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[anniesworld69]

LITERALLY! what is with the game joel erasure? i thought when the show would come out there would be a lot more game joel fics but 😧😧😧 he’s nowhere to be found

why is every single fic show joel 😭😭😭 begging more authors to write game joel i need that man so bad, gimme my hazel-eyed full bearded pookie 😭

[anniesworld69]

howled.

naked in manhattan

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader / implied art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you’re just hours away from a flight that will change your career forever—one that will take you to london, england, for the 2012 olympics, a milestone you never thought you’d reach. thrilled yet trembling with nerves, you find yourself at the hotel bar, celebrating alone. it does not help when you run into art donaldson and… his wife?

—or: you and tashi rekindle an old flame

word count: 6.9k

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, semi-public sex (a gym at the middle of the night so idk if that counts), mid-challengers movie (a year after the atlanta scene with tashi and patrick), angst with no comfort, fingering, homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, no use of y/n, old situationship best described in terms of “casual” by chappell roan (iykyk), art is lowkey a shit starter

author’s note: so i finished this a while back and added it to my queue and did not realize i put it for july instead of june so LOL MY BAD. this is kinda like a prequel to “good luck, babe!” but you don't need to read that to get this. alsoooo thank you for all the love and feedback in “good luck, babe!” i’ve read every single message and tried to reply to all of them! you guys are so sweet and inspired me to write more! thank you thank you <3 i hope you enjoy this one!

Manhattan, New York City, 2012

"I hope you're planning on getting laid tonight."

Your drink is cold, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you swirl the straw absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the hotel bar casts a warm, golden glow over everything, making the polished wood of the bar counter gleam. Around you, the murmur of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses create a lively yet intimate ambiance. You glance at the TV mounted in the corner, where a muted sports channel displays highlights from a basketball game.

You try not to snort into your drink at the words of Patrick Zweig on the other end of the call. You push your phone closer to your ear, unable to bite back the grin spreading across your face.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"What?" Patrick's tone is mockingly innocent, full of playful mischief.

"I thought you called to say something a little more... I don't know, sincere? Heartwarming?"

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that you can practically feel through the phone. In the background, you hear the faint sounds of a city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a dog. The noise fades slightly as Patrick likely moves to a quieter spot, and you can almost picture him getting in his car in some other state—you think he's in Arizona.

"The only kind of warming I wanna hear about is cockwarming," he retorts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You make a face, "You're disgusting."

"I mean it," he insists, still laughing. "I'm actually so jealous of you right now. You qualified for the Olympics, for fuck's sake! How's your mom doing? Did she have a heart attack? Did she call you already? I hope she packed you some condoms. There's gonna be such a wide variety. Literally every country in the world."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick."

Your mother did call, her voice crackling with emotion over the phone just before Patrick rang you. She told you how proud she is of you, how she can't wait to watch you play and tell everyone she knows that her daughter is an Olympic tennis player. A gold medalist, maybe.

Her words echo in your mind, filling you with a warmth that battles the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the blend of fruity and bitter flavours, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts. You try not to spill it on your Ralph Lauren sweater, custom-made, just for the Olympics, with your name stitched on the arm.

Around you, the hotel bar is alive with the buzz of other athletes celebrating with their teams. The fellowship is appreciable as laughter and cheers fill the air. But for some single athletes, like yourself, it's a different story. You feel as if you're in high school all over again, too awkward to make friends, hoping someone braver than you will come by and say hello first.

"You better not be sitting at the bar alone, drinking that orange juice you like."

"A sangria isn't just juice, you dick," you retort, rolling your eyes.

"You're such a loser."

You do feel a little bit like a loser, sitting alone at the bar, but you know you shouldn't. You're hours away from your flight to London where you'll have the chance to play tennis in the Olympics. This is all you've ever wanted since you were a child, all you've been working for—sweat, blood, and tears. You can't even remember a time when you've dreamt of something other than this.

Tennis has always been your escape, your sanctuary. You remember those early days when you played with second-hand rackets and makeshift nets, the local court becoming your second home.

And then there was Patrick, your closest… friend(?) and fiercest rival. His encouragement, his competition, and his company kept you grounded and motivated. When the going got tough, the dream felt too distant, and all of it made you feel far too guilty as if you had stolen someone else's life, Patrick was there to reassure you that you deserved it just as much as the next. Without him, you likely would have walked away from the sport you love.

"I can't believe you made it to the Olympics before me," Patrick's voice pulls you back to the present, a mix of envy and pride lacing his words. You can almost see the playful smirk on his face, a familiar expression that often surfaced during your countless matches together.

"I wish you were here, Pat." Your voice softens, the longing evident. It was hard to track down Patrick Zweig, especially while he was constantly on the move, hopping from state to state, playing as many challengers as he could sign up for, each match a stepping stone toward his dream of winning the US Open. And you think he will. You've played against him enough times to know he's better than you at hitting a ball with a racket.

There were nights when you'd both crash in a shabby motel or back at your place after a gruelling day on the court, strategizing and critiquing each other's play styles (sometimes in more than just tennis). His tenacity was a beacon for you, pushing you to strive harder and to reach further.

His voice softens, becoming more earnest. "Yeah, me too. I'll try to get tickets for one of your games in London. If not, I'll catch up with your mom and watch it with her. Is your dad still in the picture?"

You roll your eyes, a reflex to his familiar teasing. "Oh, my god."

"I'm just asking," he chuckles. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, 'cause I've got a date tonight. But call me when you land."

"Oh, yeah, okay." You try not to let the disappointment seep into your voice, but it's hard. It's not like you and Patrick were together, at least not publicly, at least not in the sense that you couldn't see other people. But even as you tell yourself that, a knot tightens in your chest.

It feels a bit teenageish, you think, messing around with friends and acting like it means nothing just to avoid making things awkward. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were leaving something unsaid, something unacknowledged. Patrick was one of the few people in your life who kept you on your toes and made you feel good—truly good.

Now, the idea of him with someone else, going on dates while you chase your dreams, feels like a betrayal you can't quite articulate. But what right do you have to feel that way? You never made things official, never dared to cross that line.

You never bothered to search for love outside of tennis.

"Have fun on your date," you manage to say. It comes out more brittle than you'd hoped. "Talk to you later."

"Bye!" he says, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart. His voice is light and carefree, and why wouldn't it be?

You end the call and set your phone down on the bar with a bit more force than intended, the hollow thud echoing your frustration. The bartender glances your way and you try to flash him an honest smile before ordering another drink. The TV overhead flickers, switching from basketball highlights to a recap of the latest tennis matches. You watch the screen without really seeing it.

The bar is still lively, yet you feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. You can't help but feel like you're stuck in limbo—caught between your dreams and the reality of your personal life.

You take a deep breath and a long sip of the rest of your first drink, the cool liquid doing little to ease the heat of frustration building inside you. You tell yourself you should be happy, grateful even. But right now, all you can think about is Patrick, and how much easier it would be if he were here with you.

But he's not. And maybe he never will be.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe you will die alone, your tennis racket as your only companion.

"This seat taken?" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You turn, startled, "No-" you start, but then the blur of blonde hair comes to focus and you're stumbling over your words, "Art? What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh," he smiles, a shy faint red blush already growing on his pale skin. He sits beside you, almost hesitantly, "Just stopping by the city. I saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"Hi." You return his smile, albeit a bit warily.

It's been years since you last spoke to Art properly, though your paths have crossed a few times. You've seen him in magazines, TV, and brief passings usually at major tournaments—Wimbledon, the Australian Open, the US Open. Each time, there were shy smiles and waves from across the room, lingering eyes, and awkward conversations where mutual friends tried to reintroduce you as if you hadn't once known each other

Art looks different every time you see him. His hair, now a little shorter than you remember, still maintains that boyish shagginess. There's a darker tan on his skin, evidence of his time spent under the sun. Some days he has a brighter smile, other days, it's a smile that never reaches his eyes.

As he sits there, you can't help but think of how golden his hair used to look whenever he wore his old Stanford hat, the one he used to pull low over his eyes during your college days. The memory makes you aware that you're staring, maybe a little too long. But he's looking at you too, his blue eyes trailing from one end of your face to the other, as if trying to memorize it all, capturing a photograph of who you are now.

A warmth spreads through you under his gaze, and when he finally looks away, you turn too, tapping at your empty glass, pretending to seem interested in the way the ice has started to melt.

But your eyes betray you, slowly trailing back to him. You watch the way he sits, the way he calls over the bartender and orders himself a glass of water. You try not to notice the deep timbre his voice has gained over the years, and how it resonates in the noisy bar. He looks at you, then the empty seat on your other side, and finally scans the room anxiously, as if he's searching for someone or something.

"He's not here," you finally say, breaking the silence that has grown too heavy. "If that's what you're wondering."

He nods, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. "What city is he in now?"

"Vegas, I think."

He makes a face and rests his chin on his hand. "There's no challengers in Vegas this month."

"Then he's just visiting. I don't know." The truth is, you don't want to talk about Patrick right now. Especially not with Art. Not after the way they ended things. You watch Art shrug, and the bartender sets your drink in front of you. You take a grateful sip, savouring the blend of flavours. Art holds his glass carefully, and the two of you sit in strained silence for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background.

You can't help but ask, "What are you doing here? In Manhattan?"

"I have an interview tomorrow. For the New York Times," Art says, leaning back slightly. He seems a little surprised as if he expected you to sit there without acknowledging him for the whole night. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you. "They're doing a piece on my career, the highs, the lows... the beginning and stuff."

You study his face, trying to gauge his emotions. You know what it's like to be interviewed, to have a team of people making you look your best for photos and another team crafting answers to help you maintain your reputation. It’s exhausting and thrilling all at once. "Congrats, I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. If anything, I should be congratulating you. Olympics? That's huge..." He continues talking, his lips moving, but you’re barely registering the words. For the first time that night, he seems genuinely enthusiastic, a faint spark in his eyes as he talks about you, about London, gesturing with his hand in excitement.

That's when you notice it. The gold around his finger. It glimmers under the warm lights of the bar, catching your eye like a beacon. You can't stop staring at it even after he's done talking.

"Oh, yeah. It's great." The words feel hollow as they leave your mouth. You struggle to find the right response, not wanting to be rude. "You're married?"

His face falls, and he looks down at his hand resting on his lap. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We, uh..." He scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting up to meet yours briefly before looking away. He seems nervous, like he's bracing for your reaction, worried to tell you, as if you weren’t supposed to know at all. "We got married last year. We kept pushing the date for a while because we were... we were busy... and stuff just kept getting in the way."

"We...?"

"Tashi."

"Tashi," you echo, the name tasting foreign and bitter on your tongue. "You're married? You married each other?"

He nods, "Yeah, we've been engaged for a few years now. You haven't heard?"

You feel a lump form in your throat. "No, uh. My coach tries to keep me away from certain news... my mom suggested it. So I don't get uh, distracted."

This is exactly the kind of situation your team has been trying to avoid.

The reality of his words sinks in, and you feel a sharp pang of something—loss, regret, maybe even jealousy. The air around you feels thicker and harder to breathe. Each word he says feels like another brick being laid on your chest, pressing down, making it harder to stay composed.

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

You force a smile, but it's a fragile thing, threatening to shatter at any moment. "That's... that's great, Art. I'm happy for you. Really. How was... how was the wedding?" Your mind races with thoughts of broken promises and missed opportunities. You imagine Tashi in her wedding dress; you know she looked beautiful. The image stabs at you, and you wince.

"It was beautiful. Both our families came in, and we kept it traditional, in a church. It was..." He pauses, watching you before adding, "It was a small ceremony. Private. Just family."

His words twist the knife deeper. Tashi's family used to see you as such. "No, yeah, I get it. Wouldn't want any trouble at the wedding. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for the both of you." You turn to the bartender, desperate to keep your voice steady. "Hey, can I get another drink? Something stronger?"

Patrick was right; your stupid orange juice won't get you through the night.

Art watches you with concern, his brow furrowing. "How many of those have you had?"

You laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. "Not enough."

"Does your coach know you're drinking?"

"Does yours know you're talking to me?"

Art leans back, his posture stiffening. He turns to his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he takes another sip. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You watch as he processes your words, his expression shifting from defensiveness to something more pained. You instantly feel a pang of guilt, realizing you've struck a nerve.

You've heard all about Tashi's coaching with Art. Whispers in the locker rooms during tournaments, hushed conversations about how she's pushing him until he cracks. You never wanted to believe it, never wanted to think that Tashi, of all people, would be the one to break him down.

"She calls you Ace, you know."

You make a face at the name. A journalist had written an article about you a few years ago when you won your first US Open, nicknaming you Ace since your serves were almost impossible to hit. The nickname stuck, plastered across headlines, magazine covers, and merchandise. People even bet on you becoming the youngest tennis player with the most aces in history before the season ended. You were only off by a dozen.

"Does she?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected.

"You do have a killer serve."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Killer." The word feels bitter on your tongue. "Tashi used to hit those back at me like it was nothing."

Art nods, taking another sip of his drink before pausing to look at you. "Only 'cause she knows you."

"Knew," you correct him.

The silence stretches again, heavier this time. You're about to say something, anything to break it, when Art speaks again, his voice softer, more earnest.

"I miss you."

What. The. Fuck.

"I do," he insists, leaning forward, his eyes searching yours. "I miss hanging out with you. I miss playing with you. Watching your games live and not recorded on my TV."

"Art, c'mon." You feel the dread crawling up your throat, wishing you had left the bar sooner. Every word he says seems to pull you deeper into a past you've been trying to escape. Art has done nothing but throw you off your game all night.

"I miss you outside of tennis, too," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I miss our late-night walks, studying in the library. You remember those?"

"Of course I do."

"Tashi misses you, too," he says, and you can tell he's crossing a line, testing your patience. You can feel the corner of your mouth twitch, your eyes unable to meet his. "She tells me every night. She's always keeping up with your stats, watching all of your games, rewatching your old ones. She makes notes for you, how you could improve. She wants to coach you."

"Art, stop it," you finally snap, turning to face him. The night feels ruined, any semblance of peace shattered. Was this all some elaborate scheme against you? After all these years, is this how they repay you? Out of spite? Is that what it is, a way to get back at you because you somehow got it all, and Tashi's taking whatever she can scrape off from Art?

"I don't want her to coach me. And I highly doubt she wants to coach me either."

"I booked the hotel," he says suddenly, his voice softer, more sincere. "She doesn't know you're here. And I really think it will be good for you two to talk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, placing it carefully on the bar in front of you. "Here's our room number. I'll be out tonight with some friends, so the room is yours till late. Just, don't kill each other or break anything if you fight."

"I'm not going—"

"She really does miss you," he interrupts, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might understand, might relent.

You stare at the piece of paper, feeling its presence like a burning brand. Art stands up, hesitating for a moment as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it. "I mean it. Think about it," he murmurs before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space of your mind.

You watch him go, each step he takes pulling at the threads of your carefully constructed facade. As he nears the entrance, your eyes follow him instinctively, and that's when you see her. Tashi. She's standing there, with her bags looking around with a familiar intensity, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours.

You feel sick.

Meeting Art was a pleasant surprise; he makes your heart race and your cheeks burn. But Tashi makes your heart stop and your brain shut off.

She looks different—older, more mature, hair straight and cut to a mid-length but also a lighter colour—but still heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes you.

She opens her mouth as if to say something when Art stands next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but no words come out.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The weight of her gaze is too much. You're the first to look away. You stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. "Excuse me," you mutter to the bartender, slapping a couple of bucks on the counter. Your voice feels distant, and detached, as if it belongs to someone else.

You push through the crowd, your mind a chaotic whirl of emotions. You need air. You need space.

As you reach the elevator, you can feel Tashi's eyes still on you. But you keep moving, your footsteps quickening with each step. You need to focus on tennis. That's the only thing that's never let you down.

Tashi had once picked tennis over you, and now it was your turn to do the same.

You reach your room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you finally let out the breath you've been holding. The walls seem to close in on you, and you slide down to the floor.

You need to remember why you're here. For the game. For the dream. And that has to be enough.

Only one problem.

You can't sleep.

Hours later, you find yourself in the hotel gym, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness of the night. Your mind is racing, a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions you can't control. Desperate for an outlet, you hop on a treadmill and start running, hoping to exhaust yourself into some semblance of peace.

Anything is better than sitting in the hotel lobby, scouring the internet on the public computer for any proof of Art and Tashi's marriage while drinking wine straight from the bottle.

Art was right, it was a small wedding. There were almost no photos of it caught by the paparazzi, only articles upon articles talking about it, magazine covers and everything. God, how could you have missed this? How out of the loop were you?

There was only one photo posted, and it was from Tashi's Facebook and Instagram from less than a year ago; a picture of just her hand holding onto Art's, where you can see her wedding ring. There was no caption. But the photo had millions of likes.

You wonder if Patrick knew. He probably did. He stalks her account religiously and only recently started to tone it down. And then there's you, who had her blocked on everything since your last argument.

The music playing in your ears drowns out the world around you, a heavy beat pulsing as you hum along. Your eyes fixate on the rising numbers on the treadmill screen, sometimes glancing out the window at the city skyline, other times catching your silhouette in the glass reflection.

Sweat makes your clothes cling to you like a second skin, rolling down your spine in rivulets. You're still a little tipsy from your drinks, the taste lingering in your cheeks, but you think you're sober enough that a few more miles will drain it all out.

Art's words are burned into your mind. The wedding you were never invited to, how he suddenly wants to be friends again. You can see where he's coming from; tennis is lonely. You're lonely. You press the button to go faster, your legs burning as you push yourself harder, trying to escape the thoughts that chase you.

You don't hear the door click open, and it takes a few seconds for you to spot the reflection of someone walking behind you in the window's reflection, rolling out a pink yoga mat. But they don't step onto it, they don't move, and even worse, you catch their eye in the reflection.

Fuck.

It's Tashi Duncan.

Your heart lurches in your chest. You quickly look away, panic setting in. You turn your music up higher and make the treadmill run faster, the machine whirring louder in response. Your pulse races, not just from the exertion, but from the presence of the one person you can't bear to face right now.

In the corner of your eye, you see her approach you. When you hear her call out your name between songs, you pretend you can't hear her. You pretend to be captivated by the sight of the city at night, pretend that you're lost in the music as P!nk's voice blares into your ears, cursing out one of her old lovers.

You wonder how long you can keep the act up.

Tashi moves with a determination that you've always admired and feared. She walks around your treadmill, eyes locked onto you with a fierce intensity. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unplugs the machine from the wall, forcing it to power down abruptly.

Not long enough.

"What the fuck?" You huff, yanking out your earbuds. "What's your fucking problem?"

"You're my problem," she says, her voice steady, unyielding as she rolls her eyes.

"I haven't said a word to you."

"And that's my problem. I'm talking to you," Her gaze bores into yours, refusing to be ignored. You can see the resolve in her eyes, the same decisiveness that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court.

"I'm busy," you snap, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, both from the exertion and the emotional storm raging inside you. You feel trapped, cornered by the very person you’ve been trying to avoid.

You bite your tongue, stepping off the treadmill and walking around her when she steps in front of you. You make a straight line for your bag, watching her from the mirrors as she follows you closely.

"Can you listen?" It's more of a demand than an ask, "I just... Art told me what he did. He's a little shit, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. You have other shit to worry about."

You're taking long chugs from your water, staring at her without saying a word. Part of it is because you have nothing to say to her, and another is because you're afraid that if you speak, she'll see through you.

Tashi's eyes roam over you, lingering on your shorts and the way the wires from your earbuds snake from your iPod, under your tank, and peek out from under your sports bra. Her gaze is both appraising and filled with something unresolved between you. When you don't respond, she sighs. "You look great, by the way. On the court. You've changed your approach. You're vicious."

The compliment stings more than it soothes. You still don't say anything, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.

"...Or maybe you've always been. I haven't seen you in a long time. So a lot could've changed, I don't know."

You lower your bottle, swallowing the water. It feels cold as it runs down your throat, a stark contrast to the heat of your rising anger. You can't help the way your eyes drop to her hand when you pull your hair down from its ponytail. The sight of the ring on her finger feels like a punch to the gut.

She notices.

"We didn't want you to find out this way."

Your eyes snap up to hers. "And how was I supposed to find out?"

Tashi looks taken aback for a moment, her confident façade faltering. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I don't know. Maybe we should've told you. Should've invited you. But I thought... I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know. I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had."

Your laugh is bitter, devoid of any real amusement. "Easier?

"Look," Tashi begins, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "I'm not a fan of the way I ended things. But I think that keeping a grudge for this long is embarrassing. We were teenagers."

"You're right," you concede with a bitter chuckle, "it is embarrassing. But you know what's even more embarrassing?" Your voice rises, fueled by a mixture of frustration and hurt. "Having your husband come to me and tell me how much he misses me. And how you miss me. But you don't have the guts to tell me that yourself, do you? Do you miss me, Tashi?"

"Of course I miss you," she scoffs, her tone defensive. "You were my best friend. My serving partner. We played and won doubles together."

"Is that all I was to you?"

"Was there supposed to be anything more?"

There it is, the moment you've been dreading, the confrontation you've been avoiding. You can feel the familiar ache in your chest, "You know I fucking loved you, Tashi," you admit. "And yeah, whatever, everyone loved you. No one could get enough of Tashi Duncan. But you know damn well I loved you for more than just that."

"Loved?" She steps closer, her eyes searching yours. "You don't love me anymore?"

"No," you tell her. "I don't. I dropped out of your groupie a while ago."

"What do you love, then?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the distance between you closing.

"I love tennis," you confess, your gaze never leaving hers. "I love winning. Turns out I'm great at both. And I love that too. And people love me. That's more than you could ever give me. Or Art."

"Even Patrick?" The mention of his name is a sharp jab; she's trying to get under your skin.

"I don't know, you tell me." You're taunting her. And you love the way she falters for a split second. "You saw him at the Open last year, didn't you?"

The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you. "Listen," she says, her voice dropping lower, "I just came here to tie some loose ends. For Art's sake. He says It'll be good for me."

"Okay," you reply, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation in your favour. Hook, line and sinker. "Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Hook.

Tashi's eyes narrow slightly, but she takes the bait, her expression shifting to one of determination. "You raise your arm too high when you serve. You're gonna dislocate your shoulder one day."

"I bet you're waiting for the day I do."

"I can make you the best."

"Am I not already?"

Line.

"You're one of the best at most. But not the best. I'd be surprised if you bring back bronze. You're too short-tempered for silver. Let me coach you. I'll make sure you bring back gold."

"I don't need you," you say, the words catching in your throat.

"We both know you do," she whispers, her breath warm against your lips.

And sinker.

In that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. The words hang in the air, a silent challenge. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the closeness almost unbearable.

Without another thought, your lips crash together in a desperate kiss, a release of all the pent-up tension and longing that has simmered between you for far too long.

It's a whirlwind of heat and passion, each touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume everything in its path. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your body pressed against hers with a fierce urgency.

The kiss deepens a symphony of desire and desperation, all the words you couldn't say pouring into it with a fervour that borders on reckless abandon. You can feel yourself start to become absorbed into the bubble that is Tashi Duncan, it sucks you in, and it scares you, makes you feel as if you're sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

She grips the back of your neck, hard enough that her nails dig into the skin. Tashi waits for your gasp, and when you do, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, past your teeth until it collides with your own.

You're moaning, groaning into her mouth with the way she shoves you until your back hits the mirror behind you. You're arching into her at the way she fucking smiles against your lips at your reaction.

It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Almost in the same way Art is. You know it. She knows it. But in your defence, it's been a while since you've been kissed, it's been a while since someone's touched you this way, with heat and flavour. You're a little dizzy from it, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Tashi sucks your tongue into her mouth and you buck your hips against the thigh she's pressed between your legs.

There's a sweetness that lingers when she bites your lip, you wonder if she's wearing lipgloss, maybe chapstick. You hope she can't tell you've been drinking, that talking to Art made you spiral, that you've been bluffing since the moment she walked into the gym. Since the night she packed her things and told you she was leaving Stanford, her scholarship has no use since she can't play anymore.

When her hands run down your neck to your waist, gliding over the sweat on your skin, you can feel the cold touch of her wedding ring. It's frigid, making you shiver when Tashi starts to lick up the column of your throat. You almost feel bad about how wet you've become.

"Tashi..." you huff, her hands found their way to the base of your ass, guiding you to rock faster against her, only making you whine. Her grasp is tight, wanting. She pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your crotch closer to hers and then pushing you back down on her leg. She repeats the motion a few times, rolling her own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto her.

Tashi rewards you with a quiet moan—oh, you want her to do that again, you're going to make her do that again, louder and louder—and then, with a touch so light you could cry, she traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

You can feel your stomach nearly drop, "You're married, Tashi."

She pulls away just to laugh at you. One finger traces your slit through your shorts, and you hear yourself moan. She raises her brows, a challenging look in her eyes, "Are you jealous?"

You try to scoff, but the cold glass of the mirror behind you squeaks when you shift. Even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once.

"What would Art say?" You try to say, your hair falling over your face as you try to collect some kind of morality. If you were caught, you can already imagine the headlines and the stories people would write about you. "What would he do if he found us right now?"

"I don't know," Tashi hums, leaning closer. She pretends to think as if the answer isn't obvious, teasing you a little when she gets close enough to kiss you but doesn't. "He'd probably ask to join."

You can't stop the way that thought alone makes you melt. You remember the jokes Patrick used to make back when you were in college, of you and Tashi being his wet dreams. You can almost imagine, how he would moan at everything, want everything, his whiney moans too similar to the ones he makes when he's on the court.

Tashi rubs gently at your pussy a few more times like she's exploring you, and then suddenly she taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and she sighs against your mouth. "You're so wet. You like it when I touch you?"

"Yeah, please... touch me." You nod. And in your head, you're telling yourself you only like it because you haven't been with anyone since Patrick left for his tour.

Tashi kisses you again, and it's a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath her shirt she starts to fumble with your waistband, and you're both angry and resentful and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet.

Her fingers are clumsily slipping into your underwear and then she's there, her fingers are brushing right against your clit—you're so wet that her fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time she reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Tashi leaves you gasping and she teases you for it. "So sensitive," she taunts against your lips, pressing her thumb against your clit so she can see you squirm, pumping her fingers at an urgent pace to hear you moan. "So needy."

With each movement, she scissors her fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and she starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? I am, aren't I? I'm exactly what you need. C'mon say you want me. Tell me you need me, Ace."

"Maybe—" You're breathless, and the nickname has you tugging at her hair again, "Shit, I saw the way you made Art. He... oh god... he wouldn't be half the athlete without you. I also... I also wouldn't want to ruin my shoulder... while—while serving."

"I'm not talking about tennis."

For a moment, you worry that you've fallen for a trap, that you've said too much. You're vulnerable, a little drunk on lust and wine, and Tashi isn't stupid to not catch your sapphic crush on her since the two of you became friends, an old high school love that's never really disappeared, from slumber party kisses and how you've gawked at her, at her husband and even her ex-boyfriend.

"C'mon, Tash, you're always talking about tennis."

"Not this time."

You barely catch onto what she says. Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that she's given up on pumping her fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach—"I think I'm close... oh, I don't—fuck—keep touching me like that."

She bites your neck until you say her name. You pull her hair until she moans. Her touch is blistering against your skin. She says your name in a breathy drawl like she's pleading with you, humouring you, wanting to take everything from you.

"Keep going, please, please don't stop," you all but shout, and Tashi continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of her hand means the heel of her palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into her hand—you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you.

Every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Tashi whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming—

Distantly, you can feel her fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting—and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto her lap—but other than that, all you know is the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once. A hot sting against your skin that reminds you of the sun whenever you're on the tennis court, deep into the game you've turned into the love of your life.

It can't have possibly been this long since the last time you've gotten laid, right?

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Tashi is heaving for breath against your shoulder and her fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. "You're so pretty, you know that? No tennis talk."

You lean your head back against the mirror, a slow grin forming on your lips, "You don't think I'm pretty when I play."

"I think you're hot when you play."

You peek a glance at Tashi, meeting her eyes as she watches you, watching the way you catch your breath, skin shining against the fluorescent lights of the gym, similar to how you shine on the court. Yeah, you're a sight for sore fucking eyes.

Tashi takes slow, taunting steps back and away from you, and then she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes, you can see the most fucked-out look on her face just at the taste of your cum.

She licks her fingers clean—you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight—before opening her eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "I'll be in my room," she rolls up her pink mat (which she never used) and picks up her bag, "I'm sure you know the number. I'm hoping you can return the favour and touch me or something. You know, before you leave in the morning."

tags 🏷️: @begoniaespresso / @sceletaflores / @too-deviant / @wolflover384 / @sevikasblackgf / @supercutszns / @diorrfairy / @24kmar / @apolloscastellan

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[anniesworld69]

yup……..

Art “oral fixation” Donaldson ya’ll. Type of kid who always got a pop upside the head from his momma because “quit chewing on your nails arthur! You’ll get pinworms.” A habit that was once curbed as a child but still rears it’s head in times of stress. You can always tell when he’s nervous about something because you’ll catch him absentmindedly chewing on a pen cap while working or studying. 

Art being the sloppiest and most selfish kisser on god’s green earth. It’s never one kiss (he always promises it will be though). One turns into two, then another to your cheek, then the other side and down your neck until he’s leaving hickies and humming against your skin and the funny thing is he doesn’t even have to want to have sex he just loves having his mouth on you that goddamn much. You start keeping a small travel bag of concealer in his dorm because of how often you need to hide the goddamn hickies he leaves on you everytime you visit him. 

“You might as well just not bother with covering them up.” 

“You’re not the one who looked like they got jumped by Dracula, dipshit.” 

You see the way he was waiting to kiss Tashi when she was kissing patrick? Eyes all glazed over and mouth open? Yeah that. Baby boy will gladly just suck and kiss and bite you all over- you dont even have to do anything! Just lay there and run your hands through his hair and maybe tell him he’s doing a good job now and then he’ll be in fucking nirvanna. 

