Summary: It’s a slow, boring night at the club until he walks through the door.
Warnings: Eric is implied to have a lot of money(he’s in the music industry), unprotected public sex, lust at first sight, choking 18+MDNI
✰ I think this one has been a long time coming for me. I’ve never written stripper!reader but I was a stripper for several years so this is v personal to me. The songs reader dances to used to be my favorite set. thank u for always encouraging me pookie @babygorewhore ✰
It was a dreary, slow night. There were bodies in the club but no money to go along with them. A few dudes you can tell just turned 21 and are here for the experience, they’ll definitely spend the entire evening at the same table drinking cheap beer while they whistle at the dancers with their wallets closed. A few of the girls regulars are here, either in the back or cozied up at a table. If you were lucky they’d ask you to come sit with them and at the very least buy you drinks but you didn’t feel like entertaining someone for nothing more than a few ones and some shots. There was a couple in the corner arguing and a few older men with their eyes practically glued to the slot machines. Classic.
But there was one individual that caught your eye. He wasn’t someone you would usually see in a place like this. He was more like a pretty face you saw on the street and thought about for the rest of the week. He’s tucked away in a back corner booth drinking what looks like shots of crown royal, the whole bottle, always a good sign. He’s approached the stage and tipped each girl generously but hasn’t stayed for a set. You’ve noticed a few girls go offer him dances but he declines, offering them a tip anyway. You couldn’t blame them for trying. He was gorgeous. He’s extremely tall, still towering over even the tallest dancers in their heels. His toned arms are covered in tattoos and the white tee he’s wearing sits taunt against his chest. His distressed black jeans are tucked into beat up leather boots and his face is otherworldly. Those bright green eyes shine in the flashing lights of the club, the way they dance around his face accentuating different parts of his statuesque bone structure. He has full lips and a perfect pointed nose and you’ve never wanted to ride a customer right in the middle of the club until right now. You haven’t felt nervous to go on stage since you were just starting out dancing but the way his viridescent eyes raked over your body as you climbed the stairs to the stage had your heart pounding.
Your first song starts to play and you grab onto the pole lightly as you prance around it to the beat. You press the tip of your healed boot against the bottom of the pole and spin your body around it with your other leg pointed before pressing your back against it. You nearly trip when you see the man you’ve been fantasizing about all night sitting at your stage with a $20 bill sitting on the bar. You regain your composure, smiling at him sweetly as you slide down the pole onto your knees so you can crawl to him. The sound of Rob Zombie’s “Pussy Liquor” thrums through your body, making you feel like a succubus. You stop on your knees in front of the top bar, never breaking eye contact with him as you pluck it with your manicured fingers and stuff it into the band of your black bikini top.
“Thank you, that’s so sweet of you.” You press your tits together as you lean over and stick your ass out behind you. “I’m Bunny, what’s your name?”
“Well, that’s kind of forward, isn’t it?” His voice is much softer than you expected as he returns your smile with one of his own, it’s not condescending though, it’s almost playful. “I’m Eric.”
“Well, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. You can just watch me dance.” You wink at him before leaning back on your knees and pulling the string on your top so it falls down your body, your tits spilling free. Eric’s eyes sparkle and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he looks up at you like he hasn’t seen multiple pairs of boobs just within the last hour.
You pull the bottom string free and then toss it to the side as you push yourself up on your 8 inch heels. You sway toward the pole, running your fingers through your hair as you purposefully wiggle the fat of your ass. You grab onto the metal and roll your body before swinging your foot around it so you can climb up. You lock your legs together and lean backward, suspending yourself in the air. You watch as Eric pulls out a roll of cash and throws a huge stack of ones followed by several twenty’s. You grab onto your tits and jiggle them for him before titling yourself back up to grab onto the pole. You timed it perfectly so when the beat dropped so did you, right from the top onto the ground in the splits. Eric claps, which you find absolutely adorable because who the fuck claps in a strip club? And then he throws a literal hundred dollar bill onto your stage right as your first song ends. You tease him all through the next song, “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails and when you’re leaning over to press your tits into his face he gives you this dopey smile and tells you that he loves the songs you choose. After your set is done you offer him a dance, and he insists on a private room.
You pull the thick red curtain back so you can lead him into the sectioned off area of the club. There’s walls on all three sides and an open face that’s completely blocked by curtains. You can’t help but giggle at the way he stands there awkwardly surveying the room. You can tell he’s never done this before.
“This your first time?” You grab onto a piece of your hair and twirl it, looking up at him through your lashes. He’s even taller than you thought he was and you have to stop yourself from clenching your thighs when how easily he could toss you around crosses your mind. You have no idea how you’re going to get through the next thirty minutes without getting turned on. You already are.
“Yeah. I’m just not sure how it works.” He chuckles lightly as he rubs the back of his neck but there’s this glint in his eye that tells you he isn’t going to make this any easier on you or your tiny thong.
“Well, why don’t you just sit down on the couch and I can dance for you?” You grab his hand and guide him to the couch, encouraging him to sit down. He obliges you and you lower yourself into his lap with your legs hanging over his. You’re back in your top now, but it leaves little to be desired and you feel your body heat as his eyes rake over you. One of his large hands lands on your thigh and he gives you a questioning look, instead of answering him verbally you swing your leg over his to straddle him and grab onto both of his hands, resting them on your hips. You throw your arms over his shoulders and grind down on him lightly and it has his grip on you tightening.
“I don’t know the rules and you’re making it really hard for me to control myself already.” Eric’s voice is a deep rumble that runs straight to your core and god you don’t usually let customers touch you like this but you’re starting to wonder if you can stop yourself from fucking him right here.
“Wanna know a little secret, Eric?” You ghost your lips across his pierced ear and you can feel his skin break out into goosebumps.
“Yeah.” He groans when you grind down on him harder this time, his grip on you turning almost bruising.
“I don’t usually let guys touch me, even for money, but you? You can touch me as much as you want.” You run your nose down his jaw before pulling away from him, flipping around on his lap and pushing yourself onto your feet. You roll your body and shake your ass for him while pulling your top off again. You shimmy back onto his lap with your back pressed to his chest and grind against his now hard bulge. You can’t help the little whine that escapes you. His large tattooed hands grip onto your tits and that’s when you lose all sense of reality.
“I really liked your songs, ya know?” Eric’s breath tingles against your neck, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “You’re the only girl here I wanted to talk to.”
“Yeah? You’re the only guy I’ve ever seen in here that I actually wanted to dance for.” You throw your hands behind your back so you can lace them behind his head as you continue to wind on his lap. “And it’s so fucking against the rules but I’d let you fuck me right here.” You lean your head back so you can look up into his eyes and his expression has changed drastically, it was like your words flipped a switch inside of him and he wants nothing more to eat you alive.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble, bunny.” He chuckles and brings a finger up to your cheek. He runs it down your face to your jaw before ghosting it over your lips and you can’t help but dart your tongue out to lick the pad of his finger. “Let me take you home with me.”
“Well, I’m not really supposed to do that either. But I really feel like breaking some fucking rules tonight.” You wind your hips in a circle and his cock slides perfectly between your thong covered ass.
“They can’t be too mad if I pay them off, right?” He squeezes your boob, rolling your nipple between his fingertips.
“That would cost a lot. You’re hot enough to lose my job over. There’s other clubs. I want you to fuck me.” You whine and pull the strings of your bottoms so they fall down your hips. You never thought you’d be here, sitting on a customers lap begging him to fuck you like a bitch in heat. But something about this man was making you lose all rationality.
“Money isn’t an issue for me baby. Hell, I’ll get you out of here permanently if you want.” He runs that perfect nose along the column of your throat, inhaling the expensive perfume one of your regulars bought you a few months back. “And you don’t need to beg, the minute I saw you I knew I’d give you anything you asked for.”
“Fuck, Those are some big promises, honey.” You giggle, sugary sweet, and it makes him melt. He grabs onto your hips and pushes you to stand, your tiny thong falling at your feet, leaving you exposed to him. Eric grabs onto the globes of your ass and spreads them open, your pussy lips coming apart with a click from how wet you are.
“Would you look at that? So fucking perfect.” He grips onto your hips to turn you around, making sure to steady you when you stumble in your heels. You watch with wide eyes as he reaches for his playboy bunny belt buckle and your jaw practically drops to the floor when he pulls his cock out. It’s fucking huge and pierced. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, bunny. Come sit on it.”
Eric pulls you forward and you straddle him, your knees sinking into the leather of the couch. He grips onto his shaft and runs it through your wetness, the balls of his piercing bumping against your clit. He taps the head against your sensitive bud before lining up with your entrance and slowly pushing inside your wet walls. But it’s not enough, you want to feel the burn of the stretch while he splits you open so you slam your hips down onto his, taking him to the hilt in one thrust. It nearly knocks the wind out of you and a moan so loud that the music barely drowns it out.
“Oh fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” Eric grips onto your ass and bounces you up and down on his cock as he stares into your eyes deeply. “You sure nobody is gonna come in here?”
“Nobody will, they’re definitely watching on the cameras and I’m definitely fucked as soon as we walk out of here but they’ll let it play out.” It’s like you gave him the green light because he plants his feet firmly on the ground and starts to fuck up into you. He grips onto your throat so he can pull your lips to his in a filthy kiss, not wasting any time intertwining your tongues together. The metal bar in his cock caresses your walls as his thick head bullies your g-spot and your toes curl in your boots. “Choke me harder.”
“Yeah? You like it rough, bunny? I’m going to have so much fun with you.” Eric squeezes your throat tighter and his free hand comes to run circles on your clit with his thumb. The way he’s talking about you like he already owns you combined with the pleasure he’s giving you has you already teetering towards the edge. “I’m gonna keep you, make you my pretty little fuck doll. You want that?”
“Yes, fuck yes.” You whine, drool starting to drip down your chin as your eyes roll back. Your manicured fingers scratch at his back through his shirt and you wouldn’t be surprised if it has tiny rips in it by the end of this.
“Look at me when you fall apart on my cock.” Eric grunts as he shifts his hips so he’s fucking into you even deeper and it has euphoria washing over your entire body the minute your eyes lock with his. Your pussy clenches around his cock like a vise grip and you moan so loudly there’s no way it can’t be heard outside of this room. But you’re way past giving a fuck. “Oh, that’s a good bunny, come for me.”
“Oh my f-fucking god! Fuckkkk me!” Eric’s thrusts don’t let up as he chases his own high, his hands grip onto your ass again and he’s practically folded in half on the couch as he bounces you like a fuck toy on his dick.
“I’m gonna fucking come.” Eric grunts before he’s pressing your hips flush against yours with his cock twitching inside you. You watch as he throws his head back, exposing his tattooed neck and you can’t help but lean forward and bite down on it. “Fuck yes, fucking bite me.”
You suck and bite on his skin until he goes limp underneath you, panting as he tries to catch his breath. He pushes himself up with his cock still nestled inside of you before pulling you close so he can kiss you with a passion no man ever has before. Who was this guy? And why did you never want to leave him?
“Alright, we should get out of here so I can go lose my job.” You chuckle as you stand up and grab your bikini, tying it back on while Eric tucks himself back into his pants. He comes to stand in front of you, taking your face into his hands.
“I meant that shit I said. I know we don’t know each other, hell, I don’t even know your real name. But come home with me, I’ll pay off these assholes and buy you whatever you want.” Eric smiles at you so sweetly you feel like you’re going to melt into the beer soaked carpet and how can you say no?
“Fuck it. Let’s go.” You giggle and push yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss him before pulling him out to face the music.
You definitely lost your job that night. But Eric fucked you so good you couldn’t even bring it in yourself to care. And he kept his promise. He kept you as his little doll and gave you everything your heart could ever desire.
Tagging a few moots who might be interested: @nailbatanddungeon @myspacebrat @ghoul-friendz @taintandviolent
⋆ all fics with the strikethrough will be undone when the respective fics have been uploaded!
⋆ MINORS NEVER INTERACT! SPAM LIKING IS PROHIBITED! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED!
⋆ BLACK! FEMALE! SHE/HER CHARACTER INSERTS! I ONLY WRITE FOR BLACK WOMEN! BEWARE IN THESE FICS RESPECTIVE BLACK CHARACTERS WILL OCCASIONALLY USE THE N WORD!
⋆ MULTI PART PIECES
A NEW LIFE — “I don’t wanna think about why you didn’t pick up the phone” (2) — CAMERON CADE
BUT YOU KNOW I GOT A MAN / YOU RIGHT — “got a girl at home but you callin’ me.. you know I’m taken baby, I don’t creep” / “you right I got my guy but I can’t help it I want you” (2) — CAMERON CADE
⋆ STAND ALONE(S)
DON’T YOU WATCH SCARY MOVIES? — “you never say who’s there, don’t you watch scary movies? It’s a death wish” — TEDDY SPENCER
STAND ON IT
THE JEALOUS TYPE
HATE THE CLUB
HALF-CRAZY
GHOSTFACE DUO
OVERTIME
GENEROUS
AFTER LAST NIGHT — “after last night, I think I’m in love with you.. woke up and I can’t get you out of my head..” — TEDDY SPENCER
Here for the Black girls with ass
Here for the Black girls with no ass
Here for the Black girls with curves
Here for the Black girls with no curves
Here for the Black girls with long hair
Here for the Black girls with short/no hair
Here for the Black girls with natural hair
Here for the Black girls with weave/relaxers
Here for the Black girls with clear skin
Here for the Black girls with acne/stretch marks/scars
Here for the Black girls with dark eyes
Here for the Black girls with light eyes
Here for the Black girls that are all Black
Here for the Black girls who are half/quarter
Here for the Black girls who are ghetto
Here for the Black girls who are nerdy
Here for the Black girls who are high-maintenance
Here for the Black girls who be chillin
Here for the Black girls who are stoners
Here for the Black girls who hold Bibles
Here for the Black girls who are sexual
Here for the Black girls who are asexual
Here for the Black girls who are saving themselves
Here for the Black girls who have casual sex
Here for the Black girls in crop tops and daisy dukes
Here for the Black girls with skirts to the ground
I’m here for Black girls
I’ll always be here for Black girls
Because we are worth it.
Summary: Your marriage is haunted by the ghost of the wife who came before you, and the walls of Harding Manor bear witness to your husband's descent into madness.
warnings: Dub-Con, loss of virginity, obsession, unsure if stalking counts if it takes place in your own home, implied chronically ill!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
♱
You were not Anna.
You were reminded every day from the moment you wed Friedrich Harding and became his missus that you were not Anna. Anna who was perfect and said the right things and walked the right way and was a walking temptation to the man she called her husband. Anna who—even in death—called to Friedrich from beyond and was nearly successful if it were not for strong hands and strong voices keeping the dark-haired man from throwing himself into her coffin with her. Anna who was well on her way to giving your husband a third child.
Anna whose touch still lingered in this home and along these walls and in the long dead flowers that Friedrich refused to throw out.
Anna who haunted you much more than she haunted your new husband.
Illness had not just taken the angelic beauty, but her three children with her, one never even getting the chance to take his first breath. In your solitude, you sometimes thought that you did not know what was worse—their two daughters remaining and forcing you to fill the void the other woman left in multiple lives…or your life as it were as you were forced to give Friedrich a whole new family and reason for existing.
You knew from the moment you became betrothed that you had a heavy vacancy to fill…but it seemed that Friedrich had no intention of you filling it.
“He does not touch me, mother.”
The words were whispered in the quiet home one day, and you looked around, ignoring the feel of the older woman’s gaze in favor of imagining what this house must have been like before the tragedy. You imagined how loud it must have been with two animated little girls running around. You imagined how good Friedrich must have been with them, and thoughts of Anna welcoming him home with a kiss and her arms full made your heart sink.
You were not her.
The advice of your mother went into one ear and out the other. You had long accepted that you were a poor replacement that Friedrich could hardly stand to look at. You were alone on your wedding night and again the night after that and the night after that. You were always alone, and the few glimpses that you got of your husband since the wedding day only proved fruitful in your gazes meeting for a stolen moment…and then he was gone again.
You were always alone, and he was always gone…
Until the morning you would not rise from your bed.
The fever struck you in the night, and by the time morning came you felt weighed down by sand. Any strength you had was used to keep your breathing as even as possible, unable to even muster an attempt to open your eyes and tell your cold husband that you were well. Conversations swirled around your head for what felt like days, and in between the feverish dreams, you caught diagnoses and assurances here and there.
“It is merely a cold,” the doctor told Friedrich. “Her body is fighting it quite well, and she will be like new in a matter of days.”
You recalled agreeing with the assessment, feeling more fatigued than anything else—you’d always been rather sickly—but your peace had been broken for the first time in months. The voice of your husband had reached your ears—so broken and angry and unlike anything you had experienced with him.
“...and how exactly did this come about? She never even leaves the house, for God’s sake.”
You heard the rustle of fabric and heavy steps and an even heavier sigh.
“In a matter of a night, my wife has taken ill, and I am assured that she will recover in no time, but I have heard that before…” his voice shook. “I will not bury another wife—I cannot!”
It all seemed so unlike him, and so you convinced yourself that you merely dreamt it up. The fever was clouding your mind and making you conjure up your innermost desires, namely Friedrich caring for you for more than just a societal duty to bear sons that would carry on his name. You allowed yourself to slip into darkness and dream some more.
A masculine hand in yours, a finger tracing patterns into your stomach through the fabric of the bedding, soft lips brushing along your fingers and facial hair tickling your flesh. Your mind conjured up all sorts of things that simply could not be true, and yet when you fully opened your eyes for the first time in days, you were not alone.
It was not easy to place the look upon Friedrich’s face as he stared down at you, towering over your bed with a smoke in hand and dark circles beneath his eyes. He did not look well himself, and you could not help running your eyes over him, wondering just how much sleep he had gotten this past week. The room was quiet as you two just stared at each other, and just as you parted your lips to inquire about his own health, he was abruptly turning away from you. His voice rang throughout the house as he demanded someone send for the doctor.
It was only hours later that it was professionally confirmed that you were almost as good as new and would probably only have to put up with a light cough for the next day or two. Hearing those words relieved you, and when you looked up at your husband, you could not tell if he shared your relief. You frowned up at him as the doctor poked and prodded at you, wondering, for the first time, just what the dark-haired young man was thinking.
He only stared back.
In fact, he only ever stared these days.
