dariarot

[dariarot]

Even Now: Recollection

james cook x f!reader

!! not proofread !!

skins au.

Summary: After intimate moments with Cook at a university party, he has you running through his mind. Now that he’s got a hold of you again, he is intent, in his own Cooko way, to keep you around. 

!! refers to reader with she/her pronouns. mentions of drugs and sexual themes. mature content, MDNI !! 

a/n: happy birthday to jacko. this is a true alternate universe where everything is as i paint it, nothing unsaid should be assumed (which really just means i love freddie and he is alive and well). i really appreciate y’all’s feedback, you’ve been so kind. if you could offer any for this one too, that’d be so awesome of you. thanks so much again.

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Cook remembered the kiss being long and drawn out, almost as if you were chewing food you didn’t want. But you did want this. You absolutely wanted every second of it. In the moment, it was the only thing that made anything feel worthwhile. 

You were new to the city, having just moved to transfer to the nearby university. At this party, specifically, you were a plus one. Both from the same campus, in the same field of study, but a year above you. You bumped into Imelda while trying to find your class. She was basically your guide for the foreseeable future at this school. You didn’t actually know much about her, but you clung to her a bit because it just made sense. The connection between the two of you for the past two or so years wasn’t necessarily blissful either– she’d often drag you around with her to places you cared less and less about. She was insufferable when she got wasted at these events, though. When she finally left you to jump at opportunities elsewhere, you were off finding warmth on cold shoulders. As you’d done with countless others on similar nights, you’d done with Cook this night. 

It was clear the man wasn’t there for anything particularly noble. He fussed about there being no drugs or drinks left for him with his friends near a pool table that absolutely wasn’t being used for pool when you found him. Truth be told, you didn’t know what else you’d rather be doing. In a way, you found Imelda to be a curse you deserved for the long and solitary years where you shunned and pushed at the kindness of kids your own age. You were now only finding familiarity with people in Imelda’s orbit, closer to her personality than yours. When you found yourself in the semi-quiet, one-on-one moment with Cook in the back of his car, you saw it as a breath of fresh air.

You didn’t ever expect to see him again. Rarely did you ever see anyone from those nights again. It was as if you attracted the most ashamed and lonely people in a given space, like there was something familiar in the way you held yourselves that set a mutual expectation of lost contact. Cook surprised you then, the lively man who offered everyone something– a drink, a cigarette, a dance– focused his eyes on you. He could’ve been anywhere in all of England, but that night, he wanted to be in your pants. It was enough for you. 

On the street where he currently stood, the man couldn’t stop the memories. Thrusts at every speed, skin slipping against the tattered leather seats, and your moans. They were pornographic. Your outfit that night wasn’t exactly modest, and it stood no chance against your shared desires. Cook remembered holding enough warmth for the two of you. His breath was hot, heavy, it lived in the bend of your neck as your hands went back and forth from tugging his maroon ‘University of Bristol’ sweater and lying on his clavicle while he did all the work. A mixture of your slick and his saliva smearing against his hips. Fingers that were once curling inside you were now feeling about the length of your tongue. Lewd noises had put his mind in disarray. The allure of you was like an expensive lap dance or an A-class show at a grand ol’ theatre. 

The memories thumped at his chest and pressed on his lungs. Cook sighed out and ran a thumb across his bottom lip slowly. He tried being present. He was taking JJ to his first “real” job interview now that he’d graduated early. Cook moved the miscellaneous items from the back seat to the boot and plunged the door close. Walking back to the driver’s side, he passed the window behind his seat. The evidence on the glass, your handprint etched into a dried mark where the fresh condensation of a steamy car against a feverish cold night once was. He debated photographing the print, and ultimately decided against it when JJ could be heard leaving his house. 

“Oi!” JJ yelled, Cook turned to him and smiled. Masking his sexual frustration. “Nerves to the roof, I’ve counted 79 hours, or 3.3– or 3.292– approximate days in total preparation for this position. The recruiter said if someone fresh outta uni wanted to secure the position, they’d have to know a lot.” His smile was undeniable; you could see it from space. “She thinks I might know a lot!”

Cook laughed at the man. Same as always. He thought with fondness. “You do, Jay… you’ll knock 'em dead, for sure!” 

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The man leaned against his car near a Chinese cuisine joint. JJ told Cook not to wait up and that he’d take the tube home. Update him right away if he’s got the time, even. Sure, he tried reasoning with himself, the night was good, she’s from ‘round ‘ere. What’s the chance of seein’ ‘er again, though? Shoveling through meat and veggies, he sighed like the food was telling him off. 

At every moment of silence, his mind drifted to you. Where you could've possibly ran off to after the time spent in the car. It was almost as soon as you’d finished together when you had pushed him off with a bare foot, fixing your clothes, and grabbing your heels as you made your way out of the car and back to the house. 

You felt something then, a sense of closeness and calm that you hadn’t felt since you moved there. The second the sensation hit you, it sent chills down your spine. Fear of being naive and dramatic. None of your prior partners have ever served to be anything but a distraction or a sad excuse for “fun” to you. Not any romantic or sexual partners for that matter. 

You couldn’t escape him as you’d thought. Not now, not with this tie around his neck. In your mind, he scratched at the overcrowded space. For Cook, he knew that a special thing like love couldn’t be taken advantage of. He felt stupid for thinking this could be anything like love, but he would beat himself up over it forever if he never tried with you. 

As he sat against the exposed brick walls of the business, his eyes lifted for a brief second. Finally, again, they found you. An unmistakable feeling of relief enveloped him for all the space he took up, and then fear. Your cumbersome beauty glowed under pale grey clouds; it left him still in his spot. Cook began to move when the worry of you slipping between his fingers overshadowed any insecurities he may have acknowledged just at the sight of you.

“O- oi!” His attempt at catching your attention shocked him. The quiet in his usually loud expression. The shake in it, too. 

You don’t even know ‘er name, knobhead. He barked at himself in his head the whole way to you. For Cook, it felt like hours. In reality, you were only a couple feet away.

“Lass! You got the time?” 

There it was. Cook’s largest flaw. His unrelenting facade. It was back to bite him.

“Mm?” You made a noise as you turned his way. Noticing it was the beacon of superficiality and erotic service from last night, you felt heat rise to your face. Nerves prickling your stomach. “Oh!” You laughed as if it made things better for either of you.

He smiled and held a hand to your front, helping you down a short set of stairs that were truly there for decoration only. Taking his hand, effectively lighting his skin ablaze, you stepped nearer.

“Were you planning on kicking me to the curb or are you just happy to see me?”

Cook joked, but there was a shared understanding that you did, in fact, plan to forget him. Restraint was something you had so much more of than the man across you. 

“I’ll say, I am delighted. How’ve you been? Busy morning?” It was as though you could see into him, he felt naked, toyed with at the upward inflection. 

“Proper busy, yeah, just dropped me mate off at an interview. Borin’, innit?” He sped through words as though they made something useful of him. Cook cut himself off, asking the first bit rhetorically. Now asking the next one with an intent to hang onto any response you’d allow him. “How’s things?”

You shrugged. “Alright, I guess. I hope things go well with your buddy.” Smiling up at him, you felt an urge to drop your walls. Likely due to your stress of seeing him talk at you from behind his. 

Nodding, you narrowed your eyes at him in a feigned effort to remember lost details. “What was your name, again?” 

“Uh…” He didn’t know what he wanted to offer you. The measly, fakely confident Cook, or something meaningful, or maybe even something witty. “Me name is James Cook.” He pursed his lips into a tight, goofy looking smile. Like he should be proud that he remembered his own name. 

You smiled like you were tolerating him only. If you were both years younger, the image of you would look like a stereotypical scallywag and mean girl love story in a cheesy teen film. Offering your name in return, you appreciated his looks, finding that he’s much more your type than you remembered. Granted, you only saw him in a dim house and an even dimmer car. Neither of you doing much talking, then. Your expression dropped, thinking What are we doing?

“Well,” you made a face of displeasure and impatience. “take me to your car, then. I think we’ll get to know each other much better at mine.”

[dariarot]

2 - The High Priestess

The second Sinners (2025) inspired tarot card is finally here!! Featuring the lovely Annie this time :)

As always, if y’all would like to hear a little bit about the decisions I made in this piece let me know, because I’d love to talk about them :D

[dariarot]

jacob you are so loved and respected

[dariarot]

NOW SHOWING 🎥 THE BREAKFAST CLUB

starring, remmick

                                          🧾 TICKET STUB

attendee : @bleedingsunlight showing : au!loser!grunge!remmick x popular girl!princess!reader screening type : midnight matinee (rated NC-18) snack of choice : lollipops  genre : au!80s romcom/opposites attract

director's notes imma be so honest w you, ive never written anything faster because i was literally so excited. thank you rin darling for ur kind words!! and just know i ATE this up so bad (so bad that i might’ve, perchance have a diff version of the more “criminal” archetype version of him, but i digress) can't wait to write the next one! i hope i did this justice <333 just to preface, everyone’s of age here, aside from underage smoking but trust it’s for the fiction part of it all + it’s set in the 80s. lastly, since i lack STRUCTURE, posting schedule for a bunch of finished works that r just sitting in my wip folders coming soon!

                                            🎬 SYNOPSIS

What starts with a glitter pen, a lollipop, and an upside-down textbook ends in a gas station parking lot—with lip gloss on his cigarette and her skirt in his lap, Crowded House crooning through the stereo.

YOU SHOW UP TEN MINUTES LATE WITH YOUR HAIR IN A RIBBON AND THE SCENT OF DIOR PERFUME CLINGING TO YOU LIKE HEAT. 

A juicy fruit bubble pops between your glossed lips as you toss your lisa frank notebook on the desk.

Remmick flinches like it bit him.

He's already there—has been for twenty, pacing and panicking, doodling dumb shit in the margins of his composition notebook like don’t look at her tits today and squares are just sad circles.

You sit like you’ve done this a hundred times—like the library’s your runway and every dusty book spine is lucky to be in your orbit. Then you cross your legs—slow, calculated, a full-blown event.

Remmick’s eyes dart before he can stop them—skimming the dress you had to have gotten written up for (and definitely got out of with a well-timed bat of your lashes), the dainty kitten heels showing off a fresh, glossy pedicure that probably cost more than his entire outfit.

He chokes on absolutely nothing. Just air. Just existence. Just you.

“Okay, teach me,” you chirp, voice sing-song and sugar-sweet. “Or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Remmick clears his throat. He’s sweating under his leather jacket, which is insane because it's seventy-eight degrees outside. His flannel’s got a rip at the elbow, one sleeve safety-pinned where it used to have a cuff, that’s now starting to bug him. There’s a faded Joy Division button barely clinging to his backpack—hanging on for dear life, just like him—and if he bothered to look down, he’d realize at least one of his shoelaces is definitely a split headphone wire knotted tight.

He’s a goddamn disaster. You know it. He really knows it.

