#the first and last time I will draw a thumb I swear

[wyxan]

Judging.

[frantic-fiction]

Lose Yourself 18+

Pic: @casualya (side note....hot 🥵)

Astarion x f!reader, Astarion x f!Tav

Summary: During a feeding Astarion gets worked up and a bit too excited. He's embarrassed, but it turns out Tav finds it incredibly hot.

Warmings: Smut MDNI, Premature ejaculation, dry humping, fingering, PnV Sex, overstimulation, comfort sex, blood

Word Count: 2.2k

Astarion's grip tightens against your jaw, tilting your head slightly more to give him better access to your neck. The initial chill of his bite has settled to a delicious icy throb. A moan rips from your kiss-swollen lips, relishing the feeling of your blood flowing into his greedy mouth. You scratch your nails against Astarion’s scalp, combing through his tousled curls. A smile streches you lips when a shiver runs down his spine, and the hand grabbing your thigh tightens.

The majority of Astarion’s body weight is blanketing you. His hips slotted between your parted legs, mindlessly grinding against the inside of your thigh, too consumed by your blood to be fully in control. You rub his back, shoulders, neck, any skin you can get you wandering hands on and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. This has him purring into your neck and rutting faster against your body, chasing more pleasure.

This night, you had made sure to stock up on extra health potions and lesser restoration scrolls so Astarion could have his fill without worry of any repercussions on your health come morning. 

And gods, you will be sure to make this a ritual from now on because seeing Astarion so lost in your body’s comfort, so relaxed and focused solely on his pleasure. It has your heart pounding and arousal pooling between your thighs. 

Feeling the telltale signs that it’s time for Astarion to stop, you grab tightly at his shoulder giving him a little shake. “Star,” you slur. 

Astarion sighs through his nose, taking one last sip before unlatching from your neck. He’s still lost in the haze of his feeding, eyes glossy and unfocused, trying desperately to meet your gaze. Tiny trickles of blood fall down his chin and onto your chest, where he messily laps the droplets with his tongue. Astarion’s hips are still pistoning against you, and little breathless gasps of pleasure escape his mouth. You swear you’ve never seen a more gorgeous sight. Then Astarion tenses, and with a choked sob of your name falls from his mouth, and he comes spilling onto your stomach.

The room stills.

Only the sounds of rapid breaths fill the room. Astarion’s eyes are wide open, and his mouth is agape, looking down at the mess on your stomach. You’re frozen, glued to the beads of sweat trailing down Astarion’s chest, moving down the planes of his stomach. 

“Shit,” he backs away. An embarrassed flush–only evident due to the recent blood consumption– floods his face moving all the way to the points of his ears.

“Fuck,”  you whimper needily, clenching against the rush of heat that simmers in your stomach.

Then Astarion lets you go, and you finally notice Astarion’s distress.

“I-that…shit,” Astarion stumbles over his words and hands you a cloth to clean yourself with. “I’m so–”

You pounce, and he catches you in his arms, looking startled. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence?” You growl, claiming his mouth in a chaste kiss, chasing the metallic taste off his lips. “That was so fucking hot.”

He clicks his tongue and lets go of you again. Backing away, Astarion starts picking up his scattered clothes. “Yes, I’m sure watching me cream myself like a boy being touched for the first time was just so attractive.” Astarion huffs and rolls his eyes. “Spare me,”

Feeling annoyed, you huff, knowing you need a different approach. Moving closer, you grab the clothes from Astarion’s hand, throw them to the side, and cup his jaw. You draw him into another kiss and trail a hand up the smooth skin of his chest, stopping to circle your thumb around his nipple. Astarion signs into your mouth and runs both his hands down your naked sides, pausing to squeeze your hips.

“My love, that was by far one of the most sexy things I’ve ever seen.” Voice low and seductive, your lips barely pulling away from him. “Seeing you lose control, drunk on my blood, on my body,” 

Astarion shudders when you scratch your nails lightly down his chest before taking his hand in yours. Smiling wickedly, you peck his lips and pull away, ensuring he can see eyes. 

“Hells, Star,” Pulling him, you guide his fingers to your dripping heat. “I’ve never been so turned on.”

This has the desired effect. Astarion’s nimble fingers instinctually begin exploring, and you bite back a moan. He pulls away quickly to examine his slick, covered digits. When Astarion meets your gaze, all embarrassment seems to vanish, and he’s pushing you back down onto the bed. He rests his forearms on either side of you, cradling your head. Astarion trails a thumb over the curve of your jaw. Your hands snake around his neck. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to having Astarion look at you like he is now. Like you hung the moon and crafted each star so he would never be alone at night. It overwhelms you with such love that all you can do is pull him down and capture his lips. The kiss has no urgency, just two lovers enjoying the soft embrace. It holds the warmth of a crackling campfire, its embers building to something that leaves you needing more. 

Astarion coaxes your mouth open, and when you grant him access, he leads your tongue in a practiced dance. Feeling the tease of his razor-sharp fang, you moan, cupping the back of his head. You match the growing pace, hooking one leg over Astarion's hip to pull him flush against your body.

A groan rumbles through Astarion’s chest, and he gives a playful bite to your bottom lip, earning a squeak you will deny if asked about later. One of his hands moves down to delicately play with your breast, kneading softly before pinching your nipple between his finger and thumb. You break the kiss with a breathless gasp, tugging at Astarion’s roots, forcing a ragged groan from the elf. Astarion wastes no time to pepper kisses down the column of your neck.

“I don’t think I tell you enough, just how beautiful you are, darling.” He mumbles against your collarbone before sucking a bit of skin into his mouth and playfully teasing it between his teeth. 

You chuckle, swing your other leg, and link them behind his back. “You tell me at least once a day, handsome,”

“You’re such a sap.” You tease and roll your hips up against Astarion’s cock, already swelling once again.

“See, not nearly enough.” He pulls away from the freshly marked skin.

“You, my love, are so breathtaking, exquisite, beautiful,” Astarion emphasizes each adjective with wet, open-mouth kisses down to your chest before beginning to suck another mark just above your heart.

He grunts, grinding back against you. “Only for you, my love.” 

Astarion’s hand moves between your bodies to your neglected pussy. His deft fingers enter you with a wet squelch, and you instinctively buck into his palm. A whimper leaves your lips, and you dig your nails into the skin of Astarion’s shoulder. He set a pace that is both agonizing and toe-curling perfect. 

“See what you’ve reduced me to, darling,” Astarion whispers sinfully, voice low and filled with temptation, his thumb finds your clit. He applies light pressure rubbing tight circles. 

You throw your head, arching your back, clamping your thighs tighter around his waist. “Fuck, Star.” 

Astarion picks up his pace just a notch; his mouth finds your neck again. “It’s all your fault.” He says before biting your ear.

You cry out his name, fisting the bedsheet, feeling the familiar coil building. You are so lost in your pleasure you barely notice Astarion is now rubbing his cock with his spare hand looking down at you with lidded eyes.

“M close Star.” You cry, bucking your hips against his palm. “Fuck.. don’t stop.”

“I am now merely a sappy, love-sick fool who just can’t control myself when it comes to you.”

Astarion is now pumping his fingers in and out of your sopping-wet cunt in a way that has your orgasm building quickly.

“That’s it, darling,” He groans, kissing you softly. “Let go for me,”

Electricity pulses through you, seizing every muscle, every nerve, and every cell of your body with blinding pleasure. You’re moaning and babbling nonsense and pulling him into a sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue. Astarion continues his ministrations, helping you ride out your orgasm. Finally, when the heat simmers down, he pulls his fingers from your body, leaving you whining from the loss. 

Astarion is quick to put your whines at ease. “Will you give me one more, my love, please?” Astarion practically begs, kissing you with the desperation of a starving man. 

The tip of his swollen cock slides through your folds and teases your sensitive entrance. You barely have time to choke out a yes, please, before Astarion is plunging into you with a grunt. Instinctually, you clench around his length, loving the feel of the fullness Astarion always gives you. 

“Shit..so tight,” Astarion groans and begins to thrust frantically into your heat. “Always so perfect.”

“Astarion.”

All decency, coordination, and softness was tossed away. Both of you were too sensitive, too desperate for the other, to care for anything but mindless pleasure. It was messy, feral, and perfect. Astarion devoured your mouth, groaning against your tongue. His hands couldn’t seem to stay in one place, constantly caressing, grabbing, and massaging any part of you he could hold. 

You spread your legs wide and angled your hips, bucking against each one of Astarion’s deep thrusts. One of your hands cups Astarion’s jaw, keeping him close, and the nails of your other rake down his back, causing a violent shiver to run through Astarion’s body.

“M-more..ugh, please.” You gasp out between Astarion’s feverish kisses.

He nods in return and grunts into your open mouth. “Shit..ugh,”

With a strength you hope never to get used to, Astarion effortlessly switches your positions. Your hands are on his chest, knees framing his slim waist. He’s on his back, smirking smugly up at you. You giggle dumbly, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement. That giggle turns into a wanton moan as Astarion thrusts up into you, hitting a deeper spot inside of you.

“Yes... Star.” Using the hold he has on your hips, he moves your body to pick up the brutal pace from before. “Gods,”

You bounce on your knees in time with his thrusts, and the room is filled with the slick sound of skin slapping against skin and collective cries of ecstasy. The pleasure is almost too much, and you feel the pressure bubbling again. You try to say as much, but a wave of pleasure has you gasping mindlessly, head lolling to the side.

Astarion wants to feel you come undone around him. Lose yourself so he can lose himself with you. So you oblige his request and snake a hand between your legs just above where Astarion is fucking you and begin to rub your clit in time with his quick thrusts. 

“Love, fuck..ngh,” he chokes on a moan. His thrusts are faltering and getting sloppier.

“T-touch yourself for me... I’m close.” He trails off grunting, but you don’t need words to know what he wants.

It’s all too much, the angle of Astarion’s hips hitting the sweet spot inside you over and over, the delicious grip of his hand on your body, the tenderness of your clit as you add more pressure. You’re so close and trying hard to keep looking at Astarion’s beautiful flushed face and wanting him to be your last image before you fall into black-out bliss. But it’s getting harder to keep your eyes focused. Your numb legs buckle, and you stumble forward; your orgasm is almost painful. It tears through your body, ripping pleasure from your trembling muscles and fried nerves. You bite into the flesh of Astarion’s pectoral to stifle your sobs of ecstasy.

“Fuck, darling, good girl.” Astarion praises, grinding your hips against his. “Shit... I’ve got you.” And with a few shallow, pitiful rolls of his body, Astarion is cumming with a deep guttural groan filling you with ropes of his warm come.

He drops boneless, and you pant against his chest, heart still pounding against your ribs. You both are like jelly melting into a puddle on the bedsheets. You feel the drag of Astarion’s fingertips drawing nonsense patterns on your back. Humming softly, you pepper kisses over his still heart. 

“Shouldn’t be embarrassed ’round me,” you mumble, yawning against his skin, too tired to raise your head. The feeling of Astarion’s fingers felt like a sleep spell. “I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Astarion stiffens under you, hand stilling against your back, clearly taken back. It takes him a bit to respond, but you don’t rush him. Just continue to kiss his chest and melt further at the feeling of his hands on your skin. Content just being here with Astarion.

He clears his throat before saying thickly, “And I love you, darling.” Astarion moves slightly and pulls out of your tender cunt. In doing so, a gush of your combined juices spills down your thighs.

 “Gross, now I feel sticky.” You puff, grimacing at the feeling.

“How about I draw us a bath?” You nod silently and he sits you both up. However you refuse to get off his lap, clinging to him like a sloth to a tree. 

“Carry me?” 

He kisses the crown of your head. “Always.” Astarion scoops you up and carries you along to the bath.

Heya, I quite like how this turned out. I love writing 'rougher' smut, but sometimes the tender stuff just hits ya know? Let me know what you thought. I hope Astarion didn't seem ooc.

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[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Mesmerized.

Pairing: Yandere!Lyney x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 0.8k.

TW: Hypnosis, Unhealthy Relationships, General Lose of Autonomy, Implied Kidnapping, Implied Stalking, and Obsessive Behavior.

[Commissioned piece. Donate to Palestinians in Gaza here.]

“You’re getting crueler, brother.”

Lynette watched you stir at the sound of her voice, nearly identical to that of your dearly beloved, but you slackened as soon as you realized it was only his sister, melting back into place against Lyney’s side. Your expression was one of vacant bliss; all glassy eyes and careless smiles, worry only visible in the dark circles laced under your eyes, the pained creases folded into either corner of your mouth. A poor imitation, altogether. You looked more like yourself when you were angry.

Lyney hummed, resting his head on your shoulder. As if trained to, you cooed softly and raised a hand, carding your fingers through his hair as he spoke, self-satisfaction heavy in his voice. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is it cruel to want to spend time with one’s dearly cherished?”

“Father said not to let the public see them until—”

“—until we’ve fallen in love,” Lyney finished. It was a clipped summary, to say the least. In reality, Lord Arlecchino’s order had played more closely to the tune of ‘until you’ve collared your pet properly’, but admittedly, Lynette might’ve missed something. She and Freminet had been listening from the other side of a steel door, and Lyney hadn’t been eager to discuss their conversation after her lecture ended. “And I’m sure, if you bothered to ask, you’d already know that we’re quite in love. Aren’t we, beautiful?”

“Quite in love,” you parroted. There was something strange about your inflection, as if you were trying to speak in a language you hadn’t yet mastered, but Lynette chose not to dwell on it.

“And I’d hardly call this the public,” Lyney went on, when Lynette made it clear that she had yet to be impressed. He made a quick, sweeping gesture to the rest of the backstage area – as if the technicians and stage-hands rushing between lighting rigs and half-assembled props were no more real than the silhouetted figures painted onto the set dressing they were hauling into place. “Think of it as… a trial run, to see how much we’ve improved. If everything goes well tonight, perhaps we’ll be able to attend Father’s next banquet together, too. I’ve been dying to introduce them to the rest of our family – preferably without all the screaming and biting, this time.”

That, Lynette could admit, would probably be for the best. She still had a bruise in the shape of your teeth on her left wrist from the day she’d met you, but Lyney still claimed it’d been one of your better first impressions.

“I’ve always wanted to see one of your shows.” You were cupping Lyney’s face, now, using your thumb to draw tender circles into his cheek. “I’ve always loved the opera. You’re playing the male lead, right?”

Lynette pursed her lips, her eyes widening slightly as she turned her attention pointedly towards her brother. He looked away. “I’m still working out the kinks. By this time next week, it should all be right as rain.”

Reluctantly, Lynette let her attention shift back to you. Your sleeves were long, dense with lace and tulle, but a patch of reddened, raw skin where the shackle had been wrapped around your wrist was just barely visible underneath the frivolous material. There was a slight tremble in your stiff shoulders, and when she looked closely, she could see that you were swaying; your legs weak from disuse, barely able to hold your own weight. Her brother, on the other hand – she could remember the last time she’d seen him smiling so widely. He been in a state of pure, untethered euphoria since the moment you were dragged, kicking and swearing, into one of the Fatui’s lesser-used underground holding facilities, and she rarely saw him without a glint in his eye and a light flush painted over her cheeks. It was almost upsetting, to see a face so much like her own so distorted. If she hadn’t been so used to his sudden flurries of passion, she might’ve been disturbed.

“It can’t last.” Lyney straightened, but she didn’t give him a chance to cut in. “The—the trance, I mean. You’re a magician, not a hypnotist. It’s going to wear off, eventually.”

“I’ve always hated stage magic,” you muttered, dreamily. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I hate feeling like I’m the only person who doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“It doesn’t need to last forever, just long enough.” This time, it was Lyney who caught your chin in his hand, pulling you just close enough for a quick, shallow kiss. Lynette looked away before she could be forced to endure yet another unabashed show of affection, but she could still hear him far too clearly when he spoke seconds later, his voice now nearly distant as your own.

“Until we both manage to forget how we could ever live apart.”

[we-do-be-writing]

Taking Care

Sebastian (SDV) x Reader

A/N: I recently got back into Stardew Valley with the 1.6 update and got this dialogue with Sebastian, which gave me many ideas lol. I may end up writing a part 2 to this or just edit this post to add more

Another A/N: Okay, I totally did edit this to add more, and I think I'm going to do it again at some point lol

Last A/N: I did do it again lol, but now I think I've used all my ideas for this story

"What?! Are you kidding me?" You whisper shout, trying to keep Robin from hearing you.

Who knows what she would do if she found out Sebastian went into the caves alone. To be fair, you were about to knock him upside the head when you saw the gash on his arm.

It was gross, to say the least. It traveled up his forearm, the edges where his skin was split looked wilted, and you were surprised you couldn't see bone with how deep it was. Again, it was pretty gnarly.

"Sebastian, that needs to be taken care of; if you get an infection, you could lose your arm."

"That's a bit overdramatic," Sebastian says, "besides, I can't go see Harvey, he'd tell my mom for sure."

"Fine, then I'm going to take care of it."

You don't wait for his protest, grabbing his other arm and leading him to the couch in his room. Luckily for him, you were just on your way to the mines, so you had first aid supplies on hand.

First, you doused the wound with a life elixir, which stung based on the hiss Sebastian let out. Though already his skin was starting to close back together, the wonders of the Valley magic.

"I can't believe you went in there-"

"Hey, I have every right to go in there, same as you." He snapped, cutting you off.

You looked up and saw the harsh glare he was throwing your way, which you were happy to return as you continued...

"Slow down, hot shot. If you'd let me finish, I was going to say, 'I can't believe you went in there without a weapon.'"

"Oh," He mumbles, his eyebrows softening and his lips frowning, "Sorry, I guess I just didn't want a lecture."

"Well, you deserve one," you remark, "but now isn't the time."

"I lost my mace, but I didn't think it would be a big deal to go into the higher levels."

You sigh while grabbing gauze and a bandage to wrap around his arm. Gently, you take his arm in your hands and begin covering the wound.

Sebastian can feel goosebumps rising as he feels your surprisingly soft hands take care of him. He doesn't want to admit it to you yet, but it feels nice to have you there with him, worried about his well-being.

You finish wrapping his arm and look up to see him already gazing down at you. He almost seems to be in a trance, and you can feel yourself following along. Who knows how long you two spend looking at each other, wondering what will come next.

Taking a chance, you cup his hand in yours, drawing circles with your thumb. Slowly, your other hand travels up towards his face. Sebastian lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes, ready for anything.

However, before you can make contact, Robin calls for Sebastian from the stairs, breaking the moment. His eyes snap open and you both jolt away, trying to come back to the present moment.

Quickly, Sebastian pulls his sweatshirt sleeve over the bandaged wound and calls back to his mother, telling her he'll be right there. You both emerge from his room, much to Robin's surprise.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company." She says, noticing the blush coating yours and Sebastian's face. You can tell she's trying to keep the teasing smile from showing, though she thankfully doesn't ask questions.

"It's alright, I was just leaving anyways." You say hastily, waving goodbye to them both before booking it out of the building.

Before the door closes, you can hear a faint mumble from Robin. Sebastian, in a much louder fashion, tells her to keep her voice down, and you swear you hear him say something akin to "not yet."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been 2 days since you last saw Sebastian, but now it's Friday, and you couldn't miss the weekly hangout with Sam and Abigail. Of course, it's not like you were avoiding Sebastian, but you also weren't sure how to act around him right now.

Usually, you would share everything with Abigail, but you had promised Sebastian that you wouldn't tell anyone that he got hurt. Unfortunately, Abigail isn't one to miss things going on with her best friend, so you had to admit to her that something had happened between you two.

This made tonight particularly anxiety-inducing as you didn't know what to expect when you walked into the saloon. You were the last to join, not unusual with your work on the farm.

The trio is in their usual spots, Seb and Sam playing pool with Abigail sitting on the couch. After saying hello to the others in the saloon, you join them.

Robin tries to slyly give you a thumbs up when you pass by. You and Demetrius furrow your brows in confusion, but you give her a smile and continue on.

"Hey, Y/n!" Abigail calls, waving you over to sit beside her on the couch.

Sebastian was just going to hit the cue ball when he heard your name, causing the pool stick to shake. The cue ball ricochets wildly across the table and Sam laughs at Sebastian's frown.

"Hmm, you seem a little distracted, Seb," Abigail says, "I think it's my turn."

You watch as she gets up and ushers Sebastian out of the way, wanting to pull her back to the seat. The boys share a look of confusion, but Seb moves over to the side with you.

While Sebastian's back is turned to her, Abigail tries to give you a discreet wink, to which you squint your eyes at her.

When he gets to the couches, Seb hesitates whether to join you or sit on the adjacent seat.

Before you can move, he shakes his head a little and plops down beside you, considerably closer than Abby was.

You try to mask the surprise and keep your body from going rigid. Why were you freaking out? He's one of your best friends; it's not like you haven't sat together before.

You pinch the inside of your hand to shake you from your thoughts. Looking over, you see Sebastian's eyes trained on the pool game.

Right as the cue ball cracks against an object ball, you lean closer to his ear and whisper, "How's your arm feeling?"

Seb lets out a shaky breath, something he's been doing a lot with you recently.

"It's good, there's just a scar left." He says, moving to face you and lifting his jacket sleeve just enough for you to see.

He's right, the wound has completely closed, and the scar is faded to a light pink. You feel relief flood your system, not realizing how worried you were about him.

"I'm glad." You say softly, going to touch the scar before pausing.

Glancing up, Sebastian gives you a tiny nod, and you watch the goosebumps rise on his arm as you make contact. You gently run your fingers along the mark, making him shiver.

"Does it hurt?" You whisper, lifting your gaze to meet his.

He shakes his head, "Just sensitive."

You cup his arm in your hands, a mimic of what happened 2 days ago in his room. This time, he flips his arm over, bringing his hand to yours, fingers dancing over your palm.

Now it's your turn to have your breath catch, but you don't break the eye contact. Just before Sebastian can lace his fingers through yours, Abigail cheers loudly, causing you two to break away.

Broken from your shared trance once again, you see Robin walk into the room. Sam and Abigail are looking at you both with a raised eyebrow as Sebastian talks to his mother.

"Seems like something that should happen in private," Abigail whispers to you, and you have to fight the blush clawing its way up your neck.

"Seems like something that's never going to happen." You respond. In your defense, it's difficult to think that the universe isn't stopping this for a reason.

Sam shakes his head vigorously, "It will, be patient."

You huff and roll your eyes playfully, kind of, but the conversation is halted when Sebastian returns to the group.

"Guess it's time to go home," Sam says, guiding Abigail to the door of the saloon.

You and Sebastian follow, but he grabs your arm to make you stop once you leave the building.

"Let me walk you home."

Your mouth drops open, but no words come out. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you snap your mouth shut, giving him a tiny nod.

You both walk side by side until you leave the town center, cross through the area near the bus stop, and onto your farm. Stopping at the porch, Sebastian shuffles and scratches the back of his neck. Giving him a soft smile, you step closer and reach your hand from your side, ghosting your fingers over his.

Another shaky breath, and you make a mental note to ask Harvey to check into that at Sebastian's next check-up. You're brought back to the moment when his hand grabs yours and he pulls you closer.

Gently, his other arm wraps around your waist, and his hand rests on your back. You follow his lead, running your free hand up his chest to the back of his neck.

Feeling your breath hit his lips, Sebastian decides he's done with the waiting, the tension, and the interruptions. He leans down and gives you an intense kiss, if a little sloppy. You can't exactly complain; it's not like there are many people he would be kissing in Pelican Town.

You pull back a little, keeping your lips close to his. When you look, his eyes are still closed, almost as if he is searing this moment in his memory.

Closing your eyes, you do the same, hoping that you both will make many more memories. Who knows how much time passes before you step back. Sebastian's eyes blink open, and you share a smile as your eyes meet again.

"I don't think I ever said thank you for taking care of me."

"I'll always take care of you."

[fatesundress]

⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader

part i here.

summary. two weeks after your last encounter with tom shatters all of your previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)

tags. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.

note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡

word count. 6.3k

The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.

You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and not-at-all entitled request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying, doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.

“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”

You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”

Pot. Kettle. Whatever.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”

You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — yes, that too. Slipped your mind. So easy to forget.

You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”

She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”

And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through her head.

“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.

You have, of course, trained for this. 

It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was completely inconspicuous to wear such a thing in December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it. And he’d smiled, like he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a short moment, made you want him dead.

Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.

His, he’d called you. A very funny thing.

“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same. 

You deserve applause for this.

“Tired?”

“Mhm — Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and it’s been keeping us up all night.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.

“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.

“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”

“...Hm.”

That’s it. That’s all you get from him.

And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.

“Brilliant! Just brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”

He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth.

You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.

Well. Perhaps not, then.

You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches.

And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.

You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.

“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”

“Buy a doll, Selwyn; you can dress them however you like.”

“You are such a —”

You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it. 

“Just — go then, before I hex you.”

“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”

“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle stares at you all night.”

You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.

“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.

You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they must be enchanted with something.

Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of different lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of Slytherin pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you haven’t been to an event like this at the school yet, and that’s exciting on its own.

It’s another degree of training (is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), a step up from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.

“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps!”