When you were walking through the silent house much like the ghost that haunted your marriage, you could feel the heavy weight of his stare pressing down on you. It was not easy to ignore—nor did you want to—but whenever you turned, no husband was there to meet your gaze. The only sign of his presence was the flutter of a broad shadow passing along the walls. He was much bolder when you found your nose buried in a book, and oftentimes when you lifted your gaze to catch him, he did not shy away.
“Yes?” you would wonder, voice quiet as both uncertainty and unease filled you.
Sometimes he did not answer, merely content to gaze at you, and other times he took his time in responding. He would exhale smoke and it would billow between you, briefly obscuring his features before he swiped his tongue between his lips.
“Supper will be ready within the hour.”
You would nod, and he would make no move to leave, and you would be forced to turn your eyes back to the pages before you…resolving to ignore the silent presence in the doorway that was your husband. You found yourself doing that a lot—resolving to ignore his presence. Otherwise, you would never get anything done.
His gaze clung to you when you ate, the dinner table silent outside of the sound of food and utensils hitting dishes. When your eyes would meet, you would send him a small smile, thinking to yourself that your marriage was just progressing slower than most, but he never returned it. He never smiled at you, only preferring to stare. When you ate, when you read, when you found yourself outside amongst the flowers…even when you slept.
You had never once shared a bed, so it was startling to answer a knock on your door one night, coming face to face with your other half. Your nightdress kissed your feet, and the sleeves tickled your hand, and despite that, Friedrich gazed at you as if you were standing naked before him.
“I only wish to make sure you are well throughout the night.”
You did not know how you felt both relief and disappointment, but you managed.
It took you some time to respond, nodding with a small ‘of course’. You still let out a cough here and there, and you did not miss the way Friedrich’s head would abruptly turn with every heave of your chest. Your marriage may have been cold and strange, but it was obvious that your husband had grown paranoid with the fear of burying a wife for a second time. You imagined that it would not reflect well on him.
…and so you laid beside him and closed your eyes and even in the cover of darkness…
You could feel his gaze.
It unsettled you, and you had half a mind to seek the advice of your mother the next time your parents came for a visit, but she—ever zestful and bold—completely took hold of your train of thought.
“...and when might I expect a grandchild?”
There was a teasing smile on her lips as she regarded you, and you merely sighed before taking a sip of your tea.
“You know my situation, mother,” you murmured, setting your cup aside.
Father was with Friedrich, and you hoped that he was enjoying his company much more than he seemed to his daughter.
“Yes, but that was months ago, and I can tell that things have shifted.”
At that, you frowned, turning to face her.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Your marriage was just as cold as it was in the beginning, only now a strange voyeuristic atmosphere had descended over it. Your husband had gone from ignoring your very presence to shadowing your every footstep in the house. Her light chuckle made you flinch, and she gazed at you as if you were playing some joke on her.
“Darling,” she took a sip of the warm drink. “I saw the way he was looking at you when you welcomed us through those doors.”
Your frown deepened.
“That is the gaze of a man fighting with all of his might to resist his beloved wife.”
Now it was your turn to think she was playing a jest with you, but you had no more time to linger on that for the voices of your father and husband soon filled the house as they made their way inside. You could only swallow as mother stood to welcome father back, slowly rising as your own husband neared you. When you traced his face with your eyes, you noticed the ease upon it, and you felt relieved to see that he and your father got on well. He looked like any normal man alight with the mirth that came from being in the company of other like minded men, and so you disregarded your mother’s words.
As you stepped past him to approach your father, your back felt aflame with the heat of a familiar gaze.
You saw them out and wished them safe travels and your father placed his hand on your cheek before he went, speaking good health over you. While he may have been used to your sickly nature, any instance that required bed confinement for his daughter always worried him. He wanted to leave with the trust that you would be well looked after…and well looked after you were.
“Your father was very transparent with me about your health.”
Friedrich towered over you as you sat at the table, having been unsure where this conversation was heading when he interrupted supper. A small container was in his large hand, and when your gaze lifted from the bottle to his eyes, you swore that you saw him falter, his words momentarily stuck in his throat.
He placed the bottle down before you, his hand remaining on the table, and the scent of him filled your nose.
“I have gotten the doctor to make a tonic for you. You are to take a few drops with your meal once a week… It will keep your strength and health up.”
He only moved again to open it, and despite the fact that you felt it was hardly necessary—having survived so long without it—one look into the eyes of your husband told you that not only could it not hurt, but for his peace of mind, you needed to do this. You two gazed at one another as he held it in his hand, and after some time, you realized what he wanted. Parting your lips for him, you swallowed down the few drops he administered to you, but even after you swallowed the herbal mixture down…Friedrich continued to stand over you.
It was in this moment that you finally started to voice your thoughts, asking him why he stared at you so when his movements completely stumped you.
His thumb found the corner of your mouth, startling you, and it remained there for some time before he brought it to his lips, tasting whatever had been lingering there. His blue eyes—normally so cold and unreadable in your presence—suddenly glinted with a look you could not place. It happened so fast that you would have missed it, but you did not, and the intensity there was enough to make your heart skip a beat.
Friedrich parted from you as if nothing had happened, and you watched him round the table to take his place across from you once again. It took you some time to pick up your utensils again, rejoining him in eating your supper, and now it was your turn to stare at him…unable to forget that shadowy something that passed through those blue eyes.
He was staring again.
The wind howled outside of the window with the storm and flashes of lightning lit up the otherwise dark room from time to time and your chest and shoulders moved evenly as you feigned sleep. You stared at the wall before you, and Friedrich stared at you. If at all possible, he grew more shameless with it, and if you were a normal loving couple just so wrapped up in each other—as you were sure he was with Anna—then some part of you might have found it romantic.
Tantalizing even.
As it were, you were not, and as silly as it seemed…you felt hunted in your own house.
You constantly felt like prey under his ever watchful eye no matter how justified he made it seem. Concern for your health, making sure no food disagreed with you, seeing how fair you slept. The paranoia of losing another wife suffocated you both for different reasons and in different ways, and you felt as if you were moments away from choking. Your mother’s voice crawled through your mind, and words that you had once dismissed now rang through your thoughts like a melody.
The room glowed with another flash of lightning…and you felt the gentle feel of fingers on the side of your face. You sharply inhaled, startled from both the sudden touch and the foreignness of it. His hand rested on your hair, ensuring that he could gaze upon your face no doubt, and when you felt the bed jostle, you closed your eyes. His lips found your tresses, and his hand found your shoulder, and you both heard and felt him breathe you in.
Friedrich’s nose traced the curve of your ear and he descended until his face was buried in the crook of your neck. Despite all of this, your heart remained steady, and you remained still as he gently pressed his lips to your skin and traced patterns through your sleeve. You felt his larger frame shifting closer, and at that—at the feel of him pressed so closely to you to where you could feel every curve and ridge of him—you shuddered.
Yet you still feigned sleep.
“You will never be her,” the words he murmured into your skin had your brows furrowing. “...and I will never let you.”
Contradictory to the words that left his lips, the hand on your arm found its way to your waist, his arm completely circling you and holding you to him. That was how he remained throughout the night, and only when you accepted the permanence of his position, did you finally allow yourself to find sleep.
It was dreamless, and when you woke up, you woke up alone.
You chose to ignore the relief that filled you at that discovery, telling yourself that Friedrich was still grieving. It was an easy answer to his behavior and treatment of you, and yet, you wondered how much longer you had to endure it. You wondered how much longer you would feel watched and shadowed in your own house.
At breakfast, you parted your lips for Friedrich as he gave you a few drops of the tonic, and he watched you eat, and you pretended not to notice. For some time that is. Finally, after a while, you placed your utensils down, and you lifted your gaze to meet his head on. Ever bold, he did not look away, those blue eyes momentarily making you lose your train of thought.
“Why do you stare at me so?”
You finally voiced your concerns with him, and you watched the mustache twitch from the movements of his mouth at your sudden and brazen question. Friedrich looked as if he had never anticipated you asking that of him, but eventually he straightened, pushing his shoulders back as he studied your face.
“I am afraid you will slip away.”
His answer made you blink, eyes widening slightly.
“I fear…” he cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “...like my Anna, you will slip from my grasp.”
Your lips parted at the unexpected answer, and you were unsure of how to respond. Friedrich took a deep breath before digging into his own breakfast, those blue eyes finally refusing to meet yours.
“I will not allow you to become her…lost to me too.”
It was in that moment that you realized you completely misconstrued his words from the previous night, and you stared at the man before you who was so desperate and driven to uncomfortable lengths to ensure he did not bury another wife. Some part of you felt awful for feeling so put off by his uncanny behavior…but some other part of you recognized that your husband was slowly being pushed to madness.
If he were not so already.
“She vexes me so…”
Those were the words you overheard a week later, your house hosting a small handful of people that Friedrich knew. The wives took to you well despite your quiet disposition, and when they proposed an evening walk along the beach, you went in search of your husband to inform him. When you found him, he was in the company of three other men, the smell of tobacco reached you first and then his words followed.
You froze the moment you realized it was you he was referring to.
“She is so quiet and frail…like a mouse” there were a few chuckles. “...and I so desire to hear her squeak.”
You felt yourself take a step back.
“...but it is because she is so fragile that I cannot bring myself to touch her…” you heard Friedrich inhale. “I fear I would ravage her.”
How was it possible for his words to both terrify and entice you? It was a relief to know that your husband did not balk at the sight of you as you once thought, but you did not hold the same sentiment in confirming you were indeed being hunted in your own house. Friedrich had made no moves to warm you to him and progress this marriage in a way that a normal man would. After all these months, he was still little more than a stranger to you.
A stranger that was increasingly losing himself more and more at the thought of ever losing you.
“...but Friedrich we only just got here.”
You looked to him with a slight frown, the ocean breeze a soothing feeling against your skin. So turned around by his words from the other night, you had completely forgotten all about the beach, returning to the other wives in a bit of a daze, something they happily sat you down and fetched some water for.
With one look at you surrounded and feverish with some water in your hand, Friedrich had cleared the house out immediately, saddening you. You were at the beach, now to make up for it, but you were sure that you had only been here all of ten minutes.
“It is a bit airish out,” he said to you, keeping your hand in place on his arm. “I do not wish to see you fall ill again.”
You struggled to argue with him about your health, understanding both the sensitive nature of the topic and the determination in his eyes to see you back inside the house. Despite what you wanted, you allowed him to guide you away from the water and sand. His hand remained on yours the whole way, and the closer you got to your home, the more your unease grew.
“Perhaps we can try again if the weather is better tomorrow,” you proposed the moment you were inside the warm walls of the house.
Your husband did not answer right away as he removed his coat, and for a moment you feared he never would, but his eyes met yours as he turned to you. He was gentle and meticulous in unbuttoning your own coat, his chest so close to yours as he slowly peeled it off of you. The words that he did not know you heard were on your mind as he looked down his nose at you, and he only answered when your arms were finally free.
“We shall see.”
His tone and his words did not seem to be in agreement, and you were unsurprised when tomorrow came and went and you did not leave the walls of your home. You found enjoyment in your books instead, and like always, you eventually felt goosebumps crawl over your arms as you became the subject of his scrutiny yet again.
Only this time, you were surprised to hear him approach.
“Read to me,” he quietly asked—demanded—of you, and you felt his hand in your hair as he sat down on the couch behind you.
It was an unexpected request, and you were silent for a few moments more as he made himself comfortable behind you. His legs were on either side of you as you relaxed on the floor, the fabric of your dresses and undergarments cushioning your bottom. It took you some time to do as he asked, but once you did, you started to forget that he was even there.
Until his fingers started to move over your scalp and he drew himself closer, his knees in your line of vision now, and his gentle breathing started to accompany the sound of your own voice. You read to him for what felt like hours, both of you only pulled from the moment when the cook informed you that dinner would be ready soon.
Much of your time was spent reading to Friedrich these days, and you wondered if he thought it a sufficient enough distraction to ensure you hardly noticed he never let you out of the house anymore. Your requests to go to the beach grew less and less with every denial and every ‘maybe’ that would just turn into a denial. The day you asked to accompany one of the staff to the market, he visibly blanched, his head shaking as he snarked at you how completely out of the question that was.
You finally spoke up when the monthly visit from your parents did not come to pass.
“I did not think it wise for them to be here,” was his only defense, and you gaped at him.
“...and why not? Why am I the last to know this?”
His hand wrapped around your arm as he pulled you away from the curious eyes and ears of the kitchen staff, guiding you through the house with that long stride of his that almost made it hard to keep up. When he noticed, he slowed down, eventually halting his movements just outside of his study, and when you hesitantly reached for your arm, Friedrich loosened his hold.
You watched him use his free hand to gently brush his fingers over the appendage, looking down at it with a frown before meeting your gaze with a more even stare.
“...because they are always trotting off to God knows where around God knows who, and I will not allow them to bring even so much as a shallow cough into this household.”
You blinked at your husband, understanding dawning on you, and you struggled with a response. You realized now that appeasing his paranoia—not fighting it and letting him have his way—was doing more harm than good. Friedrich was so good at hiding his emotions from you—even the ones you wanted to know about—but in the dimly lit hallway, you could see it clear as day in his eyes.
He was consumed with the fear that you would wind up just like Anna and his children.
Taking a deep breath, you hesitantly reached for his hand, removing it from your arm. You did not break your gaze, wanting him to listen to you loud and clear, and you swallowed down the unease that filled you as you stood under his unwavering gaze.
“Friedrich…” you whispered to him, so unused to the feel of his name on your tongue. “That is no way for me to live a life.”
He pushed his shoulders back at that, and you knew that he was going to argue with you, so you continued.
“You have gotten me a tonic from the doctor…I am the healthiest I have ever been…and I would very much like to see my mother and father.”
His mustache twitched as the corner of his mouth curved upwards at your attempt to put your foot down. The both of you stood there for a lengthy amount of time, just staring at one another, and for the briefest of moments, you thought that Friedrich would see reason. Your hand was still on his, and your husband maneuvered them so that your hand was now in his, and when he stopped closer, you knew then that you were not getting your way.
“Perhaps some other time.”
You knew what that meant as you watched him walk away, and dread began to fill you as the reality of your predicament was truly setting in. Your eyes roamed along the walls, no longer feeling haunted by Anna, but her husband instead. He was haunting you, and she was haunting him, and in his desperation to keep you from suffering the same fate as his previous wife, Friedrich seemed content to keep you behind a gilded cage, a manicured box.
Like a porcelain doll.
Your days were consumed with only him and the house—reading to him, tending to the flowers, picking out patterns for some new drapes or a new rug to be made. It was enough to ignore the obvious for a while, enough to keep your mind off of the prolonged absence of your parents and the unmet desires to see the water and the way Friedrich stared at you like he expected you to crumble at the drop of a hat.
He was driving you nearly mad as he, and perhaps that was why you did it.
The caretaker was new and had not yet learned that Friedrich Harding preferred to keep his new wife locked up like some sickly child. Why would she? You were sure that you would be back home before he returned, but when you entered your home—the sun still at its peak outside—you did not miss the way some of the servants avoided your gaze. Only one approached you, quietly taking your coat as her gaze found the floor.
“Mr. Harding is waiting for you both…”
Your heart sank at her words, and you looked to the caretaker, knowing that you just cost her employment. That had never been your intention, and you walked ahead of her, prepared to plead her case to your husband, but he let her go on the spot before you could get a word in. Everything you said went ignored, every plea and every excuse, and it was only when the staff made themselves conveniently scarce did your proper and mighty well-to-do husband finally…
Break.
“Do you wish to ruin me? Is that it?”
His voice bounced off of the walls, and your lips parted as he stared you down. His eyes were alight with every emotion known to man, and his shoulders heaved with every breath he took. You only just started to shake your head when he spoke again.
“For surely it will be the end of me if I have to say goodbye to another wife,” he angrily whispered, and you took a step back. “I do not ask much of you.”
“I know-.”
“I have not forced you to my bed, I have not demanded any sons or daughters,” he let out a tearful chuckle. “I do not even demand you greet your husband with a kiss when he returns home.”
All of this was true, and yet…
“All I ask is that you remain here.”
He said it so casually, as if he were not asking the world of you to remain prettily seated in a cage. You had never known how to gently broach this subject, understanding the sensitive nature of it, but as you stared into the face of your husband—driven mad with trauma and paranoia—you accepted that there would be no gentle way to do it.
“I am not Anna,” you breathed.
The man before you froze in place as you said her name, and you swallowed.
“I am in good health now,” you licked your lips. “You saw to that…”
You slowly reached for him, and you did not miss the sharp look in his gaze as he followed the movement with his eyes.
“I am not going anywhere, and I implore you to have faith…”
Your words trailed off as the sound of his bitter chuckle reached your ears. Friedrich moved closer to you with no intention of stopping it seemed, and your back hit the wall.
“Faith,” the dark-haired man sneered. “Why would I trust faith to keep you with me when that very same faith failed me before?”
You had no answer for him.
His fingers touched your face, and you looked between his eyes. His chest heaved, and his heavy breathing was the loudest sound in the room. His fingers trailed down the expanse of your neck before his hand moved to rest on the back of it, moving closer.
“You are so frail,” he murmured. “I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you.”
He forced your face closer, and you pressed your hands to his chest. The conflict was evident on his features, a furrow between his brows as he drank you in with those sad blue eyes of his.
“I fear that a change in the wind would rip you from my very arms.”
“Friedrich…” he gave no indication that he was listening to you. “I have not seen my mother and father in months. I know they must worry and… All I ever see are these walls and the staff and my books and you. Do you wish for me to be unhappy?”
He tilted his head.
“Do you wish for me to be alone again?”
“Friedrich, please,” you begged, and he was shaking his head as soon as you said his name.
“I cannot do what you ask of me,” he forced out, eyes becoming glassy.
You pulled at his arm and pushed at his chest, but your husband was a mountain of a man, and it did you no good. The room was filled with both of your voices at once, both of you pleading with the other—you for freedom and he for understanding.
“You do not understand the lengths I go to…”
“I will be driven to madness!”
“...the nights I refuse my own desires,” he tearfully spat.
“So you would have me be your doll then? Placed on a shelf where only you and the staff can see me? To only be looked at like a trinket until the end of my days?”
Your poor choice of words had him freezing, his voice dying in the air as he gazed at you with a stricken look in his eyes. He did not move for a concerning amount of time, and as he stared into your eyes, tears kissing his own, you wondered who he saw, right now.
You or Anna?
The wife he had lost or the one he was scared of losing?