You hand him your glitter-covered textbook like you’re passing off a love letter. He fumbles it, catches it awkwardly against his chest, and opens it upside-down like a moron.

“Smooth,” you say, smirking. You reach over, flipping it the right way. Your fingers brush his, and he almost dies. Spontaneous cardiac event. Just itching to collapse in the quiet section like a tragic little wet dog.

The moronic action alone makes him want to crawl under the table and die. Maybe smoke himself into oblivion first. Instead, he mutters something about “perspective.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the table. “It’s been a long day.”

You lean in like you’re examining something under a microscope. “Are you always this twitchy, Remmy?”

He flinches at the name. Remmy. You’ve been calling him that ever since he dumped an entire pen’s worth of black ink across your lisa frank folder during your first tutoring session—looked like he’d murdered a unicorn.

These ridiculous meetups aside, it was either two afternoons a week with you, or another long, soul-sucking weekend of detention. Again.

How either of you ended up there was anyone’s guess. Two star students on paper, two totally different universes. Him—the ridiculous burnout with a nicotine habit and permanent twitch. You—the high-gloss poster girl for honor roll and homecoming courts.

And yet, there you were. Both in the principal’s office, arms crossed, avoiding eye contact while your respective crimes were read aloud:

One stolen loosie smoked behind the gym. One elaborate prank that involved a slingshot, an ungodly amount of glitter, and the principal’s rustbucket Camaro, now forever shimmering under the sun.

He thought to himself that it was all peer pressure. You called it performance art.

Either way, here you were. Math books between you. Trouble behind you. And something way worse—or better—simmering just beneath the surface.

“I’m not twitchy,” he says, stiffly.

“You’re vibrating,” you deadpan, popping your bubblegum.

And he is. He’s one jolt of caffeine or one smile from you away from spontaneously combusting.

You twirl your pen between your fingers and start doodling lazy hearts in the margins of your notes. He clears his throat like he’s about to deliver the State of the Union and begins explaining polynomials—badly, with his words stumbling over each other.

You chew your pen cap, frowning. “Okay, but why are there letters in math?” you ask, dramatic as hell. “Like, that’s a hate crime. I didn’t sign up for a spelling test.”

Remmick blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. He then comes to the halting realization that he has no idea how to handle you. But then you tilt your head. You’re looking at him—not through him, at him. With those stupid pretty eyes and that little crinkle in your nose.

And he panics.

“Do you want a—uh. A snack?” he blurts. “I brought an extra pop-tart.”

You blink. “What flavor?”

“Brown sugar cinnamon.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew.”

He immediately puts it away like he’s just offered you a dead rat. You go back to doodling. He goes back to dying.

He clears his throat—twice—before attempting something that sounds like authority.

“You’ve got a test Friday,” he says, voice cracking halfway through. “You have to pass with at least a B minus if you want to keep your... you know—freakishly perfect GPA.”

You blink at him slowly, like he’s cute for trying.

“Yes, Remmy. I’m aware,” you sigh, already fishing a lollipop from your purse like it’s a sacred rite. You unwrap it slowly, deliberately, and use the crinkled foil to tuck away your gum with a practiced flick of your wrist.

The flash of your tongue—quick, glossy, unbothered—hits Remmick like a heatwave in a meat locker. He swallows hard. And then again, like his body forgot how to exist without full-blown panic.

“And that is important, but you see... I have very important plans on Saturday.”

He looks confused. Concerned. Like you just announced you were joining a cult.

“I’m talking not penciled in,” you continue, waving the sucker like a wand, “but bold, underlined, permanent ink, Remmy. Plans with a capital P.”

He stares at you blankly. “…What kind of plans?”

You lean in like you’re about to whisper state secrets. “Tiffany Marchand’s pool party. Her older brother’s home from college and her parents are out of town. There will be music. Boys. Opportunities.”

“Opportu—what?” he sputters.

You smile wickedly. “Do you think I shaved my legs for you?”

Remmick turns the color of a stop sign. Actually shifts in his seat like the mere suggestion set his whole body on fire.

“I just—I thought maybe you wanted to pass,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I do,” you say, lips curling around the lollipop. “But I also want to look incredible in a bikini while doing so. So unless this study session includes flash cards and outfit options, I suggest we prioritize.”

He knocks his pencil clean off the table. Doesn’t even bother picking it up. He’s too busy praying for strength. Or maybe an earthquake. Something, anything to save him from you.

“Yeah. Prioritize. Right. Uh… thoughts on decimals?” he stammers, like he’s never said a coherent sentence in his life.

Unlike you, Remmick had absolutely nothing going for him on a Saturday night. If anything, a late night gas station run, if his pack had run clean through.

The fluorescent lights of the gas station hum like static. They buzz against the night, pale and too bright, cutting through the dark like a bad idea.

Remmick shuffles inside, hands in the pockets of his worn-out flannel, trying not to look suspicious, even though he definitely is. 

He looked like he just rolled out of bed. Hair a mess, dickies ripped at the knee, headphones around his neck like a noose. He buys cigarettes with crumpled bills and barely meets the cashier’s eyes.

He doesn’t belong here, or anywhere really—just floats from place to place like secondhand smoke.

When he walks out, fumbling with the lighter, he nearly drops the pack. Nearly lets his own headphones choke him out at the sight. 

Because there, parked crookedly in one of the parking stalls was you. 

Sitting in the driver’s seat of your cherry-red convertible. Top down. Elbows on the wheel. The glow of the streetlamp halos your hair like a goddamn music video. He feels his heart tug a little, because your expression? Cracked. A misplaced thing on a face he’s seen as nothing but perfect so far. Your glossy lips pout in a way that isn’t on purpose.

You look like a heartbreak in highlighter.

He hesitates. Then takes a drag he doesn’t need, more to stall than smoke. His palms sweat like hell. He almost turns around.

But when you glance up, he notices right away—your mascara’s just a little smudged, a telltale shimmer of something softer than you usually let show.

“…Hey,” he says, voice cracking slightly, awkward as hell.

You blink once, then offer a crooked little smile—soft, sad, and nothing like your usual glossed-over charm. “Fancy seeing you here, Remmy.”

He laughs, nervous and jittery. “Didn’t think I’d run into royalty outside a Texaco.”

“Oh, eat my shorts, Remmick,” you snap, but there’s no heat behind it. Just a tired sort of ache curling around the words.

He winces, eyes flicking to the pavement. “Sorry. I’ll, uh—I’ll leave you alone.”

He brings the cigarette back to his lips, fingers trembling slightly.

“No…” you breathe, gentler now. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

You nod toward the passenger seat, patting it lightly. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move right away. His feet shuffle like they don’t quite trust the invite. Like he’s waiting to be laughed at or pushed away.

You clock the hesitation instantly.

“Remmy,” you say, voice dipping into something teasing, syrupy, warm. “Get in before I change my mind.”

That does it. He moves like a deer caught in headlights—slow, unsure, but aching to be closer, like he’s being pulled in by gravity he never stood a chance against.

“Ah—wait,” you mutter, sharp and low. “Come to the driver’s side real quick.”

He pauses mid-step. “Uh—why?”

You roll your eyes, already leaning slightly toward him. “Because I’m taking a drag before you put that out, dummy.”

He fumbles to obey, circling around the front of your car like it’s an obstacle course. You reach for his hand without asking, plucking the cigarette from his fingers—your lips brush the same spot his just touched.

You take a long, practiced drag, exhale slow through your nose, eyes half-lidded as you look at him. His cigarette now wears the faint red stain of your lipgloss.

But it’s your fingers that linger—delicate and cold against the inside of his wrist as you ready to pass it back. And there it is.

His pulse. Racing. Like you could feel every panicked, pathetic beat slamming against bone.

“Jesus,” you murmur, half-teasing, half-surprised. “You’re about to faint.”

“I—no—I’m not—” he stammers, voice cracking again.

You just smile, coy and wicked. “You sure? ‘Cause it feels like your heart’s about to bust out of your wrist.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

You hand the cigarette back—still warm from your lips—and tap your nails lightly against his palm.

“Now, get in the car, Remmy,” you whisper, voice like velvet and trouble. “I don’t bite unless you ask.”

“Jesus Christ,” He mutters in disbelief before snuffing the stick out with the heel of his boot. 

He makes his way to the passenger side, tripping over his own boot laces. Slides into the seat beside you like he’s afraid he’ll break it. Or you. Or himself.

His eyes are everywhere but you, as if suddenly the car has become much more interesting. 

And then his eyes land on the pile of cassette tapes scattered haphazardly across your dash like some kind of sparkly altar: The Cure. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The Smiths. Depeche Mode.

Each one decked out in your usual chaos—glitter stickers, pink hearts, a few sparkly stars—but the names are still clear beneath it all, scrawled in sharpie or original font. Like holy text with lip gloss.

He just stares. Blinks once. Then again.

You catch him. “What?” you ask, raising a brow like you already know.

He gestures weakly at the dash, like the tapes might bite. “You… listen to this stuff?”

You smirk, slow and knowing, tapping a manicured nail against Disintegration. “Don’t get me wrong, Madonna’s a hit—but this band? This album? Ridiculous. ‘Plainsong’? That’s not a song, Remmy. That’s a full-blown religious experience.”

His mouth drops open like you just declared you could breathe underwater.

You squint. “What?”

He shakes his head, stunned. “I just—I didn’t think girls like you listened to… I don’t know. This.”

This—being the soundtrack to every spiral he’s ever had. The exact mixtape he plays in his beat-up headphones when he’s lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, pretending he doesn’t want things he knows he’ll never have.

But now you’re here. In front of him. With Robert Smith on your dash and glitter on your cheeks and lip gloss on his snuffed out cigarette.

And suddenly, he doesn’t know a damn thing about anything. Especially you.

You just shrug, casual as ever. “Criminally low assumption of me, Remmy. You’re full of surprises, huh?”

He stares—really stares—for a beat too long, like he’s trying to memorize the way you said his name. You catch it, of course. And you can’t help but smile.

Then, softer, more human: “Party sucked.”

“Yeah?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You nod, something wilted settling in your shoulders. “Tiffany’s brother was a dirtbag. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid math test. So I bailed.”

Remmick swallows hard, thumb nervously flicking the edge of his lighter. “What’re you talking about? You aced that thing.”

You grin at him, bright and amused and too pretty to look directly at. “That’s ‘cause my tutor’s a genius. A twitchy, chain smoking, leather-jacket-wearing loser—but a genius, nonetheless.”

His laugh escapes before he can stop it—quiet and disbelieving. A flush creeps up his neck, obvious even under the sickly glow of the streetlamps. You swear his ears go pink.

Then you lean in—elbows resting on the middle console, chin in your hand, eyes soft but sure.

And just like that, he forgets how to breathe.

“I like the way you explain things,” you say, voice quiet but deliberate—like you’re handing him a secret you haven’t told anyone else.

Remmick blinks. His whole body tenses, like the words hit too close to somewhere he keeps boarded up. His mouth opens, then closes. Nothing comes out but a shallow breath that catches halfway.