You’re spared Tom’s closeness by a Ravenclaw couple sat in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from their goblets, and you only realise the length of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet and pretending to enjoy Slughorn’s bitter wine.

You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, wait, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet instrumental begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.

What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction? 

You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.

Where is the bottle of wine? No. Nevermind. You behave regrettably enough sober.

You manage a simple, “And yet.”

“...And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a drink from his goblet. 

You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your neck.

“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”

Expect you… No, yes — revert to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.

It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.

“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”

Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.

“Pity.”

Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.

You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —

"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"

“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”

God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive — you don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner. 

There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.

“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s hardly charity.”

“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”

You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.

“You look lovely.”

It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”

And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know little about his personal life but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes.

He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best.

His eyes drift over you appreciatively, quick enough not to be rude but — enough. (Enough that you daresay you might never recover from the horror of it.) You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, far too heavy a thing for you to carry. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”

What?

You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —

“Unbelievable…”

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”

“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Do forgive my uncertainty.”

He — that was —

“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”

“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”

You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt thing: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that your empty goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.

Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”

You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s quite late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs.

“I’m taking my friend to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”

Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.

“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself will need to be carried!”

“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”

No, no — is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint.

But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”

Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.

“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”

You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your goblet. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and he looks positively thrilled.

“It’s hardly charity, sir.” He holds out his arm.

You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”

You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party. 

Neither of you say a word on the journey, and that’s very well.

If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.

And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your walk stutters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.

And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.

And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as his fingers clasp yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left.

He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.

His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re allowing it all again. You’re leaning in, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.

You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.

You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.

“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.

The moment you say his name — the instant — he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what his lips feel like. You’d almost forgotten. 

This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it asks you to push, to plead, to take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into it when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit in your hands as his wander appreciatively over the back of your dress, pulling you into him as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine on his tongue and you’re still here, aware enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.

“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking about how long it might take before you need it again." 

You gasp at the sensation, and god, god, you've been wondering too, haven't you?

You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt as you moan into his mouth. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you like this all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without aim, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it needs, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.

You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works, but it’s still funny to think it would apply to this.

It hurts to remove yourself from him to watch in dumb awe as the door forms in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips), and Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.

His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; his free hand at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him. 

He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses down on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. You shiver as his mouth starts to move down (a cheap trick — he hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time) from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.

You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and someone else begins. 

This is not like that.

You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.

You’re tugging at him blindly again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling down onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you into the mattress.

His mouth is molten hot as you squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.

How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?

And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly so he just bunches it around your waist instead. There’s a moment where he stops to look at you, your chest exposed to him in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth returns to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that seeks to escape you. He hums around your flesh, and then he’s at your sternum, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.

You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.

His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.

“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks. 

At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them. 

Tom smiles. “Hm, you did." 

And then he spreads your legs apart, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that might even be adoration: like this is all he ever wanted you to want.

“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"

Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.

His head moves happily between your knees, holding them apart, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.

And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his chin dips. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.

Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.

You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. And with his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”

That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your peripheral where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”

His mouth returns to you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more, more, more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to.

But he pauses, observant as he starts to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.

You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.

“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.” 

Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)

He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. What you're feeling now — the need, the want, everything —  is more than rational thought. Your mind goes blank, and all that matters is this, him, right here and now; nothing else exists, not even for a second. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too intense; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.

More, you agree; it's almost an obsession in you now; more, more, please, anything and everything.

It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands helplessly to his hair.

“Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his mouth finding you again is something destructive.

As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is dropping open.

His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s watching you between your thighs as your eyes clench shut, and you’re coming.

Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, electric down to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting. 

He takes all of you, and you think this is destruction — creation — both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.

His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches them from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. You’re dripping down his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

But he just rolls off of you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t.

You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still fucking sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers damp on your chin as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.

And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.

When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.

A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers. 

When you can finally shrug his shirt off, press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You’re left wanting a more you aren’t able to even conceptualise, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and — yes, there’s more.

Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll and you — fuck. You’re tugging desperately to remove his belt and he smiles against your throat as he takes your hands and guides them to him. You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without even meaning to.

Tom’s taking off his belt, and he’s pulling down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops his assistance like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious, in a way, about the way he's looking at you now; it's a kind of focus and intensity and withheld hunger just for you; and you're more than happy to give yourself over to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own. To claim him for yours, at last.

You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient. 

But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, pained exhale, his hands clutching your waist.

There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still. 

Your lips quiver over his pulse, and your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable rate of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”

Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.

And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in. 

It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.

Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.

His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him. 

“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your own claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he says it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.

You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.

It’s there again when you need it most; the heavy, swirling feeling inside you as he snaps his hips, his fingers returning to your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, low in his throat, and you push harder against him. Your vision is gone again, head held in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with his head between your legs — with his eyes on yours, with every broken moan you let out so close to his face he can feel the breath of each one.

You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.

“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”

Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. He’s very eager to oblige you.

He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, trembling like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is gripping around him, fingers carving halved spheres into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy — you’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.

And you're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.

The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.

You’re both lost in each other for a moment that feels detached from time, feeling his hips stutter to a halt, feeling your body soften. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss, the sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think — and you actually sway like the mere idea is too strong — that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.

But he sort of lifts you off him, lays you down and watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before he's laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.

You did say he was yours.

[julieloves074]

I want you (Cole Walter x reader)

Summary: When the storm hits the ranch and most of the family is at Will's evening party Y/n and Cole are left to talk in the candle light, which could end either beautifully or tragically as they navigate whatever is happening between them.

Warnings: Death, kissing, swearing

Words: 4.27k

(Not my Gif :) )

“I still can’t believe that I let you take me to that party” I said to Cole as he pulled out candles from the top drawer in the living room.

“I can’t believe that you came,” he turned to me briefly, his eyes beautiful even in the shade of this storm and little light, he turned back to the draw, “I’m glad you were there,” he said, quieter this time, I couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that started to lift the corner of my lips.

“Apart from the fact that I vomited on you right?” I tried to defuse the energy that was building up here with a laugh.

“Eh, could have been worse,” he started and turned around to face me again holding two candles, “Alright this is all of them now,”. We took a couple each and laid them around the kitchen and the living room.

“Can you pass me the lighter from the kitchen?” Cole called from the other room, I picked it out from the ‘anything and everything’ draw that every family has in their house and walked to the other room.

The darkness made it hard to see, but the outline of his frame was as clear as day, it felt as if I knew his frame well enough to find him anywhere.

“Thanks,” he reached for the lighter and our hands touch. As cliché as in every book I’ve ever read and every romcom I’ve ever watched. His hands weren’t soft or rough they were the perfect medium, he’s helped George on the farm since he was young and played football but there was still a compassionate side to him, one that he didn’t like to show.

His thumb brushed over my hand, he looked down briefly and I knew I should pull my hand free and step away, knowing the feelings Alex had for me. Even though he knows I don’t share the same feelings back I would still feel wrong to do this with his brother. Then Cole’s eyes came up to meet mine and he opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“If you want to start lighting up the candles, I’m just going to check the kids are asleep,” I explained rushing towards the stairs with one last gentle smile. That was another good reminder, everyone else may be at some fancy party but we were still looking after the younger Walter siblings.

Just as I had expected they were all still asleep tucked away just how Katherine had settled them down. The Walter’s slept hard, nothing wakes them up, not even a ranging storm with killer winds apparently.

After checking up on all of them I head towards the stairs again, but something catches my eye as I go to lower my foot onto the first step. A little packaged box on a dresser in Cole and Danny’s room. I tear my eyes away from it and take the first step. Yet just as quickly as I looked away, I looked back to the little brown box with the blue bow.

I stepped lightly to avoid any squeaky board; the box was sat there surrounded with a mix of both the boy’s stuff. I raised my brows in confusion, I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, that I was invading their privacy, but the inquisitiveness got the best of me. If it’s Danny’s, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind anyway.

From the handwriting on the note at the top I could immediately tell that it wasn’t Danny’s, his handwriting much neater, almost cursive, which I still found impressive. It just said my name, I opened the folded piece of paper and had to read over the short note a couple of times before it registered.

‘It’s both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so deeply’

My mom’s favorite quote staring right at me. The quote I told Cole that day when…

***

We had just finished our shift at the cider stand, Will and Alex had already packed everything up into the van. Alex was less than impressed by the fact that Cole decided to come out of his depression cocoon to come and help and help he did. He auctioned himself away for an afternoon and helped us raise over double of the money we needed for the new auditorium.

“You fancy a little detour?” He asked, looking away from the road momentarily with a half smirk my way, I shook my head but a light smile still found its way onto my lips.

“What are you thinking?” I asked, I couldn’t disguise that I was curious, getting to know Cole was hard. Some days he was rays of sunshine and an open book other days, most days, he shut himself out, hiding behind a carless façade. I was guilty of the fact that I wanted him to sweep me away for a while into his own world.

“It’ll have to be a surprise,” he said, the smile still there when he looked bacl onto the road, I may have not been here long yet but I knew the second he took a different turn. We drove through some more woodlands until we came to a clearing, the sky absolutely clear.

When I stepped out of the car a fresh breeze flushed against my skin, it was refreshing.

“So… what do you think?” he says walking ahead of me. I followed not too far behind looking around taking in the surroundings. The river flowed surrounded by more trees and low rocks.

“It’s really beautiful here,”

“Alright come on then!” He shouted louder as he started to run towards the river

“Cole where are you going!” I called back, stood still watching him.

“Well we can’t go home now!” He turned around momentarily, gesturing me over with his hands. I shook my head and shut the car door, following behind him, my hair flowing in the wind beneath my hat.

When I finally caught up the sound of the gushing river was clearer and there he stood on some rocks, his back to me, jacket on the ground. He reached down to grab something, I stepped onto the same rock, more cautiously than him.

“There, for you,” he pushed the flower he was holding out towards me. I eyed him cautiously, his teasing side coming out, “Come on, I’m being nice,” his head tilted slightly.

I gave in reaching for the purple flower, he pulled it back a little with a laugh and I shook my head slightly, he pushed it my way again but lets me take it this time. In the exact same moment, he steals the hat off my head.

“Hey!” I shouted going to reach for it, he moves away, flaunting the hat in different directions, taunting me with it, “This is not fair,” I claimed moving towards him away. He’s laughing and I’m laughing, and it feels like a weight lifted off my chest.

I stop for a second, Cole stops too a moment later, that cheeky smile playing his lips. In that moment of calm I reached for the hat and his coat that was now next to my feet.

“Hey that wasn’t part of the rules!” He called coming after me this time, I’ve suddenly gained the confidence that I won’t fall into the water.

“Oh sorry, didn’t realize there were any rules,” I answered in the same tone, I moved another couple of steps and turned to start running onto the grass. Cole’s arms found their way around me as he tried for the jacket. I turned my head to face him, our faces centimeters apart. He pulled me closer laughing into the back of my neck.

“Okay okay, draw?” He asked his breath still on the back of my neck

“Deal,” I said taking a step forward as his grip eased, his hands followed the shape of my waist until the comforting touch was gone. He took the jacket and laid it out on the rock, laying down on half of it. I sat down next to him on the jacket as well.

“Do you feel any better now?” He asked after a moment of silence, my eyes focused on the river. The last couple of days have been rough, not only was I feeling homesick for New York, it had also officially been six months since the accident. It was all overwhelming, especially with Erin giving me a hard time.

I let out a breath before answering, “Yeah, thanks for this,” I said turning to look at him, he smiled and nodded, his arms followed behind his head. Whilst I knew a part of him took me here to make me feel better, I knew it was so that he could get away for himself too. We weren’t running from reality exactly, but taking a break.

“You know what my mom used to say?” I said laying down beside him, he turned on his side, leaning his head against his arm so he was looking down at me, “she always said that it’s both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so deeply,” I put a hand over my brows to guard them from the sun, and so I could see his face, hoping he understood what I was saying, I was here if he needed to talk. No matter how much he was hiding behind his persona I knew that he cared.

He nodded and laid back down, taking a deep breath. It didn’t feel like we were there for that long with the sun glimmering on our faces, it wasn’t until a call from Katherine came through that I realized that we’d been here for well over an hour.

“We should probably get back, mom does not like it when we don’t make it home for dinner,” he said getting up and offering me his hand. I squinted my eyes but reached for the help, of course he pulled back his hands ever so slightly. I shooed him away and went to get up myself.

“I’m not falling for that again,” I laughed.

“Oh come on I’m sorry,” he pulled that face where his eyes were the center of the universe it was truly quite mesmerizing. I reached my hand out again grabbing his jacket in the other and passing it to him. I walked a few steps ahead and he put it around my shoulders and we walked back to the car.

***

Underneath all the tissue paper there lays the small, beautiful music box that Parker accidentally knocked over; it was no longer smashed to pieces. I opened it and immediately the little figurine inside started to swirl around and a low song started to play.

I could feel the tears beginning to build in my eyes, my lips shaking. I closed the box and pulled it close to myself, arms around it tightly. The quote was right, these feelings were a blessing and a curse. They made me feel happy and good but on the other hand I feel like I’m betraying one for another.

“So, Y/n are you going to make me this famous hot chocolate of yours?” Cole says from the bottom of the stairs, I push the music box back into the little packages and press the note back at the top laying it back in the exact spot it was before. My heart beating twice as violently as it was before. I try even harder not to make a sound leaving his room.

“Coming!” I whisper-yelled back, in the kitchen now lit up by about a dozen candles it was clear how dark it was outside, I was glad that we managed to clear everything from the yard into the barns before the rain started.

“I’ve got everything prepped,” he said proudly and in the little candlelight it was as if I was seeing his face people for the first time. In the silence, no distractions, and his smile protruding through even the worst of the weather.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he retorted, and I looked away with a scoff.

“Yeah, you wish, I guess I didn’t realize how bad it was outside until now,”

“It’ll be alright, it’s predicted to be a minor storm, the ranch has survived much worse. There was this really bad one once when I was about eight. I genuinely thought the wind was going to rip out the foundations of the house, or the rain was going to break through the roof and drown us,” he laughed to himself, pushing the two mugs towards me alongside the chocolate power, milk, vanilla and some other ingredients I asked for.

“I imagine how that could be scary for an eight year old,” I reassure working my magic with my ingredients.

“Don’t worry I’ll keep you safe tonight,” the teasing in his voice clear, he took a step towards me his face beside mine but I focus on the coco powder. It just feels like every time we could be having a moment, something vulnerable and real he disconnects. He’s said he’s a flirt and maybe that’s just that- but then what about the note and my music box?

“Haha you’re just so funny, are you just trying to hide the fact that you’re still scared?” I retort, keeping my composure, pushing his face away with one of my hands, he takes a step back and laughs shaking his head.

“Whatever makes you feel better New York,” he comments watching me heat up the milk.

He holds both our mugs as we make our way into the living room, it’s even prettier in here, he’s started the fire and lit up all the candles around it. I can’t help but give him a smile, there’s a spot perfect for the two of us.

“Go on try it,” I prod after we sit down, he looks down in the mug first and smells it, “I’m not trying to poison you if that’s what you think,”

“Alex would like it if you were,” he laughs lifting the mug to his lip, he takes a big sip and licks the whipped cream off of his top lip.

“Don’t say stuff like that, you guys may fight but you’re brothers it’s bound to happen, but you care for each other and I know he would protect you with all he’s got,” I assure him, he doesn’t say anything back to this, he avoids the subject like the plague even when he’s the one who brings it up.

“This-,” he says instead, looking down at the mug in his hand again, I couldn’t read his face if I tried, one of his brows raises for a split second as if he’s trying to organize all his thoughts about the chocolate. I know that it’s good but, in this moment, I’m metaphorically sat on the edge of my seat, eager to know his thoughts. “Is amazing, sweet and spicy at the same time, who the hell came up with this?”

The second those words come out of his mouth I feel myself beginning to be able to breathe again, the tension in my shoulders dissipates and I reach for my mug, “I did tell you, have some more confidence in me Cole,” I announce proudly and take a sip of the angelic drink.

His eyes watched me, I could feel his stare everywhere on my body, as if he was actually trailing his fingers over my skin.

I put the mug down, half gone already, Cole let out some sort of laugh and shifted closer to me, his hand reached towards my face, and I was frozen. My eyes watching his and his watching mine. Almost automatically my body and face shifted towards him. A smirk quired up on one side of his mouth. He brushed his thumb across my top lip.

“You had a bit of… whipped cream,” he said moving back just enough to show me, he licked it off his finger. Were either of us to move even slightly we could break the distance between us.

I’m scared. Sat here with him like this feels like a fever dream, like any second a sudden move could shatter this illusion, because this couldn’t be real, any second he’s going to pull back with some sort of snarky comment, and I’ll look like a fool.

But he wasn’t moving, and neither was I.

“I saw the music box, you fixed it,” I whispered into the space between us, my voice sounding as though it could break any moment.

“Nothing is ever too broken to be fixed, that’s something else your mom used to say right?” he whispered back, the shadows of the candles and the fire danced across his face.

“I hope you know how much that means to me. Thank you.” I was raw and honest, even with the things between us left unsaid, for the better, he deserved this, “For the music box, for my mom’s quotes, for letting me see the glimpses of the real you,” with each word my heartbeat sped up.

“I would do anything for you if you let me,” He murmured as if speaking any louder would smash this fragile thing happening around us right now. The tip of his finger grazes across my cheekbone, his eyes follow the line. I never feel his touch, just the ghost of it, sending shivers through my body that I try my best to keep from showing.

I scan his face, every beautiful angle and feature that makes him perfect, just the way he is.

I want to. I want to let him in so badly, to let him know every corner of my heart, I want to be fully immersed in whatever this is we’re building here, for him to have me, for me to have him but all that comes out is, “I want to,” because the foundations were building here are rocky and not stable.

His gaze shifts from my one eye to the other then to my lips and again.

“But you can’t because of…” he lets out so quietly I almost miss it

“I don’t have any feelings for him Cole,” there was a shift in his expression at my words, a guilty smile, “but he’s your brother, he’s one of my closest friends and he lives here too, this isn’t just about us, there’s your family,” I argue, but my excuses are sounding weak even to myself.

He moved closer, his knee touching mine, his breath warm.

Without further thought I laced my arms around his neck, running my fingers from the sides to the back pulling him close. A simple kiss, which did not last long enough. It was short, controlled. I pulled back realizing what I had just done. Maybe we just needed it out of our systems.

Still no words were exchanged, we just looked at each other. I knew I needed to move, to get up and out of the room but when his hand found its way to my forearm and pulled me towards him, I just gave in.

His hands explored my neck, cheeks and hair as the kiss became more passionate. I could feel my cheeks glowing a bright red, thankful it would be too hard to see in this light. Finally, he settled them on either side of my face whilst one of my hands found its place on his neck, the other exploring the honey-blonde hair on the nape of his neck.

I don’t know how long we were kissing but when he pulled away to look at me I knew it hadn’t been long enough. Both our chests heaving, me certain that my heart was about to give out. It felt so right I couldn’t let this slip away from me.

I grabbed onto his neck and pulled him towards me again. The kiss wasn’t rough, but it was filled by a burning need. All those months of the back and forth, the uncertain, the toying around the subject and now finally. Finally, I got to feel what this burning passion meant. What I’ve never felt with anyone else.

His hand one hand travelled to my neck, his thumb brushing comfortingly, his other pulling me towards him, I don’t know how much closer we could get until he was pulling me onto him. My legs on either side of his body. Chest to chest. Only clothes between us.

“Cole,” I whispered when his mouth travelled down my jaw to my neck kissing every inch of exposed skin. He paused cautiously, checking with his eyes that I was okay, that he wasn’t taking it too far. I nodded entangling my hand in locks, the hot chocolate long forgotten.

It was a euphoric feeling until my heart stopped when we heard the door open. I pushed off his lap and he helped me up.

“Hey, are you guys alright the lights aren’t-” Alex stopped when he made it to the doorframe to the living room, his eyes quickly found mine, then Cole’s, he hadn’t seen anything, no one would know, but even just seeing us here together, surrounded by candles could give anyone the impression.

“The storm blew out the electric box,” I said, my walls building right back up, keeping this eye contact while I could see the hurt in his eyes was more painful than I could have imagined but I couldn’t look away, then he’d know something had in fact happened. The light came back on with a click in the hallway.

“It’s because of the storm, what happened?” George asked walking into the living room, Katherine beside him, she gave me a weak smile.

“I’m going to check up on the kids, you guys make sure all the candles are blown out, let’s not start any fires tonight,” she added a cheerful tone and a chuckle but the still the tension in the room could probably be cut with a knife. Whether she meant literally or metaphorically I agreed with her, I did not want anything to explode between these two Walter boys.

“She managed to get it to work for a few minutes, but it gave out again, we thought it would be safer to leave the box alone,” Cole confirmed to his dad who nodded in agreement. I didn’t look at Cole as he volunteered to help his dad with the candles in the kitchen.

I thought Alex would say something when we were left alone. It looked like he really wanted to say something, but he just shook his head slightly and ran upstairs. I bit into my bottom lip and closed my eyes. It’s not like I hadn’t told him that I didn’t feel the same way, still the guilt washed over like a destructive wave. I took a deep breath and after a second started to blow out the candles before heading up to my bedroom.

***

I tossed and turned every few minutes in my bed for what felt like hours. I heard someone come out of their room half an hour ago, I assumed it was one of the Walter’s going to the toilet, but the person went downstairs, and was yet to come back up. Something in me knew it was Cole, he probably couldn’t sleep like me.

After another few restless minutes, I let out a huff and sat up in bed. All of the emotions were still buzzing and brewing inside my body. I threw my comforter off me and put on a hoodie and some outdoor slippers. Before I knew it, I was tip-toeing my way downstairs hoping I was doing a better job than whoever had gone down before me.

Walking out the front door I could see the beginning of the sunrise, at what looked like the other end of the world, out there in the fields the first sights of amber and yellow were rising out of the grass in the horizon.

I spotted Cole immediately sitting on the railing looking out at the view. The ranch was truly a magnificent sight, it was breathtaking, how could anyone not fall in love with this place just seeing this.

I stepped on one of the weaker wooden panels which let out a single sound, Cole looked around instantly, but the smile that shone on his face mere hours ago was not there now.

“I won’t break my brother’s heart ever again” he starts solemnly, “But I can’t not want you, how could I not?” he looked at me, the tears in my eyes are again threatening to spill. He hopped down and walked over to me. Nothing more said.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, laying his head on top of mine. I laced my arms around his torse, holding him tightly in the quiet of the post-storm, looking out at sunrise like it was a painting in a gallery to be looked at for hours.

“Your mom was right when she said it’s a blessing and a curse to feel so deeply” he whispered into my hair and I just tightened my hold on him. She was always right, and hell did I wish she was here now to tell me what I can do to make this all stop hurting.

What’s happened can’t be taken back now, the consequences long-term are yet to be seen and I suppose I’ll just have to take it day by day. Navigate this chaos of events and feelings. Hoping that it’ll all work out.

MASTER LIST

[piperlivingdeliberately]

hazel fic rec where reader fucks hazel with a strap for the first time <333

Warnings: smut MDNI, strap-on sex (h!receiving), top!reader, bottom!hazel, (mentions of both being switches but in this the reader is dom top), sub!hazel, swearing, use of pet names (baby, good girl, etc.), fem!reader, just pure smut.

Sub!Hazel was not something I knew I needed more of until now...

"How come you've never fucked me?" Hazel's question caught you off guard. The two of you had been laying in bed, silently snuggled against one another. Your previous late-night activities had caused you to fall asleep with your legs intertwined.

"It certainly sounded like I was fucking you last night when you were screaming with my head between your legs." Your girlfriend buried her face in your neck as her cheeks heated.

"Yes, I know," she groaned. "I just mean that you've never, like--" Hazel paused, searching for the right words. She only grew more nervous under your stare.

"You mean with the strap?" She nodded slowly at your question, growing even more red. "Oh, baby. You just got so excited when I first brought up you fucking me with it."

"How could I not be excited?" she flirted, wiggling her eyebrows in a joking manner. You laughed and lightly shoved her off of you so that you could properly look into her eyes.

"I guess I had no idea that you would even want that," you explained. Your hand slid up and down her side, thumb drawing circles on her exposed hip. "Do you want that, Hazel?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her unusual shyness made your heart melt. This was clearly a vulnerable moment for her, so you wanted to be absolutely sure about what she was asking for.

"Speak up, baby." You palmed her cheek and willed her to look at you. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me." Her meek facade had faded. Her words shot straight to your heat while she so confidently spoke. You kissed her quickly, trying to hide the new blush that had crept onto your cheeks at her tone. You couldn't refuse when she pulled you in by your shirt for a longer kiss. It quickly progressed when her tongue pushed into your mouth and you began rolling your hips to meet her thigh. Distracted by her hot mouth, you hadn't noticed her grinding against the bed until she whined your name.

"Alright, alright," you giggled and gently laid her down. You hopped off the bed, rummaging through various drawers to find the bright blue fake dick. You set it down on the bed next to you. Hazel's eyes were so fixed on it that she didn't even realize you had already stripped down to your bra and panties. You began removing her clothing, pressing light kisses against every inch of newly exposed flesh. Your thumb circled her clothed clit as your other hand's fingers tweaked her right nipple.