“I cannot bear it,” he choked out, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. “It is an impossible thing to ask of me.”
You said his name, but he felt lost to you, mumbling to himself and kneading at you through the fabric of your dress. When his soft lips pressed against the skin just above your bosom, you tensed. You could feel the wetness from his tears on your flesh, and you said his name again.
In this moment, you were wholly aware of your disadvantage.
“All I do is try to protect you, and all I ask is that you help me…”
“Friedrich.”
He was on his knees, now, burly arms circled around your waist, and blue eyes wide and bright and tearful as he looked up at you.
“Yet you fight me every step of the way.”
“I am not Anna,” you said to him, trying to get him to see reason.
…but he knew exactly who he was talking to.
“...and you will never become her if I can help it.”
You felt his hand slide to your backside, pulling you closer as he buried his face into the fabric of your skirts.
“Night after night…day after day…I fight with myself for fear of hurting you, of doing irreparable damage.”
His arm tightened painfully around you, and you gasped, reaching down to pull at his sleeve.
“...and for what? For a wife who still leaves these walls and puts herself in harm’s way even after her husband begs her not to.”
“I cannot…”
You struggled to breathe, and you no longer just wanted him to let you go…you wished to get away. You both heard and felt him press a lingering kiss to your stomach, his tears wetting the fabric of your dress.
“If I am to risk you in any capacity…then surely it should be for the betterment of us both.”
So focused on trying to take in air, you did not fully register his words and the implication behind them. Your chest was tightening and your stomach was hurting, and your husband was losing his mind, and you did not know how to convince him that he would not lose you too. You pushed further back against the wall in an effort to relieve some of the painful pressure when you could suddenly breathe again.
You sharply inhaled…and the sound of tearing fabric reached your ears.
The pressure around your abdomen was loosening in more ways than one, and when you looked down, Friedrich had his hands quite literally inside of your dress. It was one that your mother had commissioned for you, but you could not find it in yourself to mourn the loss of the beautiful gown. You were more focused on your husband’s sudden animalistic nature.
You said his name, pushing at his hands, but you were no match for his strength.
“I cannot stop,” you heard him murmur, making your blood run cold. “Do not dare ask me to stop.”
With his hand at your back under the fabric, it was not long before you quite literally felt the fabric and strings of your corset being pulled taut against your flesh before ripping and popping completely. A panic seized you as you fought to get away from Friedrich, and he fought to rid you of the mountain of layers that covered you.
“Friedrich,” you gasped, pushing at his face and head, but with his arms around you in a vice-like grip, you had nowhere to go.
You pushed one foot forward, a difficult feat with a grown man attached to you, and your husband did not like that. He pulled at your dress some more—pulling down—and the action had you careening forward as you attempted to get away from him at the same time. With the floor fast approaching, you were prepared to crawl away from him, but Friedrich was much quicker on his feet than you.
Arms that were now increasingly familiar to you wrapped around your waist, catching you midfall, and Friedrich’s chest was to your back as he stood and brought you with him. You could feel his facial hair tickling your skin as he leaned in, deeply inhaling and kneading his fingers just under your chest.
“I cannot…”
His words trailed off as he forced you to face him, pink lips parted and blue eyes glazed over. Every step back from him was followed, and his nose touched yours while one hand found a home on your cheek. His lips touched yours for half a second before you pulled away, and he let you, frowning at you as if you confounded him.
She vexes me so.
You recalled those words that were not meant for your ears.
“I cannot…” his frown deepened. “I cannot resist you any longer.”
He finally stole a kiss from you, his lips covering yours in a way that no one ever had before. The kiss at your wedding was sweet—chaste even—but this was nothing of the sort. Friedrich deeply inhaled your every breath and pawed at you and pulled you closer if at all possible. The kiss made your head spin, and every time you attempted to move your head back, he followed. It was hard to breathe with his lips on yours.
You realized that what you felt against the back of your thighs was the bed, but only too late and when Friedrich’s hands tightened on the neckline of your dress. His lips sought out the flesh of your throat as he pulled and ripped it open completely. His blunt nails softly dragged against your skin as he yanked it down, moving closer, and with nowhere else to go, you felt yourself backed into a corner.
Your resistance was clear, and your husband wrapped an arm around your waist, briefly lifting you before dropping you on the soft surface. His large frame found solace between your legs, and you felt irreversibly trapped. He towered over you and his mouth held yours captive and his arms did not allow you anywhere to go.
You gasped his name into his mouth, a protest in your tone.
“I no longer have the strength to keep myself from you,” he murmured into the kiss. “Do not ask me to for I cannot do it.”
His hand slithered between your legs like a serpent, and you squirmed in a way you never had before. You had never even touched yourself there on lonely nights, recalling how unclean and unchaste it was said to be, but Friedrich was your husband. Surely that made it okay…but then why did it not feel okay in your chest? Perhaps it was because he scared you and isolated you and kept you locked away like some prized possession.
You felt yourself growing wet beneath his touch, and a low hum climbed from his throat as you laid your hand on his arm. When a finger slid into you, you dug your nails into his arm. The feel had you blinking, and when he added another, your eyes widened. A third had you gasping and him cursing—something you rarely heard. You felt stretched, and when he moved closer, forcing your legs to part more to accommodate him, you hissed.
“Lie back, my love,” he murmured to you. “It will feel much better.”
You refused to, one hand on the bed behind you in some weak hope that you could stop this before it went any further. You simply wanted freedom, and pleading with Friedrich for something so simple had ended in him seeking out his own pleasures instead. You could feel yourself dripping around his hand with every thrust of his fingers, and shame filled you.
When you were unable to swallow down a moan, you hid your face.
“There she is,” he slowly whispered, and when his thumb brushed over you in a way that had your arm weakening, he took advantage.
In one fell swoop, you found yourself on your back, your husband on top of you and his fingers still pushing into you. Your ruined dress hung off of you in tatters, and Friedrich tasted whatever visible skin there was. His large frame kept you pinned to the bed, and your eyes rolled and lashes fluttered from the way he moved his fingers and his hand between your thighs. You weakly murmured his name, and beyond that, in the quiet room, you could hear his movements. You could hear the wet sound of it, and more shame filled you, but you were not given time to linger on it.
He sat up on his knees, reaching down with his other hand so that he played you with both. You felt your back arching, and your breathing grew more shallow, and one hand gently massaged your mound while the other continued to push his fingers into your slick walls. He curled them into you over and over, massaging your insides and pressing the pads of his fingers against you.
It was unlike anything you ever felt, and when your stomach tightened—a rope or a coil or something deep within your gut—you let it until it could not any further, and you were suddenly gasping and whimpering in a way that made you sound possessed. You could feel Friedrich’s gaze on you, and when you managed to focus your own on him despite the difficulty, he wore an expression that you were sure you had never seen before.
It made you want to cover yourself and shy away, and when he pulled his fingers out of you—a tinge of red on them—that was exactly what you set out to do.
Feeling hot and confused and unsettled by the man before you, you reached for the covers in an attempt to hide your nakedness, but your husband would not have it. He climbed over you, keeping you pinned between his thighs as he peeled off his light jacket, his tie and shirt and undershirt quick to follow.
You imagined that your wedding night would have been something akin to this, but only without this level of unease and fear and confusion. As it were, your wedding night was nothing like this. You had been alone, convinced of your husband’s lack of care for you, and now almost a year later, you were squirming beneath him and wanting to be as far away as possible from the man who metaphorically locked you in the tower and tossed the key.
“Friedrich,” you choked out, pushing at his chest.
He leaned in and kissed you again, and you felt every bit of him as he forced you out of your garments completely.
The tip of him brushed against your sensitive flesh, and you shuddered beneath him. He would not stop kissing you, tasting the inside of your mouth and inhaling every gasp that escaped. His normally perfect hair was in disarray, and when he reached down between you, his other arm was proactive in holding you tight and in place for him.
The feel of his cock pushing into you almost made you wish for his fingers instead. You thought that you felt stretched before, but it was nothing in comparison to the slow way in which he sheathed himself inside of you. You felt unnaturally full, and it took your breath away. Friedrich groaned from above you, and you felt a shudder crawl up his back as he rested inside of you.
“I tried,” you heard him whisper. “I tried so very hard…but I cannot go another day without having you.”
He slowly pulled his hips back until only the tip of him remained before sinking into you completely. You could not stop the movements of your body, your hips lifting with his as if being carried by a wave, a breathless sigh escaping with every thrust. His bare chest was pressed to yours, and his burly arms kept you right where he wanted you, and you felt yourself slowly forgetting why you had ever resisted him.
“Endless nights of lying awake and knowing you were a mere room away,” Friedrich breathed against your skin. “So close…and so forbidden to me.”
The speed of his hips grew, and your nails dug into his skin, dragging over it as he plunged his cock into you with a vigor you did not know he had. He was always so cold with you, keeping you at arm’s length even when he was touching you. You recalled the feel of his hand on your hair and his fingers on your mouth and a brush against your waist. Always giving in just a little bit more until he no longer had the desire to hold himself back. Always staring and watching and craving.
It was so clear to you, now, and all you could think was that your mother was right…
…and you were a fool.
“I feared I would break you,” he panted, thrusting into you so strongly that the bed beneath you shook. “I still fear that I just might.”
He pushed himself up onto his hands so that he could look down at you, and the dull tender ache had started to subside, replaced by something that far exceeded the pleasure his fingers had given you. Your back arched, and Friedrich wasted no time in dipping his head to wrap his lips around a heaving breast. His tongue swirling around a hardened bud had you reaching up to thread your fingers through his dark locks.
He groaned at the action, and when he lifted his head again, his intense blue gaze sought out yours. You softly moaned every time his hips curved into yours, his cock smoothly sliding between your folds, now and stroking you in a way that momentarily convinced you your freedom was not all that desirable. Your husband did not look away from your eyes again, and it felt overwhelming to be beneath him and staring into his eyes and feel him within you.
One of his hands reached up to touch your cheek, and a frown formed between his brows.
“So fragile… It would take nothing for me to break you, to snuff you right out,” his words made your heart skip a beat. “You test my self control in ways that terrify me.”
His hand traveled to your neck.
“I was right to fear the monster that I would unleash if I ever got my hands on you…”
His fingers danced to the back of your neck, and he gripped the hair at the nape there, slowly and gently forcing your head back. His hips did not relent once, meeting yours again and again, the sound of skin meeting skin reaching your ears among other things that filled you with shame. So much shame.
“For I will never be able to resist you again.”
He leaned in and pressed gentle kisses along the expanse of your throat, his tongue darting out to taste the damp skin, humming at the salty nature the thin sheen of sweat gave it. You whimpered when he reached down with his free hand, fingers brushing against you and circling you as you greedily clenched around his cock.
“If anything happened to you,” he whispered into your neck. “It would be my undoing.”
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, bdsm elements, rafe has control issues, some sugar baby vibes, future NONCON/DUBCON, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+
A/N: Pls reblog and let me know what you think!
word count: 4.8k
In which you interview for a low-level position at Cameron Development, but instead, you unexpectedly find yourself chosen as Rafe Cameron's personal assistant.
rafe cameron masterlist
The sky was dreary. You looked up to see dark and ominous clouds staring down at you. Taking a breath to steady your nerves, you continued walking along the pavement. At least the southern sun wasn’t beating down on you. Maybe you’d appear less sweaty and nervous to your possible employer.
Charlotte was a big city you hadn’t fully explored, but your walk was familiar. A few blocks down from the Cameron Development headquarters was the Mug & Muffin, where you’d been serving coffee for the past year. You practically only served housewives who had the time to grab coffee at 11 in the morning and suits who were on their way to the giant buildings downtown to make more money than you’d ever see in your whole life.
Today was your day off; however, it was the only day of the week that you weren’t working for ten straight hours. Somehow, you’d been selected to interview for a Filing Clerk position at Cameron Development. You thought it was some kind of mistake that out of all the places you applied to through online portals, a legitimate company wanted to interview you. Not only was it legit, but they had their building downtown. The building was no skyscraper, but looking up at twenty dark steel floors, huge windows wrapped around each side, and a sparkling gold sign that read CAMERON, you felt incredibly intimidated.
When you finally pushed through the revolving doors, you reminded yourself that it was a small position. A small position you weren't qualified for, but there was no need to worry. The receptionist on the first floor barely glanced at you when you approached her. You took a deep breath, slowly releasing it before starting your sentence: “Hi, I have an eight-thirty interview with Andy Speer in the Record Management department.”
She spoke curtly, “Twelfth floor,” She pointed to the elevators hidden behind a corner.
“Th-Thank you,” You mumbled, your shoes clicking against beautiful marble floors as you made your way to the elevators. You weren’t expecting to go so high up the building. The ride felt like an eternity, with each floor reminding you of how out-of-place you were. Even the receptionist who worked on the first floor acted like she was above you. You wiped your sweaty palms on your dress, grateful you’d chosen a black one. Well, you were thankful that you’d chosen the second out of the only two nice dresses you owned.
You were now the age you should've graduated college at, you couldn’t work at a coffee shop forever. If you ever wanted to not have to live with three other people then you needed a serious job. You needed to take advantage of this opportunity. If you somehow landed it, this was the type of job where you might be able to grow. Who knows? Maybe you’d eventually be able to afford a car payment. Those thoughts pushed you forward as you walked down the hallway.
“Ah, Ms. Y/L/N,” The male voice came from behind you and you whirled around to see a short, bearded man approaching you. He wore a blue dress shirt and navy tie and was carrying a coffee from no other place than the Mug & Muffin. You spotted a small brown spot near his shirt pocket wear he’d clearly spilled some, “You’re here about the Filing Clerk position?”
You nodded, your heart beginning to race, as you stuck your hand out for him to shake. You weren’t sure if you were overdressed, having worn your outfit at your cousins wedding, but you added a red cardigan and ballet flats to make it more professional, “Yes,” You smiled, “That’s mmm-me.”
He didn’t seem to look you over more than once, and his smile remained despite the bump in your speech, “Great, my name is Andy Speer. I manage the department. Come on into my office.”
Breath, you reminded yourself. Start your sentences slow. Take a pause if you need to. If you get stuck, don’t get too frustrated. Try not to bring attention to it.
When you settled into his office, relatively small but with a large window that had a lovely view of the city, he began the interview. You folded your hands in your lap, trying to be acutely aware of your facial expressions and your body’s posture.
“So, tell me a little about your experience,” He started.
“Well,” Breath in and slowly release, “I’ve actually been working at the Mug & Muffin as a shift lead for the past year but, before that, I worked in retail for several years. I’m v-vvvv-very organized; that’s why I’ve been able to help with-with both managing inventory and scheduling tasks.”
“Organization is key in a position like this. And you also know how to work on your feet. Our clerks travel all throughout the building, retrieving documents and assisting with things like file purging and managing file systems.”
Deep breath in. Start slowly.
“I’m totally capable of being in service to others. Working in customer service will teach you how to deal with people very quickly and I’m sure there are similar ups and d-downs even within a company. I think it’s important to show a p-p-person that you’re listening, even if you c-c-can’t help them directly.”
He nodded, “People tend to forget that. What else interests you about working in Records Management?”
“I like the idea of keeping things in order. Making ssss-ssss,” Too fast. Slow down, “Sssss-sssss-sure. Uhm. Making sure everything is in place. It ssss-sound sss-small but it’s s-something I’m good at. And I’d like to be a part of a bigger company where I can grow and learn.”
Andy’s lips parted, and he gave you a look that you were no stranger to, “Ms. Y/L/N, if you don’t mind me asking–”
“I have a stutter,” You finished his sentence before taking another breath, slowing down as much as you could, “I have it managed, mostly. When I’m asked direct questions, or I’m especially nervous, it can flare up. But I-I-I am nervous. I’m interested in this job.”
Andy smiled softly, and your heart seemed to rest slightly. The pounding in your chest was about to make you go crazy.
“I appreciate your honesty. I have more questions for you but there’s no need to be confined to this office. I’ll show you around the building.”
You were more than relieved, instantly nodding. He seemed to understand how tense you were and undoubtedly the conversation would feel more casual if the two of you were walking at the same time. The interview continued, and Andy allowed you time to ask him questions about your possible role.
Still, you felt small, like a child in an adult’s world. Andy touched on your lack of secondary education but didn’t press it. You explained how you’d completed two years of your undergrad degree, majoring in accounting but had to leave for personal reasons. You explained that you eventually wanted to finish your degree, but in reality, you’d only chosen accounting because it was one of the few majors that didn’t require you to take a public speaking class.
You followed him through corridors with large glass meeting rooms on either side. Again, everyone you came across looked like they belonged. You walked past a room with a long, sleek table, and it seemed like at least twenty people were sitting at the table. At the front of the room was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit. His back was slightly turned, but the air of authority permeated through the glass all the way to you. You felt it against your skin.
His voice was raised but was muffled by the glass barrier, “That’s Mr. Cameron. Our CEO.”
Your lips parted when you caught a real glance at him. He was older but much younger than you expected. Certainly younger than a CEO typically was. His hair was buzzed short, his skin a nice tan color, and blue eyes that locked on you. Briefly but intensely, “Let’s continue our tour.”
The rest of the tour happened in a blur. You felt that you made a good impression on Mr. Speer. He was accepting of your stutter and resonated with all the examples you shared from your past jobs. He informed you that they were interviewing four other applicants but that you’d receive an update in the next week about whether they’d chosen you.
You felt slightly more confident than when you arrived and you reached for your phone, wanting to text your roommate how it went and that you’d be home soon but you ran into wall of muscle as you stepped onto the elevator, “S-Sorry,” You gasped, reaching down to grab your phone which had slipped from your grasp, “Ssss-so sss-sorry.”
Just shut up, you told yourself, and you found yourself actually speechless when you looked up into Mr. Cameron’s eyes, “Careful,” He said, slightly patronizing, and you wanted to crawl inside your skin. You tucked your phone away into your bag, stepping aside until you were on the other side of the elevator.
The elevator door closed, and your eyes widened when you realized the elevator was not going down, “Oh,” You breathed, “You’re going up.”
Of course he was going up. The CEO works on the top floor. And now, here you were, stuck in an elevator with the CEO himself, a barista dressed up and pretending to belong in a place you had no right to be.
“Yeah, you can usually tell by looking at the arrows before you get on.”
You pressed your lips together, determined not to say anything more, even though you could feel his eyes on you. He sighed, “You’re new, I’m assuming.”
