#never try to force yourself to draw when you feel bad

[definefaulty]

a backup dancer and an idol

(mlm smut, top male reader x yeonjun, blowjob, raw, haven't proof-read this lol)

backup dancers should act more appropriately than this, you know that much, but unfortunately your self-control leaves something to be desired. almost as much desire as you always seem to stare at him with, he is—everything, cute, sexy, you try to stop as his lips, so plump and red, but often enough you look lower, how much his waist goes in, the soft curve of his ass.

having the hots for an idol is totally fine, so long as they never, ever, know about it. which would have worked except now you catch him looking at you, or no, he’s been catching you looking at his butt, and doing nothing smirking and turning away. getting a boner in the middle of practice is, uncool. so you’ve been forcing yourself to try and avoid him. not look at him, walk to other side of the room of him, that sort of thing.

it’s working well enough, till he manages to catch you in the hallway, his hand grasping your arm, your shocked eyes darting to his.

“why are you avoiding me?” he asks, it’s not really emotional, just straight to the point, almost like he already knows.

“i—i’m not, i uh..”

he smirks, those luscious lips turning upward, “oh, c’mon. let’s talk privately.”

his voice draws a heat to climb up from your chest, sparks bad feelings in your stomach that you shouldn’t have. he grips your wrist and drags you down the hall, finding some kind of small break room with a couch, table, and a door he locks behind you. casually he takes a seat, patting the black leather of the couch next to him.

“i don’t want to have a problem with my dancer, so let’s talk it out,” he says, a kind of teasing smile on his face.

you nod, and carefully sit next to him. your nerves are on fire just with how close you are, then he places a hand on your thigh, you jolt, your arms pinned to your sides. his eyes look at you playfully, moving down to your crotch as you feel yourself start to get hard. your mouth is dry and your feel flushed. he leans in way too close, curious eyes darting around your gaze, and looking down at the tent you’re starting to pitch.

“i haven’t done anything to upset you, right?” he asks, without any worry in his voice, you stare into eyes even as you feel his fingers move closer.

“n—no, of course not.”

“then,” he looks back up at you, smooth lips curving up into a smirk, “is something bothering you? something i can take care of?”

his hand suddenly grabs your bulge, squeezing it a moan is ripped from you, eyes widening in panic your hand quickly grasps his wrist.

“you, we can’t do th—“

he darts in, kissing your lips. you feel the butterflies turn to fireworks as his soft plump mouth tangles with yours, his tongue darting out as you gasp, filling your mouth with the taste of him. whatever resolve you had dissolves, your eyes shutting as your hand grabs his waist and the side of his face. he moves, straddling your lap, and grinds himself onto your cock, moans melting into the kiss, his hands clasped lightly around your neck.

when he pulls away you feel almost dizzy, and unbearably hard, your hinds grinding his hips down. he chuckles, biting his lip, his fingers playing under the collar of your shirt, his warm fingers sends shivers from your collarbone spreading warmth through your chest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, moving down your neck as he slowly climbs off your lap, settling on his knees in front of you, his fingers hooking around the front of your pants.

“oh fuck,” you mutter below your breath.

“if you don’t wanna get caught,” he whispers, undoing your button and zipper, “try not to be loud.”

he drags your pants down to your ankles, burying his face into your bulge. your jaw drops, feeling his nose and breath against your dick. he kisses it through your underwear, groping your balls with his hand. his eyes stare up at you with his teasing glimmer, his tongue moves to drag along the underside of your cock and you hiss through your teeth.

he licks his lips, grabbing the hem of your underwear and tugging it down, your cock springing out throbbing. he gulps, his hand quickly wrapping around it.

“yeonjun you don’t have to…”

he begins licking the tip, your jaw snapping shut, his thick lips wrap around you and he moans quietly, slowly swallowing your length, letting his drool coat it and he works it into his mouth, his throat. he pushes his face forward till he lays flat against your pelvis, and your hands grab his hair without thinking about it, your head rolling back.

you move him back and forth, jaw clenching to hold in the noises, but he’s gurgling pretty loud around your cock regardless. his pouty lips wrapped around you and tears starting to fall from his eyes. his hands grasp your thighs tightly, keeping you from moving away if you’d even want to. you have to keep a shaky fist to your mouth, yeonjun pulls off your dick with a wet pop, swallowing and gasping. he smirks still, slowly stroking your throbbing member. his lips are wet, and his spit drips down his chin, a light flush across his face.

he kisses the tip of your dick, a shiver runs through you as he moves down the back of it, his tongue moving to lick your balls, a low chuckle humming from him. you can only gulp and stare, watching with awe as he starts sucking you again, every muscle flexing to keep yourself quiet. yeonjun hums with your cock in his mouth, and groan escapes you. he bobs his head quickly, a hand wrapped around the base.

when yeonjun pulls off again he spits messily on your dick, laughing quietly as he looks up at you. grabbing his shirt you drag him back up to crash your lips together, tasting your musk on his tongue. his hands move to your waist, slipping his hands underneath your shirt. his touch makes you throb and muffle moans into his mouth, suddenly flipping over and pushing him to lean onto the couch. he lands with a soft gasp, your fingers already moving to the button on his pants, you lick your lips, your eyes moving over his ass in this position, as yeonjun looks over his shoulder at you, with a small smirk, and shakes his hips a bit.

you pull down his pants and underwear, exposing his ass to you. you can see him redden, hiding his face into the cushions of the couch. you hold up a finger to your lips, your other hand caressing his cheek. he nods at you, teeth biting down on his plump lower lip.

you pull his cheeks apart, gathering spit in your mouth as your thumbs move around his pink hole. you dive in, tongue laping at his entrance, your hands groping his ass, pushing the skin against your face. you feel him squirm, low muffled noises coming from him. your tongue starts to push inside him, and you grab his cock between his thighs, lightly jacking him.

yeonjun gasps into his hand, his arching against your relentless tongue in his ass. his cock leaks precum, his thighs shivering as he shuffles them apart further. you pull back to spit on his hole, gathering it with your finger to slowly push it inside him, he breathes hard, trying to relax as your finger breaches. you keep fingering him at a steady pace, gathering his precum on your fingers to lick. his taste is arousing to you, as you get a second finger to slowly work it's way inside, pushing your fingers forward and massaging his walls.

your other hand moves his shirt up as his back, his thin waist tantalizing on display for you. you lean forward to kiss his back, moving up as your fingers work in him, kissing his shoulder blades and his nape. you grab his hair to tug his head up, locking another kiss with him. yeonjun’s familiar whines fill your ears, in this position your dick rubs against his thigh, and you grind yourself against him.

when your mouths part he gasps, and mutters, “f—fuck, put it in, please.”

you kiss him again, moving over behind him you smack your cock against his hole, he grins, his hands moving up to grip your hair. as you push inside him he breathes out, keeping an intense eye contact with you, arching his back and neck upward. when you get balls deep his eyes roll back, his hips pushing back against yours. you feel his walls clench around your cock, as his hand runs through your hair, a soft moan escaping his parted mouth.

when you thrust out and in he whines, beautifully coming undone underneath you. gripping his hips you pick up a pace thrusting inside him, with each one yeonjun rocks forward onto the couch, his hands grasping the cushion. you slide your hand down his arm and over his, your fingers curling tightly over his knuckles. he smiles, his eyes half-closed, his hole is so tight, his warmth bringing ragged breathes from you.

you run your hands up his waist, finding his nipples to squeeze, you kiss his nape again, letting your teeth suck on his skin. he laughs lightly, his hips moving back to meet your thrusts.

"so good, baby," he mutters, "fuck me like that!"

you groan against his sweaty skin, your hips driving harder. he moans a bit loudly and you quickly place your hand over his mouth, picking him up against your chest as you keep fucking him. his eyes move to the corner of his eyes to look at you, a smile underneath your hand. yeonjun holds your hand teasing his nipple, his other moving down to grasp his cock. he closes his eyes as you fuck upwards into his ass, having to bite the skin of his neck to keep your moans at bay.

with your release approaching you whisper against his ear, "i'm close... where should i..."

he moans something against your hand, and you slide it off as he turns to you, "breed me, baby."

you swallow, pushing him onto the couch, and drive your cock inside him with more vigor. you grasp his hair as you fuck him, eyes squeezing shut as you force your mouth to stay closed. with a final thrust your resolve breaks and you swear under your breath, as you feel yourself cuming inside yeonjun. you collapse onto his back, hugging him tightly as he squeezes his ass to milk you. when you finally stop cumming you gingerly pull out, smiling down at his hole, where your cum leaks slightly from.

"fuck," you whisper.

he turns around to face you, breathing raggedly and sweaty. his pants are around his ankles still, his shaking knees gently lowering himself to the ground. his dick is erect and leaking from the tip, and you quickly move down to take him into your mouth.

"shit! yeah, suck me baby," yeonjun moans, he grasps your head as you swallow his member.

you insert your fingers in his ass again, feeling his cock touch your throat, you swallow the taste of his precum, bobbing your head in time with your fingers thrusting in and out of him. he struggles not to moan, his hand clasping over his mouth, he looks down at you with eyes full of lust as you deepthroat his cock, digging your fingers inside enough to feel your warm load. his thighs squeeze around your head, his head dropping back onto the couch.

from here he looks so damn good, too. flushed and with half his clothes off, his body is sexy and showing signs of your love bites. you roll your tongue around his cock, curving your fingers against his prostate. he quivers, moving his head down to whisper at you.

"i'm fucking cumming!"

as he says that you feel his cum start to spew in your mouth, you quickly move your head all the way down his cock, burrying your fingers inside his clenching asshole. his sperm fills your mouth with his slightly salty taste, as his moans are barely held back by the back of his hand. as his cum slows to a stop you keep his cum in your mouth, making sure to suck his cock hard as you pull of. you meet his gaze as he comes down from his high, gasping, and pull him in for a kiss, pouring his own cum into his mouth, as your fingers jerk another flinch from him.

you feel his cum drip down your chin and it does his, as you slowly keep moving your fingers inside him. his hand wraps around your head and the other clasps your forearm, as his whiney breaths hit your face.

"fuck, that was so good," he mumbles.

you pull back gasping, seeing his lips wet with his cum. his licks it off his mouth, and swallows, giving you a teasing smile.

damn, you're cooked.

[daryltwdixon]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 6.5 | Part 7

Summary: Tensions rise as the three of you try to find clarity in the aftermath of lines crossed and feelings laid bare. In the weeks that follow, you begin to wonder if something this messy could still become something that lasts.

|| smut MDNI 18+, some mentions of pregnancy, angst and feelings, some fluff, dirty talk, pinv, blowjobs, love triangle (?), no outbreak, jealousy, possessiveness, power play, joel talks you thru it of course, fair warning this isn’t exactly healthy, bad communication, don’t do this ok EDIT TO ADD: threesome, some dubious consent at first then reader fully consents. Tommy is an asshole || notes: eeeehhehe okay I love this one. its a long boy! I listened to you and didn’t delete any of it lmao I love this dynamic so much and it makes me so happy to know everyone is as filthy as I am // pic of Joel & Tommy is mine //

“So, when you saw them, what went through your head, Tommy?” Dr. Servopoulos asked. The office was neat, almost unnervingly so. The walls were bare except for a few framed photos—serene lakes, white sailboats drifting across still water. A false sense of calm in a space built for unraveling things that weren’t calm at all. The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, a weak attempt to soften the weight of conversations like this.

It had taken a lot to convince either of the men beside you to come today.

Bringing anyone into this mess was hard enough, but laying it bare for someone outside the three of you, having someone watch, analyze, pick apart what happened behind closed doors felt like something private was being dissected under a microscope.

Joel hated this. You knew he hated this. He was a man who carried his feelings in silence, whose apologies lived in things left unsaid. He didn't do this—didn’t sit in stiff chairs like this, in stuffy offices like this, didn't put words to things that made his throat tight. Yet, he still agreed to be here.

And Tommy—you knew this was hard for him too. Not just because of what had happened, but because sitting here, having someone else pick at the wounds, meant acknowledging that things weren’t okay. That they couldn’t just fix it themselves. That you had invited someone in to see the cracks that had formed over the past few months.

It made the walls feel closer, the chairs feel stiffer, the quiet feel too loud.

You watched Tommy as he sighed beside you, his fingers rubbing at his brow. His eyes flickered to the doctor before dropping to the floor. “I don’t even remember,” he muttered. “S’like I’ve blocked it all out.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I do remember the right hook I gave ‘im when Joel was tryna say somethin’ to me.” His voice darkened. “Ya know. When they were finally dressed.”

The last word dripped with bitterness.

You flinched. Your fingers curled together in your lap, knuckles pressing tight.

Joel shifted beside you, the slight movement drawing your attention. He sat stiff in his chair, his thumb rubbing absently at the bruised, purple swell on his cheek—the evidence of Tommy’s fury. He hadn’t said a single word since the session started.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Dr. Servopoulos—”

“Tess,” she offered smoothly.

“Tess,” you amended. “We never meant… this was never supposed to get this far. I just want him to know I never—” You turned to look Tommy in the eyes. “I never intended for this to happen.”

Tommy let out a rough scoff, shaking his head. His arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

A quiet beat.

Tess glanced at Joel then, waiting.

Joel felt the weight of her stare and finally looked up. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable.

Tess raised a brow. “Anything to add?”

His jaw ticked. “What d’you want me to say?”

“You tell me, Mr. Miller.” Tess mused, tapping her pen against her notepad. “What about how you ended up sleeping with your brother’s wife?”

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. His knuckles flexed. “Didn’t start out that way.”

Tess hummed. “Right.” She flipped to a page of her notes. “So let’s lay this out. You—” she nodded at you, “wanted a baby. You—” she pointed at Tommy, “were willing to ask your own brother to be a sperm donor, which then turned into you—” she turned to Joel, “what, just doing your brother a favor? By sleeping with his wife?”

Joel’s fingers drummed against his knee. “I did say no at first. But yeah, somethin’ like that.”

Tommy mumbled under his breath, “Yeah. A real big favor.”

You swallowed.

Tess scribbled something down. “Okay,” she said, flipping her pen between her fingers. “So when you three agreed to try for a baby in this… hands-on way, you never foresaw the possibility of… complications?”

You shook your head, stomach twisting.

“Not once?”

“I didn’t think about it,” you admitted, voice small. “I thought we were just—we were focused on the baby.”

Tommy snorted, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah? Well, neither of you seemed focused on it when you were sneakin’ around.”

You flinched again.

Joel finally looked up at him, his expression dark. “We weren’t sneakin’.”

“Sure as hell felt like it,” Tommy shot back.

Tess sighed, leaning forward, her gaze flicking between the three of you. “Alright, let’s just call it what it is: things got complicated. Lines that were there for a reason got crossed. And the problem wasn’t you trying for a baby—it was everything that happened outside of that agreement.”

She gestured between you and Joel. “You broke the boundaries you set. Maybe you ignored it, maybe you thought you could handle it, but now you’re here. And not because the plan failed, but because you broke your own rules. You had sex outside of what you all agreed to.”

A brief pause. Her eyes scanned each of you, as if silently asking any of you to deny it, before she tilted her head.

“So let’s cut to it. Why are you here? What do each of you actually want?”

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know, okay?” His voice cracked slightly. “I just—I ain’t ready to throw away my marriage, but I also ain’t stupid enough to pretend like nothin’ happened.”

Tess nodded, absorbing his words before turning to you. “And you?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—” Your hands fisted in your lap. “I don’t want to lose either of them.”

Tommy’s head snapped toward you.

Joel’s fingers twitched.

You swallowed, your voice steadier now. “My marriage with Tommy is important to me. He is important to me.” You turned toward your husband, eyes pleading. “But things are complicated. Because Joel is important too.” You hesitated, shifting your gaze to Joel’s hands, his knuckles tight and white where they pressed together. “I don’t want to just cut him out of this just because of one mistake.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. His fingers drummed against his knee, his gaze flickering between you and Joel like he was waiting for something.

Tess sat forward slightly, pen poised. “And Joel?”

Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t wanna make things worse than they already are,” he muttered, voice low, unreadable.

Tess hummed, unimpressed. “That’s not really an answer.”

His fingers tapped against his knee. “Ain’t got another one.”

You turned toward him, heart pounding. “Joel.”

His jaw flexed, his eyes staying downcast away from you.

You didn’t push right away, letting the silence stretch between you before trying again, voice softer this time. “What do you want?”

His throat worked, but he didn’t speak.

Tess glanced between you both. “It doesn’t have to be a speech, Joel. Just say what’s in your head.”

Joel breathed in a slow, heavy breath, rubbing the heel of his hand over his mouth. His fingers dragged across the stubble on his jaw. When he finally looked up, his eyes locked onto his brother. “I know what we agreed to,” he said, voice steady but low. “I know this was supposed to be your kid, that I was just…” He trailed off for a second, shaking his head, like the word didn’t sit right with him. “That I was just helpin’.”

The room felt very still. 

Joel shifted, his knuckles flexing against his knee. “But shit changed, Tommy.” His voice roughened. “I can’t just—" He exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. “I won’t just step back like this don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

The weight of it settled between all of you. Tommy’s knee bounced, his hands gripping his own upper arms where they were crossed. His mouth pressed into a hard line, but he didn’t speak, didn’t argue.

Joel swallowed, gaze flicking downward for a second before lifting again. “I ain’t askin’ for—” He hesitated, his jaw flexing like the words were hard to force out. “I don’t even know what I’m askin’ for.” His eyes flickered to Tommy’s. “But I do know I ain’t gonna be left out to dry.”

“No one said you would be,” you tried to soothe, your hand reaching to rest on his forearm, shaking your head. His skin was rough, warm, solid beneath your touch.

Your eyes traced the worn lines of his face, the quiet tension in his jaw as he looked at his brother. He was handsome in a way that felt etched into him, shaped by time and hardship, by everything he’d carried.

And you knew—better than anyone���how much Tommy meant to him. That neither of them trusted anyone as much as they trusted each other. That this needed to be amended before anything else could carry on between the two of you. You took your hand away from his arm.

Tess let out a slow breath. “Okay,” she murmured, nodding slightly. “Thank you, Joel. I think everyone needed to hear that.”

Joel’s fingers flexed again, and this time, his gaze flicked toward you, studying you for the first time since you arrived. There was something there—a charge, a quiet pull that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and you were only noticing it now, now that everything had changed.

You let the silence stretch as you kept your eyes on his, trying to read between everything he wasn’t saying. That he wanted to be part of this, that he wasn’t going to give this up easily.

Then Tommy sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Alright,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Then we gotta figure out what the hell we’re actually doin’ here.”

Tess tapped her pen against her notepad. “Right. So let’s talk about our options.”

“Options?” Tommy echoed, his voice edged with skepticism.

Tess nodded, uncrossing her legs only to recross them the other way. She leaned forward slightly. “The way I see it, there are ways to make this work—even if none of them are simple.” She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “But make no mistake: it’s going to take work.”

Her pen tapped lightly against the paper as she continued. “Let’s start with the obvious: you can walk away from this entirely, go your separate ways—but none of you seem too eager to do that. Or, you and Tommy could stay together, work on the marriage, and Joel can remain in the background. Be some kind of father figure to this child and nothing more.”

She lifted a brow and looked directly at him. “But I’m not sure, with how far this has gotten, that that’s actually what you want.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, tension shifting through his shoulders as his eyes dropped to the floor.

Then, quiet but certain, Joel said, “It’s not.”

Your chest tightened. The urge to reach for him surged again, stronger this time, but you didn’t move. You let him sit in the silence he’d chosen, even as it said more than anything else could.

Tess gave a small nod, like she’d expected that answer.

Joel didn’t elaborate. Didn’t look up. But the shift in the room was immediate. Whatever this had started as—it wasn’t just about the baby anymore.

Tess paused, giving the moment space before she spoke again.

“So the third option…How do we feel about the possibility of an open relationship?”

The silence that followed was thick, charged.

Tommy looked at you. You looked at him. Then at Joel. Joel stared at the floor, his jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Tess leaned her elbows on her knees, voice calm but direct. “I’ll be honest—I rarely see that work in situations like this. But it’s an option. If you’re willing to set clear, honest boundaries—and actually respect them.”

Tommy let out a breathy, humorless laugh, running a hand down his face again. “Boundaries. We’d need real ones this time. Ones that actually get followed.” His voice was edged, not cruel, but firm. “Not just shit we say and then ignore the second someone gets all… worked up.”

You tried not to let the flush creep onto your face as you kept your eyes on Tess as she went on.

“Now, let’s talk about Sarah.”

Joel immediately stiffened, his eyes shooting up to look at the doctor. Tommy did too.

“She doesn’t need to know about any of this,” Joel said, voice sharp.

“Not right now,” Tommy agreed. He turned to his brother, “But eventually, she’s gonna ask questions. And if we’re talkin’ about raising a baby together too, we can’t just not think about how this looks to her.”

Tess nodded, writing something down. “And if you don’t figure out what you actually are to each other, she’s gonna pick up on that long before you’re ready to have the conversation.” She flicked her gaze between all of you. “Kids are perceptive. The more unsure you are, the more confusing it’s gonna be for her.”

“When the time comes,” Joel said, measured, “I’ll tell her.” He glanced at Tommy, then at you. “Not before. Not unless she starts askin’.”

Tess watched him closely. “And if she does?”

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Then I’ll explain it to her. In a way that makes sense.” His eyes flickered between you and Tommy again. “She don’t need to know more than what’s right for her age.”

You let out a slow breath, nodding. “Alright.”

Tess closed her notebook. “Alright. It’s a start. But you’ve got work to do. This isn’t just about a baby anymore.” She looked directly at Tommy. “It’s about your marriage. About your relationships with each other.” Then her gaze flicked between you and Joel. “And whether or not you two can actually handle boundaries, or if this is just a slow crawl toward something blowing up in your faces.”

You swallowed. Joel’s hands clenched.

Tommy just sighed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The walk into the parking lot was a quiet one, with the buzzing of unsettled energy between the three of you. Once outside the door, you all seemed to turn to each other, waiting for someone to speak.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice soft. “Both of you. For coming to this. I know it was…” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Weird,” Joel offered, with a dry edge.

“Necessary,” Tommy muttered, crossing his arms.

You nodded, arms folding across your chest. “So…” you trailed off, unsure what came next. None of you were.

Tommy gave a short sigh and looked off toward the lot. “I’ll go grab the truck.” He didn’t wait for a response—just turned and walked, shoulders tight, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

You and Joel stood in the stillness he left behind.

He glanced at you, then away, rocking slightly on his heels. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say right now.”

You huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, like something was caught just behind his teeth—but he didn’t speak.

And you didn’t reach for him, even though you wanted to. Even though your hand twitched like it might. To squeeze his, to graze his wrist, to pull him close and maybe even kiss him goodbye. But it was still too weird. Too soon.

So instead, when Tommy pulled up and the tires crunched on the pavement, you stepped forward and let your fingers brush lightly over Joel’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just enough to say something without having to speak.

The window on Tommy’s side rolled down, elbow braced on the edge. He was watching his brother with a resigned look in his eyes.

Joel met his eyes. They exchanged a short, silent nod. Nothing more.

You climbed into the passenger seat, heart thrumming. Joel stayed standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, watching as the truck pulled away.

And even though nothing had been said… it felt like something had shifted. Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

For mid-October, the sun sure was baking you in the bleachers. But it was the good kind of heat—cozy, not oppressive. The air smelled like dust and hay and horses. Behind you, the fair buzzed with life—kids screaming on the roller coasters, bells ringing as prizes were won, music from the concert stage floating over the field like static.

The Austin Fall Festival was in full swing.

Tommy sat beside you on the sun-warmed metal bench, one hand deep in a bag of kettle corn, the other resting easy on your knee. Down in the arena below your seats, another bull rider went airborne, thrown like a ragdoll into the dirt. The crowd let out a collective wince.

“Damn,” Tommy said, watching the guy scramble to his feet. “That’s gonna bruise.”

You snorted, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Bruise? That man’s spine just folded in half.”

Tommy grinned, leaning in. “Bet I could do better.”

You raised a brow. “You can’t even get outta bed without your back crackin’ like fireworks.”

He laughed, mouth full of popcorn, then pressed a quick kiss to your lips—warm and familiar. “True. But I’d still look good tryin’.”

You smiled as you sipped your soda. The air smelled like caramel and something fried—probably the funnel cake stand you passed earlier. You sat close enough to the arena that you could hear the thud of hooves, the pop of the announcer’s mic, the wave of cheers and groans rolling through the stands behind you. It felt electric.

Sarah was up soon. Her first barrel race. She’d been buzzing about it for weeks.

You leaned into Tommy’s side, and he brought his arm up to wrap around your shoulders, giving you an affectionate squeeze.

This was good. A sense of normalcy again.

Then, a familiar face caught your eye making his way up the bleachers. Joel had a bag of cotton candy in one hand and was weaving through the crowd with ease up the stairs. He reached your row and slid in beside you, a small smile already on his face.