"Please, baby." Oh, she was just begging now. Hazel's growth in confidence lit a fire in your core. You smiled like a little kid on Christmas as you tightened the strap to your body, slathering some lube on the end for Hazel's comfort. You looked into her eyes with your thumbs hooked under her waistband. She nodded eagerly to prompt your removal of her panties. You marveled at the string of wetness that connected her naked slick to her underwear as you dragged them down her thighs.

"Fuck, Hazel," you breathed. "I don't even know if we need this lube."

You had always loved Hazel's ability to laugh in any situation, especially when she was naked underneath you and still managed to giggle at everything you said. "You get me so wet," she confessed, still laughing but completely serious.

Her praise only added to the arousal already soaking your own panties, so you slotted yourself between her legs. You were quick to align yourself with her entrance. "Tell me if it hurts at all," you said.

"I will," she replied as she not-so-subtly squirmed to get closer to the dildo. "I'm ready, baby."

With that, you slowly pushed the head into her. You stopped moving when the tip was fully in, watching Hazel's gorgeous lips part in a soft gasp. "Is that okay?" you asked.

"Yes, it's good." She was already panting. "Please, more."

You fought a laugh at the desperation in her voice. "Okay, pretty girl." You slid the dick in a few more inches, continuing to the hilt when Hazel's moans urged you to keep moving.

"Fuck, baby," Hazel whined with heaving breaths.

"I know, it feels a little tight doesn't it?" you asked.

"Yes, so full. It feels so good." You believed her, of course, but you didn't want to overwhelm her.

"Good, Hazel. I'm going to take it slow, okay?"

"Mhm," she moaned, the sound increasing in volume when you began to steadily thrust into her.

Your pace was agonizingly slow. You could tell from Hazel's grip on your hips that she wanted more. You would give it to her, just not yet. You scooped your hands under the back of her knees to change the angle. Picking up your speed just a bit, you allowed yourself to go deeper into her.

"Oh, my god." Hazel's words came out shaky, so you halted at the deepest point inside of her.

"Is it too much?" Worry coated your tone.

"No! No! Don't stop, please." She whined your name until you resumed your motions. With every sweet sound she made, you grew more confident, thrusting faster and deeper until she was whimpering with every move.

You heard the familiar sounds she was making. They urged you to place your thumb on her clit, circling gently to get her closer to the edge.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Hazel shouted. "I'm so close-- so, so close." Her breathing was so ragged you worried that she might have a heart attack.

"Good girl," you cooed. You rubbed her bud faster and angled the strap to hit her sweet spot. "You're doing so good for me, baby."

With a final cry of your name, Hazel's whole body shook under your touch. You continued your ministrations as she came down from her high until she was crawling up the bed. You pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead as she regained her breath.

"That was," she started between pants, "so fucking good."

You laughed aloud at her shocked, wide eyes. "Only the best for you, Haze."

[heich0e]

choso/f!reader

The light from the signs that line the street around you makes a dull, irritating ache throb behind your eyes.

It’s a migraine. Or exhaustion maybe. Regardless of the cause, the pain carves its way through you like rot. You lower your eyes to the pavement, hoping that by averting your gaze from the fluorescents you may find some temporary reprieve.

It doesn’t help much.

You fish the little paper packet of cigarettes out from inside the small purse you wear over your arm. There are only three left in the pack, but you swear there should be more. You’d only bought them that morning—no, wait, yesterday morning, since you’d gone a night without sleep. You suck a little hiss of disappointed air in through your teeth, plucking out one of the last lonely cigarettes from inside the pack and then retrieving your lighter too. Though inadvisable by anyone medically qualified, you hope that maybe the hit of nicotine might help the headache while you wait.

Cigarette between your teeth, you lift your little yellow lighter to the end. Pressing down on the safety that covers the spark wheel you draw it quickly back, but the tiny flame that appears momentarily flickers out just as swiftly. You repeat the motion, pressing and dragging your thumb to light it, but you find no more success than you had upon your first attempt. Your lips pull into a tighter line, pressing into the spongey filter of the cigarette in frustration. You shake the lighter a few times, hoping that whatever meagre amount of fluid left in it might suddenly decide to make itself known.

You light it again.

Nothing.

“Here.”

You glance up.

Choso stands before you, his arm extended in your direction with a lighter in his hand. It’s green—a less neon shade than your own lighter—and has something scrawled across it in smudged ink that you can’t make out in the night. Your eyes meet, a momentary look passing between the two of you. Recognition. Greeting, maybe.

You don’t take the lighter from his hand. Instead, you steady the cigarette between your lips in the V of your fingers and lean towards him. He understands without it needing to be said, clicking his own lighter to life and holding it to the end until the cherry flares red on your inhale.

Your eyes meet again as you angle yourself into his space, closer now than before. The same street signs and their glowing lights that had been so irritating to you catch in his glassy brown eyes, framed by long lashes that flutter in a blink.

He looks tired. But he always looks tired, and you’re sure you’re not faring much better—so who are you to judge?

You pull away once your cigarette is lit, taking a drag and then blowing the smoke into the wind. 

“You’re late,” you say quietly. Not a hello, nor a thank you.

“Sorry,” he replies. “My little brother had cram school. I had to wait to make sure he got home safely.”

Itadori Yuuji—15, a high school student, not his brother by blood.

You nod a little bit, dismissive more than it is accepting, and take another long drag from your cigarette. 

Choso watches you raptly, his eyes following every movement. After some time passes, you hold the cigarette out to him in offering, though it’s mostly burned away.

“No, thank you,” he refuses you politely, dipping his head.

You finish the cigarette off, and then drop it to the ground and crush it under the pointed toe of your high-heeled shoe.

There’s a mint in your coat pocket, and you quickly pop it into your mouth to chase away the lingering taste of tobacco. You love the nicotine rush, but you still hate the bitter flavour that lingers on your tongue even after all these years. Choso watches that too—his eyes following your hand until the little white pastille slips behind your lips.

Your gazes meet.

You take a step towards him, wrapping your hands around his arm and tucking yourself against his side. It’s natural. Familiar. Easy. He smells like soap, and this close to him you can see the way his dark hair—down today, and tucked behind his ears, rather than in the two twists he often wears—is faintly wet, like he’s only just showered. 

“Let’s go.” 

Inside the shabby lobby, there’s only one person lingering—a man, standing behind the counter—who pastes on a small but notably insincere smile when you and Choso step through the door. 

“Good evening,” he greets you with a slight bow.

“A room, please,” Choso says to him, to the point but not unkind.

“For how long?”

You feel the man’s eyes on you then, and you know what he must be thinking. It’s not hard to tell, looking between you and Choso, what the two of you are doing—even less so at a love hotel on a seedy side of town where you can book rooms by the half-hour. The differences between Choso and yourself are many and obvious; what with your skimpy little dress and your heels in contrast to his jeans; raggedy, thick-soled combat boots; and windbreaker. And that’s to say nothing about the differences in your countenances: Choso looks stiff, uncomfortable even, under the scrutiny of the man at the front desk, but you’re largely unbothered by the judgement in his gaze. You lean a little more into Choso’s arm where you’re wrapped around it, tucking your face into his collar in a show of diffidence but you meet the man’s eyes with a flutter of your lashes. 

He licks his lips a little, a flush appearing just above the collar of his rumpled dress shirt, and you resist the urge to sneer in disgust.

Once the two of you receive the key to your room, you quietly make your way there—still sticking close to Choso’s side as you depart from the lobby towards the elevator. You don’t cross paths with another soul as you travel to your room on the third floor, the only sound to be heard is the mechanical fwoosh of the elevator as it climbs, the hum of the vending machine selling variously erotic wares you have to pass to make it to your room, and the quiet beep as Choso unlocks the door. 

Just as the two of you are about to step in, a door at the other end of the hall opens, and Choso swiftly wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you in front of him to usher you across the threshold first—using his body to shield you from the eyes of the man who passes down the corridor behind him as the door swings shut. There’s something almost charmingly conscientious about the gesture, though it seems to have been more unconscious than anything.

The room is just what you expect it to be. Plain. Somewhat sterile. Not uncomfortable, but not particularly homey, either. There’s a bed, two bedside tables, a television mounted at the foot of the bed. There’s a door that leads into the tiny washroom, where the shower seems to take up most of the floorspace. The room is dim, likely intentionally, even once you flick the overhead lights on.

“That guy was creepy,” you sigh, stepping away from Choso and further into the room towards the bed. 

“Who?” he asks.

“The guy at the counter,” you sniff, flopping down at the edge of the bed. You throw one leg over the other, crossing them at the knee, and lean back on your elbows against the mattress. The linen is surprisingly soft considering the inexpensive rate. “You’d swear he’s never seen a call girl before.”

Choso is still standing by the door, looking as uncomfortable as ever. He reaches up and rubs his neck, peering around the room seemingly just as an excuse not to meet your eyes.

“So,” you call to him, beckoning his wandering attention back to you. You tilt your head to the side once his gaze connects with yours. “Did you bring it?”

Choso’s hand flutters to the pocket of his dark windbreaker, and part of you wonders if he even knows he did it. You always find that part of him so curious—his sincerity. How easy he is for you to read. You can’t help but question if he’s like this with everyone, or if there’s something about you that makes him this way.

He nods.

The mint you popped into your mouth before entering the hotel has melted away to nothing on your tongue now, but the lingering freshness remains. You feel the mentholated burn as you suck in a little breath, a pleasant tingle in your throat.

“Let’s see it, then,” you say, holding out your hand expectantly.

He hesitates a little but then he approaches, pulling a creased envelope out from his jacket pocket and handing it to you. It’s folded in half, and theres a grease stain at the corner of the white paper envelope—not uncommon for a mechanic, you suppose.

Choso’s hands are always so clean when he meets you, though.

Inside the envelope is exactly what you came here for.

“This is perfect,” you remark, thumbing through the papers as your eyes quickly scan across the pages to surmise their contents. 

Choso is very still as he stands in front of you, towering over where you sit perched at the edge of the love hotel bed and watching as you flick through the papers he’s just delivered into your hands. There’s something sort of expectant in the way he waits for you to speak again.

“And you’re sure this is all of it?” you ask him, glancing up from the pages in your grip.

He nods. “That’s everything.”

“Gojo’s gonna lose his shit when I slap this on his desk,” you remark to yourself with a snort. You can already picture the absolute dismay on Satoru’s face when he realizes that you beat him to the punch in securing the information that he’s been after for weeks now. You’re sure he’ll be whining about it to Geto for days.

Choso fidgets slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Nice work, kid,” you commend him, looking up at him with a smile.

There’s a shift in expression on Choso’s face then—not quite a pout, but a definite air of disappointment or displeasure. He says nothing in spite of the look, and you don’t ask anything, either. That’s not what you came here to talk about, after all. For all intents and purposes, your businesses began and ended with the stack of papers in your lap.

Contained within the pages Choso brought to you is every vehicle (make, model, VIN number and plate) that Choso’s garage has worked on or modified for the crime syndicate currently wreaking havoc in the city under Sukuna’s command. 

“I’ve got your payment here,” you say, fishing out an envelope of your own from inside your purse. There’s enough cash inside the crisp manila envelop that you produce to reimburse the cost of the room he’d paid for and to compensate him for the information. “The rest of it went to the cram school to cover your brother’s tuition, as usual.”

Choso takes it from your hands, his long fingers brushing gently against your own as it passes between your grips, and he doesn’t even bother checking the contents before he slips it into his pocket. 

“Thank you, Inspector,” he says quietly, dipping his head in a bow.

Your lips purse as Choso stares down at his feet, observing the way he seems to be avoiding your gaze.

Choso’s been working as an informant for the past few years. It started off just passing small pieces of information here and there, having established a rapport with your previous chief in his late teens following the murders of his two brothers thanks to the early days of the gang that would eventually grow into Sukuna’s organization now. Choso was born into that life—cursed by his own blood—but he’s made a conscious effort in his adulthood to keep on the straight and narrow, largely for Yuuji’s sake.

You’ve been meeting him like this for a little over a year now, building your own relationship with him now that the chief retired. Choso’s mechanic shop sees all kinds of people coming in and out, good and bad, and he gleans a lot of information in his neutrality. He’s useful to you.

You understand the risk that Choso takes by meeting with you. By working for you. It’s a truth you recognize as well as he does. But he’s never hesitated to get you the information you ask for. Has never denied you anything you seek. All he asks in return is a meagre compensation and the assured safety and education of his little brother. 

You wonder why he’s willing to go so far, and for whose sake he does it.

You flop back onto the hotel bed, one hand resting over the papers in your lap to keep them from slipping onto the floor.

“I’m beat,” you complain, throwing your other arm up over your eyes and hiding your face in the crook of your elbow.

“You’re not sleeping?” the soft rumble of Choso’s low voice is strangely comforting like this.

You hum. “Haven’t been home in two days.”

“You need to rest,” he chides you, and there’s something funnily maternal in the way he says it. He’s suddenly every bit the big brother you know him to be. You shift your arm so you can peek up at him from where you’re sprawled across the bed. 

He’s inched closer to you since your eyes were covered, hesitating at the very edge of the mattress beside you. He’s staring down at you with a serious expression on his face, slightly pinched in reproach but softened at the edges with concern.

“Yeah, yeah,” you snort, lifting your hand and waving it dismissively. “I’ll get there eventually, kid.”

Choso catches your wrist in his hand before you can let it drop again, suddenly kneeling against the mattress so he’s looming over you. You’re surprised by the gesture, a sudden falter in the steady thumping of your heart as he stares down at you.

“I’m older than you,” he says quietly, somewhat sullen but simultaneously sheepish. His eyes bore down into yours. “Please stop calling me 'kid'.”

You know he’s right. You know just about everything there is to know about Kamo Choso on paper, having researched him and his background extensively before you got involved with him like this. You suppose you picked up the habit thanks to the chief, since that’s how he always used to refer to him. As Choso hovers over you, his big hand still wrapped around your wrist and his broad frame blocking the rest of the hotel room behind him from view, the truth of his remark rings palpably true.

You suddenly aren’t sure how to respond, your lips parting but no words slipping out.

Choso lets your hand drop after a moment, shifting to sit beside you on the bed. There’s no other seats in the small hotel room, so it’s not particularly unexpected, but you’re strangely conscious of him now in ways you don’t like.

“You should sleep here for a bit,” he says, his eyes glancing over to the clock on the bedside table. “We have the room for another hour.”

You don’t ever leave the hotel room before a realistically inconspicuous amount of time has passed, but suddenly the prospect of spending another hour with him makes your stomach twist.

“I’m fine,” you try to brush him off, sitting up and neatly stacking the papers so that you can slip them back into their envelope and tuck them safely into your purse. Your face feels hot, and that ache between your temples is back again. You contemplate another cigarette.

A gentle touch against your elbow makes you freeze.

You glance over at Choso from the corner of your eye, and find his dark gaze on you. His eyes are imploring, soft, and seemingly fathomless.

“Rest,” he insists again. “I’ll wake you before we need to leave.”

Your eyes scan his face. Your headache throbs.

There are a hundred reasons to deny him. A thousand reasons you shouldn’t listen to what he says.

But there’s one—a distant, whispered reason, that you don’t want to acknowledge—that tells you differently.

“Move over,” you grumble, letting your purse fall to the floor with a dull thud!

Choso obeys immediately, shifting so you can crawl into the bed beside him and rest against the pillows. You squeeze your eyes shut the minute your head hits them.

“You should at least take your shoes off,” Choso remarks. You flinch a little as you feel the warmth of his hand on your ankle, holding it steady as he gently slips your shoe from your foot. He repeats the same motion for the other. 

Your eyes remain shut. 

After a moment of stillness, you feel the mattress shift slightly and the warmth of his body recede. When you crack one eye open to survey what changed, you see that Choso’s slipped down to the floor, resting with his back against the side of the bed and his legs crossed underneath him. His eyes are shut now too, and you watch his profile for a moment as he breathes.

You close your eyes again.

“Wake me up in thirty minutes,” you mumble, and Choso hums in response. “I’ll leave first."

But even in the stillness of that little hotel room, even in your exhaustion, neither of you manages to fall asleep.

[thefandomdirtymind]

The small favor

18 +

OPLA - Vinsmoke Sanji

Prequel : The Haircut

Sanji / OPLA Masterlist and Coming Soon 

A/N IMPORTANT: My first Smut fic in a very long time and damn I'm rusty. But, I hope you will still like it and I swear to improve myself with descriptive action scene.

Warning : Smut, mention of masturbation, unprotected sex, oral ( Fem receiving) , praising, vanilla sex, fluff

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.  

If you enjoy my story please let me know.

---

The moon, bright and full, was high in his sky. The supper was over for a long time ago now and the crew of the Merry going was all asleep, dreaming of battle, new territory to draw, a table full of food, adventure or of being reunited with an old friend.

But, you couldn’t sleep. The sound of the wave crashing against the boat, the light of the moon piercing through your window, the loud snoring duel between Zoro and Luffy and finally your brain who just couldn’t stop to think.

Turning on your other side for the fifth time, you let out a loud sigh. It was the third night in a row you couldn’t sleep. You had tried various techniques, from a marvelous tea prepared by Sanji, to sleeping outside. But neither the tea, things that seem to shock the best chef of the east blue, nor the traditional method had succeeded.

Getting down from your hammock, resolute to finally sleep, you exited without a sound your room. Making your way to a particular door, you slowly knock, guilt twisting your gust.

It didn’t take long for Sanji to open the door, even if you could tell by the state of his hair and simple black boxer he was wearing that he, on the contrary of you, was deeply in dreamland just a few minutes ago. 

“ Y/N, everything is okay darling ? “ He asked, a yawn on his lips. 

“ I can’t sleep again “ You confessed, your eyes admiring the view of his half naked body.  

“ Oh then we will try another tea, I wrote a recipe here, I had some idea of why the one before didn’t work but…“  The blond reply, returning in the room, letting the door open behind him. 

“ No Sanji, I need another small favor in fact “ You reply, following him in the room, closing the door behind you. 

 “ Everything you need mon coeur” The man replied, now clearly curious.

Traveling the small space between you, your gaze never leaving his, you slowly put your hand on his chest, lifting them slowly, brushing his skin with your fingertip until finally you join them behind his neck.

“ Sanji…please fuck me “ You softly ask. 

In an instant, you felt the hard wall press behind your back and his strong hands on your hips pinning you in place, his lips lingering only few minimeter of yours. 

“ I thought you would never ask” He groaned, taking possession of your lips.

The kisses of Sanji’s were exactly like him, passionate but gentle. Every move of his lips over yours, every exchange of breath or flip of his tongues against yours make you shiver or moan of pleasure. When his hands, like in a ballet in harmonie with his mouth, were exploring the soft skin of your breast under your still clothes body. 

Leaving your face to pepper kiss the valley between your neck and your shoulder. You felt one of his hands slide slowly between your legs, his thumb already rubbing in slow circles your clit. 

“ You're already so wet” He smiled, kissing the column of your throat  “ Did you start without me ? “ 

“I tried to masturbate, it didn't work out” You confessed, as you caressed the surface of his back, leaving yourself some kisses on his broad shoulders, your eyes heavy with lust. 

“ Then I will have to try, don’t you think, Prunelle de mes yeux *. Maybe I wasn’t enough in your mind"  (* Apple of my eye) 

Putting down your pants alongside your panties. He seductively left a last kiss on your lips before kneeling before you, his thumb traveling lazily between the lips of your pussy before teasing your clit.

Licking you first with long strokes with the flat of his tongue, moaning when your fingers buried himself on his golden hair. He then proceeds to alterne with the tip of his tongue creating a devilish prequel to the main course.  

After a while his tongue seems everywhere, driving you crazy, eating you out like if you were the best meal of his life. Sanji took his time to suck your clit as his finger was sliding in you in a pace you could only think as delicious torture. 

As promised, your mind had cleared everythings who’s isn’t related to him and the pleasure he slowly build in your belly. 

“ Oh fuck, soo good, Sanji please more…more…” You whine, your knees shaking as his two fingers pushed further in you.

Still pin at the wall with his large hand on your stomach. Your hands in his hair, trying to keep your sanity. You could feel him smile against the flushed skin of your thigh as the speed of his finger increased and he kissed once more your pussy with his open mouth, reducing you as a babbling mess. 

“ Sanji I…Sanji !” You cried, becoming temporarily mute as the pressure built in your body and your orgasm struck you like lightning, making your knees buckled.

Catching you up before you fell on the floor, Sanji brought you to his desk, sitting you on the plane surface. 

“ Y/N can you spread your legs a little?” He gently asked. 

“ Sanji I will need a minute here” You laugh, still coming down from the previous orgasm. 

“ I know darling I only want to engrave in my brain how you look so beautiful half naked and pleasure high spread on my desk.” He replies, smiling, his lips still glossy of your juice.

“ You’re a pervert “ You joked, spreading your legs for him to see. 

“ Say the girl who wake me up to be fuck until she fall asleep “ He responded, inserting himself between your legs as he bring you closer to the edge for a toe curling kiss ,removing in a fluid moves his boxer, letting him totally naked.

You took the time, as he broke your embrace to extract you from your tank top, to admire, again, the splendors of all his physique. Not that you hadn’t noticed before, you had eyes of course and the man fully dressed was already worth being seen. But having him like that, smiling, as his muscular body overlooks yours, his cock already erect just for you, makes you so happy to have insomnia that night.

Advancing your hand to take his cock, smoothly initiating a move of up and down, you smiled when you heard him moan in the crock of your neck. 

“ Is that good ? “

You didn’t hear the response he muttered,  but as his hand stopped yours to push the tips of his dick on your entrance, you decided that you truly didn’t care.

Thrusting at a slow pace, letting your body adjust to him, the best cook of the east blue was clearly starting to lose the battles with his self-control when your hips joined him in the movement in a way more high cadence. Moaning your name like a prayer, sucking your nipples like if they were made of candy, his hand shaking slightly, he gladly followed your change of regime, making you back arch and welcoming every one of your whine and moan like if they were gift from a goddess herself. 

“ Yes, like that, please just like that Yes” You praised him, your second orgasm near. 

“ Yes Madam” Sanji groaned on your lips with his damn proud smile,rubbing your clit. “ But i’m not done with you yet” 

Your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closed, you exploded for the second time that night.

Your brain, still in a blissful fog, became sadly aware of the hollowed sensation in your pussy when he removed his dick as well as the trail of open mouth kisses Sanji left on your breast before helping you get down off the desk. 

Turning you around, exposing your ass in just the right angle. You loudly gasped when he filled you again, making you wonder if you didn’t get yourself a new addiction. But, if you did, you wouldn’t be alone. Sanji, behind you was a total mess, his breath frantic, thrusting in you like he found in your warm core a new religion beside, of course,the food. 

As your nail was scratching small strides in the wax on his dark wood desk , leaving him physically something to remember that night, you could feel his own orgasm coming.

“ So…so close mon coeur '' He moaned, before letting out a groan of satisfaction as the pleasure finally took him.  

Crying your last moans, your breath panting, you felt his chest trapping you against the wood panel as he slowly regained his composure, whispering sweet praise in your ear.

 “ You know what mon coeur, forget the tea, I will exhaust you everytime you can’t sleep“ 

—

Press against Sanji's chest in his small hammock, your eyes heavy from fatigue, you smiled. 

“ Thank you for the favor” You laugh, yawning.   

“ Anytime Madam” Sanji quietly laughed, his own eyes closing, as you both drifted in the better sleep you had. 

[cherryredstars]

hiiii!!!! This is my first request so please bear w/ me. Ok ok so imagine us working at the spider society and going on a mission to a shady universe, in it were kidnapped by a yandere Miguel ohara that exists in that universe and the real one has to come and save us.

thank you so much!!!!! I think you’ll be hearing more of my yapping soon 😋

-🕺

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x gn!reader

Warnings: Kidnapping, Spitting, Slapping, Slightly Yandere!Miguel

A/N: I can’t wait to see you in my inbox again!

Unedited

He was so… nice.

He looked exactly like your Miguel, unsurprising considering he was a variant. But it was the same build, same breathtaking smile. Just a bit more easygoing, less stress planted on his shoulders. So easy to trust with his saccharine words and perfectly timed head tilts.

Real nice your ass.

Your eyes are narrowed as you take in this imposter, arms tugging at the restraints around your wrists and ankles. The fake only smiles at you, the look behind it wicked and irritated. You bite down on a groan when his hand roughly grabs your hair, titling your head back as his other hand squeezes around your throat. It restricts your airflow greatly, but doesn’t suffocate you completely.

“You’re so cute.” He sighs almost dreamily, using his grip on your hair to move your face around to study every angle. “But you would be so much cuter if you didn’t struggle, no?”

You let saliva gather on your tongue before you spit it at him. It bubbles on his cheek, and his smile drops momentarily as he lets go of your neck. His thumb comes up to flick the saliva away, locking eyes with you as he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks. Your nose scrunches in disgust, and he lets out a chuckle as he removes his thumb from his mouth and boops your nose teasingly.