The way he eats you out verges on being selfish tbh. He’s practically drooling over your cunt, moaning against your clit like it brings him more pleasure than it does for you. He won’t pull away until you’ve cum more than once and even then you’ll have to pull him away from his spot between your legs, where he’ll look at you with confusion wondering if he’s done something wrong before it melts into that grin and he’ll lay his head on your stomach, content to simply sit in this moment with you before the pair of you have to return to the normal hustle and bustle of your lives.

[anniesworld69]

and then we run away together and live happily ever after 😇

spinnin' out waiting

description. you find TASHI DONALDSON at a hotel bar. you fall back into a version of your old self, a version that values tashi's opinion as much as you value the taste of her lips.

includes. SMUT 18+ MDNI, infidelity, 69ing, exes (again!), crazy amounts of longing, one mention of pegging, couple mentions of patrick and art, unnamed husband to r

wc. 4.2k+

a/n: art creds unknown. title from satellite by harry styles. barely edited as of 06/10

“Why'd you marry him?”

Tashi's words are soft, they’re inquisitive. They don’t seem accusatory, blending easily with the melody of the Bowie tune playing throughout the hotel lobby.

You hear her. You understand her over the clatter of glasses against table tops and shoes clicking against tile floors. You know exactly what she’s asking you. You have an answer, but beginning to act on the defense, you take your time formulating another one.

Here, at a hotel bar, you won't tell Tashi the real reason why you married your husband. You won't lay it all out for her to take, chew up, and spit right back at you.

You take a sip of your drink, ignoring how unfavored it is now that it's watered down, and you only speak once it's sitting back on the counter.

“Why did you?”

It's lame, nothing but a cop-out, but verbally, you aren't trying to impress Tashi right now. Right now, you're taking what you can, pathetically just trying to exist in her space for longer even if it means deflecting her words onto her. 

Physically, you’re trying to draw her in, attempting to impress her. It’s obvious in the way you’re sitting—shoulders pushed far back until there’s a pinch between your shoulder blades, your legs crossed at the ankles and your thighs squeezed together. You’re the picture of perfection, even holding your face in a way that you think Tashi will admire. 

Tashi takes the bait.

She shrugs, sighs, and dives into a calculated answer. “He's smart. Good at tennis.”

You think she means the words, or she had meant them at one time, but now they’re emotionless. They’re facts, not declarations of love. Her face doesn’t brighten like it should when talking about why you married your husband. 

You nod your head, rocking a little in your seat on the stool. Tashi has always been strategic, you aren't shocked that she doesn't mention her love for her husband in her admission.

She looks at you, eyes briefly taking down your body in a gesture so quick that you aren’t sure if it was intentional or not. You watch her lips part. 

“You were too.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “I was what?”

“Good at tennis.” Again, she says it so simply, so clear cut. To most, it would be. To most, it would be nothing but a fact, a compliment, even. 

With Tashi, it's something different. There is an admission in itself woven in her words. One you’ve waited to hear for years, one you only heard once before years ago. If you were weaker, still playing for her attention, maybe, then you would’ve let the admission draw you back to your coach who declared there would always be a place for you. Now, you only dip your head, watching your fingernail tap against your glass. 

“I'm out, Tashi. I'm done.”

The back and forth comes quickly. “You didn't have to be. You quit.”

“I retired.”

“You quit.”

You didn't expect the conversation to go this way, but you should have. You know Tashi. You may even know her better than you know your own husband. Perhaps she knows you better than your husband does. It's a thought you don't want to consider for longer than you need to.

You take your glass in your hand and finish your drink off. You don't bother ordering another. You won't be here for much longer. 

You don't know how the exit will be, if you'll be alone, or if Tashi will be in tow. But you can sense its approach.

“Why did you marry him?" She asks you again.

This time, you give an answer. It comes quick and simple. "Safety." What you don’t say is because I couldn’t marry you. 

You watch Tashi react. The corner of her lips lifts just a bit and she gets that look in her eye. The one that tells you that she has just found something out, a piece to add to the puzzle that makes up you.

She hums and you know she wants to say something. You want to hear it, but the words are likely to piss you off. They would ruin the small sense of harmony that exists in this space, and that's something you don't want.

So you let Tashi judge you. You sit there under her scrutinizing gaze and then when she's done, you watch her gaze soften.

“You had a few more in you."

It's tennis talk, but it's comforting.

“I watched your matches, you could've done a few more. A couple more years maybe. Wimbledon was always your strong suit I think you could've won it next year. Maybe Australia, too. France is a little rough on you, you move slower. But if yo—” You can't stand to hear it any longer.

You push your chair out from under you, standing over her. And for once, Tashi stops speaking. She's stunned, her dark eyes staring up at yours. Her lips stay parted, her unfinished words sitting stunted inside of her mouth. Her lips look so nice, and you try not to focus on that, but it seems like it's all you can focus on through the blurry sight. 

Your eyes burn, your nose stings. You're about to cry, and for what? Because Tashi is telling you that you're better than you thought? Truthfully, it's words you've been hearing for a while. Everyone has told you as such. But hearing it from her is different. It's like the words from God himself.

It should be embarrassing, how joyous you feel to have her attention on you once more. How delighted you are that Tashi Duncan—Tashi Donaldson is finally giving you the time of day again. It should be embarrassing, and maybe it would be if you weren’t so intently focused on keeping your tears at bay.

Nearly a decade and a half later, you’re still worshiping at her altar.

Patrick all those years ago was right. You’re no better than Art. You don’t think you wanted to be.

You stand with intentions to leave. Grab your bag, you tell yourself. Go upstairs to your room and to your husband.

But Tashi is looking at you. She's looking at you with kindness beneath her lined eyes. On the surface, it's unnoticeable. Maybe it's not there at all and you're just deluding yourself. But you think that under there, buried down beneath everything she uses to keep herself strong and above everyone else, is kindness. Towards you. Towards the situation. Towards herself.

“St back down,” she tells you.

You stay standing.

Tashi's hand reaches for yours. Her left hand crosses her body, resting on your left hand. You glance down, noticing the way your respective rings glint in the moody lighting. When you blink, a tear falls. You try to wipe it away before Tashi can notice it.

"Sit back down," She speaks slowly this time and it seems like a plea. So you sit back down.

Your pants are touching the cushion of the bar stool for only a few seconds before Tashi leans forward. There isn't necessarily hesitance towards her movements, but she moves slowly. It's as if she's giving you an out.

But there's no way you could want an out for the thing you've wanted for years. Finally, she's giving you an in, even if the circumstances existing outside of this bubble make the situation inappropriate.

But when you close the gap, you don't feel guilty. Because you had her first. Before any of the boys came into your lives, it was you and Tashi. 

And here, and now, it’s you and Tashi. Art, Patrick, and your husband don’t exist at this moment past the rings on your fingers and lingering chastising. Physically, in this space, it’s you and Tashi.

Her hand falls to your thigh. Your hand slides up to the side of her neck. 

She scoots her stool closer to yours and your back arches as you push yourself closer into her. A blast of AC brings her perfume to your awareness. She smells the same as before, a gentle vanilla, but there’s a new maturity to it. The scent is stronger, without being overpowering. It’s aged, with a deeper heat to it. 

It’s alluring.

When you pull away from her, you’re shocked to feel her lips chase yours. She kisses you, once, twice, and then she’s only stopped by your hands cupping her cheeks. 

You stare at Tashi. She stares at you, big brown eyes lined with smudged makeup. She should look intimidating, like how she appears in the stands. But she looks innocent, almost. 

“Tashi.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. It’s nice to see worry on her face when it’s directed at you. You like it when she cares about you. 

“What? What is it?” 

“Tashi, we shouldn’t.” 

Her eyebrows relax and her face morphs into something else. Disappointment? It’s a look that makes your throat sting. 

You’re close to taking your warning back, but you instead let it suspend in the air. You lick your lips, your grip on Tashi’s cheeks relaxing as you prepare to retreat. Your purse sits on the counter, and in it is your keycard to your hotel room. It would be easy to grab your things and slip back into your room for a quick shower before sliding into bed. But that’s not what you want. 

You want to see where this goes. 

If she’ll let you. 

You expect Tashi’s body to relax away from you, but it doesn’t. 

She stands, her hands resting on your thighs as she stares down at you. 

“Why shouldn’t we?” 

You have answers, many of them. Two of them sit just a few floors above you both, waiting for either of you to crawl back into bed and resume the role of the loving, supportive wife. 

You could give her reasons, but you don’t. Instead, you lamely stare up at Tashi, your best friend. 

It’s a title she hasn’t been the owner of for years, but you still find it easy to give it to her now. You’ll extend it for her to forever hold, an honor she doesn’t have to want for you to bestow upon her. 

You’ll let Tashi Donaldson be whatever she wants to be, so long as she’s in your life. 

Maybe that’s why you don’t resist at all when she leans down and presses her lips to yours. 

You kiss her with vigor you’ve never kissed your husband with. Vigor that could have never existed with him, because you’ve been burying it deep down inside just for her. It’s a build-up of all the times you cheered her on for a date. All the times you listened to her tell you about her endeavors and pushed down the images of you two in the described positions. The tears you hid with steamy showers and bottles of wine when you heard about her wedding from the tabloids and not an invitation. 

It all comes together as slides of your lips against hers. Full-forced presses of your tongues together. Wandering hands roaming through expensive hairdos and along even more expensive clothing items. 

You’re in public, sitting at a hotel bar, but you couldn’t care less. Even if it weren’t late at night, if the lobby were bustling with late check-outs and early check-ins, you don’t think you would care. Absolutely nothing could pull you from Tashi’s embrace. You convince yourself this when you stand to your full height, pressing your chest against Tashi’s. 

She turns you until your lower back digs into the edge of the counter. One of her hands cups your face and you can feel the bracelet on her wrist dig into your arm as she rests the other on the counter behind you. You hold her close with two hands on her slender waist, pressing into the thick fabric of her cardigan. 

You need to feel more of her. Her clothing is in the way. You need to feel her skin on yours in ways you had almost been privy to in college when tailored pants and overpriced sweaters were replaced by Victoria’s Secret pajama sets and Stanford sweatshirts. 

You do what you can in this public space, lifting the hem of her cardigan and pressing your hands into her torso beneath it. She’s wearing a shirt, but it’s cropped just enough for you to feel her taut abdomen. She’s soft, just like you expected her to be. 

You melt against her when you circle your hands around her back and feel even more of her skin. 

Eventually, Tashi pulls away. She doesn’t go far, pecking your neck and clavicle even as she struggles to catch her breath. You’re about to ask her where. You can’t let Tashi fuck you in a hotel bar, even if you would’ve let it happen if it weren’t so morally wrong, and you’re about to ask her where she could fuck you. 

The words are formed on your tongue, sitting right on the tip, waiting. And then the elevator dings. You don’t care immediately. You forget yourself. You forget that you’re in public, pressed against a hotel bar with onlookers just a few feet away. They might not be looking at you, but you’ve had an audience this entire time. You could have another member joining the audience, too, if that elevator ding is who you think it is. 

You forgot that you’re married, and not to her. 

But the sound of the elevator, followed by an excited squeal of his name and then your name, the one he gave you, quickly reminds you. 

You pull yourself off of Tashi completely. The only way to do that is to shove her away from you and even though you try to do it as gently as possible, it still hurts both of you. But it does the job. Tashi stands in front of you instead of against you. 

You try your best to collect yourself. Wiping over and around your mouth, fixing your top, righting the position of your ring on your finger, and doing the same for your necklaces. You clear your throat, awkwardly step around Tashi, and then you look at her. 

You look at her, really look at her in case you won’t get the chance to again, and then you turn yourselves around, grab your purse, and just look at her. 

You wait for him to come this way. You wait for the sound of his shoes against the laminate, the strong waft of his cologne, the deep rumble of his voice. You wait for him to pull you into his chest, press a kiss into your forehead, and sincerely tell you that he was looking for you. That he woke up to an empty bed and was worried sick. You wait for the guilt to settle in your gut like a rock. You wait for this energy to be disrupted for good.

When it doesn’t come, you don’t know what to do. 

Tashi cocks her head, crosses her arms over her chest. 

You can sense her wanting to ask you a question so you press your shoulders back and prepare yourself. 

“Are you gonna go with him?” 

You don’t answer. You lick your lips, flit through the array of bottles against the wall behind her, and listen for the sound of fans talking to your husband. 

Tashi only continues. “He’ll only be distracted for so long before he comes looking for you, right? So, are you gonna go with him, or are you coming with me?” 

You try to sit and consider it, juggling the thoughts in your head, but it’s nothing but a waste of time. Your decision has been made ever since she kissed you. It’s what you really want. But it’s what you cannot have. 

So instead, you grab your purse, spare Tashi one final look, and walk away from her. 

“What happened downstairs?”

You’re in the middle of brushing your teeth when he asks you. The action gives you time to consider. Consider the implications of his question. Consider the repercussions of the answer you’ll give him. 

You’re done when you spit the first time, but you go back for another round of brushing to give yourself more time. 

Your actions don’t deter your husband. He stands in the center of the entrance to the bathroom, blocking the exit with his hands in the pockets of his pants. You’d bought them for him for Christmas two years ago. 

Eventually realizing you’re not escaping this, you spit, rinse, and wipe before turning to face your husband. 

“Nothing happened.” 

It’s true to you. You were in Tashi’s embrace last night, but nothing happened. 

You look at your husband, watching him take your answer in. You’re preparing for further questioning, to be put under the white-hot light and spew out lie after lie in order to save your ass and your marriage. You don’t expect him to accept it so quickly. 

“Okay.”

You can’t help but ask him, “Okay?” 

He nods. “I’ll always believe you, you know that. Now come to bed before I start watching Scandal without you.” 

You try to stay put in your room tonight. It’s empty, left alone while your husband attends an event you should’ve been at. But you were sick, riddled with sudden guilt that fostered in your body, creating stomach cramps, headaches, and heat flashes. 

You needed to do something about it. 

You tried to drink it away with warm tea. You tried to wash it away with a hot shower. You try to relax it away in the best ways you know how—room service and an old match of your husbands. But nothing you did helped. You still found yourself in an empty bed, tossing and turning and craving a companion that you shouldn’t crave. 

You know the solution. She sits downstairs. You know she does. You don’t need visual confirmation.

But you get it anyway. Sitting in the same spot as yesterday, in the same cardigan as before. Her hair is pulled away from her face in a clip, but it’s still too short to stay pulled all the way back. Highlights frame her face, and short pieces of hair sit against the nape of her neck. Her head is down, staring straight at the bar where she has her hotel keycard in her hand, tapping the plastic edge against the marble. 

She doesn’t have a drink. You figure she won’t stay for long. 

When you approach her, she doesn’t look up. You don’t bother sitting. 

“Come with me.” 

When you say it, she doesn’t immediately respond. She doesn’t even acknowledge you until at least a minute later, but it could have easily been longer. She looks up at you and she looks like Tashi Duncan. With her hair framing her face messily, her eyes completely free of makeup and soft, she looks like your best friend. She also looks like she’s been crying, or maybe holding it off. 

You want to ask her if she’s okay, but you know what her answer will be, so you save yourself time. 

“Are you gonna leave me again?”

Her response punches you in the gut. It also riles you up. 

You scoff and consider turning back around. You stand your ground long enough to say, “I guess we’re even then, right?”

Tashi doesn’t need further explanation. She backs down, you can see it happening physically. Her shoulders relax and her lips quirk down for a split second. It’s long enough for you to notice it happening, but then it’s gone. She’s stoic, neutral. It’s a practiced look. One she’s perfected by now. 

“Are you coming?” 

She takes a moment, she takes a breath, and then she stands. 

You’re in your hotel room for long enough to hear the door click behind you, signaling that it’s locked, and then Tashi’s lips are on yours. 

It’s unclear who moves first. Maybe you move in tandem, finally satisfied to be with each other in seclusion for the first time in years. 

All that matters is that you’re leading Tashi towards the bedroom and your fallen clothing marks the trail. From the door to the bed lay her cardigan, tee shirt, pants, one of her shoes, your hoodie, your leggings, and both of your shoes.

You fall onto the bed and Tashi quickly follows you. She straddles you, long body curled up to hover over your form, reminiscent of a vulture. 

She kisses you in the same manner as before, but there’s more haste to her lips this time. 

She kisses you like she’s insatiable, taking more and more without taking a moment to see if what she already has is enough. You have a feeling that whatever she takes from you, whatever you give her, will never be enough. 

It’s the same for you. 

Finally getting to hear the sounds Tashi makes whenever you slip your hand between her thighs makes your head spin. It’s an addicting feeling similar to substances that produce the same effect, but this is much better. This is a version you’ll risk it all to have. The moans and gasps that Tashi releases when you press into her clit over the thin fabric of her panties are debilitating. It bruises you, only to build you right back up again. 

You need more. 

So you produce more. 

You slip your hand beneath the waistband and let your fingertips meet Tashi’s bare cunt for the first time. She shudders, so sensitive, and she’s so fucking wet. The first touch flatters you. It comforts you to confirm that you’re having the same effect on her that she’s always had on you. 

Even during times when you hadn’t seen her. During times when you relied on memory, getting yourself off in the shower. Or times when you caught a glimpse of her at a match that your husband was playing in, and you thought of her that night when your husband fucked you in honor of his win. Then, you’d been soaked beyond belief. Much like Tashi is now. 

You don’t waste any more time, giving the suggestion to Tashi with a grin. Of course, she’s quick to accept. 

You ask her if she’s been in this position since that time. She tells you she hasn’t, and she asks you the same. You say you haven’t, but you’ve been dreaming of it. 

You end up face-to-face with Tashi’s cunt, and she is in the same position with yours. Both of you make quick work of the other, no longer in the mood for playing with your food, especially now since it’s sitting right in front of you.

You assume it’s been a while since Tashi’s been with a woman, but she hasn’t lost any of her skill at all. She devours you with enthusiasm, working her mouth in ways that have you momentarily distracted from your own task. 

Until your competitive side kicks in. You refuse to let Tashi win, beginning to engage in a silent, but obvious, competition with her. 

She quickly starts to become more verbal, even her moans sounding breathless. It’s an ego boost. 

“Wish I … Wish I had the—” she breaks her words off to whine and it’s such a heavenly sound. “Wish I had the strap up here.” 

You lay your head back away from her cunt to speak. 

“You have it with you?” There’s humor to your words, and you break off into a laugh when Tashi responds. 

“Art likes it.”

Tashi giggles with you, and as soon as the fit dies down, she lowers her head, you pull her hips closer to you, and you both get back to it. 

The first time is over quicker than either of you anticipated. Tashi cums first, her back arching and her tongue stopping against your cunt. You, on the other hand, kept going. You licked and sucked and teased until Tashi was tapping against your thigh and begging that you stop. Then she continued, and it took barely anything to get you in the same position as her. 

You both finished, but you weren’t done. It was hard to stay off of each other, and even when you did stop, you would take a break and find each other again. You hadn’t fucked that much since your honeymoon. In a way, you felt like you were on your honeymoon. 

The clothes in the closet and the toiletries in the bathroom didn’t belong to Tashi, but you could pretend that they did. The ring on your finger wasn’t Tashi’s, but you pretended it was. You weren’t Tashi’s, but you pretended you were. 

Up until your husband calls you. 

The grogginess in your voice was real and he winced as he thought he woke you. He kept it brief, a quick warning that he was heading home and stopping by a place for food on the way. He sent you the menu, urging you to reply if you wanted something. And then he blew a kiss over the line and told you he loved you. 

You repeated his actions without any hesitation. 

When Tashi inevitably had to leave your hotel room, you kissed her cheek and told her you loved her without any hesitation. 

[anniesworld69]

my heart ❤️‍🩹

girl in the woods

Summary: There's a girl in the woods. You could kill her, but what if you didn't?

Pairing: Ellie Williams x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.1k (sorry, this was meant to be 3k max)

Warnings: post-tlou part 2, lots and lots of yearning and wanting, slow slow burn, two traumatized people trying their best, ptsd, references to past sexual assault, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, loneliness, canon typical violence, making out and dry humping, implied smut

A/N: Hiiiiii! I said I finally wanted to post for my girls this year and I'm doing it. Very nervous to post this <3 hope you enjoy, that I did Ellie justice. I would love to hear any throughs you might have <3

There’s a girl in the woods. 

She doesn’t see you, red hair shining in the midday sun. She has freckles, and green eyes to match the spring leaves rehoming themselves on the trees. 

All bone and tendon and lithe muscle.  She’s wiry enough that she’s a little painful to look at. 

It’s warm that afternoon, and it hasn’t been for a long time. Almost summer, not quite. 

The girl has her flannel tied around her waist. She stumbles and winces and halts. 

You watch as she kneels on the ground and picks through her backpack, eventually pulling out a roll of duct tape. There’s barely left any, and still it’s more than you’ve been able to scavenge in months. You consider, for half a second, putting an arrow through her throat just for that. 

Something stills your hand. 

She’d hear you, and be quicker than you, your instincts say, prey animal that you are, hiding in trees. 

She rips a length of the tape off with her teeth, throat straining and sheened with sweat. It sparkles in the hollow of her throat, and you’d like to believe that it is not a factor in the staying of your hand.

But that would be a lie. 

She’s pretty, this stranger. 

You expect her to stand when she finishes wrapping the tape around her battered left sneaker, but she doesn’t. 

She takes several deep, long breaths, her voice carrying on the wind to you. She’s panting a little, like she’d just been running, though you know she hadn’t been. “Okay,” she mutters, hand pressed against her chest. “Okay, okay, okay. You’re okay.” She holds out a hand, and it shakes. She clenches it into a fist and lets it fall to her side. “You’re okay.”

Another long, trembling breath. 

Then, silence. 

Wind through the trees and the leaves, the distant burble of the creek you draw water from once a day. 

A few minutes pass. 

She sighs and shakes her head. 

When she stands, you shift just enough to alert her to your position. She whips around, gun already raised. 

You lift your hands, empty, bow clattering out of the tree to smack against the ground in hollow thud. 

She doesn’t say anything, just breathes heavily for a moment. “What the fuck do you want?” 

You clear your voice, hoping sound might actually come out. When was the last time you spoke? Not just to another person, but at all? Years, maybe. Not since the last stranger you decided to help, always a bad idea. Apparently that lesson had weakened enough with time to let you call out to this stranger. Or maybe the sting of loneliness has finally reached its terrible climax. “If you keep going that way. . .there are infected past the fence.” Your voice crumbles on the last word, a croak more than language. “Clickers.” 

She watches you, doesn’t blink. “Get down,” she gestures at the ground with the gun, the movement a sharp jerk. Her voice isn’t as aggressive as before and you take that as a good sign. 

Slowly, so very slowly, so as not to startle another thing with bared teeth, you lower your hands and make your way down through the branches to your fallen bow. 

“Why would you tell me that?” She asks, hands steady, not shaking like they had been when she kneeled in the dirt, when she panted like something was chasing her.  

You don’t know how to answer and you’re starting to regret saying anything. You should have said nothing. It’s what someone with any inkling of self preservation would have done. She’ll probably just shoot you now.  

Really though, it doesn’t matter if she does. You shrug. 

“Are you alone?” 

“Yes.” 

There’s another long pause. She doesn’t believe you, eyes alert, swiveling around the area. 

You clear your throat and kick your bow over to her. “If there was anyone else. . .” you struggle to collect your voice, “. . .you would already be dead.”

She seems to scoff a little, though you can’t tell for sure. You should be dead already, you think, she should have just killed you. It would be simpler that way. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“What?” 

“You look hungry.” 

Maybe she isn’t, maybe you’ve just given away that you have supplies, but she picks up your bow and gestures for you to walk ahead of her. 

You shouldn’t have said anything, but the promise of supplies might be the only thing to keep you alive, at least for a little while. 

Stupid. 

You should have just let her go on. Let her get attacked by those things. 

She grabs the arrows out of your backpack as you walk ahead of her with your hands raised, and stuffs them into her own. 

She doesn’t kill you, but she prods you along with her gun heavy against your back until you reach the little one room cabin you live in, so well hidden no one has ever found you since you came upon it. 

It’s in the shadow of a cliff, where hawks circle day and night, covered in ivy tresses, tucked between trees and thick foliage that entirely obscures the wood. It’s hard to spot, almost impossible, like it’s grown right into the earth itself. 

The girl doesn’t seem to see it until you’re practically at the front door because she demands to know where you’re leading her. 

But then you open the door and she finally lowers her gun, and tucks it into the back of her jeans. There’s sun spilling in from above and you’re close enough now to see that her shoulders are sunburned and peeling. There are freckles across her cheeks and shoulders and arms. 

You drop your backpack on the floor and turn. 

She’s still watching you, not moving. 

“What’s your name?” Your voice cracks horribly, a hated sound. It’s embarrassing for reasons you can’t understand. What does it matter? 

“Why?” Her voice is flat.

You nod. “Okay.” Still, you tell her your name and then open the few cabinets you have, nudging your backpack toward her with your toe. “That’s all the food I have. Any spare clothes are in the trunk behind you.” You swallow, and then cough. The discomfort of talking is starting to ease, just a little. “You can look around, if you don’t believe me. But could you leave the bow, at least? I don’t have any other weapons. You can take the arrows.” 

It would be a days long pain, but you could make more. 

She just looks at you, bright in that patch of sunlight. Something about what you said seems to upset her. “I don’t—I’m not going to take your shit.” 

You blink. “Why? Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

Isn’t that what everyone always wants? Isn’t that just the way things are? You haven’t met someone that hasn’t wanted everything you have in a very long time, and it’s strange. She is strange, this woman.  

There’s a brief moment where something flashes behind her eyes, suddenly wide and childlike. Just a girl again. Her hand shakes as she sits down heavily on the chair by the door. “No.” 

“Okay.” 

She’s skinny, wiry. She’s missing two fingers and has a tattoo on her forearm. Details, missed before, somehow, noted now as she takes up space in the too small room. 

She sits and fidgets and doesn’t look at you. A lock of short auburn hair falls in front of her eyes. 

“If you promise not to shoot me, I’ll get something together for you,” you offer again. “And then you can be on your way.” 

What else are you supposed to do? That’s what you remember your mother doing. That’s what people need, you guess, someone to get something together for them, to look after them a little. Sometimes the kindness was so shocking, they didn’t try to take anything else. Or kill you. 

You aren’t sure if she nods or not, but she doesn’t shoot you when you turn away, and that’s good enough. 

She stays.

One day. 

Two. 

Five. 

It’s weird. She seems listless. Like now that she stopped walking she isn’t quite sure how to start again. Like there had not been a destination she was heading towards in the first place. 

The first night she was there you didn’t sleep, nor the second, sure she was going to cut your throat in the night. What else could she want but that? You gave her everything else already, and you know when there are no other things to give, people would still find something to take.

You aren’t good at fighting; you survive by hiding, and that’s impossible now. If she wanted your life, it was hers to take. 

But she doesn’t, and the fear recedes. 

“Where were you headed?” You ask on the seventh day when she still does not leave, doesn’t seem to think to even consider it. You think about asking her to leave, but don’t, worried about what the demand might prompt. 

Instead of answering you, she looks up and suddenly says, green eyes blazing, “You should take care of the infected in that town.”

Questions posed to her, you’ve learned, are often only answered with entirely different, unrelated questions, or, in this case, commands. “Why?” 

She blinks. “Why wouldn't you?” 

Because there’s only one of you. Because you only have a bow. Because there’s a fence and they stay over there, and you usually don’t have to worry about people from that way because of them. The inflected are good security, so long as you don’t get too close and they don’t get loose.

The fence has held so far.   

And if it didn’t, who would care? 

You would die or be infected and that would be the end of that.

“I guess because I wouldn’t be able to,” you answer eventually. “On my own, at least.” 

She looks at you, fidgets with fingers that are no longer there. That injury isn’t new enough to be raw but not old enough that it doesn’t at least look painful and that she often forgets the digits aren’t there. “Why are you out here alone? If you can’t fucking take care of yourself?” 

That reminder stings, even though she isn’t trying to be cruel. You don’t think she’s trying to be cruel anyway. And what does it matter if she is? Why does that hurt pulse like an open wound? “It didn’t start that way,” you say, a little defensive anyway. “I used to be—there used to be—” You stop and swallow the words back. There’s nothing you owe this person, least of all that. “Who says I can’t, anyway? I’m alive, so I must be doing okay. I take care of myself fine.” 

She just looks at you, eyes flickering over your face and then down your frame, the drag of her eyes slow, before she glances away and twists her fingers together again. “I can go hunting,” she offers.

It kind of sounds like she’s sorry, apology wrapped in stone. 

For what, you aren’t sure. 

It’s weird and you don’t like the feeling it presses into your chest. 

You frown, and then shake your head. “Why on Earth would you do that?” 

“For food?” She fiddles with her fingers again, looks up at you from the milk crate, from beneath long lashes. “You need food, right?” 

You laugh, the sound is harsh and bitter. “I still don’t know your name. And you want to go hunting? Just. . .” A pulse of irritation swims into the back of your throat. And then dread. “Just take what you want and go. Please.” 

You don’t ask, why are you here? Why haven’t you left? But you want to. 

You want to scream, suddenly. You want to grow teeth and growl and tell her to leave. 

It doesn’t occur to you that she doesn’t want to, because she hasn’t been a threat to you since the second day, or really ever at all. But you don’t know what she wants, from you or otherwise. You don’t know why she’s lingering in your company. 

People don’t linger, not in this world, not out here. 

Killing you would have been easier and for a moment you think you should have put an arrow through her neck for that duct tape, for her gun and the arrows and whatever else she had in her backpack. 

It would have been easier on you, surely. Easier than this. 

But then you imagine those big green eyes open and blank and unseeing, blood pooling around red hair in the dirt, and the thought vanishes, the anger disintegrates. There’s something so wrong about the image you almost cringe away from it.

She seems to struggle for a moment, her throat working and eyes far away, haunted by something you can’t see.

Or, maybe you can. Weren’t you all constantly grieving and angry about the same kinds of things anyway? It’s likely she isn’t that different from anyone else, any other survivor; not that different from you.  

The hard edges snapped around your heart soften just a little more. “What’s your name?” You ask again. “Tell me your name at least.” 

