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[whatthefishh]

until we bleed

Rydal Keener x F!Reader ; part of the Oxford Comma series

Words: 6.4k

Warnings: swearing, an unnecessary amount of big words being used, smut, pinv, um... slight dub con... drama...

Beta read by the lovely @xbellaxcarolinax who basically jumped on the doc every time I helplessly texted her to ask if I was being stupid, and special s/o to @melodygatesauthor for helping me talk out the smut hehe

The charity gala was a front for the girls to get dressed up and the men to boast about their new business ventures. The charity mentioned in the invitation was picked out by the dean’s wife, a hedge fund manager – a most noble career – and she had already swindled enough out of the guests for the entrance fee before the scheduled auction later that evening. 

You didn’t want to go but you couldn’t really tell Rydal that, especially after the whole thing with Chester just last week. He had been a little down since then, his skin halfway healed from where the skin had broken. You couldn’t help but feel a current of electricity pass through you straight to your core whenever you looked at the slightly swollen pout he was sporting because of it. And the bastard knew it, too. He had been using the pout, with the added weight of his baby cow eyes, to get his way for the past few days, easily swaying you into submission for the littlest things. 

Which is how you ended up at the pretentious gathering being thrown in some philanthropic attempt to absolve the attendees of their greed. The dress you got for this event specifically was more expensive than any you’d ever worn before, the black satin silk of it tickling your calves where it hit. Your heels were new and not broken in, the thin straps sitting across your fresh pedicure — also something he insisted on paying for, picking out your nail colour for you. A glossy soft pink, a shade that reminded you of the Chanel perfume he had gifted you with. 

Rydal had taken you out to buy an outfit when you tried to tell him you couldn’t go with him to the gala because you had nothing to wear, rolling his eyes at what he knew was you trying to weasel your way out of it. You felt bad, making him wait while you tried on every dress the saleslady threw at you. He kept telling you it was fine, eventually threatening to come in there and dress you himself if you didn’t cut it out and that he was comfortable lounging on the sofas outside the fitting rooms. 

Slipping on the next dress from the large selection you had gathered in your fitting room, you checked yourself out in the mirror. Flatting the skirt with your palms, you tried to imagine yourself at the party, your arm looped around Rydal’s elbow and everyone’s eyes on you. Would this help you blend in? Was this the golden ticket you needed to finally gain acceptance? You’re starting to feel like it didn’t matter what you wore, they’d be able to sniff you out regardless, the vultures with their sharp manicures and syringe sculpted faces. 

When you finally stepped out in the simple but flattering black dress, Rydal’s eyes flashed as you turned this way and that in the mirror, trying to see it from all angles. This could work, it was simple enough that you didn’t feel entirely unlike yourself but it was still a lot more extravagant than anything you owned.  

You didn’t notice him slowly getting up like a predator stalking its prey, too focused on whether you liked the garment or not until his hands came to rest on your hips and his nose pressed itself against your neck. Only then did you take note of his half hard bulge pressing into your bum, your body temperature jumping at how quickly he was reacting to you all dressed up for him. You weren’t a lingerie girl, never had to be in your experiences but the way he was growing more and more feral by the second had you itching to buy the most delicate, laciest sets just to pull this behaviour from him on demand. 

“D-Do you like it?” you hated the way your voice wavered when you spoke, the slight increase in pressure from his hot hands causing you to blush heavily. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Go take it off before I do it for you–”

“Yeah, on it,” you pushed his hands away, bolting towards the fitting room before he got any ideas and shaking your head at him. 

He purchased the dress while you were changing back into your regular clothes, coming out to the sight of him holding the garment bag over his arm while dumbly ignoring the stares of the other girls in the store. 

You weren’t used to feeling so aggressively desired so publicly but Rydal never made you feel like he wanted to hide how he felt about you. He would compliment you in front of his friends, in front of strangers, he would speak highly of you despite having told you something that would send your blood boiling seconds prior. It was reassuring, especially since you weren’t blind to the way girls would look at him, especially the ones in his social circles. 

The dress would help you fit into the crowd a little better, the shoes only slightly uncomfortable so far but that wasn’t the part that bothered you. Before leaving for the night, you made sure to try your best with your hair and makeup to look effortless with the help of your roommate, Eleanor, who told you that Rydal was going to go crazy over your look. That didn’t make you feel any more comfortable, however, wearing clothes much too expensive, you began to wonder if he liked you better like this, if he wanted you to be more like them. 

His reaction upon seeing you made your stomach swoop, the reverence in his eyes making you shyer than you’ve felt in a long time. You think maybe you should dress up like this more often, maybe he’d prefer you like this. Trying to shake those thoughts out of your head, the two of you make your way to the party being held on campus, looping your arm through his. Rydal was wearing a beige linen suit himself, the white dress shirt underneath had the first couple buttons open for a more relaxed look that you knew he only did to stick it to his dad.

You don’t know if you would have preferred to be invisible rather than be gawked at by the guests, but either way you were extremely uncomfortable and trying your best to mask it for the sake of your boyfriend. The party itself was unlike any other you’d attended, and why would you have? It wasn’t something you’d normally be invited to, especially with your financial struggles. It was kind of ironic, you being here now. At least you were dressed for the part.

Most of the guests were in casually lavish clothing themselves, almost everyone in the room exuded an air of superiority and arrogance you didn’t know how to handle. Walking by a group of older men dressed in various shades of browns and beiges, you overheard their heated discussion regarding the new instalment of fine art in the library’s entryway. There was a table full of what looked like raffle prizes to be won, along with a small brass raffle drum at the end. Near the end of the room stood a podium next to a sign with the charity of the night outlined in large, black lettering. For the good press, for the photos, you bitterly think. There was even a small group of classical instrument musicians playing classical renditions of modern day music. 

In every cluster of guests, there was an undeniable condescending overtone, the haughtiness oozing from every direction and you didn’t know where a safe space was for your eyes to land so as not to be assaulted by a judgemental gaze. Rydal was walking with ease, his hand at the small of your back, the warmth from it burning your skin due to the backless nature of the dress but you were thankful for the touch as it kept you somewhat grounded, helping you not trip over your heels. 

He walked you through the psychological battleground, gliding through the people who were most definitely whispering about his date for the evening, leading you to the food and drinks table. Exotic delicacies littered the banquet table, carefully prepared for consumption and small enough to grab several handfuls before feeling any sense of satiation. The rich were an interesting breed, despite their indulgence they loved making things tiny. 

The purpose of the night was drowning in the show of snobbery, and you were so bitter inside at the show they put on for each other that you opted to stay quiet so as not to make Rydal uncomfortable. These were his peers, the people he grew up with, the old man in the corner, his godfather, the lady with the laughable plastic surgery was his favourite ‘aunt’ growing up, giving him the biggest presents at his birthdays. Countless familiar faces for him, all of them sneering at you. 

The comforting touch of his hand leaves your back and you immediately turn to him in a near panic, the idea of being left alone in the sea of sharks making you stumble over your shoes. Upon seeing Rydal’s father right behind you, you opted to stay silent. This was not the first time you were meeting him, but it was the first time you were seeing him on school grounds after spending the summer at their family home. 

“Rydal,” he nodded to you and greeted you by name, “Come, I need you to meet a couple of people from that firm I was telling you about. Quickly now.” 

Lawrence Keener wasn’t the most terrifying person you’d ever met but he was definitely intimidating and he definitely was aware of it. The man had influence at the school, and honestly anywhere else he went. His handsome face and strong jaw demanded respect before his clothes did, his bespoke and cleanly pressed suit giving him a reason to tilt his chin just that smidge higher so he could look down at you with a single snobby brow raised. You could see where Rydal learned that expression from. 

He was somewhat dismissive of your presence, which only served to piss you off further but you had to hold back from rolling your eyes since Rydal was looking at you with a plea in his eyes, asking if it was okay to leave you for a few minutes to go meet the senior partners his father was pushing him towards. 

You nodded with a tight smile to him, trying to be supportive without showing how anxious you already were on the inside. Stepping into his world and pretending you were fine with it was proving to be more difficult than you initially thought.

Rydal leaves you with a relatively chaste kiss on the cheek, his father watching you two with blatant boredom before ushering him away with a hand on the back of his neck. After watching them turn a corner, you have to blink a few times before gathering your bearings and heading straight for the hors d'oeuvres, the miniature yet intricate selection taking your attention away from the prickly company. Devilled eggs, stuffed mushrooms with crispy onions on top, micro fig pies, melted brie and shortbread, roasted oysters with butter mignonette, caviar and creme tartlets and bowls and bowls of shrimp cocktail met your eyes. Reaching to try a pie, it almost made you laugh at how tiny it was in the palm of your hand. 

Some time must have passed and you’d eaten several different kinds of mini appetisers, gulping down the mocktail a random floating waiter had offered you after watching you stuff your face while you observed others mingling and networking. Hearing Rydal’s voice over the soft music playing, your eyes start searching for him excitedly. 

There’s a girl. Walking next to him, there is a very pretty girl. And they’re laughing. She’s touching his arm – familiar, they’re familiar – and he doesn’t brush it off, he’s smiling with her and for a moment you forget that you’re together. 

They look… they look quite perfect together, to be honest. She’s taller than you, blonde hair perfectly coiffed with a classic cocktail dress in a shade of blue that matched her eyes, making her smile look all the more bright. The girl in question throws her head back in laughter at something Rydal says, and it must have been funny at the way she covers her mouth elegantly to hide her grin and–and you want to leave. Badly. He’s not flirting but he’s also not taking her hand off of his arm, and he’s still smiling at her. 

They…fit. She looks like she belongs. Here, with him, on his arm, wherever she pleases really. Maybe she’s the girl his father wanted him to go for, the choice that made sense for him. The option that was easier. The kind of girl who crossed her ankles when she sat at the dinner table, the one who knew which one the soup spoon was. The girl with the right parents, the right upbringing. The one who didn’t need a room at their family home because she had her own next door. The one he didn’t have to take shopping to make her look the part at a charity gala. 

