#sweetpea

[gcballet]

Darling Bud by C.J. Skuse arrived this morning on my Waterstones pre-order, three full days ahead of release, and I read it in less than four hours 😊😊😊 it was both great and horrible and I will never feel the same about "Totally Devoted to You"

[gloomygraveyardgirll]

I need sweetpea season 2 now!!!

[hexlee]

OMG I love Marina so much and how they use the overlooked theme and mesh it with the stupidity of the police.

[hexlee]

Finally watching Sweetpea and I really wanna choke the sister so bad cause like....

"i know I'm basically rendering you homeless but *I* need a house so I won't be consulting you about decisions to sell the house that YOU LIVE IN"

[loserlesbiancoded]

✃ the plan

✃ pairing: rhiannon lewis x fem!reader

✃ summary: all rhiannon ever wanted was to get back at julia blenkingsopp. upon meeting julia's fiancée, she finally figures out a way.

part 1

part 2

[loserlesbiancoded]

✃ the plan - part 2

✃ pairing: rhiannon lewis x fem!reader

✃ additional tags/warnings: nsfw, cheating, violence, guilt

✃ summary: your wedding is a week away, and now you need to figure out what to do about the woman you've been sleeping with behind your fiancée's back.

✃ word count: 8.3k

part 1

You never meant for it to get this far.

It was supposed to be a one time thing. Maybe a two time thing if you really needed to get it out of your system, and then you’d walk away. Back to your life. To uneventful days. To the ring around your finger and the bed you shared with the person you’d promised yourself to.

Julia. Your fiancée.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when you lost control, or if you’d ever even had it to begin with. In hindsight, maybe you should have called it quits the morning after your first night in Rhiannon’s bedroom, told her it was a mistake and made sure you never saw her again. Looking back, it might have been reckless to even go to her house in the first place. A quickie in a dark alley was something you could’ve forgotten about, a moment of weakness you’d take to your grave, a human slip into temptation that wouldn’t necessarily qualify you as a bad person.

Maybe you should have just stayed home and called your fiancée at her hotel instead of going to the pub with the pretty reporter who’d interviewed you a few days earlier. It was innocent, you told yourself, even if it didn’t necessarily feel like it. Even if you’d spent over twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear. Even if, for some reason, you hadn’t texted Julia telling her where you’d be — or who you’d be with.

Whenever it’d been that the situation fell from your grasp, you were deep into it now.

You were addicted to Rhiannon Lewis the same way your father was to those bloody cigarettes he used to come home smelling of. Shameful, done in secret, promising this will be the last time only to repeat the process tomorrow as soon as the opportunity rose.

Your mother never really had a clue, either.

It was ridiculous at this point, how comfortable you’d started to get, how your morality kept shrinking and shrinking until all there was left in the mirror was somebody you hardly even recognized. You’d gone from I’d never cheat on Julia to I’ll never cheat on Julia again to hey, Rhee, Julia’s away for the weekend, wanna come over and fuck in her bed?

Your bed. Yours and Julia’s. Your soon-to-be marital bed, you reminded yourself — it was hard to forget with the wedding only a week away.

All the final preparations, as Julia liked to put. All the fucking errands she sent you on without even knowing what you were supposed to do. Pick it up, run it down, drop it off. Here’s the address. Just do what I’m telling you. Like you were a fucking assistant instead of the bride.

You never had a say, your ideas were shit, you didn’t know the first thing about planning a wedding this big. Or so would Julia kindly imply — that’s cute, babe, before she did what she wanted anyway. A dismissive wave and a plastic smile. I think we should stick to the original plan, though.

Rhiannon had been a good sport through it, though you never really gave her much context. You’d simply show up, bend her over the counter or the bed or the couch, take out your frustrations and doubts and regrets on her.

And she’d let you. She’d gladly lie there and take it, meeting you halfway with a push of her hips, asking for more as if she liked to test just how far you were willing to go if she allowed it.

It was good. Sex with Rhiannon was nothing like it was with Julia — not that Julia was bad, per se, but sometimes it simply felt like maintenance. Like something you did plainly for the sake of doing. Like calibrating your tires before a long trip just to make sure you wouldn’t have any problems down the road.

Rhiannon, however, was a whole fucking crash.

She was a guardrail you smashed into going 180 an hour on a clean highway, no seatbelt. A wreckage so brutal they’d have to scrape whatever was left of you off the asphalt.

For every yes, babe Julia whispered in your ear like she’d practiced the words in the mirror, Rhiannon babbled an incoherent mix of harder and fuck me and you bastard that sounded like they came from the depths of her soul. For every hand down your panties Julia slipped after you’d pleasured her first like a reward for good behavior, Rhiannon took her time kissing and biting every inch of your skin as if she wouldn’t mind doing that for the rest of her days. For every time Julia’s eyes turned away from yours when you tried to catch them, Rhiannon made sure to look just at you, only at you, that devilish smile curving her lips like she could read every filthy thought about her you’d ever had.

And there had been many.

She was all you thought about these days.

Even now, standing in front of the mirror in the bridal shop, wearing your dress like a picture of the perfect life you were supposed to want.