“What’s with the face, huh?” He asks with a tilted head and smile. “It makes you look silly.”

You sneer at him, trying to turn your face away from him the best you can with him still holding your hair. Miguel shakes his head with a chuckle, his grip getting tighter to the point you swear he pulled out a few strands. Your eye twitches slightly from the dull pain, and you have to draw out a long breath through your nose. Miguel’s wet thumb comes up to your face, dragging the wetness over your bottom lip.

He tries to force his thumb into your mouth, but you keep it sealed shut. Miguel grunts in displeasure, eyes darkening as his hand suddenly comes up and slaps you across the cheek. You choke on your gasp as he surges his thumb into the opening, pressing down on your tongue hard. You gag from the pressure, a shiver running up your spine in distaste.

Miguel hums in approve, his eyes lightening slightly as he begins to smile again. “See, now that’s my go-“

His sentence is cut off when he’s thrown off of you, crashing into the wall. His head bounces off with a sickening thud, but you know it only knocked him out. Your eyes stray from the alternate Miguel, searching the dim lighting until you make out his build. The real Miguel stands in front of you, slapping his hands together in disdain as if getting rid of dust or dirt.

His glowing red eyes meets yours, and you smile bashfully at him, “Hey, Miguel.”

He rolls his eyes with a grunt, his claws extended as he reaches for the restraints. He has a look of displeasure on his face as he shakes his head, grumbling under his breath as he breaks through them. Each of your limps fall one by one, the burning skin sighing in relief when the tight cuffs are gone. He’s already prepared to catch your slightly elevated body when the last chain breaks off, and you fall into his arms with a slight huff.

He slowly eases you down, letting your toes skim the floor before he lets you go. You dust your suit off, looking up at him with gratitude.

“Thanks.”

He rolls his eyes again, crossing his arms over his chest and quirking a brow. “What am I supposed to do with you, huh, mi vida?”

You let out a shy chuckle, cheeks heating up as your hand comes up to rub at the back of your neck.

“Save me from insane versions of you?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, muttering something in Spanish as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He glares at you as his hand comes up to give the back of your head a light slap. You yelp in surprise, shooting him your own glare as you grumble.

“Okay, smart mouth. Let’s get you out of here.” Miguel grumbles as he presses some things on his watch and a portal opens to HQ.

You sigh in relief giving him one last smile as you walk through before him. Miguel watches as you step completely through before turning his head to his variant. His eyes are twitching with consciousness, and Miguel sneers. He lets the portal die behind him as he turns away, approaching his twin.

The world is better off with one less Miguel, anyways.

[hellishjoel]

ride

7.2k // pairing:dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: Joel whisks you away to Houston for the weekend under the guise of a work trip. You keep a secret from him to try and keep your fling undetected from your parents. warnings: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, dbf/neighbor!joel, smut, swearing, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel in his 40s), pet names, fingering, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (shower sex hehe), a little overstim if you squint

A/N: sorry not sorry this chapter took a month+, but I hope you like it! A little drammaaaa. and a reminder, they still have all day saturday and sunday together ;)

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-”  “Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles.  You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat.  “There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,”

June 23rd 7:48 P.M. 

I’ve had some time to think about Joel, and how much I like to think about him, and how things aren’t an accident. 

Thinking about how unlikely it is that we sparked. 

How Joel could have turned left, and I could have turned right. But we didn’t. 

Instead of running away, I said yes, and so did he. 

The impossibility of us seems so incredible, almost unbelievable. 

I love that so many things had to happen for us to be where we are right now. 

I saw the sun melt his eyes into amber, and he liked the way I smiled in the moonlight. 

This feeling was radical, unnerving, scary. 

I didn’t know why it was called falling or crashing into love. Perhaps I do now. 

“You could sit there and read all day, huh?” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he starts to guide his truck off the freeway, passing a large aluminum Welcome to Houston! sign lit up by the truck’s headlights. 

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, cheeks squished from smiling as his hand settles on your upper thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on your sweet skin.  

“I’m not reading anymore. Got too dark.” He’s referring to the novel you brought for the trip from your to-be-read pile that you started when you first got on the road. 

The drive from Austin to Houston was two-and-a-half hours long, so you decided to saddle the passenger seat with different activities and snacks to keep yourself busy and out of Joel’s hair, much to his behest. He said he enjoyed letting you ramble on about whatever you were thinking about; said it was like listening to a podcast.  

“But I am writing.” You hum quietly, penning in your last thought before it gets lost in the black of night. 

“What’cha writin’, then?” Joel's curious eyes wander to the nest you had made for yourself in the passenger seat as he tilts his chin up to try and read beyond your journal cover. 

You snap it closed and slip the pen in somewhere between the pages. “Keep your eyes on the road, old man.” Your tone is teasing, making you grin even more as he grumbles in annoyance under his breath as the truck slowly approaches a stop light. 

Once off the freeway and down to the local roads, you roll the window down. You watch the moon start to rise in the sky, feeling goosebumps grow on your arms and exposed legs while the wind lazily flows through your hair. The gentle night breeze is welcome to air out Joel’s stuffy truck. 

You were supposed to be his navigator once he got off the freeway, but you were a bit preoccupied looking around yourself. 

You and Joel left Friday evening as soon as he was done with work, and now you were lightly coasting the streets of Houston as the sun finished setting. You could see the diverse architecture of downtown, the skyline of skyscrapers and high-rises were all crowded together. As you moved further into midtown, Joel drove past small businesses and parks. You let your hand float out the window, surfing the wind like a wave. 

“Hey, space cadet, if you’re not gonna give me the directions to the motel, the least you can do is toss me a french fry.” 

Your head cocks back to him, curiously smiling as you reach your hand aimlessly into the fast food bag, retrieving a fry and bringing it up to his lips. You settled on McDonald’s before you left Danbury, partially because Joel felt like being a little cheap, and you agreed they had the best, saltiest french fries. 

You feed it to him, and he teasingly sucks the salt off your fingers. 

“Gross, Joel.” 

He sneers as he watches you wipe your hands on your thighs to rid yourself of his saliva. “You like it.”

He’s not wrong. You force yourself to look back out the window again to hide the heat creeping up the back of your neck. 

Joel smirks and squeezes your thigh to bring you back to him. When you look over to the handsome man donning his usual green flannel, the wind furles your hair in messy, unkempt streaks. 

He hesitates for a moment, but now that you’re no longer preoccupied with reading or writing, he holds your hand. You feel him test the waters, settling for just lightly clasping it in your lap, but it’s not enough for him. His thick fingers and calloused hand meets the heart of your palm as his fingers weave with your own. He lets out a little sigh and settles himself there. 

You feel like teasing him. You’re afraid to hold my hand but not to fuck my throat in your woodshed with a party right outside? But then you remember how difficult it was to kiss him. It still felt like a slip-up, you had to admit. Especially if this was supposed to be just a casual relationship. It felt intimate and emotionally charged. But it was just kissing, right? And this was just holding hands. 

Your thoughts wrestle around your head a bit. Joel feels it. You’re not sure how he always seems to know what you’re thinking, but he does. His thumb strokes a gentle line up and down the muscle of your thumb, a silent way of saying stop thinking for once.  It’s appreciated, the sense of care and thoughtfulness he provided without even speaking a word. 

Ever since he took you to that bar, Past Lives, all you could think about was Joel. Joel on repeat. Joel taking you away from the distracted environment of the lakehouse. Joel showing you the map, saying there was more to the world than Texas. Joel kissing you. Joel touching you. Joel fucking you. Joel protecting you. Joel saving you. 

As much as you’ve had time to reflect on Joel, you’ve also reflected on your parents. They were hardly bad people, but they didn’t respect your adult choices. You came to tearfully realize that your relationship with them had slowly deteriorated since leaving for university. You grew independent, and that was especially hard for them. Something you had trouble understanding, something Joel didn’t understand either. 

You called Joel Thursday night before your trip under the guise of asking if you should pack any specifics, but the conversation ended up landing on his relationship and parenting with Sarah. You told him how you appreciated the way he let Sarah grow and experience things, that it was good for her. 

“She’s a tough girl, and I trust’er. Nothin’ much left to say.”

“So, what-” you stumble and scoff over the phone. “My parents don’t trust me? Or think I’m not tough enough to tackle the world?”

“S’not what I’m sayin’, darlin’. I don’t know what’s up with your folks. But you don’t need their approval, you’re an adult. All you need is t’… t’ trust yourself. Sounds fuckin’ cheesy, but it’s true.”

You pause, twisting a strand of hair around your finger as your eyebrows furrow, thinking over his words. “Y’think if I act a little more confident about it, they’ll start believing it too?”

Joel’s chuckle is a little crackle-ey on the line as he wanders around his house talking to you, going in and out of good reception. “Gotta start somewhere, buttercup. At the end of the day, it’s about your happiness, not theirs. Don’t gotta be such a people pleaser all the time.” 

Yes, I do, you think. 

“Thanks, Joel.”

“Sure thing, hon’.” 

Dusk on the outskirts of Houston. The houses become few and far between. There’s more green grass and flourished trees. Joel slowly pulls into a small driveway, a large blue neon-lit sign designated that you were at your motel for the weekend. The entire truck is highlighted in a pale blue from the illumination, you nearly have to squint. There were no more than two or three cars parked outside. It was a two-level motel, with an outside staircase to navigate the different floors. 

“The Blue Swallow Motel.” Your attention strays to Joel with furrowed brows. “Why here?” 

Joel shrugs and navigates himself into a parking spot with ease. “Don’t know. Like blue swallows.”

Curiosity sparks you. 

“You like blue swallows? You’ve seen one in person?” 

He shakes his head and says nothing for a moment, but it almost looks like he can’t help himself to dispel some information. “They’re native to Africa, only ever seen the North American variants  ‘round here.” He lets the engine grumble down once he pulls the key from the ignition, but you’re still awestruck in his passenger seat.  

“I’m sorry- Joel Miller Bird Enthusiast?” The eager tone in your voice gives away your excitement, and Joel seems to despise it when you get too excited about him. He has to close his eyes and hang his head, wishing he never said anything. 

“Oh, Joel Miller, don’t even try to deny it, I’ve seen those bird guides on your bookshelf, you’re a birder.” 

His neck swivels, eyes wide and defensive. “I am not a birder.”

You throw your head back in laughter, and eventually, he cracks a smile. “They’re interestin’, okay?”

You playfully pat his shoulder with reassurance, nodding in agreement. The two of you settle down from your fits of laughter and look over the exterior of the motel once more. 

“Y’said you wanted somethin’ quaint? Small?” 

Being with Joel and having no other distractions was your goal for this weekend. Since this trip was coming out of Joel’s pocket, you insisted you didn’t need some fancy hotel. You’ve traveled to Houston a handful of times before, and the last thing you wanted was for your view outside some high-rise hotel to be Danbury in the distance. 

You squeeze his hand once more and nod, stars lighting up behind your eyes. “It’s perfect. Thanks for finding something simple.”

Joel teeters on your appreciation but ultimately ends up shaking his head. “Could’ve gotten something a little nicer for ya, maybe closer to downtown-”

You stop him right there and bring his rough knuckles to your plush lips, adding a kiss to each one. “I said it’s perfect, so it’s perfect. I like it, it’s got charm, chutzpah even. Plus, looks like we’ll have the pool to ourselves.” You hum with a devious little smirk. You hop out of the truck and open the backdoor to grab your things. 

“Pool, you say?” He retorts, an eyebrow raised with narrow eyes on you. You lightly shrug as you grab your backpack. 

“Might have forgotten my swimsuit, though. Shame.”

You brush past Joel, who is scoffing lightly under his breath in disbelief, duffel bag brushing against his calves as he walks with you towards the motel office. You would be the death of this man. 

“Damn shame.”  He mutters, a smirk hanging low on his lips.

---

Room 135 was marked on the dark chestnut door, a small white plate with black numbering decked on. 

There wasn’t much to be said about the motel room itself. You tried to stifle a laugh when you and Joel both walked in to see two separate queen beds. The sheets were white, but the top cover was an extravagant red pattern that looked like it got lost in the 80s. A side table was resting against the wall towards the headboards with a beige telephone placed on top, resting over a few local restaurant menus. Two small lamps were attached to the wall above the beds, perfectly opposite of the television sat on top of a tall dresser. 

“Is this your idea of a romantic getaway?” You teased as you walked further inside over the beige carpet. “Two beds don’t exactly scream romantic.” You set your backpack down on the foot of the bed furthest from the door and closest to the bathroom around the corner. You assume this bed will just be used to hold both of your luggage, not a person. 

“No,” Joel said through a tight gruff as he strained to lift his bag of tools and luggage onto the edge of his own bed. “S’a work trip. Not a romantic getaway.” 

Your smile falters as you purse your lips and fiddle with your hands behind your back. 

“So, this really is a work trip?” You clarify, to which Joel looks at you a bit confused. 

“Course it is.” 

A light boil simmers through your chest. Maybe you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight. Joel could sense your flattened mood, and he quickly felt the need to sweep up the pieces of what he broke. He was bad with words, terrible really, but he tried to find the right ones for you. 

“I said that wrong. It’s a work trip but,” he trails off and falters as he saddles his hands on his hips for a moment and sighs, your doe eyes looking up to his own. “But I brought you here to spend some real time with ya. Didn’t wanna,” he shrugs and rolls his eyes. A classic Joel Miller sign that he wants to say something a little personally emotional. 

“What?” You probe him, a smile tickling your lips as you loop your hands to rest just above the ones on his hips. “You didn’t want to what, Joel?” You ask, setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him with a goofy grin. 

He sighs and rolls his eyes again, having a hard time looking at you. “I didn’t wanna go on this trip alone. Didn’t want to leave you at home when I could bring ya with.” 

Joel wasn’t a social man. In fact, if the world went to shit, you think he might really enjoy the solitude. But for him to admit that he would rather have you in his space than out of it, it’s quite endearing. 

Now you’re the one who's hiding a blush. You settle your cheek against his chest and sigh, soaking in his scent and his warmth. Joel’s hand comes to rest on the side of your head, gently stroking your hair away from your face as the two of you relax into a gentle hug. 

“Were you serious about that no bathin’ suit thing?” He asks after a moment of silence, causing you to roll your eyes and shove him a good distance away. 

“As serious as a heart attack.” You sneer as you round the bed to the bathroom, needing desperately to relieve yourself after the drive. Of all colors, it’s a beautiful mint green. Incredibly retro, you think as you use the toilet and stare at the shower absentmindedly. You roll your phone around in your hands once you finish washing them, a lump rising in your throat. 

Your mother’s words echoed in your ear. 

“If it gets serious, we want to meet this young man.”

There was no young man. The young man your mother referred to was really Joel. Panic was spreading through your body just at the thought of trying to fix this situation. They figured out you were seeing someone, they just didn’t quite know who. A few heavy breaths labor out of you, anxiety nestling in your chest. 

“You okay, buttercup? Been a minute.” Joel asks cautiously from the opposite side of the door, his knuckles offering a few polite knocks. 

Your chest surges. You didn’t want him to know you’d slipped up, half-told your parents the truth. You didn’t want him to end things out of fear of them finding out. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, Joel. Just.. gimme a minute.” 

His feet don’t move on the other side of the door. He doesn’t want to leave you, feeling something slightly wrong. 

“Really, Joel, just- checking out the facilities.” God. 

He sighs before you hear him back off. “Alright. Lemme know f’you need anythin’.” 

You need to act, or else this feeling will eat you alive. Finally, with some accurate cell service, you text the first person you think of. Nathan. Remember that childhood crush of yours? You hadn’t seen him in years, and with how gorgeous he was growing up, there was a scary feeling that you might be texting a man who had a girlfriend. But he was your only hope to cover up the mess you had made. 

Growing up with Nathan and his parents being friends with your own always felt like a setup. Your mothers always cooed that you two just might end up marrying one another. At the time, you wished it was true, that all this exposure with him would lead to something romantic. But then you grew up, saw each other a little less over the summers, and grew apart. You still kept in contact via social media, but not often. You saw his life in pictures. One from a homecoming dance, a group picture of him and his friends, an action shot of him playing basketball, a high school graduation picture, and a similar one for college graduation. He was still alive somewhere out there, you just didn’t know him like you used to. 

Nathan was always kind, goofy, very golden retriever-like. Summers spent apart created a rift, but he was your childhood best friend and crush once upon a time. If he was willing to help you out, you owed him big time. So you shoot him a text and cross your fingers that this is still his number. The last thing logged in your messages was a silly conversation about cheetahs versus jaguars. You were team cheetahs, obviously. 

You felt a slight sense of relief once you came up with a plan. Talk to Nathan. See if he can act as your fake boyfriend for your parents. See if he doesn’t think you’re damn crazy for concealing your forty-something-year-old fuck buddy. 

You’re not really sure how to reignite the conversation, it’s been so damn long. You stare at the blank screen before you craft the brilliant message: 

Hi

A sigh leaves your parted, anxious lips, and you shove your phone away. 

---

You really did bring a bathing suit, much to Joel’s eagerness for the rumor to be true. You change into it with your back turned to him. You feel his eyes boring holes into you, sending a small dash of goosebumps up your arms. “I’m going for a dip before bed.” You say as you fiddle with the strings of your bikini top, struggling for a moment before you feel a warm presence step in behind you and fuss away with the strings himself. 

You hum softly as he fastens the strings, making a bow at your midback. Joel’s lips brush against your shoulder before they start sponging gentle kisses up your neck. The hair you tied up into a loose bun tickles his nose. 

“Such’a pretty girl.” He hums against your skin, a soft shiver trickling up your spine, lips parting in pleasure. “Too bad you’re not a very good girl.” Joel murmured as his hands slipped lower, past your hips, past the curve of your ass, until he was cupping both cheeks in his large palms. You gasp at the sensation, feeling his fingers squeeze at your flesh. A moan escapes your lips, you just can’t help it. You love it when Joel is handsy for you, the needy one. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and turn in his arms, eagerly kissing him as you cup his cheeks. He fights for control instantly, pulling you in at your hips so your back arches backward out of habit. You let your head dip back, eyes dipping closed as his lips trail down your neck, then between the valley of your breasts, all while his wiry beard creates scratches in his wake. 

“Do you have swim trunks?” You ask breathily, shoving him lightly by the top of the head further down your body. He drops to his knees and continues to trail kisses down your stomach. 

The question catches him off guard.

“Do I- what?” He asks breathily, looking up at you as he sponges kisses over your clothed center. 

“If you don’t have swim trunks,” you try to continue, “you can’t go swimming with me.” You say with a teasing smirk, stepping around Joel, who was awestruck kneeling on the ground, his hands still in place where he was cupping the backs of your thighs before he slaps them down on his own to show annoyance. 

He was probably thinking how you just up and disappeared when you were just standing in front of him a moment ago. Joel grumbles something, but you’re already out the door of the motel room. 

---

The pool is glowing in its blue hue, lit by dim lights around the perimeter and the silver moon in the sky. 

In a world so vast, you couldn’t help but feel a little lost in wanting to explore it. 

You take a breath in through your nose and test the water with a dip of your toe. A bit cold for your liking, but the warm Texas summers make your skin sticky and the air a bit stale. So you dive in. 

The cool water is a shock to your system at first, with goosebumps growing on your skin like wildfire. Your face breaks the seal of the water, emerging over the light ripples you created upon diving in, catching your breath. You take a few leisurely laps along the outskirts, feeling weightless, free. 

“Nice night.” Joel’s brassy voice breaks the gentle chorus of the summer cicadas. You hum as you carve your way through the water until you meet the pool’s edge. You rest your arms on the lip of the pool, bringing your breasts just above the surface of the water. 

“Get. In.” You say with an authoritative voice, despite your eager smile. 

He cocks his head a few degrees to the right, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No. You look like a shivering chihuahua.” 

His joke elicits a giggle from you. 

“It’s only cold for the first few minutes. You’ll warm up.” You’re only half-lying, the pool was so fucking cold. 

Joel merely shakes his head. “You’re crazy, buttercup.” 

You hum as you push off the edge of the pool, moving towards the center, letting the water dance around you as your arms glide back and forth to keep you afloat. 

“Sounds like you need some motivation.” Your eyes lock on Joel’s as your fingers navigate to the back of your bikini strings, slowly pulling the tie loose, feeling the water aid you in floating the material off your upper half. The top strings around your neck are still tied, concealing the full reveal of your breasts. 

Joel’s once secure face fizzled, eyes straying and lips parting. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he kneels down, pointer finger curling towards him impatiently.  “Get over here.”

You shake your head disobediently. “Now.” His barking urgency makes you stifle a smirk. 

“Joel Miller afraid of a little cold water.” You shrug and move your fingers to the strings tied behind your neck, slowly tugging loose the threads. The material falls limp into the water, floating in front of you free from your body. 

Joel watches with impatience, the spill of your breasts making his cock twitch inside his swim trunks. The mesh material was forgiving, allowing him to swell at the sight of you. The cold water has your nipples taut, drawn into sweet peaks. You’re just out of his fucking reach, too far into the pool for him to grab you. 

He grunts quietly, jaw tight as you slowly swim closer to him. You shiver at his glance alone. 

“If you want me,” your voice drops innocently, doe eyes making their appearance to reel him in, “you’ll get in the pool, Mr. Miller.” 

Just out of his reach once more, you swim back to the center and push your thumbs into the band of your bikini bottoms, down your legs, leaving you bare in the pool for anyone to see from the highway or their own motel rooms. You must admit, Joel’s desperate gaze filled with want makes you squirm with excitement. Disobeying him lights that explosive even more. 

He offers you his hand, one final offer.  “Last chance, angel, get out of the pool.” 

“Why do you even have swim trunks on if you aren’t going to get in?” You ask, eyes gazing over the tangled hair he has scattered across his chest. 

“I was hoping these would appease you alone. Now come here,” he juts his hand out as an offering one last time. 

You roll your eyes and swim closer, your breasts lapping in the water as you take Joel’s hand. And tug with all your strength. 

His feet skid to try and hold him back, but he ultimately summersaults into the pool. You cover your mouth with your hand, unable to conceal your laughs as Joel emerges, sopping wet, cold, angry. 

“Y-You-” He chatters his teeth, eyes screwed tight on you as he pushes his hand back through his soaked curls and down his face, grazing his wiry beard. “You’re gonna get it.” 

Joel’s threat makes you squeal. You attempt to doggy paddle away, but the grip he catches on your arm is iron.  He pulls you back to him, and your body glides through the water, arms securing on his biceps once you’re locked in his hold. He’s threatening, but not as much so when you wrap your legs around his waist and feel his half-hard length. 

You raise your eyebrow at him, and he half-chuckles. 

“Such a fuckin’ piece of work you are.” He grunts out, hands searing the flesh of your hips as he skirts his hand down lower, cupping the globes of your ass. 

A hum tickles your throat as you lean in and press your lips to his jawline in a tempting kiss, smiling as Joel’s nose playfully nudges yours, leaning in for more. 

It’s stomach-twisting how you feel so comfortable with Joel, how you sink into his body, and how he warms your core. You kiss him until your lips feel bruised, and he grips your beautiful curves with eagerness. The two of you kiss like hungry teenagers, finally outside the watchful eyeline of your parents. Joel’s cock is hardening against your naked core.

He forces himself off of you, groaning lightly as he strays from your eyes. Cupping his jawline, you angle him back to you, resting your foreheads together. 

“Makin’ me get all riled up like a damn teenager.” His warm breath puffs across your face, his words make your bundle of nerves tingle. 

“I like that I’m the one causing it.” 

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek before giving you a tight little nod. “Me too, buttercup.”

---

Joel decides pool play is over. He gets out first, snags your bikini pieces that floated to the edge of the pool and starts walking leisurely back into the motel room. 

He only hears your cursing and belligerent rambling after he returns from turning on the shower, piping hot. 

“Can’t hear ya when you’re chatterin’ your teeth.” 

Joel returns to the bathroom and strips his swim trunks off, still half-hard. He tests the water with his hand, giving you an affirming nod it was okay to step in. 

You’re still angry and seething, having to streak your way back to the room naked and freezing your bare ass off. He looks at your crossed arms and playfully tuts. “You’re the one that thought t’drag me in there with ya, princess.” 

Joel follows you into the shower, the water splashing searing hot droplets. It only feels that hot because you’re readjusting from the pool’s temperature. You find yourself huddling into Joel’s warmth. 

He finds it endearing, the way your head settles on his chest, your ear to his heart, too chilled to let him go. He angles the showerhead downwards, letting it focus on your body first. He could wait. 

You gently release your crossed arms, letting them wrap low around his hips. He had a few extra pounds of flesh low on his tummy and on the sides of his waist. You gently pinch the area and smile. 

“Stop that.” He hisses, eyebrows knitted together. 

“But I like it. You’re my favorite person to hug.” 

The sentiment splashed warmth on the back of his neck. Joel has picked up a few extra pounds from town barbeques, and beers tossed back during football games. He used to not like it, the way he had to loosen his belt after a big meal, or having to purchase his new t-shirts in a size up. He didn’t think about it much, but naked with you in the shower, feeling you admire his ever-changing body, was a comfort. 