The girl that wasn’t a charity case. 

You should just leave now, and leave them to it. They would probably be engaged right after graduation. Rydal would get a job with the law firm his father was pressuring him about and she would be the host of their next charity event. Hell, maybe she’d even run for a council position. Talk about a power couple. 

While your intrusive thoughts were spiralling, you get caught staring by Rydal, his eyes lighting up to see you and you can see the words forming on his lips as he’s about to call out for you, most likely to introduce you to the girl in question. Turning on your heel before he had the chance to get your name out, you walk with speed and purpose, hunting for the washroom to collect yourself. You know people are looking at you walking past them, you probably look a little out of it but you couldn’t care less right now, just focused on getting some air and maybe splashing some water on your face.

Ducking into the washroom with a sigh of relief – the door matched the wood tone of the walls, the little sign above labelled “Washroom” in tiny, cursive writing making it incredibly difficult to find – you manage to find an empty stall. Leaning your head back against the stall door, you close your eyes as you try to even your breathing. You have to manage the anxiety bubbling up in your chest and the influx of negative thoughts about Rydal, it’s not fair to you or him.

The washroom door swings open and shuts, a pocket of music from the main hall echoing for a few seconds before giving way to the animated chatter of the girls who just entered. Their giggles and whispers became more clear once they settled in front of the large mirror hanging above the marble sinks. 

“I’m going to need a lot more champagne to withstand anymore of that woman’s inane chatter, like, we’re already helping so much,” one girl huffed. 

Peeking your eyes through the tiny gap in the door, you catch a glimpse of the back of their heads. 

“Yeah well at least your boyfriend hasn’t been ignoring you all night. All I said was that he was repeating his outfit and that people would notice!” 

“Oh honey, don’t worry. Nobody is going to notice that with Rydal walking around with his charity case girlfriend. What the fuck does he see in her anyway?” Another girl said, carelessly loud. 

Your ears perked up again, your heart dropping in your stomach. Now was not the best time for you to hear this, their conversation only confirming your shameful thoughts about your boyfriend. 

“I always thought he was easy but to stoop so low? She’s basically the farmer’s daughter!” 

The scandal in her voice almost made you laugh in disbelief from where you were hiding in the stall. 

“I think he’s doing it just to get back at his father. Lawrence doesn’t even look at her.” 

Well. That’s not… that’s not what you wanted to hear. Lawrence looked at you, right? He said hello perfectly politely, right? You’re frowning at the thought.

“Ha! That’s because he wanted Colette for him. My mom told me he’s secretly hoping Rydal wakes up one morning, ready to go running back to Barbie Blue Eyes and make them all proud parents,” the loud one from earlier said with a wicked tone. 

Colette… you didn’t know a Colette. Blue eyes? Could they be speaking about The Girl from earlier? Were they right, were you just a phase for him? 

“Oh my god El, you kill me! They are really blue, and that dress she’s wearing tonight looks so fucking good on her, I can’t deny her that. It’s like she got it custom made to match her eyes.” 

Oh fuck. The Girl was Colette. Of fucking course. 

And from the sounds of it, she was Rydal’s ex. No wonder he never mentioned her. No wonder she was so friendly with him, hands all over his arms, giggling together like a couple of young lovers. Compared to her, she was the obvious choice, and it wasn’t a surprise that Lawrence had given his approval. 

“Sounds like Colette,” the third girl chimed in. 

“I don’t care how much Rydal spends on this new girl, she isn’t fooling anybody. I bet she’ll be gone by the winter. Anyways,” the first girl sighs tiredly, as if unloading all that gossip took a physical toll on her. “How’s my lipstick, Vee?” 

They descended into a different topic, focused on adjusting each other’s appearance until they left the washroom leaving you to stew in silence. They wouldn’t have known you were listening but they said everything you didn’t need to hear anyway. 

So Rydal was dating this perfect girl, Colette, before you got together. You were the rebound. You were never permanent. You didn’t belong. 

You should’ve known he wasn’t serious, it was too good to be true. You should never have opened up to him, never have trusted him with all your insecurities and vulnerabilities. He probably bought all the girls Chanel. He couldn’t have been serious about you. He hasn’t even met your mom, hasn’t visited your home yet. You couldn’t let him get any closer. 

Stepping out and gently splashing your cheeks with some cold water, you walk out the doors on shaky knees and look around. Nobody is paying you any attention now and you exhale a breath of relief. These people are never going to respect you. No matter how many pretty clothes he buys you. 

Rydal finds you before your eyes find him, his hand snaking around your waist and mouth finding your ear to whisper a sweet little I missed you, softly kissing your skin. You shiver, and despite the direction your thoughts were going you find comfort in his smell and warmth, closing your eyes while you turn your body into his. 

He’s the same and yet he isn’t. Rydal slips into his social persona and you’ve never really paid attention before but there’s a slight difference to his voice and once you notice it, it bothers you. You stare at him, perplexed and hurt. You wonder if you know him properly at all. Which one is the real one? Is he pretending with you or with them? 

Rydal tells you he has someone to introduce you to but your stomach starts churning and you think you’re gonna be sick because you see Colette making her way towards you in the crowd and you can’t face her, not after what you just heard. 

“I feel kind of sick, actually, can we go? Like, now?” 

You know you have a frantic edge to your voice but you can’t help it. 

“Can we go in a bit? Just stick it out for a little longer, baby—“ 

There’s a bubble of anxiety in your chest that rises to your throat the closer she gets and you look to Rydal with pure panic, upset that he’d even suggest you stay in this stifling room for any longer. He stops talking upon noticing the tears welling in your eyes, brows immediately furrowing in concern and then nodding quickly.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, we can go, c’mon.” 

His hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you out of the hall and you’re glad for it because all of a sudden your vision is blurry and if it weren’t for his persistent hands helping you, you would’ve surely never found your way out. 

The way back to his room was tense. Not the comfortable silence you were used to, your throat closed and sealed shut since leaving. Your mouth has opened and shut several times, wanting to break the silence but your tongue felt like lead. 

Rydal doesn’t make any attempt at conversation either. After putting his blazer jacket around your shoulders, he stuck his hands in his pocket and frowned the whole walk back. 

By the time he let you in his room, your bottom lip was wobbling and your anxiety was suffocating you in its attempt for release. Either you were going to cry or yell or both. 

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you reach for the makeup wipes you keep with his things, aggressively wiping at your eyes and fighting with the layers of mascara you had put on. He slowly comes up behind you, not looking into your eyes but his hands reach to unclasp your necklace, brushing your hair aside for ease of access. 

You inhale a shuddering breath. 

You should just do it now. Just come right out and say it. You may as well cut your losses and let him be happy with whoever he wants, let him make his father happy and stop standing in his way. You were only holding him back, and that’s not what you wanted to do. You still loved him, even if tonight did break your heart. 

Dropping the necklace on the counter, he reaches for the zipper of your dress next but his hands still and instead rest on your waist as he presses his forehead into your shoulder. 

“Did something happen? Did someone… say something?” He mumbled, the vibrations of his voice almost triggering your tears. Instead you let out a sniffle.

“She really is beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me about her?” 

“Who?” 

“Why did I have to find out about her from a bunch of girls in the washroom? Does she go here? Is that why your dad doesn’t look me in the eye when he talks to me?”

“…it’s not like that—“ he sighs.

“No? It’s not like you become someone else when we’re around these people? It’s not like you have this whole goddamn life that I’m not part of, that I’ll never be part of because they’re never going to accept me? They’re never going to respect me, never think I’m good enough?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, I don’t even know what you heard!”

“Everyone thinks I’m with you just for your money, you know. They called me the farmer's daughter. They said I’m your fucking charity case. Do you know how that makes me feel? As if I don’t already feel like an outsider here?”

He opens his mouth to respond but you don't let him, rushing to hurt him the way you’re hurting inside. 

“You’ve never had to work a day in your life, you don’t know what it’s like in my shoes.” You laugh humorlessly. “What are we doing, Rydal?” 

“What do you mean?” His voice sounds so small and the knife just twists deeper in your gut. 

“Why should I have to deal with this constant bullshit from the people in your life? I don’t even know them! Maybe… maybe we should—“

“Stop, stop, listen I can handle everyone else being upset with me, but not you. Not you, please. I can’t take it from you, please don’t say what I think you’re going—“ 

“I don’t know. I just can’t, I— maybe, maybe we should break up, I think you’d feel better, too, I think—“

“How could you think that? How could you say that?” He’s upset, expression sour and twisted.

He looks the way you feel. 

You watch him fumble for words. 

“I literally left my dad at this stupid party and he’s going to be fucking pissed, like seriously livid because he was building me up to his buddies but– but I don’t care because I wanted to make sure you were okay!”

His palms grip your waist tighter and he steps closer, crowding you against the basin and doesn’t give you any room to move. You can’t look at him so instead you stare at the makeup wipe, the angry black marks mirroring your heart as your mind yells at you to run, to leave and hide where he can’t hurt you, where he can’t see you crumble and break after he inevitably agrees to leave you. 

You push it once more.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe I should’ve just left you there.” 

There’s a small part of your brain that tells you that you’re being irrational. That he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care, he must care even a tiny amount, even if you were a temporary toy. 

His hands leave you for a second and he takes a step away. You feel cold, immediately feeling small and stupid, fighting between wanting to cry and going numb until suddenly the familiar warmth comes back, his hand pushing your back with so much force that your hands shoot out in front of you to catch yourself. One on the mirror, one on around the edge of the vanity. 

Looking up at Rydal in shock, you open your mouth to ask him what the fuck his problem is until you see he’s not even looking at you, his eyes are trained on your ass and he’s biting his lip, but he still looks… broken. 