It takes her a minute to answer. 

“Ellie.”

She sounds like she’s not really sure if that’s true. 

It’s a pretty name, and you will tell her so eventually. 

For now, you just repeat it, testing out the sound on your tongue. 

She stays. 

Ellie draws, sketches. 

You try not to let her catch you watching her when she does it. 

There’s a stream not too far from your little cabin. Good for fishing. Apparently also good for sitting in the sun on the rocks that line it; good for sitting hunched over drawing. The rocks are good for it, at least; big and flat. 

The sparkle of the water reflects on her skin, weaves crystal blue lines over her face. She’s going to get another sunburn, but there’s not much you can do about it. Red hair, pale skin, and little sun protection; she’s bound to it. 

You peer at her freckles and then her hands, your own working mindlessly in your lap, knotting together a net to leave in the creek overnight. Thin fingers flex around a worn pencil, veins crawling up her wiry forearms.

You’ve never really thought about a person’s hands or arms before, but hers are pretty. Maybe you’ve just haven’t been around enough people to think about it, or notice. 

She’s drawing a house. A street in a neighborhood that you’ve never seen or known. An intersection, part of a wall, a graveyard. Something about it doesn’t seem right to you, and you can’t figure out what until you realize there’s no decay in her drawing. It’s a fantasy street, a life that has never existed for you, that doesn’t exist anymore. Still, it’s nice. It’s a nice dream. 

There are words around the margins of the page, crowding each other out. 

“It’s fucking creepy,” she says, not looking up, and you jolt and glance away, like it wasn’t already painfully obvious you were staring. Staring at her and her hands and that bead of moisture at the hollow of her throat, the damp skin of her neck and forearms. “You can hear them all the way over here.” 

Oh. Not about your staring problem. Worrying about the infected again. 

“Only when the wind blows this way,” you dismiss and chance a glance back up. She looks up, too, but you’re already working at the fishing line again, pretending not to feel her gaze. “It’s better to have them there,” you explain, even though she didn’t ask. “It’s like, security, I guess, y’know? People go around rather than through, or back the way they came. At least most of the time.” 

She twitches a lock of hair out of her eyes and looks back down at her journal. “Yeah,” she says, sounding very, very far away. “I know.” 

You peek up, looking at her again. A bead of sweat that drips down her temple in the heat. Her cheeks are flushed from the sun, her freckles a deep gold.

This time, she catches you looking. For a second, she doesn’t say anything, the beat of the sun like the pulse of your heart in your throat. Everything is so suddenly too warm for you. 

You clear your throat and then stand, brushing off the thighs of your jeans as you go. “I’m finished with this,” you say and lie out the netting across the rock, voice an octave higher than it usually is. “String it across the water before you come back? We’ll have trout for breakfast if we’re lucky.” You sling your bow across your shoulders and chance a look at her again. 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

You turn to go, then think better of it, not sure how long she might stay out in the sun. Ellie gets distracted, and sometimes doesn’t realize how much time has passed. 

You peel off the white button up you have on. It’s linen and soft and the color is good for reflecting the sun off her. You drape it around her shoulders and feel the heat of her skin beneath your fingertips. 

Before she can say anything, or say nothing, you turn. 

But you hear her shift and you swear you can feel her eyes on you as you walk away.

Something you forgot about being around other people, is how they disrupt things and how you have to learn to grow around it. 

You and Ellie grow around each other. 

The vast, lazy arms of familiarity stretch around both of you, corralling you close, pressing you in close. You have to stitch yourselves together, you suppose, because the cabin is only one room and that’s it. There is no excess of space to stretch out and get away from each other. 

You could try telling her to leave again, but you don’t want to. 

You eat and sleep next to each other, at the table in the corner, alternating between the bed and a bedroll on the floor each night.

Summer makes it easy to get out, though, to make space even if you had none. Even then, it becomes an unspoken rule that she follows you whenever you go out. So, you are never alone. Not anymore.  

The loneliness trapped inside your chest slips away silently. Banished from a cavern you hadn’t known it had dwelled in. 

You always thought the solitude was fine. 

Apparently not.

With that aching maw shut, you can finally look at it and recognize what it is. 

“I can handle myself,” you say one morning. She just nods, eyes far away, unreachable as is sometimes her way. 

The days are long and food comes easily. It doesn’t always and you’re already thinking about winter at the height of summer, what you will eat. Ellie goes hunting sometimes, and sometimes she brings something back. Nothing big, because you have no way to make it last, keep it fresh. You have to eat it right away, but she’s adept at hitting squirrels and rabbits exactly right so none of the meat is ruined. 

You don’t exactly miss having to hunt and dress your food and so you’re happy to let her do it. 

Most of the time you just catch fish in a net, because it's easier and because hunting draws attention. 

The fish are better anyway, because sometimes Ellie comes back from the woods looking lost and much worse than when she left, though not like she’d been in any kind of fight.

You seem to talk all the time, both of you, though you aren’t sure about what. On the better days, you find that she likes to tell jokes and stories. You aren’t sure if they’re her own or something she read or heard somewhere else. Probably her own, she seems like the kind of person who’s seen and done too much. 

But when she tells those jokes and you laugh at some of them, her face softens and she laughs right along with you. It’s nice and it makes your chest hurt. 

You’ve never had cause to feel embarrassed before, but you are about a lot of things now. You suddenly share everything with someone again. Space and things and thoughts. Everything is a minefield of ways you aren’t good enough, might be doing something wrong or weird. 

It hadn’t mattered what you did before because it was just you and those four walls. 

But nothing you do seems to bother her much. 

She doesn’t seem to mind your terrible cooking, not that she eats that much; or that you hum under your breath to keep yourself company, though she does tease you for it sometimes; or the way you twist and turn when you aren’t able to sleep, memories circling like vultures, get up to pace outside, which in turn makes her get up and sit outside while you do. 

One hot night, in what you think must be July, she reaches out across the dark. Crickets sing in the air, chirping and buzzing. Usually it’s a soothing sound, tonight it reminds you of things better forgotten, people who belong in the past.

She reaches out and lays a hand on your hip. “Stop moving. You’re driving me fucking crazy.” 

You don’t know what to make of her hand on your hip, the way she squeezes and then lets go and how you don’t move after she lets go, feeling the lingering warmth of her hand on your side like a brand. 

You stay still and watch her silhouette resolve itself in the dark, the slope of her nose, and the fringe of her hair growing a little longer each day, the sharp jut of her cheekbone.

“I’ve never slept well,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”  

“Who does?” She turns on her side, back facing you.

You want to reach out to her, push a finger into her sharp spine, trace the long length of it. It’s inexplicable, that yearning, open hole in your chest. You want to do much more than trace her spine, the hot imprint of her hand on your hip like a brand, still felt there. 

“Yeah,” you agree faintly and decide to get up. You don’t want to keep her awake, and she has the bed tonight so maybe she’ll sleep well.

That, and you can’t just keep lying there staring at her, yearning and pining pathetically. 

The moon is high in the sky, bright and full, unlikely that anything would be lurking near. If your little place is hard to see during the day, it’s impossible at night.

“Where are you going?” She asks when you stand and start toward the door. 

“Outside. So I won't keep you up.”  

“You aren’t keeping me up,” she says, sitting up, bare legs pale in the opal pool of moonlight, forearms braced against her knees. “But you will if you go out there alone.” 

She has nightmares sometimes and wakes with a gasp. She thinks you don’t know but you always wake with her, with that gasp and half yelp. 

Sometimes, she just goes back to sleep, breathing hard and quick for a few minutes before it peters off into something even again. 

Most times, she cries or panics and you never know what to do. You don’t know if it's better for her to think you don’t know, or try to help somehow.

Once, you had reached out and put your hand in hers. 

For a long moment, she hadn’t done anything and you felt stupid. But the next second she curled her hand around yours and everything was fine again. It goes like that a lot of nights. Her hand in yours in the dark, thumb slowly stroking back and forth. 

So, maybe it isn’t so weird that you’ve started daydreaming of other things. 

She looks at you and you look back at her and neither of you move. “I thought I was driving you crazy.”  

Ellie rolls her eyes and shakes her head, looking away from you, down at the floor between her knees when she swings her legs over the side of the bed. “You are.” 

“Okay,” you shrug. “So stay here and get some sleep.” She just looks at you, blinking through the dark. “Or, if you can’t sleep either, come with me and stop complaining.”

She groans but gets up anyway and slips a pair of shorts on. You try not to look at her as she does. 

A few minutes later, you sit shoulder to shoulder on that same rock you lie out the fishing net from. She leans into you and you lean into her, skin tacky and warm with humidity. Ellie keeps the rifle in her lap, and you close your eyes and tip your head against her shoulder, listening to the distant thud of her heartbeat. 

She doesn’t say anything and so you decide it must be okay. For a long time, you just watch the silver dart of fish beneath the surface of the water, a flash of scales and nothing more in the pale moonlight. 

The night is warm and so is the rock beneath your legs, heat retained from its long day in the sun. Your feet dip into the cool water flowing just below, the sounds of crickets and night bugs blending seamlessly into the cries and clicks of the infected behind the distant fence. Always there as a reminder, no matter how peaceful the night.  

You can feel her breathing against you, the slow lift and fall of her shoulder, the inhale and exhale of breath. You wonder what keeps her awake, what she dreams about, but you don’t ask. Ellie is right, everyone has some kind of horror they see when they close their eyes. You wonder anyway, you wonder all kinds of things about her that you don’t ask. 

Ellie surprises you by asking, “What were you thinking about?” 

For a moment, you consider not answering, just leaving the question to shrivel and die in the air. You nod against her shoulder, pull your foot out of the creek and watch the water drip off it, considering her question. 

“Nothing really.”

“You don’t think about nothing that hard.” She pushes her knee into yours, tips the side of her head into yours, and it feels like it might be all right to tell her. 

“I guess you’re right.” You hike your knee up to your chin, a wet footprint forming on the rock beneath you. “I was glad when my mom died,” you say. “I know how that sounds. But it’s true.” 

She hesitates. 

Then, “Wasn’t it just you and her?” 

“Yeah, but you know I’m not much of a fighter.” You pause, pain twisting up in your chest. “She wasn’t a good mother. We survived by hiding and giving people what they wanted. Giving them anything they wanted. Sometimes that meant me. And sometimes it didn’t matter either way/ Why we couldn’t just hide from the people too, I don’t know.” 

Ellie doesn’t say anything, because you suppose there’s nothing to say. 

You finish quietly. “Sometimes, it’s like I’m still waiting for the door to open. For her to walk in. I always wondered what it would have been like for her to die if she. . .I don’t know, was good to me.” 

Her hand lands on your knee, rubs a circle into the side of it before she picks up your hand and holds your fingers between her palms. She squeezes tight. It’s more than words could ever say. 

“That’s really fucking shitty.” 

You laugh, it’s such a mild sentiment, said so aggressively on your behalf. It breaks the tension, at least. “Yeah. It was, but it’s over now. You’re the first person I decided to talk to in a long time.” 

Her shoulder rocks into yours. “That was so stupid. Why’d you do it?” 

“I don’t know. I had a good feeling about you, I guess.” 

“Shut up!” 

“I’m serious!” You pinch her wrist and then bump her shoulder back. You can feel her hair sticking to your cheek. Would she answer if you asked the same of her? What kept her awake at night? “Maybe I just thought you were pretty,” you say instead, covering the knot of your hands with your free one. 

You don’t need to look to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Yeah whatever,” she scoffs gently. 

You can feel the veins in the back of her hand and in her wrist, the lines in her palm, the tendon twitching as her muscles flex minutely. It’s quiet for a long minute, just your hand in hers and the cooling breeze on your skin. An ache forms in your chest.

Ellie twitches and there’s suddenly something anxious crackling in the air, the stillness of the sky before lightning strikes. She fidgets, and you wonder if you should let her go, but when you loosen your fingers, she doesn’t let go.  

You feel the intake of her breath, like she’s about to say something. You squeeze her hand one more time and then drop it, sitting up straight. 

She doesn't touch you again, and whatever she had been about to say goes unsaid. 

And that is the end of that. 

You stomp out the rest of the longing with a hard, sharp pinch. 

That wouldn’t do. It has no place. 

 A few days later, she brings you scissors, fidgeting and awkward about it when she asks if you’ll cut her hair. Her hair is wet from the creek, stuck down behind her ears and the back of her neck, and you want to tell her it’s cute. 

It’s decidedly not cute, the way she just stands there in the doorway in a bra and jeans, skin still damp. Her skin shimmers with wet, beads along her abdomen and at the base of her throat. It’s not cute, the thoughts you have or that way your mouth goes dry. 

You don’t say anything, just settle her in front of your only mirror and snip until she tells you to stop. You’ve never cut someone’s hair before, and it’s oddly intimate. The wet ends stick to your hands, the heat of her body feels more potent. She could have done this herself, is the worst part. You’ve seen her hack at it before by herself.  

You ruffle the ends of it when you’re done, inadvertently feeling the soft skin behind her ear, the back of her neck. She shivers but when you look up, she’s looking at herself in the mirror and you can’t decide what the expression on her face means. There’s something wobbly in her features, like she’s seeing something else, someone or someplace else. 

She doesn’t say to stop, so you keep snipping until her hair is shorter even than when you’d first seen her, combing your fingers through it as you go, feeling the unbearable heat of her skin against yours. 

You wish you could just bury your fingers there, step around her and press your hands against her jaw. You wonder what she would taste like, if her mouth is as soft as the skin behind her ear, what sounds she might make. 

Or, maybe she’d push you away. Maybe the tension in the air, the metallic twang of it, is all in your head. 

Eventually, Ellie says thank you, her voice barely there in its softness.

It’s not an accident when you brush your fingers through her hair again, just to touch her again. She laughs under her breath and the sound is awkward and it startles you and you know you made a mistake when you look up and meet her eyes in the mirror. 

It’s awkward and weird because you’re making it awkward and weird. 

You hastily pull your hand away and busy yourself with putting the shears away, not turning until you hear the door open and shut.  

“Oh, man.” The soft reverence of her voice makes you jump. 

“Ellie?” You call, letting the pile of clothes you’d been pawing through slump to the ground. It’s the end of summer, and you’re already on the hunt for winter gear, though you suspect the weather won’t turn for a while. Cold could set in so quickly and you don’t want to be caught without, especially since Ellie doesn’t have anything more substantial than her jacket, and it seems like she’s not planning to leave. “What is it?”

“I’m okay,” she answers and you realize how panicked you sounded. “C’mere.”

You move to the next room, where she’s sitting on the floor, more relaxed than you’ve ever seen her before. There’s a cardboard box in front of her that she shuffles eagerly through. “What?”

“Savage Starlight.” She holds up one of the books from within, flimsy pages falling apart. “Have you ever read it?” 

“Never even heard of it,” you answer and sit next to her on the ground, the crest of your knee pressing against her thigh, shoulders bumping together. It means nothing, and still makes your stomach twist up in knots. “Is it any good?” 

“It’s fucking awesome. I used to have a whole collection of them.” 

Used to. You wonder, not for the first time, where she came from, where she had been going when you called out to her that first day, why she’s so content to stay with you. Like a wanderer who hadn’t known she could stop walking. 

Instead of asking, you say, “Ohhh, I get it. You’re a nerd.” 

“Oh, ha ha. Fuck you.”

You snort. 

“Is that the only one in there? Have you read that one?” 

She flicks through it and nods, the corner of her mouth twisting to the side. “Yeah. A long time ago, though.” Ellie doesn’t say more, but her hand lands on your knee for just a second, smoothing back and forth, then squeezing as she gets up. The little book gets tucked lovingly into her backpack, though she doesn’t seem interested in looking through the rest of them. 

“When?” You ask, not looking up at her as you shift through the box she left behind. Not all of them are Savage Starlight comics but quite a few of them are, and you have half a mind to pick some of them out and bring them back with you if she liked them so much.  

You’ve never been a very good reader, but it’s not like you’d had a chance to become one. Reading didn’t help you much with surviving. 

But the same character is on the front of each issue, so they’re easy to tell apart, even if the shapes of the letters are familiar but indecipherable to you.

“What?” 

“When’d you read it last?” You ask again, plucking out another book and turning your face up to hers. Dust motes float thickly in the air, partially obscuring her face, sun slanted through the haze blinding you. 

She won’t answer, you think. She never does. Hurt would flash across her face, then grief, and then she’d turn away. This time she doesn’t. Though she doesn’t really look at you, she makes brief what you think is probably a very long story — came all the way from Boston when she was a kid, found them along the way, somehow, collected them. 

“That’s a long way,” you say, trying to remember exactly where Boston is and just coming up with pretty fucking far. “Boston. I can’t imagine it. Who’d you come all this way with? And why?” You dare to ask.

This time, she doesn’t answer you.

It happens the next time you’re out hunting for supplies. 

You crawl through a gap between a collapsed wall and a bookcase and find yourself in a music store. Normally, you do everything quietly, silently. But it was a good day, with lots of finds, lots of lucky finds, and you and Ellie have been goofing off all afternoon, laughing. You feel young, like a kid. She’s been telling jokes again, and even if you can tell she’s memorized them from somewhere and laughs like she isn’t the one telling the joke, you find them funny too. 

The day feels like sunshine. 

It’s weird. And you like it. 

It’s nice, you’re slowly coming to realize. 

Not being alone is nice. 

Despite Ellie’s protests, you crawl through the gap first, not even waiting for her to finish cleaning out a drawer containing an ancient medkit, several spools of needle and thread, and one lone shotgun shell. 

It’s been a couple months, but you used to regularly come through this way, and so you aren’t expecting the runner that slams into you almost immediately, or the one that follows. 

The only distant thought you have is that you must have been making too much noise, which is odd because you don’t make noise, you don’t even talk. 

But you do, now, you do. 

Having Ellie around has unmade your silence. You hope it kills you, if it comes to it, so you don’t have to do it yourself if it gets its teeth in you. 

There’s a ringing gunshot, the explosion of corroded flesh. The noise surprises you and you yelp, decaying teeth snapping at your face. You can feel your arm giving out under the weight of it. 

You only struggle for a few more seconds, arm braced against its jaw and throat before a shower of viscera rains down on you. Ellie rips her knife back out of its skull and you push the thing off you and roll to your feet. Ellie is staring at you and breathing heavily, brow pinched and mouth flat. It’s both lucky and strange that there only seems to be two of them. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” She snaps, or maybe growls, so suddenly into the ensuing silence that you flinch. “Why the fuck didn’t you wait? I told you to wait for me.” 

“I used to come this way all the time,” you say, swiping the blood from your face on your shoulder and resisting the urge to do the same to her, omiting the words before you showed up. “There’s usually nothing here.” 

“Well there was this time, wasn't there?” She asks, spreading her arms wide. 

You scoff and shake your head, not really understanding why she’s upset. “Whatever, Ellie, c’mon. It’s fine. Let’s just get out of here.” 

“Are you bit?” 

“What?” 

“Did that fucking thing bite you?” Her voice is shrill and tipped with sharp panic. 

You blink and glance down at yourself. “No. No. I mean, I don’t think so?” 

Ellie grabs you roughly, looking you over herself, hands everywhere, pressing into all the places you’ve always wanted her to touch you, though not in this way. Her search of you is clinical, business-like. “Clean,” she assesses, fingers tangled in your shirt, grip tight. 

And then, “Why aren’t you upset?” She asks hotly. She readjusts your jacket with a yank before stepping back and shoving you away, just a little. You stumble and catch yourself against the decaying counter. She looks guilty for a split second before she crosses her arms. 

“What’s there to be upset about?” You ask, bewildered. If it happened, it happened; and that would be that. “Why the fuck are you so mad?” Frustration creeps into your voice. “Either explain it or let it go. Nothing happened.”  

Ellie unfolds her arms, stance widening, eyes searching yours, brow pinched. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You aren’t but something tells you that would be the wrong thing to say. Instead, you shrug again and try to explain yourself. Maybe you aren’t being clear. 

“It doesn’t matter, right? It’s just how things go sometimes. I wouldn’t have made you do it, you know,” you say. Something settles in you. That’s it, she wouldn’t have wanted to clean up your mess. “Shoot me, I mean. I would have done it myself. It’s okay.”  

But that just seems to make her more angry and she doesn’t answer your question. The rest of the day is spent in relative silence, and anything you say immediately dies in the air, words buried before they breathe.

You clear the music store, and then the place next to it, some kind of sporting goods store. She hurries you along. No more jokes or stories or messing around. Just get out, out, out. Out of this place, down the path past the fence, back to the cabin. 

She’s fine at first, just angry with you, until she suddenly isn’t.

It happens as soon as she crosses the threshold into your cabin, the door swinging shut behind her. 

Ellie sounds like she had that first day you saw her, like she does when she wakes up from dreaming, breathing hard like she’s been running for a long time, like a wounded animal. And you still aren’t sure what to do to help her, if there’s anything at all you can do. 

The way she clutches at her chest and then at you, scares you and all you can do is latch on and not let go, and hope it’s enough. You circle your arms around her and squeeze as hard as you can. It seems to help, the pressure of your arms around her, crossed firmly over her spine, fingers knotted together at the base of her back. 

You sink to the floor together, not able to support both of you.

Her skin is tacky against yours when her breathing evens out again. You don’t realize how tense her body is until she goes slack in your arms. “Are you all right? You ask eventually, the sun sinking lower, shadows moving across the floor, trying not to show how much she’s scared you. 

“Yeah.” Her voice snaps a little but she doesn’t move and lets you pet the hair back from her forehead.

“Okay.” You tighten your arms around her. “Okay.” 

You stay there cocooned together on the floor. When dark finally starts to settle in, Ellie finally moves, mumbling something under her breath that you don’t quite catch. 

You aren’t sure if you should say something about it and you know that she won’t. “Ellie—”

She pulls away from your arms, the breeze that slips between you almost cold, without the warmth of her against you. You tighten your grip and expect her to fight it, but something in her seems to break and softens into you again. 

“Ellie, what happened?” 

“Nothing.”

Darkness creeps in, you stay on the floor together, hand against her spine and in her hair. She presses her face into your shoulder. It’s oddly vulnerable, but maybe it’s easier in the dim light, like it had been that night by the creek, maybe she doesn’t have the energy not to be, after whatever had upset her earlier. 

It takes a long time, almost all night, curled together on the floor, but eventually, when she must think you’re asleep, she whispers, “I don’t want to be alone again.” 

You aren’t sure how to answer, not sure how to say that you don’t want that either, and not sure what today had to do with it. 

Instead of saying something, you rub circles into the top of her shoulders and hope it’s enough. 

Summer is ending, but some days of late summer are still hot. 

The grass is dry with it, and you’re worried about the creek drying up. It hasn’t rained all summer. 

What will you do then? If the creek is gone? The creek is always there, not only for water but for food. 

You worry about food a lot and you worry about Ellie eating. 

She’s never hungry, even when you remind her she hasn’t had anything all day. 

“I’m just not,” she says dismissively and waves you away from her, like someone swatting away a gnat. 

It’s horrible, the way you just let her shoo you away. 

Sometimes you’re able to leave her alone about it, other times you aren’t and make a big deal about it until she finally eats something, or drinks water at the very least. And you know it’s just to appease you, and you like that and hate it all in one. 

You don’t talk about why she doesn’t eat and you don’t talk about why you can’t let it go when she doesn’t. 

“Look what I have,” you often say, enthusiastic and encouraging before you’ve even asked her to try whatever it is you’ve foraged. You’ll crouch beside her and lean into her arm and show her whatever you found. Often, her arm will brace against your back to steady you in place, fine fingers curled on your hip. You must look pathetic doing it because it’s obvious what your play is, but she’ll always try whatever you have cupped in your palms.  

Roasted fish, a handful of blackberries, dried rabbit, apples sliced in thin little sheaves.

Still, she eats. And you notice it on her bones. 

It makes you feel better. 

One day, in early fall the rain finally comes back. It rains so hard that you can’t hear yourself think over the drum of it against the roof. 

You stay inside that day. You’re used to going out with Ellie, now, though. You find yourself restless, pacing. There’s not much to do inside the small space besides eat and cook and sleep. Usually you don’t spend much time inside, and you can’t remember what you did on days like these before Ellie showed up. 

What did you do when it rained? Mended clothes and sorted through supplies and food, probably, or else did other tasks you saved for bad days. It’s hard though, because the place has never felt smaller, and everything is warm and damp, and you’re having trouble keeping your eyes from skirting over the girl lounging on the bed in the corner of the room, her back propped against the wall. 

Ellie fidgets, too, but less than you do, and she’s never looking at you when you’re looking at her, and so maybe she isn’t looking at all. 

What did it matter if she did or didn’t look? 

The thought makes that anxious warm feeling that lives in your chest constantly these days bubble up to the back of your throat. You feel like you’re going to throw up every time you look at her for too long.

It fucking matters, because you want her to be looking, you want it so badly it forms a wellspring of hurt in the center of your chest. It’s so hard to just be inside with her, with nothing to distract you. 

“Why don’t you try reading something?” She says and holds up the comic she’d found months ago now. You don’t make a move to take it and she holds it out instead. 

You remember the way she looked at the cover, the softness around her eyes and mouth, and know she’s trying to tell you something important, share something about herself. It makes the cage around your heart soften, the fluttering of your pulse slow a little. “I can’t,” you say gently and then look down at your feet. “Read, I mean,” you hurry to clarify when her face starts to close up, “at least not too well.” 

Surprise lingers long in the silence, green eyes wide, brows propped up. “You can’t read?” 

“I. . .No. I guess not.”

“But you found a lot of these for me,” she says, disbelieving. 

“They all have that girl on the front,” you explain, suddenly feeling like you might cry over something stupid. “Sorry.” 

She looks at you for a minute, her mouth twitching down and to the side before she glances at the cover again. “I can—if you want, I guess—I mean, I can read it to you.” 

You feel bad and embarrassed and the rain is loud and you can’t think. You’ve never really felt stupid or embarrassed before, you were always alone so who could you compare yourself to, to feel those things? “Uh,” and your voice cracks and you clear it and it’s worse. “That’s all right. You don’t have to.” 

Who fucking cares if you can’t read? What did reading get you anyway?

Reading didn’t put food in your belly or puzzle out how to get past infected or learn to string a bow. It didn’t do shit for you. 

But it suddenly seems really important that you can’t.

“I used to know how, a little,” you say even though you mean to say nothing at all. You cross your arms over your chest and you can’t help but notice her eyes follow the movement. You don’t know what’s better or worse, being looked at by her and noticed, or not. Your face feels warm. “But we left the—the QZ when I was little. And it wasn't important anymore. So, whatever I knew, I guess I forgot.”

“How long have you been here?” She asks, brows furrowing, and you hear the other, unasked, question, how long have you been alone? 

“Years.” You nod to yourself. “A long time. My mom didn’t think it was important. It was just me and here so how could I — I mean, the only people that ever came by took whatever they could and left. So.” 

The wrinkle in her forehead deepens and then disappears. “Come here.” She pats the space on the bed next to her and peels the comic open. “I’ll help you remember how.” 

The pity stings a little. 

“You don’t—” 

She rolls her eyes. “Just fucking—come here. I want to show you something.” 

Slowly, you creep forward and sit next to her, watch her spread the pages out with the spindly fingers that occupy so many of your thoughts against her bent knees. Comic books are mostly pictures and you could have probably feigned being able to read it, but some part of you wanted her to know. You didn’t want to lie to her about it. 

Reading, she spent so much time doing it since you found the comics and books. It was important, so it would have been hard to lie about it to her, or just pretend that you could. 

The letters are familiar, but her voice is soothing and the words resolve themselves a little in your mind. You let your head loll down onto her shoulder, feeling the bone beneath your ear, the rush of blood and the last reverberation of her voice. 

It’s like that night at the creek all over again. Your body is a yearning want that you don’t push down fast enough. 

Between the rain and the letters dancing on the page and her voice, you find yourself very close to sleep. You don’t realize she stopped reading or flipping the pages until you feel her mouth against your head. Just the faintest brush of it against your hairline, the slowest inhale against your skin, like she’s memorizing your scent. 

She must really think you’re asleep because when you tilt your face up, she glances away, pink siphoning into her cheeks. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, the word barely audible. 

Caught. 

“Sorry,” she says more clearly, not looking at you, still blushing furiously, shifting awkwardly.

You pull back a little, worried she doesn’t want you leaning on her anymore. “Ellie?” You cup her jaw in your palm, but she resists your attempt to tilt her head in your direction. Her skin is warm beneath your hand. She still doesn’t look at you, her hair falling over your fingers. 

 The feeling of mistake floods your chest, all the reasons and worries you harbored not to do something like this, to show your cards. You feel like maybe you should apologize too. 

One moment she isn’t looking at you at all, and then she is and she’s kissing you. It’s soft and tentative and you’re so surprised you don’t do anything for a solid five seconds. Long, aching seconds in which your mind screams and short circuits all at once. 

Ellie pulls away a little, her lips brushing yours, elegant, deadly, fingers digging into your jaw and your hip. 

You exhale and then pull her back, tasting and still soft. Her lips are chapped, bitten, and somehow—

Somehow, it’s nice. 

It’s better than nice, it’s—

Your head swims. 

She pulls back again and looks at you, eyes swiveling between both of yours, green eyes dilated, like this is some great surprise to her too. “I didn’t think—I mean, I thought maybe you weren’t—”

“Well,” you say, tipping your chin up and trying not to swallow the words back down, “you were wrong.” 

This time, it’s aggressive, the pull of you into her; the rearrangement of limbs and bodies to better fit together. 

The rain continues on, lighter now, the tattoo of it quieter. 

Her tongue slips into your mouth, her chilled fingertips sliding down your back and then into your jeans. You jump, because her hands are cold and her face against yours is so warm, and maybe you weren’t delusional or wrong because she’s touching you everywhere. 

She tastes warm. Her skin is damp, a warm human humid. 

Her fingers slide to your waist, blunt nails digging into your skin, leaving half moons behind. You gasp against her mouth, tendrils of want wrapping tight around your body, curling uselessly in your belly, and slide your fingers into her hair, soft, short strands slipping against your palms, and pull her as close as you can, her hips settled against the cradle of yours. 

