#white linen business

[the-merry-otter]

If you’re on mobile, you may have to click on the images for better quality!

Plain text version with image descriptions is under the cut.

Please note that the image descriptions will be reflecting what I am trying to convey with the photo, rather than the total look of the photo itself. For example if I am trying to describe a dress, the hair colour of the person wearing it will be ignored. This is to reduce the total word count of the descriptions, because I have a lot of images to describe. On this note, I have also streamlined the information as much as possible.

[Plain text description:]

First slide: Mariota’s Guide to 14th Century (Medieval) Women’s Clothing

This slideshow is brought to you by @the-merry-otter on tumblr

ALRIGHT LISTEN UP MOTHERS AND FUCKERS. I’m bored, so today we’re going to be talking about medieval clothing. Specifically fourteenth century English clothing because that’s what I’m good at. (Source: trust me bro I’m a reenacter). Also this is all female stuff - sorry masc leaning folks, I’ll get to you someday!

Disclaimer: this is not completely comprehensive or nuanced in the slightest, it’s just a quick overview guide. Do your own research xoxo.

[Image ID: to the left is a picture of a woman in a light blue dress and a pink hood gazing out at a lake. The hood has a skirt that falls over her shoulders, and there is along thin pipe attached to the back of the hood that dangles to her knees. The edges of the hood are decorated with burgundy crochet. The picture is captioned “beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, literal goals.” End ID]

[Image ID: To the right is a picture of a typical renn faire outfit. It has a white poofy underdress, a black corset, and a brown skirt. There is a red cross drawn over the image. It is captioned “very pretty, but definitely not medieval sorry!” End ID]

Second slide: Underwear (ooh la la)

Now with nasty pocketses

[Image ID: a picture of gollum, from lord of the rings, snarling in disgust. There is a line in The Hobbit where he asks Bilbo what he has in his nasty little pocketses, which is what I am referencing. End ID]

So, corsets, stays, and shapewear in general kind of wasn’t a thing yet. So your underwear was a shift, which was awesome because it was also your pajamas. They were usually made of linen, though some might have been made of cotton is you were rich.

[Image ID: A plain white linen garment laid out flat on the floor. It is a dress that hangs to about knee length, with elbow length sleeves. An arrow points to it with text reading “this is a shift”. End ID]

There is evidence for supportive shifts for busy support, like this one from the fourteenth century!

[Image ID: a second shift, worn by a female presenting person. It is laced up the front, and is a lot tighter and more fitted, especially around the bust. It has straps instead of sleeves. End ID]

There’s also this bra like fragment found in Austria, but that is a whole debate so.

[Image ID: A bra-like garment fitted to a mannequin. It seems to be made out of white linen, coloured with time. The left cup is damaged, and overall the garment looks incomplete. End ID]

Then, over the shift, yet under your main dress went your pockets, which tied on at the waist. Your dresses had slits do that you could get at your stuff without flashing everyone lol.

[Image ID: A picture of medieval pockets. They are upside down teardrop shaped, but the point is flat and is part of the waist ties. There are slits in the side up the top to access the inside. They are cream coloured with bright floral embroidery. The caption reads “these bad boys can fit so many cool pebbles.” End ID]

[Image ID: A young female-presenting person wearing medieval clothing. She has her hands in the pocket slits of her dress. They are just below hip height. End ID]

Third slide: your dress, or the cotehardie. (Pronounced coat hardy)

Over the shift you put your dress, sometimes referred to as either a kirtle or cotehardie. 14th century people started actually form-fitting their clothes more than previous centuries. These needed fastenings, which were mostly lacings (spiral lacings specifically), or buttons made of either metal or cloth, used at the front of the dress from neckline to waist, and on the sleeves from elbow to wrist, with exceptions of course.

(Sidenote: fuck sleeves, all my homies hate sleeves)

[Image ID: a woman in a warm yellow dress to the left of the text. The dress is constructed simply, with a single piece of fabric used for the length of the body so there is no waist seam. The skirt is widened by inserting four triangles, one each at the front and back, and one on each side. The front has buttons made of the same fabric as the dress, that go down to the belt at the waist. The sleeves have similar buttons from wrist to elbow, on the outside of the arm. The woman is also wearing a liripipe hood. End ID]

Dresses seemed to be mostly wool, though I often use linen for mine because I live in Australia and it’s hot in summer and I don’t want to die. Most often they weren’t lined (that is what the underwear was for).

[Image ID: in the top left of the slide is a woman wearing a green woollen dress. It is constructed the same as the previous image, except it has spiral lacing on the front instead of buttons. The sleeves are fastened by three small buttons. She is wearing a simple and veil. End ID]

[Image ID: the top right of the slide shows a woman in a teal coloured dress, similar to the one before. This one has metal buttons at the sleeves and down the front. She wears a veil only. End ID]

The neckline of these dresses was usually round or an oval shape, and some manuscripts have it so wide that it falls off the shoulders slightly.

[Image ID: A photo of a medieval manuscript, depicting six medieval ladies in a row holding hands. The neckline of their dresses is wide enough that the tops of their shoulders are visible. The image is captioned “me and the girls on a Friday night”. End ID]

Clothing was a lot more colourful than the movies would have us believe lol.

[Image ID: Three women, each in dresses similar to the ones before. To the left is a forest green, the middle one is bright saffron yellow, and the one to the right is a vibrant tomato red. End ID].

Fourth slide: Dress two; electric boogaloo

[Image ID: Merry and Pippin from lord of the rings. Above them, meme text reads “we’ve had one, yes”, and then continues below with “but what about second dress?”. End ID]

You could also wear an overdress, which was usually of a contrasting colour and had shorter sleeves.

As well as fashion, they would have been used for extra warmth, and so were usually made of wool.

[Image ID: a woman in a maroon coloured dress like the ones on the previous slide. The sleeves stop just above her elbow, revealing a blue dress underneath. End ID].

Common people would have only owned a couple of different outfits, as fabric was super expensive.

[Image ID: various pictures of women with examples of an overdress. They are all constructed the same as the overdress, but with shorter sleeves that reveal a second sleeve of a different colour underneath. End ID]

A common late thirteenth to mid fourteenth century overdress was the ladies surcoat, which had big holes instead of sleeves.

Belts would have been worn underneath the surcoat.

[Image ID: three photos of women wearing surcoats. They are normal dresses, except there is a large D shape cut out of either side, leaving a large hole from the shoulder to below the hip. They have no buttons down the front. One of the surcoats is made of red brocade, and obviously belongs to an upper-class impression. End ID].

Fifth slide: Hair and headwear

Hair was worn braided and pinned up, with a coif (cap) and either a wimple or veil, or both. The wimple and/or veil were usually pinned to the coif, or secured on a band of fabric around the head.

Veils would be either oval, or a D shape. Wimples were rectangular. A wimple goes under the chin and a veil goes over your head.

[Image ID: a close up of a woman wearing a wimple. It is made of a light fabric, likely silk. The wimple wraps under her chin and is secured at the back of her head. A narrow band of fabric or possibly leather circles her brow, which would have been used to secure the wimple. End ID.]

[Image ID: A picture of YouTuber Morgan Donner wearing a wimple and veil. The wimple wraps under her chin, and the veil is placed on top of her head, draping down past her shoulders. It does not cover her face. Loops of hair are visible either side of her face. End ID]

All the headwear would be made of linen, thin wool, or silk, depending on class. The veils could also be made really fancy by ruffling the front edge or by attaching pearls.

[Image ID: a woman in a wimple and half-circle veil. The edge of the veil that frames her face is elaborately ruffled. The edge of a coif is visible under the veil. End ID]

I ride the bus in my medieval gear a lot because of events, and way too many people think I’m Amish because of my veil. It’s honestly just funny at this point. I should keep a tally.

[Image ID: a woman wearing a St Birgitta’s coif, pinning a wimple at the back of her head. The coif is a simple white linen cap that encloses the head, with a line of lace down the centre of the head. It is secured with a loop of linen around the head. End ID].

[Image ID: a picture of someone with plaits that have been pinned around the head like a crown. It is captioned “you could also pin your hair up like this”. End ID]

Working women might have just wrapped their head in a scarf instead, fuck this fancy shit right?

[Image ID: a woman in a headscarf that has been twisted and then looped around the front of her head. It is captioned #girlboss. End ID].

Fake braids were a thing! Blonde hair in particular was very fashionable, and bleaching or fake braids were sometimes used to achieve that.

[Image ID: two fake braids made of a coarse fibre. They are blonde in colour, and are looped like a hairstyle seen on many of the reenactors. They have white ribbons attached to the top end to help secure them to the head. End ID]

Sixth slide: Cloaks and hoods

These would have actually been two seperate garments! Integrated hoods on cloaks didn’t actually become a thing until the … seventeenth century or so? (Citation needed).

Cloaks were a lot simpler than the typical cloak we think of nowadays. Often they were just a rectangle of wool, or by the fourteenth century, sometimes a half circle.

They were almost always wool as far as I know, and were generally fastened by a cloak pin or buttons.

[Image ID: a metal cloak pin. It is a circle with a small opening at one point. A long pin is attached via a loop, allowing it to slide along the pin. It can fit through the opening in the circle. To use one, you would gather the fabric on the pin, and then slot the circle over the pin and then turn it, so the fabric is trapped between circle and pin. This is much easier to demonstrate than describe. The picture is captioned “these bad boys are the real MVP’s though”. End ID].

[Image ID: a diagram showing the construction of the bocksten man cloak. It is a half circle pieced together by laying strips of fabric together. In the centre of the flat side, a half circle is cut out for the neck. End ID]

[Image ID: a reconstruction of the bocksten man cloak. It is orange wool, and lined with an off-white linen. It is fastened on the right shoulder by three fabric buttons. It would fall to just above the wearers knees. End ID].

Women’s hoods could be short and open, or with a longer skirt and closed with buttons. Liripipe (pronounced leery-pipe) hoods were named for the tube of fabric that dangled off the back of your hood, varying in length. As well as a fashion statement, it could also be wrapped around the neck like a scarf if it got cold.

Hoods were nearly always wool I’m pretty sure, though they were often lined with linen, silk, or cotton.

[General description: a short liripipe hood would be open, with the bottom only reaching your shoulders. They were made from a single piece of fabric that would wrap over your head, with the seam down the centre back of your head. It was flared at the bottom by inserting triangular gores. At the front edge near your face there would be a strip jutting out that went from one side of your chin, over your head, and down to the other side. This would usually be folded back, revealing the lining colour. The bottom of the hood could either just reach the base of your neck, or reach down to just past your shoulders. The former would usually be open at the front, with fastenings optional. The latter option with the longer skirt was almost always able to be fastened up the front with fabric buttons. The liripipe itself was a thin flat tube of fabric fastened at the centre top back of the hood. End ID]

Fun fact, 90% of why I decided to reenact the fourteenth century specifically was because of liripipe hoods.

Seventh slide: Feet (not in a weird way)

Hose were used to keep your legs warm. For women they were usually knee height, and fastened just underneath it with a garter or tie.

[Image ID: a single light yellow hose, belted beneath the knee with a leather garter. The seam is down the centre back of the leg going all the way to your toes, and then around the top of the foot in front of where it connects to your leg. End ID]

Hose usually would have been made from wool, and were cut on the diagonal (bias) of the fabric to get the maximum stretch possible from the fabric. They still were looser than modern tights are though!

Knitted socks were also a thing I’m pretty sure, but I don’t know enough about them. Sorry!

Shoes were simple, usually referred to as turnshoes because of how they were made. Fun fact: the lack of foot support means that turnshoes are similar to going barefoot in terms of how you walk. Some reenactors love it, some hate it, and some are indifferent lol.

[Image ID: a pair of turnshoes made of dark leather. They have a strap that would fasten around the front of the ankle, similar to some modern shoes. The toes are pointed, and it is captioned “pointy toes were fashionable, especially for men”. End ID].

Because shoes were really hard to waterproof, (ask me how I know), and didn’t have solid soles, wooden pattens (pronounced pat-tens) were worn to keep you off the ground while outside.

[Image ID: a person wearing a pair of wooden pattens over their shoes, standing on a drenched cobblestone street. They are wooden platforms with an archway on the bottom, and are attached to the foot with leather straps around the toe, ankle, and around the back of the heel, similar to modern sandals. The image is captioned “ye old crocs”. End ID].

[Image ID: a woman’s leg with the skirts drawn back, revealing the bright yellow hose underneath. It is fastened below the knee with a strip of fabric. She wears a turnshoe with a buckled strap. End ID]

Eighth slide: Accessories

These are a few other items that might have made up a working woman’s outfit.

Aprons would definitely have been used while working. One were just a large rectangle of cloth tucked into the belt, some were smocked to draw in the fabric. They generally stopped at the waist.

[Image ID: a woman in a red dress, with a very light brown apron. It is smocked at the top, and is attached around the waist with a string. End ID].

Pretty broaches and other jewellery existed! There was cheaper stuff made of pewter for the lower classes.

[Image ID: five gold brooches, studded with different jewels and pearls. End ID].

They had a funny sense of humour as well… and they weren’t all prudes.

[Image ID: a pewter broach of a cat carrying a dick and balls in its mouth. It is captioned “you can actually buy these. I know a website.” End ID].

Eating knives were worn on the belt, though it is debated whether women would have carried one. I do because I’m a modern fourteenth century woman.

[Image ID: a small knife with a wooden handle, laying on top of a leather sheath that has been dyed red. End ID]

Belts are a curiously debated topic. Some people reckon that women would have definitely worn them, others say they they weren’t used by women much at all. As far as I know there are depictions of both, so choose what you’d prefer. They are great for hanging stuff on I gotta say.

[Image ID: a coiled up brown leather belt. The buckle and tip are a gold metal, and it has decorative flower studs along its length in the same metal. End ID]

Pretty little purses would have probably been worn. I don’t know enough about them to say anything else though.

[Image ID: two different pictures of reenactors wearing purses. One is brocade and the other a red fabric. They are in the shape of an upright triangle, and both have five tassels hanging from the bottom edge. They hang off the belt with long drawstrings. Unrelated to the purses, one of the women is wearing a gorgeous orange liripipe hood, that is embroidered and dagged on the bottom skirt edge. End ID]

Ninth slide: Fancy Shmancy

There is a lot I haven’t covered, especially in the realm of the upper classes. Here is some of what has been missed. (Buckle up because this section is very image heavy. I will be as concise as possible).

Heraldic dresses! If you are interested, go check out Morgan Donners video on YouTube.

[Image ID: a picture of Morgan Donner in her heraldic dress. One half of the dress is red, and the other is green, except for where it has been cut out by white with an ermine pattern on it. Her hair is unbound and uncovered, except by a small flower crown. It is captioned “Morgan bestie do your hair properly :(“. End ID]

[Image ID: a drawing of two women in heraldic dresses. The first has a blue right half with a yellow printed design. The top left of the dress is yellow with a blue fish, and the bottom left is red with a white fish. Her train is held by the second lady, who’s dress is blue on the right, and white with green birds on the left. End ID].

Fancy headpieces for rich bitches only.

[Image ID: a reenactor doing a high class impression. Her hair is bound up in Pearl studded hair nets on either side of her head like modern earmuffs, with a spiked coronet around her brow. She has a sheer silk wimple on. End ID]

Fancy dagged edged on hoods, sleeves, dresses, etc.

[Dagging description: where the edge has been cut away to make decorative dangly bits. One hood has red leaves around the bottom edge for example, and another just has a pretty geometric pattern. End description].

Brocade gowns! So pretty!

[Image ID: several different pictures of high class ladies wearing brocade gowns of different colours. These are similar to the wool dresses we were looking at earlier, but with longer trains, and often long draping sleeves. There is even a brocade surcoat. End ID]

Fancy sleeves!

[Image ID: examples of different long sleeves. On some, the sleeve is normal until the elbow, and then it falls away to a long strip of fabric that dangles to the ground. Not mentioned on the slide itself is tippets, which was a band of (usually white) fabric just above your elbow, with a thin strip of the same fabric that draped down to the floor. End ID].

Dresses that were two different colours.

[Image ID: examples of dresses that are exactly like the earlier wool dresses, except they are literally half one colour and half another. The manuscript example is a blue and red overdress with fancy sleeves, and the reenactor example is a yellow and green underdress with a red hood. End ID]

And of course, some of the funky fun fabric choices.

[Image ID: a manuscript depiction of a woman carrying a dead bird. Her hood is red and white striped horizontally, and her dress is dark and light blue striped, also horizontally. End ID].

[Image ID: a manuscript depicting a woman talking to a second lady in a chair. The dress on the first has horizontal stripes of white, red, yellow, and blue, repeated, and the second has horizontal stripes of white, pink, and light blue. Interestingly enough the latter colours are very similar to the transgender flag which would make a very cool dress project. Hmm. End ID].

Tenth (and final) slide: In summery

(Small red text below title reads “I hope you have enjoyed” with a drawn smiling face).

Dis you notice all the “usually” “commonly” and “often’s” in there? That’s because I cannot possibly illustrate everything that we know of the time in only ten slides, nor do I know everything, so I have just tried to show what seems to be the most depicted.

Note: I probably even got some stuff wrong by the way.

If you’re interested in this stuff, I really recommend doing your own research now! Hopefully I have given you a good overview of what a fourteenth century womens outfit might have looked like, so now you can go fourth and know what you’re looking for.

If you have any questions about costuming, reenactment, or anything else, feel free to contact me!! I respond on Timblr decently fast ☺️

[Image ID: a reenactor sitting on a log, staring into the distance with a slight smile. She is wearing a grey-blue dress, belted at the waist with a small purse dangling from it. She has a dark blue cape and a light blue hood, that has fallen back to show a ruffled white veil. There is a pewter broach on her hood. A leather turnshoe peeks out from beneath the hem of her dress. End ID]

A list of helpful YouTubers:

Elin Abrahamsson

Morgan Donner

Opus Elenae

Miss Joss (her instagram is more active).

Now go hydrate!!

[Image ID: a woman in fourteenth century garb drinking from a jug. End ID]

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Honey Girl.

Synopsis - The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the Universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 5.1k

Warnings - cursing. sexual content towards the end. mild alcohol consumption. age gap. smut in next chapter(s).

Author's Note - part one is finally here!! thank you so much to everyone who asked to be tagged, and who liked and reblogged the masterlist. i am SO excited to share this with you. i've built this world in my head and trust me it is gorgeous - salty ocean breezes, sunsoaked sailboats and billowing white linen shirts. i hope you can lose yourself in my little seaside town with bucky for the time it takes you to read this, just as i did while writing it. i can't wait to write more of this series for you x

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Masterlist. Requests. Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine.

Tethering /tɛð(ə)rɪŋ/

An event in which two soulmates are bound together forever. Only occurs when the Universe decides it is time. No sooner, no later.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The gentle ocean breeze gives you a moment of respite from the scorching sun that's beating down. You're half asleep, laying on the cool tile of your balcony when your phone rings.

"Babe! Babe! Babe!"

"Lacie? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I am freaking out right now, oh my god. I didn't know who to call. You'll never guess what just happened to me!"

You can guess. In fact, you already have.

Lacie's Tethering. It's finally happened.

You're taught, growing up, that your Tethering is the biggest moment of your life. It shapes who you are forever. Sets you on your eternal path. You're presented with your soulmate in a big display of love and affection and metaphorical fireworks. It's supposed to be magical.

You wish people would shut up about it.

The World seems to be split into two categories - the people that have been Tethered, and the people that haven't.

You fall into the latter.

You're repeatedly told it'll happen one day. It'll happen when the time is right. It'll happen when you least expect it.

You're not sure you ever want it to happen.

The idea that the Universe determines the person you're with forever has never sat right with you. What happened to free will? What happened to personal preference? You believe you should at least have a choice in the matter. It's your future, after all.

Not everyone shares the same sentiment.

"Babe, you still there?"

Lacie's excitement filled voice pulls you back to reality.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Are you busy? Can you meet me for coffee, like, now?"

You take a deep breath and plaster a fake smile on your face.

"Sure. I'll see you in ten."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Oh my god babe, it was just incredible! You won't even believe it. There's nothing like it, truly."

You remind yourself quickly that Lacie is your best friend, and that you owe it to her to be happy for her. Personal feelings about soulmates aside.

"Tell me all about it, Lace!" you encourage, grabbing a hold of her hand excitedly.

The blonde girl squeals before shuffling closer to you, pressing her knees against yours.

"Okay, so. Picture this. I'm at my gym, doing my usual routine. I'm wearing my super cute pink Lulu Lemon set, you know the one with the flowers?"

She waits for you to nod in affirmation before she continues.

"So, I accidentally drop a weight on the ground, and it makes the biggest noise. I'm super embarrassed, and I'm trying to pick it up, but it's so heavy. And then, the hottest guy I have ever seen appears. Like, seriously gorgeous."

As much as you despise the whole soulmate thing, you can't deny how happy Lacie seems. She's almost vibrating with it, bouncing up and down in her seat.

"He comes over and picks it up for me, sets in back on the rack. And then he introduces himself, and shakes my hand, and it happened."

"What was it like?" you smile, eager for her to carry on.

"Like fucking magic."

You've heard that before. A million times. From literally everyone. Surely it can't be that magical if billions of people have experienced it.

"Magic?" you prompt.

"It is indescribable, babe. It's like... it's like everything just falls into place. Like everything finally makes sense!"

She jumps out of her chair, hugging you tightly. She's practically sat on your lap in the coffee shop, but neither of you really care.

"So, what's his name? What's he like?"

"His name is Cameron. He's new in town, he just moved here for work. He's a personal trainer, so he's like, super fit. And gorgeous. Did I mention gorgeous?"

"Maybe once or twice," you laugh.

"I'm so happy," Lacie whispers, emotion choking her voice. "I can't believe it finally happened. This is the day I've been waiting for since I was a little girl."

You hug her tighter, and ignore the look you get from the barista.

"I love you," she declares, suddenly serious. "You know that me being Tethered now doesn't change that, right?"

"I know," you confirm. "I love you too, Lace. I'm really happy for you."

You genuinely mean it. Lacie has talked about meeting her soulmate every day since you met her in the 3rd grade. You may have never quite shared her enthusiasm, but you admire her passion. And you adore her, more than anyone.

"So, what now? Are you gonna get married tomorrow and run off into the sunset?"

"I'm choosing to ignore your sarcasm because I know you're using it as a coping mechanism," she tells you pointedly. "And I know that there's a tiny part of you that wishes you'd been Tethered already, so you don't have to deal with everyone talking to you about it."

Jackpot. She's read you like a book.

"No, we're not getting married tomorrow," she rolls her eyes before continuing, "but we are going on a real date tonight. We're gonna get dinner and get to know each other. Isn't this crazy? I'm going on a date with the guy I'm gonna be spending the rest of my life with!"

"That is kinda crazy, actually," you laugh. "What are you gonna wear?"

"It doesn't matter - we're going to be together forever anyway!"

You make Lacie promise to send you a picture of her outfit as you're leaving the coffee shop, which she agrees to with glee. On your way home, you pick up some of your Mom's favourite wine, and prepare yourself for another soulmate based conversation that will inevitably happen when you tell your parents the events of the day at dinner tonight.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Hi, sweetheart!" your Dad beams as you step through the front door of your childhood home.

"Hey, Dad," you greet, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. "Where's Mom? I brought wine."

"Kitchen," he gestures with a nod of his head. "She's making that mango dessert you like."

Walking into your Mother's kitchen is like dipping your feet into a pool on a scorching hot day. The windows are propped open, curtains billowing softly in the wind. The ocean breeze drifts through the room, ruffling your Mom's dress and floating the hair away from her face. The evening sun beams in, illuminating the space with a golden glow. It smells like fresh fruit, mint, and salt water. It's a haven.

"Hi, Mama."

"Oh, my love! Just in time. I was about to call you to see if you were alright."

She makes her way over to you and kisses you on the head swiftly, before walking to the cabinet to grab wine glasses.

"Sorry I'm a little later than I said. I changed my outfit three times - it's warmer than I thought it was going to be."

"I know! Summer, finally. We've been waiting long enough."

She takes the bottle of wine from your hand and pours it into the glasses.

"You've poured four, Mama."

"Didn't your Dad tell you? Bucky's joining us for dinner."

"Oh. No, he didn't mention anything."

"He's back from his vacation. He promised he'd show us all of the pictures he took!"

She grabs the glasses and floats out of the room, leaving you alone in the kitchen, thoughts of Bucky Barnes swirling around like dust in the sunlight.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

Your Dad's best friend.

They met a few years ago, when Bucky moved to town. He said he was looking for something quieter, sick of city living. He wanted to slow down a bit, finally take a breath.

He was out for a run around town, getting his bearings, when he stopped your Dad on the driveway to ask about his car. They bonded over their love for motorcycles and vintage vehicles, and the rest is history.

Bucky's been a regular fixture in your life for so long, you can't remember a time before. All you know, is that it was probably a little more peaceful. His boyish charm is infectious, bringing out the youth in your Dad. They're like teenagers, when they're together. Long lost frat brothers, your Mom jokes.

She's got a soft spot for him. Most people do. It might have something to do with the fact he's devastatingly handsome.

It's no secret that Bucky Barnes is a ladies man. He is without even trying. He's charming, gorgeous, funny in all the right ways. He's mysterious, but not disarming. Tough, but not scary. Rebellious, but not a liability. He's a catch.

A catch, with a taste for beautiful women.

Your Dad always jokes that he's the towns most eligible bachelor. You can't count on two hands the amount of women you know that have dated him - but nothing seems to stick. He isn't Tethered, after all.

Some people choose not to date, if they haven't met their soulmate. They wait and wait, and when the time comes, they're complete. Others take pleasure in dating before it happens. Might as well make the most of the freedom, Bucky said once. You can't help but agree.

Might as well make the most of the freedom.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Hey, buddy!" you hear from the hallway. You make your way out of the kitchen to be met with the sight of Bucky, sun-kissed and practically glowing. His hair has a few light streaks from the sun, and the faint freckles on his cheeks are more prominent now. His steel blue eyes meet yours, mischief rife in them.

"Hi, honey," he greets, draping an arm around your shoulders. He kisses you on the cheek, light stubble scratching your skin. You throw an arm around his back and look up at him.

"There's no way this tan is natural," you tease, nudging him slightly.

"It makes me even more gorgeous, doesn't it?" he jokes, winking at you. He squeezes your shoulder before letting go, grabbing a bottle of wine from his bag.

"I brought your favourite, Lori."

"So did I," you echo, laughing.

"Great minds, honey. Great minds!"

"You can never have too much wine," your Mom yells out from the kitchen doorway. "Bring it in here, Buck. I'll put it in the refrigerator."

"Yes ma'am," he obliges, making his way to her with a smile on his face.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Guess what happened today," you begin, in between bites of your strawberry salad.

The three of them look at you intently, urging you to continue.

"Lacie got Tethered."

"How exciting!" your Mom squeals.

"That's a long time coming," Bucky chimes in. You look at him and smirk.

"Tell me about it."

"Here we go," your Dad smiles. "Our two anti soulmate protestors."

"Don't make it sound so political," Bucky laughs. "She's the only one that gets it."

"I've said it a thousand times, and I'll say it again. Just. You. Wait," your Mom lectures. "The two of you don't get it."

"Magic, fireworks, eternal love, blah blah blah. Trust me, I get it."

"She gets it," Bucky echoes. "And so do I. The Universe decides our fate, and we get no choice whatsoever. I don't believe in it, is all. I have no faith in the system. I should get to choose."

"But you feel like you are choosing," your Dad defends. "It didn't feel like it was being determined for me. It's hard to explain."

"It's just so... backwards," you justify. "I can't believe we live in a Universe where we have all the choices in the world, but don't get to choose the person we spend the rest of our lives with."

"It's worked out pretty well for us," your Mom smiles.

And it has. The first thing anyone notices when they meet your parents is that they are undeniably in love. You've never met two people more perfect for each other - which should solidify your belief in the Universe, really. But it doesn't. You can't explain where your lack of faith in it came from. It just appeared one day, and you haven't been able to shake it since. You're grateful every day to have two Tethered, happy, smitten parents. You've seen how hard it is for people with Untethered Mothers and Fathers. The judgment, the uncertainty, the hushed whispers. It sounds unbearable.

"Yes it did," your Dad confirms, shaking you from your thoughts. He reaches for your Mom's hand and kisses the back of it tenderly, eyes never once leaving hers. You look to Bucky next to you, who smiles at you gently. Feelings about soulmates aside, the both of you love these two people sat across the table with all your heart.

"Trust me, sweetheart," your Mom begins. "I know you're against the idea now - God knows I was the same at your age. But when it happens, you'll forget about all of your rebellion. You'll just be happy."

You nod in agreement, praying for the conversation to be over. As if he can read your mind, Bucky pipes up.

"Let me show you some pictures from Italy. I did promise I would."

You shoot him a grateful look before picking up your empty wine glass and making your way to the kitchen for a refill.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The dining room is now lit solely by candlelight, wax dripping onto the white lace tablecloth like condensation on a cold glass. The sun fell asleep hours ago, the four of you enjoying each others company with no regard for time.

"Oh, shit. It's late," your Dad says suddenly.

"You got big late night plans?" you tease.

"We have Clara and Mike's wedding at the weekend, so we're flying out tomorrow. We should probably get some sleep, so we're not exhausted."

Your Mom rises from her chair and kisses you on the head, before grabbing the dessert bowls from the table. Your Dad helps, smiling every time his hand brushes hers accidentally.

"Thanks for coming, kiddo. Your place next week?"

"Of course. I think I'll try that salmon recipe you sent me."

"Can't wait," your Dad assures you, giving you a one sided hug. He squeezes you once before letting you go to grab your shoes.

You can hear your parents saying their goodbyes to Bucky as you tie your laces, smoothing out the skirt of your dress as you stand. They all join you in the hallway, Bucky leaning over to grab his jacket from behind you. Fuck, he smells good.

"Have a great time at the wedding, you guys. Send me pictures, please!" you say as you hug your Mom goodbye.

"We will! Drive home safe, the both of you!"

They shut the door softly, leaving you and Bucky stood on the porch. The evening air chills your bare legs, salt in the breeze sticking to your lips.

"Where's your car?" he asks, looking around.

"Oh, I walked. It was a nice day, and I'm trying to be a little greener. Save the planet, and all," you chuckle.

"You want a ride, then?" he offers, leaning against the side of his truck.

"Uh - maybe," you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You feel antsy, for some reason. There's a buzz flowing through your veins, making you a little restless.

"Maybe?" he smirks.

"I just, I'm not sure if I wanna go home yet. It might be that I've had three glasses of wine, but I'm kinda... jittery? Think I need to burn off some energy. Maybe I'll walk home."

"Like hell you will," he grumbles.

You quirk a brow in confusion.

"It's dark, and all those college kids are in town on their break. I don't trust 'em."

You fight to keep the grin off your face. You weirdly like it when Bucky gets protective. He's always so calm, so relaxed - it takes a lot to rile him up. He looks hot with a clenched jaw.

"Why don't we go somewhere?"

"Where?" you ask tentatively.

"I don't know," he thinks for a second. "How about the beach?"

You smile, gazing at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"I fucking love the beach."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The ocean waves break the shore steadily, the repetitive pattern calming you both. You're sat on the sand, grains slipping through your hands where you're pouring it out through your fingers. The light of the moon reflects off the surface of the sea, illuminating the abandoned cove. It's just you, Bucky, and the night sky.

The alcohol in your system has evened you out, warm buzz keeping you sheltered from the chill. Bucky's stretched out next to you, strong arms folded underneath his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a slither of sun kissed skin. You pretend not to notice his Adonis belt, or the little trail of hair that leads down into his waistband.

The silence is easy, comfortable. You don't get to hang out like this often, just the two of you. It's nice.

A notification on your phone breaks through the tranquility. You both flinch.

"Sorry," you mutter, checking the screen. "It's Lacie, telling me about her perfect date."

He chuckles lowly at your tone, sitting up to look at you.

"This is hard for you, isn't it?" he asks. "You hate the whole soulmate thing, but you like seeing her happy."

Bingo. It's like he's read your mind.

"I don't know why I hate it so much" you confess quietly. "It's a part of life. I can't avoid it. I just think - what if... what if I'm like, the exception, or something? What if I never meet my soulmate - or - what if I meet them when I'm like, seventy? That happens, you know! And then I'll be fucking cursed to spend my entire life feeling like this."

"And what is this?"

"Hopeless. That's what this is. I just feel pretty fucking hopeless."

You're not sure why you're baring your soul to Bucky tonight. You could blame the wine, but you know that's not what it is. Maybe it's because he seems to be the only one that understands.

"Me too," he whispers.

You whip your head around to stare at him in shock. He laughs at the look on your face, and continues.

"You're young - you have time. I'm forty in a couple of years. Every single one of my friends is married to their soulmate - except for me."

You bite at your lip nervously, but refuse to tear your eyes away from his steel blue ones. His face is lit by the glow from the moon, and it takes your breath away for a second. He looks almost ethereal.

"You always act so... unbothered. I didn't realise... I guess I just, I didn't -" you try to gather your thoughts before continuing. "This fucking sucks, huh?"

He laughs with his whole chest, and you're convinced the sound is so special, so rare, that you should bottle it. Sell it as medicine. It'd cure anything, you're sure of it.

"Yeah, it does," he agrees with a chuckle. "It's the waiting around that's the worst part. The unknown. It could be minutes, it could be decades. I just don't know."

"At least for now, we have each other," you joke.

"Every cloud has a silver lining, huh?" he teases, nudging you with his shoulder.

You allow your weight to press into his side a little, leaning in. He's warm, and he's familiar, and in this moment, he understands you better than anyone else in the world.

"We'll be okay, honey," he murmurs. "It'll all work out the way it's supposed to."

You close your eyes, and allow his words and the breaking waves to calm your nerves. Bucky wraps an arm around you, and all the tension melts from your muscles.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You're not sure if it's the honest conversation, or the brisk ocean breeze, but you've sobered up in record time. Your body registers this, and sends a shiver down your spine.

"You cold?" Bucky asks you. "You wanna go home?"

"Not yet," you whisper. "Not yet."

He shrugs off his worn brown leather jacket and slips it over your shoulders. It smells so strongly of him that it makes you dizzy. Bucky settles back down in his original place, returning his arm to where it was draped over you. His rough fingertips rub patterns into the material that now covers your arms, and you wish, for a fleeting moment, that it was your bare skin instead.