Your chin props up a little higher, studying him like a curiosity. “You get all flustered and talk too fast and your hands move a lot. But it makes sense when you say it. Makes me feel like maybe I’m not stupid in math.”

“You’re not,” he blurts, way too fast. “You’re—you’re not even close to stupid.”

His voice cracks at the end, and it makes you smile wider. You reach out, fingers brushing his wrist again, featherlight—just enough to feel that pulse again, hammering away like he’s running a marathon from a sitting position.

He doesn’t pull away. He leans into it.

“Remmy,” you murmur, voice dipped in syrup and something warmer, “are you always this nervous around girls?”

He lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh. “No,” he lies, eyes darting to your mouth, then away, then back again. “Just you.”

You shift closer, your hands now brushing his knees, and his breath hitches so hard you feel it.

“You ever kissed anyone in a gas station parking lot before?” you ask, teasing.

He shakes his head, eyes wide. “No.”

You grin, tilting your head. “Wanna change that?”

And before he can even try to panic his way out of it, your lips are on his—soft and warm, tasting faintly of smoke and cherry lollipop. His hands hover awkwardly for a moment before landing on your cheeks like they’re not quite sure they’re allowed to stay there. You pull him in anyway, sliding your fingers into his hair, kissing him slow—deepening it when he lets out a little noise he probably didn’t mean to make.

The kind of noise that sounds like he’s aching.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, dazed. You’re still close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile against his jaw. “See? Now that’s a religious experience.”

The air between you is buzzing now—heavy, crackling like the moment before a summer storm. His breath is shallow, pupils blown, lips pink and kiss-bitten. He’s short-circuiting in real time.

You sit back just enough to look at him properly, hands still lazily hooked behind his neck.

“Can I go to you?” you ask, voice soft, almost shy.

His brows knit, blinking slow, like your words hit a patch of static in his brain. “Go where?”

You huff a laugh, already moving, already shifting your weight. “On your lap, dummy.”

And that’s it. That’s the kill shot. His whole system crashes.

He watches, helpless, as you crawl over the console and settle into his lap like you belong there—like this was always where the night was headed. His hands hover in the air, unsure of the rules, until you take them and place them gently on your waist.

Your skirt rides high on your thighs now, fabric bunched around you like a bow on a gift he’s not sure he’s allowed to open. His fingers tremble where they hold you—thumbs barely grazing your skin, reverent, like you’ll vanish if he grabs too tight.

He’s warm all over. Sweaty palms. Frantic heartbeat. Head spinning like he just stood up too fast and found you.

“I—uh—I’ve never—” he starts, voice low and cracking, eyes fixed somewhere around your collarbone because if he looks any higher, he might combust.

You hush him with another kiss, deeper this time—more confident, more claiming. He lets out a soft, broken whimper against your mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around your hips.

“Remmy,” you whisper against his jaw, trailing kisses down toward his neck, “you’re allowed to enjoy it.”

He nods. Violently. Too many times. He still doesn’t trust his voice, but his hands say it for him—curling into your sides like he needs the anchor.

You press your forehead to his, your smile so close it nearly touches his.

He’s never been more wrecked.

His heart’s punching through his ribs, his hands are clinging like he might float off the planet, and stupidly—so stupidly—his knees shift beneath you, like movement might help hide the hard-on growing with every brush of your skin. It only makes it worse. Obvious. Aching.

In his panic, he jerks slightly and knocks into your stereo. The radio bursts to life at full volume, startling you both.

Hey now, hey now… don’t dream it’s over…

“Shit—God, I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I—” he stammers, fumbling like he might tear the whole console out of the car in sheer embarrassment.

But you just laugh. Head thrown back, unguarded, bright and completely you. It cuts through the heat like wind chimes in summer.

“Relax, Remmy,” you grin, fingers curling against the back of his neck. “Crowded House isn’t a crime.”

Then, with mock-seriousness, you hum along—soft and teasing—your voice ghosting over the lyrics while your hips shift on his lap, and he swears he sees God.

“Didn’t peg you as the type,” you murmur, swaying just enough to make his jaw clench. “This your makeout soundtrack, or…?”

He tries to answer. Fails. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“You’re so cute when you’re short-circuiting,” you coo, before kissing him again.

This time, it’s messier. Hotter. His fingers dig in just a little as your mouths slide together, lips sticky with lip gloss and heat. You sigh into him, all plush and warm and too good to be real, grinding down just enough to ruin him completely.

He groans—low, desperate—like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his mouth, any of this. But you guide him. You teach him with every kiss, every slow roll of your hips, every sweet, breathy sound that slips from your throat.

“I’m dreaming right now, aren’t I?” he mutters against your mouth.

You grin, eyes gleaming. “You better not be, Remmy. ‘Cause I’m not letting you wake up just yet.”

Outside the car, the world is still. The parking lot is empty, bathed in flickering yellow light. Somewhere in the distance, a train moans through the night like a warning, but neither of you hear it. All he hears is you humming along to the chorus again, your breath warm against his cheek.

YOUR SEAT'S STILL WARM. THE CREDITS ARE ROLLING. BUT THE NIGHT ISN'T OVER. PICK YOUR NEXT FEATURE — NOW IN THEATERS : 700 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION — JACK O'CONNELL MLIST

[dariarot]

Call on Me

Just a lil something about Eric that's been on my mind. Part one of a two shot series!

There is some smut in this, but none between reader and Eric. Part two will be the conjugal visit 🙂‍↔️

pairing: (aged up) Eric Love x Fem!Reader

summary: You had been dating Eric for a few years now, having been used to just phone visitations and swapped letters. Upon learning that Eric would become eligible for conjugal visits, you take it upon yourself to break the news, in the mean time, you send your boyfriend some gifts.

Part One

unedited.

wc: 7.1k

warnings: a little canon divergence obviously, established relationship, (reader has hair) fluff, coarse language, mentions of prison (obvs), blood, bruises, fighting/violence (none towards reader), desperate Eric!, mutual bullying, sexual tension, nude pictures, male masturbation, mentions of titty-fucking and oral, lingerie, bodily fluids.

let me know what you think!

______

"Baby."

"Love," You reply with a grin, matching his as the wired phone rests in your hand, pressing against your ear. His actions mirror yours, and he shifts on the built in seat of the prison, resting his elbows against the small counter. "You get all dressed up for me?"

He sat as if he had been sitting there longer than usual, comfortable and waiting for your arrival.

Eric rolls his eyes at the same joke you make at every phone session. "Obviously," He still goes along with it, much to your amusement. "Got all dolled up for my lady."

"Mm hm," You nod, looking him over once he settles in his chair. There weren't any obvious cuts or bruises on his skin, and you relaxed just so slightly. "I can tell."

His grey tracksuit hung slightly loose on him, harbouring old stains you had been meaning to ask him about.

Thick glass separates the two of you. A stark and cruel reminder of how close yet so far your boyfriend was.

This was routine for you now.

A grey and dull room. Plastic chairs bolted to the ground. A thick pane of scratched glass filled with little indentations of past inmates names and tags.

It was busier than usual being a weekend - partners subdued with children fidgeting in their laps, guards watching intently for any unusual activity.

There was no place you'd rather be.

Eric's eyes were tired, a reminder that behind those walls he was constantly on guard, constantly on edge. But he never let you worry, never let you see him without a cheeky smile that managed to light up your usual dull booth.

He plays with the wire of his receiver, looking you over this time.

You tuck your chin slightly, bringing your phone a little closer in an attempt to drown out the background noise.

"You alright?" You ask softly, watching as his blue eyes continue gazing over your upper body.

There was nothing remotely sexy about your outfit, seeing as there was a strict dress code in the prison.

But it didn't matter, and Eric lets his eyes linger over your unzipped jumper, raising his eyebrow at the cleavage that peaked out.

He continues to grin, his voice muffled slightly through the plastic phone. "Better now, you know seein' ya makes me whole week yeah?"

You just nod, biting into your lip like a bad habit as you smile, knowing he was being truthful.

"What 'bout you darlin, you been busy?" He continues, nodding towards your hair, seeing it wasn't it's usual style.

You shrugged almost sheepishly, having gone out of your comfort zone and gotten your hair done. "Thought I'd change things up a little," a finger reaches up to adjust a looser strand. "Do you like it?"

He nods eagerly, looking it over. "Looks real pretty, but you'd make a fuckin' bald head look good I reckon."

A playful scoff leaves your lips followed by a small chuckle, and Eric revels in the sound, already considering your limited session a success.

"What about you, everything okay at your end? Eatin' proper?" It was a question you always asked, not wanting to pry too much into the other gruesome and unpleasant woes of prison.

He shrugs, but nods again. "Got everythin' I need, don't ya worry," Eric leans further, both elbows now pressed against his counter as he smiles. "Already told the boys here that I got a woman who tries fattenin' me up."

Your eyebrows raised, once again taking in his slightly loose tracksuit. "Yeah, 'cause you're a real porker aren't you Eric."

"Only when I'm porking you love," he winks, and your eyes widen, reaching out to smack at the glass. "Ouch."

"Keep sayin' shit like that Eric and you'll get calls taken off you," You look around embarrassed, hoping no one heard his stupid attempt at a joke. The man hadn't gotten laid since before he was sentenced. "Bellend."

Your voice dipped as you said his name, and he throws his head back in laughter, his teeth on display as other inmates look at him in annoyance. Eric adjusts the phone once more - switching ears, pressing it further as he straightens up.

"Have you been good at least?" You leaned in just slightly, eyes narrowing as you looked over his now free hand.

Eric shifts, his grin fading just a little to show something softer underneath. "Always, no mix ups, still keeping my head down yeah."

You exhale, tension in your shoulders as you eye his hand again. "What's the bruises on your knuckles from then?"

He pauses at your words, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at his palm, turning the hand over to look at the yellow hues that decorate his pale skin. "Ain't from any fights, don't you worry."

You wanted to believe him, but given his history with the other inmates, the idea of immediately taking his word for it didn't hit you.

As if sensing your hesitation, Eric holds his hand up to the glass, pressing it against the cool surface. "Promise."

He did it every time he wanted you to relax, his own little quirk, and you reluctantly nod, reaching up to press your own hand against his, feeling the cool material between that separated you.

It was the closest you had to feeling his touch, and you'd be lying if you said it was enough.

You missed his warmth, his hands on you - even the innocent touches, his hands on your waist to show his claim. The kisses before bed, the annoying way he'd steal all the blankets. All of it.

“Okay,” you say gently. “I trust you.”

His hand presses even further into the glass, wondering that if he tried hard enough - that he could imagine the softness of your skin once again.

There was a small silence as you just looked at each other. Taking in everything and somehow nothing all the same. It was the same every session, but it was still comforting. You just stared into his eyes, ignoring the distant chatter, the guards, the buzzing lights above.

It was just him. Only Eric.

He did the same, his gaze loving as he sighed.