“Rydal, what the fu—“

“Stop. Talking. You’ve said enough.” His voice was almost a whisper but still firm enough to cut through yours, and his hands were still kneading your hips. 

His behaviour is new and kind of confusing, if you’re being honest. It’s clear he’s never been denied before in his life. He looks helpless and angry and worried and aggravated and entirely too focused on your body at this moment for any of it to make sense. 

Rydal’s fingers trail down your dress until they reach the slit in the back and leave goosebumps as they make their way back up, hooking into your panties and then tugging them off and around your heels. Upon rising, he’s still avoiding eye contact. Your cheeks are burning, legs slightly wider than before. Despite being mad at him, your body still obeys. 

“So mouthy all the time.”

Balling up your panties, he surprises you further by shoving them in your mouth even as you protest and try to push back on him but his body keeps your balance wavering. You have no choice but to keep your hands where they were if you didn’t want to fall. 

Your eyes must be bugging out of your sockets and the rise and fall of your chest is coming quicker and quicker.

“If that’s what you really want, then leave.” He’s saying this while the tips of his thick fingers brush and tease your entrance, keeping you frozen in place.

Your mind was at odds with your body as you felt your instinctive reaction to him touching you. Fighting the urge to embrace the desire now dripping down your thighs, you knew you had the ability to walk away if you wanted to and yet you found yourself pressing back against his hand wanting more. 

“Aren’t you gonna leave? Isn’t that what you wanted? No?” 

Rydal slides two fingers inside your cunt, easily and without warning and you grunt but it’s muffled against the cloth. This is absurd, you think dumbly. You want to feel embarrassed but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Didn’t think so, baby,” he’s saying while stepping closer and his fingers reach even deeper, if that were possible.

His mouth comes up to your ear, whispering his next words and sending them straight to your gut, weighing heavily inside you. 

“I need you, can’t you see that? Look at me,” his hot breath hits the shell of your ear and you’re panting. “Can’t you tell? How fucking badly I need you?” 

So you look at him, and you see a desperate and needy man in the place of your Rydal, the one you’re familiar with. This wasn’t the same man you were used to, the one who would make you laugh while he was making his way inside you. This Rydal was upset and he was adamant on making you regret your words. 

His fingers were curling inside your wet heat, pressing up against that spot that made you see stars and stealing your breath so hard your fingers were curling. Your fingerprints were marking the mirror, the squeaking sound making you shudder against his body. Moaning around the fabric still in your mouth, you tried to grind down on his hand, desperate for him to move, to do something, anything to the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter. 

Rydal could feel your hips moving back against his hand and moved to still you, fingers holding you tight enough to bruise. Slipping his fingers out, he taps them against your clit before removing his hand entirely and making your shoulders sag at the loss.

Reaching one hand up and back to keep him close, afraid of his warmth leaving you, your hand wraps around his neck as he rushes to unbuckle his pants noisily. He’s shaking a little, breaths coming out ragged at how badly he needs to fill you up. 

Once he frees himself, Rydal uses one hand to push you back down and bunch your pretty dress up, lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in swiftly without hesitation. 

He groans loudly, tilting his head back with his eyes shut for a moment before looking down at where he’s seated to the hilt inside you, unmoving. 

“You lookin’? You need me, too, I can see it in your eyes. Look,” he reaches forward to grab at your jaw, making you watch yourself as he slowly pulls his cock out and slams it back inside to kiss your cervix. Again, and again, and again. “See that?”

Rydal forces your head to nod with his hand still holding your face while you try to speak, voice coming out unclear against the panties still in your mouth. The stupid fucking fabric was making it hard to breathe and you were going to pass out, drunk on his cock, you were going to faint against the god damn builder’s grade medicine cabinet. You want to moan out loud, you want to tell him he wasn’t playing fair, that he was going too slow. You want to pull his beautiful hair out and yell at him, you want him to hurry up and fuck you harder, you—

You’re coming. 

“Ohhh, fuuuuck,” he let go of your face, hands dropping to press on your lower back and push you more forward, your hands clambering on the mirror like a fool. “Look so—so, oh fuck, baby, look at you.”

It didn’t take him long at all to make a mess of you. 

“You gonna take it back? Take back what you said, tell me you were wrong,” he whines, still fucking you hard but not hard enough. 

The problem was that he was dragging his girth out slowly but stealing your breath on every hard thrust forward. And it still wasn’t enough, not for this, not for right now. 

Your attempt at speaking is ruined by the fact that your panties were still in your mouth, your saliva soaking the material by this point. You wanted to spit it out, hurl the obstructive garment across the room but it wasn’t possible in your current position. He can’t possibly be stupid enough to expect you to answer him like this. 

He almost laughs when he realises you’re trying to say something, quickly pulling the fabric from your mouth to let you finally have your voice back and you immediately let out a cry at his perfectly timed thrust. His cock was moving faster, intent on not having you speak but making you come again. Now that he could hear you, he was becoming more and more unhinged. 

Embarrassingly, you’re having a hard time keeping your voice down, whines and cries falling from your lips continuously while Rydal fucked you against his sink. Your hands are leaving fingerprints all over his mirror from where you’re trying to get a grip and push yourself back on him, his own hands keeping you bent over for him but squeezing whatever flesh he could reach. 

Leaning forward to kiss your back, he mumbles words he thinks you don’t hear, don’t leave me, mine, my baby, stay here—

“S’wrong, I-I was wrong,” you whimper. “M’sorry, fuck—“

“Shhh—“

“I—“ you hiccup. “I hate them, I, yesss right there, god—“

“I know, baby, I know, I got you,” he’s back to grunting in your ear and you can’t see or feel anything that isn’t Rydal. 

You’re overwhelmed by everything that’s happened tonight, your feelings from earlier still bubbling up and causing you to tear up while he continues to ram into you. He sees you crying, reaching his hand in front of you to toy with your clit.

“Stay with me,” he demands, voice low against the shell of your ear. Desperate, he’s still so fucking needy even after making you cry on his cock. 

You nod before you realise you’re nodding, sniffling in your daze. 

Rydal’s index finger, the same one he teased you with earlier, starts circling your clit in the surefire way he knows how to make you cum, grunting when he feels your walls fluttering over his length. 

And when you’re gushing all over him, his finger still circles your nub but he stills his hips as he feels you come undone and talks you through it. Pretty baby, love you so fucking much, stay, stay with me, stay—

Lifting you off his length he takes off your dress completely and turns you around with his hand wrapped around your neck to bring his mouth to yours, kissing you like a man possessed. He doesn’t wait to slip his tongue into your mouth, claiming it as his own to prove a point. He’s always fucking proving a point, always pushing his way through your walls. 

Walking you backwards towards his bed, he only breaks away from your mouth to help you remove his shirt and pants, your hands mapping out his chest and shoulders. You don’t let him get far from you even as you lower yourself to lay back on the mattress, pulling his body along needily while he crawls over you. 

This time when he enters you, it’s slower, softer, gentle, but you’re shaking in his arms, foreheads touching as you share a breath and syrupy kisses. You cry a little, mascara messy and lipstick smudged, but he shushes you, mocking you, “thought you could leave me,” he says and anticipating your rebuttal — as he does, he always fucking does — he says, “thought you could go on without my cock, hmm?”

And then he’s kissing you again before you can say anything, effectively shutting you up while pressing you into the mattress, fucking the fight out of you as his hips slide into yours again and again. Your bodies are sweat ridden, your pussy is soaking his sheets and he still hasn’t cum yet, but you think he’s close. He has to be, he’s barely pulling out now, his length throbbing inside your pulsing walls as he ruts into you. 

He’s biting your shoulder and your eyes are focused on the popcorn ceiling, your oversensitive core trembling as he tries to pull another orgasm from you. You’re probably crying, it’s hard to tell at this point, face and body damp, but your ears are attuned to his sounds, his gorgeous whimpers and grunts. Rydal’s body is heavy on yours but you’re floating, you don’t feel a thing until his thumb starts pressing hard against your clit that you try to curl in on yourself, thrashing against him and– yeah, you’re crying. 

He’s speaking absolute filth, it doesn’t make any sense, but in the midst of your pleasure you hear him saying he’s going to fill you up. 

He does. It’s so wet between your legs, the glide of his half aborted thrusts smacking lewdly and loudly and you feel like an exposed nerve and numb all at once. His spend is leaking out of you and just when you expect him to pull out and play with your puffy folds, he turns on his side, keeping you full of him. Rydal rests his face against your chest, your sweaty and spent bodies tangled together. Boneless and breathless. 

His arms are everywhere, one running down the length of your thigh soothingly and the other wrapped under your torso to pull you close by your waist. Touching, always touching. That’s been one constant you’ve noticed from the start. Your breaths are echoing loudly and you’re almost afraid to speak, afraid to ruin the tranquil silence that envelops you both. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you. 

“I’m hopeless without you,” he says, so so softly. “I’ll let you win at monopoly every time, I’ll stop ruining the ending of the books you’re reading, fuck, just tell me what I have to do. Tell me, I’ll do it.”

You just hold him tighter to you, kissing his temple.

[your-divine-ribs]

Caught Red-Handed

Words: 6.3k

Doesn't Van ever think about knocking?

Friends to lovers // eventual smut // I have a Sam version of this story on my Wattpad too xxx

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

You'd been friends with Van for years, right back when the notion of recording platinum-selling albums and touring the world was just a dream. He was that friend who you could talk to if you had a problem. He never judged you and he always had your back. He was the one person you could call on if you needed anything. So when you'd had a huge bust up with your friend and house-mate and he asked you to move into his house in Chester you didn't think twice. Larry had moved out just months before and there was Van, rattling around in the house all by himself. He'd never been any good with just his own company… and you were of no fixed abode. It was the perfect solution. There was just one small problem...

The past few months you'd started to see Van in a different light. His striking ocean eyes captivated you like they never had done before. The feel of his body pressed up next to yours when he greeted you with a hug made your heart race. And seeing him with his female fans fawning all over him just set off a sharp sting of jealousy which you had no business feeling.

