breath.
“I don’t forget. I know exactly who you are and that’s why I came back.” his voice drops into a low, gravelly whisper. “But, if we’re going to do this, then I need you to smile, look like you love me, and tell me if the target is still at the head table.”
He guides you into a slow turn, dress sweeping the ground, your gaze scanning the room as you go. “He’s still there.” You confirm, through a faux, serpahic laugh, that is purely for the benefit of those around you. “He’s on his third whisky and hasn’t stopped looking at his new wife for the last half hour.”
Rusty looks almost proud, giving you a smile that, for the first time all evening, looks genuine. He drops another kiss to your temple, a real one this time, and you let your head drop to his shoulder, face tucked into his collarbone. You allow yourself a second to revel in his presence, in the warmth you’ve craved so much despite yourself.
“We’ve got twenty minutes until they cut the cake.” You lift your gaze just enough to meet his eyes; he truly does look handsome, something you weren't blind to even in your anger. However, now you let yourself appreciate it.
“Twenty minutes is enough.” He says softly, mouth brushing your ear. He shoots a glance to a waiter in the corner—Linus, adorned in a poorly fitted vest, balancing a tray precariously in one hand—and gives him the limina of a nod. “That’s our cue to get out.”
The heavy oak door of the hotel room slams shut behind you, the scent of fresh linen washing over you. The air in here is clean, and light filters in through the large windows and balcony doors; the silence is something you sink into.
You gravitate towards the large bed in the centre of the room, clearly there for a couple in their pre-wedding bliss, all duck feathers and soft silk sheets. Your dress pulls uncomfortably and you shift with a low huff, envy crossing your features as you watch Rusty shed his suit jacket easily.
The tie comes next, loosened just enough that he can unbutton the first few buttons, exposing tanned skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and that fluttering in your chest returns.
“You okay?”
You nod once, staying silent. Rusty huffs, sitting in the armchair opposite. “Alright, look.” He runs a hand over his hair. “I messed up. I should’ve said something or found a way to let you know what was going on. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, the silence hangs suspended between you both. He rises from the chair, crossing towards you, and you shuffle to make enough room for him as he hovers over you. “Let me make it up to you.”
That’s all you need—you pull him down into a kiss so fierce that it drags a surprised grunt from him. His hands cup your face, wandering over your body, resting at yourhips before gently manoeuvring you upwards.
His fingers work the zipper of your dress deftly, pulling it down until the fabric loosens and air rushes back into your lungs. The garment pulls away easily, and he drapes it over the chair carefully, leaving you in nothing but your underwear and bra, exposed to the cool air surrounding you.
“Look at you…” The words leave him in a breathy whisper, as though you’d knocked the air from his lungs completely. He eases you back against the pillows, lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. Your hands cup his jaw, fingers running up through his hair, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra.
“Please… Rusty, please.”
“I know, sweetheart. Hold on.” He shoves off his shirt easily, pants coming next, and he undoes your bra easily. It slips away, and he trails his lips down your chest, featherlight; his breath is warm enough to cause goosebumps to prickle across your skin, eliciting a small gasp. His teeth graze the curve of your breast before he soothes the sting with his tongue, and you find yourself arching into him.
“Missed this.” He whispers against you, lifting his gaze. “Missed you.”
You bite back a snarky response, because while you’re still mad, something about the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world, kisses trailing tenderly down your thigh—is enough to make you forget everything.
His tongue drags through your folds in one tortuously slow stroke, making your toes curl and your breath stutter. Your hips buck and he reaches out to hold them down again, tutting under his breath. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
A choked moan escapes you, muffled into the palm of your hand, fingers twisting into the sheets.
“Still mad?” He whispers, the vibrations sending a shiver through you, the drag of his tongue maddening. You glare down at him, words silenced as his fingers join his mouth, a pace so blissful that you can’t help but break off into a whimper.
“Rusty, please. I can’t—” you gasp. He seems to catch the memo, fingers withdrawing as he sits up straight, the sudden loss of contact making your heart sink with disappointment. However, he quickly replaces the absence with the weight of his body, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you inch by inch.