You look up after a few moments of silence, setting your chin on his chest and feeling his chest hair graze against your skin. 

Joel wants to warm you up, get you to relax under the showerhead. He presses a nimble kiss to your lips, pitter-pattering kisses along the extent of your body before he is down on his knees, angling your back to rest against the shower wall. 

Tired after your car ride and melting under the shower’s sprinkling water, you ache for a relief that will come from your head hitting a pillow. But Joel had other things in mind, things that would make you forget you were tired in an instant. 

Now under his watchful eye, lips and wiry beard scratching at your soft skin, you lightly part your legs for his entrance. God, please don’t let me slip and embarrass myself right now. Let me have this one good thing, this man’s tongue against my pussy would make me a God-willing woman. 

Joel can feel your exhausted body, begging to find a bed. But he had you where he wanted you, and his mouth was watering to taste your sweet musky arousal. His hands settle themselves on the backs of your thighs, supporting your weight as his head leans into your warmth. 

He brings two fingers forward, parting your center, licking a slow draw up your core. His tongue flicks off your clit, your bundle of nerves twitches. Something flips in his stomach, and his cock grows heavy against his thigh. 

You taste sweet and serene, something he’s grown an appetite for. With several days apart awaiting your weekend trip away, he often found himself at night, spilling into his hand thinking about your young, beautiful pussy flushed against his mouth. He takes this opportunity to relish in you moaning his name, without any curious ears. 

His tongue sinks lower, swirling around your tense entrance. The swell of his tongue gushes more arousal from you, and he gets a proper taste that isn’t mixed with water from the shower. 

Joel’s grip on your thigh tightens, and he laps at your clit like a famished man. 

The constant flicks have you gasping for air in the all-too-warm shower. Your fingers weave into his soaking wet curls, still finding a grip as your thigh twitches against his hand. 

Joel’s two fingers parting your center gently massage at your entrance, wiggling in gently as he suckles on your clit, and you mewl weakly. 

His tongue and teeth lightly graze your sensitivity, feeling stars clouding your vision as his fingers set a gentle pace. 

“Ooh,” you sigh weakly, feeling his fingers hit the perfect spot, one that makes you shake. 

Joel knows that sound, knows the feeling. He looks up, admires the way your pretty lips are parted in bliss. The hand on your thigh is brought to your stomach, gently stroking over the flesh. 

You watch him a little curiously, a little fucked. His mouth returns to your clit, but his hand still falters on your lower abdomen. You whimper as he adds a little pressure, and quickens his fingers. It’s jaw-dropping, the friction and pressure, piling on top of each other.

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-” 

“Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles. 

You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat. 

“There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,” he grunts, jaw tight, and teeth clenched as he watches your cum-arousal mixture glide down his fingers in a sticky mess. He slowly stands, watching you pant for air, as he sucks his digits clean with an evil smirk. 

The temperature in here is too much, heat consumes your body as you weakly grip his biceps. 

“God damn, Mr. Miller.” You say breathlessly. You take him in a quick kiss, moaning weakly into his mouth at your taste. His tongue tangles with you, and he keeps his fingers on your core. His first two fingers start to slowly circle your clit again, but it’s entirely too soon. 

You whimper weakly into his mouth, your clit aching and still recovering from your oral orgasm. 

“Mmm- can’t do it, Joel.” 

Joel snarls as he swiftly turns you around, his foot hitting the insides of both of your ankles to spread your legs. Your face is plastered against the shower wall, watching him out of the corner of your eye with your jaw dropped. 

“Be good for me, baby girl, show how thankful you are.” 

You whine at his raspy voice, feeling its timbre bounce against the walls. 

“Please,” you beg in a whisper, inching your feet farther apart for him to take you in the shower. 

Joel strokes his cock, seething through his teeth at the desperate relief he’s feeling. His swollen tip vies for your attention. He lines himself up, his other hand on your hip as he notches himself inside. 

You visibly flinch away, Joel hushing you softly as he tries again. 

“Gotta relax for me, pretty girl.”

You sigh weakly and let yourself melt with the warm water, fluttering your eyes closed as you gently jut your hips back into this, needing to be filled. 

Joel tries again after lining his tip up and down your slit and gathering your arousal. He notches inside of you once more, causing your eyelashes to flutter. He slowly presses on. 

The drinks must have really loosened you up since the last time the two of you fooled around in his truck. He wasn’t so hard to take then, but now he feels thicker, rounder. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of his cock as he ruts his hips into your ass. 

Finally, you will yourself to breathe, moaning his name in desperation. 

Joel’s trying to contract his lungs, but you’re gripping onto him so tight, the heat of the shower going to his head. 

You hum and purposely grip your walls around him, squeezing for his last breath. 

Joel snarls and smacks your ass from below, watching the fatty flesh jiggle. It stings, but you like it, thinking about his large handprint marking you red. He winds his hips back up and presses in, groaning lowly as he fills you to the brim. 

He sets a decent pace, one that robs you of what air you have left in your lungs. Your entire body feels sensitive, your cheek growing sore from being fucked against the shower wall. But it feels entirely too good, a certain itch that only Joel Miller can scratch. 

Every thrust he makes, you moan his name like a broken record. “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan and grunt it so much, that it starts to sound like it’s not a real word anymore. 

You reach back an arm blindly, gripping his bicep and stitching your nails into his skin. 

Joel grunts out weakly, the burning sensation you caused on his arm making him go wild. He reaches for both of your wrists and plants them at the base of your back, forcing your face to be your only weight to keep you up against the shower. 

But it unlocks a new angle, one that has you crying out curses and his heavenly name. 

“Fuck me, Joel, fuck- fuck your favorite little pussy,” you mewl out, feeling his cock twitch inside you. 

“God dammit, fuck me good like that, like that,” your eyes clench close, panting heavily. “Right there, daddy, please, Mr. Miller, touch my clit, please,” you beg, the pet name rolling off your tongue. 

It makes him snarl. He sets a hellish pace. His chest puffs up, his broad biceps locking around you as his fingers stroke over your pussy. 

He loves the way you wind him up. Because you are his favorite young pussy, one he’s made his own, railing you so good that you forget about anyone else that may have had you before. 

All you know is Joel Miller. 

His thighs and lower tummy smack your ass cheeks, a distinct slapping sound filling the shower and pinging off the walls right back into your ears. 

Stars flutter behind your eyes, you feel light-headed. The water splashes warm across your back, allowing Joel even more slip. 

The harder he fucks you, the closer he moves in. Now he has his entire torso flushed against your back, flicking his hips up into you with precision. 

Suddenly he’s grabbing your leg by the underside of your knee, hiking it up, and planting it against the shower wall as he exposes a whole new sensation. 

You can’t last any longer. His fingers circle dangerously around your clit, and now he’s pounding you into the wall, forcing friction against his glorious thrusts. You whimper loudly as his tip kisses your cervix repeatedly, feeling your walls clench around him as you come. 

It’s jaw-dropping, heart-surging, mind-fucking how good he feels coming inside of you. It’s warm, warmer than the water still raining over you. It’s comforting the way his seed spreads throughout your core, his grunts filling the shower as he drops his last load inside of you. 

And goddamn, he loves how you milk him dry. 

You weakly slide down the wall, tiredly dropping your leg once he pulls out. 

“No ya’don’t.” Joel quickly says, snagging a strong arm around your waist and hauling you up. You whimper as he peels your face off the wall, blinking rapidly as he spins you to face him. “C’mere.” Joel embraces you, and you lean weakly into his front like a bear hug. 

“Water,” you whisper against his pec. He turns the shower temperature down, a more comforting heat surrounding you now. 

“You’re alright.” He assures. 

After time to recuperate, Joel reaches for the shampoo bottle, squirting a small amount into his palm and lathering it between his hands. You feel a little better standing, but you still stay wrapped up in his arms, in his hug. 

He massages the shampoo into your locks, gently massaging it against your scalp, before he gently washes the bubbles out. He gathers conditioner next, letting it soak into your ends.

You hide your smile against his chest, knowing that he probably had to learn this type of stuff for Sarah. Hair care, skin care, tampons and pads, all the sort of stuff single dads fear. You wonder whatever could have been in Sarah’s mother’s mind to leave a guy like Joel Miller. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed to fit into your life like a glove right now. For however long that perfect fit would be.

A weak sigh leaves your lips as he strokes your head sweetly, his fingers then grazing your cheek. 

“Y’alright? Feel good?” 

You nod weakly and smile, letting your arms drop gently as you pull away. “M’tired.”

Joel stifles a chuckle and nods. “Me too, baby. Sit tight.” 

Once Joel is assured you’re not going to lose your strength standing up on your own, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, wrapping his towel low on his waist. You gaze at the lines around his hips, and how they dip down into his towel. 

You clear your throat as you quickly look away once he approaches you with two towels. He wraps one around your shoulders, gently moving his warm hands up and down the sides of your arms. 

You look so sweet, warm and cozy, cum-filled, at ease. The stress he usually sees you carrying around is wiped away. He hoped he had something to do with it. 

Joel leans down and presses a light kiss to your lips. Not hungry, not desperate, not chasing. Delicate. Assuring. 

You smile tiredly and shyly evade his eye contact, something that he hates to admit is goddamn adorable on you. 

Both of you towel dry off any remaining droplets of water. Joel forces you to show him how you even get the towel you wrap around your hair on your head. 

“This is girlhood, Joel Miller.” You say once you secure it on, watching him shake his head in disbelief. 

“A mystery to me.” He says with a boyish grin.

You both exit the steamy bathroom and search your bags for pajamas. You packed a few comfy shirts for bed. And only one extra pair of panties. You better be damn careful with your one last sacred pair. You toss it back into your pack for now, deciding that they would probably be taken off in the morning anyway. You slip under the covers of Joel’s bed, saving him a space you hope he fills. Of course, he does. 

Joel flips off the light switch, indulging the room in a black and blue hue. He grunts quietly as he slips into the covers. The both of you just melt into the mattress. 

You nuzzle into his side, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He makes gentle circles into your back as your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You sigh and turn your back to Joel to retrieve it from the charger. 

“Your parents askin’ if we made it okay?” Joel murmurs tiredly, eyes closed, waiting for you to return to his side. 

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a text message from Nathan. 

Hey stranger

“Yeah,” you lie, your fingers gliding across the keyboard to configure a response. “They uh.. They’re tellin’ me to not bug you too much on the trip.” You awkwardly chuckle, your back still turned to him as you stare at Nathan’s message. 

Joel dryly chuckles as he reaches a hand out and settles it on your hip. “Quite the opposite.”

You feel terrible concealing this from Joel. But you don’t want him to think you were young and foolish letting your secret fling slip. This was to make things work, to keep the secret buried from your parents.

Another message from Nathan makes your phone buzz in your hand.

Heard you’re in Danbury for the summer with your folks. Wanna catch up? 

Your heart sits in your throat, shocked by his ask. 

You flip over your phone, opting to reply in the morning. You’re beat. You sigh weakly and return to Joel’s side, hiding your face in his shoulder as you gently kiss along the muscle. He was already passed out. 

As messy as this felt, being with Joel felt like being tossed a life jacket in open water. And you weren’t going to lose that safety, not if you could help it.

---

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[jasonsmirrorball]

SOUP FOR THE SOUL JASON TODD

↳ taking care of jason while he's sick

“Hey, sit up for me.”

Jason winces as he pushes himself up from the bed, looking so pitiful it tugs at your heart. You set the bowl of soup on the table nearby, pressing a warmed hand to the fevered skin of his cheek.

“Baby,” you murmur, sympathetically. He frowns through bleary eyes, and you skim your thumb over his jaw. 

“Y’don’t have to fuss over me,” he rasps out, and you think maybe it would sound more convincing if he didn’t sound like his voice box had been dragged over gravel, scratchy and hoarse. 

“Course I do,” you say, reaching for the bowl once more and handing him the spoon. “Can you manage to keep anything down? I called your dad and he passed on a recipe. It’s not butler-made, but I hope it’s not awful.”

He manages a weak grin at the joke, accepting the spoon. His fingers brush against yours, tracing a minute path up the inside of your palm before curling around the metal. Soft steam curls up from the bowl, and you hold it closer for his convenience. 

“My sweet thing,” he rumbles, taking a sip. You watch carefully, feeling your shoulders relax when he sighs. “‘S great, baby.”

“Yeah?” you prompt, warming all over when he nods tiredly. “Okay, I’m glad. Can you take a bit more for me?”

He keeps a hand on your thigh as he finishes the rest of his soup, and you talk to him in low tones as he does. The evening sun begins to bleed through the shutters, crimson and gold pooling in the bedsheets. Your lover remains hot to the touch, but you think the food does him some good, a little colour returning to his face as he eats. 

The dryer beeps as he finishes the last of it, and you take the spoon from his fingers. They clasp around your waist when you go to stand, and you wobble slightly, looking back at him. His lips curve down into a frown, the barest makings of a pout beginning to form on his mouth.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs and you sigh. He’s sweet like this, you think, needy and reaching out for you.

“I’m just going to put this away,” you assure him. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“Promise?” he asks, and you bite back a laugh, drawing an X over your heart in affirmation. 

“Swear.”

You’re back sooner than Jason expects, and clutching a pair of flannel pyjamas and a blanket in your hands. He squints as you enter, and you tilt your head in silent instruction.

He’s still burning as you help him take his clothes off, skin heated and covered in gooseflesh, replacing the tattered shirt and shorts with the most loved set in your wardrobe. He’d laughed the first time you presented them to him, but had worn them so much the flannel had felted over. They’re warm in your hands now as you help him into them, depositing him on the nearby chair and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. 

“I love you,” he mumbles into the fleece, as you’re stripping the sheets. You look over your shoulder, finding him half asleep in the chair. 

“Love you, baby,” you whisper back, tugging on a fresh set. “C’mere.”

The dirty linen pools on the floor and Jason tugs you into bed with him, curling himself around you and leaving little chance for escape. Jason falls asleep almost immediately, and you hope he feels the trace of your fingers in his hair, in his dreams.

[liviyiuu]

‘ i just wanna be yours ’

↬ synopsis: scaramouche notices your new hairstyle and childe convinces him to talk to you.

↬ ft: scaramouche

↬ genre: fluff ; highschool au

↬ warnings: swearing ; bullying childe ; 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

↬ notes: SCARAMOUCHE IS SO HAJAJJA ; first post on this account!! ; tell me if there's any mistakes ♡

Scaramouche is a lovesick fool.

Of course, if asked, he will adamantly deny it til the day he draws his last breath. But he knows, his self-proclaimed best friend Childe knows, hell, he thinks his own mother knows. But the day he admits it is the day the sun rises from the west.

Being in love with someone you’ve never spoken to is a torturous thing. It eats away at him when he watches you socialize with your friends on the other side of the classroom. Childe’s sat next to him, incessantly rambling sbout something or other.

The way you smile has his heart running a marathon, he’s so gone for you and it’s actually embarrassing.

At some point, the ginger stops talking about what life would be like without toes and follows his best friend’s line of sight to find you at the end of it. Childe rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair, he’d wait til Scaramouche was listening to talk about toes.

“She changed her hairstyle.” The indigo-haired boy mutters, to no one in particular obviously, but Childe just has to pick up on it.

“Really?” He says, trying to keep his tone even.

“Mhm, it suits her.” Scaramouche responds, still in his daze-like state.

Childe weighs up his options. He could tell him to just tell you that, to see how it goes. But what if it goes south? He isn't ready to lose a limb. He could just shut his mouth and pretend Scaramouche didn’t even say a word. Of course, somehow, Childe deems it worth a limb to get his stupid best friend to talk to his crush.

“Why don’t you just tell her that?”

Now this, this snaps Scaramouche to attention. His head moves so quickly that Childe worries that he'll get whiplash.

Scaramouche stares at Childe like he’s just grown a second head. “Are you fucking with me?”

To this, the ginger shrugs and motions over to you. “If you don’t make your move soon, someone else will grab her, mouchie dear.”

Scaramouche restrains himself from growling at the nickname, and slapping Childe for the absurd suggestion. The blue-eyed boy is thoroughly unaffected by the scowl directed at him and continues,

“I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? She might like you back for all you know. You’ve literally had this crush for centuries. It's getting old.”

Scaramouche falls silent and seems to mull over his words. Childe’s right to some extent, it was never going to go anywhere if he didn’t throw himself out there first. But the ginger was wrong about something.

“8 months you moron. Not centuries.”

Childe’s won. He still has all his limbs and is 99.9% sure he’s convinced Scaramouche to say something to you. He feels so smug as he watches his friend stand up and move toward your desk.

When Scaramouche arrives at your desk his body moves before he can stop it and he taps your shoulder.

“Hey.”

That’s it. That’s all he says. He’s sweating bullets and his hands are clammy from his anxiety. He catches Childe mouthing at him, and is pretty sure he says ‘You got this!’ and gives him a thumbs up.

Your friends have already figured out what was going on and have scuttled away to entertain themselves and give you both some privacy.

“Your hair looks... strange today, [ name ].”

He mentally curses himself. Out of all the words in his vocabulary, how is 'strange' the one that his brain approves and allows to leave his mouth?

In his peripheral, he sees Childe facepalm and dramatically mouth ‘Mission abort! Run now you bastard!’.

Scaramouche hopes that the earth opens up and swallows him whole. He wishes that he could turn back time and smack Childe in the face. He longs for the comfort of his own seat on the other side of the room.

But by some twist of fate, his feet stay glued to the spot long enough for you to grace him with a response.

A laugh.

You’re laughing? Do you find him funny? Is he dreaming? Hallucinating?

“I got it done yesterday.” You say through laughs, “You like it?”

Scaramouche doesn’t trust his voice enough to not crack and embarrass him further, so a quick nod is what you get in response. His heart is running a million miles an hour and his face feels like it's on fire.

Your grin is so worth it. He wants it imprinted on his eyeballs. He’s so entranced by it that he almost misses Childe and some friend of yours, Yoimiya he thinks her name is, making kissy faces at you.

“Thanks, I'm glad. I was worried I looked like a clown.” You joke, running a hand through your hair.

You? A clown? Don’t joke. Childe looks like a clown. You definitely do not look like a clown.

“You don’t” he blurts before his brain can catch up, “You look really pretty.”

You raise your eyebrows and an amused hum passes your lips. His heart is in his throat and he swears you can hear how fast it’s beating.

Then, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, you rise from your seat and press a kiss to his jaw before sitting back down.

“Thanks, you wanna go out later?”

He’s at a loss for words as he tries to process what the fuck just happened. This has to be some ridiculous dream he was having.

He looks quickly over at Childe for assistance and he sees him and Yoimiya aggressively nodding their heads and mouthing ‘Yes?!? Say yes!’. Too put out of it to even formulate a sentence, he places his trust in them and answers, “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Being the best wingman to ever walk the earth, Childe appears by his side and pulls him away after flashing you a grin.

“See?!?!? I love being right! She’s SO into you mouchie!”

Scaramouche can barely hear his friend over the loop of events playing in his head. You literally kissed his jaw? His eyes make their way back to you and his lips quirk upon seeing your friends gush over your interaction.

“Oh my God. She kissed me Childe.” He sighs, too engrossed in his thoughts to notice the pictures the ginger was taking of him.

“I know! I saw! Moral of the story is: Always listen to your bestest buddy Childe.”

He gets slapped.

[miraclewoozi]

HIGH FIDELITY, PT 2. -c.hs

getting back on the horse is hard, and failing to hit it off with the cute gamer guy you went for a drink with last night has the potential to be your love life’s last straw. but when up and coming rockstar VERNON unexpectedly canters into your life, you find yourself asking one very important question: do you have it in you to saddle up, one more time?

( PART ONE )

pair ; vernon x fem!reader.  content ; strangers to lovers.  up-and-coming musician!vernon x record store owner!reader.   fluff, angst, smut. (MINORS DNI). warnings ; drinking + alcohol is a big theme pretty much throughout. mentions of past relationship breakdowns. reader experiences a lot of stress, anxiety and feelings of doubt, reflected in self sabotage. mentions of sickness (acute). wc ; 12.2k ( ~38k total. ) disclaimer ; this fic was inspired by rob + liam in the series high fidelity and is therefore pretty influenced by the show. if you’ve watched it, you’ll probably see a lot of similarities! i just felt so drawn to vernon in this kind of role that i really wanted to try and put a spin on it. i do not claim that every idea behind this is original. notes ; been working on this one for a while. hope you enjoy it.<3

smut tags : making out. some groping. some 'first time together' shenanigans. oral (m rec) & ball sucking hehe. he has a big cock because i have an agenda to push. implied f rec oral. implied multiple rounds. PLEASE let me know if i’ve forgotten anything.

The clock on your bedside table reads somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00 in the morning when you resign from trying to fall asleep and force yourself to sit upright, fed up of tossing and turning between your now too-creased sheets, brain stuck in a foggy, hellish limbo. Your mind won’t shut down. Your body won’t rest. Birds are starting to chirp outside and you can hear them clear as whistles through the cheap window that doesn’t quite seal shut to your left. Your eyes squint in preparation as you reach for your lamp and flood the room in yellowish light, drawing your knees up to your chest. 

You’ve spent so much time in your own thoughts that you’ve begun to feel systemically unwell. Your stomach twists and aches, your eyes are so dry it hurts to even blink and there’s an ache behind them that started as an annoying throb, but has grown over the hours into a roaring flame. From the hairs on your head all the way down to your toes, you feel like you could burst. 

You wish you had it in you to cry. To let it out. Keeping this pent up is no doubt making you feel a hundred times worse, and you think it would be nice to feel something other than the endless swooping of the spiral you’re well and truly making your way down. Your alarms are going to go off in a few hours. I can’t let anyone see me like this, you think. I can’t work in this state. 

You throw ideas around in your head for a little while, thumbs tweaking over your phone as messages get typed, edited, deleted, and repeat. Part of you thinks maybe you could manage. Just tough it out and put on a brave face, because actually, what right do you have to be hiding away when you’re the one who ran out one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met? But you just know something will go wrong, even if you tell the boys that you need to camp out in the office for the day. When you need peace and quiet, you can never find it behind that creaky old door. When was the last time you got a full admin day without being called through to help with a problem or deal with a drama? And truly, the idea of facing the world right now makes you feel like you could be sick. 

Sick…

Could you—?

You’ve never enjoyed taking sick days, even on occasions where you’ve really needed them, when you’ve woken up feeling like you’re knocking at death’s door. Sometimes, you swear the guilt that it brings ends up making you feel ten times worse than whatever your ailment is doing to you in the first place. But your exhaustion lets impulse take hold and you’re already sending a message into your group chat with the boys before you can talk yourself out of it, biting the inside of your cheek as the little indicator pops up on your screen. Delivered. 

Well. You’re committed now, whether you like it or not. 

Not feeling so hot. I won’t be in today. Take it easy, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Sorry. 

You pick your comforter up off the bed and wrap it around your shoulders like an extravagant, well-padded cape, trudging your way through the apartment until you’re stood, barefoot and cold, staring into the bright light of your refrigerator. Somehow in the seconds between pulling the handle and now, you’ve managed to forget what is what that you were hoping to find. More out of spite for how the bulbs are currently bleaching your retinas than because you want it, you pull the milk from its home in the cradle of the door and fix yourself a glass to take with you and put it on the coffee table back in your living room.

Without an ounce of grace, you throw yourself onto your couch: your head rests against the arm of the seat like you’re in the apartment of a sketchy therapist, and you’re wrapped up in your duvet as if it’s a sleeping bag, treating yourself to the luxury of a slightly different ceiling pattern to stare up at. And it could be the change of the room that finally manages to drag you under, or it could be the total fatigue of the emotional rollercoaster that has been your last twenty four hours…

But your glass of milk goes completely untouched as you eventually drift off, either way. 

Of course, it’s not for nearly long enough. Barely an hour after finally managing to fall asleep, your phone starts to vibrate harshly against your chest. You tap at the screen blindly, hoping to shut off what you assume is your alarm; when it’s still buzzing a few seconds later, you reluctantly open your eyes, fighting back a sob. It’s not your alarm – it’s an incoming call. Why would it be anything else?

“Hello?” You grumble, putting the phone on speaker and resting it on the couch cushion next to your head. The energy expenditure of holding the device up to your ear feels mammoth.

“Ohh, you sound terrible.” Seungkwan’s voice sounds more taunting than it does concerned, but you pin that down to a symptom of his over-familiarity. “You’re sick?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“I heard there was something going around,” Seungkwan tells you. Great, you think. Good to know. Now go away. “Yeah – one of my cousins… ah, what did she say…”

“Hey, man, I really-...”

“That’s it. She said she was love sick.”

You sigh so hard you think it’s a miracle you don’t pass out.  

“Don’t–”

“You better make sure Vernon gives you plenty of Vitamin D, today,” he harps on. “It’s quite the disease. I heard it can really–”

“Seungkwan!” You snap, finally, grabbing your phone and barking straight into the microphone. He doesn’t need to know that you’re stretching the truth to its absolute limit, but you certainly won’t let him keep believing that you’re calling out just to get laid. “Knock it off, okay? I’ve been awake all night.” 

