#i live in the last floor so this house is like an oven

[kiddstellas]

28º C at night with 40ºC during the day should be illegal

[vivwritesfics]

Hooked On A Feeling

Chapter Three - Playdate

Daniel is a Formula One driver, but, more importantly, he was a single dad to a wonderful little girl. He wants her to be a normal little girl, to have a normal social life, so he sends her to daycare. That was where she met Milo, her future best friend.

Milo's mother was incredibly stressed. She worked so hard to provide a good life for her son. But then he makes a new friend, a friend who has a hot dad (ofc they fall in love)

1.5K

Single Dad!Daniel x Single Mum!Reader

Series Masterlist

Daniel held Olivia's hands as they walked towards the house. There was a cat sat outside of the door, watching as the approached. When they got too close, the cat scarpered, running into the neighbours garden.

Stepping up to the door, Daniel knocked. He squeezed Olivias hand as they waited for the door to open.

"Coming!" Came a faraway voice. In no time at all the door was open and Y/N was welcoming the two of them into her house.

"Hey Olivia!" Y/N cheered as she pulled open the door.

Daniel grinned as he and his daughter stepped inside. "Hey," he said as Y/N shut the door. "Thanks for doing this." He muttered the last part, trying not to let Olivia hear him.

"It's no problem," she said, walking in front of them and leading them into the living room. "Can I get either of you something to drink?"

As soon as Olivia was in the living room, Milo was on his feet, shouting his name as he ran towards her. The two embraced and Milo pulled her into the middle of the room, where he had a collection of toys already set out. "My Momma said we can watch a movie while we play," he said, sitting on the floor.

As the two began playing, Daniel sat on one of the sofas and Y/N walked in with glasses of water for her guests. "What're we watching, kids?" She asked as she sat on the opposite side of the sofa to Daniel.

"Barbie," Olivia said instantly.

"Momma no! I don't want to watch barbie!" Milo suddenly called.

Y/N opened a streaming service and began scrolling through the kids section. "How about we find something we can all agree on?" She said calmly as she searched for a movie.

They settled on the Lorax. The kids played as Daniel and Y/N watched over them, the film playing in the background.

As they played, Y/N shuffled closer to Daniel. "I wasn't sure what to get for dinner so I got several different pizzas. I hope that's okay."

"That's more than okay," Daniel said as he took off his Red Bull hat. "Olivia doesn't get pizza very often."

"Why's that?" She asked as she looked at him, her body full turned towards him (this didn't go unnoticed by Milo and Olivia).

Daniels fingers drummed against the arm of the sofa. "She might have it at her mums place, but Livvy insists she eats like me when she's at mine so she can be just like her daddy."

Before Y/N could push for more information, Olivia turned around. "Daddy, shut up!" She called.

Suddenly, Daniel levelled her with a look. "Do you want to try that again, little lady?"

She blushed pink and looked down at her socks. "Daddy, could you be quiet so Milo and I can watch the TV?"

It was better, but Olivia still could have been politer. But Daniel let it go. He didn't push, didn't want to embarrass her in front of her friend.

Towards the end of the movie Y/N got up. She stood from the sofa and walked out of the room, leaving them there while she went to the kitchen. With the doors open, she could hear as the kids watched TV and played while she put the pizzas in the oven and set a timer on her phone.

After a short episode of scooby doo, the kids were sat at the kitchen table, two pizzas in front of them. They picked and chose which pizza they wanted, leaving what they didn't. Y/N knew they'd never eat it all, leaving what they didn't want for her and Daniel.

After they had eaten, Milo pulled Olivia out of the kitchen, and up to his bedroom. Poppy that cat had made her way up to his bedroom while they were all downstairs, sleeping on Milo's bed. But, as soon as she heard them running up the stairs, she scarpered, running down the stairs and out of the cat flap.

Full and tired from an afternoon of playing, Milo and Olivia soon found themselves asleep on the floor. Their parents found them when Y/N gave Daniel and tour of their small house. She picked up Milo and placed him in his bed as Daniel scooped up Olivia.

"I guess we should get going," he said, holding her in his arms.

Y/N looked towards her bedroom. She and Daniel hadn't had a proper chance to talk, and she wanted to know more. He was intriguing, incredibly so, and she wasn't ready to say goodbye. Not yet. "Well, you could let her have a nice little sleep in here," she said and pushed open her bedroom door.

Daniel grinned as he walked Olivia into the bedroom. He laid her down onto the bed and laid her down in it, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

Leaving the door open to give her some light, Y/N took Daniel back downstairs. They walked through the kitchen and out into the back garden. The porch light was on as they sat on the swinging chair and faced each other. "Can I ask you something rather personal?" She asked as she gently rocked the chair with her foot.

"Go for it," Daniel replied, Poppy the cat suddenly jumping up between them. She ignored her owner, immediately settling onto Daniels lap, promptly falling asleep.

Y/N sucked in a deep breath. It was something that had been weighing on her mind for the last week, something that Milo had told her when he first met Olivia. "Milo says Olivia doesn't like her mum. Can I ask what that's about?"

The smile dropped from Daniel’s face. He did that a lot, Y/N had begun to realise from the two times she had met him, He shifted in his seat as he scratched at Poppy’s coat. “Olivia doesn’t talk to me about what happens at her mum’s house. But she does talk to my parents. She doesn’t hit her, but she does make her miserable. Olivia gets locked in her room whenever she shows the slightest hint of attitude and her mum’s constant stream of boyfriends piss her off. She said that once, that they piss her off. I’ll let you guess where she learned that.”

Daniel went on, becoming more and more distressed. But Poppy pawing at his leg stopped him. He scratched at her chin and looked at Y/N, letting a smile cross his face. “Anyway,” he said. “My turn with the deep questions.”

He asked the one question Y/N wasn’t keen on answering. Not that she wanted it to be a secret, and she was definitely going to answer him. But after five years it still wasn’t the easiest subject to talk about.

“I was nineteen when I found out I was pregnant with Milo. I told my partner at the time, and he wanted nothing to do with me. I told my parents, and they wanted nothing to do with me. So I took off, moved out here, got a job and gave birth to Milo. It’s been just me and him ever since. His dad knows nothing about him and never will. It’s me and Milo against the world.” She sat up a little straighter. As it got later in the day, the sun began to dip and the air turned ever so slightly colder. “How about you? What happened with you and Olivia’s mother?”

Daniel shrugged his shoulders. He actually shrugged. What kind of response was that? But Y/N said nothing as he began talking. “We were in love, moved too fast. Olivia was born exactly nine months into our relationship, when I was racing in Silverstone-“ A fact Daniel would never forgive himself for, that he missed the birth of his daughter. “-Things had been sour between us since before Olivia was born, but we tried to stay together for her. But we realised she would have been growing up in a shitty environment, so we went our separate ways.”

They continued talking through the night, until Olivia and Milo came running downstairs, now wide away. Milo climbed into his mother’s lap while Olivia grabbed a hold of her father’s arm. “Daddy, can we live here?” She asked, reaching towards Poppy the cat.

Daniel laughed. He went to stand up, moving Poppy from his lap, and scooped Olivia into his arms. “Come on, Badger. Let’s get you home to bed.”

She pouted, laying her head on his shoulder. “Can we come back tomorrow?”

For a minute Daniel looked like he was thinking about it. “We could,” he mused. “Or we could take Y/N and Milo to the park, play on the swings and get some ice cream? How does that sound?”

Both kids cheered.

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @cassie0sstuff @spideybv28 @andydrysdalerogers @aundercover @lou-bean28 @landossainz @purplephantomwolf @ggaslyp1 @layazul @phantomxoxo @minkyungseokie @gills-lounge @hollie911 @annispamz @lillians-world-is-f1 @cixrosie @notyouraveragemochii @charli123456789 @amalialeclerc @stay1strongbeautiful @tallrock35 @teenwolf01 @chiliwhore @darleneslane @sava207 @thatsusbitch @formulaal @leptitlu @angiesw0rld @yunakynn @landosgirlxoxo @msolbesg @cherry-piee @catmouseggy @bathedinheat @stay1strongbeautiful @chanshintien @ilove-tswizzle @woozarts @evie-119 @trouble-sistar @mysticalnightenthusiast @lewisvinga @spilled-coffee-cup @starkeyellow @fxrmuladaydreams @viennakarma @radiator101 @lightdragonrayne @angelxxrose

[orbitariums]

warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered,  already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in. 

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. 

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.   

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied. 

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

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“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests. 

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard. 

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted. 

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why. 

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right. 

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake. 

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off. 

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster. 

1:10 AM. 

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers. 

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall. 

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls. 

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open. 

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence. 

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore. 

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in.  And dim, yet comforting lighting. 

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed. 

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.” 

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.  

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug. 

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do? 

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically. 

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment. 

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat. 

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?” 

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours. 

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing. 

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now. 

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing. 

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now. 

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically. 

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly. 

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand. 

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again. 

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum. 

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny. 

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him. 

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

 “Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face. 

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk. 

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride. 

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then. 

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake. 

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder. 

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted. 

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair. 

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back. 

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you. 

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you. 

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night. 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded. 

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.  

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now. 

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove. 

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused. 

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern. 

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes. 

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs. 

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest. 

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility. 

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long. 

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal. 

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this. 

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled. 

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock. 

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done. 

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty. 

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. 

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned. 

“Goodnight,” he crooned. 

“Goodnight,” you replied. 

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again. 

[steddieas-shegoes]

Nother idea: Wayne & Eddie coming home from a long ass day, tired & stressed, both of them arriving at their trailer at the same time. Both of them taking a deep breath knowing that they'll have to clean up & prepare dinner but both are exhausted. But when they come in their trailer is sparkling clean. The floors swept & mopped, dirty clothes put into the wash, clean clothes folded neatly on the couch in piles for both Eddie and Wayne. Their trailer smells clean & fresh, they turn towards the kitchen & see Steve humming quietly to himself along with the radio on low as he pulls fresh made supper from the oven, on the counters are baked goods cooling. Wayne & Eddie realizing that Steve not only cleaned up their home but he prepared them easy to reheat meals, cleaned up their space bc he knew they'd be exhausted & both of them like the trailer to be clean, but neither had time. So he did it because they are his family & he loves them & wants them to feel safe and cared for in their new home.

MY LOVE! So I kinda ran with a somewhat different background plot, just because it kind of felt like I needed to show that Steve ain't slackin'. I also moved this one ahead of another request because I needed to write Wayne in a sappy way after chapter 2 of demon Steve. Steve was born to be a housewife with guidance counselor tendencies and I don't make the rules. ENJOY! - Mickala ❤️

-------------------------------------------------------

Eddie felt the exhaustion fully hit him as soon as he put his van in park.

He’d been working more overtime over the last month to save up for the down payment on the house he and Steve fell in love with.

The government money helped, but it mostly went to medical bills and a new van when his old one had become government property.

Wayne told him to keep as much of it saved as he could. “You never know what life will throw at ya,” he’d said.

Steve had been working a lot too, but was focusing on his classes at the community college, trying to set up a better future for both of them.

It meant that Eddie was pulling a lot of the financial weight right now, that Wayne was doing as much as he could for them so they could actually save up, but it would all be worth it.

Wayne knocked on his window and he blinked his eyes open again.

When had he even closed them?

Eddie opened the door and stepped out, groaning at the ache in his knee. It still wasn’t 100%, probably never would be as long as he was doing physical labor, and today had been particularly rough at the shop.

“Alright, bud?” Wayne asked him, hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. Just tired,” Eddie replied.

“You and me both. Let’s go relax a bit.”

But relaxing wouldn’t be on the table until they fixed dinner and cleaned up a bit and Eddie knew the faucet had been leaking when he left this morning and they didn’t need a leak like that running up the water bill, so he should probably try to fix it before bed.

He let Wayne go in first, as always, knowing he’d take longer going up the porch steps.

He could handle walking just fine most of the time, but stairs were a bitch.

He nearly walked right into Wayne when he walked through the front door, the older man standing stock still right in the entrance.

“Wayne? You good?” Eddie asked, his mind suddenly filtering through any number of terrible reasons for his sudden frozen demeanor.

And then he could smell it.

Cookies.

Someone was baking cookies.

And then he saw it.

The living room was completely cleaned and organized, magazines stacked neatly on the table, no crumbs on the couch or carpet, the weird mud stain from Eddie’s boots no longer on the rug by the front door.

He heard the record player going, though the volume was low enough that he could also hear Steve singing in the kitchen.

“Looks like your boy’s been busy,” Wayne smirked over his shoulder at him.

“I don’t-“ Eddie started to say.

“Eds? Wayne? You guys home?” Steve called from the kitchen.

Before they answered, he walked around the corner with an apron on, his glasses perched on his nose, and a beaming smile on his face.

“I just put the lasagna back in the oven to heat up a bit for you. Had to wait for the cookies to come out,” Steve said as he walked towards them.

He wrapped his arms around Eddie’s neck and kissed him on the lips quickly, then pulled away to give Wayne a quick side hug.

“I made some lemonade that should be nice and cold by now. You want some?”

Eddie and Wayne blinked at him, surprise at what was happening rendering them speechless.

“Is everything okay?” Steve’s tone shifted to concern, the smile dropping from his face as he took in their stillness.

“You cleaned?” Wayne asked.

“And cooked?” Eddie asked.

“And baked?” Wayne added.

“My afternoon class was canceled and Keith said he wouldn’t approve overtime for me, so. I came home?” Steve still looked concerned, like he was waiting for one or both of them to start yelling at him.

“Where’s your car?” Wayne asked.

That was a great question. Eddie just realized it wasn’t in the yard, which was half the reason he’d been shocked to see Steve here at all.