"You been working on anything new recently?" he enquires in a hushed tone, careful not to ruin the atmosphere.

"I made a damn good batch of macarons yesterday," you reply, beaming smile etched across your face. "Raspberry and lemon. I'll bring you some, next time I pass the Garage. You're gonna love them."

"You know, I think the only reason I ever get Mechanic of the Month is because you bring by all of your sweet treats."

You laugh melodiously, and the sound makes Bucky's heart stutter in his chest without warning.

"Happy to be of service," you tease. "I take requests, too, if you ever want something specific. Just let me know."

"You're the best, sugar."

You sink into Bucky's hold a little, daring to rest your head on his shoulder. When he doesn't stop you, you exhale, and relax even more.

"Are you working tomorrow?" he asks.

"Nope. You?"

"Nah. I'm going sailing, finally. It's been way too fuckin' long," he grumbles. "Your Dad's usually my right hand man, but he'll be in Ohio. You wanna come?"

The idea of laying on the deck of a boat in the blazing sunshine with a shirtless Bucky Barnes sounds like heaven. Who could say no to an offer like that?

"Yeah, of course. I'll bring a picnic, if you like. It's the least I can do."

"Sounds perfect," he replies, squeezing your shoulder.

Suddenly, he rises to his feet, extending a hand out to you. You grab it, and he pulls you up, the both of you shaking sand off yourselves.

"It's late, and dark, and a little cold. You ready to go?"

You nod your head, and make your way over to his truck, ignoring the heat that blooms over your chest when he opens the passenger door for you before his own.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Thank you, for tonight," you say as he pulls up in front of your apartment building.

"Thank you," he replies, killing the engine. "It's nice to have you back, you know. Wondered if you were gonna finish college and stay out there in California. Thought we might not see you again."

He almost sounds... relieved. The idea that he might have missed you if you didn't return effects you more than it should.

"I liked it there, but... I don't know. My family's here. I'm only twenty three. I've got time to move around the country. I missed this place too much when I was away."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," he chuckles.

"I know, trust me. They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Yeah, they say a lot of fuckin' things," he jokes.

Bucky swings his door open, hopping down from the drivers seat. He makes his way over to your side, holding out a hand so you can jump out.

"Careful," he warns. "It's higher than it looks."

You grab his hand, and step onto the metal sill. Your foot slips slightly, sending you tumbling down and forward, out of the truck. Luckily, Bucky catches you, one hand in yours, other on your hip.

"Woah, easy. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," you breathe.

He places his hands on your cheeks and cradles your face, searching for any signs of distress. You place your palms over his, silently reassuring him.

And then, it happens.

Warm, golden, molten electricity surges through your veins, lighting up each and every one of your nerve endings. Your surroundings explode into glorious technicolour, everything suddenly brighter and more vibrant. It feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest, only to be replaced by one that beats in a slightly different rhythm. There's flowers blooming in your ribcage, new life happening inside of you. You catch eyes with Bucky, expecting to see his stormy blue ones looking back at you. Instead, all you see is your future.

Vivid, flashing images of Bucky Barnes fill your mind, each one of them tinted with a warm, rosy hue. You feel like you're being reinvented. Your skin is alive, hyperaware of the way Bucky's palms are still gently cupping your cheeks. Your fingertips tingle with anticipation where they rest on his, itching to touch every inch of him. You feel as if the oxygen has been stolen from your lungs, and replaced with love.

Your knees are the first to buckle, the weight of the moment taking you down. You hit the ground, and so does Bucky, his palms not once leaving your face. You're both kneeling on the warm concrete, ocean waves providing a distant soundtrack. Blood is rushing in your ears, and you wonder for a second if you're about to pass out. You squeeze Bucky's hands so hard, it's a miracle you don't break his fingers. He squeezes back, eyes locked on one another.

After what feels like an eternity, you both break out of your reverie. You lean forward, resting your forehead against Bucky's, both of you panting.

You're trying to catch your breath unsuccessfully. You move one of your hands to rest on Bucky's chest, right on his heart. You swear the steady beat of it spells out your name.

He mirrors you, and moves his own hand to rest above your frantic heart, the other still glued to your cheek. You both breathe, in and out, trying to match each other. When you finally do, it's as if time stops. It's just you and Bucky. One heartbeat. One soul.

You break away from him to look into his eyes again. They look different, you think. He looks different.

He gazes back at you, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. The moonlight dances off your faces, illuminating the moment both your lives changed forever.

"It's you," he breathes in disbelief.

A laugh escapes your chest, surprising you both. He chuckles with you, and before you know it, the both of you are in hysterics, sitting on the sidewalk at three in the morning.

"Of course it's me," you giggle. "The two people that hate soulmates, Tethered together. You couldn't write it."

Bucky grins at you, clutching at his stomach.

You both take a breath, and realise your surroundings. Bucky gets up first, heaving you up by your arms. He towers over you, suddenly close. Not close enough, you decide. Never close enough.

You lunge forward and crash your lips to his. Bucky instinctively wraps one arm around your back, moving his other hand to hold you by the back of your neck. He tastes like salt and spearmint and every kiss for the rest of your life.

Bucky presses himself into you, attempting to tangle your bodies together. He wants to feel every inch of you against his skin, willing you to come closer. He aches to climb into you, sew himself into your ribcage. He'd be content to live there, beating your heart, forever.

You whine, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring eagerly. You tilt your head back, and fist your hands into his shirt, plastering yourself to his front. He shoves his thigh in between your legs, the rough denim a welcome contrast to your soft skin. You buck your hips forward, and the friction is so delicious it makes you dizzy. You've never been kissed like this. It's almost feral. You're both surrendering to your fates, giving in to the animalistic urges coursing through you.

A seagull caws on a nearby street lamp, and the sound makes you both jump. You suddenly realise your scenario. Your Dad's best friend, who also happens to be your soulmate, has you pressed against his truck in the street, kissing you like he's running out of air and you're his only oxygen source. If it goes any further, you'll both get arrested for public indecency.

"Fuck, sugar," he murmurs against your mouth. "My pretty girl. My honey."

"My soulmate," you whisper.

The reality of it comes crashing down like a tsunami, drenching the both of you.

Bucky kisses you again, gentler this time. The tenderness makes you want to cry.

"What do we do now?" you mumble, fear coating your voice.

He senses your trepidation instantly. He feels it, actually, right in the front of his chest. It's like you suddenly share one body. There's no guessing, anymore. He knows exactly how you feel.

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his building anxiety. He knows that if he stays calm, you'll stay calm. That's how Tethering works, right? He has to keep it together for the both of you, despite the panic that's rising in him, vibrating in his bones.

"How about... how about we both go to bed, get some sleep - and then we go sailing, later on today, just like we planned? And no matter what, we take everything one step at a time."

"One step at a time," you repeat, attempting to pacify you both.

"We'll figure it out," he reassures. "I know we will."

You find the will to step apart, which proves harder than you thought. It's like Bucky's an anchor - fastening you to peace, to happiness, to serenity. The more distance you put between your bodies, the more unsettled you feel. When you're not touching him, it's as if everything becomes unsteady, more difficult. You feel like you're on a rogue sailboat, battling the waves, threatened to be thrown overboard. Bucky is your lifevest, your lighthouse in the dark night. You're not sure how you're supposed to live your life any more than two feet away from him at all times.

You breathe, and smooth down your dress, running your fingers through your hair. You reach out and adjust Bucky's shirt where it's been wrinkled due to your tight grip.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he murmurs, fingers tangling around your own.

"Goodnight, Buck," you echo.

He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your lips, savouring the taste of your cherry lip balm. He wraps his arms around you, unable to resist. Bucky breathes you in deeply, smiling uncontrollably. Nudging your nose with his, he murmurs gently against your mouth.

"My honey girl."

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[bratzforchris]

Prank, C. Sturniolo

Summary: When pranking Chris and having a smart mouth gets you in trouble, you see just how far he's willing to go to get your attitude in check

Pairing: Brat tamer!Chris x feminine reader

Warnings: HEAVY smut, dom/sub dynamics, brat tamer!Chris, reader being the biggest brat in LA, overstimulation, spanking, vibrator usage (partnered), spitting, p in v, rough sex, degradation/teasing

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Save me brat tamer!Chris...brat tamer!Chris save me. In all seriousness though, this is fiction!! Thank you for reading and enjoy some smut ;)

Sunlight filtered through the white, linen curtains of your and Chris’s shared room, slowly bringing you to life after a wonderful night’s sleep. You blinked open your eyes, realizing you were still tightly wrapped in Chris’s arms, both of you naked and tangled in each other’s embrace. Last night hadn’t even been sexual, which was a rather rare occurrence. Sometimes, you both simply enjoyed the feeling of each other’s skin. You couldn’t say that you minded the hold, though. Your boyfriend’s bare chest was soft against your back as he snored quietly, cheeks red with pillow marks and fluffy brown hair fanned out across the sheets. 

You smiled at the angelic sight, running your thumb softly across his cheek before craning your neck to see what time it was. It had to be later than you thought; you were far too well-rested for it to be any earlier than ten am. Sure enough, the clock on Chris’s nightstand had just flicked to 10:15. You knew he had quite the busy day today with running errands for upcoming videos and meeting, so you began to softly scratch your acrylic nails across his scalp in a gentle attempt to wake your lover. 

“Chris, it’s time to wake up, baby.” You whispered softly, feeling smooth, brown curls slip through your fingers. 

Chris groaned, rolling over and stretching. The white sheets were a stark contrast against his tanned skin as yawned and pulled you closer to himself, speaking huskily in your ear. “Gimme five more minutes. What time is it?”

“Time for you to get up.” You sassed back, a cute little smirk on your face. 

“Mmmm, you better watch that smart fuckin’ mouth, baby doll.” Chris mumbled, morning voice gravelly against your skin as he kissed your neck. 

You whined as his lips pressed against your skin, warm and plump. “You know you love my mouth. I seem to recall you saying ‘Oh baby, that feels so good…love your mouth on my cock.’ the other night.” You snorted. 

Chris rolled his eyes, finally letting you go. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day, you know that?” he asked, pinching your bare ass rather roughly as he sat up.

You yelped cutely, tackling Chris against the bed and peppering his cheeks with kisses. “I know. But until then, enjoy it.”

Your boyfriend kissed you back roughly, before setting you back on the bed and standing up, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants. “I’m going to shower. Get cute while I’m gone.” he winked, tugging on the end of your hair gently. 

You watched as Chris disappeared into the bathroom, humming to himself. You absolutely loved to mess with Chris, enjoying the way his normally bright, blue eyes would darken with lust and the way you could practically get off without him touching you on his rough words and mannerisms. You looked around the bedroom, thinking of ways you could get back at him for that little ‘smart mouth’ comment earlier. An idea dawned on you when you saw your pile of pink, girly clothes laying on the chair in the corner. You had recently cleaned out your storage bin from under the bed, exchanging your winter clothes for summer clothes. Sure enough, you hopped off the bed and peered under the frame, only to see that the space was completely empty. Enough so that you could definitely get under the mattress if you tried. 

You quickly pulled on the silky, white sleep camisole and shorts that you had abandoned at the foot of the bed last night so that the carpet wouldn’t burn your skin. Getting down on all fours, you easily slid under the bed, giggling to yourself as your hair fanned out across the carpet. A while back, Chris had stated in a podcast episode that his most irrational fear was that something was under his bed and would grab his ankles. You had laughed the information off at first, but now seemed like the perfect time to recall it. 

A few minutes later, you heard the shower shut off and tried to suppress your giggles. This wouldn’t work if Chris heard you. You waited until you heard the bathroom door open to extend your arms, ready to pounce. Sure enough, Chris padded into your bedroom and over to his nightstand to grab his everyday accessories of his chain and earrings. You waited to be sure he hadn’t heard you, before lunging your arms out, grabbing his ankles, and screaming “RAHHHH.”

The yelp Chris let out was akin to that of a four-year-old girl. Your boyfriend practically jumped straight in the air, before shaking you off his ankles and roughly pulling you out from under the bed. “What the fuck was that for?” he asked harshly. 

“Gotcha.” You grinned from ear-to-ear as Chris finally pulled you all the way out from under the bed. 

“That wasn’t fucking funny!” Chris protested, but you could see a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth as he looked you up and down. 

“Was so.”

“Was not.”

“Was so.” You giggled, poking his stomach with your pointer finger. 

Maybe it was the comment from earlier, or maybe you were just in the mood to fuck with your dom, but either way, you were getting a rise out of messing with Chris. Bratting was probably one of your favorite things; you loved to push his buttons, seeing just how much you could get away with before he would snap and fuck you into next year. 

“What’s gotten into you this morning, huh?” Chris asked, raising his brow as he moved to the dresser and pulled on his clothes for the day.

“What’s gotten into you?” You retorted. “That scream sure didn’t sound like a grown man. It sounded like my little cousin…she’s three.”

“You better watch that mouth.” he hummed. 

“You watch it. I can’t see my mouth.” You giggled, eagerly awaiting Chris’s reaction. 

The flip was like a light switch. Your boyfriend’s mood had seemed heavy, though teasing. But now, Chris whipped around, stalking towards the bed. “What did you say?” he asked, voice dangerously low. 

“I said you watch my mouth. I can’t see it.” You smiled, crossing your arms over your chest as a pout decorated your lips. 

“I swear to God…” he chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “Strip. Now.”

“No.”

“You strip now or I edge that little cunt so hard you’re gonna wish you never would’ve spoken at all.” Chris stared down at you with stone cold features. 

You slowly looked down at your knees, beginning to strip with a fake aire of humiliation. You were more excited to see what your punishment would be, but you knew that Chris would definitely deny your orgasm if you acted happy about it. Once you had removed all your clothes, you kneeled on the bed, pouting up at him. “This isn’t fair.”

“Sweetheart,” Chris hummed, grabbing your chin roughly. “Considering how you’ve been acting this morning, this is very fair. Now, open,” Your boyfriend gathered just enough of his own saliva to spit in your mouth, holding your chin closed once he had done so. “Let’s see if that fixes that bratty little mouth.”

You smiled as the taste of him consumed you, lighting your nerves with passion and excitement. You waited patiently to see what Chris would do, but his lack of instruction was beginning to make you nervous for what he had in store. Your boyfriend smiled sadistically, reaching into his bedside drawer and pulling out a toy you were all too familiar with. It was a small, pink vibrator that went up to settings so immense they could practically make you cum in seconds. 

Chris sat down on the bed, patting his sweatpants covered lap. “On my lap.”

You blushed, crawling across the sheets and laying yourself across his lap, ass up. You felt Chris’s warm, large hands caressing your backside as they slowly made their way between your thighs, spreading your legs further and further apart. Your boyfriend chuckled as he ran a finger along your damp slit, feeling the way you were already soaking, just from the thoughts of him and what he would do to you. 

The last thing you could comprehend before you were seeing stars was the sound of the toy flicking on, buzzing lightly. Chris held the vibrator against your clit as he stroked your folds, chuckling at the little squeals and whimpers that were already escaping your mouth as you buried your face in his thigh.

“Does that feel good, princess?” he cooed in an almost sickeningly sweet way as he turned the intensity up a notch. “Your pretty pussy gettin’ all wet from being punished?”

You could hardly let out anything more than a little whine, tears pricking your eyes at the overwhelming sensations from the toy and Chris’s fingers working gracefully. “Mhm…uh uh.”

“Awww, what happened to that sass, ma? Cat got your tongue?” he pouted, turning the vibrator up again as he shoved your legs further apart on his lap. 

You whimpered and panted, digging your almond-shaped nails into his leg. “Oh…oh god. Chris, Chris–I need to…” You were a senseless mess as you began to sob, your thighs slick with arousal. 

“You need to what? Use your words, baby doll.” Your boyfriend sneered. 

“Need to cum,” You wailed, shoving your face against his leg and gripping his thigh. Your orgasm had been building in your stomach for a while now, the white-hot energy threatening to push you over the edge. “P…please.”

Chris landed a stinging smack to your ass as he edged you harder before finally speaking. “Go ahead, princess. Cum all over my lap and show me how much you appreciate me treating you like the whore you are.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You immediately let go, your climax washing over you as you came all over the vibrator and Chris’s fingers. Fat tears rolled down your face, simply from feeling soi overstimulated, yet so good. Your boyfriend rubbed your back gently, dropping his rough dom façade as he coached you through your high. Once you had caught your breath, Chris  flipped you over so that you were laying on your back on his lap, looking up at him. 

“You’re going again,” he smiled, almost sadistically. “Gotta make sure that little attitude is properly fucked out.”

Chris tossed you onto the bed roughly, before leaning over and grabbing a condom from his nightstand. In a quick amount of time, he had yanked off his sweatpants and hoodie and rolled the condom onto his throbbing cock. You smiled up at him with doe eyes, wanting to comment, but choosing your physical pleasure over the pleasure of mouthing off. 

“You ready, ma?” he asked, lining himself up with you. 

You didn’t get another chance to speak as he slammed into you immediately, filling you completely. You let out a moan at the feeling of suddenly being full, Chris stretching you to the max. Just like when he had been using the toy on you, your boyfriend was fucking rough. He bucked his hips into you, going harder with each thrust as he pinned your arms to the bed. You were always more sensitive on your second orgasm than on your first, and your stomach was already clenching with the need for release. 

“Gonna…” You whimpered. “Need to cum again.”

Chris ignored you, pounding into you relentlessly. If your head wasn’t hazy with lust, you’d be thanking the universe that Nick was a heavy sleeper and Matt slept with ear plugs, because the sound of the headboard hitting the wall was ricocheting through the room. You could tell that your boyfriend was getting closer to his own climax as he threw his head back with a groan, riding you mercilessly. This was by far one of the best punishments he had ever given you, making you so dizzy with arousal that you couldn’t even think straight to brat. 

“Oh god, baby,” Chris groaned, throwing his head back as he came, filling the condom. “You feel so fucking good.”

You whined and writhed beneath him, arching your back as your lower stomach ached with the need to cum. The feeling of Chris being buried fully inside of you wasn’t helping, either. “Need to cum, please.” You whimpered, on the verge of tears again from the good feelings. 

Chris adjusted himself, still fucking you despite having already came. “Say ‘I’m a little cockslut who can’t control her mouth’ and then maybe I’ll let you.” he shrugged.

You sobbed, fighting the urge to just release. “I–I’m a little…Chris, please.”

“Gotta hear you say the full thing, ma.” he chuckled, riding you in a slower, more sensual rhythm, which just increased the tingling in your nerves. 

“I’m a little cockslut who can’t control her mouth.” You wailed. 

“Good girl.” Chris kissed your forehead as you came, your body writhing with the intensity of your climax. 

You were beyond fucked out by the time Chris pulled out, tying the condom up and throwing it away. Your boyfriend grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, using it to dry your tears as you caught your breath. The rough dom he had been for the scene had completely disappeared, replacing him with the loving, gentle boyfriend he always was. Chris dried your tears, handing you a water bottle. 

“You did so good.” he whispered gently, caressing your cheek as he held the bottle to your lips. 

You smiled softly, eyes glazed over. “I promise I won’t mouth off anymore.”

“I doubt that’s a promise you can keep, baby girl.” Chirs chuckled, massaging over your shoulders and back lightly with a sweet-smelling lotion. 

You pulled him into you as your boyfriend pulled the comforter over your naked bodies. “Mhm. ‘M really tired.”

“You need to rest, ma,” Chris kissed your cheek, pulling you into his body to spoon. “Being a little brat is hard work, huh?”

You nodded with a gentle giggle. “I love you.”

“I love you more, ma. I can promise you that.”

“That prank was hilarious, though.”

“Don’t push your limits, princess.” Chris hummed. 

tags ♡: @aemrsy @jake-and-johnnies-slut @mattsfavwh3re @suyqa @chrissturnswife @mbsbaby @herxyz @ilovejohnnieg @lovingchrissposts @athaliahxoxo @bitchydragonparadise @dumpling-to-eat @ilydeaky @soggyslugg169 @not-phone-guy @books0fever @stingerayyy2 @strnlvr @sunsetsturniolos @mimi-luvzyu @mayhem-72 @faygo-frog @oobleoob @idek3000hi @runasvengence

note ♡: if you'd like to be included on my taglist, click here <3

[aemondtargaryenonlyfans]

LITTLE LIGHTS.

Precious Delights (4/5)

Maegor Targaryen x pregnant!niece!Reader

WORDS: 2 K

WARNINGS: childbirth, swearing, blink and you’ll miss Maegor being his cunty self again

NOTES: Here is the highly requested Part 2 of Precious Delights! Tbh, I haven't put much thought into the exact details, so most of it probably doesn't make any sene, but Reader is Rhaena's twin. Tyanna died before the wedding.

Tyanna of the Tower had been long dead before Maegor had claimed your hand in marriage and that alone seemed to be as fruitful as it was, since your pregnancy had lasted full ten moons.

You were exhausted beyond belief, pacing your chambers up and down with screams of despair and heavy groans leaving your throat at any contraction that rippled through your body. The maids had been calling for Maegor five times by now, but your husband was nowhere to be found. 

“He is meeting with the small council, I fucking know!“ You groaned as the guard stepped into your chambers to inform you about his unsuccessful mission, your ladies-in-waiting taken aback by your sudden outburst for you had been notorious for nothing else but being soft-spoken and calm. 

The maids, and Grand Maester Benifer, more often than not had advised you to lie down on your bed for reasons of comfort and safety, yet your body told you not to. 

“Where is he really?” you hissed through gritted teeth when a particularly harsh contraction forced you to your knees, clinging to the bedpost as if your life depended on it. Clad in nothing more than a thin, white underdress, you still felt confined, the linen scratching your skin as you ached to tear it off your body. 

Talisa rushed to your side, her gentle hand on the small of your back not mending your discomfort and the confusion and fear you felt at the thought of mastering the birth all by yourself. “We must begin, Princess,” she urged, and despite not being able to think straight at that point, you still heard the tinge of worry in her voice.

You threw your head back, groaning in agony as another contraction followed that forced you to push. Your arms clasped around the bedpost, your sweaty forehead resting against the wood, while you became busy focusing on pushing. 

Too lost in the burning sensation of the babe’s head beginning to crown, you barely noticed the door to the chambers opening, revealing none other than your husband himself. 

Your maid lifted the skirt of your underdress to gauge the process of the birth, paying much less attention to Maegor than you did, as your safety and well-being seemed to be her top priority. Or perhaps it was the well-being of the heir that concerned her most. 

“Where have y–” The words caught in your throat at a harsh contraction and the heightened pain. Your knuckles turned white from how tightly you clung to the bedpost, your maid’s words not making it easier for you. “I can see the head, Princess, just a few more pushes.”

If it wasn’t for your mind dealing with all the different sensations coursing through your body at once, you surely would’ve noticed the way Maegor stood completely frozen in the doorway at your maid’s words. 

“Please… make it stop,” you pleaded with a strained voice, clenching your jaw as you pushed once again. Then, the pain settled for a few moments, allowing you to steady your breath and calm down for the time being. 

A sheen of sweat covered your skin, silver strands of your hair clinging to your face, and the white linen of your underdress was slightly dampened at your back and arms. You raised your head to lock eyes with Maegor, and the sheer audacity of him just standing there useless made your blood boil and soured your mood. “This is… this is all your fault,” you hissed through gritted teeth, though the words were interrupted by groans, “gods… you cunt!”

Perhaps the maester had informed him beforehand about what was going on in a woman’s body during her labors, or perhaps he was cunning enough to put one and one together, but he hardly took any offense to your harsh words. Quite the contrary happened, as the insult seemed to pull him out of his shocked state, prompting him to pass the maids and maester, dismissing all their efforts to talk and inform him about the process of the birth to crouch down beside you. 

Talisa was flabbergasted by Maegor’s movements, her mouth agape with no words leaving her lips for a few seconds, before another scream of you brought her back to the task at hand. “Bear down and push, Princess,” she instructed, and you did as she told. 

Maegor’s paw replaced the maid’s hand on your lower back, his other one raising to cup your folded hands, and you were quick to seize it to squeeze it instead, causing him to take in a sharp breath. “Just a few more,” he encouraged, and you merely groaned in despair. He could be lucky you were occupied by birthing him his long awaited heir, fulfilling your wifely duties, because otherwise you probably would’ve smacked him across his face. 

When the pain got worse all of the sudden, you released a scream that was louder than the ones before, and pushed not once, but twice, until a sudden wave of relief washed over you and you heard the cries of the babe. It lived. 

Your husband’s attention immediately shifted from you to the newborn, and when the maester cut the cord, Maegor forced him and the maid to usher the babe out of your reach. “What is it?” you asked, your voice weak from the exhausting procedure you had to endure. 

But every sense of calmness and comfort washed away when another contraction soared through your body, and a scream of yours seized the attention of Talisa. “It’s the afterbirth,” she tried to reassure you, but her loud gasp proved otherwise, more so as she rose to fetch the maester. 

The urge to bear down once again was too strong to ignore it, pushing yet again. “Gods,” you whimpered, tears running down your flushed and sweaty cheeks, “it hurts.”

Maegor towered over the maester, while he lifted the skirts of your underdress, to spot yet another head breach your body. “Another child,” he proclaimed, whereas you only groaned an ‘I can not do this again’ in your state of shock and pain. 

But you could, and not many moments after, the second babe’s cries pierced through your agonizing groans and pants, only to be seized by your husband and the maester again. This time around, the maids tended to you, gripping your arms to help your weakened frame onto the large bed. 

When the screams of both children grew silent, a certain uneasiness washed over your body, and you would’ve loved nothing more than to get up and grab both children to leave the goddamned Keep altogether. “Bring them to me,” you demanded, but when no one seemed to move to your orders, you merely managed to whine a desperate ‘please’. 

Maegor was the first one to act, slowly creeping closer towards you. He held a bundle of linen in his arms, looking ridiculously small in comparison to his muscular chest and arms, and presented one babe to you. “A boy,“ he said, and you already smiled when you spotted the silver tuft of hair peeking from beneath the cloth. He bowed toward you to show you the small, scrunched face, and you reached forward to take him in your arms, but Maegor just tsked and pulled him back, “you’re too weak, my love, get some rest first.“

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Benifer came forward, looking at the King, “but at the Citadel they say that it’s best for the mother and the child to let it nurse right after birth.” 

With a grim expression on his face, Maegor’s eyes darted to you for a moment. “That is what wet nurses are for.” At this point, your bottom lip trembled, realization settling in that you had been nothing more than a pawn to your uncle. 

Grand Maester Benifer brought a hand to Maegor’s shoulder and ushered him a few steps away from you, their deep voices suddenly turning into whispers you could barely hear. “She has given you two healthy heirs, my King. You ought not risk her life, for she can give you even more.”

Maegor merely nodded at that, and when he turned around, the soft look in his eyes was unsettling you. He handed you the boy without any fuss, but didn’t leave your side as you pulled down the neckline of your underdress to free your breast and allow your child to latch. While his eyes were pale blue, you couldn’t wait for the day they’d be as lilac as yours, staring up at you with the same intensity they carried now. You smoothed his tuft of silver hair, the soft smacking and cooing while he swallowed your milk calming your worries and fear a bit. 

In less than an hour after birthing twins, you had taken on a motherly aura that no doubt even softened the cold heart of your uncle-husband for he gently brushed the knuckle of his index finger over the small boy’s cheek. “I have named him Aerion,” Maegor stated matter-of-factly, and you just nodded, admiring the memorial of your great-grandsire. 

“And the girl?” you asked, not able to tear your eyes from the delicate creature in your arms. “That is up to you,” your husband replied, and with a come hither motion of his fingers, the maid brought over another bundle of linen. That piqued your interest, and Maegor seemed to notice, since he pulled the cloth down enough for you to spot her scrunched face. She was just as beautiful as her brother. Despite her being barely an hour old, you spotted a few similarities to your grandaunt in her features, and hoped she would grow up to be as fierce as her. “Visenya.”

Maegor raised his brow at that, obviously not expecting you to name your daughter after his mother, but he welcomed the sentiment by pulling his lips into a soft smile that perhaps even sparked a hint of admiration and affection to flicker in his violet eyes. 

Once the boy was done nursing, his place was taken by his sister, though you placed her so she latched on your other breast. The relief it brought you was unmatchable, and the peaceful, nurturing feeling the nursing granted made your heart swell with love. 

“My sister has placed dragon eggs in the cradles of my younger siblings, and I want the same for our children,” you said, your fingers mindlessly dancing along the crown of the newborn’s head. “A clutch of eggs laid by Dreamfyre is still kept here in the Keep.”

You lifted your head to gauge where Maegor had taken Aerion, slightly panicked that you had seen the last of the boy, only to spot him sitting on a chaise not too far away with the sleeping boy cradled in his muscular arms. His head was bowed forward, and his whole attention was focused on his son. It was a moment of unusual softness, and you didn’t know he possessed a trait like that–or rather that he kept it up even after the children were born. 

When he raised his head to meet your expectant gaze, he was quick to address the maids with a stern tone he had rarely used in your presence for the past few moons. “You have heard your Queen’s demands. Bring her the eggs, so she can choose the ones most suitable for your King’s heirs.” 

You hadn’t noticed the silence surrounding you four before, maids and maester alike silenced in awe, and only appreciated it once it was gone with the hurried rustling and stomping from the staff exiting the room. 

And when night overcame King’s Landing, two cradles carrying the most precious creatures standing in front of your marital bed, your uncle-husband joined you for the first time since the start of your pregnancy, sharing the bed with you without any bawdy intentions on his mind. 

Ever since you were forced to leave your mother on Dragonstone to take Maegor’s hand in marriage, you felt at ease in the confines of the Red Keep, despite not knowing what the forthcoming summers might hold for you. 

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby

General Taglist: @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1

[mistiell]

If you’re doing requests and it’s not too much trouble what about Astarion and getting patched up and taken care of by mc

Here you go babes <33 (Also, if he's a little out of character, I apoligize, I really did try my best lol) WC: 1k

---

“Ow! Gods, could you at least try to be gentle?” Astarion hisses at the sting of the salve you’ve concocted, startling you into jerking the cloth you’re using away.

You huff and drop your hands into your lap, brows furrowed in very clear annoyance, “I am trying. If you’d stop squirming, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Well, if it didn’t hurt so much, I wouldn’t be squirming, would I?” He quips. You roll your eyes.

Taking his wrist ever so gently, you turn it so you can see the gash on his forearm, fingers deft and kind even despite his whining. He’s being difficult; unreasonable. You’d be justified in being cruel with him.

You’re careful not to press so hard as you swipe the cloth over the jagged edge of his wound, blood seeping into the fabric and staining the off-white linen a dark crimson. Mouth quirked down, your face is drawn tight with a frustration he’s never seen on you before.

He hates it.

The fabric catches with a jolt of pain and he flinches more than he would normally, startling you away again.

You tut at him, stern, “Astarion.”

Sighing, he returns his arm to you wordlessly and glances away with a small, “Sorry.”

“You should have been more careful.” You chastise as you press the cloth against his wound; firm, but not harsh. Never harsh.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, “So you're saying this is my fault.”

He wasn’t being serious, but it seems you take it as such. Your nose scrunches, and for a split second, you look properly upset with him. He’s expecting you to snap at him, maybe shout and finally leave him to tend to his wounds alone as he usually would.

You don’t. Instead, you take a breath and sigh, looking rather disappointed.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Contrary to what you may believe, I do actually care about you and your wellbeing.” Your voice is void of any sort of humour as you look back at his arm. Swapping the soiled cloth for a smaller, cleaner one, you fold it in half and press it to his arm, not sparing him a glance as you instruct him, “Hold this.”

He does as you’ve asked, and a stifling silence engulfs his tent. As you rifle through some healing supplies, he tries to come up with a way to get you talking again.

“Why-,” His voice doesn’t come out right and he clears his throat to fix it. It comes out wrong anyway, “Why are you helping me? This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve dressed a wound on my own, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to.” You reply as you begin securing the cloth to his arm with bandages, “No one deserves to suffer alone.”

The sentiment makes his stomach twist. “No one?” He huffs a wry puff of laughter, “Not even someone like Cazador?”

Your face contorts in abhorrence, “I meant good people don’t deserve to suffer alone. That bastard deserves every bit of suffering he has coming to him.”

He barely even registers the second part of what you’ve said, too busy reeling from the first.

Good people don’t deserve to suffer alone.

Good people.

“You... think I’m good?” He asks far too softly.

Finally looking back up at him, you look utterly confused as you nod, “Of course I do.”

He opens his mouth only to find he’s seemingly lost his voice. His gaze flits over just about every inch of your face, searching for any sign that you’re lying; a glance away, a twitch of your mouth. Anything.

He doesn’t find one. His heart sinks and sings simultaneously and suddenly, he can barely breathe.

“Why?” He murmurs. Part of him thinks he’s not equipped to cope with your answer.

There’s a moment where you just... look at him. He’d say staring, but he doesn’t think that’s quite what this is. What you’re doing would be better described as seeing him; all of him. His heart, his soul. Everything.

“Good people can do bad things and still be good, Astarion. And being good doesn’t always mean being a saint.” Your voice is kind; tender. Maybe a little joking towards the end. He guesses you’ve seen the apprehension on his face when your hands slide down his arm to cradle his own. Dipping to catch his gaze, your own is suddenly serious; unwavering, “What happened to you, the things you did. None of that was your fault. You told me what Cazador did to you when you disobeyed him. I’d be just as terrible to deem you a monster for going along with it knowing what would have happened to you if you didn’t.”

Your words strike him like a hard blow to the chest. Perhaps he’s not all that concerned with being a good person, but he’s never truly wanted to be evil, either.

Eyes stinging, he lets out a shaky breath through his nose as he cups the nape of your neck to guide your forehead to his lips. He lingers there for a moment before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, mumbling against your hairline, “Thank you.”

Snaking your arms around his waist, you squeeze him just as fiercely, “Of course, my love.”

The laugh that escapes him comes out too watery for his liking, but he finds he doesn’t mind quite as much when its only you around to hear, “‘My love’? Isn’t that my line?”

You snort, and he feels you smile against his collar, “Perhaps.” “You do know that reusing material that isn’t yours is in poor taste, don’t you, darling?”

“Hush.” You pull back smiling, shaking your head as you ask in faux exasperation, “Now, will you please let me finish bandaging this?”