You shook your head. Breathe, start slowly. “I interviewed today. File Clerk.” Keep it brief, you reminded yourself. There was no need to try to impress the CEO—he was far too important to be involved in hiring someone like you. It was better not to embarrass yourself.
The elevator dinged with each floor that you passed, “Ah, well, I hope you were impressed by all the company has to offer,” he said as the doors opened, revealing a sleek black wall with the Cameron Development logo etched in gold. A waterfall cascaded down the marble surface, exuding elegance, “Enjoy your ride down.”
“B-Bye-”
Shut up.
You reached to press the lobby button, watching as his large figure slowly disappeared down a hallway before the doors shut again.
There went that small sliver of confidence.
You went down a rabbit hole googling Cameron Development, of course. Rafe Cameron was just shy of thirty but he inherited the company from his father, Ward, when he was only twenty. It went from a company centered to the Outer Banks to one that served clients across the entire country. According to a website you weren’t sure was actually reputable, his networth was close to 1.3 billion dollars.
And he thought you were an idiot. Most likely, he wouldn’t remember you all.
You hoped you wouldn’t run into again when you returned to the Cameron Developent the next week. Andy had called you to let you know that you’d been chosen for the job, but when you approached the receptionist on the first floor, she informed you that you should check in with the receptionist on the twentieth floor.
Was there another portion of the hiring process that involved meeting someone higher up in the company? You asked her if she’d actually meant that floor twice before the woman rolled her eyes and pretended to answer a phone call.
The twentieth floor.
You splurged on a new outfit, hopeful that your new job’s salary would soon replenish your funds. You’d be making ten dollars more per hour, after all. You chose a black, square-neck top and soft cream-colored pants, pairing them with your trusty ballet flats that matched almost everything.
When you arrived on the twentieth floor again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that security might escort you out at any moment. Walking past the elegant waterfall, you found the receptionist desk. The redheaded woman behind it was stunning, and though her smile lacked sincerity, at least she looked you directly in the eyes.
“Hi, I’m supposed to meet with Andy Speer in Record Management?”
“Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” You nodded as you let out a breath. At least you weren’t in the wrong place.
“Follow me,” she said, stepping out from behind the desk. She was dressed in a sleek, navy dress adorned with gold buttons down the front, tied with a bow at the waist. You couldn’t help but admire her style, your gaze trailing down to her elegant heels. “You’ll be meeting with Mr. Cameron today.”
“Wh-” Your lips paused in an uncomfortable, rounded position before the block in your speech passed, “Why?”
She didn’t respond, and there wasn’t time to press her as she led you to the end of a long hallway. You found yourself in front of two imposing, black double doors. With a push of the large, gold handles, she opened them to reveal the most elaborate room you’d ever seen.
The sheer scale of the room was breathtaking. Your eyes immediately went up to ceilings at least two floors tall and a gigantic window covering the farther wall. You thought Andy’s view was nice … you could see all of Charlotte from this window. Long black curtains hung from the ceiling to keep some of the light out. When the curtains were drawn, the room would undoubtedly take on a different character—moodier, more intimate, and even more private.
To the right, a stunning black marble fireplace dominated the wall, flanked by a bookcase that stretched the entire length of the room. A plush seating area featured leather couches that looked as comfortable as they were luxurious, with a low coffee table in front. Nearby, a polished bar cart stood ready, stocked with an array of crystal glasses and top-shelf spirits. No doubt to impress clients.
“Holy…” You spoke, as smooth as ever.
To the left was Rafe and his expansive mahogany desk, positioned to take advantage of the view of the city’s infrastructure. His desk was organized with files stacked neatly, a computer with multiple desktops, and a mug that held steaming coffee. Expensive art pieces were framed on the wall behind him, carefully selected to aid the overall aesthetic of the space. They were dark and imposing like him.
His chair was high-backed and leather, and as you met his eyes, you noticed he was just as tailored as the room. Broad shoulders and lean frame … you wondered how much time he spent carefully crafting it. He set aside the folder he had been reviewing as the redhead, Eleanor, announced your presence.
"Mr. Cameron, your ten o’clock meeting," she said.
“Thank you, Eleanor. That’ll be all,” His voice was smooth and commanding, “Come sit, Ms. Y/L/N.”
He emphasized the leather chairs in front of his desk and although your legs felt like weights, you crossed the room. You couldn’t help but continue to stare at how impressive it was and now that you’d learned more about him through your research, it made sense. What didn't make sense to you was why you were sitting in front of it.
He leaned forward, his hands folding together, and instinctively you moved further back in your chair, “I got a chance to look at your application and resume.”
Your eyes widened, “Really?”
He nodded, “You never finished college. Why’s that?”
“I…I don’t understand,” You couldn’t hide the confusion on your face, “I didn’t think I-I would b-b-be …I thought Mr. Speer would be here.”
“He works for me, doesn’t he?”
“Y-Yes-”
“You want to work for my company, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” you repeated, your voice smaller this time. His head tilted slightly, his gaze sharpening.
“Did you forget my original question?”
“N-No,” You blurted before you took a breath. Relax, you told yourself, despite being aware of the environment that Mr. Cameron had already created, “I …I-”
He was patient but unyielding. You tried to imagine that you were just telling a story and not answering a pointed question. He was worth a billion dollars, not you. You had to answer his questions truthfully.
“I had a bad flare-up with my speech during my sophomore year. I …all throughout highschool it was very mild, but for some unknown reason, it got really sss-severe. My professors were … not accommodating. It felt immm-mmm-impossible.”
He stared at you for an uncomfortable amount of seconds. His piercing gaze had a way of making feeling like you were naked. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, “I see,” He tapped his finger against his desk, “It took me almost eight years to finish business school. By the end, my professor’s were only passing me because of who I was.”
Your lips parted in shock at his sudden candor.
An ugly truth for an ugly truth.
“Oh,” you whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m saying this because it doesn’t matter how many boxes check or how good of a person you are. It doesn’t matter to me what you think you deserve.”
“Okay,” You nodded, still unsure, “I don’t think think I deserve this job. But I want it.”
“How bad?” His lips pulled into a smirk.
You searched your mind for all the rehearsed interview answers that you’d practiced, “I think I’m a really g-good fit for the–”
“No, what would you do?” He interrupted you, not in the way that people usually did because you were taking too long to speak. He was just completely uninterested in the words you had to say, “Let’s say six months from now, you’re up for a promotion and Andy corners you in his office. It’s ten-thousand more a year. Would you fuck him?”
There was a version of you, the rationale un-scared version of you, that would’ve stood up and walked out of the room. But you froze in place as you searched his eyes for whether he was asking you a trick question.
Breathe in, let it out slowly, “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t understand.”
“If he hired you as a File Clerk, it would be a great way to get promoted,” Rafe said, “I looked at the other applicants, they’re all more qualified, but you’re more beautiful. It’s a pattern I’m starting to notice with him.”
You couldn’t comprehend why he’d brought you here just to tear you down—to belittle someone who would be working for his own company. Shaking your head, you stammered, “I-I made a mmm-mistake,” as you reached for your bag. But Rafe held up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.
“Don’t worry,” He stood up from his chair. You took a breath and swallowed, trying to keep your heart inside your chest. Hands in his pockets, he walked around the length of his desk until he was in front of you. Even as he leaned back on his desk, his presence seemed to cloud all of your senses, “Mr. Speer does want you to work for him in his department and you’re free to do so. However, I want to hire you as my personal assistant.”
“Uhm,” You blinked, caught off guard. “M-Me?”
“I’m between assistants right now and I think you’d be a perfect fit,” His watched your reaction carefully, his lips in a thin smile.
Rafe Cameron was a complete asshole.
“You want me to be your personal assistant?” You asked slowly, trying to prevent a stutter.
“I want you to be my personal assistant,” he echoed, looking amused, “I think you’re cute.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Because I’m a c-college dropout www-with a stutter?”
“Not just that,” he shrugged, his nonchalance making you want to scowl. You should’ve walked out already, but something kept you rooted to your seat. “I think it would be mutually beneficial. The pay starts at eighty-thousand.”
“A year?” You asked, feeling foolish immediately.
“That’s almost triple what you make at your barista job.”
You eyed him curiously and wondered how exactly he knew that, “Yeah …”
“So, do you want it or not, Ms. Y/L/N?” The words hung in the air, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say "no." What choice did you really have? Work for a boss who might eventually cross the line—or work for one who’s offering to triple your salary?
“I’d love to give you more time to think it over,” he continued, glancing at his watch, “but I have a meeting in five minutes and will be out of the country for the rest of the week. You’ll need to decide now.”
You bit down on your bottom lip and anxiously picked at the fabric of your pants until you said, “Ninety-thousand.”
“You’re negotiating when you have no experience?” He wasn’t angry, just surprised.
You nodded, although you were afraid you’d made a mistake. Now, you’d be escorted out by security. But you’d seen something in his eyes—something he wasn’t trying to deny. For reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, he wanted you.
“Eighty-five thousand,” he countered.
You paused, “Okay.”
“Okay?” You nodded again. “Great.”
He clapped his hands together, “W-When would I ssss-start?”
“A week from now. Monday morning at seven. I get in at seven-thirty, and I expect you to be waiting here. Eleanor will work on getting your new wardrobe delivered to you before then.”
“Wardrobe?” You echoed, bewildered.
“I would’ve given you a hundred if you kept pushing,” he said, waving you off as he retreated behind his desk. Your jaw dropped as he added, “That’ll be all.”
The doors to his office opened again, and the redhead waited patiently for you to gather your things and hurry over to her. You glanced behind you to see Rafe intently focused on his computer screen.
When you finally had enough distance from his office, you asked, “What happened to his last personal assistant?” You thought you might hyperventilate when you were finally alone with your thoughts.
“Mr. Cameron can be difficult to please,” She smiled down at you, but her eyes were solemn, “Let me take your measurements.”
“Oh, I c-could just t-t-t-tell you,” you stammered, trying to get the words out quickly.
“They’ll need to be exact,” You followed her behind the reception desk.
You looked at her closer—voluminous hair, a sharp jawline, winged eyeliner that executed perfectly. She was tall, slender, and beautiful, and you felt like you were nothing like her. Again, a child in a place meant for adults. He’d chosen someone like Eleanor, that made sense to you, but you couldn’t wrap your mind around what he saw in you.
Cute, he’d said. You always got cute. Never beautiful. Eleanor probably always got called beautiful.
You stood still as she took your precise measurements, including around your hips, thighs, and bust. It was another moment where you probably should have run. “About this wardrobe I’ll be receiving…” you began cautiously.
“You’ll only wear what he picks out for you,” She said.
Breathe. “That’s a little crazy, right?”
“Your job will ensure he has everything he needs—every hour of the day. You want to be nice to look at, don’t you?”
And you don’t look nice to look at right now.
“Will I have a desk?”
Eleanor gestured to the one across from her, the second of two black desks in a square-shaped pod, “That one is yours, technically.”
“Technically?”
“Did he mention he works from home on Fridays?”
“No-”
“You’ll report to his house at seven a.m. on Fridays rather than here.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Eleanor said with a knowing nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll type this all up in an email for you.”
Later, you sat in your apartment's living room, still in your pajamas. Your roommates, Imani and Angel, were at work for the next few hours, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You scrolled through your old laptop, reading the offer letter from Cameron Development three times: eighty-five thousand dollars plus excellent benefits. You hadn’t even been to the doctor in two years because of how expensive and terrible your insurance was.
You could afford your own apartment. You wouldn’t leave your roommates hanging, of course, but maybe you could in a few months. You could get your own cat like you’ve always wanted. That money would change your life.
Your clothes arrived with a delivery man who was already frustrated with you. He had to make three trips to bring in all the garment bags Rafe had sent. He grew even more frustrated when you begged him to return some of it. They filled your entire living room, and you’d be a horrible roommate to keep all of it. You’d have to throw out all of your clothes to make them fit in your room.
When the delivery man left, you started to zip the packages open and examine their contents. Your hands shook when you read the first price tag: a twelve-hundred-dollar Giorgio Armani dress. You began to notice a pattern as you looked at thirty different outfits. There were no black dresses or dark colors at all. Many of them were sad excuses for a woman’s professional work clothes.
You couldn’t deny that the outfits were sophisticated, but they all seemed to follow a particular theme. If one didn’t feature a mini-skirt, it showcased a sleeveless top. Many had a professional air, with neat rows of buttons running down the front or crafted from rich tweed material. Yet, they were also undeniably frilly and elegant, teetering on the edge of overly dainty. You couldn’t shake the feeling that if you wore one, you’d resemble a Barbie doll more than a personal assistant.
Breaking a sweat, you piled all of the garment bags in your room, leaving only a small amount of room for you to walk from your bedroom to the bathroom. That was going to be a problem. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if you returned some of them. How many outfits did you really need for work?
The man also brought in a trunk—an oversized, luxurious piece you couldn’t dream of fitting into your tiny shoebox of a room. Once you cleared enough space in the living room, you finally managed to open it. Inside, the left side was lined with rows of pristine heels, each pair more exquisite than the last. On the right, several items were wrapped in burlap sacks made from fine material. You carefully unwrapped one that bore the name GUCCI, revealing a small lilac handbag that looked both delicate and expensive.
God, you thought despite the fact you didn’t believe in him.
Your roommates were going to think you were some kind of sugar baby or escort. Even if you explained what happened, they might still believe that.
When you checked your laptop again, there was an email from Eleanor.
Dear Y/N Y/L/N,
Congratulations on your new position at Cameron Development! We are pleased to officially welcome you as Mr. Rafe Cameron's Personal Assistant.
Below are some key points regarding your new position:
Start Date: Monday, 7:00 AM
Work Location: Cameron Development Headquarters (Mon-Thurs) / Mr. Cameron’s residence (Friday)
Responsibilities:
You will be expected to manage Mr. Cameron’s daily calendar, remind him of upcoming appointments, and ensure he is well prepared for them.
You will coordinate all aspects of Mr. Cameron’s travel, including booking flights, accommodations, transportation, and hotels.
You will complete all of Mr. Cameron's personal errands.
You must maintain strict confidentiality regarding Mr. Cameron’s personal and professional life.
You will ensure all of Mr. Cameron’s personal needs are met.
Salary: $85,000
Benefits: Comprehensive health insurance, paid time off, and a company-provided phone and laptop.
Confidentiality: Due to the sensitive nature of your work, a strict non-disclosure agreement (NDA) will be required upon your first day.
A few tips for looking your best:
Wardrobe: Please adhere to the dress code. Your new wardrobe has been tailored to Mr. Cameron’s preferences. At work, you will not wear dark colors or pants. The items are non-returnable. Always opt for the heels provided. I suggest you practice at home if you’re uncomfortable wearing them.
Makeup: Your go-to should be a light foundation, a touch of blush, and a subtle lip color. Avoid anything too bold when it comes to eye makeup.
Hair: A braiding appointment has been arranged for you this upcoming Saturday, fully paid for. Mr. Cameron prefers a more extended length, but you’re free to choose the color as long as it’s natural.
Remember, the goal is to look effortlessly polished.
Best regards,
Eleanor Thornton
Executive Assistant to Mr. Cameron
Maybe Rafe Cameron was a sociopath.
Please reblog WITH your thoughts on the chapter to be added to the taglist for the story :)
AN: So, I finally I got to see Challengers yesterday and boy do I have thoughts that may or may not be weaved into the story, things still might be ooc or wrong. Also, I'm warning y'all now, I know absolutely nothing about tennis/college and partook in half ass research on how the sport functions.
Based this fic off the most gut wrenching ABBA song because it fits so well with the story. I hope you all enjoy this mini series, don't know if I did it justice from translating this from my head onto Tumblr, but we move. And hopefully there aren't any spelling or grammar errors, but if there are, we die like men.
I tried to tag everyone who commented, but tumblr is being weird so I don't know if you'll get the notification.
Part One: Sugar & Spice
With her arms folded across her chest, Gianna's eyes were glued to the TV screen in front of her as two male sports analysts began to discuss their pick for match of the day.
"Oh man, this right here was my favorite today!" one analyst stated excitedly.
"For sure! It was the match to watch as the tennis world bore witness to the next up-and-coming tennis star," the other commentator agreed.
The camera cut away from the men and to the highlights of the mixed doubles championship match.
"Out the gate Gianna Langdon, ranked number five in girls singles, set the the tone for the day with a powerful ace to start the match,"
A clip of the opening minute of the match is put on the screen with Gianna throwing the ball high in the air for the first, and perfectly executed serve, followed by her pumping her fist in triumph with a grin.
"From there, she and her partner, Max Sullivan, kept their opponents, Roy Christians and Marie Riviera on the back foot for what seemed like the entire match,"
Gianna studied the way she nimbly moved around on the grass court, her swift volleys, sharp serves, and effortless backhands left no room for doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with.
"Play of the match goes to none other than Gianna Langdon, with this volley to put the nail in the coffin of this championship," the analyst reported, as the final moments of the match popped up on the screen.
With a powerful strike, the tennis ball was slammed back over the net by Roy onto Gianna's side of the court. Roy's hit lifted the ball high into the air forcing Gianna to reposition herself and backpedal to the spot to return it. Leaping up, Gianna smashed the ball down with force, out of reach from both Marie and Roy, the game winning hit. The clip replayed, but only this time in slow motion, so viewers at home could properly admire the athleticism on display. ESPN then did a jump cut of Gianna and Max both dropping their rackets simultaneously before rushing towards each other to embrace. Max even lifted up her a bit, twirling them around as they celebrated their victory.
The camera panned back to the two commentators who were wrapping up their coverage of the tournament.
"Honestly, Gianna Langdon just dominates the tennis field for her age group whether it's single or doubles," the commentator complimented, gathering his papers up in his hands and tapping it against the desk.
Gianna's lips lifted at the praise, its rare she gets her flowers as a tennis player.
"She's a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about that. If she keeps playing like she is now, she can easily break into the top three, but she's no Tashi Duncan," the other commentator corrected.
At this, her smile instantly fell off her face. Since freshman year of high school, Gianna has forever lived under the inescapable shadow of the phenomenal, powerhouse that is Tashi Duncan. Because Tashi wasn't just some athlete, she was the athlete. The next Serena Williams, as some people taken to calling her. Gianna might as well been chopped liver.