“Oh! Max needed to go to therapy. I was already in the middle of baking so I told her she could just use it as long as she was back by eight.”

“So you’ve been cleaning and baking and cooking all afternoon? For us?” Eddie asked, biting back as much emotion as he could.

He was tired and overwhelmed with love and he knew he would start crying if he didn’t contain some of it.

“I just wanted to take care of you guys and take care of our house. You worked all day and I had some free time to do it,” Steve shrugged.

Wayne collected himself first, moving toward Steve and squeezing his shoulder.

“Thanks, son. You don’t know how much I appreciate ya doin’ all this,” he said, voice slightly choked up.

“It’s no problem, Wayne,” Steve replied, face red.

“Mind if I go grab a shower first?” he asked Eddie.

“Fine with me,” Eddie responded.

Wayne nodded once, smiling at them both, and walked to his room to grab clothes for after his shower.

Steve looked up at Eddie shyly.

“Lasagna will be about 20 more minutes if you wanna grab a drink,” he said quietly.

Eddie smirked.

“Some of that lemonade sounds nice,” he played along, knowing exactly where this was going.

No matter how tired or sore he was, he wouldn’t turn down the chance to get his hands on Steve or have Steve’s hands on him.

Steve led him into the kitchen by his hand, tugging him along as he excitedly explained that he’d found the lemons at a farm stand on his way home from work yesterday and considered using them for a cheesecake, but decided this would be better.

Eddie smiled at him fondly, just happy that Steve is happy.

“I’ll get you a glass, just wait right there,” Steve said, pushing him against the counter gently.

But Eddie didn’t let him pull away yet, fisted his shirt and pulled him against his front.

“Eds!” Steve yelped as they made contact.

“I’m sure the lemonade is perfect, but I want a taste of you first, sugar,” Eddie mumbled, leaning down to press his lips against Steve’s.

Steve melted against him, letting Eddie’s tongue past his lips and letting out a low moan when Eddie’s hands squeezed his ass.

“What’re you doing?” he whispered against Eddie’s lips.

“Touching you,” Eddie answered before kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw.

“Wayne though.”

“He’s already in the shower. We got a few minutes.”

“We can’t do much in a few minutes,” Steve said, trying to stifle another moan as Eddie’s fingers untied his apron and slid to the front of his jeans to undo his button.

“You underestimate how hot it is to see you like a little housewife, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckled.

Steve slapped his arm.

“Not a housewife.”

“No? You sure seemed happy about cleaning up and cooking for me,” Eddie said as he slid his hands into the waistband of Steve’s boxers.

“Eds,” he gasped, but didn’t stop him as he wrapped his hand around his half-hard cock.

“Get me out, Stevie. Don’t have much time,” Eddie groaned.

Steve did as he was asked, but still seemed hesitant.

Eddie paused.

“You wanna call it?” he asked.

If Steve truly didn’t want to, he knew what to say to stop, and he knew Eddie would stop, no questions asked.

But he shook his head, biting his lip to contain a whimper as Eddie looked down at their cocks and spit.

“Gotta stay quiet, still. Don’t wanna be caught,” Eddie whispered as he leaned in to kiss him again, keep his mouth preoccupied so he didn’t give them away.

He knew Wayne would be at least another 10 minutes, but they both liked the idea of having to stay quiet and be quick.

And quick it was.

They both came in barely two minutes, Eddie riled up from Steve just being Steve, Steve being riled up at the fact they were doing this in the kitchen.

“I just cleaned this floor, you better not have gotten anything on it,” Steve smirked at Eddie as they buttoned themselves back up.

“Promise I’ll clean it up myself if I did.”

“You better. Gonna go shower next?” Steve tied the apron back up, walking over to the fridge to finally get the lemonade.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sore today. Hot water will help.”

Steve turned to him with a furrowed brow.

“You should’ve said, baby. You need some Motrin or something?”

“Nah, maybe after I eat. Got a dose of you to help,” he winked obnoxiously.

“Alright, keep it in your pants,” Steve said as he poured a glass for Eddie and a glass for Wayne.

“You’re the one who had it out a minute ago!”

Steve just gave him a dead-eyed stare before handing him his lemonade.

“Get out of my kitchen.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Eddie saluted.

He took a few sips of the lemonade as he walked towards his bedroom to grab clothes.

It was delicious, as he expected.

Just like coming home to Steve every day.

[thesturniolos]

glass ornaments

‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

merry christmas my sweet babies ! 🎄

here’s my present to you:

more specifically, @freshlovehacker 🎁♡

summary: wholesome tooth-rotting fluff all about decorating the tree and just chris being chris, 1st and 3rd person.

warnings: none!

tags: @sturniolosluvv @sturnsblunt @chrisdevora @sosmatt @kirby0strombolli @stvrni0lo @floofparker @vqnillasturns @slut4chris @chrisolivia4l @silverlakee @freshlovehacker@plasticferal @chrisenthusiast @chrisluvbot @bluesturniolo333 @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @mattscokewhore @iheartchrissturniolo @zooweemamas @sturniolotripletsarehot @mcttsturn @bernardsleftbootycheek @sturnsworld @qwertytit @putyoursemenonme @recklesssturniolo @silly-sturniolos @klarasmith @sturnvilmed @delusionalsturniologirl @thy-mission

christmas is notoriously the best time of the year, we all know this. twinkling lights, cold weather paired with cozy clothes, snowflakes, giving and receiving presents, ice skating, christmas markets, the mad panic in the stores, a long table on christmas day, the unison of families all around the world.

but the best thing of all? the build up. hanging the glass ornaments on the smallest branches of a christmas tree, praying they don’t fall and break. music from the radio plays in the background and people find themselves dancing around the tree to the beat of the song, smiling and soaking up the festivities.

and that was exactly what was happening at a certain person’s house on a cold evening in december.

snow lingered in the air and fell quietly onto the pavement, children squeezing their hands together praying for it to lay.

but in one specific house, an adult, who could be mistaken as a child for his immature ways, pressed his hands together wishing for his cookies to be a golden brown this year, for every holiday he found himself fanning the smoke out of the kitchen.

“i’ve got a good feeling about this one”

“we’d hope so- i don’t feel like having to apologise to the fire brigade again”

the couple stand in the kitchen, the girl holds a plate, ready for the cookies, whereas the boy finds himself wrapped up in a very messy apron.

“okay, i’m going in.” he scoops down and opens the oven door causing a smile to spread across his face as he reveals perfectly baked cookies.

“it worked! it actually worked!” i smile back at him and grab the tray from him so that in all the excitement he doesn’t accidentally burn himself, yes it has happened before.

“well done, baby. i told you you could do it, perhaps this year is your special year!”

“now we have the cookies we can get started on the tree, come on!” chris grabs my hand and pulls me slightly towards the living room.

“you’re not gonna decorate them?”

“we can do that laterrrr, i wanna decorate the tree not the cookies!”

i feel a tug on my hand again and this time it pulls my feet off the floor towards the pine tree.

we had just cut it down today, chris’ face was priceless, i don’t think i’ve ever seen him so happy. he left thanking me and repeating that it’s our first christmas together as a couple and he couldn’t be happier.

just last year, the two had been best friends, childhood best friends even, practically inseparable since birth and painfully in love for everybody to see.

and now they’re here, just as in love with a picture perfect house and everything they could possibly want.

“we need to get more ornaments, we haven’t got enough”

“we’ll have enough chris, we have tinsel and lights to put on as well. it doesn’t have to be full-“

“we need to go to target and get more.”

“chris, we do not need to go and get more. we’ve spent 350 already, do you want to pay the bills this month?”

he frowns at my response and crosses his arms, looking at the bare tree with one singular bauble hanging from a branch.

“we’ve not even started on it yet and you’re already sulking, come on you big baby.” i pull him up from the couch and pass him a plastic ornament.

he carefully places it near the top and looks back at me for approval. i nod and grab another for him.

before they knew it, the tree had been nearly fully decorated and much to chris’ complaints, the tree had barely any space left for any more ornaments or tinsel. although in saying that, a lot of the tinsel ended up wrapped around his neck and being whipped through the air as they paraded about to the songs.

“are we done? can we turn the lights on now?”

“you’ve forgotten the star, it’s the most important part of the tree.”

he jumps to grab it from my hands and balances on the side of the couch to reach and pushed it down onto the top of the branch before leaning back and jumping down excitedly.

“you can turn the lights on now.” i smile at him and he runs over to the outlet to illuminate the tree.

a festival of warm lights shine across our room and i find myself watching chris rather than the tree.

his reaction was enough to make my heart ache and as he turns to face me, i quickly link my arms around his neck.

“do you like it?” i ask, knowing he did most of the work and the result meant the most to him.

“i love it.” he looks back towards the tree and then reverts back to my hand where he brushes his thumb over the ring he gave me not long ago.

this was a moment the pair had been waiting for for a long time and it felt like a dream to them. for everyone else it may seem like a normal day in december but this was a memory that they had been wishing for, every night in the year from the age of 10.

i lean in to press my lips against his and he smiles into the kiss. his lips are warm and welcoming as his arm slides across my waist pulling me in closer, lifting me in the air slightly.

“i love you” he says, pulling away and looking me in the eyes.

“i love you too, chris.”

[cipheramnesia]

Part 7: The Tower

a story by @rox-and-prose and @cipheramnesia

Dusk turned the Nevamil sky a flat aquamarine, and made visible the red lights blinking atop the Citadel. It was the tallest building in the capital city, Aureodar, even visible from the far off gridded streets of old houses converted into apartments. The last time Laika had seen it was a field trip for school.

The little blue Kirov was somewhere between the mountains and Genghis Khan and the most anonymous hopper port they'd been able to find in Aureodar. She worried about Sy, seemed ages past she'd been this physically far, though it was hardly more than weeks. Wires and talismans crossed over the streets, bikes and busses swooshed wet pavement, and linecars screeched overhead, all wrapped around her and her backpack and familiar unknown faces of the United Eastquad Block.

Ghosts gathered around her, whispering. You keep coming back here little wolf girl, you'll never get away from this place. Little wolf girl, you know you belong here. Freak. Queer. Sissy. Killer. Monster. You thought you were better than us, you never were. Laika let them needle and claw her. They were her ghosts, not the other way round. Every horrible word only built her up. Luna was with her in that way.

Most of the houses on K Street were mods, from early to late first century post-terraform. They were all retrofited from the original single family modules, but they were tough as nails, old construction built to weather thr storms of atmosphere generation. Number 1132 was where she was headed, lights were still on in the third floor windows.

Laika took a last look around on the front door's stoop. The poles for street lights and warden ropes all had at least three CCTV cameras and arrayed parabolic empathy receivers tuned into psychic conflict between morality and legality. She flashed a tight little smile at the familiar old glass eye of the state before pulling a short crowbar out of her bag and cracking the door open.

The third floor smelled of some sharp, fragrant allium along with sweet woody flavors and cooking meat, enough to rouse her stomach. Deep breath, ignore the ghosts, knock. A woman with her black hair in a bob cut, rolled up sleeves on her billowy dress, a little sweaty and confused, almost a quarter meter shorter than Laika. A wave of gaming sounds, net music, and oven warmth joined them both on the landing.

"Hey Tara," Laika said.

The other woman looked closer. "Laika? Oh tides, it is!" She wrapped Laika up in a big soft hug inside thick arms, crushing her stick body. "I thought you, I don't know, I thought you were dead! I mean, there were rumors?"

"Uff! Uh, hey. Sorry to be like, unannounced. Is it okay if I come in?" Laika hesitantly patted Tara's shoulders until the hug relaxed and her feet were back on the floor.

"You just have to, please. I'm sorry, when did you get back, why didn't you call?"

Unlacing her boots and slipping them off, she said, "I just got back today, um. I've been a bit off the net you know." She dipped her hand in the tiny basin by the door and thumbed a drop of water on the polished river stone at the altar. "But I wanted to see how you'd been, I guess. It just, well it's weird. That smells amazing."

She saw a couple kids blasting through uncreatively humanoid aliens, loudly and luridly across the living room screen, followed Tara into the kitchen and dinette area and watched her stir around sizzling veggies and meat in a wide dish. "Thanks," Tara said. "The spawn over there don't always appreciate it, but you know how... well, how kids can be..." Tara frowned awkwardly.

"Yeah, uh. Yeah." Laika rubbed the back of her neck. "So what all have you heard?"

Tara stuttered with a little embarassment. In the distance Laika could very faintly hear sirens, but she knew they weren't for her. The people who would come for her didn't use sirens or advertise their presence.

Half paying attention to Tara, she added, "Well, uh, some is true. But... you knew it was bad at home. Stuff happened. What about you though? Like, two kids? Wow!"

Tara probably was relieved at the change of topic, and Laika was glad to take a minute, but she couldn't focus all the way. She was waiting.

[juniperss]

Okay you just did a headcanon request for a reader who bakes and I love Darry! I would literally die if you could do another one of the same prompt but with more detail on Darry’s portion if that makes sense? I know you only do headcanons right now so I’ll take what I can get lol 😆. Thanks!!!

Chocolate Kisses (Darry x The Baker Reader)

oh I'm so glad you liked the previous headcanons!!! reading this message had me grinning from ear to ear, thank you! and absolutely you can have some more Baker x Darry, because anon, I love him too! I was originally just gonna write headcanons for this, but then I got carried away and it suddenly turned into an actual oneshot.......so...oops? Word Count: 797 (good lord) A/N: uh shifting POV, she/her pronouns used Song Inspo

“Five more minutes, I think.”