He follows your gaze to his arm and huffs dramatically, “I suppose.” “Oh, you suppose, do you?” You sass as you take hold of his wrist again, careful not to wrap the bandages too tight, “Do you also suppose you’ll sit still for me this time?”

“I do.” He grins.

And he does.

[grandprixwinnerlandonorris]

Dinner Reservation | Lando Norris⁴

Pairings: Lando Norris x girlfriend!reader

Summary: you had plans to go out, Lando had other. Watch what happens when you tell him no

Warnings: barely any plot just smut, light dom Lando, kinda bratty both Lando and the reader, and assholes too (idk what came over me, I thought I was being funny) some cringe bits for the sake of the 'plot' but we move, kinda long that's why I included word count, hint of exhibitionism, unprotected sex

Word count: 5389

A/N: Okay, I really need to learn how to write summaries, if anyone wants to be my editor you can hit me up. Perks are you get to see the original copy before I rewrite it for tumblr

Credits to @twinkodium for prompting this idea and brainstorming it with me ♥

You stepped out of the shower with nothing, but a towel wrapped around your body. Not bringing any clothes with you, you proceeded out of the bathroom to the bedroom you shared with your boyfriend. He was sprawled out on the bed, obviously dissatisfied about something–still in his hoodie and black sweats–but the moment you opened the door, his whole demeanor changed, his hungry eyes following you as you strolled across the room to your still unpacked suitcase. Bending down to get your underwear, you felt two arms wrap around your waist, stopping you mid motion.

You smirked, popping your behind and pressing it harder against his pelvis as you fished a pair of panties from the case. He lowly grunted, removing your hair from one shoulder to another, which gave him a clean access for planting a kiss on your neck.

"Plans canceled, why don't you get on the bed for me, gorgeous?" he murmured against your skin.

You tried to sustain your smile, finding the whole situation amusing. Getting a hold of yourself, you turned around to face him.

"We can't cancel plans just because you suddenly got horny." you playfully rolled your eyes. "They're waiting for us."

The plan was to go out and grab dinner with Oscar and Lily. Something like a double date and get together outside business hours.

"They can wait." he still had that stupid grin on his face, brushing his fingertips over the side of yours, his eyes roaming all over your features.

"No, they can't. You're acting like a spoiled child, you know that?" you teased, giving him a playful shove. "Now go get ready, we're already late as it is. They're probably wondering where we are." you urged and knowing there was no point further arguing with you, he scoffed and walked over to the dresser.

"You're acting like we don't spend three weekends a month with them," he protested, buttoning his shirt only a halfway up. "But fine. If you won't listen to me now, I'll bend you over that goddamn dinner table and fuck you in front of everyone. Maybe that will be more appealing to you-"

"Don't be ridiculous." you snorted a laugh.

"Say I won't do it." he stood tall and incredibly close in front of you, his eyes boring into yours making you feel smaller than you were. And you could swear, you didn't know if your wetness was from the shower or somethin else entirely different.

"Please, dress up, sweetheart." he finished, his voice somewhat mocking, leaving you to clutch your panties to your chest standing in the middle of the room.

This whole ordeal may or may have not resulted in you changing the outfit you had in mind from the top. Instead of an orange sundress, you slipped into a white linen bodycon dress that perfectly hugged your curves, cut out sides exposing your toned waist and highlighting your hip bones. Deep v neck brought exposure to your cleavage as well.

Studying yourself in the mirror, the material was so thin it was almost see through. Lando absolutely hated loved this dress. You completed the look with some white sandals. You were in the process of putting on your gold earrings when Lando walked in.

"Are you anywhere near do-" he choked out, eyes turning a darker shade of green as they scanned you from head to toe. He cleared his throat before speaking "You look amazing, darling." he complimented, with a little bitter taste to the pet name he just called you, obviously not approving of the attire. Jackpot.

"Thank you, darling." you grinned as you walked up to him and pecked his cheek, completely ignoring the fact he was fuming.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Lead the way." you responded, your lips still curved into a smile, and laced your hands together.

On the drive to the restaurant, his knuckles turned completely white from how strong his grip on the steering wheel was. His eyes never darted from the road, not even once. No hand holding nor even one kiss at the red light. But instead, you drove in silence, only soft music playing from the radio making any noise as you tried to hide your satisfaction, which you will probably come to regret later, looking out the window.

As expected, Oscar and Lily arrived before you. You apologized for keeping them waiting, but they said they only just got there a few minutes ago due to traffic. A waiter immediately approached you and had your orders right under way in a few moments.

During dinner, Lando wasn't completely ignoring you, but he wasn't really paying attention or engaging with you either. Which didn't come off as strange or like something was wrong between you. You girls had your girl talk and boys had their boy talk. Lily couldn't always attend a race weekend and it's been a while since you last saw her. But there was a mischievous spark in his eyes, only someone who had known him for years could notice, telling you he was planning something.

First, he'd casually drop his hand on your thigh under the table and just rest it there, and then remove it without a second thought, continuing his conversation with Oscar like nothing happened. After a while, he'd put it back on, only higher this time and gently grasp the skin, his thumb drawing circles. Your muscles tensed and made you jump in your seat. He noticed, of course, without sparing you a second glance and dragged his palm up and down your inner thigh like that was going to soothe you. He stopped and left you alone once more when your main course arrived.

While waiting for dessert, his fingers brushed the fabric of your panties without previous warning that made you gasp audibly and place your elbows on the table to support your forehead with your hands, making all cutlery clank. That finally drove some confused looks from Oscar and Lily.

"Are you alright?" Lily asked, curiosity getting the best of her cause this wasn't the first time you jumped in your seat during the conversation.

"I'm fine." you breathed, faking a smile. You turned towards Lando and hissed, covering your mouth "What are you doing?"

He leaned closer into your side, his lips brushing your earlobe as he whispered "I'm thinking about having my dessert now." his fingers still feathered over you. You gave him a wide eyed look. "Say I won't do it." he repeated his words from earlier that instantly made you blush.

"You... you're crazy." you whispered back, glancing sideways at the confused faces around you, most likely thinking you were talking about the weather. God, you hoped they were thinking you were talking about the weather.

"Say it." he insisted, his palm coming to a stop on your pussy.

You bit your lip, getting a clear image of him bending you over the table while Lily, Oscar and the waiter looked on as Lando fucked you right in front of them. It made you wet and you hated yourself for it.

"I... I'm saying it." you mumbled.

"What?" he took a sip of his drink.

"I'm saying it." you leaned closer as the people around you were now completely involved in their own conversations, acting like they didn't hear you the first time. "I'm saying you won't do it." maybe one thing Lando often forgets is how stubbornly bratty you can get.

Lando started, but was interrupted by the waiter coming to pick up your dessert orders. He only quickly added that you will settle this later. The Great Dessert Debate concluded after you were done with your meals. Lily was lobbying for ice cream, Oscar insisting on sorbet, Lando not really giving a damn as long as he wasn't going to have cake and you, of course, wanted something naughty. Oscar finally convinced Lily that sorbet would taste better than ice cream and they decided to get it to-go to bring home. You sighed and ordered cheesecake eventually.

"I changed my mind." Lando started. "I won't be having any dessert here." he smirked and glanced at you.

Idle as he was, he didn't waste an opportunity to dip his hand between your thighs once more and stroke you up and down as soon as you dipped your spoon in your cheesecake. You could've made a scene, but how you were practically purring in your seat, you decided not to.

"Don't move and finish your little treat," he murmured and brought his lips to your cheek and kissed it. "I'm sure sugar will give you enough energy for what's about to come later." you could almost choke as you swallowed.

He squeezed your thigh again under the table, giving you a once over and letting his eyes settle on your mouth. You knew what he was trying to do. He was attempting to turn you on in public while everyone else was almost done with their desserts and it worked, damn it. He didn't stop touching you until dessert was over and the bill was paid, but this time he slid his palm all the way up to your slit and stroked you through the fabric while you were busy–struggling–saying goodbye to Lily and Oscar.

You almost didn't want to get in the car with him, but to drag him to the nearest restroom and have him there. You were just on the verge of exploding, burning and dying a death of a thousand orgasms that needed to be let out, and let out now.

He put the car in drive, with you sitting right next to him, still wet and hard and throbbing. You didn't bother to keep your voice low this time. You huffed and fumed, wanting nothing more than to choke his pretty little neck.

"What is wrong with you?" you hissed.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, looking at you out of the corner of his eye to avoid a car accident with a grin on his face. He really is fucking crazy, you thought.

"You're so damn frustrating. Why haven't you touched me yet?"

"I'm touching you now." he smirked.

"You asshole! You're not touching me-Ah!" you yelped as he dug his thumb into your wetness and began rubbing you, his left hand steadily steering. You spread your legs as far as the car allowed and pulled your knee up, giving him as much access as you could.

"Oh god..." you relaxed and succumbed to your pleasure, making his thumb work at its full potential.

His other fingers were busy playing with your pussy, tracing the fabric to your entrance, but never actually going inside. You were breathing heavily as his fingers grazed closer to your clit each time he would repeat his movements. His thumb found your clit and started massaging it while his pointer and middle finger pulled your panties to the side and slipped in, parting your walls. You shuddered and moaned, but kept your eyes on the road ahead of you.

The way he was touching you was incredible, you were so wet that you could already feel the heat radiating from your skin. And he was doing all that while driving. One hand on the steering wheel, the other one down your panties.

He looked really hot, you had to admit to yourself, as you bit your lip glancing over at him. His eyes fixed on the road, concentration evident on his face as he drilled into you with his right hand. You wanted to lean over and kiss him.

His fingers curled inside of you, hitting that spot. Pumping in and out, you were getting more and more jerky in the passenger seat, only the seat belt restraining you from bucking your hips forward. It was getting so good, so painfully good when he pulled his fingers out of you.

"Don't do that." you whined, as he noticed your hips jerking and tried to move his hand to make you come.

"What?"

"That," you breathed, "Pull your fingers out of me."

He chuckled and put his palm over your pussy again, stroking you from the top. You started getting wetter and your breaths got faster and louder.

"Lando... Please! Don't." you muttered, knowing that in a matter of minutes you'd achieve sweet release.

He continued nonetheless, his nails scratching your skin every time the pad of his thumb would meet with your clitoris. You groaned and spread your legs wider, moaning Lando's name as you came.

"Seriously?" he chuckled again, stopping at the red light.

"Shut up." you glared at him and puffed your disheveled hair out of your face. He was still smiling. "That was not funny." you hissed, removing his hand from you.

"I agree." he said, undeterred by your actions. He brought the hand that was on your pussy up to his mouth and licked his fingers clean. "Mm, now this is what I call dessert." he moaned, licking his lips and savoring the taste. "And that was your first orgasm of the night, babe."

"You're an asshole." you pouted.

"So you've told me." he drove off, his hand coming back to rub your thigh.

"Lando, I'm serious," you grabbed his fingers and pushed them away. "Stop."

"Babe, you should really learn to finish what you start." he said, his cottage cheese fingers now replaced by the dripping wetness of his mouth. "Did you forget?"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I'm marrying you for your money."

"And your body." he added, letting his fingers lick your inner thigh.

"You bastard."

"We still have business to run when we get home." he announced, glancing quickly over at you. But your eyes were already half-lidded and there was a pleasant ache between your legs.

"Just drive." you muttered.

"I'm serious." he lightly chuckled, putting his right hand on your leg and rubbing you solidly through your skirt.

"We'll see." you adjusted yourself in the seat. You closed your eyes as you made yourself comfortable, enjoying the rest of the ride home.

Like he knew you needed a bit more rest, he took a longer route home. Pulling into your driveway, you smirked as the lights illuminated your face. You cleared your throat and fixed your skirt before exiting the car and sauntering over to the front of the house without giving a second glance to Lando. You made sure to sway your hips a little extra to grab his attention which worked, considering you were already unlocking the front door when you heard a soft click of his car door, meaning he stayed behind. Your feet were killing you and you only got to kick off one shoe when a pair of strong arms wrapped around you.

"Back where we started," he whispered.

"Something like that." you smiled, your hand grabbing the nape of his neck as you kicked the other shoe off. You stood flat on your bare feet, significantly shorter than him now.

He traced your shoulder with kisses up to your neck, his palms riding up your waist to cup your breasts. A low moan escaped you as he thumbed your nipple. You let your head fall back on his shoulder as your hips began to grind against him.

"I want you." you breathed into his ear.

He was hard against you and you could already feel yourself dripping wet for him. He turned you around, smashing your lips together as he picked you up and carried you to the living room couch. He sat down with you straddling him, your kissing already turned into a heavy make out session, his tongue exploring the depths of your mouth and vice versa.

One hand on your hip helping you rock back and forth, the other one on your jaw and throat, choking lightly and keeping your head in place. His hips buckled up as you sped your movements, making him hiss into your mouth and bite harder on your lower lip. You let out a soft cry, but didn't let that stop you.

Now both of his hands roamed the open back of your dress, his face pressed flat in your cleavage until he brought one of his hands and tugged harshly down at the top of your dress, afraid you heard something snap.

"Oh, did I rip it? Did I rip it for good this time?" he got a bit too overly excited for your liking.

"Yeah, I think one of my straps snapped." you breathed, flustered.

"Thank god!" he exclaimed, rubbing his nose in your cleavage. "I've been waiting for this day."

"I didn't realize you were such a fan of this dress." you sarcastically remarked, rolling your eyes, knowing damn well how he felt about it. You glanced down and saw he had torn the top of the dress almost to your belly button.

"Sorry." he grinned.

"No, you're not." you couldn't help but laugh. "You're going to make me buy a new one." you said, trying to push his face back into your cleavage.

"I'll pay for it." he nodded. You shook your head dismissively, deciding to let the subject go.

Coming up to your breasts, he pressed his palms over them before rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. You moaned as he did, his breath hot on your skin. He moved his mouth to suck on your left breast, closing his eyes and taking in your scent. You let your hand fall to his waist, pulling at his belt. He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, but only for a moment, before his tongue swirled around your right nipple. Your breath hitched when he grazed you with his teeth, your right hand tugging on his curls. He let your nipple pop out of his mouth before dragging his teeth over your skin, the sensation sending electric currents through you.

"I have an idea-"

"Oh no-"

"Can you stand up for me, please, love?" he innocently grinned up at you.

Just out of pure curiosity you listened to him. He turned you around so that your back was facing him.

"You're going to rip the rest off me, aren't you?"

"Guilty." he pulled the remaining strap down. Your hands were on the couch now, bracing yourself and waiting for his next move.

"You're so dirty." you said, unable to resist sounding disappointed.

"And you're so wet." he said, his fingers pressed up against your drenched panties.

"Shut up." you shuddered, his breath warming the back of your neck.

The fire in you was burning now. You felt his hands snake around your neck and his hot breath on your ear.

"Just because I don't like this dress doesn't mean I don't love you. I love you so much." he whispered.

"I love you more." you replied, relaxed.

He leaned in and kissed your back, all the way down your spine, making you shudder at the feeling of his soft lips against your skin. His hands gently grabbed the remaining fabric of the dress on your hips and in one swift motion, tore it off your body.

"Whoops," he said, dropping the shreds that once made up a dress on the floor.

"You tease." you smirked over your shoulder.

"You love it."

You nodded. You felt his hands gently grab your hips as he pushed you forward a bit and stood up behind you. One of his hands spread across your lower back and the other reached down to grasp on your thigh. He pulled you back against him and you could feel his hardness in between your ass cheeks as he kissed your shoulder. You felt his hand wander up your inner thigh and lightly graze your clit. You moaned in approval and he took that as a cue to keep going. He slipped a finger or two inside you and it was almost instant that he was tapping your g-spot.

"Lando." you breathed, fully leaning on him for support.

"Yes, love?" his voice was deep and low.

"I want you." you whined for the second time that evening.

"And you'll have me." he said, without providing much information on when that will be.

He laid you back on the couch, opening your legs to slide his arms in between your thighs. He lifted your butt off the couch and you wrapped your arms tight around his neck, anticipating the moment where he'd have his face between your legs.

He descended on top of you, his lips kissing your neck before moving over to your ear. His teeth grazed your earlobe and you shuddered as he sucked.

"More." you panted, your fingers clawing at his shirt.

He smirked, giving your ear one last lick before moving his attention to your lips. His rough hands maneuvered over your skin, finally gripping your breasts and pinching your nipples. Your hands cupped his face as he roughly bit down on your lower lip, then moving to your jaw and then your neck.

You pulled off his dress shirt as he attacked your neck with his mouth and his teeth. Your eyes fluttered close as his teeth sank into your shoulder. He pulled away, leaving a series of hickeys on your skin. He climbed back on top of you, his hands snaking down to grab your ass. He looked into your eyes, biting down on his lip as he pushed his hardness into your thigh. You wiggled your hips, getting impatient for him to be inside of you.

"So impatient," he remarked. "Can't you see I'm trying to take my time with you?"

"This is torture." you said instead.

"Now, baby," he said, kissing his way down from in between your chest to your stomach. "No need for dramatics."

Positioning his face just above your pussy, he gently removed your panties as he pushed your legs a bit more forward, angling you just the way he wanted you. Without previous warning, he ran his hot tongue all over you. Oh, god, real torture begins now, you thought.

A moan chocked in your throat as your mouth hung agape. It didn't take long for him to start lapping around your folds, suck on your clit and fuck into your entrance with his pointy tongue. You were a squirmy and moany mess, one hand pulling on his hair, the othe one gripping the couch, but he didn't cease. In fact, it only encouraged him to flick his tongue over your sensitivity and keep tasting you up.

Thighs shaking and repeatedly panting his name, your climax arrived sooner that you anticipated. He licked you clean one last time before getting on top of you once more and kissing you, making you taste yourself on his lips. You sank your teeth into his bottom lip as you sucked on it, receiving a moan into your mouth from him. He gave you a few more pecks before pulling you up by your arms into his embrace.

"What do you say we take this to the bedroom?" he questioned.

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder as he carried you like a child in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He dropped you on the bed and fumbled with his pants. That gave you an opportunity to quickly get on your knees and take his belt off and unbutton his pants. He got the hint, taking them down. You rested your head on his thigh, looking up at him–pouting–as you stroked the bulge in his boxers. You probably couldn't count how many times he actually got a boner this evening and had to fight it. His lips parted, shaky breaths escaping him.

"Please..." he begged, fingers raking through your hair.

He didn't have to tell you twice to take his boxers off. After all, you could no longer deny him his pleasure after everything you've put him through this evening. He deserved his little treat. His length sprung forward and you rested it on your tongue. He shuddered, holding your head as you bobbed on him. You started going faster and it wasn't long before you could feel him twitching in your mouth.

You usually didn't do this, but you wanted to tease him as much as you could. When you felt him starting to lose his grip, you stopped and smiled as you looked up at him. Strands of saliva connected your mouth to his cock. He looked at you with a desperate look, his hands holding your head still.

"Why did you stop?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Because you wanted to," you said, beaming.

He shook his head dismissively, returning a smile. You wrapped your lips around his tip again, sucking on him as hard as you could. His head fell back onto his shoulder, his eyes closed in ecstasy. You gripped him in your hands, stroking him as you bobbed your head up and down.

You stopped when it felt like his cock was about to burst. You let go and looked up at him and he caught you before you could say anything. He pulled you up and his lips crashed onto yours. The taste of him was still on your tongue, but you didn't mind. He kissed you tighter, his hands wrapped around your body, his fingers clawing at your lower back.

"Please, stop fucking teasing me." he groaned.

"I'm sorry." I pouted. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Want to show me just how sorry you are? Huh?" he grabbed your jaw, fixing your eyes on him. You nodded in response, this play only turning you on. "I'm going to fuck you right here." he muttered, his voice husky with lust. "Right on this bed, where I have fucked you numerous times before." he took your arms and pinned them to your sides. "Don't. Fight. Me." he warned, making sure not to repeat previous mistakes.

You shook your head and let out a nervous giggle.

"That's my girl." he leaned forward to kiss you again.

You moaned into it, pressing your body against him. His palm rubbed up your leg, parting it wider as he went to your thigh. He held your leg as he slipped it over his shoulder, his fingers brushing faintly over you, your hips bucking against him, urging him to go. He obliged by slipping two fingers. Your back arched up, your head falling back as you groaned.

"So wet for me." he grinned.

"You just don't know what you do to me." you explained, rocking your hips, enjoying the feeling of his fingers filling you up.

"I'll show you what I'm going to do to you." he claimed, gripping your hand and intertwining your fingers. His other hand was working its way further up your thigh and stopping above your knee.

"Do it, Lando." you pleaded.

He hoisted your other leg over his shoulder as well, changing the angle of your body and pushed himself into you. You twisted your head to look at him, your mouth hanging open as you let out a loud cry.

"Oh, fuck me, Lando..." you said breathily.

"Say my name." he rocked his hips faster.

"Lando," you gasped, your thighs beginning to shake.

"Louder." he commanded, squeezing your ass in his hands. "You're louder when you come."

"Lan... Lando!" you moaned, throwing your head back again.

The feeling was so overwhelming that you could feel yourself on the brink of climax. Your thighs started to shake violently and your stomach felt like it was being tickled on the inside. You moaned his name, trying to stifle a scream as you felt the most intense orgasm wash over you. You felt like you were going to pass out. It really had to be the most incredible feeling you ever experienced. You could feel him still hunched over you, filling you up.

"Lay down," he ordered.

"I can't even move," you gasped. "I'm numb."

"Good." he chuckled. "It means you enjoyed yourself."

"What about you?" you asked him.

"I'm covered in you." he kissed you. "That's more than enough."

"I want to make you feel good." you said, trying to catch your breath.

"That's something I'll have to work for." he smirked at you, rolling his cock inside you.

You bit your lip to keep you from moaning as you twisted your hips and dug your nails into his skin. He started kissing and sucking on your neck and your hands fell to his shoulders.

"I think you've had enough fun." he said, nibbling on your ear.

"Too much is never enough." you giggled. "Just stay inside me." you whispered as you put your arms back around his neck.

"I can do that." he smiled before kissing you.

He started thrusting in and out of you slowly, changing the angle again. You moaned into the kiss, your arms tightening around him. You started rocking your hips in sync with his thrusts, filling you up even more. He let go of your arms and cupped your face, still kissing you. You moved your hands to his neck and tangled your fingers into his hair.

"Oh, my god," you moaned into his mouth. "This feels so good."

"Tell me what you feel," he said between kisses.

"I feel full." you said breathily. "Like your cock is stretching me out." this dirty talk made you giggle.

"Tell me how it feels filling you up." he encouraged.

"I feel like I'm ready to burst," you said, shuddering. "I love it."

He pushed into you deeper and his lips found your collar bone.

"Good," he groaned. "I want you to feel good."

"I do." you breathed. "Oh, my god, I do." your eyes rolled back.

"Are you going to come again?" he asked, changing the speed of his thrusts.

"I don't know." you said. "Don't stop." you hugged him closer.

You felt the muscles in your body tightening and you knew you were about to climax again. He pulled back and looked down at you.

"Stay with me." he said, thrusting harder.

"I can't." you moaned.

He lifted you up, changing the position again. He slid out of you slightly then pushed in hard, hitting you in the right spot.

"Oh, fuck," you moaned, arms falling back to your side. "Fuck!" you screamed.

"Good girl," he pulled your face up and kissed you.

You came so hard that your vision went blurry and you felt like passing out again. You could feel him still thrusting into you, trying to keep pace. You bucked against him, your hips constricting as he came inside of you, groaning your name. He put you back down on the bed, his hands still on your body, gently rubbing your skin. You felt like you were on top of the world.

"I love you." you said, turning your head to face him. "So much."

"I love you." he replied, kissing your forehead.

"I'm sorry if I was a bit bratty today." you snuggled closer to him.

"Nah, I deserved it." he played with your fingers on his stomach. "And if I didn't, I know why you do it anyway." he shot you a quick glance.

"Oh, really?" you challenged.

"Uh huh. Don't get me wrong, it's hot and all, but babe, if you want me to fuck you hard all you have to do is ask."

"You're unbelievable." you shoved his shoulder and turned around, getting further away from him as possible. "Let's see the next time I behave like that and you don't get anything." you tucked yourself in with a duvet.

"Babe," he called and rolled his body closer to yours, hugging you from behind. "It was a joke. With some truth in it, but you know-"

You turned around just to hit his chest."

"Asshole."

"Princess."

You snuggled into the crook of his neck as he rested his chin on top of your head, your limbs tangled together.

"Prick."

"Babygirl."

"Wanker."

"If you want round three just say that." even though you both laughed, you still hit him with your fist.

"Fucking idiot."

"Love of my life."

You're not sure when exactly did he stop whispering names of endearment in your ear for you fell asleep in his arms to the sound of his voice with a hint of a smile plastered on your face.

[scudevils]

champagne coast — LN4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, semi-public, swearing, alcohol, sexual innuendo, not proofread and rushed ending!!

synopsis: lando finally won his race, there’s only one way to celebrate [2.4k]

a/n: the ending was so so bad these exams have been kicking my ass :/

"stop staring and pick a shirt." you looked back at him in the mirror, fixing the smudged lipstick lando had been the cause of.

"can't help myself when you look that pretty."

lando almost looked proud of himself at his reply, yet you could only give a drawn out groan in response. "stop being cheesy and get dressed. we're leaving in 10 minutes." he rolled his eyes before getting up, ultimately choosing the white linen shirt you had left out. "we're celebrating you, remember."

the cuffs were rolled up to just below his elbow, lando had a gift of somehow making ever outfit make him even more attractive to you, and tonight was no different. you just wanted to throw him back against the bed, fuck your friends waiting for the pair of you to meet them, and have him all to yourself for the night.

unfortunately, that wasn't the case and it was now you being called out for your shameless staring, a boyish smile on his face as his curls framed his forehead. you ignore him though, giving yourself another once over in the mirror, letting your eyes fall to landos just barely taller frame behind you, his hands finding your hips and lips just grazing over your neck.

he pressed a kiss against your pulse point, taking in the smell of the perfume he'd bought you for your birthday, the same one he'd been buying you for years. so much so that he now associated anything even similar in scent to you, driving him crazy from the first time you wore it.

"no, no, we need to go." you almost gave into his advances, ready to ditch the plans made, before finally you came to your senses, knocking him back off of you and reaching for your heels. "you better behave tonight."

it was an empty threat, and you both knew it.

the club was busy, probably the most packed you had ever seen it, buzzing with young drunks ready to celebrate the race result with their friends and a one night stand they'd regret in the morning, drivers joined them, alone or with their partners to congratulate the young brit on his first victory. it was nice though, coloured lights stream from the ceiling, a steady thrum of music vibrates lowly through the walls. the smell of alcohol flowed through the air like it did in the veins of the people there. the heat almost bound you together, sweat coating bodies as they danced against one another, drinks in hand to refresh their never ending thirst.

lando is just behind you, a hand on the small of your back when he spots a few of the other drivers and their girlfriends, directing you over to them and you move, heels already killing your feet and you knew it would be a sore night.

"thought you'd never show up." max sniggers, the boys giving lando a knowing look that had your face going hot, the girls not sparing you one either, kelly laughing at the way you blushed at the implication. they all knew how you and him were, in the honeymoon phase still despite the years of dating.

"blame him, took him about an hour to choose a shirt." you're quick to pass the blame, sitting next to one of the girls you're closest with as she makes space for you and the brit. you eye up her drink, the blue shade piquing your interest. "what are we drinking then?"

she lets out a giggle, passing you a straw and letting you have a taste of it. before you can ask lando to get you one when he goes to the bar, max and carlos are sat back at the table, a tray of shots each. half the shots are a golden, bronze color and the others are crystal clear.

everyone plucks shots from the table, you play it safe though. taking a clear one first, you cheers it to the table, grimacing at the burn when you throw your head back, the liquid flowing down your throat, you make a face at the strength, recognising it as vodka.

your eyes follow lando as he lifts the golden coloured shot from the tray. he brings the small glass to his lips, and you can still feel the way they felt on your neck just half an hour ago, the jut of his jaw, and how the stubble would cause an itching sensation against your cheek, leaving pink marks in its wake as he kissed you. it's gone in a flash as he downs the shot like it's water. "patrón." he groans.

"you two have lots of catching up to do." they're quick to remind you, some of them even three, four, drinks deep meanwhile you and lando had had one shot each, although he'd been drinking champagne since his win earlier in the day, tipsier than you already.

you could feel the music thumping through your body, the humid air already getting to you, standing in the line for the bar, with lando just behind you. his hands rarely left your hips, sometimes he dared to move them just lower to the hem of your dress when you swatted them away, reminding him to behave.

you weren't afraid of lando touching you in public, everything he was doing his friends had seen before, but tonight he was feeling more dangerous, maybe it was the adrenaline of his first win, or maybe he was just really fucking needy for you.

his one-day stubble scratches your soft cheeks, when he presses a kiss there, almost an invasion for more. although your annoyed at him for smudging even more of your makeup, it doesn't last long when he places a drink in your hand. no matter how much time you spend on yourself, he always ruins you. your makeup, your clothes, covering your whole body in hickies and marks. simply because you're his, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't do the same to him.

he tests his luck, the hand at the bottom of your dress finding it way under and squeezing the soft skin of your arse, and you gasp before turning go face him. "behave." you warn him, but ultimately it goes in one ear and out the other, his eyes zeroing in on your lips as he innocently pecks them.

"thought we were celebrating me?" he parrots your earlier words, lips so close to yours you can feel them moving against yours, you can taste the fruity cocktail he's been drinking. "you gonna let me celebrate with you?"

you're nodding your head before you even realise. drink being abandoned on the table before you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, kelly and alex offering to come with you before you shut then down, passing a worried glance in lando's direction but he only encouraged with a smirk.

you were gone more than five minutes before they got worried about you. "the lines probably long, i'll go check on her, keep her compancy." lando offered, the group either too drunk to care or not wanting to say anything out loud.

that was how you found yourself now, lando's lips on your necks, red marks turning purple in the aftermath, your small gasps and whines echoing off of the tiled bathroom walls. you couldn't take your hands off of him, trailing up his toned stomach, the way his muscles tensed under your touch had you wanting him even more.

you weren't sure wether it was the high of his win that was making him look even more attractive than usual or the heat was getting to you but he just looked so fuckable in that moment you didn't want to let him go.

threading your fingers through his hair you felt his groan against your neck, he'd been freeing his curls more and more each day not doing well to help your obsession with pulling on the strands. "lando-" a breathy moan falling from your lips in the sound of his name.

you'd managed to finally get him away from your neck, hands cradling his face as your thumb swiped across his cheek, slotting your lips over his as your back pressed against the sink counter. lando's hands wandered your body as if for the first time, leaving no part of your exposed skin untouched, pawing at the clothes he'd commented on earlier for being too small and now he thought you had too much on. "you gonna let me reward you for being my lucky charm, hm?" his hand ran down the side of your cheek, taunting you, a mocking tone to his words as his eyes stared into yours.

"please, lando." your voice was just above a whisper, shame seeping into your words, the realisation that your friends, his colleagues, were just outside and could interrupt at any moment, hear you at any moment, they could get worried about how long you were taking and try and come find you.

"you're gonna need to be real quiet, okay?" the pads of his fingers rubbed circles against your hips bone, lifting you up onto the counter, your back pressed against the cool glass, heading falling back and exposing your neck to him again, goosebumps raising on your legs as the bottom of your dressed had already bunched up below your waist.

the belt from his trousers was quickly undone, pulling them down enough to free himself, tip already leaking pre-cum, begging for you to touch him. your hand wrapped around him, squeezing lightly as you worked your wrist feeling him harden underneath you.

you whined as he pulled your hand away, pressing a small kiss to the palm. "fuckin' love your hand, but i wanna come inside of you." he groaned, watching the way you dropped your feet back onto the bar floor, turning your body so your eyes met his on the mirror and teasingly arched your back against his front.

there was something about the way he towered over you when you were bent down that turned you on like nothing else, knowing he could manhandle your body like a rag doll if he wanted to, fuck you like you wanted him to. your hand dipped between your own thighs, rubbing circles over your clit as your eyes closed, feeling him watching you.

his hands found home on your waist, tight enough that your eyes opened, staring back at him, your dressed hiked up your hips and panties pulled down enough to give him access to you. but instead he watched the way your hand moved, focused on the small moans that fell from your lips, arm threatening to buckle under your weight but you knew if you took your eyes off of him you'd be in trouble.

you managed to focus on him for the first time, seeing just the underside of his neck as his head lolled back. the sound of you moaning from your own doing had him groaning, the sight in front of him something he'd never forget.

"don't stop, fucking don't." he warned, seeing the way your hands grew weaker, movements becoming tired as you grew closer to your high, legs beginning to shake against his own. "so good for me-" your eyes screwed shut, head falling back against his chest as he let you come undone against him, arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up.

lando intertwined his fingers with your own, bringing your fingers up to his mouth as placed kisses to them, taking them in his mouth, cleaning them off. "looked so hot on the podium, wanted to fuck you right there." you spoke against his neck, pulling away slightly and looking up at him for his reply.

"yeah?" you nodded. "gonna let me fuck you now?" nodding again, lando's hands were back on your hips, pushing you down against the cold counter.

his hands ran down your body, a harsh hit against your ass caused you to jolt towards the sink, a whine falling from your lips at the stinging sensation. you felt him against you, moaning as he slid in, stretching you out as if for the first time, feeling every inch of him inside of you.

"lando-" moaning his names he made a makeshift ponytail in your hair, moving against you at a quick pace, the sound of skin against slim bouncing off of the walls in sync with both yours and his groans.

you never felt his pace falter even when his movements became erratic, when he could see your thighs shaking, arms threatening to give out when you held yourself up. "look at you baby, looking so pretty when you let me fuck you."

"only for you lando." his thrusts seemed almost deeper now, a new feeling of pleasure rippling through your body, the warmth coming from him in contrast to the coolness of the counter against your skin. "gonna come, please."

he dropped his head to the crook of your neck, his chest pressed against your back, biting down onto the skin there to muffle the moans he let out, although failing as they mixed with your own, the sounds begging him to let you have your release. "please, lando, please let me come-"

you felt his hips stutter against you, movements faltering and becoming sloppy, and he couldn't hold back when he twitched again inside of you, the feeling triggering your second orgasm of the night as you moaned into your fist, trying to muffle the sounds of your desperate whines, clenching around lando as he reached his own release, feeling him deep inside of you, your vision blurry but you could feel his hands on the backs of your thighs, massaging the muscles that would sure to be sore in the morning. "fuck, i love you." he murmured against your skin.

