#new things to think about while making it

[inbabylontheywept]

Reach Heaven (Through Violence)

When I was in 2nd grade, my school started a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. I want to emphasize that I started out very excited for this program. I was a small, visibly autistic child on a playground with fourth graders on it. In theory, this program might as well have been called The Rescue Babs Initiative. 

In practice, however, zero-tolerance programs almost always sink into madness. The motivations never line up right - too many incentives for cheating.

The first victim of the program was actually my friend, Sam. I was standing next to him in line when one of the fourth graders gut punched him. There was no reason for the punch, he was just small and in arm's reach. Sam got the wind knocked out of him, but he managed to gasp out the phrase stupid motherfucker right as the playground aide ran over to keep the peace. 

(Sam had an incredible vocabulary for a 2nd grader. Consequence of his dad being a recently divorced mechanic.)

Puncher got a two week suspension. That was fine. But Sam got a one week one for verbal abuse, which was beyond the pale. But that’s just what zero-tolerance is, right? No hitting became a rule everyone had to follow, and it didn't stop when someone hit us. So our options as kids were to somehow make like Jesus and ascend up to heaven… or solve things ourselves. 

We started solving things ourselves. 

I'll be honest, I think that was always the plan. A school can do a lot of things to reduce bullying, but if the goal is zero, there's only one path forward: Shoot the messenger. 

---

My part in the story was a few weeks after that. Long enough to know that the school's new unofficial policy was to suspend kids that reported problems, short enough to have no idea how to defend myself. It turned out the 4th grader that hit Sam was part of a trio, and that trio had their sights on me next. 

I asked some of my classmates what to do, and they said that the best idea was to just ignore the bullies. Refuse to give them a reaction. That was dogshit advice, but it was common enough in the early 2000s and it's not like I can fault 2nd graders for not knowing much about life. 

Anyway. I took the advice and I ignored my bullies. I ignored them when they said nasty things about my mom, and I ignored them when they bounced soccer balls off my head, and the one time I broke was when the biggest of the trio grabbed my arm hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises. We were watching a movie in the gym when he did that, and I leaned over and told him he could hold my hand if he was scared of the dark. Which worked, thank God. The grip hurt bad enough I had to excuse myself for a bit to keep my composure. 

I think a more mentally flexible kid would've changed strategies by then. Clearly, things were escalating. But it's hard for me to change my mind, so I stuck to my bad strategy, right up until the day the big kids caught me after school. I was crossing the baseball field when they got me. It was just one of those places you had to walk through to make it to the bike rack. 

The big guy, again, was the instigator. He pushed me down then stood over me, yelling for me to get back up. But I knew that if I got back up, he'd just push me down again, and for whatever reason, their Bully Code didn't allow for kicking a kid that was already down. So I stuck to the grass, and they tried a bunch of things to goad me into standing back up. Eventually, I started kicking at them while on my back, and one of them took the opportunity to grab my leg. Second bully thought that looked fun, so he grabbed my other leg. Kicking me like that was off limits, but dragging wasn't, so they just started pulling me around that way. 

They were so much taller than me that I was almost vertical during the pull so all my weight was put on my shoulders. And the fields were just made of unkind stuff. There was crushed gravel all over the place, spilled out from the divider between the big kid playground and the little kid playground, so every time they dragged me over a piece it just ripped a new gouge up my back. The ground itself was sunbaked caliche and dead crabgrass. There was a grit to it, like sand stuck to the outside of a clay pot. 

It grated all the skin off my upper back. Everything between the bottom of my neck to the bottom of my shoulder blades. I don't know at what points I went from yelling, to screaming, to just crying, but I did, and I know they seemed almost giddy every time it changed. Eventually they finished off with one loop around the baseball diamond and that hurt the worst. The dust there stuck to the snot and spit all over my face and made it into a foul mud, and the same happened in my shirt. The dust stung like salt, and the gravel in the lines tore open a few more cuts for dirt to pour in. I remember them stopping, and actually crying again I was so relieved. It was done. Thank God, it was finally done. They were done hurting me. 

They left me on my back near homebase. They'd finally got the reaction they were looking for.

It took me a few minutes after that to stagger back to my feet. I was able to wash the snot-mud off my face in the bathroom, but I couldn't bring myself to touch my back. It just felt like it was on fire. Then I made it back to the bike rack. 

That’s where my older sister, Liz, was waiting for me. She was just a grade ahead of me but it always felt bigger than that. There’s some deep weight associated with being the oldest. She could see that I was dirty and tear soaked so she asked what happened. I didn’t know how to put it in words, so I just tried lifting my shirt to show her. It made a sticky, tacky sound coming up - like the plastic coat coming off a slice of American cheese. Tchhhhk. 

I didn’t know how bad they’d got me before I heard that noise.

She looked at my back for maybe two seconds before telling me to put my shirt back down. I never actually looked at it when it was fresh, but I still had straggling scars by the time I got to highschool. Long silver-grey lines, visible mostly for the dirt still stuck in them. She looked a little sick when I turned around, but she kept it cool, which I really appreciated. I always hated crying in public, and I was half a hair from crying all over again. I don't think I'd have been able to keep it together if she'd freaked out too. 

Instead, she just asked me some questions. Who did this, how long they’d been doing it, what I’d been doing, if I’d told anyone. Some 4th graders, a month, trying to ignore them, nobody. 

She mulled those answers over. I could see her trying to chart a course forward - trying to figure out what it would take to solve this problem for good. She's always had this weird, sad, blank face that she'd make when she found a solution she didn't like. She'd make that face, then think some more, then make the face. Then think. 

Eventually, she just made the face. 

Don't tell the parents, she said. I can fix this. But only if you don’t tell them. 

I believed her. She was the most capable person I knew, and her word was gold. So I didn't tell our parents. I biked home, and every drop of sweat that rolled down my back felt like acid on my skin. I remember getting home and beelining straight to the bath, because I needed something to put the fire out. Took that as my moment to cry it out again too. First time I'd cried was from pain, but the second time was from the cruelty. Second time took longer, but the nice thing about a cold bath is that the water never runs out. I could just pop the plug out with my toes and just keep rinsing and draining and rinsing and draining until my mind was as clean and empty and stark as the tub itself. Then I could go fill that emptiness up with Calvin and Hobbes. 

It worked.

Mostly. 

---

I spent the whole next week feeling nervous anytime I was outside and Liz wasn't nearby. Some days she'd beat me to the bike racks, and I'd be relieved as hell to just go home. Other days, I'd be the first one out, and then I'd have to spend a few minutes worrying about what I'd do if the big kids showed up. But they never did. Liz always got there just a few minutes later, and I'd pretend I hadn't been planning escape routes.

Friday, I was sweating by myself when she showed up a few minutes later than normal. She unlocked her bike but she didn't move to leave. She had this big, long cable-type lock, maybe  six feet of braided steel. She folded it over in her hands so it looked like a swatter and swung it a few times in the air. Made it whistle like a falling anvil in a cartoon.

Today's baseball practice, she said. All Our Guys are on the baseball team. 

Our Guys. Odd phrasing. Also, I actually hadn't known that about them, but I nodded along anyway. She wasn't really looking at me as she talked - she was inspecting the lock.

My plan, she continued, is to wait here until baseball's done. Me and you. When it gets time I'll send you outside the bike cage.

The cage was a chain link fence, maybe six feet tall, built all around the rack. They’d lock it after school as an extra precaution against bike thieves. 

Your job, she continued, will be to hold the gate closed after they're all in. Keep em’ stuck. Think you can do that? 

She was being very frank, which helped me think clearly. I didn't think I could actually hold the gate closed if all of them ran into it at once, but I knew where a big half broken cinder block was, and I knew if I could wedge it in there, it would hold. So I told her that. 

Great, she said. Do that. 

Then I went to go get the block. She gave the cable a few more experimental swings, right as I made it around the corner. 

I'd been thinking in straight lines before that. Just meeting goals. It wasn't until that moment that I really allowed myself to know what was happening. That I allowed myself to have a choice. 

I chose to jog a little faster. I wanted revenge. 

---

I came back with the block a few minutes later, then we just talked like nothing was happening. The sun was shining, and we’d both gotten into bionicles, and it was easy to talk and be people. Normal, happy people. 

But that feeling went away when I heard the coach tweet a long whistle. Me and Liz both knew that was the signal that practice was done. I walked out and got my bric while she folded the cable in half in her hand again. Then we both waited. 

Eventually I saw the kids that drug me around the baseball diamond emerge from behind the portables. I watched them make a straight line back to the bike rack. They were laughing together, having a good time. Being normal. Like me and my sister. I realized I could let things be normal too. I saw my chance to let things go softball pitched to me, nice and easy, and I didn't even bother to swing. I didn't want normal anymore. I wanted this. I knew why my sister had that lock, and I'd thought about it, and I liked it.  

God help me, I think I needed it. 

The kids went inside the bike cage. I gave them ten paces head start, then put the cinder block under the gate. That was the signal Liz had been waiting for. 

She blitzed those boys. There were three of them, and the smallest still had two inches on her, so they probably would have kicked her ass if they ever had a moment to think. But she never gave them that moment. She picked the biggest kid, and decided he needed the first blow. I remember how much muscle she put into that swing - the cable was so heavy, and she was so small, that it kind of swung her back as she made that first half spin. Like a dog getting wagged by its own tail. 

It was a perfect connection. Flawless. She swung through her target, not at it, and the resulting slap that the cable made bouncing off the biggest kid's stomach was loud enough to echo through the cage. It brought a tear to my eye. It brought a tear to his eye too. 

The trio split after that, bouncing around the cage like fresh broke billiards. I can't describe how Liz did it, exactly, but she managed to chase the boys back together so she could hit them all more efficiently. She had a real knack for getting them right between the shoulders, so I never got to see the real perfection of her work, but she wasn't above swinging for the arms or legs if that was all she had. Those marks I could see, and they were brutal. The welts were wider and thicker than my thumb, like giant purple worms were trying to burrow out of their skin. Some even bled. I cheered on every hit. 

Liz, for her part, just had a sort of grim, single minded determination to her. She was so angry she was shaking, and so scared that tears just kept running down her face, and she was grinning all the way back to her molars, but the grin didn't get any bigger after a solid hit than a glancing one. When the kids started blubbering, she didn't change her process. I'd spent my time crying, she'd spent her time crying, of course they were getting theirs in too: That's what violence does. It brings tears. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind. 

Eventually, one of the kids split off from the main herd and scrambled up the fence, gecko-style. Liz let him go. It was either that, or take her attention off the other two. Easy choice. 

Now, there were two kids left, the big one, and one of his smaller friends. Smaller friend did the same trick. I was worried he was gonna turn back, fight me and open the gate for his buddy, but he just fled for the hills. I remember thinking, damn, I hope they never forgive each other for this. I hope this ruins their whole friendship. I hope this festers into something awful. 

The one kid that was left really was trapped though. He wasn't built for climbing and he had no one to work as a distraction for him. Every time he started trying to make it up the fence, my sister would just twist up like a spring, then swing the cable with both hands right into his spine. The slap it made every time she did that was loud enough to hurt my ears. He never made it more than two hits like that before hopping off the fence and just trying to run around some more. He could get Liz tangled up in the bikes for a bit if he really tried, but it never bought him enough time to actually get out. She'd always find her way out of the thicket, swing the cable, and send him running again. 

Eventually, he just couldn't run anymore. He sat down, and my sister hit him a few times, telling him to stand up. He refused. He knew he was gonna get hit either way, so he might as well get hit sitting down. He put his arms up after a bit and let those take a beating too. Eventually he just started begging her to stop. So she did. 

He cried he was so relieved. I remembered how that felt: It’s done. Thank God, it’s finally done. They’re done hurting me. 

Liz told me to come in and show him my back. I took my shirt off, and I showed him a scab as large as a dinner plate. Cracked up like dry river mud. 

He looked sick. Started babbling about how he didn't know. Said he thought I was crying because I was just a kid - that he didn't know he was actually hurting me. That he'd just wanted to get a rise out of me and didn't know it would take so much. 

He didn't know he'd gone too far until it was too late. 

And suddenly, it was like looking in a mirror. 

Two snotty, welted boys, crying alone in the dirt. Backs burning like fire. Ashamed. Trapped. Realizing that they'd just done something awful, and worse, that they’d dragged the people that meant the most to them along for the ride. 

I hated him more at that moment than when he drug me over gravel. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill anything but their own brokenness reflected. Looking at him was unbearable. Like staring straight into the sun. 

I could've hit him again if I hadn't just gorged myself on violence. But I had. I was fat with it, sick and aching - anything more and I would have puked. So I just told him to get his bike and go. Please. Just go. 

He did. He staggered to his feet, and he grabbed his bike before running away like all the demons in hell were following behind. All bar two. There was a swingset nearby, and once he was fully out of sight, Liz and I walked over to it. We picked two seats next to each other and sat for a while, talking until our hands stopped shaking. Can’t remember about what. We didn’t really know how to process what had just happened. Still don’t, to be honest. 

Then we went home.

---

Thanks to @elisabethdeep-blog, @foldingfittedsheets, @amateurmasksmith, @caramel-catss @arataya, and @rozenkingdom for being my alpha readers.

And thanks @lizardho, for being my first friend, my best friend, and my childhood bodyguard. I know it took a toll on you. I'm truly sorry.

[pedroscurls]

blessing in disguise (one-shot)

summary: joel misses his shift for patrol, which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. (or joel misses work bc reader is giving him some morning head 😉)

pairing: jackson!joel x fem!reader content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), joel lives (as he should!!!), oral (m receiving), blowjob, hair pulling, pet names (joel calls you his good girl), dirty talk, size kink, deep throat, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no use of y/n, minimal description of reader (has hair so joel can tug on it😉). word count: 2.4k a/n: ok listen - ep 6 will forever live rent free in my head as the final episode of the show. joel is alive and repairing his relationship with ellie. abby's dead and will no longer bother our man and so i thought, what if he lives because he missed his patrol having one of the best blowjobs that man has ever had??? i mean, i think it's a good enough reason to miss work hehe. this wasn't proofread, just wanted to get this story out lol. anyway, please heed the warnings and enjoy! <3

You see Ellie and Joel talking on the front porch. After tonight’s events, Joel had opted to remain outside for a while longer. You knew that Ellie’s reaction to Joel stepping in after Seth’s bigoted remark had left him embarrassed—hurt. He didn’t want to talk about it when the two of you had gotten home. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed his guitar, gave you a gentle kiss on the cheek, and then walked out to the front porch to sit on the chair. 

He mentioned that he just needed some air, but you knew it was because he wanted to make sure that Ellie made it home safe. 

You watch the two of them talk—it looks heated for a moment, but then you see the tension in Joel’s shoulders alleviate. From your view, you can see the tears in both his eyes and Ellie’s. Then, almost awkwardly, Ellie leans in and wraps her arms around him. Joel rests his chin on the top of her head and squeezes her tightly. The hug lasts for a few seconds before Ellie pulls away first. She turns on her heel and walks away. Joel lets out a sigh of relief and he grabs his mug and guitar and walks inside. 

He kicks off his boots and shuts the door behind him, setting the guitar on its stand nearby. Looking up, Joel sees you sitting on one of the steps of the stairs. 

“Hey,” he calls out. 

“Hey,” you answer. “Good talk?” 

Joel nods, the corner of his lips lifting slightly. “I think—I think me and Ellie are gonna be okay.” 

You smile and stand up to make your way over to him. You rest a hand on his chest, thumb brushing against one of the buttons on his flannel. “Just had to give her time, baby.” 

Joel nods, leaning down to press a soft kiss on your forehead. “M’gonna do things right this time,” he says softly. “M’gonna learn from my mistakes.”

“Joel,” you sigh quietly. “You know you didn’t ever do anything wrong, right?” 

“I know,” he nods. “I just—I wonder if things would be different if I had been honest with her from the beginning. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t have lost out on all this time that we could have spent together.” 

“There’s no way of knowing, Joel.” you bring a hand up to rest on his cheek. “You did what you had to, to keep her safe. Ellie’s a smart girl, baby. You just have to let her come to terms with it on her own.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “‘Spose you’re right.” 

“And this—tonight—that conversation you had with her just now, it’s the first step in repairing your relationship with her. Like you said, you and Ellie are gonna be okay. There is no you without her and there is no her without you.” 

Joel smiles, setting his mug down and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I love you,” he whispers. “And Happy New Year, darlin’.”

“Happy New Year, Joel,” you smile, arms snaking around his neck. “You ready for bed, old man?” 

“Hmm,” Joel chuckles. “Call me old man again and I’ll show ya.” 

“Oh?” you bite your lower lip, playing with the hair at his nape. “Come on then, old man.” 

Joel smirks, eyes narrowing down at you before he swoops you into his arms and tosses you over his shoulder. A loud squeak escapes your lips as he begins ascending the stairs, the sound of your laughter filtering the home.

The light peeks through the windows and your eyes slowly open, seeing the snow falling from the sky. There’s a white sheet of snow that you can make out from where you’re lying and despite how cold it looks outside, you’re completely warm. Joel’s naked body serves a blanket of warmth, his strong arms wrapped loosely around you from behind. 

You know that he has to wake up soon to go on patrol with Dina, but it’s the first day of the new year and you have other plans for him. As you slowly begin to move in his arms, Joel lets out a quiet grunt as he moves to lie on his back instead. He brings one of his arms to drape over his eyes, likely to block out the light that slowly begins to illuminate the room. 

You bite your lower lip and lean forward, gently pressing a soft kiss on his chest. He mumbles under his breath as he begins to stir awake. You begin to pepper kisses down his broad chest, bringing the blanket further down his hips. You bite your lower lip as you look down—the trail of hair disappearing underneath the blanket and you can see the outline of his length from beneath the sheet. 

Just as you’re about to move between his legs, his free hand reaches out to rest on your hip. It’s warm and heavy against your skin. 

“Y’know I’ve got patrol,” he mumbles, voice deep and hoarse as he slowly begins to wake up.

You rest a hand on his chest and lean up to kiss his cheek lightly. “I know…”

“Then you know I won’t have time to—”

“Shh,” you whisper, ��Let me just take care of you.” 

“Baby,” he mumbles, eyes slowly opening to watch you crawl between his legs. Joel’s already half-hard and when he sees you on your knees, the blood rushes down. Fast. 

“You gonna let me?” you ask, eyes fluttering up in his direction. You spit into your hand and then wrap it around his growing manhood, slowly beginning to stroke him to full mast. Leaning forward, you flick your tongue along the tip of his length. 

“Fuck,” he moans breathlessly. Joel’s hand moves to your hair, grabbing a fistful as he looks down at you. 

“That a yes?” you ask, pulling away from him as you grin. 

“Yes,” he nods. “Fuck yes.” 

“Good,” you answer. Without hesitation, you wrap your lips around the head of length. You can taste his precome trickling into your mouth as you use your second hand to wrap around the base of his manhood. He had always been so big, but every time you did this for him, he just seemed so much bigger. 

Joel lets his eyes flutter shut as he presses the back of his head against his pillow. The grip around your hair tightens as he feels you try to take as much as you can in your mouth—the tip of his length hitting the back of your throat. “God, that’s it,” he growls. “Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me,” Joel mumbles. He lifts his hips slightly off the bed, pushing himself further into your mouth. 

You pull away from him momentarily, chest heaving rapidly as you try to catch your breath. Tears sting the corners of your eyes as you look up at him, grinning proudly at the look on his face. His mouth is slightly parted, eyes shut tight, heavy breaths escaping his lips. 

Slowly, Joel releases his grip around your hair and sits up, leaning back against the headboard. He opens his eyes and looks down at you as his manhood stands erect—throbbing and leaking at the tip. “Come ‘ere,” he whispers. 

You nod and crawl over to the space between his legs as he spreads them apart for you. You lean up on your knees and lean forward, pressing your lips against his own. Joel grunts in response and tangles his fingers in your hair again—the kiss is urgent, messy. 

“This your plan, darlin’?” he asks, smirking against your lips. “Make me play hooky on the first day of the year, hm?” 

You nod, pulling away to look into his eyes. “Guilty,” you answer as you reach down and stroke him slowly with both hands. His eyes flutter as you lean in to rest your forehead against his own. 

He lets out a quiet moan, eyes fluttering as he keeps a tight hold on your hair. “God, you spoil me…” Joel slowly pushes you down, guiding your mouth back to where he needs you the most. 

You get the hint almost instantly—your desire to please him overpowering every thought. Still on your knees, you lean down and wrap your lips around him once more, the warmth and heaviness of his manhood resting in your mouth. You let the underside of his length rest on your tongue—every vein throbbing against it. 