The stretch is unimaginable, something you could only have dreamt about these past few weeks, and when he finally bottoms out, he lets his head drop to your shoulder, face hidden in your neck.
Your breath catches when he moves, hips rutting, cock dragging against your walls at a pace so tortuous you can only clutch his back in a weak attempt at grounding yourself. Your nails leave little moon-shaped indents, no doubt likely to reside until morning, red welts already marring his skin.
“Fuck…” he rasps, pushing back in. “Missed you like this.”
“Shouldn’ve been here.” You choke out, another moan slipping free.
Rusty nods once, though it’s jerky and uncoordinated. “I know. ‘M sorry, sweetheart. Gonna make it up to you.”
The headboard hits the wall behind you in a monotonous thump as his pace picks up, hips snapping, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that everyone is downstairs at the wedding. One hand slides to hold the back of your neck, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg over his hip. The new angle steals your breath, and soon your moans are entirely unfiltered, reverberating around the space.
Your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami, dragging you under a current so strong it leaves you gasp, a scream ripping from deep within your chest. Your vision whites out, stars dancing across the ceiling, and you feel Rusty finish deep inside of you, cock twitching as he collapses against you.
For a moment, neither of you says a word.
The clock on the nightstand ticks onwards steadily, your breaths rising and falling rapidly, a soft groan leaving him and his lips peppering your sweat-soaked skin with kisses. Your fingers trace idle patterns across his spine, skating over the ridges of muscle and the sweat-damp skin.
“Sorry I yelled at you.” You whisper into his hair. “And for the record, I do love you.”
“I deserved it.” Rusty nods once. For once, you don’t disagree; simply let yourself revel in the feeling of his skin on yours, his lips against yours, and the way he watches you as though you are the only thing worth looking at.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. if there's one thing bobby likes, it's capturing things on camera. and what better thing to film than the two of you at your closest?.
𝐚/𝐧: MINORS DNI you have been warned. idk if this is good at all but im trying to get back into the flow. im a little rusty. .
𝐰.𝐜. 1.3k
The bedroom is shrouded in silence, the sort that is thick with unspoken tension and makes even the smallest sounds feel huge. Your chest rises and falls in rapid pants, ones you're sure the neighbours can hear no doubt, your fingers knotted into the cheap fabric of the bedsheets pooling around you.
Your eyes are trained solely on Bobby, on the way he’s so intensely focused on his camera, adjusting the angle until it points directly at the bed, and you catch your sprawled frame staring back at you in the lens. He holds the button on top, and the little red light blinks to life.
You swallow heavily, heat crawling up your spine as he finally turns to you; he looks desperate in every sense of the word, hair already a tousled mess, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the icy blue behind the voice. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, swollen from kisses, tinted and smeared with lip gloss.
“Fuck…” The word leaves him in a sharp exhale, as though you’d kicked the air from his body. Each step towards you seems to drag onwards, and suddenly the minimal space between the bed and the drawers feels ten times larger.
You squirm restlessly, a low whine escaping you, the mattress springs groaning beneath the weight as Bobby finally crawls up to hover over you. His breath is hot against your neck, lips trailing down your throat, leaving prickling heat in their wake.
“You look so good.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to elicit a groan that rumbles low in his throat. “Then do something about it.”
His brows raise, a smirk tugging slightly at his features, and the awkward front melts into something far more confident, his hands settling at your thighs, pulling them apart. He doesn’t comment on the damp patch spreading across your panties; he simply tuts as he drags them down, discarding them somewhere on the floor with the rest of your crumpled clothes.
Your back arches as he drags his fingers through your folds, gathering slick and grazing your clit just enough to elicit a breathy moan from you. Your lashes flutter, head turning into the pillow in a futile attempt to hide from his touch.
“Hey,” he mumbles, his free hand pushing your hips down hard enough to keep you pinned to the mattress. “Stay still for me, babe.”
The first finger goes easily, and you whimper softly as he curls it just right. The second one turns your whimpers into heavy gasps, and by the third, he’s hitting the spot inside of you that makes you see stars. You find yourself reaching out to grab his wrist—not in an attempt to stop him but more so an attempt to ground yourself, to ease the knot tightening in your stomach.