Eric tilts his head a little, his voice dipping to that low, teasing softness he reserved just for you. "You're so beautiful, ya know that love? I miss you somethin' bad."

He would say the same thing every time. He never wanted you to forget how it sounded to hear his praises, to hear his appreciation and love for you.

You both pull away from the glass as you shrug again, use to rebutting his compliments, to which he'd always tut at you, telling you to accept them.

A buzzing sound goes off, startling you as usual. The rooms cruel way of telling visitors that there was only five minutes left.

Every visit was timed to the second, every goodbye and 'I love you' following sadly too close behind every hello.

Your back straightens as you compose yourself, before you snap your fingers, having nearly forgotten one of the main reasons you had been excited for this weeks session.

"Gift box!" You tap at the glass with your nail, your face lit up as you flashed your boyfriend a toothy grin. "Shit, nearly forgot."

"You what?" He questions, eyes closing in confusion.

"I got a letter that your wards opening' gift exchanges," you continue, now swapping the phone to your other ear as your wrist was getting tired. "I can send you a box of stuff - bunch of rules 'n shit on what I can include, but that's exciting yeah?"

His interest had piked, and he rests his chin on his free hand as he thinks over the revelation.

Eric knew gifting was normal in the prison, many of the other inmates receiving items from their families often, but he had never been eligible due to his poor behaviour.

"What're you thinkin'?" He asks, wondering what he'd be allowed to receive. His mind had honestly gone blank, having already gone so long without pleasantries and little things one would usually take for granted.

"Well, most things on the 'not allowed' part of the list are a given," Your tongue sticks out slightly as you reach down inside your bag beside your foot, wiggling around for the piece of paper you had saved.

Feeling the crumpled letter, Eric watches in amusement as you press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, using both hands to open envelop.

Once it was unravelled, you start listing off the things he can't ask for, nothing he would have considered anyway. "Anything you can think of Eric?"

He shakes his head. "Surprise me love."

"I've already got a box back home half full," you admit, nodding at your mans shocked expression. "Yeah, got some of your favourite books, sweets 'n stuff," you begin to list again, watching as Eric just smiles at your words.

"Even threw in my old iPod, you're not allowed wired headphones so I thought maybe some bluetooth ones, I've already downloaded a bunch of playlists and g-"

"You don't 'ave to buy me anything," he cuts you off, already hating the idea of you spending money on him. "Can listen to music without them."

"I've already bought them," your shoulders just shrug at Eric's expression, but eventually he starts to smile, shaking his head. "Put some teabags in too."

He snorts, but deep down he was more appreciative over something as small as a proper tea. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Eric begins to just stare as you start yapping away at more items you were thinking of including in his gift box, your voice muffling. His chest warmed, his stomach filling with that familiar feeling only you managed to grace him with.

He was utterly and completely in love with you.

It always shocked him how much you truly cared - how much you loved and supported him even when he got himself thrown in this giant concrete shit-hole.

He would never voice it, but there was always a lingering fear that every phone session would be the last - that you would eventually come to your senses and realise you were too good for him and leave forever.

But it never came, and instead you were here, telling him about all the presents you had packed away, how you were already planning the next.

Eric hadn't even realised you had finished speaking, your eyebrow raised at his expression, knowing he hadn't been focusing. "Wanker."

It was a jest, and you both immediately begin to laugh, you at the way his eyes drift when he's not listening, and him at your insult.

Another buzzer goes off, signalling that your time was up, and your shoulders sag.

You reach up again - having already thrown the letter back in your bag, pressing your palm flat against the glass like before. Eric did the same, your fingers just a pane apart.

"I love you," he said quietly, just enough for you to hear. "I'll see you next week yeah?"

"Always," you assured him, ignoring the guard that had come to stand behind you. "I love you too, be good Love."

The phones clicked off just in time for him to hear your words, and he nods, his side of the room now quiet as he hung his phone up.

You didn't move straight away, looking at him one more time, memorising the boyish grin he gave you - the soft crease between his brows, and he nods towards the exit, urging you to go before you got in trouble.

Eventually you stood, pulling your bag along with you as you blew him a small kiss, to which he pursed his own lips with a wink that was undeniable Eric.

With a final nod, you walked away, not looking back.

There was no need too, he always made sure you were gone before he left his own chair. The reassurance that you were safely out of this depressing place just enough to keep him going for the day.

--

It's just gone half ten in the morning when a guard had called Eric's name in his wing. His heart had jumped slightly, as it always did when someone called for him in here.

Making the trek, he reluctantly made his way to the calling guard, Mark, or was it Mike? Eric wasn't sure, nor did he care. But then he saw it: a box. Decently sized. Taped up from the bottom up with his name written on this side in familiar handwriting.

A little heart dotted the 'I' in his name, and he exhaled with a little chuckle.

He tries not to grin too hard as he signs a form handed to him, ignoring the way the guard rolls his eyes, pushing the box towards him - commenting on how there is some weight to it.

Your phone session had only been a few days prior and he hadn't been expecting the delivery so soon - but he couldn't deny the eagerness that filled his chest at what possibly hid inside.

The guard was right, the box was heavy, and he huffed as he lugged the large cardboard box back to his cell, ignoring the jests and comments from his friends in passing.

With the large steel door clunked shut behind him, Eric sits cross-legged on his cot, seeing that his gift had already been opened - no doubt by the guards checking for any contraband.

It felt like Christmas.

He was already beaming, wide and stupid. Chuffed didn't even begin to describe the feeling.

The first thing he was greeted by were books, both worn and new, and he pulls them out one by one, running his hand over the covers before stacking them beside his bed on the built in shelf.

You had even thrown in some comics, remembering he had mentioned in the past about his infatuation with old school stories.

"Oh here we are," He whistles lowly, seeing the black, sleek iPod resting on a box of opened wireless headphones. A sticky note was attached to the back in your handwriting.

"Gotta charge it in the common room, not allowed wires x."

He chuckles, thinking about how you really did go all out. He scrolled through quickly, seeing as it was already on, noticing you had already downloaded a number of playlists.

There were sweets too - loads of them. Haribo, strawberry laces, fizzy cola bottles, even those sour watermelon things he used to throw at you to get your attention when you were busy.

He tosses the numerous bags to the end of his bed. “Fuckin' hell man,” he mutters to himself, grinning. "Gonna get right fat."

At the bottom of the box, lie a bunch of photos in a ziplock bag, an envelop and a travel sized bottle of cologne. Eric reaches for the envelop first, but sees your writing again - just three words.

"Open me last."

Shrugging at the warning, he instead reaches for the ziplock bag, opening and seeing a bunch of printed photos. One of you two on the couch, you snuggling into his neck.

Another of just you, fresh faced and beaming at the camera as you wore one of his shirts, your grin infectious - Eric immediately twisting where he sat on his bed to stick it on the shelf by his head.

There were a couple more, casual pictures of you: some in his hoodie, some of the two of you from various dates, all making him smile as he remembered where they were taken.

He piles them along his shelf, sticking some on the wall when he ran out of room.

Already the space felt more his, more inviting. You would be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning and the last thing he'd see when his head hit the pillow.

Taking out the remaining gifts, Eric snorts seeing you had stayed true to your word. Teabags, socks, a beanie, even one of his hoodies he knew you loved to steal, but there was something different about it - this time it smelt of you.

He would recognise your perfume anywhere, and he closed his eyes as he lifted the fabric to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent.

Eric props the box to the ground, hoodie beside him as his eyes dart from item to item, worried he may have missed something.

His pale fingers hover over your iPod again, already picturing his head back on his pillow, headphones in, eyes shut with music he hadn't heard in years singing back to him.

He hides the iPod carefully under his pillow, followed by the headphones. His ward knew better than to fuck around with him or his stuff, but the threat of his stuff being jacked was still there regardless.

Your choice of socks were next.

Most were plain, black and white and navy, but there was one pair that stood out.

Bright red with little frogs all over, the little things smoking cigarettes.

He laughs proper, the sound bouncing off of his cell walls as he throws the socks to his clothing basket in the corner of his cell.

“Bet you pissed yourself throwin' them in," he mutters, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of you buying the pair on a whim. "Idiot."

He'd wear them to bed if anything, knowing he wouldn't be caught dead wearing them out of his four walls. His cologne was last, and he twists the cap, bringing it closer to inhale his past signature scent.

His eyes flutter shut and for a second, he feels like he was back in your shared bedroom in your flat, lights low, your head on his bare chest and his scent lingering in your sheets as you traced his many tattoos.

Finally was your letter, or what he had assumed was a letter, but as he picked up the envelope, he could feel something slightly bulky inside.

He turns the paper upside down, small squares falling out followed by another little sticky note.

"I love you."

His grin hadn't faltered, his finger running underneath your words as he sticks it to his wall beside your pictures.

At first, he thought they were just more selfies, albeit smaller, this time in polaroid form - but Eric's breath hitches in his throat as he starts checking them out one by one.

Eric’s breathing is thick. His grin disappearing and being replaced by a tensed jaw and wide eyes.

The first one could've passed as innocent enough.

You in bed, wearing the hoodie again, your legs bare and thighs on display with a familiar smirk. He already knew what was coming before he flipped to the next.

The second - the hoodie had risen, revealing more of your soft skin and lacy baby blue panties, a white bow in the centre.

His jaw clenches at the sight, seeing it was one of the many favourites that you owned. "Fuckin' hell." He mutters under his breath, exhaling slowly.

The following photo, you're perched on the edge of your bed, eyes soft, his hoodie resting beside your legs, arms pressed in front of you. The bra matched your panties, your breasts pushed up by your arms.

Eric lets out another shaky exhale, running a hand over his face as heat begins to seep into his skin.

His pulse jumps, warmth crawling up his neck as he flips to the next. It was the same angle, this time your bra was gone, your tits half on display, nipples peaking through your hand 'bra' as you were biting your lip.

Eric quickly checks his closed door, worried some nosey sod might see what was for his eyes only.

“Christ,” he says under his breath, swallowing the words as he shakes his head. “There's my girl."

He knew it was coming. Should've stopped whilst he could, but his longing and desire to see what had been hidden from him for so long got the better of him.

The rest of the Polaroids were from different angles, your hands no longer covering your breasts, exposing the skin.

You were posed in all different ways, giving him all the shots of your tits, your ass that looked even more full in your positions - desperate for his hands or his teeth.

One of them, you were on all fours, back arched with your hair flicked over your shoulder. Your clothed pussy just slightly peaking out, and Eric threw his head back against his cell wall, his free hand already reaching down to palm himself through his grey sweats.

He didn't care anymore, his cock had started getting hard from the first photo alone. His erection strained against the confines of his pants, growing by the second as his hand glided over the throbbing shaft.

His hand drifted back to his waistband, his fingers toying with the hem as he contemplated fucking his fist to your pictures.

Eric puts the photos down, his eyebrows furrowing as he realises one had stuck to another, and he pulls them apart gently.

He didn't stand a chance.

His hand already slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants to wrap around his aching cock.