“Fuck, baby… You look fuckin’ good like this,” he groans, tightening his grip around your hair. Joel uses his free hand and taps at your hands, encouraging you to release your hold on him. As your hands move from the base of his length to rest on his thighs instead, Joel tugs on your hair and begins to guide you along his length. You hollow your cheeks as Joel’s guidance causes your head to bob up and down. 

You let out a moan, the sound reverberating through Joel’s entire body. As you come down, the tip of his length hits the back of your throat again—a loud gagging noise escaping your lips. He holds you there for a moment, eyes falling shut as he tilts his head back. “Oh fuck,” he moans, feeling the tightness begin to build in the pit of his stomach. 

Joel tugs you back by your hair, opening his eyes to watch the string of saliva that connects your mouth to his manhood. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel smirks. “Should wake me up like this every morning.” 

“We won’t ever leave the house if I do that,” you grin, wrapping your hands around his length as you begin to stroke him. “But I would do this every night if you’d let me.” 

Joel grunts—he’s so hard in your hands and when he sees you about to lean down to wrap your lips around him once more, he shakes his head and pulls you up to straddle his lap instead. “Yeah, I think that can be arranged.” 

“Good… because I just love having you in my mouth.” You smile, holding the base of his length steady as you slowly slide down on him. He’s so big—there’s always been a slight pressure once you feel him enter you, but you’re so fucking wet that he slides into you easily. 

“As much as I’d love to come in your mouth,” Joel groans, hands moving to your hips as your tight heat envelopes him. “I want to fuckin’ fill you up,” he whispers, feeling you slide further until you’re seated firmly on his lap. “So much that I’m tricklin’ out of you the entire day.” 

“J–Joel,” you whimper, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you slowly begin to rock your hips forward and backward. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?” Joel grins, forehead resting against your own as his fingertips dig into your hips. You’re breathless as you move against him, breath fanning over his lips. “Feeling so full of my come, hm?” 

“Yes,” you moan breathlessly. “P–Please…” 

“Oh baby,” Joel grins, suddenly rolling you over onto your back as he slams into you. Your body jerks as a response and your legs wrap around his waist as he slides further into you. He brings a hand up to your cheek, brushing a few fallen strands of hair away from your face. “So pretty when you beg, but don’t worry, m’happy to give you what you want. Always…” 

Joel pulls out to his tip, glances down to see his entire length glistening with your arousal, before he slides back into you. “Gonna spend the entire morning with you,” he whispers. “Spend the first day of the year with my wife—fuckin’ her good.”

“Joel!” you moan aloud, hands moving to rest on his chest. “Fuck, baby… Please…” 

“M’right here, darlin’,” he groans, resting his head against your own. “Love you,” Joel mumbles. “Love you so fuckin’ much. Gonna spend the rest of my days with you,” he adds, hips moving in and out of you at a rapid pace. He moves your hands to your hips, holding you against the mattress as thrusts into you repeatedly. 

“J–Joel!” your walls begin to tremble as you feel your orgasm fast approaching. Your warm and velvety walls tightens around his length as your back arches. “L–Love you, baby… I’m so–so close—”

“I know,” Joel growls, reaching down and beginning to rub circles around your clit. He watches your eyes fall shut as a loud moan escapes your lips. “Come f’me, darlin’.” 

Your legs tighten around him, pulling him in close as your body shakes with immense pleasure. He’s still circling your clit and your body becomes overly sensitive that you reach down for his wrist and push his hand away. “I–I can’t, baby… It’s too much and—”

“Shh,” Joel whispers, lightly pecking your lips. “You can…” He sits up on his knees as he begins to slide in and out of you with ease. “You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he smirks, “So fuckin’ tight too. Shit, baby. I’m gonna fill you up…” 

“Yes, please,” you beg again, feeling his hips stutter as he delivers one final sharp thrust into you. Seconds later, you can feel him paint your walls with his come—his length throbbing inside of you. He doesn’t pull out of you quite yet, but Joel moves in and out of you, allowing your tight walls to milk every last drop that he can give you. 

“F–Fuck,” he mumbles, pushing into you fully as you wrap your arms around him. “G’morning,” Joel smirks, burying his face against the crook of your neck as he pepper soft and light kisses along your shoulder. 

You smile, feeling the weight of his body press against you as he remains inside of you—softening but still so full of his come. “Good morning, handsome.” 

“We ain’t leavin’ this house today,” Joel grins. “At least not for the next few hours.” 

“If this is what it takes to get you to miss patrol on some days, I might just have to do it more often,” you smile, hands moving through his curls. 

“I won’t object,” he answers. “Besides, I could use a few days off here ‘n there.” 

“Yeah, you work too much,” you smile. “Besides, the more time I can spend with you, the better.”

“Well, I’d say it’s a good start to the year, darlin’,” Joel smiles, slowly pulling out of you as he looks down and watches his come slowly trickle out of you. “Yeah, definitely a good start to the year.” 

[highdramas]

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”

[bananafieldnotes]

outta control

⊹ abstract: sometimes the only way to stop your friend with benefits from moving on is to tie them up

content disclosure: modern au, language, alcohol consumption, fwb, switch!stack who is an absolute brat, light bondage/use of restraints, oral (m. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

author’s note: i kinda can't stop writing for stack lol i guess i do have a favorite twin hehe. also mary's mentioned in this but there's no infidelity happening! just to be clear

🎧 now playing - outta control by destin conrad

word count: 3.2k

You were being such a bad friend and you knew it. You knew he had a date tonight, he’d told you all about it and how he was excited to get back out there. You knew his last relationship wasn’t the healthiest and that your best friend deserved to be happy with someone who wouldn’t tell him her love was conditional. You knew that he’d picked out this new restaurant in town that was supposed to have the perfect ambiance for the occasion, with an impressive wine list and experimental desserts that made you drool the first time you read over them. You knew all of this, and somehow it didn’t stop you from dialing his number while you uncorked a bottle of cabernet next to the two glasses you’d set out. He answered on the second ring.

“Baby…”

“Not this again,” despite his words he sounded amused, his infamous smirk audible in the hushed tone he delivered. “You know I’m out with Mary, right?” 

You feigned an ignorant gasp, pouring yourself a glass but leaving his empty; you didn’t want to celebrate too soon. “Was that tonight? Oh, gosh, sweetie. Completely slipped my mind.”

“What do you want, sweetie? Is it what I think it is?”

And while you knew that you were totally in the wrong for calling him over, for being selfish with his affections despite the fact that you two were just friends, he was just as bad as you were. The date he’d been looking forward to all week long forgotten at the prospect of being between your thighs again. He thoroughly enjoyed the arrangement that was admittedly the result of you trying to satiate him after a particularly painful bout of infidelity. He liked the way you kissed with a certain fire and that little trick you did with your tongue whenever you gave him head. He loved the way it felt like your pussy was made for him and the way you said his name after three orgasms. You felt bad for interrupting his date, yes, but not that bad.

“Wanna do that thing we talked about the other week.”

The jarring sound of him clearing his throat echoed within the space around him, wherever it was, a cough following it up. “Are you serious or are you just fucking with me?”

During a particularly depraved hangout with some mutual friends, Stack had volunteered the fact that he’d always wanted to play around with bondage but his exes were never down for it.

“I ordered rope cuffs and everything.” You hoped that your pout could be heard over the phone, knowing he was easily swayed if you sounded even remotely upset. It had been that way since the early, innocent days of your friendship. Back when he was still a little shy around you. “I got the red to match that set you like so much.”

“You always play so fuckin’ dirty.” You fought back a smirk of your own as you poured him a glass, shimmying at yet another victory. “I'll pretend I have a work emergency or something.”

He hung up swiftly and you knew he’d be at your place in roughly a half hour, half that if they drove separately. You found yourself feeling bad for the girl he was out with, Mary, considering her dreamboat of a date was making a mad dash for a fake emergency instead of spoon feeding her garlic roasted potatoes or crème brûlée. Stack was such a catch, you had no problem admitting that. Tall, rich enough to call himself ‘comfortable’,  had the sexiest signature cologne, and (obviously) great in bed. He was always up front with his antics, and you couldn’t think of someone more loyal than him. Any girl would be lucky to have him. And while it isn’t in the way you secretly hoped it was, you do have him. Not Mary.

You slipped into the set you mentioned on the phone— a sheer red one piece custom made in Lisbon with Italian tulle. The black straps and contrast stitching tied it all together while leaving nothing to the imagination, and you figured that’s what made it Stack’s favorite. He was typing in the passcode to your front door in no time, locking it behind him before barreling towards your room like his life depended on it. Stack was known to be impatient, and this time was no different. He didn’t bother with greeting you as his hands wrapped around your waist, lips feathering kisses across your exposed neck as he walked you over to your bed. 

Tumbling onto the mattress, he kept you on your side and facing him, hiking one of your legs over his hip as he got to work sucking lovebites onto your chest. You gave him this moment to be in full control, loving the way he was borderline manhandling you. It was the norm, you being the pliable one with Stack doing all of the work. Both of you liked it that way, but you wanted to switch things up. Wanted to see how the other half lived. “How was your date?”

“Oh shut up, you think you’re soo funny.” He took the opportunity to slide his shirt off, bunching it up before tossing it near your door. “It was going pretty good until you called, yeah. It’s fine though, I can just reschedule with her.”

As you clasped his muscular arm in appreciation, he attempted to roll on top of you. He would have succeeded if you weren’t faster than him, if you didn’t already have a specific plan etched out in your mind. Stack may know how to move slick, but he grows predictable when he’s comfortable. You shoved roughly at his shoulder to keep him where he was already positioned on his side, continuing your delicate ministrations on his nipples. It was getting more and more difficult for him to hide his soft sighs of pleasure, and even more so when your lips began peppering kisses at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Look so pretty tonight, 'Lias. Got all dressed up for your date? Wanted her to see how pretty you are?”

He groaned in protest, and you could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Did you want me showin’ up in sweats and a tank top?”

“No. God, no, she didn’t need to see how big your arms are under that turtleneck.” His chest rumbled with laughter, the thrum of his voice evident on the palms of your hand. “I'm just saying…”

“Just sayin’? Just sayin’ what?”

You pushed yourself up enough to straddle him, clearing your throat as you made eye contact with him for what felt like the first time tonight. Your face was flushed and your hair wasn’t in the same state you styled it, but he was still looking at you like you were heaven sent. The room suddenly felt several degrees hotter, his gaze suffocating you in ways that would normally have you running for the hills. Eyes wide and dilated, the rest of the world melting away around him as he focused on you. It was almost unsettling to see that look on his face and know you were the reason for it. You reached for the rope cuffs on your nightstand while your free hand gingerly clutched his deft hands. “I'm just saying that I don't like sharing.”

You tied his wrists together with practiced precision, looped through the headboard speedily enough for him not to process it right away. They were tight, you made sure of it, and his eyes darted between you and his now restrained hands in shock. “This is not what I had in mind when I told you I wanted to try out restraints.”

“No? But you said you wanted to try them out?” Your smile gave you away, letting him know that you were feigning naïveté to get under his skin.

“___, don’t play coy. Untie me.” 

“I will,” His chest deflated in relief, only to swell once more when you added, “after we’re done.”

You wanted to kiss the pout off of his lips so badly, but you couldn’t. One of the only ground rules set in place for your arrangement was no kissing. Kissing was considered too intimate for both of you, and you both had been doing so well. But the way he looked squished between your pillows, hair in slight disarray with a tint to his cheeks… it really made you want to say to hell with the rules. He was starting to notice your staring so you snapped out of it, committing to working on the button of his slacks. “Tell me what you want, Elias. You’ve been so good, dropping everything to come see me. Tell me what you want your reward to be.”

He wasn’t used to following orders, and you could see the inner battle between giving into you and putting up a fight. Eventually, the little devil on his shoulder won as he relaxed further into the comforter. His voice was so delicate as he whimpered, “W-want your mouth. Please.”

It was embarrassing how much arousal rushed to your core at the sound of his submission, the tender flex of his mouth as he surrendered his body to you. The slate dress pants— the ones you told him made his ass look incredible— were easy to slip down his thick thighs and onto the floor, leaving him bare in his Calvin Klein's.

You bent over, fluttering kisses along his lower abdomen, trying not to laugh too hard as he scuffled against the ropes. Your hands pulled at the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down his legs until they pooled at his ankles. The sheer size of him was intimidating, as you were sure it would always be. It was almost too good to be true, that someone as sexy and built and beautiful like Stack could also pack the way he does; but you certainly weren’t complaining. His tip was flushed with anticipation, one of the more prominent veins pulsing at the exposure to the air. Your fingernails dragged up the inside of his thighs, relishing in the way he squirmed before licking at the precum that was leaking out of him. Stack groaned, incoherent speech muttered through tired lips that you didn’t bother asking him to repeat. Your tongue whirled around his tip once more before taking him into your mouth, teasing just an inch or so before alternating back to kitten licks. 

He sputtered out profanities as you swallowed more of him, straining your mouth wider to take as much of him as you could handle. Stack was bucking his hips now, jaw slack in shock at the sight of you taking care of him with a devilish grin on your lips. His voice was doused in lust, the lower octave sexier than his everyday speaking voice. “T-Thank you, fuck, baby,” His head plopped back into the pillows as you used a hand to assist in reaching the parts of him your mouth couldn’t quite take, the other dipping between his legs to stroke his balls. It was unfathomable for you, how big his dick was. Your walls had gotten used to it, stretching to their absolute limits to accommodate him; but your mouth couldn’t do the same. 

Stack didn’t stop the chorus of moans spilling out of him as you worked his cock, cheeks hollowing as your head started to bob in an uninterrupted rhythm. His hands were itching to slot into your hair, only serving as a cruel reminder of the frustration that came with not being able to touch you. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby.” If your mouth weren’t full you would’ve smirked, ego swelling at the way he praised you. There was something so satisfying in knowing only you could coax this out of him. 

Your thumb massaged his perineum as his length hit the back of your throat, an angelic whimper slipping past his lips at the shockwaves of pleasure that reverberated through him. You pulled off of him completely, taking his balls in your mouth just as his orgasm started to build up in the pit of his stomach. It was evident in the way his stomach kept tensing, hips struggling to remain pinned down as your tongue swirled around him like a lollipop. Your hand still twisted around him, bringing him so close to the edge that he could taste it. “Gonna cum, I’m gonna fucking—” 

“If you cum I won't be able to ride you.” 

“B-b-but you’re still, you’re still, fuck!”

The dominant role suited you better than you thought it would, your affinity for sadism easy to get over at the reality of him wriggling underneath you. Your hand hadn’t stopped its slick jerking of his cock, and you knew he was awful at putting off his own pleasure. He was a greedy little thing and you were using it against him, testing his self control just for the thrill of it. “You can hold off a little longer, yeah? for me?”

The strangled mewl that belted from his lips almost made you flinch, the rough clambering of his wrists against the headboard painful to listen to. “’Hurts, baby, I can’t,” He suddenly sounded out of breath, his eyes watering from the pain. “The ties, they hurt too much.”

You swore, abandoning your actions to immediately untie him. You’d never pushed his limits this far before, and the sight of him so scared had your heart racing. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry, E—”

As soon as his wrists were free from the ties he was pouncing on you, rolling you over on the bed so he could hover over you with shit eating triumphant grin. “It was too easy, I almost feel bad.” That side of him that you were so used to was back with a fiery vengeance, his hips pressing square into yours as one of his hands pinned both of yours to the sheets.

His fingers disappeared between your thighs, hand tumbling past the material of your set to glide between your folds. Your back arched slightly at the mini wave of pleasure it sent through your body, head falling back as the pads of his fingers found your clit. The arousal was nearly dripping out of you and onto the bed as he let his hand have a mind of its own, rubbing all of your most sensitive spots before finally sliding a finger into your entrance. You felt so worked up already, clamping your legs around his hand as he curled into you slowly to stretch you out the way you needed. His palm was softly gracing over your sweet bundle of nerves with every pump of his hand and you could feel your resolve dissipating. 

“‘Lias, please.”

“Look who's begging now.” He sucked his fingers clean of your juices, pressing a fervid kiss to your jaw before lining himself up to your soaked entrance. He intertwined your fingers together before he pushed into you with ease, a moan dripping from both of your lips as he bottomed out. The last time he had you like this was only a few days ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime since you’d felt this way. So full. Your skin was buzzing with desire. “You feel so good for me, pretty girl.” Your breath caught in your throat as he drew his hips back slowly, driving them back into you languidly. 

“s’all for you.” His lips rested against your ear as he continued his sensual pace, rocking his hips slowly enough so you could feel every agonizingly euphoric thrust of his hips.

Everything felt hot and sticky and overwhelming, your bodies intertwined so closely that you were sure you could fuse as one. His cock felt so good inside of you, stuffing you to the brim with his girth. The force of his thrusts had you grabbing at his already interlaced fingers desperately. You wanted this moment to last forever. “Look at me.” He craned his neck to the side so that he could look at you, eyes slightly hooded from pure pleasure that was bubbling in his veins. “Kiss me.”

Mostly, y expected some resistance, for him to question your request to break the rules. But he was gracious, letting go of one of your hands to favor your chin as he granted you the kiss you were in dire need of. His lips were even softer than they looked, plump and sweet with the taste of the wine he abandoned at dinner. The reminder of Mary would normally turn you off to him, the reminder of his romantic interest in girls who weren’t you; but now it made you crave him more. He was choosing you, kissing you, fucking you. And while it might not be the relationship you yearned for, it was something.

His tongue licking into your mouth sent you unexpectedly over the edge, your walls clenching viciously around his cock. Your legs instinctually wrapped around his waist as your orgasm washed over you, Stack swallowing all of your cries of ecstasy as he assisted in riding out your high. You never wanted to stop kissing him. You never wanted to stop tasting the way his tongue controlled yours with an ease that shouldn’t be possible on the first try. 

Stack’s orgasm followed closely after your own, the incessant grip of your walls on his cock triggering his own release. His spurts of cum painting your insides made you feel even fuller, a hum of satisfaction vibrating your throat. The taste of your tongue lingered on his mouth, reminding him that you two were past the point of no return. So he kissed you again, shaking away any doubts flying around his mind. You’d asked him to. As far as he was concerned, kissing was now on the table. 

He broke the kiss momentarily, his hand drifting from your jaw to your hip as attempted to gingerly slip his slowly softening length out of you., but you protested with a whiny, “no, not yet.”

The shape of him was already committed to your walls, but you weren’t ready to lose the feeling of being whole. Stack chuckled, more to himself than to you, rolling the two of you over just enough so he wasn’t crushing you. “You really needed me tonight, didn’t you?” He didn’t pose it as a question despite the fact that he wanted an answer. There was never any point in lying to Stack because he had always been incredibly observant. He had a way of seeing you, past the you that you performed. It was part of the reason you felt comfortable falling into bed with him in the first place. 

“Is that okay?” 

You knew he could feel your heart race at your confession, but you pretended he couldn’t. His silence was the executioner bringing you to the death of your friendship— you just didn’t know if said death could be the birth of something better. You didn’t even want to look at him but you forced yourself to, to laser this moment in your heart forever no matter the outcome. To preserve the epitaph of your companionship.

His eyes found yours, your heart dropping as you realized he was about to respond. “Always.”

[likeafeverrr]

CLEAN UP ON AISLE, MY PANTS!