Julia should have been here thirty minutes ago, you thought, she’s going to make me late for work.

Who were you kidding?

You didn’t care about being late for work. You were pretty sure your boss didn’t give a flying fuck when you’d be back, especially knowing you’d be getting married the following weekend, especially with the tight knit relationship the company you worked for had with Julia’s real estate firm — the whole reason why you’d even met her in the first place.

The real problem was you were going to be late for Rhiannon. Who did have a limited lunch break. Who you planned on meeting for a quick fuck in your car right after you were done with the final fitting of your goddamn wedding dress.

“Look at you, Mrs. Blenkingsopp,” you heard from behind, immediately catching Julia’s face in the mirror as she finally decided to show. She looked at the tailor who knelt by your feet, gesturing at the hem of your dress. “We’re going to need to do something about that train.”

“You’re late,” you called, a bit snappy, trying to convince yourself the bitterness that bloomed inside your chest came from your fiancée’s disregard for your time — not from the fact that you knew Rhiannon’s lunch break would be over in less than twenty minutes now.

“I know, I know,” Julia walked closer, a smile on her lips as she finally stopped beside you. “I’ve got good reason, though.”

You prepared for her to say something about a sale she made or a new client she picked up, used to being stood up on account of her work.

Instead, as the tailor stepped out, Julia grabbed your hand, guiding you off the fitting platform.

“Guess where I’m just coming back from,” she whispered, a hand finding your lower back.

“Work?” Your answer came blunt, still irritated.

“Try again,” she shook her head, voice softer than usual, the rare tone she used when there was no audience to witness. “I’ll give you a hint.”

Julia leaned forward, lips close to your ear.

“I know you’ve been keeping something from me.”

You froze.

The adrenaline discharge was immediate, making your heartbeat ring loudly in your ears and your mouth turn into cotton. Suddenly, the AC didn’t seem to be working anymore, and the dress, which fit perfectly before, felt too tight. Its white reflection in the mirror felt too bright. A billion thoughts ran through your mind.

Julia knew.

She knew about Rhiannon. She knew that you’d been lying for months. She knew you’d been in someone else’s bed, calling someone else’s name, carrying someone else’s nails marked on your back.

On the week of what was meant to be the happiest day of her life.

You prepared to apologize, to kneel down and beg for forgiveness for having broken her heart. While you did have your reservations about marrying Julia, she didn’t deserve that. You did still care about her despite everything. Hurting her was the very last thing you wanted to do.

“Julia, I—”

“No, let me do the talking,” she looked right into your eyes, voice low and calm, thumb rubbing circles on your back as if her final act of revenge would be to murder you with unexpected kindness.

You’d really rather she just threw something at you and called it a day.

But you shut up, sparing her from your empty excuses, knowing you owed her at least that.

“I know your little secret,” she stepped closer, touching her stomach to yours, so gentle you thought you might vomit. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

You gulped.

This was it. No turning back. The point of no return, the shit storm you’d dragged yourself into.

“I’ve just gotten back from Kent,” Julia whispered, moving her hands up until her arms rested on your shoulders, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “That flower shop we went to last year.”

“Julia, I’m so—”

You immediately frowned, interrupting yourself.

Kent?

“Kent?” You asked, confused, not quite sure what exactly that had to do with your affair with Rhiannon. “Where we got the flowers for my nan’s funeral?”

Julia smiled widely.

“Orange lilies. Like you always say she used to have in her yard,” she brought her hands up to the back of your neck. “I… may or may not have heard you on the phone with your mum last week. About how much you wished she could be here.”

“Julia…”

“Let me do the talking, babe,” she placed her index over your lips, tender. “We’re having them at the ceremony. All over it. Orange lilies, a piece of your nan right there with you on our special day.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

You were a monster.

While you were standing there with a frown the size of the moon, wondering how much faster the drive to The Gazette would be if you cut through the residential street behind the bridal shop, Julia was taking a two-hour trip to another county just to get the flowers you wanted.

Which you didn’t even need to ask for.

“I know, I’m the best fiancée ever,” she teased, oblivious to the turmoil in your head as you fought to find the right words. “And only five days left till I’m the best wife.”

Five days.

You let out a breath, overwhelmed, chin tightening before you had the chance to say anything. Your throat closed with a big lump, tears filling your eyes without giving you time to stop them.

“Aw, babe,” just to make matters worse, Julia wrapped her arms around you, pulling you in for a hug you couldn’t help but sink into. “I know. Let it out.”

Of course she comforted you, of course she rubbed your back and played with your hair and whispered sweet things in your ear, thinking you were crying over your late grandmother. She was your fiancée. Taking care of you was what she should do, even if her methods were sometimes questionable.

But those weren’t tears of grief.

They were of guilt.

Guilt for what you’d done, for what you’d been doing, for what you deep down still wanted to do even after such a loving gesture.

Because, in the end, you were marrying Julia for a reason. You stayed for a reason. Even with the controlling tendencies and the knack for the spotlight and the never ending work schedule, she showed up when you needed it. You’d be reminded of it ever so often, how Julia’s attention could make you feel like you were on top of the world, how gestures like this could transport you right to the beginning — back before there were any problems, back when she was just the cute girl that kept showing up at your work.