The last photo was of you on your knees, looking up to the camera with your beautiful smile on display.

Your hands were on your thighs, breasts free and your nipples pebbled, but god, seeing your eyes looking up at him through your lashes was nearly enough to make him cum in his sweats alone.

His eyebrows quivered, a low groan escaping his lips as he began to stroke himself slowly beneath his pants.

"Fuck sake," he breathed, his voice strained with pleasure. "Fuckin' tease." Eric's words were choppy, his breathing growing heavier as he lost himself in the fantasy of your bare body, wishing nothing more than to be there with you in your room.

A small sigh leaves his lips, whispering your name. His words sound strangled and thick with desire, and he groans a little louder, his cock throbbing in his hand as he drank in the sight of your perfect fucking tits.

"My fuckin' girl," he growled, stroking himself even faster, dragging his hand up and down his uncut dick underneath his boxers. "Yeah…. Yeah - shit, like that, just like that.”

His blue eyes were dark and intense, filled with a drunken lust as he looked over the various photos sprawled out on his bed.

He panted, his hips rocking into his fist as his face winced in pleasure. Precum leaked from his reddened tip, drooling down the sides of his cock, helping to lubricate every stroke.

Eric licks his lips, his gaze locked onto the picture of you on all fours as he continued to work his shaft with desperate need. It was risky, usually jerking off in the showers when he was alone, but he couldn't stop, not when the sight of you set him off.

He hadn't fucked you in so long, not since he got himself arrested, and hell, usually when he fucked his fist - it was to just the thought of you.

Now, he had numerous little reminders of how you looked under your clothes, not that he had ever truly forgotten.

Your name leaves his lips again, almost in a pleading tone. He places the photo down, reaching for your his hoodie beside him, bunching it in his fist and bringing it to his nose for the second time, almost whining into the fabric as he drinks in your smell.

Eric's eyes close again, grunting in longing as his mind drifts to memories of the last time he had you beneath him. His grip tightens, imagining it was the clench of your warm, soaking pussy around him instead of his fingers.

"Fuck..." he drawls out, his voice muffled by the hoodie, his voice strained with effort in an attempt to hold back his impending release.

His thoughts were low and filthy - breathing growing heavier as he lost himself to the memory of every position he had ever put you in, of your lips wrapped around him, of your own smaller fingers as they'd glide up and down his cock and squeeze his balls.

He pumped his thick cock faster, his hips thrusting into his fist as he chased his high. Eric's eyes opened, the hoodie still wedged between his chest and chin as he smelt you all around him.

God, he couldn't pick what picture to finish too. He loved your breasts, remembering how they looked when they bounced above him, but, fuck - he loved your ass just as much, how much it bounced and jiggled when he fucked you rough and hard from behind.

Eric missed fucking your tits, sliding his cock between the soft flesh until he'd paint your neck and face with his hot cum.

Most of all, he missed sinking into your warm and welcoming body, watching the way your mouth would gasp with each inch he gave you, the way your nails would dig into his back and mark him up for weeks.

"Shit, shit," Eric panted, his body tensing as he neared his climax with each squeezing stroke. ""M'gonna fuck you so good," He whispers, picking the photo where he could see your face the best. "M'yeah, c'mon love, fuckin' show me - fuck."

His words ended in a loud groan, and Eric brings the hoodie back to his mouth, biting into the fabric as his orgasm crashes over him, thick ropes of cum shooting from his throbbing tip as his soaks his boxers and the front of his pants.

Eric's body shudders, panting, his lean frame going rigid as he rides out the waves of his release.

He had cum plenty of times since being sent to prison, but none of the times had felt as intense as this. His shaking hands continued gliding up and down, drowning his hands in his spent until he was borderline whimpering.

Eventually, he leaned his head back against his cell wall, his sweatpants now sporting a wet patch as he pulled his hand out, deciding to wipe the cum from his shaking hand onto his pant leg.

He grins sheepishly to himself, chest rising and falling as he makes sure his hand was relatively clean before bunching your polaroids up.

Eric throws his hoodie to his clothing basket with his free hand, away from any mess, and he pulls his new old iPod out from under his pillow, swapping the hiding place with your risky photos.

"Proper tease mate," he shudders again, reaching down to readjust himself in his soaked boxers. "Proper fuckin' tease."

He eyes the stain before lolling his head around with a sigh, already trying to remember if he had a clean pair of sweats in his cell, but Eric couldn't fight the grin on his face as he looks at one of the innocent pictures of you on his shelf.

A stark difference to the other sneaky photos you had snuck in. He looks down one last time to the sticky note saying 'I love you', his eyebrows furrowing as he flips the paper over, seeing more writing.

"Ash helped me take the pictures before you throw a fit x."

His laugh echoes through his cell again, not even realising the thought hadn't crossed his mind. All of your pictures were hands free, and he shook his head, picturing you asking your best friend to take such tasteful photos.

Fuckin' women.

--

London was surprisingly sunny this morning, but it's light was short lived, swapped once again for the buzzing lights of the prison.

The visitation area was quieter than last week, only a few visitors stuck in conversations with their loved ones.

The room was cold despite the welcoming change in weather, a reminder of the giant concrete box your boyfriend lived in.

Eric was already in his booth, elbows on the metal counter, receiver already in one hand. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the hoodie you had sent him was folded in front of him, having clearly been worn before he started to sweat beneath his clothes.

Your heart was beating a little harder than you'd like to admit. You had seen him just a week ago, but time dragged on here - and now you knew he had received your gifts.

The box changed everything.

The sweets were lasting, much to his surprise. The hoodie with your perfume still on it was never too far away from him - even going as far as to sleep with it tucked under his head.

The books - he had already started reading one, having let a friend borrow another.

The photos though.

The photos wrecked him.

Eric had spent nearly everyday since receiving the photos just fucking his fist to the sight of them. Every night he had spent lying in his bed, the sheet over his lap with his jaw clenched, spent and breathless.

He sits up straighter as he sees you being guided in, bag slung over your shoulder as you walk with your head held high. The hand not holding the receiver was tapping at the counter, waiting for you to sit.

You beam at him, and he mouths, "Baby," as you get comfortable, quickly lifting your phone to your ear.

"Hi Love," You grin, watching as Eric's eyes narrow playfully. "You like the socks?"

"Socks?" He repeats with a huff, his voice low, warm and intimate. "Oh baby," His eyes trail over you like a memory being refreshed. He leans forward, eyes narrowing even more, his voice lowering. "You're a right tease y'know that? Real cruel."

The phone felt cold in your hand, but you'd be lying if there wasn't warmth in your cheeks at his words. Eric watches you like a man starved, like he was hungry for something only you could give.

You take a breath and smile softly, shrugging at him. "I take it you liked your presents?"

Eric scoffs at you, but there was no malice behind it.

"Liked?" he repeats again, turning his neck to look on both sides, thankful there weren't any other inmates sitting beside him. "You 'ave any idea how many times I've wanked? I'm runnin' out of clean boxers babe."

Your skin turned hotter at his revelation, and you looked around you too, afraid someone had overhead his crude words. A guard just stands by the door, his eyes barely open as he leans against the wall.

"Sorry," you whisper, but the grin that grew on your lips was a clear indicator that you were anything but apologetic. "Thought you'd need a pick me up."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head at you with a deep smile, crooked, wicked but loving, his eyes crinkling at the action.

"Fuckin' love you, you've got no idea," He pauses, looking at you again for a long second - longer than normal, memorising you again. "Thank you love."

You shrug again, just delighted that he enjoyed your presents, but he tuts at you, tapping at the glass to scold at you.

"Nah nah don't do that, I mean it - thank you for all of it, not just the gifts," he says firmly, hoping you feel him pouring his heart out. "For still showing up for me yeah? For bein' mine."

He groans softly, running a hand down his face before he rests his head in his chin, staring at you adoringly.

"I love you too ya softy," your voice was gentle, reaching up to press your hand up to the glass. "Everything okay at your end? Ruined clothes aside ‘course."

He nods quickly, lips quirking at your quip, his own hand coming up to rest against yours, ignoring the glass between.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, almost cartoonishly loud, but you tuned it out, starring at your other half like the world was fading away around you.

"I'm doin' good, real good," he says, happy to admit that he had been on good behaviour still. "Gettin' a gut though, think you packed a whole shop in that box," He looks down to his covered stomach for added affect, and you laughed, knowing that beneath his uniform - he was still the same.

“But nah - I'm good love, already half way through that book on mythology you threw in, good shit that."

You laugh even more, and he perks up at his favourite sound.

The two of you pass conversation for a little more, Eric informing you of what's happening at his end of the glass, and you telling him about how work was going, how you had asked your best friends to help you with taking those pictures after a night of wine and movies.

It was mundane, it was boring to most, but to you - it was your favourite thing in the world.

Wanting to have saved the good news for last, you change hands, swapping the phone over. "I've got something to tell you," you say softly after a quiet beat, tucking in your chin as the phone feels fragile in your hand. "Something good."

Eric perks up even more, his curiosity spiked and lips parting just a little as he utters a little 'yeah?' - urging you to continue.

"I spoke to someone on the board yesterday and well, uh- they've noticed your good behaviour these last few months, said you've been staying clean 'n all," You pause, making sure he was listening intently. He nods, eyebrows twitching unknowingly at your comments.

Eric had a bad history of fighting and having intense brawls with other prisoners and guards in his last ward, having spent a lot of time in solitary at his worst.

"And well, if you stay clean and have no write-ups for another two weeks," He still hadn't caught on, and so you say it with a gentle clarity. "I can apply for conjugal visits."

You watch as the weight of your news hits him. For a second, Eric just stares, blinking - stunned, shock running through him.

Was it his birthday and he didn't know?

Was it fucking Christmas?

Christ, was he dead?

He exhales eventually, like he had been punched in the stomach. He speaks, his voice barely a whisper as it comes out muffled through the phone. "You serious?"

"Mm hm," You nod, smiling as he exhales again. "Serious, you just gotta keep behaving yeah? They said they'll send you a consent form in a fortnight, I've already filled out mine."

"Fuckin' hell," he feels breathless now, his freehand in his hair as a cheshire like smile spreads across his face. "So that means we'll see each other innit, no glass, no phone, none of that shit."

"No phone, no glass," You bite your lip, giving him a knowing look. It was soft, a hint of wickedness. "Just us Eric, isn't that great? You just have to keep your head down, be a good boy."

He swallows hard, and any other time he would've rolled his eyes at the 'good boy' schtick, but he didn't bother.

He wanted to be good, he wanted to be good for you and you only. The better he acted, the closer he got to a reduced sentence, the closer he got to you.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly. "I'll be good, so fuckin' good love."

You believed him wholeheartedly. He was trying so hard to better himself, having put his self destructive tendencies behind him.

It was easier now, not being in that prison, away from his noxious family.

You both fell into a comforting silence once more, not heavy, not suffocating, but warm and inviting.