WC ~600

lee heeseung x fem!reader

Warnings: lowk perv hee... js a lot pf smut, implied pnv (WRAP IT UP!), lowk dry humping, pet names (i think), i most likely forgot some stuff...

a/n: i kinda hate this, i js rlly miss heeseung... ALSO THIS ISNT PROOF READ I PROBABLY MADE SO MANY TYPOS

gooner roommate!heeseung who seems to be a loser but is actually the biggest freak known to man

gooner roommate!heeseung who sits in his room all day. you assume he’s playing some stupid game but he’s most likely getting himself off to one of your instagram posts of you in a itzy bitzy bikini

gooner roommate!heeseung who has folders upon folders of porn. either it’s girld that remind him of you, or its stuff he’d like to do with (to) you. 

gooner roommate!heeseung who has a countless amount of your panties stuffed in a little box under his bed. he sprayed them all with your favourite perfume so they smell like you.

gooner roommate!heeseung who yes, is a freak that absolutely needs to be inside you, is also respectful as hell and will only do things with you (if he ever works up the courage to ask) if you give him the clearest of the clear okay

gooner roommate!heeseung who came home from one of his night classes to you crying in the living room of your shared apartment.

gooner roommate!heeseung who makes you a bowl of ramen and sits you down in his bed as you tell him about your stupid boyfriend and how he’s been cheating on you for months

gooner roommate!heeseung who wipes your tears as he tells you how perfect you are and that your (now ex) boyfriend was always an asshole and never deserved you

gooner roommate!heeseung who got off that night to the image of you crying in his bed as he comforted you. he can’t help but imagine what you would look like crying beneath him

gooner roommate!heeseung who did his best to distract you from your messy breakup. from teaching you how to play call of duty, to telling you about this new anime he’s been watching.

gooner roommate!heeseung who’s let you fall asleep in his arms almost every night, waking up with a hard on that becomes increasingly painful every day.

gooner roommate!heeseung who lets you sit in his room as he’s on call with his friends while playing video games. he checks over his shoulder every 5 minutes to make sure you’re okay.

gooner roommate!heeseung who goes afk for 20 minutes as you tuck yourself into his bed, trying your best to get him to leave the game and come lay beside you

gooner roommate!heeseung who somehow convinces you to sit on his lap as he’s plays his game, your lets straddling him as you rest your head on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck as one hand scratches the back of his head.

gooner roommate!heeseung who’s absolutely unashamed of how hard hes become just by having you close to him

gooner roommate!heeseung who grips your hip with one hand, massaging small circles into one of the dips.

gooner roommate!heeseung that immediately stops whatever game he’s playing when he hears your small, pathetic whimper, calling his name in your sleepy and horny state.

gooner roommate!heeseung who’s let doesn’t waste a second taking off his headphones and crashing his lips onto yours, his hands immediately travelling under your shirt to grip your breasts.

gooner roommate!heeseung who’s watched so many videos of this exact scenario, imagining it was you on his lap, calling his name, making you fall apart.

gooner roommate!heeseung who disregards all your clothes and wastes no time slipping his surprisingly hung cock into your drenched pussy.

gooner roommate!heeseung who fucks you so hard and tells you about how many times he’s thought about this, how many times he’s gotten off to your voice, how many times he’s almost bent you over nearly every possible surface and just taken you right then and there

gooner roommate!heeseung who literally fucks you for hours. you’re crying, shaking, overstimulated out of your mind. you can’t form any coherent thoughts. you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve came, how many times he’s came inside you. you’re absolutely wrecked. and he has absolutely zero plans on stopping.

“y- you’re so good baby~ so good… ngh f- oh fuck i love this pussy s’much… love you s’much baby…” 

[blasphemyandbackshots]

Can you do mha and How they would react to you squirting, TYSM, I love your writing༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

that’s a wild smiley you got there, baby

Izuku Midoriya - He malfunctions. Like… his brain just freezes. One second he’s fingering you with focused intensity and murmuring praise. And the next, your thighs are shaking, your mouth is falling open and you soak the sheets. He pulls back in awe, hands still trembling. “Did I—did I do that? You… you squirted? Oh my god—are you okay? Did that feel good? That was—wow—should I take notes?!” Once you assured him it was amazing, he gets obsessed with recreating it. Makes it his new mission. Hero Analysis Notebook Vol. 69 is now heavily dedicated to your pleasure.

Katsuki Bakugo - You squirt? This man grins like a devil. He’s got two fingers deep in you, wrist pumping like he’s trying to make you cry and when it happens, he growls, “Oh fuck yes, baby. You fuckin’ made a mess, huh?” His face is flushed, eyes wild, voice rough with pride. He rubs your overstimulated pussy through it just to see if he can make you do it again. “Gonna get addicted to this. You better keep squirting for me, princess.”You’re not walking tomorrow and you both know it.

Shouta Aizawa - Calm and collected? Not when this happens. You’re riding his face, quiet moans slipping out and suddenly you drench his mouth. His lashes flutter and he blinks up at you like he just got blessed by a goddess. He doesn’t stop. He licks through it with reverent, lazy strokes until you’re trembling. “…That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “I want to see it again. And again.” Aftercare king. Changes the sheets, wraps you in his arms and whispers about how beautiful you are.

Denki Kaminari - Short circuits. Like literally. He stares at the wet patch on the bed like it owes him money. “Holy shiiiiiit, did I just—did you just—? Babe. That was so hot I think I actually fried something.” He’s a little stunned, a lot smug and incredibly horny. Tries to fist bump you about it after. Becomes your #1 hype man. “My girl’s a squirter. I knew she had it in her.” No peace after that. Denki wants to make it happen every single time.

Eijiro Kirishima - At first he pauses, concerned. “Was that—did I hurt you?” You assure him no, it felt amazing, and then he glows. Practically beams with pride. “You’re so amazing, babe. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Wanna make you feel like that again.” Will not shut up about how beautiful you looked while you came. Tells you it’s manly as hell to lose control with someone you trust. Next round he tries to make you do it on his abs. For science.

Hanta Sero - “Whoa, whoa, what—did you just—holy fuck, that was hot.” Hanta is a chaotic blend of turned on and impressed. He kisses you hard, groaning into your mouth as he thrusts through your overstimulated slickness. “Damn, babe. I didn’t know you could do that. You’re full of surprises.” 100% teases you about it later but in the sweetest way. “Need me to mop the floor first or you gonna flood it again?”

Hitoshi Shinsou - He plays it cool, but his eyes are blazing. Watches the way your body jerks, the wetness gushing over his fingers and murmurs, “You’ve been holding out on me.” Takes his fingers out slowly, deliberately, licking them clean like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “You liked that? Want to do it again?” Baby, you do it again. And again. He finds the rhythm that makes you gush and uses it like a secret weapon.

Keigo Takami - Smirks the second he feels you squirt. “Damn, sweet bird. You just soaked my thighs. Should I be proud or concerned?” His wings are trembling, he’s so turned on he can barely keep his composure. Immediately leans down, tongue flicking over your clit to keep it going.“Gotta say, you’ve outdone yourself. Didn’t know my girl had that in her.” Won’t shut up about it for days. Brags to himself like you just won him a trophy.

Dabi - “Holy fuck.” That’s all he says when it happens the first time, right after three fingers pump into your cunt and your body arches, a flood soaking his lap. You think he’ll mock you. But instead, he licks his lips slowly and stares at you like you’re prey. “Do it again,” he growls. “Don’t care if you scream. I wanna see that pretty pussy gush ‘til you’re crying.” Unholy obsession unlocked. You’re not leaving that room dry again.

Tomura Shigaraki - Twitches. Pauses. Looks down. “You… what the fuck was that?” You’re panting, trembling, barely able to respond and that does something to him. He stares at the mess between your legs, smirking like he’s just discovered a new level of corruption. “Gross,” he murmurs, but his hand returns, rougher now. “Do it again. I wanna ruin this mattress.” You’re ruined instead. He becomes addicted to the power of making your body fall apart.

[kurooh]

I will beg on my knees for more horny mha brainrot 🙏🙏🙏🙏

☆ HORNY BRAINROT ! — MY HERO ACADEMIA

⊹₊˚. featuring timeskip! various characters

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, reader is gn or fem depending on the scenario, sub undertones, unprotected sex, general nsfw.

xoxo, juno: ask and you shall receive ml <3 i’ve gotten reqs for some different characters than usual so i figured this would be good for characterization practice

izuku just can’t control himself when he’s inside you, drunk on your smell, kisses, and touch. between sloppy thrusts, he’ll gasp out apologies that aren’t completely sincere — he feels badly for making you scream, but it doesn’t mean he won’t selfishly do it again and again.

literally foaming at the mouth for keigo, who’s so goddamn hot in prone bone. on either side of you, his biceps are squeezing and flexing with tension while he holds himself up, and he isn’t the least bit shy about making noise. it’s a mix between moaning like a whore, heavy breathing, and filthy praise. oh and you can feel his gold chain faintly swinging against the nape of your neck #NEEDTHAT

one of tenko’s favorite types of foreplay is mutual masturbation, but sexier. you’ll sit across from him on the bed, fingering yourself open, while he strokes his cock to the sight. the way you play with yourself is dictated by him—as well as whether or not you get to cum—and vice versa. sometimes he’ll make you edge yourself and whine about it; in retaliation, you have him overstimulate the tip of his cock.

eijirou’s got a habit of getting shy when he’s plowing into you. your legs are dangling over his shoulders, and looking up at him, you can barely tell his skin apart from his hair. “feel me here?” he asks, pressing a hand to your lower belly. when you practically scream out a resounding yes, he actually looks shy—embarrassment washes over him and he turns away, exhaling quietly through his nose. “i, um, just came . . sorry, that wasn’t too manly of me. let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

my god, shoto looks too good when he cries. since he’s usually stone-faced and neutral, there’s something special about breaking him down to the point of tears. sucking his sensitive cock usually elicits such a reaction—his voice will break every time he sobs out your name or words of praise. if you kiss them away at any point, he’ll cry harder.

katsuki’s the type of guy to lay you down on the kitchen table and fuck you so hard the wooden legs slide back against the floor. ignoring the squeaking in favor of focusing on you, he positions himself close to your ear and tells you exactly who you belong to. “all mine, got that?” he hisses, gritting his teeth against an impending orgasm, “whose pussy is this? yeah, c’mon, tell the neighbors who’s fucking you this well.”

i think denki has a panties/underwear kink that he would definitely deny. but who would willingly admit to surreptitiously going into your room and snooping through your underwear drawer for some fresh pairs? what about the fact that he sits his ass down on the edge of the bed with the panties in his fist, rock hard just from the thought of seeing you in them? sometimes he flushes mid-conversation with you because he has flashbacks to whining out your name and a ton of other vile things while your underwear is wrapped around his dick.

dabi hates when you say you can’t take it or pathetically try to push him away. when he’s holding onto both of your wrists the way he does, you should know that you aren’t done until he is. “nah, keep up with me,” he tells you, biting hickeys into the column of your throat, “and get louder. i can’t quite hear you, babe.”

aizawa always indulges you. yes, he’ll go to the mall with you and begrudgingly pay for new clothes, rolling his eyes as he swipes his card and wonders aloud if he’s your personal ATM. once home, he requests a fashion show of your new outfits, and when you walk up to him dolled up in new lingerie, he can’t keep his hands off you. lacy underwear is pulled to the side in a blink, and he’s already got two fingers inside of you. his favorite part of your little shopping hauls has to be the lingerie you pick up—he fucks you sideways, upside down, bent over, you name it . . of course, you’ll always have to buy some more to replace the stained or ripped garments.

thinking about how hitoshi goes down on you, devouring your pussy like it’s his very last meal. those pretty amethyst eyes of his are a little intimidating as they lock onto yours and stay. he’ll chuckle quietly at the way you squirm, looking away in embarrassment as his tongue traces the kanji of his name on your messy cunt.

even though tenko hates to be submissive around you, he lets that side of him slip out whenever you grace him with a less-than-innocent kiss or two. he’ll accidentally whine or moan louder than he’d like to, or even worse, chase your lips as you pull away and look at you like he’s about to die if you don’t give him more.

even when he’s falling apart above you, shoto’s favorite thing to say is “i-i’ve got you, sweetheart. you’re doing so well for me.” he simply holds you close as he uses the last of his energy to fuck yet another orgasm out of you, hellbent on cumming together.

atsuhiro still puts on quite the show, even in bed. you’ll be in front of a mirror together, and he’ll make you call yourself beautiful while he blows your back out. you’re too embarrassed to? that’s fine, he can be patient—he won’t continue fucking you until you agree to say it.

dabi, who kicks back on his favorite chair with you between his legs. his cock is too big to completely fit into your mouth, so you’ve resorted to jerking off the half of him that you aren’t choking on. he’ll stroke your head reassuringly, reminding you how good you’re being for him, before he shoves you down and really makes you gag. since he’s got a nasty mean streak, he’ll tease you while you struggle, occasionally lifting your head up to help you out.

i think eijirou enjoys living on the edge a little, through public sex. yes, he’ll have a hand over your mouth as he fucks you doggy style, muffling your whimpers as he pounds you into oblivion. “i know, baby, i know,” his voice shakes as he reassures you, making him sound like he’s the one who needs to be quieted down.

hitoshi grabs you by the chin and spits into your mouth. this is usually paired with him running his thumb along your lower lip to coax your mouth open; on the off chance he misses, he gathers the spit on his thumb and pushes it into your mouth like he’s sharing something sweet with you. he calls you a good girl when you swallow.

messily making out with izuku while you dry hump his restraint away shred by shred. he looks good like this, and also really cute, because he’s trying so hard to be respectful, so you tell him exactly that. he knows he’s done for when you get your lips on his pulse point and suck—the strings of his self restraint snap and he grinds you down hard against his clothed cock, dangerously close to cumming in his pants.

after stuffing you full of cum, katsuki bends you over his knee and spanks your ass hard, reveling in the shake of your body and the sounds that leave your bitten lips. oh, but his favorite part is when you get all sensitive and jumpy, startling delightfully at a lighter slap. he groans upon seeing the thick globs of cum spilling out of you; he’s hard and ready for another round, so he pushes it back inside of your cunt for extra lube.

denki never shuts up. when he’s close, he starts loudly begging to cum inside you, and to shut him up, you spit into his mouth one time. at the time, you expected it to throw him off, but he swallowed it without question and came deep inside you. needless to say, he now begs you to spit into his mouth.

aizawa ties your ass up with his special scarf, leaving no room for resistance. restricted movement is already cruel enough, but then he gets a hand between your thighs and truly tortures you by bringing you to the brink, then ripping away your high. he’ll say the filthiest things to you, but it backfires, because you get so sensitive that you end up cumming just to his voice.

atsuhiro has this inexplicable kink for ultrahot, filthy sex that ends with him blowing his load in your panties. gentle hands slide them up your thighs and pat the damp fabric into place against your cunt, a litlle reminder of the fact that you and your pussy belong to him.

we know that keigo is a fucking brat. he’s playful and a little more than just mischievous; he likes to bite and tease you more than anything. he’ll nibble at your neck or even your cheeks when you’re in the middle of explaining a safeword for an edging session; he’ll bite your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark when he’s cumming, then be proud of his handiwork when you complain afterwards.

[mathoinyanarts]

Been thinking about this for a long while. Technically this is possible, I forgot where I read it but our brain can supposedly stay fluent in up to 5-6 languages. But that's like a lot of work to get to.

Anyway, not including English, I want to be fluent in Spanish, Lakota, Portuguese, French, and Washoe. In that order of priority.

With some caveats:

Spanish - I would choose a Mexican accent, since my brother's family is Mexican, every town I've lived in has a large Mexican community, and it's the most useful language to know in the US right now. BUT I want to have the ability to switch into a fluent Argentinian accent for jumpscare purposes.

French - Specifically so I never have to use it. The stereotypes about French people are all true of when you try to speak to them in their language. I work as a cashier in a tourist town and the few times I've tried to use french for struggling tourists they look at me with disdain and confusion. Maybe some nice correcting of pronunciation, but they will continue to push through with their limited english despite my offers. I want to learn this for spite. I want to learn this so I can smile to myself, thinking "I could help you at any point but I won't." You come to me. You come to ME, at my register, in my domain, in my side of California, to not even know what the words "your card was declined" means, and then when I try to tell you "votre carte été refusée," you look at me with disgust. You look at me like I'm the one inconveniencing you, and you correct ME, in your butchering of the English language. Je deteste

One more thing, the few times I will use my french I want a thick Quebecois accent.

Portuguese - I want a deep central west accent because it's the one that's impressed me the most lol. Learning this for moots.

Lakota - This one wouldn't have any practical use other than reconnecting with my aging father and for cultural clarity for myself. I would also probably write secret letters in this language. Use it for a lot of stories I'm making as well.

Washoe - After a lot of hard thinking, I would like to use my last slot for Washoe. There are a lot of more useful languages. Mandarin so I can fully participate with XiaHongShu or open the country up for me as a place to move and try out. Japanese so I can understand all anime and manga from the source. Arabic for some of the growing immigrant communities where I've lived. But imma choose Washoe because it's a language literally no one else around me is gonna know. There are about 12 remaining fluent speakers, and the current new speakers only increase that number by another 10-ish. This language will be for only me. I will be the king of this language. I will use this language to talk mad shit about everyone and nobody will ever be able to find out what I'm saying because they'll have to get my gu'u to translate and she hates everyone including you.

If you could instantly be granted fluency in 5 languages—not taking away your existing language proficiency in any way, solely a gain—what 5 would you choose?

[fandom-random-help]

My Boy

Simon Riley x Single Mom!Reader

You and Simon have been dating for almost two years now, and you two were about to take the next big step. Moving in together. You never thought you'd meet someone as great as Simon, especially since you were a packaged deal. Your son, now six years old, was the light of your life. You had him without his biologoical "father" in the picture. You wouldn't trade him for the world, but he did make your dating life a tad difficult. Not that you would complain because it did show you potential dates' true colors before the date ended.

So when you first told Simon about your child, he simply smiled and asked about your son. What he liked, disliked, his personality, everything. You were taken back as nobody ever considered your child before. The first time Simon met your son, everything clicked. He showed up with flowers for you, and a toy truck for your son. From then on, dates with Simon were frequent and you even let your son tag along as Simon insisted he'd come too.

Now here you were, standing in your new shared home with Simon and your little one. Everything got unpacked in a span of two days as Simon invited the guys from the task force to help with the furniture and heavy lifting. One night, while Simon was deployed, you were sitting on the couch reading while your son was on the floor coloring. The TV played softly in the background as your son scribbled away. You were lost in your book until you heard your son say, "Mommy look!"

You looked up and seen the paper your held up a little too close to your face. You carefully grabbed the paper and held it out so you could see his masterpiece. It was a doodle of you, him, and Simon. What caught your eye though was the words above each person. 'Mom' above you, 'Me' above your son, and 'Dad' above what looked like Simon.

Dad

Your heart skipped a beat. You never realized just how integral Simon has become in not only your life, but your son's. He was always there for your son. When you signed your child up for junior baseball, Simon was at every game he could attend when he was home. He even played catch with him whenever you all came home from a pretty long game. He taught your kid about stealth to the best of his ability just so your kiddo could scare you on Halloween.

You smiled and looked at your son. His eyes beaming with happiness. "Tell you what, let's put this on the fridge for when dad gets home." You say. Your son jumps up and down as he follows you to the kitchen. You grab a heart-shaped magnet and stuck the picture on the fridge. As days went on you would look at the picture first thing in the morning as you sipped your tea. You wondered what Simon would think of his new title.

Two Weeks Later

You laid in bed as it was 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night. Your son was sound asleep in his room down the hall, but you couldn't sleep. Simon was supposed to be home last week, but you could only guess the misson took longer than expected. You were snapped out of your thoughts when you hear a truck park in the drive. It was him.

You were giddy with excitement, but waited for him to make it in the house and into bed. About thirty minutes went by and you grew concerned. You knew he was in the house, but after that it was still. No footsteps, no beating and banging in the kitchen, just silence. You quietly got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. That's when you seen him. Standing in front of the fridge. "Love?" You whispered. "Are you alright?" He jumped and turned to look at you. That's when you seen it. Small tears streaming down his face. He steps closer and pulls you into the tightest hug he has ever given you. "I missed you two so much darling." That's all you had to hear from him before you were tearing up too. After a few minutes in each other's embrace and calming down, you both snuck upstairs. Simon took a shower while you slipped back into bed. He came out of the bathroom wearing a grey shirt and black sweatpants. As he got into bed and wrapped his arms around you he whispered, "I'm so lucky to have you two in my life." He kissed your forehead and pulled you close.

The next morning you woke up in an empty bed. "Don't tell me that was all a dream." You thought. You hear movement downstairs and immediately know you weren't dreaming. Then you hear another pair of footsteps, but they're smaller. You bedroom door creaks open and you see your son's face. "Mom, there's someone in the house." He whispers. That's when you notice the baseball bat in his hands. It takes a lot to not laugh at his antics, and you tell him that you should both investigate. You both slowly step downstairs and into the kitchen. Your son stops dead in his tracks. He recognizes that stature and the blond hair. "Dad!" He shouts as he runs toward Simon.

Simon turns around and bends down to pick him up. Laughter fills the room as you realize that even though Simon isn't biologically your son's dad, your son is definitely Simon's boy.

[papayainsectorone]

the wedding date

════════════════════════

summary: What started as a petty plan to get through a wedding spirals over one overheard insult, one punch, and one kiss too many.

content: 18+ !! smut, nsfw, fake date turned real, possessive behavior, jealousy, one-bed trope (sort of), playful tension, post-breakup vulnerability, teasing banter, protective Lando, emotional undercurrent, messy affection

word count: 4,1 k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

════════════════════════

You didn’t expect him to say yes.

It was one of those messages you type half-laughing, half-dreading the event you’re being guilted into. One of those “what if” jokes you fire off to avoid thinking about how awkward it’ll be to see your ex and his shiny new fiancée at a wedding where your name is penciled in with a plus-one you don’t have.

you free next weekend? feel like being my fake date to a wedding strictly for emotional support and judgmental stares

You didn’t expect a reply at all—not with the F1 schedule, not with the fact that he’s Lando Norris and probably has better things to do than crash a countryside wedding of people he’s never met, after all you´re not that good friends.