It feels different to the other times you’ve been with someone, and maybe it's because you know this is not in exchange of something, that this time it isn’t to survive the moment or the day.  

She jagged against you, boney and lithe in places she probably shouldn’t be, but less so than a few months prior. There’s so much you don’t know about her, but maybe you’re starting to know the more important parts of her.

She pulls away when you push her back, tucking one leg around her, arm braced against the mattress by her head. 

“Ellie,” you say against her mouth and cup her cheek in one palm. She squeezes her eyes shut, pink skin bright beneath her freckles. She looks like she’s trying to hold back a smile. It makes you laugh a little. “What?” 

Her eyes flicker open. “Nothing.” But she is smiling now, and it’s a moment that feels so good, it doesn’t quite feel real.

The rain is still petering down, gentle tapping against the roof. “Nothing.” You wriggle closer to her. “Okay. So you wouldn’t mind if I—” 

You lean down and kiss her again, touching the side of her neck, the damp strands of her hair curling behind her ears all, all you want, to your heart’s content. And this time without worrying about what it meant. 

The side of her thigh presses into the meat of your hip, hands skimming down your sides, settling on the curve of your waist and then between your legs. 

You gasp against her mouth and tug at her hair. 

She’s close and not close enough, the teasing of her fingers through two layers of clothing a barely there brush. Her laugh is soft when you buck your hips against her hand. It’s not enough and she knows it. 

Ellie presses her fingers more firmly against your core before she slides her arms around you and tugs you down onto her. She strokes a hand across your shoulders and you find that you’re very close, nearly nose to nose, her thigh between both of yours.

Time passes quietly in that moment, the two of you just looking at each other. “Is it still nothing?” You ask, trying to memorize the shade of her eyes, that very precise color of green you swear you have never seen anywhere else before. “Or is this enough for now?”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes flicking away from yours, that pink color rising in her cheeks again. 

You press tightly against each other, so close you think you might be able to feel the hummingbird flutter of her heartbeat.

Her skin is tacky against yours, sticking and warm. When you move against each other, the rain has finally stopped and the only thing left is the humidity, the heat of the little room. 

You feel the comic book slap onto the floor. 

She groans when you kiss down her throat, across the soft skin of her chest. 

You want to see every part of her, slide your hands up her sides and beneath her shirt, peel away the layers of clothes that separate you from her, but you settle for this, the movement of you together, her hips grinding against yours, friction that is both nothing and everything, not enough and too much. 

The loneliness that has ruled your life for so long is nowhere to be found, the crater in the middle of your chest doesn’t ache so badly. 

You wonder if the wanderer might leave again, and decide it doesn’t matter.

You agree with her, this is enough for now. This is more than enough, for now, even just for a little bit, for this moment. 

She groans into your mouth, the sound quiet in the dusk that nestles along the floorboards, body jerking against yours, hands tightening on your waist, fingers of fire licking along your spine. 

“Did you—”

“Shut up,” she groans. 

“That’s hot.” 

“Just—come here,” she presses you back, lithe hands falling to your hips again, fingers digging beneath your shorts. “Just be quiet.” 

You don’t have another thought that night. 

Morning dawns pale and sunny. There’s a chill in the air but the rain has dissipated. 

Ellie is gone. 

The gnawing maw of loneliness and disappointment rips open in your chest. 

It’s painful, but not surprising. You won’t dwell on it, you think as you sit up.

You stand and look over your naked skin, the marks left on your skin, the whorls and swirls of desire left behind. 

You pull on your clothes from the day before, because they might still smell a little like her, they might remind you of her for a while. 

The sun feels warm on your skin when you step outside with your bow. The walk to the creek to check the net feels longer, the sun brighter and more overwhelming. You’d been alone before, you could certainly do it again. Things would be as they always had.  

Better this way, maybe. 

When you walk around the bend in the trees, you see her, hauling in the net, slender arm straining against the pull of the current.

The relief is so intense you have to stop, watch her for a long moment. The shine of her hair so bright and in need of another trim, forearms slick with water, battered sneakers kicked off to the side next to the rifle, pale skin marred with bruises your sucked into her skin. 

“Ellie,” you say. 

She hears you somehow, smiles a little shyly when she turns, rubbiung the back of her neck with her free hand. “Hey.” 

“You’re still here.” 

She shrugs as you get closer, brows furrowed. “Yeah, just getting breakfast.” 

“Oh. You—yeah, of course you are.” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

“Me too.” It surprises you, but she doesn't seem to think anything of her words. She jerks her chin at the flat rock you’ve spent so much time with her on, sketching and sunning and writing or drawing. “Sit down for a second. I want to tell you something.” 

You do as she asks, because she hardly ever wants to tell you anything. “What is it?” 

She leaves the net half in the water, two silver fish caught up in it, and swipes her hands on her jeans. You lean into her when she sits next to you, experimentally tilting your face toward hers, just to see what she’ll do. 

Ellie smiles, a real smile, big and toothy, before she kisses you. It’s soft. She has morning breath and you don’t mind. She smells metallic, like creek water or blood, like the cradle of lavender in the cabin.

“What did you want to tell me?” You ask softly, lips still brushing yours.

Hesitancy creeps into her features. “It’s kind of a really long story.” 

“Good thing we have time. For now, you know. Better just to get on with things while you can.” 

You mean it as a joke but she nods, her expression serious. 

And so the story begins. 

If you read this far, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Thank you for reading and being here, and as always would love to hear anything you have to share. 💕

[anniesworld69]

oh my goodness 😁😁

hit first and hit hard || challengers

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ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅꜱᴏɴ, ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴢᴡᴇɪɢ, ᴛᴀꜱʜɪ ᴅᴜɴᴄᴀɴ

— fem! reader

summary: 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀 𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗵𝘆

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴/𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴏʀ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ 3 ᴛᴏ 4 ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ!

​🇼​​🇴​​🇷​​🇩​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇳​​🇹​: 7.9k

𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨

It seemed almost trivial when you'd joined your middle school's tennis team as a favor for a friend. She'd prompted you with positive words and affirmations that it'd "just be for the season" and "for fun". Tennis hadn't even crossed your mind only being mentioned for the celebrity players like Billie Jean King or Andre.... well, they weren't important enough for you to remember them. Or the championship with the silly name, "Wimbledon", at first when you'd learned of it you'd thought it was made up.

But it wasn't and you were set up for tennis during your middle school career. But to the shock of yourself and others—you were a fucking good player. You sailed across the court in "gym shoes" (which were really Converse) and baggy school-issued shorts. Being a twelve-year-old girl running around the court and playing fervently was surely tiring but you worked hard and long, strenuous hours.

Every time you'd trip over yourself trying to catch a ball on the other side of the court, you'd get up. You were determined to be good at something; tennis would be it. You didn't particularly know what fired you to work so hard, especially, at a sport you'd joined as a joke.

It seemed strange but lit a deep fire when you stepped on the concrete court, staring at your opponent standing opposite. The fire nipped at your fingertips when you picked up the heavy racquet and the neon atrocity that was the ball.

It made you feel powerful when you slammed, although not the best serve at first, the ball across the court in a serve that would ensue the rally and the pure enigma that followed—the breath of life that was tennis.

You'd worked pretty hard with your doubles partner, the friend who'd invited you, and you both had managed to snag your state female youth's championships doubles title for ages 12 to 14. To say you were pleased was an understatement, you were thrilled. You'd thrown yourself into the sport for the newfound love of it, and it got your parents off of your ass about joining stupid, fucking 'extracurriculars'.

The year after, you were put into the girl's circuit matches during the year and played throughout. Your intense training paid off so much that you'd shed the doubles-only path and managed to play singles. Somehow, by the chance of something holy, you managed to get to the USTA Girls 14s National Championships just before the start of your freshman year.

𝙎𝘼𝙉 𝘿𝙄𝙀𝙂𝙊, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2002

14 years old and deathly terrified, you waltzed to San Diego where you were sure you'd meet your fate (death), to lose to people you were convinced were so much better than you. Even though your love of tennis had thrived, you weren't dumb.

You weren't exactly the richest girl on the block, unlike most tennis players. Tennis, you'd learned that to be extraordinarily good or at least decent, with not a lot of raw talent, required lessons; lessons (the good, professional ones) cost a lot of money. You had benefitted from the fact that your school coach was very dedicated once she'd gauged your true love of the sport and soon forced you into a training routine that you dutifully followed.

But all of that didn't matter as you stepped into the stadium. All that mattered was the talent that you possessed, not the rich girls in their juicy couture, that you wished you could steal off of their bodies, their pristine Nike tennis shoes, or their stupidly expensive tennis outfits. You had yourself and your fabulous Wet Seal white skirt that you'd hand sewn so it looked pleated, sorta.

You walked around the stadium for a while, trying to find the locker room to place your stuff down before your match started. It was against some girl with the sorta name that reminded you of the state of Idaho with how forgetful it was. Nevertheless, you sauntered around the halls until you heard a loud, distracting clamor that came from behind you.

The sound of very loud overlapping voices clouded your mind as they all repeated the same name as if gospel:

𝙏𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞 𝘿𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙣

You had turned your head slightly back to be met with a figure. A tall, beautiful girl entered your vision. And that was the beginning of the end for you.

She walked down the hallway with the entourage of players, adults, and coaches alike following around or behind her. Every step she took felt like the world shook around her, hair slicked back into a ponytail-braid, her outfit branded with some sports brand, and her face... A face that read of more conviction and drive than you'd ever seen in your short life.

You were still walking in an awkward position, head craned backward to gaze at the girl who was a few meters behind. She enraptured you, in more ways than one. It was strange how eye-catching she was, and she must've been popular too if she had everyone following her, or that was your thought process at least. Well you were thinking until from that stupid position you were in, you made eye contact with her.

Her deep eyes had met your own quickly, a flash of confusion on her face before it shifted back to its original stone confidence On the other hand, you had let out a small gasp of embarrassment (?) or some sort of flustered emotion, and scuttled along to the nearest door along the seemingly endless hall.

To your luck, it was the locker room, and even better it was emptier than a school library. Walking to the nearest bench you set your backpack down and let out a shutter, "Jesus Christ.."

You sighed and looked at yourself in the mirror, then began to change, and then you were ready. While you were lacing up your gym shoes, ACTUAL tennis shoes, your mind wandered to that girl again.

Tashi...it made your heart clench up and your palms sweat. Everything about today was beginning to make you panic, especially that girl, but you couldn't think about it much before your coach burst into the empty room. She hollered your name and her voice reverberated throughout the room— you blinked you were on the court and the stupid, forgettable girl stood on the other side of the 24 meters, doing whatever stupid, forgettable girls could do. You started your routine, blocking out anything that was deemed a distraction.

The match soon started, and everything seemed drowned out by you and the girl's grunts. The ball sailed across the net, again and again, but it seemed to be quite the easy game. The no-name girl couldn't backhand for her life and eventually, you caught her during the second set. The poor player simply couldn't take your, albeit shaky, jump serve and the ball barely skimmed the tip of her racquet.

You nearly felt bad for the girl, she looked so enraged when she lost. A forlorn battle cry left her lips, her racquet taking the brunt of the anger as it shattered. The girl's expression wrenched, she reminded you of a wounded animal being left for dead, or already on its way.

Bled out and begging.

Nevertheless, you bustled off the court and into the locker room, your coach had already congratulated you on your way out so you were stranded alone. The vibrant cobalt blue of the lockers almost blinded you upon entry but there were more pressing matters, there she was. "Good game," Tashi emitted, standing in the far back of the room. She looked less, terrifying than before... more human. A slight half-smirk or smile on her face flourished, it appeared almost natural.

"Oh! Thank you," You beamed, your smile widening at her praise, it'd felt like winning again. "It's my first time here so I was sorta hoping to win." A laugh escaped your lips awkwardly, slowly trotting over to where the other girl stood.

"I could tell, you looked as if you were about to like to shoot yourself or some shit," She chuckled drily, rummaging through her things while you stood there, like a statue. A very graceless statue.

"Yeah," You answered meekly with a laugh, though it sounded more like a squeak. You didn't know what about this girl made you sweat, you'd never heard of her, who the fuck was this bitch—Your stream of consciousness was soon cut off at the girl's gaze returning to you.

Tashi's expression had slightly toughened, but you chalked it up to being her opponent. She spoke once more, "Well, I got my game," She slung the huge bag over her shoulder and started on her way, before turning again to face you. "See ya..." She trailed off and awaited your name, giving you an expectant look.

Immediately you complied, sputtering out your name and watching the brunette's eyebrows raise in interest? Or that's what you assumed. Your name rolled off her tongue as she said it aloud, and then a second time to you, offering you that intense stare.

"Huh, well, see ya.." Then Tashi Duncan walked right out of the room. Something sparked in you as you saw the girl leave. You didn't know if it was loathing, admiration, or absolute fucking torment. Hell, to this day you don't know what it was. What you did know was that this girl was something; you wanted to be a part of that something. To be a part of her.

So you were.

𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙔𝙊𝙍𝙆 𝘾𝙄𝙏𝙔, 𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙔𝙊𝙍𝙆, 2006

𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘑𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳

The sun beaded down on the courts on the day of the US Open. Unforgiving in its light as it scorched the earth's wide terrain, making sure anyone who left the house that day within the sun's climax would surely get a foul burn. But it didn't matter, everyone was there on the day of the US Open. The fourth and final title any tennis player would need to get a Grand Slam and it all took place in the 'Greatest City' in the world as some say.

New (fucking) York.

You'd finally made it, US Open. It was juniors, sure, but the US Open itself felt like a badge of honor. Being here, aged 17, was everything you worked for the past five years. You felt like it was your birthday, Christmas, and waking up to see the goddamn tooth fairy all in one day. You'd walked past your opponent upon entering the court. Something you'd mastered within the past years was the benefit of the poker face. You set down your bulky bag on your side of the court, got your racquet out, and stretched. Your mind went silent as everything was called to a hush.

There was no coin flip, everyone knew who was serving first. But the question was, who would win?

Tashi had always been the better of the both of you.

You both stood, at opposing ends of the court, staring at each other awaiting the next move. Tashi gripped the ball like a vice and gazed at you. It honestly made you feel naked but you didn't show. There was no place in your world right now to fuck this game up. THWACK THWACK THWACK

The ball took its beating as it wafted from end to end on the green concrete. The loud sounds of grunts and cries intermingled, the sheer forces converging.

When playing with Tashi it almost felt as if you were one. Just as you knew what move she would make, she'd predict yours. You gave her your backhand, and she yielded a forehand. Play after play, you both gave a fight worth seeing. At this point it became a game of endurance, to see who could persist under each other's brutal grasp.

If it was a game of who wanted it badly enough Tashi would've won every single time. But a game of spite? That's something you couldn't afford to lose.

It was the last game. Tashi had won the first one, and you had won the second after managing a dive for a ball for a drop shot, subsequently, skinning practically half the skin off your right knee. But it was all worth it. The third game started with the serve and then you played like hell. Your body was not yours in that moment, it was the games. Your legs pounded into the concrete as they sidestepped, swerving and twisting your body to keep up with the rally. It felt as if the rally had gone on forever. You just needed to tie the set and you'd have the advantage.

You could tell Tashi was starting to break, she looked undoubtedly tired but wouldn't let up. The last hit she gave, a loud THWACK was sent across the court and you plunged to get the ball, it barely touched your racquet... The stands erupted in applause for Tashi as an expression of euphoria broke out upon your opponent's features. She won. "COME ON!" A loud battle cry ripped through her as her tennis racquet tumbled to the ground and a smile broke out on her features. A grin had even broken upon yours, watching your best friend win

Rather than shaking hands as typical at the end of a game, you ran to the net, leaped over it, and enveloped her in an air-tight hug. It was returned with the same amount of vehemence, and a peck to the apple of your cheek.

You wanted to slightly cry or maybe even frown at the aspect of losing but you couldn't. Tashi's win was your win, right?

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It's getting hot in here

So take off all your clothes

I am getting so hot...

The music hovered through the air as you and Tashi danced along the dance floor. The party on Long Island seemed a bit daunting to you, going to a social event right after a grueling day full of a tournament in the sweltering sun. But you sucked it up, put on your fetching little dress with high heels, and danced your heart out next to your best friend.

The dresses swung around in tandem while Nelly blasted through the speakers, you laughed with her hooking hands together, spinning throughout the floor.

While dancing you saw the chick Tashi had played before the final, she was sobbing to her parents, looking distraught. "God would you see that chick," You muttered to Tashi's ear, a small smirk forming.

She looked back at the girl, eyebrows raised and a surprised smile. Tashi spoke your name, "I never took you for a bitch," feigning a scold to you, and held your gaze, before busting out in a laugh.

You followed suit, giggling as well. The Russian girl had cursed Tashi out at the end of their match, needless to say, she wasn't the friendliest girl.

"Karma's a bitch, Tash!" A laugh slipped out of your mouth as you practically leaned on Tashi, keeping up dance in between you two. She looked down at you, smiling at your answer with that signature Tashi Duncan grin. Not exactly a smirk, but not an earnest smile.

You returned it, getting lost in her deep brown eyes for a moment, it felt as if on the floor it was just you two. You and Tashi dancing, you didn't know, and maybe would never know, that Tashi knew how you looked at her at that moment. She merely just didn't care.

However, your moment was interrupted by her words;

"Come on, I'm thirsty," She announced, still giving you that impish smile. You only nodded, your wrist was soon snatched up by your friend and promptly yanked off the dance floor. You followed Tashi, finding a cooler nearby, she snatched up two drinks and then led you onto some chairs.

Tashi down first, sipping whatever fruity nonalcoholic drink and you sat on the arm of the chair, of course. You sipped your own drink and stared out in the crowd, but something, no, some guys entered your peripheral vision— they were walking straight toward you. At first, all you could get from the figures was that one was blonde and the other brunette. Upon further inspection, they were the two doubles players, Fire and Ice.

This caused you to nudge your friend with your leg but they'd already appeared.

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

By some form of charm and fascination, you found yourself on the beach, smoking a cigarette and captivated by two young men. You came to find that their names were Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig and that they were undoubtedly head over heels. You had a sneaking suspicion they were already members of the Tashi Duncan Fan Club just based on their awestruck faces.

You sat on the rock next to your friend, legs crossed and head turned toward her before shifting to the ocean. A little smile had been laid on your features since meeting with them. They were so.. appealing. If that was a word to describe them. When asked earlier by Tashi, "Who was fire and who was ice?" There was no straight answer so you made one up yourself. "Y'know, I think I've figured you two out." You declared, turning your gaze to them. They both tore their gaze away from Tashi to you.

"What have you figured out?" Patrick inquired playfully, raising his brows unanimously.

"You're fire," You pointed directly at the brunette, "And you're ice." Then pointing to the blonde, a smug smile replaced the other as you took a puff of the cigarette. "Am I wrong?" Art chuckled at the assumption and shrugged, "I don't know is she, Patrick?" He asked his friend, matching your 'matter-of-fact' tone.

Patrick stared at you for a moment, his eyes sized you up, almost the way Tashi did. Confident, all-knowing. From the tips of your heels to the hilt of where your dress dipped into your chest, all the way up to meet your fierce eyes. He readjusted himself in his chair.

"That's up to you, Art." He replied, never breaking the eye contact. This time, Art didn't respond to anyone and only chuckled at the stupidity of the conversation. Though this didn't satiate you, before you could reply with another quip, your phone buzzed.

This caused your face to change as you whisked your shiny light pink Motorola Razr out of the strap of your heel to see who would be calling you—Your mother. "Damnit," You huffed, screening the call and clutching the phone. "Tash, it's my time to go." You started to stand up from the rock, as Tashi turned her head to gaze up at you.

"Your Mom?" "Yeah, who the fuck else." You muttered in annoyance, brushing off the sand that stuck to your leg. Tashi sent you a sympathetic look but she already knew this routine, it wasn't any new to her that your mom would want you back home. Especially, if she knew you were out with random boys.

"Hey, I gotta go, my mom's calling me." You announced to the rest of the company with an awkward grin and some weird hand motion where you limply pointed past them. "Aw really," Patrick whined playfully, "We'll miss you so much," He took a sip of his Coke with a smirk. "Do you really have to go?"

Art joined in, "Yeah, are we that terrible?" He asked teasingly, his lips upturning into a grin that mirrored his friend.

A slight flush had flitted across your face, the awkwardness replaced with a sense of sheepishness. Your reply died on the tip of your tongue as a familiar hug enraptured you from behind. "Oh don't scare her, she's shy. Aren't you?" Tashi jested, giving the boys a flippant glare, her head leaning on the crook of your neck.

You scoffed lightly and rolled your eyes, "No, just tired." A small huff left your lips as you leaned back into your friend's grasp, before turning around and hugging her back tightly. You loved your best friend deeply, she'd chosen you from the start and you still were in awe.

Pulling away from the hug, Tashi kissed the apple of your cheek as always and you grinned.

"Bye Tash," You chirped, finally leaving the sandy rock and onto the beach, passing by the boys before you were stopped by their silly farewells.

"Rude, no goodbye?" Patrick shouted, incredulously with a grin.

Art called out your name, "Bye, I'll see you at Stanford!"

You let out a small giggle to yourself as you skipped off back to your hotel. The boys stared at your figure as it got smaller and smaller, away in the distance.

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Later that night, while lounging in your room, watching stupid mindless late-night television there was a knock at your door. Perplexed, you walked over to the door and opened it to reveal your best friend.

"Tashi?" You asked tiredly, "What the hell are you doing here?" Your eyebrows drew together at her devious smirk, the way she looked at you made you think she was about to tell you something you really weren't gonna like.

"Well, you remember those two boys?" She inquired with her Cheshire smile, and you nodded slowly. "They want us to go to their room!" Tashi squealed, grabbing you by the shoulders happily.

Your expression shifted to one of confusion, "You mean they want you," You corrected with a thin, wiry smile.

Tashi scoffed, "No, they said 'Bring your hot friend too', " She moved her hands from your shoulders to connect with your own. "Please? It'll be fun I swear! They have beer!"

"Tash, I don't know about this," You pouted, trying to appeal that you didn't want to go, "Maybe we should think about this, I mean-" You were unfortunately cut off by her hauling you out of your room by your wrists.

"No, we're going, it'll be fun," Tashi stated with vitality as if it were fact rather than opinion. She pulled you through the corridors of the hotel, which conveniently, you learned, the boys were staying in the same one.

It seemed never-ending, the red and green carpeting looked dirty, and looking at the skeevy carpet did not help the unsettling feeling you had in your stomach. It just didn't make sense that they both wanted you there or maybe the idea of being desirable by guys that hot threw you off a bit.

"Tashi, please promise me that I'm not just being brought along so one guy doesn't hide in that bathroom while you fuck the other?" You look at her desperately, trying to search for an answer that registers in your brain. Tashi only ignored your question by giving you an expression that read, 'Shut up, you'll be fine'.

You've gotten that look throughout your friendship but it felt more militant now. So, you did shut up and kept on walking until eventually the red-carpeted trail ended at room 206, that was when Tashi released you from her iron grip and you two stood at the door.

The sound of the knock echoed throughout the empty hotel halls. There was silence and no one opened the door. The second time you knocked, more like pounded, but a knock nonetheless. Rustling and hushed voices were heard on the other side of the door, causing you and Tashi to both giggle a bit to yourself before the door was opened.

"Hi,"

"Hey,"

They welcomed you into the room, though they both looked reddened and disheveled. The room smelled like cigarettes and looked sloppy as fuck, but what would you expect from two teenage boys?

You and Tashi both took seats on the carpeted floor, and you brought your legs to a criss-crossed position while the boys took the spots across from you two.

"So, did you take like Mommy and me classes together or what?" Tashi asked teasingly, earning chuckles from around the circle. "You guys just seem like brothers."

Art laughed, "Well that's what the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy will do for you," A laugh simmered once more and you quirked your eyebrow.

"Shit, you guys went to boarding school for tennis?" A curious grin blossomed across your face, "I didn't know they had actually had those."

Patrick nodded his head, "Yep, I've been bunkmates with him," he pointed a finger toward Art, "Since we were 12."

You bobbed your head, "That makes sense," The beer can was finally passed to you and you took a sip. "You both definitely have a gayness to you."

Tashi laughed at your words as the boy's faces dropped, not expecting those words to spill from you. It was deathly silent other than you and Tashi's giggling.

"Well, are you?" Tashi asked between laughs, earning another loud laugh from the two of you at Patrick's smirk and Art's panicked spluttering to defend himself and his friend.

"No, we're NOT gay," He corrected with a nervous smile, "Just because people go to boarding school doesn't mean they're gay. It wasn't even all boys, there were girls too." Art seemed pleased with his own explanation but that didn't stop the onslaught of giggles between you and your friend.

"Okay, sure," You snorted, taking another sip of the beer before it was snatched out your of grasp by Patrick. You shot him a playful glare to only be met with one back.

"Though, does this happen often?" Tashi questioned the boys with a flirtatious gaze, "You bring back two girls to your room?" "Or do you usually..?" The words died on the tip of your tongue as you finished the sentence, giving them an expectant expression. A few seconds passed by with no one speaking until...

"Well..." Patrick started, making you and Tashi wheeze in amusement as Art immediately cut him off.

"No."

That was the beginning of the tale of how Patrick taught Art to jerk off. Though you didn't find the conversation all that interesting, hearing about juvenile masturbation wasn't the topic you wanted to listen to. So, you began to space out until the question was turned on the both of you.

"What about you two?" Patrick asked sleazily, a permanent smirk written on his face. "Ever get lonely so you both..." The sentence hung in the air as you and Tashi glanced at each other. You didn't want to answer that question as that was truthfully some personal information that may or may not be true; luckily, Tashi was better at these things.

"That's for us to know and for y'all to find out," She passed the beer to you and you graciously took it from her hands. You resolved to be a bit of an asshole and finish the beer.

"We're out of beer," You put the can down on the carpet and looked at the rest of them, smiling thinly. Internally you were hoping this meant going back to your hotel room and returning to watching infomercials, but unfortunately, that's not what happened. What happened is something that truly signals the beginning of the intertwining between you and these individuals.

Tashi stood up first, her gaze as heavy as lead as she looked down upon the rest of you. The mood of the room had unmistakably shifted into one you weren't sure of, she sauntered to the bed and sat down on it. Her eyes settled on you first as she used her finger to signal you to the bed. You stood up and followed her command senselessly, not knowing what exactly was going to occur.

The two boys had watched the interaction intensely, you hadn't noticed but Tashi did. She always did. Her eyes darted to the boys and then you and a mischievous glint highlighted in her eyes.

She grabbed you by the cheek and stared strongly into your eyes. Your already skittish smile turned to one of confusion as you were confused about what exactly your friend was planning.

Tashi leaned really close to your ear and whispered, "Let's give them the show of their fucking lives," and so you did.

Her lips crashed to yours and before you knew it you were making out with Tashi Duncan. One of her hands had slipped from your face to your ass, and she seized it causing you to exclaim slightly into the kiss but nothing to stop you from it. The intense kissing and touching went on for a while, and her soft hands slid on your exposed thighs as your own hands stayed stationary on her own cheek and waist.

Tashi had pulled away first, her lips pouted from the kissing, to look at you with that same bold gaze but it soon left you in favor of the people who were still on the floor. Your eyes followed her gaze until it landed on them as well; they looked absolutely hungry.

The way they both looked at you reminded you of ravenous lions hunting their prey in the wild. Your hand clutched at Tashi's hair when your mind came to the revelation that the way the boys stared at you made your body feel hot. Hotter than it already was from your make-out session with Tashi.

"Well, are you gonna sit there and watch or join us?" In a flash, the boys clumsily ran to the bed, Art on yours, Patrick on hers. As soon as Art could even lay his eyes on you, his hands and lips followed. Hot kisses were laid on your jugular, but it didn't feel too lascivious, it felt pristine. His touch was soft and once he had dipped his head all the way to your sternum (thank god you had won a tank top), he pulled it away and laid his lips onto yours.

Art's lips were soft and moved rhythmically against yours, you kept up fine and collected his downy blonde curls in your hands. You managed to obtain dominance in the kiss, legs slipping together and locking in with his, your body soon taking precedence over him. His hands moved up and down the small of your back, subtle sounds emitting from his lips that one could classify as moans. It made you feel hotter inside, a deep pool of something warm had clouded your entire bloodstream, only fueled by every movement from the boy who so desperately kissed you. It felt nice to be wanted.

With the eagerness of your own fling you'd forgotten there was an opposite party within your midst, and they were getting it on in the same manner. But what you didn't expect was for Tashi, over the lewd noises, to say anything during the liaisons.

"Okay, switch."

Soon after you removed yourself from Art, begrudgingly, and were snatched up by Patrick. Patrick proved to be the rougher lover, skipping the foreplay and immediately rushing into raw, teeth-clashing kisses that shook you to your core. His hands felt like hot wax over your body as he palmed your breasts and the other slipped into your shorts and onto the smooth skin of your ass, delightfully exemplified by the shortness of them. His kisses were desperate and borderline depraved, you'd never been kissed so passionately before you practically didn't know what to do. Yet you'd let him take the lead after a while, his hand had slipped up from your ass to beneath your shirt, toying with the back of your bra.

Unfortunately for Patrick, the moment was cut abruptly by Tashi, with her ever-persisting smirk, pulled away from Art and nudged him toward you and Patrick, seeing what would transpire. The blonde had slid toward your left and started attacking an open space left at the arc of your neck, leading the brunette to sway to your right side of your neck.

Your whole body felt like it was ablaze, the touch of them both was overwhelming, and the skin-on-skin contact from both boys discerned a deep feeling being dug from you. Your eyes had been wired shut since your switch over to Patrick; they fluttered open for a wink to see one of the most erotic scenes that wouldn't even be found in the chasms of your mind.

Tashi stood a few feet away drinking in the sight with an unreadable but smirking expression. You couldn't tell if she loved the sight because it turned her on, or if she loved that she had this much control over the three of you. Faces and bodies tangled and lips slowly traveled up to your earlobes, and your eyes shut once more as the sensation of the boy's lips traveled to your own within their trail. However, you soon pulled away as the sensation of two people kissing you at once wasn't really a turn-on.