“Just left Sarah with her trainer,” he said, a little out of breath. “She’s up in the next few.”

Then he leaned in to greet you, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek meant to be just a casual familial ‘hello’. But still, his stubble scraped your skin just enough to leave a spark, and he smelled like horses and leather and that subtle cologne he always wore. It hit somewhere low in your stomach, but you didn’t let it show. 

He greeted Tommy with a nod, and popped a puff of cotton candy into his mouth.

You made a face. “Ugh. How can you eat that stuff?”

Joel grinned around the sugar, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s what makes me so sweet.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your soda. Tommy reached down for more popcorn, his arm brushing against your back as he dropped his hand from your shoulder, and Joel leaned forward to watch the next event being announced.

You sat between them, shoulders brushing, the sun warming your back, the crowd rising around you.

For a moment, it almost felt like things could settle. Like the three of you could fit into this new normal—comfortable, easy, like it was supposed to be this way all along. At least you hoped. 

The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, calling out Sarah’s name, and your heart gave a little skip.

“There she is,” Joel said, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

You leaned, too, eyes scanning the gate. Sure enough, Sarah was there behind the posts on her horse, nerves painted all over her posture even though she tried to play it cool. Even from here, you could just make out the furrow in her brow—the same quiet, determined look she got from her dad.

“She’s gonna kill it,” Tommy said beside you, resting his hand high on your thigh. He gave it a gentle squeeze, leaning into you as he said, “Ain’t no way she don’t win.”

You smiled, but it felt slightly delayed. Joel’s knee pressed against yours as he leaned close on your other side, eyes still locked on the arena.

“Hope she don’t cut that second barrel too close,” he muttered, mostly to himself, his voice low and rough. “She keeps doin’ that in practice. Gets excited and leans too early.”

“She’ll be fine,” you said, but you could hear the tension in your own voice. Joel’s hand had come to rest behind you on the bench, close to your lower back. Tommy’s fingers were still on your leg.

Sarah burst out of the gate, and the crowd roared. The three of you shot to your feet as her horse charged forward, hooves kicking up dust. She moved fast—tight, clean—rounding the first barrel like she’d done it a hundred times.

Joel was grinning ear to ear. “That’s my girl!”

His arm slid around your back, his other hand curled into a loose fist, pressed just beneath his mouth as if to contain the rush of emotion building in him. The hand at your back caught in the fabric of your blouse, fingers curling there, like he was tethering himself. Like he was bracing.

You tried to focus on Sarah, but all you could feel was the heat of his fingers, the way he clung to you, like your body was hyper aware of him.

You smiled, cheering, barely breathing, eyes fixed on her horse thundering toward the second turn. She hugged the barrel tight—too tight. A little wobble, a gasp from the crowd, but she corrected at the last second.

“She’s got it,” Tommy said beside you. His hand came to rest against the small of your back—right below where Joel’s hand was already bunched in your shirt. The two touches nearly met.

Neither of them moved.

Sarah charged toward the third barrel. Clean. Her final sprint down the home stretch brought the stands to their feet.

The three of you clapped, cheered, whooped, your heart racing, the electricity between the two men fizzing silently beside you. Tommy’s hand splayed wide across your backside. Joel barely moved, watching the timer screen flash across the display.

“That’s a good run,” he said, low and proud. His fingers loosened from your shirt, but he didn’t move his hand away.

“She’s gonna place,” Tommy agreed.

“She might win it,” you added, turning your head to look at them.

Both of them were already looking at you.

You smiled, flushed from the excitement—but something in the way they each looked at you made your skin feel hot for an entirely different reason.

Neither of them said anything, and for a second, the moment just… hung there. Their hands on you. The roar of the crowd fading into something muted.

Then the announcer called the next name, and the energy around you snapped back into motion.

Joel pulled his arm back to grab the cotton candy. Tommy slid his hand away like nothing had happened.

But your body remembered. And so did theirs.

After catching up with Sarah after her event, she was still buzzing with adrenaline. Practically bouncing.

“Did you see how fast he took that last curve?!” she gasped, practically skipping between you and Joel. “I was freaking out when the second barrel started to tip—did you see that?! Were you guys watching?!”

Joel was all pride and smiles as he walked beside her, teasing and nodding along, soaking in every word. She rambled on about her trainer’s horses, how they’d competed at Rodeo Austin for real, how she couldn’t wait to do it again. Eventually, she managed to talk the three of you into a round at the BB gun booth.

All four of you took a stance—Sarah coached dramatically, and you, predictably, failed miserably your first try. Joel and Tommy moved to the next round, and you watched from the side with Sarah, both of you hollering in support.

“Hit it! Hit it!” Sarah screeched at her dad. You let out a whoop as Tommy nailed the bullseye again and again.

When the game runner handed him a giant teddy bear, Tommy swung it into your arms with a triumphant grin before kissing you full on the mouth, unbothered by the crowd.

You laughed against his lips, hugging the bear tight, bouncing a little despite yourself.

“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah groaned, tugging at his arm until he pulled back from the kiss, grinning at her wide-eyed look. “Win me one too! Please?”

Tommy’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Joel, clearly amused that he was the one winning today. Joel rolled his eyes, but you caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long as he glanced at your oversized teddy hitched on your hip.

“Go on, then,” Joel said, nodding toward the booth. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”

“I’ll join you,” you added quickly, glancing toward Tommy. But Sarah was already dragging him away, his hands back on the BB gun, ready for round two.

You and Joel peeled off quietly, heading toward the food and drink stands.

“Sarah was beggin’ for a funnel cake earlier,” Joel said, hands in his pockets. “Okay if we stop by one of the stands?”

“Yeah, ’course,” you murmured, falling into step beside him.

The walk was quiet—not awkward, exactly, but the air between you had thickened. Every step felt like it carried the weight of something unsaid.

You hadn’t talked much since the therapy session. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. The three of you had agreed to give it space—to breathe, to not immediately push into definitions or rules or boundaries.

But space didn’t feel like clarity. It felt like walking on eggshells. Like waiting for someone else to speak first, only no one ever did.

You weren’t sure what this was supposed to look like now. The idea of exploring an open relationship had been thrown out into the room like a life raft, but no one had said if they were actually ready to grab onto it. Not Joel. Not Tommy. Not even you.

You made it all the way to the counter before either of you spoke again.

“Make that two funnel cakes, please,” you said, just as Joel ordered Sarah’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” you laughed, lifting a shoulder. “Can’t help the cravings.” You reached for your wallet. “I’ll get Sarah’s too.”

Joel stopped you, his hand catching your wrist as you moved to your back pocket.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, already pulling out cash.

Then, quieter—low enough that the vendor wouldn’t hear, but just loud enough for you—he added, “Guess that sweet tooth runs in the genes.”

Your heart stumbled a beat. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t smirk, didn’t wink, but you could swear there was a twinkle in his eye when he turned back to you as you both stepped aside to wait for your order.

And just like that, the silence settled back in—only now it wasn’t neutral. It was charged.

When the funnel cakes came, you didn’t hesitate—tearing off a bite, still warm and soft, powdered sugar sticking to your lips.

You sighed in delight. “Oh my God.”

Joel was watching you when you looked up. That slight smirk on his face.

“What?” you asked, mouth full.

“You got a little somethin’,” he said, gesturing vaguely near his own mouth.

You licked your lips automatically, tongue sweeping the corner.

“Nope,” he murmured, chuckling. “Still there.”

Before you could try again, his hand reached out. Fingers warm and rough as they curled under your chin. His thumb dragged gently across your upper lip, brushing away the sugar with a slow swipe.

You froze—your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes searched his face. The lights from the festival sparkled in his eyes, and behind him the sky had deepened into a wash of orange and violet.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he moved.

His lips brushed yours—soft, hesitant—like he wasn’t sure if this counted as crossing a line, or if the line had disappeared altogether. But he didn’t pull back right away. Instead, he paused there, the warmth of his breath ghosting against your mouth, and for a second neither of you moved. 

You stood still in that sliver of space where touch becomes choice, where you could pretend it hadn’t happened yet. But then his mouth pressed into yours fully, slowly, like he was tasting something he already knew. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, drawn out and gentle. 

His hand stayed at your chin, his thumb pinching just barely as if to steady you, and your lips parted instinctively beneath his. You felt the sigh in his chest more than you heard it, like something deep inside him had let go the second your mouths met. 

Your hands stayed at your sides, fist clenched around the paper tray still holding your funnel cake, the other hugging the teddy bear to your side, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. It wasn’t a kiss born from adrenaline or jealousy—it wasn’t the kind of kiss that begged for permission. It simply was. 

When he pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt. It was slow, like he didn’t really want to stop, but knew he had to. His lips hovered a moment longer—just close enough that you could still feel the heat of him—and then he stepped back half a breath. You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. You stood there staring at him, your lungs burning like you’d been holding your breath the entire time. Joel’s eyes dropped to your mouth again, and then, with a subtle flick of his tongue, he licked the last trace of powdered sugar from his bottom lip. The gesture was unthinking, automatic, but the sheer sight of it landed somewhere low and electric in your stomach, like a match being struck.

And then the world came rushing back in.

The noise of the fairgrounds—the buzz of voices, the bark of game operators, the soft whir of rides—returned all at once, like someone had turned the volume back up. You swallowed hard and looked away, trying to force air into your lungs, trying to stop the trembling in your fingers. Joel didn’t say anything. He just nodded once, almost to himself, and turned to start walking back toward the game booth. You followed beside him, the heat still high in your cheeks, your steps too careful, like if you moved too fast you might lose your balance.

You glanced up at him once, just to see if he was as composed as he acted, but the faint pink flush at the tips of his ears gave him away.

“Dad!”

Sarah’s voice snapped your head up. She was running toward you, a giant stuffed horse clutched in her arms, nearly half her size. She was beaming. “Can I go find Claire and Maddie again? They’re headed to the ferris wheel!”

Joel handed her the funnel cake without hesitation, “Yeah, go on, just stay where we can see you.”

“Thanks!” she chirped, already spinning away with her prize in tow, the funnel cake tipping dangerously as she ran off.

But your eyes weren’t on her.

They were on Tommy, just catching up to you—beer in one hand, the other stuffed in his front pocket, a smile on his face as he watched her go. When his eyes found yours, they flicked to Joel beside you, and something in his expression changed. Not angry, not suspicious… but aware. Like he was conscious of some shift between the two of you.

You tried to will the pink from your cheeks, steady the pulse in your throat as you stepped toward him and offered your funnel cake like nothing had happened.

“That kid had me goin’ three more rounds to get her that prize,” Tommy chuckled, clearly trying to break whatever tension had settled back between the three of you as he tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth.

Joel let out a quiet laugh, eyes following in the direction Sarah had run off. “Better go catch up with her before I lose ’er.”

Tommy nodded, then glanced at you. “Think we’ll call it a night after this. She’ll be wired for another hour and then crash hard.”

You smiled, grateful for the exit.

As Joel nodded and began to step away, Tommy called after him casually, “Hey—when you drop her off, mind swingin’ by the house? Think I left that box of tools in your truck bed last week.”

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure.” his eyes landed on you for the briefest moment, “See ya in a bit then,”

Tommy gave him a two-finger wave, then turned his attention back to you, the last bite of funnel cake pinched between his fingers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you walked out of the fair.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it felt like it stretched forever.

Tommy’s hand had been on your thigh from the moment he slid into the driver’s seat—steady at first, but now, it was creeping higher with every turn he made. His fingers flexed just at the top of your leg, the pad of his thumb brushing over your jeans in slow, distracting strokes.

“Tommy,” you said, a quiet breath more than a word.

“Yeah?” His voice was low, too casual for the way his fingers were moving now.

“You’re bein’ handsy.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Yeah, well. You’re lettin’ me.”

This wasn’t like him.

Yes, Tommy was affectionate—always had been. Touching your lower back as you passed through a crowd, brushing his lips over your shoulder while you stood at the sink, nudging your knee under the table just to remind you he was there.

But his gestures had never been… naughty.

Never anything that lit a fuse under your skin like the way his hand was gripping your thigh now. Never anything that made your breath stutter in your chest just from the press of his fingers curling possessively around your skin.

He was usually more careful with you. Gentle.

Tommy was the kind of man who waited until you were both tucked under the covers, warm and safe, soft and sleepy, before climbing over you with a smile and a kiss to your neck. The kind of man who made you smile first, made sure the world had quieted before he pulled you under.

You turned your head, looking at him from the passenger seat. He was focused on the road, jaw tight, eyes hard on the curve of the pavement as he turned into the neighborhood. But there was a spark there, flashing hot and alive beneath his usual easy exterior.

Your gaze slid down as he shifted in his seat, and your eyes caught on the undeniable shape in his jeans.

Heat bloomed in your face. Your chest. Lower.

The tight bulge in his lap pulsed like a secret between you, and it made your thighs press together involuntarily. But it wasn’t just the fact that he was aroused—it was that he wasn’t hiding it. That he was feeling you up in the front seat of the truck, on your quiet neighborhood street, away from the safety of the four walls of your bedroom.

Tommy, who usually waited until the house was dark and the doors were locked. Who kissed you slowly, slid his hands under your shirt and whispered “you okay?” even after years of being together.

He just slid his hand between your legs and gripped your inner thigh like he’d been thinking about it all night.

It sent heat rolling through you, sharp and dizzying. Not just from the touch, but from the awareness of how out of place it was. How unlike him it was to let go like this, to need like this, especially outside the safety of home.

And God help you—you liked it.

You pressed your legs together, your breath catching in your throat, trying to remember how to sit still while every nerve in your body screamed at you to climb into his lap and ride him right there in the middle of the road.

He felt your squirming as he pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching softly over gravel. The second the truck shifted into park and the headlights clicked off, the cab was swallowed in quiet shadow, only the streetlamp catching the edge of his jaw.

He turned toward you, that smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth—the kind that made your stomach flip. His hand slid from your thigh to the top of your seat, arm stretched across the backrest, his gaze drinking you in from the other side of the bench.

“C’mere,” he said, low and smooth, nodding for you to slide over.

You bit your lip, heart thudding, and obeyed without a word—scooting across the cracked leather until your thigh brushed his.

His hand dropped from the headrest to cradle the back of your neck, warm and firm. The other left the steering wheel, finding your cheek, fingers spreading across your jaw like he needed to anchor you in place.

And then he kissed you.

Not the sweet, half-thought kisses he’d given you throughout the day. Not careful, not playful. This was deep. Needy. Starving. Like he’d been holding it back for too long and didn’t care anymore if it showed.

His mouth slanted over yours again and again, open and hot, tongue sweeping past your lips like it belonged there. The soft sounds he made—those low, growling hums that rumbled in his throat—sent heat surging through your core.

Your breath stuttered as his grip on your neck tightened, his other hand trailing slowly down from your face to trace along your body until it was back at your denim clad thighs. He gripped hard, his palm sliding up along the seam of your jeans, squeezing just enough to make you shift in your seat.

When he tugged gently at the base of your hair, just at the nape, a moan slipped from your throat before you could catch it.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

He huffed a breath against your skin, already moving to your neck, kissing a line down the column of your throat. His mouth was open, his tongue slow, dragging heat behind every press of his lips, and then—teeth. A soft bite that made your body jolt.

“Wanted to get my hands on you all day,” he muttered between kisses, voice muffled against your skin. “Lookin’ so pretty,”

You whimpered, nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as he worked lower, pushing your neckline aside with one hand just to mouth at the new skin he found there.

You were panting now, flushed all over, your thighs pressing together as he kissed, bit, sucked like he was trying to brand you.

“Tommy,” you breathed, completely undone, and when he looked back up at you—lips swollen, eyes dark—you barely recognized the hunger in his face.

“Get your ass inside,” he rasped. “Now.”

You climbed out the passenger door, giddy like a teenager all over again, your skin still tingling from his hands and mouth and voice. As you made your way up the walk, Tommy’s hand came down in a playful smack against your rear, making you squeal and laugh over your shoulder at him.

He didn’t smile—not fully. His eyes were too dark, too focused. But the edge of his mouth twitched like he was barely holding himself together.

By the time you reached the door, his chest was already at your back, his arms snaking around you, mouth grazing your ear. “You drive me crazy, baby… you know that?” he murmured, voice low and breath hot.

You fumbled the keys, giggling as he pressed closer. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to himself.”

“And you didn’t stop me,” he whispered, nuzzling your jaw. “Didn’t want to, did you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The door clicked open and the second you were inside, his hands were on you again—spinning you around, backing you up against the wall just inside the entry. His mouth crashed into yours, deeper this time, slower but no less desperate. His hands slid up your sides, over your waist, thumbs hooking into your belt loops to keep you flush against him.

He kissed you like he hadn’t touched you in weeks. Like he’d been starving for you.

By the time you pulled apart for air, you were both breathless and a little dizzy.

“Upstairs,” he murmured, voice ragged, his hands slipping down to grab yours, guiding you behind him.

At the top, he didn’t even pause—just pulled you straight into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind you with one solid thud. And then his hands were back on your hips, his mouth on your throat, and whatever this was—it wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.

Your back hit the bedroom wall with a soft thump, and Tommy barely gave you time to catch your breath before his mouth was on you again, pressing into the curve of your neck, open and hot, his hands splayed across your hips like he couldn’t keep his hands still.

You gasped as he nipped at the base of your throat, your hands tangling in his shirt, gripping the fabric tight. He groaned softly against your skin, one hand sliding up under your top, rough fingers skimming over your ribs like he needed to feel all of you.

“Tommy—” you breathed, but it came out more like a sigh.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling hard, eyes dark and locked onto yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head before the words even formed. “Don’t.”

That was all he needed.

He tugged your shirt up, slow but sure, breaking contact just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it to the floor. His eyes dropped, sweeping over your bare skin like it physically pained him to look away. One of his hands slid behind you and unclasped your bra in a smooth motion, and let it slide from your shoulders. His hands were reverent, warm and wide as they came up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the groan that left him was raw, almost pained.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, like a thought spoken out loud.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his stomach and chest. He helped you the rest of the way, yanking it over his head and tossing it behind him. His mouth was back on you before you could get a good look, lips trailing heat down your collarbone, your sternum, the swell of your breast. He kissed your flesh until you were arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans next, and you gasped when he popped it open and dragged the zipper down, his knuckles grazing the skin just below your belly. You toed off your shoes, the soft thud of them hitting the carpet barely registering over the pounding in your ears. His hands slid to your waist, and he dropped to his knees, pulling your jeans down inch by inch, kissing the skin he uncovered like it was a map he already knew by heart.

By the time he got your jeans off, his mouth never left your skin, kissing along your hip bone, his breath hot and shaky. His hands slid up your thighs, slow and worshipful—until they weren’t. Until they were gripping.

His fingers dug into your flesh, pulling you closer as he moved up to kiss your stomach, chest, throat—claiming every inch like it was his and his alone. You were breathless by the time he kissed you again, and when he pushed you back onto the bed, you went willingly, your back sinking into the sheets, arms stretching above your head.

He hovered over you, eyes tracing every inch of your face. And then something flickered there. Something sharp.

“You let him touch you like this?” he asked, voice low but tight, as his hand moved between your legs, cupping you over your panties. The lace was already damp beneath his fingers, your arousal bleeding through the fabric. He dragged a finger along the center, slow and deliberate, and you felt the heat bloom deeper as the pressure built.

Your breath caught. “Tommy—”

“Just tell me,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. “Did he touch you like this?” He pressed the heel of his palm in, slow but firm, dragging a moan from your lips even as your brows pulled together.

“Stop,” you breathed, trying to push up on your elbows. “It doesn’t matter.”

But he shook his head, his hand sliding your underwear down your thighs, slow and rough all at once. “It does to me.”

He kissed you again—deeper this time, almost bruising until his hands guided you to roll over, his touch less gentle now, more insistent. He pulled your hips up until you were on your knees, chest pressed into the bed, your face turned toward the pillows. You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him—hot and hard, the blunt weight of his cock pressing against you.

You arched back into it instinctively, needing him to forget everything else, to just feel this—feel you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, pushing into you with one steady thrust that made you gasp, your fingers curling into the comforter. “Always been mine.”

You moaned, eyes shutting tightly as he moved inside you—rougher now, his rhythm firm, controlled, but not cruel. Just desperate. Like he had something to prove.

Every sound that left him was strained, thick with emotion—his hands spreading across your hips, his thumb trailing up your spine like he needed to feel every piece of you to believe this was real.

The sound of your moans and Tommy’s grunts filled the air, the sheets rubbing against your skin beneath you, it was almost loud enough to drown out the front door opening.

But then you heard his voice.

“Tommy?”

Your eyes flew open, breath catching in your throat. That was Joel’s voice coming from downstairs. Your mind scrambled to remember why the hell he was here. And then you remembered Tommy’s request. Some stupid tool box he needed.

Tommy stilled for half a second—just long enough for your heart to lurch—before he started moving again, slower this time, deeper. Like he was doubling down.

You grunted, biting your lip to swallow the moan that threatened to give you away. Your hand scrambled for the edge of the sheets, something to grip, something to hold you to earth.

Your blood ran hot and cold all at once.

Joel’s voice came again—closer. “You home?”

“We’re up here,” Tommy called back, voice completely steady.

No.

Your entire body tensed under him, your head whipping to the side, eyes locked on the closed bedroom door.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, panicked, but he only dropped more of his weight onto you, one hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, the other tightening around your hip. You were locked in place beneath him, your breath coming fast.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Tommy cooed, his voice sweet but mocking as his hips kept moving, slow and steady and deep. “Ain’t gonna stop now.”

There was a creak on the stairs.

Your heart slammed into your throat.

“Tommy,” you hissed again, but it came out half-broken, your voice catching in your chest.

And then—

The door swung open.

“Jesus—” Joel flinched hard, turning away with a grunt and lifting a hand to cover his eyes. “What the hell, man!?”

Tommy didn’t stop.

His grip on you tightened, his thrusts slowing just a hair—but only to lean down, breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “That what you wanted, huh? Him seein’ you like this?”

You whimpered, caught between mortification and a heat that made your knees weak.

“Tommy—please—” you gasped, struggling half-heartedly beneath him.

But he was gone.

“Think you can just fuck my wife whenever you want?” Tommy growled, looking over at Joel now, chest heaving, voice thick with rage and something else—something darker. “Think you do it better?”

Joel turned slightly, eyes caught somewhere between fury and disbelief. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind—”

“Have I?” Tommy snapped, his voice low and dangerous as he fucked into you harder now, like he was trying to prove something with every movement. “’Cause she’s drippin’ all over my cock right now. You seein’ this?”

You let out a broken sound, face buried in the mattress. You wanted to crawl out of your skin—and yet the way Tommy was holding you, the filthy things coming out of his mouth, the heat between the three of you…

It was too much.

Joel’s mouth opened like he was about to say something else—but he didn’t.

He stared.

He stayed.

And your heart nearly exploded as Tommy chuckled low in his throat, thrusting deep and slow again like he wanted Joel to see it.

“That’s right,” Tommy said, never looking away. “Go on. Watch. See what it looks like when a man takes care of what’s his.”

“Call this takin’ care?” Joel said, voice low, sharp with something mean and taunting beneath the surface.

Your eyes flicked up, wide, and found his—and the heat there made your breath catch.

“Tell me, little brother,” Joel drawled, “you ever felt her come all over that dick of yours?”

Tommy’s movements faltered. Just for a second.

You felt it—his grip loosening slightly on your hips, his breath catching.

Your heart was in your throat, beating so hard it hurt.

Joel stepped forward, slow, measured. His eyes dragged over your body—not like it was new to him, but like he knew every inch of it already. Like he could trace it blind, by memory alone.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured.

Then his gaze locked with yours.

“Should we show him, sweetheart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped clean through the mattress. “Show him what he’s been missin’?”

Your mouth parted, no sound coming out.

Joel tilted his head, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Think my pissy little brother needs some pointers?”

Tommy let out a rough breath behind you, a mix between a growl and a scoff, his hand sliding up your spine possessively.

“She’s my goddamn wife,” he snapped, but his voice wasn’t steady anymore.

Joel’s gaze flickered up, darkening, “Then fuckin’ act like it.”

The silence was deafening—so thick you could hear your own pulse in your ears.

Tommy’s hands flexed on your hips again. And then he thrust—hard. Deep. A sound ripped out of you that wasn’t quiet at all.

And Joel’s expression changed. Softer. Almost smug. Almost… proud.

“She sure makes the prettiest sounds, don’t she?” he said, and he approached the bed. Your skin felt like it was on fire as Tommy stilled completely, but he was still hard inside you to your surprise.

“Turn her over,” Joel said steadily.

Tommy’s head snapped toward him. “Get the hell out.”

“You invited me in here, little brother.” Joel’s tone was exasperatingly calm. 

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Both men. In the room with you while you were naked and taking your husband’s cock.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, wild and uneven, like it was trying to warn you. Or maybe it was just overwhelmed.