Now here you were on a Sunday night, lounging on the sofa watching TV and feasting on takeaway pizza, trying not to react to the fact that your pulse had started to quicken the moment Van took his seat next to you, barely leaving a gap between your two bodies.

"Give us another slice of yours," he says, not waiting for your consent but reaching over into the cardboard box on your lap.

"No way!" You protest, slapping at his intruding hand and then snatching the box away out of his reach. "You've already had two slices you greedy git!"

"Come on, yours is well nice," he pleads. "I'll swap ya."

"Ughhh not a chance. It's not my fault you ordered the worst pizza on the menu. I mean who has pineapple on pizza anyway?" You wrinkle up your nose in disgust.

"Well, I'll just have to take control of this then if we're not sharing!" Van announces, grabbing for the remote control and switching channels.

You groan as Match of the Day fills the TV screen. You hate football and Van knows it. He's obviously just trying to wind you up and it's working.

"Hey that's not fair, it's my turn to choose what we watch tonight. Spider-Man's on in ten minutes and I wanna see it."

"Do you really wanna see the film, or just perv over Tom Holland, eh?" Van chuckles, holding the remote control higher as you swipe for it. "Ah that's it, isn't it? Ooh Tom, Tom! You're so sexy!"

He mimics you in a silly girly voice, throwing his head back and laughing as you narrow your eyes at him. God he's bloody infuriating sometimes, like a big kid.

"Shut up and pass it here!" You whine, setting your pizza box down on the empty seat next to you so you can reach up to grab the remote.

It's no use though, he passes it over to his other hand and stretches right out so there's no chance of you getting it from your current position.

"If you can get it you can watch what you like," he taunts. "And if you don't I get the rest of your pizza!"

You rise up out of your seat, leaning right over him, one hand on the back of the sofa near his head, the other reaching over as far as you can, fingers straining.

"You're so bloody annoying!" You complain, kneeling on the seat next to him so you can reach even further.

He just laughs with the widest shit-eating grin plastered across his face, riling you up further. You're almost there, your fingers practically touching the remote, just an inch further and it'll be yours…

And then your foot slips out from under you and you find yourself sprawling forwards, toppling right over into his lap. You're practically straddling him, your chest thrust right in his face.

"Woah! If you want my body you've only got to ask!" Van jokes, his whole face creasing into laughter at your obvious embarrassment as you scramble up on to your feet, your cheeks glowing.

You'd normally laugh it off, come back at Van with some cutting remark, but for once you're lost for words, a combination of your self-consciousness and the fact that being so close to Van has made your body react in all sorts of inappropriate ways.

You have an urge to get away now you're on your feet, putting your head down and heading for the door, mumbling something about not feeling too good.

Van springs to his feet immediately, catching hold of your arm just as you're about to exit the room, gently bringing you to a stop.

"What's up? I've not really pissed you off have I? I was only joking you know. We can watch whatever you like... Y/N? Are you alright?"

You've no choice but to turn and face him, your awkwardness increasing. You just hope you sound convincing.

"I'm okay, it's not you... I've just... come over feeling a bit funny... a bit sick. I think I'm just gonna go and lie down upstairs for a bit..."

Van's face falls with obvious disappointment and then creases with concern. "Hope you're okay..."

You pull away, saying you'll be fine, hurriedly rushing up the stairs and into your bedroom, pushing the door closed behind you and flopping down on to the bed, frustrated.

This has got to stop. You've known Van for so long he should be more like a brother to you. If anything happened it would just make things weird. Not that he's probably remotely interested in you at all romantically or sexually. The trouble is, now you've started to see him that way you can't get the thoughts out of your head. There's no way you're going back downstairs now to torture yourself all the more.

You sigh, resolving that you may as well just call it a night and try and get some sleep. You get undressed and shimmy into the little silk slip that you sleep in. It's far too hot to get under the covers so you lie on top, closing your eyes and trying to clear your mind, hoping that sleep claims you soon.

It's useless. Images of Van scroll through your head ceaselessly. His disarming smile... his stunning blue-green eyes... that cheeky way he looks at you, waiting for a reaction when he's winding you up...

It starts out innocent enough, but then your mind really starts to wander. You recall a morning last week when you'd bumped into Van in the hallway when he'd just stepped out of the shower dressed in nothing but a towel, his pale skin still flushed from the warm spray. Imagine if his towel had slipped...

Warmth floods your body at the thought and you squirm on the bed, pressing your thighs together.

Think about something else Y/N, for fucks sake...

Your thoughts drift to yesterday afternoon. Van was messing around with lyrics for a new song he was writing and he wanted your views on them. A smile springs on to your lips, you love the fact that he values your opinion so much.

This is a safe topic to think of. You picture the scene from yesterday. Van was sitting on the sofa in front of the window, strumming away, his eyes screwed shut whilst he sang, completely lost in the music. You'd been grateful for that so you could watch him uninhibited. The sun was low in the sky and it was streaming through the window, bathing him in a soft golden glow. God he'd looked gorgeous.

You'd been focussing on his hands, his long, slender fingers flying up and down the frets, expertly picking out the notes. His hands...

Oh god.... here you go again. You must admit you've become quite obsessed with his hands recently. His fingers are just so... long...

Just imagine...

Fuck... now your mind's really working overtime but this time you don't try and divert it. It's been months since you've been intimate with anyone after your prick of an ex dumped you, and he treated you that badly you've not felt sexy at all since... until now. Why not just enjoy the feeling? It's only a fantasy anyway.

Eyes still screwed shut, you hitch up your silky slip around your hips, spreading your legs apart. You start to touch yourself over your underwear, imagining it's Van's fingers instead of your own. That's when you realise exactly how turned on you are. In no time your heart's racing and your breathing heavy as you writhe on the bed. Your panties feel damp to touch as you curl your fingers around the edge of the lace and move them aside.

You start to caress yourself, dipping one finger inside you to gather the slickness of your arousal, then spread it upwards over your clit, moving in tight circles.

God that feels good. You tip your head back on the pillow and spread your legs even wider, moving your hips in time with your caresses, little whimpers of pleasure escaping your lips. All the time you're thinking about Van and imagining his hands on you, that familiar tightening feeling building in your core.

What you don't realise is that you have an audience. Van came upstairs a few moments ago to check on you, worrying about you feeling poorly.

He didn't knock. He didn't even think. Now he wishes he had... or maybe not...

He knows what he should do. Back slowly and quietly out of the room, pretend he's not seen you, then carry on pretending he's not seen you. But he can't. He's transfixed. He doesn't think he's ever seen a sexier sight in all his life than you pleasuring yourself. Hair spread wantonly over the pillow, brows furrowed a little, your mouth a perfect O shape. Your body's rising and falling with your deep breaths, your fingers gliding over your slick skin. Christ, those little moans that you're making. He can feel his dick stiffening, pressing uncomfortably on his jeans. And then...

"Oh Van..."

What the fuck?

The shock suddenly snaps Van out of his trance and he steps back quickly, kicking the door as he does, alerting you to his presence.

What the fuck?

Your eyes snap open in a heartbeat and you sit bolt upright, confused for a second until you see Van lingering in the doorway, a stricken look on his face. Did he see... everything? Did he hear his name?

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest and you grab for the duvet, horrified, wrapping it tightly around yourself.

"Jesus Van, haven't you ever heard of knocking?" You cry out, mortified, feeling the colour instantly drain from you in shock but then swiftly return with your humiliation, staining your cheeks scarlet.

Van appears to be speechless, his mouth opening and closing like he's a fish out of water. All the time he's shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Finally he manages to string together some stumbled words.

"I... I'm so sorry. I was... errr... worried about you... 'cause you said you felt sick. I was just... errr... coming up to check on ya."

"Yeah well I'm okay!" You say, your voice coming out high-pitched, your eyes darting around so you don't have to look directly at him.

"I can see that!" He blurts out.

You allow yourself to look at him now, and there's a moment where your eyes lock, and it's like there's a million things you both want to say but you can't find the words.

And then it passes. Van backs clean out of the room, still muttering his apologies, and you sit there in shock... absolutely mortified.

What now?

As soon as your eyes flicker open the next morning it all comes flooding back in a wave of red hot shame and humiliation. How the fuck are you supposed to face Van again after he's seen you in such a compromising position? And, even worse... did he hear you moaning his name? How the hell are you even going to look him in the eye if he knows you've been fantasising about him?

You hurriedly shower and dress and make your way downstairs to find that Van's already there, he's obviously rolled right out of bed and come straight down in the hunt for breakfast.

He stands in the kitchen in just a pair of trackie bottoms, no t-shirt, hair all mussed up and looking every bit as delectable as the full English he's frying up on the stove. Your mouth's watering and you're not sure whether it's the aroma of the bacon or the sight of him.

Your gazes lock as you enter the room and for an awkward moment you don't think anyone's going to speak, but then Van does, and it's an admirable attempt to make things seem normal but it just falls flat.

"Oh... morning love. Want some of this? There's plenty. I was gonna come and ask if you wanted some but..."

You thought you might disturb me finger-fucking myself on the bed?

Of course he doesn't say it but you're both thinking it. You can tell by the tiny hint of a smile that plays on his lips, the way he trails off, looking down, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Errr... no... thanks, I... errr... actually have... a meeting first thing. Thought I'd get to the office early, catch up on some stuff. I'm so busy at the moment. Honestly the emails... they never stop coming..."

Now you're babbling, and you have a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that what's happened will taint your easy-going friendship with Van. You really don't want a silly moment to ruin the precious bond you have. You panic, still mumbling about your heavy workload as you grab a banana out of the fruit bowl and make for the door.

You cringe all the way to work and by the time you get there you're in such a state over it that you vow to try and put the whole thing to the back of your mind or you'll just drive yourself crazy. Thankfully work is busy and you throw yourself into it, managing to completely switch off your whirring brain. In fact you almost forget all about it until your phone buzzes with a text notification mid-afternoon. It's Van.

