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ginnsbaker · 11 hours

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (15/?)

Part Summary: You and Leigh go on your first date, and nothing goes as planned.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 10.700+ | Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut | Author's note: The date chapter is finally here! It's basically Leigh and R getting to know each other. But beware of the tags ;) Thank you for being so patient! Please enjoy :) Only one or two more chapters to go!

Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as you come, Leigh's fingers moving deftly down your jeans. She is entranced by the sight of you falling apart in her hands, torn between kissing you and watching as you ride the final waves of your orgasm.

The moment she opened the front door and saw you, she couldn't resist. You’re dressed in a loose white button-down shirt, open at the chest to reveal the collarbones she recently discovered she’s so fond of. The sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, and your boot-cut jeans fit perfectly, accentuating all the right places, especially at the back. The subtle scent of your perfume, sweet and intoxicating like chocolate, drifted across the room, pulling her closer. Without a second thought, she grabbed you by the collar, kissing you deeply as she pulled you into the kitchen.

“You're so beautiful,” Leigh whispers, her breath hot against your ear. Her eyes are locked onto your face, mesmerized.

You gasp, your body tensing as you reach the peak. “Leigh, please” you breathe out, shifting uncomfortably. The tight confines of your jeans restrict your movement. Sure, they make your figure look fantastic, but at moments like this, you question if it's really worth it.

Leigh's lips hover just above yours, her fingers still working their magic. “I can't decide,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky.

“Decide what?” you ask, your voice quivering.

“Whether I want to kiss you or keep watching you like this,” she replies, her eyes dark with desire.

Your hands find their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Both,” you whisper. “Do both.”

As you both recover, you adjust your clothes, tucking your blouse back into the waistband of your pants. Still catching your breath, you glance at Leigh, who is already rinsing her fingers under the running water of the sink.

“What was that for?” you ask, your voice still a bit breathless.

Leigh grins, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Payback for last week.”

She moves around the espresso machine, then says, “By the way, I'm really sorry,” as if she hadn’t been driving you to an intense climax just minutes ago. “I can’t believe I overslept.”

You lean casually against the counter, your legs still weak from coming so hard, thoroughly entertained by her stream of apologies and quietly thrilled that she cares so much. The bagels you brought—laden with lox and a thick layer of cream cheese—wait patiently between you.

“It’s really okay,” you say, watching her make a fuss. Catching her hand as she goes for another apology, you squeeze it gently. “You… more than made up for it.”

She has the good grace to blush, a soft smile breaking through her earlier fretfulness. “Thanks for waiting,” he says, her voice still a little hoarse and, somehow, even more beguiling. “I’ve been looking forward to today. I guess last night just took more out of me than I thought.”

“You don’t say,” you tease lightly, observing the casual disarray of her hair and the relaxed hang of her clothes—it’s Leigh unplugged, and you’re increasingly fond of this version.

Leigh's eyes shift to the side, landing on the two take-out lattes you had bought earlier, now sitting forlornly on the counter. She grimaces slightly as she realizes they've gone cold—leftovers from your long wait outside her house, where it hasn’t stopped raining.

“Oh, you brought coffee too,” she husks out. “And I made you wait…”

“Yeah, I might have been a bit optimistic about the timing,” you say.

Leigh gives you a long, scrutinizing look, clearly baffled by your patience.

“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Get what?”

“It’s just—I’m clumsy, you know? I forget things. I’m always late to appointments. I keep expecting you to realize how dysfunctional I am and run off,” she jokes, though her eyes tell a different story. The coffee maker gurgles, signaling that the brew is ready. She moves to pour the coffee, her shoulders tense, hesitating before speaking again. “But you don’t. You just... stay. And I don’t understand why.”

You watch her pour the coffee, the steam rising in soft curls. “I stay because I love you, Leigh,” you say simply. You’ve told her that three—maybe four—times now. Not that you’re counting, but each time it gets a little easier to say. And you hope, for her, it gets a little easier to hear.

She hasn't said it back, and while you’re unsure if she feels the same, you know she cares—maybe not enough to utter those three words yet, but enough to be here now. Her accepting this date, spending this day with you, it’s a concession you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Leigh's gaze flickers, eyes widening a touch, lips parting as though words are on the brink of breaking free. You hold your breath, waiting for whatever she might reveal. But then, she blinks—like she's snapping back from a distant thought—and quietly turns to pour another cup, her glance drifting off as she collects herself.

She hands you a steaming mug, her fingertips brushing yours. You take it from her carefully, feeling the warmth seep through your fingers, spreading a comforting heat up your arms.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you take a slow sip.

Leigh watches you over her own cup, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks as she takes a tentative sip. Words have the power to bring things into being, and for Leigh, speaking things into existence feels like an indelible commitment—a promise carved into stone.

But maybe some things are beloved even before they ever take shape.

After breakfast, you both head to The Beautiful Beast to drop off Logan. Jules is happy to take care of him, as the house is empty with Amy away on a trip with friends. With Logan settled, you and Leigh head to the art exhibit you had tickets for.

Inside the exhibit, you find yourselves packed tightly among the throngs of people. The crowd presses in, and while the vivid artwork is a distraction, the constricted room makes it tough to fully enjoy the pieces. Far from the tech hubs and arts districts, the local community jumps at anything that breaks the monotony of their usual scene. Moreover, today’s rain has chased everyone indoors, turning this rare cultural event into a magnet for locals starved for something different. With the parks soggy and deserted, people had the choice between shopping malls or here.

As you and Leigh wade through the crowded gallery, people jostle for space, elbows occasionally colliding with your sides as they vie for a better view of the vibrant installations. Suddenly, a passerby brushes against you, nearly pulling you away from Leigh. Instinctively, you snatch her hand, holding fast for dear life. In the confusion, unsuspecting of the sudden tug, Leigh loses her footing. Her thick heel comes down hard on your foot, and you yelp in pain. Tears spring to your eyes, and you try to hold back a cry, but the pain is sharp and persistent.

“Sorry, sorry!” Leigh's cheeks flush with mortification as she quickly steps back. “Are you okay?”

Trying to brush it off with a grimace that's more a wince, you manage a weak smile.

“I'll live,” you say, half-joking, even as you gingerly test your foot. “But I think that was my cue to start wearing steel-toed boots around you.”

Despite herself, Leigh chuckles. “I'm really sorry,” she laments, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Let's find a place to sit, okay?”

You cautiously try a step, hopeful but hesitant. The sharp pain bites, making you flinch, and you end up limping. Immediately, Leigh slips her arm around your waist to stabilize you.

“Let's find someone to help you get to a first-aid station,” she suggests, eyeing your gait with concern.

“But the exhibit?” you protest weakly, looking longingly back at the art you were both eager to see.

Leigh gives you a wry smile. “I'm more worried they might have to amputate your foot,” she jokes, successfully coaxing a laugh out of you. Yet, as you chuckle, you wince again, putting weight on your foot without thinking.

Noticing your discomfort, Leigh guides you gently towards the front of the gallery. Soon, you're at the information booth, where a helpful attendant offers you an ice pack and points you to a bench near the entrance. As you try to get comfortable on the small bench, you struggle to keep the ice pack properly positioned on your foot, repeatedly bending down in an awkward dance of readjustment.

“Here, just put your foot on my lap,” she suggests, patting her lap lightly.

You start to object, not wanting to impose, but before you can finish your sentence, Leigh decisively grabs your leg and guides it onto her lap. She starts massaging the sole of your foot while holding the ice pack firmly against the swollen area. It's a simple, caring gesture, and you can't help but watch Leigh as she focuses on making you feel better.

When she looks up and catches you staring, she smirks. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You shake your head slightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I just didn't think we'd end up back here, and we haven't even seen a third of the art yet,” you say.

Leigh laughs softly. “It's okay, the exhibits weren't all that impressive anyway,” she says. “Besides, I was starting to feel claustrophobic there.”

A twinge of disappointment pulls at you. You’d been excited about the exhibit, about sharing something you thought would be cool and sophisticated. With your foot throbbing and Leigh’s less-than-enthused review, the day feels like it’s stumbled right out of the gate.

Leigh notices your sudden quiet and nudges you gently. “What's wrong?”

“I just thought you’d be into this. I was almost entirely sure,” you say, avoiding her gaze.

“I am,” Leigh says, still holding your foot. “I love exhibits, but right now, my top priority is spending time with you.”

You blush at that. “We are spending time—”

She cuts you off with a small laugh. “I mean, like, actually talking. It’s hard to have a conversation when we’re constantly moving and trying to look at everything.”

You mull that over, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that feels more like understanding than emptiness. Then, out of the blue, Leigh asks, “So, how did you end up being an animal doctor?”

You’re startled by her sudden question, but it’s a welcome distraction from your foot and the disappointing exhibit.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” you start.

“I’ve got time,” she says with a smirk.

You take a deep breath and lean back on the bench, feeling more comfortable as your leg rests on Leigh’s lap. Her foot massage is so soothing, it’s almost putting you into a sleepy state.

“Well, I always loved animals. My parents used to joke that I’d bring home every stray if I could. But it wasn’t until I volunteered at a local shelter in high school that I realized it was what I wanted to do with my life.”

Leigh tilts her head and smiles. “That’s sweet. What was it about the shelter that made you decide?”

“It was this one dog,” you say, your voice catching and your eyes getting misty. “A scrappy little terrier mix named Max. He’d been through so much, but he still had so much love to give. Helping him heal and find a forever home—it just clicked. That’s when I knew I wanted to help as many animals as I could.”

Leigh looks at you with a kind of awe, as if something beautiful is unfolding before her eyes. “That’s amazing. I love that you found your calling through something so meaningful.”

You shrug, feeling a bit bashful under her stare. “What about you? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

She laughs, a light, airy sound that makes you grin from ear to ear. You could listen to it forever.

“Oh, I’ve always known,” she says. “Actually, I was always writing in my diary as a kid. I'd write about my day, things I enjoyed, pretty much anything that came to mind. I loved reading pocket books, too, and I even tried my hand at writing fiction once or twice.

“But I quickly discovered that fiction wasn't really my thing. I loved writing, though—just the act of putting words on paper, sharing my thoughts and experiences. It felt natural, like breathing.

“And even though I wasn't making up fictional characters and places,” Leigh continues, “I realized I could still tell stories. They were my stories, rooted in the everyday things I observed and experienced. That was my niche, and I just ran with it.”

“Did you have a specific moment, like with Max?” you ask.

“Not really,” she says. “It’s just what I wanted to do, that’s all.”

You nod. “Knowing what you want to do or be saves a lot of time, doesn’t it?”

“I guess?” She smiles at your insight, then adds, “Though maybe in another life, I’d be a serious journalist. If I thought I had the natural knack or talent for it, maybe I would.”

You frown slightly at that, concerned by her self-doubt. “Why do you think you’re not good enough to be a ‘serious’ journalist now?”

Leigh looks surprised by your question, then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I guess I always see those roles as being for people who are more... intense, more investigative. But you’re right. Maybe it’s just a matter of believing I could.”

“You’re an amazing writer, Leigh,” you say earnestly. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“How can you say that?” she asks, leaning in a bit closer. “Have you read any of my work apart from my tiny blurbs in the gossip column?”

You feel a blush warm your cheeks. “Well, I might have done a bit of Googling,” you confess, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. “Your articles popped up, and I... may have read all of them.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she gives your foot a careful pinch. “Is that so?” she teases, her voice dropping lower. The blush spreads down your neck and chest. “And what did you think? Did they pass muster with our impromptu art critic here?”

“Honestly, I was blown away,” you say, looking her straight in the eye. “Your writing is intuitive, engaging. It pulled me right in. You've got this strong, clear voice that really comes through, even in the straightforward pieces.”

Leigh regards you for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to read the pages of a particularly dense novel—searching for the truth in your words. Then, as if finding what she was looking for, her features soften, the guarded lines around her eyes relaxing.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a tender gravity. “That really means a lot to me.”

You beam up at her, blissfully unaware of the profound impact your praise has had on her appreciation of her own writing.

Before you can pick up the thread of your laid-back conversation again, a man who could easily double as an Instagram model approaches. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a rogue lock of hair artfully obscuring one icy-blue eye. Both you and Leigh pause, taken aback by his sudden, striking presence, and an instinctive wariness settles in between you.

“Hey there. Are you okay?” he asks, hovering slightly, his focus solely on you, as if Leigh is merely a shadow on the wall.

“It's nothing, just a bit of swelling,” you say. You look up at him briefly and force a smile before focusing your attention back on Leigh. She's already staring down the stranger, as if trying to laser through his meticulously sculpted side-profile.

He presses on, “I could drive you to the hospital to get that checked out.”

You exchange a quick look with Leigh, catching the flash of irritation that crosses her face before she masks it with a polite smile.

“That’s very kind of you, but I'll be fine.”

Despite this, he doesn’t give up. “Really, it's no trouble at all. You shouldn't walk on that,” he says, pointing at your foot that’s clearly on someone else’s lap. This time, his gaze lingers a little too long for comfort.

Leigh gently lowers your foot from her lap and stands up, positioning herself between you and the persistent stranger. There's a considerable height difference between them—Leigh is notably shorter—but she doesn't seem intimidated in the slightest. Instead, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin like she’s ten feet tall.

“Excuse me,” Leigh clears her throat. “We’re on a date here.”

The man blinks, surprised. “A date?” he echoes.

“Yes,” Leigh confirms, her smile now a thin line of resolve. “The kind where I kiss her goodnight after.”

You catch a few curious glances from nearby onlookers and feel a blush creeping up your neck. You duck your head, trying to shield yourself from their stares. More than anything, though, you're struck by Leigh's bold declaration to a near stranger—that she was going to kiss you by the end of this date.

Of course, you’re hoping she would, but hearing her say it out loud sends your stomach into a flutter of somersaults

His face registers the rebuff, and he nods awkwardly, stepping back. “Right, sorry,” he mutters before finally turning and walking away.

Leigh is heaving slightly, visibly tense, her back to you, and you gently take her hand to bring her focus back.

“Hey,” you mumble softly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Leigh says as she turns back to face you, her eyes now softer. You sense the tension easing from her as your fingers intertwine more firmly. “I’m sorry if—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt gently, wanting her to know her protectiveness was welcome. “I really appreciated that.”

She laughs, a sound of relief. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to come off too strong.”

You want to tell her that she does, that she's always been a force to be reckoned with. But you bite your lip, not wanting it to come across as criticism. You like this quality of hers, and you don’t want her to change anything about herself just because you're a completely different person with a different perspective.

She shuffles her feet, looking a bit unsure, then sits down beside you. “So... where were we?”

You smile at her. “I was saying how amazing you are as a writer.”

Leigh grins, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, right. Please, go on.”

You laugh, and the two of you spend the next hour in the art exhibit, talking about everything and nothing.

At 1pm, you and Leigh head out for a scenic drive to Santa Monica Beach.

A week ago, as soon as she agreed to this date, you booked a table at a beachside lobster joint that’s been trending locally for some time now. It seems like the perfect spot, with great reviews and a beautiful setting by the ocean. The drive is relaxed, the windows rolled down and the salty air filling the car, clearing away any last threads of the tension from earlier at the exhibit.

Leigh is in high spirits, chatting animatedly about books and laughing more freely than she has all day. At one point, you find yourselves discussing The Great Gatsby.

“I just don't get the hype,” you say, shaking your head as you keep your eyes on the road, though you're eager to dive into what promises to be an interesting debate. “I mean, the characters are all so shallow, and the story feels more like a soap opera than a classic.”

Leigh's expression brightens, excited to dispute your claim. “But that’s exactly why it’s a classic,” she counters, turning to face you and resting her head against her arm on the windshield. “Fitzgerald captured the Jazz Age perfectly—the decadence, the disillusionment, the elusive American Dream. It's all critiqued through some really beautiful writing.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “So you think the shallowness is the point?”

“Exactly,” she replies, smirking slightly. “Gatsby's obsession with Daisy, who represents everything he can't have, mirrors the era's obsession with wealth and status. It's tragic and a little ridiculous because it's supposed to be.”

You pretend to mull it over, though you know she has a point. You can feel her gaze on you, and you're starting to relish Leigh's undivided and very welcome attention. You drag out your response, just to see how she reacts. You think you catch her rolling her eyes out of the corner of your eye.

Chuckling, you say, “You’re making it hard to stick to my guns here.”

Her smirk widens into a proud smile. “Good! Maybe it’s time to surrender those guns.”

You flex your arm, showcasing your slim and completely unimpressive biceps. “Speaking of guns, maybe I should keep these instead,” you joke, giving Leigh a playful look.

Leigh makes a face. “Oh, please, keep those guns. They're definitely more persuasive than your take on Fitzgerald!” she teases.

You pout at her sarcastic comment about your physique, but your smile is good-natured. It's been a long time since you've felt this at ease—not just with Leigh, but with anyone else. You haven't enjoyed company like this in a while, not since...

Well, not since Matt.

After a while, you say, “Maybe I need to give it another read. You make it sound like a completely different book.”

Leigh shifts in her seat to face the long, winding road ahead. “We can read it together. Maybe you’ll catch some of the subtleties you missed the first time around,” she suggests.

You sneak a glance at her, catching her eyes just as she looks back at you, your dark brown eyes meeting her green ones. It's a bit ridiculous, but you find yourself wishing this drive would never end. The swelling in your foot stings with every press of the gas pedal, but somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.

“I’d love that.”

When you pull into the quaint parking lot of the restaurant, nestled right against the beach, you're greeted by stunning ocean views that truly live up to the hype. Inside, the nautical decor, complete with nets and life rings adorning the walls, is cliché yet undeniably still charming. The rain has subsided, but the beach remains unusually quiet, lacking the usual crowds that gather when the sun is out.

As you settle into a table with a view of the beach, it feels like the right kind of perfect until you start discussing the menu and Leigh's smile drops a touch.

“I should’ve mentioned—I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh,” you manage, a twinge of embarrassment settling in your stomach. You feel a bit foolish for jumping ahead without checking first. It's not the first time this has happened with Leigh, and suddenly, her earlier hesitations about your intentions and feelings make more sense. You realize you've constructed a version of her that feels familiar, yet moments like these remind you that there's still so much about her you have yet to understand.

“We can go somewhere else,” you suggest, even though you don’t have the first clue where else to go.

“Really, it's okay. We don’t have to leave. I'll find something else. This place is too gorgeous to skip just because of that,” she says.

You hastily scan the menu for alternatives, but the options are slim. The only non-shellfish item is a fish and chips plate that looks unappealing at best. Then, tucked at the bottom of the menu, you spot a plain cheeseburger with fries on the side.

“Leigh, we should really head somewhere else,” you say, remembering how she mentioned she was starving just before stepping inside the restaurant. The last thing you want is for her to settle for a less-than-satisfying meal simply because the setting is picturesque.

Leigh gives you a reassuring smile, but you can sense the underlying frustration as she says, “You don't need to make such a big deal out of it.”

“But you said you were hungry.”

“I know you mean well, and I really appreciate it. But honestly, it's just lunch,” Leigh says.

You go quiet, not wanting to argue further, but inside, you’re still kicking yourself for not having a backup plan. Sensing your inner turmoil, Leigh sighs, dropping the menu on the table.

“Hey,” she begins softly, waiting until you meet her eyes before offering a small, apologetic smile. She knows today hasn't gone as smoothly as you hoped—starting with her oversleeping, then arriving late to a gallery you were excited to see, only to find it overcrowded. And on top of that, the incident where she stepped on your foot. You’ve been brushing it off, insisting you’re fine, but she noticed your grimaces every time you pressed the gas pedal during the drive. Clearly, today hasn’t unfolded as you planned.

Leigh’s not trying to downplay the effort you've put into today, but she also doesn't want you to think that a single mishap could turn her away. She hopes you don't set expectations too high just yet, not when you're both still in the early stages of getting to know each other. Beyond the undeniable physical chemistry between you, she's looking forward to discovering how you both handle the less-than-perfect moments just as much as the perfect ones.

Once she has your attention, she continues, “I was married for seven years and had numerous relationships before that.”

Your curiosity prickles—Numerous? How many?—but Leigh keeps talking, pulling you back to the moment.

“I've seen all the grand gestures. They’re fine—they’re romantic, but right now, I just want to do normal stuff with someone I like.”

“Me, too. I—”

“That means not worrying about every little thing on a menu I can’t eat. I don’t need every outing to be perfect.”