But then:

Sounds fun. What’s the dress code? And how fake are we talking?

You stared at your screen for a full minute, blinking.

Wait you’re serious?? It’s black tie. And we’re talking smug couple energy, minimum 7/10 believability.

I’m very convincing. Send me the date and time.

You’re insane. But okay.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Not because you were nervous. Just… overthinking. A little.

Okay. A lot.

You’re already regretting this when the day arrives. Not because of him—he's early (obnoxiously early), standing outside your flat in a tailored black suit like it’s the easiest thing in the world to look like that.

“You ready,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

You roll your eyes, smoothing your dress nervously. “Don’t start.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “I’m here purely for emotional support and judgmental stares.”

“Plus open bar,” you remind him.

“Obviously.”

The car ride is short, but it feels longer with the silence that fills all the places where your usual rhythm should be. You’ve known each for a while but now every laugh feels like a maybe. Every glance, a question.

When you reach the venue—a stone estate with fairy lights already glittering in the afternoon sun—you’re practically vibrating.

“Okay,” you say, straightening his lapel more for your nerves than his outfit. “Just remember: don’t look bored, don’t flirt with the bridesmaids, and please don’t make a scene if my ex says something smug.”

“No promises,” Lando says smoothly. “But I’ll try. For you.”

He offers you his arm, exaggerated like it’s a movie.

You take it.

The doors open.

Let the pretending begin.

The venue is ridiculous.

Gleaming marble, soft classical music, and rows of candles that make the whole place smell like wealth and vanilla. You tighten your grip on Lando’s arm as someone brushes past.

“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that it stays just between the two of you.

“I’m fine,” you say.

You’re not.

But you’re a little better when his fingers settle gently on the small of your back.

It’s a light touch. A fake boyfriend touch.

But your skin burns under it.

“Remind me who we’re avoiding again?” he asks as you both scan the growing crowd.

“Tall. Annoying. Can’t take accountability for his emotions,” you say.

“So, me in 2018,” Lando replies dryly.

You bark a laugh, almost against your will.

“God, I missed your ego.”

“Please. My ego never left. You’re just finally appreciating it.”

Before you can clap back, you hear your name.

You freeze.

Lando doesn’t.

He turns first, smile practiced and polite, as your ex approaches with his arm slung around the woman he definitely met before your breakup.

“Hey,” your ex says, like the last year didn’t happen.

Lando’s hand tightens just slightly on your waist. He’s still smiling. But now it has teeth.

“Hi,” you say, smile cool.

“And this is…?” the ex asks, gesturing vaguely to Lando.

You open your mouth, but Lando beats you to it.

“Lando,” he says, shaking his hand far too firmly. “Her date.”

The ex blinks.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Right,” the ex says eventually. “Didn’t know you two were… you know.”

Lando doesn’t look at you. “Yeah,” he says easily. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Your stomach twists. The words are casual. The delivery isn’t.

The ex nods, looking thrown off just enough to satisfy something in your chest. “Well… good to see you,” he mumbles before turning away with his Barbie girl.

You let out a slow breath.

“You okay?” Lando asks again, eyes flicking down to you.

You nod. “You’re scarily good at this.”

“Fake dating? Or putting assholes in their place?”

“Both.”

He winks. “Stick with me.”

The ceremony starts. You sit beside him, your dress brushing against his suit. Every now and then, your shoulders touch.

He leans in once to whisper something snarky about the vows and your laugh slips out too loud.

Someone turns to glare.

You don’t care.

Because for a second—it doesn’t feel fake at all.

It feels easy.

It feels like him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

The ceremony fades into champagne, chatter, and soft golden lights strung across the garden. You’ve taken your hair down, Lando’s tie is undone, just a little. The music drifts warm and low as people move toward the dance floor.

You’re starting to enjoy yourself.

And then—

“…Honestly, surprised she managed to rope him in.”

The voice hits you sideways.

Familiar. Sharp. Arrogant.

You step instinctively closer to Lando. He’s already turned his head, tracking the sound near the drink table where your ex is talking to some mutuals. His tone is flippant, but the words cut.

“Like, Lando Norris? Isn’t he usually surrounded by supermodels or something? No offense, but she’s not exactly his—well, you know.”

Lando goes still beside you.

Your heart thumps uncomfortably.

You see it happen in his jaw—clenching tight. See it in the shift of his weight, the way his grip flexes at his side. You grab his sleeve before he storms over.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

But he looks at you, something sharper in his gaze now. And then—he smiles. Slow. Wicked.

“Oh, I’m not gonna argue,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna put on a show.”

Before you can stop him, he’s tugging you onto the dance floor.

“Lando—”

“Trust me.”

The music has shifted—jazzy, upbeat, a little ridiculous. You let out a breathy laugh as he spins you once, unnecessarily dramatic, then pulls you in by the waist. Too close. Way too close.

He dips you suddenly.

You shriek, then laugh. It’s impossible not to.

People start watching.

You twirl. He follows. You trip slightly, he catches you with that smug little smirk. You're laughing now—truly laughing—as he spins you again and the world blurs, and for a moment it doesn’t matter what your ex said, or what people think.

It’s just this.

You and Lando.

Putting on the kind of show no one can look away from.

Applause breaks out around you when the song ends. You’re both breathless, faces flushed. You lean into him, catching your breath.

“That was ridiculous,” you say, gasping.

“That was perfect,” he replies, smug.

Someone taps your arm.

An elderly couple, beaming.

“You two are wonderful,” the woman says sweetly. “When’s your turn to get married, hmm?”

You freeze. So does he.

“Oh—no, we’re not—”

“Not yet,” Lando cuts in, easy as anything, his hand still resting on your waist. “But we’re working on it.”

The old couple coos and walks away.

You stare at him.

“‘We’re working on it’?”

He shrugs, smiling like it didn’t just knock the breath out of your lungs.

“Gotta commit to the role, right?”

But his eyes linger a little too long on yours.

And suddenly, the line between pretending and something else is feeling paper thin.

Dinner is over, and the night has softened—lower lights, tipsy laughter, half-eaten cake melting under the fairy lights. You’re standing near a column wrapped in ivy when Lando leans toward you.

“Another drink?” he asks, voice low, fingers brushing yours.

“Please,” you say, smiling. “Surprise me.”

He nods once and disappears toward the bar.

You watch him go. Watch how comfortable he looks. Like he belongs. And, somehow, like he belongs with you.

You don’t notice the shadow until it’s too close.

Your ex is swaying slightly on his feet, half-drunk and riding a smug high. His tie is loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he thinks it’s charming.

He slides in beside Lando at the bar.

“Norris,” he says, slurring just enough to irritate. “Mate.”

Lando turns his head slowly. “That’s not my name for you, but go on.”

“I’ve been watching you two all night,” he says, grinning like he’s about to deliver a joke. “You’re not really dating her, are you?”

Lando raises an eyebrow, hand casually closing around the drink the bartender just set down. “Why?”

“It’s just…” he laughs, wet and mean. “Come on. She’s not really your type, right? I mean, she’s… fine. But let’s be honest—she’s under your level.”

Lando doesn't blink. His grip on the glass tightens, knuckles whitening.

“I get it, though,” your ex continues, leaning in conspiratorially. “You’re probably just looking for an easy fu—”

Crack.

The sound rings out like a gunshot under the lights.

Your ex stumbles back, lip split open and leaking red, eyes wide with shock.

Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

The entire bar falls quiet.

People turn. Whisper. You’re already moving toward them, heart in your throat, dress brushing your ankles.

You find Lando standing stiff, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to hold something down.

You look between the blood, the shocked faces, and him.

“What happened?” you whisper.

Lando doesn’t look at you right away.

He just shakes his hand once—like it stings—and says, voice quiet but cutting:

“He said one more word about you, and I was going to kill him.”

You blink.

Your ex is still reeling, still clutching his face, drunk and dazed. Someone pulls him away. You don’t look back.

You take Lando’s hand, gently, checking his knuckles.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, even though your voice is shaking.

“Yes, I did,” he says simply. “Because you’re not anyone’s joke. And especially not his.”

You swallow.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a second, it feels like the whole wedding disappears. Just you. Him. His split knuckles and the pounding in your chest.

“Come on,” you say finally, voice trembling. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

And he follows you—no hesitation.

You’re sitting on the low stone wall just beyond the garden, the muffled music from the party drifting into the night behind you. The sky is ink-dark above, stars blinking lazily overhead. Lando’s hand is in yours, still bruised and warm.

You brush your thumb over his knuckles again. He winces, then smiles.

“Well,” he says, breaking the silence with a lopsided grin, “your ex definitely deserved it.”

You laugh. “Okay, yes. But that wasn’t exactly in the package I booked when I asked you to be my fake date.”

“Oh?” he turns toward you, amused. “Which part wasn’t included—punching someone in the face, or making you look incredibly desirable at a wedding?”

You raise your eyebrows, biting a smile. “The punching. Although… I admit, it was kind of amazing to watch.”

He lets out a laugh, low and playful. “Alright, now I’m curious—what exactly was included in this package?”

You lean back slightly, head tilting. “Hmm… I think you already ticked all the boxes.”

“All of them?” he grins wider. “That’s impressive.”

You nod, pretending to think it over. “Yeah. Let’s see: arrived in a nice suit, made a grand entrance, stared at me like I hung the moon, defended my honor, danced like a rom-com lead, and somehow made my ex question all his life choices.”

Lando chuckles. “That does sound like the deluxe package.”

He leans in a little, eyes flicking to your lips. “But I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper, heart skipping.

He lifts his hand, fingers brushing your cheek, then curling gently under your jaw. His thumb traces your skin like he’s memorizing it.

“I think the package you booked,” he says softly, lips inches from yours, “includes a kiss.”

You don’t even have time to answer before he closes the distance, pressing his mouth to yours.

And just like that, the whole world hushes.

The kiss is warm and sure, slow at first—like he’s savoring it. Like he’s been thinking about it for years. You melt into him, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, heart thundering in your chest.

When you finally pull apart, you both stay close, breathless.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur, dazed.

He smirks. “Told you—it’s the deluxe package.”

You laugh again, heart full in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.

And this time, it feels like more than just pretending.

Your lips linger close, breath tangled with his, hearts racing but steady now—like they’ve found their rhythm together. He’s still holding your jaw, gently, like he’s afraid to let go too soon.

You smile, soft and teasing, your voice barely above a breath as you murmur against his mouth:

“So… what else is included in the deluxe package?”

He exhales a small laugh, forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just watches you like you’re something he dreamed into existence.

“Well,” he says eventually, lips brushing yours as he speaks, “I think it comes with late-night drives... me picking the worst songs and you screaming all the lyrics anyway.”

You chuckle. “Tempting.”

“There’s also compliments,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face. “Endless, sincere, possibly annoying. Especially about your smile. I’m obsessed with it, by the way.”

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away.

“And,” he continues, softer now, “someone who never lets you feel small again. Not ever.”

You don’t say anything for a second. You just look at him. Let it settle. Let it mean something.

You’re both still close, breath mingling, the night soft around you.

Lando brushes his thumb across your cheek again, gaze drinking you in like he’s trying to memorize the moment. You smile—hazily, lips tingling, heartbeat racing for all the right reasons.

Then you lean in, your voice low, teasing—but laced with something honest you wouldn’t say if you weren’t just a little tipsy.

“Does the deluxe package,” you whisper, your lips ghosting against his jaw, “include more than just kisses?”

He stills, just for a second.

Then he smiles, crooked and warm, eyes searching yours. “You really liked the kisses, huh?”

You nod, biting your lip. “I really liked the kisses. Might be the alcohol talking… but—”

“But?” he nudges, amused and breathless all at once.

You grin. “I wouldn’t mind… more.”

He chuckles softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want to. God, I want to. But not when you’ll wake up tomorrow wondering if it was just the wine.”

You blink. “So… no?”

His thumb brushes gently across your cheek again, this time slower. His smile fades just slightly—still soft, but more serious now.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” he says, voice low. “You’re a little tipsy.”

You breathe out, steadying, eyes locked on his. There’s a pause, like something hanging in the air between you, and then—quietly, firmly—you lean in again.

“Not enough to regret it,” you whisper.

And then you kiss him.

This time, it’s different. There’s no teasing, no question. Just heat and certainty and years of everything finally rising to the surface. His hands find your waist as yours knot into the fabric at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens. It’s heavy now—messy, hungry. You shift into him as his body moves with yours like muscle memory, like instinct.

His hand slides up your spine, slow and steady, anchoring you to him as your mouths move in sync, sighs slipping between kisses. You can feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his curls.

And in that moment, there’s no wedding, no ex, no distance, no years lost.

Just this.

Just you.

Just him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, chest heaving.

His hand finds your waist, grounding himself. “Do you… do you really want this?”

You nod—eager, breathless, no hesitation. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, fighting the war between instinct and patience. Then he lets out a rough breath, jaw tightening. He gently pushes you back, just enough to put space between you—but his eyes never leave yours.

One hand drops to his pants, adjusting himself with a quiet hiss under his breath. “Give me a second,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re driving me insane.”

You watch him, flushed and trembling slightly, lips parted. Every inch of you wants to erase the space between you again.

He opens the door backing into the house with you following, steps faltering like you’re both trying to keep it together but barely managing it.

You nearly trip over your shoes, catching yourself on the wall as he watches, clearly struggling to hold back a smirk and something more feral underneath.

“I haven’t thought this through,” he says, voice low, almost to himself.

You step closer, brushing past him purposefully, your hand grazing his as you pass. “Then stop thinking.”

That does it.

His hand grabs your wrist—gently but firmly—and he spins you around, lips crashing into yours again, heat flaring fast. It’s messy now, untamed, like the dam finally broke and neither of you are even trying to hold it back.

His hand fumbles behind him, blindly grabbing for the nearest door handle. It swings open with a creak, and he guides you inside without looking, mouths still locked, breathing hard.

It’s a lounge—dimly lit, quiet, empty—and it barely registers before he pulls you toward the couch. You don’t resist. You can’t.

He lowers you onto the cushions with a reverence that doesn’t match the hunger in his kiss, but it makes your chest ache. Like even now, even desperate and dizzy, he’s still careful with you.

He follows you down, body pressing over yours, forearms braced on either side of your head, never breaking the kiss. It deepens instantly—lips moving, tongues brushing, hands everywhere now. Yours sliding under the hem of his shirt, his slipping along the curve of your waist.

You can feel him—all of him—against you. No space. No questions.

Only this.

The weight of him, the heat, the way his fingers tremble slightly as they trail over your skin. The quiet groan he swallows when you shift your hips.

And still, the kiss never stops.

Not once.

It is endless—deep, slow, tasting. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to memorize it, like he’s finally allowing himself the thing he’s wanted for far too long.

Your hands find the hem of his dress shirt, working quickly at the buttons. It’s harder like this, him above you, chest to chest, your fingers trembling slightly but you get them undone one by one. He helps, sitting up just enough for you to push the fabric off his shoulders and let it fall behind him.

And God, he’s beautiful like this, flushed, slightly out of breath, chest rising and falling, eyes blown wide and focused entirely on you.

Then his hands move sliding down your thighs, pushing your dress up over your hips without finesse, just raw need. When you start to sit up to reach for your heels, he stops you.

“Leave them,” he murmurs, voice rough. “They’re staying on.”

You blink, surprised by the low heat in his tone—and how much it lights something up inside you.

He pushes the dress higher until it's bunched around your waist. His mouth finds your collarbone as he tugs your bra cups down, letting your breasts spill out. He pauses to look, to take you in and then his mouth is on you again, open and hot.

A whimper slips from your lips when his tongue circles your nipple, teasing before he sucks gently. His hand mirrors his mouth, kneading the other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until you’re writhing under him.

He shifts lower, one hand trailing down your stomach, slipping beneath the edge of your panties. You’re already soaked. His fingers glide through the slickness before circling your clit with a slow, maddening pressure that makes your thighs tremble.

“Lando,” you breathe, hips lifting.

“I know,” he whispers against your chest. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He strokes you with just enough rhythm to keep you gasping, leaning back to watch your face. His other hand slips under your thigh, lifting it slightly—dragging your heel along his side as if he’s enjoying the scrape of it.

“Still think the heels were a good idea?” you gasp, teasing—barely.

His smirk is wicked. “The best.”

He pulls your panties to the side, sliding two fingers into you—slow at first, then deeper. You arch, gripping his bicep as he finds that perfect rhythm, curling inside you just right. When you clench around him, he groans low.

“God, you’re tight. So fucking wet.”

You can barely breathe, barely think, chasing the edge before he pulls away leaving you empty, whining.

Then he’s kneeling back, undoing his belt and pushing down his pants and boxers in one swift move. His cock is hard, flushed, and thick, already leaking.

You reach for him instinctively, but he catches your wrist, bringing your fingers to his mouth instead. He kisses your palm, then guides your hand down between your thighs.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

The request makes you shudder—but you do it. Legs spread, fingers pulling yourself apart as he settles between them, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds.

“Holy fuck,” he growls. “Look at you.”

He pushes in slowly, and it burns in the best way, stretching you, filling you. You gasp, gripping the couch as he sinks in fully, eyes never leaving yours.

Once he’s there, buried to the hilt, he stills just for a moment, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he moves.

Rhythmic, deep, hungry. Every thrust drives a moan from your lips. Your heels dig into his back as you wrap your legs around him, dragging him closer, harder.

“Fuck—you feel insane,” he pants.

You’re breathless, barely holding on, nails scratching down his back as he hits the spot again and again.

When your orgasm builds, it takes you over fast, sharp, electric, flooding your entire body as you cry out his name.

He keeps going, chasing his own high until he groans low, pressing deep inside and spilling into you with a stuttering breath.

Afterward, there’s only silence, your breathing, and the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

He rests his forehead against yours, still inside you, still catching his breath.

“That…” he murmurs, voice raw. “Might’ve ruined me for anything else.”

You’re still tangled in each other, your breath finally slowing, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, hair an absolute mess. Lando shifts to the side, arm draped over your waist, face buried against your shoulder like he’s not quite ready to move.

But eventually, reality creeps in—along with the faint, distant sound of voices and music—and you both start to laugh.

“We should probably… you know. Try to look like we didn’t just fuck on a couch in someone’s lounge,” you say, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.

He groans but sits up, reaching for his shirt. “Yeah. Probably.”

You tug your dress down as best you can, smoothing the fabric over your hips. It’s a lost cause. The bodice is wrinkled, your bra is somewhere half-off, and when you glance down, there’s an unmistakable bruise blooming just above your breast.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyeing your reflection in the black screen of a mounted TV. “Do I look okay?”

He turns, mid-buttoning his shirt. His eyes flicker over you—still flushed, still glowing, dress askew, hair a little wild.

He grins. “You look unbelievably hot.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warming as you shove him playfully. “Be serious.”

“I am,” he says, leaning in to kiss you again, soft this time. “But yeah. Let’s get you home.”

The two of you slip out of the room—still too close, hands brushing, lips twitching with laughter. It’s reckless and warm and giddy. You’re halfway down the hall when Lando stiffens mid-step.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong—until he grabs your waist and spins you to him, crashing his mouth onto yours like he means it. It's hard and hungry, lips sliding over yours with just enough edge to steal your breath.

Your hands instinctively grab his shirt to stay upright.

When he finally pulls away, you blink up at him—dazed.

Then you hear it.

A throat clear. A scoff.

You glance over your shoulder and see him. Your ex. Standing a few steps away, another drink in hand, eyes locked on the two of you. His expression caught somewhere between shock, jealousy, and rage.

Lando’s arm stays firm around your waist, his smirk downright devilish now as he meets your ex’s eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth. “We were just leaving.”

He leans in again, presses one more kiss to your jaw—possessive, casual, final—and then guides you forward, past the frozen expression of the man who once thought he could toss you aside.

You bite your lip, hiding a grin as you let Lando lead you toward the door.

[xpaxtonrose]

I’m always talking about how I’m bipolar 1 and my meds. I’m an open book, I don’t care. I thought I got it figured out. My new(ish) med is making me so fucking irritable. It’s funny how you can be feeling these things for a while until it clicks that maybe the new medication isn’t a good fit. I think that explains all of my pissed off irritable rage posts lately. Latuda. Not a good fit! So fucking irritable, it’s too much. I feel like fighting everyone and I’m hungry all the time. Fuck this shit!