Regardless, by the power of your two open hands, you pushed their heads together as they soon mindlessly locked lips, hands leaving you and they pawed at each other. Leaning back, you watched the scene unfold with ardent interest. This was almost as hot as experiencing it, you suspected as your own smirk spread across your features.

Their kissing continued for a while, you and your best friend watching the boys thoroughly lock lips. But, the moment was not to last, Tashi stepped over and took your wrist, drawing you away from the sinful scene and back into reality.

"Okay, we're done," Tashi announced, a quaint smile on her face while you appeared positively confused and flushed, "It's been nice."

The boys stopped their kissing shortly after to give you both a baffled expression. They both glanced among the two of you, their eyebrows drawn in a line as they tried to configure what the fuck just happened. Patrick always assumed, to this day, that Tashi was just jealous of not being the 'center of attention'. Art, on the other hand, found Tashi to be envious but not about what Patrick presumed about.

"But what about your numbers?" Art asked, sitting up and looking very alarmed. Patrick assumed the same position and expression, they almost looked like twins, if it weren't that they were distinguishable in every way possible.

Tashi paused for a moment, she looked to be in deep thought to the naked eye, but you knew her—she'd planned this. "Well, you'll play for them of course," The words rolled right off her tongue, a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. Expressionless, you turned your gaze back to the boys as they looked stunned.

Tashi looked at you to continue, "Oh, uhm...Yeah, may the best player win.." Your cheeks started to burn once more from the mortification from whatever this tryst was finally setting into your brain. The other girl seemed pleased with your answer and toted you along to the door.

She opened it partly, looking them over with that stare, before saying, "We wanna see some good fucking tennis."

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𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙁𝙊𝙍𝘿, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2007

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺

Hunger hurts

But I want him so bad

Oh, it kills...

Fiona Apple spilled from the shitty iPod you'd set up in a glass cup as a speaker, working on whatever homework was given to you in your classes. Outside of hitting a ball with a stick, you would like some life skills, so... well your major was something you could worry about later. All that mattered now was two things; Tennis and your friends.

Surprisingly, you weren't a complete social reject and you did have friends outside of Tashi and Art, but they weren't actually welcomed. Tashi could fake many things but fake friendliness? She couldn't bring herself to that low level.

Speak of the devil, Tashi waltzed into your room, clad in athleisure. "God why are you listening to wrist-slitting music," She inquired humorously, an impish smile playing on her face, "Lighten the fuck up, this is California."

"What the fuck do people listen to in California?" The slam of your textbook echoed in the small room while Tashi sauntered to your bed. You leaned back and soon your head was in between her knees and you looked up to her.

"I don't know Pitbull?" Her finger flicked at your nose and you flinched, groaning in the process. "Really?" You asked warily, finally standing up with a crack to the back, "That's news to me..."

The girl giggled at your fatigue and let out a sigh, "You're so lame," Rolling your eyes in response you sighed yourself and trained your vision on her. "So, what's up? Why'd you come from your 'precious time with Patrick', " You mocked, "To see me?"

Tashi scoffed, "You're so damn dramatic," She uttered your name with gusto, moving to make space as you dropped onto the bed. The silence was comfortable, the two of you laying there and staring at the popcorn dorm ceiling.

"I think Patrick is in love with someone else."

Sitting up on the bed, your eyes shot down to Tashi's face. Her expression wasn't even of sadness, anger, or anything you could gage as negative. She just looked bored. "What do you mean, 'in love' with someone else?"

She shrugged and looked away from you, "That's just what Art told me the other day after practice," The bed shifted as she turned her whole body to face you. "He mentioned something about Patrick just wanting this to be a sort of fling, or that he wasn't 'committed' enough for me."

A small scoff left your lips, and a skeptical look passed over your features. "How could Patrick not be in love or committed? It's you, Tashi, he's not gonna do any better." You proclaimed affectionately, trying to present a sense of hope for your friend but you knew the dramatic irony of all of this.

Tashi took in your words with a thin smile and nodded, then yawned. "I don't truly care, you know that," Your name fell from her lips, "I just want to rest now if that's fine with you." A reply didn't come from you as you watched her slowly descend into an unprompted nap.

The music still played softly through the room while you were left alone with your thoughts. You knew two things now; One, Art Donaldson was a shady bitch. Two, now he had made it your problem and you were keen on solving it.

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"Art!" The echo of your voice thundered across the Stanford Tennis Courts, provoking the boy to look your way. You stormed into the court with a dynamic expression and at first Art had waved to you with a grin on his features but soon gauged that you looked like you were about to bash his head in.

The distance between you two lessened and lessened, quick strides made til you were feet apart. "Art Donaldson, what the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"Playing... Tennis?" He replied in bewilderment, a gesture to the empty court was made with his racquet that was still in hand. "What's up?" He seemed genuinely confused, which only fueled the wrath you held.

"No, Art, you're not playing fucking tennis, you're playing damn mind games!" Spitefully, you slapped the racquet out of his hand and maintained his gaze. A gloss of paleness overrun Art and his confused expression shifted to one of bitterness.

"Listen, whatever you've heard about-"

You cut him off, "No, what I've heard about is that you're spewing bullshit to both of my friends and I don't fucking like it." Art scoffed and rolled his eyes at your statement, "What bullshit is that?" He challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.

"That Tashi doesn't love Patrick and Patrick doesn't love Tashi," You replied with vigor, narrowing your eyes at his aloofness about your remarks. The blonde gave you a thin smile, "And?"

It took a great amount of restraint to not punch his face in as being an asshole is something you'd never taken Art for. "And? What do you mean and?" You paused for a beat to see if he'd respond, it stayed quiet. "You're fucking up both of our friend's love lives," You continued, "That's, oh I don't know? Wrong?"

He had looked like he was listening but still said nothing to you. "Well? Have you anything to say for yourself? About your actions?" This did cause Art to let out a long sigh and meet your eyes.

"I mean, what do you want me to do?" He asked you tiredly, "Watch my best friend basically leave the girl of my dreams for weeks at a time, to come back for only 5 seconds to then leave again?"

It struck a despairing chord within you when he uttered the phrase 'girl of my dreams' but tried to not let it phase you. It wasn't about you, it never was, it was about Tashi.

"Yes, Art! That's exactly what I want you to do," You groaned with annoyance at his selfishness, it amazed you how selfish this boy was. "You're supposed to push your feelings aside for your friends, Art," Admonishing him finally seemed to make him look even smaller in front of you as his shoulders slightly sagged.

He looked up at you for a beat, with those sad teardrop-blue, puppy dog eyes begging for pity. You almost gave in like last time, quarreling and then awakening up to find yourself in his bed the next morning, but it wouldn't be like last time. You were soft back then, you had to stand on business.

When you didn't budge he looked even sadder if that was possible but you kept your gaze on him, "I know it's hard to think of what would've happened if you'd won that match. At this point ask for a rematch if you're this desperate," You grumbled, but this caused Art to perk up a bit with, finally, a passionate look in his eyes to match yours.

"Oh, shut up," Art snarled, "You're so fucking hypocritical as if no one sees the way you look at Patrick. Or the way Patrick looks at you," A nervous flush soon reddened your face, you couldn't deny he was right.

There were flirtations here and there from Patrick but that was just his natural manner, or that's at least what you told yourself. It was normal that he'd walked onto you changing one too many times, or commented on every single fling you'd had since meeting you, or how... You stopped listing the reasons that his actions were 'normal' in your head as you were met with Art's harsh gaze. Which was quite frankly terrifying to be under.

So, you broke first and in one swift motion your hand was on his face and your lips crashed onto his.

Safe to say there was no more discussion.

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Waking up in Art Donaldson's bed is not one of your proudest accomplishments. It's transpired too many times for you to count but every time it happens you feel a little shred of your self-respect wither away. His body was partly laid on top of you and his head was buried in the valley of your chest. You observed how peaceful he looked as he slept, blonde curls tousled and messed up from the night before and pink lips perfectly pouted.

Everything seemed peaceful in these moments, it was even better than the pillow talk Art always seemed to have while you were attempting to get your sleep. Though in your mind everything was but peaceful. You couldn't seem to shake the ache of what Art had said the day before.

The girl of his dreams, eugh, it made you want to crucify yourself on a burning cross. You always knew the two boys were wrapped around Tashi's finger but you had convinced yourself you fit in somewhere right? That you were liked by Art? I mean he had to, you'd been both fucking for about a year since you'd gotten to Stanford! He'd always gotten jealous when you had other men around, he had to love you just as much...or at least a little? You were a person who existed outside the realm of Tashi's Tennis world... Right?

Clenching your eyes shut you let out a shuttering breath before reconnecting back to reality. You had to get out of this damn dorm room. You tried to slip out of the bigger boy's grasp upon you but it worked to no avail. He only whined and pulled you closer.

"5 more minutes," Art muttered and buried his face further into the skin. Sighing you drove him off of you harshly, leaping out of the bed and starting the search for your previously discarded clothes. This action caused an even louder whine from the male as he finally awoke from his tranquil slumber to observe you. He pouted at the sight of you leaving.

"Do you really have to go?" Art asked as if the events of yesterday had never happened, "I know your schedule you don't have any classes today." Throwing on whatever clean shirt of Art's that was available you didn't respond to him, too busy with your own thoughts. The lack of an answer only made the blonde pout more and he sighed dejectedly.

"You know I love you right?"

The blood ran cold in your veins, "Excuse me?" Your head whipped toward the bed-bound boy, an indecipherable expression on your face. This compelled Art to smile, taking this as a sign of you being shocked that he could love you, that this was the shock of happiness. Oh, how the blonde was so wrong.

"I love you," He said your name tentatively, every syllable dripping from his lips like sweet honey, "I've loved you since that day at the beach."

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you felt yourself consumed by an indescribable misery from inside. What sick joke was he playing on you? Lamenting on the lack of Tashi's love to express his to you? He was definitely playing with you.

"I... I don't know what the fuck you're playing at Art," Your voice trembled with rage, "But it has to stop right now." Art's once joyful expression shifted to one of confusion, something he seemed to love to do these days.

"What?" He asked, "I'm not playing at anything, I love you?" It sounded like a phrased question that caused you to scoff. You snatched up your shoes from the door and angrily put them on, ignoring the way he had started to call your name.

"No, the fuck you don't Art!" You shouted, silencing the boy in front of you, "You think you're always fucking winning and that you're the good one! That you're not fucking around with other people because no one would ever expect that of you!" Your voice quivered under the overwhelming amount of emotion you felt.

"God, I feel like I'm fucking shadowboxing here, you drive me fucking crazy." The tears felt cleansing against your dried face, "I can't keep playing this game anymore, Art. You're too much."

The room went noiseless for a beat, when you finally turned your teary eyes to Art he looked speechless. It stayed like that for a few minutes, the both of you staring at one another. His mouth finally opened:

"Are we talking about Tennis?"

The door slammed on your departure from Art Donaldson's dorm and you didn't see yourself coming back anytime soon.

​🇪​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇵​​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​ ​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​

Part 2 Coming Soon!!!

Please like or comment, and thank you for reading <3

[anniesworld69]

long hair joel…

Old Man™ Joel in THE LAST OF US PART II

[anniesworld69]

need 🤷🏽‍♀️

arthur morgan tiddies and tummy thats all im gonna say

[anniesworld69]

my man my man my man 🙏

mechanic big w yn who can’t drive !! they met at uni. office job yn? creative job yn? librarian? stationery brand yn? and she has a cat or two. visiting him or picking him up from work because the art supply shop is nearby. him moaning that he could just take you instead of you taking the bus. him always grimy and his jumpsuit hangs at his waist and when you visit him w lunch he always wipes his mouth with his arm so he can kiss you. wipes down his chair with an old cloth because he’s paranoid he will get a stain in your clothes. has done so many times before. let’s you sit in the chair with your legs dangling because he has it up so high and you just talk at him about everything as he fixes a car. this bkg sometimes struggles to make eye contact with you because he thinks you’re so pretty. you never letting him touch you because his hands are always oily and that includes when he wipes his hands with a dirty cloth. always grins when you obsess over his big arms. if a make out ever goes too far, it’s you who’s pulling him out and you’re pulling down your own underwear. he’s grimy! yes it has happened against a car. sometimes you’ll get lunch for his employees too. moans at how you should start driving but it’s a lie, he loves you in the passenger seat. gives your friends discounts lol. in the summer he gets all sweaty and hot and works shirtless lol. you getting possessive when female customers flirt with him.

[anniesworld69]

talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, showstopping, spectacular

hi! Sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language. I don't know if you're accepting requests, if you not, just ignore. But I'm wondering how you would write something related to a jealous Arthur Morgan, high honor of course (with smut or without smut sincerely you know what looks best). the way you write is addictive and passionate, i believe anything you write from this would be great.

OUR DEAR, GREEN LITTLE FRIEND

Pairing | Arthur Morgan x Fem! Reader Summary | Oh, jealousy. When the thought of you straying too close to the comfort of Charles, the green monster claws its way into Arthur's head. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, tiny bit of angst, description of violence and wounds, fluffy at times, smut Word Count | 10k A/N | Hi everyone! I just HAD to write this request, hope you like it! Also, thank you dearly anon♡

While many found the biting cold of the climate north of West Grizzlies to be bitter–sharp air seeping into your very bones–you saw it oddly liberating despite the current predicament. The circumstance was dire, indeed, and you pondered many times if this would finally be the end for all of you, thinking of the incredible luck you had managed to have so far. Fate, or an astonishingly fascinating knowledge on how to escape the grappling arms of the law with a suspicious amount of people trashing through the roads in utter, sheer panic.

Glancing around you as you huddled closer to the fire, hands rubbing furiously against the wool of your gloves to gain even the slightest warmth to your biting fingers, you were met with the flushed cheeks of your comrades. The skin that now glistened from the melting snowflakes was caressed by the warm, orange glow from the flames lighting up the small hut you had taken residence in. 

The road leading to here had been long, and the time spent in the wagon that did nothing to shield you from the penetrating wind that howled into the night, your thoughts had been entirely focused on the man who now lay dead a few meters away, tucked in some fabric to shield the paling flesh of a corpse. While the thought might not make you uncomfortable, it did its thing on the others who looked weary at the covered man. 

You had done your best to tend to him amidst the severe trembling of your fingers and numbness spreading through you the longer you rode in the worrying storm, finding his blood still staining the cotton of your gloves–a reminder that you had done what you could to help the poor fellow. Despite not knowing him well enough to shed a tear, death was still a death, and a slight melancholy set its claw in all of you as you tried to regain some warmth. 

“Stupid man.” Glancing beside you, you took notice of the dark-haired woman muttering angrily as she held a sleeping Jack close to her body. 

“What’s wrong?” You inquired quietly, curious of her obvious disdain.

“John Marston is what’s wrong.” Blazing heatedly into the fire, you could almost see the depths of hell through her furious eyes. “He didn’t come back with the rest.” Shifting her eyes to yours for a quick moment that, although short, showed the worry hidden beneath her anger. 

Nodding slowly as you leaned against her slightly in comfort, you realized you hadn’t taken notice of the man’s absence until now. Returning with empty hands and another mouth to feed had instead been the case, no Marston as far as the eyes could see as he probably whirred around in the blizzard somewhere.

“Do you think he…” As you spoke, you trailed off, growing unsure of your words while realizing your comments might be prodded into a sensitive subject. 

“No.” Firmly, she sniveled harshly, shaking her head in protest. “No, he wouldn’t leave again.” Although her words were sure, you still felt a lingering doubt cloud your mind, remembering being told of his earlier departure from the gang that caused more scars in their relationships than good–not that it wasn’t faulty from the very start.

As you were about to let your prying win against your common sense, you were interrupted by the door being audibly slammed open, the noisy winds from outside growing louder as snowflakes whirled inside. Walking inside was the prominent figure of Charles, nodding respectfully to its residents as the door shut behind him, once more letting the warmth settle.

“Folks.” He mumbled quietly, treading through everyone huddling by the fire as he glanced curiously at the new woman before settling beside you. You glanced up at him, taking in his snow-covered self before lingering on his hand that rested motionless on his legs, bandages visible under his gloves.

“It’s not too bad; the cold seems to numb the pain.” A slight smile graced your lips at his observance, finding it unique to the man to be so tentative to everyone around him. Letting out a small laugh, you reach to remove your gloves before taking his hand in yours so you could lay it in your lap, unwrapping the bandages to examine the burns covering his skin.

You had given it a quick look-over before you had to tend to Davey, doing the best you could to ease his pain you were sure would be unavoidable. Although the sight was quite gruesome, it didn’t look as bad as you had expected.

“You’re stronger than me, that’s for sure. I would be a crying mess if I burned my hand like that.” Your voice was gentle as you started to rewrap the fabric around his hand, finding it increasingly irritating you didn’t have the tools you usually did that would indeed do a fine job at lessening his pain.

You had managed to gain a slight smile from the otherwise aloof man, probably finding your words humorous. “Let’s hope it’ll never come to that.” 

Sharing a look, you heard the door open once again, the irritated voice of Uncle damning whoever was letting in the cold for the second time. Both you and Charles laughed slightly, and as you looked up, you were faced with a pair of squinting, blue eyes, the icy cold from the outside seemingly enhancing their sharpness although making a welcomed warmth spread through you as they gazed over you in a quick motion–departing to look at the hand that rested in your lap.

“A sad loss, folks,” Hosea stated as he stepped onto the wooden planks, speaking out loudly in the otherwise calm hut, groaning as he helped Arthur lift Davey’s lifeless body, limp like a ragdoll. 

Glancing subtly, you observed him as Arthur’s bulky form lifted easily, unlike Hosea, admiring how he made it seem so effortless. The others called him the camps workhorse, and you didn’t fail to see why, keeping your eyes firm on the man as he carried him towards the door. 

He shrouded you in uncertainty; he did, and you weren’t sure how to behave in his bold presence. You often felt like a goody two shoes, and even though you weren’t the perfect picture of a law-abiding citizen, you could honestly say you were a wimp compared to Arthur. 

You should be embarrassed, you really should, but there was something in his eyes– something that made your heart race. Utterly shameless, yet desperate to lock gazes again despite contradicting yourself and avoiding them every chance you could. Before you could get caught this time, you directed your eyes, focusing on tightening the bandages so they wouldn’t come loose. 

“Try to be careful, will you, Charles?” You spoke quietly while patting his hand, motioning that he was all set to go, but his hand stayed, giving you a grateful look. 

“Thank you.” His soothing voice was hushed as the loud bang of the door slammed shut not long after, ridding you of the tumult after their departure. 

–

Oh, it burned. It burned so deep in his loins that it felt like he would erupt into flames any second. Despite the cold surrounding him, he was sure it could be possible the more he was left with his thoughts. The hushed whispers, the soft touches, and the ever-so-gentle look in your eyes made him want to empty the little food in his stomach. 

“Sneaky little rat,” Arthur grumbled to himself as he shoveled his way through the deep layers of snow. Here he was, out in the cold, tortured by the howling winds of the snowstorm, while Charles remained inside the warmth of the hut, seated next to you, all because of a slight burn. 

He knew what he was up to–what any man would do if it meant getting your attention–and he wasn’t humored. Taking advantage of your good nature was downright uncalled for, bordering on immoral, which Arthur would probably realize wasn’t Charles’s character if his mind didn’t seek to find faults with the man the more his blood boiled.

He scoffed to himself, stabbing the ground maliciously, imagining your warm hands around his instead, the nimble fingers of yours tending to him as you moved in closer, your sweet smell reaching his nose as you gazed up at him, face blushed from the cold with lips begging him to warm them up with his. The thought did nothing more than cover his whole body in shivers, only to be reminded that it wasn’t him that received that attention from you.

“What are you huffing about over there, Arthur?!” Hosea’s strained voice attempted to shout over the loud winds, standing up to rest momentarily.

“Why don’t we just bury him when the storm has settled?!” Annoyance was apparent in his voice, the green jealous monster still wreaking havoc in his mind.

“I told you, the snow will be too heavy tomorrow, so we need to finish it while we still can!” He groaned, starting to shovel once more. “And I’ll be damned, we are going to give Davey a proper burial. He deserves that much!”

As Hosea blabbered on about justice and other forms of respect Arthur had no intent on listening to, he zoned out, feeling sorry for himself as he imagined you might be keeping close to Charles right this moment, warming yourself to his body in a desperate search of bodily heat. Rubbing the melted snow off his face, Arthur damned the heavens above for making him the unluckiest bastard in the West. 

Despite Arthur seeming dead set on you being lovey-dovey with a man you barely knew, Charles had left you after making some small talk, mentioning that he would try and get some well-deserved rest after the tumultuous past few days. Many others did as well, attempting to ease their minds from the constant threat against their back amidst the terrible cold.

Although, as days passed and John being back rid you of Abigail’s constant muttering, the cold only seemed to take its toll on you, unlike the others who quickly got used to the environment. Furthermore, the days only seem to get longer up in the mountains, and you wondered obsessively when you would get the chance to leave–damning everyone who thought seeking out Colm O’Driscoll in your compromised state a good idea instead of moving forwards.

Despite your dismay, you put yourself to use like the others, preparing to help Pearson in the grim act of cutting through the poor deer that had been brought back. While the sight gladdened you, knowing you would finally get a meal in your stomach, the brooding aura of a chestnut-haired, blue-coated man seemed to rain over you endlessly.

What could you have done to gain his stinging glare? It was almost cutting through you entirely from the burning that resided deep in his eyes, watching you ferociously, making your hair stand on edge. When he had returned with Charles, it had been nothing short of unpleasant ever since, although thankfully–despite his glare–his harsh words were directed towards Pearson instead of you, which you were glad for.

“How’s the cold treating you?” Glancing away from the two men bickering, you laughed slightly at Charles’s innuendo, dressed worse for wear as you pulled the thick, woolen scarf tighter around your neck, hugging yourself to keep warm.

“Could be worse, I guess,” you said, clouds like smoke surrounding you as you talked.

“I suppose. Still, I don’t want you freezing your fingers off.”

“Mhh,” you nodded thoughtfully, speaking up after silence. “Who would look after your hand if that happened?”

He chuckled heartily at your unsuspected joke, and you glanced up at him bashfully, a light smile covering your face at his apparent amusement. While your embarrassment of being so easily swayed by the cold, it felt nice having someone take notice of your obvious discomfort, even though you would say you were pretty good at keeping it to yourself. You couldn’t be surprised, though, well aware you and Charles were both tentative to your surroundings, always knowing but rarely telling.

“Here.” Taking off the large gloves covering his hand, no doubt doing an excellent job keeping him warm, he grabbed your trembling hands in his, rubbing them between his pleasant temperature hand and bandage-covered skin before gliding the fabric over yours. 

“No, Charl-” you protested, trying to stop him from continuing. 

“They’ll do you more good than me, I promise. They’re just in the way.” Stubbornly, he planted your hands back into your lap, petting them like you had done to him some nights ago before raising with a huff. 

“Thanks for the help, Arthur.” Charles nodded at the now grumpy man observing him as he rested against the wood of the wooden wall with arms crossed, seemingly ignoring Mr. Pearson’s lecture about the navy he felt so strongly about, only providing a quick tilt of his hat before heated eyes were set on you.

Your gaze faltered, the blush on your face from the cold only intensifying the spread of warmth you felt from gaining his profound stare–something you rarely took notice of. It wasn’t that he didn’t look at you; he probably looked too much at times, but he was never so ardent with it, scrutinizing you under their heavy weight–making you feel ten times smaller under his towering height. 

“Well, why don’t you skin the deer, Arthur? I’ll help you cut them up in a while, miss.” Mr. Pearson’s words were hasty, and you didn’t miss the bottle glistening under the sunlight as he tried hiding it behind his coat, scurrying away. He would, in fact, not be back; you were sure of that much. 

It wasn’t often you found yourself alone with Arthur, and you never strayed too close, finding his presence somewhat daunting. Not that you’ve had many chances to speak amidst all the chaos surrounding you, and being relatively new to the gang meant the trust lacked significantly from both sides. But, the intrigue was always present in every glance and movement.

You felt his gaze fixed on you a moment longer as you stared heedlessly at your hands, rubbing them together anxiously, having no clue what to do with yourself. While you weren’t one to speak the ears of others, you never had any problem socializing with those around you–but Arthur, he was something else entirely. Finally, though, he moved, approaching the hanging carcass.

“How are ya?” His sudden words surprised you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

“Oh, um. Good?” You cringed at yourself, finding the words stuck in your throat as his voice rumbling was loud and confident.

“Cold?” 

“A bit,” you said softly, staring at his back as he heaved the skin away from the animal, movements rigid and harsh. “Charles gave me his gloves, so it’s a little less chilly now.” You stumbled over your words, admiring his strength unabashedly as he hauled the skinned deer over his shoulder, slamming it down the table with a loud bang. He gave you no answer, instead bringing out the knife in his belt to do the job you were assigned to.

“Oh, let me!” Standing abruptly from your seat, you stepped towards him hurriedly in shame, feeling like you were just lazying around while Arthur was doing all the hard work. 

Grabbing his thick coat to let you take his position, you found him staying right where he was, looking down at you when your hand rested on his bicep. It was unusual for him to be so close, and a blush warmed your cheeks as his towering frame became more apparent when standing a short distance from one another.

“S’alright.” He spoke lowly. “I’ve got it.”

Your breath got caught in your throat as he gazed wholly at you, letting you know he had no problem with helping you. It warmed you, finding his action kind–just like the small acts of kindness he reserved for the other girls. You would sometimes glare after them, intensely jealous that Arthur seemed to have a soft spot for them, yet acting like you didn’t exist.

“Anything else I can do to help since you just did my job for me?” A shy smile found you, peering up at him as he sniveled, glancing at you while you sat on the bench again.

“Well, you’ve already done your charity work for the day, so you’re fine.”

“Charity work?” You wondered, staring at him curiously as he cut through the meat. “What do you mean?”

He only sighed heavily, like you should be able to understand his cryptic words. 

“He won’t die from a small burn; it ain’t enough reason to coddle the man like a child,” he grumbled. 

It took you a while to get the gears turning, but when you did, you felt yourself grow shy from his statement. “Charles? His hand isn’t looking too good…”

“Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t be so forward. You’ll give the poor man false hope.” He scoffed, stabbing the poor carcass harshly.

Staring at his back in disbelief at the sudden hatred, you had trouble understanding where it came from and why he suddenly grew so invested in whom you diverted your attention. You and Arthur rarely spoke, only changing quick words occasionally ever since you found yourself staying with the gang, and for that reason, you had failed to understand the reason for his hatred.

It seems all you ever did was look after everyone else, paying attention to their various troubles and tribulations regarding bodily harm. It wasn’t strange to you, and by no means did you give anyone false hope, merely trying to find your place with these people, an attempt to prove your usefulness.

“False hope?” You questioned, baffled. “I’m trying to help; I fail to understand how that is a problem.” 

“It ain’t a problem!” He grumbled, voice roaring hotly in his chest as he resheathed his knife and began to make his way out, repositioning his hat without glancing at you. You followed him, stopping short by the table as you didn’t want to stray too close to the fuming man.

“Well, it is since you are so angry about it?!” If this was how he carried out every conversation, you were glad the exchange of words wasn’t typical between you, more so the simple fact that your company had never seemed to bring him any enjoyment. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Wha-” He stops short, suddenly turning around and stalking towards you in significant strides. Gasping at suddenly having him so close, you backed away; his sharp eyes penetrated you as the warm blue of his orbs turned ice cold, glaring daggers into your own.

“What’s wrong with me?” He spoke dangerously low as his brows raised, grabbing your upper arms as he hoisted you up the table without an ounce of struggle. “I’m not the one taking every small, insignificant chance to take advantage of your good nature.”

“Charles’s not like that. He’s very kind.” You spoke in his defense, leaning back from his prolonged stare that seemed to cut through you deeper the more he stared. You had always pitied the people who got on Arthur’s lousy side, finding his presence at those times unnerving. 

Now, it seemed you were at the receiving end of it, and while it chilled you to the bones, you weren’t sure if your beating heart were because of fear or the thought of him being the closest to you he’d ever have.

You had never quite got to admire his eyes, always hidden under his furrowed brows and squinting eyes. Now that it wasn’t because of the blazing sun down west, it was from the blaring whiteness of the snow surrounding you as you found his eyes glaring at the current climate more often than not–displeased.

His eyes being dead set on you didn’t help as you could hear his breathing grow heavier, the warmth of his breath hitting your cold cheeks as his broad frame blocked the chilly winds from reaching you.

“Kind, huh?” Although momentarily distracted, you recovered as you heard him speak in a low voice, still finding his assumptions wildly out of reach while insulting you and Charles. Times were hard, and if you couldn’t look after one another, it would surely lead to your doom–Arthur, if anyone, should know that.

“Yes, kind.”

Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he backed away from you, shrugging his shoulders while walking away–like your conversation hadn’t happened in the first place.

“Sure.”

–

It wasn’t like Arthur didn’t know how to restrain himself, for he applauded himself for avoiding his apparent anger when Charles had, yet again, stolen away your attention–not that Arthur had any plans on striking up a conversation with you anyway. 

It became clear to him that when you two were left alone, you almost turned into a living statue, barely responding to him. It was unlike you, for the time he had spent observing you, you had no problem talking to anyone else–and although it was usually calm, it never deterred you from gaining the likes of the others and liking them in return.

Why did you cringe away from him and not Charles, he pondered, glaring at the picture that plagued his mind. The reason he knew, deep down, but his stubbornness didn’t let him justify your actions. In all honesty, Charles was a more reliable man than himself, intentions often apparent with a slight sense of, well, goodness perhaps—something Arthur didn’t possess in the slightest.

Goodness, in all honesty, wasn’t something he was too familiar with, and he didn’t doubt one second that you found his character to be callous, seeing as the dirty work no one wanted to do fell upon him; work everyone else found to be too cruel to do themselves. He could almost feel your disapproving gaze when he picked up his slack from Mr. Strauss’s poor victims that he always tried to prolong, and while it wasn’t his most favorable way of lending a hand, sometimes he did it out of spite. 