You nod, a realization sinking in. Leigh doesn’t want you to treat her as if she’s delicate, like china that could shatter at any moment. She wants you, with all your flawed plans and your corny jokes.

Maybe, you realize, you and Leigh share more than just an intense attraction. You both harbor insecurities about being wanted for something you're not, rather than for who you truly are. Deep down, there's a fear lurking in you that maybe this—whatever this is—could evaporate. You're scared that Leigh might discover something about you that could change her mind, worried that all this might just be a fleeting curiosity or a complicated connection tied to her past.

So you aimed for perfection today—at the expense of not being yourself, perhaps becoming too cautious and too rigid in the process. Leigh's desire for authenticity over perfection makes you rethink your approach.

“Okay,” you finally say, setting the menu down. You signal a waiter and order their bestseller—broiled lobster in butter garlic herb sauce.

Leigh looks up from her menu. “And I'll have the cheeseburger,” she tells him. Then, leaning across the table, she adds in a mock-threatening tone, “But you should know, it’s actually breakfast and dessert where you really can’t go wrong with me.” She exaggerates her expression, widening her eyes for effect.

Perhaps it’s a good lesson to learn that not everything has to be perfect to be right.

At least, not with Leigh Shaw.

After a hearty meal, with you having indulged in the lobster since Leigh couldn't partake, you both feel pleasantly full. Needing to stretch your legs and help settle the big lunch, you suggest a walk along the shore.

You roll up your jeans to your calves, trying to keep them dry, but the relentless little waves have other plans, occasionally splashing over and wetting the fabric. Meanwhile, Leigh, wearing high-waisted cotton shorts, meanders alongside you, unaffected by the water's reach. As the sun dips lower, it paints the horizon in vibrant shades of orange and pink. Endless stretches of beach host a few leisurely strollers, all basking in scenery that seems almost too striking to be real.

Walking side by side, every now and then your fingers brush against each other—a fleeting touch that sends a subtle thrill through you. Despite the advanced nature of your physical relationship, you and Leigh exchange shy smiles, almost as if you're newly acquainted. It's a curious thing that here, in the open expanse of the beach, there are instances where it feels like you haven't crossed those boundaries at all.

You want to reach out and hold her hand, but Leigh is wrapped up in her own thoughts, her arms crossed as she stares out where the horizon swallows ships whole. Respecting her reverie, you shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans instead.

After a while, Leigh turns to you, her face catching the evening light, transforming her into something almost otherworldly. Her expression is open, inviting, and it makes your heart stumble over itself once more.

“So, Y/N,” she says, her voice low and a little unsteady, as if she had second thoughts a moment ago about whether to even say the words. “Tell me about the girls and boys you've loved before.”

Once again, you’re unsuspecting of Leigh’s directness.

You scramble for a moment, trying to buy some time. “Well, what exactly do you want to know about them?” you ask, watching her closely. Ex-lovers are bound to come up soon, and you haven't really thought about your own answer. Truth be told, your track record feels lackluster, but somehow you think that might be a good thing.

Leigh bites her lip, seemingly pondering her next move. She kicks at the small ripples lapping at her ankles, sending water splashing in little arcs. After a moment, she looks up at you coyly. “I don't know, you decide what to tell me,” she says, unapologetically leaving the ball squarely in your court.

Her response puts you at ease a little, turning the pressure of the question into more of a gentle invitation to share what you feel comfortable with.

You take a deep breath, tasting the salt on the breeze. “I didn't actually have a boyfriend until I was twenty-two,” you say, glancing at Leigh to gauge her reaction.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, an expression that draws a small laugh from you. “Yeah, I was a late bloomer,” you say, a flippant shrug accompanying your words. “I think I was just curious, you know? Everyone around me was pairing off, and I felt like I was missing out.

“It lasted six months. It was more about exploration than anything else. And then, well, it took another two years before I found myself in something serious.”

“With who?” Leigh asks, slowing down a little. The wind picks up, teasing strands of her hair across her face, not bound today in her usual ponytail. She brushes them aside absently, her focus fixed on you.

“Her name was Alex,” you continue, the name rolling off your tongue thoughtfully as bittersweet memories flood your mind. You haven’t thought about her in a long time—she was your first love and your first heartbreak. “She was incredible—taught me what it really means to be with someone, to really be present. We were together for almost three years.”

Leigh suddenly stops and turns to face you. She grabs your hand, guiding you both to a weathered bench a few steps from the lapping waves.

“How did it end?” she asks quietly.

“We moved in together after a year,” you say, trying to keep your tone light even though you’re about to rehash a painful past. “Things were really good, at least that's what I thought. But then, just a month after our third anniversary, I came home early from work and... I found her in bed with someone else.”

“Oh, Y/N…”

“It was her coworker, someone I'd always just thought of as a colleague of hers,” you conclude, managing a tight-lipped smile. Neither of you speak for a while, allowing the susurration of the sea to fill the gap instead.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh finally says.

You shrug, looking out at the horizon where the sun meets the calm waters. “It's a long time ago. From what I've heard through mutual friends, they're still together. Maybe they were meant for each other, and I was just a stop on her journey to finding that out. I mean, I shouldn't feel so bad for not getting in the way of true love.”

Leigh shakes her head, not buying into your attempt to whitewash what Alex did. “She should've ended it with you properly.”

You’ve pondered that moment countless times, wondering if it would have been easier if she had simply been honest about falling out of love. You picture different scenarios where you come home to Alex waiting to tell you there’s someone else, and each time, you arrive at the same painful conclusion.

“I don't know, it probably would have hurt just the same,” you tell her honestly.

Leigh scoots closer, looping her arm around you and resting her head on your shoulder. In a whisper, she concurs, “I think so too.”

Then, Leigh starts sharing her story with Matt. It begins at a college house party, where they first met—just a couple of undergrads who had no idea what the future held. As she talks, you rest your cheek against her head, absorbing every detail. You chuckle at her lighthearted anecdotes, feeling the happiness they brought her. But as she talks about the tougher times, particularly the months leading up to his death, your smile fades, replaced by a tightness in your chest.

Soon enough the telling morphs into a session of self-reflection where it becomes unclear whether Leigh’s speaking to you or to herself. She suggests that she blames herself for his death, feeling as if she had somehow caused his demise. She confesses that when he died, it seemed like all the good parts of her died with him, parts she now thinks existed only because of him.

When she finally breaks down, sobbing into your neck, you pull her closer, wrapping your arms around her as if you could squeeze away all the guilt and pain she’s carrying. Part of you wants to interrupt, to assure her that she’s wrong, that all her good parts were always there, maybe just brightened by her love for him—because isn’t that what love does? It casts everything in a better light. But you resist the urge to speak, understanding that sometimes the best comfort you can offer isn’t words, but simply presence and the quiet acceptance of her sorrow.

It starts to rain again a few minutes into your drive back to the city. As the droplets splatter against the windshield and the wipers slide back and forth, you notice Leigh holding up her phone, talking animatedly into it.

“Hey there, we're on our way back and look at this rain, it's really coming down! Oh, and I've got someone very special I want you to meet—this is Y/N.” She angles the phone toward you. You feel your cheeks warm as you give a small, awkward wave. “Aren’t those eyes incredible? Like deep, rich coffee... absolutely gorgeous.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, still a bit embarrassed.

“Something for my eyes only,” Leigh replies nonchalantly, lowering her phone but keeping that roguish smile.

“You didn't have to stop,” you tell her, still a bit amused by her whole vlogging act.

Leigh turns to face you fully. “I kind of want to look at you now without a screen between us,” she murmurs, her voice low and inviting.

You swallow, feeling a thrill at her directness. Leigh's approach is always bold, and it sends an excited shiver down your spine. You wish you weren't trapped in the driver's seat, confined by the slow crawl of traffic, so you could fully engage with her flirtation. Yet, there's a part of you that suspects Leigh enjoys knowing you're somewhat at her mercy, divided between the road and her teasing.

Trying to distract her from whatever she’s up to, you throw out a playful challenge. “Want to guess where we're headed next?”

It seems to work as Leigh glances out at the relentless downpour. “In this weather?”

“Yup,” you respond simply, a mysterious smile on your lips as you focus on the rain-slicked road ahead, keeping the surprise of your next stop just between the two of you for a little longer.

Leigh has this endearing habit of pressing the back of her fingers against her mouth, her thumb brushing her lower lip as she thinks. You've come to recognize this gesture as a sign she's deep in thought or uncertain about something.

“Bowling?”

You snort in amusement.

“At least give me a clue!”

“It involves a membership card,” you hint.

Leigh scrunches up her nose, clearly appalled at her next guess. “The gym?”

“The library, of course,” you reply with a grin, recalling an earlier conversation. “Remember I mentioned having a membership card?”

Leigh narrows her eyes, and in a skittish huff, slaps your arm lightly. “You're totally messing with me,” she accuses.

“Hey, I'm driving here!” you protest, trying to keep the car steady. Undeterred, she pokes at your ribs, discovering a ticklish spot. You can't help but burst into laughter. “Seriously, Leigh, we're going to crash if you keep this up,” you say between giggles, half-joking, half-pleading for mercy.

She pulls back, her laughter tapering off into a series of chuckles that fade into the rhythmic splatter of hefty raindrops on the car roof. Once it’s comfortably quiet again, she leans back in her seat, her expression turning curious and a little conspiratorial.

“Speaking of books, there's something I almost forgot to tell you,” she says.

“Yeah?” you respond, somewhat distracted as a car swiftly cuts into your lane.

“Matt's comic is going to be published posthumously,” she reveals slowly. “Danny and I have been working together on it.”

You strive to keep your expression blasé at the mention of Danny's name. There's no room for jealousy when it concerns Matt's legacy. If Leigh needs to do this, whether Danny is involved or not, it's her choice and not your place to question.

“That's amazing, Leigh,” you say, trying to sound cheerful and supportive. “Matt would have been thrilled.”

Leigh gives you a curious look. Your focus remains on the road ahead, so you miss the reservation in her green eyes.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” you respond, nodding. Without much thought, you add, “He used to show me his work, and I was honestly impressed.”

Leigh's expression shifts subtly at your words, and there's a moment of quiet between you. “Matt never showed me his works,” she says softly, almost to herself.

You feel a flush of embarrassment, realizing it might have sounded like you were bragging about being privy to Matt's work—a privilege Leigh, his wife, hadn't shared. You manage only a soft, “Oh,” which hangs awkwardly in the air.

“I found his sketches one day by accident, and he didn't like it—me seeing his work, I mean. He always wanted to keep that part of his life separate.”

You’re still processing this when Leigh speaks again.

“I used to tell him everything, you know? I’d ask for his take on my work, vent about the chaos at mom’s studio, and talk through the tough times we faced as a family when—well, when Jules was dealing with her addiction,” she says, her voice trailing off a bit at the end.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, not knowing what else to say.

Leigh brushes off your sympathy with a gentle flick of her wrist. “No, it's not that he was trying to be secretive. I think... I think I was too critical of him, even about his depression. I thought I knew everything, knew what was best for him.” She sighs, a shadow of regret crossing her face. “I guess I was kind of overbearing, so he stopped sharing things with me. He chose to keep it all to himself instead of having to constantly argue with me.”

You wince slightly, feeling guilty in some way, but Leigh quickly reassures you. “Hey, I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad that he shared things with you. I’m actually glad he did. His work deserves to be out there.”

You nod, taking in Leigh's reflections quietly. Wanting to steer back to a milder topic, you ask, “So, when is it going to be published?”

Leigh's fingers absently toy with the ends of her hair as she thinks. “It's set to come out early next year,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly devoid of excitement. You can't help but wonder why that is.

“And there's going to be a tour right after—it's promoting the comic along with some other new titles from the publisher. I'm... planning to go.”

“That sounds like an incredible experience,” you say, smiling at her.

Leigh makes a sound of agreement. “It's probably starting in late February,” She takes a deep breath before adding, “It'll take me all over the country. We need to attend conventions and such.”

You fall silent, digesting her words. The realization that this isn't just a short trip starts to sink in. “How long will you be gone?” you ask, trying to catch her gaze but Leigh’s eyes are trained forwards.

“I don't have all the details yet, but it could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months,” she says.

“But you'll come back in between, right?” The hope in your question is palpable.

Leigh shakes her head slowly. “I'm not sure. It might be a good time to travel and go away for a while with this opportunity.”

The conversation drifts between you, muffled like the world outside the fogged-up windows of your car. It's becoming clear, maybe too clear, what this all means.

Leigh's gaze stays fixed on the shimmering road ahead. She's quiet, but you can almost hear her thoughts tumbling over each other. You know she's wrestling with the implications of her future plans, just as you are. She knows the reality of the situation, understands that there are only a few ways this could possibly go.

She can't ask you to wait, and it wouldn't be fair to ask you to drop everything and follow her. That leaves the looming possibility of a farewell that could stretch into something indefinite.

Minutes pass—one, then two—before you both lose count. It feels as though an hourglass has been unwillingly flipped. Watching the city lights blur through the rain, you can't help but feel they reflect the uncertainty of your future with Leigh. You're willing to attempt a long-distance relationship, though you know it might not be ideal. The prospect of being apart just as things are beginning to bloom between you feels akin to a preemptive goodbye.

Then, an idea takes hold—a bold, possibly reckless notion, but it clings to your heart with surprising tenacity. Yes, you have a clinic, a business that needs you, but suddenly, those realities seem negotiable, secondary to what feels more pressing—being with Leigh.

“What if I came with you on the tour?”

Leigh turns to look at you, her eyes wide with surprise and something like worry. She knows your life is deeply rooted here, especially with the veterinary clinic you’ve poured your heart—and savings—into.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she says.

“Why not?” you ask softly.

Your tone is so earnest, almost childlike in your confusion, that Leigh’s lips part and then close as she grapples with how to articulate her feelings about your rash offer.

“You have your clinic, your responsibilities here. It's too much for me to expect you to just walk away from that,” Leigh argues.

“But what if it’s not about what you’re asking me to give up?” you say, your fingers unconsciously tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “What if it’s about what I’m willing to sacrifice?”

Leigh's frustration shows clearly as she pushes back against your idea. “Sacrifices? It's about being realistic. We can't just make decisions on a whim.”

You turn to look at her, making it a point to focus on her for a second longer than you should while driving. “But I don't see it as a whim. I see it as choosing what matters most to me.”

Leigh sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You're not seeing the whole picture. What about your employees? They depend on you.”

“I can arrange things at the clinic. I can find people to cover for me,” you say confidently. But Leigh is just as relentless with her objections.

“And what if you come back and resent me for taking you away from all that?” Leigh counters, her voice rising a little.

“I won’t,” you reply quickly, even though you know it's a hefty promise to make in such a heated moment.

Leigh scoffs, shaking her head vehemently. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Before you can bolster your promise with more reassurances, your phone rings. It’s Sara, calling from the clinic. Leigh watches as you answer, her expression a mix of resignation and pointedness, as if to emphasize her earlier concerns about your responsibilities.

You excuse yourself, grab your phone, and answer the call. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It's an emergency,” Sara's voice is tense. “Foreman needs you. Can you make it?”

You're just minutes from the city now, and your heart sinks as you realize the timing couldn't be worse. “Yes, I'll be there soon,” you mutter, feeling torn.

After hanging up, you turn to Leigh, who's been quietly observing. “There’s an emergency at the clinic, and Foreman needs my help,” you explain. “Can we stop there? It won't take long, and we can still make it to our next stop.”

Leigh gives a resigned nod, her earlier arguments about your responsibilities underscored by this untimely call. “Sure, whatever,” she says, her voice flat. You want to erase that look on her face, but for now, you’re needed elsewhere.

You spring from the car the moment it's parked, snagging your white coat from the trunk in one fluid motion. Leigh is right on your heels, her footsteps quick and questioning as you both scurry into the clinic.

You burst through the doors and immediately spot Sara at the reception, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. Beside you, Leigh’s steps falter slightly at the sight of Sara, her expression one of mild shock at seeing her there—a detail you realize you've failed to mention.

“What’s happening?” you ask Sara, pulling your hair into a tight bun.

“Room two, now,” she replies, gesturing briskly towards the surgery room.

You nod and break into a jog, with Leigh hesitantly trailing behind. When you reach your destination, you stop short and turn to signal Leigh to wait outside.

“I’m so sorry about this,” you say, your voice full of apology.

“Just go,” she whispers softly. You offer her a grateful smile before your expression shifts to calm determination as you slip into the surgery room.

Left in the waiting area, Leigh stands in a stupor, surrounded by unanswered questions and a sudden solitude, her eyes lingering on the closed doors you've just disappeared through.

Leigh has been noticeably quiet since you emerged from the surgery room an hour and a half ago. Right after you came out, she meekly asked for the car keys and walked straight out of the clinic. You didn’t think much of it at the time, busy giving final instructions to Foreman and Sara before heading out to continue your date with her.

Now, as you drive to the bar you planned on taking her to, you can’t seem to come up with a topic that doesn’t seem like you're evading the earlier argument.

“Where are we headed next?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Leigh breaks the silence. You notice her glance at the watch on her wrist. The small motion feels like a small betrayal—does it signal impatience, or worse, a desire to escape this disjointed evening?

With everything that’s happened, you drop the pretense of surprise. “I had planned for us to catch a live band at a speakeasy downtown,” you say evenly. “But we're running late, and honestly, I'm not even sure it's worth heading there now.”

You risk a glance at Leigh, almost expecting she’d choose this moment to cut the evening short. But she merely hums noncommittally, and just like that, silence settles in once more.

When you arrive, the heavy rain makes the night feel even more somber. A few cars are still scattered around the parking lot, but the place otherwise looks almost deserted. You grab an umbrella from the backseat and offer it to Leigh as you both make your way to the entrance.

As you approach, the doorman stops you from crossing the threshold. “Sorry, folks,” he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. “The performance was canceled, and we're wrapping up early tonight because of the weather.”

Disappointment settles in, heavier now with the official confirmation. You turn to Leigh, trying to salvage what you can of the evening. “Maybe we can have at least one drink?” you suggest, hoping to extend the time you have together.

Leigh pauses, her expression inscrutable for a moment before she shakes her head. “Actually, I think I’d rather not,” she says, throwing you off with her refusal.

The doorman gives you a sympathetic nod as he pulls the heavy doors shut, sealing off the warm glow of the bar from the cold, wet night. Leigh takes the umbrella from you with a gesture that's both resigned and leading, and starts walking back to the car. Her steps are quick, purposeful, but she slows just enough under the umbrella to ensure you're covered and not getting drenched. But you barely notice the rain; your mind is clouded with thoughts of how the evening has unfolded.

As you walk, you replay the last few hours, how what began as an attempt to reassure Leigh of your willingness to go the distance by offering to join her on the tour quickly spiraled into a demonstration of all the practical reasons why it was a bad idea. And the unexpected revelation about Sara working at your clinic surely hadn't helped.

Leigh slides into the passenger seat, handing you the umbrella which you catch as several raindrops escape onto your arm. You settle into the driver’s seat, carefully folding the umbrella and tossing it behind you.

“I guess I should drop you home?” you suggest, more as a formality than a question.

Leigh hums in response, her voice low and temporizing. It’s starting to irk you, this silent treatment. Throughout the drive to her house, the only sounds are the steady swish of the windshield wipers and the occasional splash of tires against puddles. You steal glances at her, trying to decipher her thoughts. Her face is angled towards the window, so that each time you pass under a street lamp, there’s a fleeting moment where her face is illuminated, revealing a tightness around her eyes and a slight downturn at the corners of her mouth.

Just before you turn onto her street, something inside you rebels. You can’t let the night end on this note—defeated, disconnected. You pull over under a massive tree beside an empty lot and shut off the engine.

Turning to her, you find your voice again. “Leigh, talk to me. Please.”

She sighs but remains silent.

“Are you upset because of Sara?”

That gets a reaction from her—an unpleasant one, but a reaction nonetheless.

“Oh, please.” Leigh lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Really, it's not my business who you hire, even if it's an ex. But considering you just told me you love me this morning, don't you think that's something you should have mentioned?”

You hadn’t intentionally kept Sara's hiring from Leigh; it had slipped through the cracks of a busy week. You never even considered Sara an ex-anything, so it was an honest mistake. If only you could convince Leigh that Sara is truly that insignificant to you.

“I'm sorry, Leigh,” you say, hoping to smooth things over. But she isn't having it. “It was an oversight, not a choice. Sara really doesn't mean anything in that way. I just didn't think it was important.”

Instead of pacifying her, your words have the opposite effect.