You had been so busy cataloguing every single one of her flaws you’d failed to pinpoint your own. So Julia worked a lot — well, she did start her business from the ground up, and she was proud of it. You should be as well. And she milked that tired rescue story with the kid in the canal for weeks after it happened — it was annoying, sure, but the sheer amount of new investors it brought in made the wedding basically pay for itself.

Still there you were, meeting someone else in the dark, fucking another woman in your fiancée’s bed.

What excuse did you have?

“I love you,” Julia whispered, the final nail in the coffin. “You deserve it.”

You did deserve it.

Not the fucking flowers, not the attention, not the love.

The sinking feeling in your chest.

You deserved every sharp stab and more. Anything that would make you pay for what you’d been doing, for what you’d been hiding.

All this time, while you let yourself crash into that big-eyed guardrail, you forgot Julia was in the passenger seat. And every stop sign you ignored was a step closer to taking her down with you.

So you made a decision.

“I love you too,” you muttered back, voice charged.

Because, deep down, through the thick and thin, you did. Or you had. Or you could try to, again.

Either way, you owed her that much.

Julia was your fiancée, the one you’d made a commitment to, and she deserved for you to see it through. It didn’t mean it would be easy — but that’s what marriage was all about, wasn’t it? Compromise. Giving up things for the sake of your partner. And it was about damn time you started acting like a wife.

After all, you would become one in less than a week.

Rhiannon, who opened the door that night with a smile on her face.

You showed up unexpectedly, nervous, hands in your pockets because you didn’t trust them to be left unrestrained.

“Hey, you,” she stepped aside to let you in, face clean and hair damp, an oversized t-shirt on that was long enough to make you question whether she wore anything underneath it. “Is this your apology for leaving me waiting at lunch?”

Right. You still hadn’t offered a good explanation for that.

You walked into the living room, head hanging low, worried that if you looked at her face too long your resolve would crumble into nothing. The pitter patter of Tink’s feet on the floorboards made your head spin, the little dog pawing at your legs like she begged for scraps of attention. You didn’t pet her like you normally would have, deeming it best to keep your hands right where they were — Rhiannon was way too close for you to take the risk.

“I’m… sorry about that,” you offered, quieter than usual, not sure how to start.

“You know, I actually kind of like it when you stand me up,” she said, a teasing smirk on her lips, the usual ease whenever the two of you met still present on her end. “Usually means I’m in for a reward.”

You didn’t answer.

You kept your eyes on the floor, on the wall, on Tink’s pleading little face — anywhere except the hazel orbs you knew would draw you in if you gave them a chance. Your lips curved in a small smile, not showing teeth, the same you’d offer someone who bumped into your shoulder on the street and muttered a clumsy “pardon”.

Maybe it was the silence, maybe it was the standoffishness, maybe it was the fact that you’d never been around Rhiannon this long without at least trying to cop a feel — whatever it was, she could tell something was off. You knew it from the way her smirk slowly faded, disappearing, replaced by a concerned frown and a hand on your wrist.

“Hey,” she muttered, searching your face, making it dangerously harder to keep your eyes anywhere else. “You okay?”

You should have expected that.

Rhiannon was observant, you’d come to realize — she wasn’t meddlesome, she’d never ask for details or pry for anything other than you’d give her first, but you saw it. It was in the way she’d touch you so gently when you felt vulnerable and just as roughly when you needed to forget who you were. It was in the way she would always know, without fail, what you were there for. It was in the quiet moments after, when the guilt would flash across your face before you could hide it, when she’d tuck your head against her bare shoulder and stroke your hair so tenderly all you could do was melt into it and stay in the fantasy a little while longer.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

And that was exactly why it needed to be done.

“I’m…” you hesitated, every bone in your body fighting the urge to just launch yourself into her arms and pretend like this was any other night. Like this conversation could wait. Like you could lie to yourself again and say just one more time to get it out of my system. But it couldn’t wait, and you’d already run out of excuses. “I’m getting married Saturday.”

Rhiannon’s fingers twitched against your wrist.

“You are,” she muttered, still looking at you. “Do you… want to talk about that?”

Oh, bless her heart.

You shook like a leaf, nervous, feeling like the world’s biggest coward, and Rhiannon thought you were there because you needed to vent. Poor thing, you’d actually put her through that a couple of times — complaining about something Julia had done or said before you could stop the words from leaving your mouth. And she was ready to listen. She was ready to hold you close like she would and offer you the calming reassurance she always did. Whenever she drives you crazy, I’m here. Make a stupid joke about being your stress relief, which, selfishly, you knew she was.

You felt like shit. Like the worst person in the world. You’d been using Rhiannon for her body, for her patience, for her willingness to be whatever you needed when your own fiancée didn’t give you enough attention or credit or sex, taking and taking and never offering anything back. No strings attached, you’d both agreed on, but you weren’t naive. How could you fuck someone for so long, more often than you did your own fiancée, and expect complete detachment? How could you take this girl into your home, worship her body through the night, memorize every freckle and every scar and every spot that made her shiver, and still make yourself blind to all the exit signs you willingly missed?