The buzzer had gone off, alerting you like clockwork that you had five minutes left, and you sighed, already counting down the days in your head until you could see him again.

"We're gonna see each other again," his smile was infectious, boyish and bright. "M'gonna hold you again, like proper hold you, none of this glass bullshit."

"I can't believe it either," his excitement was palpable at your words, looking proper chuffed as Eric begins to bounce his legs, ignoring the looks from those nearby. "I can’t believe how long it’s been too, way too long."

The final call buzzes, sharp and loud, causing you both to flinch out of your little bubble of bliss. He doesn't speak right away, his eyes just holding yours, still in disbelief that in just a few weeks, he'll have you in his arms again.

The receiver is still glued to his ear, but his words are caught behind his teeth, afraid he'll stutter and say something inappropriate.

Sensing his hesitation, you smile reassuringly. "I've already started packing your next gift box, any requests?"

He chuckles, knowing you weren't lying. "Pack of boxers, get Ash to take some more pics and," he draws it out as he pretends to list off of his free hand. "Some johnny's, might save my pants."

You snorted at his request, knowing his request for condoms was far from a joke. Regardless, you nod along. "Can do, what size again? Small?"

He laughs again, tutting at you with a throw of his middle finger. "My poor lady, already forgotten my dick yeah? Shame that, send that polaroid camera in too then, I'll remind ya."

A guard clears his throat from behind you, and a light by the phones flash. You both quickly throw in another 'I love you', just in time for the receivers both to shut off, much to your disappointment.

You mouth a 'Be good Love.'

Just like you always did, and he gives you a mock salute, pursing his lips in a stupid way of blowing a kiss.

You return the gesture, standing and throwing your bag over your shoulder as you blow him another kiss.

Like always, he watches you leave, throwing you a wave as you turn around, giving him a meek one as the guard ushers you out roughly, much to his dismay.

Two weeks was so close and somehow so far, and Eric didn't know how he was gonna wait.

Patience was never his virtue, but for you, he would try.

He would try anything and everything.

Until then, he would let your pictures keep him going, knowing that very soon he'd be seeing and feeling the real thing once more.

He'd be feeling you again.

And he was gonna make sure you'd remember the feel of him forever.

[dariarot]

Good Behavior: Meeting

aged up!eric love x f!reader

! Warnings & Mentions ! 21 y/o Eric, 20 y/o reader, refers to reader with she/her pronouns, mentions of violence, open to eventual smut so MDNI!!!

chaptered.

Background: Eric Love, with a newfound sense of community, has turned things around. At 21, he’s more interested in the possibilities beyond the walls of his (un)comfy cell. After some reforms were made around the prison, the man is now out on parole as, essentially, a Guinea pig for an offending behavior program. New guards. New programs, especially after the previous members of Oliver’s therapy sessions backed his practices to the major. He’d maintained healthy habits– outside of the occasional cigarette– and checked his anger on most occasions.  Now, after about three years of strategic practice, Eric was granted parole for his long list of violent offenses. He’s hitting the town with an ankle tag, and a space saved for him at the local participating uni. With this freedom comes eyes that can wander, and he’s taken an interest in a particularly attractive reader. The quiet, doe-eyed type– tucked away in the corner of the uni library.

a/n: i am an expert in nothing ever, please correct me where you see fit. if this is any good plot-wise, i'd love feedback, thank you. i've never posted to tumblr before, either, especially not for this medium. if there are any formatting tips you can offer, that would be greatly appreciated too.

                                 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It’s been 5 or so weeks in the prison’s newly adopted educational extension, and Eric has been able to explore places that he couldn’t believe he might have never seen. Currently, he’s resting on the curb after strolling through the campus. The man recalled memories of his parole officer after his hearing. 

“You’re really lucky that your mates advocated for you, lad. Coulda been any one of them older guys askin’ to be out on parole– gettin’ a degree an’ all, but they pushed for you. This is real important for that uni’s prison research thing too. Just don’t be goin’ round fuckin’ with nobody, an’ I won’t ‘ave to bring you back ‘ere. Dunno what anyone else’s tellin’ you, but if you ask me, you’ll never see an opportunity like this again.”

Looking down at his ankle tag, Eric sat there a few. Trying to regulate his breathing after a fairly tense interaction with a man around his age. They’d accidentally bumped into one another, crossing paths, to which the man had reacted negatively. Throwing out a Watch it, then. Eric even said sorry (after a second or two of him imagining the consequences of throwing endless body shots ending in Eric’s knee cracking his skull, of course). Sit with it… He thought to himself, huffing a few breaths, and standing up. Tugging at the jeans that hung over his curfew monitor. 

In all actuality, managing his anger outside of Oliver’s group therapy, his cell, and the self-management program with no guard breathing down his neck was proving to be far more difficult than he’d bargained for. Even on his first outing with the parole officer at his side, making sure the public was safe from him, he’d found calm in knowing how immediate the reprimand would be if he acted out. A sense of calm these past weeks now came from shame. You’re 21, get it together… A lot is depending on you controlling your anger, muppet. He would think to himself.

After bullying himself into a steady breath, Eric was taking to the on-campus library for a book he forgot to get at the beginning of his year. Starting his term was easy for him since the courses in the offending behavior program mimicked those of a university, just with a smaller number of students at a time. 

Eric arrived at the big wooden doors of the library, giving an honest tug just to pull one open. God forbid anyone try to get in, the man thought.

After a few minutes of asking the support desk for help, he left for the stacks, fumbling with the details of his recent encounter. What’d she say? Phone number? No– call number?

He looked around, eyebrows furrowed as deeply as convergent plates. His eyes moved until they landed on the shy frame of someone further away. You’d been leafing through the titles for fun. Trying to get into non-fiction, you told your friend on the phone earlier in the day. After the poor morning experience, Eric was hesitant to try his hand at another interaction if it wasn’t all that necessary. But from the way he’s looking at the spines of these books like they were endless scrolls of ancient text, he couldn’t help but shuffle towards you like a kicked puppy– or a petulant child. 

Deep breath. “‘Scuse me, ma’am,” he began as soon as he was in earshot. You looked in his direction until you found his unnerved expression, gazing at the clear youth in your face. He regretted using ma’am. It was something he called the women guards and the major. It was clear he was uncomfortable, but attempting to mask it. “I seem to be lost, I’m tryin’ to look for this book here, but I dunno where I’m at to be honest…” The details from the conversation were coming back. A call number. The number beginning with a letter… HQ… 

“Okay,” you responded. Eric couldn’t help but notice how different and soft you sounded compared to the semi-loud plea for help he just spat out. “do you have the call number thingy?” you asked. He mumbled out a less-than-confident Yeh…  and handed you a piece of paper with murky writing. In the corner was a clearly written call number 

HQ1206 .V27

His head was tilted to one side with a hand loosely cupping his mouth, and another in his pocket. “I’m not in the HQ section at all, am I?” he asked, red growing on his ears. You smiled and giggled slightly. 

“No, unfortunately, we’re in the L section…” You picked up your bag from the floor, adjusting the hem of your top. “But that’s okay, the HQ section isn’t far…” Motioning for him to follow, you both made your way out of the stacks in education. Running a hand across the sign on the bookshelf, you started to explain. “Each row is labeled at the front. The section we were in was everything from LC80 to LC96…” 

He was sure the information you were giving him was important, and he tried to hang onto your words, but he’s never been around someone who smelt or sounded so nice. In a way that he felt was odd, he started hoping that he’d see you again soon. Your tone was kind, your steps were sharp and cautious of his, and your mannerisms were gentle and pointed. You trailed a familiar fragrance as he followed behind you. Almost reminiscent of rain on a warm day or eating pastries by a frozen lake. Eric watched your frame as it barely bounced with each step; it was like you calculated every movement. Similarly to cats when they determine how much or how far they need to jump. It was calming to watch you, Eric felt that everyone else was either moving too fast so they could get away from him or too slow in an attempt to get in his way. With you, it felt like you were moving exactly in tandem with him. 

“It’s pretty easy to get lost on these floors… the labels could be more obvious, especially when you’re only working off a call number.” you paused in front of a shelf labeled HQ1198 → HQ1233 “The library website could be a big help to you– do you have a phone or anything like that?” You were expecting an obvious yes, but weren’t at all met with that. 

Eric shook his head and looked down, “Nah, nah… I ain’t got one like those, I was given a Nokia.” You nodded without shifting your face, and he cut in before you could respond. “I got a laptop on loan from the uni, though.”

You smiled. “Okay! If there’s a next time, you can always look the book up on the library website. It usually tells you what floor and shelf it'd be at.” Just happy to help… he thought. He returned a smile to you without thinking or knowing why. “If you want, I can show you,” you said with a cautious look on your face. Little did you know, Eric was going to say anything at this point if it kept you with him for longer.  

“I’d love that, I actually got a couple o’ titles I couldn’t find last week.”

                                 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

After hanging around to help him out, you’d come to learn his name is Eric Love and he’s a psychology major. He’d caught your name, your major, and that you were extremely helpful. At this point, you’re going back to the first floor with him so he can check out his books. “I think your Nokia’s quite in, actually…” You cut the silence as you two descended the stairs, leaves flying past the window. He turned his head to you, walking side by side. 

“Like it’s trendy or somethin’?” You nodded. “Right, then… I appreciate that much,” he chuckled. 

Eric was thankful that you hadn’t been nosy about his situation. He realized the wording he used was fairly vague. That it sounded exactly as the situation was. That he’d been released from an institution and was now reconnecting with the rest of the world. Everything was just so difficult for him– it was like time stopped, he’d been without technology, knew nothing of recent developments in science or politics, and half of his old neighborhood before juvenile detention was flipped and gentrified to look totally different. In place of his old home was a dog park. It was the first place he’d asked his parole officer to take him. 

It was certain that you didn’t know what he’d gone through or the thoughts that ran through his head at the sight of normal, everyday routine– like someone running while listening to music on campus, or someone writing at free will– the horrors of a potential dunking weren’t on his mind anymore. Fear definitely wasn’t with him now. 

You’d arrived at the circulation desk, and Eric had checked out his books. One he needed very much, and two he didn’t need at all. When he turned to see you waiting for him, he couldn’t help the delight plastered on his face. A smile spread to reveal his teeth in better lighting. Earlier, when you helped him use the library website, you were close enough to see them then, too. You knew it was odd, but you wanted to run a finger across the unique alignment. They were perfectly symmetrical– the central incisors stuck like beaver teeth, each lateral incisor sitting higher, pointing inward, and the canines leaning out like they were eager to sink themselves into something. He had the potential to be a vampire. 

“Haven’t you waited on me too long?” he asked, chuckling. You only shrugged in response, returning the laughter.

“Oh, please– hey! I was thinking we could exchange socials– or– emails, since I assume you’re not on any socials.” It was getting awkward for you. Truth be told, you were developing a crush on this man. This man you’ve just met. And now, you didn’t know what to do about it. You were attempting to keep in touch as casually as this day and age outlined, but you didn’t understand the standards of the average dating scene anyway. You both pushed your way through the library doors, leaving it felt like a new chance. A second wind. “Or maybe we could exchange numbers?”