You didn’t know where to look. Joel, standing there with that infuriating calm like this was just another Tuesday. Tommy, still inside you, bristling with fury, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as he tried to process what was happening.

And you—trapped in the middle, hips pinned beneath the man you married, body still burning for the one you hadn’t stopped thinking about since that first night.

You should’ve felt humiliated. You did. But your skin still tingled everywhere Joel’s eyes touched.

Tommy was quick to snap at his brother, “And now I want you out.”

Joel didn’t flinch. “And what do you want, sweetheart?” he asked, gaze cutting to you, his head tilted slightly as his eyes took in the flushed features of your face.

You exhaled slowly, your lungs feeling like they’d deflated. Your mouth was dry, but you licked your lips anyway, then turned your face to look back at Tommy, biting down gently on the inside of your cheek.

Tommy’s face twisted in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Just…” you breathed, heart pounding in your throat, “let’s just see. It could be fun.” You swallowed. “We haven’t made any rules yet.”

Tommy looked between the two of you—his jaw tight, his eyes wide, stunned. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before he finally pulled out of you, breath ragged. “Alright. Turn over.”

You moved quickly, your skin flushed and glowing, body still trembling as you flipped onto your back. The sheets were warm under you, your thighs still slick, still open.

Behind you, you heard the unmistakable rustle of clothes—the metal clink of a belt, the soft drag of a zipper—and then Joel was there.

The heat of him hit you first. He was so warm, and as he stepped to the side of the bed, the mattress dipped slightly with his weight.

“This is so fuckin’ weird,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head as he moved to kneel between your legs again.

You sat up a little, cupping his face, dragging your hand down the center of his chest, his stomach. “I love you,” you whispered, searching his eyes. “If you don’t want this, we stop. Say the word.”

Tommy stared down at you for a long second. His lips pressed together, pulled inward like he was thinking too hard. His eyes flicked to Joel, then back to you.

He sighed, jaw clenching. “Just this once. And if it doesn’t work—”

“Never again,” you finished softly, nodding.

Only then did you glance up at Joel.

He nodded once, slow and assured, his hand already moving to the bulge in his briefs. Your eyes followed—broad chest, tan skin, strong forearms—and you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned back, just slightly, hand drifting up to cup him through the fabric. Joel exhaled, low and rough, eyes fluttering shut as your palm rubbed against him.

“Show him,” you said softly.

His eyes opened again, sharper now, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Not sure he deserves it after all that attitude,” Joel muttered, voice teasing but laced with heat.

“Joel—” you warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes—but his voice was dark now, thicker. “But then it’s my turn.”

You watched him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, pushing them down with one slow motion that revealed all of him—hard, heavy, already flushed. Your breath caught at the sight, heat flooding through you like a second pulse.

He fisted himself gently, watching you, waiting.

Above you, Tommy shifted. You turned to look at him and his mouth was drawn tight, eyes hard with conflict. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he moved closer, settling between your legs again, hands sliding up your thighs.

You stared up at him, unsure if he’d really go through with it. But then he lined himself up, his cock dragging through your folds, and you gasped at the contact.

He sighed low, almost like relief, as he sank into you with one long, slow push. The weight of him settling into your hips, the feeling of him filling you again—it made your head fall back, your mouth falling open.

The tension in the room turned molten.

Tommy’s hands slid to your thighs, gripping tight like he needed something to hold on to. His eyes flicked up to Joel, who was still settled at your side, close enough now that you could feel his presence, warm and electric.

You barely registered Joel moving until you felt his hand close around your wrist. Firm. Certain. He guided your hand to his cock—thick and hot and heavy—and curled your fingers around him like he was placing something sacred into your palm.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around the head, soft and swollen and already leaking, and sucked—slow, reverent, like you’d been dreaming of this since the last time. And you had been.

Joel hissed through his teeth, his hand threading through your hair as you hollowed your cheeks and pulled him deeper. “Good girl,” he muttered. Your entire body clenched at the praise.

Tommy groaned above you, building up his thrusts, erratic and messy as you pulsed around him.

“Slow down,” Joel said, calm, instructive. “Long, even strokes. Deep.”

Tommy cursed under his breath but obeyed, grinding into you with a slower, heavier rhythm that made your whole body arch forward, your mouth taking Joel deeper.

“Good,” Joel murmured. “Now thumb her clit.”

You whimpered around his cock, the sound thick and broken. Tommy’s thumb slid over your swollen clit in soft, careful circles, and your whole body clenched around him.

“She’s grippin’ the hell outta me,” Tommy breathed. “Fuck.”

Joel’s voice was right above you now, rough but steady. “Spit on it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Spit on her clit. She likes it messier.”

You moaned, mouth full of Joel, your thighs twitching.

Tommy grunted again, but when you felt the warm wet hit of spit on your skin, you moaned loudly, hips bucking. His thumb slid through the slickness building there, the glide smoother, filthier, perfect.

“That’s it,” Joel growled. “Keep her right there. Thumb her just like that. Don’t stop. Her throat is squeezin’ me so good when you do that.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your body was clenching up, something coiling in your spine and hips as he kept up the pace. Joel’s cock dragged across your tongue, thick and pulsing, while Tommy thrust into you—slower now, more precise, but still not quite enough.

You loved Tommy’s rhythm—the care in it, the way he was doing everything to get you there, the way he wanted to get you there. But your orgasm wasn’t building the same way. It was harder to catch, harder to ride. Joel’s cock had a weight, a stretch that reached something deeper in you—something that made your body respond instantly. With Tommy, it took more. He was only slightly smaller, narrower, not lacking, just… different.

Still good. Still yours. But different.

“She’s close,” Joel said, voice ragged now, eyes locked on your face. “I can feel it.”

Tommy groaned, cock twitching inside you as you clenched down hard. “Jesus, she’s—fuck, she’s so tight.”

“You wanna come for Tommy, sweet girl?” Joel asked, still beside you on bed, one hand fisted in your hair where it spilled across the bedspread, thumb brushing softly over your cheek.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his—and in the same breath, Joel guided his cock back between your lips, sliding into your mouth with a slow, deliberate push that made your throat stretch and burn in the best way.

You gagged softly, the movement rippling through your body. Tommy moaned at the sudden convulsion of your walls around him, his one hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave bruises. The other kept circling your clit with his thumb, your eyes warring between rolling back and trying to focus on Joel. 

“Fuck—she just—goddamn,” Tommy breathed, his hips faltering for half a second before finding that rhythm again. Deep, slow strokes that had your whole body arching beneath him.

Joel pulled back with a wet pop, a string of spit and precum connecting your lips to the flushed tip of his cock. You were gasping for breath, whimpering and moaning as he leaned down close, hovering just over your face, thumb wiping at your mouth like it was his.

You were hovering now, your spine tingling with the build up. So close. But not there yet. Your body wanted more.

And Joel knew.

Of course he knew.

“Tommy’s got you so full, huh?” Joel murmured, voice like gravel soaked in honey in your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Still not enough to make you come, greedy girl?”

His breath brushed the shell of your ear, and your whole body twitched.

You couldn’t answer—not with words. But your eyes found his, wide and pleading, glassy with need. You looked up at him from where your head rested on the sheets, Joel crouched beside you now, shadowing over your face like he could read everything you couldn’t say aloud.

And he could. He always could.

Your chest rose with a broken breath as your mouth parted—no sound, just air. One of his hands stayed tangled in your hair, grounding you. The other drifted down, palm dragging with reverence over your chest, and when it reached your breast, his touch went still.

He watched you as if testing the waters. The second your back arched into his palm, just a little, the faintest tremble of pleading… he smirked.

“There she is,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your nipple slowly and deliberately before twisting and palming, kneading your flesh. Your thighs jerked and your eyes fluttered closed, breath stalling in your throat.

Joel leaned in, voice like silk soaked in heat.

“Gonna have to beg him for it,” he murmured, this time loud enough for his brother to hear, dragging his thumb over you again as your back arched once more. “Go on. Show him how sweet you sound when you’re right at the edge.”

He kissed your temple, lips warm and just barely there before sitting up again.

“Show him what you gave me.”

Your breath was a broken thing, chest heaving, your legs locked around Tommy’s waist as his cock filled you over and over again, his thumb grinding against your clit with every thrust. You could barely speak—but you tried.

“Please,” you whispered, blinking up at Tommy. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes were wide, blown out, sweat dripping from his brow, “Fuck,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

“Please, Tommy,” you gasped, fingers gripping his arms. “Please let me come—need it—need it so bad.”

Joel’s hand moved from your hair to stroke slowly over his cock at the edge of the bed, gaze flicking between your face and Tommy’s. “There it is,” he murmured. “You hear that? That’s yours, little brother. Make her fuckin’ come on your cock.”

Tommy’s rhythm picked up, driving into you with slow, hard strokes that hit deep, his thumb never stopping the delicious circles over your clit just like Joel had told him.

Your head fell back. Your thighs shook. Your whole body started to come apart.

As your jaw fell open, Joel took your mouth again—his cock thick and slick as it pressed past your lips, filling your mouth with one steady thrust. You welcomed it greedily, your moan muffled and broken, your tongue flattening beneath the weight of him.

Your back arched off the bed, body seizing with pleasure as your orgasm hit like a tidal wave—white-hot, all-consuming. Joel’s hand was back in your hair, holding you down, guiding your mouth as your throat fluttered around him, his cock pressing deeper with every pulse. The other squeezed and twisted your breast as you rode your high.

Tommy groaned loudly above you, his voice rough, desperate, like he’d just been torn open.

“Holy fucking shit,” he gasped, and his hips jerked once, twice—then stilled.

You felt it. The heat of him spilling into you, thick and heavy, your cunt already so wet and wrecked it only made you twitch harder around him. His breath stuttered out in harsh bursts, body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside you.

“That’s it,” Joel growled. “That’s a good girl, baby.”

He fucked your mouth with slow, controlled strokes—gentle now, reverent—before finally pulling out, letting you fall back against the bed with a gasp, your chest heaving as your climax still rippled through your body.

Your vision blurred at the edges, nerves lit up like static. You barely felt Tommy at first—his hands adjusting on your hips, his breathing shaky.

Then, after a long, weighted pause, Tommy slowly eased back, slipping out of you with a wet drag that made your entire body jolt. You gasped softly at the loss, walls still fluttering from your orgasm, sensitive and aching.

The room went quiet again, thick and buzzing under the surface. You could hear Tommy’s breathing above you, could feel the shift in his body as he sat back on his heels, one hand sliding down your thigh as if to steady himself. He moved slowly to sit against the headboard, breathing heavily.

Your pulse thrummed at your neck, loud in your ears. You turned your head toward him, your skin flushed, lips swollen, heart racing. Tommy’s eyes found yours—dark, uncertain, something different behind them. Not anger or sadness, but something new and raw.

“Tommy,” you whispered, voice low, hoarse. You swallowed. “Can he…?”

You hesitated, heat prickling across your cheeks. You weren’t even sure what words you were looking for. You just knew what you needed.

“Can Joel… please?”

Tommy’s eyes scanned your face, then dropped to where your thighs were still parted, to the slick between them, to the tremble in your breath. He took a slow inhale, like he was weighing the cost of the question. Then he nodded. “Go on then. Show me what’s worth all this trouble.” You could swear there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a faint crinkle at the edge of his eyes. Not quite a smile. Maybe a dare.

Joel was already moving.

His hands found your body—confident, warm, rough as ever—as he pulled you up onto your knees and flushed your back against his chest. His arms wrapped around you easily, like they belonged there. Like he knew this body like the back of his hand.

You inhaled sharply at the feel of him behind you—solid muscle, the heavy press of his cock nudging against your lower back. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. His voice was low, rich, and dripping with something that made your skin tighten.

“Hope you’re payin’ attention, little brother,” Joel murmured, his grip tightening on your waist. “Gonna show you just how sweet she sounds when she gets what she needs.”

You watched Tommy’s jaw clench, and you muttered a short warning to Joel, “Stop,” 

Joel ignored you and his hand slipped down between your legs, fingers gliding through the mess Tommy left behind, gathering it in his fingers and spreading it through your puffy center, making your thighs shake.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Still so wet.”

He let his fingers trail back up to your hip, palm splaying across your stomach as he held you there—against him, for him, like he was staking his claim right in front of Tommy.

Then he shifted. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, thick and already slick from your mouth. Your breath caught.

“Hold on to me,” Joel murmured. His other hand slid up, cupping one of your breasts, his mouth brushing just behind your ear as your arms held tightly to his splayed over your torso.

And then he pushed in—slow, deep, deliberate.

Your body seized the moment he started to push in. The stretch was immediate—thicker, deeper, unforgiving. Your legs trembled, a broken moan slipping from your throat before you could stop it. It felt like your body forgot how to breathe, how to think—every nerve lit up as he filled you, inch by inch, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Pressure bloomed deep in your core, sharp and aching, and still he kept going, his cock dragging against every hypersensitive spot until your thighs were shaking, your nails biting into his arm.

You gasped—"Joel!" sharp and high—and your head fell back against his shoulder like you couldn’t hold it up anymore. Your mouth parted, but no words came out. Just sound. Just a helpless, wrecked whimper that made Joel groan behind you.

Joel gritted his teeth, voice strained through a groan. “Fuck. Always so tight for me, baby. Takin’ me so good. Feels like he barely even touched you."

“Fuck off,” Tommy snapped from somewhere below you, voice rough, and you didn’t need to look to know he was watching—his breath hitched, uneven.

Joel noticed, too.

“My little brother’s gettin’ all worked up again,” he rasped, his cock sliding deeper, arms tightening around you. “Look at him, baby. Watchin’ you take my cock like this.”

You lifted your head just enough to find Tommy’s face—jaw locked, hand slowly fisting his already hardening cock as he sat back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.

Joel’s hand slid back between your legs, fingers circling your clit with unrelenting precision as he fucked you slow and deep.

“Talk to her, Tommy,” Joel said roughly.

Tommy shook his head, jaw clenched. “I—I don’t—”

“C’mon,” Joel grunted, thrusting into you harder, making you cry out. “You don’t want me talkin’ all this shit? Huh? Even if it makes her this wet—” his fingers slid lower, gathering slick, “—thinkin’ of us fightin’ over this sweet, perfect pussy?”

He fucked up into you hard as he growled, and it made you gasp in pleasure.

“Then talk, dammit.”

Tommy’s breath stuttered. You looked at him—desperate and open, mouth parted. You watched his throat bob as he tried to swallow whatever pride or hesitation was left.

Then, finally, his voice came low, rough, uncertain.

“You like this, baby?” he rasped, the words strange in his mouth but soaked in truth as he leaned forward, looking up at you. “Like me watchin’ while he fucks you?”

You moaned, the sound unholy and obscene as your body twitched. You tried to nod while Joel’s cock dragged deep again, slow and relentless, the stretch still too much, still perfect. 

“Oh, she fuckin’ loves it,” Joel growled in your ear. His palm slid up your chest, fingers curling over the other breast as he kept your back flush to him. “That look on her face? All fucked-out and needy.”

Tommy let out a shuddering breath. His eyes never left yours.

“Look at you,” he said, a little bolder now. “You’re so pretty like this. Letting us ruin you.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs were shaking again, a whimper escaping as Joel’s fingers found your clit once more, slick and swollen. He rubbed you just right—tight, insistent circles that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Joel grunted. “You close again, baby? I can feel it. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

Tommy leaned forward, looking up at you as he reached for your trembling legs, rubbing your skin and kneading it in his hands as his cock twitched in his hand, “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for us. Show us how much you love bein’ ours.”

That did it.

Your body clenched hard, a cry ripping from your throat as the orgasm slammed into you—fierce, fast, and overwhelming. You trembled violently, hips jerking, mouth open but wordless as you came again, harder this time, unraveling between them.

You were still shaking when your body started to shift—Joel's cock still buried deep, grinding against your overstimulated walls with every slow, hungry thrust. You reached forward, chest dropping toward the bed, bracing yourself on your hands as you whimpered through the aftershocks.

But you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Tommy,” you gasped, voice hoarse and half-broken. “Let me—please, let me touch you. Wanna make you come again.”

You reached for him blindly, your hand finding his thigh as he knelt close, cock hard again in his grip.

He looked stunned, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, baby,” he muttered, and he looked up at Joel, “How the hell are you still goin’ after that? The way she gripped me when--”

Joel gave a low, breathless laugh behind you, his thrusts never faltering. “Not my first time, remember?”

He leaned forward over your back, his voice rough and possessive in your ear.

“She gets like this,” Joel said, fucking into you harder now, making your arms tremble. “Once you open her up, she just needs. Can’t help herself, can you, baby?”

You moaned, loud and desperate, your hand finally wrapping around Tommy’s cock again, bringing it into your mouth.

Your husband groaned, hips twitching toward your touch. “Fuckin’ insatiable,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

Joel grinned, lips brushing your shoulder before pulling back to straighten, gripping your hips. “She’s gonna milk us dry.”

You moaned at the filthy words, too far gone to be embarrassed, too full to care. You rocked between them, wrecked and desperate—Joel’s cock dragging deep inside you with each powerful thrust, your mouth stretched wide around Tommy’s length, tongue flattened along the underside.

Every time Joel thrusted forward, it shoved you farther onto Tommy’s cock. Your throat clenched, gagging slightly, and both men groaned—low and guttural at the dual sensation of your body constricting around them.

Your eyes watered, spit pooling at the corners of your lips as you tried to breathe around it, the slick sounds obscene in the best way.

Tommy’s hand came to your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your jaw as he looked down at you. His face was tight with restraint, flushed and glassy-eyed, jaw twitching, “Look so pretty with a cock in her mouth, doesn’t she?”

Joel grunted behind you, slamming deep, making your body jolt forward. “Sure does,” he growled. “Takin’ us both so good, baby. Just like that.”

You whimpered, the only sound you could manage, body fluttering with overstimulation, throat spasming around Tommy’s cock as he hissed through his teeth.

Joel’s grip tightened, his thrusts getting faster, more desperate, and you could feel the wave starting to build again—relentless, all-consuming. You didn’t know how much more your body could take.

“Come on, baby,” Tommy groaned. “Fuck—your mouth feels so good, sweetheart. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Joel leaned in, his voice thick with heat. “You gonna come again with your mouth full, baby? Think you can come for both of us this time?”

Your whole body responded—tightening instinctively, like those words alone triggered something deep inside. Joel’s hand slid beneath you, and you flinched with a soft gasp as his fingers found your clit again—soaked, swollen, aching from how close you already were.

It was too much. Too good. You couldn’t take it, and yet your body begged for more.

The touch was too light at first—then perfect. Circling. Pressing. Your spine arched, your thighs trembled, and your moan vibrated around Tommy’s cock, still heavy and hot on your tongue.

You could barely register where one of them ended and the other began—just pressure and stretch and friction and heat. Joel’s thrusts stayed deep and punishing, perfectly timed with the slow drag of his fingers.

Suddenly your whole body locked, muscles spasming as another orgasm tore through you—sharp and blinding, your vision whiting out as you clenched hard around Joel’s cock, milking him through every brutal thrust.

You moaned around Tommy’s length, the sound desperate and guttural, and that was all it took for either of them.

Joel cursed behind you—low, rough, wrecked. He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself as deep as he could go, spilling inside you with a broken growl. His hands were shaking where they gripped your hips, holding you there like he couldn’t let go.

The hot pulse of him filled you completely, thick and heavy, and the sensation only dragged your orgasm out longer, your legs trembling violently beneath you.

Tommy let out a choked moan above you, his hips stuttering as your throat fluttered around him. His hand cupped your cheek, and with one more shaky breath, he came—spilling into your mouth with a soft, desperate, “Fuck, baby.”

You took it all, swallowing around him as gently as you could, the muscles of your throat still spasming from Joel’s final, deep thrusts.

Then—finally—everything slowed.

Tommy pulled back with a groan, slumping onto the bed beside you with a heavy exhale, one arm flung over his face as he tried to catch his breath. Joel eased out of you from behind, and you whimpered at the emptiness, already missing the stretch of him, the weight. Your body felt boneless, dazed and trembling, as you rolled to your side and melted into the mattress beside Tommy.

Joel didn’t stay far. Within seconds, he collapsed on your other side with a low, satisfied grunt, still half-wrapped in heat and sweat. His arm slid beneath your head, pulling you gently against his chest until you were tucked in close, skin to skin, your cheek resting just below his collarbone.

You were fully tangled between them now—Joel’s leg brushing yours, Tommy’s chest warm against your back, his hand finding your thigh and resting there like a grounding weight.

The heat of three bodies lingered in the air—sticky and quiet and strangely comforting.

Tommy’s hand found your stomach and gave it a slow rub, and when you looked over at him—he was watching you, not angry, not brooding. Just… tired. And stunned.

You let out a laugh. A small, breathless one, but real.

Then another.

Your face tucked against Joel’s arm, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Joel chuckled too—low and lazy, like he couldn’t even muster the energy to be smug, “Troublemaker.”

Tommy let out a breathless huff, still holding you tight, and nuzzled into the curve of your neck. “I’m not sure I survived that,” he murmured, and then he started laughing too—open, surprised, stunned, “Feel like I blacked out halfway through,”

You turned your head toward him, smiling wide, and kissed the side of his mouth. “You were perfect.”

The three of you fell into an easy silence, wrapped up in sweat and warmth and the quiet hum of something unspoken—something new.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, his chest shaking from a chuckle, “Think we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”

And for the first time in a long time, the three of you were laughing together.

tag list: @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes

[leighsartworks216]

If You're Quiet During Sex (Headcanons)

Sylus x gn!Reader + Zayne x gn!Reader (separate)

Had this thought because I'm quiet During so I got a little self-deprecating about what they'd think about it... but then I remembered the boys would never make me feel ashamed for that shit

Warnings: sexual content

Word Count: 434 (cool, it's like a little kissy face)

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus

Probably thinks he's not making you feel good enough at first

Shocked when you orgasm because you were so quiet, surely he didn't make you cum already???

Brings it up right away, asks if you liked it

Admits that he expected you to make more noise

If it's purely from inexperience or anxiety, he's more than happy to spend time breaking down those barriers. He won't force you to make noise, but he's definitely more forthcoming with his own sounds to encourage you. Any sound you do make, he's praising you for it and trying to draw it out of you again

If moaning really just isn't your thing, he just asks that you tell him if something feels good or bad. He wants to pleasure you, and he wants to make sure he's doing things you like when he might not notice your little tells in the heat of the moment

Either way, he does keep track of your tells. If you close your eyes and tilt your head back, mouth hanging open, small whimpers or shivers - he's looking for whatever it is that tells him you're enjoying yourself

He's moderately noisy during sex. He'll moan and talk, but it's not like he's trying to project it. It's more close to you, contained in the space between you both, but not so quiet he has to be in your ear to hear it

-

Zayne

I feel like he wouldn't question it as much

Because he's also not very vocal

He himself is very breathy and whines a little, but full moans are few and far between

Communicates a LOT about what you do and don't enjoy before, during and after

Sometimes requests you to speak (*ahem* "Say my name..." from Silent Poem, I'm looking at you), but never pushes you to be loud

If you're quiet because of anxiety or inexperience, he's as reassuring and encouraging as he can be. Would honestly be so proud of you if you start being louder and more vocal over time, because it means you're comfortable with him and that means the world to him. Says as much afterward, cuddling you and nuzzling into your neck with a lovestruck grin as he does

I wonder if you couldn't also influence him into being more noisy during sex. Command or beg him to say your name, tell you how good he feels, suck and bite at his most sensitive spots until he's a whining, simpering mess.....

Imagine his own surprise when you touch him and he lets out a very loud moan that even he wasn't expecting

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[homunculus-argument]

As a kid, I wasn't taught any concept that there's a difference between wanting to do something, and enjoying it. I was a largely unsupervised kid with undiagnosed ADHD and parents who expected their kids to just raise themselves on their own. So when I was capable of spending hours drawing or reading a fun book, but couldn't even remember that I had homework, ever, I was told that I simply didn't want to do well in school. And who was I to question that, I'm eight years old.

Enjoyment and passion were the only forms of motivation I knew, and if I couldn't make myself either love doing boring math homework as much as I loved my hobbies, or force myself to push through things I hated with sheer willpower alone because I want to succeed so bad, then clearly I was simply not as good as all the other kids, who could do that. And that attitude carried onto adulthood. Every time I struggled to muster genuine love and passion into something, I thought that I just don't want it badly enough. Not to enough to love it, or to suffer through it.

Being medicated for the first time was a game changer. Like holy shit, so this is your brain on dopamine. And suddenly I wanted to do things, turned my life around, took up the passion career I had never dared to try. And when the first "honeymoon phase" of the meds wore down, the same fear came back - I don't like this anymore, do I not want it bad enough? What else could I possibly want?