"i love you too," your eyes met his in the mirror, the mess of his and your hair had you blushing, his pupils blown out, looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. "my race winner."

[cerisereids]

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢- 𝚋.𝚋.

pairing- benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary- benedict bridgerton is a very avid customer of the ton’s favorite bookstore. what happens when he extends an invitation to the bookkeepers daughter for a ball at bridgerton house? a bridgerton and a working class woman could never be together, could they?

warnings- sfw, making out, reader is 25 aka ‘old’ back then lol, benedict is the same age he is in the show currently (29), reader’s mother died, reader comes from working class family, did some research on regency era but it may not be perfect, benedict is down literally horrendous, reader wears blush but there’s no mention of skin tone, genevieve and benedict don’t have history, not rly proofread lmao

a/n- divider from @saradika-graphics !!

a golden ray of sun filters through the window, coating your family’s bookstore in a dreamy glow. you allow yourself a brief moment to bask in it before you begin your opening duties. your arms are outstretched along the desk tucked into the corner of the store, eyes closed as you soak in as much vitamin d as you can. since your mother died this past winter, your days have been consumed with running your ever-aging father’s beloved bookstore. since spring has rolled around once more, you don’t get nearly as much time in the sun as you’d like, so you enjoy it however you can.

since turning 25, you’ve officially written off the hope of getting married, as well. your life has taken a turn you never could never have expected, so your priorities have shifted. you have to put the family business before courting, even if it means giving up the prospect of someday, somehow, marrying the man you’ve crushed on since childhood: benedict bridgerton. he’s visited your father’s shop since you were small, and you’ve often indulged in the fantasy of riding off into the sunset with him on horseback, often like the heroines in the tales stacked along the walls.

you sigh, tilting your head as the sun highlights your cheekbone, a natural glow emanating from your skin. your eyes fall shut as the image of another life dawns upon you, one where your contact with sunlight doesn’t have to be through a window, standing at a desk in a dusty old shop. you love your father, you’d do anything to help him. however, you can’t help but resent the life higher class women in the ton are allowed to have, the unions lady whistledown is always writing about.

you see the most recent edition of the paper, a large, neat stack ready to sell on the display shelf closest to the entrance. as you flip the sign on the door so it reads ‘open’, you opt to ignore the woeful tales of women who wouldn’t spare you a second glance outside of the four walls of the bookstore. your father’s shop has been the most popular in the ton for as long as you’ve been alive. despite this popularity, you’ve never been regarded as anything more than a working man’s daughter. you’d never been the type of girl lady whistledown deems worthy enough to gossip about.

you take one more glance over yourself, ensuring you maintain professionalism to begin the day. your hands brush over your white dress, complete with a pink linen shift laced up the front, cinching your curves. you inspect the shift that’s cinched up your waist and chest, evaluating the stitching and fabric. you made it, as your mother taught you to sew at a very young age. resentful of the rules and restrictions placed on what you can wear, you aim to include as much individuality in your pieces as possible. that means many of your clothing items-work clothes and otherwise- are an array of bright pastels and floral prints. the sharp ding of the door opening snaps you out of your fussiness, meeting eyes with your first customer of the day: benedict bridgerton.

there it is again, that feeling, that hope. it swirls deep in your belly before consuming you whole, prodding at your heart and tickling your throat. you take in the adonis standing before you, his eyes shining bright from the morning sun, hair still a tad messy from his rest, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. you consider that you really wouldn’t mind waking up to that for the rest of your life. that’s as far as you let your foolish fantasies go, snapping back into business mode.

“hello mr. bridgerton!” you chirp, cheeks warm from just the slightest bit of his attention, “what can i do for you this morning?”

“well, hello beautiful! i hope you’re having a wonderful morning. i thought of you as the sun rose,” he remarks almost absentmindedly. he strolls along the shop, perusing the shelves as if he didn’t stop you in your tracks just then.

“oh-why do you say that?” you sputter, and you’re honestly proud of yourself for at least being coherent.

“it was just that beautiful,” he glances over his shoulder to look at you while he says it, a playful smile dancing on his lips, “i do think you have it beat, though.”

you take a shaky breath in and will your heart to stop dancing in your chest. your nerves begin to overpower the hope from earlier, a sinking feeling drooping low in your stomach, hot and vulnerable.

“mr. bridgerton, you are a terrible flirt,” you do your best to remain professional, avoiding eye contact as you grab recommendations off the shelf for him.

“how many times have i told you to call me benedict?” he turns to face you with a hand on his hip just as you approach him with a stack of books in your hands.

you register the proximity almost immediately, his woodsy, musky scent infiltrating your brain, nearly turning your knees to jelly. you see the amusement in his eyes, the way they dance as you shakily inhale, your chest rising and falling, cheeks burning. he loves teasing you like this. you know he does. he’s done it every time he’s come in the shop, for years.

“i’ve called you mr. bridgerton since we were children, i simply cannot stop now,” you state matter of factly, a sly smirk painted on your lips nonetheless. you shove the stack of books in his large, waiting arms, “tell me what you think of these options, since you won’t tell me what you’re looking for today.”

benedict rolls his eyes as she turns to move back behind the counter, but what she doesn’t see is the way his eyes follow her every move, taking in each swish of her long dress as it flows around her. benedict bridgerton has been in love with the girl behind the bookstore counter for years. she just doesn’t know it yet.

he’s made trips to old main’s bookstore since he was a child, frequenting with his father as he fostered his love for reading. he’s always had his eye on the shy girl behind the counter. his father used to tease him gently, calling it puppy love, telling him it’s just a crush, that he’ll grow out of it. the problem with childhood crushes, though, is that as he grew, she did too. she grew from a shy, quiet girl, staring at him with big eyes from behind her father’s legs, to a bright, confident woman, even if she tries and hide it from him.

he sees the way she holds back, the way her eyes burn with passion, while physically shielding herself from him at the same time. it is just like she’s doing now, retreating back behind the counter, arms folded across her chest. his fingers grip the books she handed him, and he takes a moment to admire her while she works. she’s in her natural state, moving about the counter like it’s second nature. his eyes drink in the way her body twists and bends while she tidies around the counter, fixing shelves and restocking books.

his eyes soften at the way her soft pink garment compliment her skin, aglow from the bright sun coating her through the window. he admires the way the softness of her pretty face blushes and shines with the light touches of makeup she had to have borrowed from madame delacroix. her angelic face is framed by the baby hairs falling out of her bun, and he fights the urge to lean across the counter and brush the strands behind her ears, to caress her face.

“the new jane austen is on top. i think you’d really like it,” she smiles when she catches him staring, and his cheeks flush at the fact that he’s been caught.

“pride and prejudice…” he reads, his finger scanning over the text stamped into the leather book cover, “you’ve always been a woman of romance, huh?” he coos oh so lovingly.

he loves the fact that she shares her favorite books with him. he’s never met someone as passionate about reading as he is, besides eloise, maybe. his connection with her is different, of course.

“yes, i suppose so,” she answers softly, almost meek, and he wants to scoop her up in his arms and never let go, “my position in our society does not afford me the luxury of pursuing a love connection from the storybooks, but it’s nice to read about them. to think that it could actually exist for someone, even if it can’t be me.”

her smile falls just a tad and his heart squeezes tight in his chest, “never say never,” is the only thing he can say, breathless at the sheer thought of you feeling lonely, like love is something unattainable. he can’t form proper words with the way the wind has been knocked from his chest.

“yeah, right, mr. bridgerton,” she rolls your eyes and he winces, both at her self doubt and his official title, “i am 25 years old, and i am a working man’s daughter. i have accepted the fact that i shall just work here until i die,” she says it jokingly, but her eyes convey a sadness she can’t mask.

“not necessarily,” he blurts, shaking his head.

your eyes meet his, incredulous, “and what on earth does that mean, mr. bridgerton?”

“benedict,” he corrects sternly, and it just earns him a smirk from you, and he curses the butterflies erupting in his stomach. he can’t even be frustrated with you for longer than 2 seconds, “it means that you need to read today’s lady whistledown.”

“why?” she raises a brow, walking over to the display shelf showcasing todays latest edition.

she flips through the paper before she finds what he’s talking about.

“what…” she trails off, glancing back up at him, “what, you mean this?” she asks, incredulous. she’s pointing at the section in the paper that reads, ‘VIOLET BRIDGERTON AND FAMILY TO THROW BALL THIS EVENING’

he nods sheepishly, “i am inviting you. i believe we would enjoy spending an evening together,” his tone is uncertain as he extends his-rather impulsive- invite, and she lets out a sarcastic cackle.

“yeah right,” she slaps the copy of lady whistledown onto his ever growing pile of text, “very funny, good joke,” she waves a finger at him, and anger flares in his chest.

“‘m not joking,” he shakes his head curtly, “you should come, i’ll need a dance partner, after all,” his voice is still shaky, and she laughs at him in disbelief.

you look at the man before you like he’s a mythical creature, “mr. bridgerton, you and i both know very well that is not how these things work,” you shake your head as you walk around him, completing various tasks around the store and helping the odd customer that enters while mr. bridgerton browses. you figure if you keep yourself busy, it’ll stop you from wanting to kiss him. so far, your mission has failed.

“well-” he scoffs, plowing five fingers through his head of beautiful hair, “who cares about how things work?” he protests childishly, and you chuckle sardonically.

“that’s very easy for you to say. everybody wants to be a bridgerton,” you fake a posh accent mockingly, and you revel in the way he rolls his eyes, a knowing smirk spreading across his lips, “as i said prior, i’m practically a spinster to everybody in the ton. i’m destined to be a worker’s daughter, nothing more.”

he saunters over to the counter with a mischievous glint in his eye and the most kissable smirk painted across his lips, and sets the book pile down with a thud.

“you know madame delacroix will loan you a gown for the evening. my entire family would be delighted to see you there, you know that,” sliding a stack of pounds across the counter, heavily overcompensating for the actual price of the books.

he sends you one more smile, one that reads ‘i hope to see you there’, before he exits the store. he holds the door open for an elderly patron on his way out, and your heart grows three sizes.

your fingers fiddle with the array of fabrics billowing around you as you sit sheepishly in the corner of modiste. none of them seem right to you, but genevieve seems to think otherwise. a flurry of pink and blue pastels swirl around her dress form, a nearly finished dress sitting delicately on the mannequin.

“you’re lucky i’ve been working on this for some time now, you’re just giving me an excuse to finish it,” genevieve teases gently, pinning certain fabrics in their final places before sewing, “so he just…invited you to this ball?” she peers inquisitively around the velvety fabric of the fake bust.

“yes!” you gush, flailing your arms in confusion, the leftover fabric moving with your gesticulations, “i do not know what he was thinking!” you bury yourself in a protective shield of chiffon.

“i believe he was thinking about one certain thing, my dear,” she raises a suggestive brow in your direction, and it sets your cheeks aflame.

“miss delacroix!” you exclaim, jokingly scandalized. you attempt to hit her with one of the many pieces of fabric clenched in your hands, but the soft chiffons and silks barely brush her arms.

“there is not a chance he views me in such a light, genevieve,” you shake your head, desperately trying to keep your voice neutral, but you cannot mask the disappointment clouding your words, “even if he did, there is not much that could be done about it, anyway. i do not come from the stock that marries bridgertons.”

“you and i both know that benedict is not the kind to care for that sort of thing,” genevieve insists, but you shake your head.

“he may be the only one in the ton who does not care for such expectations,” you say sardonically, shaking your head, “i cannot guarantee the pressure from his peers would not find its way under my skin.”

genevieve pauses at the mannequin bust, piercing you with a knowing gaze, “my love, mr. bridgerton has not been able to take his eyes off of you since you were children,” she chuckles lightly, shaking her head as she works, “he asked you to the ball because he has not a singular clue how else to ask for your hand.”

“gen! you must be out of your head!” you gasp, a smile bursting from your lips, “like i said before, he is a bridgerton. whether he cares or not, i will not put myself in such a position to be ridiculed by the entire ton!”

“you will not be,” genevieve tries her hardest to be convincing, but you both know the reality of your society, and the speed at which gossip flows, “okay, you might be,” she corrects herself at your pointed gaze, “but why not try? you’ve received an invitation after all, just like every other woman who will be there. it would be improper of you not to go.”

“my father said similarly shortly after mr. bridgerton left our shop this morning,” you smile softly, recalling the encouraging words of your affectionately nosy father, “bad manners, he accused me of.”

“i’m sure mr. bridgerton would feel similarly if the object of his affections for the past 15 years did not show up,” she raises her brows and lifts the now completed garment off the bust, your cue to stand.

you reluctantly move to the curtained dressing area, rolling your eyes as genevieve hands you the dress to try on. once it’s over your body, you request her help with various cinching and the tying of ribbons. turning toward the mirror, you pause. you’re in disbelief at the way the dress hugs your curves, highlighting your chest and waist. you look…beautiful, like you could be a bridgerton. that feeling of hope trickles down your throat once more, filling up your heart and stomach with a warm golden light.

you run your hands along the under-bust corset, sturdier and stiffer than the linen shifts you wear to work everyday. the cinched bustier is made of a shiny, baby pink material, accented with light, pastel blue embroidery, complete with a light blue ribbon just between your breasts, tied into a bow. it mimics the rest of the dress, a baby pink ensemble with pastel blue flowers embroidered along the ruffle sleeves, blooming down, down, down along the floor length garment.

“you look perfect, my love,” genevieve squeezes your arms in excitement, lightly shaking you back and forth, “now, it is time for hair and makeup!” she declares, gently pushing your shoulders so you’re sitting on a stool by the dressing room mirror.

two hours of being primped and primed to the nines by genevieve delacroix, you find yourself at the steps leading to the front door of bridgerton house. the porch is lit aglow from the oil lamps posted in front, and you can hear the bustling crowd beyond the two front doors. something sickly churns in your stomach, twisting up your insides like a dirty dishrag. you can’t turn back now, not after having come this far. genevieve would probably kill you, as well, but that’s neither here nor there.

you’re swallowed up by the people flowing in and out of the home, chatter ebbing and flowing like the waves of the river thames. this allows you to enter unceremoniously, slipping through behind a group of loud, boisterous men coming from the expansive front garden. no doubt the sons of earls and dukes, who have already drank plentiful this evening. you stay to the wall, not eager to be front and center in such a foreign environment. your eyes scan the room, desperate to find the man who invited you in the first place.

when you finally find him, time stops, the same way it does in your romance novels. the racket of overzealous partygoers magically melts away, until the only two people in the room are you and benedict, who’s looking at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

benedict has spent the better half of his night being tossed around by colin and anthony. all night they have teased him over his unrestricted adoration for you, how he so brazenly just asked you to the ball tonight. he doesn’t quite know what came over himself, either. as the night goes on, he begins to worry this was all a big mistake. a spark of anxiety lights in his stomach, searing through his chest and squeezing him tight.

when he finally sees her, though, all the tension leaves his body. she’s breathtaking, sparkling in the golden glow of the chandeliers. she shines brighter than all of them, than all the priceless, gleaming silver and gold displayed around their home. he’s only ever seen her in the proximity of her father’s shop, and he’s never doubted that she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. tonight, though, he knows he’s had it right from the start.

seeing you here, a fairytale princess come to life, his adoration aches deep in his bones, strangling his heart with pure and utter fondness. he’d walk across hot coals to get to you. luckily, it only takes him a quick stride across the expansive living room. he moves as swiftly as he can while still appearing nonchalant, knowing the last thing she’d want is to draw attention.

“hello, beautiful,” he stands before you, hands clasped behind his back. he bows slightly before offering her his arm, and his niceties make her guffaw.

“mr. bridgerton, thank you for inviting me, you have a beautiful home,” she stutters out, managing an awkward curtsy of her own. her uncertainty is so endearing, it makes his heart swell and his cheeks heat up.

the two walk arm in arm throughout the room, and benedict makes it his personal mission to ease her worries. he keeps his free hand atop hers, the one resting on his other arm. he pats it to ensure her eyes stay on him, and don’t drift towards the other girls in the room, no doubt gossiping about this ‘mystery girl’.

thanks to his brothers’ abrasiveness, especially where alcohol is involved, word got around that benedict bridgerton was expecting someone at his family’s ball. he’d naively hoped that once, if, she arrived, the partygoers’ curiosity would be quenched, that they’d return to their drinks, to their provincial conversations. like he said, naive.

she’s the center of attention, her dress twinkling in the soft glow of the room. she looks angelic, he cannot quite blame all the people staring, she’s breathtaking. she seems to ease at the contact with him, though, and it makes him feel 10 feet tall. once drinks have been acquired and he’s introduced you to some of his siblings- two strapping brothers that look just like him, and a sly sister- he insists on a tour of bridgerton house.

“mr. bridgerton!” she chuckles at his suggestion, and his face flushes with pride, a cheeky smile on his face, “won’t you get in trouble for sneaking away from your own party?”

the silk of her glove grips his wrist, and her concern for him makes his heart churn. the way she always cares for him so easily, like it’s breathing, makes him want to cocoon her in his arms, safe from harm’s way.

“probably, but is that not part of the fun?” he replies cheekily, and it earns him another award winning smile from her, “you do not need to worry your pretty little head about me, sweetheart, let us escape from all the staring,” he rolls his eyes in theatrical aggravation, and it earns him a melodic giggle from her pretty lips. he feels on top of the world.

“that does sound quite nice,” she ponders, pursing her pretty lips in the most adorably concentrated pout. he has to physically restrain himself from pulling her to him and kissing that pout straight off her face in front of everyone at the party.

“let’s do it,” she decides, deviance coloring her tone.

“that’s my girl,” he coos, resting his hand on the small of her back to guide her up the stairs, “let’s go this way, hm?” he whispers into her ear, his chin resting on her shoulder as they walk. he’s not sure if he imagined it, but he’s almost certain he feels a shudder unzip down her spine. a smirk breaks out on his lips.

“we’ll go up these steps, but when we reach the top, you will go left and i will go right. wait for me in the first room on the right, i will come to you. does that sound good?” he feels her nod against him. it feels excessive to him, but he simply cannot risk the gossips of the ton seeing the two of them walk off alone. it would scandalize her, and he wants to protect her, he just wishes he could spend time with her without having to worry about the fabricated rules of their society.

when he loses her warmth as they part ways, he immediately longs to reach for her once more, to wrap her in his arms and never let go. it will happen soon enough, he silently wishes.

you are breathless at the sudden contact with mr. bridgerton, his breath tickling your neck makes you shudder. you want to kick yourself for immediately showing your hand, but you can’t quite seem to care when the warm comfort of his hand spreads through your back.

as the bustle of the party dies down after splitting ways, the more your heart flutters. butterflies have taken complete and total capacity of your stomach, flapping their wings with no reserve. your breath picks up, chest rising and falling the quieter.

you do as he told you, pushing open the door to the first room on the right. it appears to be his bedroom, if the scattered books and clothes were anything to go by. your stomach churns as you think of the scandal, being in a gentleman’s room without a chaperone. you cannot find it in you to care all that much, though, as the feeling benedict bridgerton gives you overpowers it all.

your heart nearly beats out of your chest as you hear the handle turn, benedict standing in the doorway. he pauses at the sight of you in his bedroom, no doubt thinking the same thing you are- the trouble you’d be in if you were caught in this position. this shared knowledge has the opposite effect than one might think. instead of discouraging you two, it heightens the tension.

your breath picks up as the two of you take each other in. you let your eyes unabashedly trail over every inch of him. this may be the first and last time you have him in such a capacity, and you want to make sure you take full advantage of it.

“have i told you how beautiful you look, honey?” his soft voice breaks through the tension, and a smile breaks out on your face.

“yeah, quite a few times, actually,” you state, avoiding eye contact so you don’t immediately turn to mush.

“that’s not enough. you look beautiful,” he offers you his hand and leads you out of the room.

“this is what i want to show you first,” he whispers in your ear once more, and goosebumps erupt along your skin. he leads you to a room with two large wooden doors, and stops the two of you right in front.

“go ahead,” he nods towards the doors, and you tentatively push.

you’re greeted with…books. books as far as your eye can see, stacked in every corner of the room, top to bottom, front to back. your mouth falls open just slightly, a gasp escaping your lips. your eyes gloss over in pure awe. you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by books, and yet you don’t think you’ve ever seen so many all at once.

“benedict…this is incredible,” you gush, too distracted to notice the lack of formality, “you just live with this?” you gasp, unbelieving. it makes benedict chuckle, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips as well.

as you stand there, laughing with benedict bridgerton, you can’t help but feel that all is right with the world, like you’re the only two people on the planet. your hand instinctively reaches for his, and he laces his fingers in yours. he gently guides you around the room, highlighting the sections that you would like the most.

“take as many of these as you want, my love,” he says, tentatively wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. he’s nervous, you can tell. he’s testing the waters, and you lean into his touch.

“are you serious?” you ask, looking up at him from his chest.

“‘f course, there’s so many of them, we have more in storage, too,” he places a gentle kiss on your forehead and your eyes drift closed for a moment.

“you’re too kind to me, benedict,” you murmur before opening your eyes. you’re greeted with the most beautiful man in the ton gazing down at you with stars in his eyes.

“my name sounds so gorgeous on your lips,” he murmurs, his lips resting against your temple. it’s only then you realize you’ve dropped the title, and your face flushes. you gasp at the revelation, leaping from his hold.

you clear your throat, straightening out your dress as you keep your gaze downturned, “i apologize, sir. that was improper of me,” you inhale shakily as you pretend to look at books.

“no, no, my love. it’s okay, i want you to be comfortable with me, okay?” he coos, and you want to just fall into him and let him shield you from the world for the rest of time. you know that’s not how this can work, though, so you groan.

“unfortunately, that is not how things are supposed to be between the two of us,” you attempt to keep your voice as neutral as possible.

“why should we give a damn about how things are supposed to be between the two of us?!” he snaps, and your eyes widen, “ever since i met you, every waking moment of my life has been dedicated to you. it has all been for you, my love. okay? every book i’ve picked up, every class i’ve taken, it’s all made me feel closer to you, even if we were miles apart,” he vents, and you’re both breathing as if you’ve just ran miles.

“i don’t understand, mr. bridgerton-”

“it’s benedict, sweet girl,” his stern tone stops you in your tracks, “ever since we were children, you have overtaken my every waking thought. when i first saw you, a shy young thing hiding behind the bookstore’s counter,” he pauses to breathlessly chuckle at the memory, “i thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world. now that we’re adults, and you’ve blossomed into a strong, smart, sensitive young woman, i know for certain i was right. you’re so beautiful, inside and out, and i’m in love with you.”

the wind is knocked out of you at his confession, eyes glossing over with tears threatening to spill over your lash line, “benedict!” you gasp, your hands clasping against your chest.

“come here,” he mumbles, pulling you by your hand to crash his lips onto yours. he practically inhales you as his body surrounds you entirely.

you feel him everywhere. his lips are moving a mile a minute, from your lips to your cheeks to your neck to your collarbones. his warmth envelops you from the outside in, warming the fire burning low in your belly. the scent of his woodsy cologne intoxicates you, and you feel lightheaded from the overstimulation. you don’t want it to stop, though, you never want it to stop.

your hands reach up to cradle his jaw, bringing his lips back to yours in a fiery explosion of passion. you’re gasping against each other, lips moving in desperate tandem. anything and everything that isn’t benedict bridgerton is of no use to you, your brain completely blank except for the man overpowering your senses.

he breaks the kiss first. he pulls away reluctantly to catch his breath, but he keeps his hands on either side of your face. he doesn’t let you escape his fiery gaze, inspecting every inch of your blissed out expression, all heavy lidded eyes and plump, swollen lips.

“i love you, too,” you whisper once you’ve finally caught your breath, and you both chuckle.

“i love you,” he murmurs, bringing your lips back to his. this kiss was chaste, sweet, “i love you so much,” and another kiss.

“benedict…” you trail off, reality settling in for a brief moment, “what are we going to do?” you whisper, eyes glossy with pure, raw emotion.

he knows what you mean, you can tell from the strain in his eyes, “i’m going to take care of you, okay my love? i’m going to make sure nobody says a word to hurt my girl, okay?” he seals his promise with a kiss that nearly knocks you off your feet.

you fall against him, arms flying around his neck. he lifts you just slightly off the ground, one hand supporting your neck while the other grips your lower back. he starts kissing all over your face and neck, a smile forming on his lips as you giggle.

“we will make it work, okay?” kiss, “i will fight…” kiss, “whatever stupid rule…” kiss, “that says…” kiss, “we can’t be together…” kiss, “do you understand me?”

you both know there’s more to this conversation than that. you both know there’s a whole party downstairs you’ll have to return to eventually. right now, though, this is enough. benedict bridgerton, with his warm lips caressing your the sensitive skin of your neck, and his large, warm hands rubbing soothing circles on your back, is enough. you love each other. you’ll be okay.

[husbandhoshi]

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

summary: being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.

in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.

notes: romcom with mild angst, coworkers!au, slow burn enemies to lovers, playboy!cheol, suggestive (one moment in particular) + mentions of sex (otherwise sfw), swearing, lots of alcohol, also you will probably get hungry reading this. extra special thanks a million times over to my fav person @wuahae for bearing with me through literally all 20k words of this. i love you:')

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god.

Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat.

None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

"Well, this seems like good news for the place," Jeonghan says. "Wine's tasty. Three stars?"

At this point, you're fairly sure Jeonghan has tuned the explanation of your elaborate rating process out (he's there for the wine, anyway), so instead you top him up and help yourself to a generous portion of his pappardelle.

"Four, then?" He leans forward on his elbows. "Or critic's choice?"

Candied lemon, pecorino, garlic. Derivative, but it's a good bite.

"You're distracting me." You point your fork at him. "You're like 80% alcohol, anyway. Bad opinions."

"Sue me," he laughs. "I would take a client here, is all I'm saying."

You pass on the opportunity to bring up that Jeonghan once brought a client to a Bubba Gump because he was craving coconut shrimp. But Jeonghan isn't a food critic—he's a business analyst and your best friend from college, back when all you cared about was Friday's house party and writing pizza joint reviews for the university paper.

It's a good arrangement. You appreciate his company, and he's never one to turn down a free meal. The both of you keep a small circle—such is the price of discernment.

There aren't many things that can come between you and a delicious meal. But, you have notifications turned on for just three things (all work-related) and you both watch the linen tablecloth light up under your face-down phone in true horror-movie fashion.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Popular on a Saturday night," he jokes. "Copy on your ass again?"

"Nothing's in production," you reply, letting the evil claws of your terrible work-life balance encircle you once again as you open your email.

URGENT: LIFESTYLE EDITOR TRANSITIONAL PLANS, it reads. It's from Wonwoo, your editor in chief, who has sent it with priority, as if the caps lock wasn't scary enough.

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email.

As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

Not a surprise, given his wife is having a kid. You had called it six months ago over the paper's Christmas dinner at Eleven Madison Park, when Joshua spent half of it outside on a phone call and the other half browsing the Baby Gap website.

I have decided to hire internally to fill his position. I and upper management believe you would be a good fit for the position. Please plan for a meeting 9 AM Monday to discuss transitional plans.

It's that part that you have to read over three times. And then you read it over a fourth, just for good measure.

"You're starting to scare me." Jeonghan puts down his glass, which is something akin to a baby separating from their bottle.

Sometimes you need a dictionary to understand Wonwoo, but the email seems clear as day to you. Good fit. Transitional plans. Suddenly you wish Jeonghan hadn't had so much of the wine because you're in desperate need of a drink.

"I-I think…I think I'm getting promoted."

How funny to think your lifelong dream would be realized over a 40 dollar plate of pasta. You want to cry and hug the maître d' and eat the entire complimentary bread basket.

"It's about time." The glass finds his relieved hand again. "You breathe journalism. I'm afraid one day you'll text me in AP style."

You read over all of it again, trying to memorialize the words that undoubtedly will launch your wonderful and long career in the upper echelons of media.

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

Then the proverbial cherry on top, the laughably convenient other thing your eyes had glazed over before.

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

Nothing is ever that easy and it then dawns on you that this is a competition type thing because never in the history of the printing press has there been two editors for a section.

Jeonghan stares at you blankly. It would be funny if you didn't feel like you were being double deep-fried like terrible fair food, all the thrill and elation of the moment boiled down to lead in your chest.

"I—he," you stammer.

Jeonghan mouths check to the poor waiter assigned to watch your table. God bless him.

"Words," he tells you. "You went to journalism school."

You take a syrupy breath that sits in your lungs unhappily. Your food is cold. This is a disaster.

"Well, actually, I'm not getting promoted."

Jeonghan's eyes soften, just enough without making you pity yourself more.

"There's this guy," you start. "He's the love and relationships columnist, the one I complain about all the time." Jeonghan makes a small ahh sound, your predicament finally dawning on him. "I guess we're both under consideration for the position. I didn't-I didn't even think of him. I—"

You slump into your seat, the arancini your only solace despite your complaint that the breading was too salty earlier.

"So? I bet you're a way better fit than him. It'll be a shoe-in. Easy decision."

Jeonghan's confidence in you makes you want to cry.

The problem is that Seungcheol is the human equivalent of Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't recall the last time he walked into the office with a fully buttoned up shirt. You also can't recall the last time one of his advice columns wasn't in the end of quarter recap for popularity.

It's not in you to explain this debacle to Jeonghan. This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jeonghan asks when you're both in the Uber.

"Yeah." You have a headache. You also can't decide whether or not to give the restaurant three or four stars, and you always know by the time you're out the door. "It's fine."

The tiramisu is cold in your lap. Jeonghan squeezes your shoulder. You refresh your email.

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

Wonwoo, in his lanky taupe sweater vest, says that Joshua is leaving and you and Seungcheol are standing toe-to-toe in the space left behind.

"I'm sure you two are well-acquainted," he begins.

You stifle a laugh, but Seungcheol's cat-like grimace says more than enough. Neither of you have the heart to tell Wonwoo that your very first impression of Seungcheol was that he tried to hit on you at the new recruit party, or that Joshua probably deserves reparations for how often he mediated fights between the two of you during weekly meetings. (Maybe not reparations, but at least an Edible Arrangements.)

For better or for worse, Wonwoo's genius does not extend to social cues, and he follows with a blithe, "Therefore, I hope you two will treat this as a friendly competition between equals."

You almost laugh again, but this time it's because you need the promotion more than you need air, and you cannot allow some Buzzfeed reject with the face of a model take that from you. And you don't doubt Seungcheol wants it as bad as you do, considering how often you've seen him try to schmooze his way up the ranks.

He may have become a columnist by rubbing elbows with the right people, but you'll never forget the late nights you spent sifting through hours of interview transcripts, on the grueling climb up the totem pole to earn your position.

"We'll evaluate an article of your own submission at the end of the month before we decide. Best of luck."

At least Wonwoo knows to quit while he's ahead—he closes the meeting with a succinct nod before returning to his seemingly infinite unread emails.

"Exciting," Seungcheol says. He claps his hands together, Rolex gaudy under the office lights, and sends a nauseating smile your way. "May the best writer win."

He offers you a handshake. You think he has real life cooties, so instead you close your planner and shoot him a very pointed look.

"There's only one writer here. Thrilled to read your next thinkpiece on how men should spend more time on Tinder and not therapy."

That earns you a chuckle from Wonwoo, but Seungcheol is not easily fazed.

Instead he rushes to hold the door open for you on your way out, likely his favorite piece of advice to give his poor, indolent readers.

"I'll book a table for us at Avra next month," Seungcheol gloats. "Consider it a gift from your future boss."

"They don't have a kids menu, you know."

"No problem. I'll have my darling food critic order for me." He places a wicked hand over his polyester covered heart. "Ending misogyny in one fell swoop, huh?"

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster. You feel it collect in your bones, enough to feel like you can physically hack it up and hurl it at him.

"You have no clue what you're talking about, huh? Do you actually attract women with that attitude? Or are you just a really good liar?"

You are so close to him, you could kiss him if you wanted—luckily for the both of you, you would rather die a thousand fiery, terrible deaths, and then die all over again. Instead, you watch his pout unravel into a grin from hell, and he leans in closer, the scent of Old Spice and break room coffee heavy on him. This morning's matcha latte churns in your stomach, and you wonder if you should have gotten oatmilk instead of dairy.

Up close, he's worse. His hair reminds you of the sad, tired swoop of the washed-up lead of a daytime soap opera. And he has no pores, which is deeply upsetting because he looks like the type to wash his face with Palmolive and a prayer.

"You know what?"

His breath hits your lips and your skin prickles like you have an allergy.

"What?"

"You just gave me the winning idea for my next column." No way, you think. Mind games. Classy. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Looking forward to it."

The pet name makes you seethe. There are a million things you want to say, all colorful and none workplace appropriate.

"I'd rather starve."

"Better not let Wonwoo hear you with that bad attitude. I'm sure management loves a team player." His cheshire grin somehow gets bigger, all white teeth and pink lip. "Try to smile a little, huh? Have fun writing about snails and black garlic and cwa-ssants, or whatever it is that you do."

you watch all the laminated syllables of croissant go through his paper shredder smile and you think you black out.

He spins on his heel triumphantly, almost bowling over Minghao from Arts & Entertainment, who is undoubtedly wondering if you did, in fact, kiss.

Seungcheol laughs as he walks away, linebacker shoulders rippling under his one size too small shirt.

The metal-red knot of anger swells in your gut as you watch his perfect silhouette and his tiny little waist disappear into the staff room. Then you realize what you've been looking at and let yourself get mad all over again.

He does have a nice ass, though. You'll give him that.

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"You'll never guess what I have."

"Is it better than this lox bagel?" You answer, mouth unattractively full.

Seungkwan's answer is the sound of a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup and the grating jostle of ice. Phone calls with him are like ASMR because he's always doing a million things at once, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Infinitely," he finally says, after procuring the last milliliter of what's likely his second coffee of the day. "Besides, we all know pesto is way better."

"Wrong, but okay," you reply. "What is it?"

"You're not gonna thank me for being the best friend in the world? Me, an editor, keeping nepotism alive for you? A mere columnist?"

"Senior columnist," you laugh between bites. "You need me. Who else would you text during content meetings?"

"Whatever." His eye roll is audible. "I guess I won't tell you."

He shakes his cup again, all ice and no patience.

"Fine! I owe you. My career and my life."