(You suppose you should be glad that that much really is true.)

He falls silent, and you don’t know if he totally believes you, but a few breaths later, you hear his voice through the speaker again. He’s softer, this time. Quieter.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, hesitating a moment before he goes on. “Try to get some rest, all right? I’ll swing by after work and check in with some food, and… if you need anything, just text me?”

You’re immediately overcome with guilt at the sharp change in his demeanour, and it does nothing to settle the way your insides are writhing inside you. You clear your throat and pull your duvet up to cover your face, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. 

“I will,” you mumble. “I’m sorry – thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. You can hear the front door to his own apartment slam shut and his breaths pick up as he starts to rush down the stairwell of his building. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.”

“Hey–” he rushes, before you can hang up the call. “Rest up. Run a bath, drink plenty. Love you.”

You cringe a little, but not enough to stop you from saying it back. Sort of. 

“Yeah. You too.”

Nobody could ever accuse Seungkwan of not being a man of his word. As irritating as he can sometimes be, as determined as he is to get on your every last nerve, you’ve never known him fail to come through on a promise. 

Not long after 6:30pm, you hear a series of knocks at the front door of your apartment. You’ve managed to squeeze in odd shifts of sleep throughout the day and though your head is still in a mess, you feel significantly less irritable than you were this morning. Cleaner, as well. One of your (several) naps took place in the bath, where you laid there and let the hot water draw some of the anxieties clean out of you to float towards the ceiling amongst the lavender-scented steam. 

In the knowledge that Seungkwan’s expectations of you are quite literally zero, you don’t bother to fix the one leg of your sweatpants that’s rolled up before you heave yourself off the couch and go to let him inside. He stands in the doorway with a bag of takeout food in each hand, all wind-flushed cheeks and that brilliant smile, and you feel like your stomach settles almost straight away when you see him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, toeing off his shoes as he comes inside and lets the door close behind him. He sets the bags down on top of the small table by your front door and cups your face in both of his hands, squeezing your cheeks and frowning down at you. “You look awful.”

“Wow, thanks,” you huff, squirming to get out of his grip. “I was going to say I feel a little better, but…”

“You look exhausted,” Seungkwan clarifies, picking up the bags once more and following you through to your living room as you start to walk away from him. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t realise you were actually… this bad…”

“This is doing wonders for my ego,” you grumble. “Keep it coming. Really.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, no. By all means, continue to kick a girl while she’s down. Super classy.”

Your best friend flops down onto your couch with an exaggerated huff at your petulance. You curl up in the armchair instead, bringing your knees up beneath you. 

“Do you think it was something you ate?” He asks, refusing to give into your bickering and changing the subject matter instead. 

You shrug your shoulders at him. “I don’t-... I mean, it was more of a head… thing?” 

He sucks his front teeth. “What, like a migraine?”

“Sort of?” 

“What do you mean, ‘sort of’?” He asks. “You’ve had a migraine before. Was it that or not?”

“Well, it’s difficult to-... It wasn’t exactly…”

“Okay.” 

Seungkwan interrupts you as you hesitate again, swinging his legs off the couch and resting his elbows on his thighs, leaning as far towards you as he can while still remaining seated. He wrings his hands, plays with his fingers, lips drawn forward in a stern-looking pout. 

“I thought something was up this morning on the phone, but I didn’t wanna push it because you sounded mad. Now I know something’s wrong with you. What’s going on?”

You swallow hard and cross your arms over your chest, dropping your gaze away from Seungkwan’s very intense one. 

“Nothing,” you lie. 

“Bullshit.”

“Seungkwan!” 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, tipping his head forward and running his hands through his hair. He’s never been a coddler, always one to prefer the tough-love approach: it’s no surprise that he doesn’t appear any softer when he looks back at you. “But we both know that’s crap.”

You can feel your pulse starting to quicken the longer he stares you down. It’s as if he’s burning two great big holes into your head, laser-beams where his pupils ought to be. He’s the master of the hard stare, and you know he won’t move until he hears the truth. 

Maybe I should just tell him. Maybe it’ll help…

“Look, I don’t care how famous he thinks he’s gonna be, if Vernon upset you last night, I’ll kick his ass myself.”

And there are the alarm bells. In hindsight, maybe you should’ve seen this coming; it’s not that far of a reach, and given the few facts that he actually knows, you can’t blame Seungkwan for jumping to this conclusion. It’s quite effective in triggering you to speak up, too. (You think that maybe, this was on purpose. Attack where you’re likely to defend. He knows you like the back of his hand.) In an instant you’re sitting upright with your feet firmly on the floor and you’re shaking your head at him like a dog trying to get itself dry. 

“No, no, no, back it up,” you rush. “It’s nothing like that. He hasn’t done anyth-... God, it’s not him.”

“It better not be,” Seungkwan tells you. His voice still has that dark edge to it, and you’re not sure how exactly to stamp it out. “I’m serious. If he’s done anything-...”

“He hasn’t,” you say more firmly. After a couple slow breaths, you clasp your hands together, swallowing your pride. “The food’s gonna go cold. Go grab a couple glasses and-... whatever else from the kitchen—”

“Only if you tell me what’s happening,” he says, slowly pushing himself up to stand. 

You don’t assent with words, but you don’t have to. You look up at him and nod a couple of times and that’s all he needs. Seungkwan strides off through the doorway, leaving you to shakily exhale away the stress that is once again squeezing at your lungs.

Once the containers are laid out on the table, food is divided up, utensils are handed over and he’s poured you each out a glass of soda, Seungkwan sits back on the couch. He doesn’t prod you, or ask you again – he doesn’t need to. You know what he’s waiting for. Even so, he allows you a few mouthfuls of your dinner first: seeing as this is the first substantial thing you’ve eaten all day, you silently thank him for the generosity.

“All right,” you say, gulping down a few mouthfuls of your drink to re-lubricate your throat. “Okay. Fuck – you’re gonna wanna make yourself comfy for this.”

The only way he moves is to pick up one of the food cartons and settle it on his thigh. Oh, how you wish you were joking. But if he really doesn’t want to heed your warning…

“You know I went on that date the other week?” You ask, biting the inside of your cheek. Seungkwan nods at you, lifting a helping of noodles out of the carton.

“With the hitter and quitter,” he confirms. “I remember.”

“Right,” you say. “Well – okay, wait, no. That’s a bad start. He didn’t do anything either.”

“I mean…”

“Not the time.”

He lifts his free hand up in surrender and gestures for you to continue as he slurps his food into his mouth. You clear your throat, bouncing one leg so rapidly that the decorative candle holder on your mantelpiece starts to rattle. 

“So… it was before the date. I was on my way to the bar, walking down past-... that convenient store. You know the one Chan keeps going into ‘cause he’s got the hots for the person who works there on a Friday night? Yeah, I was walking down that way. Actually running on time for once, and-...” 

You falter, sucking a breath deep into your lungs. It causes your next words to come out more strained than they ought to. 

“I ran into Jaehyun...”

Seungkwan swallows just in time to prevent himself from choking on his mouthful of food, but his eyes still shoot wide and you think his chest convulses a little bit anyway. His is a name you haven’t mentioned in a while, but he clearly hasn’t forgotten who it belongs to.

Because, well… how could he ever forget? 

Your ex-partner. Jaehyun.

The ex-love-of-your-life, Jaehyun.

The man who asked you to marry him after three and a half years of dating only to leave you, heartbroken and alone, six months later because he wanted to travel the world and there was too much that you couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind, Jaehyun. 

How could Seungkwan forget when he had been one of the people who helped drag you through what was not only the worst break-up, but one of the worst times of your entire life? 

Aside from the other week, it’s been… nearly eighteen months since you saw him last. Almost a year since you let yourself talk about him. Even sitting in your own apartment with a box full of your favourite food in your hands, a sense of dread chills you from head to toe just going so far as to say his name. But you’ve started, now, so you might as well finish.

“…right outside that stupid fucking store.”

Your voice cracks when you say it and you hurry to set your dinner down on the floor to free up your shaking hands. You cup them over your mouth, closing your eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. It helps enough for you to be able to continue, even if you still feel a bit like you’re drowning.

“I thought he…” Seungkwan starts, putting his own food down and slipping off the couch. He comes to sit on the arm of your chair and puts a hand around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “When did-...?”

“Yeah, uh… apparently he moved back a couple weeks ago,” you swallow, leaning into your friend’s embrace. 

Seungkwan looks down at you and you look up at him, all misty-eyed and drained. There’s more. He knows there is, but now he waits for you patiently, giving you all the time in the world to get through this and to let it out and to lean on him. He doesn’t butt in. The quiet feels worse than the talking. 

“He’s with someone now. They, uh— they met in Paris. Just over a year ago.”

Seungkwan finally dares to make a noise and breathes out heavily, so loud that it’s almost a groan. 

“Y/n,” he sighs, tightening his hold around you. “Shit – I’m so sorry,”

You shrug, staring across the room to where your record player sits on top of a low cabinet, lid open, table collecting dust. 

“For months, I sat here feeling… fucking, sorry for myself,” you say, barely above a whisper. You swallow around the lump in your throat and shake your head. “This whole time, refusing to get back on the horse ‘cause I thought maybe-... but he was-…”

The room goes quiet again as you lose the words you want to say and Seungkwan just rubs small circles against your arm. The problem is that you know this doesn’t explain why you called out of work today. It doesn’t explain what happened last night, and you’re not sure where to begin with that either. Especially seeing as the last time your best friends saw you and Vernon, the sparks flying between you were nigh-on visible. 

“I thought I was handling it, you know?” You sigh, leaning harder into Seungkwan’s soft sweatshirt. “Like… yeah — it hurt… but I was okay? I guess. And then Vernon fucking… kissed me last night—“

“He— what?”

“Hang on — no, he… I wanted him to.” You fumble with a thread hanging off the sleeve of your t-shirt as you talk. Why is this all so difficult? At the same time, why does it feel so juvenile to say out loud? “I just… I don’t know…”

Your wall clock tick, tick, ticks away in yet another painful fall of silence. 

“How bad was he?” Seungkwan asks when you struggle to elaborate. 

You assume this is an attempt to shatter the gloomy atmosphere and lighten your mood a tiny bit; it works, you suppose, because despite yourself, you laugh drily. Not without nudging your shoulder into his ribs, though. He deserves it, and you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that it does make you feel a little better.

“He wasn’t,” you groan. “Don’t—… you’re such an ass.” 

He pulls himself away from you at the sound of your laughter and moves to sit on the edge of your coffee table instead, careful not to disrupt any of your food while keeping himself close enough to you that he can hold both of your hands in his and soothe his thumbs over your palms.

“You freaked out on him, didn’t you?” 

He sees straight through you and truthfully, no part of you is surprised. No part of you tries to fight it, or reject his assumption, or even question why that’s the first explanation he leapt to. You just nod, looking to where your best friend’s fingers are currently the only things holding you together. 

“Ran out his apartment like the building was gonna burn down,” you sigh, still laughing but harshly now. He squeezes your hands gently, urging you to look up at him. You do, slowly. “It’s ruined everything.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Seungkwan tries, narrowing his eyes at you when you scoff your obvious disagreement. “No, seriously. Anyone can see the poor guy’s got it bad for you.”

“Even if that’s right, you didn’t see his face,” you say. “God, he isn’t gonna wanna look at me ever again.”

“Have you spoken to him today?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Maybe if you explain what happened–”

“Oh, sure,” you snort. “‘Hey, Vernon. Sorry for running out on you like a lunatic yesterday. I ran into my ex recently and when you kissed me, it reminded me of being with him and I got freaked out and had to dash. Hope you don’t mind.’ God.” 

You try to draw your hands back but Seungkwan just holds onto you tighter. “We’ll workshop it,” he says firmly. “Do you like him, or not?”

“Seungkwan–”

“That wasn’t an option.”

You scowl at him. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Yes,” you stress finally, groaning through it. “Yes – I do.”

Seungkwan’s face lights up for a second, his eyes sparkling, lips lifting. You’re half expecting him to say ‘I knew it’. Half expecting him to try and be all deep and philosophical and a little bit motherly, as he sometimes does, especially when you’re upset. He’s always been a sucker for a happy ending. But this isn’t a happy ending, you remind yourself, squaring your jaw. It’s past that, already. It isn’t going to happen, you just know it. 

“Stop being so fucking hard on yourself,” he tells you, squeezing your hands one last time before he lets go and moves back over to the couch so he can finish eating before his food goes cold. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

You’re not sure what’s in the air right now, but this has been one of the busiest weekends that you can remember. Both yesterday and today, almost as soon as the store opened, your first handful of customers came through. Apart from about an hour around lunchtime, you don’t think there have been any periods of time where you’ve not had someone milling around the shelves. It makes a nice change, really, from some of your weekend shifts – hours at a time where the dust starts to settle and hardly anyone disturbs the bell above the front door. But this means you’ve been in full customer-service mode basically all day, and you’re starting to feel exhausted from keeping up the persona.

Still. There’s only an hour or so left — you can push through, and when you get home, there’ll be a nice, hot bubble bath with your name written all over it.

The bell chimes again just as you finish serving a group of teenage girls. You watch them scurry away, excitedly giggling about their new albums and you look towards the door with a smile already plastered on, all ready to greet the new customer until your eyes lock with theirs.

A ‘hey, how’s it going?’ stops somewhere midway up your throat, a pathetic little ‘huh?’ sound escaping you in its place. You’re frozen all of a sudden; you and the man who just came in both stand perfectly still, staring at each other like a pair of bunnies in headlights. It takes you forever to register the strap wrapped around his fist, the purse that hangs just below his grip. My bag, you think to yourself, but the voice that narrates your thoughts is hushed for the first time ever, too. Everything in your head gets sucked away into a little vacuum. The only thing left is him.

“I-… thought you might want this back.” Vernon breaks the quiet first. Your throat runs dry. In a flash, the noise in your brain is as loud as it’s ever been and in amongst all the chaos of thoughts and questions and apologies, you can’t pick out the words you actually want to say. 

He slowly unravels the strap from around his hand and takes a few steps closer to you, inching towards the counter. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he hurries to assure you. Your heart aches for how reserved and nervous he looks. It doesn’t suit him. You hate it. “It’s okay. I’m… really sorry, about the other night. I didn’t mean to—” A deep breath. “I’ll see you around.”

Vernon lays your bag so delicately on the wooden surface that you could be forgiven for thinking he was handling an explosive. Then, he takes one, two, three steps back, before turning and heading to the exit.  

“Wait—” you call out to him, finding your voice at the most critical time, right as his fingers curl around the door handle. “Wait—, please.”

He spins back around to face you as you slip out from behind the desk. His left brow lifts higher than the right but otherwise, he gives nothing away. He doesn’t even say anything as he stands there, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. 

You swallow around the golf ball sized lump taking residence in your throat and clasp your hands together in front of you, wringing and twisting and accidentally popping one of your knuckles in the process. “I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. It wasn’t fair.”

Vernon chews this over in his mind but ultimately just shrugs his shoulders at you. What is there to say? He surely agrees, but he seems so adamant to ensure you don’t feel bad about it happening that he just… says nothing. Again. It’s kind of maddening, even if you fully get why. 

“No, I mean it,” you try again. “It wasn’t you. It’s nothing you did.”

“We really don’t have to do the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing,” Vernon offers, his cardboard-like posture softening. There’s even a little bit of a smile on his face, you think — but it’s not the kind of smile you’ve grown used to seeing on him. It doesn’t reach his eyes; he looks kind of like someone who has read their cards and accepted their fate. “Seriously. It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” you stress, stepping closer to him again. You sigh deeply. There’s something almost relieving about the position you find yourself in. You suppose this really is crunch time; it’s now or never. “Can we… talk? About everything?”

“What? Here?” Vernon asks. 

You glance around the store, at the few people doing a very poor job of pretending to be minding their own business, and frown. He’s right. This isn’t the time, or the place. The problem is, you have a feeling that if you send him away, he may not decide to come back and listen to you. In his defence, why should he? He’s already done more than the decent thing and brought you back that which you abandoned in his apartment; several of your previous conquests would have shoved the bag and its contents either in the trash or the back of a closet somewhere. This is more than you could have hoped for. 

You hold a finger up to him and ask him to stay where he is, and though he looks a little bewildered at the gesture, he ultimately doesn’t move. You rush off out the back to the storeroom where you banished Chan an hour ago, on account of his raging hangover and your low tolerance for his whining about it; you’re genuinely surprised to find him working, and actually alphabetising the records you got in a few days ago like you asked him to.

“Hey. Can you do me a huge favour?” You ask, not announcing your arrival and subsequently scaring Chan out of his skin. He jolts as he hears your voice and claps a hand to his chest, exhaling hard. You don’t entertain his dramatics, though. There’s no time. “I need you to close today.”

“Huh?” He asks, still acting as if he’s trying to catch his breath. “I thought–”

“Please.” You wave him off, knowing he’s about to ask about the task you gave him. “We can look at this together tomorrow. You did great. It’s just an hour – is that okay?”

He chews the inside of his lip, almost looking disappointed. To be fair to him, he did look like he was in a groove when you appeared, but he doesn’t argue with you as he puts down the record in his hand and picks his phone up off the table to his right, silencing the catchy tune that was playing while he organised. 

“Of course it is,” he says, holding his hand out for your keys and starting to walk towards you. “Everything okay?”

“It-...” you start, faltering as you place the store keys in his waiting palm. Your default response was about to be ‘it’s fine’, but you’re trying harder these days to stop pretending, especially around him. So you swallow, nodding your head, flashing him a tight lipped smile. “I’m about to find out.”

“Oh? Is it…?”

A brief pause later, not before cringing at how predictable you’ve apparently become, you say, “yeah.”

Chan claps you on the shoulder as he skirts his way around you, leaning in to give you a sort of side-along hug on his way. You stretch your arm across his waist and pull him closer for a moment, trying to drive home how much you appreciate this. He doesn’t comment on the uncharacteristic display of affection, and you want to find out why, but Vernon isn’t going to wait around for you forever. 

“Go get him, tiger,” Chan whispers.

“I owe you, big time,” you promise. 

He winks at you before he disappears through the door and you follow him briefly, but as he does a round of checking in with your customers and making sure they don’t need any help, you hurry off to grab your jacket from the office.

Vernon is exactly where you left him when you come back out into the storefront, hands unmoved from where he stuffed them into his pockets earlier, rocking back and forth on his toes and looking around from wall to wall. You think perhaps he took your request slightly too literally and the fact that even his feet are in the same position as before you left is reminiscent of a puppy commanded to stay, but if anyone here is at liberty to start poking fun, you think that it certainly isn’t you. Instead of trying your luck, you lock the office door and walk up to him, returning his polite, yet slightly awkward smile.

“You’re not, like, super busy right now or anything, are you?” You ask him. 

His brows crease and his eyes shift side-to-side before they land back at you. He shakes his head.

“Did you maybe wanna… take a walk?” 

Vernon nods this time, still not moving or even pulling his hands out of his jeans. His elbows are locked out and the length of his arms means his shoulders are raised quite some way. He could not be more uncomfortable looking if he tried, but he doesn’t say no and nothing on his face gives away that he wants to reject your proposition, either, so you’re the one to take that tentative first step towards the door. When you do, he follows. 

You left the store at least ninety seconds ago and still, neither of you have said anything yet. Honestly, it’s taking all you’ve got not to just burst and let it all out; it’s building and building and your stomach feels tight, but it’s less of a knot and more like a tightly-coiled spring. His eyes are dipped to the ground, incredibly aware of every step he takes, in what you realise now are a gorgeous pair of platform boots tucked up beneath his baggy jeans. He’s at least an inch and a half taller than the last time you saw him. 

“Your friend,” Vernon starts finally, pausing before he continues.  “Is he always so… you know?”

“What did he say?” You ask, peeking over to him. Trust Chan to start getting —

He hurries to shake his head. “Nothing. He just… kept looking at me. In a weird way, like…”

“Like he knows something you don’t, and he’s not gonna tell you, but he wants you to know that he knows it anyway?” You supply.

“Yeah— exactly like that.”

“Mm. That’s just… Chan.”

“Huh.”

“It’s worse when they’re together,” you say. He breathes out a chuckle and you feel his elbow bump into your upper arm. The distance he put between you when you fell into step outside the store has reduced, you realise now; you’re not sure when, or if it was on purpose. Did he move closer once you started speaking? Was it just so he could hear you better? Or…

Either way, despite being side-by-side, he still feels a hundred miles away from you. This isn’t enough.

“You get used to them, though,” you add, trying to stay on track. “I swear.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Jokes aside, he still won’t look at you for longer than a few seconds, which tugs at something deep in your chest. Discomfort clings to you, and even if it does seem like you’re making some progress, you can still feel unease radiating off him. A cheap laugh at the expense of your friends who aren’t here to defend themselves won’t fix that which you took a wrecking ball to a few nights ago. This needs to be heartfelt and genuine, and more importantly it needs to come out right. 

But when you open your mouth to speak, still searching your brain for the right way to explain why you acted the way you did, there’s nothing. 

How wonderful would it be for the perfect explanation to just tumble from your lips calmly and evenly, and for it to make everything okay? But the reality is that your throat runs dry as petrol fumes make their way through your parted lips. You hold your tongue again just a second later, sighing quietly. 

You’re starting to feel like a lost cause when Vernon breaks the silence for you, again. He slows his steps to a halt when he eventually says, “so.”

“So,” you repeat, freezing mid-stride as you go completely tense. It’s like you’re staring into oblivion’s wide open mouth. “I-… don’t really know where to start. I’m sorry.”

“The beginning’s usually pretty good?” He offers.

You nod. “How much did you want to know?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with telling me.”

If anyone on this Earth deserves a medal for their patience, it’s Vernon. You still haven’t turned to face him yet, your eyes fixated on the traffic signal some fifty yards away from you and you’re pretty sure if someone poked you too hard, you’d shatter into a million tiny pieces. But, as impossible as it seems all the while you try to get your thoughts in a reasonable order, you manage to swallow your nerves. 

It’s crunch time. It’s now or never.

The explanation you give him is messy. Disjointed. But once you start, it becomes difficult to stop: you end up sparing very little detail and circle back on yourself no less than three times. You tell him about how you were engaged and about the breakup, the run-in, your shitty date, gesturing with your hands to emphasise the most important parts. When you start to move again, Vernon makes his steps bigger until he’s walking alongside you. He never interrupts you. He acknowledges every sentence when you pause for breath. Encourages you to keep going when you fall over your words. 

“… and—... I guess I just lost my head. But it wasn’t your fault.” You swallow hard before you continue, “I’m… really sorry.”

He nods slowly, taking his time to digest everything.

“Don’t be,” he says, lightly bumping into your side. It’s a very small reassurance that he’s not going to walk away, but it means much more to you than you’re sure he meant it to. “I get it.”

“I—”

“No, like. I get it.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, only understanding when you catch the very pointed look in his eyes. 

“For sure.”

Of course, it makes sense. Vernon’s young. Attractive. Nice. Talented. He must have been with people before. Hell, you think he surely leaves a trail of broken hearts everywhere he goes. He gets it. 

“We dated for like… five? Years. Her name was Nari,” he tells you. 

A few seconds later, you watch him start to shrug off his jacket on one side and expose one of his toned arms to you. You’re about to tell him he doesn’t need to air his dirty laundry out if he doesn’t want to when he twists at his elbow; you catch sight of a tattoo you remember having seen the night he wore that black singlet on stage. Two lily flowers blooming up the inside of his bicep. 

It’s so pretty. Intricate. The line work is beautiful, the petals shaded with hundreds of little dots. You wanted to ask about it that night, but you never found the right chance, and now—

Lily?

It takes you longer than you’re willing to admit to join the dots, but when the penny finally drops, so does your jaw. Vernon slides back into his sleeve with a big, entertained smile and a little shrug. 

“Mhm.”

“Oh my God?”

“I know.”

It’s not that you’re laughing, per se. This isn’t your baggage to laugh at, no matter how unbothered Vernon seems to be by what he’s just revealed. But you do rub your hand over your face and cover your lips, shaking your head in disbelief as a breath that contains the edges of a bemused chuckle escapes you. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind; if anything, it appears to give him a boost to keep talking.

“I got that on our third anniversary,” he goes on to explain. “A couple years later… She called it quits. Turns out there was another guy. I thought about lasering it, but… apparently that hurts worse than getting the tattoo in the first place, so…”

“That’s…”

“It’s whatever,” Vernon says, shaking his head. “They’re my mom’s favourite flowers too. That’s what almost everyone else thinks it’s for.”

You haven’t looked back up at his face since the unveiling, not until now. When your eyes meet again, Vernon tilts his head in the direction you’re walking and continues down the street, spinning now so he’s walking backwards but still facing you. “I just mean... It’s okay. I get it.”

The moment you’ve caught up to him and you’re back by his side, he turns to face front, just in time to avoid a collision with a streetlamp. The lingering awkwardness starts to fade to nothing; you can see it in the way he holds himself, and you can feel it in the way you do, too. Everything relaxes. Your neck, your shoulders, your fists. It all ebbs away. 

“It really wasn’t anything you did,” you clarify once more. 