Van: Hi hope you're ok. Me and Bondy are having a few drinks down the local tonight if you fancy it? x

Usually you wouldn't hesitate, especially if Bondy's down from Newcastle. You love seeing the guys, but you realise that you can't face it and you find yourself grudgingly typing a reply.

Sorry Van, I'm having a rough day and I'm tired already. Have fun and say hi to Bondy for me...

Van obviously does have fun as he's still not back home by the time your eyelids have grown heavy and you've taken yourself off to bed that evening. You can't sleep though, lying there on your back staring up at the ceiling, going through scenes in your head where you and Van sit down to discuss what happened like two sensible, mature adults. The only problem is every single scenario you dream up has the same outcome: Van sniggering like a naughty schoolboy and you ending up red-faced and flustered and even more embarrassed than you were beforehand.

You're still chasing sleep when you hear the key in the lock and heavy footsteps traipsing into the kitchen at gone midnight. You sit up in bed, wondering whether you should get up and speak to Van but then you hear a loud clattering noise, followed by some curse words and muted laughter. He's definitely drunk.

You sigh, sinking back down into bed, listening to Van clumsily banging around in the kitchen, then you hear his footsteps on the stairs. You even find yourself counting the steps, waiting for the moment he'll walk past your bedroom.

And then there's silence... He's stopped... right outside your bedroom door.

You can just make out his shadow in the tiny gap of light filtering under the door. He's standing right there! Your heart almost stops beating and you realise that you're holding your breath, waiting for a sound... his voice, maybe a knock, or maybe he won't knock... again. Maybe he's standing there imagining you like you were last night...

And then you hear him move away.

The rest of the week carries on in the same vein. You blatantly avoiding Van by way of feigning imaginary illnesses or tiredness and enduring awkward encounters in the kitchen that have you quickly scurrying away, and by the time Friday comes around you're running out of excuses.

You've had another exhaustingly long, hectic day at work and when you arrive home you breathe a sigh of relief when you stand quietly in the hallway, listening for any signs of life in the house and you hear none. Great... that means Van's more than likely out, so you've got the whole place to yourself. No sneaking around, no hiding away, you can just relax.

You kick off your shoes and make for the kitchen, on a mission to find the largest glass you can to fill with wine before heading upstairs for a long soak in a luxurious bubble bath. It sounds heavenly...

"Surprise!"

You practically jump out of your skin at the sight of Van in the kitchen as you push through the door. He's standing there holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other, the widest grin on his face practically splitting it in two.

"What's all this?" You exclaim, eyes wide, heart pounding from the shock of discovering that you're not as alone as you thought.

"Thought I'd treat ya... 'cause you've been working so hard and I also thought you needed cheering up 'cause you've been dead grumpy..."

"I've not been grumpy!" You protest, aware that you do, actually, sound extremely grumpy. You smile despite yourself.

He continues, placing the glasses down on the kitchen table and beginning to pour out the wine. "And you've been avoiding me."

Shit...

"I've not been avoiding you at all, I've just been... busy, and tired. It's been a long week."

He pauses, looking at you with eyebrows slightly raised. "Oh really? So you've not been avoiding me since..."

Uh-oh. Here it comes. You brace yourself, feeling your cheeks warming, watching his face scrunching in second-hand embarrassment for you.

"Since... The Incident..."

The Incident?  The way he says it, even pausing for effect, like he's talking about some award-winning feature film he's bigging up, leaves you in no doubt that you're not going to be able to get away with pretending like it never happened. He wants to discuss it. Right now.

You shoot out a hand, reaching for one of the wine glasses and gulping at the contents, hoping for the alcohol to dull your embarrassment, but sadly it doesn't work that fast.

"Did you have to bring it up?" You say, swirling your wine around in the bottom of your glass to avoid looking at him.

"Actually yes, I do," he says. "If we're gonna live together we need to clear the air. We can't go on like this. I feel really bad that I didn't apologise properly as well, so I'm saying sorry now. I really should have knocked. I just didn't think..."

"Okay, okay!" You interrupt, relieved that he actually seems to be handling the situation maturely and not descending to adolescent level. "Apology accepted. Can we just forget about it now... please?"

"Uh-huh..." Van nods before taking a sip from his own glass, but he's eyeing you over the rim in such a way that you know it's not the last you've heard of it.

You try for a distraction. "Shall we get a take-away? I'm starving."

That seems to have worked. Van immediately clutches his belly announcing how hungry he is and you suggest Chinese. Van places his phone on the kitchen counter and you spend a while hunched over it, perusing the menu. Then you wander into the living room with your wine, leaving Van to phone the order through.

You smile to yourself. Well... that was pretty painless. Hopefully now you can just get back to being housemates and carry on hiding the fact that you're secretly in love... hold on, no... LUST...with Van. There's no way that this is love. What made you even think that?

Your thoughts are interrupted by Van entering the room, grumbling that the restaurant are busy tonight so your food will take at least an hour.

"Well... we may as well have more wine then," he says, holding out the bottle to offer you more and you gratefully accept.

"Woah, not so much," you protest as he fills your glass so full it's practically slopping over the top. "You know how drunk I get on an empty stomach!"

"Lightweight!" He teases, setting his glass down on the coffee table and taking a seat next to you on the sofa.

To your surprise he doesn't sit facing the tele but angles his body so he's facing you, and when you glance over at him him he's got his eyes fixed on you with a grin. You look away but you can feel his eyes on you still.

"What?" You finally say. "What are you looking at me like that for?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Anxiety squirms in your gut and you take another large swallow of your wine. "Well... I'm sure you're just going to ask me anyway..."

You pretend to pick at an imaginary piece of fluff on your dress so you don't have to look at him.

"Do you... errr..." he pauses for a second before carrying on. "Do you do that... all the time?"

"Do I do what all the time?" You say, playing dumb, but you know damn well what he's talking about.

"You know... last weekend... when I caught ya..."

"Oh my god Van!" You cry. "What sort of a question is that?"

He shrugs, still grinning. "C'mon Y/N. How long have we been mates for? We can talk about anything can't we? I'm just curious... that's all."

The embarrassment is radiating off you in waves, but Van's completely unbothered. Your instinct is to tell him to mind his own business, but you don't. There's something about the thought of discussing such an intimate topic with him that's made your heart thump with excitement.

"Of course I don't do it all the time!" You giggle shyly. "Why? Do you?"

"When the mood takes me. Which is... errr... quite a lot actually!" He starts chuckling, while you shake your head. "Well? It's not like I've got anyone else to do it for me is it?"

"What are you talking about? You're not exactly short of female admirers are you? And probably male ones too! You could be shagging someone different every night if you wanted to!"

Van pushes his hair back off his face. He's still wearing a huge smile. "And why would I wanna do that? You know I don't sleep with fans. And I don't go for one night stands... not anymore."

You consider Van's words. He's right. He's certainly not the horny 22 year old he used to be who took full advantage of having girls throwing themselves at him everywhere he went when the band first started getting a following.

In fact since you've moved in with him he's not had any lovers over to stay the night at all. It was one of the things you were worried about when he'd asked you to move in with him to be honest. The thought of having to smile sweetly at a parade of loved up, freshly fucked conquests each morning whilst eating your breakfast just made you feel sick to your stomach with what you’re now realising is jealousy.

Van hasn't finished. He reaches over for his wine glass whilst he's talking. "It's funny isn't it? Back then I thought I was living the dream, but now I realise how kinda shallow I was. I guess as you get older you realise the thing about sex is it's not quantity but quality that's important."

This surprises you. You weren't expecting the conversation to take this sort of turn, you were anticipating Van teasing you mercilessly about what he caught you doing. You'd been dreading it, but the realisation hits you now that it would have been a lot easier to cope with. Hearing Van talking frankly about his love life is just making you realise how much you want to be a part of it. And it's not just the sex. You want all of him.

"Yeah well it's alright if you find someone you're compatible with I guess..."

Van drains his glass, reaching for the bottle and topping himself up. "You're so right. I mean why settle for a quick meaningless fuck with a practical stranger when you can have a real connection with someone?"

And then he looks at you. Really looks at you. You can feel yourself melting under his gaze. You want him so bad. And maybe he wants you too...

But maybe you're getting this all wrong. Maybe it's just wishful thinking and the wine and the talk of sex that's making you feel like the atmosphere in the room has changed. Your head's spinning with thoughts and you panic.

"I hope the food doesn't really take an hour! I'm starved!" You suddenly blurt out, making to rise up out of your seat, but Van darts out a hand to gently grip your arm, stilling you. He's still got that look in his eyes, a certain intensity that makes your belly flip and your heart stutter.

"I heard you," he says quietly.

"What?"

"I heard you say my name... last week. You were thinking about me weren't you? While you were..."

Oh shit! How are you supposed to get out of this one? You can't deny it.

"I... I..." you start but trail off. Your cheeks are burning and your head feels light and there's nowhere to hide.

Van takes your wine glass from you and places both his and yours on the coffee table. Then he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours, entwining them together. He has an earnest expression on his face as he speaks.

"It's okay... don't be embarrassed. I have a confession to make actually..."

He shifts in the seat, moving closer, his eyes not leaving yours. The air between you is thick with a heady kind of tension which only increases as Van speaks again.

"Since I saw you... like that... I've not been able to get it out of my mind. I think it was the hottest thing I've ever seen. All I can think of is seeing you like that again. I really wanna be the one to make you feel like that... for real..."

"I... I..." you stutter, struggling to form anything coherent, your mind fogging over with lust, imagining what might happen.

Van pulls the hand that he's holding towards him, urging you to move your body around to face him more fully and you comply. He's getting closer still, now just inches away.

"Because I reckon I could make you feel good. Really good... if you'll let me?"