And I shit you not I was literally 30 years old when I understood that life isn't just either loving every minute of pursuing a passion that you love, or joylessly dragging yourself through things that you don't even want to do. I can just tell myself "just because I don't like doing this doesn't mean I don't want to be doing it." It's not a mark of failure, weakness or lack of motivation, if sometimes the career you want to be doing just feels like having a job.

[harringtonfeels]

touch

2.8k | Friends to ???? to Lovers with inexperienced Reader | Smut, Fluff | Part II

Notes: This is about half fluff, half smut, with a liiiiittle bit of angst. There is some discussion of the right to revoke consent regarding a past boyfriend of Reader's toward the beginning. Nothing bad happens to Reader, aside from confusion about expectations for female sexuality. If this would be triggering for you, please don't read.

"Wait, hold on a second." Steve sounds so perplexed that you have to look up from the book in your hands and glance around the room, as though someone else may have walked in and changed the tenor of the conversation. All you'd said was— "You've never had sex?"

You blink back at him, surprised by his surprise. Cheeks burning, you say, "Well, I mean…" Closing the book with a dense thump, you force yourself to make eye contact. "You don't have to say it like that. And it's not like nobody's ever, like, offered."

When he cocks his head slightly to the side, his hair falls slightly in that very Steve sort of way. "What about Mark?" You can't help the way a shiver runs down your spine at the mention. The intrigue is practically spilling out of him at this point, as he turns over onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, settling into the conversation. "I thought you said you were going to sleep with him. That night with the big, fancy date and the—"

"You mean right before I avoided him for three days and then broke up with him?" How had Steve not gotten the memo on that one?

You watch him connect the dots in real time, but he still seems a little confused. "Okay, then Rick. You dated Rick for a long time."

That forces a laugh out of you. "Yeah, when we were like thirteen, Steve. Come on."

"Jeff?"

"I couldn't even get Jeff to answer my phone calls, let alone have sex with me. Can we stop the rundown of my abysmal love life?" you say, trying to remain lighthearted but feeling your own mood sour with each passing moment. What started as incredulousness at Steve's reaction is beginning to turn into something like shame.

A beat later, Steve asks, "Did something happen with Mark?"

You know what he's asking, and your cheeks burn even hotter with embarrassment. "No, nothing like that."

"I thought you liked him."

"I did. And then I didn't. It was just… He just…" You drop your forgotten book onto Steve's bed and bury your face in your hands. "He was just very pushy, I guess. Like, as soon as he realized I was willing to have sex with him, he just wanted to get right to it. I didn't really feel like he was listening to me."

Steve's hand curls itself gently around your wrist, prying your hand from your face, and his voice takes on a slight edge. "What do you mean, 'he wasn't listening to you'?"

"Not like that." It's so hard to find a way to put it into words. You aren't entirely sure Mark even did anything wrong. It's more that he didn't do anything right. You steel yourself and look up at Steve, your longtime best friend who recently became something more, and you know he'll wait as long as you need him to, until you find the words to say. Steve has always had such patience with you, your whole lives. Somehow, that makes it feel even more urgent.

Finally, you inhale deeply and summon the courage to continue. "It wasn't like he tried to make me do anything, really. He was just kind of… inconsiderate. It felt more like he was excited to be having sex than that he was excited to be having sex with me."

Steve rubs soothing circles into your wrist and presses a soft kiss to the palm of your hand. "So you told him to fuck off?"

That draws a laugh out of you. "Yes, basically. I was really confused about how I was feeling, so I told him I didn't think I was ready, and then he acted like he was mad at me the whole way home. So I broke up with him."

He looks a bit lost in thought, and you wonder what he's thinking about. If he's rethinking your relationship, if this makes him see you differently.

He props himself up against the headboard and pulls you close, tucking you into his side. "Baby, you know that's not how it's supposed to be, don't you?"

You want to say yes, but deep down, you're not really sure. What if you're just high maintenance? What if that's the way it always is, and it's true that sex isn't really supposed to be enjoyable for women, and maybe Mark was right to be upset with you for putting an end to things? What if once you'd already said yes, you weren't really allowed to say no? What if what you want isn't supposed to matter at all?

Realistically, you feel like this can't be the case. Why should sex only be good for one person? Why should you not be able to decide when and where and how you have sex, for the first time or for any time? Why should anyone else's feelings matter more than your own? But it's hard to reconcile your feelings of self-preservation with the things you've been told your whole life, or the look on Mark's face when you told him you wanted to go home.

Knowing something is true doesn't make it feel that way.

You bury your face in Steve's shoulder and nod anyway. Of all the ups and downs in the years you've spent with Steve, one thing he's always made you feel was safe.

His fingertips brush against your thigh, just under the hem of your dress, and you smile into his shirt at the way it tickles. Reflexively, you lift your leg a little higher, running away from the feeling. "I'd never want to make you feel that way, honey. You know you could tell me if I did, right?"

You flush at the insinuation. Steve wants to have sex with you. And he wants you to enjoy it. It's still hard to wrap your mind around it, this newfound whatever-this-is, the boundariless relationship status that started with a kiss and ends with… you're not sure what, exactly.

But you know Steve. Whatever this is between you, you can't imagine Steve Harrington would ever treat you like an object, or a means to an end. "I know," you say softly, breath hitching in your throat as his palm slides beneath your dress.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs into your hair.

Your stomach flutters with anticipation, and you nod.

His touch is so gentle, it's almost maddening. It's already so different from how Mark touched you, slow and thoughtful instead of rough and hurried. For the first time, you think you might really understand the meaning of the word sensual.

When his palm leaves your skin, you sigh with disappointment, but just as quickly, he's tipping your chin upward, looking into your eyes with his honey brown ones. "Can I kiss you?"

Suddenly, there's a lot you want to tell him. Words that threaten to spill out of you without cohesion or any defined purpose. But this moment is so perfect you don't dare tarnish it. You lean into it instead. Breath stuttering, you nod again, and you sit up just enough to see him better, to reach him better.

His lips are soft against yours, hand gently cupping your cheek, and it's excruciatingly slow at first, until you clench the front of his tee shirt in your fist and urgently draw him closer. He shifts, slotting one knee between your thighs and deepening the kiss as he does.

Steve has kissed you a few times now, and each time, it's like learning a different version of him. Drunk, confident Steve the first time. Sticky-sweet, adoring Steve the second. Soft, horny Steve today. You can feel the hard outline of him pressed against your thigh. A few minutes ago, this might have been jarring or even somewhat alarming, but not now. With your skirt rucked up almost to your waist, you can't help but sigh into his mouth and roll your hips against his.

He pulls away just enough to murmur, "Oh, honey."

You whimper in response, feeling your way under the hem of his shirt. You've never touched him like this. You don't know when the lines blurred so much that your best friend Steve has become someone whose sides you can caress, whose mouth you can feel on your neck— "Oh my god."

His lips brush against your skin. "Can I tell you how I'd touch you?"

Your brain struggles to piece together what he's asking, which is a testament more to how focused you are on how you feel than the complexity of his question. Swallowing thickly, you nod again.

"Come on, baby, use your words. I need to know you mean it."

You dig your nails lightly into his back at that, pouting. "Steve, please."

He's got you flat on your back now, grinding his hips absentmindedly against yours. You can feel him smile against your collarbone, fingers splayed across your ribs as his thumb ghosts across the underwire of your bra. "If you let me touch you, I'd start real slow," he whispers. "Get you nice and comfortable for me, start somewhere safe, like here." His hand cups the outside of your thigh, making leisurely circles with his thumb.

It's a clear retreat from before, less suggestive, and yet you feel your pulse pick up with anticipation. Mouth falling open just slightly, you watch his face as he continues. You've never seen him like this before, focused but glassy-eyed, lips swollen.

When you focus on his hands like this, it's hard to think that it was ever outside the bounds of your relationship for him to touch you like this. All those times watching him shift gears, watching the way his big hands wrap around his baseball bat at practices. Eyes lingering on his long fingers just a little longer than strictly necessary. It feels natural, now that you see his hands on you in real time.

You're sucked back into the present when Steve opens his mouth. "And when you're feeling really comfortable, I'd make my way a little higher." He punctuates this statement by bending your leg at the knee, hand slowly lowering beneath your dress once more.

You let out a whimper as his fingertips graze the edge of your light pink panties, drunk on the suggestion alone, and you weave your fingers through his hair to steady yourself.

It's not like you've never made out with anyone before. You've had boyfriends, you've been on successful dates with passionate kisses that left you winded on your doorstep. But it's never been anything like this, not that you can remember. Every time you made it even to second base with someone before, they were just… demanding or selfish or, once, even actually insulted your body. Some guys didn't work out because they moved away for college, or got back together with their ex, or because you didn't like them that much, or they just weren't a very good kisser. You told yourself when you were dating Mark that, if a lackluster makeout session was the worst of it, you could handle that. You hadn't known at the time that it was possible you wouldn't have to make any concessions.

Steve swipes his thumb across your lower lip, eyes darkening with desire. Teasing the wasitband of your panties with more intention, he leans back in to press a kiss just above the neckline of your dress. He hesitates slightly, and you hang on his every movement like it's a lifeline. When he speaks again, his eyes meet yours. His hair is wild from your fingers running through it, and he looks just as feverish as you feel.

You can't help but watch his mouth when he speaks, as if you don't already know what it feels like on your skin. "And if you liked that," he says, "then I'd turn my attention somewhere else. The trick—" His free hand brushes along your ribcage, dangerously close to your breast. "—is to keep my hands busy, and keep your imagination busy, too."

If you were ever under any illusion that you weren't turned on before, the slick gathering between your thighs makes it quite clear. The late summer breeze rolling through the window is cool on your skin. If it weren't for that, you'd be burning up under the heat of him. As it is, you can barely breathe, but you're not sure that's from the temperature.

His hands move confidently but not impulsively. He skims across the side of your breast with his palm, and you arch into his touch, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Removing his hand from your waistband, he pulls you up into a sitting position and finds the zipper of your dress. He starts to unzip you, then stops abruptly, raising his eyebrows in question. When you nod in response, he leans in for another searing kiss and finishes the job.

You only notice he's run into some difficulty unclasping your bra because he laughs after the third try, and you can't help but smile as you reach around to unclasp it yourself. And then his hands are on your skin again, palming one of your breasts and burying his face in your neck.

When he brushes his thumb over your nipple, you gasp, and he grins against your skin, carefully laying you back down on the mattress. "Does that feel good, honey?"

"Mm-hmm," you whimper, not caring how needy you sound. "Please don't stop."

"'M not stopping, baby," he murmurs, "unless you ask me to."

Steve is nothing if not good at building suspense, you're learning. He circles your nipple with his thumb, then backs off, sliding his free hand back down the front of your dress and toward the front of your panties. While you're distracted by that, stomach clenching in anticipation, he pinches your nipple gently, rolling it between his thumb and finger.

You can't help but gasp in response, overstimulated in the best way.

"And when you're nice and relaxed and ready for me…" He uses one finger to lift the waistband of your panties up just high enough to fit his hand inside. Your thighs fall open at the movement of their own accord, and you tug at his hair, hips lifting slightly to chase his touch.

Steve stills completely, mouth parting like he can't believe it. As if he himself didn't honestly think this little lesson would be so effective. Sounding a little distant, he looks into your eyes and whispers, "That's when I'd touch you."

You stare back at him, the spell broken. You had almost forgotten there was something he was getting at, other than just showing you what you were missing. It's a little dizzying, seeing how far you've gotten on a flirty line, an ambiguous relationship status, and a suspension of disbelief.

Didn't he just say he wasn't going to stop?

"Steve?" you prompt him, voice uncharacteristically small, as if speaking too loudly will make this moment disappear.

He blinks back at you, re-engaging. "Can I touch you, honey?"

Biting your lip, you nod, and a slow, easy grin spreads across his face.

He finds your free hand and kisses your knuckles before slipping his hand just a little bit lower, fingertips just dipping into your slick folds. "Oh, sweetheart," he hums, "you're s' wet for me." When the pad of his middle finger brushes your clit, your hips buck against his hand with urgency. "We've made a mess of your pretty panties, honey. We're gonna have to take these off."

You raise your hips up off the bed without further prompting. You don't have it in you to feel embarrassed, or to worry about what you're going to wear back home. You just let Steve remove them, and when he's done, you paw at the hem of his shirt, asking permission silently. He rolls his shoulders and helps you pull it over his head, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor.

And when he leans back in, you marvel at all the parts of him you get to touch now, the things you get to do that you never could before. The things you've thought about a million times when you really shouldn't have. During school night sleepovers, summer afternoons by his family's pool, at the department store when you both tried on outfits for prom. All those parts of him you've craved, the things you never thought you'd get to feel.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. I love you.

And sure, it's embarrassing. There's a lot of stuff about tonight that's embarrassing, but it doesn't matter. Because even if he doesn't—

Before your cheeks have even had time to warm up, Steve is climbing up your body, eyes wide with something like wonder, and he's cradling your face in his hands. He kisses you slow and firm, like it's the first time, or even the last. He kisses you until you're both breathless, and then he leans his forehead against yours, both of you panting and giggling a little at the absurdity of it all.

And then Steve whispers, "I love you, too."

[deadprince05]

Think fast I’m a random girl challenge. Blue Lock.

You decided to joke and make a challenge for your boyfriend from Blue Lock

Characters: Yoichi Isagi, Ryusei Shidou, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Reo Mikage, Seishiro Nagi, Michael Kaiser

Yoichi Isagi

Isagi sits at the table, intently drawing tactical diagrams (yes, even on weekends he thinks about football). You sneak up with a cup of tea, place it in front of him and smile innocently: "Yoichi, there's something important..." "Hm?" He raises his eyes, and at that moment you abruptly change your expression. "Think fast!" you whisper with fake coquettishness, grabbing his collar. "I'm a random girl now!" Your lips rapidly approach his face - closer, closer... His reflexes work faster than his consciousness, in a split second he jumps back, knocking over the chair, and you hear a deafening crash. "Have you lost your mind?!" Isagi breathes heavily as if he just ran a sprint. "I could have... I mean... Aah!" You nearly die laughing while he, red to the tips of his ears, picks up the chair and mutters something about "unreasonable girls."

Ryusei Shidou

You knew it was a bad idea - Shidou Ryusei was walking provocation, the king of chaos, a man who'd never let himself be cornered. But that's exactly why you decided to challenge him with this, knowing it would definitely lead to something interesting. Shidou was sprawled on the couch after practice, noisily chewing an energy bar while watching clips of his goals. You approach, pretending to adjust your shoelaces. "Hey, Shidou..." You suddenly spring up in front of him, blocking the TV screen. "Think fast!" you say challengingly, grabbing his chin. "I'm a random girl now!" Your nose almost touches his—you can feel his breath, your lips just barely brushing his. Shidou doesn't react at all, so after the kiss, you pull back, annoyed. His lips stretch into that same cocky smirk that sends shivers down opponents' spines. "Seriously?" He slowly rises, forcing you to take a step back. "You brought this on yourself, bunny." His arm suddenly snakes around your waist, pulling you closer. "Well then, random girl," his voice is a slow, dangerous promise. "You sure you're ready for the consequences?" You suddenly realize—your own challenge has just become your personal defeat.

Rin Itoshi

You've noticed for a while that Rin Itoshi is a creature of habit. His world revolves around soccer, winning, and... well, maybe a couple other things. But what if you disrupted his boring routine? You decided to stage a "Think fast, I'm a random girl" moment. Rin sits on the couch, buried in match analysis. You pretend to scroll through your phone while secretly studying his reaction out of the corner of your eye. "Rin..." you say, keeping your tone deliberately neutral. "Hm?" He doesn't even look up from the screen. "Think fast," you suddenly switch to a playful voice. "I'm a random girl now." Before he can process what's happening, you lean in pretending to go for a kiss. His hand instantly plants itself on your forehead, pushing you back to a safe distance. His gaze is icy, but the corner of his mouth twitches with barely concealed irritation. "...Did you hit your head or something?" You bounce back laughing. Rin returns to his notes, but you know - he'll be mentally replaying this absurdity for the next ten minutes and will remember it for a long time. After all, even the king of soccer needs to face surprises sometimes... especially when they're orchestrated by you.

Sae Itoshi

Sae sprawled on the couch, watching football matches and analyzing them. You sidle up to him with an innocent expression. "Hey, Sae..." you begin, toying with a strand of your hair. "What?" You take a deep breath and suddenly change your facial expression. "Think fast!" you say, trying to mimic someone else's voice. "I'm a random girl now!" You abruptly lean in toward him as if going for a kiss. Sae doesn't even blink. Your lips freeze a centimeter away from his while he just stares at you, trying to understand the point of all this. "Are you done?" he finally says, lazily raising an eyebrow. "If you wanted attention, you could've just asked." You pull back, disappointed. "You're so boring..." "Yeah," he smirks. "But predictable."

Reo Mikage

Reo sits in the kitchen after practice, leisurely sipping his coffee. You approach, pretending to have forgotten something in the room. "Reo..." you begin, leaning slightly toward him. "Hm?" He lifts his eyes, but his expression remains unchanged. You suddenly shift your posture, grab his clothes and whisper: "Think fast! I'm a random girl now!" Your lips hover a centimeter from his - you catch the subtle scent of his expensive cologne. For a split second, his eyelids lower slightly and his lips part just a little - as if he almost surrendered to the moment. But in the next instant, he pulls back with a slight frown. "That's... unexpected," he says, running a hand through his hair. You notice his fingers trembling faintly. "What's wrong, Reo? Nervous?" you tease. "Don't be ridiculous," he averts his gaze. The truth is, he would never kiss another girl because he loves you too much - he barely restrained himself from kissing you the moment he realized you were pretending to be someone else.

Seishiro Nagi

You always knew: Nagi was someone practically impossible to provoke emotionally. His frightening coldness, emotionless gaze, and complete lack of reaction to any provocation made him the perfect candidate for this challenge. The guy stands by the window, thoughtfully looking outside—it's impossible to tell what he's thinking. You approach him and start the conversation: "Nagi..." you say, deliberately casual. "..." He silently looks at you, making it clear with his eyes that he's waiting for you to finish what you wanted to say. You suddenly position yourself in front of him, grab his sleeve, and sharply pull him toward you. "Think fast! I'm a random girl now!" Your face is an inch from his—you see your own reflection in his eyes. The guy doesn't do anything drastic, merely leans back from your lips and asks: "Why?" You freeze in slight bewilderment. What kind of question is that? "Uh... well, it's a challenge..." Nagi first looks at you uncomprehendingly, then averts his gaze and says he doesn't want to kiss other girls. But he doesn't want to refuse you either, even if you're pretending to be someone else, so he asks you not to do this again and to just kiss him normally if that's what you want.

Michael Kaiser

Kaiser stands before the mirror, adjusting his perfect hair and checking how the light falls on his cheekbones. You approach, pretending to search for something in the drawer. "Kaiser..." you call flirtatiously. "Hmm?" He doesn't even tear his gaze away from his reflection. You suddenly grab his chin and turn his face toward you. "Think fast! I'm a random girl now!" Your lips are a centimeter from his. You feel his breath mingled with expensive cologne. Your actions catch him off guard—his eyes widen and he jerks back abruptly, hitting his back against the cabinets. "WAS ZUR HÖLLE?!" He looks at you as if you weren't trying to kiss him, but murder him. You burst out laughing, but not for long—within seconds he closes in on you, blocking the exit. "You're laughing?" His voice sounds dangerous. "Then let's laugh together with other challenges." He takes your hand and drags you to your room, where he proceeds to vividly demonstrate all his love for you—so you wouldn't joke like that again.

[dragonsondragons]

Part 1 - That Look In Your Eye | You Should Probably Leave series

You make big, bad, Jack Abbot nervous in a way he really isn’t used to. He fumbles his first attempt to invite you to the party, so Dr. Ellis gives him a crash course in how to get the girl.

Word Count: 3.9k

Content: yearning!jack, medical social worker!reader, reader is Jack’s work crush, slow burn, Jack on his #healingjourney, awkward abbot, unspecified age gap, named reader because I dont like using y/n (named her Nel, short for Eleanor. And yes Nel will be friends with Mel)

Read the Prologue! / Masterlist / Taglist

Author's Note: Sorry this took me sooo long to get together! I have the next few parts mapped out well and and mostly written tbh but was struggling so hard with how to introduce their interaction and dynamic in this part. Also, I would highly highly recommend reading the prologue before this part. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

In the Pitt, Jack was seen as a very confident man. He knows exactly what he’s capable of and precisely how to execute it most efficiently. It's one thing unshaken in all his years practicing medicine. No matter how low he’s felt– in war zones, in the pitt– he always stays steady under fire. Words and procedures are tools. He uses them to achieve a goal: keep the patient alive. Be calm, cool, concise. 

It's something he learned in combat, that medics aren't just healers and fighters. They are a source of confidence for the whole platoon. They set the tone. A force multiplier. He was supposed to keep a level head and know what to do, no hesitating. If he stayed cool everyone else would follow suit. 

He had to to seem confident on the outside, but never let himself feel it too much on the inside. If you feel too confident, you start to forget that there is just one critical moment, one mistake, standing between your patient and death.

Jack couldn't help but feel that way now, like he was one mistake from ruining his chances with you. Deep breath. No ones going to die, he repeats in his head. It's one of the constant reminders he’s had to give himself when anxiety spikes. Another deep breath.

He was supposed to be a confident guy. Asking out the girl you liked shouldn’t be so hard. 

But there was a disconnect for him, between what was shown to the world– a self assured master of his craft– and what he felt on the inside. Analyzing every little mistake so that he can be better for next time. Never letting himself feel too secure, always striving for better. Battling between his desires and that loud voice inside, telling him to isolate. 

Because of that voice his social confidence was a lot more shakey than his work persona. For the most part he can fake it till he makes it or keep enough distance from people that it doesn't matter. But then there was you, slowly drawing him out of his shell. Bit by bit so that he barely saw it coming until it hit him like a truck. He should have seen it a long time ago. But he likes you and there's no denying it now. He's decided he's gonna try and do something about it, and that requires some guts and smooth talking he’s not sure if he's capable of.

He pulls into his parking space in the hospital garage, yearning for you hard. He worked himself up all the way here and now that it's at the forefront of his brain he can’t resist the urge to be near you. 

You’ve got the guts, he tells himself, willing it to be true. Just invite her to the party. Just be yourself? Is that who he wanted to show her? This fucked up guy who can barely work up the courage to ask her one simple phrase. There it goes again; his mind working against him.

He walked in through the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder. Immediately, he saw you. You were sitting at the hub checking the patient census that had just come into your inbox from the day shift and radiating something bright. Maybe it was just him who saw you as the sun.

Now or never. He walked towards the large central desk and slung his backpack under an inner counter. He leaned down on his elbows behind the computer you worked at, thrumming his fingers against the counter top. “Hey, You.” 

His familiar greeting made your stomach flip and you couldn't help but smile. It had been a few days since your shifts had aligned. “Good evening, Dr Abbot,” you hum to him, eyes tearing away from your screen to look up into his hazel eyes. 

Suddenly his pep talk to himself in the car flew out the window. With you sitting right before him, everything inside his mind was gone. You sure didn't mind gazing into Jack’s eyes, in fact you enjoyed it, but the silence was dragging on so you broke it. 

“Missed you at lunch yesterday. I had to eat with Shen and he would not shut up about a big high pressure weather system moving in or something.” There was a pressure system building in Jack's chest. He wanted to respond but was caught up inside his mind. Missed you at lunch, echoed in his mind. She missed me? More pressure flared. 

“Everything okay, Jack?” you asked, head tilting as you looked at him so caringly. 

“Huh?”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else right now. And that look in your eyes, there’s something you’re not telling me.” She could always read him like a book. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind right now.” He was going to continue to deflect, as usual. But she was already onto him. This was his chance. Might as well just come out with it. “Actually I uh was wondering of yo–” Your pager screamed out through the ED and you looked down at it on your waistband. He deflated. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, dayshift always has them on the highest volume.” You read the message coming in and started gathering stuff from the desk around you. “I have to get going to see this patient before discharge. What was it you were wondering though?”  

“Uh… I, um. I was just gonna ask if you, um. Brought your lunch today?”  Fuck. He lost all his steam when that pager went off.

“You know I always do.” You were standing up from the swivel chair now. “Same time as usual? Just page me if you're not gonna be able to make it?” He gives you one of his awkward thumbs up with both hands and says “See you up there,” as you turn to go see the patient. You smile back over your shoulder at him.

He leaned down and put his head between his hands on the counter top while chastising himself for his failed attempt at asking you out. 

He hadn’t registered Dr. Ellis off to the other side of the hub during this whole interaction, having been so focused on whatever it is between him and you that draws him in. A laugh burst out that snapped him out of his pity party. “What the hell was that, Abbot?” said Ellis, thoroughly amused at seeing a guy like Dr. Abbot who is so typically composure and competence fumble. “You can do a REBOA in your sleep but can’t flirt with a woman?”