The girls have been thick as thieves since Gianna moved to the same school as Tashi and was paired up by their coach to be doubles partners. The duo were unstoppable on the court, as Gianna was a tennis prodigy in her own right, but often was relegated to just being known as Tashi Duncan's partner. A repeated slight which didn't go unnoticed by her two strongest supporters, her parents. They made it their mission to drill Gianna with an unshakable sense of self confidence in not only her skills with a tennis racket, but also her appearance.
"Don't you ever let the media or naysayers play in your face about your talents, Gianna," her father's words echoing in her head. "You already know, you have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition compared to others," he went on.
Gianna recalled the exact day, he gave her this speech. She was probably fifteen and won a match against some Eastern European girl, it was an upset, and boy did everyone make it a point to tell her so. It ranged from backhanded compliments to outright slurs lobbed at her.
"Oh, so when Tashi pulverizes her opponent on the court who's ranked higher than her it's admirable, but when I do it's a problem!" she complained.
"Competing against Tashi, you need to be prepared that narratives are going to be formed and pushed from factors beyond your control," her father warned. "She's lighter, you're darker. She's thin, you have curves. You're both confident, but only one of you is going to be labeled as arrogant," he listed.
"It's a shame we didn't get to see Duncan and Langdon compete together in girls doubles this year," the analyst said, snapping Gianna out her thoughts.
"Agreed, the best girl duo in juniors we've seen in years,"
Images of Gianna and Tashi materialized on the screen, some were from the last two Junior US Open Championships; both of the, proudly beaming and holding their trophies high above their heads and kissing each other's cheek. But, the one picture that stood out the most to Gianna was their cover on Tennis. Both of them had their arms folded and their game faces on with the headline emblazoned below them.
“Sugar & Spice”
~~~x~~~
Rounding the corner of the hallway, the doors where Tashi's party was being held outside came into Gianna's view. Music and the low murmur of voices floated out of the room, bouncing off the walls as she drew closer. From the corner of Gianna's eyes, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror promoting her to stop. A pair of eyes, identical to color of rich, molasses stared back at her. Carefully, Gianna studied herself in the mirror from every angle. The healthy glow of her golden, deep brown skin made the light dusting of freckles decorating her upper cheeks and nose more prominent.
"She's no Tashi Duncan,"
It only took those four, little words to dampen Gianna's cheery demeanor and leave her brooding since the afternoon.
Lips pursed, she shook her head slightly, "No, no, no," she whispered to herself. "You're still a champion, Gianna. Fuck that ESPN analyst," she said lowly, smoothing out the pale yellow halter dress she wore.
Letting a lopsided grin grow on her lips, Gianna moved away from the mirror and entered into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. She weaved her way through the crowd to find Tashi, but found herself stopping repeatedly to smile and shake hands as people crowded round her to congratulate her on her match. Gianna couldn't help but feel smug. For once, people were basking in her presence and enjoying the chance to meet a future tennis star in person. It boosted Gianna's ego—a pure, bone-deep satisfaction that something in the air was beginning to shift.
She was starting to be seen as a standout player, not just an extension to Tashi.
Thanking her last well wisher, Gianna's eyes met Tashi's who was a few feet from where she stood. A flicker of recognition flittered across her face and she smiled a tiny smile. Tashi was not alone though, two boys were standing in front her and seemed to be having a very lively conversation.
"What's this I see?" Gianna wondered aloud, brushing past one of the boys. "I'm gone for a minute and you're already making new friends without me," she joked, dropping into the empty chair next to Tashi.
Across from her, both boys were slack jawed and unable to tear their eyes away Gianna. Pride simmered in her chest, Gianna already knew that she was beautiful, but it was nice to be reminded of that fact every now and then. Especially, when there's two boys ogling at her looks and treating her like a divine being.
"You boys gonna stop staring and introduce yourselves, or what?" Gianna questioned, her words flavored with a lulling Louisiana drawl and the boys snapped from their stupor.
"Let me, these two seem to be malfunctioning," Tashi cut in, with a smirk.
"They keep on drooling any longer, they'll catch flies," Gianna quipped, her nude colored lips curling upwards.
Tashi motioned to the dark haired boy with sharp features, "This is Patrick Zweig," she introduced, as Gianna's eyes met Patrick's gray ones, holding her stare and grinning widely. Confidence that bordered on cockiness practically radiated off him. "And this is Art Donaldson," Tashi continued, gesturing to the boy next to Patrick.
Art only allowed himself a small, shy, smile when her eyes shifted over to him. Unabashedly, Gianna let her eyes roam over Art's features. Those blond curls, those blue eyes.
God, they're both gorgeous.
Tashi placed her hand on Gianna's knee, "Patrick and Art, this is my best friend—" she started.
"Gianna Langdon," Patrick and Art interjected simultaneously, causing a Cheshire grin to form on Gianna's lips.
"Well, well, my fan club only continues to grow this tournament," Gianna joked, playing with the curly ends of her pick and drop braids.
"Deservedly so, you were absolutely amazing this tournament," Art complimented, a breathy chuckle leaving him.
"That play when you landed a split after playing a return," Patrick mentioned, beaming at her. "And you still got the point, fucking incredible!" he praised, shaking his head.
She smiled, "Oh, so you two have been avidly watching my matches then?" Gianna questioned, playfulness in her voice while slightly leaning forward in her seat.
"Ashamedly, not initially," Art admitted, and Gianna quirked brow. "But after your storybook comeback in Round 4, we knew there was no way we couldn’t stop watching you," he added quickly.
"Singles or doubles," Patrick chimed in.
"Did you by chance watch any of our matches, Gianna?" Art asked timidly, staring at her with hopeful eyes.
She smirked, "Singles or doubles?" Gianna asked back, smoothly echoing Patrick's words.
"Either," Patrick responded, his eyes drinking her in.
They both seemed mesmerized. Leaning in closer, as if they were going to learn her with their close proximity. Gianna hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair and raising a finger to her chin to mull over the question. She glanced over to Tashi, who was already watching her with an amused expression. Embarrassingly, Gianna kind of forgot her best friend was literally sitting next to her, she had become too engrossed in her conversation with the newcomers.
"No, can't say that I have," Gianna answered finally, with a shrug.
Art deflated, his face falling as the tips of his ears went fiery red, while Patrick's shoulders sagged a little.
"O-Oh," Art breathed.
There was a silence. Gianna looked off to her side again to see a ghost of a grin threatening to appear on Tashi's face. When the two girls' eyes connected with each other, they burst out laughing at the same time. Both boys looked at each other wordlessly, both speechless by this.
"Gia's just fucking with you two," Tashi explained, in between laughter.
Relief couldn't have been written across their faces more clearly.
"Yeah, I actually watched your championship match while I was in the recovery room," Gianna informed, her giggles subsiding. "Your between the legs shot was very inspired, Patrick," she remarked, with a smile.
At this, Patrick puffed out his chest a bit.
"You know, they're playing against each other tomorrow in the boys singles championship match," Tashi mentioned, her eyes bouncing between the boys.
"Are they now?" Gianna responded, an intrigued smirk gracing her face while crossing one leg over the other.
"We are!" Art blurted out, almost too eagerly.
"You both should come and watch," Patrick suggested.
Gianna cocked her head to the side, "Hmm, maybe," she answered, having a little fun toying with them.
Tashi rose from her chair, reaching her hand out for Gianna's.
"Come on, my dad is waving me over to come take pictures," Tashi informed.
"This is a group activity?" Gianna questioned, her brows furrowing.
"No, but the demand for Gianna Langdon is ever growing," she reminded, her eyes filled with mirth.
"It sure is," Gianna agreed, taking her hand as her friend helped her to her feet. Gianna looked over to Patrick and Art. "Well, ciao. It was nice meeting y'all," Gianna said, waving goodbye as Tashi led her away.
"Goodbye?" Patrick jokingly scoffed. "We'll be here all night!" he called out after her.
~~~x~~~
True to their word, Patrick and Art were in the same spot where Gianna and Tashi had left them earlier and they were more than willing to continue hanging out with the girls. Which is how the group of four found themselves on the beach, slowly treading along the sand, the dark blue sky and millions of stars above them. Naturally, Tashi had found herself in the middle of the group with Patrick flanking on her left and Art on her right.
Gianna was next to Art and as they walked, their arms would accidentally brush against each other every now and then. Both of them exchanging shy smiles at the fleeting contact that sent butterflies fluttering in Gianna's stomach. She secretly relished the contact from Art, he radiated warmth similar to that of a dryer-warm blanket; a nice contrast to the cool sand between her toes.
"You know earlier, Tashi asked us who was fire and who was ice," Patrick spoke, looking over to Gianna. "I figured I should return the favor, between the two of you, who's sugar and who's spice?" he asked, his eyes bouncing from Tashi to her.
"Tashi, is definitely 'spice'," Gianna answered, and Tashi rolled her eyes with a smile. "She's more fiery than me and has a more aggressive play style than I do," she explained.
"Making you 'sugar', of course," Art reasoned, the two staring at one another. "You are the perfect mix of deadly grace and effortless balance on the court," he described, going in an almost dreamlike trance.
"Why, thank you Art," Gianna said, bumping her arm into his.
"If Tashi is 'spice' and your 'sugar', why does the media switch it around?" Patrick wondered.
"Preconceived notions, methinks," Gianna replied, simply shrugging her shoulders.
They wandered along until they settled on a spot to hang out at. Art and Patrick both sat in deck chairs while Tashi and Gianna perched themselves on a large rock. Conversation flowed between all them on a myriad of topics ranging from college, life in general, and of course tennis.
"So Gianna," Patrick began, a small curious and mischievous glint in his eyes. "Your doubles partner Bryce—"
"It's Max," Gianna corrected flatly, with a laugh.
He smirked, "I was in the ballpark," Patrick argued, throwing his hands up. "Anyways, you and Max, you two a thing?" he asked curiously, before taking a drag of his cigarette.
"Eww, no!" Tashi exclaimed, her nose twisting in disgust. "You think Gia has such low standards?" she asked back, clearly offended on Gianna's behalf.
"Tashi, come on, Max is not that bad of a person," Gianna stated, lifting her hand up to tell her to calm down.
"Honestly, I don't know how she does it," Tashi went on. "It's a miracle she can still walk after carrying Max through this entire tournament," she sneered.
"Look, Max is not someone who I would consider as an ideal mixed doubles partner," Gianna conceded, her gaze meeting everyone's. "He's mediocre actually," she said bluntly, making Patrick and Art both snicker. "However, Max as an individual and not as an athlete, he's a wonderful guy," she said, with a slight shrug. "Us dating has never once crossed my mind," she finished, waving her hand dismissively.
"So it sounds like you'll be in need of a new partner soon," Patrick hinted, a hunger in his stare.
"Hmm, I guess I will," Gianna agreed, letting a coy smile grow on her lips. "You know anybody?" she asked, tilting her head a little.
"I can think of two people off the top of my head," Art responded, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing it out slowly.
"Oh, is that so? And who just—" Gianna started.
Suddenly, Gianna's phone began noisily vibrating in her lap, putting an end to the playful between the boys and Gianna. She picked up her phone and flipped it open before exhaling heavily, it was her dad texting her.
"Shit, fun's over guys," Gianna announced, with another sigh. "My dad wants me back in my room," she explained, unfolding her legs.
"Your won a championship today, and you're father won't let you stay up late to celebrate?" Patrick asked in disbelief, leaning forward in his chair.
"Obviously, you don't know my father if you think a single championship win is going to get him to loosen his reins on his regimented schedule for me," Gianna stated, grabbing her sandals and letting them dangle from her fingers.
"You're about to be off to Stanford, it's insane your dad is giving you a curfew," Art chimed in.
"Well, I'm not at Stanford yet," Gianna pointed out. "And also..." she trailed off, turning to Tashi who had a knowing look on her face. "His roof, his rules," they both said in unison, after hearing those words countlessly over the years.
Finally standing up from the rock, the boys followed suit. Both of their gazes traveled the length of Gianna yet again, as if they needed to commit her to memory.
"I can walk you back to the ferry and to your hotel," Art offered kindly.
"We both could," Patrick volunteered.
"As much as I am flattered that both of you want to walk me back, I can manage just fine," Gianna assured. "Plus, we're all going to be playing an unwanted game of 21 questions if my dad sees two, random white boys walking me to my room," she remarked, with a chuckle.
Tashi pushed herself up onto her feet, "I'll come with you, Gia,"
"No, no stay, Tashi," Gianna encouraged. "Don't end the fun on my account," she insisted. "Another time will come about for all of us to hang out again, right?" she questioned.
A toothy grin broke out on Patrick's face, "There's gonna be another time?" he asked
"I don't see why not," she answered, mirroring his expression. "The three of us are going to be at Stanford together, and I'm sure you come visit from time to time. It all works out so well!" Gianna said excitedly.
Art opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill ringing of Gianna's phone silenced him. Looking down at the phone, she grimaced slightly.
"Shit, I really have to go, my dad is calling now," Gianna stressed.
"Then get going," Tashi prompted, playfully swatting her bottom.
A surprised whoop escaped Gianna's lips before morphing into a giggle as she began to half-walk, half-jog away from the group. She spun around to face them, continuing to walk backwards.
"This was really fun y'all, we should do this again, yeah?" she yelled.
"I look forward to it!" Art yelled back.
"Me too!" Patrick shouted.
Laughing, Gianna spun around and jogged away, all too aware of the three pair of eyes boring into her back.
~~~x~~~
Propped up against the hotel bed headboard, Gianna was tucked underneath the blankets with a well-worn copy of Baking with Julia in her hands. If tennis was her first love, then baking was her second. There was nothing more relaxing than to Gianna than being able to slow down and just allowing herself to focus on precision, without any of the heightened stakes that came with tennis. Not to mention, beating eggs or whisking a cake were great ways to rid herself of any frustration she may be feeling.
A series of rhythmic knocks on her door pulled Gianna from her musings. She didn't even have to ask who it was, she could tell by the pattern of the familiar knock.
"Just use the card I gave you, Tashi," Gianna called, her voice just loud enough for her to hear.
There's a quiet click of the door unlocking before the door opened a crack and Tashi's head popped into her room, a shit eating grin on her face.
"Hurry up and get in here, before my dad sees!" Gianna ordered, with a laugh.
Closing the door behind her, Tashi pranced over to Gianna and sat beside her on the floor on the edge of her bed.
"Tell me everything! What happened after I left?" Gianna asked, a smile of her own on her face.
"They invited me to come up to their room,"
"And you went?"
"I did," Tashi answered, a smirk on her lips.
Gianna landed a playful hit on Tashi's arm, "No fucking way!" she whispered, her eyes wide. "You hooked up with both of them?"
"I didn't sleep with them," Tashi corrected. "We only made out, and then they made out," she added, smirking proudly.
Gianna raised an eyebrow, "They made out? Patrick and Art?" she questioned.
"Yep," Tashi grinned.
"On their own or did they have some help?" Gianna asked, arching a brow.
Wordlessly, Tashi plucked Gianna's book from her hands and she straddled her, resting each leg on either side of Gianna.
"They did most of the heavy lifting, I just gave them the push they needed," Tashi explained, looping her arms around her friend's neck.
"Now, I'm a little jealous. I missed out on all the fun," Gianna complained, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout.
"Gia babe, don't worry, I did not forget about you," Tashi reassured, as Gianna hands came to rest on Tashi's thighs. "Remember their match tomorrow?" she reminded.
"Yeah,"
"Winner gets my number…." Tashi trailed off, removing her right arm from around Gianna's neck. "And yours," she finished, lightly tapping the tip of her nose.
A slow smile spread across Gianna's lips as Tashi's words sunk in. She knew exactly what her friend was up to, especially if it meant Tashi could watch some "real fuckin' tennis".
"Tashi Duncan, the girl that you are," Gianna praised, letting out a chuckle.
Leaning forward, Gianna planted a soft kiss on Tashi's lips. It was only meant to be a quick peck, but as Gianna went to pull away, Tashi held her face, keeping their lips connected.
Tashi withdrew herself from Gianna, "Tomorrow is gonna be so fucking good," she grinned, her eyes twinkling at the thought. "And guess what is the best part about all of this, Gia?" she questioned, their forehead resting against each others.
"What?'
"We already have them wrapped our fingers, without even trying," Tashi answered, sending the girls into a fit of giggles.
✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩
MASTERLIST
pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader
summary: perhaps you’d bitten off a little more than you could chew when you agreed to let Snow pretend to court you. (title from attention by doja cat)
warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder/violence mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, lots of switching between dom/sub dynamics, oral sex, thigh riding, face sitting, degradation, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial, eventual piv (pls tell me if i forgot anything!)
i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.
taglist: if you’d like to be tagged, pls comment on this masterlist (helps me keep track of everyone!! i can’t always answer everybody who asks, but know i’ve added you and ily!) 💌
Lukas Matsson x Fem!Reader | Kendall Roy x Fem!reader
Summary: Kendall had always been a competent, steady boyfriend, but there is always, always room for improvement.
Warnings: Language, Politics, Business, Cheating, Mentions of murder, Smut (+18) Minors DNI, CNC, Rough Sex, choking, degradation, ownership kink, dom/sub dynamics. Roman as his own warning.
I am mentally unwell, and so is Matsson.
Due to your perilous schedule as a political and public figure, arguing with your lover had never really made it past scheduling in the smorgasbord of your career. Perhaps that is why Kendall decided to pick unnecessary fights in the middle of a Swedish trip. He felt, and rightfully so, infinitesimally insignificant when compared to the hellscape that is your established career in the American political sphere.
You can see it in the way his broad shoulders hunch slightly, the way his larger lower lip protrudes into a petulant pout.
You're appalled.
"Kendall, you can't be fucking serious," Your first night on Matsson's retreat was scheduled to be filled with myriad orgasms in myriad uncanny positions. You and Kendall should be christening this luxury suite, but, instead you find your voice has climbed to ungodly octaves to a point that you feared you may shatter the glass wall that displayed the quiet Norwegian woods.
You couldn't give even half a shit as to whether others housed in adjoining tree-house suites might hear your furious bickering.
"You're a fucking child," he says lowly, desperately trying to regain control over the situation but only fumbling it by the second, "Do you know that?"
"No!" You exclaim, "Iverson and Sophie are!" He turns his back to you. Your nails dig into the bedsheets, "Those are your actual children, yeah!? When was the last fucking time you called them!? You're too busy measuring your dick against the Swedes- you're too busy to give Rava a fucking call."
"I have met plenty of selfish sociopaths in my day, Kendall, but this is unfathomable." His shadow falls over you like a second cloud in the already darkened suite's interior.