If that’s what you thought about him, then he couldn’t do much to sway your opinion, finding it much easier to continue with his ways than realize that your sudden carefulness off him wounded him more profoundly than he let on.

And, he was indeed a harsh man in your eyes, and although his company wasn’t entirely unwished for, he was still grim–ignoring your presence like you weren’t there most of the time. It made you wildly unsure of him, but the allure he had kept bringing you back, always wondering when you would see a glimpse of him again. You chastised yourself for it, more so now that you got a taste of his famously sullen mood that pestered everyone around him, but your eyes were still drawn to him when he was nearby. 

Maybe it wasn’t what everyone else would describe him as, but you thought of him as mysterious. Gods, you have stayed with this group for quite some time now. Not once had he spoken to you more than the standard greeting, and you didn’t know much about him besides the sharp-shooting, brutal force of a man who had no problem letting his thoughts be voiced, even though the listeners might be less inclined to its harsh deliverance.

He had been cruel, sure, but you couldn’t help but remember how close you had been before when he spewed words that clung so viciously from his tongue. Faintly, you remembered the deep scent of gunpowder and smoke, something you were certain probably penetrated his skin by now, but also the slightly musky scent hidden underneath. Your head raced in curiosity, wondering how his hands would grab you if it wasn’t in anger. Was he even capable of that, you pondered.

It’s ridiculous you knew those thoughts were born from misconceptions and assumptions. You had heard how he behaved amongst the camp women, forever gentle and careful, and you had sharpened your ear when you’d been told timidly about his earlier flings. He could be more heartfelt than your head let you acknowledge, and the thought made your head spin even more with your endless imagination.

Despite the inner turmoil that filled you from your earlier argument, you had avoided him for some days now, and it seemed to grow easier the colder you got, huddling close to the fire with every chance. It was the only thing keeping your thoughts occupied, wondering when you would get to leave this desolated mining town that grew more covered in snow the longer you chose to stay.

“Do you need help, Hosea?” Just after you spoke, heavy blankets were handed to you, the fabric made from a thick wool that looked heavenly. “Yes, thank you. I take one step outside; I fear that it will be the end of me.” You only stared warmly at Hosea, who patted you on the back. “Don’t you worry, miss. We found more blankets we thought had been lost in that dreadful storm, so we all will sleep warmer tonight.”

“Oh, of course, I’ll help-” Despite the whistling winds that had picked up as the sun shone its last tendrils, you didn’t oppose the idea, but you were interrupted by a mischievous look handed to you by the older man.

“Make sure Arthur grabs one, too; you know how he gets.” Before you could question his meaning, he slunk away, pulling the warm fabric tighter around his shoulders without a glance at you, chuckling merrily. You chose not to ponder too hard on his strange ways, instead making your way to the door, shivering badly as you stepped outside.

Smiles were all you were greeted with as you handed them off, and it was no surprise as it was a welcome sight to everyone to gain some extra warmth to wrap around themselves. Although feeling content by being of help, you couldn’t help but wonder where Arthur could be, a single blanket now left in your hands.

Grumbling to yourself, you stepped out from the hut Dutch and Molly resided in, glancing at a smaller building some paces away, finding the orange glow of a candle lighting up the smaller barn where the horses were kept. A small smile found you, finding it very fitting for him to be where there were fewer people. 

Although slightly fearing what could come to be an awkward encounter, you found yourself being too forgiving many times, and you damned yourself for it. What he said hurt you deeply, making you ponder if you had given Charles other signals than intended. It could be a possibility, yet you had never had too many romantic dealings with men to presume that that was the case, but his eyes held something tender the last few times you spoke as you recalled it.

“Arthur…” As you stepped inside after pulsing through the thick snow, you searched for the blue coat you had grown familiar with in this weather. “Are you here?” You asked quietly, wondering if he could hear you.

You cautiously stepped further into the barn, placing your feet steadily on the ground before you so you didn’t slip and embarrass yourself. It was friendly out here, you could admit, the snow muting every sound and almost making every slight sound caress your ears. 

As you stepped further inside, it turned out he was here, and he took no notice of you as you rounded the corner to gaze at his seated form, seemingly writing something in his journal. It was an unusual sight. Sometimes, you observed him as he wrote in his journal back at camp, yet you didn’t make a habit of it, too shy to question him at the time.

How he didn’t freeze to death in this climate was beyond you, his fingers bare as he scribbled, fingertips red from the cold and dirty from the chalk. You made a motion to speak up once again but found yourself tongue-tied as you took him in, and as you did, the thought struck you that he wasn’t writing but drawing.

How unlike him, you thought, watching his brows furrowed from time to time, fingers moving expertly while the soft glow of the candle beside him almost softened his features. Your presumptions might be harsh, but you had never found him to be a man well-versed in the creative aspect of life, and while the brutal ways of his life spoke for him, you found it to make him slightly more approachable. 

“I didn’t know you draw.” You stated fondly, his eyes fitting into yours the moment the first word left your mouth, growing visibly stressed as the journal was planted into his coat pocket. A rough cough left him as he did, eyes faltering when he saw your observant gaze linger on him unabashedly.

“I don’t.” A small laugh left you at his abrupt words, not teasingly but perhaps warmly, choosing not to bug him since he grew uncomfortable before your questioning eyes. 

You were given an expectant look that reminded you of your actual business here as you stepped inside the building, closing the barn door behind you to shut out the wind that somehow managed to find its way through the cracks in the walls. 

“Here, we found some more blankets. Hosea asked me to bring you one.” You met his eyes briefly as you stretched out your arms for him to take the blanket, eyes faltering to it at his piercing gaze.

“Hosea, huh?” A scoff left him, resuming his arms to cross over his chest, shaking his head slightly. “You keep it.”

“No, I-” 

“Nah, you chattering your teeth keeps us up at night. Take it.”

His words should have taken you back since his voice was stinging, but a light laugh left you, knowing he was right. Wrapping yourself in the soft, warm blanket, you surprised Arthur by sitting beside him, heavily clad shoulders touching each other as you did. 

“I don’t understand.” You stated, staring at the large shadows that flickered on the wooden wall before you. “How can you not be cold? I feel like if I spend one more day out here, I’ll freeze to death.”

You turned your head towards him, caught off guard when you felt his gaze already set intensely on you. Your eyes faltered to his chest, growing shy as you always did when you had his attention on you. It wasn’t unwanted, but you didn’t know what to do with yourself in moments like that, unused to the fire that always burned so deep in his eyes.

“Used to it, I guess.” His voice rumbled hotly in his chest, fingers flexing against his will as he took the chance to observe you. He had never had the opportunity to see your face this close. Your wet lashes clung together as you blinked, undoubtedly from the heavy snowfall outside, framing your eyes that Arthur always noticed were so very easy to read, yet at many moments also locked away.

“I don’t believe you.” How could anyone possibly get used to this? It was raw, pure torture. 

You didn’t get an answer, and as you returned your gaze towards the wall, Arthur’s eyes found your features again. He had indeed been cold before you came, but it was his only chance to find a moment of peace; the thought of spending another night in that god-forsaken hut with his dear friend and his lover giggling the night away grew incredibly distasteful.

Here, he could finally hear his thoughts, the solitude of the snow muting every sound heavenly; the only noise was the familiar scribbling in his journal as he wrote about the past few days. Though his head was calmer than before, he still dreamt of your fingers encasing his like they had done Charles, the small, elegant touches rising his arms slowly, making him shiver wildly as the scene flashed before his eyes. 

He knew he shouldn’t think of you like that, and he certainly had no right to be angry at Charles since he felt so unabashedly filthy things about you, but he couldn’t help it. Your every scent, every motion set his blood afire; small deeds of good you always found yourself doing so harshly contrasted his actions he couldn’t help the fact that you intrigued his whole being. 

So good, so… soft and warm. As he stared at you, all he wanted was to reach out and pull you closer to him so he could feel your shivering body close to him, knowing many ways to warm you up. Sighing, he removed his hat, running his fingers through his hair as the thoughts took a turn he always hated himself for.

“Hey, I uh…” Arthur trailed off, finding the words he wanted to speak stuck in his throat. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, like I did back then.” He stared before him, yet he felt your eyes heavy on his.

He did feel bad, and it had been the reason for his brooding temper since then, not coming to terms with his wrongdoings until now. He had probably scared you, he concluded, and could only assume he was right as you had done your utmost to avoid him as of late.

“Don’t be,” you said with a light smile, not expecting his apology, even though he didn’t say sorry directly. “It’s a lot right now, I understand. But I still don’t understand why you’re so angry at Charles.” You were briefly met with a light sigh, eyes flickering to yours before diverting the flickering candle. 

“Nah, forget it. Just me being stupid is all.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid. Maybe you’re mean sometimes and grumpy,” you said, giving him a teasing glance. “But not stupid.”

A scoff left him at your words, yet you could see the corners of his mouth chirp up lightly. “You’d be surprised.”

As your snickering died down, you rested your head on the wall behind you, not wanting to leave the quiet comfort you found yourself in nor the conversation that panned on longer than you had anticipated, much to your surprise.

“Why are you out here if you are so cold, girl?” He questioned you, catching a glimpse of your almost blue lips. “Go on inside; you’ll freeze to death if you stay here.” It would be best for you to return because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his thoughts progressed like they did before in your presence. As he placed the hat on his head again, he glanced down quickly, doing a double take as he found you staring at him. 

Was the cold finally getting to your head, or was it simply being in the presence of the man you were so unsure of but wildly intrigued by? You couldn’t tell, but the warmth spreading in your stomach as he glanced down at you spread ferociously through your stomach, almost warming you to your fingertips. 

Suddenly, Arthur moved his arm slightly, and the motion made you jump, leaning away from him as you unconsciously drew closer to him. You couldn’t tell, but it almost felt like your body sometimes contradicted your mind, defying your sense of morality.

“Are you afraid of me?” He questioned, gazing at you unexplainably. Both of your breaths were audible in the quiet night, blowing like smoke out your mouths as the world around you blurred. It wasn’t like Arthur couldn’t contain himself around women, but you were something else entirely. Only in his wildest dreams did you stare at him like that, like you were expecting–waiting– for him to do something. 

Yet, you looked guarded, like a cornered lam, waiting for the right moment to sprint away. You pulled away, only to lean in further, the cogs in your head turning something so awful in your mind, observing his every move yet not registering your own that reached out to him.

And gods, did he want to do the same; his internal battle proved to be more difficult as your hand gripped his coat tightly, only wanting to warm your blue lips with his own and show you how he could warm you up better than Charles’s damned gloves ever could.

“Sometimes.” You let on, voice shaking from both anticipation and uncertainty.

Leaning down towards you hesitantly, he felt hot all over when he realized you didn’t shy away from him like expected, mouth only parting further as he drew closer. As you did, you felt your breath hitch when a hand was placed on your upper back, Arthur’s weight only making you glide further down the wall until your head was resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Arthur…” He was so close now you could almost feel his heartbeat through the vast amount of clothing, breath hitting your cold, blushing cheeks as he leaned closer, the calling of his name only drawing him in. He was sure you had bewitched him, for not a single thought in his mind was about anything but the woman in front of him, entirely and utterly overtaken by what was solely you.

And through those few moments between frustration and desperation, all senses of logic disappeared as the skin of your lips conjoined, drawn together like magnets that snapped together like they never wanted to be apart again. Eyes grew shut, the only sound now the deep humming in Arthur’s chest as your hands found his cheeks, caressing the chilly skin under your palm with your thumbs.

It was ragged and scarred, a deep contrast to your own that had never tasted the metal of a gun and the blood of a foe, and the thought made a gasp rise in your throat as his weight fell heavier onto yours, pressing you into the hay-filled, snowy ground. 

“Tell me to stop.” He grunted against your now wet lips, only taking a second before joining them again. He was covering your entire body as he lay above you, resting his weight on his elbows as your head rested on his arm. 

“No…” You mumbled, words almost not audible against his desperate mouth, feeling just as affected by the desire as he did. You felt his face scrunch up almost painfully before he took the hand that rested on your back to glide under your coat, resting it on the side of your waist as he stroked gently, feeling the curves that hid underneath the damned fabric.

It was torture. It was an unexplainable torture that you would freeze to death if he removed the clothes that covered you, and he would surely go insane if he couldn’t feel the skin he imagined would be so very soft under his rough fingers. Just a taste, he thought sinfully to himself, slowly lifting the fabric of your shirt from under your skirt’s waistband, worming a freezing hand inside to feel the warmth that hid underneath.

You gasped at the sudden sensation but were quickly silenced as his tongue massaged your own, and the slight moan that left you only made a groan rumble loudly in his chest. The feeling of his cold hand rose your skin, stroking every bit it came across as if memorizing it to his brain, mapping out every single inch. 

It was too much for you, the sheer desperation and want, not knowing what to do with yourself or how to dampen the intense feelings that nailed your firm to the ground. Every bit of you grew into static, and every touch from Arthur sent shockwaves through your body as his fingers caressed you.

“Come here.” Opening your eyes, you found his, although lidded with desire, gentle eyes gazing into yours, pulling his hand reluctantly from your waist to help you sit up. “I won’t let you lay on the ground.” 

You only stared at him as he seated you on his lap, chest flush against his as his hands stroked along your arms as if to warm you up, tightening the blanket around your shoulders. You felt your heartbeat pick up at his actions, your stomach fluttering fiercely as he ensured you stayed warm.

You could tell he grew wildly unsure as you remained silent, clearing his throat as if he had been in a daze before speaking. 

“If you’ll have me, that is.” You didn’t give him a chance to say more, hands finding sanction in his hair as the motion knocked off his hat, exposing the sandy locks he always kept hidden underneath it.

“Stupid question.” You mumbled softly against his mouth, pressing yourself closer to him as your fingers started fiddling with the buttons on his coat. You could already feel the heat emitting, and your fingers grew hasty as you tried to move faster, the motion of your lips faltering against his eager ones.

You would have been ashamed if it weren’t for Arthur being just as stressed about getting the buttons of your coat loose, hands wounding their way around your waist and pressing you closer to him the moment they became undone. Likewise, you wormed your arms under his shoulder, gasping as you felt the heat buried underneath the fabric, hugging him close as you placed your face into the crook of his neck. 

Breathing in your scent, Arthur revealed in the way you nuzzled against him, feeling a warmth spread in his groin when the thick coat didn’t keep the pressure of your middle away from him any longer. It was heaven, he concluded, trailing his hands down to your backside as he caressed the curves, pushing you flush against his.

Oh, how he reveled in it. He was selfish; there was no denying it any longer, but he craved you so profoundly it would eat him up bit by bit if he couldn’t have you. It wasn’t about Charles any longer; it was about the fact that you had never spared him a glance, almost bordering on fearing him, deciding that everyone else company had been much safer than his own. 

He knew it and had seen it in your eyes countless times. Arthur wasn’t unfamiliar with the look of utter horror plastered on people’s faces, for he faced it every day, and he wanted nothing more than to show you that you had no reason to feel that way with him, for he would never put a single finger that was unwished for on you.

And he couldn’t possibly hold it against you, for he wasn’t a good man, quite the opposite actually, and every lingering touch made him hate himself even more, wishing you would find it in you to push away from him–let him know that if he ever touched you again, you would kill him. 

But, he would find that you didn’t, instead only pressing yourself even harder against him in the cold of the night, breath shaking something so terribly as he moved your lower region against his in a gentle movement. It only fueled his want for you, hands struggling their way up your skirt, caressing your stocking-clad legs as he did, reaching your undergarments with a content sigh. 

His touch lighted a path up your legs, the cold nothing but a memory now even though the brisk air found its way underneath your skirt, following his hands that caressed your inner thighs in soft motions.

It was suspenseful, waiting for the skin to touch the skin, for his strong hands to wound around you as he had already wormed himself around your heart. And as he did, the coil in your stomach grew so incredibly tight you felt like it was too much like his touch alone wounded your every fiber, but instead of hurt, it was an undeniable pleasure that hit you tenfold.

The hand that had crawled its way inside your undergarments stroked alongside your tender parts, never touching you where you wanted him the most–the place that longed for his touch. He had to be teasing you; there was no other explanation as he smiled softly at your expression, gasping for air as you gripped the sides of his arms, trying to push against his fingers. 

“Ah, sweetheart.” He only cooed at you, gripping your wrists with one hand as his other finally glided over the wetness of your heat, gazing directly into your eyes with his sharp gaze, admiring your pleasure-filled face that begged him to give you more, to provide you with his all. And, as he spread your folds with his fingers, the filthiest whimper of pleasure left you, laying its noise into the quiet night with no worry about anyone hearing, only fools deciding to stray outside in this bleak, frigid night. 

Falling into his arms yet again, you let him enter a finger into your warm cavern, gasping desperately for air as the unfamiliar stretch widened you, dragging wonderfully against your clenching walls. It was vile, the way Arthur reveled in how tight you felt against his finger, and as he pondered on how you would feel when he pushed it you. The thought made a striking, white pleasure shoot through him, making him grunt out against your neck.

“That good?” He spoke out, adding another finger into you while placing wet, hot kisses against your blazing neck, wanting nothing more than to hear your heavenly sound of approval. 

You attempted to nod, but the motion was interrupted by the increasingly more extensive stretch from both of his fingers; gasping like a madwoman as you moved against his hands, wishing to pull his fingers even deeper into you, dissatisfied when you realized it didn’t do the job.

He could only groan when he realized your intention, slipping his coated finger from your warm heat, bringing them to his mouth quickly while his other hand found the zipper of his jeans, fumbling in a stressed fashion to get rid of the constraint.

A dissatisfied moan left you as he did, wishing for nothing more than to feel the delicious stretch yet again carry alongside your walls. But, as he fumbled with his zipper, you quickly got your senses together. You helped him undo his suspenders, then slipped underneath the fabric to trail your hand alongside the apparent bulge that stretched underneath, finding his groans to fuel your actions. 

For a short while, your eyes met amidst the hurry your bodies experienced, and the moment slowed down to a halt as your lips found each other once more, moving against one another like starved men. You couldn’t be closer to him, and he couldn’t possibly be closer to you, and while you earlier had pondered that this was a good idea, you couldn’t imagine anything else at this moment.

And, as your hand wrapped around him momentarily, Arthur could feel his brain’s short circuit, like he had never been able to hold a single thought in his mind his entire life. You had to have bewitched him, for he complied to your every touch, body moving against your every move like your hand was glued to his body.

“God,” he mumbled against your lips that massaged his own, thrusting against your hand as you stroked him tenderly, gasping against him quietly. It wasn’t hurried but warm and slow, basking in each other’s presence like you had never before discovered the feeling of another’s touch against your own.

“That good?” You replied teasingly, mimicking his earlier words as you smiled a toothy smile, feeling him chuckle lowly at your apparent teasing, giving you a playful slap on your behind as his breathing picked up.

Suddenly, you felt a hand encase your own. As he removed it from his throbbing member, he only grabbed you closer, wounding his arms around your back as he pulled you into a hug, the feeling of him underneath you wonderful as you glided along it–moaning wantonly as the friction shot sharp streaks of pleasure up your body.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’ll warm you up.” As he spoke, he could feel himself shudder as your wet lips encased his tip, groaning audibly as he thought you rubbing against him. You were illegal, he concluded, for nothing could ever be allowed to feel this good–it wasn’t possible.

“Please,” you gasped against his lips, moving your hips slightly as you felt his hands circle your waist. “Please, Arthur.” 

He hushed you quietly, finally feeling you wrap your lips around him as he slowly entered your warm cavern, the walls fitting him snugly as a grunt left him unexpectedly, lost in the pleasure you brought him. 

While it felt too good to imagine, you could only keep your mouth open at the sensation, wondering how something could ever fill you up quite as good as this. Without a single thought, you sat down entirely, feeling him stretch you wonderfully as you wrapped around all of him, wounding your hands around his neck. 

You didn’t need to move much, for he thrust up into you when you had gotten used to his size, feeling yourself being hitched up to his body as the motion made your whole body rise to then fall back down on him, once more filled to the brim. His grunting in your ears filled your senses, and while the slight consciousness entered your mind, wondering what you were doing, you pushed it far back, relishing in how your body responded to his.

Despite the cold that was surely creeping into your bones the more you stayed out here, the sound of skin against skin filling the empty spaces around you made you feel more connected to each other than you had ever felt with anyone else. 

You started to move with him, bringing down your hips to meet his while he thrusts into you, growing more desperate by the minute. You found the hands hugging your waist, circling their arms around it, pushing you even further against him as you rested your hands on his cheeks, having no choice but to stare into his lidded eyes as he grunted roughly underneath you. 

God, how he wanted to push you down onto the ground and drive into you, damning the snow that covered the ground. Instead, he glided down further from the wall, feeling your weight press against him more as your head found sanction in his neck, feeling his thrusts grow more in power as he pistoned into you harder from the new position.

“Arthur.” You breathed out, feeling the stretch of him grow as the position made him reach even deeper inside you, one arm reaching down to grab your bottom so he could hold you firmer against him.

“I know, honey.” He murmured, head growing dizzy as you clenched around him so wonderfully, mewling sweetly into his ears as you let him take control. 

Did it make him an evil man for reveling in what he knew Charles would never gain from you? Maybe it did, but those thoughts were placed far back in his mind as your lips found his, small moans now muted as you grew desperate for his affection, growing insatiable to once more feel the fondness that laid in his every touch.

He had been so angry that someone else had gained the courage to do what he couldn’t, realizing he had been too late. Yet now, as you remain unknowing above him, it only made his lips plant themself firmer against yours, determined to make you understand that nobody could make you feel this way except him.

Grabbing the blanket off your shoulders, he threw it down towards the ground as you gasped, stroking your waist tenderly before slowing his movements. 

Your breath heaved something so terrible, your voice shaking as you spoke. “Don’t stop, Arthur. Please.” He felt his stomach coil at your words, throbbing inside you as he moved to a seated position.

“I ain’t stopping, sweetheart,” he let on, leaning you backwards lightly. “Lay back for me, okay?” You did as he said without a protest, the cold now gone as your legs spread from him.

He almost groaned from the sight, taking a moment to observe you as you stared at him through lidded eyes, blushed cheeks so wonderfully red against the whiteness of the snow you almost looked like an angel–your hair spread like a halo around your head where you laid on the blanket.

Crawling over you quickly, he grunted as he felt your hand encasing itself around him, stroking slowly as you guided it to your clenching hole. For a moment, he felt a relief spread through him at the feeling of your walls surrounding him before the sheer and utter desperation set in, beginning to move into you at a faster pace than before. 

Your breath hitched at the sudden movement, yet you gripped his arms to keep him there, not baring the thought of him stopping again. Being over you gave him more control, and his primal instincts set in as the coil in his stomach shot burning flashes throughout his body, wanting nothing more than to feel your warm walls around him forever. Maybe it was the desire talking, but he swore that the thought of you being like this with any other man than him would make him heave.

Encasing his arms around you as your hands found his hair, he felt your legs wrap around his waist, now so close he was grounding into you relentlessly. Rough yet tender, he moved into you with care, but you could feel that he was holding back as he panted above you.

“Don’t stop!” You begged him once more amidst his thrusts, pulling on his strands as his lips found the softness of your neck. Why you were begging, you couldn’t say, oblivious to the words leaving your mouth in utter bliss.

“Hm?” He mumbled, smiling lightly from hearing your ruined voice beg him. He felt like a sick man gaining pleasure from it, but his mind was too hazy to take notice, longing to hear those words leave your sweet mouth once more. “What was that?”

“Don’t stop,” you voiced breathlessly as his hand found your breast, rolling the nub softly between his rough fingers. Despite your begging, for his own sickly twisted pleasure his hips ceased their movements, moving torturously slow as he raised his elbows to stare at your tear-filled eyes.

They shot open as he slowed his pace, displeased he didn’t listen as you already felt shameful for sounding so desperate. You couldn’t help it, for it felt too good, and now that he had stopped, you wished he never had. Was he teasing you? The thought made you blush from embarrassment and annoyance, pleading with your eyes.

“No…” You mumbled, trying to move against him, yet his hands held you firm against the ground.

“Say it.” Arthur’s voice was coarse as he spoke, grabbing your hand to place tender kisses on it as your displeased sounds reached his ears. He only got a confused look, smirking slightly at the longing and apparent dissatisfaction plastered on your face. A biting shadowed lust replaced his usually sharp eyes as he watched you, carnal written deeply in his eyes.

“My name, sweetheart. Let me hear you say it.” Suddenly, he pistoned his hips against you, driving up your wet walls as a mewl left you from the sudden force. You felt his intense eyes on you as your eyes shut momentarily, and through your blurred vision, they didn’t stay open for long.

“Arthur,” you moaned, eye-rolling into the back of your head as your back arched, a wave of pleasure shooting through you at his demands. He held the same controlled yet sensual pace, knowing he’d slip out of you if he went any harder. Still, his accuracy was wicked–hitting the right spot with every move.

“That’s it,” he praised you, placing another kiss on your palm as his thrusts increased, grunting roughly as your walls squeezed him tightly. You break into sobs as you reach out to grasp his arms, tilting his head up just enough to let you know he’s watching you, his hazy gaze roving over the devastation on your face. 

The snow around you mutes the sound of skin hitting skin as he sets a brutal pace. “I didn’t tell you to stop, sweetheart.” The deep rumble in his chest as he spoke the words laced with possessiveness made your heartbeat pick up faster than it already was, the light ringing in your ears increasing as your body was hoisted up with each of his thrusts.

You call his name like a prayer amidst the pleasure, and satisfaction at hearing his name come so sinfully from your mouth made his eyes roll back, knuckles turning white from gripping the ground so harshly. Oh, you had no idea that every noise you let out from his advances made his heart soar with pride, feeling the softness of your skin under the palm of his hands.

Arthur feels the abrupt stop of movements from your hand, gripping tightly on his arms as you spasm around his cock, clenching tightly as the pads of his fingers come down to rub at your swollen nub as your orgasmed, a loud whine leaving you at the contact. It’s too much for you, the sensation too unfamiliar yet devastatingly addictive–not knowing if you wanted to drive your hips away from his brutal assault or enjoy him even more profoundly. 

Even if you had decided on the prior, he didn’t let you, pushing you firm against the ground as he twitched inside you at the noises you let out, groaning lowly as he came inside your warm walls, planting himself deep inside you. 

“Christ-” He grunts out, teeth clenched as you feel his cock throb inside you, cum gathering at the base of him as his hips slow to deep thrusts, grinding into you in sheer pleasure as the knot in his stomach unleashed, feeling you placing small kissed on his neck.

The slight motion made him smile amidst his pleasure-filled mind, caressing the curves of your waist as he nestled his head into your neck, still panting heavily. As you both calmed down, it didn’t take long for your hand to find his, fingers wounding themselves around the others in the blissful aftermath.

As you opened your eyes after catching your breath, you found a pair of blue ones already gazing at you. You didn’t speak for a while, both of you trying to digest the situation as tiny snowflakes could be seen falling from the sky through the cracks in the walls. It reminded you of how cold you should have been, but with Arthurs’s broad chest covering you, it felt like you were clinging to a furnace.

“Shit, you must be freezing.” He suddenly let out, shaking his head slightly as if in a daze before rising to pull you with him. As he pulled your skirt down your legs, rubbing them between his hands to warm you up, you could only stare at him in quiet wonder.

“What?” He grumbled out, sniveling lightly as he glanced at you. Had you not wanted this, he wondered, doubt starting to fill his mind. You were too quiet for his liking, only staring at him as he tried to prolong touching your soft skin, fearful of the hurtful words that were sure to come. 

“Are you jealous of Charles?” 

If crickets had been this far north, they would surely be the only thing audible as Arthur stopped. Bear of a man, hardy and stubborn to many, yet a faint blush could be seen rising to his cheeks as his face lowered–wishing so dearly he could find his hat that had seemingly disappeared so he could hide.

If he had been looking at you, he would have seen the toothy smile covering your face, a tender laugh leaving you as your assumptions became reality. You had to give him credit, though, for he had you completely and utterly fooled. 

“No.” He stated firmly, rising on his legs to pull up his pants. He found himself unable to, though, your hand grabbing his suspenders to pull him back down. The same heat that had lessened in his stomach came back as he felt your nimble touch caress him through his pants, gaining a mischievous look from you as you widened your legs. 

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ll give Charles his gloves back if you stay here and keep me warm.” 

Oh dear, that would do it. Whatever thoughts that filled his mind flew out the window, wholly consumed by you as your hands caressed his back, staring expectantly up at him. 

“Only me, right?”

“Only you, stupid.”

[anniesworld69]

game joel miller come back to me 😞

[anniesworld69]

oh

THE LAST OF US PART I photomode: reloading the pistol

[anniesworld69]

pixel joel makes me bark

pre-outbreak joel hcs because i’m bored out of my mind and fantasising about this man is 10x better than studying<33 (and because pixel joel deserves all the love in the world, my bb is barely on tumblr anymore since the show came out)

. opens doors for you, doesn’t matter where or when. you’re getting out of the car? he’s already on the passenger side, tugging the door handle open. you’re about to enter some building? he’s already pulling/pushing the door handle open, that small smile on his lips as he steps aside to let you in first, his hand by reflex guiding you in on the small of your back

. ALSO CAN WE TALK ABOUT HIS HANDS, on you at all times wherever whenever. i definitely think joel isn’t a huge fan of pda (he prefers keeping you to himself, i’ll die on this hill if i have to), but ohmygod his hands are always lingering. the small of your back as he leads you somewhere, your waist if it’s cold out or you just happen to be close to him, an arm over your shoulder as you walk/sit, it’s to fucking die forrr

. wouldn’t know how to cook shit (as confirmed by Tommy in tlou2). burns every possible thing he can, would barely be able to flip a pancake if you asked him to. he’d panic like a little kid left alone at the cash register, fumbling with the pan and spatula before it all somehow ends up on the countertop (or the floor).

however, a steak or grilled cheese from this man? all your problems are solved, it’s like he switches to some chef alter-ego whenever you ask him to make it. also acts like it’s the most non-chalant thing ever, trying to ignore the fact that he can’t cook to save his life yet he can make a grilled cheese you’d choose as your last meal if you could.