He lifted his head slightly and glared. “Who said I was flirting?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t successfully flirting. But it would take a fool not to see that you like her.” He laid his head back down and groaned at that. Despite his current embarrassment, Jack liked working with Dr. Ellis more than most other people. He appreciated her no nonsense approach and deft skills. And the fact that she's not afraid of him. She will tell it to him like it is. He knew that interaction was bad, but if Ellis was confirming… then it was really terrible. 

“I don't know, I just… panicked.” How can he stay so calm when someone’s bleeding to death but couldn't do this one thing when faced with you. 

“Did you bring your lunch?!” she echoed him. “That was really what you came up with? What were you really trying to ask her?” He hesitated. But Ellis seemed to already know so much about this whole situation. Guess he wasn’t as close to the chest with his crush as he thought. Maybe he should let her give him some advice. 

“I’m having a party at my place soon, and I was trying to ask her to come,” he admitted.

Ellis raised one eyebrow. “You're having a party?” She never thought she would hear that come out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I'm having a party for everyone from work, you’re invited. That's not the point. Point is I had my chance and I chickened out.”

“Yeah, you did. You have absolutely no game, old timer.” 

“I have game, just… not in that particular instance. I'm out of practice,” he tries to defend himself.  

“Clearly. But I can help you with that.”

“She totally can,” Dr. Santos interjected. Santos had been trying out a rotation on the night shift and had just finished up with a patient in curtain 3 nearby. Always the eavesdropper, she tuned in to the conversation between Abbot and Ellis as she had approached the hub. “Dr. Ellis has got mad game, trust me.” Ellis rolls her eyes at the overzealous intern. “Wait–we’re talking about you getting nervous around Nel right?” 

“Wha-No. I don't get nervous around Nel.” Both women scoff at him. Jack’s eyes widen and turns to Ellis for a sidebar. “How do you both know about this? I don't want to make this a thing. If she's not into me I don't want her to be uncomfortable at work.” He can't be careless about this, needs to do it right. 

“Abbot, be so serious,” she deadpans. “She’s totally into you.”

“You don't know that,” Jack huffs. How do they know if you're into him? He barely let himself know he was into you until therapy earlier today. Santos and Ellis share a look. Santos butts in again, “Dude, it's so obvious. Her eyes literally twinkle when you're in the same room.”

“Don't dude me right now, Santos,” Jack snaps. Do they? Twinkle for him? He hopes so. But he doesn't want to get his hopes up. God, this whole thing is putting him so on edge. 

Ellis sees how uncomfortable Jack’s getting and jumps in. “The grownups are talking here, Dr. Santos. Guy over in North 12 needs his bowel dismipacted, go.” As she reluctantly leaves to go handle the literal shit that's been assigned to her, Ellis tunes back into the conversation with Jack.  

“She's right though, it's obvious you're both smitten. You’ve just gotta shoot your shot, man.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself at the thought. “What are you planning to say?” 

He hesitates. Drums his thumbs against the counter top again. “How about I'm having a party. You can come, if you want.”

“God, this is why I date women. You're useless.” 

“You said you would help!”

“Look–that's way too passive. Sounds like you don't care if she comes or not. Women like when you're sincere and confident. Usually that's your forte, but I guess not when you’re nervous about your crush. Try to tune in to that Abbot, ya know, direct and to the point.”

If I say what I actually mean, Jack thinks, it will be ‘I think you're smart and caring and beautiful, and I like spending time with you at work. And more than anything, I’d like to see you outside of this hell hole…preferably…all the time.’ He’s staring off into the abyss now.

“Oh my god, you're so in your head. Just be normal, be yourself! Say Hey, I'm having a party. I would really like it if you came.”  

“Got it, yeah. Be normal.” 

She huffs at his nervousness. “If you don't grow a spine and ask her out, I will,” Ellis jests, giving him a little incentive. 

“C'mon, give me a chance here.”

“She's hot, kind. Seems like a really great person. So you better snatch her up before someone else does.”

—

It was just before 1am when your stomach started to grumble, queuing you that it was almost your normal “lunch” time. You finished up your case note you were working on, grabbed your food from the breakroom fridge, and headed up to the roof. 

Lunch with Jack was always a highlight of your shift. No matter how shitty a patient had treated you or how many problems you had encountered that day, sitting with him for just a few minutes always made it feel like you were free of the hospital. Returning to your shift after those moments with him, the fluorescent lights turned softer and long hospital hallways less suffocating. 

It happened by accident really, the two of you becoming lunch buddies. You brought your lunch box up to the roof to get some air while you took a break. He was already up there, leaning up against the railing staring out at the city beyond the hospital. He wasn't expecting a visitor, didn’t encounter many others up there, but suddenly there was you. An angel of the night.  

When you pushed open the door of the stairwell to see him staring out at the skyline, you remember thinking that this man looked like a beacon high up above the rest of the city, standing steady and sending out a signal. Looking out over the whole city and asking who’s there? Free in the dark of night to admit that he was seeking connection. 

From the very first moment, you read him eerily well. And you approached. Because you were seeking the same thing. 

You struck up a conversation with him and offered him half of your sandwich. Kept doing so until he started bringing his own food too, usually whatever had the quickest doordash delivery time. He made you laugh with his dry and dark humor. Shared silence with you when you were both too tired to speak, or listened to you ramble about the book you were reading or some movie you had watched. Sometimes he had questions.  ____

“Have you ever heard of the Four Agreements?” he asked one night. You picked through some of the Chinese food he had ordered from the 24 hour place down the street, while he took a bite out of the apple you had packed. You chuckle a little at his question. 

“Why are you laughing at me?” he asks.

“Sorry– it's just. As someone who works in a mental health bubble, the Four Agreements is like… the bible of self help. And it's a little cliche.”

“You’re calling Linda cliche?”

“Who’s Linda?"

“My therapist. She recommended it."

“Look at you, doing therapy.”

He gave you a little shrug. “Thanks. So I shouldn’t read it? If it's cliche."

“No, no, It could still be useful. Give it a try.”  ____

He also surprised you with these bursts of intense vulnerability, sparsed out between his usually more gruff or sarcastic responses. 

Whenever he was about to reveal something to you, you could almost see it coming. He would always position himself next to you, leaning over on the railing and facing out over Pittsburg like he was that first night you found him up here. He wouldn’t look in your eyes like he usually did. Would just stand next to you there and focus on some point, far out on the horizon. He’d be quiet for a while, and you would just wait, just being there with him. 

____

“That guy we both saw today, the boarder in North 7?” 

“Yeah?” you encouraged him to continue. 

“I know him. Well not him, really, but his brother. We served together. He lost his brother the same day I lost my leg.” He pulled up the hem of his scrub pants a bit to reveal a glimpse of his prosthetic.

“Oh…Jack. I’m so sorry. That must bring up a lot of old memories.”

“It was a long time ago. Can’t change it now.” He wants to pull away from the exposure he felt at saying this to you. But you draw out something in him. Sharing with you is easier sometimes, and he doesn't know why. It's because he’s falling in love with you and hasn't let himself admit it yet.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.” You’re always trying to encourage him to feel.

“Yeah... still hurts like hell. Hurts more because I hadn’t thought about Eddie in months, maybe years. I forgot about him.” 

You turn your head to face him, frowning. He maintains his gaze on some faraway spot. “You can’t blame yourself for that. If you remembered them all every second of every day you would drive yourself crazy.” 

He took a shaky breath in and just nodded. That was as much opening up he could take for the moment. “I gotta go back down there, check on the patients,” he says, letting the voice telling him to run win, for now.

You pause for a beat, trying to replicate his own incessant gaze that would always get you break and look up at him. The trick doesn’t work on its own master. He continues to put that distance between you and stares out at the city beyond the roof, then down at his feet. 

“Okay. But just be careful with yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to talk more, I’m here.” You jutted your hip out to bump his, trying to coax him out of his unease, show him that it was okay to open up to you. He stood fully up from the railing, giving you a double thumbs up. That was becoming his signature move with you when he didn't quite know what to say. He kept doing it because it always made you smile.  ____

Sometimes his appearances on the roof were just as scattered as his ability to show vulnerability. After times where he opened up you might not see him for days. He would go brood and throw himself into the work to get his mind off the memories, or off of you, when the way you were making him feel scared him a little too much. He would chastise himself for letting his feelings slip out like that. Would convince himself that you didn't want to hear anything about it, no matter how supportive and kind you were whenever he did share. 

Deep down he longed for connection, even though he actively pushed everyone away. 

Once you found him on that roof, finally someone was pushing back. You would come and find him if he didn't show up on the roof, or send him a message as you were heading up, pestering him to come join you if you could. 

And the way you responded to him showing how he felt, admitting what ate at him inside, it started to show him that it was okay to reveal himself. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, but still he kept coming back to have lunch with you. 

Tonight would be just like any of those other nights, he told himself as he hiked up the stairs to the roof entry. Just be normal. 

You were already up there waiting for him when he came through the stairwell door. The light midsummer night breeze blew your hair around your face and he sensed something heavy on your mind. Brooding on the roof was usually his forte.

As he approaches you barely register his presence. He places a hand on your shoulder, which makes you jump and turn to him. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah–fine.” You shake your head and give him a little smile but he sees it's not the kind that you usually flash, the kind that's earnest. He doesn’t push.

“Well, if you weren’t good I would offer some crab rangoons as a pick me up.” He lifts his takeout bag up. “But if you’re fine then you don’t need em.” 

“Gimme that,” you snatch the bag from him and dig out the rangoons. 

“That’s what I thought.” the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-there smirk. 

You two dig into the combo of takeout and packed food spread out before you. All of his nervousness from earlier in the day had dissipated. Up here, in the dark, just the two of you, he was calm. As calm as Jack Abbot could be these days. He lets himself think about being with you like this in the daytime. Somewhere else, like having a picnic in a park where you would admire the spring flowers and he would admire you with the same reverence. 

He had to ask his question, because failing would mean missing that chance. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.” you said.

“Like what?” he keeps his gaze locked on yours like if he blinked you would disappear. 

“I don’t know. I just recognize that look in your eye.” It's the look I get when I admire you, he thinks.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you go first.” You let out a huff of a breath. “Fine. I just… I guess I’m tired– getting really tired of all the roadblocks in my work. People always need more than I’m able to give them. Shelters are always full or the patient doesn’t meet some eligibility requirement and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You’re doing everything you can with what you have, that’s more than most people. You rock it in there everyday,” Jack responds. 

“I know that, in theory. It’s just been harder and harder to believe it lately.”

“Well, I’ll keep reminding you.” 

“Okay, your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then forced himself to look at you head on. “Uh, I’m going to have everyone from work over at my place for a barbeque. But I wanted to, uh, make sure that you would be there, with me. And…maybe it will help you decompress from work and everything.” It was as un-awkward as he could possibly make it. 

You found his subtle bashfulness cute. It was endearing to bring the steady Jack Abbot to jumbling his words. “I would love to come.” The biggest smile you've ever seen on him spreads across Jack’s face. 

“When’s the next Saturday you’re off?” he asks.

“Two weeks from now.”

“Then that's our party then.” 

You giggle. “Our party, huh?”

“Well you’re the guest of honor, I decided.” 

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

The banter slows, both of you feeling the tension of crossing a new line that you can't go back over. It's quiet for another beat, then Jack speaks again, quietly.

“Ellis is gonna be proud of me for this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had no game, earlier at the beginning of shift. I meant to ask you then but got too nervous. So she gave me some pointers.”

That made you blush. You had liked Jack Abbot for a while, but did not want to risk your friendship on making the first move. You didn’t want him to think that your support of him was conditional on him reciprocating feelings. You could see him deeply struggling and cared about him, just wanting to be there for him. So even though you had butterflies tingling in your stomach more and more after each encounter, you tried to keep the relationship as professional as possible. After this– him asking you to come to his party like that, admitting it made him nervous to do so. It finally showed you that you could want more with Jack. That he wanted it too. 

It emboldened you, and you reached out to lace your fingers with his. “I like you the way you are Jack. It's okay to be nervous, but please just keep being you.” 

He squeezed your hand and nodded his head. “I think I can do that sweetheart.”

[appocalipse]

good idea — sirius black

Trying to get over your feelings for Sirius, you decide to bring a date to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party this year. But Sirius seems oddly angry about it… friends to lovers, jealous!sirius ♥

"You're bringing him? As a date?" 

To be honest, Sirius doesn't know why he's so irritated by this. Every year he gets invited, and every year he doesn't go to Slughorn's Christmas party because, frankly, it sounds boring as hell—a bunch of stuffed shirts bragging about themselves while stuffing their faces with party food—but now…now all of a sudden, he's feeling downright offended that you'd bring a date and not him.

It's stupid. But that doesn't change the fact that he's furious about it.

You look at him uncertainly, a little frown pulling your eyebrows together. Sirius kind of wants to smooth it out with his thumb, but that's probably not a good idea.

"Um...yeah?" you say, and your voice tilts up at the end like it's a question, and Sirius doesn't know if you're asking him or yourself, but he does not like it. "I mean, Slughorn said we could bring a plus-one, so... I'm bringing Ollie."

"Ollie," he repeats, derision dripping from the word like the name itself is rotten. Then, because he's bitter and a bit of an asshole, he adds, in the most disparaging tone he can muster, "Seriously? Ollie? The guy who once nearly exploded a classroom because he couldn't transfigure a knife and fork properly?"

Sirius didn't think your frown could get any deeper, but apparently it can, and now he feels kind of bad for putting it there. 

But then you scowl and cross your arms, and your lovely blue dress tugs at your lovely hips, which draws his eyes to your thighs and forces him to look away and think about Quidditch and essays on different varieties of unicorn blood and exploding potions.

"He wasn't going to explode anything," you snap. "The cauldron had a hairline crack. All he did was—you know what, I gotta go!"

You brush past him, and Sirius smells that delicious, honeyed fragrance you always wear, and he just…he just…

His hand snaps out and grabs your arm.

You stop, glancing back at him, and Sirius would normally never manhandle you like this, but now that he's doing it, he doesn't want to let go. You look so angry, though; your chest heaving with your quick breaths, your skin warm under his fingers, soft and plush.

But you've obviously had enough of whatever this is, because you raise your eyebrows and say flatly, "Let me go."

It feels like his hand doesn't want to obey him. "Sorry," he mutters, and it's sincere, but he doesn't release you. "I'm sorry. Just...what's so great about Ollie?"

"I like him."

"No you don't."

"What?"

Sirius blinks, trying to figure out what's coming out of his mouth. He just...he doesn't like this. The mere idea of you going out with Ollie makes his skin crawl. Not because he likes you or anything, no. You're pretty, yeah. And funny, and smart, and when he first met you, being your friend was the last thing on his mind, sure, but then he got to know you, and—fine. Maybe he does like you a little bit more than he probably should.

But you're way too good for him. You're certainly way too good for Ollie. 

"Ollie sucks," Sirius says. It's not an eloquent statement, but it's a true one. "He's boring. He's an asshole. You're..."

His words trail off as he stares at you. His eyes fall to your lips, lipstick-red and soft-looking and parted in surprise, and they're just right there, and maybe he could just…just once…

"I'm what?"

He kisses you. He can't help himself.

Sirius has kissed a lot of girls, but this...this is different.

One hand is still holding your arm, but the other comes up to touch your cheek, trace your jaw, skim down the side of your neck, feeling the way your pulse is pounding beneath your skin and under his fingertips as his mouth moves over yours. Your lips are soft, the little noise you make in the back of your throat even softer, and he wants to hear it again.

And again. And again.

Sirius breaks the kiss first.

You stare at him. Pupils blown wide. Lips red and glistening. "You kissed me."

Sirius brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I did."

"You...did?" Now you're sounding breathless. Like you can't quite catch your breath.

"I did." Sirius moves in closer, crowding you against the wall yet not quite touching you. "You didn't stop me."

For a moment, your gaze drops to his lips, and Sirius feels a surge of triumph. "What—what was that for?"

His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back. You smell like flowers. Like honey. Like something he wants to devour.

"Don't go to the party with Ollie."

It was, apparently, not the right thing to say.

You duck under his arm, and Sirius is so surprised, he doesn't manage to stop you from escaping.

"Don't kiss me just because you want to sabotage my date," you say, and boy, you sound angry. "Especially don't kiss me and then not tell me why."

"I wanted to kiss you."

"That's your excuse?"

"Is it not a good one?" 

Sirius is feeling slightly out of his depth here. He thought the kiss would be pretty self-explanatory. But apparently not. This hallway, with its tapestries and old portraits and suits of armor and half-dressed witches, is beginning to feel stifling.

He tries a different tactic. "I think about kissing you a lot."

"Stop."

"It's true."

If looks could kill, Sirius would be ashes on the ground right now.

"The first time I thought about it was after Potions," he says, pressing his advantage. You're listening, at least. And you haven't turned to leave yet. That has to mean something. "When you spilled that solution all over yourself and started laughing about it. You have the best laugh."

"Seriously—"

He steps closer. "And your mouth...fuck, it drives me crazy."

"Don't—"

He backs you up against the wall again. Now, he's touching you, one hand on your waist, feeling the way your body curves so nicely beneath his palm, the other splayed on the wall next to your head.

"Take Ollie to the party," he says. "See if I care. But you're going to spend the whole time thinking about this."

He leans in close, then pauses, mouth inches from yours, your breath mingling together. He feels you swallow, watches the way your pupils dilate.

Then, before he can change his mind, he dips his head and kisses you again. 

Harder this time. 

Less tentative. 

He wants to remember this kiss.

"Was that a good excuse?" he whispers when he pulls away.

Your mouth works soundlessly for a moment, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Sirius wants to hear you say something, but the words aren't coming, so he tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in.

"Are you thinking about it now?"

Your lips part, soft and silken, and you exhale a small puff of breath. "I hate you."

"You don't hate me," he says, his mouth still almost touching yours. You taste like honeyed tea. Like a cozy summer afternoon spent lounging on the grass. He could live in this feeling forever. He could die in it. "You're thinking about me. You're thinking about this. My hand on your waist."

He squeezes, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hip.

"My lips on your neck."

He kisses the skin under your ear, then drags his mouth down the side of your neck until he reaches the curve where your shoulder begins. 

You make a soft sound; a moan, a sigh. Sirius can't really tell. But, fuck, does he want to hear it again.

He pulls away and waits for you to look at him, to really look at him. Your eyes are so lovely. And your face...he wants to memorize it.

"Don't take Ollie to the party." Sirius slides his hand down your arm until his fingers lace with yours. "Take me."

Well...it certainly feels like a good idea.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Where Soft Things Grow 🌱 [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 6.8k

summary: when Bob's therapist asks him to find an activity that will help him gain some control, he's forced to turn to you. That's just the first step in a series of events he never thought would happen.

masterlist

warnings: mental health (yk, canon stuff)

It had been almost a year since the last big mission. Since the previous time someone ended up in the hospital, or any of you were trapped in your own silence for weeks.

Bob was better. Not well, not completely. But better.

At the recommendation—and insistence—of the entire team, he had started going to therapy. It wasn't easy. It took him months to accept that he needed to talk to someone who didn't carry a gun or know his traumas firsthand.

So his therapist asked him to choose a recurring activity. Something nonviolent. Something he could maintain consistently, even on bad days.

Bob thought about learning to cook, write, draw… but nothing really convinced him.

Ultimately, he ended up in a corner of the tower, with three pots, two bags of soil, and a defeated expression: so, gardening it was. He had bought plants, not seeds, because he thought it would be easier that way. He followed the shop assistant's recommendations a bit: he bought mint, lavender, and basil.

He'd never had a plant in his life and hadn't even read an article about it, but he tried to remain as positive as possible. After all, that was the goal, wasn't it? With a little practice, he could learn, and besides, he figured it shouldn't be too difficult to achieve.

What he didn't understand was that plants didn't survive on just care and excess water. Bob watered every morning, without fail. Sometimes out of anxiety, other times out of fear of forgetting, other times because he convinced himself he was doing the right thing. After a week of this routine, the most logical thing happened: the mint turned yellow, the lavender wilted, and the poor basil gave up without a fight.

He stood in front of the pots, his brow furrowed, his hands caked with damp soil. His fingers trembled slightly as they clumsily plucked the withered leaves. For a moment, he considered simply throwing them away. Buying new ones. Pretending things had never gone wrong.

But that wasn't what they had asked of him in therapy.

"It's not about making it perfect," his therapist had told him, with that calmness that made him a little uncomfortable. "It's about allowing yourself to fail, and moving on. About caring, even when you don't know how."

Then, for some strange reason, he thought of you.

You once mentioned that you liked plants, having grown up with a mother who took care of them a ton. You might know a thing or two about that, so, without giving it much thought, he went looking for you.

He wandered around for a while until he found you in the shared kitchen, sitting on one of the stools. You had a steaming mug in your hands, and he hesitated before speaking.

"Hey," he finally said, his voice softer than usual, "Do you have a moment?"

You nodded, putting the cup aside and approaching cautiously.

"Hi. You okay?"

Bob shrugged uncomfortably. He hadn't dared mention his project to anyone, for fear of feeling overly scrutinized or pressured. But now, in front of you, his nails were still stained with dirt and the smell of dead basil permeated his T-shirt. He felt ridiculous.

"I'm… trying this plant-care thing," he began, sounding a little frustrated. "My therapist recommended it. But it was supposed to be easy."

You frowned, curious.

"Easy?"

He gave a short laugh, with a hint of embarrassment.

"She told me to choose a consistent activity, so I bought three plants. But I killed them in a week."

"Which plants?"

"Mint, basil and lavender"

"Hmm, they’re whimsical…" you murmured, clicking your tongue, more to yourself than to him. "Can I see them?"

He nodded almost immediately, and then the two of you set off, walking to the space he'd selected for his little project. As soon as you arrived, he noticed you scanning everything around you. Then you knelt to touch the withered leaves and damp earth.

When you stood up, you delivered a verdict:

"They’re too wet”

"But they need water," he replied in bewilderment.

Seeing him so lost touched you slightly and you smiled at him, understanding.

"How many times have you watered them?"

"Every morning"

"Oh! No, honey. You're drowning them. Not only do they need to be watered so often, it depends on the plant. They also need space, light, and rest. Just like you."

Although your voice came out kind, he felt annoyed with himself.

"This is stupid, I'll try something else."

"No, Bob. Don't be discouraged. Gardening is… it's a very good strategy for what your therapist is looking for. It requires time, care, discipline, and above all, patience." You emphasized the last word, making him smile. "What do you say I help you? We'll buy some new plants, and I'll tell you how to take care of them."

"Would you do that?"

"Of course. Especially if this can help you in your process. You'll see how much you'll grow fond of it over time."

After that conversation, he felt more encouraged about it. He thought maybe sharing it with you would get him more involved, as he felt a certain commitment to not letting you down. Plus, he enjoyed spending time with you.

That same afternoon, you went to a nursery, with plants completely different from the ones he'd bought at the supermarket. They looked more vibrant, with bright colors and a fresh, lively look.

While there, you explained to him which ones were best suited for indoors—because yes, he didn't know there were plants for both indoors and outdoors—and then he chose all shapes and sizes. Maybe he was being superficial, but again, the criterion for choosing was appearance.

When you returned, it was no longer just three sad flowerpots, but you entered the tower carrying a wooden box full of vegetation, fertilizer, a set of gardening tools, and a metal watering can.

"What are you two up to?"

Bucky and Yelena were sitting in the living room, watching you with a strange interest. They were probably discussing important matters, a mission or something along those lines. You simply told them it was Bob's assignment and then slipped off down the hall, motivated to set up the small green area.

"Plants need different things. Some require more water, more light, more time in the shade…"

As you explained, he arranged the pots around the space, listening attentively to your words. The patio was somewhat small, but spacious enough to function.

"They're like people. Each one likes something different, behaves differently, or has different roles..."

"You know, I chose gardening without much thought, but now I'm thinking I might tell all this to my therapist when she asks me why. Would you write it down for me?"

Bob was cute and kind, but now and then he would make jokes that always made you laugh.

"Okay, okay, I get it. I must sound crazy."

"No! I didn't mean that, no. I'm just saying it would make a lot more sense for me to explain it that way than to simply justify it by saying I thought it would be the easiest activity."

With a smile, you looked at him for a moment. Then you placed the pot of dying lavender in his hands.

"This one's for you. First lesson, lavender needs lots of sun. Put it in your bedroom window."

"Can it be saved?"

"Everything can be saved, Bob. You just need to give it a chance."

The man felt that action was poetic. Would you maintain that attitude toward everything? Even him?

"You're… you're very good to me. Thank you."

That caught you off guard, though it didn't seem strange to you. He had this habit of thanking you for everything, as if you were doing him a favor by treating him decently.

From then on, the garden played two important roles: a space of stillness and order for Bob and a quiet way for the rest of the team to coexist with him.

"Looks good."

"You think so?" he asked Yelena, who was watching him from the doorway.