“Not important?” Leigh’s face sets like concrete. “When you say you love someone, everything becomes important, especially things like this. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Your own frustration flares. You didn’t expect such a harsh judgment over what seemed so trivial in your mind. A thought then strikes you, fueling your anger. “And what about you? You’re heading away for months, and you’ve barely spoken about it. When were you going to tell me all the details? Right before you left?”

Leigh reels as if you've slapped her. “That’s different. I was going to tell you—”

“When? Last minute at the airport?” You cut her off, your voice rising to match hers.

“It’s not the same, and you know it!” Leigh snaps back, her eyes alight with anger and something like hurt.

“You're right, it's not the same,” you snap back. “It’s much worse. Because you said you’d give us a chance. And now, when I’m telling you I’m willing to fight for a chance to be with you, you’re shutting me down.”

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” Leigh says tightly.

“You don’t need to promise me anything,” you reply, your voice softening. “All I’m asking for is a real shot at this. I know you want that too.”

Leigh’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think you’re getting through to her. But then her expression hardens again. “Not like this,” she says.

You feel like you're climbing an ever-growing wall between the two of you, but you refuse to give up on this—on her.

“It won’t be easy,” you acquiesce, changing tactics. “But nothing worth having ever is. We can figure it out together, Leigh. We can make it work if we both want it enough.”

Leigh’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, the rain streaking down the windows like tears. She can’t help but compare this moment to the beginning with Matt. He had been so eager, so willing to give himself to her completely. He had always assured her that he was happy just to be with her, to follow her wherever her dreams led. He had said yes to every plan she made, every crazy idea she had, always with that same smile, always saying, “As long as I’m with you.”

But then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

And Leigh doesn’t know if she can survive another abandonment.

You have no idea that all of this is racing through her mind as you keep making your case. “...just take a leap of faith. Don’t push me away before we’ve even had a chance to—”

You’re mid-sentence, almost convincing yourself that you're breaking through her defenses, when Leigh interrupts with a shout, “Maybe this was a mistake!”

Taken aback and hurt by her outburst, you risk calling her bluff, exclaiming, “Maybe it was!”

An impasse is reached. For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other, each of you gasping for breath as if the air itself has slipped from the car in those tense seconds.

Is this it, then?

Is this the end?

But before you can retract any of your words, in a move you never see coming, Leigh reaches out. Her hand clasps the back of your neck, pulling you close. She kisses you fiercely, as if trying to settle the argument with just the pressure of her lips.

But she's not trying to win. Leigh doesn't want to come out on top in this argument. Instead, she wants to forget her usual realism and bury herself in the moment. She wants to give in to your optimism, to let you abandon everything you've worked for to be with her in the coming months.

But she knows that’s selfish.

And she finds herself unable to be selfish when it comes to you.

You're just beginning to melt into the kiss, to lose yourself in the forgiveness it promises, when Leigh abruptly pulls away. She hurls herself back against her seat, her back pressed hard against the door, panting.

“Sorry,” she gasps, her voice thick with both regret and need.

You look at her, eyes half-lidded and lips feeling bruised from the fervor of her kiss. All you can focus on is how she's starting to pull away—but you're determined not to let her go. Not this time.

“No, no, come here. Come back here, damn it.”

Leigh doesn't need to be told twice. She meets you halfway, the space between you disappearing as quickly as it had expanded. Her mouth finds yours once again, lips slotting together in a way that feels right, necessary—like solving a puzzle that neither of you knew how to complete until now.

With all inhibitions cast aside, Leigh grabs the collar of your shirt with surprising strength, yanking you towards her so forcefully that half of your body ends up sprawled across the cramped passenger seat. Your hips press painfully against the gear stick, but any discomfort quickly fades as Leigh's tongue teases yours. Instinctively, you open your mouth wider, a low moan escaping as your tongues intertwine. You support your weight with one arm braced against the windshield behind her, careful not to overwhelm her with your weight. Your other hand rises to cradle her neck, feeling the heat of her skin rising by the second under your touch.

Leigh's hands are anything but idle; they're bold and determined as she reaches for the buttons of your jeans. It's the second time today since this morning, and she's all confidence as she pulls down the zipper, slipping her hand inside your soaked underwear. The moment her fingers trace the length of your slit, brushing against your clit with each pass, you nearly lose your balance.

But as much as you're caught up in the temptation of her touch, there’s something else on your mind—something you've been thinking about all week.

“Backseat,” you say breathlessly, the word more of a command than a suggestion. Without waiting for her response, you clamber toward the backseat of the car. Once there, you quickly turn to help Leigh slide in after you.

You gently push at Leigh's shoulders, and she understands immediately, lying back with a soft thud against the door panel. Her upper back curves awkwardly against the hard surface, but she doesn’t mind, consumed by desire and curiosity about what you’re planning to do next. She lies there, expectant and provocatively inviting, as your fingers hover over the waistband of her shorts.

You lower your voice to a whisper, “May I?”

She nods quickly and you make short work of her shorts and panties, tugging them down her thighs efficiently. With a firm tap, you signal for her to lift her legs. She complies, bending at the knees as you strip the fabric past her ankles and casually toss it to the front seat.

Your eyes widen at the sight of her waxed bare. “God, you're beautiful,” you whisper, pulling her closer until she's practically lying across your lap. Your hands roam over her creamy thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. You take your time, exploring every inch, your touch deliberately skirting the places she aches for you most. You’re teasing her, and her body responds ardently—her breath catches, her hips tilt seeking more.

Leigh’s skin is hot under your fingertips. She’s ready, practically quivering, but you keep the pace maddeningly slow. Your fingers dance closer, then retreat, building her frustration to a fever pitch.

“Patience,” you murmur with a teasing smile, savoring the way her body arches and responds to your touch.

“Don't be cruel,” she whines, her eyes the darkest you've seen them.

You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. “I promise, it'll be worth it,” you whisper, letting your fingers finally drift to the spot she needs you most. Your fingers play with her, teasing her folds, drawing circles around her clit to get her wetter and wetter, each touch designed to increase her desire, her body responding with eager, heated movements. Her breathing becomes heavier, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she pushes against your fingers, craving more.

Seeing her so turned on, you adjust your position. You scoot backward until your back presses against the other side of the car, then gently maneuver Leigh's legs to drape over your shoulders, positioning her in a bridge. The pose might be demanding, so you look up at her, your hands supporting her weight by firmly grasping her buttocks.

“Is this okay?" you ask as you prepare to bring her closer to your eager mouth.

“Just fuck me, please,” Leigh breathes out impatiently.

That's all the permission you need. You lower your head, your lips finding the delicate, sensitive flesh of her pussy. Her taste is intoxicating, driving you to explore further with your tongue. Her hips rise to meet your mouth, the angle allowing you to take her in deeply. Leigh's response is immediate—her moans fill the car, guttural and unrestrained. The scent of sex begins to saturate the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain outside. You’re thankful for the dark tint of your car windows and the fact that the bad weather has cleared the streets at this hour.

You want to prolong this, to draw out every moment of her pleasure, but you can already feel Leigh tightening around your tongue, telling you she’s close. In a bid to intensify her impending release, you decide to gamble on your strength. With one hand you keep her lifted in the perfect position, while your other hand moves with a different intent.

Pulling your tongue back, you replace it with your lips, sucking her clit into your mouth, letting the slight pressure send ripples through her. Simultaneously, you slide your middle and ring finger deep into her, the slick heat of her welcoming you in. Leigh's response is visceral, a raw, “Oh fuck, fuck, that’s it, don’t stop…!” that she screams out as if it's being torn from her.

Fuelled by her cries, you pump your fingers harder, faster, curling them to stroke that perfect spot inside her. She's loud, unabashedly so, her moans filling the car, steaming up the windows even more, turning this space into your own sordid bubble. She's dripping down your wrist, your chin, but you don’t mind, existing in that moment solely for her pleasure.

“Y/N, I—”

She's right on the edge, her body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pleasure you're hammering into her. But as the climax washes over her, her voice breaks into something unexpected. Instead of the anticipated screams or the typical rush of expletives, something deeper bursts forth.

“—I love you!”

You almost lose your rhythm at her declaration.

Her body shakes violently, her screams of ecstasy almost a primal release. You keep going, pushing her through it, savoring every tremble and shudder, tasting every bit of her orgasm, all the while thinking, Leigh loves me.

She fucking loves me.

You’re cautious enough not to hang your entire heart on those three words immediately, but the confession still paints a devilish grin across your face. This wasn’t merely a heat-of-the-moment slip; it felt like Leigh was revealing something she'd been holding back for a while.

Carefully, you ease her legs down from your shoulders, noticing her wince as she adjusts from the stretch. Before you even get the chance to ask if she really meant what she said, Leigh answers by pulling you in close, her hands framing your face. She kisses you, so tenderly, and it’s nothing like the ones you’ve shared before. It’s the kind of kiss that slows time, the one you’ve been dreaming about since you were a little kid, the one you hope to keep until you’re old.

Leigh’s eyes lock onto yours, earnest and clear, “I do love you.”

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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gloomwitchwrites · 3 days

Text

Task Force 141 Masked Metal Band AU x Backup Singer Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief mention of alcohol

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Part One of Second Act

The men behind the masks reveal their faces. You make a sudden realization.

Chapter Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // second act masterlist

Blood is ink.

Ink is blood.

The ink—

is dried.

Black ink from a plain ball-point pen.

The contracts are signed. Sealed. Have been for the last two weeks. There is no going back. No returning to the normal that you knew.

There is only forward motion toward a new beginning.

And what a beautiful fucking beginning it is.

The energy is electric, the crowd a surging, pulsing thing that moves in time with the music. You long to be down there, to be with them. But you are tucked away. Off to the side. Observing and enjoying from afar.

Lechery’s lead singer jumps and sways around the stage, microphone in hand but not near his mouth. The black straps hanging off his pants swing with him. His head is tipped back, black mask skyward, as if in ecstasy. The front of his leather jacket is open, exposing a black-painted bare chest. His hand is splayed wide, lightly running over taut abdominals.

Between the edge of his mask and ear is a visible paint line. It gives way to brown skin and black hair cropped close to his head.

Both the guitarist and bassist are just as into the drum solo as the lead singer is. The bassist is closest to you and his energy is that of a wild animal. His head whips back and forth along with his hips, and his short-length mohawk moves with him, the hair unstyled and free to do as it likes.

The bass drum rolls end over end in an impossibly smooth consistency. It is heavy. Fierce. And the crowd is screaming, throwing themselves around, crashing into each other and breaking apart like waves battering a coastline.

You feel the pounding of the drum in your chest as if it beats beside and between your bones.

As of now, it is just the four of them.

Lechery. 141 Music Group’s newest sensation.

They have no names. Not assigned ones anyway. They do not talk on stage. They only sing. They only perform. The music speaks for itself, and the masses are salivating for it.

It’s the final show of their European tour. In just a few months, they’re heading for North America, and you’re joining them. A back-up vocalist. One of three.

The other two stand beside you. Olivia’s frizzy, blonde curls bounce against her shoulders as she headbangs. The girl is likely to throw out her back—her form is terrible—but she’s having a good time, and that is all that matters. Lena stands next to Olivia. She bobs and sways, eyes closed as if in euphoric bliss. In her right hand, she clutches a plastic cup half-full of lukewarm beer.

The London crowd roars their approval when the solo ends and smoothly transitions into “Necrosis.” It’s the heaviest of their work—a throat-choke of a thrill that sends the masses before the stage into another frenzy.

“Put these in!” A tall, dark-haired man with tanned skin extends his hand, presenting three sets of foam earplugs.

You glance at his black polo as you reach for a pair. Lechery’s symbol is on the right side in red. Below that is “Vargas” and “Stage Manager.”

“Thanks!” you shout, shoving the foam into your ears as “Necrosis” ramps up and the shredding of the guitar vibrates your veins.

He smiles and nods, presenting the other two pairs to Olivia and Lena. Lena takes hers but Olivia is completely gone, punching out like she’s fighting the air, completely oblivious to everyone around her. Lena sticks hers in her ears and grabs the other pair, pocketing them, side eyeing Olivia in the process.

Vargas’ head tilts as he listens to something in his earpiece. He activates the walkie on his shoulder and rapidly fires off on someone in Spanish, switching to English once he walks away.

You return your attention to the stage.

This is the first time you’ve seen the members of Lechery live. It’s completely different from the photos and videos on your phone. More tangible but entirely unbelievable. They are right there. Solid, whole, and yet apart as if you’re seeing them through a veil.

From stage right, you can only see the lead singer, bassist, and guitarist clearly. The drummer is tucked in the back. All you’re able to make of him is a plain, black balaclava. That isn’t his usual choice. There is almost always a skull face, but Lechery has never been known for a consistent dress code. The only standard they stick to are covered faces and painted bodies.

They rarely—if ever—leave any part of themselves exposed and untouched.

Perhaps that will change for the North American tour. There are thirty-two scheduled shows over a three-month period. A few of those are music festivals. Consistency might be needed—and one of your contracts touched on wardrobe. It’s entirely possible they might go in a different direction for the upcoming tour.

It’s an insane amount of work, but you’re ready.

“Necrosis” ends. There is massive applause from the crowd. It continues on and on as the leader singer approaches the very edge of the stage. He bows slightly while the guitarist and bassist look on, unmoving.

The roar of the crowd never ceases. It only grows louder as he exists via stage left. The guitarist and bassist incline their heads as well before slowly following his lead. It is the drummer who remains. He rises lazily as if stretching his muscles. Descent from behind the drum set is casual, and he never glances at the crowd.

The man is large. You didn’t notice that before. All the pictures and videos never did the sheer size of him justice. He does not exit stage left. He heads right for you even though his gaze is elsewhere—somewhere beyond.

But as he draws nearer, his gaze shifts, focusing in on you.

As if running face-first into a wall, he stops, eyes widening before hardening. It’s strange how assessing his gaze is. It is recognition, confusion, and apprehension all tangled together like broken branches. You’re not entirely sure that you like or appreciate it.

You’re struck dumb, blinking, unable to say anything. That stare of his is solidifying, shifting everything within you into stone.

But it’s not like you need to speak. He composes himself and walks right past, nearly bumping your shoulder in the process. You turn with him, watching him disappear somewhere backstage.

“That fellow looked at you funny.” Olivia says “fellow” like feller, a twinge of irritation in her voice.

Lena snorts, takes a sip of her beer, and grimaces. “Olivia. Your accent is slipping.”

“No it’s not,” she snaps, and then blanches when she catches her “no” coming out with a faint r on the end. “Oh fuck.”

Lena laughs good-naturally as Olivia playfully punches her in the arm. Olivia is from West Virginia, and she’s spent most of her life training herself out of her accent. It slips sometimes—usually when she’s pissed off, irritated, or frustrated—but it’s never smothered when she sings. Her voice is an eldritch hymn that could awaken the things that slumber beneath the mountains there. Lena is the opposite. Her voice is melodic and soft. A bit soulful.

The three of you together create an eerie sound. Haunting. Which is why you were signed on in the first place. It’s what Lechery is seeking for their upcoming live shows.

Lena downs the rest of her beer and gags with disgust before tossing it into the nearest bin. “We need to go back to the rental to get ready.”

Olivia beams. “That’s tonight, isn’t it.”

“Calm down,” laughs Lena. “It’s just a party.”

But it’s not just a party. This is the celebratory “the tour is over and done with” party. It’s for the band, tour crew, and everyone from the music label who had a hand in the planning and execution.

You, Lena, and Olivia were invited to the final show and afterparty as a gesture by the label. It’s supposed to be for “networking purposes” but really, it’s to introduce the three of you to everyone. There is always turnover, but the road crew from this tour will likely be the same for the North American one—at least in some capacity. International travel is always a sticky thing.

The three of you aren’t meant to linger anyway. Like the crowd, you disperse, nearly skipping back to the rental place. Olivia and Lena sing pieces of Lechery’s discography in different voices while you keep directions on your phone. The rental isn’t far from the venue, but you’ve been in it for all of two days, and London is not your city.

When the three of you finally make it, it’s a bit of a whirlwind. There is only an hour, and each of you need mirror, bathroom, and shower time.

“Where is it again?” asks Olivia, glancing up as she searches for the street sign.

You switch between the Maps and Notes app on your phone. “It should be right around the corner.”

“Thank fuck,” groans Lena as she pushes off from the building she’s leaning against.

“Should’ve gone with boots,” sings Olivia, poking Lena in her side with a knowing grin.

You ignore them as they start to bicker like teenage sisters. Stopping at the curb, you glance both ways, and check the map again.

“It’s this way,” you call over your shoulder, turning right.

The directions on your app bring the three of you to a stop at a four-story brick building. The ground floor is an antiques shop. Its lights are off, but that isn’t what draws your attention.

There are two doors. One is clearly for the shop. The other is propped open and guarded by a large, burly man that must be security. Behind him is an ascending staircase.

“I think we found it,” whispers Olivia, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

“I think we did,” you affirm, striding forward.

You give the man at the door your name. He only stares at you. You glance at Olivia and Lena who shrug.

Olivia steps forward, giving the man her best smile. “Olivia Mills.” She pauses. “Sir.”

Again, he remains quiet.

Lena sighs loudly and gives her name like it’s an inconvenience.

The man is silent for a few strangled seconds before he grunts and steps to the side.

With a giddy squeal, Olivia snags you and Lena each by a wrist, yanking the two of you forward and into the stairway.

“I swear to God, Oli.”

“Oh hush, Len. It’s your fault you chose the wrong shoes.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Don’t appreciate my arm being pulled out of its socket,” she mutters.

The stairs are steep, the steps short, and the walls tight. It’s like you’re ascending to an attic space and not the second story of a building. But when Olivia tugs the two of you through the opening and into the room, you forget all about the horrendous stairs.

The space is gorgeous.

It’s an entirely open except for a support column or two. The walls are brick, the floor an aged wood. Above you are exposed beams, metal piping, and thin hanging lights. The far wall that looks out over the street is all tinted window. Directly in front of you is an open bar and a buffet table piled high with all sorts of finger foods. There are a few high-top tables set up in this area.

In the middle of the room are two pool tables. The one furthest from you has a spiral staircase next to it made of a dark metal. A couple people descend from above with drinks in hand. At the far end near the windows are sofas and a few tables.

Music plays from speakers mounted near the ceiling but it’s not overly loud. The noise of the people isn’t that troubling either. It’s rather subdued for such a tight space.

Of everyone here, you recognize almost no one other than a handful of people from 141 Music Group’s primary office. You can pick out those in road crew from their shirts, but everyone else is a toss-up. You wouldn’t even be able to identify the band members of Lechery if you saw them.

And you will meet them. There was an entire portion of your contract that outlined not discussing their identities in public or with unnecessary parties. They’re supposed to be here. But who are they?

Are they even in the room?

“These are some familiar faces.” You glance to your left. The same man that handed you the earplugs at the concert extends his hand. “Alejandro Vargas. Stage Manager.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself. Lena gives the man a little salute and Olivia beams as she greets him.

“We’re your backup singers,” Olivia says brightly.

“For the upcoming tour?” He whistles. “Have you been shown you the markup for the stage yet?”

You shake your head. “No. Not yet.”

He holds up a finger and starts digging around in his pockets. “I have it. It’s—” He pauses, hands tapping against his legs in disbelief.

Alejandro sighs loudly and turns to a nearby high-top. “Rudy! You have my phone?”

Rudy smirks behind his beer bottle. “I gave it to your lighting director.”

Alejandro mutters what you can only assume is a curse in Spanish. He rolls his shoulders, his gaze assessing the rest of the room. “Last time she had it she deleted all my photos and replaced it with a single picture of her middle finger.”

Lena snorts and Olivia’s eyes widen.

“I better find her,” he says, almost absently. “Enjoy the party.” Alejandro inclines his head and starts to walk toward the pool tables. He points, and shouts, “Valeria!”

Over the music, you hear her annoyed response. “What is it now, Alejandro?”

Lena shifts to one leg, popping her hip, a mischievous grin on her face.

“What?” you prompt, because you know she wants to say something but only wants someone to ask.

“I bet they’re fucking,” she whispers.

“Oh my god,” you say to the ceiling as Olivia cackles.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” shrugs Lena.

“I need a drink.” You hook your arm around Olivia’s and start to drag her toward the open bar.

Lena follows, her hand raised placatingly. “We can put money on it now.”