You really didn’t know who you were anymore.

“I’m getting married, Rhee,” you repeated, a broken record, the mantra you’d spent the whole drive replaying in your head to make sure you wouldn’t chicken out when you got here. “I’m marrying Julia.”

Rhiannon’s face did something funny at your words, like shock and realization and conformation all at once. Like she got the whole context from half a word you said. Like that was something she expected, maybe not tonight, but eventually. Her breath hitched and her lips pressed together in a thin line as she simply nodded, eyes turning away from you, falling to the floor in the same way yours did.

Tink stopped pawing at your shins and found her way to Rhiannon’s feet, curling faithfully at her owner’s side as she dropped her hand from your wrist.

“You’re ending this.”

Not a question, not a plea, not an attempt to soften the shitty situation you’d created. A statement. Hollow and flat, which you probably deserved — still, she offered you recognition. She didn’t make you say it.

Rhiannon Lewis and her fucking ability to always know exactly what you needed.

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

She stayed quiet, focused on Tink, hardly even breathing as you stood there dumbly, trying to figure out what to say.

“It’s— it’s just not fair,” you blurted out clumsily, figuring you owed her at least an explanation as to why now. “To Julia, to you—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, voice lower than you were used to, head instinctively shooting up to look at her. “Don’t tell me what’s fair to me.”

You could see something crack in Rhiannon’s face just now, a flicker in her eyes, a fire unlike the one you saw in bed when she straddled your hips with a hand around your neck and told you to move faster. This was different. Maybe a bit like that first time she pushed you against the wall in the dark alley behind the pub, but not quite.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—”

She sighed heavily.

“I know. Just… don’t say that.” She cleared her throat, standing up straighter in a way that contrasted with the fact that she still refused to look at you. “I knew what this was. I don’t need the speech.”

It was the first time you saw Rhiannon this cold.

“Uh… okay. Okay,” you cleared your throat. You stood there awkwardly as she kept her eyes on the dog, hands still in your pockets because now you just didn’t know what to do with them. You didn’t want to leave. You knew that walking out of her house meant it was really over. But now you owed her that much. “I… should go, then.”

Rhiannon nodded dryly.

“You should.”

So you walked slow steps toward the door, quiet, the tapping sound of your shoes on the floorboards filling the room. You touched your hand to the doorknob, ignoring the voice in your head that begged you to do what you wanted to do instead of what you should do.

But you still didn’t twist it. Morally, it was the right thing. But it felt wrong. You shouldn’t leave just yet, not like this, not without at least—

“If things were different…” You muttered, knowing you shouldn’t, but you had to say something.

But Rhiannon interrupted you.

“They’re not,” she said, firm.

And so you twisted the knob.

“Bye, Rhiannon.”

“Bye, Y/N,” she answered as you pulled the door open, body heavy, feet aching like they were glued to the floor. “And congratulations. You’re going to make a beautiful bride.”

Rhiannon, whose house you left with purpose.

When you walked out of her house, hand heavy with the weight of your engagement ring on it, you were ready to go home and get a clean start with your fiancée.

You did everything differently that night.

You picked up takeout from Julia’s favorite place. You walked into your apartment bearing dinner and a big, flashy bouquet of white roses, forcing a smile as Julia ran to the door to greet you with a squeal at the sight of the flowers. You kissed her lips, you told her you loved her, you thanked her for what she’d done for you. You made love to her in your bed, your shared bed, mentally scolding yourself every single time you closed your eyes and saw someone else behind your eyelids.

This is not how Rhiannon would do it, you pushed the thought away as Julia’s hand touched you just short of how you really wanted it. She’d been at it for minutes, long ones, and you were running out of fake sounds and practiced lines. It wasn’t usually like this, eventually you got there, but it was clear it wasn’t going to happen this time. Your mind was simply elsewhere.

So you flipped her around, even though you were tired, even though she’d already come. You were doing this. Julia’s lips parted in a tiny gasp as her stomach hit the mattress, not used to the roughness, and you quickly brought a hand to the back of her neck as she tried to look at you.

“Babe, what are you—”

“Head on the pillow,” you muttered, raspy, knowing she wasn’t exactly familiar with this side of you. But you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t keep doing it with her face so close to yours. “I wanna try it like this.”

“That’s… different,” she said, chuckling breathily, spreading her legs. “Practicing new positions for the honeymoon?”

“Don’t talk,” you rasped, knowing you probably shouldn’t push it, but you didn’t care. You were trying. You really were trying, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could do it if she kept fucking talking. “Just— just don’t talk, Jules.”

The words left your lips in a whisper, contrasting with the agile way in which you fumbled for the strap on the bedside drawer, extra gentle when you muttered her nickname. Like you were asking her to collaborate. To be an accessory to the lie you desperately tried to make yourself believe.

Julia just giggled, oblivious to the reason why you suddenly decided to go rough on her, but complying.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You buckled the harness clumsily, impatient, feeling so ashamed of yourself you'd break down in tears if you didn't keep yourself busy.