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

You take another greedy bite, letting the everything on an everything bagel get all over your chin. You love dressing up and going to restaurants that cost more than both of your kidneys, but there's something sacred about eating a $10 bagel behind the shield of your computer screen at a cafe where no one knows you.

There's someone laughing really loudly somewhere, and if you weren't otherwise preoccupied, you would look for the offender and give them a hard glare. You don't know what could possibly be that funny at 9 AM, but, then again, you never were a morning person.

"So, I have intel. About Seungcheol." You can picture the glint in Seungkwan's eyes, glittery and caramel. Unfortunately, the news that it's related to your worst enemy makes you sit up a little straighter. "At today's content meeting, Joshua said that he's working on some kind of challenge to go on as many dates as possible. He might make it a series."

"How tacky," you say, but the information clanks around in your brain like shoes in a washing machine. The indulgent, clickbaity headline just falls together perfectly—I Went On 50 First Dates So You Don't Have To. Exactly the kind of article your mom sees on Facebook and sends to you.

"You have to admit it's a decent idea. Not as good as yours, but it'll get engagement," is Seungkwan's reply, but you can barely hear it over the swell of another sitcom-esque laugh, this time, from a woman. "The other editors are very invested in this whole thing, by the way. Of course, I'm betting on you."

You're about to very openly stress about people gambling on your success when your eyes wander to the backside of the Sports Illustrated model getting napkins at the counter. Not bad at all, you think. It may be too early for the comedy club, but appreciating the male figure has no schedule.

And then he turns around, and you're able to see past the curly hair, muscle tee, beauty pageant smile—it's none other than Choi Seungcheol, fully outfitted with the audacity to trespass on your bagel place. You have never been more disgusted by your heterosexuality.

You hide behind your computer screen.

"Helloooo?" comes Seungkwan on the line. "Are you making out with your breakfast or something?"

"Seungkwan, I gotta go," you hiss. Your eyes follow Seungcheol as he makes his way back to his table. "There's a…situation."

You watch him sit across from a beautiful girl in a sundress and Prada sunglasses, and her lips tumble into a brilliant red smile.

It would be really fucking funny if he was on a date, you think, but then you see him make the kind of eyes you last saw in the deepest, stickiest recesses of a frat house on thirsty Thursday. Then you realize he is on a date, that he's been on a date, and it's his laugh that is equally annoying as it is loud.

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

"Ok, talk to you later. Bye!" You can hear the beginning of one of Seungkwan's protests, but you hang up before he's able to properly complain. Maybe you'll have to do a little better than Momofuku—that's a problem for later.

Over the rim of your laptop, you catch glimpses of their conversation. You notice Seungcheol talks a lot with his hands, and you wonder if that's another one of his tips or if that's just him. Him and those big clown hands, illustrating a story that you're unfortunately too far away to hear.

But you can hear her laugh again, and you try to guess what he's talking about. His childhood dog. The insurmountable burden of being prom king and captain of the football team. This little not-competition and this little not-rivalry between the two of you. How the PB&J bagel is the best thing on the menu (it's not, but you see the berry compote all over his fingers and you know that's the hill he's dying on).

No matter how you spin it, it's a hard pill to swallow. Choi Seungcheol is good at what he does, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

You hear the careening lilt of what seems to be Seungcheol whining, and there's a brief flash of something like endearment in your stomach before the repulsion sets in.

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

The question, sinister and burning, writhes in your brain as you chew on the ice from your coffee and stare at a blank Word document, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

It's number 3 on Seungcheol's article titled Revenge and Other Stories. Unsurprisingly, he must not practice what he preaches, because you currently have all nine circles of Dante's Inferno inside you right now.

Play nice, Jeonghan had told you. Looks better to upper management.

And you did, until one of your photo requests mysteriously got deleted. Then Joshua told you to cut 500 words from this week's column because Seungcheol's just "happened" to be a little longer this time.

The knockout punch was yesterday when Seungcheol told you he was using your January critic's choice pick to take Wonwoo out for a friendly dinner, his treat. If you had known, you would've called ahead and told them to poison the hamachi. (No matter. Any foodie worth their salt knows Thursday is the worst day for sushi).

Now you sit on the C train, dressed to the nines, because you have a date with destiny at Nai. Sometimes destiny is a big pan of paella for one, but this time, it's Seungcheol and his next victim on date night.

Getting him there was so easy, it was almost criminal. An obnoxiously loud elevator phone call in which you name dropped the executive chef, a friend of yours, at least four times. Seungkwan very strategically asking you if a press pass can bypass reservations for a booked-out restaurant. Gossip in the break room with the intentional use of "intimate," "sangria drunk," and "affordable."

Affordable was a lie, but you're learning quickly that a hungry fish will take any bait. And seeing Seungcheol's face is never a joy, but you're not opposed to watching him open the menu for the first time.

"I have a killer Spanish accent," Seungcheol told you on the way out today.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The subway car rumbles under you. You're almost in East Village. You don't normally spend your Friday nights crashing dates—you actually don't really spend them outside your apartment at all, but Seungcheol is the exception to the rule and you're making a lot of them for him. A small price to pay for the glory of dethroning Casanova.

The plan is to "accidentally" run into Seungcheol and his Friday night exploit, and then to casually, non-bitterly mention a, that she is about to become a statistic, b, that his idea of chivalry was birthed in the basement of the Alpha Omega house, and c, that you're surprised he's still single because you always happen to catch him on dates. Something like that.

This is admittedly the best you could come up with. Like you said, you don't really crash dates. You don't really sabotage people either, but Seungcheol declared war the minute his Folgers breath hit your face outside Wonwoo's office.

Then you think of all the ways things can absolutely backfire. Seungcheol's warm, carefree whirl of laughter when he explains you're office rivals, or worse, lies and says you're nothing but a jilted, jealous ex. Or this whole thing could simply be immortalized in his winning article as a jaunty sentence about making the most out of a bad situation, yada yada yada.

You picture watching another girl, spellbound, as you dig into your table-for-one paella.

In your mind's eye, she laughs, floaty like his date at the bagel place, and for a moment you understand what it might feel like to want Choi Seungcheol.

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Friday night at Nai is red and glittering and heady with saffron.

You remember when you first ate here, two weekends after the soft open, early in your career at the paper. After a three hour conversation over wine and octopus with the owner, you wrote the restaurant a glowing review that, to your surprise, helped land it several ritzy awards. Now the dining room is never empty, but they always find space for you.

That was the first time you learned that all of this work meant something. Yeah, you loved an excuse to stuff your face and get paid for it, but what was even better was the chance to tell the stories of a working father's hand-pulled noodles, the drunk, midnight origins of a tasting menu, the caramel-greedy fingers of a well-loved childhood.

This is the long way of explaining how you bypass the two hour standby wait time, and how you walk in on a first name basis with the manager.

You're fully prepared to see Seungcheol mid-churro, perhaps four pick-up lines deep and wondering if he still has a condom in his wallet.

That's why you almost miss him on your way to your table. His is empty, other than a lonely, watered down martini on the rocks and two menus.

"Seungcheol?"

He looks up at you, and something like genuine surprise melts into relief, then intrigue.

"Look at who crawled out of her dungeon," he chuckles. "You clean up good."

Whatever pity you may have felt for him vaporizes instantly. Although, when he beckons for you to sit in the empty seat across from him, you do take the bait—you're not about to pass up a good opportunity to humble your least formidable foe.

"Refreshing to see that our love guru isn't above dining solo," you reply. "I have to admit, your acting is impressive. What an elaborate ruse to get another poor, single diner to pity you enough to sit with you."

"It worked, didn't it?" He takes a sip of his cocktail, which is almost a brand new drink because it's 90% water, 10% martini by now.

"I'm no expert, but pretending to get stood up is not a tip I would give the general public."

"Who said I was pretending?"

No fucking way. Your jaw drops. It's too unreal to believe. Even if the slutty cut of Seungcheol's shirt wasn't persuasive enough, surely the prospect of enjoying a free Michelin star dinner would warrant an appearance, even for you. Breaking News: New York's Hottest Bachelor Ghosted at Top Restaurant. If only that were as wonderful to the average reader as it is to you.

Because waiters are trained to enter conversations at the best possible time, you're forced to pause and order a wine for the table and some tapas. (No paella for one? Seungcheol asks, and you try to reconcile your annoyance with the fact that one, he's read your review of this place, and two, that he looks mildly turned on that you can pronounce all the menu items. You tell the waiter to add a paella.)

"You got stood up?" You cross your arms over your chest. "You may think I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."

"You have no idea how flattering your reaction is." He laughs, and the air shifts around him, drawing you further into his eyes, inky under the lowlight. "I understand you think I'm irresistible, but, alas, not everyone shares your opinion."

"I never said that."

You hate how easy it is for him to push your buttons. You hate how in control he is, and you hate how he's looking at you like you're on the menu.

The waiter returns with the wine, and you decide you're feeling equally as terrible.

"Truly, you can't be that irresistible. After all this time writing about relationships, you would think you'd actually be in one."

Touché, you think. Normally, it would be too low a blow, even for you, except that his column-related debauchery is one of the four thrilling conversation topics he subjects you to at the office. And who are you to bury the lede?

"Coaches don't play," Seungcheol says, leaning back and popping the martini olive in his mouth offensively, as if he's not at a restaurant that takes months to get a good table at.

"Bullshit." You lean forward and chase his gaze. He doesn't shy away; rather, he meets you with an appraising raise of an eyebrow. "Coaches should at least know how to throw the ball."

"What do you think we're doing right now?"

"Oh, please." Your wrist twitches as you fight the urge to down your entire glass of merlot in a single gulp. You picture the title of his next article: Top 10 Ways To Get A Woman Drunk. And then the oh so charming punchline: 1. Be so insufferable she cannot last a conversation without her real life partner, wine.

"See? I've already got you laughing." He notices the generous sip missing from your glass and tops you up.

"No, you do not get to make this about me."

Somehow, you are laughing, but you chalk it up to the spiteful little man in your brain writing headlines for Seungcheol's column.

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

"Need I remind you I'm only here because your actual date stood you up? Too soon?"

"I prefer you anyway," he answers, his expression half-challenge, half-something else that you don't really want to think about.

"Crazy, because I'd rather be literally anywhere else."

Signs You Are In A Hostage Situation, Not A Date.

"You should stick to food. You're a bad liar." He cocks his head to the empty table next to him. "It's still open if you want it."

"I'm no quitter."

Maybe The Male Gaze Isn't So Bad: A Thinkpiece.

Definitely not that one.

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"So, before I try anything," Seungcheol says, leaning across the table. "Teach me how to be a food critic."

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

"You can keep it," he laughs. "I'm gonna be your boss, not your replacement."

You notice he'll linger on the tail end of his sentences, betting on the response you haven't even come up with yet. He's picking apart the furrow of your brow, the marrow of your brain. It's like one drawn out interview, but you suppose that's all dating really is. Maybe your journalism degree wasn't a waste of money after all.

You won't give him the satisfaction of a fight (plus, you don't want the food to get cold), so you change the subject.

"Well, I take pictures first," you say, waving away his overeager fork.

"Genius. They really scammed you out of your Pulitzer, huh?"

You ignore him in lieu of repositioning the chorizo. Unfortunately, Seungcheol is unrelenting. You hear the snap of his phone camera, clearly taking a photo of you and not the meal—clever, but you won't bite.

"Wanna be in my story? I can tag you."

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

"Sure. So the world can know I'm a charity worker too."

He whistles, clutching his heart. If he weren't so annoying, you would find him a little cute. Just a little. You blame the kitchen for whatever aphrodisiac is in the food today.

"Live update: date with food critic going about as well as an episode of Hell's Kitchen."

He says this leaning forward, elbows on the table, so close to you that your knees might touch. You tense at the thought.

"Any date of mine would be on better behavior."

"So you're admitting this is a date?"

"This," you wave your hand over the table. "This is not a date. This is me regretting ever pitying you."

"Well, pity looks good on you."

And there it is again, that accursed, perfect smile. This time, it works, and you fight the losing battle of the wine flush undoubtedly all over your face. It bothers you that there's a little part of you that enjoys this, but that's a confession you plan on taking to the grave.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, because you're not getting any again."

"Fine. I'm still waiting for your grand secret," he says, now biting the tines of his fork like an untrained dog. No rest for the weary, you suppose. "Food is food. Prove me wrong."

Despite the betrayal of your basal human instincts, you're determined to make this a bad encounter. Maybe you hadn't anticipated the full force of Seungcheol's overgrown fratboy persona, but you came here for a reason and you do plan to see it through.

"There is no secret." You split apart an empanada, the guts steaming and fragrant. "You eat."

"Like this?" He crams an entire piece in his mouth, and you watch him recoil and huff the heat out. "Mmm, 's pretty good, though."

Your eyes almost roll back far enough to see the wrinkles of your brain. Of course he wouldn't get it, but you don't know what you were expecting from a guy who thinks Hot Pockets are fine dining.

You put on your most pretentious food critic face. "Eating is about respect. Storytelling. He's retelling the first time someone made him this dish. The ingredients—they're words on a page. An autobiography." Your hand finds your chest and you sigh, a final touch to your Oscar winning melodrama that would certainly annoy anyone with even half a brain.

"Huh. Poetic," he says. He's still fanning his (very full) mouth, but he chews a little more slowly. "I'm respecting. I'm taking it in."

You don't know if he's actually doing any of that, but, when he takes his next bite he asks about what's in it (tomato, raisin, egg) and if someone really made the chef an empanada when he was younger (yes, on the flour-printed counter, every Sunday morning).

You press on. It shouldn't take much to bore him, but with every question, food-related factoid, and snide comment you have, he matches you with genuine curiosity. Either he's an excellent actor or he's secretly culinary school-bound, because you can't actually imagine anyone putting up with any of that, nonetheless I like dick jokes and football Choi Seungcheol.

You spend the rest of the evening like this, spoon to heart to cherry mouth. The wine is abundant, and Seungcheol spends more time listening than talking, which he admits is a first for him.

"You really know a lot about food," he says, likely fighting the urge to use his finger to get the last of the chocolate sauce off the churro plate. "I like that."

It's a cheap compliment in a game of low blows, but it sits warm and content in your chest. You have to force yourself back to the night you met him, when he was all cognac and one-liners and he gave you his spare hotel room key. A good reminder of his true nature, you think, despite the fact that he just listened to you talk about all the different grains of rice, ad nauseum.

"It's my job," is your reply, adequately distant for your liking.

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

"What more is there to know?" You hold up the check. "You're paying, right? Chivalry and all that?"

You're waiting for him to mention the company card, the only one allocated to your section that Seungcheol couldn't possibly have because it's sitting snug in your purse. The one you'll say you conveniently forgot so you get to see a grown man squirm at paying the bill.

"Already did. Gave the host my card when I got here. You're holding the customer copy." His chuckle disappears under the lip of his wine glass. "Bet you were excited to use the company card, huh?"

If shame were a physical object, you feel like your own personal Atlas. Your only option is to stare at the wasteland of empty plates before you and wonder how deep Seungcheol's pockets really are.

"Hardly. More excited that I burned a hole in your wallet." You click your tongue, out of options on how to ruin Seungcheol's night. You would spill wine on him but there's none left. "Anyway, I'm heading out."

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

He calls you a taxi, and you walk out together, night heavy with the rhinestone glare of Friday night traffic.

"I actually had a nice time tonight," Seungcheol says, emphasis on the actually.

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

The taxi pulls to the curb, and he sighs, weighty with exaggerated relief. You can't even take it seriously because he's looking right at you and badly failing to push down the smile at the corners of his mouth.

It's only now that you notice his eyes are really brown, like he's from a cartoon or something. Worse, you'd daresay they're nice, less menacing, when they're tempered by a good meal and semi-public humiliation.

"Text me when you get back to your villain lair."

"If I were a real villain, you would have a lot more to worry about."

Seungcheol opens the cab door for you, and you catch a whiff of the cologne he undoubtedly smeared on in the toothpaste-streaked mirror of his five by five studio bathroom. Pine, leather, and citrus, which is the most pedestrian combination of smells to exist and yet you doubt it hasn't done him any favors.

"I'm terrified. Shaking." You clamber into the backseat, and he smiles at you again, as if you've forgotten what all his other ones looked like. "By the way—"

You have half a mind to shut the door in his face, but you can't find it within you—maybe it's the wine, or perhaps pure defeat. Probably the former.

"This job. It's—" He clicks his tongue and looks at the tops of his leather shoes. He's actually thinking, and you don't like it. "Never mind. See you Monday."

And then the words are gone. He shuts the cab door, and they're left in a plume of exhaust and Seungcheol's tiny waving figure in the rearview mirror.

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"So you're telling me you went on a date with your worst enemy."

It's 8 AM, and Jeonghan isn't pulling punches. Even through the phone, you can see his lazy grin, the pen he's flipping in his hand, the green ribbon of the Dow Jones on his desktop.

The newsroom is refreshingly near empty, except for Joshua, who hovers around the water cooler like a fly on the wall, if flies wore Armani ties and cigarette jeans.

"It wasn't a date, and I wanted to ruin it so he would have nothing to write about."

"No one goes on a date to ruin it. You could have just left."

"Clearly you haven't seen How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days."

"Are you serious." Jeonghan laughs, crackly and bright. "Care to tell me how that movie ends?"

"Except he isn't Matthew Mcconaughey. He says spaghetti like pah-scetti and doesn't use Oxford commas."

Mid-laugh, you endure another beat of extended eye contact with your editor until he beckons you over. He'd likely been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt the conversation he was so subtly eavesdropping on—oh, how you love a newsroom with an "open floor plan" to "facilitate communication." Sometimes you think the reason Joshua's stuck around this long is because reporters can't stay away from drama, especially if they're not the ones reporting it.

"I gotta go," you tell Jeonghan, whose version of a goodbye is a triumphant cackle.

You find Joshua putzing around, plastic water cup incriminatingly full.

"I take it you had an enjoyable weekend?" he asks, eyes sequined with all the secrets they hold.

"Yup. Just working on that Dining Through The Years article." Not entirely a lie—you are hedging your bets on this story, one where you revisit the restaurants you wrote about when you first got your start at the paper (Nai included, although admittedly yesterday's food was the least of your concerns). "You needed me?"

"Glad to see New York's finest chefs are well-versed in Kate Hudson's filmography," he says, grinning something beastly. If he weren't your boss, you'd knock that little water cup clean out of his hand. "Anyway, if your interview is over, I need you to go on a field trip."

"Field trip?"

Surely you're better than a task for the interns. You wonder if they're off fighting their own demons, seeing as you missed the circus in the elevator this morning, the usual juggle of hazelnut lattes and lemon poppyseed muffins for the higher-ups.

"Wonwoo needs you to help pick out catering for the corporate event later next week." Joshua tips his head back at Wonwoo's glass-plated office, where you see him redoing his tie in the reflection of his computer monitor. "My guess is that Yerim is going to be there, and he wants to make a good impression. Like an 'I consulted a food expert' impression."

Classic gossip queen Hong Joshua, always with the unnecessary but incredibly cogent commentary on office politics. You think you're actually going to miss the bastard.

"Flattered," you remark dryly. "Catering from where?"

"That's the thing. It's from this Thai place like two hours out from the city."

Two hours: code for an all day endeavor. He wasn't kidding when he said field trip.

You graciously resist the urge to groan out loud. No one told you taking the high road is one big slog through the mud, but here you are. You tell yourself this will help your campaign to be editor—the stinky, dirt-smeared silver lining.

"Before you ask—yes, I know you cannot take the subway there." You blink at him, wondering why this all feels like the set-up to a terrible joke. "Luckily, as you probably know, Seungcheol drives here every day and has offered to help."

Ah. There it is. You look for the blinking applause sign hanging above your head and the chorus of riotous Seungcheols making up your own personal laugh track.

"Only back to the office, though—" Joshua adds, as if that provides you any solace. "There's a one-way bus going up there at noon."

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

"Something about funds," he replies, shrugging. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"You're not the one I'm thinking of shooting."

"Who knows? Maybe he is Matthew McConaughey." And when your glare turns sharp as the edge of a santoku knife, he holds his hands up like he's getting arrested. "I'm just saying. As your friend, not your editor."

Whatever.

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You have to admit, Wonwoo does have impeccable taste in Thai food.

Three noodle dishes, two curries, and the best mango sticky rice you've ever had: that's what it took for you to finally say "not all men." Certainly not Wonwoo, who's in deep enough to send his goons cross-state for a girl he's tried to woo for almost a whole year now.

A tamarind sunset blankets the countryside in milk and honey. You're sitting on a bench, ridiculously full with leftovers to spare, waiting for your chauffeur from hell.

Two years and you still don't know what car Seungcheol drives. Your last memory of it is it being flashy, impractical, and loud, much like him.

You know this, and yet you are still surprised when a gnat of a BMW rips into the curb in front of you. The passenger window crawls down, and Seungcheol has the gall to whistle at you.

For someone so predictable, he sure does manage to find new ways to piss you off. Unfortunately, on brand— according to him, Consistency Is Key (number 2 on Keeping the Spark Alive, August 2022 issue). You've done your reading.

"You're welcome," is the first thing Seungcheol says to you after cranking down the volume of the radio and watching you fumble with the seatbelt.

"You really didn't have to." You look at the array of gas station snacks bubbling out of the cupholders—Sour Patch Kids, a Big Gulp, and Flamin’ Hot Fritos. You didn't even know they sold Sour Patch Kids to full grown adults.

Still, you do feel a little bad. You can count on one hand the amount of people you would do this for and still have one or two cheese-dusted fingers left.

"But, thank you."

"Joshua made me," he says, and what happened this morning starts to make a lot more sense. "Plus, I was a little jealous. I would kill for a day frolicking in the sun, eating delicious food, far, far away from the big city. Not trapped like me in the newsroom, exhausted, toiling away on my magnum opus."

The sigh that crawls from his chapped lips practically shakes the car.

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

You choose to watch the strip of shitty New York highway unravel through the greasy passenger window. No point in picking a fight when you're in a leather quilted jail cell for the foreseeable future.

It's at the thirty minute mark where Seungcheol casts the first stone of terrible, stilted small talk.

"Why'd you get sent all the way out here anyway?"

The red taillight flush of rush hour floods the car, an unpleasant reminder of the real sunset left far behind you.

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

Why does it matter? Is your first thought, but you realize he's attempting to actually have a genuine conversation with you, which you suppose is better than him flinging around another rude remark. Either that, or he's falling asleep, and you'd rather not have the last moments of your life be in Seungcheol's chick magnet car.

"Joshua thinks it's because he wants to impress Yerim at the corporate meeting this week. I guess she likes Thai."

Traffic is slow enough for him to turn to look at you, really look at you.

"Come on, he can't like her that much."

"Yes, he can." you try to read his expression, neon-glossy. "This isn't even that much effort."

"Nah," he shrugs. "There's gotta be some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to move into corporate."

"Hot take for a romantic." You frown. "Not everything people do is a career move, you know."

You omit the unlike you that sits heavy in the back of your throat, although, his cavalier approach to relationships is starting to make a little more sense. You wonder if this whole thing—the dates, the watch, the Invisalign smiles—is just a long, drawn-out joke to him.

"Seems like a lot of effort to go through for an office crush." His gaze drifts back to the road. "The extravagant birthday present. Always having her favorite flowers in the office. That one cringe voicemail we all heard him re-record ten times. No one likes anyone that much. Come on. Her dad is the CEO of the company."

Suddenly his winning smile doesn't seem so triumphant. It almost feels like a betrayal, but you don't know why.

"Maybe he just likes her," you reply. "I dunno. I choose to believe that. I think it's sweet."

"Maybe you're the romantic." The words come out like an accusation; Seungcheol laughs, but all the joy's been sucked out of it.

"Who hurt you?"

"No one did. I'm just being honest."

You would laugh at the irony if it didn't feel like there was a vine wrapped round your throat. Life is funny, but never so funny as to curse New York's favorite romance writer with cynicism and a lying streak.

"Controversial, but I actually want to do nice things for the person I like."

"And when was the last time that happened?" He's deflecting, which is predictably on brand for him. His grin, now playful, is propped up by a pair of frustratingly well-formed dimples.

You can't even find it within you to protest because he's right—you haven't dated in a long time. Joshua stopped asking if you were bringing a plus one to office parties ages ago.

But it's not that you can't—in fact, the last time you did, you think it broke you a little inside. It's certainly not a story Seungcheol's privy to, though. You already feel strange, cut-open, trying to convince him that people are capable of meaningful relationships.

Childishly, there's also a part of you chasing the truth about him because it takes him further and further away from you. So you do what you do best and deflect again. Two can play at that game.

"Not taking criticism from a guy who's dated half of the city and has nothing to show for it."

"I wouldn't say nothing."

He opens his mouth then closes it again, as if he's revising the words on his tongue. Journalist behavior, which you didn't even know he could still exhibit.

Now you're really thinking. Who hurt him, and how? The development that Seungcheol is more than the playboy slime haunting page 3 intrigues you more than you'd care to admit.

Before you can pry, Seungcheol's stomach growls, almost offensively loud.

"Sorry," he says. "Who would've thunk that corn chips aren't a balanced meal?"

You stare at the takeout boxes snug in your lap. There is a cosmic message being sent right now.

Seungcheol's sad, Frito-filled belly. Fresh noodle that won't keep well in the fridge. Tax and tip for a four hour car ride back to the city. Expanding your repertoire of blackmail so that you can claim your rightful helm at the paper.

These are all the reasons you give yourself for what you ask next.

"You in a rush?"

"How could I be—do you see the blinding speed we're driving at?" He laughs at his own incredibly unfunny attempt at a joke. "No, I'm not."

"I may or may not have an actual balanced meal for you."

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout.

"So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff.

"I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation."

You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00.

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

"You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

It gets awfully quiet. The noise of the freeway seems to screech to a fever pitch, all horns and the thrum of the asphalt. You wish anything but John Mayer was playing on the radio.

You will the headlines man in your head to make you laugh. Instead, your brain presses the word beautiful into your neurons and you feel all the heat in your body float to your face, traitorously, dizzyingly. John Mayer croons, your body is a wonderland and your stomach knots into itself over and over again.

"Stop that."

"What?" Seungcheol's head lolls to his shoulder so he can look at you from the corner of his eye. " 's not a big deal. Never been called beautiful?"

A grin plays on his lips, expression dancing on something grim, like he's spoken his final words.

"I'm serious! Stop trying to get me to like you." You huff and cross your arms over your chest, like it'll somehow make you feel more normal. "I'm not some experiment for your column."

"Is it working?"

You don't answer. How can you? There's a yes resting on the roof of your mouth, surely the product of the handful of real, actual moments you've now had with him—far too many for your liking. This whole charade has been a balancing act on the razor edge between rivals and something else, and now you're feeling the sting.

"For the record, I have been called beautiful before."

"And for the record, you're not an experiment for my column. You never were."

There's a relief that pulses through your chest, a breathless, wonderful kind of dizziness. You grab hold of it as soon as it's reared its ugly head. You're flying way too close to the sun, chasing cheap validation from the same guy who ate your lunch out of the fridge last week.

He's no better—he looks like the vulnerability cracked him open a little, and you're the one holding the hammer. It makes for a grubby, unflattering portrait of two emotionally inept people trying to play feelings.

However, much like all other things Seungcheol, any glimpse of something real is gone before you know it. He takes a loud, noisy pull of Diet Coke, and the spell is broken.

"Want any?" And when you shake your head, grateful to swallow the words pressed to your tongue, he says, "Should we wait out traffic here?"

This is an easier yes. You tell yourself you're getting sick of brake lights and reading the license plates on the back of other people's cars. Certainly that makes Seungcheol's gaze, lingering and moonlight-warmed, a little more tolerable.

For once, you don't talk about Wonwoo or your job. You don't talk about love, either.

Maybe this is the reason the next few hours slip through your fingers. Three folded takeout pagodas and a secret—somehow this is all it takes for you to hate Seungcheol just a little less.

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Usually, a good eggs benedict can solve the majority of your problems. Today seems to be the exception. The hollandaise is broken, Jeonghan is already laughing at you, and nothing will ever erase the fact that Seungcheol drove you home last night and now he knows where you live. If you wake up one morning and see a sniper laser pointed at your forehead, you have no one to blame but yourself.

"You look exhausted." An eighth of a buckwheat pancake disappears into Jeonghan's mouth. "You literally eat for a living. There is no reason for them to keep you late."

Jeonghan has a funny way of caring about you, but he's right. You did get home at 2 AM yesterday, but that was on you, not Wonwoo.

"I'm not going to let a corporate slug tell me what is and isn't a real job," you sigh, taking a swig of your half-flat mimosa and reminding yourself to figure out which staff writer gave this place 4 stars in last week's paper.

"Says the girl who needs the company card to afford bottomless brunch," Jeonghan replies.

"At least I'm not a slave to my career."

"What do you call this whole thing with your coworker then, huh? It's all you text me about." The smirk on Jeonghan's face is miserably, tragically righteous, and you can't even be mad about it.

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

"You sent me a five minute voice memo the other day ranting about how he went on a date with another girl." And just like the little shit he is, he even pulls up your mile-long text history, just to rub it in your face a little harder.

"Am I not allowed to wish for his demise? Since when were you the mature one?"

"I wouldn't call keeping track of his whereabouts wishing for his demise." Jeonghan takes a well-timed bite of your hashbrowns. "Something tells me you're wishing for something a little different."

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

You watch Jeonghan power down another mimosa, half-fascinated, half-appalled he would even dream of suggesting something so vile.

The memory of Seungcheol, leant back in the driver’s seat, lowering greasy spools of rice noodles into his mouth, crosses your mind. He had laughed until he cried when he asked you if a pineapple had really fried this rice. That was the kind of man you were dealing with. You can't believe you laughed with him.

"I think it'll be good for you to get back into dating again. Mingyu was, what, three years ago?"

And that's the chocolate chip studded, syrup-covered nail in your coffin. Of course all roads had to lead back to you and your relationship trauma Jeonghan considered unresolved.

You had dated Mingyu when you were younger, softer. It was a love of firsts, of sun-washed mornings and farmer's market Sundays, of raw, black currant midnights and whatever long-winded conversation you had spent all day on.

Mingyu was a chef. His hands, his lips, his eyes—that's how you fell in love with food. Strawberry kisses into fresh pasta into the first time someone had ever cooked for you. What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

Food, like some shitty piece of home decor would say in that swirling, curly font, really is some window to the soul. It didn't fully hit you until, one day, you were at the grocery store alone, and somehow you knew exactly what brand of everything Mingyu liked.

You opened a restaurant together after you graduated from college. Then it closed, and you lost Mingyu to Naples or New Orleans or Seoul—somewhere, anywhere to escape the corner of 5th and 40th, the December-pleated memory of his hands in yours and a promise you could never keep.

You're sure you're over it by now, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't look for him in a bowl of his favorite ramyun, the one you could never replicate even though he insisted he just added hot water (Food tastes best when it's a gift, he'd say. You never understood until now.).

Jeonghan doesn't believe you because every time you try explaining this to him, you end up sounding like the most chronically lonely person on planet Earth.

"That is the wrong guy to suggest then," you instead reply, feeling all the food dry up in your mouth.

"I'm running out of options."

"Don't you have a hot coworker or something?"

You shut your eyes, pushing Mingyu back to recall literally any face from one of the many swanky corporate parties Jeonghan bullied you into attending. The only person coming to mind is Lee Chan, and even more than his face, you remember the fat platinum band around his ring finger (Better luck next time, Jeonghan had said, mid-cheese cube).

Worse, amidst all the fuzz, a grainy recollection of Seungcheol's wet cow eyes washes up against your eyelids, and it's not going away this time.

"I thought we were all corporate slugs," Jeonghan replies, enjoying the way you glower at him over your fork. "I was kidding, anyway. Relax."

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

You thank god that Jeonghan is never serious, because otherwise you'd have to consider the fact that he really thought you should date Seungcheol. Jeonghan, who knows the pizza column you, the Mingyu you, and now the you that works late because there's nothing else left to do, really might have thought you should date grifter by day, con artist by night Seungcheol.

The fluorescent glaze of the gas station lights. Seungcheol's hand on the gear stick. His voice, warm and gauzy. It's like there's a flash drive of last night plugged into your head, and you can't take it out.

The stem of the champagne glass finds your hand, and you down the whole thing.

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Monday is uneventful. So is Tuesday, and you wonder what good deed you'd done to deserve such a blessing.

Wednesday, you realize you're just three interviews away from what could possibly be the best article of your life. Unfortunately, two of those won't pick up the phone and the third keeps rescheduling on you.

That's fine—Rome wasn't built in a day, and the same hopefully applies to your future noodle empire.

You're using your lunch break to write an email to number two when you notice Seungcheol hovering around your desk, a plastic straw in his mouth and evil in his eyes.

He's taken to publicly annoying you at work more than usual—Progress, Joshua had told you in the elevator this morning. Towards what? you had asked. He shrugged, letting his crafty, knowing look do all the talking.

"Me, you, and date number two?" is today's opening line. Before you can peel yourself away from your computer and give him a good lashing for whatever the fuck he just said to you, he continues with, "How's that for a follow-up text to my speakeasy date?"

"Lame," you reply, hackles still raised but now re-reading your email for typos.

"Wrong. You were supposed to say incredibly romantic, extremely witty, and unfairly charming." He perches his baseball player ass on the corner of your desk, waiting to be humbled. This is the usual order of things, which has shockingly become more of a familiarity than anything else.

"Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?"

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Just one, but it's the only one that matters."

"Ew. Gross." You wrinkle your nose and attempt to soothe your temper with a sip of the terrible protein shake you got for lunch. "No wonder your column sucks."

"If mine sucks, I'd hate to see what people are saying about yours." And when your reply is a tired, hungry swig of your sad drink, he says, "No lunch today? Even I had something better."

"Lucky you."

The bigger truth is that that the deadline for your article, looming before you, is getting to you more than you'd care to admit. Seungcheol isn't helping, not with his bottomless magic hat of date stories that seems to only grow deeper by the day. Now you're forgetting to pack a lunch, and the highlight of your day has been reduced to punching numbers into a vending machine.

Things are bad, but you'll never say that aloud, especially not to the guy who'll spend the next five years dunking on you if you keep this up.

You stare down the lip of your bottle at the faux-chocolate dregs streaking the bottom.

The month before Mingyu opened his restaurant, you were so preoccupied with making sure everything was just right that you also forgot to eat. One day, leftovers from his work started magically appearing in your fridge. Chow fun (miss you!), salt and pepper shrimp (don't forget to drink water!), a gargantuan vat of hot and sour soup (love you most!).