Darry Curtis can’t remember the last time he was alone with a girl in the house. And not just any girl but a girl who had him feel the way that you do. It’s surreal, watching you move around the tiny kitchen with such familiarity, carrying armfuls of ingredients to the pantry. This isn’t the first time you’ve been over to the Curtis House, but it is the first time that the two of you have had any semblance of privacy and Darry is trying hard not to choke on the reality that he has you all to himself. If it hadn’t been for Soda agreeing to drag Ponyboy and the rest of the greasers out to the movies for the night this never would’ve happened. 

There’s a chocolate cake in the oven and the scent of cocoa filling the kitchen tells you that it's just about done. It wasn’t your recipe, this one was all Darry, and you had been content to watch him bake it himself until he’d looped an arm around your waist and pulled you off the counter to help. You turn in a small circle looking for something and catch his eyes on you. “What?”

“You can’t bake anything without gettin’ it on your clothes can you?” 

He motions to the amount of flour and sugar covering the front of your shirt and you hurl the kitchen towel from your shoulder in his direction with an indigent snort and wry smile. “Says the man who doesn’t have an apron!”

The space that you two have been using is still dirty and there are distinct spots on the floor that betray the spilled ingredients from earlier in the evening. Darry grins at your use of his full name and reaches for your hand to pull you over to him, transferring a decent amount of the flour onto his black shirt. 

Instinctively your arms wrap around his shoulders, locking behind his neck, to stay close to him and balance yourself. There’s not been one time in your months of dating Darry that you haven’t felt most at home wrapped in his arms. You struggle to remind yourself of anything prior in your life that equals the amount of comfort you feel held safe against his chest. The steady beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath he takes. The smell of his aftershave. The way his rough hands take special care in the way they touch you. His fingers finding the skin of your lower back where your shirt has ridden up. Everything about being enveloped in him makes you feel secure. 

It’s almost too much to look at his face and into those eyes of his when you’re this close to him. He sees so much more than most people give him credit for and you know there’s no escaping his searching gaze. “I like having you here.” Darry states in a matter of fact manner as if he’s finally decided that’s how he felt. 

“Trapped in your kitchen?” 

“Well, that too.” His forehead comes to rest against yours and that all but secures you even closer to his body. You’re not complaining though and you let your eyes fall shut. Moments of quiet where your mind isn’t racing, where you have nowhere to be or anything to worry about, are so rare in both your lives that finding such a rarity together feels like something you need to hold onto.

You two breathe in and out together soaking in the heat exchanged between your bodies. And then you feel him shifting just enough to kiss you.

His lips are dry from his hours of working outside in the sun and he tastes like chocolate. Darry’s kisses are always heavy and full as if he needs to transfer all that love from his soul into them. He’s sending a message, telling you just how much you mean to him. You move your lips against his, much to Darry’s enjoyment, deepening the kiss blissfully unaware of the world outside. 

You could stay like this for hours and maybe you would’ve had time had decided to be kinder to you. But a cough, a snicker and a laugh break the two of you out of your embrace. You don’t need to turn around to know that it’s Sodapop and Ponyboy having come back from the movie. The heat is already rising in the back of your neck and your cheeks. Darry steps back with a sigh just as the timer for the oven chimes. “Who wants dessert?”

“I think some of us have already had ours.” Soda says with a grin spreading ear to ear and narrowly missing a lighthearted smack of the towel from Darry.

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Records of forgotten times.

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Old music records bring back memories and sparks talk of a new future.

~~☆☆☆~~

Today was relaxing day in your Alexandria home.

Daryl had come home from a run and had brought home a literal truckload of items of which a couple of boxes were dropped at your place.

He busied himself moving the boxes into the living room while you continued your work in the kitchen.

"What did you bring back, Dee?" you mused from you spot in the kitchen, where you were cleaning off last night's dishes in your favorite shorts and one of Daryl's shirts that were way too large on you. It was fraying at the hem and the old classic rockband on the print was fading badly, tour dates from a long forgotten time barely recognisable anymore. He never thought twice about you stealing his shirts. They were so much more comfortable than his button downs and with the shirts smelling like him they helped you sleep when he was out on runs.

“Found an old storage place, had a bunch of boxes with music. I got first pick cuz I found ‘em.” He kept filing through the large boxes filled with records and taking each one he liked out to stack near the old record player your house came with.

“Let me have a look too when I’m done here, please?” He grumbled an agreeing response and you made sure to hurry along with your cleaning round so you could join Daryl on the living room floor.

Daryl had gotten up off the floor to fumble around with the record player and try out one of the records and to his luck it still played. He had pocketed some still boxed replacement needles and swapped the old one out before playing a Judas Priest record and got a nice, crisp sound to which he comfortably hummed along to and even sang along with some parts.

As you were hanging your cleaning rag and towel over the opened oven door to dry you mumbled along with some lyrics that had remained in the back of your head.

This surprised your dear old partner to the point of stopping entirely with what he was doing to stare at you enjoying his all time favorite band. “Ya know this music?” He sounded so confused it made you laugh. You never really talked about your old world life, never really feeling it was needed to share about it. Not until now.

“My parents were old school rockers, I grew up on this kind of music.” You had walked over and sat down at one if the boxes.

“Yer calling me old now?” Old. He hated that word, even if you were both adults he still didn’t like the sound of him being put in the same box as your late parents.

“I mean,” You started, not sure how to properly say this without being offensive. You loved Daryl and you were happy with him, really not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “I guess you’re around their age, right? Dad would have been sixty-two by now. He loved this music so much we had cabinets filled with CDs, he'd go to concerts with friends and have music nights every month. Mom woukd have been around fifty-eight I think. She preferred more symphonic stuff.” You were so caught up in your memories you had stopped looking through the music entirely, your hands shakily holding onto one record a little too tightly for Daryl’s comfort.

“I’m fifty-three, if ya really gotta know.” He had moved over to your side and put an arm around you to pry your fingers off the record. “An’ I really hope yer not secretly seein’ me as a father figure cuz I'd love it if my kid'd be one year old in about two years from now..”

You registered his comment and were pulled back into this world with a soft sob. You hoped it’d be saved for later when the sadness that these boxes brought you had blown over.

“I miss them.” Your words were barely above a whisper, but Daryl caught them all. He had managed to get the record from your hands and took a glance at the cover.

The image didn’t look all too different from the current world. A blue sky behind the ruins of a building, and a man in a rather unnatural pose on a regal looking wooden throne in the foreground. The title reading ‘A Farewell to Kings’ by RUSH.

“Yer old man listen to this?” You quietly nodded, sniffling and wiping at your tears that were now freely running down your face. He put the record aside to make a new separate pile just for you.

“Come on, let’s see what else is in here. Maybe some Ozzy. Ya like Ozzy?” You now nodded with a smile appearing on your face. “Y.. yeah, we had a dog named Ozzy. Mom liked him a lot.” The memory of the dog you had for a short while did lighten the mood a bit, thankfully.

Daryl had abandoned his search entirely and only looked through the boxes with you now, picking out records he did like and ended with almost the entire collection by Judas Priest, which you learned was his favorite.

“Oh shit, look!” You held up a copy of Mötley Crüe’s ‘Dr. Feelgood’ with an excited squeal.

“Nah, that’s what yer into? Crazy girl.” He shook his head with a loving smile. By the time you reached the second to last box you had both gathered quite the collection. Daryl had reluctantly handed you all the Crüe records he found, even if they were duplicates. You wanted to keep them because of their different covers. Even in this world you loved collecting and Daryl admired your ability to find happiness in these items.

“Hey, ya want this one too?” A Metallica record. Not one that you knew so you declined. A grumble let you know he heard you and the fwips of records being looked through continued until another one was being held in your direction. This time it was a Black Sabbath record. You took it to inspect the track list on the back and added it to your pile. “Oh! Another one, yess!” You happily pulled out an Iron Maiden album and admired the cover art, taking in all the small details.

“Ya really listen to them or just love the art?” A hand extended to hand you one more. “Ah, thanks. I like both.” You declared, staring at the next artpiece. “But I wouldn‘t be mad if these end up not playing. We could decorate with the cover arts.”

Daryl looked around the still bare walls of the house and loved your idea to make it more truly yours.

With all the boxes thoroughly searched and your collection put away you went to take the leftover boxes to the communal area for everyone else to enjoy. Seeing the other residents get so excited over music brought smiles to your faces and you went back home more satisfied than you’d thought.

“So..” You locked the front door behind you and nervously stepped over to the cabinet that held your newly acquired collection. Daryl followed your every step with a true hunter’s eye, wondering what got your nerves up all of a sudden. “Which one of these do you think has the best baby making vibes.”

“M’sorry?” No way he heard that correctly. He had convinced himself you hadn‘t heard him since you completely disregarded his comment before. “Ya sure? I mean.. I know wha’ I said but,” he stopped and couldn’t get himself to look you in the eyes. Opting for the crack in the floorboard instead. Before he had a chance to find the right words you had abandoned the record cabinet and stepped over to stand in front of him and kiss his cheek. “I love you.” You whispered before properly kissing him and making sure he got the hint that this was really what you wanted.

“But seriously, pick one. We need something loud to drown out the ..other noises.” You joked with a wink.

~~☆☆☆~~

The talk you had with Daryl that day months ago turned out to be true.

When you laid in your shared bed you spoke about the one obvious thing about your relationship and how the Alexandrians were gonna be judging you for it. When word got out about yours and Daryl’s romantic relationship you already got stares from concerned women who thouht you were being claimed by the older man. You both were way more open about your relationship now that you had a safe place to live and try to have a normal life again, but the original residents who had never gone through the horrors that you had never really let go of their old world beliefs. And now that normal life you tried to live also came with your own child shich had the staring and quiet comments becoming even worse. Uncle Daryl already had Judith, who would always make rude comments to whoever dared to speak ill of her new auntie, but now he had you and with that his own soon to be born child and he wasn't gonna let anyone ruin his happiness because of some dumb opinions.

~~☆☆☆~~

A/N: This one made me cry while writing. The parents are based off my own, one of which is no longer with us. Did some painful remembering for this one.

[sparkle-fiend]

Here is my entry for the Spicy Six Winter Fic Challenge hosted by @thefreakandthehair (thanks so much to you and @unclewaynemunson for the awesome events this month!) My prompt was “kiss in the snow”.

Eddie is ladling a mixture of brown sugar, cinnamon, and mashed sweet potatoes into a baking dish when the phone rings. He nearly drops the bowl, hastily wiping the sticky orange mixture off his fingers before answering.

“Munson’s House of Holiday Horrors, Eddie speaking,” he intones cheerfully. Steve snorts with laughter on the other end of the line.

“What if it hadn’t been me calling?”

“It’s Christmas Eve Stevie, and everyone we know is out of town. Who else would be calling?” He knows the exact expression that will be on Steve’s face right now. He’ll be trying not to smile, which will twist his lips into a crooked little smirk instead. It’s one of Eddie’s favorite expressions. “How was work today?”

“Awful. Remind me never to agree to a holiday shift again. The Christmas movies were out of stock by 9, so I’ve had people screaming at me all day. Like I’m personally responsible for the fact that they waited till the last minute to try and rent the Grinch that Stole Christmas.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums sympathetically. “Poor baby. What time are you coming over?”

“The pie needs to cool another 30 minutes, then I’m leaving.”

They’d argued about the pie for days. Eddie insisted that he had enough dishes planned to feed a small army, while Steve insisted that he just had to bring a pecan pie (which, coincidentally, is Wayne’s favorite).

“You know – you don’t have to work so hard to impress him. Wayne already likes you.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “I’ll see you at 5:30.”

“See ya.”

They’re not quite to the point of exchanging I love you’s yet, even though it sits on the edge of his tongue every time they say goodbye.

Eddie hangs up the phone and turns to survey the chaos strewn across the kitchen. He’s got half an hour – 45 minutes with driving time. The sweet potato casserole has to be baked, and he still needs to finish two more dishes after that.

“Shit,” he mutters.

***

When Wayne ventures into the kitchen twenty minutes later to check on him, Eddie is frantically stirring sour cream and shredded cheese into the mashed potatoes.

“Christ almighty it’s hot in here. You’re sweatin’ like a hog.”

Eddie scowls and swipes at the hair sticking to his forehead. “Thanks Uncle Wayne.”

Unfortunately, his uncle’s not wrong. The kitchen is sweltering – not surprising, considering the stove and oven have been going all day – and Eddie’s shirt is soaked through. He desperately needs a shower, but he’s running way behind.

“Alright… what can I do to help?”

Eddie pauses long enough to fix his uncle with a skeptical look. “Are you forgetting the famous incident of the frozen turkey? Your cooking privileges have been permanently revoked.”

Wayne looks unimpressed. “Don’t you sass me. I can pull a goddamn casserole out of the oven.”

Eddie snickers and allows himself to be chased out of the kitchen. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t let that casserole burn!”

He takes the stairs up two at a time. It’s still a novelty, living in a house with a second floor – even after half a year. The water pressure is pretty awesome too, although he doesn’t take the time to enjoy it today. He rushes through a lukewarm shower, just enough to cool down and rinse the sweat off; throwing a clean shirt on when he gets out.

With hair still dripping, he thunders back down the stairs in time to see Wayne pull the casserole out, marshmallows browned to a perfect crust on top. His uncle watches in bemusement as Eddie covers the dish with aluminum foil and then hastens to dump frozen rolls onto a pan.

“What time is Steve supposed to get here?” Wayne asks.

Eddie doesn’t even dare look at the clock. “Any minute,” he says distractedly. He adjusts the oven temperature and shoves the pan in. He had a checklist, which is buried somewhere in the pile of used dishes and discarded packaging on the counter. He starts searching for it, shoving things aside in frustration, until he feels his uncle’s hands land heavy on his shoulders.

“Calm down, okay? Everything looks amazing. You’ve done a real good job Ed.”