So that's what you did. You moved fast. You took a hold of Julia's hips and pushed inside, her face down, someone else's appearing in your brain.

Rhiannon, her ghost flying above your bed, the phantom press of her fingertips burning on your skin. You grabbed Julia harder, moving with intention, closing your eyes because you just couldn't help it. You fucked her in the same way you fucked Rhiannon — hard, relentless, all the way to the hilt as the sound of skin slapping against skin and desperate moans filled the room.

Not Julia's. Never Julia's. Julia gasped and whispered and sometimes even asked for more, but she didn't sound like that.

It was all you.

Picturing Rhiannon, jerking your hips like you'd actually feel her there if you moved fast enough. The image of her so clear in your head you could almost taste her on your tongue. Even when you weren't fucking Rhiannon, you were fucking Rhiannon — letting yourself smile in ecstasy for a moment, pretending Julia's hand was Rhiannon's as it held firmly onto the headboard, a loophole you'd found when you couldn't have the real thing.

It was wrong. But it felt so good.

You had the view of her so engraved into your memory it almost felt like she was there — even though Julia's hips didn't meet yours as eagerly, even though Julia's low curses didn't sound as raw. You let your body fall on top of hers, chest to back, hips desperate as you steadied yourself on the mattress with a flat palm and grabbed one of her tits with the other.

“Fuck— just like that,” you said the words meant for Rhiannon’s ears, your grip meant for Rhiannon's breast, your thrusts meant for Rhiannon's core. “Take it. Take it like the good girl you are, spread open for me, take it.”

Julia let out a muffled sound beneath you, thinking you were talking to her, thinking this was simply about passion and spontaneity, a glimpse of the wife you’d become after the wedding. She had no idea how far away you were. It didn't take long for her to come, a bit louder this time, her voice sounding with cries of right there, babe, you’d begun to dread instead of hope for.

Well, good thing it happened when it did. You were right on the brink of saying Rhiannon's name.

But you didn't. Julia's voice brought you right back into reality, to your bed and your fiancée and your life — the one you'd built, the one you'd chosen.

“Wow,” she said as you pulled out of her breathlessly, avoiding her eyes, coming down from the high of the fantasy. “What got into you?”

You flopped down beside Julia as she rolled over, leaning on your forearms, paralyzed as she moved up to kiss your face.

“Just…” You sighed, shaking your head slightly. Thankful that Julia liked to make love in the dark and could barely see your face right now. “Wanted to try something new. Before the wedding.”

“Color me impressed,” she muttered, giggly. “Though I don't think I'll be able to walk right if you keep it up, so… maybe it's best we stick with what we know.”

“Yeah,” you replied, robotic, forcing a weak chuckle that came out more like a breath. “Got it.”

“Props for trying, though, babe. Very creative.”

Rhiannon, who didn't leave your thoughts when you woke up the next day.

You barely slept. You spent most of the night tossing and turning, holding back tears, trying not to crumble with guilt and shame as Julia breathed steadily next to you.

The next morning was a blur. Waking up to an empty bed because Julia had already gotten a start on her day. A headache you didn't know what to blame on — lack of sleep, wedding stress, withdrawal. From Rhiannon. From the face you'd been seeing all through the little minutes of sleep you managed to get through the night. From the woman you would never get to touch again, the one whose absence hurt even more than her illicit presence.

You went through the motions as you tried to pretend like everything was fine, sipping coffee on an empty stomach like it was any other day, turning on the morning news so you'd have someone else’s misery to focus on instead of your own.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN THE CANAL, white letters read on a red background, bringing you a strange feeling of serenity for some twisted reason.

He'd been pulled by the authorities earlier this morning, the reporter said, floating in the water with thirty-two stab wounds across his arms and chest.

It could be worse, you told yourself, selfishly making some poor man's murder about you. I could be dead in the water right now.

Your phone buzzed on the table, pulling you from your macabre thoughts, making you quickly grab it in hopes it was the person you expected.

You sighed in frustration. It was Julia.

Caught up at work. Gonna need you to meet the caterer at 4.

You swallowed, eyes drifting back to the TV as the reporter spoke into a microphone by the canal — the familiar path you usually took on your way home from work. And, suddenly, thirty-two stabs didn't sound so painful.

Rhiannon, whose face you could have sworn you’d seen at the wedding.

The crowd was a blur of pastels and perfume, a faceless mass of friends of friends and colleagues of colleagues, an everlasting squeal-off run by Julia's friends. Your father stood by with his hand on your shoulder, tapping lightly, taking in the view of his daughter in a white dress.

“Look at you, darling,” he said proudly. “An honest woman. Making a life with the person you love.”

You forced a smile, dizzy, hands shaking slightly. Nothing felt real. Every moment passed by like you were drunk, like you were someone else watching from the outside. You'd spent half the morning locked in the bathroom bent over the toilet, spitting your guts out, still feeling your stomach rumble from time to time as you went through the motions.

“Yeah, dad,” you muttered, swallowing the bitter liquid that rose to your throat. “I'm very happy.”

“You should be. Julia's a good one.”