It was a perfect coincidence until you realized there was no way Chinese takeout was coming out of a very French restaurant, and it was then you learned that love is never really a coincidence.

Now you have no coincidences, mapo tofu, or romance. Just muscle milk and a front row view of the struggling inseam of a man who must shrink his pants in the dryer.

He's peeling a tangerine. Your worst confession to date is that it's easy on the eyes. For once, his hands, always made busy with some scheme, now still over the rind, steady, practiced. Plus, it looks like a marble in his huge hands, which is unfortunately both funny and a little hot.

"Stare any longer, and I'm gonna forget how to peel this."

"Don’t flatter yourself. Just hungry," you half-lie.

Hungry, Stressed, And Delusional—The New Holy Trinity.

It's a catchy headline, but not a great look for you. Never in your life did you think you'd be ogling a man peeling an orange. He even takes all the pith off, and you don't have the heart to tell him that's where all the nutrients are.

"Exactly," he replies. Then he plops the naked, shiny fruit right on your bare desk. "Here. Eat."

You’re so taken aback, all you can do is stare. First at the orange, then at Seungcheol, who suddenly cannot make eye contact with you. Instead, he stacks the peel in his hands, dimpled piece over piece.

"Payback for the, uh, Thai," he says, and although you wouldn't equate a tangerine to James Beard awarded pad kee mao, all you can think of is an lime green sticky note in your fridge and a smile.

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

The idea that Seungcheol was capable of being genuinely nice to anyone, nonetheless, you—probably the most undeserving person of it in the world—makes you feel something close to guilt.

You push through the feeling, instead taking the fruit in your hand and splitting it between your thumbs. The flesh caves so easily, and it's then you remember that food, unlike people, doesn't have to be complicated.

You can feel a better person somewhere inside you, someone easier to care for and with less of a bad attitude. You're not there yet, but there's a dark, satisfying comfort in not being good enough for the indulgence of that kind of intimacy. An arm's length was never too far away for you, except now there's someone sitting on your desk and they gave you lunch. Worst of all, you don't think you mind.

You hold out the half—sticky, guilty fingers and all.

Seungcheol wordlessly accepts it. There's no surprise or confusion—he smiles, you say cheers, and you both take a bite.

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On weekends, the Korean place down the street from your college apartment sold corn dogs until 3 AM. That was when words came easy and love came easier.

It was with sugar all over your nose, eyes pressed to the once forgiving half-moon, where you told Mingyu you would become a writer.

The thing about youth is that it can float anything, no matter how holey, desperate it was. So you sailed through college, that gasping hope wound tight in your fist. Then you started freelancing, just in time for Mingyu’s soft open. You wanted to write, but more importantly, you wanted some way, any way to be useful to the person who had given you so much.

In retrospect, there was no way your crude attempts at actual journalism could ever generate real publicity for him. Not in the heart of New York, where a new restaurant opened every two days and someone wanted to get published every three.

So you eventually sank, and so did Mingyu, leaving you with all this creased, no good love in your chest to shrivel up with nowhere to go.

All of that landed you here. A degree, a dream job, and a laundry list of accolades, but the fruit of that love still hangs heavy and joy-rot on the vine, as you wait for it to be good enough for the taking.

Ironically, it reminded you of cooking. No one ever teaches you when to stop, and now every other joint has dry-aged steak and some version of a three-day demi glacé. But at least demi glacé tastes good—you don't even know what the fuck you're doing some days, and the feeling's never been worse than now, waiting on a call you were supposed to get two days ago.

The phone rings, just in time to distract you from the top button of Seungcheol's fitted shirt, which looks like it's holding on for dear life. He's currently deep in conversation with Mina from design, but every so often, he'll glance your way to see if you're just free enough to be bothered.

The unspoken perils of working late—less people around to pester on Wonwoo's dime.

Mina stuffs her laptop in her bag and checks her watch. Strike three for Seungcheol.

Working Hard Or Hardly Working: A Guide To Office Romances. You're surprised he hasn't written that one yet. Maybe Joshua shot it down.

"Hello?" The dial tone breaks into the warm, risen-bread voice of the woman you know to be the owner of one of your favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle spots. The Friday night after your review was published, there was a line out the door. It honestly felt like a no-brainer to you, and you had no hesitation telling the owner that you were sure her place would become a local mainstay. You watched her crow-footed eyes go moony and you couldn't help but picture the day your yellowed newspaper would be posted up on the wall, framed and prophetic.

You're ready to profusely apologize for not stopping by—truthfully, no bone broth has come close to hers. Instead, she apologizes to you, which you aren't sure is flattering or a sign something terrible has happened.

You hope it's the former, but you should have known that hoping has never been enough.

She tells you that she closed the doors to her restaurant yesterday. It all comes spilling out, one gut punch after the other, the bills and the empty tables and how things just weren't the same the year after your review was published. She thanks you for your time, your writing, and your belief, and then she hangs up.

Not a thing in your body feels capable of moving. All the phone static passes right through you until the week's canned up dread balls up in your throat and some darker-than-black feeling swallows you whole.

The fluorescent ceiling lights sear into you. You think you're going to cry, and that's the last thing you want.

To anyone else, it wouldn't be that serious. Restaurants close all the time, and you know an entry in your silly little column is a far cry from a Hail Mary. But all you can think of is Mingyu’s neon sign on 5th and 40th and the two pairs of hands that had to take it down. You think your fingerprints are still on it, right over the blue shock of the I and the N.

One more dream taking on water, and once again, you're at the sad, cruel center of it.

You try to imagine the gumpaste walls, bumpy and water-stained. Maybe a pale square where your review used to hang.

No, you're definitely going to cry.

Fuck this, fuck work, fuck the article. And fuck Seungcheol, who's packing up his annoying, jingly messenger bag and is the only thing standing between you and an empty office to lose your shit in.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember if you're wearing waterproof mascara today. Unfortunately, the cowbell of Seungcheol's bag sounds like it's catching up to you, and, like it or not, you are two shaky breaths away from breaking down in front of the last person in the world you want to see.

"Final touches on another titillating piece about pineapple on pizza?"

You have no stomach for yelling at him. You can't even look at him. Instead, you bury your head in your hands and tell him to never use the word titillating again.

"A little too soon to play editor, in my humble opinion."

You don't reply. You're trying to scare him off without really scaring him off because god knows you've done that with enough people. Either way, he's calling you a crazy bitch at the next holiday party. You can just hear it.

But you should've known Seungcheol, of all people, doesn't flinch at a little silence. You still feel him hovering behind you, probably wondering if it's the half-full vanilla protein shake on your desk that's turned you sour. Or if you'll really make good on your threat to shank him with the plastic knife you keep in your top drawer.

Just walk away, you think. Go the fuck home.

Seungcheol, who gets paid to play cupid like it's fantasy football, would never understand that bite of the dial tone. Not like that. Half an orange is a hell of a toll to pay for your unfortunate work-related trauma.

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

Four is cut short because instead of doing what he should have done and left, he places a hesitant hand at the base of your neck, between your shoulder blades.

"Hey, you ok?"

Easy, noncommittal words, but something in you cracks. You don't know what it is—maybe it's because it's late and you're running on nothing, maybe it's because you can't remember the last time a hand was so warm.

And so, against your better judgment, you lift your streaky, raccoon-eyed face (definitely didn't use waterproof today) from your hands to look at the same eyes you looked at not more than a month ago and swore at.

You're glad you have no idea what you look like, because it's bad enough that all the corners of Seungcheol's face fall.

"Whoa," he breathes.

Now he'll know when to leave me alone, you think, but then that hand slides to your shoulder and his expression becomes impossibly soft and what you thought was confusion, pity even, dips into affection, stinging and raw.

"Listen, I—," he clears his throat nervously. Perhaps he's running through his repertoire of Wikihow phrases to say to a sad person, but you, inexplicably, don't believe that. "I don't know what's going on, but if you, you know, ever needed to talk…" Then he points to himself because that's probably the longest he's gone without attempting to tell a joke.

You're two and a half shaky breaths into this conversation, and the likelihood you will start crying has not changed. If anything, the odds have gotten much worse because the stubbornness of Seungcheol's expression is fooling you into thinking he actually cares. The illusion is comforting—after all the fighting and sabotage and inconveniences, he's still made space for you. That, or he's keeping his enemies close.

Then his thumb rubs over the plane of your collarbone, and all the little walls and hurdles and dams and shields in you drop.

Close friends, closer enemies, and the infinitesimal space between you and Seungcheol.

You'll blame your sorry state of mind for what you're about to do because you can't really cope with any other explanation. That's a tomorrow problem.

Today, you trust Seungcheol. Today, you tell him not everything, but enough.

"Forgive yourself," he says. And before you protest and tell him, through the waves of tears and snot and lightheadedness, that your heart has yet to catch up to the rest of you, he interrupts you before you even start. "I get it. Just try."

You’re all too familiar with his sugar-floss, candy-coated platitudes that make everything seem so simple, but he looks you in the eye, or somewhere even deeper than that, with so much belief, it's contagious.

The words are ripped out from under you. All you can do is what you wanted to do in the first place. So you cry, and when Seungcheol takes you into his arms, at first tentatively and then all at once, you cry even harder.

"Is this ok?" he asks, so quietly, you almost don't hear him.

"Yeah, I-I think so."

You let him hold you, and all the noise and the heat and the static fades into a hum. His chin finds the top of your head and you let him do that too.

Neither of you say anything more. You don't need to.

All that matters is the welcome sound of someone else's heartbeat, a kind hand in your hair, and Seungcheol, with none of the charms and boasts and failed, half-baked insults he hides behind.

Just him, and you decide you like this version best.

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The emotional hangover you wake up with rivals that of every vodka-flavored morning you had when you were in college, plus another two shots.

There is nothing worse than the aftermath of a particularly bad episode of oversharing. There's a reason you don't talk about your personal life at all, but something about Seungcheol makes every single thing claw its way back up your throat.

A need to prove yourself. A tiny, whispering hope that if you give a little, you'll get a little in return. Or your pride, the familiar knife you keep wedged into your side. A million excuses rattle around in your head, but nothing will ever take away the fact that it felt good.

Shields down, heart bleeding—never did you think that's how you would find yourself in a state where you actually liked Seungcheol. It felt good to be taken seriously, to say that all the talk about foie gras and peppercorns and microgreens was just tableside service for a great love and an even greater apology. And you'd like to think somewhere between the tears and the linen of his shirt, you were finally understood.

Just try. The words, sun-warmed stones, float in the hollow of your chest. It felt a little more possible, coming out of Seungcheol's mouth, with that dumb, resolute expression of his.

You don't even know if you would do the same for him. If he came to you, rosy-eyed and breakdown-adjacent, would you drop everything and listen to him? Clearly his problems ran deeper than a pretty girl not calling him back, but you had never really cared to listen.

And that's something you'll give Seungcheol credit for—he puts up with you, with everything, really, albeit with clumsy hands and the mask of reluctance.

You roll onto your side to reach for your phone. There's a text from Jeonghan asking if you're still up for grabbing drinks this evening. (Always). You have your final interview at 2. (Thank god).

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

Somehow this is disappointing, which makes your day that much worse. Maybe the runny mascara wasn't as flattering as you thought.

8 Totally Normal Texts To Send When You're Overthinking.

Not a good headline for a worse situation. Honestly, you shouldn't care, but now you're here, staring at your phone and undecided on if you even want Monday to come or not.

You'll order one (or three) margaritas tonight. You'll ask Jeonghan about his upcoming trip to Seoul. You'll make your favorite overnight oats and you'll go to sleep and Sunday will pass just the same.

You won't think about Seungcheol's arms around you or his head on top of yours or the way he insisted he would drive you to the subway so you didn't have to walk. You almost brushed against his hand on the gear stick and the nearness made you want to throw up.

But you're not thinking about it. You can't. Not without falling in love just a little.

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"Here. Drink."

You set two cups on the table before sitting face-to-face with Seungcheol, who decided to roll up to a coffee date in a somehow flattering polo and slacks.

But it's not a date—you're just talking. It's a meet-up. Not a hangout, which sounds too familiar, and definitely not a date.

Yesterday did not go as planned. Margarita-buzzed and under Jeonghan's terrible influence, you texted Seungcheol. Just to clear up some stuff, you told yourself. Friday night's like a scab, and you just can't help coming back to it.

"So, you're a coffee connoisseur too, huh?" Seungcheol says, tipping his head to the side.

"Not nearly," you reply. "Just wanted to pay for something for once. I'm pretty sure I owe you at least fifty of these."

"I'll hold you to it." He's doing that thing where it's like he stares past you. It's the most impressive eye contact on the planet, and it's making you nervous.

Then the silence, once welcome, becomes awkward—the air turns stiff, clinging to all the things you haven't said yet.

You play chicken with the idea of being an emotionally intelligent person and just talking about what most certainly is on everyone's mind right now. The cup between your hands is burning your palms. Seungcheol smiles.

"I'm—" The exact moment you start, the words crinkle up on your tongue and all the walls come back up again. It's a terrible, inevitable instinct. "I'm sorry. For Friday."

"For…what?" Seungcheol pauses mid-sip to say this. "Also, this coffee is really good."

Arabica, orange, and honey, you want to say. But you can't deflect this time. Somehow Seungcheol has cornered you into this tiny cafe chair with that disarming grin and an overabundance of patience.

"Everything, I guess. You were just trying to leave."

"No, I wasn't." And he laughs, which makes your stomach fold over trying to figure out what there possibly is to laugh at. "I actually liked getting to know you. You…care a lot. And I didn't expect that."

Seungcheol's sincerity staggers you. You could ask what the hell he just meant by all of that, but you decide to take him for his word. You think you've experienced the most honesty from him in the past three days than you have in the entire span of time you've known him, and it almost feels like a privilege.

"Thanks…?"

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he adds, as if to erase what he just said. "Can't have you walking around the office with a bigger stick in your ass."

"Poetic." You sigh. Once again, the illusion is shattered. You wonder if his kindness has a time limit. "How's your article coming along?"

"Nice try," he replies. "I'm not that easy."

"You're literally the definition of easy."

"Is that a compliment?" There's that challenge in his eyes again, that same look that he gave you outside Wonwoo's office. "You did ask me out on a date, despite saying that you'd rather eat glass. So I guess either there's a half-eaten plate in your trash or you've finally come to your senses."

"This is not a date. Dream on."

"You're right. This isn't a date." He leans forward on his elbows. "Just like our dinner date wasn't a date."

"It wasn't."

"Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—"

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

Not a date, but where'd you go to college? Not a date, but do you have a pet? Not a date, but can I walk you home?

You realize your talk in his car two weeks ago involved everything but your pasts, but you suppose neither of you are the type to unwrap old wounds. Sometimes the bandaid is better on, but, in your case, there's really nothing left to tell.

You divulge that you went to Northwestern for journalism. You have a family tabby, and no, you wouldn't mind being walked home.

You also realize before today, you knew less about Seungcheol than you thought, but there's some give to his secrecy. He went to USC because his parents wanted him to. Played football for half of it until he tore his ACL and got adopted by the sports section of the school paper. He even captained the advice column for three semesters—something he wants to return to, but you're happy to tell him you wouldn't trust his advice as far as you could throw him. (What was your alias? Samuel. Sounds kinda like Seungcheol, huh? You say no. He laughs.)

After circling the same park three times, you reach the doorstep of your apartment building. You cycle through some one-liners to end on a high note, but none of them seem quite right.

It's not a date, but you've noticed Seungcheol keeps glancing at your lips, and it almost seems like one.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol asks some stupid question about if coffee could be considered tea, which you start to answer before you are rudely interrupted.

First, the bump of his nose against yours, then his lips, slow, insistent, dizzying. Your heart jumps all the way to your throat and you think there's so much heat in your cheeks that he can feel it.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol just kissed you and you liked it.

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The next time you see Seungcheol is in the elevator to the newsroom on Monday.

He sticks his dumb, big arm out of the cabin to hold the door open for you, and his smile bruises your overripe heart.

"Hi," he says, sneaking a glance like a guilty child.

"Hi."

The floor indicators flicker like fireflies, one by one. He sidesteps toward you so that your shoulders touch. You watch the 4 crawl to 5. The air in the cabin is sticky, electric.

And as if taking a great big dive, you kiss him, a fleeting, tender thing that you rolled around in your head for a good thirty minutes earlier this morning—and you never thought the fruit of overthinking could be so sweet.

The elevator dings.

Before the doors open to your floor, Seungcheol slams the close button, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you again.

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

3. You and Seungcheol are no longer mortal enemies, but now you don't know what you are.

(The other day, you both worked late, and he ordered takeout to the office. You sat crosslegged on his desk as he tried to explain what a touchdown was and why he was obsessed with the Steelers. Normally a two hour long conversation about football would be a punishable offense, but that night he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt the next day.)

After Wonwoo's dinner with corporate, he went to the market across the street and picked up a few handles of soju and the fattest bottle of cheap vodka you've ever seen.

You're all getting a raise—you guess the Thai must have worked out well, although Wonwoo must have struck out with Yerim since he's spending his Friday night drinking with you guys instead.

So you get drunk.

Drunk enough to tune out of Jihyo from Sports giving Wonwoo dating advice—riveting, if not for your near double vision—and follow Seungcheol to the staff bathroom.

"Anyone—," you manage. His lips are hot on your neck, and every dizzy neuron in your body seems to be reaching, grasping for him. "Anyone ever tell you that your forearms look really good when you roll up your sleeves?"

"All the time," he replies, and he swallows the laugh right off of your tongue.

"You are so annoying." Your palm finds his heartbeat, and you revel in how it leaps towards your skin every hurried beat. You don't want to think about how many girls came before you, leant back against the bathroom counter just like this, but having a body against yours never felt so good. You guess that's what a three year hiatus will do to you. "Bet you hear that one a lot too, huh?"

"You got that right."

Another kiss, just a nudge of his nose and you're leaning up to him; your lips feel swollen and warm and somehow they still crave the feeling.

"How is it that we still bump noses," you ask, half words, half air. Seungcheol's hands, skin-greedy, skim over the back of your thighs like they're water and find the swell of your ass.

"You make me impatient." Cheshire grin across heart lips and you're toast. "Anyone tell you that you have a great ass?"

"All the time," you squeak out. It's a lie and a half but who cares. His fingers drag under the seam of your underwear and you've never been so thankful you forgot to wear shorts under your dress.

"Need you," he says, lips flush to the skin behind your ear, and your lower half would give out if you weren't propped against the sink.

The idea of Seungcheol on his knees, your thigh hiked over his shoulder, crosses your mind. He'd probably be really good at head, and that makes you dizzier than any ungodly combination of alcohol would. Or would he press you against the mirror, want your skirt pushed to your waist so he could fuck you from behind?

Anticipation tumbles into anxiety into some primordial, horrible shyness because you haven't had sex in years. You feel hot and damp and sweaty and you can't remember if you shaved or not. Plus, you're already seizing in his arms and he hasn't even touched you for real yet.

"H-home," you breathe. "Let's go home."

"Hm?" His hand slows in the dip between your thighs. "You wanna stop? We can stop."

"No, I just…I just thought it would be better if we went home. To…you know."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine’s closer," you answer after a considerable amount of mental gymnastics trying to figure out if you're both drunk enough to not mind the mess.

You know your apartment and you know your bed and you know where the bathroom is in case you have to pee. There's a box of condoms under the sink. You have an extra toothbrush for him. Less variables to worry about because nothing else has really gone to plan. You watch Seungcheol misbutton the top two buttons on his shirt and all the fondness in your heart feels like a welcome stranger in your body.

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

You feel incredibly horny and guilty all at once, but Seungcheol kisses your cheek on the way out and it's like you're able to breathe again.

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It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.

You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.

"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."

"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."

Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.

"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.

"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."

It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.

"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."

"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"

"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"

He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.

"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."

You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.

"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."

"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."

"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."

"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.

Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.

The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.

You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.

You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.

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You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.

You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.

"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.

"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."

"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.

"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Or if they're trying to poison you."

"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.

"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."

You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"

"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.

At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.

You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.

"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."

"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."

Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."

you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.

There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.

It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.

"What, too many dates to cover?"

He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."

Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.

"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."

"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."

His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.

You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.

"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."

The table stops rocking.

"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.

Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."

"You asked."

"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."

After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.

"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"

"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."

There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."

"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"

There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.

"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—"

he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.

"Get. Out."

It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.

"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."

it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.

That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.

Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.

You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.

He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.

It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.

You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.

The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.

You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?

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Monday feels tilted.

There's the usual gust of cinnamon sugar and cold brew—today's offering from the interns, who have begun to master the art of pressing the elevator buttons with full hands. Wonwoo is wearing his Monday outfit, a wrinkled cream button up under a navy blue sweater vest. Your cubicle is empty, just the way you like it, save for the ass-shaped spot cleared off on the desk edge.

You like days like this, except today you don't and you know exactly why.

"Today's the day," Joshua says, nose buried in a bakery-style muffin, the top pillowing out of the wrapper.

He stares over your shoulder at your article, locked and loaded for submission to copy.

You are not exaggerating when you say you would die for these four thousand words. You ate and cried and argued for them in what you can only describe as the worst literary coliseum of your life, and now their (and your) fate rests in Joshua’s massive Mickey Mouse hands and Wonwoo's bespectacled whimsy.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He laughs and then totters away, sucking a crumb off a finger. Just another Monday.

Your cursor hovers over the SUBMIT button. You've always been a little scared of it—unsurprising, since you're also the type to triple read an email before sending it—but there's a new kind of fear boxed in those little pixels.

Last night, you emptied out your freezer. Stuck on the back wall was a neon green sticky note, behind all the bags. See you when you get home, it said. You laughed and then you cried and then you ripped it up because that's probably what Seungcheol was looking at the morning you chewed him out.

All of that heartache must have been good for something. To say you wasted it on a no-love situationship wouldn't do any of it justice, not when all that's left is most definitely a crude shoutout on Seungcheol's next listicle. If you weren't already getting one earlier, you sure are now.

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

Help! My Friend With Benefits Isn't A Friend Or A Benefit!

At least that one is funny, although if it's the winning line, you don't think you can ever show your face in the office again.

The beginning and the end and the muddy in-between. Entrenched in all of it was this article and this job, and you'll be damned if you let your misplaced faith get co-opted by a sweaty-palmed Casanova.

(8:19 AM; the smell of summer and dried-down cologne. A hand on your ribcage, just beneath your heart. Good morning, Seungcheol says, as if emerging from a long, wonderful dream.)

You picture the byline with editor tacked next to your name. To run your finger over the ink spackled serif of a paper hot off the press, as if somehow it would radiate the misery you had to endure.

(11:41 PM; jajangmyeon and a pack of rice crackers. Seungcheol had given you his chopsticks because you dropped yours. The hum of the broken light outside Wonwoo's office sings in the silence of an empty newsroom. Your eyes meet, and you don't look away.)

There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You close your eyes and hit submit.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Ask Samuel!

It's 6 PM on a Thursday and if you weren't already on your last thread, you are now. The angry red of the Daily Trojan website glares back at you from your phone as you step into the elevator with none other than your editor-in-chief.

You've resorted to reading Seungcheol's old advice columns. Not because you miss him, but because you want to know if he was ever a competent writer capable of talking about something other than how to score on a second date.

That's the only way he's beating you.

(There's also no way you miss him. The thought would make you laugh out loud if you weren't standing next to your boss).

One column became four became ten. After thirteen you concluded Seungcheol must have sustained a head injury some time before starting his job here—you can find no other explanation for how someone so generous and intuitive could've gotten lost in the chaff of articles with more pictures than words.

"Congrats," Wonwoo says, seemingly speaking into the void.

"Pardon?" You close out a particularly riveting query about estranged childhood friends to look up at him.

"Congrats."

"F-for what?" You get that head rush again, the same one you got a month ago at the Italian restaurant with Jeonghan.

"The job. You got the position." Wonwoo clears his throat calmly, as if he's not delivering the most important news of your life. "I wanted to let you know in person before we sent out Monday’s email."

For once, you have no words. In a wonderful instant, they are all zapped out of your brain. You feel hot and clammy and anxious all at once and you half expect to close your eyes and see either god or the flare of a hospital light, waking you up from an impossible coma.

"Holy shit," the primordial ooze inside you says instead. "T-thank you."

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

"I haven't told him yet, but he should be aware." Wonwoo pauses. "He didn't submit anything."

"What?!"

There are only so many surprises your body can handle. You feel like you are being held together by a fast-unraveling string on a poorly made sweater. Your stomach is somewhere in your feet and you don't even know where your heart is. Part of you is waiting for the elevator to stop so the entire office can jump out of the walls and laugh at you.

"I too was surprised," Wonwoo says, now checking his smartwatch for messages. "He must have changed his mind. No matter—I'm confident you will be an excellent fit."

The elevator jerks to a stop at the first floor. You feel boneless, like a can of cranberry sauce.

"Forgive me, I have a dinner appointment." Wonwoo ends the conversation the best way he can—with his trademark parentheses smile and a nod of the head—and leaves you in the elevator cabin alone.

All the times you've dreamed of this moment, you're tear-dizzy, joyous, fumbling with your phone to call your parents.

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

To make croissants, you fold a slab of butter into a square of yeasted dough. You roll it out thin and then fold it into itself before leaving it to rest in the fridge. Then you take it out again, roll it, and fold it. You do this until you've forgotten how many times you folded it and you no longer crave croissants.

When you were five, you pressed your nose to the window of your favorite patisserie and decided this is how your mind works.

You've had ample time now to flatten out Saturday morning, to watch all the little layers of doubt and loathing form, and now you're sick of it. It's not often you're star witness to your own unhappiness, but, as if you were called to the stand, you can easily play back the moment you lit the match and then watched everything explode.

You're not sure what either of you were expecting. A playboy and you, who loves so insistently, almost as if out of spite—there is truly no reality in which it makes sense. The fact that you fought over a literal pot of ramyun only proves this.

And now he's saddled you with the final blow. The position of your dreams with none of the glory because he gave up.

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

You're standing outside the office, waiting for your ride to your celebratory dinner (this time, on Jeonghan). The little headline man in your brain is silent for once. Instead, you try to enjoy the breeze, honeyed with late June, and not dwell on the horrible twist in your stomach every time you think about your new position. It's been 24 hours since you found out but it is no less raw.

It's then that you catch Seungcheol, creeping out the double doors of the office like some sort of criminal. You're not sure if it's the plod of his Sasquatch feet or that bag you hate so dearly, but you could recognize that walk from anywhere.

His pace quickens when you turn to face him—he's running away. You won't grant him the satisfaction. Not when he's fucked up what little you had left, and then some.

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

"Funny way of saying hi," he responds, bracing himself on the sidewalk as if you're about to hit him.

"Why didn't you submit anything? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What does it matter to you? You got the position."

"Look, I—" You shut your eyes, feeling the frenetic ice-cream churn of your brain try to put together a million broken up words. "I'm sorry for Saturday. But I never wanted to scare you off from the job. You deserve it as much as I do, and, as much as I hate to say it, I care about you too fucking much to watch you throw away your shot."

Saying the words is like cutting something loose from your chest, a million strings coming undone.

Seungcheol takes a deep, unsteady breath. You watch the crest and fall of his shoulders and the inescapable tar pits he calls eyes get big and shiny.

"No, I—" He pulls himself from your gaze. "I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. And I should have never treated you like that."

The silence between you ripples, as if after a long rain.

"I was scared. A long time ago, I threw myself into a relationship. I thought we had something really, really good, and then I found out she was also seeing someone else."

Being right never felt so bad. It's even worse that something you would look forward to—the I told you so, the jokes really write themselves—no longer holds any satisfaction, only a sense of loss and a terrible urge to make it right again.

"And it's not right, but I decided that it was a mistake to take chances like that again. And it was fine, fun even, going on all of these casual dates and getting paid for it. Then you just had to mess it up."

"H-how?"

"You were so dead-set on convincing me otherwise. You wouldn't let it go, not with your weird sayings and the way you talked about your ex and when you told me you were making me breakfast. I started believing you, and it really fucking scared me."

There's a sharp pain in your head. It feels like, at once, you were skinned like a fruit. Like the interlude between dream and waking, all the sheets of sleep yanked from your person.

"What…what about the article?" you ask, scrambling. You don't really want to contend with what he just told you. You don't think you can.

"You deserved it more. And you really love what you do. I used to think it was all bullshit, but I was wrong."

You take a hard swallow. The image of Seungcheol, head bowed, a nervous hand on the back of his neck, swims in front of your eyes.

"Whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore," he laughs, mirthless.

"No, wait," you say. "I-I also…never took you seriously, not even when I should've. You know, I read your advice columns. Crazy, I know."

"I do have to say that is one of your more insane claims."

"No, I thought, they were actually, you know…really good." You watch him blink, mouth already twisting up as he fights a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I think we messed up. In a lot of ways. But I want to be friends again. Or at least not enemies."

Seungcheol takes a long pause before he sticks his hand out.

"Choi Seungcheol. Writer. It's nice to meet you."

Some force, as if you had always been connected, pulls your skin to his. You shake his hand for the very first time, and starting over never felt so good.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You're booking Eleven Madison for the office dinner again, right?"

Wonwoo pops his head into your office, his Monday uniform now festive with a holiday tie. Today, it's snowmen with glasses.

"Naturally," you reply. "Unless you have plans on that Friday."

You're referring to last week, when Wonwoo took a call in the middle of a staff meeting and revealed that yes, he would most definitely be available for drinks with Yerim that evening. He ended the meeting thirty short seconds later, and you think you saw him skip to the elevator.

He laughs, deep and caramel. "Not this time. Also—don't forget to review those job applications. Sent them to your email."

Before you can tease him again, he leaves, and you are forced to look at your teeming inbox, the only unfortunate side effect of your new position. But you've never been happier, and a hundred new unread emails never seemed so wonderful. The first time Jeonghan saw you in your new office, you were so giddy he thought you were coming down with something.

You take a hefty sip of today's coffee (ginger, molasses, cinnamon). On the side of the cup, the one you keep facing away from the door, reads SEUNGCHEOL and OAT, in loopy marker letters.

After you shook hands in the parking lot, you agreed to take it slow. You thought bringing everything to a simmer would cure you of your affection, but it wasn't even a month before Seungcheol was back in that same seat in your kitchen, eating the blueberry waffles you promised him.

But if slow meant long phone calls and the nervous twine of your hands after an ice cream date, then you think you like slow. You could do slow for a while.

He's taken to bringing you coffee in the morning. He claims it's your editorial right, but you think he just likes having an excuse to barge into your office. (And close the door behind him. And kiss you. But that's aside the point.)

Plus, Seungcheol's had plenty of legitimate reasons to be in your office. The newest one is the launch of Ask Sunny! , which you think is the best idea he's had since deciding to get you coffee every day. He spent the last few days campaigning to reuse his old alias, but you're pretty sure he was just looking for reasons to argue with you.

"Afternoon, boss."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You always seem to learn the hard way with Seungcheol.

He swaggers in, ear-to-ear smile on his face, before taking a seat at the designated corner of your table.

"I think I like this desk better," he says, folding at the waist so he can lean close to you. Instead of reminding him it's the same desk, you just choose to make space for him, you let him press his nose to yours.

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

He interrupts you with just a touch of his lips, which should be considered no less than a war crime by now.

"You are the worst."

"Not what you said last night. Not even close." He places another wet kiss on your nose before sliding off the table edge to his feet. There's a horrible warmth in his eyes as he watches you very clearly remember what exactly he's referring to. (A wandering hand. A cherry. Dark hair, wound through your fingers). "Anyway, I've got serious problems to solve. Or should I say Sunny? I still think we should have gone with Samuel."

"Executive decision," you tease. "Now if you don't need anything, scram. Out of my office."

"Just wanted to remind you I made reservations for us at Avra today," Seungcheol says, lingering in the doorframe with the shit-eating grin he tends to sport nowadays. "I'll even let you order."

There's no fighting the familiar bloom of laughter in your chest. It boils up, sparkling and citrusy, as you roll your eyes and watch Seungcheol return to his desk no less starry-eyed than how he walked in.

If cooking is a language, then love is the words, and you finally think you're learning to speak them.

You open the email at the top of your inbox: Seungcheol's last draft of the article he never published. You urged him to let you consider it for the next issue, and he finally caved (although you're learning that he really doesn't take much convincing when it comes to you).

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[riordanness]

sweet nothing - [w.wonka]

wordcount: 1.1K

warnings: willy freaking wonka’s curls

requested: no

Something about this laundry place was giving me the creeps, but I’m sure if it’s the scary man who’d brought us here, the overly cheery lady with the awful teeth, or the much-too-convenient cheap as chips room.

Willy seems to be completely trusting in these people, though, and I trust him with anything, so I decide to just take it as it comes, and keep my eyes open for anything else strange.

We’re lead upstairs by Bleacher, with Mrs Scrubbit following from behind. She chatters the whole way up, bombarding us with information about the place and our room and how much impact this laundry business has had on the town itself.

Bleacher pushes open a door, and lets us pass. I step inside after Willy, and glance quickly around the simplistic room. It’s pretty, very white, and has little daisies on the wallpaper.

“There you two are,” Mrs Scrubbit says happily. I wonder to myself if her name, or Bleacher’s for that matter, are actually their real names, or if they just made them up for the glamour of it all. They are pretty catchy names.

“Thank you, Mrs Scrubbit,” I say, and Willy chimes in after me.

“Thank you both.”

Mrs Scrubbit, flustered, grins at us both and waves her hand in the air vigorously. “There’s a bar of soap and a washing cloth on the sink, and fresh linens in the cupboard over there.”

I give her a smile, and my worries from earlier are almost forgotten. This place truly is a miracle.

After they leave, and the door has closed, I realise how exhausted I am. I collapse onto the floor, leaning my head against the wall and closing my eyes. I let out a sigh. “Who knew one single day could be so busy, huh?”

I can hear Willy dropping his coat to the floor, and laughing quietly to himself. “Yes indeed, y/n.”

I open my eyes to the sight of him sitting on the edge of the bed, and it is only then I notice the most obvious of facts. There is only one bed in this room.

Willy seems to realise this at the same moment I do. “Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” I echo.

There’s a heat beat of silence, then Willy quickly gets to his feet. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You take the bed.”