The old man’s expression is unbearably soft when he turns around. Wayne looks at him like that all the time these days – ever since March, and that tense week in the hospital, when they weren’t sure if infection would finish the job the demobats had started.

It makes Eddie feel warm and awkward at the same time. He darts forward for a quick hug, pressing his face into the smoky flannel of his uncle’s shoulder, before stepping back and shoving the old man toward the door.

“Go on. Let me know when Steve gets here. And turn on the lights!”

***

Eddie loses track of time as he scrambles to finish – last minute tasks keep popping up every time he turns around. When he’s finally ready to call it done, he heads for the living room, expecting to find Steve and Wayne watching something on tv while they wait.

But it’s six o’clock, and there’s no sign of Steve. Wayne is standing against the big picture window, curtains shoved aside so he can look out.

“Hate to break it to ya Ed, but I’m not sure your boy is gonna make it. Snow’s really coming down out there.”

Eddie takes his uncle's place against the window, pressing his nose against the cold glass as he cups his hands to shield the glare. It's dark out, and the only thing illuminated by the porch light is a swirling wall of snowflakes. Judging by the snow already piled on the railing, it's collecting thick and fast.

"Shit," he mutters.

Concern immediately churns his stomach. If Steve left the house when he planned to, he should have arrived over half an hour ago.

Eddie goes to the phone on the end table by Wayne’s recliner, dialing the familiar number, hoping Steve decided to wait out the weather. The Christmas tree twinkles merrily in the corner; red, green, blue, and yellow lights reflecting off the silver tinsel while Eddie listens to the phone ring and ring - until the click of the answering machine picks up.

He hits the switch hook to end the call, re-dialing immediately. Ring, ring, ring and the click of the answering machine again.

He stays on the line long enough to hear the recorded voice of Steve’s father announce: “You’ve reached the Harrington residence. Leave a name, number, and brief message…” Eddie hangs up again with a frustrated growl.

Wayne watches with a worried frown. “You don’t think he would try to drive in this mess, do you? Not in that fancy car of his.”

Only someone who didn’t know Steve very well would ask that question. If Robin or Dustin were here, they’d already be suiting up for a search party.

Apparently, the expression on Eddie’s face is answer enough, because Wayne’s lips press into a thin line before he nods. “Right then. We’ll put the snow chains on the truck – as long as you go slow, you should be okay.”

They throw on coats and boots and a hat for Wayne, before trooping out into the whirling snow. Working in tandem, it only takes a few minutes to get the chains wrapped around the front tires of Wayne’s truck, latched and tensioned tight.

They agree that Wayne should stay behind in case Steve ends up calling after all, and then Eddie is off, pulling slowly down the drive.

The little house (part of a generous government settlement in exchange for their silence) is on the outskirts of town, surrounded by trees and cornfields – and no neighbors for at least ten miles. Which means the only light comes from the feeble beam of the truck’s headlights, struggling to penetrate the wall of snow. It’s like driving into a tunnel.

Eddie holds his foot tense above the gas pedal, giving it just enough juice to keep the old truck bumping along at a snail’s pace, listening to the chained tires grip and grind over the snow.

I never said ,‘I love you’, he thinks. I never said it. Steve could be dead or dying somewhere along the road, and the last thing Eddie ever said to him was, “See ya.”

It’s unbearable.

After a nerve-wracking 15 minutes, scanning and straining his eyes nearly to tears – Eddie finally spots a faint shape in the distance. Just the silhouette of a person, no car in sight.

It’s Steve. It’s gotta be.

He slams on the brakes – too hard. Even with the chains on, the old truck slides a few terrifying feet farther than intended. Heart pounding, Eddie throws it into park and wrenches the door open.

He hits the ground ready to run and nearly busts his ass as he sinks into snow over his ankles; staggering like a drunk toward the huddled figure of his boyfriend.

Eddie grips the other boy by the shoulders, eyes raking over him head to toe, searching for injuries. It’s hard to see – the headlights cast everything in sharp relief, full of shadow.

“Shit Steve… are you okay? I was so fucking worried, Jesus Christ.”

Steve pats his chest and laughs through the audible chattering of his teeth. “I’m f-fine Ed, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“What happened?”

“Deer ran out in front of me. T-tried to miss it and the Beemer spun off the road. Car’s fine, but it’s stuck in a ditch.”

Eddie huffs out a relieved laugh and squeezes his boyfriend tight. Just stuck in a ditch – thank god. They’re so lucky the accident wasn’t serious; and lucky that Eddie came looking before Steve froze to death trying to make the long, cold walk to the house.

He pulls back to gaze into those beloved brown eyes, brushing aside a swoop of hair stiff with ice.

“I love you,” Eddie says abruptly. His breath hangs like dragon-smoke between them. It’s not how he intended this moment to go, but he can’t keep it in any longer. “I was afraid to say it, but then… when I thought something might have happened to you, all I could I think was that I never told you how I felt.”

“Eddie,” Steve whispers. “Eddie, I love you too.”

He laughs, giddy with relief, and cradles Steve’s jaw as he leans into a kiss. The world falls away - there’s nothing but Steve’s slightly chapped lips, warming slowly against his own, and the soft whisper of the snowflakes.

It’s perfect - until Steve shifts awkwardly and winces in pain.

“What the hell Steve, I thought you said you weren’t hurt?”

Steve grins sheepishly and leans against Eddie, trying to take the weight off his left leg. “I said the car was fine. I twisted my knee trying to climb out of that damn ditch.”

“Goddamnit… is there anything else I should know?”

His boyfriend unzips his jacket, revealing a towel-wrapped disc tucked securely against his chest. “I saved the pie,” he says proudly.

“Jesus Christ.” Overwhelmed by affection, Eddie kisses Steve again; it’s either that or shake the mad bastard. “Come on… let’s get you and your stupid pie home before you both freeze.”

[jungle-angel]

This Cozy House (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob spend a chilly fall evening goofing around with the babies

It was absolutely freezing out, more so than it had been since last year despite it being only early October. It was already dark out in early evening, the sun having set around five-thirty in the evening while dinner was left to slow cook in the crockpot, but the house was as brightly lit and cozy as ever.

Auggie and Patrick's squealing giggles soon reached your ears as Bob tickled them, the three laughing up a storm in the living room. You laughed just as they did, your hands trailing to your bump as your baby girl kept rolling over.

A sudden noise made you jump a little along with Bob's stern warning to your son. "August Robert," he chided. "If you're gonna rough-house, take your glasses off."

"Ok Daddy," he chirped, quickly removing his glasses and setting them down on the endtable.

You pulled the grainy loaf of bread out of the oven and put it on the back of the stove, cutting it with great ease and putting it on the plate. The rain battering the roof was growing louder and louder, rattling the pipes that held up the stove vents whole a menacing roll of thunder was heard outside.

"Storm's rollin in (y/n)?" Bob asked as Patrick rolled onto one of the couch cushions on the floor.

"They said it was gonna get bad in a few hours," you told him, bringing the bread to the table. "Not sure how these two are gonna sleep tonight."

Bob nodded in agreement. Storms in California had been nothing compared to those in Montana where you were currently living. All summer long, you and Bob had not only worried about tornadoes but the wildfires which tended to spark up close to towns and cities. Luckily for you, Bob and his family had worked with a local hotshot team to create a burn line so that the ranch would survive.

"C'mon Patrick, roll to Daddy," Bob encouraged.

Patrick squealed and giggled as he somersaulted off the couch and into his father's arms. It always ended the same with Bob putting him back on the couch and having him roll right off, over and over again until finally the timer on the crockpot went off.

"Auggie, grab your glasses, then come eat."

"Ok."

You and Bob were soon seated at the table with Auggie and Patrick, the four of you just having said grace before dinner was passed around, hot pieces of bone-in fried chicken, white-cheddar mac n cheese with toasted breadcrumbs, green beans and the grainy crust of bread that had smelled so good warming in the oven.

Everyone ate their fill and talked about their day and all that had come about. "Oh," Bob said suddenly. "Sweet cheeks, before I forget, I've got next week off so I can go and get the boys from school."

"Does Luanne know?"

"She knows," Bob assured you. "Dad helped her and Magnus fix their windows last week since he had his rotator-cuff surgery. He told her I was gonna pick the boys up as soon as they were done on their nature walks."

Excellent....you thought. One less thing to worry about......

As soon as the boys had finished, you and Bob took care of the dishes and the leftovers, putting the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and putting the leftover food into clean plastic containers to store in the fridge for tomorrow's lunch.

"You want me to take care of baths tonight?" you asked Bob.

"Absolutely not," Bob insisted. "You're eight months pregnant and I don't want you having to hurt yourself."

"Bob, c'mon, we've been through this twice already," you chuckled.

"Which is exactly why I don't want you to hurt yourself," Bob informed you.

"I'm just teasing," you told him.

You leaned into his embrace, happy and content as ever in his arms as he lovingly kissed you, his hand resting on your bump when he felt the tiny little feet of your daughter against his palm.

"You get some sleep my sweet little pea," he mumbled as he stooped to one knee to kiss your belly. "I have a feeling you're gonna be trouble like your brothers."

You laughed a little bit before Bob told you to go and settle in and to get the Friday night movie ready. It was an odd choice of Auggie and Patrick's, but they were beginning to really love Disney's "Fantasia", one that Bob had grown up watching. Even if neither of them understood it, they loved the images that matched up with the music.

Bob quickly gave them their baths and stuck them both in their warm little pjs just in case they fell asleep during the movie. Auggie had run to his room to go and grab his little Dumbo stuffie off his bed while Patrick waddled out with his little brownie bear in its soft knit sweater that you and Bob's mother had both worked on when Patrick had been born.

You and Bob pulled out the couch bed and piled it with blankets, pillows and anything else to keep warm, snuggling in with your boys between you, your family dog jumping up to warm your feet and the movie playing on the tv screen in the living room. You and Bob couldn't have been more content than at that very moment, with both your boys between you, all snuggled under the warm quilts and blankets as the storm passed you by outside. Yet here you remained, unaffected by the rain battering the windows and safe in each other's arms, just as you knew, you always would be

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Holiday Magic

Gator Tillman x GN Reader, friends to lovers, fluff( no pronouns used for the reader [lemme know if i missed any tho just in case] )

Summary: It's Valentines Day, Dot and Wayne and Scotty are all out of the house. It's just you and Gator and the cupcakes you're making. Oh and the massive crush you have on your best friend. What could go wrong?

Warnings: blind gator (if that's one), food and eating, slight mentions of past abuse, very small, like one or two sentences of it.

{ Also these are some of the songs i was imagining. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. }

🍒🧁🍒🧁🍒🧁🍒🧁🍒

"You guys have fun!" You say, smiling as Dot shrugs on her coat, Wayne kneeling to tie his shoes by the door behind her.

"Oh we will hun. And think about what I said." She ducks in to hug you, squeezing you tight. You smile and shake your head.

"Now none'a that. I'm tellin you he feels the same way." She pats your cheeks, you crinkle your nose at her, she does it back and laughs.

"I just...can't. Cuz what if-" you lower your voice and lean closer, worried your friend might hear you, though he's all the way upstairs,

"What if you're wrong? And I say something. And it just makes thing weird? I don't-" you take a deep breath, shaking your head again.

"I'm not sure I could handle things being weird between us. Just because I went and fell for him like an idiot. Ya know?" You shrug.

"Oh hun. Don't say that. You're not an idiot. And I'm not wrong." She smirks, that little twinkle in her eyes that you love so much. Wayne stands with a small groan behind her and puts his arm around his wife, smiling at you.

"She's right ya know. He's definitely sweet on you. Just try. Be brave. We know ya are." He smiles, nods encouragingly. You take a deep breath and then groan loudly, both of them laughing at how flustered you are as they head for the door.

"And hey," Dot turns, points at you, face serious.

"I know he can't see you. But you look cute enough to eat." She nods to your outfit. Just something a bit nicer than what you usually wear, nothing terribly fancy.

"Thanks." You mutter, looking at the floor.

"And I'll try... I guess... Maybe." You look back, smiling sheepishly at them. They laugh and wave as they head out the door. You lean in the doorway as they get in the car, waving again as they back out of the driveway. You shut the door and lean against it, hoping their valentine's dinner goes well. And the movie after it.

Dot had told you she and Wayne would be out late. And Scotty was at a party at a friends so you didn't have to take care of her tonight either. It was just you and Gator. And your baking. Dot offered up her oven to you, and her kitchen, when she learned you loved to bake things. And you'd been using her kitchen ever since.

You were mixing your last batch of cherry chip cupcakes when you heard Gator coming slowly down the stairs. His feet moving with precision, finding each step carefully before setting his foot down on it. You peeked around the corner, watching him, always worried he'd fall. But you'd only seen him trip once, the whole time you'd known him. He got around well once he knew the layout of places.

His blue bandana was wrapped snug around his eyes, hiding the scars you knew were there, but had only seen once or twice. He didn't like people looking at them. Or him, really, all that much. Not because of that. So he covered them. And you didn't mind not seeing, you just wanted him to be comfortable.

"They leave already?" He called when his foot hit the floor and he was on solid ground again. He adjusts the bandana, fingers pushing and tugging at the edge of it as his feet shuffle toward the living room. You look away, moving back to what you're doing.

"Yep! Mom and Dad are off on their date. Scotty's at a little valentine's party. Which is adorable to me, we never did that when we were little. I mean maybe at school but not at each others houses." You smile as you pour the cupcakes and set the tray in the oven, twisting your timer and setting your bowls in the sink as Gator moves into the living room.

His fingers twitch at his sides as he moves. And you know it's because he's fighting the urge to reach out and feel his way around. Dot had told you he did that. Hid and changed the way he got around when people were watching. You smile to yourself as you watch him, arms crossing over your chest.