[cherrygublersworld]

what a girl wants

pairing: spencer reid x gf!reader category: smut (18+) words: 1.6k summary: you and spencer are taking things slowly, but when he’s wearing glasses and grey sweatpants you have a hard time remembering it. a/n: soo this is my first ever fic, hope you like it!!

spencer had been rambling for twenty minutes now, you were watching one of your favourite movie “what a girl wants” and had to pause after 10 minutes because spencer had, of course, something to say about the population of the bedouin, that somehow got to the invention of the agriculture. you lost it after he started listing the risk of iron deficiency anemia.

your problem with spencer yapping was just that you got lost every five minutes. first you notice the way the sun hits his jawline. then it’s the way he moves those hands of his, and you really can’t not get lost looking at his pretty lips.

you have been dating spencer for two months now, and yes it’s a short amount of time to say you’re in love with someone. but truth be told you fell in love with spencer reid the moment you saw him.

you met in a small coffee shop, right next to your new workplace, and he was just so incredibly gorgeous that you really had to shoot your shot.

now he’s yapping about arab tribes in your sofa, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants (that had you foaming in your mouth since he entered the door), a simple cardigan that looks as soft as clouds. and just because that wasn’t enough he even wore glasses, like real fucking glasses, that stands so heavenly on that pretty nose of his.

you nearly died on the spot, barely heard him when he greeted you, all soft smiles and heart eyes, you were too busy trying not to kneel down and beg him to fuck you dumb.

cause yes, you didn’t had sex yet, you’re taking things slow, which is as sweet as frustrating, and of course you end up every night feeling guilty for not appreciating the first man in your life that actually respects you and wants to court you like a gentleman fresh out of bridgerton.

point is if you were bridgerton you would most definitely be kate sharma. and you’re definitely tired of using a toy when you have the prettiest man in the world gushing over you.

when did you end up so desperate for a man you really don’t know, but to your defence things escalated the last time you saw each other.

four days ago, he took you out on a date that ended in a make out session on his couch.

and god you were so addicted to the taste of his lips, his hands on your waist, just his thumb under your shirt drawing slow circles that nearly made you moan.

you didn’t even noticed you started moving your hips till you felt it, right under your core, but what’s even worse is that he whined. he fucking whined.

you started serious doubt you would survive.

not with the way he tightened his grip on your waist, or the way he kissed you next, hot and passionate, and you surely died when his hands gently guided your hips faster on him.

you straddled him till you both came in your pants, moaning in each other’s mouth, laughing softly like teenagers. and then a call from work came and he was straight on a jet.

the next three days, while he was in some lost town in Luisiana, all you could think about was the way he felt under you, his moans and whines, how he get even prettier after an orgasm.

god you needed him so badly.

that’s basically why when he arrived at your house today, you’re distracted, can’t take your eyes off of him and your hand hurts.

you know he knows something is up with you by the looks he keeps giving you, but you keep pretending as best as you can that everything is fine.

it’s not like you need to fuck him so bad you’re literally about to explode if you don’t taste him. no nothing like that. you’re fine. everything’s fine.

expect that he starts yapping, eyes wide, pretty lips and hands in the air.

you don’t know if you wanna cry or cum.

so you try, really really try, try to be a good and respectful girlfriend. taking a deep breath, you try to focus on his words instead of how his glasses would fog up with his moans.

dr spencer reid, three phds and a master, proud profiler of the most elite team of the fbi, the man who can catch the tiniest micro expression and hidden meaning behind the most trained liars of the states.

apparently the only thing his brilliant mind can’t tell is when his girlfriend is horny.

so he just keeps rambling and you keep trying to behave yourself, for exactly seven minutes, then you break. without even realising it your hands are behind his neck and your lips on his, and he gasps, surprised but oh so sweet.

you pull back slightly, barely an inch between the two of you, just to whisper to him. “i’m sorry baby, it’s just that you’re so sexy i can’t-“ and then you’re kissing him again, as if you need to prove your words.

and spencer is basically gone, his mind blank since your lips touched his, his body tingling everywhere.

to think he was so nervous to see you today, paranoid about possible remorse of your last date, he had been so anxious during the last three days he didn’t even had a moment to really think about how good you felt.

but now you had interrupted his rambling because he was so sexy you had to kiss him, his brain couldn’t even start to comprehend your words, not that he could ever get a thought straight when you’re kissing him.

and definitely not when you quickly move to his laps, straddling him. feeling your body perfectly sitting on him spencer moans and you take the opportunity to push your tongue inside his mouth.

same scene as four days ago but this time spencer’s not stressing over doing the right thing, he shut his brain off and really feel you.

oh and another big difference from last time is that spencer’s not wearing any jeans. he’s wearing sweatpants.

sweatpants that let you really sense him under you. it’s almost mandatory that you swing your hips with more force than you ever had, just cause you have to feel him as best as you can.

and fuck it feels so good you’re both moaning, and fuck he’s so beautiful you have to kiss him again, but he seems out of breath (as you are but too horny to care it seems) so you opts for his neck. leaving open mouth kisses all along, mumbling in between.

“god spencer you’re so pretty”

“missed you so much baby”

“need you so bad”

your voice is low and sultry like he never heard and he’s so overstimulated in the best way possible. he can’t shut up either, little moans keeps spilling out his mouth and when you start sucking his soft spot on the neck (he doesn’t even know how or when you figured it out) he can already feel the pleasure building

it takes just a light pull of his hair and one of your sweet moan direct to his ear when you angle your hips, and he’s cumming in his pants.

and it’s actually embarrassing how fast he was, not even his first time did he came so quickly.

you realise after a couple of seconds, when you feel a wet sensation under you, his moan lasting a few seconds longer, his hands gripping tighter your waist, his body tensing.

you would’ve realised earlier if it hadn’t been just 5 minutes since you started.

after spencer is completely still, the embarrassment eating him alive as his face slowly becomes red. you pull back to look at him in the eyes, which he avoids.

“baby look at me” you whisper softly, a small smile on your face as your hands play with his hair. he shakes his head before covering it with his hands.

“this is so embarrassing” he whines dramatically. you chuckles softly, taking his hands off his face, he fights for a few seconds before surrendering.

he looks up at you with big puppies eyes, red and ashamed, you can see his fear of judgement in the way he fidgets with his fingers.

you cradle his face with your hands, forcing the eye contact as you smile sweetly at him. “oh honey you have nothing to be embarrassed about”

and just as sweetly you lean in to kiss his face, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead and then a speck on his lips. a little but nonetheless shining smile comes back on his pretty face.

“just so you know i actually found you coming so quickly one of the biggest compliments you could ever give me” you say, voice like honey, staring directly into his eyes.

spencer gasps softly at your words, eyes widening and jaw slightly dropping.

“w-what?”

you chuckle under your breath, a tender smile on your face as your hands play with his hair, earning a soft sigh from him.

“baby the fact that i’m able to make you come in five minutes is so fucking hot, you have nothing to be embarrassed about”

for a minute spencer just stares at you, studying you in that profiler way of his, trying to detect any signs of a lie, finding none a slow smile creeps on his face.

and just like that, you’re back at watching the movie, well for a total of twelve minutes before spencer realises you didn’t come and repay the favour.

cc dividers: @uzmacchiato

[bambisnc]

+82 ☆ flying lights, paradise

                  ୨ৎ ─── p.sh % angst + 0.9k && w. none! ˖ ✧

[ 陰 ♡ ] : reworked an old fic :3 ty mana for proofreading >3<

                  🔗. 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝗡𝘼𝗩𝗶𝗚𝘼𝗧𝗘 ✮ 𝗖𝙇𝗶𝗖𝗞

park sunghoon loves you.

there’s never been a single shred of doubt about that. the feeling comes naturally to him, easy like it is to breathe. easy like it’s meant to be. 

like he’s always meant to be the one. no games, no cliches.

sunghoon loves you. and you love him just as much, if not more. 

it is almost cruel then, that despite this, you have both been familiarized with heartbreak. 

airports should be a place of hope, of new beginnings. a place where you can leave behind everything weighing you down and allow your soul to revel in the freeing lightness of your plane taking off. even if only for a little while. 

you feel anything but freed or light with how sunghoon’s fingers intertwine with yours, as the two of you make your way towards boarding gate 108. 

the earlier goodbyes are still fresh in your mind. how supportive and encouraging everyone was. it’s no laughing matter, of course. getting into one of the best universities worldwide is no small feat, even if deep down it was well known that you would be one to achieve big things.

sunghoon had been the loudest. he’d taken it upon himself to be your own personal hype man, waxing poetic about how you’d get better opportunities there, better faculty and better chance to make a place for yourself.

you almost wish this was a movie. that the love you have for him would be enough, that you could leave everything behind and just be with him. but he wouldn’t let you.

(he’s been more than blunt about that. he wants what's best for you, even if it completely destroys him—one painfully beautiful memory at a time.)

what’s worse though, is when the doubts start to creep in. what if the true reason he seems so unaffected is because you simply just don't mean that much to him?

you know it's logical to leave, hell he more or less forced you to make that decision but it stings so, so much to think that he may have, subconsciously or not wanted to get.. away from you?

but you just can't bring yourself to actually talk to him about it. 

it goes unspoken that you’d want your boyfriend not to move on, to wait for you. but how could you even dare to say that to him?

how could you ask the one who taught you the true meaning of love to suffer, to be in pain, to be without that one constant in their life and to not seek other companionship? 

in the end, you just fall silent in front of his steady gaze.

there's just … too many people around and not enough words. 

you think you won't be able to express all that you have buried deep down in your heart unless sunghoon physically become one with your skin and feels it himself. 

even then you doubt it'll be enough. how could it ever be enough? 

as you finally raise your head and meet his eyes resolutely, you decide you can't let this show. for fear that the man in front of you who seems to be oh so calm about all this would start to question his decision. 

he kisses you once. twice. softly, carefully—like he’s worried you’re too fragile. you want to tell him you’d rather have him angry, have him crying if only so you know that he actually cares.

you don’t. all you do is walk away. 

it’ll be fine, sunghoon thinks to himself, as he watches your plane take off with bated breath. it isn’t like he can do anything now that you've already left. 

maybe you'll move on and maybe he will, too.

maybe all the times you’d spent together would be reduced to nothing but a nostalgic memory. to old playlists, to borrowed clothes, to photos in that special folder named after the other; none of which you can bear to part with.

the dazed, “out of sorts” state he’s been thrust into exists like an omnipresent cloud. but he knows he can't let it take over him, he must not let it affect his daily life. he knows you’d hate that.

so sunghoon goes about everything just as usual even if for no other reason than to satisfy that little spirit of longing existing within him. and sure, yeah, it’s not like contact has been completely cut off. 

he hears about you every now and then, sees you post all about your new life on instagram.

but it’s not the same. how is he supposed to make do with being pushed back to the periphery of everything that makes you you, after having existed in its epicenter?

but he can't help but wonder if you hear about him, think of him as well? sunghoon can’t say he’s confident if you feel all of that which torments him every second of every day till he is not even sure what exactly it is that he’s feeling anymore. 

if all of what he’s feeling is still something that he can blame you for or is it somehow, for some reason targeted towards himself? for falling for you in the first place. 

for believing that his love could be enough.

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[@bambisnc] 2k25

[primal--scream]

Okay, okay so I saw a post about what if Pepa started setting Buck up on blind dates, and I couldn't not do this, because it totally ate my brain and I can't remember who said it now and it's been haunting me. if this was your idea let me know in the notes and if you totally hate it, I will completely get rid of it but....yeah.....

ETA: thanks @belovasyelena for dropping the note, it was her post that inspired it, so glad you don't hate it!!

"His name is Gabe, and he's such a nice boy, you will have so much fun." Eddie watches Buck nod along with his aunt as she flits around the kitchen, but when her words finally register, he feels himself frown. "What are you talking about?" "I set Evan up with my neighbor's grandson, Gabriel." Eddie feels his jaw clench, "I don't think Buck needs dating help." "No, he certainly does not, but last week while he was there pruning my roses, they met and a few days later Gabe asked after him, so I thought why shouldn't I, they're both single." "Isn't he in the one in the Coast Guard in San Diego?" "Marines. He's a liaison out of the LAAFD." How does she even know what the LAAFD even is and really, the fucking Marines, Eddie thinks. Of course it's the fucking Marines with their dress Blues and their fucking swords and their dress up balls. And really, he doesn't even know why he cares. It's not like Buck is actually going to go through with it.

He watches Pepa hand a piece of paper to Buck, "Here is the restaurant, 7:30."

Buck smiles at her and puts the paper in his pocket, "Looking forward to it."

Eddie is too stunned at Buck's seeming heartfelt excitement to actually say anything, so he just stares at Pepa as she gathers her things, kisses Buck on the cheek, and then leaves.

"Hey, don't feel like you need to entertain her matchmaking, I know how it can be." Eddie says after Pepa is gone, hopefully giving Buck the out he needs.

"It's okay, I actually...uh...I'm kind of excited about it." Buck rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks turning pink while not exactly meeting Eddie's eyes.

"You...you're looking forward to a date? That my aunt set you up on? With a random stranger?"

"Yeah, I mean, I know it probably won't turn into anything. But, he was nice when we met, and it...it'll be fun. I need to get back out there, you know?"

Eddie can only nod, He can't be serious, right? Buck isn't actually going to go on this date. He's not looking for fun, and what exactly does fun even mean when it comes to blinds dates. But he rewinds back to the part where Buck had said he was nice, which means Buck may already like him.

Buck puts his plate in the sink and turns toward the door, "Guess I need to buy a new shirt."

Eddie's brain has stumbled again, this time over the words get back out there. What exactly does that mean for Buck and random blind dates? And why does he need a new shirt? This guy hasn't seen any of Buck's existing shirts. Eddie is positive one of them will be good enough. Before he can ask anymore questions Buck has left the room and Eddie is standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a half eaten sandwich and wondering what the fuck just happened.

If hours later Eddie is still stewing and he happens to see the piece of paper on Buck's dresser with the restaurant name on it, and if he happens to feel Chris' forehead and declare it feels hot at exactly 7:45 then that's his business.

And if twenty minutes later Eddie is striding into the restaurant making a bee line for Bucks table, that's also his business.

He puts his hand on Buck's shoulder, "Hey, sorry to interrupt, but Chris is really sick. He's asking for you."

Buck turns immediately, worry etched in the lines of his face, Eddie feels bad for approximately two seconds before he hears, "Who is Chris?"

And before Eddie can think about it, he blurts out, "Our son."

When he looks down at Buck, forty different expressions launch across his face at once, and when he sees the muscle in Buck's jaw start to tick, Eddie knows he's screwed.

Buck turns back to his date, "Excuse us for just a second."

Buck's fingers grip his elbow tightly as he leads Eddie toward the front of the restaurant. He pulls Eddie into a little alcove before asking, "What the fuck are you doing? I told you I didn't need rescuing from this date."

And really, Eddie has two options here, he can apologize for getting it wrong, and pretend like he's not an insane person, or he can, "Maybe I needed rescuing from your date." Option two it is then.

Buck stares at him, "What does that even mean?"

"It means I...I don't want you going on dates. Especially with Marines with uniforms and swords and balls."

The frown line between Bucks' brows deepens, "What are you talking about?"

Eddie knows it's now or never. With a quick look around, he pulls Buck into him and presses his lips against Buck's. He waits a split second and then runs his tongue along the seam of Buck's mouth. Buck gasps and Eddie takes the opportunity to lick inside.

It only takes Buck a few seconds to respond, and then Eddie is wondering if he maybe should have thought this out a little better. They're technically in a crowded restaurant, not all that well hidden, and Buck is currently trying to turn him inside out with just his tongue. He's not complaining exactly, but the places he wants to put his hands will get them both arrested.

When the kiss breaks, they're both panting, and Buck's eyes are dark and hungry, lit from the inside with a fire that makes Eddie's voice shake, "Come home with me. Now."

Buck nods as he runs his tongue slowly over his bottom lip and Eddie has to bite down on the needy moan that tries to crawl out of his throat.

"Yeah, we should...we should do that." Buck clears his throat, runs his hand through his hair and then straightens his brand new shirt before saying, "Stay right here."

Leaning against the wall, Eddie watches Buck go back to the table and break the news to Gabe. Gabe does not look surprised, in fact he's smiling a little too much. And that's when Eddie realizes he got played by his own aunt. But he's not mad about it.

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 15: "The one with the cabin and the river" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The weekend arrives quietly at Will and Benny’s cabin. Good weather, beautiful views, and you and Frankie doing your best to stay under the radar. At least, you try. WC: 16k

A/N: Hii, just wanted to quickly clarify one thing. I noticed a few confused comments about a specific moment, so here’s a quick explanation: When Frankie asks reader, during an intimate scene, "Are you sure you want to do it?" what he’s asking is whether she’s sure she wants to do it without protection, NOT whether she’s on birth control. She is, and he has no doubts about that. I mean she's not lying, he trust her. He’s just asking out of respect, to make sure she’s really okay with doing it unprotected. Oh, and about pregnancy theories… I love them! Lol If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

You were curled up on the couch in the living room, legs tucked under yourself, half-listening to whatever the guys had been saying before their conversation drifted into silence. You weren’t reading or scrolling or even thinking all that hard. Mostly just sitting there, letting the quiet settle into your body like it belonged there.

Then Will stood up with that familiar restlessness of his and walked toward the front door.

“Fish, about time!” He said, already pulling it open. He didn’t wait. Just stepped outside like he knew exactly what would happen next.

You sat a little straighter, leaning just enough to see through the front window. Headlights still on, engine ticking quietly in the dark, Frankie was climbing out of the car. It was a few minutes past nine. The sky was ink black now. Only the porch light and a slice of moon above the trees gave shape to anything beyond the glass.

Santi had picked you up from the apartment a little after five-thirty, even though Frankie had offered to take you himself once you’d closed the bookstore. He’d said it casually, almost too casually, leaning against the doorframe with his keys dangling from one hand. But you’d told him no. Not unkindly. You had already arranged everything with your brother, and more than anything, you didn’t feel like being interrogated by Santi later.

So you’d stuck to the plan. You got to the cabin around six-thirty, maybe a little earlier. The sun had still been visible then, hanging low and golden over the trees as Will met you outside, launched straight into a guided tour like it was your first time at summer camp.

Which, in a way, it was. Everyone else had been here before—plenty of times. You were the only new element in a place so soaked in familiarity.

The cabin was charming, in that nostalgic, heavy-with-memory kind of way. It had belonged to their parents. You could tell by how solid everything felt, like the furniture had grown into the floorboards. Three bedrooms—two doubles and one with three twin beds pushed against the walls. Will said their cousins used to come during the summer holidays, that the house would be full of voices and towels and sunscreen. That was decades ago. But the sheets were clean, the air smelled faintly of cedar and something citrusy Benny must’ve used to mop the floors. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt cared for.

Frankie, though, hadn’t shown up when he said he would. He’d mentioned something vague about stopping by the grocery store on the way, picking up a few things. That was around six. Then nothing. Just the waiting.

Will came back in first, a gust of cold air following him.

“You hungry?” he asked, glancing back toward the open door. “We ate a little while ago.”

“I’m good,” Frankie’s voice replied, a little rough around the edges. He stepped into the room with a backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes found yours for no more than a heartbeat—two seconds, maybe three—but it was enough. You looked away, down at your phone, even though there was nothing new on the screen. Your thumb hovered like you might scroll, but you didn’t.

Then Benny’s voice carried down the stairs. Something about being late, but it didn’t sound angry. Just loud.

Santi clapped a hand on Frankie’s shoulder and asked about Henry, his tone lighter than the question deserved. Frankie shrugged, said he was fine, but that he was tired. Said he’d explain later. Benny was already motioning him upstairs, and Frankie followed without a word.

You stayed where you were, eyes on the glow of your phone, ears tuned sharply to the movement in the house. You weren’t sure why your chest felt heavier than it had when you’d first sat down—but there it was. A quiet weight. Just there.

Figuring out the sleeping arrangements hadn’t taken much discussion. It was late and no one had the energy for negotiation. Santi and Yov naturally claimed one of the double beds—there hadn’t been any doubt about that. And Will, with his usual unspoken authority, had declared that you’d take the other.

“It just makes sense,” he said, already turning away as if that settled it. And it did.

Benny, Frankie, and Will would take the room with the single beds, and no one questioned it. Frankie hadn’t said a word either way, just nodded slightly when Benny pointed toward the stairs. You wondered if it mattered to him at all, if any of it did.

Half an hour later, the house was quiet. People peeled off one by one, murmuring goodnights and stretching out aching limbs from a day that had felt too long. The plan was to wake up early and explore the trails behind the cabin, maybe head down to the lake before the sun got too high.

But you and Santi stayed outside. The others faded into bedrooms and darkness, and the porch lights hummed above your heads, attracting moths and casting long shadows on the wooden floorboards. You were sitting side by side in the hammock, careful not to shift too much and tip the balance.

“I don’t know,” Santi was saying, voice low. “I’m just saying… you could call her.”

You sighed, pulling your knees up closer to your chest. “But she doesn’t call me. She calls you. Maybe that’s the answer right there. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

You crossed your arms, like the words had left a mark on your skin and you needed to shield the spot.