“What?” I’m almost annoyed. My best friend is my favourite person, and I love him dearly, but he is almost too kind sometimes. Kindness is a virtue, but in Willy, it often hurts himself in the process.

“You take the bed,” Willy repeats.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I say, still on the floor. “It’s a big enough bed for us both. I won’t have the best chocolate maker in the universe sleeping on this cold stone floor. It’s uncomfortable.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re literally sitting on the ground right now.”

I shrug. “Floor time is fun for me. Not for sleeping though. That would be kinda awful.”

Willy smiles softly. “Alright, bean. We can share.”

I have no idea why he calls me that, but I’ve long since given up on asking. He always just grins his wicked little smile and says something like, ‘I’ll tell you one day’.

I close my eyes again, and yawn. “I’m so tired, Will.”

“Don’t call me that.”

I laugh, and open my eyes again. “Sorry not sorry. Help me up.” I hold both my hands out to him.

Willy walks over, rolls his eyes at my antics, and pulls me to my feet.

“Come on,” he says softly, his fingers lingering near my unbrushed, unruly hair. “Let’s get you to bed, bean.”

“Okay,” I mumble, suddenly even sleepier. His quiet tone and gentle touch are pulling me even closer to the darkness of sleep. I let Willy pull off my jacket, and I slide out of my dress, leaving just my petticoat and undergarments on. I crawl under the covers, shimmying as close to the wall as I can to allow room for Willy.

He shrugs off his vest and shoes, switches off the light above us, and climbs in after me, lying as far away as possible on the other side of the bed. I understand the politeness in his gesture, but my tiredness is fogging my brain up, and I want him to be close.

“Willy?” I almost whine.

“Yeah, love?” he whispers.

“Can you hold me?” I mutter, my eyes shut tightly. I barely register his reply, but I do feel his strong arms as they tighten around my waist, and pull me close to him. Then, the darkness takes me.

I wake up slowly the next morning, my senses taking longer than usual to begin working. Smell is first. Chocolate and mint and rain. Then sound. The familiar sound of my best friend’s breathing. Then touch. Warm blankets, warm arms, my cheek pressed against a warm, moving, yet somewhat hard surface. Then, finally, sight.

My eyes clear, and I blink the sleep away, and I’m met with something extremely unexpected, but also very pleasant.

Willy’s sleeping face, only inches from my own, his dark curls spread across his forehead and the pillow we share. His arms are around me, holding me tightly even in his sleep. My head is resting on his chest, which is slowly rising and falling with his gentle breathing.

I myself try not to breathe, not daring to even move. I want nothing more than to extend this moment for as long as possible, maybe even forever.

Willy’s eyes flutter open, and their soft chocolate gaze lands on mine.

He smiles, and I’m almost certain it’s the prettiest thing in the world.

“Good morning, bean.”

“Hi,” I whisper. “You still owe me the reason behind that nickname.”

Willy smiles, his eyes flitting all over my face, as if he’s relishing the closeness between us as much as I am.

“Because,” he says slowly, drawing out the word. “You are as important to me as a cocoa bean is to chocolate.”

I let that fact sink in. “Oh,” I manage, my chest filling with all the love I have for this boy beside me.

“What’s wrong?” Willy tilts his head down to look at me properly, concern filling his features.

“Nothing,” I answer. “I just… love you, Willy Wonka. I really love you.��

He smiles again, wider this time. “And I love you, my little cocoa bean.”

[sometimesanalice]

Make Me Your Masterpiece

Summary: Bob credits you for helping him to find his new hobby. And when he asks if he can you paint you, you find you quite like the idea of being his muse.

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullman’s hands (mdni)

(Author’s Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! 🎉 @laracrofted)

You’ve always had a thing for Bob’s hands.

They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.

You’d been reaching for your iced vanilla cinnamon latte when a big hand had wrapped around it just a half of a second before you could grab it. Which you wouldn’t have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings you’d been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your office’s communal coffee pot.

“I think that’s-” you’d started.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” the coffee thief backpedaled.

The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes. 

The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as they’d set it on the counter.

By some kismet or fate, they had been a matching set. But instead of embroidered towels, it was his and hers coffee cups with your names written on them in a hasty scrawl.

Realization dawned over his features as he gave you a sheepish smile, “Think this one might belong to you, Miss.” He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as he’d said it aloud before passing the cup to you.

The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bob’s smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.

You’d been a goner right then and there.

And while you’d ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, you’d also gone back to the office with his phone number written on a cardboard coffee sleeve that was tucked away safely in your purse and a date lined up later that week.

As it turned out fate had a name and it was Robert Floyd.

Barely twenty minutes into your first official date with Bob, his ears had turned a delightful shade of pink as his anxious fingers straightened the silverware on the white linen tablecloth of the Italian spot he’d taken you to. He’d fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that he’d purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl who’d been standing in front of him in line.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didn’t want to miss my chance,” he’d confessed over candlelight.

He’d told you how he’d only been at the coffee shop because he’d recently returned from a deployment and was fighting the jetlag that came with adjusting to being back on Pacific Standard Time, and that he normally preferred tea but he needed something with a bit more to it to get him through the day.

Instead of getting up and taking the bottle of wine to-go as a consolation prize, like you would have if it had been anyone else, his genuine earnestness had charmed you instantly. And you’d settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.

You only let him sweat it for about thirty seconds before you took pity on him. With a light fingertip, you traced along one of the veins on the back of his hand and simply asked, “So other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?”

It was the best first date you’d ever had.

For your second date with him, you’d bought tickets to a ‘Paint and Sip’ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.

You weren’t an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous he’d been. You’d found your eyes drifting to them on more than one occasion. Partly because they were so enticingly disproportionate to the rest of him, but also because you couldn’t look him directly in the eye for too long without feeling your face heating up.

You thought it would be a good way for the both of you to work past the getting-to-know-you jitters, something that would keep your hands and eyes occupied enough to relax a bit more and have fun together.

Although instead of the seascape class you’d thought you’d signed up for, you’d willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bob’s lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.

You’d spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when you’d realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting. 

Bob had seemed surprised by that too because he’d kept flushing that wonderful shade of pink that had quickly become your new favorite color every time you complimented his piece.

He had steady, capable hands. But you were quickly learning that everything about Bob Floyd seemed that way. There was a quiet confidence about him. He didn’t shy away from the way he’d openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode. 

You’d never known a man to be so attentive until him.

Bob’s tongue was peeking out as he’d worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You weren’t even sure what step you’d technically stopped at before you’d given up to watch the visual feast of him painting instead. Only halfheartedly adding random bits to your canvas along the way to make sure it wasn’t totally blank by the end of the session.

You’d been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. You’d reached out for your wine glass, lifting it to your lips to take a sip, it had only taken you a split second to realize it wasn’t the full-bodied red you’d ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.

Mortified, you’d looked over just in time to see Bob’s empathetic wince. You’d been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that you’d had more than one set of eyes on you.

“And we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,” the instructor cheerily announced to the group, “The rest of you can breathe easy now!”

You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but you’d groaned as you buried your face in your hands.

It was not the way you saw the night going. You wanted to be dazzling, you wanted that pivotal third date with him. But now you were the girl who drank paint water whose canvas looked like it had all the same efforts as an enthusiastic fourth grader.

Bob’s hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before he’d pulled them from your face. And then he’d leaned in close, taking your chin in his hand and kissed you squarely on the lips, his tongue dipping in and sliding against yours to taste the acrylic pigment from your surprised mouth.

“Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as he’d passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth. 

You couldn’t help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then you’d caught the way he’d shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor when you had a Bob Floyd with a paintbrush and a cutting side eye.

You took him home with you that night and learned for yourself just how capable those hands of his were.

It was only later that you realized the exact shade of blue that you’d been trying so hard to capture earlier that night was the same color as the eyes that gazed down at you as Bob fucked you for the very first time.

There was no way you could have known that the ‘Paint and Sip’ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.

First, he’d started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then he’d turned his spare bedroom into a studio, as it has the best afternoon light in the Spanish style house he rents near the Naval base. He’d even bought a comfy chair for you to curl up in as he painted, a little nook of your own in his favorite space in his home. And steadily, the walls of both your apartment and his place fill up with all of his art.

You’d even had your favorite one professionally framed. The pretty landscape done in shades of soft greens that he gave to you for your birthday hangs in a place of honor above your bed. You like having that piece of Bob as one of the last things you see before you fall asleep and one of the first things you see in the morning on the rare occasion the two of you aren’t sharing a bed. You liked to imagine the hours he spent on it with the sunlight streaming through the open window as he lovingly and painstakingly created something just for you with his own two hands.

Although you did have to beg him to sign it for you. He claimed that since he does it for fun that there’s really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and he’d eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.

Now it’s become your personal mission to ensure that every Bob Floyd original has his signature on it when he gives his paintings out as gifts.

Everyone assumes that his art would be all straight lines and precise angles, but it’s your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. He’d told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint what’s on the ground, the things he doesn’t get to see when he’s 50,000 feet in the air.

You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you. 

After almost a year with him, you’d think he’d know by now that you’d do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.

“Are you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?” you’d teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.

He’d tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldn’t be replicated- and stated, “No, I want to paint you like my girl.”

Which is how you’ve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.

You’d been surprised when you came downstairs to see that the furniture had all been pushed to the side to make space for the king-sized top sheet he’d laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because you’d never seen it before and you spent more than enough time in his bed getting familiar with his sheets.

Bob was shirtless and wearing only a pair of loose-fitting and paint stained jeans that were hanging low on his hips as he worked on getting all of his brushes and paints set up.

You were pretty sure that Michelangelo himself wouldn’t be able to do proper justice to Bob’s body. He wasn’t as built as some of his friends on the Dagger Squad were, but there was an undeniable sturdy steadfastness to him. Those defined shoulders and arms often were the stars of your afternoon daydreams, since you got to admire his handsome face anytime your phone lit up.

He came and met you at the bottom of the stairs, giving you a low whistle, “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.”

“Oh,” you’d said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, “So it is.” And then you’d slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artist’s eye.

You never felt as good about yourself as you did when you were naked in front of Bob. The color of his morning skies eyes would always darken to a deep shade of Prussian blue as he took in the curves of you. With him you always felt appreciated, wanted, desired.

His greedy hands came to grip your hips pulling you to him until you were pressed against him.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

You never knew true distraction until you’d felt Bob’s lips against yours all those months ago. You’d happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If he’s kissing you, he’s doing it thoroughly until you’re out of breath.

The sound of the air conditioner kicking on and the light draft that it coasted over you reminded you that there were other plans on the agenda. And that the sooner he starts, then the sooner he finishes, and the sooner you can feel his lips on other parts of you.

“Where do you want me?”

“In my bed,” he murmured against your lips.

His name started as a laugh but turned into a sigh as he dropped a line of kisses down your neck, “I meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.”

Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, “Darlin’, I wanted to paint you.” He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. “If that’s alright with you.”

You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.

You’re trying not to shiver as he meticulously coats your overheated skin with cool paint. Goosebumps follow in the wake of every delicate stroke he makes along your body.

His hair was curled over his forehead in a way that had your fingers aching to touch him. There was a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the deliberate lines and curves he painted on you. The paint smudge on his cheek only made him all the more attractive to you.

Bob had tucked a pillow beneath your head before he’d started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long you’ve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.

He’d started along the plane of your stomach and steadily worked his way out from there. Up your arms. Along your clavicle. Over your breasts and tops of your thighs. You didn’t miss the way he’d smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way he’d hummed pleased when you’d try to subtly rub your thighs together to relieve the need that had been building as you laid there.

Bob loves taking his time with you. In bed, he loved teasing you until you had tears in your eyes and were begging for his cock. And it became clear very quickly that this would be no different.

There was an electric thrum that was pulsing through your body with every dip and swirl and brushstroke. The muscles of your stomach jump involuntarily as the fine hairs of his paintbrush drift over your hypersensitive skin making you whimper.

He tsks, “Gotta stay still for me, pretty girl. I’m almost done, promise.”

You release a shaky sigh and nod, not trusting your voice to betray just how needy you were for him. Although the self-satisfied smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You try to control your breathing as he works on finishing, but your shallow breaths sounded loud in his living room. You love getting to watch him work normally, but the intense way he is looking at you- his eyes your favorite shade of Prussian blue now- is too much for your hummingbird heart.

Just as your skin was collecting layers of paint from his brush, the space between your thighs was steadily collecting your wetness. You were so desperate for him to touch you, the need made you want to crawl out of your skin.

You hear the sound of a watery swish and the clink of a brush against glass and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation.  

“God, look at you,” Bob breathes, reverently, “You’re so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.”

Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art he’s made out of you.

You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.

“There she is,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didn’t notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dad’s old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, “Can I take a few just for me?”

The answer is easy, “Yes.”

You trusted Bob more than any other man you’d ever been with. He’s never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.

The guys you’d been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.

The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic he’d been using earlier as he snaps photo after photo. You admire the way his muscles shift as he bends and angles himself to get the perfect images.

He stands over you, the lens pointed down at you, “Look at me.”

You can barely breathe. You feel yourself getting even wetter at the thought of seeing yourself through his eyes. No one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“Bob”, you whine.

The camera clicks.

“I know,” he hums, “You’ve been so good for me.”  He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so it’s propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that you’re sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, “Just one more, darlin’.”

The heat in his eyes has dried up all the words in your mouth.

He trails a finger down the soft skin of your inner thigh and you gasp.

The sound of his camera reverberates in your head.

“You’ve made such a pretty mess,” he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. “It’s a good thing I put something down. You’re damn near dripping.”

“Bob, please.” You arch towards him like a flower in the sun.

He settles between your thighs and pushes them apart further so that his broad shoulders fit between them. The paint is still drying on your skin, but neither one of you cares about that now.

“You were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.” He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, I know just how to thank you.”

Your body jolts at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You can feel his smile against you, he knows exactly what he does to you.

Bob has always eaten you out like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Normally, he’s teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until you’re a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where you’re breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.

But tonight, there’s nothing playful about the way his mouth is working against you. His hot mouth is sealed to your clit. Bob hums in satisfaction with every keen and whine that he pulls out of you. He laves at you until you’re writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.

“Wanna paint you just like this,” he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. “But I don’t think you’d stay still long enough for me to finish.”

Bob dips down and gives you another long broad stroke of his tongue. He pulls back only long enough to spit on your cunt before diving right back in, chasing after his own taste on you.

Your hands are in his hair. Clutching at his shoulders. It’s taken him no time at all getting you to the point where you’re trembling and taut.

All the air leaves your lungs when he buries two large fingers into you. Your hips cant into his mouth on their own and he moans. Bob wraps an arm around your hips and presses down on your lower stomach to hold you in place.

You feel the paint smear beneath his warm palm. You were dying to see it. You hoped there was a handprint- his handprint- that disrupted all the lines and swirls of color that he’d decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.

You were wearing his art and now you’re wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.

His fingers and tongue weren’t enough.

You needed more.

“You cock, Bob, I need your cock,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He meanly sucks your clit into his mouth in a way that has you crying out and jerking against him. You love it, you love him.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.”

Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

He looks so good kneeling above you the way that he is. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess. That knot behind your bellybutton twists tighter because you did that to him.

He unzips his jeans and tugs them down low enough to pull his hard cock out.

It’s pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. It’s long, thick, perfect and yours.

Bob smirks when he notices you admiring him, pumping himself slowly a few times for your viewing pleasure.

The only time Bob Floyd was ever a show-off was when he was in bed.

He grabs your thighs and pulls them over top of his own, so that yours are draped over his obscenely, and then he thrusts easily into you.

You gasp at the sensation of being so full of him. It always takes you a minute to adjust to his cock, no matter how many times you’ve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.

“There you go,” he says, rocking into you, working you open, “Just needed this cock, didn’t you?”

You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. You’re high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that you’re the one who gets to see him unreserved and uninhibited. He has your hips gripped so tightly, keeping you closer than close. And when you clench around him, you’re treated to a wrecked groan.

Your skin prickles with desire and the feeling of paint drying on you. His cock is hitting just the right spot inside of you and you know you won’t be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way he’s grinding against your aching clit.

Bob’s eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. You’re on full display for him. He watches the way you stretch and spread around him with every deep thrust with the same appreciative gaze that he admires his favorite artists.

It’s under his river blue gaze that your orgasm swiftly sweeps you away. And with your back arching and thighs quaking around his, you give yourself up to the endless current of it.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter.

Bob pulls out of you and wraps his large hand around his slick-shined cock and works himself with rough, purposeful strokes.

This time he paints you with himself, his come covering your stomach.

The only sound in the room is the two of you breathing hard, trying to catch your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, “You’re my masterpiece.”

You’re covered in paint and come, but you’ve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.

“Did you remember to sign your work this time?” you ask, out of breath but teasingly.

“I think I left my mark, darlin’,” he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You can’t help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Goddamn.”

You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.

“Baby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.” You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. “Wait, where’s your camera?”

He passes it to you, the fondness in his eyes makes your chest feel warm. You scooch in close to him and hold it up above your heads, the camera flashes when you kiss his flushed cheek.

That picture is the first one that gets put up in the new house, the one the two of you chose together when he asked you to marry him six months later. Followed by the soft green landscape that now hangs above your shared bed.

It’s your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud he’d painted on your shoulder.

That night Bob had decorated your body with the place he loved best.

He gave you the sky and he made you his world.

Happy birthday, Ames! Your gift will be mailed eventually, it really was a lesson in chemistry, lol! Enjoy a Bob fic just for you in the meantime!

A big, bigggg thank you to the Bob Babes/Lew Crew girlies! @callsignspark and @attapullman I appreciate you two so much for being such ultimate hypegirls! And thank you to @theharddeck, you helped me out of my writers block and I've been so excited to write this since we talked about it back in January!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[bell4donn4]

Getaway truck | a western road trip with Luke Castellan

Tags: established relationship,Luke and reader are basically the mom and dad of chb, reader’s godly parent is not specified.

Author’s note: tbh I’ve been lowkey obsessed w western Americana and road trips. I wanted this to be longer but whatever

The humid wind coming from the rolled down window gently messed up your hair.

You sat quietly on the passenger seat of the washed out green truck you and Luke rented. It must have been a Ford 1967, or some other kind of vintage model.

You couldn’t tell, and honestly, you didn’t bother to anyways, too busy looking out of the window admiring the desertic surroundings; sipping on your coca-cola.

<<you smudged your lipstick>> he glanced at you, taking his eyes off the road to send you a lopsided smile. One of his big and rough hands rested on your bare thigh, exposed by your jeans shorts.

It was mid summer, almost autumn time, yet the western country side never failed to drain you out with its scorching weather.

<<did I?>> you pulled down the visor, inspecting yourself in the small mirror; but you could tell he was right by the red stain on the metal can.

<<oh yeah, I did>>

Luke laughed lowly while he took a turn to the left, hand strong and firm on the steering wheel. You admired him in silence, a sort of pride filling your ego as you looked at your boyfriend.

That day, he wore a white linen shirt, which he (purposely) left unbuttoned on the chest, making his Hermes dog-tag visible. A pair of sunglass used to sit in the bridge of his nose, but were now long forgotten on the dashboard. It felt weird to see him without the bright orange shirt.

This little getaway from camp was going more than lovely. Finally free from all the responsibilities you both had to take on. You couldn’t even imagine how the camp must have looked like in that moment, with both of the two head counsolers gone.

<<do you think they set the cabins on fire?>>

<<for how long have we been away?>> Luke said

<< half a day?>> you nodded

<<yeah then, the woods are probably already burning as well. Along with the cabins and all>>

he hummed in approval at his own answer, earning a giggle from you.

He caressed your thigh with his thumb.

<<im joking, I’m sure the kids will be alright>>

<<you sound like an old dad>>

He shrugged his shoulders, grinning; but just as it started, the conversation slowly died down.

In the background of your comfortable silence, a low melody coming from the radio filled your ear.

With Luke, you didn’t need to talk. No many words need to be spoken with a man like him. You have been together enough to understand each other in silence. Plus— that should’ve been a sort of vacation from the chaos of camp.

So you preferred not to add anything else, simply allowing the worries to occupy the back of your mind.

You turned the music up as Molly Parton started playing.

You enjoyed the song, humming along the robotic notes coming from the radio.

Fortunately, by the time you arrived at your destination— a lake far far away from the one you had to see everyday— the worries were all gone. Replaced by that fuzzy feeling that only being with Luke could give you.

[princessbrunette]

as highly requested, a small look into life with bunny!reader and rafe following the events of never lose me.

“i wanna go home, daddy.” you huff quietly out your nose as you stand on the deck of rafe’s large boat, overlooking the glimmering bahamas ocean. he presses his lips together, nodding. rafe was different now, oddly — he was more understanding, mature. he’d shaved off his hair, and now he had real responsibilities, so he fully came into the ‘grown man’ role he’d been after so bad.

he flicks his gaze towards you, pulling you by the waist so you lightly stumble into him, the man rubbing your back as you bury your cheek against his white linen shirt. “yeah… well. we can’t, not just yet. got business to handle here, remember?”

he feels you nod against him, and is satisfied with the answer — plucking his sunglasses from his collar and placing them on the bridge of his nose, squinting over at the row of other expensive boats lined up on the dock. after a calm moment, you speak again — twisting in his grip to look up at him.

“aren’t you worried?”

“about what? someone will buy the cross soon, okay — i can feel it. as for my dad he’s… he’s healing.” he explains and you blink dumbly, watching his soft lips explain your current situation.

“i know. i mean about the dead body in the truck. remember?” you ask so innocently, like it was nothing. a silly thing he could have just forgotten. you barely get the last word out, and he’s grabbed you by your arms— walking you backwards beneath the shelter of the boat, he yanks off his glasses to reveal a dangerous look in his eye.

“are you insane? gonna say that shit out loud when you don’t know who could be listening? what did i tell you, hm? remind me.”

your lip wobbles, lashes frantically fluttering as he’s snapped you out of your sleepy and lethargic mood beneath the hot sun. “not a wor—”

“not a word about it. ‘kay? you cannot afford to slip up. is that crystal clear?” he completes the sentence for you impatiently, eyes glancing between yours.

“i’m sorry. just homesick.” you mewl, and to this he softens— deflating with a sigh. he scratches behind his ear, staring off for a moment before nodding and pulling you back into his chest, lips brushing the crown of your head as he hugs you.

“i know. i’m sorry, okay? just freaked me out, kid.” he mumbles, giving your back a firm rub before pulling back. “look, let’s just not think about it for now. yeah? that sound fair?”

you sniff, smiling obediently up at him, nodding your head.

“great. now…” he strokes two thumbs along each cheek, raising his brows. “you look like you want icecream. am i right? yes?”

just like that, it’s forgotten for another day.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Of course I’m here. Big surprise.

I’d love some soft!dom energy from countryclub!steve when we’re being a little needy. 😇

Leighanne my beloved 👹 18+

“No, no, Thursday should be fine— mhmm. Well, talk to Richard and see what he says, surely we can’t push it much further—”

You knew fine well Steve was still on his call, you could hear his voice through his office door, his tired, bored tone sighing into the receiver. He’d told you ten minutes though, and well, that had been twenty minutes ago.

So you didn’t feel too guilty when you snuck in, lips pressed together to hide your smile and Steve glanced at you with surprise as you closed the oak door behind you. His whole office smelled like him, like leather and whisky and expensive cologne. He was sat behind his desk, an impressive thing made of dark wood and topped with a forest green leather covering.

There were files all over it, receipts and email print outs, an open cigar case that hadn’t been touched yet, a glass of something amber that was yet to be drunk. Steve looked tired, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, the white linen rolled past his elbows, his suit jacket thrown across the sofa on the other side of the room. You watched him take a hand through his hair and he smiled at you as he listened to whoever was droning on.

It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though.

So you took it upon yourself to wiggle between the desk and Steve’s legs, smiling when he shifted for you, rolling back on the wheels of the chair, his cell still pressed to his ear. He didn’t seem to be listening as intently as before when you dropped into his lap.

“What? Yeah, no, no, of course. Surely we can have the meeting over a conference call?”

You weren’t sure what meeting this call was regarding but you busied yourself with sneaking a hand into Steve’s open shirt, your palm finding warm skin and a smattering of chest hair. You felt his heart race under your fingertips, grinning when his eyes turned a little glassy and his gaze dropped to your lips.

“I’m listening,” he murmured into the phone, lying through his teeth. His hips moved under yours, adjusting himself until his hardening cock was felt properly under your ass. “New York, sure…” he trailed off, coughing a little when you leaned in to kiss at his throat.

You squirmed against him, dress riding up your thighs, Steve’s hand trailing the cotton, his eyes following behind. You watched him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, his expression appreciative. You wondered how far he’d let you take this, if he’d let you sink to your knees under his desk and—

“Hold on a sec, Fred— yeah, two seconds, I just gotta—” Steve pulled the phone away from his face, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He raised his brows at you, doing his best to hide his smile as he leaned in, nose nudging yours. “Did you need somethin’, honey?”

You pouted, dress strap slipping off your shoulder as you played up for him, lips brushing his. “You,” you whispered, as if it were a secret.

Steve smirked, a salacious thing that still made your thighs push together. He tapped at your hip then, coaxing you off of him and you wanted to tut, you wanted to protest. But the man didn’t give you any time to feel offended, nor rejected. He knocked his knuckles onto the top of his desk and nodded towards it.

“Gimme your underwear, baby and hop up.”

You blinked, lips parting.

“You got five seconds, honey, or you can wait ‘til this call is done, your choice,” Steve murmured in a song-song, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He wiggled the phone that he was still doing his best to silence. “Drop ‘em.”

With your hands curling into the sides of lace, you pulled the underwear off of your hips and down your legs, your dress rucked up indecently as you did, showing your fiancé a flash of bare skin, soft and wet in the places he liked most. You worried with the papers strewn everywhere, trying your best to gather them into a neat pile but Steve spoke from behind you once more.

“Five, four…”

You stifled a laugh, shoving them to the side before hopping onto the cool wood and Steve grinned, victorious. He moved back, the wheels of his chair skating across the floor as he settled himself in front of you. “Yeah, yeah I’m here, apologies. You were saying? New York?” Steve didn’t miss a beat as he took your underwear from your hand, stuffed them in his pocket and tapped at your knee.

You knew what he wanted, what he was silently saying.

Open.

You felt your face warm as you spread your legs, sticky thighs parting as you bared yourself to the man in the dim glow of the setting sun and the lamp on his sideboard. Steve’s lips parted, a barely audible groan coming from his chest that he covered with a cough. He used one hand to settle your feet on either side of his seat, keeping you wide for him, your cunt on show as you sat back on your elbows, waiting for his next move.

You didn’t have to wait long.

A single finger, used to trace up and down the seam of your folds, gathering the wetness there, slow and shallow. He was barely touching your clit.

“I’m sure that’ll work,” he was saying. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “If we manage to secure the Parker funding, I can’t imagine it’ll be too much trouble.”

He pulled his hand back to drag his finger over his tongue, humming at your taste and apparently something his colleague was saying. Steve didn’t miss a beat when he brought it back once more, immediately sliding his middle finger into your pussy. You whined, cutting yourself off short with teeth to your lip and Steve stilled, throwing you a warning glance.

“Oh, of course,” he continued, as if he weren’t knuckles deep in you. “If we can manage to get it into the schedule that day, we might as well go for it…” he curled his finger up before adding another, grinning when you threw your head back. “…I’m sure it’ll be a tight fit.”

Withdrawing, he leaned forward, nudging at your chin to gain your attention and Steve brushed his fingers over your lips. He pouted at you, waiting. You opened without hesitation, showing off as you stuck out your tongue and let Steve drag his slick covered digits over it. His thumb brushed your cheek in reward and then he settled back into his seat, using the same two fingers to draw circles over your clit.

A slow, soft tease, steady and messy, over and over and over—

“No, you’re fine, Fred.” Steve smirked at you, brows knitting together in faux sympathy as you screwed your face up in pleasure. He was going to make you cum while you couldn’t make a sound. “I’ve got plenty of time to talk.”

[hai7ani]

os ventos do amor ᡣ𐭩 ー haitani rindou

the five times rindou shows you he loves you (tries) & the one time he finally tells you about it.

( the winds of love ) friends with benefits + colleagues au, mdni

一 · in his kitchen (prequel)

The first time Rindou tries showing you he loves you, you're busy slurping noodles in his kitchen, and he's creasing his brows ironing your stupid little blouse in his tiny laundry room.

"Need some help?" You tease from the table after swallowing.

Usually you'd let him do it himself in peace, with no mocking, as per his own request to iron your clothes for you whenever you stay the night. But he's been at it for the past 20 minutes now just ironing one stupid blouse, and you're starting to grow impatient, because he'd promised to share this bowl of ramen with you but it's almost finished now.

Your voice echoes in the living area and he doesn't reply, but you know he heard you. You put down the chopsticks and sigh, "you know, I could've done it myself. No need for the trou-"

"Here."

You cock your head to the side and you see him, finally, out of the laundry room, with some sweat beading on his forehead and he's padding towards you, holding out your white blouse to you by its hanger.

He's still frowning when he stops before you at the dining table and you can feel his deject before he even says his next words:

"It's a stubborn crease, 'n I coulda done better. But I don't wanna burn through your shirt." He hands you your blouse and you immediately soften at it, fingers gently running over the said crease and you can tell he's done his best ー he did a great job, because if it were up to you, you would've chosen to give up halfway through.

"And sorry I ripped your skirt. I'll buy you a new one this weekend." He apologises through a mouthful of ramen and you reach a thumb up to wipe away some soup dripping down his chin.

Your eyes flicker to the said skirt sitting on the edge of his couch ー a black linen pencil skirt with a little slit running up your knee is now a big slit running up your hip, and the sight makes you want to laugh. You'd stripped it off and threw it there upon entering his house ー a little angry and upset that he'd ripped through your favourite skirt to wear for work out of eagerness to fuck you in the backseat of his car without getting you both home first, and he'd offered to iron your shirt for the next day out of guilt.

And now you're left in nothing but your undies, still not yet showered (you're waiting for him together), and you notice it's a little red on the tip of his ears. But your fury has died out long ago and seeing him like this ー somewhat embarrassed and you think he's kind of stupid for apologising because deep down you know he knows you don't mind at all, but he still says it anyway ー makes you want to grab him by his cheeks and place a fat smooch on his lips. But you don't, and you continue to watch as he swiftly finishes up the noodles before turning to wash the dishes.

"...Thank you, Rin." He doesn't see it but you're smiling when you say it to him ー shy, rosy lips a little pursed, the apple of your cheeks rose high, and he resists the urge to turn around and cup your cheeks with soapy hands.

"Whatever. 'N the noodles were disgusting. Remind me to never buy it again."

"Okay."

二 · in the office

The second time is when you catch him in the printer room the next morning.

He's photocopying documents by the printer, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and he has one hand manning the machine with the other supporting his body. His fingernails tap beats against the hard surface as he waits for the next batch of documents to finish printing.

Rindou doesn't notice your presence and you don't make yourself known either, choosing to watch him by the door as he makes quick work of counting and organising and stapling together freshly printed documents while making sure they're all in the correct order for the team meeting later ー and you think it's so bad of you to be ogling at his exposed arms with indecent thoughts of doing many things to him floating in your mind as his muscles flex under the light with his every move.

But you don't let your thoughts consume you, and he looks up at you ー now standing beside him with your arms tucked behind your body and a cheeky smile planted on your face.

Rindou focuses back on his work, obviously in a rush to complete everything, but he still acknowledges you nonetheless.

"You're up to something." He sighs while stacking together the stapled documents.

You feint a pout.

"...'M not." (He interpreted this as "I am.")

Rindou has never once told you this but he always thought that you had somewhat of a close resemblance to a cat. A very annoying Siamese cat that behaved like his previous one, constantly following him around and begging him for attention while also pretending like it isn't.

But it's nothing new. Rindou had come to a conclusion a while ago that you like to keep him guessing, and you particularly enjoy acting nonchalant when it's so obvious to him right now that you want something, anything that can keep you going for the day.

"What, you want a kiss or somethin'?"

"...Kinda,"

Bingo.

"But I want to use the machine more than I want a kiss."

He smirks, though he doesn't give it to you just yet, and you begin to count and prepare your own documents in silent when he doesn't reply. (You think he's ignoring you and it's awkward.)

But Rindou doesn't step away even when he's finished and you're confused. And unlike yourself, he doesn't have a knack for keeping you guessing. He speaks before you have the chance to ask.

"How many?" He grabs at your papers and lays them face-down on the machine before closing the shutter. His thumb hovers over the screen, eyes unwavering against your own as he waits for your reply.

"Um, ten copies." Your smile slowly widens when he finally presses 'print' and steps back for you to take over. He doesn't collect his documents to leave, however, and you raise your brows in confusion when he moves to close the door gently (and locking it, too) before shutting the blinds altogether.

"What're you doin'? Aren't you in a rush?" You question.

He shrugs and makes his way over to you.

"I've got time," he says it while trapping you against the machine with his two arms, lips quickly hovering against your own and you can smell a hint of the peppermint gum he likes to chew on from time to time.

"The machine's all yours," he licks at your bottom lip, "and now, for your kiss..."

I've always got time for you.

You think it's a great thing that the printer room doesn't have a CCTV.

三 · at the mall (shopping for your skirt)

Rindou has a good eye for things. You knew it the moment he'd picked out a pair of Daiso's reindeer-printed socks for you as your Secret Santa a few Christmases ago.

(You've always liked reindeers, but Rindou simply bought it for you because he didn't know what you liked.

You'd jumped in happiness the moment you opened your present and Rindou thought you were actually the prettiest girl alive.

You'd pounced on him in excitement, yelling out your gratefulness for everyone in the party to hear.

He'd decided that he wanted you then.)

So you're in Aeon browsing through skirts without him even though you came out here together. You don't know where he is, and you've given up on looking for him after phoning him a few times and wandering around like a lost child looking for its parent.

But you hear a cough behind you and you turn around, only to be greeted by the sight of a really pretty dress hanging from his finger.

You admire it from top to bottom ー a really nice coral pink dress with large hibiscuses printed all over with a little slit running up the thigh ー and Rindou moves it closer to you.

"Whatchu think of this?" He asks, nervous eyes a little dodgy against your mischievous ones, and you smile a little when taking the hook off his finger.

"I wanted a skirt, not a dress." You comment, obviously poking fun at him and Rindou immediately reddens like a tomato. "Forget it, then."