He reaches forward with his other hand, gently cupping your cheek. You want to surrender to him, your body automatically responding, your breathing deepening, nerves bristling, but you find yourself holding back.

"I... I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to... it's just... I don't wanna complicate things. I like you Van. Actually... I really like you."

You feel your cheeks warming from the unexpected confession you've just let slip, immediately fretting that you've said the wrong thing, but you don't need to worry. You feel Van's fingers brushing your cheek, his eyes simmering with desire but affection too. "You don't know how happy that makes me to hear you say that... the feeling is definitely mutual."

His gaze drops down to your lips and back up and you find yourself doing the same to his, waiting for the moment they meet, eager to taste him. But still you hesitate. "Can we... can we just... go slow?"

"We can go as slow as you like..."

You both lean in together, too hasty, teeth clashing. It's silly and awkward and you laugh breathlessly, pulling away.

"We'll try that again shall we?" Van chuckles softly and this time he takes the lead, his hand going to the back of your neck, winding through your hair, pulling you closer.

Your mouths meet and this time it's tentative and slow, your lips brushing each other's gently. You sigh into the kiss as it deepens, your tongues entwining. It's like a release, you've dreamt about this moment for so long and now it's actually happening.

Van's free hand goes to your waist and he pushes you back on to the sofa. You grasp at his hips, wanting to feel the weight of him on top of you and he obliges, pressing himself on to you, his knees sliding between your legs. Just the feel of his warm body flush next to yours makes desire pool down deep inside you and you feel your hips push upwards to meet his like they have a mind of their own.

"Hmm... someone's eager," Van whispers, as he pulls away from the kiss, hovering over you.

"You have no idea," you smile back, your hands sliding between your bodies and going to the buckle of his belt, hastily unfastening it. Ideas of going slow are suddenly the last thing on your mind.

He smiles wickedly, and he catches his bottom lip in his teeth as he looks down on you. "You're a fucking vision, you know that? I've been dreaming about this for so long. What I'd like to do to you..."

"Oh yeah?"

His belt's unfastened now, and you slide your fingers under the waistband of his jeans, but you don't get far before you feel Van's hands on your wrists, gripping them gently but firmly, guiding them away, pushing them back against the chair.

"Nuh-huh, this is all about you," he says. "Told you I wanted to make you feel good didn't I?"

"But..." you start to protest, stopping when he raises a hand and presses his index finger against your lips.

"All I wanna hear from those lips is how good it feels, okay?"

"So I've just got to lie here?" You say, biting back a grin at the smirk on his face as he rises up slightly, placing a hand on either of your thighs, pushing your dress upwards until it's bunched up around your hips.

"Yeah... think you can manage that?"

You feel a little vulnerable and exposed in front of Van in such an intimate way for the first time, feeling the flush on your cheeks, the adrenaline flooding your body with excitement.

His fingers trail down your thighs slowly, tracing little patterns on your skin, and you can feel the small callouses on his finger tips. You're so sensitive to his touch your body shivers every now and again and he watches you intently, a smile playing on his lips as you gasp as he inches closer to the edge of your underwear and then moves away.

"You're a fucking tease McCann," you say, watching his smile widen, his eyes light up with mischief.

"It'll be worth the wait... trust me," he says self-assuredly.

Christ... your heart's beating double time, your breathing getting shallow. You need to feel something, your hips twitching as Van places a palm on either of your thighs, slowly pushing them even further apart. Then he dips his head down, and you feel his lips pressing against your inner leg by the knee. He plants delicate kisses all the way up one thigh, then moves to the other side, repeating his actions. Little tremors shoot through you in anticipation.

"Van..." you breathe, yearning to feel his touch where you need it.

"What's up love?" He asks teasingly, fingers trailing along the edge of your underwear. "What do you need?"

"You know damn well what I need," you whine, impatient. All you can think of is his hands. Those long fingers and how they're going to make you feel.

"Let's get rid of these then," Van says, his fingertips hooking under the waistband of your panties. 

He begins to inch them down your hips, not taking his eyes off you as he does it and there's something about this that builds the tension in such a way that it's almost unbearable. When you feel his fingertips connect with your skin, one skimming over your your sweet spot, your body reacts instantly with a shudder of pleasure.

He leans over you to kiss you again, fingers exploring the folds between your legs, repeatedly flicking over your clit. It feels better than you could ever imagine and you moan softly into his mouth, bucking your hips upwards, chasing his touch as his fingers start to stray away.

"Don't stop," you plead in between kisses.

"Mmm... I have no intention of stopping," he purrs. "Tell me... how does this feel?"

He pushes one finger slowly inside you, followed by another, stretching you out deliciously. You whimper underneath him. "Fuck that feels good..."

You words tail off into passionate sighs and you close your eyes, tipping your head back. His long, slender fingers reach parts of you that you could never hope to, and before long you're writhing on the bed as he pumps them slowly inside you, moving your hips in sync with his motions.

Suddenly his touch disappears, and your eyes flick open. He's hovering over you, eyes glazed over with lust, and you watch as he raises his hand, slipping the fingers he's been pleasuring you with between his lips.

"You taste fucking amazing," he says, licking his fingers clean.

The action simultaneously makes you blush furiously but also stokes the fire that's already burning between your legs. You're so turned on you feel like the lightest touch might make you explode.

"Don't make me wait... please!" You implore, rising up slightly, reaching for his hips, feeling desperate now.

"But I don't wanna rush this, you look too good," he whispers, gently pushing you back down by your shoulders, before placing a sweet kiss on your lips. "In fact I'd say you looked good enough to eat."

Fuck... Your body's pulsing now, the heat between your legs intensifying. Van moves completely off the sofa, his fingers curling around your thighs, easing your body around so he's kneeling in between your splayed legs.

You look down to see him moving closer, and he keeps his eyes on you as he leans in, licking a slow stripe to your aching heat. Then he starts to work you with his tongue, concentrating all his efforts on the sensitive nub of nerves. Watching him pleasure you like this whilst he's looking you right in the eye is probably the single most erotic thing you've ever experienced, but you find that you can't maintain his gaze for long. The sensations are just too powerful and you can feel your eyes rolling back in your head.

"Fucking hell..." you breathe, and he hums an approval, the vibrations travelling through your core, making your body quiver.

You can feel that familiar tight knot starting low down in your belly, sure you'll peak soon, and as if on cue, Van suddenly hoists your legs up on to his shoulders to get even closer. He buries his head between your thighs, lapping relentlessly at your clit, easing two fingers inside you, curving them at a spot that has you seeing stars. You can feeling yourself unravelling at an increasing pace, hurtling towards your climax.

Your hands thread through his hair, tugging it roughly at the roots, losing yourself as the first swell of your orgasm hits you like a hurricane. Then it's wave upon wave of indescribable pleasure, moans falling from your lips, your legs trembling. Van doesn't stop until the last of the shudders wrack your body.

"Oh my god," you breathe, slowing coming back down to earth as Van emerges, leaning towards you with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"That alright then?" He grins cheekily, pulling your dress back over your body to cover you up, then resting his hands across your lap.

"Bloody hell, that was... a bit better than alright!" You say, still panting slightly.

Your body feels wrung out but in the best possible way. Van kneels there looking up at you, hair dishevelled, pupils blown wide, his lips still glossy with your arousal, and you think you might have just been transported to heaven.

"I suppose I should... repay the favour," you say with the most flirtatious of grins, raising your eyebrows at him.

Van's smile mirrors yours as he rises up from the floor, taking his seat next to you on the sofa and wrapping an arm around you, drawing you into a close embrace.

"Oh I'm definitely going to hold you to that love..."

[orphika]

Chester. My office. AFSAFP.

A text from one's prospective father-in-law is not to be disobeyed, especially when it's this short. Sudden crisis. All hands on deck. Maybe a special mission. Maybe he's dying and he's going to adopt Chez right now. Who knows? Alistair is unpredictable as well as unfuckable, and when he says jump, a good lad doesn't even ask how high.

So imagine, if you will, young Charles Chesterfield Chudleigh-Knighton Hughes (Sorcha's scraping the barrel of superfluous middle names with which to saddle him), making his way post-haste south, across the footbridge and into Daddy Gorbals' domain. Tenement blocks and little pubs and the Rose Garden in its neat, preserved square, and onto Caledonia Road, past the gates of the Necropolis and straight on to the Building.

Alistair's office is on the west wing, third floor. The heart of the operation, and like a heart it's off-centre. It's a cavernous post-industrial chamber around a bare limestone pillar, itself the size of a decent-sized room, with a little sort of bachelor pad set up right in front of it. Big flatscreen, coffee table (dark, oily Venetian glass), sofas that seat four at a squeeze and Alistair's armchair, currently vacant.

A hand rises from the longest couch, the one with its back to the door. It is not the hand Chez would have expected. Less gnarled, though the fingers are if anything more calloused and worn; longer and finer; emerging from the sleeve of a loose black leather jacket that is nothing like anything in Alistair's wardrobe but very familiar from all the nights with it slung on the back of the studio chair or across the mirror in a lightproof boudoir; missing its signet ring but clattering with beaded bracelets as it waves, grips the sun-blanched surface of the sofa and hauls its owner out of his velveteen grave -

Orpheus' other arm drapes over the couch, and he smiles that winsome scavenger's smile.

"Hey, baby."

[@cherubim-now-throne]

[edhayne]

The One with the Smart Design System

It’s been 20 years since the lights went off in Monica’s apartment and Friends came to an end. The concept, the talent and chemistry of the cast, not to mention the brilliant script writing, have attracted a legion of new fans to a show that the top TV networks still fight over.

However, as tempting as it is to write about Rachel’s haircuts or the comedic genius of the late, great Matthew Perry, I want to focus on an aspect of the show that gets less attention but is highly relevant to our industry. DISTINCTIVE ASSETS.