"And you should have seen the little tux she was wearing. I've never seen a tiny human look so dapper." Gator's head tilts toward the sound of your voice, a laugh falling past his lips at your words.

"She's not that tiny." He scoffs, shaking his head, standing in front of the couch hesitantly. Like he's not sure he wants to sit or not.

"She's tiny to me. It's like when you're a senior in highschool and you look at the freshmen coming in, and it's impossible that you could have ever been that small. They're just babies!" You exclaim, hands flailing in front of you. He laughs loud this time, reaching down to feel the couch before plopping down onto the soft cushions.

"They're like fourteen." He argues, still chuckling.

"Yeah. Fourteen year old babies!" You concede. He snorts again, shakes his head, soothes his hands over his thighs as he sits. You can see the small smile still on his face, like he's content to just sit there and argue with you. And he is. And so are you. It's an easy rhythm you've both gotten used too. The teasing. And the joking.

"Want me to put the radio on?" You ask, already reaching for it before he answers you.

"Yeah sure. Whatcha makin'?" He asks, head tilting, nose sniffing exaggeratedly at the air. Your nose crinkles as you hold back the urge to laugh at him. Sitting there sniffing the air like a curious puppy.

"Cupcakes. Cherry chip. Chocolate frosting for the top. And I'm thinking maybe cherry frosting filling for a few. But I haven't decided." Your brow furrows as you look around the kitchen. One batch already cooling. Almost ready to frost once you get it all mixed together.

"Hmm. Chocolate covered cherry cupcakes." Gator hums, his head tilting.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. I didn't even realize." You mumble, wiping at your forehead with the back of your hand. You're sure your covered in flour and batter and frosting. Not that it matters, because he can't see you to make fun of your mess anyway. You hear him chuckle behind you and turn to see him shaking his head at you again. You huff loudly and he snorts at you, his smile growing.

You just stand there. Watching him. And you know you shouldn't. Know it's rude to stare. You know he doesn't like it. But you're not staring because of his eyes. You're staring because... of him. Just him. You've been finding it harder and harder to not stare lately.

The more you've gotten to know him, the more you'd liked him. And you'd watched him grow, since he got here, the new boy next door. Showing up after all the trauma with his family. A trauma he and Dot shared. And he'd been angry, and hurt, and in pain.

But you babysat Scotty for them during the week when they couldn't be home early, so you'd been around. Didn't ask too many questions, though you wanted too, and he seemed to like that. Seemed to relax around you. And when you did eventually start asking questions, he'd answered them. Mostly. Best he could.

You'd watched him grow, into himself, and into the family. And the way he was with Scotty always melted your heart. He never called her Scotty, always "kid" or "kiddo" or "bookworm". But the way he smiled and laughed with her. The way he let himself be tugged and guided gently around the house by her, completely at her beck and call, made your insides all warm and gooey.

He was your best friend. You knew that. You hadn't had many growing up. But he was a good listener. And a good talker too, once he got going, and felt safe enough to. You could listen to him talk for hours, and you had, day after day. Sitting in his room late at night, just listening to him talk and watching as his hands moved when he got more passionate about things.

You wanted to grab those hands sometimes. Just snatch them out of the air and hold them. Maybe press gentle kisses to his scarred knuckles and whisper how much you loved watching him talk. How much you loved listening to all the wonderfully weird ideas he had sometimes. Loved how creative he was even though he tried to hide it. You wanted to tell him how much you loved him.

But you never did. Never managed to find the courage. Just sat on his bed and watched him. Like you were watching him now. Sitting on the couch, his head moving slowly side to side as the radio played some love song. He was more a metal guy, but it didn't seem to be an issue today.

The timer ringing behind you on the island startles you out of your thoughts with a loud gasp. You huff a startled breath and grab it,  twist it off, and grab the cupcakes out of the oven. Turning it off and leaving them to cool. You mix the frosting for the first batch. Cherry and chocolate. You decide you're gonna fill a few.

You work quietly, filling and frosting, humming along to each song that plays. Not really paying attention to them all that well. Your tongue sticking out as you concentrate, trying to get the little swirl in the frosting just right. You're starting on the next one when Gator speaks again, for the first time in you don't know how long.

"Do you just know every song?" He asks, you almost drop the cupcake in your hand as your back straightens at the sudden noise.

"What's that?" You ask, looking across the island at him, he's turned on the couch, head resting on the back of it, one knee pulled up onto it, and if he could see, you know he'd have been watching you this whole time.

You look at him for a moment, navy sweatpants and a soft grey shirt, his socks mismatched, like always, courtesy of Scotty, you're sure. He looks so soft, relaxed, his hair falling in his face a bit. He smiles at your question, amused that you didn't hear him through your concentration.

"The songs. You've been humming to like, all of them." He nods toward the radio as the song changes again.

"You know this one too?" He asks, lips twitching against his arm on the back of the couch, head resting there as he waits for your answer.

You let the song play a little, listening, and of course you know this song too.

"Yeees." You drawl, setting the cupcake and the frosting piper down, licking some cherry frosting off your fingers.

"Of course you do." He snorts into his arm. And you know he'd be rolling his eyes if he could.

"Oh I'm sorry. I didn't know it was illegal to enjoy music in this house." You scoff, wiping your hands on your apron and crossing your arms as you watch him smile brightly.

"It's not illegal. But jesus. Every song?" He asks, shaking his head again.

"I like music! What's wrong with that?" You ask, taking a step around the island, toward him, you feel like you're always moving toward him these days, needing to be closer.

"Nothing!" He says, laughing as he raises his hands in surrender.

"It's just- I guess I just never knew anyone who liked that many songs and different...uh... what's it called. Like different types'a music I guess." He says, his hands tucking around his leg on the couch.

"Different genres?" You ask, taking another step, the song on the radio is slow, makes you want to sway to it. You're fingers itch with need. The need to touch, and hold, and move.

"Yeah that!" He snaps his fingers, points at you. You smile. His own smile wide with excitement that you knew what he meant.

"I just like all kinds of music. Different genres have different things to offer ya know?" You say, leaning your hip against the island as you watch him nod.

"Right. Yeah. Makes sense. You like rock and stuff too?" He asks, teeth digging into his lip.

"Yep. Love it." You say, popping the p, and smiling when he smiles, the two of you mirroring each other though he doesn't know it.

"Cool. It's not really, Valentines music though I guess." He says, slowly, eyebrows scrunching as he thinks about it.

"I don't know. There's a few ballads that'd be good I think. For rock people." You shrug, push yourself off the island as the song changes yet again, another slow song, another one you know. You watch him nod again, teeth still worrying at his lip, he looks nervous. And that's what does it, for some reason.

You take your apron off and walk over to him. You watch him track your movements through sounds, "looking" up at you when you end up standing in front of him. You look down at him for a moment, watch his tongue peak out as he licks his lips.

"Gimme your hand." You say, almost whisper.

"What for?" He asks, his voice tight, he's on edge, suspicious. Your heart aches for him, and for what he's been through to cause that feeling.

"Don't your trust me?" You tease, knowing he hates pity, always. Responds better when you put a little bite into it. The teasing he's good with. He tilts his head, like he's trying to hear your intentions.

"I um... I mean yeah. I do." His hand raises off his leg a bit, but not high enough to reach yours, stopping mid air. Uncertain. You smile, reach down and take his hand carefully.

"Here. C'mon. Come with me." You give his hand a little tug and he stands. You stumble back a step at his sudden proximity and he huffs dramatically.

"Where are we going? Aren't you cookin' or somethin'?" His voice is laced with annoyance, but you know he's just nervous, worried, that you might be pranking him. And you hate that he still thinks that way. But you don't hold it against him, years in a prison hospital ingraining that feeling deep.

"I'm just frosting now. This is more important." You tell him, giving his warm hand a squeeze as you pull him toward the space between the kitchen and the living room. A nice little open space, perfect for what you need. You stop and face him, take his other hand in yours as well. You watch him swallow nervously, his fingers twitching against yours.

"What are you doing?" He asks, his voice soft, and small.

"We. Are gonna dance. If- if you want?" You ask, shoulders jumping, hands twitching nervously in his. He licks his lips, eyebrows jumping on his forehead, popping over the bandana before disappearing again.

"Dancing? Right here?" He asks, sounding unsure.

"If that's okay with you? I know all the songs remember? It's nice to dance. And not just hum along sometimes." You breath out a small, nervous laugh, you heart pounding in your chest. Hoping he doesn't push you away, or tell you it's stupid, or something else equally horrible and embarrassing. His lips twitch, just the smallest amount, but you see it.

"I don't... really know how to dance." He says, his brows furrowing again, bunching together beneath the blue bandana.

"Only time there was ever dancing was at church sometimes. And no one ever really wanted to dance with me. So I don't... sorry." The apology is automatic. A thing he does. Not as often now. But he falls back on it. When he thinks he's done something wrong. He apologizes.

"It's okay. Dancings not so hard. Here." You move his hands slowly to your waist. And then move your hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders.

"And then we just- sorta move. Just sway with the music." You say, starting to move. He moves with you, fingers pressing into your hips as he smiles at you. He tilts his head forward a few times, like he's trying to look at his feet, before he straightens back up.

"Don't know what the fuck I think I'm lookin at. Not gonna see nothin." He mutters, and you know he's talking to himself, mostly, but you laugh anyway, and it makes him smile, makes him braver.

He moves closer, arms moving around your waist, holding you close. You smile too, bite your lip and move your hands. Let them fall over his shoulders, resting your arms there instead.

"See. You're a natural." You tell him, huffing a laugh, his nose scrunches and he nods at you. You can see his cheeks flexing, like he's squeezing his eyes shut tight or blinking hard. Or trying too.

You take a deep breath and move again, press closer, settle your head on his shoulder, your nose nearly pressed against his neck. You feel him trembling against you, feel the shakey breath he takes before moving his hands up and down your back genlty.

"I'm doing okay?" He asks you after a moment, both of you swaying slowly.

"Perfect." You pull back, eyes on his face.

"You're perfect." You whisper, eyes on his mouth. And if you were braver, you'd kiss him. But the dancing seems to be where your bravery ends. You move your hand, from the air behind his head to the back of his neck, your fingers tucking into his hair there. He sighs, seems to melt into you.

"I'm really not." He says, and you can hear that self depreciation that he hides so well.

"You are to me. For me, maybe. I don't know. But I-" your breath catches in your throat. His head moves to the side, listening, always.

"You what?" He asks, and you can feel his breath on your skin you're so close now. His hand moves up your back slowly, and then up under your arm, it finds it way to your neck carefully, his thumb brushing over your jaw.

"You what?" He asks again, insistent, his head dipping closer, his hair brushing your forehead. Your fingers twitch in his hair, against his neck, you know he can feel it.

"I just. I think maybe that I-" you cut off again, take a deep, frustrated breath. He smiles then, hums a laugh.

"You love me." He says, his head moving closer, his nose brushing against your cheek. Your heart pounds, your hands have to be sweaty, and warm again his neck and shoulder where you're holding him tightly now. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Wha- I didn't- I mean i'm-"

"You love me." He says again, cutting you off. And he's, oh you know that look, he's smug now. Lips twitching up at the corner, his thumb moves over your jaw as he smiles.

"Well you love me too." You huff, brows crinkling as you frown at him. A laugh bursts out of him. His arm still around your waist tugs you closer, you're chest to chest now and there's no way he can't feel how fast your heart is beating. He's still smiling, and now he's nodding.

"Yeah. I do. I do love you." He whispers into the the small space between you.

"I know. I- I love you too." You say, softer now, watching his face, that warm smile fading to something else. A look of concentration moving over his features.

"What? What's wrong?" You ask, your hand moving to his forehead, fingers pressing into the crease between his brows, soothing it. He softens under your touch, leans into it when your hand moves to his cheek. He shakes his head, once.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks, so soft, so earnest. You nod. Forgetting he can't see you, rolling your eyes at yourself.

"You just said you love me and you're asking if you can kiss me?" You breathe, a giddy laugh punching out of you. He shrugs, nods.

"Yeah. Asking for permission's always good right? Or does it- does it ruin the moment?" He asks, face going serious again. You bite your lip, move your hand further into his hair and smile when he sighs at the touch again.

"It doesn't ruin the moment. Just makes it better. I think." You tell him, curling your fingers in his hair.

"Good. I'm glad I didn't ruin it." His voice is thick with emotion, and your chest aches as his hand moves from your neck to your mouth. His fingertips moving gently over your lips, his thumb following them, you press your lips into his thumb and watch him smile as he leans closer, his thumb moving away the second before his lips touch yours

It's just a soft kiss. A sweet, warm press of lips against yours. Gentle and full of care. And it's everything.

His hand on your back pulls you closer and you gasp, he smiles against your lips and then his tongue hits your bottom lip, moving genlty, asking for permission. You sigh into his mouth and press closer, letting him in. His hand finds your hair, fingers moving against your scalp softly before his fingers get tangled and he groans into your mouth. You laugh into his and then you're pulling apart, reaching back to untangle him as you both laugh.

His head falls to your shoulder once you free his hand and he groans again.

"Sorry." He moans, you rub his back and pull him close, swaying from side to side again as you hold him.

"It's okay. It was funny. Kind of perfectly us." You sooth. And then he's standing straight again, his hand finding your face slowly, thumb settling at the corner of your mouth, like a guide in case he needs it again.

"You taste good." He says, like that's a normal thing to say, like it didn't just make your knees weak.

"Um... I do?" Your nose scrunches, doubting him.

"Mhm." He hums, dips forward, presses his lips to yours again and pulls back.