The three of you grab drinks and select a few items from the buffet before a representative of 141 Music Group whisks you away. Then it’s a never-ending stream of people. By the end of all the introductions, the only name you recall without issue is Kate Laswell. But you’ve met her before. She’s band manager, and had a vital part in bringing you on board.

“Are they here?” you ask, indicating the room without trying to look obvious.

Laswell frowns. “Who?”

“Lechery,” you clarify. “We haven’t been introduced to them.”

Laswell smiles softly and gives a little shake of her head like she’s recalling a fond memory. “Behind. They’re always punctual for shows.” She gestures to the room with a little wave of her hand. “Parties and other obligations are an entirely different story.”

She glances over your shoulder and then raises her cup toward someone you can’t see. “There they are.”

You, Lena, and Olivia all turn in the direction of Laswell’s extended arm. At first, you’re not sure who you’re looking at—but then you notice familiar broad shoulders.

The air is sucked from the room. Your vision narrows as if you’re being squeezed through a funnel. Your gaze zeroes in on his face, and when he turns, you follow his line of sight. There are three more faces.

And all four are familiar.

You’re shoved downward. Like Alice falling through the rabbit hole, you descend into old memories.

Of a shady punk bar in London. Of a dark corner where you kissed one and then the others. Of a time when you thought you were mature but were just an ignorant young woman who didn’t understand all the harsh realities the world hoarded in its hungry maw.

Of a summer spent abroad.

Of a love affair that flared hot, and never died out because you left. Returned home. No goodbye.

You know them. All four of them.

Their faces are branded into your brain. A cherished memory you only withdraw from the recesses when you’re needing a bit of comfort.

And you know this face.

Simon.

The one you met first. The one that slipped beneath your skin to make a home, only to crack open your ribcage to allow for more.

He is staring right back at you, and now you know why he paused when he was exiting the stage. He recognized you. That is entirely clear by the crease between his brows.

But it wasn’t just Simon. There were three others.

And those three others are right there, loitering near the bar, completely oblivious.

“Girl, you look sick. Do we need to leave?” whispers Lena into your ear. She has her back to Laswell, her face close to yours. “You okay?”

Over Lena’s shoulder you spot Olivia. She frowns with concern.

They know, but they don’t know. You, Olivia, and Lena have been friends for the last few years. You’ve told them the story of that summer, but they don’t have all the pieces. They are lacking some of the more personal details.

This is not the place to upend that box.

What the three of you need to do is say your goodbyes and leave, but that would be rude. While you’ve done a circuit of the room, most of those were brief introductions, and the whole point of this is to meet people that you’re going to work with for the rest of the year.

You have to stay. You must, and yet you’re fucking terrified.

Because there is nowhere in this godforsaken room to hide. It is completely open.

You have to face them.

“I need some water,” you chuckle, and wince at how insincere you sound.

Laswell has already moved on, speaking to a man in a suit.

“The bar’s right there. We can go grab one.” Lena’s head tilts to the side. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice.

“I’ll grab it. The bartender has to have some bottles back there.” Lena glances away from you and squints. “One of them is walking toward us.”

“Who is?” you ask quickly, fully turning to face the window.

“Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Handsome in a scary way.” Lena’s gaze returns to you and her frown deepens. “Seriously. Are you okay? We can go.”

“Fuck,” you mutter.

“Do you want to sit down?” asks Olivia.

“Please,” you say a little too loudly. You grab Olivia’s arm and head for the sofas over by the windows.

You drop onto the cushion and keep your eyes trained on the traffic below.

Olivia leans in, her blonde curls falling forward. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow harshly and rub at your temple. “Remember me talking about the last time I was in London?”

Olivia’s bottom lip pops out as she thinks about it. “I think so,” she replies slowly. “There were those four guys that you—” Her eyes widen. “Oh shit.”

“Oh shit,” you repeat.

Olivia leans back, and then her gaze shifts. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

Simon’s scent hasn’t changed, and it invades your nostrils, filling your lungs with him. From your peripheral, he walks into view. All you see are his dark jeans and the bottom of his leather jacket.

You refuse to look up. You refuse.

Simon says your name, and it is so sweet that something in your stomach twists.

Olivia’s gaze flicks between you and Simon, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t greet him, even as he says your name again.

Not looking at him—not addressing him, especially here—is only going to cause more problems. What an impression to make on the first day.

You unglue yourself from the traffic, and it is as if your eyes move through sludge. You are a skeletal creature who claws at its cage seeking the light that is Simon.

Those dark eyes—a whiskey brown—are piercing. And they are just as you remember them.

“Hello, Simon.” You hate the gentle sigh that accompanies your voice.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His brow softens.

“Thought I recognized you.”

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eideticallys · 2 days

Text

Take A Bite

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: the hunt loomed, a constant shadow. but for now, in the warmth of the diner, you had this – a shared meal, a stolen bite, a silent promise spoken in the language only the two of you understood. maybe that was enough, for now.

genre: fluff

word count: 0.6k

author's notes: my first ever dean winchester fic! and of course, it's fluff. this one's extra fluffy and tooth-rotting because he deserves all the love and pie in the world. have fun reading this one! also posted on ao3 (spencereids).

GREASY SPOON DINERS WERE PRACTICALLY A SECOND HOME TO YOU AND DEAN. After weeks on the road, chasing whatever monster plagued this random unsuspecting town, a decent burger and stale black coffee felt like a five-star feast. You slid into the red vinyl booth across from Dean, the air thick with the aroma of frying onions and something vaguely resembling a pie. Dean's favorite

"Double cheeseburger, fries extra crispy, milkshake," Dean said to the waitress, a practiced routine etched into the lines on his face. "And your apple pie, make that two slices."

You chuckled at Dean's predictability. One thing about the hunter is that he'll never miss out on ordering pie if it is ever on the menu. You mirrored his order, minus the pie and milkshake, opting for a Coke instead, as a comfortable silence settled between you.

"You know, Dean, it'll never hurt you to cut back on the sugar and fat," you poked at the man's elbow. "You're what? 30 years old? You could die from all the cholesterol you ingest."

Dean shoved another greasy fry into his mouth, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Woman," he mumbled around the food, "first of all, I'm twenty-five, almost twenty-six now. Second, cholesterol never killed any Winchester. Besides, haven't you seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer? The girl practically lives on coffee and Pop-Tarts, and she still kicks major demon butt. The point is, you gotta live a little. Besides, pie's calling my name." He jerked his head and smirked towards the display case where a monstrous slice of apple pie sat, practically begging to be devoured.

It wasn't always like this, these quiet moments punctuated by the clinking of silverware. There were times, hunts gone sideways, when the air crackled with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy. But there was also a language you'd developed, a shorthand built on shared experiences and unspoken affection.

The waitress slid your plates across the chipped Formica counter. As you reached for your burger, Dean's hand shot out, snagging a fry. He popped it into his mouth with a wink.

"Always gotta have the first bite," he said around a mouthful of crispy oily goodness—as how Dean would describe the meal.

You rolled your eyes, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. It was a small thing, this ritual of offering the first or last bite. It started years ago, on a particularly brutal hunt that left you both famished and frayed. Dean had insisted you take the last sliver of pie, a silent promise that he'd take care of you, even in the smallest ways.

You speared a fry and held it out to him. "Only because you saved me from the mystery meat surprise last week."

He chuckled, taking the fry and returning the favor by breaking off a piece of his pie before taking a bite. The practice continued throughout the meal, a silent banter intertwined with the rhythm of chewing and swallowing. It's like second nature between you two.

"So," Dean said, finally wiping his grease-stained fingers on a napkin, "what kind of son of a bitch are we whacking this time?"

You launched into the details the local college professor had shared, a tremor of interest lacing your voice. As you spoke, Dean listened intently, smiling now and then with how nerdy you sounded. He liked it when you go off on your tangents about whatever monster it was you were about to hunt. While doing so, Dean occasionally reached across the table to steal a fry or offer a piece of his pie. It wasn't a grand gesture, this sharing of food, but in the quiet hum of the diner, it felt like everything.

The hunt loomed, a constant shadow. But for now, in the warmth of the diner, you had this – a shared meal, a stolen bite, a silent promise spoken in the language only the two of you understood. Maybe that was enough, for now.

#supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural fluff #dean winchester #dean winchester fandom #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x oc

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buckets-and-trees · 2 days

Text

Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 1.5k Summary: Still on the run, still in exile, you still never know when he will show up, but tonight Steve visits you again.

Content/Warnings: explicit smut: semi-rough sex, hints of somnophilia, manhandling, finger sucking, choking/breathplay, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex/creampie

Author Notes: Well, y'all did vote for more rough Nomad Steve. This is connected to the previous encounter/situationship from It Fit Too Right, this happening weeks or a couple months later, but this has next to no plot, just smut, so you DO NOT need to have read the previous part. Title inspo from Taylor Swift again.

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It’s the jostling of your lower half that woke you up. You groaned sleepily and tried to reach for the covers that had gone missing, only your hand met the warm skin of a thickly corded bicep. You inhaled sharply, suddenly more awake, and smell him. Musky, leather, a hint of something spicy you still haven’t been able to identify, and some natural sweat. His scent has been embedded into your mind at this point.

“Steve,” you murmured.

The jostling had been him removing your underwear. You’d been sleeping on your side, and he kept you that way, only bending your knees a little more as he knelt behind you and lined up his cock with your cunt. Steve’s hand moved smoothly down your thigh to the crook of your knee, where he gave a soft squeeze. Then he leaned forward, and clamped his big hand down on your forearm, pinning it to the bed and bracing himself above you. You weren’t wet or ready for him yet, but he made do with only the precum leaking from his tip and pushed his length into your tight channel in one thrust that forced the breath out of you in a huff, burying himself inside you.

Your hand went down to paw helplessly at his hip. He gave you only a moment to take in the overwhelming fullness, and then he took up a blistering pace of shallow thrusts. Your shoulders shrank forward, hunkering in on yourself, and on the spot where his hand anchored your arm to the bed. You brought your other hand up to curl over his.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned.

And it did feel good, being too full of him. Your body agreed, welcomed him, slickening up to accommodate him.

He brought his free hand up to grip the back of your neck, angling your head where he wanted it. He nipped at your ear, licked the shell of it, and just kept you close, his heated breath over your skin yet another point of closeness and the feeling of being overtaken by him.

Steve shifted the grip on your arm to instead grasp both of your wrists and push them further up the bed. You wouldn’t fight him, but now he owned the restriction. You were trapped – and willingly so – beneath him. The rhythm of skin slapping against skin underscored your short little moans.

He slid the other hand he had on you from the back of your neck around beneath your head to cradle the side of your face, cupped your jaw, and then his thumb pushed insistently into your mouth. You closed your lips around it and sucked gently, still moaning. The pressure on your tongue had you surrendering even more to him. He was here with a single objective: pleasure. And if he was going to use your body as that vessel, you would yield in order to extract every moment of bliss you could in return.

Steve kept the same pace far longer than usual did. The sensation was good but unsatisfying. It felt like he needed to fuck you to fuck, to feel. He was not yet building toward his orgasm or yours. You let him keep taking what he needed, losing track of the passing of time in the dead of night, only dim illumination bleeding in from the bedroom window.

When your hands finally started to feel numb in his grip, you twisted them gently beneath his hands. He grunted and released them. “Sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder. Gruff, but aware.

He then moved you to lay flat on your stomach. He slipped his thick thighs between your legs, spreading you open, and inserted himself into your pussy again. At this angle, his cock dragged against that spongy spot on the front of your walls with each thrust, and he kept the steady pace he had before, but went for deeper thrusts now.

You didn’t put on a show with the sounds you made, never had with any previous partners, but Steve knew how to manipulate your body too well, and gasps, moans, groans, cries, and sometimes screams, flowed freely from you. You couldn’t keep them in. You wanted him to know how you felt, and you also had no fear of judgment from him. He only ever encouraged you to let loose of all inhibitions with him. The gratified moan that melted out of you when he fucked you at this angle couldn’t be helped.

Steve pressed his palm down between your shoulder blades, forcing some of his weight down on you. His mere physicality was intoxicating, and he always used his body as much as he used yours when he came to you for sex.

And now the pleasure mounted beneath him as he fucked you into the mattress.

You gripped the sheets, tugging as the tension built, your muscles went taught, and toes curled. You hung for just a few moments at the edge, and then a violent shiver went down your spine as your orgasm finally cascaded over you.

Steve groaned as your pussy clenched around him, and he squeezed your ass, groping the flesh.

You took in a lungful of air on your way back down and keened softly as he continued fucking you. “Good girl.”

He pulled out of you, and you whined.

“Not done with you yet,” he chuckled darkly.

In another swift movement that belied his preternatural speed and strength, he had you on your back, and pressed your thighs up against your chest. He drug the head of his cock against up and down over your swollen clit, making you whimper for him.

You recognized that look.

He needed to be in you even deeper, needed to dominate you, and look into your eyes while he did it.

When he fixed you with that look, your belly burned, and you needed it, too.

“Steve,” you begged.

No more warning, all the endless build up was only the preparation for this.

He pounded into you. His thrusts were brutal, drawing his length in and out in long strokes now. You felt it in overwhelming force. You didn’t want anything else. You wanted him to lose himself in you.

His hand moved to your neck, and you were already breathless, but he applied pressure there, restricting your air. It was a testament to his senses and skills that he could so carefully watch for your safety while continuing his deep and relentless thrusts. You let him steal your breath, one hand gripping the forearm pressed between your breasts to hold your throat. When you tapped at him, he was already letting up, and the flood of oxygen back into your lungs surged to spike your second orgasm while he ground his pelvis down against your clit. A silent scream was all you could manage.

Steve claimed your lips in a messy kiss as he came, hips stuttering, and then continuing in purposeful thrusts as he pumped you with his cum.

Finally, he let your legs relax and drop back to the bed. He let his full weight drop down onto you, and you let your fingers trail lightly up and down his spine as he caught his breath in the crook of your neck.

But Steve didn’t linger as long as you hoped for, biting your lip and turning your head away from him when you realized you had hoped he would stay there.

He left the room and entered your modest en suite bathroom. You listened to the sound of him cleaning up, then getting a washcloth from your cupboard, dampening it, and bring it back to wash you up – as he always did.

But it didn’t always mean he would stay.

Broken beast of a man as he was, it was laced through with glimpses of a more tender side of him – the side that you saw enough of not to be afraid of him.

The side that was becoming too much of its own danger to you. The side that made you yearn for him – not wanting the mind-blowing sex, but him.

When he returned to the bed, you tried to steady your breath and didn’t look at him.

When he slid down behind you and wrapped an arm around your front, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Of course, he felt and heard it.

“You okay?”

“I thought you would leave.”

The last time he’d come to your bed - a week and a half ago - it had only been for a quick fuck, and then he’d disappeared within the hour. You had been left wondering if you'd be reduced to only quick fucks.

“Not yet,” he said. He pressed a kiss just behind your earlobe. The gesture was too intimate for what the two of you were not. “I have the weekend,” he promised.

And you could not deny him.

You laced your fingers with his and sunk back against his chest.

You knew you could not have him, but you were as selfish as he was.

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I honestly don't know what to say here. I watched something that implanted this scene into my brain, and that is all the explanation I have.

#steve rogers #nomad steve #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #female reader #aspen wrote something #chris evans characters

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corruptedcaps · 2 days

Text

Love of a good man

Jenny and Brad had been dating for nearly a year. While they had yet to be sexually intimate with one another they loved each other deeply. Brad had asked a few times but each time she shot him down saying she wasn’t ready. However she was ready and had been for sometime. Brad was handsome, athletic and everything she wanted in a man but she held a dark secret.

“Ok this is all gonna sound a little crazy but there has been a reason we haven’t had sex all this time and first off I just want to say that I am ready.” She said to him one night. He looked at her slightly worried but excited that they were finally going to make love.

“Ok here goes. A few years ago I was cursed by a witch. This curse gave life to a part of me that was... bad. You see every time I would have sex with someone I would change. A new me would come out and take over until the next time I had sex. This dark reflection of me ruined my life and every relationship I had. She is an evil, scheming, spoilt slut of a woman who lives to cause misery. She calls herself Natasha.” Jenny said looking sadly out the window.

“Natasha? As in your sister Natasha?” Brad asked dumbfounded. Jenny turned to look at him.

“I told you my sister lived to torture me. Well the truth is I have no sister. I am an only child but she does live to torture me. She transforms my good body into one devoted to pleasure. She is a big breasted vain conceited bitch and I wish I wasn’t stuck with her. The worst part is I don’t know what she does when she takes over! The last time she took over I was gone for months!” Jenny said on the verge of tears. Brad held her face in his strong hands.

“If she only comes out when you have sex then why do you want to have sex now?” He asked.

“Because there is a way to break the curse so that I can be free of her forever. If I have sex with my true love then it with eradicate the bad part of me. After a year together I know we are meant to be, that you are my true love.” Jenny said tears running down her face now. Brad pulled her tight into a hug. He held her and she felt safe. She pulled off his shirt and began kissing his perfect chest. She had wanted this for so long. She had to be certain otherwise she would lose another man to that bitch.

They stripped the clothes off each other like wild animals. They were both starved of each other but now they would finally feast. Jenny for the first time saw what Brad had packing and she was not disappointed.

His big cock slipped easily into her wet pussy and she nearly orgasmed right then and there. It felt incredible to be having sex again after so long and with one she loved so much.

“Oh Brad this feels so good, I knew you were my true love!” She groaned as she rode his cock. However his demeanour seemed to change, his thrusts becoming more aggressive.

“Oh shut up you fucking loser, thank god I won’t have to deal with you much longer.” He said coldly. Jenny’s eyes went wide.

“W-what are you saying? Wait! No! I can feel something. I need to stop…. Ooohhhh fuck but why fight it?” She moaned, her voice turning into a slutty purr for a moment. Brad grinned.

“Come out Natasha, it’s time to take over just like we planned.” He said pumping faster.

“Like you planned? Brad how could you do this? How could you be sooooo mmmm evil. Bad boys really turn me on! No! That’s Natasha, that’s not me!” Jenny groaned trying to fight it, trying to urge her body to get off Brad’s dick but it all felt too good. Then the changes began.

Her tits strained against her B size bra as they grew massive. Her chubby belly tightened and crunched in giving her a perfectly toned tummy.

“Mmmm much better, being a hawt sexy bitch is much better than being some nobody loser. No! This isn’t right, this is my body! Oh please dear YOU wish this could be your body!” She said fighting with the emerging Natasha as the changes continued.

Her bony behind grew extra layers of fat to give her a bubble butt which Brad appreciated as she slowly bounced up and down on him. Her short sensible hair grew down her back, becoming thick and full.

“Oh Brad my love I can feel her almost gone, then we can be together forever! That’s right Jenny, the true love curse works both ways, it’s just Brad happens to be mine and not yours.” Natasha said with a cackle as she felt Jenny slip away more with each second.

Long fake nails snapped onto her hands that she joyously ran down Brad’s chest. Her lips inflated into a bitchy pout and makeup covered her face finishing her transformation. However Jenny wasn’t gone yet, Natasha had to do one more thing to get rid of her.

“Oh fuck baby make me cum! I need to cum NOW! Ohhhhh fuuuuckkkkk yesssss!” She screamed at the top of her lungs as she orgasmed hard solidifying her dominance over Jenny’s body.

Collapsing onto the bed in orgasmic joy, Natasha could feel no part of Jenny still lingering.

“Was it good for you?” Brad said slyly.

“Life changing.” She replied with an evil giggle.

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #evil couple

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theitgirlnetwork · 2 days

Text

Earn It

Ch. 7: Heaven's Happiness

Note: As always, the love this story receives amazes me. Thank you so much for reading. Thank you for the notes, the reblogs, the comments and messages. Interacting makes this so much fun! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. There will be a lot more time skips from here on out! So you'll all get to know the gang as adults. I will ask that if anyone wants to use my story as inspo for one of your own, or anything else, you let me know, it's more fun that way. I also don't post this or any of my other stuff anywhere else. Once again, hi to my best friend who now reads this story, love you miss girl <3 Anywayyy, I hope you all enjoy! Thanks for reading <3

Taglist:@spookystitchery@anehkael@fkaams@butterflyybabe@sun2flower @holierthancunt @silkenthusiasts @wolflover384 @liziihorta @summerssover @jackierose902109

Warnings: Some strong language

“She’s very gifted, Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock. The best I’ve seen at this age in my career. You could have a professional dancer on your hands.”