Now he watered the plants once or twice a week, as you had instructed. You had even helped him design a schedule that he kept posted on the wall, to ease his anxiety about forgetting.

"Yes, I mean it. I brought you something, by the way."

The woman handed him a ceramic pot.

"A cactus?"

"Yes. This one doesn't die if you forget to water it."

The gesture warmed your friend's heart, and he made sure to put the pot—small enough to fit in just one hand—in a pretty spot. He assumed it needed sunlight and little water. Later, he checked with you to be sure.

That corner soon became Bob's adoration, obsessed with learning and taking the best possible care of his little garden.

You made compost with organic waste, you taught him how to prune, and he even had his own crop of medicinal or edible plants, which more than once managed to save the day.

“Fuck!"

"What's wrong, Walker?"

"This recipe calls for rosemary. And we don't have any."

"Take it from my garden," chimed in Bob, who was sitting on the couch trying to put together a puzzle.

"Which garden?"

"The one I have downstairs. It's a task my therapist gave me. It helps me relax and so on."

John looked at him, incredulous.

"And do you have rosemary in that place?"

"Mhm. Rosemary, basil, mint, thyme, cilantro…"

He mentally reviewed the list and then swore he saw the soldier's face light up, probably already working on a couple of recipes. From that moment on, he became the official supplier of herbs within the tower. Anyone who was cooking and needed a condiment, or who fancied a medicinal tea, came to him.

On another occasion, Ava had heard murmurings in the hallway. She thought it was an intruder, then she thought Bob was having a breakdown, and when she got closer, she finally found him chatting excitedly. However, upon closer inspection, she realized he was alone.

"I didn't imagine you as someone who talks to plants."

The woman surprised him and he, logically, jumped into his own place. Then he smiled at her.

"Hi. I read somewhere it helps them grow. Honestly, I think it's helping me more than them."

"Well, if talking to them keeps you sane, then keep talking to them."

A soft chuckle escaped his chest as he stroked the leaves like one would stroke a pet.

"I discovered that plants are less complicated than people, anyway. That's why I like spending time with them."

"Well, it smells like my grandmother's patio."

Even if they joked around, everyone in the tower just let Bob be. If he was comfortable with the activity and it got him out of the darkness of his room, it was fine with them.

But to be honest, you were the one who was enjoying this hobby of his the most. In your free time, you went there hoping to find him, and from time to time, you helped him rearrange his pots, since some followed Yelena's example and bought plants from him whenever they could.

One of those days, you were immersed in your work when you heard Bob speak:

"You know, just being here makes this whole place feel different. More beautiful."

You laughed.

"Are you talking to that plant or are you talking to me?"

"Both. But you don't need that much sunlight."

You stopped turning the humus in the soil to watch him, surprised by his response to your joke. But Bob seemed to say that as if it were natural, for he didn't flinch in the least at your gaze; he continued pruning with the same delicacy and concentration as always. The mere thought of him thinking that about your presence made you blush, and although you tried to continue working, your concentration was disrupted considerably.

One day, however, the inevitable happened.

Your friend hadn't had an episode for a while, but something—you didn't know what—managed to unsettle him. It wasn't immediate or explosive. There were no screams, no blows, no prolonged absences. It was more like a fog that slowly settled over him, dulling his calm glow.

At first, no one noticed. Bob was still just as attentive, just as polite. But he stopped eating with the others. He became quieter, more methodical, more isolated. Yelena was the first to frown when he turned down a card game. Bucky said nothing, but watched him out of the corner of his eye with silent concern. John, on the other hand, was more direct:

"Everything okay, Bobby?"

"Excellent," he replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Ava left some snacks in the cupboard. Alexei offered to help him with an installation that clearly didn't need any help. Everyone noticed, in their own way. But no one found a suitable way in.

Except you.

Or maybe you were just in the right place when the lights stayed on past midnight.

From the common room, you could see, through the hallway windows, the warm light from Bob's room. It wasn't unusual for him to stay up late—he hadn't slept much in years—but there was something about the way that light didn't flicker, about the static shadow behind the curtain, that gave you a hunch.

So you walked up to his door and knocked softly.

"Bob?"

Nothing.

"Can I come in?"

You thought maybe he had just fallen asleep with the lights on, or maybe he just didn't want to talk to anyone. A few seconds later, as you were about to leave, you heard his footsteps shuffling toward the door.

When he opened your eyes, his eyes were red-rimmed, and the dark circles under them were more pronounced than usual. What worried you was that he didn't try to fake it. He didn't try to smile, or straighten up. He just stepped aside to let you in.

The room was messy. Not in a catastrophic sense, but the signs were there: clothes on the chair, a forgotten cup, books piled up as if he'd tried—in vain—to read one.

"No sleep?"

"I was finishing some things," you replied simply. You knew what he was trying to do; he wanted to divert attention from himself. "Do you want to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" he asked. He wasn't looking at you.

You remained silent, and so did he. But you didn't move a muscle, making it clear that you didn't intend to leave, even if he didn't say a word. You would stay there and keep him company. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. Defeated.

He was slow to respond.

"I don't know. I just… felt bad. Not because of anything specific, I just think it built up."

You sat down next to him. You didn't say anything. You just listened to him take a deep breath.

"I thought I was better," he continued. "And I am. But sometimes it all comes back. And it's like my body remembers before my mind does."

You didn't hug him. Not yet. But you moved your leg closer to his, letting him feel your presence. It was Bob who leaned toward you, placing his head on your shoulder.

"Do you want me to say something or would you prefer that I not?"

"I don't want to talk. Just stay."

You spent several minutes like that, in silence. At some point, he closed his eyes, exhausted, and although he didn't fall asleep, it seemed like his body was finally letting go of something it had been carrying for days.

At some point, you slipped your hand into his, which he gladly accepted. The way your thumb caressed his knuckles made him feel calmer, as if he could focus on that instead of his own thoughts.

"You need to rest"

"I can't. I tried, but I can't."

"But you must do it."

Your tone, though firm, tried to be as empathetic as possible. Suddenly, your gaze fell on the flowerpot resting on the windowsill, and an idea popped into your mind.

Bob looked devastated when you stood up from your seat.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll get you something to help you sleep, okay? Wait a minute."

As a farewell, you brushed his hair with your fingers and he nodded without saying anything.

You then went to the kitchen, where a jar full of already dried lavender flowers rested –product of the garden, of course– you placed them in the infuser and it went straight to the fire.

Then you went to your room. The bottle of oil you used on some sleepless nights rested on one of the shelves, and you took the opportunity to put on a hoodie, since for some reason Bob's room felt frigid. As if it reflected the mood of its occupant.

When you returned—cup in hand—you found him in the same position, almost as if he hadn't noticed your absence. His gaze was lost, a hint of sadness shining in his tired eyes.

"Hey"

"You won't be able to sleep if you have all the lights on, for starters," you smiled. You then adjusted the lighting to amber. "Drink this."

Bob took the cup without saying anything, but his fingers brushed yours as he did so. He stared at the contents for a few seconds, then brought the rim to his lips and drank… too quickly.

"It's hot!"

"I noticed," he murmured, his lips parted, rubbing the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

You couldn't help but laugh, your tone soft and not inviting mockery. He imitated you.

"Let me see," you said, leaning in a little closer, as if you could actually do something about it. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

"I'm fine,"

"Be more careful."

Bob responded with a faint smile before bringing the cup to his lips and gently blowing on the drink, as if that slow gesture might also soothe the turmoil inside his chest. Meanwhile, you poured a few drops of the oil onto your fingertips and then knelt in front of him, occupying the space between his legs. Your knees gently touched the carpet, and your hands, delicate but determined, rose to brush away a few unruly strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. You touched him with an almost ceremonial tenderness, stroking his temples as if each stroke brought some relief.

Bob let out a long, weary sigh. The warm scent of the oil—lavender, or maybe something with sandalwood—drifted softly into his senses, and within seconds his eyelids fluttered closed, overcome by the contrast between the warmth of your touch and the coolness the ointment left on his skin. His body began to relax, releasing the tension built up in his shoulders, neck, jaw... but his heart, that traitor, only raced.

He felt your proximity like a magnetic field: the warmth of your thighs, the calm cadence of your breathing, the barely perceptible touch of your fingers as they slid closer to his cheekbones. You were too close, and yet, not close enough.

If he leaned in a little—just a little—his nose would touch yours. He didn't.

"Have you finished your tea?"

Your voice broke the warm bubble that enveloped him and anchored him back to the room. Bob blinked, disoriented for a second, reminding himself that this was all part of an attempt to get him to sleep. So he feigned normalcy. He nodded slowly as you walked away, leaving an invisible gap in the air that he instantly felt.

He held the mug in his hands for a moment longer, as if the warmth trapped in the ceramic could fill the emptiness you left in his chest. Then he took a sip and placed it on the nightstand, next to the remnants of possibilities.

Suddenly, his movements became slower, almost mechanical, as if his body were finally beginning to give in to a tiredness he'd been ignoring for days. And you stood there, staring at him without intruding. The room had that kind of silence that comes only after a storm: a soft echo of what hurt, but also the promise that everything will calm down.

"You should sleep too," he said, softly and quietly.

His eyes remained open. Not because he wasn't sleepy, but because he was still watching you.

It was a silent gaze, without expectations or intention to disturb. But there was something about it—the way his eyelids softened, the way the corners of his lips slightly curved, the way he looked at you as if you were the only certainty he had at that moment—that overflowed with tenderness. An adoration so deep he didn't seem to realize he was letting it show.

"Yeah. I'll go to my room when you're asleep," you replied, unconcerned.

Something stirred inside him. Not physically, but inside. That sentence struck a soft blow to his chest. He didn't want you to leave. He didn't want to be alone when the silence returned with all its weight. But he didn't want to say it out loud either.

How do you ask for something like that? How can you ask someone to stay, to share a bed with you just to ward off the shadow of loneliness?

He thought about thanking you and staying silent. He thought about accepting that small consolation without risking more. But just as the thought began to hurt him a little inside, you looked at him with the same gentleness with which he looked at you and asked:

"Would it make you feel better if I stayed?"

And it was as if you'd read his soul. Bob blinked once, surprised at how quickly his chest filled with something warm. He nodded with unexpected, almost awkward energy, as if yes had won out over restraint.

"Yes. Yes... please."

"Do you have a blanket to put on the floor?"

"What? No! No need. You can sleep in the bed… huh, only if you want to."

A smile crossed your face, and then you moved first, as if you understood perfectly. You silently took off your shoes and settled on the side closest to the wall. He took a little longer, as if he was doubting whether that was really possible. But he lay down.

The mattress was narrow, and although neither of you sought contact, the closeness was inevitable. Your breathing began out of sync, but gradually found a similar rhythm. The room, with its warm light and soft shadows, no longer felt so cold.

Bob kept his eyes open for a while, fixed on a spot on the ceiling. He seemed to be trying to record the way everything felt: the scent of oil still hanging in the air, the distant murmur of the city beyond the windows, the nearby warmth of someone who wasn't running away from their sadness. The sensation was strange, not because it was uncomfortable, but because it was new. And newness, for someone like him, usually came with scars.

He thought of nights past, in beds where there was only a thick silence, where darkness felt like a threat. Of the years when insomnia was the only constant and abrupt awakenings were confused with fragments of a blurred childhood. There had never been anyone who came into his room to check on him. There had never been a cup of something hot or hands on his temples to help him calm down. That's why this was too much. Almost unbearable, so intimate.

And yet, there you were. You didn't push, you didn't say more than necessary. You were just there. And that, while it disarmed him, also sustained him. He didn't understand how, but your presence slowed down his chaotic psyche.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, calm down. Are you?"

"Better than ever"

He didn't turn toward you. He didn't reach for your hand. But he knew, with a certainty he couldn't explain, that if he woke up in the middle of the night, you'd still be there. And that, for someone like him, was something of a miracle.

He fell asleep before he realized it. Not with the depth of someone who has never known fear, but with the peace of someone who, for the first time, is not alone with his ghosts.

That day was etched in his memory as one of those nights that don't seem extraordinary at first, but which, over time, take on a different meaning. It wasn't what you said or what you did. It was everything you didn't say. What you left hanging in the air, in the comfortable silences, in the way the warm light seemed to embrace the space between your bodies.

From then on, something changed. Slowly, without any big announcements, Bob began to walk differently. It wasn't obvious to everyone, but you noticed. On good days, his voice sounded clearer; on bad days, he no longer isolated himself completely. There was a kind of new pulse beating beneath his usual stillness. A faint thread that kept him more present.

Little by little, he resumed a more consistent rhythm in his life. Not perfect, not linear, but steadier. He slept better. He allowed himself to be accompanied. And although he still preferred brief conversations, he began to offer you small gestures that spoke louder than any words. His presence felt lighter, less cornered by the weight of the world.

And then there was the garden. That green corner, once merely a clumsy attempt at his therapy, became a reflection of everything he was trying to rebuild. The plants were more organized, more alive. Now and then, you find new shoots you didn't remember seeing before. Pots with freshly turned soil were rearranged; he had even started planting his seeds instead of buying the plants.

One ordinary afternoon—after one of those workouts that left your muscles crying out for respite—you took a long, leisurely shower. The steam washed away the exhaustion from your body, and for a while you thought about nothing. When you stepped out, the towel still hanging around your neck and your damp hair sticking to your skin, the first thing you saw upon entering the kitchen was your water bottle on the table… and next to it, a small bouquet.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

There was no note. Just the flowers: a modest handful, wrapped in brown paper, with no need to look perfect. A few marigolds opened as if they'd caught the sun, a couple of sprigs of still-fresh lavender, and in the center, two white begonias.

You gently ran your fingers over the petals, as if afraid of ruining the gesture. For a second, a very stupid one, it didn't occur to you who had done such a thing.

"And that?" Yelena murmured, next to you. She had also showered and was looking for something to chew on.

"They were… next to my water bottle. They just appeared."

"Huh, what a mystery."

"I know," you murmured sincerely, not having noticed the sarcasm in your friend's voice. She looked at you for a second, waiting for the punchline to a joke that never came. "What?"

“You seriously don't know who gave them to you?”

"Yours?" you tried your luck. She laughed, with that characteristic raspy sound, and shook her head in amusement.

"Maybe it is a mystery. If only we knew someone who took up gardening recently and practically kisses the ground you walk on…"

Suddenly, everything clicked. And you felt stupid for not having figured it out sooner.

"Bob?"

"I highly doubt Bucky is the romantic type. And Walker… well, he's Walker."

You remained silent. You knew that even a single syllable from your lips would condemn you forever, and you didn't want Yelena to know about your feelings so soon. You had to talk to him first.

"Huh, yeah, I think you're right. I'll put them in my room then. See you."

"Your room is across the hall…" she observed, smiling mischievously.

The worst part? She was right.

"Yeah! I'm just going to get something I… forgot in the training room."

The blonde didn't buy a word of your poor lie and made sure to remember the situation so she could annoy you in the future.

You walked quickly until you reached the door of his room. You knocked, but no one answered. You assumed he was probably in the garden, so you went there, certain you'd find him watering the garden or simply admiring the surroundings. The smile you had on your face was replaced by a frown. He wasn't there either. Had he left the tower? Maybe to buy something, you thought, although it wasn't logical.

You wandered through a few floors, hoping to run into him in one of the hallways, but it was all in vain. It was just you and the modest flowers you were holding. Finally, an unknown force whispered in your ear that he might be on the roof. It was a secluded spot you sometimes used to do things off camera—which Valentina monitored and watched like a psycho—so you thought it would be good to check. After all, you had nothing to lose if he wasn't there either.

As you stepped out, the drafts hit your ears and ruffled your hair. It took only a few steps to see his figure, near the shore in a contemplative pose with his arms crossed, as if he were hugging himself.

Of course he realized he was no longer alone, but when he turned and saw you, his expression softened considerably.

"How did you find me?"

"Were you hiding?"

Your question caught him off guard, and so he didn't say anything. You walked over to stand beside him.

"For someone afraid of heights, this doesn't seem like the best place."

"I like to see the sky. I try not to look down."

A chuckle escaped you. Bob looked at what you were holding and then pretended he hadn't.

"Look what I found. No note, no nothing."

"And do you like them?"

"Of course, they're beautiful. I wonder if it was Alexei, he's usually cheesy."

His brow furrowed. You stifled a laugh at his obvious annoyance.

"Do you think they're cheesy?"

"Coming from him, yes. If someone else were responsible, it would be… sweet. Even romantic, I think."

The look you shared was one of complicity. He knew you knew, but neither of you wanted to dare be the first to speak. So, when there were no words, he decided to reach out his hand to reach yours; a trembling, delicate, and experimental touch.

His fears evaporated when you smiled and leaned a little closer, forcing him to embrace you. His free arm cupped your lower back, and the flowers in your other hand wound up on his back. Suddenly, the chill in the air was overshadowed by the body heat you were suddenly sharing.

"I would have liked to give them to you in person, but… I think I was a little afraid."

"Why would you be afraid?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you wouldn't like them."

"I was going to like them anyway, Bob. Only because you're the one giving them to me," you swore. Against your hair, he suppressed a smile. "Where did you get them?"

"I took care of them"

"But I didn't see them in the garden."

"It's just that I don't have them there. I put them somewhere else to… well, you know. To surprise you” you smiled. "I wanted to give you something nice as a thank you for everything you've done for me."

You pulled away, just a little, to look into his eyes. He was so tall that, if he'd wanted, he could have kissed you on the forehead.

"That's what friends do: support each other. You don't need to thank me for anything."

"But I wanted to. Maybe it's not much, but…"

"Don't say that," you interrupted. "These flowers are a symbol of the progress you've made. They need sun, water, soil, companionship, care… just like you. You keep them alive because you love them, and because at the same time, they lift you, even on bad days."

For a second, Bob felt like this didn't just apply to his garden. He wasn't a great connoisseur of love, yet he knew he loved you. And you were the reason he was getting better; the mere thought of being with you was what got him out of bed on days when he just wanted to lie there until he became nothing.

Perhaps he was lost in those thoughts for too long, because all you caught was his intense gaze on you. A soft whisper from your lips brought him back to reality.

"Come a little closer."

The phrase was gentle, but laden with something that made the world shrink at that instant. He obeyed, almost without thinking, and you, on tiptoe, leaned your face toward his. The gesture wasn't invasive, it didn't exert any pressure, and it wasn't meant to be intense. It was simply a kiss, gentle and delicate.

"Is this okay?"

Your voice was barely a murmur between his lips, but Bob felt it in the center of his chest, as if something inside him had suddenly loosened. He didn't know how to respond. Any words he could utter seemed too clumsy, too small for what he was feeling.

So instead of speaking, he leaned over you, demanding a much-needed kiss. Your small sigh caught between your mouths, and that was all the permission he needed. Your arms rose to surround him, and Bob's hands—large, honest, trembling—slid down your sides with an almost reverent slowness, stopping just short of crossing the line of caution.

You didn't believe he could kiss you with such passion, as if he needed your breath to live. Suddenly, everything became a chorus of lip smacking, sighs, and stifled breaths that died in each other's throats. The scent of the flowers, the natural aroma of your bodies, and the taste of the man were making you completely dizzy.

"Fucking Jesus Christ!"

The scream forced you to immediately break away, and then you saw John and Ava standing right in front of you. Both of their faces were twisted in an expression that combined surprise and disgust.

"What are you doing here, you perverts?"

"What are you doing here?" you countered. Bob was too flushed to form a coherent sentence.

"We came to smoke some weed. Bucky doesn't like us doing it inside, and Alexei forbade us."

"Why were you two swallowing each other?"

"That's none of your business, Ava. If you don't say anything, we'll just walk away and not say anything."

You offered no other options, as you barely finished speaking when you took Bob's hand and led him toward the door leading back to the apartment. The door closed with a dull creak behind you, and the echo of laughter lingered up above, floating on the cold drafts. You walked down the steps in silence, walking quickly but awkwardly, as if neither of you knew quite where to put your feet or what to say.

Once on the ground floor, the two of you stopped halfway down. Bob's face was still red up to his ears and he couldn't look at you directly. You, for your part, weren't immune either: adrenaline was still pumping in your temples, but beneath it was a smile you couldn't quite contain.

"Well…" you began, clearing your throat, as if trying to regain some composure.

"That was…" Bob tried, but then he scratched the back of his neck and let out a sigh that barely contained a laugh. "Unexpected. And very… public."

"Yes. Although technically we were alone. Until we weren't."

Bob gave a short, low laugh, as if he didn't know whether to laugh or hide under a table.

"I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to look them in the eye again."

"Relax, I'll take care of the looks. Just stay alive."

He looked at you then. Finally. As if humor didn't diminish the value of everything he'd felt up there, in that overwhelming moment. And you saw something in his eyes: a deep gratitude, a shy but real affection, and a hint of fear, as if he still found it hard to believe this was really happening.

"About that, I… I think I got excited and… sorry if it was too much…"

"Bob."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

You laughed again, more freely this time, and so did he. The atmosphere between you lightened, as if you'd both let out something you'd been holding in for a long time. Suddenly, the laughter ended, and you two stared at each other again like a pair of fools in love.

"I have to make sure I thank my therapist."

"Why?"

"Because if she hadn't forced me to find a damn hobby, I probably wouldn't have kissed you like I just did."

A blush spread across your face. Then you laughed.

"Let's just say it was faster. Because eventually, it would have happened."

"You think so?"

"I know it, handsome."

Suddenly, it was as if things had changed, but at the same time, the chemistry between you was still as strong as the first time. He was your friend, after all, and you were his.

Bob knew he shouldn't rely on someone's affection or presence to be okay, but honestly, knowing that you reciprocated his feelings and wanted to continue spending time with him became a powerful incentive.

"Do you want us to accuse them with Bucky?"

"John and Ava?"

"I think telling Alexei would be more humiliating for them, right? He'd probably lecture them for hours and search their rooms."

"But we said we wouldn't tell anyone…"

Bob's honesty and the way he looked at you, concerned, made you smile. He could be so sweet sometimes.

"I assure you they'd do the same for us. At least we'll have an advantage. Come on, let's go."

"Wait," he said. He had gently grabbed your wrist to keep you there. "One and that's it."

You didn't need to ask what he meant, because his lips crashing against yours gave you the answer. Although it was brief, the contact maintained the passionate spirit of a few minutes before.

"Will this become a habit?"

"You don't want to?"

He sounded scared. Even disappointed, you dare say. A sly smile spread across your face. You looked at him calmly, as if you wanted to make sure he was really listening to you.

"I asked you because I wanted to know if this… if what just happened… is something you want too. Not because I don't want it."

Bob didn't say anything at first. His eyes moved between yours, as if trying to read between the lines, decipher if there was anything else hidden. But your expression was transparent. You were being honest.

"So…" he murmured, "why ask?"

"Because I care about you. Because I don't want this to become something that just happened on impulse, for a nice night, because of everything we've been dragging along. I don't want you to kiss me just because you were feeling grateful or vulnerable."

That last word hung in the air, but you didn't back down. He held it in silence. His lips pressed slightly together, and when he answered, his voice was deep and steady.

"It wasn't because of that."

You nodded, though you didn't let your guard down completely.

"I had to make sure"

Bob took a deep breath. Then, with a gesture that was clumsier than calculated, he took your hand again, as if he still needed confirmation that you were there, that you hadn't wandered off.

"I'm not good at this. I don't have much experience… in consciously choosing someone. In staying when things get real."

"That doesn't scare me," you said. "As long as you don't run away if I become real."

That response drew a brief, dry but genuine laugh from him. He looked at you as if he'd just seen you for the first time, as if your openness made him understand that you weren't expecting a perfect story. Just a shared story.

"Then yes," he said finally. "I want it to last. If you want it too."

You gave him an approving smile, and then he tried to walk down the hall. It was you who stopped him this time.

"One and done,"

You kissed him again, more briefly this time, but with every intention in the world. Then you took his hand naturally, as if it were something you'd always done.

And even though you didn't say anything else, the way you walked together was enough to understand that you would strive to overcome whatever came. Together.

[sunskisser]

I am BEGGING on my knees for a part two to "Meant to be" 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

your wish is my command, sweetheart!! here is part 2. thank you guys so much for all the love on part 1 ♡

meant to be | poly!wolfstar (part 2)

part 1 | part 2

tw: angst, hurt/comfort

poly!wolfstar x reader

The chillness radiating off the wall behind you does nothing to ease your pain as you slump to the ground outside the common room.

You press your fingertips to your lips, nibbling on your nails anxiously as you feel the hot tears dribble down your cheeks.

It was over. Your relationship with Sirius and Remus was over, and it was all your fault. You had ruined it.

It had felt like the right decision two minutes ago when you were admitting your troubles in the common room. It had felt like something you had to do for the past few weeks, whenever you saw the boys together without you, whenever you felt like an extra in their relationship.

So why did it feel like there was a gaping hole in your heart? Why did it feel like your insides had just been clawed out and crushed to pieces? 