"Did she put you up to this?" He asks in that manic state of his with his hand pointed outward in condemnation of his most recent enemy.
"Are you aware that you have children together? You will know her for the rest of your life, are you aware of that?"
Kendall is quick to deflect, "Fuck! I can't catch a fucking break. Of course you run to my ex and- and- what? You fucking-meet up at Tasha's. Fucking talking about Kendall's cock-rings over your croissants."
You withhold the urge to laugh by letting a wave of fury wash over you anew. "You didn't even tell them their grandfather died before you dragged us out to fucking Norway, Kendall! That's unhinged! You're unhinged!"
"I'm perfectly hinged!" He says, turning away from you, pyjama pants billowing as he grabs his keys and a pack of cigarettes, "I'm like the doors on fucking Downing street, motherfucker," He speaks lowly. Voice simmering. "I'm fucking hinged."
The door slams with finality, leaving you clinging to your robe in front of a backdrop full of trees.
There's a deeply sated sigh that leaves your throat as you haul yourself over the Egyptian linen sheets. Fighting with Kendall had always been an impossible feat- something akin to yelling obscenities at a brick wall smeared with cocaine, but it always left you marginally satisfied after. A part of you felt like you might be saving him.
There is a frown, slight and not at all visible in the low evening light, drifting across your face as you stare down at yourself with disappointment and a hint of disapproval. Kendall was supposed to rip this robe right off you the second you got out of the shower. But, instead, you find yourself turning on your side, staring at the pines beyond the glass.
The sound of the door clicking open, ruins the serenity that had begun to settle.
"I for sure thought you'd gone and blown your head off for real this time, Ken." You mumble monotonously while staring ahead at the glass.
"While all these hungry vultures at my retreat does make me lean into the sound of suicide, I quite enjoy living."
You're quick to pull your unravelled rope across your frame as you sit up against the oak headboard.
"Not Kendall." He says.
Matsson towers enough to hunch slightly and disrupt the flow of the sleek, vertical finishes.
"Why are you here?"
"Well it is my retreat."
He smiles. Or at least you believe that he believes he is smiling. Sharks can't smile, you don't think.
"My house."
Lukas shoves his hands in pockets as he continues to stare at you. His disciplined eyes never stray or drift across your exposed legs, they never gloss over your deadly grip on the tightened robe digging into the plushness across your middle.
He's staring at you. Eyes boring into eyes.
"I've come to deliver a noise complaint."
"Consider it delivered."
He does not leave. Instead, he delves deeper into your space, the space shared with your boyfriend. You watch carefully as Matsson plants himself on the edge of the bed. There is an air of nervousness that bristles throughout the Norwegian woods as he brings one leg up to cross the other. You watch, entranced by how the soft Tom Ford sweatpants crease slightly under his fluid movements. His beige Balenciaga shirt sits comfortably and it elicits a sense of control as he makes himself comfortable in front of you.
The one thing you could never allow yourself to be was intimidated, and intimidation is all you heard from the mouths that affirmed this man. However, the subtle yet suffocating label whoring, the designer sandals…
He was just another man, suffocated by the weight of his own money. He had everything to prove. That gave you control.
"I didn't know when Kendall brought me on this trip that I was to be subjected to an invasion of privacy,"
"I heard you the first time," He says, chuckling in complete condescension, "I am aware you're here with Kendall. You don't have to bring him up the whole fucking time."
"Are you here under work pretences then? I'm not involved in the hellscape that is ATN, nor the Nazi wonderland that is Waystar so I would make a lousy spy."
"I know who you are," his eyes dart away, giving you enough time to break slightly, take heavier breaths and compose yourself, "I've seen the work you are… attempting to accomplish in that flaccid dick of a country," His gaze is back on you, "And while I do applaud you, politics bores me. You're all fucked anyway, I just came here to enquire if you would like to have sex with me?"
The manner in which he says those words, so calmly and succinctly, has you praying for another moment of regeneration while he darts his eyes away.
"You mean the noise complaint was a fluke?"
"In addition to the noise complaint, I would like to sleep with you, yes."
You're practically suffocted with the over abundance of choice. Matsson would be a fun and interesting side project for you to sink your claws into and manipulate with the added advantage of sex.
But there is a darkness lurking behind this man's gaze that promises far too much risk with little to no reward.
"No, I think I'm good. Thanks for stopping by, Lukas. It was certainly not a pleasure talking to you-"
You speak calmly, shuffling off the bed so you can escort him to the door. "Please find yourself outside of my personal and habitual space kindly and quickly-" but the axis tilts, and he does a daring thing by encircling a strong grip on your forearm. You try to lurch your arm out of his iron grip but it's fucking sealed around you like a constricting python. The darkness seems so incredibly poignant. God, all this man holds is darkness.
"I did not ask for myself." He says with a hint of condescension, "I asked for you." Matsson has you locked between his spindly legs while your robe billows open. Your face warms as you feel coolness settle against your exposed stomach but Lukas' eyes never leave your own.
From this angle, there is no chance to look away. Everything is maximised, from the wrinkles running like river channels underneath his bright blue eyes to the slight overbite in his teeth, perhaps his only external flaw.
What a dangerous individual.
"They're Roys." Lukas says, "He's a Roy," You suddenly feel juvenile and bashful, as you take the scolding, "You should know better,"
You're only vaguely aware that the distance between you two has been lessening because the air feels warmer. His breath is mixing with yours and his hand is doing a funny little dance along your forearm. "You should know better," He says.
And perhaps you should have closed the distance, perhaps you should have chased him away. You certainly should not have waited for a pair of irregular footsteps approaching to finally push the lumbering man away from you. Thankfully, he kindly obliged although Matsson's hand stalled, still rubbing against your elbow when Kendall stumbles in.
"Uh, what the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck is he doing here?" Kendall's eyes are tired and bloodshot and you step away from Lukas' gravitational pull as you curl into Kendall's side. Kendall's suede Versace jacket is cool but his skin is warm as you burrow into the side of his neck. Your guilt worsens as you feel Kendall's arm curl around your waist.
You speak into Kendall's ear, loud enough for Lukas to hear, "Matsson is still trying to rape your company, I'm afraid. " You say with a lazy smile.
"Already raped," Says Lukas, shuffling passed the two of you, "Logan was the decision maker, remember?"
Before the man finds himself over the threshold, Kendall speaks up.
"Hey, no more private visits, yeah? Not cool."
You watch with bated breath as Matsson only cracks a toothy lopsided grin before tapping the wood of the doorframe and disappearing.
That evening had ended, like most of the evenings to come, with angry, jealousy-fueled sex. There had always been a distinct animosity between Kendall and Matsson but whatever had been in the air seemed to triple. Kendall kept you close during the entire experience. He kept you under Kremlin-level surveillance but he couldn't be with you all the time. In the moments you found yourself without Kendall, Matsson would appear from out of the shadows like a demon, slinking behind you with a hand ghosting your hip. He watched you from above the rim of whiskey-filled tumblers and even asked for your input whenever conversation within the group got a little political. One such conversation had the unfortunate interjection of one Roman Roy, who saw you as another toy in his toy box.
"What do you need two assistants for anyway?" The grinding of your teeth come to a deafening halt as you turn your head to face the youngest Roy. The smile on your face is amicable, some might even call it polite, but it is a well enough facade veneering the tempest brewing beneath.
"What- does Jess hold your balls while you tell knock-off Maya Angelou here" He points to you, "-to bend her head and suck?"
There were a number of things you simply allowed when it came to your courtship with Kendall Roy. You would even shame yourself into admitting that you might have found Kendall's overall emotional incompetence and dysfunctional family quite endearing in the beginning. But, like every magnificent, spine curling orgasm, the magic ebbed away quickly and soon, you were left with nothing but the wetness of his cum, cooling between your thighs.
That is what Kendall and his siblings were like most times.
Cooling, diabolical cum.
"Rome, come on." And therein lay Kendall's consistent, valeant response, of which he chose to defend you.
Rome. Come on.
Simply hearing those words leave his brother's mouth with even the faintest hint of disapproval sent Roman into a frenzy (you could see his pupils dilating and his cock hardening from your spot on a couch adjacent to Roman and Shiv). Matsson's entire foyer was set alight with amicable, drunken murmurs, of which Greg's nervous whimpers were occasionally heard peppered in.
Tom had retired to bed, (whether that would be in the same suite as Shiv, would be a satisfactory cup of tea you would divulge with your girlfriends later.) Matsson and his followers sat in their own private harem in a corner beside you.
"What?" Roman cries, slamming back a handful of ground nuts (an admittedly clever substitute for Swedish alcohol) "I was just asking a question. I know your people like to claim reparations for a lot of shit these days but I'm sure enquiring about the girl my big brother's fucking doesn't equate to slavery."
Although you hated the little demon with every bright blue blood cell running through your arteries, you did admire the sure-fire way he would spit his hateful vitriol.
"I appreciate the faux-concern, Roman." You keep it curt, cute and even forgiving, hoping he might take the win and leave you to down the last of your Hennessey in peace.
"That's your cue," Kendall announces, "Drop it."
"Look at how wet she's getting from my rich white brother finally using his voice to defend her for once." The conversation between the Swedes had long since ceased and your throat clogs as the music tins through hidden speakers. "Kenny so clearly has a type," Says Roman, now facing his brother with his elbows steepled on his knee. "I bet you couldn't wait to dive into that plethora of liberal pussy, could you, big brother?"
Your patience had long since snapped and your words are flying before you could stop them, "Considering you couldn't even get pussy without catching a rape charge or an incredibly disappointed prostitute, I'll assume this pseudo-incest interest you have in Kendall's sex life is normal,"
Roman only laughs, "No amount of sick burns is going to release you from the fact that your fucking a crackhead. Maybe it's the money," he taps the bottom of chin in a flamboyant display of consideration, "Although if it's raping our company that's your main goal, the Swedes might have you beat." Matsson straightens in your periphery, not by a lot but by enough to have a stoney smile cracking across your face.
"ATN is not my vice. Racist Propaganda doesn't get me as wet as it gets you, Roman."
"How convenient. I thought all Leftys held special orgys dedicated to besmirching racist propoganda."
Your response was already loaded in the back of your throat, aimed and ready to fire at Roman with reckless abandon. If it weren't for Lukas' interjection, you would have hoped to leave the little man bleeding all over Matsson's marble floors.
"You let him talk to your woman like that?" The rest of the party had left this specific ring of people behind, but that seemed okay. Everyone within the circle, the important people, were silent as Matsson turned his attention to a floundering Kendall.
"Maybe worry about your situation over there and I'll worry about mine."
"I'm not worried." Says Lukas, with a fierce stoicism that was so unique to him. Your heart rate speeds up ever so slightly as the couch groans while Lukas begins to rise. His friends each hold knowing smiles. Hungry smiles.
"Would you like to know why I'm not worried?" Asks Lukas, advancing with a slow gait. You turn your head just in time to watch Kendall's Adam's apple against his throat. He was speechless as per usual when the discussion didn't involve drugs or stock prices.
"Ask." Says Lukas as he advances. "Ask me why I'm not worried."
Upon you first meeting, you had found Lukas' height to be quite rude and unbecoming. You expected him to duck down, almost out of courtesy for the rest of the world laying low underneath him. As his shadow falls over you and Kendall, you find yourself grateful for this giant man making your boyfriend feel small for once- almost as small as you were made to feel around the Roys.
"Why aren't you worried?" Kendall's voice is still masked with confidence as he peers up at Matsson.
Matsson, who's teeth glint in the low evening light, like a hungry shark. He bends down low. You move slightly out of the way as he whispers into Kendall's ear.
"Because I'm gonna fuck her, okay?"
Absolute silence grows pregnant between the two and you're left to do nothing but watch as the exchange unfolds and Kendall's perceived control over everything and everyone unravels. His mouth opens and closes slightly while Matsson watches with a sadistic sort of pleasure in his eye…
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
"Nothing," Says Lukas, having returned to his full height. "I didn't say anything. I just asked your-" His blue eyes darts to you and back, "-friend, if she'd like to see my bookshelf in the living room. I saw her reading Bronte earlier," Matsson shrugs, "Thought I might extend the invitation."
Lukas is not one to wait for confirmation, nor is he a man that waits for validation. He shuffles out his foyer, quite comfortably leaving present company behind with his hands stuffed in his pockets. No rebuttal from Kendall needed.
"Where the hell do you think you're going? What are you doing?" You lift yourself from the couch, ironing out the invisible creases on your plaid Chanel skirt as your eyes dart to Roman, now in idle conversation with Siobhan.
"They're just books, Kendall." You sigh softly. "You can't honestly believe I'd be any safer here." You deliver one final gaze at his lesser appealing siblings before following Matsson out of the foyer. The amount of people congesting the dark corridors lessen as you venture further into Matsson's abode. The walls are built with a dark, heavily sanded stone. Something casting a very ominous, yet unmistakably earthy glow throughout the corridor as the mouth spills into a large and defining living room. The colours are dark. The coal walls are all encompassing and Matsson stands beside a low leather couch, waiting rather awkwardly for your arrival.
"There is no library or bookshelf." He says with his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his sweats.
"I figured. You strike me as someone that would keep all their books stored on some gadget."
"Technology and leisure are the two civilizers of man," He says, watching you with bated breath as you slink around his living room, eyeing but never once prodding his things.
"Don't misquote Disraeli, it's not very attractive."
Matsson seems to relax at that, opting to take a step closer to you as he speaks, "I'll misquote Disraeli as much as I want. The 'increased means and increased leisure' part seems a little far-fetched." Your heart begins to hammer in your chance at the advancing man and you turn, whether out of cowardice or bashfulness, choosing rather to examine the sculpture along his mantle.
Your back begins to straightens as warmth radiates from him. He does not move but he cages you in. You would not be able to leave his sphere even if you wanted to.
"We don't have to fuck, obviously. It just didn't seem safe for you to stay in that situation."
You turn slowly and you find yourself slightly jarred by Matsson's proximity. His turtleneck hugs a string and definite build and the hunger in his eyes melts all inhibitions.
"I don't need saving."
"I'm talking about the little angry man." He says, referring to Roman. "I've seen your debates. It's the little nugget of American politics I find myself quite entertained by and I have no desire to wipe a Roy's blood off my floors this evening."
His words end up snapping any and all inhibition as you're throwing yourself quite mercilessly at him. The kiss is silent but so inexplicably charged allowing you to bump into various pieces of furniture in the process of pushing you up against the nearest stone wall. A wall that is cold to the touch, eliciting a surprised gasp which fuels Lukas all the more. He displays wet slobbering kisses down the nape of your neck as he murmurs drunkenly in your ear.
"I like seeing you like this. I like seeing you among my things." The conviction present in his gravelly vibrato has a pool of wetness gathering in between your legs. Your arm circles around his broad back until your pulling, rather roughly at the blonde hair curling at the nape of neck. This had consequently been a morbid mistake because his grip travels to your throat lightning fast, compressing a dangerous weight on your oesophagus as he rips his lips away from your throat.
"You don't get to do that," he says far too casually. "You don't get to assume control when you are here in my house with my things."
Matsson keeps his eye trained on you but your focus in compounded, solely, on his wandering hand tracing the hem of your skirt. "Hey, hey, hey." As you strive to keep watch of his wandering hand, Matsson moves his head into your line of vision.
"My things. Yeah? You're apart of that now."
As his hand inches underneath your skirt you're suddenly flooded with a wave of unfamiliar emotions - fear being the most poignant and defining one.
"I don't want to do this anymore-" You're not sure whether you mean it or not but you're quite certain that Matsson doesn't care. You're suddenly truly aware that you had released something you don't really know how to control.
"Bullshit, you don't want to do this anymore." You finally feel his hand sliding into your panties and your legs wavers underneath you, "Your words say stupid shit," Sings Lukas as his fingers ghost over your swollen clothes, "But your cunt just can't seem to lie." His grip on your throat tightens before relaxing as he brings your head up to his lips. "You're fucking soaked."
"I'll fucking sue you," Although you're unable to assume a single confident tone as his fingers begin to play with your cunt, "I'll fucking take you to court for fucking assault, motherfucker."
"You wanna call Kendall for assistance?" He asks, slyly pushing his middle finger deep inside you with no regard for your strangled gasp. "Here, let's call him together. Say 'Kendall!'"
The only thing able to leave your mouth is a straggled moan as Matsson keeps you pinned to the wall by the throat. The sound of your voice - so incoherent and helpless has him evading any sliver of decency he might have had. "Fuck, you're so perfect." He places a chaste kiss on your cheek before spinning you around until he is sandwiched between your body and the wall. "I have to fuck you."
"Watch the door for me," he says, pulling your hips right up against the bulge in his pants. "Watch just in case Kendall, shows up. Right, sweet girl?"
You're nodding dumbly as Lukas hunches his tall frame while grinding his bulge into your backside. He has your skirt lifted, and his shadow casted over you as he murmurs diabolical things into your ear.
"God, you're a fucking slut, you're such a fucking slut." He keeps a grip on your throat while the unoccupied hand reaches around to lift your shirt haphazardly, "No amount of smart ass comments will ever hide the fact that you're just another whore." The casual air with which he degrades has you simultaneously humping the air while you push back against his bulge. It is in that moment when he finally decides to release his aching cock from his sweatpants dotted with precum.
"Jesus Christ, feel how hard you made me. Feel how fucking turned on I am just because you decided to be a stupid slut." You can feel the head of his cock pressing into you until you're unable to hold in the desperation.
"Jesus- Lukas!"
"What? You want me to fuck you? I think you want me to fuck you but I'm not sure." You're unsure of what he's asking, too blinded by the possibility of a carefully curated orgasm.
"Go on." He says, "Ask me to fuck you. Ask me to fuck your pussy while your boyfriend waits just downstairs."
There are tears pooling in your eyes at the sheer lewdness and the unapologetic quality of this betrayal, but your mouth opens and soon, you're shakily crying out. "Please just fuck me, Lukas."
His cock rams into you with a surety that leaves you winded. He seems as if his patience had been waning as well, what with the haggard sigh that leaves his throat and the numerous disquiet groans that float in the air. Despite yourself, you do keep a half-lidded gaze on the entrance, not put off, but rather spurred on with the possibility of your boyfriend finding you being railed by his latest rival. The thought alone has you clenching around Lukas' cock with your orgasm cresting.
"Whatever you're thinking about, I'm going to need you to think about it again- you're so fucking tight."