Now before you accuse me of being a tragic Byron Sharp tribute act, my musings are more concerned with how we can look beyond our day job for some practical inspiration, rather than trying to impersonate the legendary Professor (Sharp, not Geller).

But why Friends you might ask? Well, what better place to go looking for inspiration than a show famed for developing and deploying assets that didn’t just operate as separate entities, but as members of a carefully considered design system. Spoiler alert, do this and your brand is far more likely to grow.

Of course, there are many elements to explore, but in the interests of brevity, I’ve selected what I believe to be the most influential.

Element 1 – Costume Design

Just like their familiar catch phrases, when it came to the costume design, it was important that each character stood out on their own, but also complemented each other. So, designer Debra McGuire assigned each character a colour palette in season one. For the girls, Rachel typically wore greens and blues, Monica stuck to black, white, grey, and burgundy, and Phoebe got brighter colours and floral palettes.

As for the guys, Chandler's clothes were often vintage and racing stripe shirts, Joey's signature style was "defined by texture," and Ross, because he was a professor, "dressed appropriately," according to McGuire.

Element 2 – The Set

It’s no coincidence that Monica’s apartment and Central Perk live so vividly in our minds. Both provided the perfect canvas for the visual identities of each character to become established, whilst also giving the show itself a distinctive aesthetic. My old CSO at Ogilvy, Kev Chesters always stressed that a brand ‘owning’ something like a colour was “laughable, hubristic, utterly delusional & over-ambitious”. He argued that the best course of action was “to just claim it, and then once you spend enough time telling and showing the world that you are the one who is associated with it, then anyone else can’t be.”

As luck would have it, this is exactly what Production Designer John Shaffner did with the colour purple. As well as enhancing each character’s wardrobe, his rationale for Monica’s apartment wall colour was simple: "When you switched to 'Friends,' you saw that it is purple, and you stayed tuned." Furthermore, it helped other design flourishes to become distinctive assets, most notably the iconic golden frame that hangs on the apartment door.

The orange sofa in the coffee house is another example of using colour effectively. Found in the basement of Warner Bros studios, it literally serves as an emotive piece of brand furniture and is proof that you don’t need to unceremoniously dump as many brand signifiers as you can find, to secure attribution. In fact, the lesson here is the exact opposite. Namely, if you want an asset to become distinctive, give it room to breathe and think about its relationship with the environment it exists in.

Element 3 – Easter Eggs

Like any brand at the top of their game, Friends is a brilliant example of refreshing and building memory structures. Importantly, this was never at the expense of having some fun and driving visual intrigue amongst their audience. Take for example, the Magna Doodle on Joey’s apartment door. Fans became obsessed with the drawings and messages that changed subtly in every episode, and even started looking for hidden meanings.

Similarly, only the most eagle-eyed fans will have noticed that the colourful dots in the F.R.I.E.N.D.S logo have a hidden meaning. In case you didn’t know, each dot represents the main characters in the show. There are six dots for six friends and if you pay attention at the beginning of the opening theme, you will notice that each character holds an umbrella that corresponds to the colour of the dots. The likes of Aldi (think Cuthbert the Caterpillar getting arrested in their Christmas ad a couple of years ago), are expert practitioners of this approach, and it’s something I’d love to see more of in our industry.

Are little details like this why Friends is watched by millions across the world? Of course not, but they add personality to the design system and enhance the viewing experience for those who want to engage with the show on a deeper level.

A quick word count check has revealed that this article is in danger of turning into 18 pages (front and back), if I’m not careful. So, now’s probably a good time to sign off.

If nothing else, I hope it’s underlined the fact that there’s more to building a design system than painting every object in the brand’s primary colour or slapping the logo on screen throughout a telly ad. Recognising that each asset is only as strong as the other elements of that system, is essential in understanding how brands grow. Evidently, the team behind the world’s most famous sitcom got the memo.

[forthedancingandthethriving]

"Ms. Tyron, may I speak freely?"

Aite glances up from her paperwork, her eyes landing on Chester. He was sitting down on a sofa, some documents in hand.

"Of course, Chester. You know you have that privilege."

"This feels like one of those cheesy webcomics," Chester admitted. "Where the protagonist finds out the secret of the male or female lead."

The Prime Minister thinks about it. In truth, Renata was almost like a monarchy. She, the Queen, and the Ministers, her council. Of course, it wasn't completely like that, but there were the aspects. Especially in high society.

"Do you read those, Chester?" She asks, raising an eyebrow with a small smile.

He chuckles, an embarrassed blush on his face. "I hate to admit it, but.. I do. They're a good way to pass the time."

"Am I not giving you enough work?"

"Wh- No! I mean- Yes!" Chester waves his hands frantically, making Aite laugh.

"Calm down, I'm teasing." She waves a hand.

Silence falls over them before her aide speaks once more, his voice softer. "Do they.. hurt?"

Aite thinks, setting her pen down. The scars that litter her body in such large patches. They merely ached.

".. not in the way you would think." She leans back in her chair. "You remember little Tulip, yes?"

"How could I not?" Chester smiles softly. "I was there when the party crash occurred." He snorts. "I got a front row seat to Archie being punched."

The Prime Minister giggles softly before pointing to herself with a smile. "Now, take a good look at me, Chester. Do I remind you of someone?"

The aide blinks, confused. Then, it hits him. "But- Ms. Tyron! That's impossible!"

She shakes her head. "I assure you, it's possible. I've aged as she has."

"So.." Chester places a hand to his forehead. "You're.. 34." He smiles. "You look a lot younger."

Aite can't help a small blush. "Thank you.." She then gets back on track. "Now, this is just a theory, but.. I am her, but she is not me. I'm connected to her, but she isn't connected to me." She frowns. "I believe there's some.. strings, if you will, just barely holding on to her. Keeping this pain from being too much."

"It would make sense." He nods. "She does seem to be really important. Renata has changed, and she seems to be the cause.." It hits him. "Wait, are you two..?!"

"I once was." Aite cuts off that train of thought. "When I.. came back, so to speak, I lost that title. I'm human, like you." She shakes her head. She then smiles gently. "However.. Tulip is a much better fit than I ever was. Those reports I get on her.. she's clearly having fun."

Chester smiles at her smile. "That's why you've been so lenient with her, isn't it? You want her to live a life you couldn't."

"Exactly."

".. my next question, how did you win the elections?"

"Chester, my dearest, most trustable aide, do you really think I didn't mess with the votes?"

The two of them stare at each other before breaking out into laughter. After a few moments, they calm, and Aite hums as she glances at the calendar. "Hm.. April is coming up quickly.. that means election seasons.."

She sighs. "What fun. That means those troublesome Ministers will win again. How fun."

Chester chuckles. "I wouldn't be too sure about that." He holds up some papers. "For the past few years, there's been a group running against them. Apparently, the youngest is 25."

Aite sweats a bit. She didn't know about this.. at all. It's not like she needed to, anyway. Once a Prime Minister was in, they were in for life. During that time, they appoint a successor and do their affairs. The only time elections ever happened was if there was no successor at the time, like in Aite's case.

However, the Ministers were like presidents. They were elected every four years.

"Who are they with?" Aite asks.

"They're an independent group." Chester shakes his head. "Apparently, they're being funded by someone independent." At his smile, the Prime Minister smiles too.

"Tulip?" She asks.

"She has to put all that money somewhere." Her aide shrugs. "Apparently, it's going towards relief shelters and education. They're currently working on an orphanage-daycare combination."

Aite thinks before smiling. She stands up from her chair and grabs her mask, slipping it on. "Chester, clear my schedule for tomorrow. We'll be going to check something out."

Chester smiles. "Of course, Ms. Tyron."

"Aite." She corrects him. "You can simply call me Aite."

He pauses before chuckling warmly. "Of course, Aite."

[stilin-ski]

forever is the sweetest con: chapter two

Read Chapter One Here.

Chapter Two: quiet endings to new beginnings

Chapter Summary: Another vulnerable moment. Set in 3x14, Damaged.

~000~

He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know how he got there, what he was thinking, how he thought any of this was going to play out- he just got in the car and started driving. 

He ended up on Spencer Reid’s doorstep. 

“Hotch?”

“My wife left me.” Reid opened the door wider, stepped aside, and motioned his superior inside. Hotch stepped over the threshold. “I almost got you killed today.” 

“You didn’t.”

“I did, Reid.” The younger man sighed. “Chester Hardwick would have killed us if you hadn’t been able to distract him, and I was the one who poked the bear.” Reid laughed, a sharp and bright sound that cut through Aaron’s own misery. He looked up, meeting kind hazel eyes. 

“I never thought I’d hear you say something like ‘poked the bear.’” He watched again as Reid tucked his long legs under him with a grace he’d never seen before. “Sit down, Hotch.” Aaron nodded, sitting across from him on a worn leather sofa. “You didn’t get me killed.”

“I could have.” 

“But you didn’t .” This was new. The way they were speaking, the back and forth. It was entirely, completely new to him, and Hotch realized just how much their positions at the Bureau affected their social interactions. Dr. Spencer Reid had a sharp tongue. Hotch never knew that. 

There was a lot Hotch didn’t know, apparently. 

“I’m sorry Haley left.” This time it was Hotch that laughed, a low and gruff sound that sharply contrasted the light and airy tone of Spencer’s. 

“She was having an affair.” He admitted. “It was over a long time ago, I was just too stubborn to admit it.”

In the years he’d known Spencer Reid, there was one thing he’d noticed about the man that no one else on the team had. Reid was quiet. 

It was true that he would ramble on about statistics and figures, about the book he’d read on his lunch hour, or even about some telenovela he’d got caught up watching at one point; but outside of that, in the moments it really counted- Reid was quiet, and it was never uncomfortable. Never awkward, or stilted, or tense. Just- quiet. 

“Would you like a drink?” Hotch looked up, allowing himself a moment of sheer vulnerability while looking at his subordinate. He nodded. “Bourbon or rum?”

“Bourbon.”

“Ice?”