“So you keep telling me,” Vernon quips, tips of his ears turning pinker by the moment. “It’s okay, I swear. Do you want me to walk you home?”

You accept his offer and lead him down a side-street, picking up a completely unrelated conversation now to purify the air. Before you really know it (what was that everyone always said about time flying?), you come to a stop outside your building. Vernon’s sentence fades away when you stop moving; instead he stills, glancing sideways, and you nod confirmation at him with a lopsided smile. 

“This is me,” you say, reaching into your back pocket for your keys. “So…”

“So,” Vernon echoes, glancing around again. “Can I like, lay my cards out, real quick?”

You nod. 

“I like you.” He shrugs, now toying with the leather bracelet around his wrist. “Like, a lot. But…”

But. You feel like you should have seen this coming. But. But. Of course there’s a— 

“I’ve got some shows coming up out of town and I need to see some family, I’m not gonna be here from tomorrow for like, three weeks...”

Oh. 

Well. On one hand, it’s not what you thought. It’s not a flat-out rejection. It’s not a shut down. On the other? You bite the inside of your cheek and look at your hands, playing with your keys to keep them busy. Under any other lens, three weeks isn’t really a very long time at all. You’re pretty sure that the milk you bought yesterday is going to last longer than that. But three weeks… this early into things? 

That’s longer than you’ve even known him.  

“… and I thought, if you wanted — I could… take you out. When I get back. For real. Maybe.”

Oh.

“Like…?”

“Like… on a date,” he confirms, rubbing the back of his neck. “One where I’m not like… fresh off stage and all gross and shit.”

Relief replaces anxiety on both his face and yours when you let out a quiet laugh. 

“I’d really like that,” you say, twitching fingers suddenly still. “Yeah.”

“I’m not asking you to like, wait around, or anything,” he says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, fumbles with it, and just barely manages to soften the fall with the toe of his boot before it lands screen-up on the concrete. “We’ll just see how it goes. And it gives you some time to… deal with things. Whatever you’ve gotta do.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest as he bends low to pick his phone back up, smoothing his thumb over the small scuff on the protective case. It seems remarkably undamaged otherwise. 

“And if you’re still interested, then…”

“Interested?” You ask with a small grin. 

“Aren’t you?” Vernon asks.

“I—...” You think about playing coy, but when he’s been so open with you about where his head’s at, it feels so silly and childish to bother pretending. That playful ‘I might be’ gets swallowed back. Instead – “Yeah. I am.”

“Cool. Then we’ll figure it out. At your pace, okay?” 

“Okay.”

He grabs his earphones out of his other pocket, slides one in, and is about to step back away from you when you do something you don’t really expect yourself to. Something you’ve never done to a man you can barely even say you’re ‘seeing’. You close the space between you and, as if to lock in your words, push forward onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you,” you say when you fall back down to your heels. If he wasn’t so dumbstruck, you feel like he’d be about to ask what you were thanking him for; as it stands though, he’s frozen, blushing, and the only reason you can tell he’s still alive is because he can’t stop blinking at you. “For… giving me another chance.”

He still can’t quite find his voice, so Vernon just shakes his head, clearing his throat. (No need, he wants to say.) Alas, his lips just open and close soundlessly.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” you supply for him. He takes in a deep, mind-clearing breath and nods his head.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

You see the apples of his cheeks lift as he presses his thumb against his phone screen and restarts whatever song he was listening to when he walked into your store. A brilliant smile consumes his face. It only grows as he turns away from you and walks off down the street. 

For a second, you think it’s all very smooth. Movie-like, even.

Then, he stumbles over a crack in the pavement. When he glances back to pray you didn’t watch it happen, he catches you snickering into your fist. He shakes his head and continues on, leaving you to fumble with your key in the lock before you finally let yourself inside.

You overslept. 

Sort of. You heard your alarm go off straight away but you might have snoozed it, and when you heard it sound for a second time, you turned it off completely, telling yourself that you just needed one more minute. You just wanted to rest your eyes for a few more seconds. There wasn’t any danger of you going back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, you practically fell off your mattress in a panic when you realised that there had, in fact, been a big fucking danger. 

You were still able to wash up well and make it to work on time, but you had to sacrifice your morning coffee stop after seeing that the queue at the register was going to take too long. For years, you’ve refused to consider yourself to be the kind of person who relies heavily on a caffeine kick first thing in the morning, but today? It’s barely ten thirty and you’re seriously flagging: like you’ve never known what energy is, like you’ll never feel it again. 

(You blame the fact that when you first looked at your phone today before rolling back over, there was no ‘good morning :)’ text to entice you out of bed. But you’re trying really hard not to think about why that is, nor why it was such a deciding factor.)

So, when the bell above your shop door jingles and you’re forced to stand upright (a change your back doesn’t thank you for when it has to readjust from the previous hunched position you had adopted over the countertop), you groan quietly. Nonetheless, your tired eyes crease at the corners as you smile at whoever it is that’s come across the threshold.

After a second, your eyes refocus; when you can finally make out their features, it’s as if someone gives you a shot of adrenaline.

“Oh my God,” You say breathlessly, brushing your hair back and moving to stand up fully unsupported. “I thought you weren’t back until Friday?”

“Change of plans,” Vernon grins, scratching the back of his neck. “We drove through the night. I got home like… an hour ago.”

This is the first time you’ve ever seen him dressed down, and hell, does he look incredible. Gone are the ripped jeans, scuffed boots, the leather jackets and chunky rings. Grey sweatpants and an oversized white hoodie (alternatively: the brightest outfit you’ve witnessed him in thus far) drown him, blurring out his usually so distinct frame. You pin both of these things as the reasons you hardly recognised him when your eyes were refusing to cooperate. Paired with what Seungkwan would call ‘dad-sneakers’ and completed by messy hair and tired, soft eyes?

If you could jump his bones right here, right now… God, you would. 

“But hey, it’s nice to see you, too,” he adds facetiously.

“Quiet down,” you groan, fighting the urge to run over and envelop him in a hug. You’re not sure that he’d mind if you did, but you also don’t quite know if you’re ‘there’, yet. “Obviously it’s good to-...”

His arms, both of which have been stuck behind his back since he arrived, now move around to the front, revealing to you a takeout cup and a little brown box from the coffee shop down the street. 

“Oh, shit. It is so good to see you.”

Vernon laughs, coming closer until he can set them both down on the counter. “If it’s wrong, Seungkwan gave me your order, so.”

You start to wonder how on Earth your employee and your… Vernon managed to have this conversation without you knowing. Does Seungkwan have his number? Did they happen across each other on one of their socials? Did Vernon call into the store while you were out in the bathroom a little while ago and ask? But whatever happened, you quickly stop caring to find out: popping the lid off your cup, the aroma of your favourite coffee immediately fills your senses. It’s so overwhelming that you think you might start to cry.

“Oh my God. You’re the best,” you sigh, wrapping your fingers around the cup and taking a long sip, eyes rolling back into your head. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Vernon laughs, rolling up his sleeves before folding his toned forearms over his chest. “I got you a-... okay, they only had those gluten free brownies in, and I’ll be honest, I don’t know if they taste the same as the normal ones but… like, he said you hadn’t eaten today and I know you said you liked brownies before, — if you don’t like those ones, it’s okay! I can go back, it’s–”

He trails off, cheeks turning pink when you tilt your head to one side and feel your brow go soft. He asks, “why… are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re so cute,” you say, putting the cup down gently so as not to splash your drink all over the counter. 

“Huh?”

“You really didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” Vernon says, shaking his head. 

You almost definitely hear a floorboard creak and quiet shushing sound from just around the corner towards the back room. You don’t call out your eavesdropping friends for trying to listen in on your conversation, though: it barely even crosses your mind. Besides... you can’t take your eyes off Vernon, even if you wanted to. He looks so soft. Like he needs to sleep for a whole twenty four hours, and he must feel like it too, but he came here first. 

“So,” he starts, tapping his right thumb against the inside of his left elbow. (The reason why he came so quickly starts to become evident. He just couldn’t wait to ask.) “You don’t have to commit to anything right now…” The silver of one of his rings glints with every tiny movement. “…but, I was just wondering–”

Smiling at him over the top of your coffee cup, it feels like your heart could burst.

“I was just… wondering… if you’d thought any more about letting me take you out?”

You’ve been texting him almost every day since he left. He’s sent you a hundred and one pictures of statues and cool buildings and nice looking food and the sky, and far more animals than you think you’ve ever actually seen in real life. You’ve spoken to him about your strange customers. What’s going on with your friends. Sent him recommendations for songs that you discovered on obscure albums that you pulled out to play over the speakers. 

One night after one of his shows, he called you. He was a little bit drunk at the time, chilling in his hotel room with a pizza as he informed you that he’d snuck out of an after-party super early but couldn’t get to sleep. With an audible pout, he went on to confess that he was feeling kind of lonely, that he just wanted to hear your voice: one thing led to another and you stayed up talking to him until he passed out at nearly 4 o’clock in the morning.

To put it simply… 

“I’d still really like that,” you say. It’s incredible to you that you can see every one of his features brighten up. 

“Okay,” he breathes, unwinding his arms and pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants now instead. “Okay, cool. I’ll… text you later? We’ll figure something out?”

“All right,” you agree. “Now go rest up, okay?”

He laughs as he swears that he’ll go back home and get some sleep, and with that, Vernon takes his leave. You’re once again alone, but this time you have a drink that could only hope to make you feel as energised as he does, and a treat nowhere near as sweet as him. 

You aren’t complaining, though, and neither are the two men that miraculously reappear the moment the door closes again. 

The smile Vernon leaves on your face doesn’t falter for the rest of your day.

You suppose a big part of the reason you haven’t dated anyone in a while is because you can’t stand the ‘talking stage’. That weird little limbo where you’re never sure if it’s too early to make certain jokes, where you’re checking and second-guessing all your texts, where you can’t figure out if someone’s really into you or if they’re just blowing up your phone to pass the time. The awkward small talk. The ‘getting to know each other’ part. The ‘why haven’t they replied yet — was it something I said?’ anxiety. 

Thankfully, with Vernon, that’s not really something you have to worry about. 

While he was away, you learned that he’s the kind of guy who just spews random facts at you in the middle of his day and then forgets to check his messages for three hours. Sometimes those facts are interesting things about himself. Other times, you’ve known him to shoot you a text just to announce [ just found out tigers have striped skin as well as fur. wild ].

(On one such occasion, Chan caught you giggling at your phone in the middle of a quiet Thursday afternoon, zooming in on a picture of Vernon’s heart shaped birthmark. This put a swift end to checking your messages while you’re at work.)

[ btw, im allergic to peanuts ], he told you one evening. Completely unprompted, just after dinner time. You spilled half of your glass of juice down your front in panic when you put two and two together and scrambled to ask him if he was okay. [ near miss, dw about it! just felt important haha ], he replied, and your response was just a picture of your newly stained t-shirt and a request for him to never do that to you again. 

He can drive — at least, he has his licence — but he doesn’t have a car. He chooses public transport, and he tells you that it’s because he likes not having to worry about fuel prices and it’s ‘healing’ to zone out of reality on the train until he reaches his stop. He tells you that he came up with the melody and two verses of one of his favourite original songs on the bus to his parents house, and one time, he dropped a giant cockroach on a class field trip to the zoo because it tickled when it crawled over his palm and he didn’t like it. 

(You later discovered that this piece of information was triggered by the appearance of a large bug in his shower.)

Last night, as you settled into bed after a whole evening of back and forth, he told you that he has all five of the top scores at the piano game in the arcade downtown, and that he has an approximate 75% success rate on claw machines. When you replied saying you hadn’t been to an arcade in about two years, he was horrified. Enough to send 7 broken heart emojis back to back, as individual messages. [ shakespeare himself couldnt write a tragedy that sad ], he said. 

But, harrowed as he was by your admission, it did give him an idea. 

That idea is exactly how you end up standing side-by-side at a basketball shootout game on Friday night. It’s how he ends up winning one of those cute reversible octopuses — true enough, on a claw machine — which he gives to you immediately. It’s how you watch him hunch over a pinball machine for twenty five minutes before he loses his ball, how you end up tied after four games of air hockey, at which point he calls it quits while citing a ‘cramping hand’.

It’s also how you deliver his ass to him in not one, but two rounds of bowling.

“All right — all right,” Vernon laughs, holding both his hands up in defeat as your final ball takes out all ten pins at the end of the alley. “You made your point. Damn.”

You shrug your shoulders as you walk back in his direction, picking up your glass from the table and sipping your soda through your straw. 

(Though the arcade has an entire menu of cocktails, some of which you’ve never even heard of, the thought of navigating an evening alone with him under the influence of alcohol was totally unappealing after last time. Thankfully, Vernon agreed. You quietly think that being stone cold sober has made tonight even more enjoyable.)

“I told you,” you say when you finally sit down. He puts an arm around your shoulders straight away. Naturally, like it’s instinct. Like it’s a position he’s adopted a few hundred times before. “I’m undefeated.”

“We’ll see,” he says, tapping out a rhythm on the ball of your shoulder. “I still think you just got lucky.”

“So,” Vernon says once your leisurely stroll back lands you outside his place, kicking the toe of his left sneaker into the concrete. “What… are the chances that I get a do-over?”

You blink at him a few times, tilting your head. “What do you mean, a do-over?” 

Does he not think this went well? Gods, it’s probably the best first date you’ve ever had, but what on Earth else could he mean by that? Did you say something earlier, and not realise? Has he not had fun? What does he m–

“I got these new coffee beans,” he says. “While I was away — and I figured something out with the-… the machine? So— ”

Ah. There he is.

You smirk at him, patting the outside of his bicep and rolling your eyes. When you glance down, Vernon is pulling out his key, thumbing over the ridges down the one side. He reaches for the door, happy to take your teasing as confirmation that yes, you’ll come up. Yes, he gets his ‘do-over’...

…but leave it to you to fall for the world’s dorkiest rockstar. 

As he slips the key into his apartment door, there’s a steady pressure against the small of your back: the same one that’s been there ever since he gestured for you to step out of the elevator before him. One of his palms rests over the fabric of your t-shirt and you feel weirdly tingly because of it. He gently guides you inside once the door falls open and doesn’t move away when it’s locked again behind him. 

With an anticipatory shiver, you turn around to face him. You make a point to leave just a matter of inches between your chests. To have your eyes soft, patiently waiting.

Vernon’s hands are - for the first time ever - cold when his fingers hesitantly come up to either side of your face, tilting your head up so that he can see you better, unobstructed by any shadows. You gasp at the contrast between them and your flushed, warm cheeks. He swallows thickly at the sound.

“Is this… okay?” he asks, gaze darting between the space separating your eyes from your lips. “We can slow it down, if you want. I just—...”

Your own hands find home against his chest in response, fingers curling into the muscle beneath them. Not harshly, definitely not so much that it could hurt — just enough that it makes him puff himself up a little bigger. Enough to make him square his shoulders as he drags a thumb over the corner of your mouth. 

“Vernon,” you say quietly, pressing him backwards. Balling his t-shirt into your fists, you send him stumbling over his own feet before his shoulders find the wood of the front door. A quiet grunt escapes him on impact, but he just holds you closer. “Shut up ‘n’ kiss me. Please.”

Clumsiness aside, the moment he obediently ducks his head and presses his smiling mouth to yours, you feel weightless. Even when you tilt forward onto your toes to meet him halfway, it’s as if you’re not even touching the ground anymore: clouds beneath your feet have you floating. Everything about it is so very different from the last time.

It’s so much easier. Not just for you, either – you can feel it from him as well. Your collective baggage has been left out in the hall, barricading the door, shutting out the hesitation and nervousness and leaving you together, wholly alone, to just… be.

Vernon gets increasingly more brave as the seconds tick by. When you separate for air, his head tilts the other way, lips a little parted, hot breaths fanning over your skin as he meets you again, and again, and again. It’s the perfect give and take. Firm one second, waiting for you to chase him the next. The soft sounds he starts to make are amplified as his tongue presses against your bottom lip: he tests the waters, groaning into the heat of your mouth when you so happily invite him into it. He drinks you up for all you’re worth. 

One of your hands uncurls from his chest and moves up to his head instead, threading into his hair at the top of his neck. It feels just as soft as it’s always looked, sliding through your fingers. A gentle pull makes him whine. He draws away from you. His lips are pink and shine with the gloss you touched up in the elevator’s mirror, his lids are heavy, his pupils blown, and looking up at him feels like staring into the sun; you physically can’t keep your eyes open, but it’s so hard to look away. 

You tuck yourself into his neck as a compromise, laying gentle pecks everywhere you can reach. His aftershave leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as you touch the tip to a stretch of skin just beneath the harsh cut of his jawline, but the way he shudders and drops his hold down to your waist makes the sting in the back of your mouth all worth it. You only stop when one of his hands sinks lower still and he squeezes at your ass, making your eyes roll back.

He mistakes your surprise for hesitation, though.

“Is this… okay?” he asks, tipping his head back and pressing his crown into the door. Though he doesn’t withdraw his palm from your backside, he also doesn’t pinch at you again. You press your hips backwards, pushing into his touch to encourage him, with this green light he starts to knead at your cheek over the top of your skirt.

“You have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands to myself around you, do you?” You say, slipping one up the hem of his t-shirt as if to prove your point, splaying your fingers out over his stomach. 

He takes a shallow breath, hovering with it in his lungs, holding back from saying something. You get there before he can.

“I want you,” you say certainly, pulling back from where you’ve been nestled into his shoulder so that you can look him in the eyes again. He releases that breath and his face flushes when his eyes find yours, moving both of his hands back up to your waist, tightly gripping at you as if his life depends on it as he nods. 

“I just… I really don’t wanna mess this up,” he adds quietly. “I—”

When you kiss him again, hoping to further assure that you’re just as into this as he is, he reciprocates, sure. You can tell straight away that there’s a little less bite though — a stiffness to him. He doesn’t relax into you the same way he did a few minutes ago. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, falling back onto your heels. Is this because of the way things went last time, or are you going too fast for him? Selfishly, you hadn’t considered that could be a barrier. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want, you know that right? It’s okay.”

You make to step away from Vernon, unwinding your arms from around him to give him some space but he refuses to let you go too far. His hold on you is just as firm as ever.

“Trust me, I want to,” he says. “It’s just–...”

You stay silent, waiting for him to finish. He chews at his bottom lip, his blush deepening right in front of your eyes. To try and steady him, you lay one of your palms over each of his biceps, saying, “Whatever it is – it’s all right.”

“I just… haven’t been with anyone since…”

And when you laugh, it’s not at him (at least, not for the reason a fly on the wall might initially assume). You drop your forehead down onto the muscle of his chest, feeling his heart’s erratic rhythm underneath his clothes as you loop one arm back up around his neck.

“I thought you were about to tell me something awful,” you chide him through your giggles, lightly swatting at his shoulder. He starts to loosen up beneath you, his own body beginning to shake with laughter too. Those strong arms pull you flush against him, the gentle shift of his weight from one foot to another rocking you both side-to-side. “Like– like you were secretly married or you realised you didn’t actually like me, or something. Jesus.”

He stays quiet for another few seconds, but even without speaking, you can feel how he shakes his head above you. You look back up at his face and brush his hair out of his eyes, fingers lingering on his brow when you’re done.

“It’s okay,” you tell him for the third time. The last wisps of anxiety start to fade from his eyes, replaced with the same look he’s been wearing since he showed up at your apartment door earlier this evening. “I don’t care — I promise, I’ll go easy on you.”

The kiss that follows lands hard and with it, Vernon succeeds in wiping your brain empty. You can barely remember what you were even giggling about a few seconds later. 

“Don’t want you to go easy,” he insists against your lips. Then, he’s wallowing up your breathy sighs as he licks into your mouth again, pressing your tongue with his own, reminding you that he’s absolutely not incompetent, just rusty. 

When you make it into his bedroom, confessions and various articles of your clothing forgotten out in the hallway, you separate from each other long enough for you to be able to to lay one hand on his bare chest and push him down onto the mattress. He bounces on the foam and pushes up on one elbow, watching as you sink down to your knees and press kisses down his stomach while your hands deftly take care of the button on his jeans. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” You say to him as he lifts his hips up and lets you pull both his jeans and his boxers down in one sharp movement. 

“M’not gonna want you to,” he laughs breathlessly, pushing a hand through his hair as he kicks the remainder of his clothes all the way off and nudges them away to the side. “But yeah. Okay.”

He looks so pretty like this and you can’t help but think he’s even prettier when the first time you curl your fingers around his length, his jaw falls slack and his fingers curl into the bedding underneath him. You drink him in and he watches you do it; your mouth is watering, desperate to feel him press down on your tongue, and you feel a pull towards him that you’ve never felt towards anyone before. 

“God,” you whisper, shuffling on your knees to get a little closer. 

“Okay?” Vernon asks. He tilts his head to the side and you nod up at him.

“Just… had a feeling you’d be…” you trail off, tugging a few times to feel its thickness in your fingers. Why are you mesmerised by it, a little? What the hell has gotten into you? “But it’s actually bigger, and—”

He laughs quietly and falls back onto the bed, crossing an arm over his eyes. “Shut up,” he groans. 

“Yes, sir.”

You lean towards him and gather saliva on your tongue, dragging it from base to tip before closing your lips around the head. He gasps softly and holds onto his next breath, angling his head back further; you give a satisfied hum and slide a little further down. 

The glide is made smoother by the spit your tongue left behind and that which mixes with his pre-cum in your mouth. As you start to bob up and down, some dribbles out past your lips so you start to move your hand, too, smearing the mess all over his cock. When it bumps the back of your throat — and on assessment, you realise there’s daylight between your lips and your fist — you squeeze your eyes closed and whimper softly, holding him in place while you adjust before you can take him deeper. 

“Fuck— just like that,” he gasps out in a shattered groan when you start to move a little more fluidly, no longer too intimidated by your gag reflex preventing him from slipping down your throat. Your hand and your mouth work in tandem to get him riled. Every sound he makes feels like someone injects lust straight into your veins. When you look up at him from between your dewy lashes, you ponder that you’d watch him fall apart from this angle a hundred times a night forever and still not get bored. 

Your jaw starts to ache from the thickness of having him in your mouth and the way he’s restraining himself from fucking his hips up to meet you tells you that he’s too polite to ask you for more. You suck harshly one last time before pulling away with a ‘pop’, using only your hand to pump his length as you shift down to gently suck one of his balls into your mouth. 

The sound he makes is so fucking melodic. You think he’s made a similar one before when he lifts into a falsetto, and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do right now. Knowing you have someone with such a commanding presence eating out of your palm could really do something dangerous to your ego. It’s a bit of a miracle, therefore, that you recognise his desperate tapping at your shoulder, but the second you feel it you settle back from him, looking up at his impossibly tense abs and his blissed-out face.

You catch on quickly and feel your features split into a grin at the realisation. When it takes him a second, you know it’s because he’s still trying to remember the mechanisms it takes to breathe. Bless his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pushing himself to sit upright and running a hand through his hair. “It-… fuck, that was so…”

“What happened to ‘I don’t want you to go easy’ huh?” you tease, resting your chin on the top of his left thigh, grinning up at him. 

“I’m gonna come if you keep going like that,” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief at himself. “And trust me — I want to, but…” He swallows hard. “Not yet.”

You nod slowly up at him, starting to get up off the floor. You stop in your tracks when he says, “I’ve gotta taste you first. Please.”

Maybe it speaks too much to the quality of some of your previous lovers, but his desperation takes you a bit by surprise. You blink at him, ignoring how your thighs burn with the position you’ve frozen in. 

“If— that’s okay?” He adds. “I’ve… been thinking about it? A lot. Especially since-”

“Shut up,” you breathe, finally standing all the way up. He shuffles back further onto the bed and you quickly move to straddle across his hips, one hand coming up to hold his jaw in place when you’re in place. “Of course it’s okay.”

You lean in for an impossibly needy kiss, only breaking away when you physically can’t breathe anymore. Vernon’s eyes flutter open at the same time as yours do and as you reach behind yourself with one hand to unclasp your bra, he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.  

(He tells you that you are no fewer than three times before you fall asleep a few hours later.)

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated. there's approx a scene and a half left for part 3 and then we're all done with this baby! stay tuned for that, coming soon.<3 p.s. no i will not apologise to jaehyun, this is what he gets for making me feel insane. thanks !

[appocalipse]

hii! i loved this idea, it was very fun to write it!!! thanks for requesting, ily ♥ | slightly suggestive!

“Steve.”

It's the third time he's asked if you're okay. Third time. You try not to laugh because you know he's going to be upset — he's seriously worried — but you are fine. It was just a little incident; you bent down to get your car keys and bam! Ended up hitting your head on the table as you got up. Hard.

It hurt, but that was it. No dizziness, nothing out of the ordinary. But Steve? Oh, Steve is certain that you have a concussion, keen on getting you checked properly for any side effects. It's hard to convince him that you don't need to go to the hospital.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Three is the right answer, but you're feeling playful. “Fingers?”

He knows you well enough that the shock on his face doesn't last long.

“Y/N.”

“Three, baby," you smile innocently. "I'm feeling okay, I swear.”