There's an animalistic quality to the sex- being bent over for him while he rests against a wall, a firm grip on your throats and your tits as he rams himself into you again and again.
It's far too much.
You wouldn't think there was something so ruthless hiding underneath such a calm veneer but that's all it is. All it always had been. A veneer.
"You're not with him anymore, do you hear me?"
"Fuck- Lukas I'm gonna cum soon," his grip on your throat tightens until it vacuums out any and all air. Your hand encircles his wrist, begging for release but to no avail.
"Tell me," he says as he continues to fuck mercilessly into you, "Tell me you don't belong to him." He finally gives you lee-way to talk and you're gasping out your response, "I don't. I don't belong to him," he nods slightly, brows firing as he bites into your shoulders.
"Fuck- I didn't plan to cum inside you-"
"I don't fucking care- I'm really close." Lukas nods quickly before releasing your neck to drag your cheek until your faces are pressed together in a smouldering kiss. "Fuck I'm gonna cum inside you-"
His words already have you diving headfirst into a groundbreaking orgasm. You're crying out helplessly, until Matsson has enough sense to cover your mouth with one large hand. He fucks you through it, filling you with cum as he groans just as loudly as you had been.
"Fuck," he chuckles quietly, "Kendall is not going to like that."
"Kendall," You breath heavily, safely contained in Lukas' comforting grip, "Is not my Keeper."
Lukas delivers a chaste kiss on your cheek, his stubble grazing against the side of your face.
"I plan on killing them anyway." He says, simultaneously unaware and aware that he's drifting into pillowtalk.
Would you consider writing for Count Vronsky from Anna Karenina?
Pairing: Count Alexei Vronsky x Foreign Socialite!Reader
Warnings: Borderline Toxic Infatuation, Vintage Slow Burn, (almost) Infidelity
Summary: A foreign born socialite/heiress visits a friend in Russia and meets a straight up demon. For @bettytaylorversion (AU where Anna doesn't go back to Vronsky and chooses to stay with Karenin.)
Word Count: 2.3K
a/n: I remember that Tolstoy made this character so straightforward that you can kind of play around with him as much as you like without changing much about who he is at his core. I can't be left to my own devices. That being said, I don't want purists yelling at me. So I hope everyone takes some of my choices here with a grain of salt.
--x--
Everything about Russia felt intimidating to you: the language, the size of the country, the power of its military, and the show of their aristocratic wealth. You were wealthy. But this was a different kind of wealth. You came to visit your close friend who was another socialite that you met through overlapping inner circles. It'd taken you a while to accept the invitation as you weren't sure how kindly they'd take to a foreigner.
You understood some of the language based on what your friend taught you, but you still weren't confident enough to converse in just Russian. Instead you opted for French, which seemed to work well enough. You knew your native language was a lost cause. While some people in the parlor were polite, others had no interest in speaking with you. A small number seemed interested in you and your home country. Or maybe they just noticed your Very New and Very Parisian wardrobe with your collection of gifted jewels. They decided you were important enough to talk to.
When she introduced you to Count Alexei Vronsky, an officer in the army, you felt her grip on your elbow tighten just the slightest bit. You knew about him. She told you all about his affair with the married woman from Saint Petersburg. You weren't sure how you pictured the man. She said he was handsome, but you lived in a world full of beautiful people. How much different could he be?
That was a terrible miscalculation. The minute he met you, he watched you with the intense interest of a fox stalking its prey. You felt your cheeks warm and your heart thud when he pressed his lips to your gloved knuckle. You averted your eyes when he rose from his bow, not really wanting to convey anything uncouth about the interaction.
The first time he found you alone, you were in your friend's library looking at a map pinned to the wall. He told you about every country he'd lived in, every country he'd traveled through, and which ones he'd be eager to see soon. When you pointed out your country on the map, he licked his lips and an easy smile graced his beautiful face.
"I suppose I have no choice but to come see you now." He said in his thick accent.
You realized, then, that he reminded you of angels you'd see painted on the walls of grand, gilded churches. You told him that you and your fiance would be happy to invite him to your engagement party.
"Hmm." he said, eyeing the map. "Fiancés..." he finished the statement in Russian, so you couldn't understand him.
Before you excused yourself to go find your friend, his fingertips gently grazed the back of your hand, stopping you in your tracks. "Your fiancé is incredibly lucky to have such a beautiful, clever woman."
The second time he found you alone, you'd been exploring the estate and decided to rest in the garden among the wildflowers. As you raised your face to the summer sun, he made his presence known by clearing his throat, causing you to jump to your feet in surprise.
"Good afternoon, startled rabbit." He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes at him.
"How long have you been standing there?" You warily asked, anxiously adjusting your skirts and brushing the grass from your hair. He cocked his head, studying you, "Long enough to notice that your beauty in parlor candlelight cannot compare to how alluring you are in the light of day."
It was interesting to see him dressed so casually compared to the night before. You wondered what he was still doing at your friend's estate when you knew he had a home of his own. You quickly glanced at her window to see the curtains still closed.
When you boldly asked him if he'd been watching you, something akin to amusement danced across his face, "You like the idea of that? Me watching you?"
"I have a fiancé."
He took a step closer, "That doesn't answer my question."
“You didn’t answer mine.” You countered, looking him square in the eye.
That wasn’t particularly ladylike, and you weren’t sure how anyone would react if they happened upon you and Vronsky standing so close in the garden without a chaperone.
As if reading your mind, he glanced down at your lips, then his eyes fell lower to your bodice. Your engraved gold locket rested on the top of one breast, with your fiancé’s initials glittering under the sun.
“I wasn’t watching you. I was…preoccupied.” His eyes met yours again and you felt like you’d been splashed with icy water. “Your husband—my apologies—your fiancé…he is a man of means? That necklace of yours is exquisite.”
You weren’t stupid. He didn’t care about the necklace. “That is a very inappropriate question to ask.”
“So he is not a man of means.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Who gave you that necklace?”
“Why does it trouble you to know?”
“You deserve a better one.” He murmured. You were unsure if he was still speaking about the jewelry. His fingers ghosted over the exposed skin of your forearm, "I could do that for you. If you wish." You took one large step back and glanced again at your friend’s window to find her watching you both suspiciously.
For the remainder of your stay in Russia, your friend treated you coolly. Though she was kind in private, she wasn't as warm in the company of others. Specifically, in the presence of Count Vronsky who seemed eager to appear more often during your stay and even more eager to get you alone. You reminded yourself that it was a temporary trip, and that you'd be back at your father's estate--and back in your kind fiancé's arms--in no time.
"It's truly fortunate that you're betrothed," your friend said as you gathered your belongings to meet the carriage in the courtyard, "or it'd be a shame to see your name added to the Count's incredibly long list of jilted lovers." There was an edge of bitterness to her tone, but you chose not to bring it up. Instead you marked it as an incredibly odd ending to an otherwise enjoyable trip.
A month later, you nearly fell down the stairs when your father called you down to the foyer to greet his newest client who arrived that morning from Russia. Count Alexei Vronsky bowed as you descended, but you could see the mirth dancing behind his eyes when he righted his posture behind your father's back.
"He says you spoke extensively about my craftsmanship. He felt compelled to come by the shop for his own fitting while he was visiting!" Your father exclaimed merrily, pulling you in for a kiss on the forehead, "My brilliant girl. This will do wonders for us. I knew I could count on you."
Sure, you had spoken highly of you father's tailoring and shoemaking, because as popular as your father was it never hurt to expand the reach of his influence.
That being said, you were sure Vronsky wasn't there for that conversation, and you never continued any form of contact after you departed Russia. You assumed he learned about where you lived through mutual friends. You swore under your breath when your father left you alone to get his sketches from his workshop in the east wing of the estate. Vronsky eyed you briefly, then redirected his interest to the art and artifacts decorating your home. Ever the son born of Russian ice and stoicism, he looked out of place in the warm atmosphere of the home you grew up in.
"Your country is beautiful," he said, arching a dark brow, "a bit too hot for my liking. Though, it is nice to see you in your natural element. I don't think wildflowers like you belong in the comparative cold of a Russian summer."
You felt like you were being tested, but you decided that there wasn't much he could do in the confines of your home. He was, after all, in your territory. Your shoulders relaxed and you chanced a small smile his way, "You'd be surprised to know how resilient I can be."
Surprisingly, he laughed, "I don't think I'd be surprised at all. I know you better than you think I do."
You felt like you'd regret it, but you decided to ask anyway.
"What do you mean by that?"
He began to stroll through the hall of your foyer, pausing every so often to examine a portrait or vase as you trailed behind him.
"You attended your fiancé's nameday feast a few years ago. Of course, he was not your fiancé, then. He was merely your father's apprentice and a quite talented shoemaker from my country who moved and quickly fell in love with...your country." He chuckled to himself at a joke only he seemed to know. "I remember you. I remember that you were an absolute vision in white, and you danced with everyone in the room. Though you were incredibly quiet when you weren't wrapped up in the melody of the orchestra." He glanced over at your confused expression, fighting a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, "Like I said: startled rabbit. Always quiet. Always watching. I remember the way your dress hugged the delicate slope of your shoulders, and the way your necklace caressed your neck. That may have been the first time I craved to exist within the confines of a jeweled pendant. And though I was otherwise...occupied with someone...I do remember the way you consistently laughed when he whispered things to you. A kind gesture, as he's never been that funny."
"So you know him. You were there that night." You whispered, feeling chills running up your arm.
"I was," he shrugged, stopping again at a more recent portrait of you and your father, "as was my duty as his elder brother."
You felt your heart stop in your chest and your brain short circuited. Your fiancé never told you about any siblings, let alone an elder brother. You knew your fiance's father was possibly dead, and that his mother raised him alone in Russia. Was he lying about his life? You weren't sure what was conveyed on your face, but Count Vronsky turned to address you directly.
"My father was not an honorable man. He forbade us from speaking to my half-brother or acknowledging him. Of course, Father is dead now, and God hasn't struck me down for disrespecting the wishes of a dead man. This also isn't the first time I've ever sinned." He grinned widely at you and took a step closer, though you were too shocked to move. "From the minute I saw you, I knew I had to have you. And every time I've seen you since, I regretted not stealing you away for myself."
"That doesn't make any sense..." you murmured, hiding your anxious hands behind your back, "I've never met you before. I'd know. I'd remember."
"You make your presence known at those silly little soirées the ladies have. I never stay for very long, but I've always..." he took another step closer and you realized you'd been backed against a pillar, "I've always noticed you. Dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Sometimes smoking. Does your father know you smoke?"
You glanced down the hall over his shoulder, and in a small voice that surprised you, you whispered, "I don't always do that."
"Mhmm." He reached out to run his warm, slightly calloused fingers along the chain of your necklace, stopping just before the pendant that rested in the valley of your cleavage. Your chest involuntarily heaved, and your knees felt weak, "What other bad things do you 'not always' do?"
You parted your lips to attempt something sharp, but instead you swallowed hard and said, "I'm to be married."
"But you are not married." He was so close, "Do you know how badly I've wanted to come see you since you left?" You could smell the sweet wine of your country on his tongue as he whispered lowly to you, "The thought of his hands on you made me want to abandon all of my obligations to cross the sea. Did you think of me?"
Your gaze fell to his lips, slightly stained red, and then back up into his piercing blue eyes. God, he was beautiful. He caught the action.
"You did."
"I didn't."
"Your eyes betray you, wildflower." His hand grazed your hip above your skirt, and his lips ghosted over your own, "I thought about you every night. I think about how you'd look spread out for me on those expensive sheets your father bought you. Waiting for me. And you're wearing that charming necklace my brother gave you while my tongue is deep in that sweet little--"
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Vronsky swiftly turned away from you to examine the nearest vase again, as if nothing happened. You hadn't realized that your hands were grasping your skirt in your fists and that you were squeezing your thighs together.
You realized then that it'd been so long since you were last touched.
When your father entered the hall, he shot you a curious look before handing Vronsky his latest sketches.
"Here you go, young man. Let me know if these are to your liking. We can begin as early as tomorrow afternoon."
The blond shot your father a charming smile and bowed graciously, "Thank you for taking the time to help a stranger on such short notice."
The conversation sounded like white noise in your ears as you willed your heart to slow down. Even as you composed yourself and released your skirt from your hands, you still felt out of sorts.
When he turned to you and bowed again, he rose and allowed his eyes to trail down the length of your body.
“They make the best steak and compliment the wine on the house. 10/10” - anonymous, ★ ★ ★ ★
“Owner Ari Levinson runs a fantastic establishment! Kitchen full of trained professionals, beautiful interior, and a soft aura that’s so welcoming. I recommend everyone come here!” - anonymous, ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
*
— CHEF! ARI LEVINSON X CHEF! BLACK/F! READER (JOLIE FITZGERALD)
“Cause baby I could build a castle out of all the bricks they threw at me. And every day is like a battle but every night with us is like a dream”
— warnings: 18+ content (minors never interact), kitchen/ restaurant settings, slow burn, friends to lovers, ‘she fell but he fell harder’ trope, workplace relationships, cussing/swearing, eventual smut, use of cigarettes and weed, mental health issues, very brief love triangle, angst.
index
prologue
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
*
“Baby, we’re the new romantics. The best people in life are free”
I am stopping myself from calling this an original work because it is... but it isn't? But it sort of is? Ehh.
Not my usual sort of work but a big thank you to @cocoamoonmalfoy and @slyyywriting who have been cheering me on (and providing me some good symbolism!) so here's to my brain, watching too much gothic horror and staying up late. The family dynamic featured is brought to you by Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullabye" and Paolo Nutini's "Iron Sky".
If you like this, please let me know. I love feedback.
James Cormack x Female Reader
Word Count: 5K
Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Language, a LOT world building, mentions of death, unprotected sex, mentions of a car accident, horror elements, jump scare (as one could possibly have in a fic), weird family dynamics.
Summary | Against your better judgement, reuniting with your estranged siblings opens up family secrets that uncover more than just what they've hidden from you during their absence.
“They want to meet in person this time.”
Your stomach does a flip at your attorney’s news, fingers gripping your cell phone harder, pressed against your ear tightly so that you can hear every word, just to make sure you are comprehending the weight of his words.
“In person,” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper, head shaking in confusion. “They didn’t want to talk, let alone see me after our parents died. Why now?”
Flashbacks of the funeral, both your parents buried together forever in the family crypt. As far as you know, you’ve been the only one to visit them, changing out the dead flowers for new, vibrant ones, making sure they know that you care.
Even if they don’t.
“It appears that they had a change of heart,” your attorney says with a hopeful tone. “It’s about time. It’s been well over a decade, hasn’t it?”
“Longer.”
“Well, in any case, they want to see you. There is an interest in having an open conversation about the trust. Apparently, they are looking at some property to retain. There was some discussion about selling it but they want to keep it within the family. Could be promising but per the agreement in the will, you have to sign off on this decision as well.”
The last time you saw your siblings, they leaned on each other, head touching and eyes focused on the caskets that were in front of them in the church. You had stared straight ahead, feeling their eyes on you once they’d gotten up to say their goodbyes.
Everything in sync, just as twins do, moving together in a pattern that you couldn’t trace.
“Hello?”
“Sorry,” you apologize, the pen slipping out of your grasp, rolling away from you and falling off your desk. “That’s fine. I’ll be there.”
“Perfect. See you soon.”
-
The threat of rain fits your mood, somber yet anxious, the impending doom spreading with every step up the stairs. Your attorney’s sot spoken assistant, Melanie, welcomes you in with a kind smile. It’s much warmer inside the office, the soft office appropriate music filtering through the speakers while your shoes tap on the marble floor.
“You’re the first one here,” Melanie informs you, opening a door to a conference room. The black lacquered table with the matching chairs. The wide window gives a perfect view of the lake, the clouds dark and heavy with rain. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Placing your purse on the chair next to you and slumping into the chair, your head hurts at the prospect of having to see them again. The last time you had said your goodbyes, it was simply a knowing glance and a nod, your mother’s sister holding onto your shoulders as they slipped into their waiting cars and drove away.
“They’ll be back,” your aunt said above you, the cars disappearing. “You’re family.”
Melanie comes in, placing a cup of tea in front of you and two across the table. The small dishes of sugar, milk and honey catch your attention, thick steam coming off the dark liquid in your cup.
“They requested it,” Melanie explains, looking at the confusion on your face. “Usually do when they visit.”
“They’ve visited Paul? Here?”
Melanie immediately shuts her mouth, a sympathetic smile all you receive before she heads out of the room. You’re aware that she’s told you a secret, a simple sentence that sends your mind traversing through the what ifs and whys of their decisions but nothing they’ve ever done anything that has included you.
Tearing open a packet of sugar and slowly pouring it in, the crystals sprinkle into the cup, creating slight ripples in the liquid when the door opens again. The figure in the doorway doesn’t move, your eyes more focused on emptying the packet than worrying about Melanie.
“Still such an innocent,” the voice says, the empty packet floating down to the table.
The man that stands in the doorway looks familiar, maybe as if you’ve seen him before once or twice in passing, out of the corner of your eye.
A stranger in the background, someone you barely have would give a thought to.
It’s no stranger though. It’s your brother, who flashes you a pearly white smile that lingers just enough for him to look at the table. He’s dressed in a black suit and a black tie, tailored to fit him as he walks toward you, pausing to give you a slight stare when you realize he’s waiting for you to stand.
Pushing your chair back, you stand, extending your hand awkwardly before his warm hands settle on your cheeks, kissing your forehead. He’s always towered over you but even more so with the passing of time. The signet ring he wears is silver, the coolness of it on your cheek sending a shock down your spine.
“It’s been too long, little sister,” he says against your forehead, his voice rich and deep. “Too long.”
Your hands are at your side, his hand smoothing out your hair with a loving touch that confuses you. His eyes are bright, kind but careful, as if he’s searching for an answer to a question that he hasn’t asked you yet. There’s an expectation in his gaze, his eyes going from the tips of your shoes to the top of your head.
He was supposed to be your protector, someone you could rely on and yet, you find yourself judged by the way his stare lingers, almost as if he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he praises, his finger lifting the collar of your jacket. “Saint Laurent.”
“It was a gift,” you answer, watching him circle around you, nodding in approval.
“I know it was,” he replies. “I bought it.”
Deep down, you know it’s true, even if you want to believe that it isn’t. Your birthday gifts that were delivered to your doorstep, the ones without a return address, the luxurious and expensive clothes that now hang in your closet have come from them.