“holy shit… this is so good?!”

he’s just staring at you, confused at the shock on your face, “is… that a bad thing, sweets?”

“no, not at all. it’s just… this is fuckin’ delicious and… well, your history with cooking isn’t really the best, y’know?”

“shut up,” and he’s biting off half of your sandwich, chuckling as you swat him away annoyedly.

. also can we talk about this? mr let-me-have-a-bite-and-proceeds-to-eat-the-whole-thing Miller. is it like a universal dad thing or smth?

can’t trust him with cooking, can’t trust him with food at all really. it doesn’t really matter what you have (ice cream, a sandwich, some drink you just bought, he’ll eat anything), you can bet your ass he’s probably gonna ask you if he can have a bite/sip of it.

“no,” you retort, tucking the smoothie you bought from the stand literally five seconds ago behind your back, “you won’t like it. you’re just gonna drink the whole thing and i won’t have anything left.”
“c’mon sweets, you know i ain’t like that,” his hand is on his hip, a knowing smirk on his lips as he tries to defend himself/gaslight you (quite badly), “just a small sip. i promise. nothin’ more.”

and of course you cave. how could you not when he’s looking at you expectantly with those pretty hazel eyes you adore so much?

and the moment you hand him the drink half the liquid is gone. his lips wrap around the straw, practically inhaling the fucking thing. your face contorts, something in between shock and annoyance as he hands you back the now mostly empty cup.

“tastes like shit,” he remarks, tucking you under his arm.

love this man to death, idk how naughty dog makes pixels this attractive<33 would gladly share all my food with him and more

[anniesworld69]

pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease

I'm losing it lately

Sydney Adamu x Female Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with fem pronouns, swearing, pining and yearning, syd's general disdain towards reader at first, alcohol, carmy and richie are also (cluelessly) into reader, mentions of knives, mention of alcohol (syd drinks but reader doesn't), stripping, face sitting, fingering, finger sucking, body worship, syd's breaking into her dirty talk game (she also calls reader a slut (endearing) once in her head).

Word Count: 4.9k

Working title was "Notes on being Sydney's Lacy." This is loosely based off of Olivia Rodrigo's song 'Lacy' and the concept of thinking you hate a girl but you actually just want her to [REDACTED].

You.

It was as if everywhere Sydney looked, all she could find was you.

The glow in your eyes, the curl of your smile, the rise and fall of your shoulders every time you so much as laughed or ran a knife through a fresh vegetable.

From the moment Sydney rose in the morning, her slow routine to get her even halfway ready for the day ahead of her, to the train ride to the restaurant, to the cool walk up to the front doors. All she could think of was…

You.

Your voice was the first thing to catch Sydney’s ear when she walked into the locker room. Hanging up bags and fixing on an apron, the only sound she could even register was you.

Captivating Richie with just the way you sounded your words, you could’ve been reading him the phone book and it would’ve garnered the same reaction.

That was just the way you were. Richie hung on your every word, Carmy’s eyes followed you as you swept through the kitchen, even Fak found himself more distracted than usual when you breezed past.

Sydney, on the other hand, was less mystified by your “charms.”

She tried to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed, get to her station and get her prep done quickly and painlessly. As usual, Sydney had little say in what would actually occur.

The hand that holds the cards was always you.

“Sydney,” The way you said it was almost like a sigh, a sigh of relief, a breath that was held.

Your smile, wide eyed and pretty. You looked utterly sweet, like spun sugar, like something to break your teeth on, like stuck to your fingers and not going anywhere.

“How are you this morning?”

Sydney had to fight not to roll her eyes, undoing her knife bag as she shrugged her shoulders. “You know, same shit, different day.”

It didn’t deter you, if anything you nodded with a knowing smile. Your shoulder worked over time, spatula in hand as you folded in whatever was in your bowl. You dipped your eyes for only a moment before you fixed back on Syd.

“Are you coming tonight?”

It had almost escaped her, Sydney had almost forgot the drinks that the rest of the team had organised for tonight. Team building, strengthening the relationship of the kitchen.

Sugar was actually the first to suggest it, Carmy wasn’t too sure until he’d heard your excitement. You’d clapped your hands together, exclamations of how fun it’d be. You even tried to get Syd in agreement but it wasn’t that easy. Suddenly, Carmy was a lot more onboard with the idea.

Go figure.

Sydney had tried to feign other responsibilities, that she wouldn’t be able to make it. Now it was down to the day and there was nowhere for her to hide. She also knew that if she didn’t show up, Carmy would make her life hell about it.

Snapping back into focus, Sydney realised that there were expectant eyes on her. Your expectant eyes, never wavering, still the kindness and sticky sweetness behind them.

Sydney had also realised that, when she walked in, Richie had been in the middle of chewing your ear off. She also realised that you’d completely stalled his conversation for the chance to have this meaningless back and forth with her.

She felt her shoulders tense at the idea of it. Just what were you getting at?

“Uh, yeah- sure, I’ll be there.”

Your eyes lit up like you were staring into the sun. Your cheeks rose high and your eyes squinted just a little as you nodded your head.

“Good, looks like I will be too then.”

Sydney couldn’t take it, she took a knife from the fold and dropped her head to focus on her prep. Thankfully, she could hear Richie’s voice pick back up and do his best to get the discarded conversation back on track.

That made it easier, she found herself running right through her prep without having to deal with the thought of you. It made things a breeze, her technique was better, things were more aligned.

Of course, the moment she lifted her gaze across the bench, you were already looking at her as Richie’s words went in one ear and out the other.

Lord give her strength.

-

Sydney did not want to be in a bar, that was one thing for sure.

A second thing, she did not want to be here with the team.

Sure, she loved these people, but after a long day on her feet she actually wanted to be in bed watching another aimless show about luxury real estate.

She’d fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a turn key cliffside mansion with marble counter tops and she’d dream of rolling dough against them. She’d imagine the flour falling from her fingertips and stopping the mixture from sticking.

Sydney would feel the cool breeze of her dream drifting through the sliding doors from the infinity pool area, and she’d hear the creak of the glass as someone pushed it open. Like always, her dreams would betray her and there you would be.

You’d walk towards her like you owned the place, the towel would be draped around you and slowly starting to fall when Sydney would wake up with a start, quickly turning off the television.

Thankfully, she’d be saved from that nightmare.

Anyway, that’s where she wants to be. Not here, not in this dimly lit bar where the music is a bit too loud and definitely not her taste.

Not here where Carmy is buying you a drink and trying to ask you questions with his lips just mere moments from your ear.

She imagined his breath was sweaty, that it’d tickle the side of your neck and you’d shiver a bit and wish that he’d stop and just let you thank him for the drink.

Her thoughts were confirmed, in a way, when she saw you nod politely and give him a half hearted cheers with your glasses. She watched the way your head rolled around the bar, eyes scanning until they fell on what you were looking for.

You found her. She watched you watch her and immediately you were walking her way.

For fucks sake.

Sydney tried to pretend she couldn’t see you coming. She tried to focus on the way Richie was angrily gesturing from you to Carmy. She thought she could hear something about “I told you I was buying her drinks!”

It was hard to ignore you when you came up right beside her, giving her a quick wave along with your smile. “You having fun?”

What a question. Sydney had been standing on the wall since you all arrived, nursing just one drink that was now melted ice cubes. Her stupid little paper straw was disintegrating and her hand was wet with the condensation of the glass.

Was she having fun?

“Yeah, course I am.”

She watched the way your eyebrows raised, nodding like you almost believed her. You leaned in just a little bit as you spoke.

“Then act like it.”

Sydney was about to argue when she felt your hand close around the glass she’d been protecting. You slid it out her grasp and spoke up again.

“Can’t be having much fun with an empty glass, I’ll get you another.”

Sydney tried to stop you.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to.”

“You don’t know what I’m drinking-��

You stopped, your head turning over your shoulder and she thought you might’ve even looked a little bit happy that she was following you to the bar.

“Yes I do.”

You placed her glass down and signaled to the bartender. Unsurprisingly, he dropped everything and made his way straight towards you. His eyes almost sparkled as he listened to exactly what you had to say.

“Tom Collins, please.” As you spoke, you tapped two fingers on the rim of Sydney’s glass.

Within an instant he was turning around to prepare the cocktail and Syd took her chance to speak up.

“That’s not what I was drinking, I had a vodka soda.”

You leaned against the bar as you smiled at her. “I know, but it’s what you wished you were drinking.”

Sydney’s face scrunched in confusion. You weren’t exactly wrong, if anything, you were absolutely correct. But how did you know that-

“Family dinner, can’t remember which one, you said it was your favourite cocktail and the first one you learnt to make.”

She didn’t get it, her face shook a little as she struggled with the words. “How could you remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

Thankfully the bartender reappeared with a tall Tom Collins and eyes that were only for you. “Anything else, sweetheart?”

Your face never changed a shade until you turned towards Sydney, looking to her expectantly. “Anything else?”

She felt herself shooting a gaze of disapproval towards the bartender, for reasons she couldn't place. She shook her head with a quick “no thanks.”

“No thanks.” You echoed, picking up your own drink and leaving the bar.

You didn’t even need to turn and check to know that Sydney was following you. She may not have wanted to, but she wasn’t really sure she could go anywhere else.

Finding the least sticky booth in the place, you let her slide in first before you followed her in. She took a quiet sip of the cocktail, enjoying the taste of lemon and pushing down the taste of being remembered.

You ran your finger around the rim of your glass, you didn’t say anything, didn’t look her way. Instead, you watched the rest of the room. You watched everyone milling about and chatting with each other.

Sydney wondered if you wished you were out there. If you wanted Carmy to keep trying to charm your pants off? If you wished Richie would get a little handsy by the pool table? Her eyes watched you as you tilted your head back towards her.

She thinks she saw contentment.

Very suddenly, you happened to turn your head the rest of the way and catch her staring. She felt caught, but she couldn’t find it in herself to look away.

You had been the thorn in her side since she’d met you, grating on her at your every move. The way you couldn’t leave her alone, always needing to know if she’s having a good day, always needing to know if she’d read any good books lately, always needing to work in the space next to her.

She thought about you endlessly. Everything you did, she found herself building it up just to tear it right down in her mind. Every word you said to her, every compliment that you threw her way was a coded message that only you both shared the solution to.

“God, Sydney, your plating is beautiful.”

Why were you scrutinising her work so intently?

“Can you show me how you do that one time? You’re so good at it.”

Why do you need to know? So you can do it better?

“Your hands, I can’t stop staring, they’re so steady.”

Why are you even looking at her hands? So you can be the first to tell when they shake?

“Syd, your bandana is so sweet. Where do you get those?”

That one, the way you’d listened intently with that look of endearment across your face. Only a week later for you to show up with a small parcel, delicately wrapped and in your outstretched hands. She’d peeled back the paper to see an ornate silk scarf, with the tiniest intricate detail around the borders.

You’d been the only person in the kitchen to remember her birthday. When the others had asked why you’d brought her a gift you’d answered like it was obvious. Sydney couldn’t even remember telling you when her birthday was. She sure as hell couldn’t understand why you’d care enough to bring her a gift.

Every waking (and even sleeping) moment of Sydney’s life, she found you there. At the very centre, burrowing your way in and refusing to give up your space. She couldn’t win. When you were around, she could barely breathe.

And when you weren’t there?

Total loss. Sydney knew from the moment she walked through the doors that something was off, the kitchen almost felt cold. It was quieter, it didn’t have that usual buzz that drew her in. She gave it at least an hour before she had to ask.

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well so she’s taken the day.”

Carmy had said it so flippantly, like he couldn’t care less. He didn’t care that you were alone in your apartment. He didn’t care that you were having to look after yourself, when you really should’ve been resting.

You’d called him, your voice probably a little bit off and he hadn’t dropped everything to make sure you were alright. He hadn’t fired up the burner to make you an easy soup, one that would surely make you feel loved.

Sydney’s head felt like it was swelling that day. She’d managed to work through it but her last hour, she kept an ear out as the stock pot simmered behind her and the bread crusted nicely in the oven.

When you’d returned to work with the Tupperware, she’d silently watched you thank Carmy with a broad smile. His look of confusion irritated Sydney to no end as he stared back blankly.

“Oh, the note said it was from the whole team.”

Carmy was no help but it wasn’t like you’d needed it. Your eyes found Sydney’s for just a moment before she lowered her head back to the chopping board she was stationed at.

“Thank you, it was exactly what I needed.” You’d told her later, when you had the chance.

Sydney was going to play at not knowing what you were talking about, brush it off as someone else’s doing. That was until you placed your hand on her upper arm and squeezed once as you refused to break eye contact.

Instead, Sydney didn’t say anything at all.

So here you were, doing the exact same thing in this dark little corner of this dark little bar. Refusing to break eye contact as you shuffled a little closer to her in the booth.

You were everything that pissed Sydney off.

Finger swirling the rim of the glass again, like you knew she couldn’t take her eyes off it.

You were everything that kept her up at night.

Lips pursing around your straw, you took your last long sip.

You were everything that she wanted and needed.

Pushing both your glasses away, you turned until only your back was visible to the rest of the bar. Caging her in, locking her down. Keeping this between you two.

You were everything.

“Sydney?”

All the air had been sucked out of the room as your left arm rested on the booth behind her and your right hand lay against her knee.

“Mhmm?”

Your thumb ran back and forth across her knee, even through her jeans you could feel the way her skin was burning under your touch.

“Is this okay?”

Sydney felt like she might fucking die. Everything that she’d ever thought about you, every idea, every dream, it was all turning from a murky wash into full screaming colour.

“Well-“

All this time, every furious little fight she’d internalised against you, all those fits of frustration she’d found herself in. It was never actually anger.

“What’s up, Syd?”

Your fingers moved a little higher on her thigh as her heart fought to break out of her chest. It had all come down to this, her chance to stop living in her head and finally acknowledge what it really was.

Complete and utter worship.

Sydney sucked in a breath and shook it out, letting the little confidence she had take over. Her hand moved to rest against your waist, using it to pull you just a little bit closer so she could whisper her question.

“Can I take you home?”

She didn’t miss the way the corners of your lips quirked up at her question. You lent in just a little bit till she could feel your breath just beneath her ear.

“You can do whatever you want.”

-

Sydney couldn't believe she was crossing the threshold of your apartment, the concept was nearly overwhelming. She took in your furniture, your decorating, and for a small place it was so unequivocally you.

As she moved closer into your home her eyes flickered to your kitchen. She could imagine you there, against the kitchen bench, drinking the soup she'd made you and smiling as it warmed your chest.

She'd thought about what it might've looked like. Did you have a blanket draped around your shoulders? Were you just wearing a t-shirt that fell mid-thigh? When you took that first spoonful, did her creation make you moan?

Thankfully, you snapped her out of her own thoughts by placing her hand in your own and nearly dragging her through the place. She felt like your living room was whipping past her head at a great rate of knots and nothing could prepare her for what came next.

Stepping into your bedroom, all the blood rushed around her head and thumped in her ears. There was so much going on tonight.

Sydney thought back to the bar, the way your hand had squeezed her knee as you slid back out the booth. The way she'd held your hand as you led her away from the night. The disgruntled protests from Richie and Carmy as they watched her steal you away.

None of that mattered. Everything had come down to the fact that you had her at the end of your bed and your hands were sliding over her shoulders to push her jacket off.

You gently placed your hands on her hips to nudge her back until she was sat on the bed, looking up at you like you'd hung the moon. Stepping back, you couldn't miss the way Sydney's hands twitched against her thighs, like she was saying "don't go too far."

Smiling for her, you stayed put, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. Her eyes moved from your face, down your chest (staying for a beat), and across to the waistband of your jeans. But you did notice the way they trailed right back to your face and her own smile grew.

Sydney spent every day looking at your face and even with her world at her fingertips, she'd look a little longer.

You were able to draw her attention back to your figure when you began to unbutton your jeans. Her breath caught in her throat and her wide eyes widened just that bit more as you began to shimmy them over your thighs and let them pool at your feet.

She watched you step out of them, kicking the discarded clothes aside and taking a couple of deliberate steps until you were stood between her thighs. Sydney's hands ran up the sides of your legs until they rested on your hips, touching you like you might break.

Moving them to your belly, she coasted them up and over the delicate lace of your bra. Steady hands curved around your breasts, just gently enough to map the lines of your body.

"This set is nice." She remarked, eyes quickly flickering to your matching panties before they moved back up to your eyes.

You giggled quietly as you nodded. "Thank you, I was hoping you'd like them."

Sydney had to take the moment to come to terms with this fact. That you'd woken up that morning and made the decision of which underwear to put on, with her in mind.

As she moved her hands again, you gently picked up one of them and brought them up to your face. Ever so carefully, you pressed the smallest of kisses to each pad of her finger.

Quickly as her heart fluttered, a determined heat settled in the pit of her stomach as your tongue ran up the length of her first and second finger. Sydney's mouth dropped open as she watched you wrap your lips around the tips of them before dragging her hand back to your chest.

"Your hands," You spoke, continuing to move it down until it her grasp rested on the band of your panties. "I've always been obsessed with your hands."

Her mind flashed back to the comment you'd made all those months earlier, how you couldn't stop staring. She thought about maybe how much sooner she could've been doing this if she had gotten out of her own way.

She couldn't dwell on that for long, not with the way you were moving in and perching yourself in her lap. Your thighs sat either side of hers and Sydney let her hands instinctively fall onto your waist.

Nose to nose, you could smell the lemon off the drink you'd brought her. She could feel your breath across her face and it was everything she'd imagined it would be.

You, like this, in her lap. That was quite honestly something she'd thought of many times.

Placing a hand on either side of her neck, you felt the weight of her braids resting atop your fingers. You'd only been trying to do this since you met the girl but you knew Sydney would be a tough one to crack.

But she was an uphill battle that would always be worth it for the view.

The view of her eyes shutting gently as her lips parted and she surged forward to capture your own lips. Her tongue immediately found its spot in your mouth, moving perfectly with yours and tickling the soft skin.

The tiny moan that left your throat and flooded into Sydney's mouth was swallowed right up by her. Hands holding you tight as she pulled your hips into her own, you let your own hands move up to her jaw.

You held onto her face, tilting it up so you could consume her whole. You'd finally got everything you wanted, there was no way you could let her go. Her hands lifted off your hip for a moment and you heard yourself whine at the loss of contact.

Syd snorted a laugh, only disconnecting your lips for a moment as she worked her own shirt off. Suddenly you could move your hands, running them down the smooth fabric of her cropped bra. Your hands cupped at her chest, feeling the swell of her breasts under your fingers.

Soon, you felt her arm slide under your behind as she began to shuffle back up the bed. She lay down beneath you, letting you perch above her as her hands went back to your waist.

Reaching behind you, you unclasped your bra, sliding the straps down your arms slowly before you tossed it behind you. Sydney did let her eyes fall on your bare breasts, taking in the sight before her.

Moving her hands, she cupped one breast in each hand with her fingers gently tweaking at your nipples. Your eyes began to roll, the tiny shocks of electricity ran through your body as she played with your most sensitive areas.

Your hands lay against her stomach, bringing them to her jeans were you began to unfasten them, slipping your hands underneath them to feel for the waistband of her underwear.

Hearing your name drift off her lips brought you back, your hazy eyes dropping back down to where she lay beneath you.

"Get up here and let me taste you." Sydney ordered in the same voice you'd heard every working day in the kitchen.

Like a switch turning on inside of you, you obediently shuffled up her body until you were hovering over her face. Your heart was pounding behind your ribcage, feeling her hands curve over your ass until they slipped beneath you.

Sydney hooked her fingers into the fabric of your panties, slipping them to the side as her other arm came over your thigh. She pulled you down until you were seated on her face, your cunt laying on the flat of her tongue.

She licked one long line from your entrance to your clit, circling it a couple times before she pursed her lips around it to suck. One of your hands went to your breast, pulling and tweaking at your nipple as the other hand shot out behind you to splay on Sydney's stomach.

You felt your hips roll into her mouth, riding the curve of her tongue as she moved it skilfully against you. Your mouth fell open, the sweet moans flooding past your lips and filling the room.

"Jesus Christ, Syd," You huffed out your words as you kept bucking your hips. "Just like that."

She hummed into you, affirming that she wouldn't change a fucking thing. Not if it meant you kept humping her tongue like that, sounding so pretty when you called out her name.

Her tongue moved around you just like it had in your mouth. It made its way in and commandeered the space. She knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly how to move to to elicit just what she wanted from you.

Sydney's eyes opened, watching you above her as you rolled your hips with your head tipped back. The way your eyes shut and your mouth fell open as you whimpered. In honesty, she thought you looked a bit like a debauched slut. Just how she wanted you.

There was pride sitting on her chest, sitting just behind you actually. That pride knew that there were a handful of people back at that bar right now that wanted you exactly like this, and Syd was the one that had you. That pride also knew that there was no way they could have you moaning the way you were now.

None of those men would know exactly what you wanted like she could. Not that you were a prize, an object, or anything of the sort.

But Sydney had one first fucking place.

Your hand drifted just a little bit lower, back under her open jeans and beneath the band of her underwear. The curls of her pubic area ran under your fingers until you dipped them into her slit.

"Sydney, you're fucking soaking."

She gave you a moan in response, the feeling reverberating through your body and her hips raised up under your touch. You dipped a finger towards her entrance, collecting slick until you brought it back to circle her clit.

Moving your hand behind you, she lifted her hips to help you get better reach. Your fingers dipped down, tips gently breaching her entrance and making her release another groan into your core.

Your pussy clenched around her tongue, spasms moving up your body as you kept up your movements. Both of Sydney's arms came to hook over your thighs, holding you tight as you fucked her face.

Cries of her name kept rolling off your tongue, the more that she sucked her lips around your clit. You'd no doubt that your neighbours might be impressed by Sydney's skill but all the more wishing she'd go home right now.

You slipped both your middle fingers inside her core, hooking them up against her and rubbing the heel of your hand against her clit. Her hips bucked up again, chasing the feeling as your fingers moved quickly inside of her.

Feeling the white hot tension building to its breaking point inside of you, your teeth clenched around your lower lip as you looked down at her. Her eyes caught on with yours as you rolled your hand against her clit again.

The way her eyes rolled back and the blissed out expression crossed her face was enough for you. Your whole body tensed up as you felt the coil snap, fighting to keep your hand moving in her trousers as your orgasm plummeted through you.

Sydney held onto you, gently pressing kisses to your pussy as she felt your muscles tensing beneath her hands. Her own eyes screwed up as you crooked your fingers up, pressing against the soft, spongey area behind her pubic bone and feeling her tense around your hand.

You shifted your hips back so you could hear the way she whimpered, the sound going down in history for you as it twisted into a moan of your name. Her fingertips dug into your thighs as you brought her to her orgasm.

Her hips stuttered, quietly calling out for you as you let her ride it out on your hand. Gently, you swung your leg off of her and slowly ran your fingers against her slit, feeling the aftershocks slowly dissipating through her.

Shifting to lay beside her on the bed, you brought your fingers up to her mouth, watching her wrap her lips around them and taste herself as you kissed at the wetness you'd left on her chin.

Sydney snuck her left arm beneath you, her right wrapping round your back to pull you in closer as she pressed her lips back against yours. Her tongue pushed it's way through and made total ground as her thigh slotted between your legs.

Rolling it against your centre once, she smiled as you moaned into her mouth. Sydney nodded, humming in delight as she felt your hands working under the band of her bra.

"That's a good girl," She cooed, well and truly finding the rest of her confidence. "Lay back and let me worship you."

[anniesworld69]

so incredible

something about a canary

[anniesworld69]

he’s everything to me 🥹

sean diaz fluff alphabet (rq)

(A) attractive - what do they find attractive about u? how do they show this?

sean is attracted to anyone or anything that deviates the norm. dyed hair, unique background/perspective, and unconventional features. literally anything u think is unattractive and not up to the beauty standard about u, he probably rlly digs it. hell draw it in his journal always! but not in a way that comes across performative—he just draws u authentically. he doesnt feel the need to modify how u look in his art bc he thinks ure perfect as is (booo corny).

he shows his attraction through flesh-blazing, skull-burning staring. he analyzes his muses thoroughly after all... he knows where all ur freckles/moles are and can draw ur smile from sheer memory. in the months that he crushed on u, u couldn’t help but feel this pestering feeling of being watched in class constantly.

hes still a dorky teenage boy so if u share the same music taste as him or have the same hobbies hell geek out!! “no way she can skate AND listens to my favorite songs…” lyla will just roll his eyes at him in response. he acts like tom from 500 days of summer 😭

(B) baby - how do they act around kids?

sean definitely says he hates kids. hell talk about how annoying they are and use daniel as an example ALWAYS. that however does not hide the fact that he is REALLY good with kids. i wouldnt say its in a fatherly way but kids tend to look up to him as a cool older brother (even when he doesnt try to be one).

sean also secretly loves it when ur good with kids, despite him allegedly hating them. he cant help but grin ear-to-ear when he sees how happy u make daniel. once he becomes self-aware he tries to wipe his smile off asap. when u, sean, and daniel go out u guys are practically his parents. both of u know how to shut down daniels whining fast. albeit sean does more of the hushed, frustrated demands and u just try to defuse daniel.

(if u guys have ever seen the video of jake and tara with that baby thats how i imagine u guys with kids 😈 except ur both a mix of tara n jake)

(C) cuddle - how do they like to cuddle?

honestly the two of u can never decide who’s big spooning and who’s little spooning. to solve this issue the two of u just kind of… stack on top of each other.

esteban will do his routine dad check up on the two of u (preventing teen pregnancy) and walk into u guys jenga-ed on top of each other. ur legs are a tangled mess and u look like two corpses laid on top of each other. scrolling through ur phones while stacked is the go-to. ull be muffled chuckling into sean’s stomach at random videos for an hour…

while cuddling sean always traces little drawings/words on ur body. when u ask him whats hes drawing hell probably say its a dick LMFAO. so romantic 🙄

at the beginning of ur relationship, sean always felt the need to be the “man” and cradle u like some big infant. overtime he got more comfortable and whenever u guys watch movies on the couch hell be sprawled out on top of ur lap. one arm up supporting his head and a leg propped up like a princess xoxo

(D) dates - what are dates with them like? what do they like to do?

concerts, fairs!!! and MOVIES for sure

sean casually drops half his check on good seats for one of ur guys favorite band. the two of u have a tradition of replaying their music for weeks until the concerts about to start. it literally does not matter how many times uve gone to concerts with sean—u guys stay excited every single time. the after concert high is so good and u guys always kiss in the car afterwards. the two of u mess up each other’s hair and shuffle back in ur seats with swollen lips. sean backs out the parking lot while awkwardly clearing his throat 😭

SEAN IS SUCH A BIG FAIR GUY. he gives less than two shits if the pop-up fairs are shady and will probably collapse at the slightest gust of wind. he WILL take u on all the janky rides and tease u for being freaked out. he holds ur hand while giggling like a lil boy on the ferris wheel bc the creaking starts to freak the both of u out. he also tries to win fair prizes for u and say its a “bullshit scam” when he loses.

u beg him to go into the photobooth and take cute little couple-esque photos. he says “fineee” after some convincing with a smile and he avoids ur gaze after too. he definitely secretly wanted to the whole time though!! when they print out, they come out with those face-adjusting filters. u guys are WHEEZING laughing in front of the slot where they regurgitate out those abominations. sean puts it on the back of his phone case bc he thinks its so hilarious 😭

sean is a film nerd considering he had goodlands on his laptop. hes definitely up to date on any movie releases and will want to watch anything new with u. u guys always dissect the movie aggressively afterwards. the both of u will forever and always argue about which characters u liked and didnt over some takeout.

(E) equal - are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

sean on the regular is passive. he never was the “dominant” type to like… back u into corners. in fact he was really awkward when u first met him. hes lowkey scared of women 😭

it took him a while to get comfortable/assertive. by “comfortable” i mean gaining the ability to tease u back LMAO. when he first gave u a snarky remark ur jaw kind of hung open and u guys HAVENT STOPPED SINCE. overall, sean usually was the one to wait for u to initiate something. he never wanted to put u in a situation ud be uncomfortable with.

(F) fight - would they be easy to forgive their s/o? how are they fighting?

u guys fight like an old married couple. playful arguments always happen but once it becomes serious/personal things go south. one thing leads to another and the two of u just get agitated with each other

when u guys do seriously fight sean eventually lets u have ur way ALWAYS. he always prioritizes what u need/feel in the end and is really good at saying sorry. a part of him feels like big fights indicate ull leave him so hell always choke out things like “i just dont wanna lose you” after arguments. it sounds really dramatic but he has DEEP-rooted abandonment issues. hell hold u—whether it be an embrace or ur hand just to feel comforted afterwards.

(G) gentle - how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

GAWWWWWWWWWDAUH sean is so incredibly very gentle. sure, he teases u sometimes but in the end, again, he always makes sure ur comfortable! he asks u if ur okay when u look clearly overstimulated/out of it.

physically, sean doesnt mess around. he will constantly playfully shove u, mess with ur hair, etc. obviously its never to the point where it hurts but this is the only way he can get his daily dose of pda, so!

(H) hugs - do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?

sean is crazy on back hugs. he will always surprise u with one and he WILL trap u in it. ull be walking around his house and chatting with his leech-self wrapped around u. he likes nuzzling his nose in and u can feel his lips curl into a smile on the nape of ur neck when u make a joke (😢)

sean takes the opportunity to embrace u at any moment of privacy hes given. when daniel or esteban catches him he immediately flings off u and starts stuttering LMAO. hes kind of lanky so if anything his clothes are what cushion u. BUT he is very warm and is a personal heater #tbh. who needs a coat when u have sean???