He seems to notice soon after, when your mewls pick up in pitch, growing more frequent, your hips grinding against his palm as he pumps his fingers, the wet sound echoing through the quiet room. The red light on the camera continues to blink, and the sudden reminder that you will be able to look back at this later has your whole body flooded in heat.
“Hold on.” He grunts, standing once more, fingers fumbling deftly with his belt; the metal clinks, the wait painfully long as he shoves it off along with his boxers—his shirt comes next, joining the pile of garments slowly starting to build beside the bed.
“Bobby…” You gasp, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, squirming with need, the heat coursing through you unbearable. “Please—”
“I know. I know.” His hands settle at your hips, flipping you over carefully so that you have a perfect view of the camera—or rather, the lens has a perfect view of you. “Hold on a second.”
You hear the telltale squeal as he opens the bedside drawer and the crinkle of plastic as he tears a condom open with his teeth, rolling it on as quickly as possible.
The mattress shifts beneath you as he settles behind you, fingers tightening on your hips as he drags you closer, one hand smoothing slowly up your spine. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, dragging through the wet heat before he finally pushes in. The slow, gradual stretch has you grasping ahold of his shoulders like he’s the final grounding force in your life and your nails dig into his skin, staining the expanse of his back with crescent moons, indents that will surely remain until morning, a constant reminder of this.
Bobby’s head drops, face tucked into your neck as a low groan escapes him; he pauses for a few moments, allowing you to adjust to the stretch and allowing him to catch his breath before the first steady roll of his hips.
Your sounds intermingle, creating a hushed cacophony of sighs and moans, occasionally pitching in volume before dropping once again, a gentle roll of a wave crashing onto the shore. His pace remains the same, impossibly tender and gentle, like he’s afraid of hurting you, of pushing you too far. You don’t beg for more, content to simply bask in the attention and the attentiveness of each thrust.
“Jesus Christ.” He breathes, his voice choked and raspy with arousal. “You feel so good, baby.”
You don’t respond, tongue too heavy in your mouth to muster much more than a muffled curse, face buried in the scratchy material of his duvet. Your fingers knot in the fabric, your body moving with the rhythm he sets, the sound of skin-on-skin echoing through the space.
Eventually, you feel his fingers card through your hair, the heat of his breath on the back of your neck as his lips trace slow patterns. “Look up f’me…” He grasps your chin gently, forcing your gaze to meet the camera; your fucked-out expression stares back in the reflection once more: hair a tousled mess, lips swollen. Bobby doesn’t look much better. “Keep your eyes on the camera. Good girl.”
The praise causes the ever-present knot in your stomach to tighten, and you break off into another cry, melting into his palm like putty. You can tell he’s close, teetering on the same edge as you, his thrusts growing sloppy, desperation and desire taking over.
Your vision whites out when you finally give in, stars exploding across your eyes as your lashes flutter. A loud, muffled moan escapes you, more akin to a scream that will surely draw attention from neighbours, and you can just about hear Bobby’s gutteral shout as his thrusts finally grow shallow.
It isn’t until you’re slumped face down on the mattress that you come to any sense—Bobby lies beside you, chest rising and falling rapidly, skin flushed, one arm thrown over his eyes. With what little energy you can muster, you drag yourself over to him, nuzzling into his side and letting your lips trail feather-light kisses over his ribs.
A tentative smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, arm tightening its hold around you, fingers splayed against your hip. “You okay?”
You nod once, humming vaguely in affirmation. “Perfect.”
He lets his arm drop from his face, fingers brushing sweat-damp hair from your eyes. “It wasn’t—”
“No.” you interrupt, cupping his jaw, thumb rubbing absentmindedly over his bottom lip. “I promise.”
And that seems to be enough to satisfy him; he drags you impossibly closer until you’re practically lying on top of him before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, breath fanning against your skin, whispering words so sweet they wash over you easily, dragging you into sleep.