The three adults watch from the observing window as Heaven demonstrates Grand Adage for a group of her peers. Her little back straight and stomach tight as she accomplishes the move with a stern discipline that many adults struggle to achieve.

“We know. So why is she playing Clara?”

“Beatrice-”

“I’m just wondering, Luca, I mean I just believe it’s our right as her parents to ask Madame Sidorov why our 9 year old daughter is teaching the snowflakes that are twice her age the dance she doesn’t get to be a part of.”

Madame Sidorov swallows hard as she brings her clipboard to her chest. She’s been running her youth dance company for over 20 years. Many of her dancers have gone on to be successful, working artists. But she’d never seen talent like Heaven Whitlock. The girl came into her studio at the age of 6, excited to show her that she already knew how to go en pointe even though children really shouldn’t and normally couldn’t do it until they were 11. Madame Sidorov had been overcome with excitement. She had a star on her hands.

The older woman also learned that Beatrice Whitlock also knew what she had. The teacher has dealt with gunner parents before, but none like the stern young woman who trailed in behind her prodigy daughter with her nose in the sky and demands on her tongue.

“Mrs. Whitlock, Clara is the lead role in the Nutcracker-”

“Bullshit, Sidorov, we both know that the prima dancer role is the Sugar Plum Fairy and the arguably most complicated dance is the Waltz of the Snowflakes, the dance you had my daughter demonstrating yesterday. So,” Beatrice’s heels click as she shifts her weight from one leg to another, hip jutting out. “Why is your best dancer playing the dumb little girl who spends most of the ballet watching everyone else dance?”

“I think my wife is frustrated because we all know our daughter is talented. So we’re having a hard time understanding why those talents aren’t being showcased.” Luca cuts, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist in an attempt to calm her.

“Heaven is only 9. We need to allow the older dancers to play the more advanced roles-”

“Then they should be better.” Beatrice interrupts, swinging her purse over her shoulder, pushing her shades up onto her head. “How about this, until your priorities are straight, we can take Heaven somewhere where things are fair and you can dust off your pointe shoes and start teaching again instead of using my child.”

“But, all of my friends go there.” Heaven whines as they speed their way down the highway for the hour drive back to their home. “I don’t want to find another studio.”

“I know, Stellina, but we want you to have every opportunity. Wouldn’t you want more chances to dance?”

Heaven is stubbornly silent in the backseat, her step father softly pats her foot, reaching back from the driver seat. Her mother turns to face her, a noncommittal look on her face. “Baby, when you came to Mommy a couple years ago, what did you say you wanted to be when you grew up?”

The younger girl bites her lip, tugging irritably at her seatbelt. “A ballerina.”

“Just a ballerina?”

Heaven huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, looking away from her mother. “The best ballerina ever.”

“The best ballerina. Ever. And Mommy and Papino have worked very hard to make that possible for you, yes? Practice everyday, paying for lessons, buying you everything you need. But you’re a big girl now. You’re going to have to learn how to work very hard too if you want to be the best, baby. We can only take you part of the way. You need to think super hard about whether this is what you want. You need to think about if you’re going to earn it.”

Beatrice’s voice is soft and kind, but her words are harsh. She turns around, not waiting for a response from her daughter, satisfied that her whines and complaints had quieted to obedient, stifled little sniffles.

Heaven stares down at her hands through wet lashes, her bottom lip wobbling as she smothers her sadness. She does want it. She wants to be the best ballerina ever. She is going to be the best ballerina ever. And she’s grateful. Papino and Mommy had given a lot. And she won’t disappoint them. So she’d go to a new dance studio. She would make new friends. And if not, that wasn’t what she was there for.

Luca Whitlock frowns as he drums his finger on the steering wheel, looking forward at the traffic ahead of them. “How about some ice cream, Stellina? Might cheer you up?”

Identical sets of brown eyes meet in the rearview mirror. The little girl in the backseat simply sinks against the leather, forcing indifference into her voice. “No thank you, Papino, I’m…not hungry.”

“And you have your, um,” Heaven scratches her head, mentally scrolling through the list of items Tashi would need at home. She was going to spend the first few weeks post-knee surgery with her parents. Heaven had stayed with her girlfriend for the days following the injury, lying to her school and telling them she had a death in the family that required her to take some time away. She just wanted to get Tashi settled before she headed back to UCLA.

The dancer had assumed that their boyfriend would emerge out of the shadows, and use his charm to weasel out of an apology, ultimately taking over Tashi’s care since he had the most free time.

Unfortunately, he continued to disappoint her. So, instead, she lingered. Slept in Tashi’s bed with her, unwrapped and rewrapped her knee. Cleaned her dorm, brought her any work she missed. The girls in the athletic dorm thought she’d moved in. But now, Tashi’s parents were here to take her home for a little while.

“I have everything, Hev, you made sure of that.”

Her heart aches. Tashi sounds so tired. So down. Heaven is so frustrated. She’s ready to move past this part. She wants Tashi to just be better. She tells herself over and over that the surgery would fix it. That once she got the treatment she needs and a little physical therapy, she’d be back to where she was, ready to take over the world with her.

“I’ll see you when we open, right? You’re still gonna come?” Heaven rocks on her feet, careful not to bump Tashi’s crutch. “You don’t have to, you’ve seen me do most of the dances and I know it might be hard to travel-”

“Babe, I’ll be there. Okay? I need to go.” Tashi lifts Heaven’s chin, giving her a halfhearted peck before turning to climb into her dad’s truck, gesturing for Heaven to stop when she goes to try helping her into the high seated vehicle. “I’ll call you. Why don’t you have Art help you get your stuff from my room? He probably wants to say goodbye.”

“T, are we gonna talk more about that-”

“I told you,” Tashi shrugs, hand on the car door handle, her pajama pants poorly covering the large brace on her knee. “M’not mad. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. Heaven isn’t stupid. Ever since Tashi and Patrick found out that she’d done…stuff with Art, Patrick has been radio silent, and all Tashi does is encourage Heaven to spend more time with Art who she was decidedly avoiding. She’d gotten…caught up in the infirmary. The combination of the heightened emotions and Art’s soft attention and care caused another moment of weakness. She’d accidentally said something that she’d been denying to herself ever since, and thanking the good lord above that Art had apparently missed. She was determined not to tempt fate for a…fourth time?

Which is why she’d gone back to Tashi’s room and started packing her stuff and straightening up without alerting the blond tennis player who’d been haunting her dreams as of late. And it’s also why she almost pissed herself when he’d somehow materialized in the dorm room doorway, rapping his knuckles against the light wood, in a failed attempt not to startle her.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but, um, Tashi texted me and said you might need some help getting this stuff to your car.”

He looks good. She can’t ignore that, but she can refuse to get caught up in staring at him as he leans in the doorway, muscled arms on full display as he leans in the frame, a poorly hidden pout on his face.

“I’m good.” Heaven shrugs, slinging her bookbag over her shoulder, trying to lift her purse and her other two bags at the same time, only to have all of her belongings fall out of her purse. “Fuck.”

“Fuck, let me help you.” Art bends and starts grabbing the miscellaneous items from her bag.

“I can do it-”

“It’ll be quicker-”

“Art.” She huffs, tucking her hair behind her ears and sitting criss-crossed on the floor. “I meant it, when I said that I was done…Tashi might be trying to teach me a lesson in some kind of twisted way, and I’m sorry you’re getting mixed up in it, but I’m…I can’t be around you and be with her at the same time. Clearly, I can’t handle boundaries.”

“So…so what does that mean? Not talking at all? Is that what you want?” He asks, shoulders dropping, eyes filled with hurt as he inches closer. “Heaven-”

“Sure. If that’s what it takes for it to get you to get I can’t do” she gestures between them. “This, then fine, let’s say that’s what I want.”

Art clenches his jaw, blinking quickly as he tries to think something he could say. Anything to change her mind. “Heaven, please, I’ll…we’d be friends. We can just, I can’t…please don’t.” he finishes, giving up on trying to articulate his thoughts through his panicked haze. Through all of this back and forth, chasing and running, he’d forgotten the chance that once Patrick was out of the picture, that he might get written out too.

His eyes scan her face as she shakes her head, shoving the last of her stuff back into her purse and standing. “Art, it’s not like I don’t wanna be around you. But stuff is getting too complicated. This shit is just too much. I haven’t been back to my school in days, Tashi’s leg is fucked and I don’t want to make things any harder for her, Patrick is just fucking gone and I really can’t handle anything more. So when you say we can be friends, I need you to mean it. I need you to tell me we can do that.”

Art finds himself in between a rock and a hard place. He wants to be honest. He wants to acknowledge that he can’t see himself getting over her within the foreseeable future. He wants to tell her that he’s glad she’s probably not with Patrick anymore, and as bad as he feels about Tashi’s leg, he quite frankly does not understand why it has to change anything between them.

But he’s desperate. Art is humiliated to admit it to himself but, he would do anything to keep the line of communication between him and Heaven open so if he had to appease her by saying that they would be platonic despite the fact that he quite literally gets dizzy standing next to her, fine. Like he’d told himself before, he was playing the long game, collecting the points that matter. So, offering her a tight smile, Art sticks his large hand out to her, encasing her smaller one and jumping to stand at his full height. “Friends. But, friends don’t ignore each other for days, Hev.”

Heaven bites her lower lip, choosing to ignore the blue-brown eyes that drop to her mouth before looking back up at her and shaking his hand. “Okay. Yeah.” The pair slowly pull their hands apart, Heaven shivers as she feels the calluses on his palm slide across her hand. “As my friend, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Is,” the girl rolls her eyes to the ceiling, releasing a heavy sigh. “Is she done? You saw it, and you obviously know more than me…is that something she can keep playing with her knee like that?”

He can’t bring himself to dash the hope she was clearly harboring on the behalf of Tashi but the girl’s recovery is…unlikely. Art tucks his hands in his pockets, tilting his head as he chooses his words carefully. “Tashi’s strong, and really fucking good, if anyone is going to recover from that kind of injury, it’s her.”

“So…no.” Heaven sits down on Tashi’s bed, staring forward at the wall that’s littered with pictures of some of the best tennis players in the world. A shaky breath leaves her as she stares at the professional posters, accompanied by the posters Adidas had made with Tashi on them.

“You’re a really good girlfriend.” Art whispers.

“I cheated on her with you. I’m pretty much the worst girlfriend ever.”

“No, I mean, you’re really invested in her. In the thing she loves, like you care about tennis the same way we do, f-for her.”

Heaven smiles softly to herself, grabbing Tashi’s pillow and hugging it to her body. “I fell in love with Tashi watching her play tennis. Just like everyone else does.” she jokes, poking Art’s leg with her toe. “When I’m watching her, it’s like I’m getting to witness something. It’s…corny but tennis is her calling. She goes to some other little world when she’s playing, and, even though I’m not a tennis player, she takes me with her. It’s this feeling of closeness that I can’t get anywhere else, you know?” Or at least, nowhere else I’m willing to talk about.

He does know. Art does know exactly what she’s talking about. He felt it. Once, when he and Patrick sat and watched Tashi play for the first time. It’s an all encompassing feeling. He was so caught up in watching her every move that he hadn’t looked anywhere but at Tashi. If he’d just looked three rows in front of him he’d have seen the girl in front of him now.

The second time, the feeling was more intense, more of a sensation than a mere feeling. It was when he was sitting in an empty theater, watching Heaven dance, just for him. Art had never felt the things he’d felt before. He’d never had the thoughts he thought. He’d held his breath for the entire minute and 26 seconds that she gave him. He sat on the edge of the red, fabric auditorium seat, scared to blink and get left behind. He wanted to capture the feeling and keep it forever. And he has. He’s kept it. And everytime she gives him another taste, a smile, a kiss, a laugh, a touch, he goes back to being alone in the theater, experiencing euphoria for the very first time.

If that’s the feeling Tashi gives Heaven, then he’s very jealous. And he wants it.

And that’s another new feeling the girls introduced him to. He’d never wanted something like her…or…uh them.

Jealousy. Longing. Needing.

Art knew exactly what Patrick was talking about when he said he liked seeing him fired up about something. Because, as much as he loves tennis, it didn’t make his blood boil. It didn’t make his stomach muscles clench with intensity. He didn’t feel that satisfying nervous burn. Not until…

Art needs to test a theory.

He scratches the back of his head, looking down at his sneakers before clearing his throat. “Uh, so, Hev, I’ve got a match this afternoon. And, I know things are weird right now, so you might think I’m a dick for even asking-”

“Arthur.”

“Come watch me play.” He blurts. Heaven’s eyes widen and he finds himself taking a tentative step forward as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “I don’t know, I just figured…I mean, you might miss watching someone play, with Tashi taking a break and Patrick being…himself.” When Heaven continues to look unsure, Art puts himself out there again, trying to entice her the way he knows how. He moves to stand in front of where she’s seated on the bed, crouching to be just below her level. “When I win it will be for you. I’d like you to be there.” Art carefully tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, before grabbing her chin between his thumb and index finger, moving her face around playfully. “As a friend.”

As a friend. That’s exactly what Heaven repeats to herself, over and over when she carries her bags over to the tennis courts, placing one foot onto the metal bleacher and opting to sit in the seats down on the front to rows. Just so she can see better. And it’ll be easier to slip out before the match is over. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to sit with the women’s tennis players towards the top. All she could think of when she saw them was that it should have been one of their legs cracking instead of Tashi’s and it didn’t exactly make her feel like a great person.

She slips into the seat and crosses her legs, struggling as she pushes her overnight bag under the low seat.

“Hey, let me help you.” A blonde girl crouches beside her, pushing along with Heaven and getting the back underneath.

“Oh,” Heaven offers her a bright smile. “Thanks, I have to head back to my school after this so I have all my shit with me, didn’t think I was gonna come.”

“No problem,” the girl chirps, plopping down into the seat next to Heaven. “Sara. Myles’ girlfriend, he’s playing after this first match. Whose girlfriend are you?”

Tashi’s name is on the tip of her tongue. She swears it is. But the girl is clearly talking about the players that were starting to filter in, with their red shirts that Heaven could see fitting Art perfectly from her seat. His blond curls flopping as his head moves side to side, she knows he’s looking for her. Heaven gives a soft wave to catch his attention and can’t help but match his smile when he spots her, waving back. “I’m not dating a player.”

“Well these are girlfriend seats, so don’t let anyone else hear you say that.” Sara says lightly, pulling her shades down over her eyes.

Heaven turns to look at her, tearing her eyes away from Art stretching. “What the hell are girlfriend seats?”

“They’re seats…where girlfriends sit?” The girl sits up to get a pixelated picture of her boyfriend on her razor. “You know, the players’ girls sit, so they can see them. No wonder I don’t recognize you, you’re a plant.”

“I’m Heaven, I don’t go here, I’m just watching my friend before I go back to UCLA.”

“Oh, shit,” Sara’s eyes widen in realization. “You’re Donaldson’s girl right? Myles�� cousin Kyle, trust me I know the names kill me too, but he was saying how Donaldson brought his hot girlfriend out with them the other night and was dick trying to show off for her.”

“Again, we’re friends, m’not his girl.”

“Hey, Hev!” Sara ducks her head, watching out of her peripheral as Art jogs over, racket in hand, pushing up onto the fence so he could be eye level with Heaven. “Match is about to start, kiss for good luck?” He grins, holding his racket handle out to her. He playfully pouts until she gives in, leaning forward and pressing her glossed lips to the handle, looking at Art through her lashes. The blond wets his bottom lip and pulls the racket back. “Eyes on me, okay?”

“Whatever, just remember you promised me a win.” Heaven giggles, crossing her arms as she settles back into her seat. Art beams even wider, hopping down off of the fence and jogging backwards back to where the players sit. “And spit out your gum!”

Faintly, she could hear Art’s teammates reprimanding him for ‘making the rest of them look bad’ and she smiles to herself, bringing a hand up to play with her name chain.

“Girl.” Sara snorts.

“Just friends.”

“Yeah sure.” the blonde girl shrugs, pushing her shades back down. “Don’t tell me, tell Donaldson.”

Art delivers a win, as promised. It wasn’t hard, really. One thing Patrick had gotten right was that college kids weren’t really much competition. And maybe he had some very good motivation sitting out in the crowd with her eyes locked on him. So he showed off a little, served a little harder, made the other guy run a little bit more than necessary. He could always explain that away as wanting to impress his coach and any possible reps looking to endorse him. And sure, he might’ve looked over at her for each point he wrenched out of the poor guy from Temple’s hands but…well he didn’t have an excuse for that other than it gave him a rush knowing that she is sitting pretty, legs crossed, perched with the other girlfriends, watching him, rooting for him, breathing heavy for him.

When matchpoint is declared his, Art smiles cockily, strolling up to the net and shaking hands with his opponent before making his way over to Heaven again, this time climbing completely over the fence, leaving behind his tennis bag on the opposite side of the court. This time she stands, catching him a little as he lands in the small space in front of her and the fence. “Well?” he pants, lifting his hat to adjust his hair before placing it back on his head.

“Well, what? You want me to say congratulations?” Heaven grins, sweeping some sweat that dripped from his forehead off of his cheek. “Congratulations, Arthur.” she hums.

“Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah,” Sarah calls from her seat, smiling smugly up at the pair. “Good job, Donaldson. Why don’t you try to pass some of that mojo to Myles, huh? Getting kinda tired of coming out to these things just to watch you play.”

“I’ve got a lucky charm, that’s all.” Art nudges Heaven, wrapping an arm around her waist so she doesn’t stumble too far away from him.

“Yeah, so, lucky, or the other guy sucks and Art is good-”

“No, I think you’re my lucky charm, don’t try to ruin it-” Art laughs, taking his hat off again, his messy blond hair falling all over as he places it on Heaven’s head, holding her to him as she squirms.

“Ew, Arthur, it's sweaty!”

“It’s the fruit of my labor, Hev, that win was for you!”

Sarah scoffs, shaking her head as she watches the pair, leaning away to avoid getting hit when Art lifts Heaven, swinging her to the opposite side of him to help her get to the steps before grabbing her bags. As she sees him guide her by her waist down the bleachers, both of them cheesing as they chat as if no one else was there and she realizes that Art is leaving the courts before his fellow teammates play, Sarah commends her own instincts.

And then she makes a note to herself to start saving the returning girlfriend seat next to hers for Heaven. The other girls were sort’ve bitches, anyway.

“So, I should head back.” Heaven leans back against the driver door of her car, clasping her hands together behind her. “But, this got my mind off of things for a little, so thank you.”

“It’s what friends are for.” Art laughs, stepping in front of her, hand behind his neck.

“Pft, you’re such a dick. Aren’t you supposed to be the nice one?”

“I am nice.” he smiles, rocking on his feet, feeling his chest tighten as Heaven bites her rose petal bottom lip again. His eyes soften as he stares down at her delicate features and thinks about how right things feel when they’re together. How he hasn’t felt this good in…ever. “So nice, I’m not gonna say what I want to say. I’m just gonna say,” he takes her hand gently, toying with her fingers, pushing her thumb with his own, “goodnight.”

Heaven’s lips part, and looking up into his eyes, how kindly he looks down at her. What she can see in them almost does it. She almost got lost, just like that. But a buzz in her jacket pocket has her grabbing her phone and the message has her taking a small step backward and placing her hand on her door handle. “Goodbye, Art.”

“One two three, one two three, and Peter please keep up with Heaven, Heaven a little less hatred on your face, thank you, two three and up, I want her in the air-” Madame Fontaine claps her hands to the pace of the movements she wants from her two leads, following them as they move across the floor. Heaven holds her breath as she’s lifted into the air for two counts before she’s slid down Peter’s body, draping herself across him romantically as he kneels to accommodate her. “Yes, that is exactly it. Now kiss.”

Heaven feels herself wince, squeezing her eyes shut as she feels Peter’s lips press against hers.

“Still doesn’t look good, Madame.” Fallon calls from her seat.

“No, no it doesn’t, does it? You two, what’s the issue, tu veux m'humilier et me faire me suicider ou quoi?”

“No, Madame,” Heaven huffs, swatting Peter’s hand away from her waist. “We don’t want to humiliate you or make you kill yourself, I don’t understand why we have to do the version with the kiss, there are plenty of variations without it-”

“You understood her?” Peter squints at the girl next to him before huffing, “Fine, whatever, MacMillan intended for there to be passion between Romeo and Juliet, and you curl your lip up everytime I kiss you.”