(I) i love you - how fast did they say the l-word?

i feel sean is either VERY quick to fall in love but takes forever to actually utter the words out. he will have a love at first sight moment with u and only have the feelings grow bigger and bigger as time went on. sean is overall a reserved person and wouldnt go out of his way to tell u, no matter how much lyla encouraged him.

he would only say it once it becomes overbearing for him. like, to the point where the extent he loves u has become pervasive and PERSISTENT. it will just explode out of him at some pivotal moment. u guys will be laughing hysterically at something only u guys would laugh at. then, boom, it slips out like its something he had to swallow back down a hundred times before. because its so sudden, it will definitely catch u off guard.

he would repeat it because he didnt think u heard it the first time like a dork. his stomach acid is doing fucking somersaults at this point. u will visibly see this guy’s face drop and his hands start to fiddle anxiously. his eyes will kind of dart all over ur shocked face in fear. he’ll choke a lil “sorry i have no clue why i even said that-“

u lean in and the rest is history 🤓

(J) jealousy - how jealous do they get? when do they get jealous?

sean is always a bit wary of specific guy friends or potential suitors u have in ur life. again, sean picks up on LOTS that most people brush over. he knows when people flirt with u and he always bites his tongue before he says anything.

whenever u talk about other people too much, he gets a little… sassy. ull be thanking some guy in ur class for giving u the answers and hell be grumbling “i wouldve gave them to u…” under his breath. u shoot a look at him and he just defensively puts his arms up LMAO. he never seems to stop either. the amount of times u caught him rolling his eyes… criminal.

(K) kisses - what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss u? where do they like to be kissed?

sean is so shy when it comes to kisses. when u first began dating, sean never kissed u without a shy “can i?” before. he never knew when was appropriate or if u wanted to kiss him at all. his ears would flare up in red and his eyebrows would furrow in concentration each time.

overtime, as he got more comfortable, sean began finding the “right times” himself. whenever u leave his house he always gives u a quick peck. daniel never misses his opportunity to scream “EWW” as loud as he can. sean will be like “one more” and smooch ur cheek and then say “wait another one” and just KEEP GOING. if he wore lipstick u would look like u were dunked in a pig’s blood.

smiling into the kiss happens without fail—every single time. sean cant help himself, hes a lover boy!! he will always slowly open his eyes and pray u wont catch him sneaking a look. once he pulls away, he laughs while covering his mouth with his wrist. he gets butterflies still, no matter how many times u kiss 😭 im sick.

(L) love language - what is his love language?

sean’s family is big on quality time so he definitely prioritizes it. impromptu hangouts are his absolute favorite and if he could, hed spend every hour he could with u. sean never fails to randomly invite u over and hold u at gunpoint to do family time with him, daniel, and esteban.

also sean is a big gift giver! he will always give u doodles of ur favorite characters and little things that remind him of u. u guys have matching pins, keychains, bracelets, etc. not only does he go all out, but he also knows EXACTLY what u like. again, sean is the most attentive bf ever. hes the kind of man who would spend hours making coraline dolls of u two.

(M) mornings - how are mornings spent with him?

sean is not a morning person. he is almost always running late to first period, so oftentimes u cover for him. he will come to class with messy hair and will lizard-blink at literally anything u say. when u tell him that u gave the teacher an excuse, hell let out a croak-ey "thanks" and he will on a 99% chance knock out right after. he'll probably dazily open his eyes at u every so often and go back to sleep LMAO.

on weekends, sean will... barely be awake for mornings. ull be up and ready, watching hawt dawg man on the couch with daniel while eating cereal. sean shortly comes out of his mancave, stretching and yawning. hell come to lean on ur shoulder and stare blankly at the screen. its never particularly productive but sean couldnt care less honestly.

(N) nicknames -what does he call u?

sean had a disdain for nicknames. uttering any of them out loud just seemed so embarrassing to him… unless he’s making fun of them. he does however love “girlfriend.” its not exactly a nickname but he loves saying ur his girlfriend or “my girlfriends coming over” to people.

at a certain point he started using it in sentences that wouldn’t make sense. he’d go “hi girlfriend” every time he sees u. he’s so stew peed… 😢

(O) on cloud nine what is he like when he’s in love? is it obvious for others?

lyla never hears the end of u. shell be talking about something entirely unrelated and sean will be disassociating with his mouth open. when he finally snaps back into reality the first thing that comes out of his mouth is “do u think she would find it a turn off that u drive me everywhere?…“

“yeah obviously— were u even listening sean?”

“mm okay…” he just goes back to tuning her out again LMAO.

esteban will be asking for his tools from sean and he’d be totally zoned out just thinking about u. esteban will pull himself out from under the car and groan “augh… lover boy…” without sean even saying anything to him… so yes hes obvious.

(P) pda - is he upfront about your relationship? does he brag about you with others? or he rather shy to kiss, etc. when others are watching?

i already wrote on this but sean would rather keep intimate contact privately. that is, unless hes really in the heat of the moment. for example, at a concert hed just get so riled up. the lyrics of the song perfectly aligning with the way he feels about u MIGHTTT just make him collide lips with u, who knows! at special moments he won’t hesitate to kiss u but he’s just usually not a show-ey person.

too many times have the two of u attempted to sneak away to be romantic alone and gotten caught. whether it be lyla, esteban, daniel, or any of sean’s guy friends—they always tease u guys. lyla is so dramatic and she’d probably do the most, screaming and squawking when all she sees is sean hugging u 😭

(Q) quizzes - how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing or do they kind of forget everything?

just like i mentioned earlier, sean remembers every little thing. he knows which side of ur smile leans more toward, the distinctive mole on ur arm, etc etc etc. he loves u like how a husband with a camcorder loves his late wife <3

sean has pulled multiple joe goldbergs before u started dating. he will give u some small knick knack of ur favorite video game/show/band and ull thank him, visibly confused on when u mentioned it. hell notice and just go “i heard u talk about it like three months ago.” he only realizes HOURS LATER how creepy he sounded and his ass will start sliding down a wall dramatically in his room.

(R) rosy - what makes them blush?

sean is quick to blush. honestly, any time u guys are intimate in any sort of way his ears are probably burning up. he’ll try to hide that he’s nervous by giving u quick one-liners back but inside his heart is RACING.

(S) security - how protective are they? how would they protect you?

sean goes to great lengths to protect people he loves, like u. in relation to actual life is strange 2 lore, sean definitely does anything in his power to not involve u in the incident. if u try to contact him or find him, he’ll probably be EXTREMELY upset. at first, all he can think about is how much he wants u away from all this mess. he just wants u to live a normal life—and if that meant being far away from him he’d be okay with it. u would beg him to let u back in his life and eventually, with much hesitation, he’d oblige. keeping u alongside daniel on the road allowed u to see another side to sean. he had been hit and came back up so many times just for u. all he wants in his life is to keep u safe.

exempt from life is strange 2 lore, sean always does little things to keep u safe. there are many times where he treats u like daniel—aka a big baby LMAO. he’s big on acts of service as well so he’ll always make u walk on the inside of the sidewalk, hold ur hair away from ur face when it’s windy, help u jump off of places too high up, etc.

(T) try - how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

he’s so bf coded of course he puts maximum effort at all times! he gets crafty for you every anniversary—a collection of drawings of u and a curated playlist/burnt cd is the MINIMUM he’s capable of. he’s the kind of boyfriend that can actually pick up on subtleties. something u mentioned liking once? it’s now in his cart.

when sean feels like switching it up he’ll try to do things he’s not used to like pottery and completely fail 😭. he has some place in the back of his closet of all the clunky diy gifts he’s tried to make for u in the past. despite this, he’ll give u a perfect trinket dish and u’ll wonder how he’s so good at everything. one day in his room he’ll ask u to go get something from his closet. u go inside and see a cardboard box with 15 versions of that very same trinket dish he made.

(U) understanding - how well do they know their partner?

sean does his best at understanding you as a person. when u talk about complicated emotions and unique experiences he doesn’t quite share, he’ll have this really pensive expression. he nods along and tries to understand ur perspective to the best of his ability. because of this, its really easy to open up to sean.

sean has you down to a T. hes so so so perceptive and knows when u feel uncomfortable. a small falter in ur smile, the glossy glint in ur eyes, ur lip quivering, he sees it ALL. he will immediately try to get u out of whatever situation ure in.

(V) vanity - how concerned are they with looks?

he could give less than two farts tbh. he loves when u look like a mess, more drawing opportunities for him. he however will make a big deal about looking good in front of u. he will be styling his hair for an hour in front of the mirror before going on a date with u, hogging the bathroom. he also practices the way he approaches u and lays out his outfits to impress u LMAO.

(X) xtra headcanon

sean loves cats so much. if u have a cat, he will spend the whole time at ur house trying to befriend them. bro will be crawling all over ur house on all fours... it gets to the point where u guys can never pass by a petsmart without sean making an impromptu visit to see the cats. plus, u guys have matching cat profile pictures!!!

(Y) yearning - how will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

sean coops up and calls and texts u as much as u can. its to the extent where he will send u nonsensical texts just so he can open ur guys' chat. ur phone will be vibrating so much and out of curiosity ull open it to just see random symbols and letters strung together. he'll send u random photos throughout the day that remind him of u and make unplanned video calls. u guys do mundane tasks together in silence for HOURS. they never fail to end with him just falling asleep on call.

(Z) zzz - what are their sleep habits?

sean is NOT a morning person. because daniel’s usually the one that wakes him up, he will slam a pillow into ur face when ur just trying to wake him up. he will open his eyes to see u and mumble a “shit sorry…” and snake his hand around u back into bed. he will hold u PRISONER under those sheets. if u try to shuffle out he will snake another arm around u. u're essentially held hostage until sean decides he wants to set u free... cruel world.

unfortunately i feel like this is very lackluster and COULDVE BEEN BETTER idk. also not proofread so sorry if this was... inchuresting to read... it also sucked me dry so i think i may have to start writing ACTUAL fanfics nstead of hcs😢😢😢 thank u if u did enjoy though...

[anniesworld69]

my bf

❝ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 ! ❞

꒰ CONTENT WARNINGS ! ꒱ : explicit content, foul language, intern!reader, businessman!gojo, satoru’s a bit of a pervert in this one, and also really fucking annoying but he’s just in love fr, oral, slight breath play, unprotected sex, breeding. they fuck in an elevator, and i use a lot of italics here, oops!

serena’s note. he’s so fucking insufferable i want him so bad. also this 4.3k words. i’m so sorry.

oh but of course, since the odds were always against your favour, had you found yourself stuck in this incredulous predicament.

it’d been a long day of enduring misogynistic, narcissistic higher ups and pricks, and you wanted nothing more than to hop in your car and drive off home, hop in bed and sleep.

sounded like an ideal and realistic plan, until the sole purpose of your life’s oppression waltzed in seconds before the elevator’s doors shut, pearly white teeth flashing through a smug grin and icy blues shimmering through dark shades that rested atop his nose bridge.

you huffed, almost at your wit’s end as the elevator’s door automatically reopened at the unwanted presence detected in its sensory, and the tall frame steps in with slow strides and a stupid fucking smile on his lips, hands in the pockets of his slacks, striding as if he stepped out of vogue’s magazine.

“see somethin’ you like, wifey?” satoru chuckled, stepping side to side by your posed frame. why he chose to stand beside in this very unoccupied elevator, you’d never understand but you did know you weren’t going to entertain his bullshit today.

you bit back the insult that rested at the tip of your tongue, “floor?” your index finger hovered over the panel, waiting for him to tell you.

“same as yours,” gojo shrugged, to which you decided on closing the doors instead.

“what business you got on the 2nd floor?” you muttered, suspicions growing at the fact that he coincidentally had shit to do on the same floor as yours.

the boyish smirk he flashed you sent chills down your spine, “whatever business you got on that floor.”

you sighed exasperatedly, soon piecing together that gojo was certainly not going to the second floor to pack his belongings to head home, seeing as he was one of the higher ups that spent longer hours in the office when the interns’ shifts would end.

you pinch the bridge of your nose; “gojo.” you say his name, tone clipped and full of fatigue.

“y/n.” he answers back with your name, a flashy grin baring on thirty two teeth.

you breathe in deeply, reminding yourself to count to ten before you lost your shit. you step near the control panel and press on the main lobby floor, the first, where you decide to send him off. chances were he was heading down there to do his daily flirting with the new secretary hired anyway.

“did ya change your mind?” his voice spawns from right at your ear, and you still in shock at his proximity, noting he’s much closer to you than earlier. “we goin’ to the first floor instead?”

“we are not going anywhere.” you tilt your head to the side, glaring at him through your falsies. he shifts his own head, still fucking smiling, feigning ignorance. “you are going to the first floor, and i’m going to the fifth.”

his smile drops, finally, but at what cost? “why would i do that?” he has the nerve to genuinely sound confused, as if you were the one not making any sense out of this situation.

“why wouldn’t you?” you counter back, lifting an index finger to place atop his forehead, before pushing his head back, “don’t you got better shit to do? like harass a newbie and disguise it as flirting or somethin’?”

“is that not what i’m doing right now?” he jokes, grabbing the finger that pushed him back. you scowl, a bit upset at the fact you walked right into that one.

“besides,” he speaks up, directing your finger towards the control panel once more. “what if i had business on the… seventh floor?”

you furrow your brows, your own eyes watching as he uses your nail to press on the seventh floor button. you try to ignore how warm and soft his hands feel against your, in contrast to the coolness of his rings.

“orrrr,” he drags out, tightening the hold on your hand once more and raising your hand higher on the panel. “what if i had business on the thirteenth floor? maybe the ninth too?”

“gojo.” you warn him, clicking your tongue when realizing what game he’s starting to play at. you definitely don’t feel goosebumps form at your skin hearing his chuckle resonate right in your ear.

“that german intern’s a babe, ain’t she?” he hums pensively, his thumb rubbing circles at the center of your palm. “i might wanna see her too.” he brings your hand to the eight floor and applies enough pressure to see it illuminate.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you get annoyed, attempting to rip your hand away from his hold but fail, when you feel him creep even closer in your bubble, your ass undoubtedly pressing into his crotch.

your eyes widen, half shock half disbelief, a sudden appearance of what seems to be gojo junior stirring awake poking at your short skirt. oh fuck.

“or,” he whispers, minty breath sending jolts of electricity up your back. he drags your hand messily over the panel, about three fourths of the floors illuminating and you know you’re fucked. “maybe i wanna stay stuck in here with you…”

you blink back to reality, dismissing whatever possible emotion you were beginning to feel emerge in your core. with a sharp tug, you manage to free yourself from his grasp and turned on your heel to face the tall bastard.

“i’m gonna need you to back off and instantly—you fuckin’ creep.” you snarl, pointer finger pointing at him accusingly, hoping it sets an exemplary distance between you both.

gojo breaks into laughter, the kind that has his shoulders shaking and has him doubling over as if you’d just told him the world’s greatest joke. you watch him dumbfoundedly, your left eye twitching as he continued to ridicule you.

“fine, fine. sorry princess, i was just teasing.” he pushes his frames up to his hairline, messy strands of hair pushed out the way as he wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eyes.

you roll your eyes, pushing past him to make your way back to where you’d been prior to these stupid events. if you were gonna be stuck on this elevator ride longer than necessary because of the pit stops, you’d simply ignore him and hope he catches the hint.

you stare straight ahead at the elevator door, feeling the ride descend from the twentieth floor downwards. fuck that tall, stupid and rich bastard for dragging this elevator ride past its needed time limit.

from your peripheral, you make out his form leaning forward to catch your straight gaze. you were ignoring him and he knew, “you mad at me?”

you remain quiet, silently praying that at one of these next stops another worker would step in and ease the situation more.

gojo frowns, eyebrows pinched to the center his forehead, “c’mon, i was joking! honest! i really am sorry.”

the silence, safe for the elevator music, answered him everything he needed to know. you were always such difficult nut to crack, but what you failed to acknowledge was the more you pushed him away the more he grew attracted to you.

he sighs, before slinging his arm over your shoulders, dropping most of his body weight onto you. he watches as you nearly stumble from the sudden imbalance, before looking up to him with that adorable pout of yours that he wants to fuck out of you.

oops.

“what now, gojo?” you ask him with so much attitude, your expression bored. “can’t leave me alone for a single fucking elevator ride? you that obsessed with bothering me?”

“you got it all wrong,” gojo shakes his head, snow white tresses shaking with him and his shades falling right back to place on his nose. “i’m not obsessed with bothering you— i’m obsessed with you period. been obsessed since that time you chucked piping hot coffee on my givenchy button down.”

you frown deeply at that, reflecting at how long ago that had been. you knew what kind of guy he was. after all, who hadn’t heard of gojo satoru in this forsaken company? he dipped his dick in anything with a pulse and moved onto the next big thing whenever he got bored—

or so you’ve heard.

you stare at him for a minute, processing his words. he shamelessly stares back at you, now looping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side.

“see something you like, wifey?” he repeats himself, his favorite nickname for you making another appearance. you ignore how his hands stroke your bare arms.

you stifle a laugh, snorting incredulously at him before breaking into a full blown laughter. maybe you now understood why gojo had done the same just a little while ago, because the look of offence on his face had made the situation funnier than it was initially.

“what’s funny?! i’m here professing my feelings for you and you’re laughing?!” gojo complains like the manchild he is, dragging syllables and all, rosy lips falling into a pout.

“fuck— i’m sorry, did you think i was gonna believe that?” your laughter dies down, sighing deeply in attempts to catch your breath. “no, seriously, do you take me for an idiot?”

“believe it or not, it’s the truth,” he mumbles, leaning his chin at the top of your skull. “even ask nanamin. been treating him as my walking diary since suguru left.”

you don’t want to think about if that holds any truth or not. you tilt your head up, enforcing eye contact with him, “i think you’re confused. it’s definitely not love, or anything in between. you’re just horny and want to fuck me.”

“well,” he looks down, mouth salivating at the point of view presented of your breast, sitting up in all their glory in your blouse. “i won’t lie and say that isn’t true. but why is it so hard to believe i have feelings for you? i literally am obsessed with you, why else would i deliberately wast time and sit through all twenty floors here with you?”

speaking of, you look at the indicator and notice you’re only at the seventeenth floor. how slow was this damn ride? there’s absolutely no way you’d only been through less three floors this whole time? was time still in this elevator or what?

wait—

“oh shit.” you hear the man cuss. you fear that’s all the confirmation you needed, as your eyes pan towards the control panel and notice all the buttons are illuminating on and off.

silence fills the air, and you’re just realizing the elevator music had stopped playing. your luck bites, you decide, as you reevaluate all you wanted to do; grab your shit from the second floor and go the fuck home.

you try not to freak out, the fear of being trapped in an elevator period catching up to you mixed with anger rising in your blood at the blue eyed freak who’s the sole cause for this unfortunate situation.

“don’t freak out, but like,” he begins to speak, corner of his lips tugging into a sympathetic smile, “we’re definitely stuck here.”

he deserves the punch to the guts he gets.

“you sit your ass on that end of the room,” you push him to one extremity of the elevator. he’s doubled over, groaning in agony at the blow he received. “and i’ll be sitting here. do not, and i cannot stress this enough, talk to me.”

time flies really fucking slowly, you notice as you check your dying phone every five minutes, waiting for the damn maintenance of this place to do their job and get you out of this elevator.

gojo had complied to your demand and hasn’t said a word to you in about twenty minutes. his long legs sprawled across the floor, one leg raised as he rested his arm atop his knee.

you didn’t want to admit it, but you were getting bored. and hungry. very hungry, and uncomfortably hot. did the air conditioning in here cut off too? most likely, damn your life.

you sat as gracefully as you could in your tight skirt and heels, tucking your legs into chest in hopes your shins were covering your inner thighs. though, you weren’t certain if you were doing a good job, judging by the way you could feel gojo’s stare at you behind the shades and the way he shifted in his seat.

he tilts his head to the side, index finger swiping over his nose and he sniffs, “figures you’re the lace type.”

you feel all the fight flee your body, all but exhausted as you bite into whatever he chews. you needs entertainment, even if it came in form of a 6’3 imbecile with an outfit the cost of your rent.

“figures you’ve been staring at my panties this whole time, when else are you ever this quiet?” you clap back, making no motion to switch positions. besides, he was manspreading with his whole boner poking through his slacks and he remained shameless. why couldn’t you?

he smirks, lifting his hand and leaning his cheek in his palm, “i’ve spent the last twenty minutes thinking about the things i’d do to you if you’d let me.”

gojo was so fucking shameless, you hated how it turned you on at times. you must’ve been truly out of it, lack of food in your system or something, because your answer flies out of you almost too naturally, “show me your worst then.”

in the blink of an eye, you both find yourselves back on your feet, your back pressed against the wall of the elevator as your lips mold feverishly with his. gojo kisses you like he’s been wanting to do so for years, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pushing your body tighter against him.

you’re no better, hands flying to the back of his neck and your nails tugging at messy locks. he moans against your lips at a particular tug, one hand slipping past your waist and slides up your thigh. he lifts your leg and wraps it around his hip, applying pressure into the middle of your legs.

“fuck,” you moan softly against pink lips, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. he hums, your bottom lip tucked in his teeth as he pushes up into you once more.

“feel good?” he mumbles against your lips, sneaking a few kisses while awaiting for your response. his hold on your thigh is firm, wanting to hold you in place to keep grinding into you and drawing these pretty sounds out of you.

you nod your head before throwing it back against the wall, to which his lips leave yours to attack at your neck. he’s kissing and licking and nipping at your sensitive skin, leaving dark love bites.

“you fuckin’ teenager,” you complain, knowing he was intentionally marking you in visible areas, so you’d be the next talk of the week. “just had to be there, didn’t it?”

“couldn’t help it,” you feel his smirk against your jugular, to which you roll your eyes. “you smell so fucking good here, shit, i could eat you up— actually…”

you snort as he pulls away from the crook of your neck, and you eye how dishevelled he looks. even with messy hair, saliva streaking his cheeks and swollen lips, he still looked fucking hot.

you don’t have much time to reflect on his beauty because he’s soon kneeling down in front of you, hands creeping up in your skirt and tugging down at your lace undergarment. it slides off your legs with ease, and is soon in his possession, to which he stuffs in his pockets.

“i will.” he finally completes his sentence, lifting your leg over his shoulder.

he holds a firm grip on your thigh as your skirt hikes up, and he feasts. his lips latch onto your lower ones and slurps up your juices. his tongue swipes at your wet folds, moaning at the taste, which drives you to mush.

you throw your head back, hands coming in contact with his tresses, expressing the delight you feel through the tugs at his hair. whenever you’d pull hard at his hair, he’d moan into your cunt, which would result in making you moan louder and pull harder, and the cycle repeats.

“f-fuck, hah—gojo,” you whine when you feel a single digit prod into your pussy. he multitasks with fucking you open with his finger while sucking at your clit and lapping up your juices.

“shit, mhm, keep going,” you push his head deeper into your legs, momentarily forgetting you’re cutting out his breathing circulation.

you then realize he truly doesn’t mind, as his eyes roll to the back of his skull and moans even more sinfully into your dripping pussy.

it didn’t take much more than a few extra fingers to drive you over the edge, and you spray your essence in his mouth as he happily swallows every single drop you offer to him. your thighs quake and you feel yourself lose balance but he makes sure to hold you still.

you ride your high on his face, breathing heavily as you come down from your orgasm. he pulls away from in between your legs, breathing heavily with a smitten smile on his lips. “bon appétit,” he jokes, using the back of his hand to wipe himself clean.

you snort at his childishness, “shut up and gimme a moment to return you the favour.”

and just like that, you find yourself now kneeling and gojo hovered over you. he stretched his arm to hold himself up against the wall while simultaneously watching you swallow his cock whole.

now, all cocky shit aside, gojo was nowhere near small sized. he packed a big one, and the fact that you were so confidently gobbling him up, head bobbing up and down on his length, hands twisting and jerking whatever you failed to reach.

“fuckfuckfuck—shiiit, dammit y/n, your mouth feels fuckin’ amazing,” gojo whines pathetically, leaning his forehead against the cool wall.

it unintentionally forces his tip deeper in your throat and you gag around him, throat constricting around his dick and fuck if his knees hadn’t buckled.

you knew gojo was a spontaneous man, so him suddenly reaching the back of your head and pushing you deeper on his dick shouldn’t have surprised you. you were now deepthroating him as he praised you endlessly, telling you how perfect you were taking him, how warm and tight your mouth felt, how he was going to cum if you kept playing with his balls.

when he does nut, your nose reaches his pubic hairs, curly white hairs ticking you as you inhale his musk in attempt to force yourself to suppress your gag. he cums a riverbank down your throat and naturally you swallow it all, pulling off him when he finishes and seeing a string of cum and saliva connect his blushing pink tip to your lips.

“fuck,” he chuckles breathlessly, hand laying atop of your head and patting your hair gently before sliding down to your jaw. his thumb strokes your skin, “come up here, wanna kiss you again.”

“sap.” you tease but lift yourself, knees wobbly but you manage.

you’re back to standing, and your hands quickly find themselves back to his nape, threading your fingers gently through his hair. he kisses you much less rushed but instead takes his time, savours the taste of him on your tongue as you taste yourself on his.

the kiss is sensual and sloppy, drool pooling at the corner of your lips as he kisses you like his lifeline depends on it. his hands slip at your ass, grabbing the mounds with handfuls.

he pulls away just slightly, wording against your lips “jump.”

you comply, jumping and he catches you gracefully, showing no signs of struggle. you wrap your legs around his waist and proceed to kiss him again, your back coming in contact with the wall. you feel him grind his hardening dick against your bare pussy, and if you had half your regular mind, you’d have been embarrassed by how badly you were dripping over him.

“‘m gonna fuck you now,” gojo mumbles against your lips, lips peppering kisses at the corner of your saliva coated mouth. “that good with you, princess?”

you give him a flat look, fingers still carding through his soft locks. “use your thinking skills and guess.”

he smiles at you, almost too sincere and raw, and you feel your eyes shy away from his gaze, focusing instead at the beauty mark marked at the base of his neck. “hey, consent is sexy, meanie.”

“the sexiest,” you feed into his bite, giggling when you feel him nuzzle his nose in the crook of your neck. his crown of hair tickles at your skin. “now hurry up.”

you surely don’t have to tell him twice as he pulls out of your neck and grabs the base of his dick, placing his tip at your pulsating hole and pushes inside.

the synchronization of both your moans blend into each others, as your gaze on one another never breaks. he watches you intently, blue eyes narrowing into your facial reactions, wanting to memorize every twitch of muscles in case this was ever his last opportunity to.

“mmhm—yes, baby,” you claw at his back, eyes droopy and hazy as he thrusts into you at a slow yet intense pace. if gojo noticed the term of endearment you slipped up, he made no show in pointing it out, and you were thankful.

the stretch of his cock at your pussy sent a fiery feeling spreading towards all of your limbs. the squelching of your pussy tightening and clenching at his dick filling the room. he soon picked up his pace, railing into you with every fibre in his body, loving the way your body bounced up in reaction to his thrusts.

he fucked you into that wall, dug so deep into your cunt you were sure you felt him in your stomach. well no wonder why women were obsessed with him, he was definitely a pleaser. a stinging bitter feeling momentarily crawled up your throat before dissipating when you caught his eyes staring at you with something you’d usually refer to as admiration.

“god, this pussy is heaven fucking sent—never had anythin’ like it—oh shit baby, gotta have more of this— gotta have more of you, please y/n—need this all the fuckin’ time,” he praised you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

he was a verbal man, you knew, but it amplified during sexual activities. you shamefully moaned at every praise he threw at you, pussy clenching at his dick, warmth oddly settling in your chest. you scratched at his back, he bit into your shoulders, nipped at your lips and rammed your core.

in little to no time, you felt that tide of pleasure washing over you, your cervix unable to take anymore of his tip bullying into it.

“gojo, fuckkk, ‘m so fucking close!” you mewl brokenly, as tears stream down your cheeks from the overriding pleasure.

“satoru,” he breathes out, his name falling straight within earshot. his hips never give up, but his request is asked based off raw emotions, “call me satoru—please,”

your mind is running miles a minute, the tightening of your gut on the brink of snapping and spraying your dam yet again all over him.

he whimpers with his nose pressed at your jugular, his grip on your thighs so tight your bound to have bruises form soon, and your back begins to ache from repeatedly being pushed up against an uncomfortable surface.

but fuck, you were so fucking close.

“hnng—satoru!” you cry as your orgasm washes over you, rakes through your body from head to toe, muscles spasming in his hold.

you leak like a faucet, and he follows suit, moaning your name all brokenly, whimpering and whining in your ear as he pumps your pussy full of his cum. for a split second you feel your bodies merge into one, the orgasm so intense you almost forgot just who and where this was happening.

eventually, you both ride down from your highs, and satoru places you down to your feet, though never pulling out of you. his dick is snug in your warm walls, and he’s tempted to stay like this for longer, until you decide to speak.

“c’mon big guy, pull out.” you tap at his chest gently, pulling him out of his daydream. “we have no idea when maintenance’ll show up.”

he blinks slowly, nodding as he acknowledges your words. it’s almost a damn miracle they hadn’t shown up while satoru was fucking you, but now that the lust had faded away, you almost felt ashamed of yourself.

“yeah just— gimme a second.” he breathes to himself, silently wishing he’d been able to bask in the aftercare with you a little longer. he guesses he should’ve known better than to expect such in an elevator of all places.

you remain quiet and he hates it. did you regret it already? is he back to square one with you?

you bite your lip, “goj— satoru.”

he perks his head up and you swear you see his ears wiggle as if he were a dog. his eyes shimmer with hope and you don’t think he’s ever looked this pretty before, “what’s up?”

“i’m gonna need my panties back, you know.” you nod your head towards his pocket where your lace undergarments were stuffed. “they were my favorite.”

“what a shame, guess you’ll have to grab it another day.” he sighs dramatically, feigning despair. giggling, you feel his fingers drum at your bare waist, “say, maybe friday night around 7pm at your place?”

“guess i have no other choice, do i?” you sigh just as dramatically, pulling him closer by the collar of his wrinkly white button down. he grins so widely your cheeks hurt for him, or maybe they hurt for yourself as you reflected his grin.

“i don’t make the rules baby.”

this was definitely rushed but leave me alone 🖐🏾.