The red light on the camera continues to blink. Neither of you makes a move to switch it off, deciding this moment is just as important, if not more so.
hii!! i love ur writing so much you're so so talented 💕 I was wondering if you could write smth for david mills bc i love him and literally no one writes for him 💔 i don't have anything specific but preferably fluff!! tysm queen ily
ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧
𝐝𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
.ᐟ summary: the dinner is meant to be celebratory, an easy way for you to break the news to david. however, you both know what it means
word count.
a/n: i havent written for david in so long and i adore him. tysm ily!!
The apartment is filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery on plates and the gentle cadence of rain hitting the windows. The city hums below, tyres on wet pavement and the occasional blare of a horn, everyone rushing home for an evening with their only family.
You take another bite of food—you tried to keep the meal simple: steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, the kind you know David loves, the sort you cook when you know he’s on edge. However, tonight, he’s in one of those moods where everything feels light.
Somerset sits across from you. You’re not sure what possessed you to invite him, but he’s grown to be part of the family. That, and the fact that his presence may soften the blow of David’s reaction when you tell him about the phone call you got over lunch.
You’d been expecting it for weeks, hoping and waiting, the emancipation so strong that you made yourself feel sick with nerves. You planned what you would say and how you would manage it, yet when the call finally did come, you could only go silent and grin.
“You want more wine?”
You glance up suddenly, meeting David’s gaze, and realise for the first time that he’s been watching you, his brow furrowed in something akin to curiosity. You nod once, clearing your throat and plastering on a tight smile, a cheap semblance of composure.
“Please.” He fills it. You take a sip. “Is the food okay?”
“It’s perfect.” Somerset responds, voice impossibly calm, cutting through the tension you hadn’t realised was simmering. “Best I’ve had in weeks.”
“That’s not hard.” David scoffs, finishing off his beer and taking another bite. He continues to speak through his mouthful, and a part of you wants to reprimand him for his manners, yet you bite your tongue, not sure you’ll be able to even attempt normalcy when your blood is thundering in your ears. “Microwave food ain’t exactly comparable to this.”
Somerset chuckles faintly, glancing back at you. The pull in his expression tells you everything; he can see right through you and knows exactly what’s going on, and if it weren’t humanly impossible, you’d expect he could read your mind. “Yes. But I have a feeling I wasn’t invited under the pretence of eating good food.”
The silence returns—David’s eyes return to you, the curiosity replaced with concern when he catches the way you shift in your seat. The rest of the steak suddenly seems unappealing, and you find yourself pushing it around your plate much like the way a fussy child spreads out their food to leave the table sooner.
“I have news.”
The announcement feels heavy, as though someone has just dropped a weight on your shoulders unexpectedly, knocking the breath from you completely. Your stomach churns, butterflies startling awake and fluttering wildly as though disturbed, and the smile you give both of them is suddenly filled with such genuine excitement that David’s own lips twitch out of instinct.
“News?” he repeats. Somerset wisely remains silent.
You nod, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Yeah. I got a phone call at lunch from the law firm in Chicago.”
Immediately, the smile disappears from David’s face, replaced with something unreadable. His eyes darken, though not with anger so much as fear. “Chicago? What for?”
“I applied for a vacant position there last month as the assistant attorney in the homicide division. David… They want me to start next month.”
The rain outside grows louder, a heavy onslaught now that pounds against the glass, droplets racing down the steam-hazy panes in rivulets. The traffic continues to crawl on the road below, horns still blaring, the occasional person yelling muffled profanities; the world continues on as normal, everyone going on with their lives as though yours wasn’t currently teetering on the brink of something colossal.
“That’s amazing.” Somerset grins, the genuineness behind the words allowing you to exhale a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. He reaches over to squeeze one of your hands. “Really. That’s a big achievement. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” You smile politely, and while you genuinely appreciate his reaction, how happy he is for you, he isn’t who you want to hear it from.
Slowly, you turn your focus back to David; he looks pallid, eyes distant as though focused on something miles away that only he can see. He drags a hand through his hair, swallowing thickly as he flicks aside the damp label he'd peeled from the empty beer bottle.