This was your doing, your choice, you told yourself. No point mourning for a relationship that was already dead. 

Maybe Sirius and Remus were bubbling with laughter and cuddling in the common room right now. You really hoped that they were glad to be rid of you, because it was worth feeling this hurt if it meant they were happy.

As your thoughts of culpability begin to consume you, your vision starts to blur with tears. You lean your head against the wall, eyes closing as a soft sob escapes your lips. 

It was dawning upon you that you really had lost the boys you loved, and there was nothing you could do about it.

You freeze, your train of thought evaporating into thin air when you suddenly feel a hand on your cheek, thumbing the tears away.

You could recognise his touch anywhere, hands calloused from animalistic tendencies but gentle as a lamb when he traced hearts on your skin.

Eyes fluttering open, you come face to face with Remus, his beautiful face scrunched up in a sullen frown. Your vision flickers over to Sirius, standing behind him.

Sirius looks unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly from side to side with bloodshot eyes and tear tracks on his cheeks. Your heart feels heavy in your chest, and you know you probably look just as bad as he does. He was gazing at you with an unfamiliar desperation in his eyes, which truly, really mortified you. And to think you thought he would be pleased with the breakup - god, you were horrible.

“Dove,” Remus breathes out in a quiet rasp, drawing your attention back to him. You will your heart to stay intact as you look into his hazel eyes, but you feel it breaking anyway. Not a single word comes out your mouth knowing full well that you would break down into a sobbing mess if you spoke. You avert your gaze and opt to stare at the ground instead.

“Hey, look at me, please,” he whispers, rubbing your cheek again with those stupidly lovely hands and looking at you with those disgustingly pretty eyes and all the love in the world that you wished that you could die. You quietly raise your head to look at Remus again, and he offers you a small, forced smile to compensate you for your effort. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs.

His hand suddenly retracts from your face, and you hate to admit it but you miss his warmth immediately. His eyes widen slightly, and it’s like he remembered that you’re not his girl anymore. You’re not his. 

There’s a beat of sad silence as all of you sit with the fact that things weren’t the same as they used to be, maybe they never would be.

“Y/n,” Sirius croaks out, breaking the silence as you whip your head up to look at his grief-stricken face. It’s not so much the brokenness of his voice as the fact that he isn’t trying to hide it which hurts your heart. “Can we… can we please just talk this out? Please?”

He takes a small wobbly step toward you, extending his hand. You feel the sirens in your head start to sound loudly. Should you give him your hand? Should you give him your heart again?

You despise the feeling of longing which immediately strikes you. The desire to feel Sirius’ fingers intertwined with yours again, the wish to hold him in your arms, the need to wipe those tears from his lovely face. You wished things to be as they once were, his arms around your waist and lips on your forehead. Remus’ head on your lap as you combed your fingers through his hair, eyes fleetingly meeting before smiles full of love were passed around. It wasn’t just a relationship, it was a home. It was achingly sacred.

That home was broken, tarnished. Maybe it had been broken since the day you fell in love with them. Maybe it had been torn apart when they carried their relationship along without you. Or maybe you had ruined it when you told them you wanted no part in this affair anymore.

But if there was one thing you knew, it was that things that were broken could be fixed. You knew this fact like the back of your hand, from the countless times Remus had uttered those exact words to you when you were dissolving into a mess of tears and panic. You knew the words from when Sirius murmured them softly in your ear, stroking your hair as you sobbed yourself half to death. When you were trapped under the debris of problems that was your life, broken and scarred, they had pulled you out. They had fixed you.

Undeniably, Sirius and Remus had made their fair share of mistakes, unintentionally shunning you from the best parts of their relationship. They had torn your heart apart, but they fixed it up every single time they kissed you or smiled at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. Those fleeting moments had made all the hurt seem like nothing.

So who were you to deny the boys your affection? Even when they made mistakes, it was okay; because they loved you, and that was enough. You knew they might stumble and they may mess things up, but they would always get back up and take your hand. The sheer force of their love would be enough to overcome their shortcomings, you were sure of it.

So when Sirius stretches out his palm towards you, you wrap your hand around his. Remus watches on quietly, wide eyes darting between the both of you. 

Sirius’ face lights up immediately, a hint of relief in his eyes. It looks like all the tension has left his features as he gives you a small grin. Your lips curve upwards in a soft smile.

“Yeah, I think… I think we can talk about it. I’m sorry for just walking out on you guys like that.”

“No, angel,” Remus retorts immediately, standing up and wrapping an arm around your waist to haul you up as well. “It’s not your fault at all. We… we screwed up, big time. We were blind to your feelings, and we’re really fucking sorry for that,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair defeatedly. 

“But we’re gonna do better. We’re gonna make it work,” Sirius pipes up uncharacteristically firmly, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. Remus nods, lifting his gaze to look at you as well. “Yeah, for you. We’re gonna try harder just for you.” Seeing the determination and love on their faces involuntarily melts your heart and brings a smile to your face, a real one this time.

The hint of happiness on your face is a big enough victory for them, Sirius’ smile morphing into a usual full-blown grin, and Remus’ arm tightening around your waist as he pulls you into his side. He moves towards the common room, Sirius’ hand still tightly gripping yours.

“We’re gonna talk about it, but not after some much-deserved cuddles and hot chocolate,” Remus murmurs, a small grin gracing his face when he sees the smile on your lips. The three of you walk in that awfully awkward position, you pressed against Remus with your hand tightly gripping Sirius’.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. Just like this relationship, which had its ups and downs. That was especially the case for a three-way affair, something foreign to all of you. You were bound to slip up and you were bound to make mistakes.

But you loved them, and they loved you. That was all that mattered.

[llamagoddessofficial]

What are some ways the Mafia crew would try to further woo their dearest love? And in return, what ways could we further endear ourselves to them?

Scary spooky mafia guys...... trying their hardest to woo a pretty human. AGH it hits all the notes!!!!

Horror gets overwhelmed. You make him so happy, so fuzzy, so warm - but he doesn't believe he can 'woo' you. Not when he can't bear his own reflection, not when even his Dust and Killer consider him violent and frightening. Horror believes his affection for you is his only redeeming quality. He doesn't think you'll like him, but he literally can't stop himself from trying, so when he has his heart set on you his methods are... surprisingly slow and tentative. Especially considering how mercurial he usually is. He brings you flowers that made him think of you, he makes you food, he pores over his brother's dating manual and panics when something happens that he hasn't read about. He's nervous to even hold your hand in case he scares you; the other skeletons are so handsome and eloquent and flirtatious, how could he ever compare? If he frightens you off, he'll never get you back. He has to be gentle.

How could you endear yourself to Horror? Tell him how handsome he is. Tell him how often he's charming without realising. Compliment his cooking. It really won't be that hard, he's already head over heels, but hearing that you like him means so much.

Dust... does not struggle with wooing. Sorry Horror. Dust is frightening, certainly, but his quietness gives him an undeniable magnetism. Like a wolf - sure, you can see his sharp teeth when he smiles, you can see the moonlight flash in his empty eyes. But when he draws close... you can't help but want to move nearer, and touch his soft, silver pelt. Compared to the other three, his romancing is much more underhanded, more about you than grand gestures toward you - which can honestly be a relief when you're being pursued by such big personalities. He turns on the charm, talks quietly and sweetly, stands just a little too close to be platonic, rents your favourite movie when you're down, and (most importantly) positioning himself as your friend and confidant against the other bad guys. He clearly doesn't want to be involved with them, and it's easier to keep you close if you trust him more.

Dust is won over by sincere affection and compliments. For all that looming and flirting, he sure does fall apart quickly when you look right into his eyelights and tell him you like having him around. At that point, he's all yours.

Killer firmly believes that if he can make you laugh, he can make you love him. It's all about getting those giggles, baby. Whatever kind of jokes you like is the kind he tells, he's impressively quick on the draw and never runs out of material, on occasion you may have to ask him to stop joking because your cheeks and abdomen hurt from laughing. He's careful not to be too much... he knows when to be bombastic, when to just be a bit silly and teasing, and when to offer a shoulder to lean on because you're not in the mood. His romantic side is obviously going to be in full force - bouquets, sweets, cards, dates - but his number one wooing technique is getting you to smile. The world you've been unwillingly dragged into can be truly terrifying, and even with the skeletons surrounding you, you'll no doubt feel the nerves and pressure. Killer's humour is a welcome distraction.

It's... hard to tell what endears you to Killer. Honestly, it's hard to tell what Killer is ever thinking. How do you know what's real affection, and what's just a way of making you feel comfortable around him? How can you tell when he's not acting anymore? Though, if you look at how hard he's working every single day to make you that little bit happier... maybe it's not possible to be any more dear to him than you already are.

Nightmare likes to throw his money around. He has an incredible skill for catching when you really like something, reading your face for even the subtlest shine in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to cover your reactions he will catch when you want something and buy it for you. ... But that's not his only wooing trick. Nightmare is, to most people, a violent and unpleasant man who lets his temper take him wherever it pleases. But once he understands his feelings for you and fully commits to romance, he's charming. Lethally charming. He was raised a prince, after all, Dream isn't the only one who has a way with words. You'll start a simple conversation with him, and then you blink and you're sitting on his desk in his study telling him things you've never told anyone. You'll go to him specifically trying not to be swayed - and then when you snap back to reality the two of you are sharing a very luxurious bottle of wine in his room and you've just agreed to be his plus one to a gala this weekend. After all, if he wants to buy you another eye-wateringly expensive necklace, he's going to have to convince you to try some on first.

Nightmare appreciates any attempt to get to know him. His whole life, he's felt like he's living in Dream's shadow, so when you try to actually understand and learn about Nightmare he gets as flattered as he does flustered. Find out about his favourite painters and musicians, read his favourite books, ask him about himself. No one ever has before.

[karaeilish]

★ ride or die; b. eilish

★ military!billie x wife!reader

★ smut `

having a military wife is about being separated. about the constant worry and longing. about wondering when she'll finally come home, and if she'll come home at all. it's hard and it's difficult to always be afraid that your little girl will be left without her mother.

but what's even harder? being close to her. being inches away from her body, not being able to touch her all the time, running your tongue down her neck, leaving a small bite above her collarbone so that all curious eyes could see that the ring on her finger meant only that she was yours. only yours.

you loved going to the gym together. always watching each other's bodies, admiring every curve, every millimeter. running your fingertips over skin hot from the workout, but it was really hard for you to keep your hands to yourself while your wife walked around in an open tank top, completely exposing her arms. her biceps and triceps are on display, drawing the gaze of every single woman and others, clearly too caught up in the movements of her fingers to notice the wedding ring that billie almost never takes off, every muscle that tensed with her every move. it’s just not your fault that a wet spot has started to form between your thighs.

her body is completely soaked in sweat, beads of which run down her forehead, forcing her to wipe them with the back of her hand every few minutes, and you stare. you just can’t stop. and the strange feeling in your tummy aren’t so strong, until she comes up with a great idea: lift her tank top, exposing her hard abs, sparkling with sweat. she calmly wipes her face with it, as if she's not doing anything that drives you and your hormones crazy. not a split second passes before your legs carry you towards her, your fingers wrapping around her wrist, and as you try to pull her towards you, you clearly forget just how big is the difference between your sizes. you swallow.

"darling?" she looks down at you, straight in the eyes. looks so innocent that all you can think about is slapping her, simply because every step she takes makes your mind drift to the most sinful and dirty fantasies, and right now she has no idea.

"billie, please," you whisper, your bubble of patience about to burst. "let's get outta here."

her face instantly clears with realization, lips curling into a sly smirk. she always knows that tone. always knows when you need her like nothing else. she grabs a sports bottle of water, her right hand coming to rest on your lower small as she slowly leads the two of you out of the gym and towards the locker room.

“so what’s wrong, mamas?” she whispers in your ear, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “someone needs some cock, hm?”

your mind goes fuzzy, legs go weak, your pussy throbs painfully with the knowledge that before you can have her all to yourself, you’ll need to get home somehow.

“jus' take your damn things and take m'home, o’connell” you hiss, pushing at her, though it doesn’t do much good because no matter how hard you strain your arms, her body won’t budge an inch until she takes a step of her own. and she does. obeys. for now. “yes, ma’am. but don't forget you're mrs. o'connell too"

her teasing makes your stomach do a thing, nervously snapping your fingers and biting your lip until she drives you home. until a familiar building appears on the horizon and you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, eager to get out of this damn car.

you needed her. so bad. so rough. so raw.

and she's all over you. completely. picking you up awith ease, hands on your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh through the fabric of your sweatpants. "it's so hard to watch you bend over, purposely showing your ass to the world. just fucking begging me to come and take you"

you whine, arms wrapping around her neck, lips pressing to hers in a sloppy kiss that takes your breath away.

"i can't stand watching all these sluts clinging to you like you're a fucking museum piece" you mumble between kisses and billie smirks, lips trailing down your neck, leaving bites and marks for anyone who lays eyes on you to see. she falls to the edge of the bed, letting you straddle her lap. she pats your thigh, silently telling you to get rid of those fucking pants as she fiddles with her tank top, pulling it over her head, revealing her stomach once again, adorned with her well-defined abs. your pussy's dripping. right down your thighs.

billie lies down completely on the bed, beckoning you with her index finger, and you obediently climb on top of her, pussy hovering just above her body as you await further instructions.

"don't be shy, mama. you know what to do" her hand on your hip, pressing down, forcing you down onto her abs. your pussy touching her skin, your eyes instantly rolling to the back of your head, accompanied by a pathetic whine. hands falling on her chest, fingers hooking into her sports bra as you begin to slowly move your hips back and forth, feeling every hard muscle of hers.

"fuck. oh fuck—billie…” your broken whines mix with your quiet pleas as you pick up the pace, trying to hold back the tears in your eyes. your body's shaking, and billie notices it instantly.

“c'mon, baby, don’t tell me you’re already close.” she pushes herself up on her elbows, her abs tensing, your arms go weak and you fall forward slightly, your forehead brushing against her cheek, your hips riding her with relentless speed.

“m'close, so close, billie… i need—” but she doesn’t let you finish, smirking. “shhh, sweet girl. hold it for me.”

she leans back again, both hands on your hips, making you grind against her faster, ignoring your shaking legs and numb limbs. it's only been half a minute, but it feels like forever until you start whining, begging for her permission.

"please. daddy, please" you moan, tears streaming freely down your cheeks. "please what, princess?"

she's such a bitch sometimes.

"please, let me cum. wanna cum f'you" you mumble quickly, body shaking as you try to keep your orgasm on the edge. billie smiles, enjoying your torment. waits before responding.

"such a good girl for me.. cum, mama, wanna hear you" she purrs, and there's no way you can help but scream her name as the pleasure washes over you in high waves. your lips are dry from screaming and moaning, voice hoarse.

you lean over, holding onto her body until the strength completely leaves and you fall backwards next to her, breathing heavily until your heart rate returns to normal.

billie follows suit, kneeling on the bed, her shadow completely covering your body.

“you’re so beautiful from this angle” she whispers, straddling your hips, her hands reaching for her stomach, collecting some of your arousal on her fingertips. she smirks, bringing her fingers to your lips the next second, and you obediently open your mouth, letting them slip inside, putting gentle pressure on your tongue.

“that’s it, that’s my good slut” she shifts position, ending up between your thighs, pushing them apart with her knees until they're as wide as she wants.

her fingers come out of your mouth with a distinctive 'pop' sound, leaving a thin thread of saliva between them.

"now let me take care of my perfect wife" she whispers playfully, fingers slowly tease your folds.

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworld

[hoshifighting]

Hi! How are you? This is my first request ever on this app... First of all, i have to say that you're my absolute favorite writer here! Kudos to you, really. Second of all, can i request for a dom hao where he says: "beg me.. beg me cutely" i can't stop thinking about when he said that on a fancall one day... well.. that's it. Thanks in advanced.

dom!minghao asking you to beg him cutely

a/n: your first ask? welcome anon!! thank you for all the love <333 and UGH minghao its such a tease!!! i rushed to see this fancall and left speechless

WARNINGS: smut, pillow/hand riding, begging, penetrative sex, dirty talk, slight humilliation kink

your breath is uneven, shaky gasps leaving your lips as you grind against minghao’s palm, which is pressed firm between you and the pillow. the friction is maddening—his fingers raise just slightly sometimes, just to brush your swollen clit. but it’s not enough. not nearly enough. your thighs are trembling, muscles aching from the effort of riding his hand for what feels like an eternity.

“hao,” you whimper, your voice breaking on his name.

he tilts his head, looking at you with that maddeningly calm expression, like this isn’t driving you out of your mind. “what is it, baby?”

“please,” you beg, trying to lean into him, your hands reaching for his shoulders, his neck—anything to ground yourself.

but minghao dodges your touch, effortlessly leaning back and away from your grasp, his hand never faltering in its rhythm. “ah, ah,” he chides softly, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “no shortcuts. keep going.”

you groan in frustration, your hips stuttering as you try to push harder against his palm, desperate for relief. “please, hao, i—i can’t—”

“you can,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind. “you’re doing so well. don’t stop now.”

you bite your lip, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. the pillow beneath you is damp, your arousal soaking through the fabric, and your body feels like it’s on the verge of breaking apart. “hao, please, i need—i need your cock. please.”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your plea. “that’s not how you ask, is it?”

you shake your head, a frustrated sob slipping from your lips. “hao, i can’t—my legs—please, please just—”

“no,” he says simply, his voice steady and commanding. “if you want it, you know what to do.”

you whimper, your movements growing erratic as you try to find the right angle, the right pressure, anything to make you finally cum. your hands clench into fists, your nails digging into the pillow beneath you.

“beg me,” minghao says,. his free hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with almost agonizing tenderness. “but beg me cutely, and maybe i’ll think about it.”

your cheeks flush, the humiliation of his demand only heightening the tension coiling in your core. you look up at him, your eyes wide and pleading, your lips trembling as you force the words out.

“please, hao,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “please, i need you. i need you so bad. i’ll be good, i promise—just please.”

he hums thoughtfully, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your clit, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “hmm. better. but i know you can do cuter than that.”

your pride wars with your desperation, but in the end, it’s no contest. “please, hao,” you whimper, your voice high and breathy, your body trembling from the effort. “please, i’ll be so good for you. i’ll do anything you want. just—just give it to me. please.”

his smirk deepens, satisfaction flickering in his dark eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his hand finally leaving the pillow to guide you closer. “see? i knew you had it in you.”

minghao’s eyes darken as he lines himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked folds, teasing and infuriatingly slow. “so desperate for me. i should’ve made you beg longer.”

you don’t even have it in you to respond. your body is trembling, your thighs twitching as you try to push yourself back onto him, but his hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you still.

“patience,” he says, but the smirk on his lips tells you he’s enjoying every second of your torment.

finally, finally, he pushes in, stretching you so perfectly that your back arches off the pillow beneath you. you let out a loud, husky moan, your hands scrambling to grip onto something—his arms, the sheets, anything to keep yourself grounded as he sinks deeper. “fuck, fuck, fuck” you gasp through gritted teeth, your chest heaving. the burn is intense, your body adjusting to the intrusion, but it’s exactly what you’ve been craving.

minghao doesn’t give you much time to recover. he sets a pace that’s just on the edge of too much, his hips snapping against yours and it has your eyes rolling back almost instantly. “you’re such a mess,” he mutters, one hand moving to grip your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. “so needy. you couldn’t even wait, could you? had to have me right now.”

his words send a shiver down your spine, and you moan, your voice breaking as your hips start to move on their own, meeting his thrusts halfway. your movements are frantic, desperate, like you’re in heat and he’s the only thing that can cool the fire burning inside you. “hao,” you whimper, your hands clawing at his back, leaving red trails down his skin. “please, don’t stop—don’t stop, don’t—”

“wasn’t planning to,” he cuts you off, his voice strained. the effort it takes to keep his composure is written all over his face, beads of sweat forming at his temples, his brows furrowed in concentration.

you feel like you’re losing control, your hips bucking wildly against his as your lungs burn, each breath a struggle to catch. every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the wet, obscene noises of him filling you.

“so greedy. can’t get enough, hmm?”

you nod frantically, unable to form a coherent response as your nails dig into his arms, holding onto him like a lifeline.

he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “you feel so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling with restraint. “so tight, so perfect. you’re gonna cum for me?”

you moan in response, your walls clenching around him as your body spirals closer and closer to release. your head falls back, your mouth open in a silent scream as you lose yourself completely, your hips moving without rhythm, chasing that high. minghao’s grip tightens on your hips, holding you steady as he thrusts even deeper, hitting that perfect spot that has you seeing fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. he groans, his pace faltering as he chases his own orgasm. “cum for me, baby. let me feel you.”

your vision blurs, your ears ringing as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and boneless beneath him. minghao follows soon after, a low groan escaping his lips as he thrusts one last time, his release spilling inside you.

[brunchable]

How I met your Father. | Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Themes: Getting noticed by your crush. Pining from Reader.

Summary: You work at the cafe Bucky always goes to and you've had a crush on him for MONTHS.

A/N: Conntected with How's Retirement, Bucky? and Ouch, my face.

The bell above the door jingles as the early morning rush dwindles down, leaving only the occasional customer trickling in. You’re wiping down the counter, lost in thought, when your coworker, Emma, elbows you hard enough to make you stumble.

“Ow, what—” You shoot her a glare, but her eyes are wide, and she nods her head toward the door with a smirk.

“Guess who just walked in,” she whispers conspiratorially, her grin widening. “Mr. Grumpy Pants himself.”

Your heart does an involuntary flip, and your eyes dart to the entrance. Sure enough, there he is, all dark and brooding with that permanent scowl on his face. Bucky Barnes, the man who you’ve secretly—and very stupidly—had a crush on for the past three months.

“Oh my God, stop calling him that,” you hiss, but your voice is a pitch too high, giving you away instantly. You try to ignore the fact that your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

Emma just chuckles and nudges you again, her voice teasing. “Come on, Y/N, everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. You literally beam like a sunflower whenever he’s around.”

Another coworker, Lily, pokes her head out from behind the espresso machine and joins in. “Yeah, it’s like you’re part of some weird ‘grumpy guy fan club’ or something. He never even smiles, and you’re over here trying to win him over with puns and pastries.”

“Y’all are the worst,” you mutter, willing yourself to calm down. “And it’s not a fan club. It’s called being friendly.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Emma drawls, winking. “Being friendly. That’s why you spend extra time drawing hearts in his latte foam.”

“I do not!” You glare at her, scandalized. “He doesn’t even order lattes!”

“Okay, but if he did,” she teases, “you’d find a way.”

“Shut up, he’s coming over,” you say under your breath, hurriedly pushing Emma and Lily away as you straighten up, forcing yourself to look composed and nonchalant.

Bucky walks up to the counter, his usual stoic expression firmly in place. He gives you a nod of acknowledgment, but not much more.

“Morning,” he grumbles.

“Good morning!” you chirp, and damn it, there’s that stupid sunflower smile on your face again. You catch Emma and Lily exchanging knowing looks behind the counter and pointedly ignore them. “Usual today?”

“Yeah, iced americano,” he replies, his voice that familiar low rumble.

You ring him up, trying to suppress the fluttery feeling in your chest. As you grab a cup and scribble his name on it (which you definitely didn’t write just a little fancier than everyone else’s), you decide to take a chance. You shoot him a playful look.

“Hey, did you hear about the coffee that got arrested?”

He blinks at you, his brows furrowing slightly. “No. Why?”

“It got mugged,” you say brightly, giving the punchline your best delivery, complete with a little ta-da gesture.

Silence. Bucky just stares at you, his expression unreadable. It’s like talking to a statue. You can practically feel Emma and Lily holding their breaths, waiting for his reaction.

“...Right,” he mutters finally, nodding slowly. “Mugged.”

You wilt a little but keep your smile plastered on. “Tough crowd, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and for a second—just a split second—you think you see a flicker of something in his eyes, like amusement. Or maybe you’re imagining things.

You finish making his coffee, and as you hand it to him, Emma stage-whispers from behind the counter. “Come on, Mr. Barnes! Give her a break. She’s been working on those jokes all week.”

“Emma!” you hiss, mortified. Your eyes dart to Bucky’s, your heart hammering.

But instead of looking annoyed, he tilts his head, regarding you with a sort of curious intensity. “All week, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” you admit sheepishly, clutching the edge of the counter. “I mean, not just for you or anything—”

“Yes, just for you,” Emma interjects, grinning wickedly. Lily nods enthusiastically, her eyes wide and teasing.

You shoot them both a murderous glare, and Bucky’s gaze flickers between the three of you. Then, to your complete and utter shock, he makes a sound. It’s barely audible—more of a huff than a laugh—but you catch it. Your eyes widen.

“Did you—” You lean forward, grinning uncontrollably. “Did you just laugh?”

“No.” He denies it immediately, shaking his head, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smile.

“You did!” You point at him accusingly. “I heard it!”