You noticed that the joy from before had faltered tremendously; he was now lost in thought. Why you so anxious now? He thought to himself. ‘S not like you’ve ever cared so much about being an inmate. You basically been one all your life… He was nervous about ruining the imagination by revealing the first and most basic piece of information that everyone he was close with knew about him. That he was in prison just 6 weeks ago. He was nervous to say that he’s only able to be here because he’s on parole. Because of good behavior and a therapy group. Despite the nerves, the weight of a pretty girl’s opinion about him was something he felt privileged to feel again. 

“I’d love to… yeh… Uhm, y’know when I’d told you they gave me a Nokia?” He was kicking himself for being so awkward. It was eating at him. The anxiety of being open about his imprisonment felt like fire on his skin. 

You nodded. “Yeah! I was hoping you would… elaborate– I know it’s none of my business though! So, you really don’t have to if you’re not comfortable… it seems you’re not…” You whispered that last bit. Nervous that he’d take you up on your nicety. 

Eric shook his head like he was shoving water out of his ears. “Nah– I’m not prude about it, I just think honesty’s good, you know? Uh…” He clapped his fist into his palm in thought. “Well, I’m actually on parole… got me ankle tag n’ all, yeh…” He lifted his one pant leg slightly to show you briefly. “Just a curfew one though… I’m not banned from nowhere. Roller rink from when I was thirteen shut down now.” He joked, chuckling nervously, not even actually cracking a smile. Only pushing the noise out of his mouth. 

“I heard of that, then, I’m pretty sure! You’re a part of the OBP Scholars Extension?” you chimed, attempting to assure him that he was just like any other student. 

The man nodded, heightened brows pushing against his forehead. “Yeh! That’s the one. Were there like warnings or somethin’?” He leaned in to you, jesting as if you were to tell him something top secret. 

You laughed out and put your hands up in an equally joking stance of defense. “Nope, no warnings. I just like keeping up with the available programs. Why? Do I need one?”

He chuckled, amused at the euphoria of the situation. “Your lot would have me pinned, surely. Only me here, anyway. Parole officer called me their Guinea pig, so you can bet I’m out on good behavior.” Eric smiled, feeling hopeful.

[dariarot]

"you twins?"

"nah, we cousins"

[dariarot]

We're all sinners here

[dariarot]

SINNERSSS 🧛‍♂️🥀🦇🧄🇮🇪

This is available as a print on my etsy! 🫶

[dariarot]

I know the truth hurts

[dariarot]

preacher boy

(EDIT: now on inprnt!)

[dariarot]

"This film was an incredible opportunity for me. And more than anything, I thought it was an opportunity for me to write a love letter to cinema, to all the things I love about going to the movies. [...] In many ways it's most important movie I've made, straight from me to all of you." - Ryan Coogler

SINNERS (2025) BEHIND THE SCENES (1/2) Dir. Ryan Coogler

[dariarot]

The wonder of this laugh so genuine and childlike..

[dariarot]

[dariarot]

working at the pyramid

lion kaminski x reader (18+ mdni)

author's note: anora was like one of my absolute favorite films from last year and i just wanted to write something for lion so badly. this is a lot more sweet and sappy than my other writing so grma enjoy warnings: lion is such a sad fella but we love, grinding, handjob, fingering, humping, body worship

Stanley Kaminski is a fairly new regular at the nightclub you work at. You’ve spent a few nights in his lap while he spends money he doesn’t have buying drinks and tucking bills in your bra. 

One night, he told you about his brother, what a good fighter he is. How hard he was training for this big fight. You thought he wouldn’t like it when you recommended your services as a celebration gift for Lion. You even suggested another one of the dancers but Stan, whacked out of his mind, loved the idea and booked you that night. 

So now you wait at the bar for your client. 

A man that could be related to Stan steps into the back room. He’s cute, but rough around the edges. Scruffy and nervous, with big boxer hands. His cheek is bruised and he has bandages around his knuckles.

This is your guy.

You push away from the bar to walk over.

“Hi, handsome,” you coo. 

“I-I’m sorry, I… my brother shoved me back here. I-I’m-”

“You’re Lion.”

He nods, dumbfounded. You give him your name with a giggle, a hand on his shoulder.

“Has Stan told you what’s going on?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want a drink or anything?”

“I don’t have any money,” he admits quietly. 

“Stan paid already. First drink’s on him, and maybe the second one’ll be on me.”

He grins and you order him a beer at the bar, then take his hand and lead him to a private room.

He sits on the plush sofa, which feels nice on his sore muscles.

You perch next to him, tucking your knees to the side. You smooth down your skirt, fluttering your lashes at him.

He feels his heart skip a beat as he watches you. 

“So… Stan told me you had a big fight tonight?” 

“I won.” 

You clap.

“Oh, yay! Well, that makes my job a lot easier.”

“What… what is your job?”

“Bottle service, private dances,” you tell him. “I do burlesque at another place.” 

You tilt your head and shrug, smirking at him. He nods, swallowing hard. 

“I’m uh… I’m sorry, but I’m not really in the mood for much. I got my ass kicked tonight,” he sighs, slumping back. 

His ribs are sore too. 

“I thought you won?”

“Barely.” 

“That’s okay,” you tell him, rubbing his back. “We can just talk if you want.”

He sniffs.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

So you do. You talk and he tells you about his fights and his idiot brother and all the other things that he can complain about.

You’re used to this. Something about hot women makes men want to cry about their problems. 

But it doesn’t feel like he’s unloading on you, like you’re his mommy or his therapist. You feel like old friends sharing feelings, even if he’s the one talking. 

He’s so caught up in grumbling that he doesn’t notice you’re so close to him until your knee brushes against the side of his thigh. 

“And I told him- uh… I told him…”

He can feel your body heat. You card a hand through his hair and he fights the instinct to push into your touch.

“You told him what?”

“I forget,” he mumbles, gazing at you.

You are gorgeous. The glitter on your eyelids catches the lights and you sparkle, looking up at him through your lashes. He’s a little out of it, dazed from the hit to the cheekbone he took. 

“You’re… you don’t seem like Stan’s type,” he says carefully. “Not like… you’re not pretty. You’re beautiful.” 

You giggle at that and see him blush, an awkward little smile on his face.

“That’s sweet. Um… I think we both know he’s… kind of stupid?”

“He’s fuckin’ dumb, that’s for sure,” he mutters. 

“I don’t know. I’m just sort of a dummy magnet.”

He catches your eye and looks at his hands.

“And… and have you ever… I mean…”

He gestures vaguely and you catch his meaning, trying not to feel offended. You know the assumption that rattles around in every client’s head. Some of the other girls do extracurricular activities outside of the club, but that’s just not for you. 

“I don’t do that, Lion.” 

“No, no… I meant, um… not here,” he scrambles verbally, trying to explain his mistake. “Like at- your place or- fuck, I’m sorry.” 

You laugh. 

“He’s bought a private dance before. And… he bought one for you.”  

He perks up. 

“Really? With you?”

The boyish grin on his scruffy face is charming and you crack a genuine smile. 

“I thought you weren’t in the mood?” you tease, putting a hand on his knee.

He shifts in place.

“I think I’m gettin’ there.” 

“Well, whenever you want it,” you tell him, sitting up on your knees. 

You say that, but he never asks for it. You keep talking, and he only asks for one more beer. The whole time you share the room you’re waiting patiently for him to ask. 

“I mean, with a mug like mine-” 

“Are you trying to say you’re not handsome?” 

“I take a lotta hits-”

“You’re literally the best-looking guy in this club.”

“Damn, are they really that bad out there?” he jokes.  

You both chuckle softly. You decide to bring it up.

“Are you… thinking you want that dance?”

“Oh, shit. I forgot.”

He thinks for a second.

“I dunno, I… I feel like we’re havin’ a good conversation. I don’t really wanna make it all weird by gettin'… turned on, y’know?”

“Okay. I’m gonna have to go home soon, so… if you did, now’s the time.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs.

“I’ll pass. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

You both talk for a little while longer until you sit up and smile at him.

“Our time is up, handsome.”

“Right.” 

You walk him to the bar and squeeze his shoulder.

“Thanks for a really nice time, Lion,” you tell him.

“Anytime,” he says with a shy smile.

You step out into the cold air, your face is bare and your hoodie is not warm enough. You could really use a cigarette.

You start down the way to the metro and see Lion waiting outside the bar. You walk over to him, taking off your headphones.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet him.

He looks at you and it takes him a moment to recognise you.

“Hey.”

“Are you waiting for an Uber or something?”

“No. Uh… Stan said he’d be here at two.” 

You look at your phone.

2:21 AM. 

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes?” you ask him. “You don’t even have a jacket, aren’t you freezing?”

“I’m fine-”

“Nope, c’mon,” you say, taking his hand.

He hisses when you touch his bruised knuckles and you suck your teeth.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Where are we goin'?”

“My place.”

“Your place?”

“Where are you two sleeping tonight?”

He avoids your eyes.

“We got a place,” he says, an obvious lie. 

“Maybe Stan does.”

You let go of his hand but he follows you to the metro stop anyway. You stand there together and you see him shivering, arms crossed at his chest.

“I’m gonna make you a cup of tea. Maybe something to eat?”

He nods.

“That sounds good.” 

You ride the metro together, he watches you absently scroll on your phone. He sees something on your Twitter feed and turns his head quickly, blushing.

You snicker.

“That’s what you get for watching my screen, dude.”

“Sorry…”

Just before your stop you pop up from your seat, tugging him from the wrist this time. 

You emerge from the station and briskly walk to your apartment.

“Whoa, slow down,” Lion calls.

You’re used to walking alone, just trying to speed past any potential dangers. But Lion can fight, so you take your time. 

You make your way to your place, putting in your passcode and ascending the neverending steps to the fifth floor. On the third, he makes a grumpy complaint about the stairs. 

“I bet sleeping on my couch is gonna be Heaven after this,” you tell him. 

It makes him laugh a little. 

You finally arrive at your door and unlock it. He steps in after you and you lock and bolt it.

You pull off your hoodie and he sees you in a cropped and ripped up t-shirt.

You immediately head to the kitchen, looking through your fridge for what to make.

He stands in the middle of your place like he’s not supposed to be there. Like he ended up there by accident.

“Come over here,” you laugh, waving him over. You turn on the stove and point at him.

“Who’s excited for chicken and potatoes?” 

His stomach growls and he nods.

“Great.”

You heat up the container of food you had prepared previously in the week and serve two portions. They are small split in two, but it was only made for you originally. He probably eats like a bear.  

You hand him a bowl as you sit together on the little sofa in your apartment. You watch Lion holding the bowl close and eating far too fast.

“Whoa, slow down. You’re gonna give yourself a stomachache.”

“Sorry,” he answers with his mouth full.