“No, thank you.” He should leave. He knows he should, knows this is inappropriate, knows he’s not in a clear state of mind, and he knows Reid is too kind to ask him to go. He should leave.

Instead, he takes the glass that’s offered to him and smiles in thanks. Instead, he ignores the slight brush of their fingers and the way the sensation lingers for moments after the contact ends. 

“I’m sorry Haley had an affair. And I’m sorry your marriage ended before you wanted it to.” Spencer took a drink from his own glass. “But mostly I’m sorry I don’t have the collection of expensive bourbon that Rossi does.” That makes him laugh, loud and sudden and real, and he doesn’t try to hide the smile that lingers. 

“Don’t worry, my own liquor cabinet is stocked with bottom shelf options too.” Reid cracks a shy, but genuine smile at that, and Hotch relaxes a bit further into his chair. “I didn’t take you for a bourbon man.”

He watches as Reid settles himself again, long limbs draping in a way that could only be described as elegant. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Hotch.”

“Apparently.” Looking back, he sees it clear as day. The flirting, the silent game of chess they played that night, the dance to music no one else could hear.

Looking back, he could see that it had been there for a while, in more discreet ways, since the day he'd picked Reid up off the Earth in a desolate graveyard in Georgia. He could see this wasn't new, this unnameable thing between them. It was there, palpable, breathing a new life in his chest, and it was beautiful . 

But then, on that hazy Friday night when he’d come home to a dark, cold, and empty house, he didn’t see it. He just saw a man, a friend, sitting before him and offering a space of comfort when he needed it. 

“You should call me Aaron.” Reid- Spencer, he corrects- looks up, eyes full of delighted surprise. “We’re not at work. You should call me Aaron.” 

“Okay, Aaron.” He smiled again. “Then you should call me Spencer.” 

“Alright, Spencer.” 

[rosewood-furniture]

[amitkumar03]

Buy the Rosewood Sofa Set for your Living room from Da Grains to make your house look more premium. Select the desired Sofa Set from their vast collection.

[sonamdagrains]

[varunnehra]

Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield, Chester Sofa, Chesterfield Sofa Set! | Furniture Online

Chesterfield, Chester Sofa, Chesterfield Sofa Set, Modern Chesterfield Sofa, Chester Sofa Set, Chesterfield Chair, Chesterfield Furniture, Leather Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield Sofa, L Shaped Chesterfield Sofa, Living Room Chesterfield Sofa, Button Sofa, Green Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield Sofa L Shape, Velvet Chesterfield Sofa, Fabric Chesterfield Sofa, 3 Seater Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield Couch, Blue Chesterfield Sofa, 2 Seater Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield Corner Sofa, Grey Chesterfield Sofa, Chesterfield Sofa Bed

[tynatunis]

Ce lundi matin nous démarrons la semaine en couleurs pimpantes en Angleterre, au centre de Londres avec le Designer réputé Hugh Leslie @houseandgardenuk Photos @owengale Designer @hugh_leslie John Hoyland, né à Sheffield le 12 octobre 1934 et mort le 31 juillet 2011, est un peintre anglais. Il est considéré comme l'un des peintres abstraits britanniques les plus influents et des plus reconnus. Il a dit: "Les peintures sont faites pour être expérimentées, ce sont des événements. Elles sont aussi pensées pour être méditées et savourées par les sens, être ressenties par les yeux..." James Alan Davie est un peintre et musicien de jazz britannique, né le 28 septembre 1920 à Grangemouth en Écosse et mort le 5 avril 2014. Alan Davie a été aussi fasciné par l’œuvre du psychanalyste Carl Jung. À la manière de Pollock qu’il a rencontré peu de temps avant sa mort, Davie réalise de nombreuses œuvres au sol. Il couvre et recouvre la surface de peintures perdant la première improvisation dans une remise en question constante. Malgré la vitesse d’exécution, il réalise souvent plusieurs tableaux en même temps et proclame que ces images ne sont pas de pures abstractions mais en ensemble de signes et de symboles. Se voulant primitif, il conçoit le rôle de l’artiste comme celui d’un shaman. Living 1-2-3 An eclectic display of art includes an original Picasso linocut, Tête de Femme au Chapeau/Paysage avec Baigneurs, above the chimneypiece, a painting by John Hoyland above the sofa and Oceanic wooden shields. The ‘F10’ single-arm chair is from Mint Kitchen 4-5 The breakfast bar is teamed with a vintage orange stool from 1stDibs and a ‘Chester’ wall light in satin copper from Original BTC. Bedroom 6-7 An 18th-century Japanese paper screen from Gregg Baker hangs above the bed and bedside tables, Sandy Jones rug. Flexform’s ‘Evergreen’ chaise longue in Etro corduroy sets off the Alan Davie painting on the far wall of the bedroom. https://www.instagram.com/p/Clxk_rMtoo3/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[evacfurniture]

Looking for awesome kinds of  chester sofa set or wholesale chester sofa set?

Looking for awesome kinds of  chester sofa set or wholesale chester sofa set?

You're in the right place if you need living room furniture for your homes, hotels, bars, and offices. Living room sets are a great way to set up the space you need for amazing displays. These chester carpet set are offered with all sorts of super-saving deals, permitting you to get even more for your money. This category is full of distinct designs provided with many special offers just for you. Buy small sectional sofa models here today and get great living room deals.

Some chester sofa set are a great way to start up when you're planning interior decor. Common interior decorations are generally centered around the sofa sets and/or living room furniture sets used. Make your living room look exactly as you want it to with couch sets, sofa sets, and lots more. Sofa and loveseat sets are a good way to create luxurious interior designs, with the comfort and leisure they offer. Many customized designs of leather living room sofa and flexsteel sofas help in making great settings to meet all kinds of design requirements.

[moleman02]

Purchase and prices of new models of comfortable furniture

Types of couch models

The sofa is also known by the names of all-fabric sofa and modern sofa. El sofa is also more suitable for small spaces except comfortable furniture is placed. ۲-seater sofa set and includes a sofa ۳ seater A ۲-seater sofa and ۲-number single sofa. In order to make more use of space, some sofas are comfortable ۲ ۲ couch  seater beds are therefore set.... seater and bed is. onomics of the sofa

Your sofa should have comfortable seating so that it fills below your knees and lower back. Knowledge of onomics knowledge of the product fit with the dimensions of the human body is based on the principles of نشonomics the living height of the floor should be ۳۰ centimeters the depth of the living up to the back ۴۰ centimeters the height of the sofa handles of the living ۲۰ centimeters. Of course, these sizes differ according to the height of the people, so آ t furniture, in order to ensure the comfort of the purchased sofa, is fully monitored by the standard sizes of furniture and principles. Sofa quality

The quality of furniture comfort depends on two factors, one is the use of high-quality raw materials and the other is the method of making furniture according to technical principles. To make skeleton furniture، nrad or Russian Wood is desirable for cleaning manufacturers، sycamore wood, which is more robust, is also a good Jobe, but white wood and pigeon are weak wood that will make your sofa skeleton after a while. How to make the so-called woodworking furniture skeleton  perhaps the type of wood چوب is also more important, and if the skeleton of your furniture is not made in the right way, even if the best wood is used in آ you will not have good furniture. Note that the sponge or foam used in your furniture, especially in the sofa insole that tolerates high pressure فشار high density بالا have, for example, sponge ۳۰ kilo or special, and from reputable factories have been prepared to sink some time after the use of the sofa living and so-called Do not fall. A simple way to determine the quality of the sponge is that the good sponge immediately returns to its original state after pressure. Be careful the quality and warmth of the fabric and sewing Yenn be good and do not have wrinkles. Arrangement of a comfortable sofa

It is better to remove the dimensions of the place where your sofa is going to be located and when buying according to the size of the sofa, be careful in your home will have a proper arrangement so that you do not regret your purchase.That's whyی t Furniture has written down the dimensions of its furniture so that customers can buy it with a good memory. Pay attention to the dimensions of your furniture, especially the sofas ۳ people to cross the path, especially the staircase of your home. If you are used to sweeping under your sofa, try to either make your sofa legs long enough or weigh وزن so that you can easily move. Color of sofa fabric

The appropriateness of the color of the sofa and the fabric با with the color of the place of placement of the sofa is important to be careful when choosing the fabric. We recommend using cheerful colors to make your home happier, but you should be careful not to use harsh colors that cause fatigue andز your eyes after a while. Sofa price

The customer in the market even for a similar model of comfortable furniture faces different prices here we want to explain the causes آnra for dear customers:

   One of the reasons for this price difference is due to the difference in the price of raw materials including wood، foam or sponge.fabrics and other items that are more thanئ. Of course, high quality raw materials, like any other product, have a higher price.    The second factor is the quality of production, the more time the manufacturer spends on cleaning the sofa, the higher the cost of producing the sofa.    The third factor is the comfortable sofa model because of the more elegance and time-consuming production آ such as the Chester sofa, which needs to touch the cob, or sofas with curvy handles and crowns انح have a higher production cost.    The newness of the comfort model also has a big impact on the price of the sofa because the manufacturer has to raise the price of the new sofa and sell it with more profit to take the cost and profit of the production of the new model so that after a time when the model is produced by other manufacturers and, of course, the price شد was broken، he can also compete in the market and with less profit and price the model will Of course, brands don't usually lower their prices because of their loyal customers and the ability to support and guarantee the product and replace the new models they've created.    Another factor affecting the price of furniture، brand era کننده furniture is. Brands in addition to the higher costs for quality production mentioned above because of Service and warranty, they receive a higher price for their products, which is normal because when you buy a brand, you don't just buy The brand, but آ the brand added its so-called free service and support cost on the product, and in return you will pay خرید مبل راحتیmore for the guarantee and service and support and time saving، the client will benefit.    Except in the manufacturing sector, the sales sector also makes a difference in price, so that stores make different profits on the sofa depending on their location and cost.