“Keep dreaming, Y/N,” he mutters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. He glances down at his coffee cup, where your careful handwriting spells out ‘Bucky :)’ with a little smiley face beside it, it’s almost mocking his stubborn scowl.

He sighs—one of those heavy, put-upon sighs that he’s so good at—and looks back at you. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“You have no idea,” you say with a grin. “And one of these days, I’m gonna make you smile for real. Just you wait.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods, raising an eyebrow as if to say I’d like to see you try. “Good luck.”

With that, he turns to leave, but just as he’s about to reach the door, he pauses. You’re still watching him, breathless and grinning like an idiot. He glances around the café, his eyes flicking to the stereo speakers mounted on the walls.

You follow his gaze, and that’s when you hear it: the soft, melodic intro to Sunflower by Post Malone. The lyrics drift through the air, the singer crooning about being left in the dust, a sunflower, and you feel a pang of embarrassment. Of course this song would start playing now.

Bucky’s gaze shifts back to you, and something changes in his expression. He looks at you—really looks at you—as if he’s putting together a puzzle that’s been right in front of him this whole time.

“See you tomorrow, sunflower,” he says, his voice lower, gentler.

You freeze, sure you’ve misheard him. “Wait—what?”

But he just smirks—smirks, like he knows something you don’t—and nods at the speakers. “You beam like one of those. Didn’t even need the song to tell me.”

He turns away, and you’re left standing there, staring at his retreating back as the door swings shut behind him. The café falls silent except for the soft chorus of the song. Emma and Lily stare at you, jaws practically on the floor.

“Did he just—”

“Yeah,” you breathe, still staring at the door. “He called me sunflower.”

Emma lets out a whoop, and Lily clutches her heart dramatically.

“Oh my God, Y/N, he’s so into you,” Emma squeals. “You broke Mr. Grumpy Pants! You did it!”

———

The door swings shut behind him, he makes it a few steps down the sidewalk before he slows to a stop, his coffee cup in his hand. He glances back over his shoulder, through the glass windows, where you’re still standing behind the counter, wide-eyed and speechless.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching you laugh as your coworkers swarm around, teasing you. You’re always like that—smiling, bright, never wavering in your ridiculous attempts to make him laugh. Even when he gives you nothing but deadpan responses and stony glares.

“Sunflower,” he murmurs under his breath, shaking his head. The word tastes strange on his tongue—soft, unfamiliar—but not unpleasant. He lets out a slow breath, and before he can stop himself, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Damn,” he mutters to himself, turning away before anyone can catch him grinning like an idiot. “Persistent little thing.”

He takes another step, his smile growing. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll linger a little longer. See what other terrible jokes you’ve got up your sleeve.

After all, it’s not like he’s in a rush to go anywhere else.

[maidragoste]

hiii can i request a jace velaryon x reader where they are betrothed and jace is head over heels for her but she doesn’t want to get married because she knows it’s a political marriage and she doesn’t think jace likes her because he avoids her (not really “avoids” but tries to keep distance by ending convos quickly or not sitting next to her during mealtimes etc) due to his crush and being nervous around her.

ps. i’m so sorry for you loss, my cats are my babies so i am sending you an extra tight hug :(

Hi, anon, thank you very much for your message 🫂🫂 I hope you are well 💖💖

I'm sorry it took me so long to finish your request but I hope you like the result 🥰🥰

As I always say, likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated because they motivate me to keep writing 🤭💖💖

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

To say that you are excited about your engagement would be a lie.

Well, actually, at first you were, after all, every girl's dream was to marry a prince. But any fantasy of a loving marriage was put to rest with your fiancé's attitude.

Jacaerys Velaryon is not a bad man, he is not rude or treats you badly. But he clearly doesn't like you. Every time you try to have a conversation with the prince he finds a way to excuse himself to quickly end any interaction with you. When he arrives after you to the dining room and you smile at him giving him a clear invitation to sit next to you, you always end up disappointed because he is going to sit next to his brothers. But you never felt so humiliated as right now. You thought he would ask you to dance, you were sure he was watching you from the other side of the room and when you saw that Prince Aegon, King Viserys' son, gave him a push towards where you were sitting you thought it was to encourage him to ask you to dance, but when Jacaerys approached instead of offering you his hand he gave it to Baela, who was sitting next to you. You stared at your lap feeling deeply embarrassed and wishing to go home.

Maybe the problem was that Jacaerys wanted a Valyrian bride and instead, he had to settle for you, a noble girl without a dragon or violet eyes. But if that was the reason why Jacaerys wasn't even forcing himself to make this not just a political marriage then you thought he was a fool.

You wanted the party to end so you could go to your chambers and write to your mother to beg her to convince your father to break off the engagement. You didn’t want to marry Jacaerys.

“Will you dance with me?”

You raised your eyes from your lap to see Aegon Targaryen, your fiancé’s younger brother. You felt mortified, you must have been such a pitiful sight that the kid decided to take pity on you and put you out of your misery.

“It would be an honor my prince” You took a while to reply but Aegon never got nervous, in fact, he seemed sure that you wouldn’t refuse him.

The little prince led you to the dance floor like a good gentleman and the two of you began to dance. You honestly thought that he would at least step on you by accident once but the truth is that he dances very well.

“My brother can be quite a fool sometimes,” Aegon said, drawing your full attention, and if you weren’t already so upset with Jacaerys, then you would have told him he shouldn’t talk about his own brother like that. “I think he acts like that with you because you make him nervous.”

“That sounds foolish,” you said, not allowing yourself to have any hope that your possible future brother-in-law is right.

“I told you, he’s a fool,” he said with a small smile before spinning you around.

You were shocked when you finished spinning and found that your new dance partner was none other than your headache: your fiancé. You tried hard not to feel anything when his hand took yours and his other hand placed itself on your hip.

“You look beautiful,” Jacaerys said, surprising them both because he hadn’t planned to say that out loud. “It’s not that you didn’t look beautiful the other days, you always look beautiful,” he quickly clarified, afraid that he had offended you unintentionally when he saw that you remained silent.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile when you noticed his nerves. Maybe Prince Aegon was right.

“Thank you, my prince. It’s good to know that you don’t displeasure me.”

“Displeasure me? “Why would you think I displeasure you?” His pretty brown eyes looked at you distraught.

“Because you don’t spend time with me,” you answered obviously. “You seem to prefer being anywhere than being with me. It’s a miracle that you’re dancing with me right now.” There was no harshness in your tone but Jacaerys still felt embarrassed. “You know your brother told me something interesting, I’d like to know if he’s right or wrong,” you said, drawing the prince’s attention.

“What did Aegon say to you?”

“He told me that I make you nervous and that's why you avoid me,” you replied cheekily and watched with delight as a slight blush appeared on his face upon being discovered.

“I am so sorry, my lady."I shouldn't have had such a shameful attitude,” he apologized, realizing that because of his nerves, he had given you the wrong idea. It had never been his intention to make you think he didn’t like you.

“I will not accept your apology,” your words were like a slap to him and he couldn’t help but tense up. You weren’t even married and he already managed to upset you. “At least until I see your change of attitude,” you declared and felt excited as you saw his eyes fill with determination. Suddenly he seemed to have gained confidence.

"I'll do it. I will reward you,” Jacaerys promised, determined to be a better fiancé and not disappoint you again. He wanted to lay the groundwork for a good marriage with you.

“I can’t wait to see that,” you smiled, and he quickly returned your smile, feeling happy that you were willing to give him another chance.

Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works:

@chaotic-fangirl-blog @venus-flytrap3 @ajordan2020 @iloveallmyboys @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @crystal-faith @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1

@joyouart @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @partypoison00 @labellapeaky

@rebelliuna @bxdbxtxh15 @impartinghades @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog @natashaobo @watercolorskyy

@nyenye @savagemickey03 @kishie8 @ewwwitsel @arabis-world @missusnora @nzygftoji @alisoncdariel @cookielovesbook-akie @partnerincrime0

@klara-lily @427120lxld @justhereiguess2

@buckylahey @wa801 @artistadistrada2002 @thelastemzy @justanotherkpopstanlol @yn-jackson @jacesvelaryons @aemondwhoresworld @cassiopeiablogg-blog

hotd masterlist

[darlingkikki]

wait need a 141 scare actors x reader blurb

Synopsis: A horror night worker sees you and gives his men a task; make sure you leave smiling. Pairing: TF141!Scare Actors x GN!Reader (first meeting vibes so nothing too crazy but Kyle’s too great for me to keep it lowkey lmao) Word Count: 3.6k (I think) Warnings: negative self-talk, reader is very lonely (reasons up to you) a/n: Let me know if I missed any warnings or did not keep it gender-neutral and I will fix it <3. You gave me the green light and you will pay dearly for how badly I wish I were a better writer. Happy Halloween!

A man with an interesting mustache and beard combo greets you at the gates.

“Admission for one?” He asks, glancing over your shoulder to check that your friends or partner aren’t lagging. 

The question pokes at the part inside of you that recoils into your shell when others notice how alone you are, the forever raw wound that no positive affirmations or small bouts with talk therapists have been able to scab over. It’s constantly bleeding, oozing thoughts in voices you both recognize and don’t. They cover a wide variety, though they lead back to you, a homing missile locked onto your actual self and not the warped beyond-recognition version they are about. The version no one who knows you sees. You’ve been told you’re actually not that bad; you’re still stuck on why they used the word actually in something meant to be complimentary. 

One therapist (the one you felt could help, but they decided a job in another state was more important than your problems), said that the best way to combat these thoughts is to fight them, think louder and harder in the opposite direction, even if you think you’re lying to yourself. So, that’s what you did. You psyched yourself up in the mirror for the better part of an hour as you pulled on your costume and repeated to yourself that this was normal. 

Why should an infamous horror night be such a big deal? People go out alone all the time.

“Yep,” you say with a forced smile. It’s enough, but it doesn’t feel like enough. So, you over-explain because your mouth never knows when to quit. “I love going to these alone, really puts me in the Halloween mood.” 

The man tilts his head to one side, observing that slight pinch of your expression. Your voice is light and measured. And that smile. You’re performing. Everything about this is fake, everything about you is fake, a mask worn when the switch in your brain flips to ‘social interaction mode’, so strangers think of you in a certain way. You want him to know you’re not the least bit insecure about being alone. Not at all. The distant sounds of screaming and laughter inside the park don’t carve into you like an ice pick.

You’re not fooling him—no one can, as far as he’s concerned. He’s posted at the entrance for a reason, not because he’s grown too old to run around and scare people with grotesque makeup or prop weapons. He’s an assessor through and through. One brief conversation and he knows whether someone will be a good sport or one of those rude assholes that think it’s cool to scream back at the actors or posturing snobs who shit all over their efforts. You may be lying to him and yourself, but you won’t be a problem. 

Something about you reminds him of someone. He draws the comparison only after you school your smile to a blank expression. You have smile lines around your mouth, evidence that the muscles aren’t under-used, he just wonders how many are genuine. 

You’re still staring at him as he extends his hand towards you, palm up. 

“Give it here,” he orders and gestures towards your own, which has been clutching the fabric of your costume as if you think it’s trying to escape.

You stretch out your fingers, persuading them to relax and hold out your clammy hand so he can press a stamp down on the back of it. The design glows a bright lavender when light catches it at a certain angle, indecipherable enough that you can’t figure out exactly what it says or depicts. You’re about to pull away when he stamps you again. You don’t ask why, assuming it’s because the first was too light or smudged. With a gentle parting squeeze, your hand is your own again. You start towards the exit as he’s stuffing the stamp back into his pocket. 

He speaks again just as you’re about to be past his shoulder. His voice is soft but gritty like a smoker's. “You have yourself a hell of a night, alright?” 

“Yes, Sir.” You curse yourself for your unnecessary use of the title as you make it past the entrance to the park. You don’t know why you called him that, but it makes more sense than it should. He has a natural ability to garner respect, you felt it even in that brief interaction. He chuckles, rough and deep, as he pulls his phone out to make do with his mission.

You take a break from screaming and scurrying away from zombies and slashers to do something fun.

And what’s more fun than blowing too much money on playing carnival games until you win one of the large plushies? It seems easy enough after the woman running the stand explains the game to you—until you’ve sunk twenty bucks into it and only manage one ring on a bottle. The others have bounced off and landed on the ground. 

The stares of the wide-eyed plushies feel less like they’re cheering you on and more like they’re mocking you. Are you seriously playing a child’s game alone? And losing? Why? So you can win a dumb stuffed animal? You’ll leave here the same way you came and you deserve it.

There’s no way one is even worth the amount that you've lost so far. You’re ready to throw in the towel when you sense something behind you. 

It shouldn’t be something that spells danger, not with the woman who has been pocketing your money standing just a few feet away, but your body seems to ignore that fact and react as though Michael Myers himself is lurking behind you. 

You whirl around and your bones turn to ice when you find yourself face-to-chest with a tall, imposing figure. You’re too aghast to scream, mind-body connection severed, you’re left gaping up at the man like a fish out of water. He can’t have been there long, but you’ve been so caught up in the game that he could’ve been standing behind you the entire time. 

The man does not react to your fear, just meets you with an uncomfortably realistic-looking skull mask and unblinking eyes. His posture is rigid, like one of the decorative scarecrows you saw near the entrance. His eyes rake over your body in a way that reminds you of an x-ray, lingering on something for a prolonged moment. Whatever he sees, it pushes him to speak to you. 

“This one’s fuckin’ awful.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, dark pools glinting with humor, but you’re too busy trying to calm your racing heart to respond. He’s used to people being afraid of him beyond the context of working at events like this, so he steps around you and picks up the pile of rings on the table. You press a trembling hand to your chest and take deep, pacifying breaths.

In and out, you tell yourself, over and over, until your heartbeat no longer resembles the sound of galloping horses. In the time it takes you to collect your bearings, he's thrown each ring over the tops of three bottles effortlessly. Anxiety dissolves into confusion, even more when he turns to you and then jerks his head towards the higher shelves, ignoring the slightly annoyed woman behind the counter. She was probably hoping you’d spend another couple of dollars.

“Oh.” Confusion melts into realization. Your lips curl upwards, but something still doesn’t feel right. He’d broken character to help you for seemingly no reason. “Thank you, but you didn’t need to-” 

“Already did. Pick the one you want.”

His insistence is sharp but harmless equally. The prize is yours, so no use in trying to out-polite the man. 

When you look back at the shelves, it’s with a radiant smile. Even though you hadn’t exactly won one yourself, the kindness of the skull-faced stranger was enough to silence your worries. The perfect one picks you before you pick it. There’s a lone skeleton with cutesy eyes and a squishy body surrounded by a sea of adorable plush pumpkins and black cats. You point to it and the woman behind the counter hands it over with a half-hearted “congrats”. The stranger in the mask smiles at your choice, though you’re not looking at him. When you’re done giving testing squeezes to the plushie, you turn to the man to thank him again, but he’s nowhere to be found, gone just as quietly as he’d appeared.

Sometime later, plushie in your arms, you find the line for a walk through the cornfield. It winds around plastic dividers like a snake, but what else can you expect from the major attraction when the night is in full swing? You join the line, picking at the white tag sewn into the leg of your plushie. There’s a couple in front of you dressed in matching costumes; they decide the wait is the perfect time to get reacquainted with one another. A worker ropes off the divider so no one else can enter and the distracted group of friends in front of the couple doesn’t notice or care about them, so no one else accompanies you in the awkwardness of listening to smacking lips and affectionate hums. Bitterness swells in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pill without water. Stroking the soft underbelly of your prize helps—somewhat. You think about the sweet, albeit intense, scare actor until the giggling couple with now identically smudged makeup walks hand-in-hand through the entrance.

There is little to no light inside of the field. The brightest thing is the moonlight, which makes walking down the dirt path between corn stalks an even more eerie experience. It’s almost peaceful, ignoring the creepy props lining the paths and the random actors hidden in the stalks itching to grab at your ankles or jump out at you (three have accosted you so far). And soon to be a fourth as corn rustles in front of you, leaf blades bouncing off each other harsher than when skimmed by the wind. 

Another couple of steps and a man in a bloody burlap sack-like mask pops out with outstretched arms and a loud “boo” to top it all off—you yelp, nearly dropping your plushie on the ground.

The man responds with a laugh, infectious and warm, before tugging off his mask. Odd, you think, because none of the other actors had prolonged the interaction after leaving you short of breath. Well, none but one.

“I’m Kyle,” he introduces himself, flashing a disarming smile. It’s dazzling, you almost miss him holding out a hand. “Sorry for…you know, just doin’ my job and all.”

Without the disturbing mask, he’s quite pretty, the kind that makes you immediately comply and give him both your right hand and name. Your stamps glow under the moonlight, and he sighs in relief, shoulders relaxing. He thought you’d have left by now.

“Nice meeting you,” he says, bowing at the waist. 

He’s prince-levels of charming, much too relaxed for the environment. His costume is more normal than scary without the mask, just a deep red tunic and dark-wash jeans. You can make out small bits of hay stuck to his hair and clothes. It makes for a dorky and cute visual. 

He does not slink back into the corn as the actors before him did. Instead, he straightens, making a face at the stuffed animal you’re holding.

“You win that for yourself?” 

“Tried to, but one of the actors ended up helping me, actually.”

He quirks a brow. “You pick it because it looks like him?”

You don’t know how he guessed so quickly, but you nod, sheepish that he’d caught you clutching it so protectively, like you were holding a dear gift from a loved one. 

It’s just a stupid toy a stranger won for you. Won for you. You hold it tighter.

Kyle shakes his head, muttering “smart bastard” under his breath and then his eyes are on you. He has that deep shade of brown that’s impossible to say no to.

“The way to the exit can be a bit borin’,” he explains, his lips pursed in thought. “You alright with some company?”

And now you’re even more confused. Was he even allowed to? And why would he care if you’re bored?

“Will you get in trouble?” You ask, glancing towards the quiet path, trying to gauge how long you’d be pulling him away from his job. From what he’s saying, you can assume the exit is near, but you can’t see it from here.

“Nah, you were the last one coming through, so I’m free to roam,” he shrugs, stepping out of your way so you can walk side-by-side.

You soon discover Kyle is even more of a gem than you’d initially realized. He's more than just a beautiful person to look at, he’s funny, and more friendly with you than strangers ought to be. He asks about you. You don’t know what to say at points, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When your voice wavers or your tongue fumbles, he’s patient. He’s genuinely interested, actually listening, and those pools of brown are as distracting as you thought because soon you’re walking underneath the cobweb-decorated archway signaling the end of the walk.

Your heart clenches. You’re not ready for your night to be over. You’re not prepared for your time with Kyle to be over, to face that tonight has been one of the few times you’ve been the target of considerate treatment and could very well be the only time.

You miss the reflected disappointment in his features because a harsh sound cuts through the air, similar to the rev of a car engine. Then it happens again, just as cacophonic followed by maniacal laughter, and a large man barrels through the corn so quickly you scream and nearly fall over into Kyle’s arms. 

“Fuckin’ hell ‘Tavish, you nearly killed my new friend here,” Kyle laughs, patting you on the back. Reassurance. You’re in no danger. 

The chainsaw wielder lets the act go rather quickly, lowering it to the ground and regarding you with a mischievous grin. 

“Just doin’ my job,”—the man waves off the accusation—“Not my fault Price chose a screamer.”

You squint at the man who’d nearly given you a heart attack. Price chose you? Who’s Price? Kyle claps the man on the back of the head. They interact as old friends, brothers. 

“Sorry,” Kyle turns to you, apologetic. “Should’ve warned you about the main event. Got a bit distracted.”

In fairness, you were too. You don’t mention that it was because of his eyes..

“Apology accepted,” you say, “Though your friend is on thin ice.”

“Me?” The man in question scoffs like you’ve accused him of a grave sin. His lips press together to keep his laughter at bay, though he’s got about as much tact as the hair on his head, which is shaved on both sides, leaving a strip of hair down the middle. He’s cocky, you can sense that. Cocky people are to you what salt is to a snail, though Kyle doesn’t seem the type to surround himself with the bad kind, so you try not to curl in on yourself.

“Not jus’ his friend,” he says, sending you a wink, “I’m John, Johnny if yer feelin’ brave.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and nudges you with his shoulder to get you walking towards the park exit, a straight shot from the cornfield. “Come on, we don’t need to take this.” 

“You scared me too,” you remind him as Johnny takes up the space on your left side, “Don’t think I forgot about that.”

He snorts, “Touche.”

“A screamer an’ not afraid to knock you down a peg,” Johnny notes, “I like ‘em already.” He hasn’t stopped staring at the side of your face. You wipe your hand across your cheek in case something is on it. 

The walk through the park is quiet, save for Johnny and Kyle throwing friendly jabs at one another. Most people have already left; the last few actors send looks in your direction and carnival game runners are shutting off their lights and closing down for the night.

“You have fun tonight?” Johnny asks you once the parking lot comes into view. Only a handful of clusters of cars remained in contrast to when you’d arrived.

The most fun you’ve had in a while. You’ve grown used to that heavy chunk of loneliness sitting in your chest like a rock. You drag it around behind you, a life sentence. Let it tether to your emotions and bog them down, anchoring your feet in some instances and letting the ground swallow you whole in others. You’re going home with a small part carved out. A crevice where something less bitter and more sweet can wedge itself in and find a home, spreading far and wide if you’re lucky.

The two exchange toothy grins when you respond positively, a cheerful smile cracking your face open for them to see. The look withholds a meaning that you aren’t privy to. Price was right, as always. A special someone deserved more smiles tonight, and they’d accomplished their mission.

“Found you any earlier an’ I would’ve won you one of those too,”—Johnny gestures to your plushie—“Ah’ve got an arm on me, a mean one when it comes to the bottle toss.”

Kyle and you roll your eyes. You assume the people in his life have grown quite comfortable doing so. Your initial descriptor of cocky was accurate, but he’s endearingly cocky in a way that doesn’t put you off too much. 

“Watch it, the big guy will take your head off,” Kyle warns.

“He’s not even here. I can say wha’ I want.”

“He’s right behind you.”

“Nah, he’s—” Johnny spins around and gasps, similar to how you’d reacted earlier, though he is a bit more dramatic. “Steamin’ Jesus, where’d you come from?”

You turn as well, hoping it’s who you’re thinking, and it is. The man who’d won you the plushie you’re holding.

He looks at you in the same way as before, though his imposing figure seems more relaxed than it had been. You presume these men are all friends. They seem comfortable enough around each other to be.

“Price wants to see us,” he says, his deep voice rolling from his chest the way water does over the smoothed rock on the bank of a river. You can hear it much clearer now that your heartbeat isn’t thrumming in your ears. 

“Can it wait?” Kyle glances towards you. “Wanted to make sure they made it out alright.”

Another chip at that loneliness, but you don’t want to jeopardize anything with him and Price—who you assume is his boss—even if you’d prefer he continues lessening the weight holding you down beneath your rib cage.

“You’ve done enough, Kyle,” you say, pointing behind you with your free hand, “I can see my car from here, anyway. I’ll be fine.”

“We cannae let ‘em go without makin’ sure, Simon,” Johnny insists, echoing Kyle’s sentiment and steamrolling over your assurance. 

Simon, finally a name for the face, or at least the parts of it you can see. Kyle and Johnny had shed their costumes, yet he wears his like a second skin. His stiff demeanor from earlier seems more of a costume than anything he’s wearing. 

Simon glances over your shoulder to where you’d pointed, dark eyes impossible to read. Johnny turns up the dial on his charm. At least that’s what you think he’s doing when he gives Simon a wide-eyed, puppy-like expression, pressing his palms together in front of his face and tipping his head forward. The picture would be complete if he sunk onto his knees with a bible in his hands.

He has the energy of the youngest son in the family. The visual brings a laugh tumbling from your lips and Simon relents, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Go on then, we’ll watch from here.”

So you do, waving at the group, who murmur their goodbyes, and then walking to your car. 

You walk slower than you need to, relishing in the experience of people wanting to ensure you made it anywhere safe. It’s a luxury. You strive for it like people dream about vacationing or owning a house. Unfortunately, time stands still for no one.

Chancing a look at the group of men as you climb into the driver’s seat, you find six pairs of eyes. Kyle smiles broadly, you get another wink and smirk from Johnny, and Simon blinks at you from behind his mask. You barely know them and yet their reactions are all so distinctly them. You beam, holding up the plush skeleton and waving one last time like an Olympic athlete holding up their medals before resting it on the passenger's seat.

Alone again, you push your key into the ignition and your car comes to life. The dashboard bathes everything in a golden glow. Come morning, when you’re bathed in a similar hue by the rising sun, you’ll think about this night. You’ll think about them, each of them, and you’ll wonder. Hugging your prize from the night, you will implant the memory into the grooves of your brain, where it can sit safe and snug, just as looked after as you’d been. You’ll wonder if any of them will end up in your life again, and hope the answer to that question is ‘yes’.