You finally get a good look at him. He looks small and sad like a kicked puppy. He’s hunched over with that bowl in his lap, bandaged hands struggling to hold the fork you gave him. 

“Do you wanna ice your hands?”

“Hm?”

He glances at you and clears his throat.

“Yeah, actually. I think that’d be good.”

“Okay.”

You finish your food and stand up, picking up your hoodie and grabbing your keys.

“Where’re you goin'?”

“To the bodega, to get ice.”

“You don’t hafta do that for me,” he tells you, getting up. “At least let me come with you… it’s the middle of the night.”

“Sure.”

You give him the hoodie you were wearing, which is almost tight on his arms. You fish for your thicker coat and you walk together to the bodega, Lion insists on you walking on the inside of the street. You buy three bags of ice, since you have his arms to carry two of them.

Two go in your freezer and one goes in two bowls with some water that he can stick his hands in. He sits at the sofa again, the bowls on the small table in front of it.

He groans, feeling that shocking cold down to the bone. You shift a little at the noises he makes, watching him intently.

When he takes a shaking breath and whispers.

“Fu-ck…” 

You sit up on your knees. 

“So… you can set up here.”

“Right.”

“Do you want to… watch a movie or anything?” 

“You got movies?”

“DVDs.”

He laughs softly. He tries to flex his fingers and his breath hitches. You glance back at him.

“What?”

“You’re making a lot of noise over there.”

“Sorry, it… it just hurts.” 

“I bet it does.”

He swallows hard. You spend about five minutes flipping through a DVD case until he finds one he likes. Some old 80s comedy movie that likely hasn’t aged well. 

You put it in the player and watch as your old TV crackles to life.

“I feel like I’m a kid,” he says absently.

“That’s why I bought such an old TV.”

You sit next to him, closer this time, and hand him a towel to dry his hands. You look at them and cradle one in your hand, just ghosting your fingers over his bruised knuckles. They’re swollen and scarred.

“Shit, do you ever take care of these?”

“Stan takes care of me.” 

“Have you ever… gotten an x-ray?”

“I can’t afford that.”

“I’ll take you to urgent care tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to-”

“But I’m going to.”

He blinks at you, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“This isn’t… this isn’t like, a game or somethin', right?” he asks you quietly, looking down at his hands. “This… Stan didn’t tell you to be nice to me… you’re doin' it because you are? Because I… I just can’t-”

You hold his face in your hands.

“Look at me, Lion.” 

You see his eyes are teary and they blink like he’s trying to fight it.

“Lion,” you coo softly. 

He meets your eyes, one tear rolling down his face.

“Fuck Stan. Okay? He paid for a dance and a drink and that’s it. He spent some money on me and I’m sure it was money that should have gone to you. So… this is just how things should be. You’re here cause I wanted you here. And in the morning, I’m dragging your ass to urgent care because I want to.”

“Because I’m somethin' to fix?” he shoots at you, his voice a little darker.

“Baby boy, all the glue in the world wouldn’t fix you,” you tell him honestly, stroking the side of his face. 

You see his jaw clench. 

“You are so sweet. You’re just fucked up. Like, mentally. And physically. Probably… spiritually, too.”

He cracks a smile as you both laugh at that.

“Will you let me bandage your hands and sit in your lap while we watch this dumbass movie?” 

“It’s not dumb,” he counters.

You wrap his knuckles, not too tight, but not too loose, and kiss his fingers when you do. You move over to settle in the corner of the sofa with your legs over his lap. 

After twenty minutes he tugs you closer, and you smirk at him.

“Not close enough?”

He shakes his head. You sit sideways in his lap, arms around his neck. You card a hand through his hair which almost makes him cry, but he catches it. He rests his hand on your thigh and you hear his breathing quicken.

After ten more minutes of you kissing his cheek and his temple, scratching his head as you pet his hair, he makes a new noise.

“Oh, that was different,” you tease. 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers against your shoulder, so quiet you can hardly understand. 

“What?”

“Can… can I kiss you?” he asks you quietly. 

“Ask me again,” you say, turning in his lap to straddle his thighs. 

You see the tent in his sweatpants. He can’t look you in the eye.

“Please, I-” he whimpers. “Kiss me, please?” 

“You ask so nice. Good boy.”  

Lion moans at that name. The sound explodes from his throat, like he couldn’t control it.

You smirk at him and kiss him softly, holding his face and rubbing your thumbs on his cheekbones.

“Pretty boy,” you murmur against his lips. 

He winces, feeling his sore ribs and embarrassment. He covers his face with his hands and you gently move them away.

“Don’t hide,” you tell him. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

He nods and you bring his hands to your waist to hold you as you roll down on his clothed cock.  

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his jaw tightening.

“Is that good?”

“I have a- ngh- it’s not broken, it’s bruised,” he tells you, pointing to his rib.

“Can I take your shirt off? I could see the bruises easier.”

He nods and tenses up when your fingers slip under his waistband. You slowly push the shirt up his chest, hands exploring the firm planes of his muscles. He gives you a wince or a soft fuck when you skim over a bruise or a tender spot. He raises his arms so you can push the shirt off and you admire him for a moment. He’s not a particularly large man– you’ve seen bigger– but he’s still strong. Toned and lean, but pale. But he’s a Masshole townie like his brother, so you’re not surprised. He has a big tattoo of a cross on the side of his body, which you trace with your nails. 

He squirms away from your touch, a strange little laugh escaping him. 

“Does that tickle?”

“Yeah, a little,” he admits.

You trace his face again. You have no idea how he’s related to Stan. He’s so sweet, there’s so much kindness in his face and sadness in his eyes. The only thing you could read off Stan was that he was a moron with a little more money than usual. 

“Can I take you out?” you murmur against his cheek, palming him over his sweats.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbles, his voice trembling.

You undo the ties on the waistband and tug it down, slipping your hand into his boxer-briefs. He exhales when he feels you grip him at the base, and his hips jerk up. 

“Fu-ck,” he whines. “Shit, b-be gentle, please…”

“I will, baby, just relax,” you tell him softly, rubbing your hand on his bare chest.

You stroke upward slowly and his head lolls around to rest on the back of the sofa.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck, y-you’re so good-”

He’s cut off by his own gasp when you take your hand away to lick your palm, slicking it with your spit to make it a little easier. You start to stroke him at a steady pace, making him pant in time. His hips cant upwards, and he grunts and groans as your other hand cradles his balls.

“L-lemme touch you, please, f-fuck,” he begs, his eyes meeting yours.

You nod and his bandaged hands slip under the hem of your shirt, pushing upwards to show that you’re not wearing a bra. He groans and one of his hands attempts to feel your breast, but all you get is a little bit of rough bandage rubbing against your nipple. You wince and he pulls back.

“Did that hurt?”

“Just wasn’t expecting it, keep going,” you encourage him.

He squeezes both your breasts– the best he can with the limited mobility of his fingers– and you push into his touch. 

Since he can’t spread his fingers he resorts to cupping your tits, brushing his thumbs over your nipples. 

You see him staring and– almost reading his mind– straighten your back and lean forward to offer one to him.

He kisses your soft skin, mouthing at your nipple before he licks it with the flat of his tongue. You keen at the feeling and grip his cock tighter.

“Fuck, fuck, st-stop, I’m gonna cum,” he begs you.

“You want me to stop?”

“Please, I- fuck-”

You pull your hand away and he pants, his hot breath puffing on your breast.

“You’ve been takin’ care of me all night… can I… please?”

“Of course you can, baby boy.”

You lay back on the sofa and hook your fingers in your shorts and panties, tossing them behind you. You let your legs fall open and he groans at the sight.

You see him undoing his bandages and you sit up.

“Lion-”

“I’ll put them back on,” he assures you, placing them on the table. “I promise.”

He kicks off his sweats as he crawls over to you, kneeling between your legs.

“You’re so wet already,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I liked all those noises you made when you were icing your hands.”

He gives you a funny little smile and his scarred knuckles brush from your knee up to your inner thigh, finding stray glitter from the club. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs. 

Two of his thick fingers slide through your slit, making you sigh contentedly. You’ve been wanting his paws on you since you first saw him at the club. He’s not the first fighter you’ve slept with, and you know they’re not very dexterous. 

But Lion is slipping a finger inside of you already, and pumping it in and out, slow and steady.

“Ngh, fuck,” you breathe.

“Is that good?” he asks you quietly.

“Yeah, baby, so good,” you tell him, squeezing his bicep as you do. 

He adds another finger and a choked sound leaves your throat.

“Is that-”

“Fuck, they’re so big, Lion…” 

He leans over you, his other big paw planted next to your head.

It’s soft and intimate, how he looks at you while he fucks his fingers into you, pressing his cock against the back of his hand and grinding himself against it, pushing his fingers into you too. 

He watches you as your jaw hangs open and your whole body rocks with his movements. 

“Good boy, Lion” you praise him, kissing him.

He moans against your skin, putting his lips to your jaw and neck and collarbone as he trails down to suck on your nipple again.

“S-say it again,” he begs you quietly, curling his fingers upward. 

“Fuck, y-you’re so good, baby boy, so fucking good,” you say immediately.

He shivers and his other hand slides down to play with your clit. 

This is where boxers usually flounder. And at first, Lion is no different. Stiff and rough fingers are too much for your sensitive clit, buzzing with arousal. 

He tries to touch you a few times, met with winces and whines and even you moving away your hips. 

“Shit,” he huffs.

“Can I show you?”

He nods. You take his hand and show him how to rub tight, light circles on your bud.

“Like this?”

“Just like that!” you gasp, bucking up to his touch. 

You curl a hand in his hair and tug him down to kiss him, holding his face with both hands.

Lion shudders over you, thrusting his hips against his own hand. 

He’s so eager, chomping at the bit to please you. He doesn’t even care about getting off, he’s content to hump the back of his own hand as he strokes that soft part inside of you that makes your vision spotty.

“Please… please, I-I wanna feel you on my hand,” he begs softly.

He’s begging you to cum. You could die. 

“Don’t stop, like that- right there! Yes, yes, Lion- fuck!” 

You gasp, your body tightening up as you throw your head back. Your chin clips his nose and he groans before his own release catches him off guard, and he whimpers as he spills into his boxer-briefs. Your body jolts and your walls are tight on his fingers. 

“F-fuck, o-oh my God,” he stammers, shaking above you. 

You finally relax and sigh. Lion sits on his knees, feeling exhausted and sticky. 

You squeeze his arm, smiling up at him.

He slumps over you, squishing you a little with his body weight. He wraps his arms around you and holds you close.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin. “That was really nice…”

You lay there for a moment. Holding each other, stroking his hair while he rests on your chest. 

“You keep doing that and I might just let you stay forever.”

He makes a noise in agreement and you see that he’s almost fallen asleep on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. 

“A shower sounds really good,” you murmur, brushing the hair from his face.

“Five more minutes?” he says softly.

“Sure, Lion. Five more minutes.”

[dariarot]

you can be my daddy---

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