Your father stuck his hand in his blazer, looking around quickly, a playful expression on his face as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Don't tell your mother,” he winked. “Now go. I don't want my baby to smell of smoke on her big day. I'll be right there to walk you down, love.”

You nodded, not saying anything, staring at the cigarette between your father's fingertips like proof that nothing ever changed. Twenty years later, his vice still hadn't gone away.

Would yours?

You shuddered at the thought, quiet because, if you spoke, you'd cry. And if you cried, you'd have to explain. So you simply turned around, hiding behind a fake smile that made your cheeks hurt, walking away because your wedding ceremony was about to start.

When you walked down the aisle, staring at the orange lilies and smelling the smoke on your father's tuxedo, you felt like you were about to faint. Your knees were jelly and you couldn't hear the music the string quartet Julia insisted on having played. All you could do was place one foot in front of the other and smile, forced, pained, ignoring the urge to kick off those fucking heels and get the fuck out of that venue as fast as you could.

You didn't pay attention to what the officiant said. You didn't really hear Julia's vows. Your fingers trembled as you stood in front of your wife, reading the declarations you'd written months ago about love and trust and fucking honesty like they were someone else's. You didn't mean a word of it. Not a word. But you'd made it this far, you'd felt it before, you could feel it again. You just had to wait a little longer.

You could barely feel Julia's lips on yours when the officiant said you could kiss her. The crowd erupted in cheers and claps that sounded like they came from underwater, the ring on your finger ten times heavier than the one you'd been wearing throughout the engagement. This was it. The rest of your life, right here, starting now.

You wanted to disappear.

You let your eyes scan the room, a collection of the people you loved, the people you liked, the people you barely knew. The ones Julia had invited with the sole purpose of saving face. Influential people she claimed should be kept close, who knows when they might be useful?

They were all here, witnesses to the biggest lie you'd ever told, to the cowardly mess that you'd become. Your mother, your father, your sister, Pidge, that guy you always saw with the suit and tie in Julia's office, Rhiannon, your aunt—

Your heart felt like it was about to leap out through your throat.

Rhiannon.

You blinked once, twice, three times.

She was there. In one of the back rows, wearing a simple black dress, hair down and those big hazel eyes focused directly on you. She visibly gulped when you looked back at her, maybe hoping she wouldn't have been caught, you didn't know. You weren't sure. You couldn't read her expression, especially with how blurry your vision started to get.

Julia grabbed your hand, pulling you back into the moment, raising your arm in the air along with her own.

“We're married!” She yelled proudly, performative, beaming as the guests gave the happy couple a standing ovation.

But your eyes didn't leave Rhiannon. She didn't clap. She didn't smile like everyone else, she didn't cry happy tears like Julia's mother did. She simply stared at you, burning, holding your gaze as if she could see right through your soul. As if she could see inside your head, as if she knew you'd rather be anywhere else than standing at the altar with Julia right now.

Rhiannon, who stood alone at the reception.

You had been trying to sneak off ever since your first dance with Julia, stuck between the sea of people who came to greet you — handing out plastic smiles and thank yous like you were running for mayor.

You weren't sure how much time had passed since you'd seen Rhiannon. You hadn't eaten anything, you hadn't drunk anything, you'd barely even had any thoughts that didn't involve her. Your dress felt too tight, too hot, too wrong. You couldn't breathe, not while standing under the neon lights on the dance floor, not while being the center of everyone's attention.

So when Julia got pulled into some sort of elaborate dance routine by Pidge, you snuck off outside under the guise of getting some air.

And there she stood. Alone. Leaned over a railing while staring out into the night sky. Playing with her fingernails, beautiful, hair catching the moonlight in a way you couldn't really compare to anything you'd ever seen.

A gift from the universe, or maybe a curse. A chance. A test. You couldn't tell.

“You're here,” you muttered, the words leaving your lips automatically. “I didn't know you'd… I didn't know you'd come.”

Rhiannon turned around. Her eyes fell on you as if she'd been expecting you to come talk to her, not surprised, just hesitant. Like she wasn't sure she should be there either.

“I'm representing The Gazette,” she explained, voice low, raspy. “Julia sent out an invitation to the office. I was the only one available.”

“Julia— she what?”

“She sent an invitation. Some sort of… whatever, she's been thick as thieves with Norman lately. Something about promoting both businesses,” she cleared her throat, pausing, looking at you. “I figured you knew.”

“I didn't,” you shook your head.

“Yeah, uh, it… is what it is,” Rhiannon shrugged. “I'm not crashing your wedding or anything.”

“Didn't think you were,” you clarified. Your eyes drifted down to her dress, her shoes, the ensemble she hid behind. It was simple. Rhiannon wasn't flashy, she'd never been, but she still managed to be the most beautiful woman in any room. Even tonight. Even as your wife stood somewhere inside in a white dress, proudly wearing the ring you'd put around her finger. No one compared. “You look beautiful.”

You knew you shouldn't. But Rhiannon had a special way of making you say things you should keep to yourself.

She sighed.

“You don't have to say that.”

You swallowed.