“I don’t like doing it.” Heaven shrugs. “I’m a professional dancer, not a porn star, and I’m playing a 15 year old girl, I don’t know why any sane, adult audience would want to watch me lay on top and kiss a grown man and then kill myself to be with him-”

“We open tonight. We are doing the ballet as we rehearsed, you two will kiss and you will tolerate it. Practice if you must, pretend he’s someone else, take a shot before you do it, I don’t care.”

“Madame, we’re 19.”

“Oh please.” The older woman storms off, her assistant behind her and the two dancers are left side by side.

“So…should we practice?”

“Absolutely fucking not, thank you very much.” Heaven pushes past Peter, snatching her dance bag from the floor. “You’re gonna practice until your knees bleed for the next hour and then you’re gonna soak in the athletic building so you’re actually ready for tonight and I’m gonna go…I don’t know, pray.”

As Heaven storms away, dramatically slamming the theater door behind her, she can recognize she was in a bitchy mood. She felt like she had a lot of shit to be annoyed about and was frankly pissed to feel her world collapsing around her on the first night of her first college role in which she’s the fucking prima.

First, she once again demonstrated to herself that she has absolutely no fucking self control when it comes to Art Donaldson, a truth that she’s learned about herself that really agitates her. She discovered this as she struggled into the routine of only responding to the blond every couple of days and found herself sitting up in the privacy of her own dorm, reading and rereading every message she sent, the bright light of her phone shining brightly on her shame.

Second, she still hadn’t heard from her boyfriend (ex?), Patrick. She’d watched a couple of his matches while she was on the treadmill at the gym and as he does, he wins the first two rounds only to lose in the third. He found time to get lazy in his tennis playing but failed to pick up his goddamn phone and call either of his girlfriends.

Which leads to the third thing haunting her. Tashi is fucking irritable as shit. Apparently, surgery does not agree with her, because Tashi had been crabby for the last few days. It started with the day of Art’s match when she’d sent her perfectly timed message. 'Did he win?' It was like she was taunting her. Like Tashi knew Heaven couldn't stay away. It pisses Heaven off even more that she was right. Then Tashi had moved on to venting about how Patrick was absolutely wasting his talent, how the fact that he’s not winning pisses her off even more now that she can’t play. How she’s going pro as soon as she gets the chance because if this injury told her anything, it was that there was no time to wait. How now that she’s got time on her hands, she’s been thinking more about her plan for her life and Heaven’s.

And lastly, the real kicker, what had Heaven gritting her teeth as she did bar warmups this morning, was that fucking phone call. The one from her mother that she received at 5:00am when she was stretching. The one where her mother said she wouldn’t be able to make it to her first night of her first ballet in college in which she’s the fucking prima. And when she expressed her disappointment, Beatrice responded ‘It’s just a school ballet, I’ll come to your first professional one.’

So, yep, she was in a shitty fucking mood.

But she wouldn’t let all of that stop her debut as an adult dancer. She was going to be a pro, she was going to do it her way, even if the 5 seats she had reserved in the front row were empty.

So, she sits at the vanity backstage, putting her hair into Juliet’s first hairstyle. She listens to music that reminds her of when she was 15 to get into the right headspace as she puts blush on her cheeks. She offers Peter a soft smile when she sees him in his costume and forces herself to try to look at him the right way. Because the things that are pissing her off don’t matter right now. Right now, all there is is Juliet.

It doesn’t matter if Heaven’s smile is fake as the lights shine down on her when she first prances her way onto the stage. Juliet’s smile is real. It’s meaningless if Heaven’s tears are real when she squints and sees that her mother’s seat is indeed empty, her stepfather attempting to send her a thumbs up to distract from the woman’s absence. And so what, if Heaven can’t go to her happy place as she solos because she sees both Patrick and Tashi’s seats are empty as well. As long as she can still breezily get through her motions, as long as it looks beautiful for the crowd, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.

And it definitely doesn’t matter, that as she came out of her fake balcony in her sleep gown to blow everyone’s minds with the most loving, fucking passionate pas de deux they’d ever seen, she accidentally caught eyes with Art in the audience, staring up at her intensely.

So she doesn’t have to feel guilty that when she kissed Peter, she envisioned him with curly blond hair and heterochromatic eyes. Or the fact that Madame Fontaine told her when she stepped off stage to change into her next costume that it was the most romantic, realistic kiss she’d ever seen.

Does Art know he's stupid? Absolutely. He's never dared call himself intelligent. He didn't need the little voice that sounds like Patrick calling him pussywhipped. He knows. But, he still found himself on the highway, traveling at a breakneck speed, eyeing the bouquet of flowers that he has placed in the seat.

He'd known Heaven was serious about this whole friend thing. She's so good, and kind. And she cares so much about Tashi and Patrick. But Art knows he can treat her better. He's sure of it. Despite what he knows to be true, Art refuses to pressure her...anymore. He'd just rely on the fact that if they were supposed to be together like he believed they should be, they would be. Eventually. Soon. Hopefully.

So he came fully ready to play the dutiful friend. He was gonna stand politely by as Heaven leapt into Patrick's arms after the show. Art was gonna smile politely as she and Tashi shared kisses and exchanged giggles as they talked about inside jokes that they only understood. But then he got there. He'd been directed to the front where the two premier dancers families were arranged to sit and found three empty seats separating him from a man with peppered hair and smart looking glasses who had his own bouquet of flowers across his lap and a Chanel gift bag next to his feet. As he inches into his seat the man looks at him with a smile.

"You must be Patrick. I'm Heaven's stepfather, Luca Whitlock, I'm sorry I missed you at her birthday." The older man holds his hand out to Art with a kind smile. "Nice to meet you."

Art offers him his own awkward grin, accepting the tight squeeze of the man's hand. "Uh, no, I'm Heaven's friend, Art. It's really nice to meet you Mr. Whitlock."

"You as well." The man lifts his wrist to check his watch. "Show is meant to start in a few minutes, hopefully he will be here shortly. Stellina won't like for her boyfriend to be late.

Art shifts uncomfortably again, checking his phone. Patrick had reached out to him a couple days after Tashi's injuries. Mostly to make insults thinly veiled as jokes, clearly still pissed that he yelled at him. Art responded with short, one worded messages.

It's the least they'd ever spoken since they'd met.

The guilt he feels for his part in this fight they were having is very real. But it was currently heavily outweighed by his annoyance at the fact that his friend was seemingly punishing Heaven by not showing up for her big night. He knew Patrick didn't deserve her, and he was only proving his point.

"Is Tashi with Mrs. Whitlock or..."

"Oh, my, my wife couldn't make it. And Tashi is still...healing. Her mother called right before I was supposed to pick her up."

Oh. "Oh."

As much as he's glad he could be here for Heaven, he knows that Tashi and her mother being there would mean more. His heart aches for her as he settles back into his seat and the lights dim. The pain he feels for her only intensifies when he sees her step out onto the stage. She's beautiful. The perfect Juliet. If anyone would make a man fall in love within a few glances, ready to die at the thought of not being with her, Heaven would be it.

Her eyes are sad as she eyes the empty seats, using them as a tragic point of focus as she completes her expert turns. Behind him he could hear people whispering about how gorgeous the girl playing Juliet was, how talented she is. All Art can think is that they have no idea. They don't know how she's managing to be so elegant, so beautiful, so perfect, even as she's in the type of pain she's in.

Art would do anything to bring the light back into her eyes so they would shine the way the rest of her was.

He loves her.

He knows it. He feels it as her eyes finally make their way to his seat and her smile is a little more real. A little bit of light slips back into her eyes. She dances even more beautifully, more genuinely than before. And his mind is filled with the same thought.

Yes baby, that's right. Eyes on me. I'll make it better. I'll make you happy.

And he means it. Friends or not. Lovers or not.

It's on Heaven's first night of her first ballet in college where she's the fucking prima ballerina that Art makes a vow to himself.

He was gonna dedicate himself to Heaven Whitlock's happiness. No matter what that meant.

3 Years Later (California)(Age: 22):

Tashi shakes her head to herself as she watches Art pace in the kitchen. She brings her coffee to her lips, blowing at the smoke slowly as she observes him from the couch, taking a small sip before setting the mug loudly on the glass coffee table. She rolls her eyes when he doesn’t stop his steadily paced steps across the floor. “You good?”

The blond finally pauses to look at her, jaw clenching and unclenching before he opens his mouth to speak. “This is just different, you know?”

“How? It’s still tennis.”

“It’s pros, Tashi, I’m just nervous.” Art says, running his hand through his blond curls. “These guys are good.”

“You’re fucking good.” She asserts, crossing her arms. “Look, I can’t make you believe in yourself. If you can’t do this, please, let me know now, because I need to know if you’re not going to make this happen. We have a deal.”

Art sighs, planting his hands down on the counter, staring down at the scattered marble with a frown as he tries to get out of his head. Suddenly, he feels a hand slide across his back and an envelope lands on the counter between his hands, into his line of sight.

“Something for you to consider while you decide if you’re gonna fuckin’ play like I know you can.”

With that, Tashi storms out, heels clicking on the hotel room floor and the door beeping as it slams shut behind her. Art stares down at the envelope, reading and rereading the name of the sender.His heart both clenches and races as he thinks about what the 4 little words on the small, insignificant piece of paper could mean for him. How those 4 words and whatever they’re hiding behind them will ruin his life.

The Paris Opera Ballet

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mrm0rgansw0man · 3 days

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Hi, if it’s not too much trouble, could I request something where Arthur catches the reader staring at Javier as he plays guitar, and maybe getting a little jealous, until he asks them about it, and discovers they just want to borrow Javier’s guitar since they also play, but they lost theirs? Thought about it while I was playing guitar, and thought it would be fun to impress Arthur with :D!

JEALOUS ARTHURRR OMG PERFECT TO CLEAR UP MY WRITERS BLOCK!!! tried to prevent it but it was too late :(

anywayss enjoy!! Xx

Arthur Morgan, The Jealous Man.

'Would smashing his head in be too much to do with that pretty lil' guitar she can't help but fuckin' stare at??' Arthur thought. He rolled his eyes and took a swig of whiskey from the flask in his hand. Suddenly it didn't feel strong enough.

You sat there, lost in thought as you admired the guitar in Javier's hands. How you wished you had one! Contrary to what Arthur thought, you weren't paying attention to Javier himself. Or even the words he was singing! You were simply mystified by his guitar, longing for your old one back.

You had the most beautiful guitar, your father made it for you. It was stained a cherry like red and sounded absolutely heavenly! With your own smooth voice alongside its beautiful sound, the birds outside your window would stop their own song to sit and listen to yours.

You let out a longing sigh. You still shed a tear every now and again when you remembered the sound of it cracking under your mothers foot. You hated even saying that, she was no mother. She was a cruel wench, who drove your father out of your life. He tried so hard to bring you, but your mother sent the law after him.

However, Arthur knew none of this. He thought he was watching you fall for Javier right in front of him- like he wasn't even there! Like he was just nothing to you! Arthur let out a heavy sigh, maybe he was just nothing to you.

You both had never officially confessed any feelings for one another. But Arthur knew what he felt whenever he was with you wasn't just in his mind. He couldn't describe how he felt when he was with you, and it hurt him to even think you didn't feel the same.

" 'M gonna go. Night." Arthur said gruffly, standing up from the campfire and making his way to his tent.

You took your attention away from the guitar and watched Arthur as he left. Was he okay? Something seemed wrong.

"I'm gonna go too, night y'all!" You said with a smile. Javier, Miss Tilly, and everyone else around the fire called out their goodnights to you as you followed Arthur to his tent. He had already pulled the flaps shut by the time you got there.

"Arthur? Can I come in?" You asked, shifting from one side to the other and back again.

"Mhm." Arthur answered after a few more moments. When you came in, he was sitting on his cot starting down to the floor.

"You alright, Arthur? Somethin' felt off when you left-" You started, but Arthur cut you off.

" 'M fine." Arthur grumbled. "Go back to the fire. You can gawk at Mr. Escuella s'more. Listen to him strum that pretty lil' guitar."

You were taken aback by Arthur's comments, not even sure what to say for a few moments before stuttering out a response.

"Arthur- What the hell are you talking about!?" You asked, the confusion in your tone was prominent. "I wasn't-"

"Oh sure you weren't!" Arthur said with a dry chuckle. "I saw it plain as day! If yer' sweet on him that's fine but ya' don't have to throw it in my face-"

"Arthur!" You shouted as loud as you dared with people still awake. "What in the hell would make you think 'M sweet on him!? What has gotten into ya'!"

Now it was Arthur's turn to look confused. He stood up, throwing his hands in the air.

"What!? What makes me think- I saw how you were lookin' at him! Jus' get out-"

"ARTHUR!" You shouted, not caring about your volume this time. You let out a soft chuckle as you realized what had gone wrong. "Honey, I was lookin' at the guitar, not him! I don't even remember a single word he sang."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but his posture softened. He knew his anger at you was misdirected, he was really angry at himself. Seeing you look at another man like that made him realize just how easily he could lose you. And it would be his own fault, for not having the courage to tell you how much he cared for you.

You sat down on Arthur's cot, holding out your hands for him to take. He reluctantly did, sitting down next to you. You held his hands tight and smiled at him.

"When I was a girl, my daddy made me the most beautiful guitar." You said sadly. "It was red as cherry wine, and it had the most gorgeous sound. Much better than Mr. Escuella's if I do say so myself."

You let out a chuckle, and Arthur allowed himself a small smile.

"I sang with that thing day and night, and I'll tell ya' how good I was! When I sang, the birds outside my bedroom window fell silent. They loved to listen to those sweet things." You looked down and smiled.

Arthur didn't doubt for a minute how good you were. He decided right then he was gonna buy you a guitar, and he'd beg you if he had to, but he'd get you to play for him.

"How come I've never heard ya' sing?" Arthur asked, indulging in the fleeting thought of you singing him to sleep. God, he really needed to get you an instrument of your own.

"I jus'... I haven't done it in so long. It's a bad memory now." You said with a sigh, leaning in closer to Arthur. "My mother, was pure evil. Completely and totally. Drove my daddy right outta' my life."

Arthur let go of your hands and wrapped an arm around you, he didn't know why. But he couldn't help it. God, what a fool he was for you.

You happily leaned into Arthur, hoping he didn't see the blush spreading across your face.

"She broke my beautiful guitar." You said softly. "That was the last straw for my daddy, we tried to leave. She called the lawmen on him though, told them he took me. Dunno' why they ever believed her. But anyway, I was jus' lookin' cause I wanted to try and borrow it sometime."

"I'm so sorry honey..." Arthur said softly. You smiled up at him. It was a sad smile, which melted and broke Arthur's heart all at the same time. " 'M sorry for how I acted too. I never shoulda-"

Arthur was silenced by the press of your gentle kiss against his lips. His eyes fluttered closed and he pulled you closer to him, one arm still around you and the other sneaking up along your body to cup your face in his hands.

Arthur only pulled away from the kiss when you both had to breathe. You both sat there, gazing into each other's eyes. Though Arthur's eyes kept on wandering down to your lips, so beautiful and soft.

That kiss you blessed him with made him feel like maybe, just maybe things would be okay. Maybe he was a good man after all, he had to be to deserve you. Arthur had always had a sweet spot for you, since you joined the gang.

Dutch brought you back to camp after he spent a night out at the saloon. You both planned on robbing each other, and you had actually succeeded! So of course, Dutch had to bring you in.

You had boasted to Arthur about having outsmarted his boss, but admitted you didn't think you'd be able to get him. And that's where it all began. The fleeting glances, the drunken flirting. The friendship that blossomed into something more. Arthur felt like his broken heart had been brought back to life.

"Is it too soon to ask ya' to marry me?" Arthur said, a joking smile on his lips. He stroked your face with his thumb, causing you to close your eyes again.

"I'd say yes to you any day, Mr. Morgan." You chuckled. You and Arthur had always been bold with each other, and it manifested in many ways. In how you flirted, or in the jokes you made. You both were always up front and honest with each other, it was like a breath of fresh air.

"Good t'know, sweetheart." Arthur said pulling you in again for another kiss. Only this time, it was deep and it was so passionate. His tongue roamed your mouth freely, and you did everything in your power to suppress the moan building in the back of her throat.

In one graceful movement, Arthur swooped you up and laid you down on his cot. He was on top of you, pinning you down and not for a second stopping his kiss. You ran your hands thtough Arthur's hair, tugging and pulling it in a way that made Arthur moan into your mouth.

The drunken voice of a certain Javier Escuella pulled you both of of the lust filled trance you had entered.

"Ohhh Arthur!! Come back to the fire for a second I have got a song for youuu-"

"IF YOU DON'T BEAT IT ESCUELLA 'M GONNA TAKE THAT GUITAR OF YOUR'S AND SHOVE IT RIGHT UP YOUR ASS!"

"Have a good night, Arthur! See you in the morning!"

Arthur groaned into your neck and you laughed.

"Don't be laughin' at me too much darlin' " Arthur said, grabbing your chin and making you look him in the eyes. "Those laughs are gon' turn into screams, soon enough."

"You better be a man of your word, Mr. Morgan."

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfiction #x reader #jealous arthur morgan #arthur morgan jealous #javier escuella #musician reader

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cherry-romper · 1 day

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Realising they like you

+ Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Marco, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Levi, Erwin, Hange, Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie, Porco, Pieck, Zeke

Warning; alcohol consumption

Eren; It was while you played in the ocean. You were messing around with Sasha when a piece of seaweed touched your foot. Having never seen seaweed before, you panicked and threw yourself at the nearest person for safety - that person was Eren Jeager. Taken aback by the sudden weight, he fell into the ocean, you along with him. You apologised profusely while helping him out of the water, but he just stood there. You watched him carefully as he moved the hair out his face. You worried that you might have hurt him during the fall, so you asked if he were alright. Again, you were met with silence. You looked back at the others for support, but were cut off by Eren laughing. He let out the most genuine belly-laugh you had ever heard. He was smiling like an idiot, keeling over as he clutched his stomach. Your heart squeezed, as did the others. Eren hadn't laughed, nor smiled, in months. You soon giggled along with him. You even held onto his arm for support. Once he'd calmed down, he looked at you, from your eyes to your lips. He uttered a small "thank you," before pulling you into a deep hug.

Mikasa; It was just a normal day. You had been doing your chores around the garrison and were now eating your fill, along side Connie and Sasha, in the mess hall. The two you were sat with were, once again, arguing over food. They bickered like children, throwing food and hurling insults at one another. You laughed at them, dodging the occasional piece of bread that came flying your way. Mikasa was stood at the door, staring at you in awe. The way the sun fell over your hair and framed you face was like something out of a renaissance paining. She admired your every crevice. From the way your nose curved to the shape of your lips as you smiled. She saw how your uniform draped over your shoulders as they bounced while you laughed. She was stood far away but could still see your eyes as the shone in the light. As far as she could tell, you were glowing. You were radiating serenity - the kind she'd been looking for her whole life. She'd never seen you in this light before, it caught her off guard. The more she watched on the darker her blush got.

Armin; He'd liked you since you were kids but fell head over heals for you when you saved him from a titan. He had been assigned a separate group from you during a mission beyond the walls and you were leading a rescue squad to his distress signal. You found him being cornered into a tree by two small titans. He was waving his swords at them helplessly, begging for them to not eat him. You made quick work of the two titans, cutting them both down in the same motion. He watched you wipe off your blades as you asked if he was alright. He was so thankful you'd saved him, he started babbling on about him repaying you. You shushed him and told him that if he were to make it out alive, that would be payment enough. He knew then he'd marry you.

Marco; When you were injured while on a mission beyond the walls. He'd never felt so strongly for someone before. He sat with you on the ride back into the walls, the whole time he was gawking at your injuries. He held onto your hand tightly while he cried into his sleeve. Jean, who was riding a horse next to the cart the two of you were in, asked why he was so upset, you'd survived hadn't you? Marco just shrugged, unsure how to answer, but the aching in his heart answered for him. He stared at Jean, a broken expression on his face. Jean knew, just from that look, that Marco loved you.

Jean; On a day off you'd gone to the market place. There was a band playing in the square. Some people were drinking and laughing, others were just passing through. There was a group of people dancing to the music. You and Jean watched on in awe. You were mesmerised by the way the women's dresses flowed as they danced and Jean watch as the men moved freely as they sways their partners around. While you watched on, someone pulled you in. You were a little shocked, but took to it straight away and started dancing with the others. Jean eyes gazed over your dancing figure. You were beautiful. Truly beautiful. He was so entranced by you he hadn't notice you nearing him. You stood in front of him and gave him a mischievous smile. He cocked a brow at your expression, but before he could ask you pulled him into the circle. His hand naturally glided to your waist and yours to his shoulder, your bodies held close. The two of you swayed together in rhythm with the music. His chest tightened as he stared at your smile. There was no doubt in his mind, he loved you.