"Like cherry frosting." He says, smiling again, thumb moving across your lips.

"Oh. Yeah. That makes sense." You nod, your voice a little higher than normal. He nods, presses his forehead against yours, stays there.

"Need any company while you frost the rest of them?" He asks, his voice soft between you.

"I'd love some." You nod, take his hand in yours and guide him towards the kitchen.

"You'd love some. More or less, than you love me?" He teases as you park him next to where you were working. You groan at his question, pushing your hand against the smug look on his face.

"Oh. More and more as we speak." You tease as he laughs and swats your hand away. You swat back at him and he catches your hand easily, sight or no, his reflexes are great, and fast, he tugs you to his chest, hand wrapped around your wrist.

"If I stop talking. You'll love me more?" He asks, his voice pitched low as he snakes his other arm around your waist. You shake your head, dip your free hand into the frosting, two fingers covered in chocolate.

"Don't ever stop talking." You say, moving your hand slowly, so he doesn't clock the movement.

"And I don't think I could love you more than I already do." You say, sweetly. He smiles, starts to lean in for a kiss and you smear the frosting across his cheek. His mouth drops open as he freezes.

"Oooh my god. What did you just do to my face?" He asks, sounding the most offended anyone has ever sounded. You snort, grab at his neck when both his hands let you go, held up in the air by his shoulders.

"Made it better." You say, pulling him toward you and licking the frosting off his face. He makes a strangled sound in his throat and you smile and shove gently at his chest as he grabs for you.

"Now behave. I have to get them finished before everyone gets home." He pouts dramatically, and sighs. But he stays back, and you watch him bring his fingers to his cheek where you licked him. Just a press of fingers before he sniffs, realizing you can see him, and drops his hands again.

"Here. This is for you." You take one of the cupcakes your frosted earlier and place it in his open waiting hand.

He peels the paper off genlty, feels for a spot on the island and sets it down before taking a big bite. There's frosting on his nose but you can't even focus on that because he moans so loudly as he chews you feel your cheeks flush.

"Jesus." You mutter. And he smirks at you.

"Asshole." You grumble, smiling when he laughs around a mouthful of cupcake, his lips covered in crumbs and brown and pink frosting. You can't help yourself, you grab his shirt and tug him into a kiss. The little surprised noise that catches in his throat is the best sound you'd ever heard.

"Now you taste like frosting." You say agaisnt his lips.

"You callin me sweet?" He teases, licking at the frosting on his lips, you bring your hand up and wipe at some with your thumb.

"I'll call you whatever you want." You say, licking your thumb clean. He leans into you then, nuzzles into your neck.

"Promise?" He whispers into your skin, his arm circling you again and tugging you close. Your move your fingers through his hair, press a kiss to his head.

"Promise." You whisper back, smiling when he hums into your shoulder and rocks the both of you back and forth gently.

You finish the cupcakes with him by your side, both of you humming and singing along with the songs that come on. You get them moved to the table, setting them out in a heart before Gator drags you away to sit on the couch, his arms around you as you watch a movie, describing what's happening for him. You lie a few times, just to make him laugh. And he does, he buries his face in your neck and laughs and holds you tighter when you tell him what really happened.

Dot and Wayne come home and find you alseep on the couch, wrapped up in each other. Holding each other and snuggled close, safe on their couch. In their house. Together. Both of them smiling as Wayne lays a blanket over you before they head upstairs.

"I knew they'd figure it out." Dot says, smiling as they crawl into bed. Wayne shakes his head as he tugs the covers up.

"I did too ya know. Just don't know how you always know exactly when these things are gonna happen hun. It's like a sixth sense with you or somethin." He clicks off the lights and Dot curls into his side.

"It's holiday magic that's all." She sighs, cuddling closer.

"Oh. And you owe me and Scotty twenty bucks." She tugs him closer, smiling into his chest as he laughs and holds her close.

Tag list ( do i do those? Not usually but i got peeps that need to see it 🤣🤣): @jozstankovich @friendly-jester

[orbitariums]

warmth | art donaldson + patrick zweig + black fem reader (a snippet)

full length part 1 here!

i miss posting on here real bad and i keep teasing things (christopher moltisanti, richie jerimovich) and not actually writing/releasing them SO i'm putting this snippet of this oneshot i'm writing to encourage myself to actually put this out.

i think this will probably have multiple parts because the tension needs to builddd. and please, let me know y'alls thoughts!!! what do you think, what do you predict is gonna happen, r u thirsting adequately, etc. i love hearing your little comments <333

& let me know if you’d wanna be tagged when this comes out

essentially: reader, patrick and art were childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

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warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

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“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door, like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The two of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky-high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were draped in that cream-colored silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school. Now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twenty-something industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly suffocated you.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that still clung to his face, and the detergent still fresh from his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom and fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs, had them panting like puppy dogs, inching your hands further and further only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from being reintegrated into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy-nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. Patrick and Art couldn't help but watch on with deeply impressed smiles — you were meant to bask: in glory, in pleasure, in everything. You looked just right standing where you were.

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, clearing the tables, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm) — before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you, this time the kind that said everything about how you lived in comparison to them,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly, as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental, but the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — high school all over again.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

eek let me know what y'all thought. i wanna finish it by this week <3

[wifeofnatasharomanoff]

Cookie Jar

Warnings: g!p Nat, oral (Nat receiving), Fingering (r receiving), soft!dom Nat

Words: 1,753

A/N: Hi my darlings! Wrote this little thing, felt like writing some fluffy smut, hope you like it!

(Also Alex's dialog isn't a typo, he's like 3 and can't talk properly, set a bit after AOU)

Don't forget to drink water, sleep and eat well my loves! <3

You woke up to the sunlight, blinding your eyes in the early morning. Your wife's muscular arms wrapped tightly around your body. You groan, tossing and turning as you try to get out of her hold. “Where do you think you're going detka?” she mumbles out, whispering into your ear.

You smile, “Natty the kids are gonna be up soon..” she places a light kiss on your neck, “It won't take too long baby.” you sigh, “You're lucky I love you.” you say, sliding your hand in between both of your bodies.

Slipping a hand into her boxers, you grasp onto her hardened cock. “Fuck—” you smile, moving your body down to her crotch. You look up at her from your position, lazily jerking her off. “Mmh.. kotenok you're doing so– so good, fucking hell!”

Her hips bucked up as you run your palms up and down her dick, “'m gonna fucking cum all over that pretty face of yours detka..” she lets out a moan, when you rub her tip with your thumb.

Not too soon after, thick ropes of cum shoots up, painting your face. “Natasha— I have to go clean up now.. thanks a lot.” she chuckles, looking at your messed up face, “You're welcome moya lyubov, happy anniversary.” she winks, you roll your eyes.

You get up from the bed, making your way to the bathroom when, “Mommyyy! Mama!!” a knock on your door from your eldest. You whisper out a swear, “Yeah sweetie! Yup– mommy will be right out.” you yell out, glaring at your wife when you hear her snicker.

You get out of the bedroom, widening your eyes in shock, “Alex! Why did you put— How did you put your little sister on top of the counter, I told you that she'd get hurt Alex.” you scold the toddler, picking up the baby.

“Sowwy mommy..” he looks down at the floor, sadly. Natasha walks into the kitchen, “Y/N, have you been yelling at our son?” she ruffles his hair, and he lets out a little laugh.

You huff, “He put Aliana on top of the counter again.” the red-head glances at the baby, back to your son. “You did what?” he cackles, running off to the living room.

“Alex! I– whatever. Nat he got this from you.” you say, adjusting the baby to your hip. “What? I never did that with Yelena when we were kids.. I think.” you laugh softly, kissing the corner of her mouth. “What do you want for breakfast Tasha?” she looks at you, “I can make it.” you scoff, walking to the pantry. “You are gonna burn the house down, but help is appreciated.”

“Mama, I want a peanut butter samwich.” she turns to face the little boy, “Babe, Alex wants a peanut butter sandwich!” you get out the peanut butter, “Got it.”

After breakfast the 4 of you sit in the living room, “Mommy look I drew bord!” you take the paper and look at the deformed bird drawn on it, “Yeah, buddy I can tell. It's– great.” he flashes a big smile, kissing your cheek, then runs off to the table.

The baby sleeping on your lap stirs, “Detka you need me to hold her?” you shake your head, “No it's fine darling.” you rock Aliana in your arms, attempting to get her back to sleep.

Natasha leans over, whispering in your ear, “You want a 3rd one?” you blink, looking up at your wife. “I—” she chuckles, placing her lips against yours, kissing you slowly. You break the kiss, “Can you go uhm..” you spoke, breathlessly, “Check the oven? Call me if the cookies are done, okay?”

She gives an exaggerated whine, “You want me gone so quickly?” you roll your eyes, “Romanoff, just go do what I told you to.”

“That's not what you said last night.” she gets up from the couch and walks off to the kitchen. “They're done!” you hear from outside the living room. “Okay!”

You take the sleeping baby out of your arms and slowly place her down on the couch, then get up and make your way into the kitchen. You feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist, causing you to let out a light giggle. She plants light, feathery kisses on your neck, “Nat— we.. are in the kitchen.” she presses her body against yours.

“Natasha Romanoff.” she lets go of you, raising her hands up in surrender, “You have no idea what I'm gonna do as soon as I get my hands on you detka.” you smile, taking the cookies out of the oven. “Oh I have a bit of an idea my love.”

She turns around, and gives you a smack on the ass. “Natasha!” she laughs, “What? I didn't do anything.”

Your eldest kid walked in the kitchen, “Mama hit mommy.” you gasp dramatically and widen your eyes, “How dare mama hit me?” Alex huffs, crossing his arms, “Say sowwy to mommy.” your wife smiles, giving a fake apology then whispers into your ear, “I don't regret it though.” she pulls back and winks at you.

A blush forms on your face, “Mommy your face is red!” he points at you before running of to god knows where, “And why's that?” Natasha pretends to not know why, “It's just, there's a fly in here and it's really, really annoying me.” Natasha gasps, “Did you just call me a fly?”

You smile innocently, placing the cookies in the jar. Natasha takes out her phone, “Y/N look!” you hum in response, looking over at her screen. “Ugh, Laura's so lucky, when Alex was a baby he was chubby like that.” Natasha raises a brow and looks over at you, “What?” she shakes her head, “Nothing.”

You nod, closing the cookie jar, “Remind me to make sure someone can watch the kids for our anniversary next year.” you say, walking over to peck her on the lips. “Yeah, we should've done that beforehand.” she says, pulling you in by the waist.

“Mhm..?” you get on your toes, pressing your lips against hers, letting out a slight moan as you feel her tounge slip into your mouth. “Mmph—” you break the kiss, over hearing a cry in the distance. “Duty calls.” you say, clearly out of breath.

After dinner, you and Natasha put the kids to bed and go back into your share bedroom. You sigh, and slip off your dress, noticing her eyes on you. “Come to bed baby.” you turn to look at her, “Yeah.” you unclasp your bra, sliding it off your shoulders.

You sit down next to her in bed, she pulls you onto her lap. “You're so perfect kotenok..” she places a kiss on between your uncovered breasts, sending a shiver down your spine.

She brings a hand between your thighs, rubbing your cloth covered clit, you whimper as you desperately grind against her fingers. “Tasha stop t-teasing I–” she smirks, sliding your panties to the side. She slightly widens her eyes, looking down at your dripping slit. “Is this all for me baby?” you whine, nodding vigorously.

She runs her fingers through your glistening folds, your hips buck forward, you moan softly. “D-daddy please f—” she pinches your nipple, causing you to yelp. “Use your words detka.” you let out a breathy moan, “Fuck me please 'need you in me.” she kisses your jaw, “Whatever you say princess.”

She discards her boxers, her hardened cock springs out, her pre-cum leaking from the tip. “Nata—” she covers your mouth when she slides her dick inside of you. You let out a muffled scream, completely breaking apart as she stuffs you up, inch by inch.

“Fuck baby you're taking daddy in so well..” you moan, pushing in more of her length. She feels your walls clench around her, “Mm.. daddy you're so big.” she grunts, grabbing onto your hips to thrust harder into you.

Your whimpers and moans like music to her ears, she pulls you in for a rough, slow kiss. You gasp softly, locking your lips with hers. “Mmh.. Natasha–” she squeezes your ass, making you emit a throaty moan as her dick rubs against your g-spot. “Oh—”

She grips onto your hips, slamming her cock deeper into you. “Taking me in so well baby.” she leans over and whispers. “Are you close?” you nod, unable to respond in words. “Cum all over my cock like a good little whore.”

You dig your nails into her shoulders, moaning loudly, as you came onto her dick. “You're doing so well detka..” she praises, whispering into your ear as she runs her hands up and down your back. “Natasha..” she looks down at you, “Mhm?”

You press a light kiss to her neck, “You want me to clean you up darling?” she softly smiles, “If you want to.” you nod, she kisses your cheek, and slowly pulls out.

You lower yourself onto her, wrapping your lips around her tip. She lets out a shaky breath, bringing her hand to grip onto your hair. You take more of her dick inside of your mouth, coating it with your saliva. She takes her hand, pushing herself into you. “Oh fuck baby..” she lets of a soft moan as you run your tounge over her veins, you feel her dick twitch inside of your mouth.

You suck harder, bobbing your head up and down her length, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Y/N..” she whimpers out, “Fuck– kotenok 'm gonna cum, swallow it like a good girl.” she says, before filling your throat up with her warm juices. You swallow it down, you pull her cock out of your mouth.

She smirks, grabbing your jaw to look at your fucked out face, her cum dripping out the corners of your mouth. “Are you okay moya lyubov?” you smile, nodding your head, “Mhm!” she wipes off your mouth, looking down at you. “Happy anniversary Tasha..” you say, moving upwards to pull her into a slow, passionate kiss.