You're sitting in one of the dining room chairs (after your boyfriend's insistence) with Steve crouching between your legs so that his face is about the same level as yours. He has a big hand gently resting on your cheek and his eyes are filled with worry, frantically searching you for any sign of pain or discomfort. “Do you feel dizzy at all?”

“No,” for the fifth time. “I think I should-”

Before you even start to get up, Steve's hand is already sliding to your shoulder and holding you in place. "You can't drive like this."

“Steve-”

“What if you have a concussion?”

"I don't!"

He thinks for a moment, clearly not convinced. “What's your mom's name?”

To put him at ease, you get it right this time. The next one — when is your birthday? — too. The third one is where you draw the line.

“The first thing I told you this morning?”

You lean forward and place your hands on the back of Steve's neck, brushing your nails over his skin and bringing his face close to yours. “I don't know. You were naked, so I wasn’t paying too much attention.”

“You, you-” Steve turns red. He smiles, momentarily distracted from his concern. "That's not fair."

Smug, you kiss him — soft lips pressing over his slowly, teasingly; then with more intensity, tongue touching his lower lip…

Steve moans, hands sliding from your face down to your hips before he pulls away to straighten himself, leaning over to you — all too breathy, all too tempted when your lips chase after his.

He chuckles affectionately, thumbing at your lower lip, “Damn you, woman.”

[tieronecrush]

all i need to hear

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M

word count: 5.1k

summary: part II to 102 -- frankie lies to you to get out of your weekly meetings when he needs space. when you confront him after finding out, everything comes to a head.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor, osito), use of spanish, unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use, triple frontier boys teasing you, lying/deception, mentions of substance abuse

a/n: thank you everyone who wanted a part 2, and thank you to the lovely @cannolighost for beta reading <3

Frankie runs his thumb and index finger through the condensation on his glass, the foamy amber liquid downed halfway despite only getting it dropped off at the table a couple of minutes ago. His leg bounces under the table, half listening to the conversation happening around him at the round booth. Pope, Will, and Benny sit around the table, all with drinks of their own and chatting about Benny’s fight last week. His leg bounces under the table, but he keeps his eyes on the area of the table to attempt to tune into his friends around him. He can’t focus on what they're saying, hearing the words and not connecting them into sentences, and his mind races as he glances at the front door of the bar & restaurant. He can swear he feels the tick of his watch against his wrist, in time with his pulse. A hand lifts his cap off his head, running his fingers through his hair from front to back three times.

The doors moving in his periphery catch his attention. He stands when he sees you, raising his arm halfway in a short wave when you look around the bar for the group.

When you notice him, that sanguine grin of yours stretches across your face and crinkles the skin next to your sparkling eyes. His palms get sweaty at the sight of you nearly gliding through the restaurant, noticing people’s stares being drawn to you. You always managed to brighten every room you occupied effortlessly; he’s watched people sink at ease around your presence, just like you do for him every time he sees you or hears your voice, or feels the warmth radiating off your body and your smile.

The complete opposite of his shy diffidence.

A positive attraction to his negative.

Like those magnets on the North Pole and the South Pole that create a magnetic field, the energy between you two is constantly charged. At least to Frankie, it was; he couldn’t pull himself too far away when you were around.

He grins back at you, one side of his mouth reaching higher as you approach the booth. Your hand reaches up to tug a loose hair behind your ear and Frankie’s fingers itch to do the same on the other side.

“Hey, Osito,” you giggle as he rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hold back a grin at the nickname you’ve dubbed him with since you were teenagers.

“Hi Solecita,” he draws you in with an arm around your shoulders, yours snaking around his waist to squeeze you against his torso before pulling away. The other guys greet you, half hugs leaning over the table and Pope giving you a kiss on the cheek like he always does. He’s teased Frankie about it before, and it used to annoy him, but now he sees it as a sign that you, his best friend from before, have been fully integrated into his found family.

Frankie gestures for you to climb into the booth first, everyone cheating around the round table to make room. It’s a bit of a tighter squeeze with five people, so when Frankie sits down, his knee rests against yours.

He relishes in the contact, resting his hand on the leg closest to you. Silent short inhales fill his lungs every time you shift slightly, the comfort between you two over the years making you completely ignore the seemingly accidental touches. They’re no accident to Frankie — his hand is glued at the spot on his thigh, the other hand around his glass squeezing it tighter with each brush of your jeans.

Conversation turns to making plans to go see some new blockbuster comedy, all of the guys agree to a showing on Monday night. Santiago extends the invitation to you, and Frankie turns his head as everyone waits for your answer.

“I actually can’t make it, I’m sorry guys. You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

“Well, Miss Popular, where are you gonna be?” Benny asks, a corner of his mouth kicked up and a wink sent your way. Frankie turns, rolling his eyes to himself as he takes a swig of his second beer.

“Um, I’ve got a date, actually,” you admit slowly, and as each word leaves your mouth, Frankie feels his body temperature increase. With his glass still as his lips, he downs the rest of his drink and gingerly sets down the empty cup. Pope eyes him with a sympathetic gaze directly across from him.

“A date? Damn, Sol, who’s the lucky guy?” Benny grins at you and Frankie tenses, shifting to sit up straighter on the leather bench. Heat burns at the nape of his neck from Benny’s casual use of the nickname he gave you years ago; it’s become your call sign for the group, but he can’t help the flickering flames of jealousy every time he hears it. They’re only brighter from the mention of your date; it’s like gasoline poured over the fire, a burst of blazing warmth rising up his throat to blister his esophagus.

“His name’s Tristan. We’ve gone on like four dates so far?” You glance around the table as silence falls over the guys. With one look Frankie can tell what they’re all thinking, an involuntary chuckle slipping from his lips and shaking his shoulders. Your head immediately turns to him, confusion clear on your face.

“What? What am I missing?” You snap back to look at each of the other men, a disbelieving laugh escaping you, trying to play into whatever the unspoken joke is.

“Tristan? That’s really his name?” Benny asks with a baffled smirk on his face, eyebrows raised. Santiago explodes in laughter, the infectious sound roping in the rest of the guys. Frankie joins in quietly, glancing over at you and biting his laughter back when he sees your adorable pouty expression.

With a huff you cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes. “Y’all are a bunch of dicks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sol. You have to give us some slack, the guy’s name is Tristan. What kind of name is that? He sounds like he’s like a personal trainer that creeps on women in the gym.” Santi says through his wide smile, shaking his head.

Benny gets even more of a kick out of Pope’s joke, adding to it, “Or sounds like he should be rolling up on a skateboard and asking if you want sativa or indica.”

A guttural groan comes from you and Frankie smiles softly as you bend forward to rest your elbows on the surface and bury your head in your hands.

He’s living for the guys ragging on this dude, but a larger part of him wants to make sure you know it’s only teasing.

“Alright, alright, give it a rest, pendejos.”

He lays a hand between your shoulder blades and rubs a slow circle, giving you an empathetic, tight smile when you raise your head. Frankie’s eyes drop to where you’ve placed your hand on his knee, patting twice before laying it back in your lap. Your touch has eased the burn of jealousy in him like a cold bucket of water thrown over his head and shocking his system.

“Frankie’s right, we shouldn’t be so judgmental just from his name. Even if it’s a little ridiculous,” Pope grins and Will shakes his head, cutting him off before he can attempt to crack any more jokes.

“Just tell them to shut the fuck up whenever you want to, Sol. They’ll actually listen to you, not Fish,” he nods and grins at Frankie, turning his gaze back to you, “So what’s this Tristan like?”

It’s been a few more hours, and you have not stopped bringing up Tristan at every chance you get now that the news was broken to the guys. Little things like Santi ordering a new beer from some local place, “I just went to that brewery with Tristan”, to something that Frankie certainly didn’t need, and desperately didn’t want, to know. Benny being Benny had brought up the third date rule, citing some conversation he had with some girls who work at the gym where he asked if girls have the same thought about the third date as guys. The younger Miller had turned the question to you, asking if you’d followed the third date rule with the new dude. Immediately flustered, you scrambled and Will stepped in, smacking his brother over the head in reprimand.

“Can’t just ask someone shit like that, Benjamin. God, you’re getting more clueless the older you get, I swear.”

It’s dropped after that, but Frankie is stewing inside over the fact that you hesitated. Being friends for years, he knows you would have shut Ben down immediately if nothing happened between you and Tristan.

He checks the time on his phone, thankful for the excuse he has to get an early night. Gently hitting his fist against the table, he grabs everyone’s attention and moves to stand from the booth.

“Gonna head out, got that early morning meeting for my hearing shit tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait! Do you mind giving me a ride? Sorry, I meant to ask earlier and totally spaced,” you smile sweetly at him, the look in your eyes saying ‘I love these guys but please don’t leave me here alone with them’.

Screaming at him, the voice inside his head tells him to say no, that he will just end up feeling worse than he already does if you bring up the other guy with no one else around to listen for him, but when he looks at that face that seems to always melt his resistance, his lips stretch into the softhearted smile that he reserves for you.

“Don’t mind at all, Solecita. C’mon,” he reaches a hand out, grasping yours when you take the offering, sliding out of the booth and turning to say your goodbyes to his friends still sitting. Frankie sends them each a nod goodbye, the lazy raise of his hand in a wave. He clocks the look that Pope gives him, his eyes saying wordlessly, “Do it, cabrón.”

Frankie strides next to you, walking a step ahead to his truck. You catch up with him at the passenger door, a light laugh breathed out as you speak.

“Geez, Frankie, you’re walking like your ass is on fire.”

He mumbles an apology, opening the car door for you and helping you up with a hand. It’s quiet on the road, the low hum of the radio filling the dead space. Franke’s suddenly the poster child for proper driving, sitting up rigidly straight, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, and eyes trained at the road in front of him, only flickering to check his mirrors.

He doesn’t dare look at you when you adjust in the seat, the swoop of movement in his periphery. Never thought it would happen, but he is incredibly grateful for his interrogation training, being able to sit in droning silence without succumbing to the need to break it. You, however, don’t have the same steal as him and decide to fill the pin-drop quiet with your plans for the weekend. Including seeing Tristan.

No physical reactions give him away, but the thought he has makes his insides roll like the barrel of a wave, crashing over and dissipating nervous energy throughout the rest of his body. 

Your voice fades into the background of the buzzing in his ears as he pulls up to your house, his eyes flay from the reach of the headlights in front of the truck and he looks over at you with a rosy, cushioned smile that he wants to fall into.

“Thanks for the ride, Osito,” your hand reaches across the center console, knuckle of your index finger lightly knocking against the stubble of his chin, “See you Sunday?”

The skin there burns reddened, hidden by the darkness of the car. All his frustration, at himself, at the situation, at you (albeit, misplaced, but still there), sits in his chest, fueling his spiraling thoughts that corkscrew into one decision. The words spill from his mouth before he can fully think about them.

“I can’t make it on Sundays anymore, or at least for a while. My, um, my NA meetings that I go to, y’know the ones closest to my place that are run by my sponsor? They got moved to Sunday mornings cause some church group needs the hall on Thursday nights now.” Eyes averted from you, he only glances lightning quick to see you visibly deflate in your seat. Guilt creeps across his skin, the disappointment evident in your face but you stay silent in your feelings, never going to ask him to do anything that would possibly affect his sobriety.

“Well, maybe we can chat next week and figure out another day that could work?” Moon-eyed with a stunted, mirthless quirk of your lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you later this week, Solecita.”

“Alright, um, probably should head into bed. Night, Osito. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“Will do. Night, mi mejor.”

He sends you as loose of a smile as he can muster, idling at the curb to make sure you get inside your door. The engine revs when he pulls away, letting out a large exhale that he was holding in.

Maybe with some space, he can finally move on.

TO: Frankie 🧸

Hey, any chance you have a few minutes to talk? Got a little bit of time on my lunch left.

Can’t, sorry Sol. At work, don’t have lunch for another 1.5 hrs.

No worries! Call me when you’re off?

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Sorry I missed your call

About to go into another meeting with my lawyer, talk later?

Sounds good! Call me whenever

Hey, how’d the meeting go? Have time to chat?

TO: Frankie 🧸

Sorry to bother, do you have a couple minutes to talk? Just feeling a little meh after work today

Fuck

Sorry I missed this Sol

Guys dragged me out to celebrate my hearing getting scheduled for next month

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Hey Sol

Guess what

Did something you’re gonna hate

Francisco what have you done??

Got a haircut for my hearing

I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY WRONG

God, you’re such a dork

I forgive you for cutting your hair, it’ll grow back

How’s the license stuff going by the way? Haven’t gotten to hear about it from you!

TO: Frankie ​​🧸

Ran into Ben and Will at the grocery store

They said you need some character witnesses for your hearing?

I’d do it for you Osito

TO: Frankie 🧸

Everything okay? We haven’t talked in a while

Just wanted to check in with you 🩵

I miss you

It’s been an adjustment to have Sunday mornings free.

Normally you’d sleep until the last minute before you needed to get out the door, throwing on whatever clothes are clean and cozy, stopping for coffee on your way over to the park to meet Frankie. It was always early enough that there weren’t too many people, but consistently late enough to not be caught by a creeping dawn. Some of your favorite mornings with Frankie had been the ones where both of you still met in the pouring rain, parking right next to each other and him running out of his car and quickly over to the passenger seat of yours.

These days, your Sunday mornings have been quiet. Slow. No scramble to get out of bed on time. No feeling of warmth radiating off of Frankie. No sunlight wrapping you two in its embrace. No smell of Irish Spring soap, mint toothpaste, or his cologne you’d helped him pick out before a date years ago — notes of black currant, bergamot, patchouli, and birch that waft from his sweatshirt and tickle your nose, placating any anxious thoughts with one hit.

No, Sundays now are waiting. Waiting for the morning to be over to move on from the ache in your heart. Waiting for a message or a phone call from Frankie. Waiting for the word that his NA meetings have been moved back and your sacred routine can begin again. Waiting for the day that you don’t have to miss him anymore.

This week, you decide not to wallow at home. It will be a productive morning or at least a distracting morning; there’s a bookstore on the other side of town from you, close to Frankie’s, that you have been meaning to make a return at. You thought you would do it the next time you were on your way to his house, but with the way things have been, that day is further and further away. And you only have another week left, according to your receipt.

Rubber soles of your sneakers shuffle against the pavement as you walk down the street, taking in one of your favorite areas of the city that you haven’t visited in a while. You cross your arms over your chest, pulling the flannel jacket you’re wearing tighter to you to block out a chilled autumn breeze. The sun is shining, and it hasn’t quite dropped to an uncomfortable cold, so there are still tons of people milling about along the street. The cafe next to the bookstore even has outdoor tables arranged, and as you approach, the sight at one of them stops your feet from moving and glues your eyes to the spot.

Frankie is sitting in the sunshine, coffee in front of him, and Santiago across from him. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you check the time to make sure you weren’t off in your thoughts.

Yep, definitely should be in his meeting.

God, if only the sidewalk could swallow you up, leaving you to never have to face this. Why isn’t he in his meetings? He should be showing up to everything he can to prove that he’s sober for his license hearing. He would be a fucking idiot to mess that up.

Another thought crosses your mind, bubbling in your stomach and sending bilic, steamy breath to burn your throat as your newfound rage cooks you from the inside out.

Does he even have meetings on Sundays? Was he avoiding you? Lying to you?

Frankie would never do that to you. He couldn’t. He was your best friend. Your Osito. You were in lo—

No. No spiraling. No wasting any more energy on chasing your tail about him, feeling like a lost puppy begging for attention.

Instead, your anger forces your feet forward before your brain catches up, crossing the yard-width sidewalk and standing right in view of Frankie, next to Santiago’s chair. He looks away from Pope, the grin on his face dropping as soon as his eyes register that it was you. Mouth ajar, grip on his coffee cup tighter, and eyes wide —  embarrassed and apologetic.

“Are you skipping out on meetings or did you not want to hang out with me anymore?” Your eyebrows raise, glance darting to the side to see Santi sink in his chair. Frankie blubbers his lips, living up to his call sign as he gasps for air under your blazing vexation, “Y’know what, it doesn’t even matter, cause either way I can’t believe you. I’m so pissed at you. I thought you were better than this.”

“Solecita, wait.” He stands from the table and follows you as you walk away, tears stinging your eyes. You can’t even face him anymore, the fury inside ashing as it fades into icy dejection.

“No, Frankie, I can’t talk about this right now. I really don't even want to look at you right now,” he catches his hand on your bicep, turning you to face him as you stumble. He steadies you with a hand on your waist, the apologetic look in his watery brown eyes and the smolder of his touch making you step back breathlessly.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I really am, it’s just— you wouldn’t understand, I’m—”

You hold a hand up to stop him, shaking your head and attempting to cover the emotion in your voice, failing miserably when you open your mouth.

“Please, Frankie, I can’t,” you lock your eyes on your sneakers, blinking back your tears, “I need to go.”

Frankie doesn’t protest again, standing frozen on the sidewalk and watching as you walk past the table. Pope’s eyes flick up from his phone that he pulled out to keep his attention away from the private conversation. When you disappear around a street corner, his limbs loosen from their marbleized rigidity, sulking over to the small bistro table and sitting down in silence.

One of his hands drags down his face, his mind is willing away the tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Santiago looks at him with a grievance, clearing his throat and speaking bluntly.

“That was fucked up lying to her about that, Fish.”

Frankie glares, rancor jagged in his voice, “Obviously I know that. But I couldn’t sit there every week and listen to her brag about this guy…I want her to be bragging about me to her other friends. It’s not fucking fair.”

“You’re the one who stopped yourself from taking the chance to tell her how you feel. And you’re still doing it.”

“She’s probably in a relationship by now, I can’t just dump all my shit on her.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know if she’s even still dating the dude 'cause you’ve been avoiding her!”

That shuts Frankie up and makes him even more annoyed — mostly because Pope is right. And he fucking hates when that happens.

He stews for a taciturn minute; thoughts hastened in plotting. He runs a palm flat against the stubble dotting his chin, working his jaw side to side.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says it as almost a question before his brain is yelling at him to move, “I gotta go find her. Do you think she’s in her car yet? Fuck, I don’t even know where that is. Should I go to her house and wait if she’s not home? Do I drive around the city to find her?”

Pope chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he stands and claps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“I think you know exactly where she’s gonna be.”

It’s nearly midday now, the blinding autumnal sun casting short shadows in the trees as he jogs from the parking lot along the paved trails. It’s busy — way busier than when he usually comes here on Sundays. He’s dodging strollers, slipping sideways between groups of friends and families, juking with runners in the middle of their workouts. When he almost reaches you, he nearly misses his foot getting caught in the slack of a dog lead, lifting it in a skip as he calls out an apology behind him, either to the dog or owner, he doesn’t really care who hears it.

 Darting his eyes around the field, his ears are filled with the sound of his thumping pulse, blood rushing as loud as waves. He’s standing in the middle of the path, getting dirty looks and passive-aggressive comments, but it all falls away when he sees you. Sitting on the usual rock, arms hugging your knees to your chest and head bent to rest against the joints there. Inside of his chest, his heart is squeezed to mush, seeping into the deepest ache he’s felt between his ribs and down his vertebrae.

Never, in all your years as friends, did he ever hurt you like this.

And with what he has to tell you, there’s a possibility that he’ll never be able to make it up to you. That you’ll never want to see him again.

In spite of it, his legs drag him forward, paying no mind to those around him having to stop in their tracks or swerve to avoid him. He’s chartered on a course directly to you, climbing onto the stone quietly until a scrap of his sneaker catches your attention and lifts your head to look at him.

Fuck, you were crying. All because he was a fucking stupid coward.

No sound breaks between you two as Frankie sits next to you, a foot of space separating you. He picks up a small pebble that’s broken off the larger boulder, rolling it with his fingers before tossing it into the water and watching the ripple form and dissipate. After another beat, his head turns to you, your own stuck straight ahead.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I am so fucking sorry that I lied to you. My meetings didn’t move. And—and I promise I’m still going on Thursday nights. Still sober. Nothing like that has changed. I wouldn’t do that to you—I wouldn’t put myself back in that place after all the help you’ve given me to get my life back…”

Your voice is thick with sadness when you respond, eyes trained ahead on the water, “So, why did you do it? Why did you lie? Why didn’t you want to see me anymore? I’ve been trying to think of something that happened, something I did. What did I do to drive you away?”

“No. Please don’t think like that. You did nothing, Solecita. Nothing. It was something I didn’t do that made me put space between us. It was a selfish thing to do, and I am so sorry that I did it.”

“What didn’t you do? I can’t think of anything I expected of you. Well, besides our Sundays and being my best friend. You’ve been doing both of those for years.”

“It wasn’t…It wasn’t anything you asked of me, Sol. It was something I’ve been needing to do for years,” he swallows hard and sits up, squinting in the sunlight reflecting off of the rippling pond.

“I understand if you need some space for real after this. Or if you’re angry, or if you wanna just get up and leave. I’ll understand.”

“Frankie, you’re kind of scaring me. Just tell me,” you rest a hand on his arm laying on his propped knee, tender eyes melting his heart, “Always here. Always, Osito.”

He takes a deep breath, nerves haywire, and shakes jolting energy throughout his body. He trains his eyes on his shoes as he begins the confession he’s held in for nearly as long as he’s known you.

“I’m…Sol—Fuck. I’m sorry. I want to tell you, I do, but the words are really not coming to me how I want them to.”

“Francisco Pedro Morales, just tell me. Whatever words are in your head are the right ones,” you lean closer to him, reaching a hand up to brush the hairs at his forehead that stick out from his cap.

His eyes close for a long minute, attempting to relax his galloping heart.

With no luck in calming down, he opens his eyes and turns his head to you, stare locking at yours as a meek voice leaves his mouth.

“I love you.”

You’re perplexed for a moment, eyebrows pinching together before a faint laugh slips out, “I love you too, Frankie. But…you’ve said that to me before. Like many times.”

“No, no I don’t mean — I’m in love with you, Solecita. I have been since…well, since about a month after I met you. You’re this—this radiant, lustrous, fucking dazzling, gentle, and gracious presence in my life that I can never stop thinking about. All I want is to see you smile, and hear your laugh…I want to make you proud of me. I would kill to protect you, even from myself, and stupid shit I do that hurts you. I want to be able to look at you when you walk into a room, and I see everyone fucking glued to you because you’re so shining and joyful and know that you’re mine. That anyone else could try, but I would know that you’re coming home with me, that you chose me. I would fucking worship the ground you walk on, cause I already do. Your word is like gospel to me. It’s like…you’re my true North in life, I just point myself toward you to be able to find my bearings and keep moving…I just, I fucking love you. Te amo infinitamente, con todo en mi. (I love you infinitely, with everything in me.)”

“And I know you’re with Tristan now, so I get it if you can’t—”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not with Tristan. We broke things off weeks ago. I broke things off weeks ago — when we weren’t keeping up with each other because I realized — I realized that I didn’t want him. He was a placeholder. And he could never live up to the person whose place he was holding.”

“Who’s that?” he says defensively, a puff of air leaving his lips in frustration that there’s yet another guy he needs to compete with.

“Que tonto, Francisco. (What a fool, Francisco.)” You shake your head with a creeping grin, the corners of your mouth slowly rising as your eyes sparkle in the sunlight. His own brow furrows in confusion until it clicks a moment later. His own smile matches yours, sheepishly hanging his head before he turns back to you.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, 'Oh.'” The trill of your laughter knocks up his spine and he rolls his eyes playfully, scooting closer on the cool stone.

“So…is this other guy you’ve been waiting around for just like, wickedly handsome? Es él todo lo que soñaste? El tipo de chico con el que te gustaría montar en la puesta de sol? (Is he everything you dreamed of? The type of guy you'd want to ride into the sunset with?)” He smirks, wagging his eyebrows as his eyes flicker to your lips. His pulse races with the real possibility that he’s finally going to get to kiss you, after all of this time and after imagining it in countless daydreams.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about riding into the sunset with him…but I have thought about flying into the sunset with him. Tiene alas para llevarme (He has wings to carry me). Anywhere.”

“Anywhere for you. Te llevaría a cualquier parte, amor (I would take you anywhere, love.)”

Frankie closes the gap between you two, one of his hands reaching up and holding your cheek in his palm. His lips press delicately, featherlight to yours as if he’s scared of breaking the spell with his touch on your skin.

You, always the more assured and decided, hold onto Frankie’s wrist near your face, deepening the kiss. It knocks the air from his lungs, every ounce of his breath is given to you as his lips begin to ebb with yours, tilting your head back to slant his mouth down. You pull away first, his head chasing after you. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you with a gentle smile, eyes twinkling with the dwindling sunlight. A silent laugh is shared between the two of you, a giddy, boyish grin on his face as his heart continues to race.

It’s you who speaks first, voice no louder than a whisper, as if you couldn’t dare share this moment with anyone else around you.

“I love you, Frankie. Always.”

“Siempre, mi amor. Siempre.”

tags: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @deathwife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif @meveispunk @bitchwitch1981 @marisemonteiroo @brittmb115 @axshadows @cannolighost @titabel @the-wrong-providence @wretchedmo