Connie; You'd both been drinking. While it wasn't illegal to drink at your age, but it wasn't smart. You both knew you had training in the morning but you drank anyways. Connie had convinced you, or vice versa, at this point you couldn't remember. Neither of you were light-weights but between you, you'd had gone through nearly a barrel of ale. You didn't feel as drunk as you were but still you ended up throwing up really badly. Maybe it was the fact that this was your first time drinking in months or the fact you and the ale tasted like shit, either way, you were hacking up as much as your body would let you. Connie panicked a little, you were both in no fit state and it was hard too see in the dark, but you were his first priority. He comforted you, moving any hair out of the way as you threw up. After a while, you'd appeared to have finished, or at least calmed down. The two of you slumped down against a tree. You tried to say sorry but the soreness of your throat wouldn't let you. He shushed you, pulling your head against his shoulder. He told you to rest, he explained that he'd take responsibility for the two of you being late in the morning. While you rested, he could hear you softly snoring to yourself, a sting of dribble hanging from your mouth. He thought you were so cute. And even though you were in a vulnerable position, you trusted him to take care of you and that meant the whole world to him.

Sasha; You'd gone hunting with her and finally managed to kill the boar you'd wanted to for weeks. In celebration, you flung your arms around her nuzzling your face into her neck as you squealed with joy. She felt so warm and fuzzy, she hadn't felt that way before. It was new, refreshing even; like a breath of fresh air. She held you there, close to her chest, for a few moments more before she began jumping for joy with you. On the way back to camp, you both gushed over what dish you were going to cook with all the meat you now had.

Levi; You left him a note one day when you were sent on a mission. It read: while I am gone, remember to stay healthy. Asshole. Notes were your thing, but for some reason this one made Levi's heart skip a beat, a rare smile found it way across his cheeks.He replied to the note in his head: as long as you promise to come back to me, dumbass. He wouldn't admit it aloud but he was giddy with excitement waiting for you to return.

Hange; You brought them a Titan back from one of your missions. It was one that they'd had a hard time capturing, an abnormal beyond the walls that Hange desperately wanted to study; they'd already named it Alexander. When they realised you'd risked your life to help their studies and free humanity, they knew you meant more to them than they could fathom.

Erwin; You'd been gone for nearly a month. Your convoy had been spilt up from the main unit and everything had gone horrible wrong. You were outside the walls for 3 and a half weeks before you found your way back. You and one other in your unit had survived, out of the 28 that been split. When he saw your face he nearly fainted. Your whole unit had been presumed dead, the probability of your survival was less than 0.067%. You and your other comrade were malnourished and dehydrated, they had lost an arm in the carnage. You only survived because of the sacrifices made by the other members of your unit, who'd unknowing donated their gas and gear through their deaths. No one could believe it, you both became legends, both being awarded medals for your bravery. It wasn't like Erwin to loose his composer but you seemed like an angel in that moment, as you were brought to the safety of the walls. He stared through you, like you weren't real, his legs moving on their own as he stumbled to you, slumping his arms around you, pulling you in for an embrace he swore he'd never release.

Reiner; You followed him. After he betrayed everyone and left with Bertholdt and Ymir. You followed him on your own volition. He was at a loss for words, he betrayed you, as if he'd murdered your friends and family with his own hands. Still you were soft with him, asking if he was okay, telling him you'd be fine no matter what happened, you'd stay with him. You knew he didn't want to do the things he was forced to do, and you were willing to hear him out. He just listen to you talk, slack-jawed, that someone as kind as you had come into his life to guide him down the right path. He was in awe of you and he knew he'd do whatever it takes to keep you safe in Marley.

Bertholdt; You knew his secret and confronted him about it. You told him after everything you still loved him and that if he needed saving you'd be right there to do it. They were the words he'd wanted to hear his whole life and he was so happy they'd come from you. He sought comfort in you from then on and invited you to talk with Reiner about going back with them.

Annie;

It was while she was in her crystal, you had visited her any chance you got, explaining the situation to her. You'd known she was the female titan before her reveal, and you confessed that too her crystal. You cried as you explained that you wish you could have stopped her, or at least found a way to help her. You been talking to Reiner about it all, as you figured out their secret to. He'd agreed to take you to Liberio with them, as long as you pledged allegiance to Marley. They were empty words, but you did so anyways, and conjured up a plan to rescue her.

Porco;

He'd known for a while that he liked you but being the stubborn ass he is, he denied and denied his feelings until it was you who confessed to him. He had convinced himself that relations like that were pointless, given his limited lifespan. During your confession, you mentioned that even though he didn't have long to live you were happy with any amount of time with him because your forever could be even better than nothing at all. He was at a loss for words, in disbelief that you'd be willing to go through that for him.

Pieck;

She'd liked you for years, but never really found the time to talk about it with you because she'd been deployed to Paradis. The most casual confession known to man. You were sure she hadn't realised what she'd said. She'd finished reading a book she'd recommended a millennium ago and were talking to her over how the characters had fallen for one another. She simply replied with "yeah, I think he fell for her the same way I fell for you, Y/N". You eyed her cautiously, she wasn't even looking at you, she was just sorting through her papers. A gargled string of flustered sounds made it way out of you mouth in response, unable to form a real sentence. Finally she looked up from her work, smiling at you knowing, she had no doubts that you liked her back so she felt no need to tip-toe around the subject.

Zeke;

He knew when you were walking along the docs with him. He was having a smoke, basking in the sunset, it was the calmest he'd felt in months. Looking to you, he saw that you were messing around with a piece of seaweed that had found its way to the waters surface. He saw how you absentmindedly played with it, it brought him peace that you could still find joy in the little things, despite what you had witnessed. Seeing you lit by the setting sun, finding solace in his company was enough to solidify the rising emotions in his heart.

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thebestofoneshots · 5 hours

Text

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Series Masterlist | Previous episode

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 7.7 K Warnings: Angst (like pretty much every chapter so far). ♡THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT ♡: fingering, masturbati*n, Soft!Sirius, dirty dreams, Needy!Remus. Consent is Sexy! Prompt: The moon is so close and Rem can't control his isnticts as much as he'd wish. And so, he gives into his desires (sort of). This IS a Wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it

Chapter 51: Some Guys Have all the Luck

♡ SMUT BELOW ♡

“You think Remus’ll be alright?” You asked as you lay on the bed, looking up at James’ fancy mouldings.

Sirius sighed. “Yeah, the Moon is tomorrow and we had a bit of an argument earlier…”

You leaned on your elbow and turned to him, “Wait really, about what?”

“Nothing relevant, just– it was stupid, but I think that’s why he skipped the cuddles today.”

“Pair of idiots,” you said as you pulled onto his hair.

“Oi!” he complained, and then smiled devilishly, you knew he was going to kiss you even before he leaned closer and pressed his mouth to yours. It was meant to be a short kiss, but you parted your mouth and sucked on his lip in a way you knew he loved and he couldn’t pull apart.

Sirius placed his hands on either side of you and slid one of them under your shirt as you kissed. It was nothing he hadn’t done before, but it felt different now, since you knew how far you were both willing to take it.

“May I make you feel as good as you made me feel earlier?” he whispered into your mouth.

You smiled and pressed another kiss to his mouth in response, seconds later, Sirius traced his hand down your stomach, and further down, slipping his hand under the hem of your pyjama pants and pinching the side of your leg. You bit his lip in retort and he smiled at your eagerness.

He was slow, slower now than in the fae pool as he traced your slit, just on the outside of your knickers until he dug in. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispered, more to himself than to you and then brought his hand up to his face and sniffed, his finger almost brushing his lips. You swallowed at the sight, you wanted to tease him for it, but it had been one of the hottest things you had ever seen him do.

He dug his hand back in and started to roll his fingers in the way he had learned you liked and he had you sighing and panting while you bit your lip, trying not to make too much noise. That was when the door slammed open.

Remus had gone up to the room to change into something more comfortable for the night, and the last thing he was expecting was to find you and Sirius making out on the bed. On the same fucking bed he had slept last night and would probably sleep on the next. “Sorry,” he said as he spotted you and averted his gaze, not without realising where Sirius’ hand had been. He tried not to think too much about it. Not about Sirius stating you had been amazing and incredible and fantastic and everything great because then, he would have jumped in the bed right in between the two of you. “I- ugh… just came to get some clothes,” he added, rushing towards his trunk and taking the first thing he found before.

You gave Sirius a look and nodded for him to go speak to Remus. He shook his head and pressed a finger to your folds. Remus was still in the fucking room. You threw him a stern look and pouted. “Go,” you mouthed.

Sirius made a bit of an exaggerated expression but took his hand from your pants and stood from the bed.

“Hey Moons, can we talk?” he asked as he pressed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. By now you had turned around and placed a pillow over your head trying to hide the mortifying embarrassment that consumed you.

“What?” Remus asked, voice a tone higher, he didn’t miss the glistening on Sirius’ other hand, but the hardest thing to ignore was the smell. Fucking hell, they smell like sin. Remus would have gone to hell to be able to bask in it. It was obvious what you had been doing and he was –for a second time that day– wishing he had borrowed James’ cloak, to at least be able to watch.

I’m a terrible friend, he thought. But Sirius looked genuinely concerned, and it was that honest look in his beautiful eyes that brought him back to reality. “I’m sorry,” Sirius said and bit his lip, leaning closer to Moony. “I was a bit of an ass, I was very excited but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have told you about all those,” his lips almost brushed on Moony’s cheek, “details.”

Sirius was having an internal turmoil of his own, Remus looked so handsome with his casual band shirt and tousled hair, his lips were pink as if he had bitten them and he wanted to kiss them in the same way he had kissed you. He had leaned into him on purpose, he wanted to feel him, which is why his hand was on his shoulder, and he’d wanted to smell him too. He always smelled as delightful as you did, of course, he felt like shit for it.

He had quite literally been making out with you, fingers touching you and it had been so thrilling and then new, lewd thoughts had invaded his mind, but they didn’t include you. Not only you at least. He might have been the worst boyfriend on the face of the earth. Perhaps that’s how his father had been to his mother and that’s why they resented each other so much, perhaps he had also been thinking of someone else, or fantasising about things that weren’t meant to be, ever.

“It’s okay, we got over that, Pads.”

“But you– you skipped cuddles and–”

“Because of my throat,” Remus lied, trying to ignore the bulge forming in his pants and the slight tent on Sirius’ from whatever the hell you had been up to –he did not want to think about it in specifics. Resisting the bIoody temptation to take Sirius’ hands and smell what he’d been doing, to lick the shine away. He held the blush creeping up his cheek at the mere idea of it. “I’m… uh” –he hesitated– “I’m gonna go,” he added, bunched up the clothes in his hands and walked towards the exit. “Good night, Little Witch!”

“Night Rem,” you said, still under the pillow.

Sirius was quick to walk back to the bed, “Sorry about–”

“Next time we spell shut that door,” you said, voice muffled by the sheets under your face. Sirius pressed a tender kiss to your hair and started to rub your back in soft circles, he knew you must have been embarrassed.

“It was just Moony, he’s seen us do worse–”

“He has not,” you said, cheeks burning. “He must have been so shocked, damn it.”

“Well, I mean, It’s only natural–” You shoved him and he laughed, pressing another kiss to your hair.

You let out a long sigh and then turned to him, lifting the pillow and leaning your head on it instead, “Hold up, did you wash your hand?”

“Why would I, it smells great.”

Remus would have agreed.

“Ugh… Puppy,” you said with a disgusted expression. He pouted and brought it into his mouth, this time sucking on his fingers in the most lewd way you had ever seen, your eyes went wide before you hit his shoulder. “Such a dog!”

“They’re clean now, though,” he said as he showed both fingers and moved them for you to see.

You scoffed wryly and hit him again, he only laughed, pressed a short kiss to your lips, and then another one, and then one more until your disgruntled expression was gone. Stupid Sirius Black, he could be so bIoody sweet if he wanted to. And he knew.

“Veux-tu me câliner, Étoile?” He asked, voice soft, his eyes filled with mirth as if he knew you wouldn’t refuse.

You sighed. “Sirius,” you smiled.

“S’il te plaît?”

You scoffed and leaned in close to him, wrapping your arms around his torso and leaning your head on his chest, he pulled you closer when he had the chance, and leaned into your ear, “We’ll finish what we started earlier on a different day,” he promised.

“Shh,” you said in return, still worried someone might get in. That Remus would get in again. The things he’ll think of us, the images stuck in his head, you thought, still distressed.

And images in his head there were. He was trying to think of anything else, anything that would drag his thoughts away from what he’d seen, away from what Sirius had told him, away from his sheen-coated fingers, but it all kept coming back to him.

Sleep, he had to sleep. That would surely make him forget. He went to get one of the sleeping potions that Pomfrey had given him and took a few sips before throwing himself on the bed and hiding his face with the pillow. The potion, thankfully worked its magic on him and he was asleep sooner than later, thoughts gone, and mind blank.

Until it wasn’t. Remus didn’t dream very often, his sleep deprivation often stopped him from getting his needed rest and when he dreamed, it was mostly after the moon when he was doped with sleep meds. He didn’t think of that when he downed the potion, he only wanted to get his mind off things in that instant.

And he didn’t have those kinds of dreams often either. Sure, he’d had a lot of them back in 3rd and 4rth year when he was figuring himself out, and sure he had been horrified by some of them when he woke up until he accepted who he was and what he liked. But he didn’t have those as much anymore. Of course, they’d have to come back that day.

In his dream, the two of you had invited him to the fae pool, you had told him he had to see the colours and then Sirius had proposed for the three of you to get in. That’s when things got lewd. Both you and Sirius stripped and threw yourselves into the water. Kissing each other and then kissing him. It had been so real, he could feel your bodies against his, he could feel your wet kisses on his mouth and lips. He woke up in a heap of sweat and groaned when he realised how hard he was.

“Fuck,” he said and turned to look at his pants. Feeling mortified over having sexualised his two best friends like that. What would you even think of him if you found out? Would you stop talking to him, would you tell him how much of a pervert he was?

Fucking Sirius, he had put all those images on his head and things were only getting worse. Walking, he thought, a little bit of walking might take my mind off things. Or a book, I could get that book I left in the living room. Remus took a deep breath, adjusted his tight trousers as best as he could and quietly walked down the stairs. He walked from the living room towards the kitchen, and then to the entrance hall. It was the longest aisle that was also the furthest from the house so he started pacing there.

Long strides, from the door to the archway that led into the living room and then back. He was thinking about homework and about things he had to study and about anything he could think of that wasn’t you and Sirius. But of course, you always went back to his mind. Either on the Fae Pool, which he had a very clear image on his head by now, or on the bed, with Sirius’ hand digging under your pants and touching you.

Fuck… fuck.. fuck! Remus couldn’t get the godricdamned smell off his head. It was as if it was fucking there. As if you were fucking there. It was probably because of the moon, his senses were always a mess when the moon was so close and it was proving to be a real fucking nightmare to try and fight against the urges of the wolf.

Hold up, he couldn’t get the smell off his nose either. He looked around, searching on the corners of the room trying to locate the source of the smell, his eyes finally locked to his coat.

“My coat?” he wondered as he approached the offending item. He took in his hands and leaned in. “Fuck!”

He quickly remembered Sirius had taken his coat when he left, but it smelled heavily like you. All of it, it was saturated with your smell. It was as if you were there with him, both of you since it still smelled like Sirius. But your smell was much more prominent. He couldn’t understand why until he felt the trace of magic, a drying spell.

She wore it when wet. FUCK, SHE WORE IT WHEN WET!

The image now solidified in his mind wasn’t helping his case, you wearing his coat, and nothing other than his coat sent another rush of bIood down. He sniffed the coat, burying his head inside of it when he felt his cheeks burn. Lust? Embarrassment? Shame? What was the difference at this point? Moony wouldn’t care.

Sirius, behind you, placing the coat on you, lightly brushing his fingers on your shoulder before allowing it to wrap around you. Your nipples hard from the cold air after being in such a warm pool brushing against the rough fabric. Sirius looking flushed, his hair still wet and cascading down his bare shoulders. It was an absolute visage.

Remus felt his pants tightening even more. He knew then that there would be no other way out of this other than through. Perhaps if he used those images now, they’d lose the power they had over him, and then he would get over the stupid crush that kept gnawing at him. He bit his lips in shame as he reached down with one of his hands, gently unlacing the bow on his chequered sleep pants before digging his hand inside.

He groaned when he felt how hard he’d gotten with the mere imagery of you and Sirius. He hid his shame-filled face on the coat and smelled again, allowing the scents to enrapture him as he patted himself, lightly, teasingly, a soft and much-needed release to his struggle. When he wrapped his hand around his cock, he bit his lip even sharper to hold back a groan, using his other hand to push part of the coat into his face in an attempt to muffle the sound. He moved his hand over his boxers, tracing himself softly until he grew tired and desperate and dug his hand behind the elastic.

He was painfully hard. And he almost flinched when he felt his hand wrap around himself. He then remembered yours, how much softer it was, how much smaller, he imagined it was you and not him the one touching him, he pretended his scars were your fading broom marks and that it was your thumb brushing against his tip in the way he liked it instead of his.

He imagined the coat was your shoulder, and that Sirius was just behind the two of you, pressing gentle kisses to his temple and hair as he praised the muffled sounds Remus was trying to hide. He remembered the way your bodies felt pressed into his. Back in the snow day, and when you cuddled, how one was soft, and gentle, and the other toned and strong. Sirius’ smile, Sirius’ hair, your hair, your lips, he had kissed your lips, what a lovely taste they had held. Sirius’ kiss, much longer ago, much shorter than the one he’d given you, but just as present in his mind.

Remus completely lost himself on the thought of you as he stroked, becoming number and dumber to the world outside of him. So enraptured in what he imagined you sounded like, that he completely missed the quiet steps coming down the stairs.

You had woken up a few minutes ago, the fact that Remus had refused cuddles still nagging you. You laid there, looking up at the mouldings again while you heard James’ light snoring and Sirius’ soft and warm breath. Something was missing.

Remus was missing.

It was his soft breath, his warm hands, the pleased smile he sometimes had while he was sleeping. You had gotten so fucking used to it these past few days, they had been the reassuring sounds and sights that tied you back to reality and away from Christmas, and you missed it, and you felt ridiculous over the fact that you did. You couldn’t depend on him, he was your best friend but he was also only your best friend. He didn’t owe anything to you, let alone to be the comforting figure whenever you felt triggered or had a sad memory.

It wasn’t his duty to deal with your problems, it was no one’s obligation. You’d have to learn to deal with your own shit, not become so attached to your friends that you become dysfunctional without them. You were sure Remus would eventually find someone who liked him, who loved him, truly did. And then what would be of you?

No matter how much you loved him, you couldn’t afford to hinge on him the way you had so far, you couldn’t hinge on anyone like that. You had never done it, and you wouldn’t start to crumble apart and do it now that things got harder. If you had to deal with it on your own, then you’d find a way. At least you were good with that.

“You okay?” Sirius asked when he noticed the stirring on the bed. Eyes closed and hand searching for you.

“Yeah,” you said softly, placing your hand on his head and brushing his curls behind his ear, enjoying the softness of his features underneath your thumbs. “Just thirsty.”

“Want me to come down with you?”

“No, don’t worry, Luv,” you said. “I’ll just get some water and come back,” you added and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He smiled when he felt your lips on his face and kept that smile even as you slid off the bed and looked for a pair of shoes.

You were quick and quiet as you walked down the stairs, walking straight to the kitchen and serving yourself a simple glass of water. You had just brought it to your lips when you heard a strained sound. You frowned and placed the water back on the table, paying close attention to the sounds. You heard it again, and then something close to a sob.

Remus! You thought as you looked around worried. Is he crying? you wondered. He had been there for you every single time, you weren’t about to go back and ignore it completely. You weren’t sure where he was, but decided to be quiet as you looked for him, since you didn’t want to scare him off before you got close enough to wrap your arms around him and comfort him.

The sounds were soft and almost imperceptible, as if was using something to muffle his sobs. Not in the living room, definitely not in the kitchen. You were so worried for him that you didn’t even realise that he wasn’t crying while you followed the sounds. Finally, you found where he was. When you spotted him he was hunched against the coat rack, right next to the door, head buried in his coat.