She smiles into the kiss, pulling you closer to her. “Happy anniversary.” she pants out, “Maybe next anniversary.. we could have a 3rd mini Romanoff in our family.” you laugh, kissing her cheek. “Natasha– you're being serious?” she nods slowly, nervously smiling.

You kiss her softly, “Natasha I– yes I would love to have another mini Romanoff.” you look up at her, she holds onto you tightly, “Let's pick out names.” she says. “Nat I'm not even pregnant yet, you weirdo.” she chuckles, kissing your neck. “Yet.” you smile, “I love you Natty.” she puts her head in the crook of your neck, “I love you most Y/NN.”

You groan when you both hear a loud shatter in the direction to the kitchen, before yelling, “Alex!”

[the-purity-pen]

Lights Out

Santiago Garcia x AFAB!Reader (no y/n)

rating: EXPLICIT (NO MINORS)

warnings: oral (afab receiving), fluff and feels (be warned)

words: 2.9k

a/n: this comes from a request from my lovely bestie @flightlessangelwings. it uh... well it got away from me a bit and therefore is a full fic. talk about coming back to tumblr fanfic writing with a vengence. sorry not sorry.

The storm outside was loud. So loud that every boom of thunder felt like it was shaking your entire house. You held your cat on your lap while on the couch, curled up with your favorite blanket, and the television turned on to the romance movie you had started earlier in the week. The plus side to working for the small town bar was that your boss, your best friend, didn’t force you to come in during storms.

The unexpected night off meant you got comfy in a large oversized t-shirt and soft cotton sleep shorts. Which was the call for the blanket as the temperature outside cooled down more than you were expecting. Your calico Ellie also helped keep you warm as she purred on your lap.

The lights flickered, but nothing else seemed affected, so you ignored it and returned to watching the movie. After months of built-up flirting, the male protagonist had just gotten the nerve to kiss the female protagonist. His hand on her chin made goosebumps rise along your skin. You were hopelessly romantic and loved all those movies and seeing the characters kiss for the first time. It was electric, and you always dreamed of having that for yourself.

The lights flickered three more times in rapid succession before everything went dark. Even though your heart rate elevated with anxiety, you managed a breath before muttering, “Damn it,” and getting up from your comfortable spot. Ellie gave a soft chirping meow to let you know that she didn’t like being moved, but she managed to get to the other end of the couch and curl back up to sleep. You shook your head at her before heading to the kitchen. In one of the drawers, you dug through the piles of receipts and take-out menus, rubber bands, and scotch tape until you found the little purple sparkly flashlight.

Just as you pull it out to turn it on, a loud knock at your door makes you jump—your heart races as you try to steady your breathing. You get the flashlight turned on just before you reach your front door. You peeked out the top window from your tiptoes just enough to see the top of a head covered in onyx-colored curls. You opened the door to find Santiago, your neighbor, soaked to the bone and panting.

“Santi,” you sighed as you lowered the flashlight and stepped back to allow him inside. His head is lowered as he steps in but remains on the indoor welcome mat, seemingly trying not to drip water all over your hardwood floor. You closed the door, rushed to the oven to grab the hand towel, and handed it to him. He offered a soft “thanks” while drying his face and arms.

“Well, I see you’re out of power too,” Santi mentions as he stands up straighter and looks around your living room with a soft chuckle, then back to you.

“Just lost it. Interrupted my movie too,” you offer with a soft laugh; turning off the flashlight as the moon glows from outside is enough to see Santi as you converse.

After an awkward silence, Santi hands the now-damp towel back to you, and you put it on the counter beside you.

“Didn’t know if you and Ellie needed anything,” he finally spoke after clearing his throat. His brows lifted as he looked at you. Even in the dark, there was no denying how handsome Santi was. Add in how wonderful of a neighbor he had been over the last year since you moved in, and he was pretty accurately the perfect man.

He had helped change the spark plugs in your car, repaired the front gutter, helped build your back deck, and replaced the upstairs bath’s faucet. All for free. He never asked for anything in return except for some free pastries when he’d stop by your bakery. You couldn’t say no. His sweet tooth was like no other, and for the rugged man he appeared to be, knowing he had a soft spot for your cupcakes and brownies made you just that little bit mushier.

“It’s fine. We’ve survived worse,” you commented, a wry laugh being pulled from you. The words and meanings were heavier than you intended them to be. Santi seemed to catch on as he stared after you, watching you move further into the kitchen.

“Did you want some water?” you offered as you reached into the cupboard for two glasses. The fridge, thankfully, still worked for a few minutes after a power outage. You knew it would eventually run out of the reserved energy to keep things cold, but at least you had the water jug in there.

“Sure,” Santi answered, wiping his feet before venturing toward you over at the sink. But as he waited, he did so very close to the side of the fridge. You turned after filling the first glass and bumped into him with your elbow, causing the cold water to splash onto you, eliciting a shriek.

“Oh! Shit, I’m so sorry,” Santi started apologizing and immediately grabbed the towel from the counter you had let him use. He started patting you down with it, but the dampness of the towel from his usage and the cold water already absorbing into your shirt caused you to shiver and shake your head. You set the glass on the counter by the fridge and mumbled to him that you were okay. He handed you the towel but stood dumbfounded as he watched you.

“Are you sure? Can I get you something else? Where are your other towels?” he asked rapidly before hurrying around the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to find something else to dry you off.

“Santi,” you said with a laugh. “I’m good. Let me get changed. Help yourself to the water, though. I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared around the corner and down the hall. Stripping off the T-shirt once in your bedroom, you opened your wardrobe to find... nothing else in the comfort level to be worn. Your dirty laundry was still in the washer in the basement, and you hadn’t switched it over to the dryer before the storm. You mentally and physically facepalmed. “Great,” you muttered before closing the drawer and moving to your closet. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but it would have to do.

Walking back out toward the kitchen, fiddling with the buttons on your ex’s dress shirt, you didn’t notice Santi had moved, and you ran head-first into his solid chest. “Whoa,” he laughed, his arms coming out to steady your shoulders. His hands were warm on your cold skin, even through the shirt's material.

You swallowed thickly as you looked up at him. The moment was fleeting, but it was there, and you swore you saw the sparkle in his deep brown eyes. But perhaps that was just the lights flickering back on. You heard all the machines in your kitchen turn on, and it must have cleared Santi’s mind because he, too, backed away and cleared his throat.

“Well, look at that,” he said and nodded slowly, looking around to see everything turn back on - including the television. The movie must have paused when the power went out because it picked right back up where it had left off. The two main characters were getting into their kissing, and the music was swelling, indicating which direction things were going in.

“Oh!” you shouted as the moans from the actors started to fill the room and romantic close-ups of their bodies began to show on the screen. You practically fumbled and ran from Santi to find the remote. The moaning and panting got louder, and you swore the remote was on the couch. You bent in strange ways, trying to see it, lifting the blanket from where it had crumpled, and felt your heart racing faster and faster with each passing moment.

Santi looked on, bemused, a smirk on his lips, taking a mental note of what kind of movies you enjoyed. Was it because he wanted to know you a bit better? Yes. Was it also because the noises from the tv sounded erotic and affected him? Also yes. And how you bent over at one certain angle, perhaps giving him the slightest hint of the bottom of your backside? Absolutely yes.

He walked over after you seemed to be failing at locating the remote. “Can I help?” he asked, standing closer to the tv, the actors getting into the steamy sex scene now. You could barely hear him over the thumping in your ears from your heart. Where the fuck did that little remote go, and why was there so much moaning on the television now?

You turned and saw Santi watching the tv as the sex scene played. It was rather raunchy for being a romance film, but it was steamy and sexy, and you swallowed thickly. You cleared your throat, staring at how Santi watched the scene play out.

“What movie is this?” he asked before facing you and noticing you staring at him.

Caught off guard, you stumbled through an answer. “Oh, uh, it’s just some romance movie based on a book series.” Vague, yes. Keep it vague.

Santi’s smirk took over, and your knees would buckle if it were a romance movie like the one on your screen. He was so ruggedly handsome, and you were brought back to just a few minutes before when his hands were on you. The feeling had this moment of staring at each other, turning you into a puddle. Especially as Santi moved away from the tv and toward you, his head cocked to one side, seemingly studying you.

“Do you like romance novels? And movies?”

There was no judgment, no mocking in his tone. He was genuinely asking. You quickly ran through the scenarios of what a yes answer and a denying no answer could look like. You opted for honesty. After all, other than your crush on him, your neighborly friendship with him had always been honest and straightforward.

You nodded as he moved closer and now stood directly before you. His nod was much slower than yours, thoughtful, and you noticed all of the stubble along his jaw. That hadn’t been there the last time you had seen him. But it suited him. His hand gently came up in front of your chest but paused, his eyes searching yours. Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back as your head gently nodded.

His rough, calloused hand ghosted in front of your chest and to your jawline. The contrast of the feel of his hand against your jaw and your skin caused both of you to take shuddering breaths in. “So you enjoy the idea of being kissed… softly?” Santi asked, his soft, graveling tone sending a shiver down your body.

Your heart felt like it had jumped into your throat, making words hard to come out. Instead, you nodded and breathed in, holding it. Your gaze on Santi was soft but begging him to move even closer. You had wanted to feel his kiss for so long, but you didn’t know that he even had an inkling of romantic feelings toward you.

“May I?”

The question surprised you. Santi didn’t seem the type to ask. You had seen him with women at the neighborhood picnics and gatherings. He always seemed so in control and cocky. The first time you officially introduced yourself to him, his smirk nearly made you hate him because he looked so full of himself.

But it was becoming more apparent that that was a facade, and with that, you nodded and mumbled a soft “please” in answer. His look was pure contentment as he leaned in, his hand sliding over to hold your chin and lifting it ever so slightly. He leaned in, his lips nearly at yours before he spoke, causing you to whimper.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for six months.”

You blinked and looked up at him. Your face did a slight double take, blinking harder.

“What?”

“I came over to help you fix more stuff because I had this ridiculous fantasy of coming over sometime and finding you half-dressed. I’d take you on the couch and devour you, tasting all of you. Like some romance movie,” he admitted, and your entire body became alight with lust. You couldn’t even stop your hands as they lifted to his fitted t-shirt and gripped the front of it, pulling him to you so that his lips had no choice but to land on yours.

The groans he let out let you know that you had done something right in taking the first move. His free hand slid down the side of your body to your hip, where his rough fingertips dug into your flesh, crumpling the shirt. You took a step back, tugging him with you until your knees buckled at the couch, and you both landed, Santi’s knee on the left side of you on the sofa.

Your hands moved up to his face, cupping his scruffed jaw. His lips chased yours, but you had other plans as you held his face and moved your lips along his cheek and to the soft spot behind his ear. Your tongue played against it, licking him before moving to his jugular. His hand on your chin slid down to cup your breast through the shirt, and you moaned, arching your back into his touch.

“Oh, that’s what you like, hm?” he breathed out, moving his face down to echo the licking and nibbling at your neck that you had just done to him. His smirk could be felt against your skin as you mewled in pleasure.

Hands moved all over; mouths continued to explore the upper parts of your bodies until they were reunited again in a heavier, hotter, more passionate kiss. Santi’s hand trailed down your body to between your legs, where he found your moist center. He groaned, his thumb pressing gently against the sensitive button that had your hips wildly thrusting toward him. His hand continued to move but in such a teasing manner that it was starting to frustrate you. Just having his body on yours was better than anything, but having his hand at your most needed part was already better than all your nights with your toys.

His mouth ventured down, suckling at your breast through the shirt, moistening it before moving down until he was on his knees on the floor in front of the couch and you. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the oversized shirt out of his way. He leaned in, kissing up one thigh, then, when he barely reached your apex, his mouth moved to the other, starting the trail north.

“God, Santi, please,” you murmured, a mumble. Your brain was working on overdrive that this man would do this to live out the fantasy he had admitted to you.

His hands worked down your shorts and panties in one fell swoop. A master at undressing you already. Either that, or you were just that needy and desperate. He leaned in the moment he saw the glistening of your sex. His tongue swiping along your slit, bottom to top, your hands nestled into his curls.

“Santi.” You breathed out his name in pants and moans, and he was done for. His mouth closed over your warm cunt, lapping at you before stiffening his tongue and pressing into you. The curl of the muscle of his tongue pushing into you had your breath catching in your throat. His mouth was magic, and you were sure to come undone quickly.

But just as your peak nearly hit, your hips pressing up against his face, he pulled back, his hands pushing your hips back down. “Oh, baby. Not yet. I want to see you crumble and hear you scream, but I want to keep tastin’ you. I want to know that I’m making you shudder and shiver from pleasure. Okay?”

You whine, but if the last few minutes were any indication, Santi had no plans to leave the space between your legs soon. His tongue gently licked at you, to which you shuddered from sensitivity. His hands worked in slow circles on your thighs, and when his mouth wasn’t against you, his eyes were studying his fingers played gently against your clit, watching the way you would tense and clench around nothing.

And you were right. Three orgasms from his lips and mouth alone later, Santi finally comes up for air, his scruff glistening with your wetness. You reach out for him and pull his head up to you so that you can lean forward and capture his lips against yours. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue and in his mouth as you deepen the kiss.

When you broke the kiss, Santi leaned his forehead against yours to catch his breath. “I.. am not done with you,” he grinned as he kissed you chastely and pulled back. Showing you the wicked grin on his lips and the devilish glint in his dark eyes. You laughed and shook your head.

“You really shouldn’t wait six months to kiss me next time,” you quipped. His chuckle seemed to rumble deep into his chest.