“Mom calls me because I call her,” Santi replied, not unkindly. He tilted his head back, eyes on the stars. “Last time we talked she asked what was going on with you.”

“She could ask me that,” you said. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”

He exhaled, slow and frustrated. “Did you guys fight or something?”

You shook your head. Not really. Not in the traditional sense. There hadn’t been yelling or dramatic exits or anything you could point to and say this is where it all cracked.

What had happened was quieter. A slow shift. A strange, weightless sort of distance that crept in when you weren’t looking. She had become harder to read. Her answers to simple questions—how are you, how’s your day—sounded like rehearsals, like they were meant to steer the conversation somewhere safer. Somewhere away from herself.

Then one afternoon, she had said something. A comment dressed up like advice. You needed to start living your life, she'd said. You needed to stop being so hesitant, so afraid of stepping into yourself.

And it had hurt. Not because it wasn’t true, but because of who it was coming from.

You’d snapped, in that quiet way you sometimes did—no shouting, just words that cut because they were too honest. You reminded her that she had left Austin. That she had chosen not to live in the same house where your father’s absence still lived in every room. You asked how she could tell you to be brave when she couldn’t bear to exist in her own memories.

It wasn’t a fight. But it wasn’t nothing either.

You hadn’t spoken properly since. A few messages. Nothing with weight.

“It’s complicated,” you finally said, voice low.

Santi stayed next to you for a little while longer. The air had gone heavier after the conversation about your mother, but he had this way of knowing when to shift gears. He was good at that—distracting you without making it obvious. Redirecting your thoughts like it was something casual, not a rescue.

“So,” he said after a few moments of silence, his voice light again, as if nothing complicated had ever been said, “how’s everything going with Bill?”

His eyes were bright with amusement.

“It’s almost done,” you replied, stretching your legs out in front of you, “it’s looking really nice. Why? Thinking about stopping by again? Bill said you could go whenever—”

“That’s not what I asked.” He cut in, laughing, clearly pleased with himself.

You paused. “Oh,” you said, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Then… what exactly did you ask?”

Santi pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Play dumb.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gave you a knowing look. “I know you’re seeing him.”

You tilted your head. “I’m not.”

“Oh no?” he said, sitting up straighter now, emboldened. “Then who are you talking to every night?”

You froze, not dramatically, just enough for your shoulders to go still. But you didn’t stop smiling.

“What?”

“When I was at your place last week, you got a phone call and practically blushed. You were all, ‘I’ll call you back’ in this sweet little voice. Same thing a few days later, when you came home—you literally got up from the table mid-sentence.”

“Right,” you said, drawing the word out a little, like you were buying time. “That was Emma.”

Santi laughed, short and loud. “Emma?”

“Yes,” you said, more confidently now, folding your arms like a period at the end of a sentence. “It was Emma. Who else would it be? You thought it was Bill?”

“I don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe. I thought I heard a man’s voice through the speaker.”

You shook your head, gently but with emphasis. “Nope. Definitely Emma.”

The words hung in the air between you for a second, and just then, your phone vibrated softly in your hand. The screen lit up. You looked.

[Frankie🍾]: Are u in bed yet?

You didn’t answer. You just locked the phone quickly, turned it over in your lap so the screen faced down, and pretended nothing had happened.

When you glanced back up, Santi was already watching you.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, and then, like he was giving you space to lie one more time, he said, “Well. If it’s not Bill, it’s not Bill. I believe you. It's someone else, then.”

You said nothing. You held his gaze. The smile was still there, barely.

He looked away then, exhaled through his nose.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, pushing his palms against his thighs and standing in one easy motion. “Don’t stay up too late talking to your friend.”

You didn’t respond. You just watched him walk inside, the screen door creaking once behind him. Then you looked down at your phone again, still facedown in your lap. You didn’t move. Not yet.

As soon as Santi closed the door behind him, you reached for your phone.

There it was. You read the message again.

[Frankie🍾]: are u in bed yet?

Your fingers moved instinctively across the screen, barely a pause between thought and action.

[You]: No, I’m outside, Santi just went in

Read.

You watched the three dots appear, vanish, then reappear again—like they were thinking. Or like he was.

[Frankie🍾]: Will and Benny are knocked out. Are u going to stay outside?

You hesitated just long enough.

[You]: I’m going in now

[You]: why?

You stood, brushing imaginary dust from your legs. The porch creaked under your feet as you moved to the door, screen still glowing in your hand. You didn’t look away. Not even as you turned the lock behind you. Inside, the house was dim.

You made your way upstairs, each step sounding louder than it should have. Halfway up, your phone vibrated again.

[Frankie🍾]: Can I see u?

You didn’t hesitate this time.

[You]: sure

[You]: in my room.

[You]: be careful, don’t make noise

There was a pause. A longer one.

Then:

[Frankie🍾]: do you think Santi will take too long to fall asleep?

You pushed open your bedroom door but didn’t shut it all the way. The air inside felt cooler, or maybe that was just your skin reacting to the shift in atmosphere. You dropped your phone on the bed, peeled off your clothes quickly—mechanically—and pulled on a soft pair of pajamas, barely registering the feel of cotton against your skin.

When you picked up your phone again, two new messages blinked back at you.

[Frankie🍾]: I’ll wait ten minutes

[Frankie🍾]: don’t fall asleep

You rolled your eyes, lips curving into a quiet smile that no one saw.

Then you slid under the covers, not bothering with the sheets, settling instead on top of the comforter like it would be temporary.

[You]: I won’t 🙄🙄

You left the phone beside you on the pillow, screen lit, waiting.

About thirty minutes had passed when a weight landed gently on your shoulder—waking you up.

Your eyes opened with a soft, confused flutter, and there he was. Frankie. Standing beside your bed, mouth curved into a smile.

“What happened?” he whispered, voice low and rough at the edges. “Did you fall asleep?”

You blinked at him, propping yourself up on your elbows, your brain still wading through the haze of sleep.

“Hey,” you said, automatically glancing toward the door. “No. I just closed my eyes for a second.”

He gave a small, disbelieving scoff and sat down beside you, settling at the edge of the mattress near your legs. 

“I texted you,” he said. “Like twenty minutes ago.”

You sat all the way up now, folding your legs beneath you, studying him in the faint light that came from the hallway.

“Shit, sorry.”

His expression was softer than usual—he looked a little tired, a little resigned. The kind of tired that comes from something heavier than lack of sleep.

“It's okay. I wasn’t going to come in, but I went to the bathroom,” he continued, leaning back slightly, his palms flat against the comforter behind him. “And your door was cracked open and... you were just lying there. Asleep.”

You let out a small groan, rubbing your face. “Sorry. It’s been a long day, okay?”

“No shit,” he murmured, eyes falling shut for a second. You looked at him, then at the floor, the silence between you stretching comfortably for a beat.

Then, quieter, you asked: “Did something happen? Are you alright?”

When he looked at you again, his face shifted—barely, just a flicker—but you noticed it. A crack in the armor. You reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. His skin was warm, the gesture familiar in a way that made your chest ache a little. You scratched lightly, your touch barely there.

He exhaled slowly, and when he met your gaze again, the exhaustion in his eyes had deepened, no longer tucked away.

“I saw Rachel today,” he said.

You went still, your hand frozen at the base of his neck. Something in your chest tightened—sharp and unexpected, like you’d swallowed something bitter before realizing it was poison.

“What?” you asked, softly. “Where?”

“At the grocery store,” he said, eyes still focused somewhere below you, like he was replaying the moment. “I left the house late. Was on the phone with Luna for a while, and stopped at this place, sort of out of the way—outside downtown. She lives near there, but I didn’t think about it. Honestly, she hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

He swallowed hard, eyes narrowing at the memory. “I was heading to the checkout, and then suddenly—she was there. Just there. She grabbed my arm and said my name like it was some kind of... reunion or something.”

You pressed your hand more firmly against his back now, not sure if it was comfort or instinct or something more selfish.

“Frankie,” you murmured. “Are you okay?”

He gave a little nod, like it didn’t mean much.

“Yeah,” he said. Then looked at you. “I mean... I didn’t expect it. That’s all.”

You searched his face, unsure what exactly you were looking for. “What did she say to you?”

“She asked how I was doing,” he said, voice quieter now. “Said it was nice to see me again. Then she asked about my family, and right around then, the cashier finished ringing me up. So I just—left.”

You looked down, your gaze settling on the soft folds of the blanket beneath you. You didn’t respond. Not because you were trying to be evasive, but because nothing coherent came to mind. There was just the pressure of your hand still resting against his back and the quiet awareness of how warm his body felt under your fingertips. Solid. Present.

“She looked different,” Frankie added after a few seconds. You glanced up, catching the distant expression on his face. He wasn’t really here anymore—he was somewhere else entirely, tucked into a version of the past only he could see. “But I can’t figure out what changed.”

You exhaled. “Time’s passed. You’ve changed. The way you see her probably has too.”

He turned his head toward you, and for a moment he just looked at you like he was trying to decide if that explanation made him feel better or worse.

“Maybe,” he said. Then he shifted, lying on his back. “Anyway. I left. That was it. I was really late coming over. Sorry.”

You smiled—barely—and then moved in closer, your body folding into the space beside his. You lay down beside him, your legs extended off the side of the mattress just as his were. It wasn’t a natural sleeping position. It felt temporary. Like neither of you was fully ready to commit to comfort.

“I was thinking about you,” you murmured. “Before you came in.”

Frankie turned his head slightly, looking down at you as you rolled onto your side, your cheek resting against the curve of his chest. His hand found its way to your back, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

“I was starting to think maybe you wouldn’t come,” you added, quieter now.

“I wouldn’t miss this weekend,” he said, simply.

You made a soft sound in your throat—half acknowledgment, half something else—and closed your eyes. Your fingers moved over his chest in absent strokes, like muscle memory.

There was a smile on your lips. Soft. Unforced. But under it, lodged somewhere in the hollow of your chest, was that same bitter pang from earlier. Faint but persistent. And you couldn’t quite name it.

When your alarm buzzed at seven, it felt like it cut through a dream.

You stirred, barely awake, and instinctively pulled Frankie closer, tucking your body against his. Your cheek pressed against the warm rise and fall of his chest. He made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half exhale—but didn’t wake, not really. His arm tightened faintly around your waist in response, like his body understood your presence before his mind did.

Then your eyes fluttered open and the weight of what had happened landed all at once. You pushed yourself upright.

“We fell asleep,” you said, pressing your palm to Frankie’s stomach as if that might somehow help. “Shit. We actually fell asleep.”

You ran your hand over his ribs in a distracted motion, trying to rouse him. His face barely shifted at first, his brows knit together as if you were intruding on something sacred.

“Frankie,” you said more urgently, your fingers closing gently around his arm. “Wake up.”

He blinked, one eye then the other, and squinted at you, disoriented. “What?”

“We fell asleep,” you hissed.

That got through to him. In an instant, he sat up, the covers slipping off his bare chest. His eyes widened.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck. What time is it?”

“Seven am.”

He ran both hands through his hair and then sat there for a second, unmoving, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he held up one finger, a gesture for silence, and tilted his head. You listened too.

There were voices now, faint but distinct. A laugh. The creak of a floorboard. Footsteps moving across the wooden floor of the cabin.

They were awake.

Frankie dropped his face into his hands. “Will and Benny saw my empty bed.”

You closed your eyes and sighed. “But no one knows where you were. They didn’t see you here.”

He turned to you. “Where else would I be?”

You looked at him, his wide eyes, his tousled hair, the shape of him still imprinted in your sheets. Then, absurdly, a laugh bubbled up in your throat and you covered your face to muffle it.

Frankie gave you a withering look, but then his mouth twitched. He tried to fight it, but a crooked smile formed anyway.

“Don’t laugh,” he said.

You dropped your hands and sat upright, taking charge. “You need to leave. I’ll check the hallway.”

You climbed out of bed, your bare feet pressing against the cool floor as you padded to the door. Frankie stayed seated, still shirtless, clearly trying to recalibrate his entire nervous system.

“And what am I supposed to say if someone asks where I was?” he called softly behind you.

You shrugged without turning. “Tell them you went for an early walk. You needed air. That sounds plausible.”

He paused. You could tell he was running the script in his head. Eventually, he gave a faint nod, convinced.

You cracked open the door and peered down both sides of the hall.

“All clear,” you said. Then you turned back and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on. Quiet.”

His steps were quick but soundless. He reached you at the door. Just before he slipped past, he paused and turned back to you.

He reached out, his hand sliding gently along your jaw before pulling you in. You were already smiling when he kissed you—soft, unhurried. Your hand came up to his face, your thumb brushing his cheek. The other rested on the doorframe.

Then you pulled apart. Your eyes met and lingered. 

But then his smile faltered.

His eyes flicked to something over your shoulder, and you turned.

“Shit,” Frankie said, turning to look at you again. There was no one there.

You let your backpack slip from your shoulder, the weight of it landing softly on the dry ground. A sigh escaped you before you could think about it, drawn out and exhausted, like your body had finally caught up to the heat pressing against your skin. The Texas sun had a way of making everything feel heavier, like it wasn’t just light, but something dense and physical settling on your shoulders.

Ahead of you, the river shimmered like a gift. Cool, blue, the kind of blue that doesn’t exist anywhere else except in water. It twisted gently, reflecting the same sun that had turned your cheeks pink and your shirt damp against your back.

You watched the water for a moment, letting yourself believe it was a prize, a quiet reward for keeping pace with everyone this morning.

Behind you, the group had already started to scatter, finding patches of shade beneath an oak tree, tossing down their bags, laughing softly about the hike. You didn’t join them right away. You turned your head and watched them from a distance, caught somewhere between the relief of arrival and the residue of everything.

You’d left the cabin early. Not too long after you and Frankie had gotten up.

When you came downstairs, Santi and Yov were already in the kitchen, eating toast and eggs and talking around bites. Will had just walked in from outside, his voice carrying that wide-open tone he used in the mornings, saying something about how perfect the weather was. He passed you with a smile, disappearing into the living room.

You slid into the chair beside your brother, careful not to draw attention to yourself, especially not to the fact that Frankie wasn’t there.

“Where’s Ben?” you asked, reaching for a piece of toast, trying to sound casual.

Santi shrugged without looking up. “He went to grab something upstairs.”

You weren’t usually hungry this early—it made your stomach feel strange—but you forced yourself to eat anyway. Just enough to get through the day. Yov placed a plate in front of you, scrambled eggs and toast, and you thanked her with a quiet smile. You poured yourself coffee despite Santi’s insistence that you’d want juice.

You had just lifted the mug to your lips when Benny appeared beside you, already dressed. He sat down next to you, tugging his cap into place, and studied you for a moment before speaking.

“Do you have something for your head?” he asked.

You nodded, swallowing before answering. “Yeah. A cap.”

“Good,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. He nodded, like he was proud of you for remembering something so obvious, even though you’d lived in Texas long enough to know better than to forget it.

“Where’s Fish?” he asked, his voice light.

“I thought he was still upstairs,” Santi said through a mouthful of food. “Didn’t see him come down.”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up.”

Your eyes dropped to your plate. The toast there became infinitely interesting, as if your life depended on inspecting its edges, its uneven crust. You could feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.

Santi’s gaze lingered on you. “Did you see him?”

“What?” Your response came too fast, the pitch of it sharp. “No. Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, the beginning of a smirk playing at his lips.

“Just thought maybe. Maybe you knew, I dunno.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t look up.

“I think I heard someone leave earlier,” Yov offered, her tone gentle. She glanced at you. “Maybe around an hour ago.”

Will came into the kitchen then. He didn’t look at anyone, just went to the sink and turned on the tap.

“Who?” he asked as he rinsed his hands.

“Frankie,” Santi said.

Will nodded. “Yeah, I saw him outside a moment ago.”

It hit you then, how your throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

Frankie walked in a few minutes later, dressed for the hike, or whatever it was they were calling this. White T-shirt, cargo shorts, grey cap.

You didn’t look at him for long. Just enough to say, “Morning.” Barely louder than a whisper.

Then you turned back to your food. Pretending you hadn’t just been thinking about him the entire time.

Two hours had passed. Now you stood with your arms folded across your chest, watching the river from where you’d stopped. The air felt heavier now, dense with heat and dried sweat, but there was something calming about the slow, steady movement of the water. It had that look of invitation. Blue and soft, like it knew how badly your body ached and was promising relief. You didn’t move. You just stared.

Then, without needing to hear him, you felt him.

“Looks like a good spot to jump in,” Frankie said.

You turned your head, only slightly. He was right next to you, hands braced on his hips, his gaze focused straight ahead. The corners of his eyes were pulled tight against the light, his jaw set in that way you were beginning to recognize, calm, thoughtful, like he was already weighing what it would feel like to fall into the river.

The sun lit up the back of his neck, catching on the damp curls that had slipped free from under his cap. His hair glowed in shades of brown and something warmer, like honey or amber, though you weren’t sure how much of that was the actual color and how much was the way you were looking at him now.

His skin shimmered under the light, a thin sheen of sweat painting it gold. You felt something low in your stomach twist. You could see the fine lines where his shoulder met his neck, the kind of lines that made your mouth feel heavy with want. You wondered, almost absently, what he’d taste like—salt and heat, skin soft and warm against your tongue, his pulse thudding steady beneath your lips.

You knew you’d spent most of the morning watching him.

At the beginning of the hike, he’d been just ahead of you, walking with long, purposeful strides that made it hard not to notice the lines of his body. His legs, the rhythm of them. The way his back shifted every time he adjusted his pack, the way his arms caught the light. Even the way he turned his head to talk to Santi or Will—just his profile. It was all you could see.

And all you could think about was how much you wanted to be alone with him. Just the two of you, without all the others, without the space between your bodies feeling like something you weren’t allowed to cross.

Later, after someone had insisted on taking photos—of the trees, the group, a blurry attempt at capturing the light through the leaves—he’d fallen behind. Your personal viewing window had closed. He and Benny stayed at the back, talking in low voices.

Now, he was here again.

Your eyes dipped to his forearms—folded now, skin taut over muscle—and then back up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah,” you said. “I like it. It’s not that high.”

He glanced sideways at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Spoken like someone who’s jumped out of a plane.”

You shrugged, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth like it was no big deal.

“I’ve jumped off a rock before.”

“A cliff?” he asked, tilting his head, intrigued.

“This isn’t a cliff,” you said, glancing down at the water. It looked cooler than before. Or maybe your body had just gotten warmer. “It’s like... a few feet. Barely.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you, head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to figure something out.

“Would you ever want to jump off a cliff?” he asked, voice casual, but his gaze a little too direct to be casual at all.

A smile spread across your lips before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to add something else to my list?”

He frowned, just a flicker between his brows, and then shrugged. “Just throwing it out there.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “The list is officially closed.”

“God, Shortcake, you’re boring,” he murmured.

Then he nudged your hip with his, barely a touch, a quiet kind of teasing. It made you laugh, without thinking.

But the laughter died on your lips when a hand curled gently around the back of your neck.

Santi.

You hadn’t noticed him walking up behind you. His hand was firm but affectionate, his other hand landing on the back of Frankie’s neck like you were both kids caught whispering during class.

“What kind of trouble are you two trying to cook up now?” he asked, smiling.

“For now?” you replied, matching his tone. “Nothing at all.”

Santi gave a short, skeptical laugh and let you both go, already shifting into a new conversation with Frankie that you didn’t really catch. You took the moment to drift away, feet finding the shaded patch of ground where Yov was already sitting with a water bottle in one hand, her legs stretched out. She had her face turned up slightly to the breeze, her expression open and peaceful in the way yours wasn’t.

You peeled off your t-shirt. The air kissed your skin immediately, fresh and clean, and the faint scents of sunscreen and fabric softener rose up from your body. You folded the shirt, setting it on your backpack, and pushed your shorts down too, leaving them in a heap on top. It felt good to be lighter, closer to the air, the river.

“This place is so pretty,” Yov said, tying her hair up without looking at you. “I’m surprised it’s not more crowded.”

You nodded, opening your water bottle, the plastic clicking softly between your fingers.

“Will said it’s the location. This part’s kind of tucked away.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “There were way more people back near that ranch we passed.”

“Yeah, totally.” You popped the bottle cap with your teeth, then took a long sip, cold water trickling down your throat.

Yov was digging through her purse, eyes focused, fingers moving.

“By the way… I’m glad you and Frankie are getting along better.”

Your head turned toward her too fast, voice higher than you meant it to be.

“Yeah? I mean—yeah. Me too. It’s not bad. It’s—”

“He’s sweet with you,” Yov said, cutting in softly. Her smile didn’t fade. “And you two look good together.”

Heat bloomed across your face, impossible to ignore.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like that,” you said, too quickly. “I mean, yeah, we’re finally... getting along. That’s all.”

Yov looked up then, eyes calm, her expression unreadable but kind.