You took a step forward, ready to embrace him when you heard something that sounded nothing like a sob, and everything like a moan. Your eyes went wide, and your breath hitched in your throat. Another moan, and then a grunt. You stared, one of his hands was holding the coat to his face, the other one… the other one was moving, quite fast. You turned around in an instant, cheeks burning as you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to delete the image of Remus jerking off from your brain.

Ragged breaths, panting, moaning, how the hell had you confused that with sobbing and tears? You felt like an intruder, interfering with his private moment. Although he had done it in the fucking entrance hall, what the fuck was he thinking?

You decided not to question his actions and after gulping, you started with slow, quiet steps towards the stairs. Much quieter now than you had been before since you knew he had exceptional hearing.

I shouldn’t be listening to this, I shouldn’t be listening to this, you thought.

Remus, still wrapped up in his mind, hadn’t even heard a thing, not your hitched breath nor your stumbling while you tried to get out. He was still in the fae pool, his head buried in your hair and now Sirius’ hand around his cock.

What a wondrous thing the mind can be, not even his dream had been as lively as his imagination was proving to be at the moment. “Fuck,” he whispered when he felt he was close, you had just pressed a kiss to his neck. Sirius’ hand movements had become much faster as he fucked into it, now hip thrusts meeting with hand strokes.

And then he felt it, the rush of adrenaline surging through him. “Sirius,” he whispered, soft, but clear as water. His mind now brought him back to the real world as he realised the kisses weren’t real and the smell that felt so vivid came only from the coat. What a sublime and yet wretched thing had that coat become in a matter of minutes. It had gone from his two best friends, to a simple coat, and then one stained in his cum, he hadn’t even had enough time to catch it with his hand.

What? you thought as you turned back to the door. Did I imagine that? you wondered, but the ragged breath, the soft sound of Remus’ voice, it hadn’t been strained, it wasn’t debatable whether he had said Cyprus or Sirius. It had been fucking evident, clean cut and obvious. Painfully so.

Remus Lupin had cum on his hand while thinking of Sirius Black. Your boyfriend Sirius Black.

There was another course, and then Remus’ soft voice again, “Evanesco.”

You swallowed and ran towards the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as possible and then locking yourself inside. You sat on the toilet seat and ran your hands through your hair. Maybe he had said Cyprus. Maybe it was a different Sirius.

But sweeter lies couldn’t have been told, it was obvious. It had been obvious for a while but you had been blind to it. Blinded by the love we have for our friends, you remembered, it had been Remus the one to tell you that.

But it really had been there all along, the way he looked at Sirius sometimes, a look that you’d found interesting but weren’t sure why. The way he talked about him, the way his hands would linger on Sirius’ the way he seemed to always be around. How he had looked at Sirius back at the Halloween party, how he had run away the minute Sirius had licked his face.

How he had gone straight to Alice and kissed his sorrows away, and you, you had been kissing Sirius too, displaying all the love and affection you felt to each other for his torment. No wonder Moony was often angry, no wonder he sometimes stepped away from you and Sirius.

No fucking wonder, he hadn’t cuddled with Vixen and Pads that night. If Sirius told him– if he guessed, what had happened in the fae pool… You let out a soft, defeated breath. You had been displaying your affection for Sirius, waving it like a flag in the air while your best friend was deeply in love with him.

Fuck he saw us in the room too, you thought then, Sirius kissing you, his hand deep in your pants, and then he went and talked to Moony, touched Moony. Such an unbound cruelty you had committed against your best friend! Of course, you hadn’t known, and you would have never done it on purpose if you did. But even in your nescience, even in your blindness, you had done it, you had hurt him, and ignorance was no excuse.

How many times? You wondered, how many times had Remus been forced to see you kissing Sirius? Forced to see you all over each other, perched on his lap, playing with his hair, kissing his face. How many times had you talked to him about Sirius?

How many times have I made him suffer?

Because, was there anything else he could do? Just sit and watch, in silence. Suddenly you realised, when he told you he liked both men and women and you had thought that he seemed to want to say more, perhaps he was about to confess his feelings for Sirius. You gulped, he had seen you cry, he had seen your red-rimmed eyes, and he had decided to shut up, to swallow his feelings instead of admitting them. For your sake.

What an extraordinary friend you had, and what a dreadful one you were.

How long had it been since he fell in love with Sirius? How long did he have to suffer being into him? Sirius who went on dates and was known for being a player. The Sirius you hadn’t met but you had heard about from whispers in the halls. The Sirius people talked about when they made bets about the duration of your relationship.

Secrets, Remus had so many of those, how wrong had you been when you thought you already knew them all...

You silently squeezed your hand on your arm as you reprimanded yourself for being such a terrible friend. What were you to do now? Stop kissing Sirius in public? With what fucking explanation? Sirius loved PDA, the entire world knew it. Perhaps you had to talk to Remus instead, but then again, how would you even go about it?

‘Hey, I saw you jerking off while thinking of my boyfriend, wanna talk about it?’

You sighed again, defeated, so sure you wouldn’t find a solution, and your mind drifted to Sirius. There is no way he knows, right?

You were certain he had no idea Moony was bi and if he didn’t know that, then there was no way he knew of the feelings Remus harboured for him, and there was no way to make him understand the dire situation you were both in. Oblivious to the pain you had caused to Remus. Oblivious to the one you continued to infringe.

You couldn’t even blame Remus for falling in love, you had done the same, you understood him perfectly and it only made you feel worse, that you had been the chosen one and not him. What you’d give to bear his heartache, with everything he had done for you, it was the least he deserved.

And there was Sirius, always touchy, always soft, always happy to be around Moony, always happy to cuddle him and play with him and touch him, the lingering hands never seen as something bad, the stares met with smiles and games. The concessions he had given him, both for you and for himself. You were sure he wouldn’t allow any other boy to be close to you as he did with Remus, at least not in the same way you were close.

Wait a minute.

Special concessions: the jumpers, the looks, the touching… what if Sirius-?

There was a soft knocking on the door. “Starshine, are you there?”

“Sirius? What are you doing here?”

“I thought something might’ve happened to you, you said you came for water but it’s been a while.”

“Oh.” Of course, he asked if you wanted him to come along. “Yeah, no. Everything’s fine, I just– girl stuff,” you improvised.

There was a moment of silence. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

You stood up and flushed the bathroom, washing your hands and face before stepping out, “Don’t worry about it,” you said as you flashed him a smile.

He placed his arm around you and the two of you walked back to the room, James still slept like a rock.

Friday, January 7th, 1977 - Full Moon

Effie and Monty had already left, and they’d be back in the morning with potions for Remus. You’d left Sirius sleeping and James had gone for a very early flight. You joined him when you realised he was gone and tried to fly fast enough to leave your thoughts behind.

It didn’t work, the images of last night would come back to your head every now and then, and you were left speeding so fast it was almost unsafe. James didn’t know of what’d happened last night, but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice your change in demeanour, he just assumed it had to do with the Christmas Party rather than with anything going on in his house.

“Hey! Wait up!” He said as he tried to catch up with you. “You’re going too fast, you’ll lose control.”

You turned to him with a confused glance and then started to slow down, so fast that James went on a few metres until he realised you had stopped. He turned around and flew your way. He wanted to ask you if you were all right, but he’d already seen –more than once– how you’d clam up after either one of them even referred to what happened at the party, or to your wand problem or to anything even remotely close to it, and today was a beautiful day, he didn’t want to ruin it by being intrusive.

“Race you home, yeah?” he said instead.

You smirked at that and nodded, “You’re on.”

Racing was good, you rarely backed down from a fight, let alone from a game like that. James knew you well enough and he was using that to his advantage, he was aware it’d help you get your mind off whatever was troubling it, and he was determined to help, even if it was by aiding you in the stubborn evasion of your own feelings.

You were both at the same invisible starting line, looking at each other attentively. “Three…” he started.

“Two…”

“One, GO!” he said almost a little too fast and took off.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” you complained with a laugh.

“You would have caught up with me anyway,” James shouted from a couple of metres ahead as he turned to look at you and then. “Just takin’ a headstart for it to be a more fair race.”

“It’s still cheating!” You laughed again and leaned over your broom a little, close enough so your own body would cut like a dart through the air instead of offering resistance. You caught up with him in seconds. He looked at you flying next to him and scoffed. He’d expected to at least last a little bit longer in the first place. “Maybe you were right.”

James scoffed at your cocky words and leaned down on his broom in the same way you had done, trailing next to you, behind by no more than half a metre. “It’s unfair how fast you are!”

“It’s because I’m smaller, Prongsie, those big shoulders don’t help you all that much!”

“Lily likes them, though.”

You laughed at that and picked up some more speed, breaking just before you crashed head-first into one of his windows.

“That’s bIoody insane!” Sirius said as opened the window to look at James almost crashing face-first onto him. “Don’t fucking injure my girlfriend with your games, Prongs!”

“There’s a higher chance he gets injured than me,” you said with a laugh from above and flew towards the window. “Sleep well?”

Sirius leaned his elbows on the window sill and then his chin on his hand, he looked very much like a princess from a book. “Not as well as when you were here,” he said with an exaggerated pout.

“Ugh, please!!” James complained.

You smiled and leaned back on the broom a little. “Hey Prongsie, come over here, will you?” He did as told, you instantly leaned towards him. “What do you see over there?” you whispered as you pointed towards your boyfriend.

“A twat,” he responded with a shit-eating smirk. Loud enough for Sirius to hear.

“Oi!” Sirius complained.

“I mean besides that,” you said with a similar smirk, Sirius looked at you as if he had been betrayed. “I mean, imagine if Sirius had slightly longer hair, golden, letting it fall to the window down to the floor.”

James cackled after that, the picture so clear and vivid on his head it might as well have been painted, “Like Rapunzel?”

You nodded and bit your lip, Sirius hadn’t heard, but he looked agitated as the two of you laughed, enough for him to stop leaning so casually on the window, and placing both hands on the sill to lean on them with a slightly bothered scoff.

“Hey Rapunzel, let down your beautiful hair!” James teased.

You laughed outwardly at that, Sirius was pouting now, he looked beyond adorable.

That’s when you remembered another certain lady who used to linger by her window. You smiled, and cleared your throat “But soft what light through the yonder window breaks. It is the east and Sirius is the sun.”

He gave you an exasperated look.

You bit your lip as you tried to hold a smile. “Arise, fair sun, and kiIl the envious moon.”

You had not realised it, but Remus was just behind Sirius, witnessing the entire play. The envious moon, it certainly fits me, he thought, almost bitterly.

“Oh, it is my love, see how he leans his cheek upon that hand. How I wish I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek.”

“Oh, please,” Sirius said exasperated, although he was smiling now as if your theatre was as diverting as bothersome.

“He speaks!” you said exaggeratedly as you turned to James wide-eyed, and then back at Sirius. “Oh, speak again, bright angel”

“Are you done?”

“O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” You continued, leaning closer to him.

“That? Never!” Sirius said as he leaned a little closer to the window. “Come, fair maiden.”

“Oh for fucks sake, he’s joined her,” James muttered under his breath as he watched the entire scene unfold.

“Stony limits cannot hold love out,” you said as you flew closer to Sirius, a smile on your face, your nose was brushing against his and you had to bite your lips from the stupid lovesick smile you were withholding.

Sirius laughed, and placed both of his hands around your face, “What satisfaction can I offer you, Étoile?”

Did Sirius even read Romeo and Juliet? You wondered as you thought of your next line, “The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine… If my heart's dear love—”

Sirius kissed you, interrupting your ramblings by dragging you towards him. James rolled his eyes from the side. “Oh, blessed, blessed night, I am afraid. Being it night, all this is but a dream…” you said in between a kiss. Dawn had come mere hours ago, your words made almost no sense, but you barely cared.

“Too flattering-sweet to be substantial,” Remus finished. You pulled from the kiss and stared at him. You paled. How long had he been there? How much of your silly game had he seen?

“Remus, you’re awake.” You said. Sirius, oblivious as he was from what you’d seen last night, turned to Moony with a smile as bright as the star that carried his name.

“Morning, Moons,” he said.

Moony took a deep breath, it was a second, almost a flicker of it, but there was a sadness so deep you could almost feel the pang in your own heart. You faltered at it, feeling equally sorrowful. He then smiled, “Morning, Juliet,” he joked, and then turned to you with a soft nod, “Romeo.”

“Juliet?” Sirius asked, confused, and turned to you. “Who’s Juliet?”

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet,” Remus replied.

“It’s… uh–” you started.

“Doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee take all myself,” Remus added while looking straight at Sirius. You faltered again.

Sirius had pulled back just a second, but he was looking into Remus’ eyes so deeply, and so enchanted by them, that you felt like an intruder. Like Romeo and Juliet had found each other and you were nothing more than a Paris or a Rosalind. You were so lost in your thoughts, that you flew to the side, and your boom got caught in a vine, making you lose balance and fall a couple of metres down to the bushes.

“Vixen!” James said as he sped down, trying to catch you, but by the time he reached you, you were already in between the bushes. They had mostly broken your fall.

The loud thud was enough to break the trance of the boys and they had both leaned over the window to check on you, you heard them both calling, each using their own nickname for you.

“Hey,” you said with an apologetic smile. Both Remus and Sirius looked mortified, James, who had seen you were all right, was just shaking his head in a disapproving manner.

“Does Romeo fall off the Balcony at any point?” James asked you with a diverted smile. You stuck out your tongue at him.

“Who the hell is Romeo?” Sirius asked, confused.

“Shakespeare, mate! You live under a rock?” James replied, feeling entitled. He had only known about Romeo and Juliet because Lily had been telling him about the Shakespeare collection she had gotten Mary for Christmas on the train.

“Muggle?” Sirius asked, turning to Remus.

“Oh, very,” he replied.

“Not all of it, Midsummer Night’s Dream has fairies.”

“Are they as delightful as you are, Tinkerbell?” Sirius teased.

You rolled off the bushes and to the side, hiding your entire face in the snow and groaning. That nickname was your own fault, you had suggested Remus to read Peter Pan aloud and Sirius wouldn’t stop comparing you to her. “They’re equally obdurate!” he’d said, to Remus’ amusement.

“You’ll get cold,” James said as he pulled you from the snow.

“I don’t care,” you replied, turning to him with a pout, one of your cheeks still buried in the snow. “It’s actually good for your muscles.”

“Yeah sure,” James said as he pulled you up and turned to the window, “See you in the dining room?”

“We’ll be down in a second,” Sirius said.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Little Witch?” Remus asked, leaning his head over the window while Sirius removed his nightshirt to change into something else.

You looked up at him too and placed your hand over your eyes, the day had gotten so bright you could barely look at him straight.

“Like softest music to attending ears!” You replied dramatically.

Sirius leaned over his shoulder, shirtless with a confused face and you gave him a thumbs up, not missing the nervous look Moony threw his way as their bodies came into contact with each other. You looked down from that, remembering what had happened the previous night with a small frown.

“Come on,” James said as he pulled you by the shoulder. “Mum must have something for falls on her potions cabinet.”

“I’ve had much worse.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt still,” James said with an all-knowing raise of the eyebrows.

As you walked inside, you spotted Remus’ coat still in the hanger and instantly drove your sight to the other side. The elves had already placed breakfast on the table by the time you got to the room, and you went straight to take a seat while James went over the cupboard behind you and looked through the many potions their parents had brewed.

You were resting your head on the table as you waited for the other boys to arrive.

“Shadowshade?” James asked.

“That’s for sunburns.”

“Harmony Haze?”

“Isn’t… isn’t that for singing better?” you asked as you turned to look at him, he shrugged in response and placed the potion back on the spot.

“Veil of Vigour?”

You looked at him with your eyes wide open and stood up next to him, “Are you sure?”

“That’s what it says, why?” He turned the label towards your face.

You leaned over his shoulder and whispered what that potion did to men.

“Shut up!” he said as he gasped. “Dad’s not that old!”

“Maybe it’s for a friend?” you said with a shrug. James was still trying to process the information when you pointed to one of the others.

“That’s Skele-Gro,” he said. He took a small vial with green liquid and held it up to you, “Calming draught?”

“No,” you said as you shook your head. “That stuff knocks me out.”

You pointed at one, “What does it say there?”

James was better at deciphering his dad’s handwriting than you were. “Ce–“ he started. “Celestial Soothe.” He pulled it out from the cupboard in a second. “This is great actually,” he said as he walked towards the table and served about a quarter of a glass of water, “Dad used to give it to me when I was learning how to fly,” he took the dropper and trew around 8 drops on the glass. “It would take the pain away almost instantly.”

“You fell a lot?” you teased as you took the glass he had in his hands and took a gulp.

“You better sit down,” he said as he pulled a chair, you almost instantly relaxed onto it. “I was always trying to do stupid tricks so yes.”

You laughed and took another drink, not only were you now a lot more relaxed, but the soreness from the fall was completely gone, not that it had been very painful, “Oh, wow.”

“Yeah,” James replied with a knowing smile as he sat down.

Sirius and Remus came down the stairs seconds later, “Hey boys!” you said. Sirius walked straight towards you, sitting down on the closest chair and placing a soft kiss on your cheek before he served himself some orange juice.

“Tea, Luv?” Remus asked. You turned your gaze to him, he was looking at you apprehensively. Sirius leaned onto you, and you turned to look straight at the cup, avoiding your gaze entirely.

“Please,” you responded as you looked at him serving.

That look on his face, had it always been there? How hadn’t you seen it before?

Although what you saw as apprehension, was nothing other than longing. Yes, it often made Remus jealous that he couldn’t kiss you or Sirius with that same familiarity, that he had the memory of your lips engraved in his brain but that it was nothing more than that, a memory. Moony being so close to clawing his way out of him didn’t make him more lenient. But Remus was never uncomfortable if you kissed each other, heck he had imagined you kissing each other while he jerked off to the coat, the only difference there was that, in his delusion, you welcomed him to the kiss shortly after.

You were worried for him, you wanted to talk to him, but you didn’t even know how to begin. You couldn’t tell him you knew since it could sound like a threat, besides, he might pull apart from the both of you, and you would never want that to happen. Remus and Sirius drifting apart, you and Remus drifting apart, the idea ate you up from the inside out. You loved your friendship. And perhaps you were being selfish –if Remus was in pain– but you didn’t want things to change, you didn’t want more things to change. You didn’t want to lose Remus, the idea of him being a stranger, of him not speaking to you, of being unknown. It was harrowing.

You didn’t want to lose more friends, even if it meant only drifting apart, you just couldn’t bear the idea of it.

And Remus was still Remus. He was still acting like he did all the time, playful and yet the voice of reason when the boys –and you– got unreasonable ideas.

He placed your tea, prepared exactly how you liked it, next to your plate. He was the same. The only thing that had changed was your knowledge of the situation.

“Are we ready for tonight?” Sirius asked with a smile. “Effie and Monty left, right?”

“Yup, earlier today,” James said as he popped some pancakes into his mouth. “Picksie and Mellie will catch up with them after lunch, I believe they’ll leave dinner ready.”

“And you sure there will be no one else in the perimeter?” Remus asked apprehensively.

“That’s why we were flying today in the morning,” James said.

“Before we decided to get into a race,” you added. You stood up and walked over to the bathroom. By the time you got back you realised James was talking about Tadpoles, and while Sirius looked at him attentively, Remus was lost in Sirius’ nodding profile, you felt so impossibly stupid.

That look, so immensely similar to the way you looked at Sirius all the time, eyes fixed on him, lost on him. How hadn’t you seen it before? Undeniable as the full moon, Remus was lost on him, and you didn’t blame him at all.

Remus said something to James and Sirius cackled, that’s when you realised that Sirius’ gaze also lingered on the other boy.

It was in the way he’d brighten up when Remus smiled, in the way he would laugh louder if Rem cracked a joke, in the way he would look for him when he wasn’t around and in the way he would often ask about him when he was gone.

Had he been like that with you too?

You didn’t want to think much about it, you were so in love with Sirius, with everything about Sirius that you had never stopped to think, to really think, if he was as in love with you as you were with him, and then again, even if he was, what about Remus?

“Starshine,” he said as he looked past Remus’ shoulder and towards you, “Did you hear that?”

You shook your head and gulped, “I must have missed it, What was it?”

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

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A/N: Well this one's a bit of a rollercoaster, wasn't it? At least someone finally SAW something!