“I know. But I mean it,” you paused. Your hands shook like they had all week, except this time it was twice as bad. You could cry at any given moment if you had a chance, the lump of the entire day stuck in your throat like an excuse for you to act stupid. “It's the first thing I've meant all day.”

Rhiannon's breath hitched, those gorgeous eyes falling on your face like a plea, looking even bigger than usual.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

You hesitated. Closed your eyes for a second, then opened them again, trying to preserve what was left of your resolve, but it was pointless. You could never truly hide from her.

“I feel like I'm going to die, Rhee,” you confessed, voice low, barely above a whisper. “I keep hoping for the maniac who's been killing all those men to crash the party and come for me first. I don't think I can do this.”

“Don't say that,” she came forward, finding your wrist, holding it gently in her hand. “Don't wish for something like that.”

Your eyes filled with unshed tears, her touch making you let out the breath you'd been holding since that night in her house.

Even now, at your fucking wedding, after you'd showed up on her doorstep and ended something that had been going on for months with no more than a half-assed apology and a pat on the back, Rhiannon stepped up. She was who you needed. She touched you tenderly, she saw through you, she worried about you being in danger.

“I just don't know what to do,” you confessed, chin tightening, trying your hardest not to start weeping in front of her. “I feel— I feel like I can't breathe. Like I'm going to explode if anybody else fucking congratulates me.”

“Try talking,” she offered, ever so patient, ever so willing. “Maybe that'll help.”

“Talking? What am I supposed to—” You cut yourself off, breath catching, heart racing so fast it felt as if it'd rip your chest open. “I don't—”

“Put it into words,” Rhiannon interrupted you as she realized just how much you struggled. “What you're feeling. What you're afraid of.”

You closed your eyes, letting the first tear fall.

You knew exactly what you felt. It might have been stuck beneath a billion other confusing thoughts, but it was there. It had been there all along, since before you even met Rhiannon, since before the alley and the kisses and the big hazel eyes staring back into yours.

You let out a breath.

“I don't want to be married to Julia,” you whispered, quiet, like a confession to a horrible crime. “I shouldn't have gone through with it.”

“That's fine. That's okay,” Rhiannon rubbed circles on your wrist, achingly sweet, her touch burning your skin in a way Julia’s never had. “You made a mistake. It happens.”

“I— I married her, Rhiannon. It's more than a mistake,” you gulped, shaking your head. The reality of your situation started sinking in slowly, making your head spin. “My parents were there, her parents, the whole fucking town was there watching us and— shit. Fuck. I really fucked up.”

“Hey,” she brought her free hand to your face — maybe a reflex from the past, maybe an instinct. Her fingers cupped your face intimately as if they knew every inch of you, which, if you were honest, they did. “Hey. Look at me. You're spiraling.”

Your eyes fell on her face — those gorgeous, gigantic, concerned eyes, that perfect button nose, those pouty lips.

She was close. Closer than she'd been in days, closer than she'd ever been. Her thumb ran gently across your cheek, soothing, caressing, staring at you like she was ready to give you the world if you let her.

“Tell me what you need,” she whispered, soft. “Tell me what to do.”

You shivered, swallowing another lump, shaking under her touch.

“I can't, Rhiannon, I—” you let your cheek sink further into her hand, your body betraying all the morals your mind had been trying to build. “I don't deserve to ask you for anything.”

“I'm offering,” she moved her palm down to your jaw, fingers meeting the back of your neck. “I'm here. I'm your stress relief, remember? However you want it. To use as you please.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

This was one of those moments.

A chance the universe granted you to prove yourself. To walk away. To politely tell Rhiannon you were married now, that you couldn't fall into old, ugly habits, that you'd pack up your baggage and deal with it like a sensible, responsible adult. An opportunity just like the one you should have taken in that alley, or when she texted you that first time, or at any moment during the past few months while you'd been keeping her hidden like a secret.

But who were you kidding?

You hadn't walked away any of those times, and you weren't about to do it now. Because at the end of the day, Rhiannon was the pack of cigarettes you couldn't let go of. Rhiannon was the guardrail you happily crashed into on a busy intersection, keeping everybody else from getting home on time. There wasn't hope, there was never hope, because deep down you didn't want to be saved. You knew the risk, yet you still went in with no seatbelt anyway. It might not have made you happy. It might not have brought you virtue. But it made you feel alive, and that was something Julia simply couldn't amount to.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered, breathy, hot. “Make me forget. Just for a few minutes.”

Rhiannon brought the hand on your wrist down to your palm, lacing her fingers through yours, looking at your face intently.

“Come with me.”

Rhiannon, who guided you to the parking lot.

She pushed you against a random car, not giving a care in the world how it might crease your dress — which, in her defense, you weren't really thinking about either.

Your hands met the back of her neck immediately, pulling her into you, lips crashing like you'd been apart five years instead of five days. The kiss was rough, passionate, desperate — a mess of wandering hands and tongues and teeth, fighting for dominance while simultaneously losing yourselves completely under each other's touch.

“Rhiannon,” you breathed against her mouth, pulling your own dress up, struggling to pool the heavy fabric around your hips, “now. Please. I need you right now.”

She didn't waste time.