He reaches a hand out to snatch it from your own but you take a step back away, clutching the dress to your chest tight.

"Didn't say I don't want it, though." You jut your chin out and he snorts.

"I need to make a call," he fishes his card out from his wallet and hands it to you. You grip on the flat plastic tight, afraid of losing it while also in shock because why did he hand you his card? He's acting like you're both a married couple now.

"Text me when you're finished." And he shuffles away with his phone pressed to his ear.

四 · during the phone call with his brother

"Yo, Aniki." Rindou greets the moment his brother picks up the phone. After eight rings, what the hell is this idiot even doing?

"What?" The older man answers from the other line, phone tucked between the shoulder and his ear while he's rushing to prepare his daughter's dinner.

"You busy?" The younger boy asks. He shuffles his weight from heel to toe while standing in front of a wall full of different mugs and bowls at the home appliances department.

Pink is nice. She likes pink. Or should I get red? It's almost Valent-

"Uncle Rin-rin!" His niece's voice booms through the speaker, cutting Ran off and Rindou immediately smiles at it. "Hi, sweetie."

And Ran takes over the phone again. "What's up? Speak before I hang up. I'm a very busy man." Rindou resists the urge to snort at it ー he has a favour to ask, after all.

"How do you..." The younger pauses, oddly feeling a little too nervous to continue. Though it is his own brother on the other line that he knows although very annoying, he would still be there to help, Rindou finds it a little embarrassing to be asking him about this. He's never done this before, and he's not very big on asking his brother for favours too, and Ran is surprised at the sudden question shot that's been left hanging.

He looks up at the ceiling and sighs. He knows Ran will never let this go if he asks, but he decides to screw his ego because in the end, it is for you.

"How do you, um," he taps his foot on the ground.

...Fuck it.

"How do you chase a girl? Or something like that. Whatever it is."

"...Chase a girl? What girl- Oh. The one you've been sleeping with."

"What the fuck? Not in front of my niece, dude."

"Relax, I put her down a while ago."

"You're fucking annoying, you know that?"

Ran only laughs boisterously at Rindou's annoyance, but he doesn't leave his brother hanging.

He's always here for him, no matter what.

"So what're you thinking? Any options?" Ran asks. Rindou grabs at a white mug with pink flowers painted on it before replying. "Mugs."

"Mugs? Like for drinking, mugs? You're not serious, Rindou? You're buying mugs to chase a girl, are you insane?"

The younger clicks his tongue and puts the porcelain back on the shelf albeit a little harshly. "Why else do you think I'm asking you, asshole? Just tell me what to buy. I really don't know."

"I can't tell you what to buy for a girl you're chasing, dude. And I don't even know what she likes. What does she like? You tell me."

He ponders for a moment. "Dresses. Pink stuff." His mind travels back to the night you first met, at work, as clerks, when you'd included your hobbies into your introduction and one of it was gardening. "And like, flowers."

"Then just get her flowers, you already have your answer." Ran deadpans from the other line, but Rindou only hisses. "Yeah, but I already got her a pink dress with flowers printed on it. What else?"

"I'm talking about actual flowers. You can get them anywhere, and most importantly, never fails to make a pretty girl smile. She already likes flowers anyway."

"...'Kay, thanks. You're useful for once."

"Fuck off." Ran clicks his tongue. "...And red tulips, if I may suggest. And remember, tell me how it goes-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

五 · aftercare with you

Remember when I said that Rindou wanted you the moment you'd hugged him in excitement after seeing some lame reindeer-printed socks wrapped up nicely in a little box tied with a pink ribbon on top?

Yeah. He'd wanted you since then. But instead of starting off as friends from colleagues before getting to know you better and then asking you out on a date when he feels the time is right ー like a normal, sane person ー the both of you had gotten into a mutual agreement of becoming friends with benefits.

You don't remember exactly when it started, how it started, who initiated it, and neither does he, but you don't really care. Not when he's busy rubbing soft circles on the bruise forming on your hips for some comfort while he pecks you again and again on your forehead as you slowly fall asleep beneath him. He'd lost focus for a bit and gripped you a little harsher than he should've, but you really don't mind, yet he still feels bad.

And Rindou thinks you're prettiest like this ー neck and chest painted in hickeys that he'd sucked (out of adoration), eyelids droopy with your bags a little red from the tears of bliss you'd shed, and the back of yours fingers are gently caressing his left cheek. Your room smells of sex and lemongrass and a quiet 'sleepy?' is all he asks when your eyes finally close.

You hum out a lazy response of 'yes' before moving the same hand down to rest it on his nape, playing with the ends of his mullet a little, and you push him down to rest on your chest.

It's heartwarming. It feels intimate. And despite your abnormal relationship title with the man, you don't reject the sudden swell of your heart and neither does he.

So he presses a soft kiss to the top of your left boob ー right where your beating heart resides ー and you hug your legs a little tighter around his waist. It's nothing sexual and you both know it. It was all just to bring him closer to you, for you to feel more of his warmth in the coldness of your bedroom paired with the chill of February.

"Sleep then." He assures, voice gentle and lulling, and you smile a little at it.

Rindou is always softer at times like this, you realise ー when he'd fucked the life out of you after a particularly long day, when he'd made you moaned out melodies that he swore belonged to heaven, when he'd spent hours between your legs lapping up everything you have to give him.

Though you don't let yourself go at his words, and he watches amusedly as you try your hardest to fight back dear sleep in his arms. You don't think you're ready to sleep yet. Something feels out of place, oddly, even though you're sure you have completed everything that was in your checklist today.

Laundry, washing the dishes, prepping for Monday's meeting... You've done it all, and yet you still can't pinpoint what it is that is missing.

Until he moves up to silently place a warm kiss on your neck ー where your pulse beats against his lips ー and he realises his life hasn't really started until recently, until the day he'd met you and he thought you were such a breathtaking girl. Colours had burst into his world and your smile was the first thing that had lightened up.

And while you're happily drowning in his attention, Rindou silently wonders if the two of you were perhaps lovers in your past lives.

He wonders if you'd be willing to catch him. To be there, holding your arms out and yelling to him that you're here and to not worry; for him to just fall into your arms and he'd be safe ー you'll catch him.

Because he is falling. Hard. And he doesn't know how to tell you about it. He hopes that for the past few days his gestures were enough to tell you a portion of his love...

Just a portion, though. Because he wants to tell you the rest when he finally gets to call you his. Under the moonlight, at dinner with his brother and his family, before his parents at their graves every anniversary, or in front of your dog that's pawing at your door asking to be finally let in... Whatever it is, he wants to show the world that he loves you.

So when you smile sweetly up at him as he grows hard against your thigh ー a silly little love boner that you must've thought was just him getting horny to you massaging his sore backー Rindou's become a little more certain that the two of you must've met one way or another in the previous lifetimes and have fallen in love with each other when you gently trail a finger down his abdomen, before finally wrapping a hand around him.

Rindou wonders what it'd feel like to be yours in this lifetime.

And he gives in to your touches. He buries his head into the crook of your neck and lets you play with him as you please.

He thinks it's kind of cute that even as friends with benefits, you've already engraved a piece of yourself onto him.

Like the extra sets of pencil skirts and blouses that you leave hanging in his wardrobe in case of last minute plans that he swears are a hassle to iron because he can never get the creases right. But he never complains, and he would always offer to iron your clothes each time you stay over at his house. Or even when you don't. Because he would always find your stuff sitting in the basket when he's doing his laundry. And he'd have to iron them neat for you, before hanging it up in his wardrobe for you to wear the next time you stay the night.

Or like your toothbrushes hanging next to each other on the wall in his bathroom ー pink and purple facing each other by their bristles because you'd insisted out of the blue on a random Monday morning, at the start of your "relationship", with foamy toothpaste in your mouth and your hair poking out in every different direction it can go.

And sometimes your shoes bring him joy too, whenever he would get up to check on the door while you're falling asleep in his bed and he'd spot how your black pumps are always somehow scattered messily next to his own neat dress shoes by the entrance, and he'd have to squat down and rearrange them nicely.

He looks back up at you with ragged breaths and a coil in his abdomen that's threatening to break anytime soon. You're still giving him the same smile that drives him nuts every single time, and he leans in closer to give you a little kiss on the lips that you very much love.

And Rindou comes to a sudden realisation that he wants to tell you he loves you now. He needs you to know that he's all yours. You're his sweetheart.

So he does what he thinks is right ー what he feels is right. He reaches over your body, towards the marble vase on your nightstand that your mother had gifted you as a housewarming present, and he picks a fresh flower out of it after careful consideration. You don't move from your spot, only trying to kiss whatever skin of his that your lips can reach from your position ー his shoulder, his bicep, his arm, his neck... And a familiar smaller-sized tulip appears before your eyes. You raise your brows a little at it.

"Pretty fuckin' girl," is all he murmurs before pushing himself into you.

"I'm all yours." He whispers.

A peaceful winter night and Rindou fucks you again in missionary with so much love bubbling in his chest and a red tulip tucked behind your ear.

终 · during breakfast together

"Do you want eggs?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

You kick your feet and watch from the bar as he cooks you both breakfast in your kitchen. You're covered in one of his shirts that he'd left sitting on the back of your chair, your tired eyes scans over his half-tattooed back covered in scratch marks, and you feel oddly proud to be the one to have done all that.

But you know it is not right. And you're not stupid ー you're aware of the things he's been doing these days, and if you were a forgetful fool you would've missed the rule you made with him at the start of your intimacy.

Never catch feelings for each other.

...But you were no forgetful fool, and the ache in your heart is too painful for you to ignore. You'd seen the way he looked at you last night ー the way he'd fucked you like you were the finest thing personally handcrafted by the hands of God. And because you treasure your friendship, you know you shouldn't be doing this to him. You think he's a good person, and you want to remain friends with him.

But you don't want to let him go.

"Hey, Rindou." You call out. He's in the midst of scrambling your eggs with butter when you do so. "Yeah?"

"Rindou," he hums again.

Ever so patient, but I have to break your heart.

"...We should end things, Rindou-kun."

Saturday morning and it feels as though his world is falling apart from your simple sentence. Like you've ripped apart his beating heart that pounds solely for you and threw it on the ground.

You are so cruel.

So much for all that last night, he thinks. So he turns around after hurriedly switching off the gas. The wooden spatula covered in eggs is still in his hands when he faces you in agony and you want to break down and cry.

You feel like a villain. The evilest villain of them all.

"Why? Was I too rough on you last night? I- Or were we too open about it? Tell me." He's worried. He's so worried that it almost makes you want to crumble into pieces.

Purples flicker between your own and your lips wobble. You grip the hem of his shirt tight in your hands and look down.

"Please, tell me." He pushes again, so you decide to tell him truthfully.

Be a big girl, don't cry. You've survived 25 years of life, cutting things off with your FWB should be easy.

"...I've caught feelings."

Except it's not.

A lone tear makes its way down your cheek and you wipe it away quick. "Sorry, I broke the rule. I caught feelings and I- I don't think it's right for us to continue this any further." Your voice cracks with every word you speak and it makes you want to cry even further, because he's not saying anything.

And despite the strong stance you've presented to him, Rindou knows you're putting on an act for him. So he puts down the spatula and shuffles to you. He stops before you and tilts your chin up with his finger.

You'd half-expected him to be upset about this as much as you are, because you know the feeling's mutual, but you respect the rule of your relationship more and you don't think it's right to continue on.

Except he isn't, and he's so fucking smug about it.

Rindou's got a huge grin on his face when you look up at him. Hair a little messy, a hickey on his jaw, and you're sobbing into his arms now.

"You like me." He states.

You kick him a little and continue to cry.

"You like me, huh?" He repeats again.

Rindou has an arm wrapped securely around your waist with the other hand smoothing the back of your head as he shushes you gently, rocking you both side to side and you hit him a little on the chest.

"Do you think this is funny? It's not funny. I'm being serious." So you try pushing him away in hiccups but he only laughs as you struggle against his strength.

"Why do you wanna end things?"

"As I've said, I broke the rule. It's not right anymore."

He snorts at your reasoning. "You know, rules are always meant to be broken."

"So you don't respect me enough to follow my rule?" You're trying to pick a fight but he doesn't quite buy into it, choosing to kiss your forehead instead as you continue to wiggle your way out of his hold.

"I've never been one to follow the rules anyway." Rindou mutters against your hair as he presses another kiss to your crown. You're too endearing to let go, he thinks, and he holds you anymore tighter to himself at that.

"And who said if it's right or wrong? Screw rights and wrongs. We both like each other, the feeling's mutual. There's no point in letting each other go." He wipes your tears away with his palm and cups your cheeks with them. "I know you don't wanna let me go."

You swat his chest again at that and he only laughs harder at your reaction. He thinks you're the most precious thing in life. In his life. In the universe. You're the most precious thing ever.

"I like you a whole lot, you know." Smooch. "More than you'll ever know." Another smooch. "Let me be yours."

You pout as you look into his eyes. Purple orbs sucking you in deep and you have no choice but to fall. Purple orbs that tells you these arms will catch you if you do. And another kiss to your soul that tells you everything you need to know.

"Okay."

You'll catch each other.

"I love you."

You're already catching each other.

😅😅😅😅😅 been mia for so long bc i've been working on this. Its been in my drafts for soooo long LOL and this was supposed to be a valentines day special but i didnt make it in time cus i was bz sleeping.. but i hope you guys like this a lot ^^ listen to the playlist if u have time! And i tried a new layout too i hope it looks nice.

Reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for reading <3

© HAI7ANI ON TUMBLR / DO NOT STEAL

[smuttyaf]

The Business

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰; 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

wc: 4.9k

i made harry v manipulative, ik i need help, i’ll see my therapist this week

“Don’t worry it ain’t mine.”

He makes his way across the room dumping the pile of red and green bills into the sink, his forehead glistens with sweat sweeping over his face, curls sticking along his temples as blood stains cover the white button up.

“Oh my god,” You gasp, fingers dropping the Vogue magazine nearly tripping over your feet rushing towards him. You lean over the island with mouth agape looking at him switch on the facet and begin washing his hands, droplets of blood running down the sink.

“Harry, what happened?” He’s tugging off his ruined blazer, hands going to roll up his sleeves while looking at the money.

“It was fucking unbelievable baby, lemme tell you,” He fumes, pushing away from the sink to cross the room towards the bar.

Harry is ranting about what he’s covered in, hands grabbing the bottle of dark whiskey to pour a glass. The clashing of the cups have your gaze turning away and towards him. The navy tie you wrapped around his neck this morning is drench as he swallows the liquor, his hands shaking with adrenaline, pupils dilated, and breath drawing out heavy; the only thing you can do is rub his shoulders looking up at him with concern eyes.

“Look at this shirt! Look at it, it’s fuckin— ruined!” He takes a swing of his drink. “It happened so fast… Shelly took us to the money… and I’ll tell you something, Mickey he knows his shit, he does!” You back away from his raging tone, fingers wrapping together in front of you listening intently.

“So Shelly takes us to the money, right, it’s in this safe and we have him on his knees when he opens it,” He pauses drinking the rest of his whisky in one go before pouring himself another glass. “I’m looking at this guy thinking to myself holy fuck! How the fuck was he able to do this, steal two million right from under our nose when bang.” He slams the bottle of whisky down hard on the counter beginning to faintly laugh at what happens.

“Johnny caps him, he caps Shelly!” He’s shouting, body turning and stepping towards you with free hand making drastic gestures. “Blood goes flying everywhere! All over me! All over the money! I have no idea if this is even all of it.” Harry swallows back the alcohol while your watching him with heavy eyes crossing your arms over your chest, you can’t help but think to yourself how when even upset with neck going red and thundering voice, Harry still looks so handsome.

“And right then, I go through the roof and punch the dumb son’ of a bitch! I punch him Y/N, right in his dumb fucking face, I didn’t give a shit whose son he was! I just wanted to hit him again, smack some sense into the idiot,” Your eyes immediately look at his bruise knuckles covered in dried blood.

“I mean look at the shit that I gotta fucking deal with now!” He continues, walking off with drink in one hand and other pointing angrily at the money in the sink.

“What are you going to do with it?” You ask turning around, your heels click against the floor boards as Harry begins going through the cabinets.

“I told them to run it through the cycle ya’ know but no! Mickey calls up the old man and he has no other plans so he wants to pick up the money tomorrow night!” Your heart picks up with eyes going wide, Lorenzo coming over tomorrow! You follow over to Harry crouched under the sink. “Where’s the laundry detergent?”

“It’s in the linen cabinet.” You say, eyes floating back to the pile. The sound of him walking off to retrieve it sounds in your ears while you never take your gaze off what sits in front of you.

Two million, all in hundreds, just there. It was alarming that this is where you found yourself six months into your relationship with Harry. You knew from your friends at the gentlemen’s club that he was part of a certain ‘business’ but, once you saw him actually taking the relationship serious and begun confiding, you found out that he had serious connections, and it was clear then what your options were; stay at Jaspers or be a good little doll and spend the rest of your time by his side.

You’ve experienced crazy shit in the last six months together, but nothing like this. The rest of your night was spent cleaning money; soaking it in laundry detergent, hanging them as if they were on a clothing line, Harry would then press them out with an iron before running it through the money counter. That’s all you heard that afternoon, the sound of money. Eventually, six months turns into four years and what you experienced that night didn’t even shake what you’ve seen for the remainder of your relationship. It use to be easy; being able to block out the blood, the screaming, the fighting; you remember not even flinching when waiting in Harry’s Rolls at the shed of light from the assassination outside the car. It weighs on your mind heavy that you’ve grown accustomed to the violence that you’ve begun questioning when you lost your humanity?

You remember feeling scared to shoot a gun when he took you to the range, and now you didn’t even budge. So many things became so normalized to you that in the last four months you were having a realization about the life you once lived and how you became so desensitized. You remember when all you would do is relax: go to the spa, get facials, go shopping, weekly manicures and pedicures appointments until now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to have a night out with your girlfriends since you’re always by Harry’s side.

“Please! I’m sorry! Please!”

Lenny is screaming as the sound of his face smashing against the toilet thunders from inside the bathroom. Your heart is hammering in your chest, teeth biting down on the cherry stain flesh as you feel tears begin to swell your eyes.

“You want to fuck with him right, so now ya’ have to deal with us!” Johnny shouts over him with the sound of gargling being heard next. You immediately press the blend option on the margarita machine to drown out the screaming being heard through the door.

Moments like this make you wish you kept your little condo, how you would have used it for instances like this where Harry would bring someone over to interrogate. You loved the large windows and open living room, it was the perfect size for you. Remember having sleepovers with your friends or lounging in on a Sunday afternoon just in your oversized t-shirt and underwear. You missed your old life, the one that wasn’t filled with bloodshed.

The smell of Baccarat Rouge fills your nose with the feel of warm hands gathering your hair onto one shoulder before they’re trailing down your hips, lips pressing against the skin of your neck when he wraps himself around you. Sucking in a shaky breath, your fingers release the button causing the crushed ice to halt its movements.

“Harry, I’m leaving.” You state, eyes looking at the light green mixture as your fingers fall to the marble counter. You turn around in his hold with tears brimming your eyes, Harry looks at you with a frown on his face, the hands on your waist pull you deeper into him.

“What… why?” He questions, a smile soon shines. “I didn’t use the good towel.”

You roll your eyes pushing him away as you lace your arms together looking up at him upset. “I’m serious Harry. I can’t take this anymore,” You rush, brushing past him with beating heart as you begin making your way towards the stairs. The last couple of months you would tell him that this was becoming too much to bare; screaming men, blood stain clothes and white powder being the only thing you’ve seen for the last four years, you’re tired of it.

That makes him rush to grasp your hands in both of his, pulling you back into him with the sound of muffle crying ringing throughout the space causing you to break. Lonesome tears trail down your cheeks when he tugs you back into his chest, your swallowing quick breaths looking at the white door and the activities going on behind it.

“Why? Ah’ you see,” His hand tearing away from yours and going to wipe your tears. Just like always, the simple gesture has you remembering why you fell in love with him in the first place, not what’s partaking in the background. “Baby that’s what I love about you, you’re so sensitive.” Harry spreads his fingers along your heated cheeks to reach and cup your jaw in his hand. He’s holding you there just like when he rocks into your throat beautifully, he knows what he’s doing, knows that the thoughts that are flowing in his mind is also flowing in yours.

“But I like you here…” He says, stepping in with his lips brushing against yours. “I want you to stay.” His lips sink to touch, your eyes slipping shut as the delicious taste of him seeps in your mouth. The hands once tangled with his run against the material of his chest. Honey bourbon gracing itself on your tongue as he twists himself around you, only making you hum pleasantly before pulling away from him.

“You know… this is hard on me too,” He mutters stepping forward to rock you back and fourth, running kisses down the curve your neck as his hands leave their place and grip your backside. Harry knew what to do just to have you right where he wants, have you drunk off just the small taste of him.

“I’ll tell Johnny to shut him up okay? Is that okay baby?” He whispers in your ear. You swallow hesitantly while nodding your head. Harry reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet he takes out his credit card and waves it in front of your face, small smile on his lips while you have a straight one. “Even better get out of the house and go shopping.” He doesn’t even wait for you to react, he shoves it in your palm before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Pulling away from you his body turns to open the drawers few rows down, he’s grabbing a pair of clippers that make you look away from the metal and back to the melting ice. His footsteps echo against the wooden flooring as he opens the door to the bathroom, the cries are much louder with the shuffle of moving feet.

“Shut this guy up would ya’ Johnny.”

This was the routine lately, say you’re leaving and him winning you back with sweet words and his touch. Telling you to go shopping or on vacation if it was weighing down on your mind that much, this was how it always was now. Chauffeur, champagne, and spending your time in Saint Laurent just thinking about how you got here. If this dream life of being apart of the mafia was what you expected or what your friends gushed about.

You spent your whole evening stepping into each store and buying whatever looks good on you without checking the tag. It’s funny that was what you did now, you use to penny pinch and save your last by the time it was payday till you reached Jaspers. Now, you only shop at name brand stores and dine at restaurants you never thought you would be seated in. The reality of your dreams came true but to what expense? You didn’t have anyone to do it with but Harry. Friends beginning to feel scared around you, security becoming suspicious among normal civilians which leads you to the point where you’re here right now, drinking champagne by yourself in Vivienne Westwood.

By the time you made it home Harry was sitting on the couch, slouched over on his knees with the highlights of the baseball game this afternoon playing. His head snaps towards the elevator, smile on his face as you step through, the chauffeur politely placing your bags on the table next to the entrance before smiling to leave.

“Did you buy the whole store?” He chirps, lips widening as you make your way towards the sofa and place the rest of your shopping on the coffee table. You fit yourself next to him, your arm lying against the cushion while your elbow props up your head.

Harry turns towards you his eyes roaming amongst your face till they fall on the long sleeve black dress you ventured out in, his stare drinking you in as he looks at your lips longingly. You let him admire you through, remembering when he first saw you at Jaspers and he would look at you like this, trying to control himself from pining you down and having his way. As he cherishes your beauty you can’t help but do the same. His hair dishevelled with gel as loose curls fall across his forehead, there are buttons undone exposing his chest tattoos with his flesh red and cheeks glowing from the alcohol in his system, even in this state he looks so dazzling. Licking your bottom lip it breaks his trance, he reaches over and lights a cigarette as he leans back into the couch.

“I wish you would stop smoking those,” You say, hand going to the curls by his neck.

“I wish you would stop telling me you’re leaving.” Turning to look at you with liquor on his breath and eyes glossy, he draws in his cigarette. Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you break the gaze and let them lead to the white and orange bags in front of you, fingers dropping from his neck you card them through your hair and shake your head.

“I don’t know when I became so use to it H. I —I feel like I’m not me anymore?” You confide, tone small while he nods his head, still looking at you when he’s inhaling as his free hand begins running up your thigh.

“I understand baby, you know I understand.” He coos, the smell of whiskey fills your nose as he moves in deeper. His addicting aura swaying you with the way his presence is so magnetic; he wasn’t even touching you intimately, yet already you were under his control.

“It’s hard sometimes but that’s why I do this job, right… and that’s why you,” He’s tearing the hand away from his lips and letting his thumb run against your cheek, your eyes move away from the bags and lock with his green ones. “You sit and look pretty, yeah?” He says nodding his head. You push your lips together, gaze dropping to the cross hanging on his chest.

“Is that all I am to you now?” You question. “Just a pretty face?”

His thumb doesn’t stop its movements and his gaze doesn’t wavier when he shakes his head either. He was so intimidating with his tactile actions and slow movements. It didn’t help that he was handsome too, because even when you’re questioning your place in Harry’s life your panties are dripping with the way he’s looking at you.

“You already know that but, you also know that I love you for reasons more than your beauty.” Voice deep and dripping in honey as he searches your eyes; like when he had you to himself for the first time, staring at you as if he could see right through, as if he knew every thought brewing. He’s taking the cigarette back between his lips to suck on the batch before throwing it into the ashtray.

“I know I haven’t been around here lately, know I’ve been out dealing with everything but I need you here, keep my bed nice and warm, right?” Nodding your head, you lean off your arm and take Harry’s hands into yours. Feeling over every prominent vein and bone, running the pads of your fingertips over his knuckles as his lips press into the side of your neck, cologne and smoke immediately overwhelming you.

“You love me?” You ask, his fingers intertwining with yours as he begins trailing his kisses to your cheeks.

“I love you like the moon loves the stars.” He breathes against your skin, his words sloppy and low that it has you moaning softly.

His lips slip onto yours, tongue delving into your mouth and wasting no time to lick into every part. Salvia dripping from his tongue and into every crevice as his hand spreads over your thighs, shoving your body deeper into the couch as he drinks you in. Muscles moving against each other, breathless whimpers escaping the space, your fingers trail to his broad shoulders as he presses against you.

You know he’s drunk, that’s all you taste on his tongue aside from the cigarette. He was rocking his hips into your heat steadily as your almond nails run up the hairs of his neck, your lips tearing away when you look at him. Olive pupils with bruise lips, the smell of him was everywhere, you couldn’t leave him even if you tried he was so addicting like the nicotine in the air.

“Hm, you’re gonna stay here with me,” Harry says, leaning back on his knees to unbutton the rest of his long sleeve as you open your legs up in front of him. “Keep the fire nice and warm.” He hush, his fingers sliding to your thighs and slipping under the material to feel against your skin.

You suck in a breath, watching him slowly as he hovers over you between your legs, one hand rubbing you over the lace of your panties and the other rubbing the skin of your neck. You love when he submits his dominance over you, how he’s staring at you daringly and never breaking eye contact as he touches the most pleasurable part.

“Harry,” You breathe, eyes fluttering when he slips his finger under the lace and begins to run the the pads of his fingers in heavy circles.

He hums at the expression crossing your face, watching the way your chest heaves up and down and hips twitch for sped up movements. Tongue escaping his mouth and running over his bottom lip, your eyes catch on the thickness bulging against his zipper. Your hand immediately going out and feeling over him. He was hard like when you danced for him the first time, your hips swivelling against his in slow movements as you rode him through his clothes. You felt how desperate he was begging to be freed and find himself buried in your walls, however that night he didn’t get access to what he has now. Only making the groan in his throat more drawn out as the pressure on your neck increases.

“Be my good girl, yeah?” He breathes, hips rocking in your moving palm as he slips his finger into you. Moans trail out as your gaze turns away from the black trousers and to pearly white teeth tucking his bottom lip away.

Nodding your head lightly you let your hands begin to undo the buckle of his belt, pulling down the metal zipper and retrieving the thickness that you want buried between your legs. Mouth watering at the sight, your tongue slithers out of your mouth to run against the skin of his head. Lapping around the girth till your running down the length, tastebuds coating him in spit as he stands angry and red before you.

You’re so caught up in the beauty of Harry, that the pleasure he sends your way is one of shock, his finger leaving your folds to skim against your clit to delve back in you again. Motions starting slow to soon pick up in pace as the palm of his hand rubs against your bundle of nerves, his middle finger sending arousal down your thighs. Moans of pleasure leave your lips when you look at him, one hand jerking off his cock while the other plays with the globes between his legs, you let your lips envelope him; plump and glossy expanding over every vein along his shaft.

He continues to let his finger slip in you so teasingly as you moan around him, gaze caught between his happy trail and into his green eyes, how they are focus on your lips wrapped around him that leave lipstick streaks in their wake. You’re tipsy off just the feel of him, his hand holding your neck as he rocks into your mouth happily, groans leaving him as he fits himself nicely in your throat.

Another digit joins his movements, walls dripping in your juices as they welcome the extra fit. A long muffle cry escapes you as he spreads your walls blissfully, your mouth stretching with each thrust of Harry sinking down while he has you completely spread open in the living room. His fingers curling deeply in your pussy as your chest heaves with every breath before he’s sliding back down your throat.

Skin begins to glisten with sweat, hands going sticky with spit as you stoke him, eyes fighting to look up at him and the tattoos peaking from his button up. You let your hips swivel against his palm, rubbing your clit deeper into his touch as he slides in, it causes your mouth to slip Harry’s cock out with a pleasurable moan with the way he’s driving his fingers into your heat.

He’s been watching you wither underneath him since he had you in this position, looking at you come undone with only two fingers. He loves the expression on your face; brows pinch together as your small hands glide up his shaft, pink roaming amongst your cheeks to your breast begging to be freed from their confines. Harry lets you get off in his hands, he likes the way you rub yourself in his palm, he likes the way your arousal is coating him, he likes how you’re so needy for him.

Mouth electing another moan at the feeling of him sinking deeper he catches your gaze, Harry gliding his thumb over your bottom lip, their smudge red from you running them all over his member as your fingers lazily stroke him, he’s following your motions with your hips only causing your head to lean back with pleasure.

“Fuck Harry,” You cry, hips runting deeper into him when he leans down letting his lips connect with yours. The delicious taste of him spreading over you as he licks his way into your mouth feels like heaven. Adrenaline courses through your body as you twirl your tongues against each other completely lost in the way he’s making you feel and running through your veins. He smells so good, taste so exquisite, why did you ever think you could just leave. The way he makes you feel is why you stay through all the fucked up things so, why even put up a fuss when you knew where you would be once the sunsets.

“Come here love,” Harry says, pulling his embrace away from you and making you stand up. You pull your dress over your head, letting your fingers teasingly remove your undergarments as you know Harry is watching as he tugs at himself.

He lets you lie with your back against his chest, head on his arm as he takes himself into his hands and begins to run his dick over your folds. Pleasant sigh leaving when you’re lifting your thigh up to angle with Harry’s hips just in the right moment to were he slips into your pussy. The thickness of him stretching you out has you moaning loudly with your head falling deeper into his touch.

Harry sinking into you for the first time will always surprise you, the way he fills you up so thick and heavy, drawing down your walls lazily till he reaches your cervix before sliding out and pushing back in. He was always so gentle before he felt you loosen up around him, feeling the way you drip down his length and quiver with each draw of his hips.

There was a mixture of moans, whimpers, cries and groans shared between you both and floating around the heated atmosphere. His free hand holding your thigh up as he picks up his paste graciously. He’s lunging into you, chest clinging to his button up that is soaked with sweat as he leans in and presses kisses into your damp skin. The hairs by the end of your neck cling to you as your body moves with every thrust.

“Who’s gonna make you feel like this?” Harry taunts, his cock driving down your walls angrily as he fucks you. You can’t help the whimper that travels out from his words with the way he’s burying you into the couch.

“Huh? Who’s gonna fuck you like this if you leave?” Voice in your ear so deep and sexy that it makes you take your hand away from the grey leather and run them through his curls, head turning as your mouth hangs slightly open as your body rakes with complete ecstasy.

“Mhm… look at your pretty face,” Harry says, dropping your thigh and wrapping his hand around your throat, only making you sigh out in pleasure as you feel rushed kisses and the sound his hips meeting your backside overcoming the interviewers on tv.

“No one can fuck you like this, right?” He’s huffing in your ear, grip tightening around your throat as your eyes flutter open, the burning sensation of your clit throbbing in pleasure tingling down your thighs. Shaking your head in between movements your fingers trail themselves out of his curls and to the hand on your neck, feeling over his touch as he pounds down your walls. His movements so deep and fast that you can’t even speak anymore, not even cry out in pleasure.

“That’s right, no one can fuck you like me, huh.” He continues, his teeth biting down softly on your cartilage as the vibrating feeling of your orgasm cashes down on you.

God, you hate that he was so proud with the way he can have you coming undone and knowing just how. The way he rams into your heat with such aggression that it has your eyes rolling back and nails digging into the skin of his hand, the grip he’s holding on your throat only making your motions escalate to your hips quivering away from Harry’s at the exploding feeling drumming in your core.

Chest heaves up and down as your lower half twitches against him, eyes fluttering up at the chandelier high in the ceiling to the oak spiral staircase, your mind in a complete haze as you shudder against Harry, his shaft still pumping away inside you as you try to collect yourself from the riveting feelings coursing through you.

“Look so sexy all over me,” He husks, your creaminess sliding down his cock as he releases the hold on your throat. His hand slips to your stomach burning in arousal as holds you there, his hips not letting up as he continues to fuck you into the sofa.

“Oh god Harry please,” You cry, eyes opening and following his movements as you let your hands trace over his and backside meet his movements. “Come in my pussy, please.” You whimper, his teeth tearing away from your ear and lips sticking to your temple as he hums to your words.

“That’s right baby. Only I can come in your pussy cause you’re all mine, right?” He utters, fingers dragging over the skin of your stomach as you nod your head softly.

“Yes all yours.” You sigh, teeth biting down on your lip as the feeling of him stretching you out has you lightheaded.

“Fuck you look so good like this,” Harry breathes into your warm skin, his hand wiping the strands of hair off your lips. He looks at the way your throat bobs with each lazy swallow, listens to the tiny whine you make when his balls press right against your folds, feels the way he slides into you effortlessly from the juices flowing out that he can’t help the long groan that escapes him when he feels his seed spill into your walls.

Your arousal mixing with his runs down your sweaty thighs while heavy breaths escape you, your version lies tirelessly on the packages in front of you while Harry’s hand goes to play with the hairs framing your face when you move around in his hold.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, the television playing as he tangles his fingers through your locks and lets the other drape down the expanse of your stomach. The sound of his heart slows as does yours in the space between you both. Lungs finding balance with feet tangling together, the sound of Harry sighing behind you makes you turn your attention to him.

“I know you want to leave but just stay. Just for a little longer.”