“Thank you, Azi” you answer blandly. ‘It’s very nice.”
“You came,” a female voice says behind him.
Craning your head to the side, your sister, Sera, stands, her hands on her hips. Her makeup is flawless, eyes focused on you while she gives you a smile. It’s professional and polite, the sort that you give someone in a meeting when you command attention.
Her pantsuit is black, down to her black python heels. She holds out her arms, waiting for you to come to her. Your steps are slow, the weight of your brother’s stare on your back. When you embrace, she wraps her arms around you, holding you to her chest.
“We missed you,” she whispers against your ear, staring at your brother while she tightens her hold, her hand cupping the back of your head. “Our poor baby sister. You won’t be alone ever again, I promise.”
It’s there, that little faint thing that makes you want to weep, the emotion that crashes inside of you, rendering you speechless. Right out of graduation and you were left alone to deal with the crushing weight of the death of your parents and then the death of your aunt. Family is a concept that feels foreign to you, the two people that should be the closest to you – the ones who should have seen you through the tragedy – are just strangers who share the same last name.
“Ah, good,” Paul greets, your sister letting you go when he enters the room. “Wanted to give you some time to get reacquainted.”
Paul, a short, squat little man with round black glasses and a sharp tongue sits in his chair, tapping the folders onto the table while Melanie takes a seat next to him.
“Shall we get started?” he asks, your brother and sister taking their seats in unison.
“Paul,” Sera begins, giving him a cool stare. “Has my sister been receiving her payments?”
“Yes?” Paul answers, unsure of her question. “Why do you ask?”
Sera’s lips settle into a frown, her expression full of disappointment.
“The car out front. The tires are balding and it’s old,” she snaps. “I thought you assured us that she would be taken care of. My sister could die on these roads, Paul. You are still in charge of her accounts.”
“I just haven’t had the time,” you interrupt, their heads all turning in your direction. “I’ve been really busy with work and I just -”
“It doesn’t matter,” your sister cuts you off with a hand in the air. “We’re getting you a new car. I’ll handle it.”
Paul turns bright red, shuffling through his notes quickly before pulling out a paper.
“Your parents,” Paul starts, pausing for a moment, giving all three of you a glance. “Your father, gifted you Darkstrand, quite a significant amount of land. We are here today to discuss an arrangement that may be beneficial for all parties involved.”
They nod in agreement, Paul pausing until you give a short nod for him to continue.
“Your siblings want to retain the land, rather than sell it. There was an investment group who wanted to had a vested interest in buying it but it appears there is some interest from your brother and sister to keep it in the family.”
Paul nods at your sister, who sits forward in her chair.
“It’s been so long,” Sera begins. “You were so strong to stay behind, to take care of Aunt Dina and to make sure that you finished college. But we are siblings. Family. We need to stay close. I think this will help bridge the gap.”
“Sera is a widow,” Azi informs you.
“You got married,” you answer, your emotions vying for the chance to be freed. “I… I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”
“We eloped,” Sera replies, looking at her brother. “I kept it quiet.”
Quiet except to Azi, you think, your hands on the table.
“His death taught me a lesson. In this world, it’s just you, me and Azi. We are forever.”
Azi nods at Paul, watching him slide the paper toward you.
“It is a fresh start,” Azi speaks up, your hand picking up the paper. “You can leave this godforsaken city and start over.”
“Why?” you ask.
It’s silent, both of your siblings’ attention on you.
“You haven’t spoken to me or seen me in well over thirteen years. I buried Aunt Dina by myself, visit our parents’ gravesite every week. You never checked on me. I got gifts, sure,” you say, wiping the tears that start to fall. “I waited for you to come back, to be my family that you claim you want to be. If you wanted me to sign a piece of paper, that’s all you had to say.”
Overwhelmed, you grab a pen, signing the document before you push away from the table, getting up and heading toward the door.
“Could have saved yourself a visit,” you quip, Azi and Sera standing up as you reach the door. “It’s signed. Happy?”
Though you hear your name being called, you don’t care, opening your car door as you toss your purse inside, turning on the car and slamming the door closed.
Peeling out of the parking space, the first droplets of rain hit your windshield, the office fading away the faster you drive.
-
Low light greets you when you wake, head throbbing with pain. Your fingers touch your forehead, scrambling in bed when you can’t feel your skin, just fabric. Your mouth is dry, the low moan of surprise as your tongue falls from the roof of your mouth. Pain like you’ve never known takes hold of your body, your shoulder blades on fire.
The door is pushed open, Sera appearing while you writhe in pain.
“Shh,” she soothes, anchoring your hands down to your side. “Shh, breathe. Shh.”
Her fingers feel like a brand on your skin, your head dropping back down on the pillow when she lets you go, placing a finger to your lips. Tapping them gently, she looks over you, your eyes closing.
“I’ll get you something for the pain but you need to listen to me, okay? Can you do that?” Sera asks, her breath hot against your already warm and sticky skin. “Breathe.”
Nodding, she disappears for a moment, the bed sinking slightly with her weight before you can feel the prick of a needle, trying to move away from her as you protest weakly.
“No…”
“It’s for the pain,” she instructs you. “The same thing you got in the hospital. Toradol. Let it work.”
Your heart slams in your chest, mind blank while you try to force yourself to remember how you get here.
Wherever here is.
“You were in an accident,” Sera begins, smoothing your hair back. “Rain and bald tires make a dangerous drive. Your car is totaled and thank god for that. What matters is that you’re in one piece. A few bumps and bruises but you’ll heal.”
“Where am I?” you murmur against the pillow.
“Home.”
“Home?” you question, your eyes opening. “My…”
“No, not your home. If that’s what you called that box of an apartment. Our home. We’re in Darkstrand.”
“Where…”
“We’re together,” Sera reminds you, your body relaxing as the medicine goes to work. “That’s all you need to know. You’re safe with us. Rest.”
Drifting back to sleep, Sera blows out the candle on your nightstand before getting up and leaving.
-
Her knees ground into the mattress, Azi’s hand on her head, pushing her down as she moans underneath him. It doesn’t matter how loud she is, the suite is soundproof, her hands moving from her sides to get up, the pressure too much to take. Time stands still in this room, hours gone by without notice.
“Did I say you could move?” he snarls with clenched teeth. “Stay… right… there.”
Her eyes roll back into her head, his rhythm punishing with every thrust, balls heavy against her ass. She’ll be sore when he’s done with her, blistered from the inside out.
His fingers wrap around her neck, pulling her up as sweat trickles down her temples.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
His fingers sink into the wet skin of her throat, her ass bouncing against him, pistoning on his cock without any other thought in her head.
“Y…Yes,” she purrs, eyes closed tight. “I love it.”
“Love it?” he said, her voice faltering at the way his grip closes over her windpipe. “You’re so close. I can feel you tightening around me.”
“Please… please…”
He whispers against her ear, gripping her hips against him as he cums, his head thrown back in bliss.
He pulls out, peering over at her lifeless body, pushing her over on her side.
“Average,” he murmurs, reaching for his phone that vibrates on the nightstand, seeing the number. “This better be good news.”
“She’s awake.”
“I’m on my way.”
After he hangs up, he makes another call while he makes his way to the en suite.
“Room 607. Yes, I’ll need a clean up. One disposal,” Azi says with a smile, examining his physique in the mirror. “I’ll be checking out within the hour. Thank you.”
-
Fingers graze over the wall, searching – feeling – for the light until it turns on, your eyes narrowing at the harsh light. What you see in the mirror is shocking, your hand going to the bandage on your head.
Your upper lip has a cut, small but enough for you to notice. The dark circle on your left eye is concerning, as well as the bandage that your shaky hand removes slowly. Your lip trembles at the sight of the stitches. You want to remember, you want to know how it happened, even if Sera had told you not to think about it.
“The car is totaled,” Sera’s words echo in the back of your mind.
A wave of nausea makes you lurch forward, your hands rushing to turn on the sink to splash water on your face.
A flash of something, dark and angry, burns in your mind, almost painful to recollect. Looking up, your eyes turn white, blinking to see them go back to their original color.
The knock at the door breaks you out of your stupor, turning to look back at the door.
“Everything okay?”
-
“Cormack, looks like you got a lead on the Hill case after all,” Sheriff Gardner informs the man in question with a hard slap on his back. “Juicy too.”
A stack of photos hit the desk, a body on a table of a morgue. The face is unseen but the fingerprint marks are deep.
“Have it on good authority that our indisposed friend here has a brand on her hip. Matches the same branding as -”
James holds up his hand, plucking the photo up, rolling toward the gallery of photos he has been pouring over for months.
Years.
“They’re back,” Gardner mutters, watching James’ place the picture on the bulletin board. “Gotta be something, right?”
“We’ll see.”
Gardner rolls his eyes at his partner’s reply.
“You know, you could be happy for this. You’ve been chasing that missing person’s case for years and you’ve come up short each time. This is big, okay? That brand hasn’t been seen in years. It’s a match from the last girl.”
“No,” James replies with a shake of his head, taking off his glasses before he rubs his hands. “It’s off. Different signature, it’s reversed.”
“Could be the pictures.”
“It’s not.”
Gardner takes a healthy bite of his sandwich, chewing noisily, peeling the paper back.
“Thought you’d given up for a little. You closed out the Deerfield case.”
“That was easy,” James replies, looking at the photos. “How did your day go?”
“Eh, you know. Same old shit. Heard about a few arrests up in the Darkstrand compound.”
“No one’s been up there for years.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Gardener interrupts. “In fact, I’m surprised you weren’t aware. That hedge fund manager who committed suicide… that’s where his wife lives now. Thought you knew. Guess she wanted distance between her and all of your poking around.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what? You think it has anything to do with it?”
“How long has she been there?”
“Not long,” Gardner replies. “She and her brother started moving in last week. Apparently they’ve got a younger sibling. A sister, I think? Either way, she got into a really bad car accident, it made the papers.”
“Off the bridge,” James answers, sitting back in his car. “She survived that?”
“Apparently only a couple bruises and bumps.”
“Jesus. Girl has got an angel looking out for her.”
“No shit,” Gardener replies with a shake of his head. “Either way, she’s moving in too. Like one big happy rich family. She’s supposed to be the more agreeable of the three of them so maybe if your case ever opens up for more information, she might be the one to talk to once she’s better.”
James looks at the photos, focusing on the brand on the hip.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
-
It’s hard to get accustomed to a place that seems so big, the hallways vast and seemingly endless, the abstract paintings on the walls that you know must have cost a fortune. Money, as you know it, has never been hard to come by. The same could not be said for Azi and Sera, something that they reminded you of when you were old enough to comprehend the proverbial silver spoon in your mouth.
“Our mother used to have to work,” Sera said behind you, watching you play with your dolls. “She worked two jobs. We barely had anything to eat and here you are, playing with toys I only wished I could have at your age.”
It wasn’t the words that bothered you. It was how they were delivered, little pinpricks to your soul, spoken by a blood relative that would come into your room just to remind you that she had worse in life before you came along.
“You can have my toys, Sera,” you offered. “Anything you want.”
“I don’t need them. I’m leaving for boarding school soon anyway. What would I look like holding a doll? You’re always so nice. Which is surprising considering your mother took away our father.”
“He didn’t,” you protested, taking a step back as Sera advanced a step toward you. “Daddy loves us. He loves you a lot. Azi too.”
“Does he? Or did he simply listen to your mother to take pity on Azi and me when our mother died?”
Your doll had fallen to the ground, Sera picking it up to examine it.
“I’m sorry, Sera.”
“Stop apologizing. You didn’t ask to be born, just like I didn’t ask to have a dead mother. Your mother was a Jezebel, but I don’t hate you,” Sera shot back, holding the doll by the hair as she swung it in your direction like a pendulum. “But one day, you’re going to need me. You’ll need Azi too. We’re your family too.”
A shadow falls over you, as if someone is immediately behind you, making you turn around so fast that you feel dizzy, only to see Azi standing down the hallway. He’s dressed more casually this time, in a dark gray sweater and black slacks, his polished expensive looking black shoes so shiny you could probably see yourself in them.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just thought…” you trail off, staring down at your shoes to center yourself. “I don’t know.”
When he does reach you, he tsks in low tone, smoothing back your hair as if you’re some delicate thing, the back of his hand touching your forehead. It’s a caring gesture but it feels insincere at the same time, like you’re feeble and not in control of your own self, the way his touch lingers.
“I came as soon as Sera said you were awake. Are you feeling better?”
“Trying to,” comes your answer, Azi nodding.
“You’re healing fast. Much faster than I think the doctors even expected. It’s a miracle you were able to survive the crash.”
“I want to remember it but,” you pause, looking up at your brother. “I can’t. Tell me what happened.”
He sighs, his hands on your upper arms as he rubs them slowly.
“No.”
“Why not?” you inquire, his fingers kneading into your flesh gently.
“Because it’s traumatic and we almost lost you. Why would I want to relive that again? Why would I share that trauma? It won’t help. You need to focus on getting better.”
“I am,” you protest, pointing to your eye. “See?”
“A black eye heals quickly. You had a concussion. That is internal.”
“Okay.” Your tone is full of defeat, already acquiescing to an argument that has not even gotten started.
“Dinner’s ready,” Azi informs you, holding out his arm. “Let’s go.”
-
Sera and Azi talk among themselves, trading sharp tongued insults about their various employees, investments and businesses, none of which you’ve ever heard of.
When they do include you in the conversation, it’s to inquire why you haven’t sought out a position of high standing, especially with your father’s good name. It’s unfathomable to them when you speak about your position at your job, one that tells you to take your time and get better, even as Sera smirks at the loyalty you have to your boss, a woman with a heart of gold who has taught you how to navigate the corporate world while being a woman.
“All you had to do was ask,” Sera mentions, eyeing the way you push your niçoise salad around your plate. “You could have worked for me.”
“Or me,” Azi points out. “Don’t play with your food.”
“I’m not,” you fire back, both of them staring at you after your quick outburst.
“Rest,” Azi says to Sera, as if you’re not even there. “I told you she needed more rest.”
“She’s fine. Her bruises are healing and she needed fresh air.”
“I’m here, you know,” you speak up. “I know it’s been a while, but I assure you, I know when I need to rest. I appreciate you taking care of me.”
“You’re welcome,” they say in unison, your irritation reaching a breaking point.
“I have to ask. Why now?”
“Why now what?” Sera asks.
“Why did you wait so long to contact me?”
Azi places his knife and fork down, wiping his mouth.
“Your resentment runs deep,” Azi remarks. “But I’ll address it. We’re older now. Wiser. When we were younger, we abandoned you. I know it, Sera knows it. There’s no use in denying it. We had to mature to be able to understand the whys behind how we felt. It’s no secret your mother replaced our mother. Nor did we ever fault you for it.”
Sera nods at his response, taking another bite of her dinner.
“We were our father’s first children. The first born out an empire that he had built on the back of our mother’s shoulders, looking the other way when she got ill and died. When you were born, we ceased to exist and yet, we cared for you with every ounce of our being, only to be expelled from the only home we had left because your mother harbored some superstition that we would replace you,” Azi continues. “Sent us away to boarding school, creating a gap that would not be filled, no matter how many times we wrote to you, tried to call. We asked for you when our parents died and your mother’s sister denied us yet again.”
Aunt Dina.
“One day, when you’re old enough, you’ll understand why they left,” Aunt Dina said, pressing a kiss against your head. “You’re not ready to understand why yet but one day, you’ll see. You can’t ever forget your family.”
“Why didn’t they take me with them?”
Your aunt cupped your face, sighing sadly. The line of people wanting to offer you condolences was long, the sea of black stretching down the lush green lawn.
“It isn’t time. Your mother entrusted me with your care and I made a promise. You’ll see them again. I promise.”
“She didn’t have a choice,” you counter.
“Neither did we,” Sera answers you. “But it’s in the past. Eat.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” you respond, getting up from the table, pausing to look at both of them. “Why don’t you ask me if I tried to look for you?”
“Because we know you tried,” Azi says.
Whirling around, you shake your head in disgust.
“You knew? All this time, when I searched for you, you knew? You tell me this sob story about our family, this promise that we are together now and you made no effort after you knew I was looking for you? If this is what you call family… I don’t want any part of it.”
“Yes you do,” Sera says calmly. “This is what you wanted. This is what you needed all along.”
“Don’t tell me what I need. Don’t do that that. I’m not a child anymore.”
“Then stop acting like one,” Azi replies, placing his napkin down on the table.
Nodding tearfully, you storm out of the room.
-
The night sky is full of stars, blanketed as far as you can see, walking on the well-worn dirt path. There is zero expectation that they will come after you, nor is there any yearning for them to do so.
The tears flow freely, not afraid to cry out in the open, away from the suffocating place you’ve called home for the past week and a half by your calculation. There’s a release, frustration, pain and sadness materializing into drops that run down your cheeks. The lake is within distance, your footsteps moving quicker to gain space between you and your siblings.
“Forgive me, Father,” you murmur, looking up at the full moon. “Forgive me for believing in I could ever have a chance at forgiving them for leaving me.”
The mind is a treacherous place to dwell in. This much you know, even if you find yourself wishing to feel the embrace of your mother, the kind and loving smile from your father. Any ounce of comfort from them, even the sound of their voice would keep you calm.
You feel it suddenly.
Goosebumps rise on your skin, standing still. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make you feel claustrophobic, even out in the open. Saying a prayer while you close your eyes, whispers in the wind carry the voices through the grass.
It’s breathing – whatever it is – slow and steady.
Focused.
Fight or flight are your only two options and with the open land in front of you, you’ll be an easy target for whatever looms behind you.
A dark growl sends a shiver down your spine, making you shake uncontrollably. The voices get louder, ringing in your ears.
It happens so fast you almost don’t see it coming. A flash of sharp claws, teeth and black eyes before a flash of white light lights up the night sky, a howl of pain piercing into the darkness that follows.
Whatever it was, it’s gone, your senses rattled and your hands shaking, steam rising from them as you spy a brand on your palms that quickly disappears. Moving back toward the house, you’ll leave whatever it was outside to fend for itself.
And leave this place before the next nightfall.
-
Azi pours himself a cup of coffee, glancing at Sera when she moves past him slowly, doing a slow double take at her limp.
Sera grips her side, the thick bandage wrapped around her waist visible when she lifts her shirt slowly.
Azi raises an eyebrow at the wound.
“She’s stronger than I thought she would be,” Sera admits.
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