“I didn’t say it was like anything,” she said, voice light. “Just an observation. Santi told me you’ve gotten close. I think it’s nice. Honestly? I always thought you had chemistry.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. I mean, it takes a lot of chemistry to argue the way you two used to. It was like watching a play. Perfect timing, every time. Very entertaining.”

You huffed, laughing a little despite yourself. “Don’t worry. We’ll probably still argue at some point. It’s kind of our thing.”

Yov stood and brushed off the back of her legs. She gave you a small, satisfied glance over her shoulder as she made her way toward the riverbank, a few steps from the large rock you had been standing on a moment ago, like the conversation hadn’t meant much. But you stayed frozen there for a second, her words echoing somewhere you couldn’t reach just yet. 

You looked toward the river, where Frankie was now stepping into the shallows with the guys, water glittering around his ankles.

Eventually, you waded into the water too. It reached your waist, cool and patient against your skin, tugging softly at your limbs like it had all the time in the world. You didn’t say anything to the others. Just walked past them toward a more secluded stretch, still within earshot but distant enough to let your thoughts unfold without interruption.

The current brushed along your sides, steady and alive. You lifted your arms, letting your fingers drift beneath the surface as you leaned back a little, shifting your weight into the water’s quiet resistance. It moved around you like silk, circling your body with something that felt startlingly close to affection.

You closed your eyes.

Behind you, their voices lifted and fell in pieces. They were planning dinner. Something about starting a fire out back. Benny was lobbying for something delicious and meaty, “a real meal.” Will wanted to order something instead. Santi mentioned needing a nap. Yov told him to get over it. And then Frankie added a few quiet remarks.

You stood there, eyes closed, chest light.

For a moment, you thought of Mr. Darcy—curled in your apartment, probably asleep on the windowsill, or just now waking up to the sound of Ester opening the door. You trusted her. She was a nice old lady that lived alone in the building next door and liked to send you pictures of him while you were away. Once, she texted a photo with the caption your prince is inconsolable. And you’d stared at the image for longer than you should’ve—his expression, the vague misery in his posture, like he was punishing you with silence. Poor guy.

You tipped your head back into the water. It ran over your scalp and into your hair, cool and comforting. It was so quiet inside your own body you almost didn’t recognize it. Nothing pressing in your chest, nothing unspoken straining against the cage of your ribs. Just this stillness. This softness.

The sun filtered down in loose golden streaks. The trees framed the sky above you like something from a picture book. You could hear the others laughing again. Someone had said something funny, and you could tell by the way Frankie’s laugh cut through the others.

It curled its way toward you across the water.

And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you weren’t thinking about what came next. There was only this: your body buoyed gently by the river, your fingertips grazing the current, the sound of their voices threading through the distance like a string tying you to something solid.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been floating there. But when you opened your eyes again, it felt like coming up for air after a dream. The world looked soft-edged and brighter somehow, voices drifting faintly from the shore like the low hum of a radio in another room.

You turned in the water and began to swim back. The conversation came into focus as you got closer.

“What are you guys talking about?” you asked.

“Santi wants to set Fish up with someone,” he said, half-laughing.

You reached them and tilted your head. “Yeah?”

You looked at Frankie then. His eyes dropped to the surface of the water, and he gave a sheepish shake of his head. Color had climbed high on his cheekbones, blooming across his face. You caught yourself smiling before you meant to.

“Cass,” Santi answered, grinning. “You remember Cass, right?”

“Your neighbor?” you asked, brows arching.

“That’s the one,” he nodded. “Frankie already knows her. He thinks she’s nice.”

Frankie groaned and threw a handful of water in your brother’s direction. “I said she was cute one time, Santi. Four years ago.”

Santi wiped his face and laughed. “Still counts. And since you’ve been so open to new experiences lately, I figured, why not?”

Frankie made a noise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Santi didn’t answer right away. He looked at Frankie for a moment too long, like he was waiting for something to register. Frankie just blinked at him, brow furrowed.

“The bar,” Santi said finally. “The other night?”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re like a tabloid.”

Benny perked up immediately. “What happened at the bar?”

You weren’t sure what expression to wear. You tried for neutral but it felt like your face might betray you at any second. You looked around, feigning curiosity, hoping someone else would speak first.

“Fish didn’t go home alone,” Santi said, smug as hell,.

Will turned to Frankie, arms crossed. “You told him about that?”

You frowned, confused. Frankie clicked his tongue, like the sound could cancel out whatever was happening around him. His gaze dropped again, feigning indifference—but when he looked back up, it landed squarely on you. Just two seconds, maybe less, but his eyes said it all: what the fuck.

Will let out a low laugh, tilting his head. “Okay, so I’m not the only one who was confused?”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Benny asked, eyes narrowed behind the glint of sunlight on water.

Yovanna exhaled like she’d seen this show before. She leaned back into the river, elbows skimming the surface as she looked up at the sky. You caught her eye; she gave a tiny shake of her head.

“They’re just bored,” Frankie said. “And nosy.”

“I went to see him the other day, Sunday,” Santiago offered, lifting his hands and splashing water between them like punctuation. “And he wasn’t alone.”

You felt your throat tighten, a constriction that came on too fast, like your body was bracing for impact before you could stop it.

“I don’t know who he was with,” Santi added casually, and just like that, your breath returned. “But this asshole let me ramble on about a lawnmower for two full minutes before even mentioning he had company.”

Will blinked, processing.

“Oh, wait, I thought that...” he started, then cut himself off with a short laugh. “Wait, that’s why you texted me at, like, seven in the morning too?”

Benny snorted and tilted his face toward the sun.

“You’re all ridiculous,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “This is embarrassing. Can we not?”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, jaw tense.

“I’m not trying to meet anyone else,” he said, and this time his voice held a different kind of weight. 

You noticed how his gaze shifted—glanced near you, past you, never landing.

He turned to Santiago, eyes narrowed, and hurled another splash of water at him. “And you are the nosiest motherfucker I know.”

Santiago just laughed, shaking his head as the water dripped down his cheeks. “Yeah, well. Sorry.”

You stepped back a little, your movement gentle, instinctive. You caught Will watching you—eyes squinting against the sun, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he smiled.

“Anyone else?” Benny repeated, with a smirk. “Who’ve you been hanging around with, Fish?”

You looked away instinctively. Your eyes shut tightly.

“I thought you didn’t care, Ben,” Frankie cut in, his voice light but unmistakably pointed.

“Yeah, well, you're not exactly making it easy,” Benny shot back, laughing.

“Leave him alone,” Yov interrupted, already holding up her phone. “And stand closer. I want a picture.”

You opened your eyes just in time to catch Frankie glancing at you. His cheeks were flushed a deep, unmistakable red, like he’d just stepped out of the sun.

Time moved oddly after that. An hour maybe, or something near it. You weren’t keeping track. You were sitting under the wide arms of a tree with a book resting in your lap: The Dangers of Smoking in Bed. But your eyes were only pretending to read. The words blurred at the edges. You kept glancing up at the others, who were lying in the sun, limbs tangled with ease, sunglasses perched lazily, passing around sandwiches and sweating bottles of soda and beer cans.

Frankie turned his head and looked at you. No shirt, his swim shorts clinging to him, and the cap he’d soaked in the river was still damp, now resting on his head. Thin beads of water traced slow, quiet paths down the slope of his neck and spine.

He stood, stretched, walked toward you without a word. Then he sat down next to you, the shade folding around the both of you like a loose blanket. No one else seemed to notice.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay? Hungry?”

He held out a sandwich. You took it from his hand.

“I’m fine. You?”

Frankie sighed. “I’m okay. Santi’s been on my case a little, don’t you think?”

“On you about what?”

Frankie shrugged, his eyes drifting out toward the river.

“I dunno. He doesn’t know anything, right? You haven’t said anything?”

“No,” you said, your fingers brushing a page you weren’t reading. “Why?”

He lifted one shoulder again, casual but not quite. “Just had a weird feeling.”

“Benny told him this morning you weren’t in bed when he woke up,” you added, still not looking at him. “But that was all.”

“I climbed out the window this morning,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, then looked at him fully, mouth parted in disbelief. “Frankie. We were on the second floor.”

“I know.”

“You jumped?”

“No,” he said, like the idea insulted him. “There’s a tree right next to it. I climbed down.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, quiet and stunned. “You’re unbelievable. Sneaking around like some teenager.”

“Me sneaking?” He turned to you with mock offense, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight—we’re sneaking. Don’t go pinning this all on me, gorgeous. This takes two.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched at the corners. 

He watched you for a second or two, then dug into his backpack and pulled out his phone.

“Can I take a picture of you?” he said, and his voice had dropped, quieter than it needed to be.

You blinked. “What?”

“Just look at me,” he said, holding up his phone. “Please.”

You felt the heat rising to your cheeks. “I look awful.”

“No, you don’t. Smile.”

He snapped a few pictures, fast, before you could duck or turn away. You sat there, trying to look normal while every inch of you buzzed with self-awareness. No one else seemed to be watching, and yet you felt exposed.

Frankie lowered the phone, still looking at the screen. He smiled—small, crooked, a little amused.

You didn’t ask to see the photos. He didn’t offer to show them.

Frankie sat slouched in a folding chair, facing the fire, his elbows resting loosely on his knees, the weight of the day clinging to him like something physical. He exhaled—long, worn out, the kind of breath that came after too much sun. Around him, the guys lounged with beers in their hands, half-laughing, half-exhausted, their faces soft in the amber light of the fire. The air had cooled just enough to make the heat from the flames feel nice.

To his right, you sat—one chair over, with Will in between. Will looked content, his long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back slightly, like he could fall asleep right there if no one spoke to him for five minutes.

The day had dragged in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just thick. Long. Saturated with too much sun, too much heat, too much of you.

That morning, by the river, Frankie had been doing everything in his power not to look at you. Or at least, not to stare. Which, honestly, felt impossible. You had appeared in that damn black bikini like you didn’t know what it did to people. To him. And maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you really were just running your fingers through your wet hair and stepping in and out of the water because you liked the way it felt on your skin.

Or maybe you did know. And if you did, you were dangerous in a way he wasn’t equipped to handle.

Water had dripped down your body in small, glinting rivulets, catching the sunlight as they moved over the lines of your stomach, your arms, the curve behind your knee. And every now and then, Frankie caught himself watching, tracking those drops as if all his military training culminated in that action. He’d looked away, swallowed hard, pretended to be focused on a conversation that didn’t exist.

On the walk back to the cabin, you'd sighed, soft and barely audible, pressing your hand to the back of your neck as if the weight of the day had suddenly caught up with you. Your eyes were closed, and there was something so unconsciously sensual about the gesture that it had lodged itself under Frankie’s skin. You were wearing a soaked t-shirt over your bikini, and it clung in places it shouldn’t have. And your shorts—God. They barely covered anything. He’d walked behind you most of the way back, jaw clenched, stomach tight, hyper-aware of the memory of his hand on the exact place where your thigh met your hip.

He reminded himself, over and over, that he was a grown man. A rational man. That whatever this was, whatever pull you had over him, he had to control it. He had to. But that didn’t change how much effort it took not to reach for you.

When you finally made it back to the cabin, you disappeared into the bathroom without saying a word. He heard the shower come on and stood still for a moment, hand on the back of his neck, the same way you’d done earlier. The guys, of course, decided it was the perfect time to go into town and pick up groceries for dinner. It should’ve been quick. In and out.

But then Will saw a car he liked outside a dusty mechanic’s shop just past the store, and that was it—they’d been there for over an hour, poking around under the hood, talking to the owner like they were going to make a deal. Frankie had stood there half-listening, half-simmering, his mind tracing its way back to the cabin again and again.

When they got back, the sun was lower. The living room was dim, save for the flicker of the TV. Yov was on the couch with you, and you were practically curled into yourself, eyes fluttering closed, head leaning against the backrest like you hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but couldn’t stop it from happening.

The afternoon had passed with an easy weight to it. Santi offered to help Benny with dinner, and no one really objected. The rest of you wandered around the cabin, some settling on the porch with drinks, others inside pretending to be helpful. There was music playing low from someone’s speaker, and the kitchen filled with the scent of grilled vegetables and meat, a later with the sound of clinking silverware and opened beer bottles.

By the time everyone sat down to eat, there was a kind of collective exhaustion in the air. Plates were scraped clean. Jokes became quieter. At least one of you sighed audibly after finishing their second helping. The energy didn’t fizzle out; it softened.

And then Will, eyes bright, insisted on making use of the night.

“You can’t just go to bed with the sky looking like that,” he said, gesturing up with his beer. “Come on. It’s perfect out.”

So someone grabbed wood, and someone else lit the fire, and chairs were pulled around the growing flame. The sky stretched above you; clear and velvet-black, scattered with stars, while the trees rustled gently. The fire cracked steadily, its soft amber glow dancing on the faces around you.

Frankie noticed you had your phone in your hand. So he reached for his own, brightness dimmed almost to nothing. Opened the chat.

[Frankie]: I’ll go see u when everyone’s asleep

[Frankie]: DO NOT fall asleep

He looked up. You glanced down at your screen, then back at him, just briefly. No one noticed.

His phone buzzed quietly.

[🍓]: YOU don’t fall asleep, you’re too old to be climbing out windows

[🍓]: and you’re impatient. did something happen?

Frankie took a sip of his beer. He started typing.

[Frankie]: nothing

[Frankie]: just want to be alone with u

He wrote another message, stared at it for a second, erased it.

Then, typed again.

[Frankie]: I want to see that bikini again

A beat later, he saw the shape of your mouth lift—something involuntary, too small for anyone else to catch, but not for him. Not when he knew what had caused it.

Then you stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, casually, to no one in particular.

Frankie didn’t track you with his eyes. Instead, he glanced toward Yov, who was laughing hard now, explaining something to Will with wide hand gestures. Benny and Santi were in their own world.

Two minutes passed. Maybe three.

Then you were back, settling quietly into your chair again. Not saying anything. Not looking at him.

He kept his eyes forward, mouth resting against the lip of his beer bottle. The fire popped quietly between you. The others kept talking.

Then his phone vibrated again. A tiny sound, barely noticeable. He raised the bottle to his lips and, without really thinking about it, unlocked the screen with one hand.

The chat was still open.

A new message. From you.

It happened in an instant.

One second, Frankie was lifting the bottle to his lips. The next, he was choking on it—actually choking. A sudden, involuntary cough broke in his chest, and he leaned forward with a hand pressed tightly to his mouth, trying to contain the sound, the sputter, the mess of it all.

The bottle clinked against the leg of his chair as he set it down, coughing into his fist. His other hand moved fast, locking his phone and flipping it face-down in his lap like it had burned him.

“Jesus, Frank,” Santi said, half-laughing, half-concerned, as he reached across to tap him between the shoulder blades. “You alright?”

Frankie nodded without lifting his head, his eyes watering slightly. He couldn’t answer yet. Air was caught in his throat, and he could still taste beer where it didn’t belong.

“I’m fine,” he managed, voice hoarse but steady.

The others laughed, murmurs of concern already shifting back to amusement. But Frankie wasn’t laughing.

He could still feel the image burned behind his eyelids.

After a moment, he turned his phone over again. Unlocked it. Looked.

Your face wasn’t in it. You’d been careful. The angle was soft, almost casual. It looked like you were lying down. One hand lifting your shirt, along with your bra. Skin exposed. The gentle curve of your breasts in dim light. Nipples tight.

Frankie locked the phone again.

He looked over at you.

You were saying something to Will, smiling like you hadn’t just lit him on fire. You didn’t glance in his direction once.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the fire now, pretending to care about the conversation he couldn’t hear. Pretending his body wasn’t suddenly too warm in the night air.

He wasn’t going to survive this. Not tonight.

You were lying on your back, half-buried beneath the covers, your phone balanced against your knee, the screen casting a faint blue glow across your face. The only other light in the room came from the small warm lamp on the nightstand.

The knock was soft—three taps. You blinked, then turned your head toward the door, your pulse lifting slightly without permission.

You got up without speaking, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor. When you opened the door, Frankie stepped inside, shirtless, his hair soft and tousled, one hand raised like a warning.

“Shh, be quiet,” he whispered, his voice low but not sharp. “Just—listen.”

You paused. In the silence, you heard it—someone snoring faintly down the hall.

“Dead asleep,” he confirmed, his mouth curving with amusement as he moved past you.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. Watching him sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good,” you said under your breath, still smiling. “But we can’t fall asleep tonight.”

He leaned back on his palms, spine loose, legs apart. “I don’t plan on sleeping.”

You joined him, sitting just close enough that your knees brushed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So what are you planning?”

Frankie squinted, skeptical and amused. “Me? What are you planning?”

“Me?”

“All innocent,” he said, scoffing lightly. “M' not buying it.”

Your lips parted with a soft, guilty smile you didn’t bother to hide.

You reached up and touched the side of his neck, just under his ear. His body responded almost instantly, his frame inching closer to yours like you’d flipped some invisible switch.

You kissed him gently, without rush, your mouth brushing his tenderly. Your hand slipped down the line of his chest, pausing where skin met waistband.

When you pulled back, the kiss lingered in the air between you, a warm and breathy echo.

Frankie exhaled slowly through his nose. His eyes were on you now—serious, weighted, hungry.

"I nearly died out there, just so you know."

You turned to look at him, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

“Oh, right. My bad.”

Frankie’s lips twitched, a crooked grin appearing as he leaned a little closer.

“Your brother was right next to me. I mean—right there.”

You tilted your head, amused. “I don’t think he was that close. No way he saw your phone screen.”

“It was excruciating.”

You gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Did you like it?”

And as you asked, you reached for the waistband of his pajama pants, your fingers curling under the elastic.

Frankie’s smile shifted. Something about it softened, like the quiet that follows a long day. He looked warm in the low light, a little wrecked from tiredness, eyes heavy-lidded but intent on you. That exhaustion only made you want him closer. 

“Of course I did,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I'd make it my lockscreen.”

You laughed, the sound low and easy, and he went on, grinning now. “Or print it out. Stick it to my fridge like a motivational quote.”

“That’s absurd,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

“I could frame it. Put it right on my nightstand,” he added. “So it’s the first thing I see in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as your chest tightened with affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

Frankie chuckled and leaned in, his hand cupping your cheek with unexpected tenderness, while his other arm anchored him against the mattress. Your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed you, and then—slowly, unhurried but wanting—and his hand left your face, slid down, and slipped beneath your shirt like it had been waiting there all night. When he reached your chest, his touch was careful, fingers shaping to your skin. He found your nipple and pressed just hard enough to make your breath catch and your mouth open against his.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing your cheek. “Shh. You have to be quiet, okay?”

You nodded, dazed, already giving in to the way his mouth began to explore your neck, his breath catching every time you made a tiny sound. But still, you held yourself back—barely. You just let your hand wander down his stomach, pausing, and then kept going. Deeper, slower, until you felt him—hot and hard under your touch, his body reacting to you instantly.

Frankie exhaled against your skin, almost a gasp, his hand still curled beneath your shirt. His thumb brushed softly over you, teasing, while his eyes found your face again. He watched you closely, something wild and reverent flickering behind his expression as your hand moved beneath his waistband. His gaze was steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second of you.

And all the while, you kept touching him. Just like that.

You shifted your hips back, just enough to give yourself space, and tugged his pajama pants down with both hands. His cock sprang up, pressing against his abdomen for a second or two—heavy, flushed, impossibly warm-looking—before you reached for him again.

You glanced up at him once, your lips parting, and then you leaned in, letting your mouth hover just above him. You licked your bottom lip without thinking, some reflex of want and anticipation, and then brought your mouth to him, starting with the head, soft and sensitive, your tongue circling the tip in gentle, wet passes. His hips flexed, just barely, like he was trying not to move.

You took him in little by little, your lips stretching, adjusting. The weight of him on your tongue felt somehow both foreign and familiar. Each inch you pulled him deeper, your throat relaxed, focused entirely on the way he felt, the sound of his breath.

Frankie’s hand slid down your spine, pausing at the small of your back. His fingers splayed out and then moved up, over your shoulder blades, until he reached the back of your neck. He didn’t push, didn’t guide—he just touched you, his palm resting there like he needed the anchor. His breath had gone rough around the edges, ragged but restrained, like he was holding himself back for your sake.

You lifted your head slightly, then sank back down. You began to move—repeating the motion, letting your mouth glide over him with increasing confidence, your tongue shifting and shaping around him inside the heat of your mouth. It didn’t take long to find a rhythm you liked, one that made your thighs press together and your hand grip firmer at the base, thumb smoothing over a spot you knew he liked to have touched.

Your own breath was coming in shorter bursts now, warm against his skin, but you barely noticed. You liked the feel of him like this. Hot and full in your mouth, your lips stretched wide, the taste of salt and skin and something entirely him coating your tongue. You felt possessed by it. Content.