“David?”
“That’s amazing.” He manages, offering you a smile that on the surface might seem proud, like he’s thrilled at the prospect.
Yet, the selcouth shimmer in his eyes tells you that, beneath the pride, there’s a dread that’s washing over him and dragging him under, like he too has anticipated this, though not with the same sickening excitement as you.
Somerset rises from the table then, glancing towards the dogs who are stretched languidly on the rug, entirely content. “I’m going to take them out for a moment. Better now than later before the rain gets worse.”
Neither you nor David mentioned that the dogs are in no need of going out or that the weather is already at its peak with no sign of letting up. Instead, you offer a gentle thank you, waiting until he's out of the door and it’s just the two of you, alone.
“You don’t seem happy.”
David shakes his head sharply, straightening his posture and reaching across the table to take your hand in his. Your wedding ring glints under the aureate glow of the overhead light, catching the reflection just right.
“That’s not—” he trails off, gaze dropping to the table top, to your conjoined hands and the ring he’d put on your finger with a promise to stay with you forever. “I’m happy.”
“David…”
“I am,” he interrupts. “I just didn’t know. I didn’t realise that you were thinkin’ about leaving.”
You realise then how it sounds, once it’s put into words and spoken into the oppressive silence. Worse than you’d intended, like you were moving cities and leaving him behind with a life half-finished before it’s even truly started.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” He shakes his head feverently, squeezing your hand tightly, a weak attempt to ground you. “It’s okay. It’s a good thing. You deserve it.”
You hesitate for a few fleeting seconds, eyes scanning his features for a limina of anger; all you find is pride and a quiet sadness, neither quite what you’d expected. “But?”
“Chicago is miles away.”
A crack of thunder sounds outside, a deep rumble that shudders the walls of the tiny apartment, making you aware of just how tight the space is, how your world has been reduced to a crumpled, claustrophobic world in the midst of a city that never slows down nor sleeps.
“I know.” Disappointment tinges your tone, because despite the achievement, despite how hard you’d worked for this, you always knew this would happen. That you’d have to have this discussion and inevitably come to a conclusion that would pain the other. “You could come with me.”
David huffs a gentle laugh, reaching out and gesturing for you to come around the table—you do, sinking into his lap as though all of the energy has been drained from you completely. The warmth that radiates from him thaws out the chill in your bones and soothes the constant buzz beneath your skin.
“The department won’t transfer me just because my wife got a better job.” He mumbles, honesty seeping into the words. He tips your chin up so that you meet his gaze, lips grazing your temple. “Especially not after a few months.”
“So what?” You whisper. “You just stay here?”
For a second, he’s silent, and you can practically see the question turning over in his mind, followed by a thousand others, all of which can’t be answered.
“I don’t know.” He admits finally, shoulders deflating. He reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair back from your face. “You accepted it yet?”
“No.” You toy with the open collar of his shirt, exposing a slither of tanned skin beneath, not meeting his gaze until he drops a kiss to the corner of your mouth, featherlight and barely there.
He offers a weak smile. “You should.” And though it clearly pains him to say so, the tightness in his shoulders telling you just as much, he continues, voice impossibly soft, pride still intertwined in each word. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.”
You swallow thickly, struggling to bypass the lump forming in your throat, your eyes stinging with a concoction of pent-up emotion, all finally able to seep out as the first tear slips past the dam. David catches it with the calloused pad of his thumb, and you lean into his touch like a cat.
“What about you?” The us lingers between you both, unspoken but clear nonetheless. David’s expression doesn't waver, that usual confidence returning once more. “What if we can’t make it work…”
“We will.” He sounds so certain that you can’t help but believe him. His hand settles at the nape of your neck, pulling you close enough that your forehead rests against his, your lashes fluttering. “I’ll drive to Chicago every weekend if I need to.”
“David…” Your laugh is wet with tears.
“What?”
You shake your head in disbelief, fingers running through his hair slowly. “That’s your plan?”
He grins, eyes shining beneath the aureate glow of the lamp, and he shrugs once. “It’s worked pretty well so far.”