“Oh, so you’re sassy too, huh?” he laughed as his hands gently tickled your sides before sliding one up to hold your chin again to you could look directly into his eyes.

“I’m never waiting to kiss you ever again. Ever,” he told you sternly, the laughter dying off as his lips retook yours in a soft, gentle, but firm kiss.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Support System pt. 3

MASTERLIST

CH1 | CH 2

Roy Kent x Reader

Guys, I can't stop writing this. I cannot stop! Let's just whoooosh get it all out like a Roy Kent exorcism then I can move on... or something 😂 Thank you thank you thank you for reading/liking/reblogging/commenting - you're all aces 😘

Chapter 3

You’re not entirely sure how it happened, but Roy Kent was in your kitchen with a piping bag icing cupcakes. The table and just about every surface is covered in flour, batter and icing, the girls are on a sugar high and you’re fairly certain there’s purple frosting in your hair somewhere. At the park, Lexie had explained in great detail all of the baking you both intended on doing that afternoon, so the invitation for them to join you came naturally.

“Bit more there uncle Roy.” Phoebe instructs patiently.

“And there.” Lexie points. You pour from the kettle into two large cups and stir the coffee. While it rests for a minute, you get the next set of bakes out of the oven - chocolate chip cookies, and look for somewhere to set them down. While you’re surveying the chaos, you notice Roy has stopped icing cakes and is watching you. He points with the piping bag over your right shoulder.

“Space over there.” You put the pan down quickly, feeling the heat coming through the towel you used to get the hot tray out. You finish the coffees and put one in front of him as he finishes the last cake and you all sit back to observe your hard work. There’s a lemon drizzle cake for Phoebe to take to her nan’s house, a tray of scones for Lexie to take to her nan’s, vanilla cupcakes for Sara and chocolate for you and cookies to take to school. You reach forward to take a cupcake from the freshly frosted batch but Roy taps your hand away.

“Ouch!”

“Not that one, here.” He hands you one from further along the tray with extra icing. “Lexie said you’re obsessed with icing.” You smile and open up the paper case. Seeing you with a cake, the girls each take one.

“Can we eat it in the living room mum? I want to put Disney on.”

“P-?”

“Pleeeease?!”

“Go on then. You’re useless at cleaning up anyway.” The girls jump up and you soon hear the opening credits to Moana. Once you’ve finished your cake, you start at one end of the kitchen wiping surfaces and putting spoons and bowls into the sink. You’re a little surprised when Roy starts at the other end doing the same thing. At your third meeting at the sink, you notice the frosting on his cheek. “Oh, you’ve got a bit of-” without giving it a second thought, you reach up and swipe at his cheek with your thumb. He hums a little and you realise just how close you’re standing to one another. He takes a tiny step, placing one of his feet in between yours, a hand going to your hair,

“Yeah you’ve got a bit here.” The length of his body is not quite flush against yours, but there’s only millimetres to spare. His other hand goes to your hip, squeezing just a little and he leans down, his nose brushing against yours.

“Aagghhh mum!” A squeal from the living room interrupts you and you both spring apart. You’ve never been not kissed like that before in your life. Hell you’ve never been about to be kissed like that before. His lips hadn’t even touched yours but your skin was on fire, your heart racing. It takes a second for you to register Lexie calling you, but once you do you slip past him into the living room.

“What’s up?” You ask, breathless. How are you so breathless when nothing happened?!

“I dropped it.” Phoebe looked guiltily at the purple cupcake face down on the rug.

“Oh honey, don’t worry about it.” You drop to your knees to give her a hug. “Lexie drops food in here all the time, trust me, it’s no big deal.” You smile kindly and retrieve the cake. “Do you still want the cakey bit?” She nods so you get up to wipe off the excess frosting and take the cupcake back to her, then you clean up the little purple patch on the floor. 

“Sorry about that, I’ll get you a new rug.” Roy says from the kitchen doorway.

“Oh don’t, honestly. I’m waiting for Lexie to move out before I get anything nice for this house.” You joke, ruffling Lexie’s hair on your way back to the kitchen. The moment has passed so you carry on with the big clean up while the girls watch their film. Once it’s over, you say goodbye to Roy and Phoebe at the door, wishing them a happy weekend and watching Roy for slightly longer than is generally acceptable. The rest of the weekend is gone in a flash with a visit to your parents for Sunday dinner and the usual routine of preparing for the week ahead. Sara had replied to you late in the evening to thank you for the cakes, I’m on early again tomorrow but will probably see you after school on Tuesday if you guys want to come for dinner? You agree and take the opportunity to message Roy for the first time, offering to take Phoebe to school the following day, as you had the previous Monday. She’d like that. If you’re going to work on the train again, I’ll drop you at the station. You can’t help the butterflies that flutter knowing that you’ll see him again the next day. The key to a successful Monday morning appeared to be Lexie knowing that she’d be going to school with Phoebe. Again, she got washed and dressed without arguing with you and you were out the door in record time. This time, when he passed a cup across the counter, you passed a plastic box with two cupcakes inside.

“You forgot these.”

“I brought Sara’s?”

“Yeah but these are for you.” You smile. He nods and takes the box with a little grin.

“Thanks. How’s your week looking?”

“Not too bad. I’ve got Lex til Thursday and then she’s with her dad for the weekend. How about you?”

“We’re off to Amsterdam.”

“Oh, wow! That sounds… fun?” 

“It’s not like that. We’ve got a match.” You raise an eyebrow. Admittedly, your brain went straight to the very little you know about Amsterdam - women and drugs, rather than football and art.

“Yeah well, when in Rome and all that. Or Amsterdam.”

“No, not when in Rome. You wouldn’t catch me doing… anything like that.”

“Hmm. If you say so. I hear the women are all exhausted though.” You tease. 

“I don’t intend to find out.” He says pointedly. The girls pile into the car and you drop them off at school. At the train station, you turn to say goodbye.

“Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks. See you next week probably.”

“... Probably.” Your phone pings in the middle of the night a couple of days later with a selfie of Roy and Jamie in front of a huge windmill. Nice view x You reply sleepily and put your phone away. 

With no Lexie at the end of the week and into the weekend, you think more and more about what you and Sara had talked about in the weeks previously. As if she knew, a message arrived from Sara Phoebe is with her nan tonight. Fancy dinner out with wine and NO CHILDREN? You jump at the chance, confirming immediately and rushing to get showered and changed. You decide to stay in town and go to the new Italian in Paved Court, walking distance for the early evening, and just a short taxi ride home. You take out a dress you hadn’t worn before - when you’d tried it on, Andy had sneered at the deep, wrap front which hugged your breasts and the asymmetrical length which started at just above your knee but got longer in the back and grazed the back of your calves. The colour was a deep plum which brought out the auburn hints of your hair, the traces of red from your childhood were long gone. When you brought it, the dress had made you feel sexy - enhancing your curves and gently flowing over the imperfections. Andy’s comments had a lasting effect though and you were only wearing it now because everything else nice you owned was practically workwear. You really did have to stop wearing your nicer stuff to work. You met at the restaurant, going in, getting a table and ordering wine before Sara arrived.

“Started without me, love it!”

“Only half a glass, here.” You filled her glass and put the bottle back in the cooler.

“To a hot meal with no children.” You clink glasses happily. She tells you about her week, how Phoebe missed uncle Roy while he was away and the first bottle disappears quickly. You order another bottle and once you’ve finished your meals, you decide to get drinks around the corner at the Rose and Crown. The pub is bustling, but not too busy and you order drinks while Sara looks around for somewhere to sit. “Oh look! Roy’s here, let’s go annoy him.” She takes her drink from you and pulls you by the hand to the booth he’s sitting in with the other Richmond coaches. He watches you from the bar all the way to the booth but you can’t read his look at all, it’s not a familiar one. He introduces you to Coaches Beard and Lasso and they shuffle around to make space for you and Sara, one at either side of the booth. Sara is already standing next to the seat next to Coach Lasso which becomes spare, so you take the seat next to Roy. The seating is meant to be comfortable for four people so it’s a little snug with an extra person, you have to sit close to Roy to avoid falling off the seat but you don’t want to be presumptuous and sit too close either. He takes the decision away from you and slips an arm around your back, pulling your opposite hip further into the seat and closer to him. Your thigh presses against his and his hand doesn’t move from your hip where it’s just hidden by the knot of your wrap dress. You’ve had to turn your body slightly towards him so you can see and talk to the others, as you look down to get your drink, you realise that you’ve given him a front row seat to your cleavage. Your eyes shoot to the ceiling and you try firstly not to blush and secondly to act very nonchalantly about it. Sara however is the same two bottles of wine into the evening that you are and as she catches your eye, a giggle bursts from her and she’s suddenly laughing until there are tears in her eyes. Roy doesn’t say a word, just laughs at her and traces little circles into your hip with his thumb. You have a really great night - enjoying grown up company and conversation and not worrying about upsetting Andy when you get home, or waking Lexie. By the time last orders is called, you are probably the drunkest you’ve been in a long, long time. Roy says goodbye to coaches Beard and Lasso and takes both you and Sara by the arm to his car.

“Ha! Roy, you look like a right ladies man taking two women home!”

“Doesn’t count when you’re my sister.” He tells her affectionately.

“She’s not your sister.”

“Fucking good job, too.”

“What?” She asks loudly,

“Nevermind.” He tells her, she slides into the back seats and lies down, already half asleep. “Don’t go to sleep in my car, put your belt on.” He opens the passenger door for you and helps you up. The route he takes goes past Sara’s house first. He helps her out of the car and unlocks her front door. He’s gone for a few minutes while you fight the need for sleep in the car. “Sorry, just getting her water and painkillers.” The short drive to your house doesn't take long at all and he comes around to open your door for you and help you out. 

“‘m fine, you don’t need to see me to the door.”

“Course I do, come on.” He lets you attempt to unlock the door but then takes your key gently from you and slots it into the lock. You turn to thank him, your heels bring you closer to his height but still a way off. You make an entirely alcohol based decision and lean up onto your tiptoes, your lips brush softly against his, your eyes fluttering shut. His hand goes around your waist to steady you and you can’t help the little sigh you make when you’re pulled closer to him. But it doesn’t last. He steps back away from you, his hand moving to your elbow. You open your eyes again and all you see in return is pity. Horror rises inside you and you move out of his grip, ashamed and embarrassed.

“Oh god, fuck. I’m sorry, shit, I’m so fucking sorry, I shouldn’t have-, fucking fuck. I’m so fucking stupid, why on earth would I think-” You grab for the door handle and back up away from him.

“No wait, it’s not-”

“Please forget that ever happened. God, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” You plead a final time, desperate not to cry in front of him. You slam the door shut and flick the lock, pressing your forehead against the cool wood. With the door safely shut, your tears fall and you choke back a sob. On the other side of the door, Roy hears and goes to knock, but the sound fades as you move further into the house.

“Fuuuuck.” He growls, going back to his car.

[havethetouch]

Back on my bullshit because now that I have a longer vacation going on I can tackle this again, this time with feeling. Also I had a break in between bc I remembered and forgot to mention that I was out and about for almost a week living in a flat to babysit animals while their owners were out of the country but I had been yearning for the ceiling. After Time got away from me a bit got brainfogged suddenly realized it is September already wtf. If I hadn't liveblogged the ceiling shenanigans I might've misremembered when that started too. Anyway.

Previously on Touch's ceiling shenanigans

And right now we are here:

Ceiling skeleton. The support beams are all askew as fuck and jammed into the the walls on both sides. I have thermal plastering ready for it's call to action as one of the walls with the holes is an outer wall and the cold will crawl through and try to get me without proper insulation. I am also currently busy with removing everything that has been lying about in this room (before it was the storage room for when I freshly moved in so a lot of stuff just.. floating about) because the crossbars do not inspire confidence in me that they will not drop weirdly when I loosen them up lol I also bribed my auntie to take me a few villages over (I do not have a car) to get some more supplies for the removal of the distemper paint and shit to seal of cracks were the ceiling and walls meet. Also... there is a cable duct in the corner right over the space were the oven will go and I figured it might be for the best to pry open the wall to sink it and for that I needed a different kind of quick-drying plaster which was also acquired. And then I thought yeah well, get some of those parquet mini fix thingies.. you know the idk how it is called but basically there are some scratches and dents in the floor in need of some TLC and I know how sanding down parquet and resealing it properly works but I also know how much time and shit that takes and I might at some point say "it is time" but it ain't this year or the next for sure. So mini fixes it is for now. I also have a different endboss now in this entire thing because see... I have a second door in this room to the outside of my driveway. I just have this second entry point to my abode which will be very handy once I work with some of my materials that need a lot of ventilation and shit. But anyway so... Somewhen in the past there was flooding I know this there is plenty of visible evidence of it all over my home that there went water were it was not supposed to go. But nowhere is it more apparent than this door.

There used to be parquet in between (it's a double door) and just look how fucking thick my outside walls are fucks sake and my dad removed that because it looked like one step away from having you meet the underside of the building and filled that all up with concrete but nothing more than that. I think he wanted to seal the doorway up permanently at some point and I am glad he didn't because I adore the second entry point. But yeahhh this is a bit of damage. I misremembered how much bc I had to temp seal this off for a bit because mice kept sneaking through these two doors into the house last winter along with the cold. So it kinda slipped my mind how rotten the wooden frames are and how even the concrete on the sides is all fucked up. Got some work ahead on that one. There is also a massive black spider somewhere in the woodbeams that I only caught a glimpse of before she scuttled in there and at some point we will probably make eye contact when I remove the rotten wood :')

And yeh this is no longer just the ceiling but like I said, am on vacation now so I try to get everything wrapped up soon and that includes this entry door along with the floor. Cross fingers the spider does not jump me she looked like she could beat my ass.