One of her hands pulled the dense fabric further up your waist as the other pushed your panties to the side — your lingerie, the white lacy pair Julia had picked out for you to wear on your wedding night. You whined as her fingers met your center, agile and precise, spreading slick like she knew exactly what to do to drive you crazy.

“I was right,” she whispered, rough, charged, fingertips moving in small circles that made you see stars. “You look beautiful in that dress.”

You let your head fall against the car window, moaning louder than you should have considering you'd been away from your own wedding reception for longer than acceptable now, rolling your hips against Rhiannon's skilled hand in a silent cry for more.

She looked at you like she had no intention of shutting you up, smiling devilishly like the fact that you couldn't control your sounds or that you were pretty sure the tulle of your dress was scratching against the metal only turned her on more.

You'd seen it on her face a few times, the high when your engagement ring pressed cold against her neck, the way she nearly broke the bedframe every time you fucked in your bedroom. There might have been some history there, between her and Julia — though Rhiannon had never mentioned a past to you, Julia had said something once. Back on the day of the interview, the day you met Rhiannon, in the car on the way back from the coffee shop. I used to go to school with that girl. She's always been a bit weird. A quick comment, offhand, muttered absentmindedly as she typed something on her phone.

You never asked, because it didn't feel like your place. It didn't feel right, you shouldn't ask your fiancée — your wife, for fuck's sake — about your mistress. It wasn't a topic you should shed light on.

Still, you could see it. The glint in Rhiannon's face whenever you mentioned Julia. The thin press of her lips. The way she pulled your hair and tightened her hand around your own, willing you to choke her harder, whenever her eyes caught a glimpse of Julia's face on your lockscreen.

And Rhiannon had given you so much. She was right here, on your wedding day, fucking you in the parking lot after you'd been so horrible to her. Making you forget about the mess your life had turned into. You figured it was only fair to offer something in return.

“Fuck, Rhee,” you whined, eyes meeting hers, knowing how much she loved it when you held eye contact. “You’re so good. Nobody fucks me the way you do.”

Her smile widened, mischievous, delighted, like you'd just offered her everything she'd ever wanted.

“Nobody?”

“Nobody.”

Rhiannon pushed two fingers inside you at once, not asking for permission, curling them in the exact way you needed her to.

“Not even Julia?”

You let out a desperate gasp, jerking your hips, sinking your nails into her waist.

“Not even Julia,” you muttered breathlessly, voice barely there “You're so much better, baby.”

Rhiannon moaned, even though you weren't even touching her, bringing a sense of satisfaction to your chest that was bigger than any guilt you could feel for speaking of your wife in such a way just outside your wedding reception. You couldn't stop. She was giving you everything, and you wanted to return the favor. Do for her at least half as much as she did for you.

“I think— fuck,” you whispered, looking at Rhiannon, unable to keep your voice steady as her fingers moved in and out of you so perfectly. “I think about you. When I fuck her. I think about you, Rhee, I pretend it's you instead of her.”

That seemed to do it for her.

She launched forward, catching your lips in a hungry kiss, passionate, tongue moving against yours like she'd die if she ever pulled away. You complied, for once being the good girl she needed, pulling her close as she sped up the motions of her hand.

You knew you wouldn't last. Not at that pace, not with her kissing you like that, not with how emotional you felt.

So you let go. You held onto Rhiannon's back for dear life, sinking your head into her shoulder in a last ditch effort to offer your wife some sort of dignity and not cry out some other woman's name like a whore where her guests could hear you.

Rhiannon, who gave you a tender kiss once you finished smoothing out your dress.

“There,” she whispered against your lips, “now you can breathe.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead to hers. You had to go back. You didn't know how long you'd been gone, or if Julia had even noticed, but you should return. Back to the life you'd chosen. Back to your wife.

“Thank you.”

She chuckled, humorless, pressing a quick peck to your lips while you were still close.

“You go first. I'll hang back. Wait a few minutes.”

You nodded.

“Okay.”

As you pulled away, opening your eyes, catching Rhiannon's gorgeous face in the moonlight, you couldn't help yourself.

“I'll… I'll be back from my honeymoon on the 14th,” you said, hand on hers, reluctant to let go just yet. “Can I see you again then?”

She smiled. Soft, small, the kind of smile that told you she was just as deep in this as you were.

“Of course,” she whispered, hazel eyes filled with all the words neither of you could say. As inevitable and destructive as a guardrail coming full speed in your direction. “I'll be waiting for you.”

[seconddirection]

cant believe ppl thirsted over Joe Goldberg but not Rhiannon Lewis?!

[furiosa-femininst]

Just watched the show Sweetpea cuz I wanted to watch Ella Purnell murdering people (she did nothing wrong btw 😤)

Hulu had it but only if you spend money on a Starz subscription which is fucking bullshit so I tried watching it on a pirating website but it had weird audio delays, so then I went looking for Reddit threads that gave any information on where to pirate it and that’s how I finally ended up watching the whole show via a Google Drive folder. Why’d I have to jump through so many hoops just to watch Ella Purnell play a sexy serial killer, that’s homophobic 😔

Anyway I’m so glad a season 2 was confirmed