Frankie’s fingers wandered again, skimming the line of your spine like he was memorizing it. Then they tangled in your hair, gentle, his touch reverent. He brushed the strands away from your face and tucked one behind your ear with a kind of care that made your chest ache.

You pulled back slowly, letting him slip free from your mouth with a soft, wet sound that made both of you inhale at the same time. Your hand wrapped around him, still moving, still giving. You looked up.

His eyes were fixed on you, wide and dark and glazed with heat. His mouth was parted slightly, like he was halfway to saying something but forgot how.

And when he smiled—crooked, dazed—you smiled back.

He guided you back with one hand at your shoulder.

“Lock the door,” you whispered, barely audible.

Frankie didn’t hesitate. He stood abruptly, his pajama pants and boxers dropping in a tangle at his feet. He stepped out of them in a single movement, already crossing the room. You watched his back as he reached for the latch, his muscles shifting under his skin.

While he moved, you leaned back and slid your pajama shorts down your legs, folding them and setting them aside like it mattered where they ended up. Then you shifted to the center of the bed, body alert, waiting.

The frame creaked as Frankie returned and climbed back beside you. The noise was louder than you expected in the quiet, and you flinched.

“The bed,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

He smiled against your skin. “I know.”

His hands planted firmly on either side of you, bracing himself. Then he bent down to kiss you. You felt the full weight of it—the pressure of his mouth, the wet insistence of his tongue slipping past your lips. You moaned without meaning to, the sound escaping from somewhere deep in your chest.

Frankie pulled back, lips brushing yours. “Quiet.”

His hand moved to the hem of your shirt, and he leaned back, kneeling between your legs. You sat up, wordless, lifting your arms as he peeled the fabric over your head.

He didn’t hesitate. Your panties were gone a breath later, your legs parted easily beneath his touch. He held your thighs in place for a moment, looking at you like he was trying to memorize the exact way your body curved beneath him.

Your whole body was buzzing, tense and wanting. You’d been feeling it for hours, ever since he'd looked at you that morning, with that unreadable expression. The way he’d watched you with his jaw tight, his hands fisted casually at his sides. You’d known then. And now, right here, in a darkened room where noise wasn’t allowed, the want had sharpened into something more unbearable. Something thrilling.

He dipped his head to your neck and bit down, not harsh, but enough to make you twitch. Then his mouth started its path downward, grazing your collarbone, the slope of your chest. When he reached your breast, he opened his mouth and took your nipple between his lips. His tongue moved in small, greedy strokes, and your back arched without permission, a gasp caught in your throat.

He pulled away, his mouth wet, his eyes bright with mischief and something rawer.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Your fingers found his hair, the other hand cupping his jaw. “Yeah?”

“That damn black bikini,” he muttered, his tone husky. “You don’t even know what you were doing to me. I wanted to tear it off with my teeth.”

A shaky laugh bubbled from your chest. You tugged gently at his hair. “You’re a mess.”

Frankie laughed quietly, the sound low in his throat, and brought his fingers to his lips. Then, without another word, his hand slid down between your legs, fingers brushing over the wet heat of you like he already knew exactly what he’d find.

You inhaled sharply, your hips bucking toward his hand almost instinctively, your body answering him before your mind could catch up.

He dipped his head to your neck, pressing a kiss there—open-mouthed, breath warm—just as his fingers began to explore, working you open with a steady rhythm that made your legs tense and your pulse scatter.

Then, without warning, one finger slipped inside you.

You gasped, but it was soundless, your mouth parting like you wanted to cry out and forgot how. The only thing you could hear was the wet, unmistakable sound of his hand working against you, obscene and quiet at once in the dim room.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice gravelled and close to your ear, like a secret. “Fucking dripping for me.”

Something inside you clenched at the sound of him—the gritted warmth in his voice, the weight of his breath against your skin. You shivered, not from cold but from the ache of it, from the way your body lit up when he spoke like that.

“Show me,” he said, “how quiet you can be with a full house.”

Your hips started to move again, grinding into the pressure of his hand, your eyes fluttering shut. Frankie didn’t stop you, he only pushed another finger inside, filling you deeper this time, curving them just right until they found that place that made you unravel. Your mouth opened on a moan you couldn’t release, your breath stuttering as your head dropped back against the pillows. The muscles in your stomach tightened. You felt out of control.

Frankie lifted his head, and you could feel the weight of his gaze. When you opened your eyes, his face was hovering above yours, eyes dark and locked on you, watching every twitch, every shudder.

Then his thumb pressed against your clit and began to circle, light at first, then firmer, with intent.

It was too much. Everything was hot and electric. Your body felt like it could crack open. Your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. You gripped his forearm without realizing.

He murmured, “So damn beautiful,” like he was speaking to himself more than to you.

And then—everything stopped.

His fingers stilled. The heat between your legs cooled into confusion.

Your eyes flew open.

He was watching you like he’d forgotten his own name. His chest rising, flushed from collarbone to cheekbone. He looked... wrecked. Beautiful. And totally gone for you.

His hand drifted from between your thighs to the curve of your waist, then higher, stroking across your stomach with featherlight reverence.

“I need you to do something for me,” he murmured.

You blinked. Your breath still hadn’t evened out.

“Frankie…”

He lay down beside you without speaking, shifting onto his back. The pillow beneath his head was tossed carelessly to the floor. Then he propped himself on his elbows, eyes already scanning your face. You pushed yourself upright, the sheets rustling around your thighs. His hand found your hip first—fingertips brushing your skin, grounding you. He rolled onto his side and slid his palm to your waist.

“Sit on my face,” he said into your ear, the words rough-edged and close. “Come on, baby.”

It made you laugh—quietly, nervously. Your mouth twitched into a smile before you could suppress it.

“Frankie,” you whispered, placing a hand on his chest, the heat of his skin spreading beneath your palm.

He was already lying flat, arms outstretched, looking up at you like he’d been waiting.

“I’ve never—” you started, shaking your head, voice catching like you’d run out of air. “God.”

“You’ve never done it before?”

You shook your head again, a little embarrassed, feeling your face go hot.

“That’s okay,” he said softly, tapping two fingers against his mouth like an invitation. “You want to try? If you don’t like it, we stop. No questions asked.”

The tension in your chest unraveled, just a little. He always said things like that—as if your pleasure was just as interesting to him as his own. Maybe more.

You bit your lip and nodded. The nerves didn’t vanish, but something steadier took over. Wanting.

You straddled him, knees on either side of his ribs, heart thudding. He gripped your thighs immediately, guiding you higher on his body, closer to where he wanted you, where you now felt almost dizzy with anticipation. You braced your hands on the headboard behind him, catching your breath, your stomach twisting like you were standing at the edge of something enormous.

Frankie’s hands tightened at your thighs. Then he pulled you toward his mouth, gently but insistently. And when his tongue met you—just a soft, almost reverent touch—you let your eyes fall closed.

He groaned beneath you, not loudly, but enough that you felt it vibrate straight through your core.

“Sit down, baby,” he murmured into your skin.

You looked down at him, your fingers brushing through his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth already open.

“I’m gonna crush you,” you whispered, voice tinged with breathless laughter.

He clicked his tongue, grinning faintly.

“You won’t.” His grip tightened. “Come on. Sit.”

And so you did.

You let your body go, easing your weight onto him, feeling the warm, slick press of his mouth between your thighs. He didn’t hesitate—his hands firm on your hips, holding you there, anchoring you. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes—no, not deliberate, more like he was savoring you. Like he’d waited all day for this.

The feeling was overwhelming. All-consuming. You gripped the headboard tighter, eyes fluttering shut as you rocked gently against his mouth, your stomach coiling with heat and need.

You didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. You couldn't, anyway. Just his hands, your body, the impossible tension building, the tender chaos of it.

Frankie held you tighter, groaning into you again, and you wondered how you’d ever gone this long without knowing what this felt like.

His mouth moved with intention, his tongue tracing the shape of you like he already knew exactly how you liked to be touched there. He sucked, not too hard, just enough to make your hips jerk forward instinctively, but every time they did, his hands pushed you gently back into place, grounding you. Holding you where he wanted you.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut, head tipping back as if you couldn’t quite bear the intensity. Your breath came out in broken fragments, shallow and fast, your body rising and falling with every pass of his tongue.

And then it happened—unexpected, sudden, like being pulled under by a wave you didn’t see coming. Your orgasm hit before you could prepare for it, the muscles in your stomach tightening so fast it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes, you were almost sure of it.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard, trying to silence the noise you felt building in your throat. It took everything in you not to cry out. Not to let him hear just how good he was making you feel.

But he didn’t stop.

The sounds he made—wet, insistent—echoed in the space between your legs. It was obscene, and it made everything inside you clench tighter, made your whole body feel like it was overheating.

It became too much. Your hand flew down to his head and you pulled back, your thighs twitching with aftershocks as his mouth slipped from you with a soft, wet sound.

You stayed where you were, breath coming in ragged pulls, your chest rising like you’d just run full speed down a street. Your entire body felt like it was burning, but you didn’t even think to move off him.

Frankie didn’t ask you to.

He read the moment with perfect clarity, even through the haze. His voice came next: “On your side.”

You obeyed without thinking, without a word. Rolled onto your side and slid backward until your body found his, your ass pressing against the hard length of him. He groaned at the contact, the sound dark and close behind you.

One of his arms slipped underneath your body, curling around your waist, pulling you tighter. The other found its way between your thighs, his fingers slick with your arousal. And then, without hesitation, he pushed inside.

You gasped, just air this time, and your lips parted as the stretch filled you up. He didn’t wait. His hips began to move at once, rhythm urgent, the sound of your bodies meeting soft and rhythmic in the silence of the room.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His body was everywhere—behind you, around you, inside you—and the only thing you could do was feel it all. Every thrust. Every soft exhale. Every little tremor that said he was holding back, but barely.

“Oh, my God, Francisco—yes,” you gasped, your eyes shut.

His hand reached your mouth, fingers broad and warm, pressing over your lips. Not roughly. Just enough to muffle the sounds that kept trying to escape you as his hips worked harder, each movement more forceful, more certain than the last. His other hand slid over your stomach, fingertips finding that tender spot just above where you were joined, stroking you in quick, perfect circles.

The bed barely made a sound. Everything felt quiet except the wet hush of his body moving against yours and the jagged rhythm of his breathing right beside your ear. Like the whole world had shrunk to just this room, this bed, the breath and pressure and heat between your bodies.

It overwhelmed you. The depth of him inside you. The weight of his hand covering your mouth. The sensation of his fingers coaxing pleasure from you with such effortless precision. His voice wasn’t speaking anymore, but you could still feel it all over you.

You whimpered beneath his palm, and your body gave in. Your eyes stung. Your ears buzzed. The orgasm crashed into you without warning, without buildup, folding your body in half from the inside out. It was swift, sharp, all-consuming. You didn’t even recognize the sounds leaving your throat, but it didn’t matter. He had you covered. He had all of you.

And still, he didn’t stop. He moved through the aftershocks, chasing his own release, until finally his hand left your mouth and traveled up your stomach, wrapping around your middle, dragging you back into him. His arm held you tight as he came, a low, guttural sound rattling through his chest, so quiet, and yet so visceral. You felt it against your back like thunder under the skin.

You lay there like that, pressed together, tangled in sweat and heat and breath, until the edges of your awareness started to return.

He leaned in, kissed the slope of your shoulder with such aching softness it made your eyes flutter closed again. Your hand reached back instinctively, your fingers slipping through his hair, resting there.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Your bodies remained pressed together, your skin still warm, the rhythm of your breathing gradually settling into something calm and even.

Your eyes were shut, lashes brushing the pillow, and your cheek rested against the curve of his bicep. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and it almost lulled you into sleep.

Frankie gave you a soft pat on your butt. “Don’t fall asleep,” he murmured, voice rough and barely audible.

You let out a small click of your tongue and turned slowly until you were facing him. The room was dim, the outlines of his face just visible in the warm dark. You watched him for a few seconds, unsure what to say, or if anything even needed to be said.

“No one’s ever made me feel like that before,” you said eventually. It came out quiet, not as a compliment or a confession, but just the truth.

He reached up and touched your cheek, brushing your skin with the back of his fingers.

“That’s unfair,” he said. “We’ll do it again when we’re home. Then you can be as loud as you want.”

A breath of laughter escaped you as you rolled your eyes.

“You’re so cocky.”

He laughed, too—low and sleepy. He blinked slowly, his gaze heavy-lidded and content.

“You’re tired,” you murmured. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m not tempted, to be honest.”

“No?”

“A cold bed, small and empty... or a warm one with you in it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Not much of a choice.”

You shook your head, laughing again, but quieter this time. “Okay, but you have to leave before it's too late. We really can’t fall asleep again.”

“I’ll set an alarm,” he said. “I’ll leave before anyone wakes up. Promise.”

You pretended to hesitate, your finger drawing an invisible shape on his chest. “Hmm. Okay. Deal.”

He kissed your forehead, and neither of you said anything else for a long while.

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, but Frankie was gone. The indentation of his body remained on the mattress, a quiet reminder that he had, for a time, been curled up there, next to you.

You stretched, arms above your head, a yawn tugging out of you without effort. The clock on your phone glowed 9:03 a.m. You had slept deeply—without interruption, without dreams. The kind of sleep you hadn’t realized your body had been craving.

The air in the room was soft and still. You gathered your clothes and padded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a gentle click. The shower hissed to life, warm water cascading down your shoulders, and you leaned into the sensation. As you ran the soap along your arms, your mind replayed the night before in quiet, vivid flashes: skin against skin, his hands at your waist, the breathless sound of your name in the dark.

Every place your fingers touched now felt like a memory. Like he’d left a map of himself on your body. You smiled, a private smile, one that rose uninvited and uncontainable. Something lodged itself in your chest, unfamiliar and too big to name. You didn't try.

Downstairs, the house buzzed with movement. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with toast and fabric softener and whatever someone was frying on the stove. You felt groomed, refreshed, and ravenously hungry. Everyone was already halfway through breakfast, laughing in fragments, stacking plates, mapping out plans for the rest of the day.

Will and Ben would be leaving in a couple of hours. Santi mentioned that he and Yov were planning to head out after lunch. You took a sip of coffee, the mug warm in your hands, and said, with what you hoped was casual ease, “I’ll go with Francisco.”

Your brother barely glanced up. “Sure,” he replied, like it was the most unremarkable thing in the world.

Across the table, Frankie looked at you. No words, just a glance that lasted a fraction longer than necessary. His hair was slightly damp, and there was a cup of coffee in front of him. And something inside you twisted, in a way that felt strangely comforting. You smiled.

You weren’t sure what it was, this new thing blooming in your chest, but it was there. Undeniable. Present. And it buzzed quietly at the thought of being alone in a car with him again. Just the two of you, nowhere to be but next to each other.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[glowettee]

✧ how to reinvent yourself without deleting everything this summer ✧

hey lovelies!! WELCOME TO SUMMER! so i've been obsessing over this idea of reinvention lately... like literally woke up at 3am last night to jot down notes in my phone because my brain wouldn't stop thinking about it?? summer always feels like this dreamy little pocket of time where anything is possible... where you can try on different versions of yourself between iced matcha lattes and sunset walks.

i know we've all been there... that moment when you're scrolling through pinterest at midnight and suddenly you're like "what if i just... became someone else??" (guilty of creating entire secret boards dedicated to my "french girl era" that never actually happened lmao). but the thing is, completely starting over is exhausting?? and honestly kind of impossible unless you're in a witness protection program??

so this post is for my girls who want that reinvention feeling without the whole dramatic disappearing act. because honestly? the you that exists right now is already pretty magical, we're just gonna help her shine in some new ways.

✧ why gentle reinvention just hits different ✧

i had this realization while reorganizing my bookshelf last week (yes, for the third time this month, don't judge me) the most interesting characters aren't the ones who completely transform overnight. they're the ones who slowly evolve, keeping their essence while discovering new facets of themselves.

like, remember in "emma" when she realizes she's been in love with mr. knightley the whole time?? she didn't become a different person, she just finally understood something that was already there. that's the kind of reinvention i'm talking about: the recognition, not rejection, of who you are.

✧ actually magical reinvention tips that feel like character development ✧

digital presence evolution (without the cringe factor)

• create a finsta where you post the aesthetic you're curious about but not ready to commit to (mine started as dark academia but somehow evolved into cottagecore with a side of astrology memes??)

• change your social media bios to describe who you're becoming, not who you've been

• make an email signature that makes you feel like the main character (mine has a tiny moon emoji that literally no one has commented on but makes me happy every time)

• curate a new spotify playlist with songs that feel like your "becoming" soundtrack (tip: add one new song every morning as a little ritual)

• start ending your texts with a new sign-off or emoji (i switched from "x" to "✨" and now my friends get worried if i don't include the sparkle)

• take selfies from a completely different angle than your usual (overhead instead of straight-on changed my LIFE)

tiny identity shifts that nobody notices but YOU

• give a slightly different name at starbucks, not completely different, just a variation that feels like an alter ego (i use "amelia" which is my middle name and it feels like slipping into another dimension for 5 minutes)

• create a secret signature scent combination by layering two perfumes you already own (vanilla + something citrusy has main character energy, trust me)

• change your handwriting slightly, make your y's loopier or dot your i's differently (sounds so minor but feels so intentional)

• develop a subtle personal symbol and incorporate it places only you would notice (i draw tiny stars on the corners of important journal pages)

• start carrying something unexpected in your bag that represents your new era (i have a tiny rose quartz crystal that literally no one knows about)

• choose a "power color" you don't usually wear and incorporate it somewhere small every day (even just as a hair tie or phone background)

space magic that costs zero dollars

• rearrange your room based on the energy you want to create (bed facing the window changed my sleep quality so much??)

• create a tiny altar/intention space somewhere private with objects that represent who you're becoming

• switch up where you do everyday activities (i started doing my skincare routine by the window instead of the bathroom and it feels like a whole spa moment)

• change the scent of your space. different candles, incense, or even just boiling cinnamon sticks on the stove

• put up photos from a completely different phase of your life than what you usually display

• rearrange your books by color or theme instead of author (my shelf organized by "books that made me cry" vs "books that changed my mind" feels so personal)

• sleep on the opposite side of the bed or with your head where your feet usually go (literally changes your dreams, i swear)

style whispers that feel like screams

• start wearing your hair in a completely new way just one day a week (slicked back bun on tuesdays has become apart of my routine)

• change where you wear your everyday jewelry. ankle bracelet instead of wrist, rings on different fingers

• try "dopamine dressing" where you wear something purely because the color makes you happy, not because it "goes" with anything

• experiment with makeup placement rather than buying new products (blush higher on cheekbones or across nose bridge instead of apples of cheeks feels revolutionary)

• wear the "special occasion" clothes on random weekdays

• try to add one unexpected accessory to elevate basic outfits (a silky scarf tied on your bag handle)

• match your nail color to your current emotional goal rather than your outfit (blues for calm, reds for confidence)

routine alchemy that changes everything

• take a completely different route home, even if it's longer

• switch when you shower AND the temperature (night showers ending with 30 seconds of cold water changed my sleep quality)

• read the last page of a book first before starting it (chaotic energy but changes how you perceive the story)

• change where you sit in every familiar setting... different spot on the couch, different chair at the dining table

• set alarms for weird specific times (9:43 instead of 9:45) so you actually notice them

relationship refreshers that feel magical

• respond to texts with voice memos if you usually type (this transformed my friendship with my long-distance bestie)

• ask people completely different questions than usual ("what made you smile today?" instead of "how was your day?")

• suggest a different type of hangout than your usual (art gallery instead of coffee shop, sunrise instead of brunch)

• share something slightly vulnerable if you're usually private (i told my friend about my secret passion for astrology and now we have the best conversations about it)

• write actual handwritten notes to people instead of texting

• create little rituals with friends that feel special

• be the first to suggest plans if you usually wait for others (this tiny shift literally expanded my social circle overnight)

mindset magic that costs nothing

• choose a new word to eliminate from your vocabulary (i stopped saying "sorry" before asking questions)

• pick a new word to deliberately use more (i've been using "delightful" instead of "cool" and it makes ordinary things feel magical)

• create a secret personal holiday that only you celebrate (i have "manuscript monday" where i work on my secret novel for just 20 minutes)

• start a collection of something weird and specific (i collect interesting sugar packets from cafes and it makes every coffee shop visit feel like a treasure hunt + i get to discover new food brands).

i literally started taking a different route to my morning coffee last month and ended up discovering this tiny bookstore that's now my favorite place?? sometimes the smallest detours lead to the biggest discoveries.

the most interesting people aren't completely different versions of themselves every season. they're just constantly evolving.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. make sure to rest this summer, you're gonna need it <3